“Whatever your motives, sir, you have my thanks.”
The door opened and the maid stepped into the room.
“Ma’am, the squire is here.”
“Very good, Dido.”
As the squire bustled in he beamed at Harriet with such openhearted pleasure that Crowther’s thin frame was almost thrown back by the force of it.
Squire Bridges was a well-built man, perhaps some ten years older than Crowther, and could never have been mistaken for anything in his life other than an English country gentleman of the old school. He had the red complexion and solid girth of a man who enjoyed vigorous exercise and noisy dinners. Indeed, his personality seemed altogether too solid and massive for the gentle confines of the salon-it seemed to strain at the walls, questing amongst the furniture to spread as much goodwill as possible. Crowther felt immediately tired, looking at him.
The squire flung himself toward them with his hands outstretched.
“Dear Mrs. Westerman, what a pleasure to see you! An ornament to the morning! And looking as ever the picture of health! I must take a proper look at you, my dear. For you know, Mrs. Bridges will not let me rest till she has extracted every particular of your appearance from me, as well as all the news! And Miss Rachel is three times more beautiful this month than last-we just exchanged our good days in your hallway. We do not meet often enough, my dear. I feel it, and my wife feels it, and tells me so!”
Harriet stepped forward with a laugh and shook the squire’s hand with great friendliness.
“I am very well, as you see, sir. You may deliver good reports of us all. Stephen is blooming, the baby strong and the latest news of Commodore Westerman full of fine winds and good officers! That is to say, he speaks well of those under his command.”
The squire’s attention sharpened a little. “He has some doubts over Rodney, perhaps?” Harriet said nothing. “Well, we shall see, we shall see.” Then he looked enquiringly toward Crowther, who had slunk into whatever thin shadows the room could afford as if he feared the squire would eat him.
“Squire, this is Mr. Crowther who took the Laraby house last summer. Mr. Crowther, our local justice and good friend to all, Squire Bridges.”
They made their bows, the squire’s face lightening still further with the anticipation of a new acquaintance.
“An honor, sir. I have heard of your reputation as a man of science and am glad to know you. Very glad indeed.” He peered eagerly into Crowther’s face for a moment. Then, turning back to his hostess he became in a moment all serious concern. “Now Mrs. Westerman, tell me of this sad business. All I know is a body was found in your woods this morning.”
Harriet proceeded to share with him all they knew of how the man had died and Hugh’s conviction that it was not his brother. The squire’s face grew gradually more somber, and as she continued, he could not refrain from exclaiming under his breath, “Oh, a sad business! How shocking!”
Harriet finished and the squire was quiet a few moments. Then: “I am at a loss, Mrs. Westerman. We can, of course, inquire in the villages to see if any stranger has been seen over the last two nights, and if anything might have given rise to reasonable suspicion. This is beyond all my experience, I am afraid. Dear madam, we are old friends so I shall not scruple to announce myself deeply uneasy. Inquiries must be made, indeed. The ring is a confusing factor; it darkens matters, darkens them considerably. Did the family have any knowledge of Alexander’s whereabouts over these past years?”
“I have heard of none.”
“There have been rumors,” the squire said, “mostly centered on London. I have not heard the matter discussed at the Hall. Well, the coroner and his jury must be summoned. May I borrow one of your lads to show me the spot, and I shall view the body, of course, and dash off a note or two. A sad business indeed.” He turned to Crowther. “And are you willing, sir, to make the necessary examinations of the body? We would be most grateful.” Crowther bowed.
The squire beamed. “Of course, of course. Capital. Good fellow.”
“And who is the coroner?” Harriet asked.
The squire spoke as much to the fireplace as to either of his companions, and scratched absently behind his wig as he did so.
“Oh, a mean little man from near Grasserton. He took on the duties to add luster to his lawyering. He’ll hold his session tomorrow afternoon at the Bear and Crown, I imagine. I’ll have to ask you to attend, my dear. And no doubt one of the jurors will write it all up for the London papers-they always do, these days. So sorry.”
Harriet put her hand on the squire’s sleeve.
“No matter, sir. Will you be able to dine with us when we have finished examining the body?” If Harriet noticed the flick of the squire’s eyes at the suggestion that she would be examining the body with Crowther, she gave no sign of it. “I believe Mrs. Heathcote intends for us to be at table at four. If Mrs. Bridges can spare you, of course.”
The squire immediately brightened again. “Why! If I get sufficiently detailed news for her of yourself and your doings, she will gladly spare me most of the evening! I will go to the coroner and arrange for the jury to be summoned.”
Harriet touched the bell, and Dido appeared to lead him away.
The squire turned to Crowther. “Your servant, sir,” he said, and left the room with a bow.
