‘A woman of strong convictions.’
Harriet groaned. ‘The bruises on her wrists. The stiffness of her movements when I saw her on Monday. I thought that her father or lover had beaten her, and thought all the viciousness theirs. What if Mrs Trimnell received those bruises fighting with Mrs Smith and then killed her?’
‘It was her fault, not mine!’
Francis heard the words and felt the strength leave his body. The woman in black was still on her knees.
‘I came, I came as a widow, as one woman to another, to beg that she give me back his manuscript. I thought if I could bring it back, put it in Randolph’s hands, he would see that I loved him, and his father. They would welcome me. But she would not give it to me! She wanted to pray with me! Then I saw my husband’s writing on a sheet on the desk, but the manuscript was not there.’
Dauda had covered his eyes as if the sight of his half-sister on her knees was no longer to be borne.
‘She began it – she tried to pull me away as I was looking, but I needed it, Dauda – I needed it – but she would not be still and let me look. I swear to you I did not mean to kill her. The first I knew of it, she was dead at my feet. I did not even know I had picked up the tool until I saw it in her eye.’
VII.4
CROWTHER WAS TRYING TO recall the name of the young man who had found the engraving tool. ‘He is a bookseller, as I remember, near St Paul’s. Francis Glass.’
‘We must go to him, but I want to find Mrs Trimnell first, Crowther. Either she is hand in hand with whoever killed her father, or she is in danger from them. I will see what news they might have of her at Portman Square. Will you wait for the coroner here? Then I will come and search you out at the bookshop.’
They heard a step on the stairs and Mr Christopher appeared in the doorway. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight. ‘I can get no sense from the maid. The door to these rooms opens from the same lobby as the door to the coffee house itself. Half of London was in and out last night.’
Harriet turned to him. ‘We must find Mrs Trimnell – she was here when it happened. Crowther will wait for the coroner here and then join us …’
‘At Hinckley’s Bookshop,’ Crowther supplied.
‘So her lodgings, or Portman Square,’ Christopher said. ‘I shall try her lodgings then, while you take the carriage to Portman Square, Mrs Westerman. I shall join you at Hinckley’s.’ He touched his hat to them and was gone.
‘They must have destroyed the manuscript,’ Harriet said as she put up her hood. ‘I wonder what horrors were in it?’
‘Enough to ruin a fashionable preacher, I imagine.’ Crowther sighed. ‘Go then, and good luck to you. I shall wait for the proper officials and put matters into their hands. If they will be willing to hear the suggestion that this is murder and not suicide though, I cannot say.’
Eustache was led into Dr Fischer’s study by a friendly-looking maid who winked at him before announcing his title with great ceremony. He had walked from Ivy Lane as quickly as he could and his hands were sweating where they held the leather portfolio. There was a fire already burning in the grate in spite of the warmth of the day.
Fischer turned in his chair, but did not get up. ‘Thank you, Mary. No, we require no refreshment.’ He smiled at her with great warmth until she had closed the door again. Then his face became a blank. ‘Give it to me.’
Eustache handed over the portfolio and watched as the man undid the straps with his long fingers and began to look through the pages. Apparently content there was no trick, he stood, dragged his chair to the fire and began to feed the pages into the flames one by one, checking as he did so that each page followed on from the last. Eustache watched him and a tight white rage began to build again in his bones.
‘You have read these pages, Master Eustache,’ Fischer said, ‘and I am sure you feel for the slaves mentioned in them, but you cannot understand the complexity of the trade from this nonsense. There are occasional abuses, deeply regrettable, but they are the exception, not the rule. You must trust those of us with direct experience. The slaves are happy! Often fond of their masters and deeply grateful to have been saved from the savagery of their native lands.’ Eustache made no reply, and when Fischer looked up at him and saw the fierce concentration on the boy’s pale face, he spoke on very calmly. ‘The country needs the slave trade. Requires it absolutely. You will forget what you have read in time, and I am sure when you are grown into a man you will thank me for doing this. The incident that led to young Jennings being sent home to England, for instance. He did not know his own strength and the wife of the slave in question had been deeply disrespectful. It is wrong that the son of so great a family should be ruined by a youthful indiscretion.’
‘I will not forget,’ Eustache said. ‘I will not forget because I aim to be a good man – and no good man could forget this once he has read it.’
Fischer snorted.’ A good man? With your parentage? A bold ambition indeed. When did you decide this?’
‘Last night.’
Fischer laughed again, more comfortable now the flames were being fed and no pages were missing. ‘How charming.’
‘Titus,’ Eustache said.
‘What?’
‘Titus is the name of the slave Randolph Jennings beat to death because he would not whip his wife as ordered. You told everyone he had died of a fever.’
‘Was it? Well, Randolph Jennings, his prospects and career were more important than the truth. Even a child might see that. In any case, Titus is dead now. No more harm can come to him.’
‘Punch and Quacoo.’
‘What do you say, boy?’ Fischer was sweating a little from leaning so close to the fire. Eustache pictured him in Hell already and felt the satisfaction of it in his bones.
‘Punch and Quacoo. It was after you and Mr Trimnell had dined together and discussed the best treatments to put on a slave’s skin after a whipping. When Punch and Quacoo were whipped, he had bird pepper, lime and salt rubbed into their wounds.’ Fischer began feeding the pages into the fire a little more quickly. ‘Stompe and Polly. You and Trimnell went to see them hanged. They had tried to run away.’
‘Enough. Be quiet, boy.’
‘Damsel. You were staying with Trimnell between voyages out to the Guinea Coast. You dressed her leg after she was bitten by a dog. She’d hidden the wound from Trimnell and he waited for you to tell her she was fit enough to be whipped and put in the stocks for wishing to die. It was punishment for wanting to rob Trimnell of his property.’
Fischer shoved the last pages into the flames as if touching them might poison him. ‘I told you to be quiet, boy, or I shall make you shut your mouth.’
‘Phoebe! When she died, you told Trimnell he had “worn her through”. She kept trying to run but they kept finding her and bringing her back – and he’d rape her again and again – and you knew that – and you tell us to pray! You stand there every Sunday and you dare tell us to pray!’
Fischer stood up, red in the face and his fists tight closed. ‘I told you to be quiet.’
Eustache was lost in the delicious passion of his own rage. He stood firm where he was and shouted it, shouted it so he thought the panes in the windows might break. ‘Titus! Punch! Quacoo! Stompe! Polly! Damsel! Phoebe!’ The fear and rage on Fischer’s face made him drunk. ‘Titus! Punch! Quacoo! Stompe! Polly! Damsel! Phoebe!’ He did not stop even as Fischer drew back his arm. ‘Titus! Punch! Quacoo! Stompe! Polly! Damsel! Phoebe!’ The blow came across the side of his head, knocked him across the floor.
VII.5
MRS SERVICE WAS A stronger supporter of Harriet’s against charges of unnatural or unwomanly behaviour than perhaps Harriet had ever realised. She felt Harriet did what was necessary, but she still was worried and upset by the effect these alarms seemed to have on the children. They were all listless and red about the eyes but full of a sort of nervous energy that made her extremely suspicious. Only little Anne went about her morning as usual, drawing
a great many pictures of cats and seeing how much of the house she could cover with strawberry jam. Despite all of the hopeful signs the previous evening, Susan was rude to her maid and would not settle to her sewing, but neither would she play the harpsichord or work on her music. She jumped every time the door to the street opened, and every other minute ran upstairs on some unlikely errand. The gentleman who came to teach the boys short sword found them so distracted and careless that he left early. Before ten Mrs Service, in desperation, suggested taking them all to one of the parks for some exercise, and they all shook their heads in unison. Susan glanced at the boys then looked up at her.
‘Might we visit Eustache?’ she said. ‘You are always saying Jonathan and Stephen should read more. He might show us some new books we might like.’ Mrs Service waited for the boys to treat this suggestion with masculine scorn. No protest came.
Jonathan thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Eustache did say they had some quite exciting books there.’