6
While the squire began to marshal the limited resources of the law-himself, the coroner and a constable chosen by the local parishioners as the person least likely to give them any trouble-Harriet led Crowther out of the house and toward the body. They turned in at a collection of outbuildings, and passing by the current generous stables, Harriet took him to a smaller building in the corner of the yard which had housed the horses of Caveley Park in earlier times. It was a large open space, the north and south walls each partitioned into three empty stalls, and with a large unglazed window to the east with the shutters thrown back. The raw beams rose, ghostly, into the shadow of the roof’s incline, and the stone flags under their feet were patterned by the heavy sunlight from the window and door. Motes of dust and straw shifted in the air. Odd pieces of tackle still hung from huge iron nails driven between the stalls, and the air smelled of lavender and old leather. In the central space in front of them a long table had been set, used normally in the yard for holiday and harvest feasts, Crowther supposed. Now the body was laid out on it, decently covered in a white linen sheet. It looked like an offering. There were cloths, a wide bowl and ewer on a bench under the window.
Crowther placed a hand to his brow and exhaled. When he opened his eyes again, he found Harriet’s gaze on him, her head tilted to one side.
“Forgive me, but you look very tired, Mr. Crowther.”
“I am, Mrs. Westerman. It is my habit to work at night, and keep to my bed in the morning when not viewing the slaughtered gentry of the neighborhood.” He wove his hands together and stretched his fingers, making them crack, then continued in a practical tone, “Now, this will not be a full dissection. This is not the weather, the body must be viewed by the coroner’s men in the morning, and I think we can be certain as to how this man died. We will confine ourselves to externals and examine his leg for any old injury.” Harriet drew herself very straight and nodded. Crowther suspected she was fighting the impulse to salute.
He had removed his coat and was turning to hang it on a convenient nail when he noticed his own tools, wrapped in their soft leather roll on the bench beside the ewer and bowl.
“How came these here?”
“William picked them up from your people as he came back through the village. Had you not required them, they would have been returned before you had noticed they were gone.”
“Your house is well run.”
“William and David were both at sea with my husband and myself. Mrs. Heathcote’s husband serves with him still. I could not wish for a better family. The maids still come and go, but in general I believe a woman never had better servants, or more loyal.”
Crowther turned to the corpse again, wondering if Miss Rachel Trench had ever been to sea, and if not, what she thought of the family now gathered round her.
He had been expecting Mrs. Westerman to leave him at this point, but she did not. Instead, she folded back her habit from her wrists, and picked up an apron to cover her skirts. Catching his look, she gave him a wary half-smile.
“You did say it would not be a full examination.”
“Indeed.”
“Then I think I shall stomach it.” She moved to the body and folded away the linen cover, then, her attention caught, she bent down to examine the hand.
Crowther had studied with some of the best surgeons and teachers of anatomy in Europe. They were busy practical men, their inquisitiveness their main feature, their niceties blunted by their commerce with the dead and the necessary dealings with the underworld of bodysnatchers and resurrection men. He had seen any number of corpses cut up and manhandled, the floor slippery with blood and air thick with human effluvia while a dozen men in powdered wigs jostled over a body to examine some peculiarity pointed out by their instructors. He thought now that he had never seen a sight as shocking, or as strangely beautiful, as Mrs. Harriet Westerman taking the stiff fist of the corpse between her own white hands and stooping to examine the dead flesh. Its gray, waxen emptiness alongside the delicate coloring of her face and intelligence in her eyes, seemed a metaphor of divine spark. If she had breathed on that hand and made it warm again, and alive, Crowther would have accepted the miracle and believed.
“He has a hold of something. Do you have a pair of tweezers?”
“Of course.”
He handed them to her and watched as she pushed them between the man’s fingers. She bit her lip when she was concentrating.
“There!”
She passed the tweezers back to him with a flourish; in between their delicate silver tips Crowther saw a scrap of paper. The corner of a sheet, torn off.
“He had something with him. A note or letter to go with the ring and it was taken from him,” she said immediately.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it was a note from his tailor.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I doubt anyone goes to meet someone in the woods, in darkness, with a note from their tailor clasped in their hand. Though I understand you. I am too quick.” She reclaimed the scrap of paper, folded it into her handkerchief and put it to one side.
“You are perhaps a little hasty. But your methods are just as I would advise.”
“You forget. I read your article and watched you this morning. I am your student.”
Crowther raised his eyebrows briefly and returned to the body.
The cloak revealed no more than a purse with a few shillings and Crowther wondered where this man’s other possessions, if he had any, might be waiting, dumbly, for him to return. His boots were rather dusty, but whole. The clothes he wore were of passable quality, though a little worn in places, but only the material and design of the waistcoat showed any pretensions to fashion. Was its purchase one indulgence in an otherwise sober existence? An attempt at gentility? Crowther rubbed the stuff of the waistcoat between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the quality of the fabric. It might have been his own at one stage of his life.
“How far away are we from Pulborough? And does the stage stop there?” he asked, and Harriet looked up at him with surprise. “I have not needed to make the journey since my arrival in Hartswood,” he explained.
“It is about four miles. The stage to London passes there on Tuesdays, from London on Thursdays. You are wondering how he reached our village.”
“I am. But it is most likely if he came from London, it was by coach and then on foot. He has the dust of the road on his feet.”
Mrs. Westerman merely nodded then took up a cloth, wet it, and began calmly to clean the blood away from around the horrid gash in the neck. Crowther stared for a second, then fetched a cloth of his own and started the same work opposite her. Their silence stretched into minutes, and Crowther slowly became aware of a sense of reverence, of humility in the warm room making its way into his bones. He recognized it from his own workroom; that sense of wonder that came to him as he concentrated on these bodies, these vessels through which life so fleetingly, and often with such cruelty, flew. The sensation was, he had recognized long ago, the nearest he would ever come to religion.
Returning to the window, he dropped his cloth into the basin, watching for a moment as the water bloomed pink around it. He recalled Harvey’s words: “All the parts are nourished, cherished and quickened with blood, which is warm, perfect, vaporous, full of spirit …” This wondrous substance that flowed through the hearts of every man, whatever his condition or nature, this symbol of love and death floating free from his fingertips. He thought again of the dark marks on the tree trunks in the coppice, and wondered how long it would be till the local children made a little shrine of terror about them.
Turning back to the body, he crouched down to examine the wound afresh, and with infinite gentleness placed a finger on the edges of skin.
“Mrs. Westerman.” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the room, after their long silence. “If you have the stomach for it, come and look at this wound again and tell me what you see.”
Her greenish eyes searched his face for a moment, then she walked slowly around the edge of the table, her bloodied cloth still in her hands, and gave her attention directly to the place he indicated, her face bent to the horror of the wound. Her voice as she spoke was composed.
“The cut is deepest here, on the right side. So if he was surprised from behind …” She frowned.
Crowther took a knife from the roll behind him. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He stood behind her, took the knife in his right hand and said, “You are looking forward …”
“Waiting for whomever I am meeting to appear in the clearing …”
“I come up behind you. Take you by the shoulder …” He did so, placing his left hand on her shoulder, and with his right brought the knife in front of her body, hovering a few inches from her throat. His own mouth went suddenly dry and as if from a great height he saw himself, the woman, the body.
“I see,” Harriet said. “The force came on the right side of the wound as the cut was completed. He was murdered by a man who favored his right.”
“And who was of about the same height, since the cut goes straight back to the vertebra.”
Harriet looked at the knife that hovered still in front of her. “Whereas if you were to cut my throat,” she told him, “the wound would most likely be angled upward, given your superior height.”
He bowed and moved carefully away.
Mrs. Westerman stood a little apart as Crowther looked for evidence of a break in the lower limbs of the corpse. He opened the flesh to expose the bone from knee to ankle. Again he felt the sweat slowly gathering at his neck. The bone in both legs was solid and clean. Harriet did not speak as he worked, merely nodding as he showed her that the bones were true. He felt her attention as he folded the flesh back over the leg and with a curved needle of his own design knitted the skin back together with silk. It was neatly done, and some part of him expected to be praised for it, but when he looked up, he saw that her mind was already elsewhere.
“This was a cowardly attack,” she said.
“To cut someone’s throat from behind, in the night? Yes, that is cowardice-or desperation. You never believed this was an affair of honor, I think.”
“I did not, but I have been thinking further as you sliced up his shins. The murder was done swiftly, quietly. There is no sign to suggest this was done in the heat of the moment, in a fight or argument.”
“Though words may have been exchanged and the murderer returned.”
“Perhaps. In either case the murder was done, and the note taken … the note-but not the ring. It was not hard to find and it suggests a connection to the family at Thornleigh Hall. If the murder was don
e with an aim to secrecy, as the wound indicates, why not take the ring and conceal the body, at least to some degree?”
Crowther walked to the ewer and found himself briefly confused about how to wash his hands without getting matter on the water jug. Harriet came over and lifted it to pour over his wrists. He worked the blood free from his short nails, then took up a fresh cloth and began to dry his fingers, looking up into the shadowed roof space above them. Harriet moved away to cover the body again.
“Perhaps the murderer was disturbed,” he said to the empty air above him.
“Someone, other than the murderer, arrived to keep the appointment? That would be interesting,” Harriet mused, then continued with a sigh, “I wish we knew more about this man, Crowther. Neither rich nor poor, tall nor short. He is a blank.”
“As you say, Mrs. Westerman. But the clothes tell us something. It is they that convince me this man is not Alexander Thornleigh-”
“The Honorable Alexander Thornleigh-Viscount Hardew to give him his proper title. One should address an earl’s son properly, even in absentia.”
“I stand corrected,” he said, then continued, “As I was saying, the contrast between cloak and waistcoat convinces me more than the soundness of his leg bones or even his brother’s word. This is a man who would spend a large amount of money on a waistcoat, but not his traveling cloak. That speaks of one who wishes to pretend in company that he has more money than his cloak tells us he has, yet Mr. Thornleigh, from what you tell me, has abandoned for fifteen years great rank and fortune.”
Harriet looked at Crowther for a long time, considering, then threw up her hands.
“For a man so unwilling to look his fellow creatures in the eye, you are a subtle student of psychology,” she declared, and he bowed.
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