Mrs Service wondered if the boy was ill. ‘We have already caused Mr Glass quite enough trouble. It would go against my conscience to bother him any further.’
‘But Mrs Service, it’s a shop,’ Jonathan said, then noticing the looks he got from the others added, ‘I only mean we wish to buy some books, so that would not be bothering him at all, would it? I mean, rather the opposite.’
She had to concede that point. ‘Is this really what you wish to do this morning?’
They all assured her that it was, and so, rather warily, she rang the bell and asked Philip to order the carriage round. She sent the children off to get themselves ready and a few moments later was in the hallway herself, tying the ribbons of her cloak, when William came into the hall and bowed.
‘Ma’am, I hear you are going to Hinckley’s and I was wondering whether I might ride along with you, unless you particularly wish for Philip or Gregory.’
Mrs Service smoothed down her ribbons. ‘You are very welcome to join us, but what is happening, William? I see no reason why those three little monkeys should not visit Eustache, but they are in such an odd humour today and I am afraid I am suspicious. If you know anything, I do hope you will tell me.’
William’s hands were clasped behind his back. ‘I am not sure, ma’am. Only Eustache has been in a strange mood for the last day or so, and he looked unwell this morning when I took him to Ivy Lane. I asked if he wished to come home, but he would not. I noticed the other children looked much the same when I came back. I do not know what they are about, and I hope you don’t think I am speaking where I should stay silent, but I am a little concerned.’
Mrs Service considered. She had seen a great deal since she had met Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman, and much of it had disturbed her. The children were behaving strangely and Harriet and Gabriel were chasing round the capital after slavers. ‘I hear the bookshop was broken into the evening before last, William.’
‘It was.’
‘Mr Glass was a particular friend of Mrs Smith, was he not?’
William nodded. ‘It is my understanding he has been trying to find the person or persons who killed her.’
Mrs Service sniffed. ‘Perhaps you had better come along then. I assume David will have his pistols about him?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I think I shall have a word with Mr Graves before we leave. You may put the children into the carriage when they come down.’
The children were very surprised to find that Graves was coming with them, and not a little perturbed. Mrs Service did ask once more for some explanation of their behaviour in the carriage, but the children avoided her gaze and Stephen lifted his chin in a way that reminded her painfully of his mother. ‘We just wish to visit Eustache,’ he said stoutly. Susan was more nervous of her disapproval. She put her hand into Mrs Service’s as they rode through the avenues of the west of the city and into the narrower and more crowded streets of the east. ‘It is nothing bad,’ she said, and there was an element of pleading in her voice which meant that Mrs Service could not help squeezing her hand.
The atmosphere in the shop was strange from the moment Mr Graves opened the door for her and Mrs Service entered with the children following round her skirts like goslings. At the ring of the bell the clerk’s head snapped up, but as soon as he saw them, his expression became one of deep disappointment and distress. Mrs Service politely asked after Eustache, and the clerk, looking distracted, disappeared into the back of the shop, only to reappear a moment later to say Eustache wasn’t there and must have stepped out to the bakehouse with Joshua, the apprentice. Mrs Service said they would wait and the children huddled into the far corner of the shop floor, pretending to look at the books but obviously in close debate.
Graves was silent and serious, watching the children. Mrs Service smiled at the clerk. ‘Mr Glass is not here today? We met very briefly a few days ago at the house of the late Mrs Smith. I am Mrs Service.’
‘Cutter, ma’am,’ he said, glancing towards the door again and tapping his fingers on the counter top. ‘I remember you from the fetching of Master Eustache and the young lady there. No, Mr Glass hasn’t shown his face here this morning, and to tell you the truth, ma’am,’ he leaned towards her over the desk and lowered his voice, ‘we are beginning to worry ourselves a little. Mr Sharp and Constable Miller have gone to his lodgings just this minute to see if perhaps he’s slept on this morning, such times we’ve had of it of late, and so that’s my hope. He’s been sleeping and is this moment buttoning up his coat. But I have a fear, a presentiment. My mother used to have them, and now I feel it too. Just here.’ He stabbed at a spot in his chest just under the breastbone. ‘Our shop was broken into the night before last, and we drove Mr Glass off so we could clean it up for him. We thought he’d be back yesterday evening, were sure he’d be here creeping in with the light this morning, but he’s not here and now I have a presentiment.’
‘That is uncomfortable,’ Mrs Service said mildly. She was about to ask something more when a boy came tripping out of the back room and looked about him. His face showed the same pattern of hope and then dismay that Cutter’s had when they first came in. ‘He’s not here,’ he said.
Cutter looked mournful. ‘Joshua, where’s Master Eustache? I thought he was with you.’
The boy shook his head slowly. ‘No … he said he had an errand and slipped out. But that was a while ago.’
Graves had run through his stock of patience, and now he turned on the children. ‘Enough of this! I am happy for you to have your secrets, but Eustache is missing, as is Mr Glass, and I think it is time for you to be open with me.’
Susan took a half-step forward, but it was Jonathan who spoke first. ‘It’s all right, Suzy, I’ll do it.’ He looked steadily up at his guardian. ‘Mr Glass had Eustache read the manuscripts in his office …’
The door to the house of the private palace of Sir Charles was opened not by one of the immaculate footmen whom Harriet had seen on her previous visit, but by Mrs Jennings herself. Harriet was astonished; Mrs Jennings apparently very disappointed.
‘I thought you were the hackney carriage,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘I am very sorry for it, Mrs Westerman, but no one here is receiving today.’
She was beginning to close the door on her, but Harriet put her hand against it to prevent her.
‘I must speak to Mrs Trimnell, and at once.’
‘That trollop isn’t here,’ Mrs Jennings said and tried to close the door again. Harriet’s patience snapped.
‘Mrs Jennings, you shall let me in and we shall discuss this inside. I have just come from Mr Sawbridge’s rooms where he sits dead and drenched in his own blood, and unless you will have me scream out the news to your neighbours, you will let me in.’
The old woman hesitated, then opened the door fully and made a somewhat ironic curtsey. Harriet moved past her into the hallway. The impression of luxury and taste with which the hall was designed to overawe its visitors was somewhat marred by the
pair of trunks in the hall. One was open and a footman was apparently repacking it. It was surrounded by a number of clothes and some smaller cases that Harriet expected to have been stowed inside the larger ones. Mrs Jennings picked up one of these smaller cases and opened it. As far as Harriet could see from where she stood, it contained a number of trinkets, those small items of jewellery every woman collects and may be worth nothing, but from which no female could separate herself.
‘Where is Mrs Trimnell?’
‘In one of the Covent Garden stews, if she has finally learned her place. I found her yesterday afternoon pawing at Randolph on the settee in the Blue Salon and told her what I thought of her.’
‘And then?’
‘She had a short discussion with Randolph and left the house rather quickly. She did not come home yesterday evening. The air in Portman Square is purer already.’ She removed a piece of lace from the box and handed it to a footman standing behind her. ‘Put that back in my room, Parker, if you’d be so kind. So her father is dead? I never liked him. I was going to send her luggage to his rooms, but they may as well go to her old place on Cheapside, I suppose.’
‘Mrs Jennings, it is of the greatest importance that I find her. Can you really tell me nothing that might be of use? Is Sir Charles at home?’
She clicked the box shut. ‘No, Mrs Westerman, I cannot. And no, Sir Charles is not here. He is gone up to the Surrey house. I must ask you to leave now. Once I have made sure that woman has not stuffed her trunks with our silverware, I have to arrange for his luggage to be sent on.’
‘Randolph Jennings perhaps?’
‘He is still asleep.’
‘No, I’m not.’ They looked up to see him walking down the stairs. ‘What? Is that Lucinda’s baggage? I ordered it to be packed in her rooms.’
Mrs Jennings pursed her lips. ‘Go away, Randolph, I’m out of patience with you. I would not let this luggage leave until I have checked it. Mrs Trimnell and her oafish father are not to be received here any more and you are to go up to Paradise this afternoon.’
Theft of Life Page 31
