“Lord Thornleigh is cared for in the old nursery.”
Crowther felt his skin crawl as they moved through the shadows.
“Is there anything you can tell us about Lord Thornleigh’s current condition?” he asked. Patience turned toward him and blinked slowly.
“He can’t speak. He can hardly move. He sleeps most times, but sometimes his eyes are open. He is fed food that does not need to be chewed and a cup is held to his lip to allow him to drink.” The maid paused. “I think he misses Nurse. He seems a lot less calm since she died. None of us likes to share the room long with him.”
Harriet stayed the girl’s arm just as she reached for the handle on one of the corridor’s tobacco-brown doors.
“Does Lady Thornleigh visit him?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes she visits him alone-at other times she does not bother to send us away. Not Mr. Hugh though. He never comes.”
She turned the handle.
After the gloom of the narrow upper corridor, Crowther was not prepared for the plain white walls of the room he now entered. It gathered the available morning light and threw it at him, so he blinked in the doorway. As his eyes adjusted, he picked out the fireplace, a maid shuffling up onto her feet next to it, placing her needlework down beside her, and only then he saw the high-backed chair facing her. It was as massive as a medieval throne. Encircling the back was a thick belt of leather. Another was visible on the arm of the chair. Crowther could see that it held in place a thin arm in a loose linen shirt, ending in a hand so white it was almost translucent, the fingers twitching convulsively every few seconds.
Harriet turned to the girl who had brought them up. “Thank you, Patience.”
Crowther heard the click of a coin, felt the girl begin to leave. The maid, who had stood, protested.
“Tell them only another hour! I shan’t stay longer than that.”
Patience closed the door without replying. The maid turned to them both with a frown. She was a squat little thing, red in the face, and her hands looked too rough to be doing fine needlework. Her eyes flicked from Crowther’s face to Harriet’s and back.
“What happened to her face?” she asked, referring to Patience.
Harriet looked at her a little coldly. “Some disagreement with Wicksteed.”
The squat maid screwed her own face up like an old handkerchief. “That little shite.”
“Take your seat,” Crowther instructed her.
She did so with a shrug.
Harriet waited at the door while Crowther walked around the chair till he could let his eyes fall on this Lord Thornleigh, Earl of Sussex, Baron of Pulborough, Companion of the Arms, one of the richest men in society. He was ready for the sight, but he still felt a cold sliver of shock twist into his spine.
The man in the chair was perhaps between sixty-five and seventy years old. His head had been shaved recently, and his scalp was dusted with new growth. The body was thin and wasted, a transparency wrapped around a skeleton. He would have certainly tumbled under his own weight, were he not held to the back of the chair by the thick leather band under his arms, which kept him pinned upright on his throne. Lord Thornleigh was dressed in a shift, and there was a rug over his knees. His arms were bound to the arms of his chair at the wrists. His jaw was slack, his head slumped loosely to one side, a thin sliver of drool hung from his mouth. His eyes were half-shut.
Crowther bowed. “Lord Thornleigh, I am Gabriel Crowther. I am a. . physician. May I examine you?”
He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the saliva from the man’s mouth. As he did so, Lord Thornleigh’s eyes flicked up to his face. They were dead and empty, but still of such a startling ice blue Crowther almost leaped back. They reminded him of his own. Then Lord Thornleigh began to yowl softly. It was not unlike the cry of a baby in its formlessness, but it was older and more animal. Crowther thought of a wolf he had shot in Germany in his youth. It had not been a clean death and the despairing broken growl had affected him to the extent that he had never hunted again. He thought of it now looking into the white face in front of him. He glanced up and met Harriet’s eye. She looked a little sickened.
Crowther took the thin flesh of the lord’s right hand between his fingers and pinched hard. The hand jerked, and the sick man yowled again.
“Forgive me, my lord. I wished to understand the capacity for sensation in your limbs.” He watched the skin he had pinched drop back into place with the slowness of age, the blood retreat and return under its thin and failing protection. “Now if I may, I shall release your arms and look at you more closely.”
He bent over to undo the strap at the elbow and took the bird-like weight of the man’s arm between his hands. He glanced up again into the lord’s face. The dead blank look of a few moments before had dissipated. The eyes looked conscious and, to Crowther’s astonishment, afraid. The lord’s yowling increased in pitch and volume.
“Indeed, my lord, I promise you I shall not hurt you again, and any discomfort will be slight.”
He did not know if he had been heard or understood. Lord Thornleigh was still looking at him, confused and unhappy. Crowther felt a coldness growing from the base of his stomach.
The maid was on her feet again.
“Aww! He’s upset. Perhaps he wants his necklace.”
Harriet and Crowther looked at her in surprise. She was opening a box on the mantelpiece by her chair, and turned toward them with a locket hanging from a thin silvery chain in her hand.
“Here it is now, don’t fret.”
Crowther felt the convulsion in the thin arm. Lord Thornleigh’s head jerked violently from side to side; the yowl increased in pitch and volume as the maid approached, holding the chain open ready to drop it over his head.
“For God’s sake!” Crowther slapped it out of her hands so it flew across the room and skittered to a halt under the window. “Can’t you see he does not want it?”
As it hit the floor Lord Thornleigh trembled and the yowl dropped to a mewl. The maid stood back, outraged, with her hands on her hips.
“Well! I’ve never seen the like! Understand him, do you? Well, you can care for him then. My lady said we were to put it round his neck from time to time as a treat. He’s excited, that’s all. She said it was a gift from all his sweethearts. She brought it in on Sunday before church. Thought it was a sweet gesture after his nurse up and hanged herself.”
Harriet had crossed the room and picked up the necklace. It was a cheap little thing-she had seen peddlers sell such trinkets for a shilling and thought the price exorbitant. She opened it, revealing a curl of blond hair, nothing else. She snapped it shut again.
“His sweethearts have not been especially generous.”
The maid stood tall. “I expect it has associations, ma’am.”
“Not pleasant ones, judging by my lord’s reactions.”
“Nonsense. He was just excited.”
“Did he get excited like that when Nurse Bray was in charge?” Harriet looked at her hard.
The maid’s eyes narrowed. “Nurse Bray wasn’t a very exciting woman, if you ask me.”
Crowther was gently pushing up the sleeve of Lord Thornleigh’s shift.
“We didn’t ask you anything about Nurse Bray. You may-” He stopped suddenly. Harriet froze and looked at him. He spun round. “What is this?”
He moved so that Harriet and the maid could see the quivering forearm he held. Harriet’s hand flew to her mouth. On the almost fleshless underside of Thornleigh’s right arm were a series of deep cuts. Parallel, fresh, struggling to heal, they shone against the blue of his skin.
“How should I know?” the maid blustered. “He scratches himself sometimes. His hands fly about when they aren’t tied down.”
“Nonsense. This is deliberate. These were made with a knife, and not by Lord Thornleigh’s own hand.”
“Nothing to do with me, I just watch here and do my sewing.”
“Get out.”
She needed no further e
xcuse, and slammed the door behind her. Harriet came into Thornleigh’s vision; he flinched, then as suddenly relaxed. She curtsied to him then looked at the wounds.
“There are seven.”
“Seven wounds. Yes.” Crowther bent over the man before him. “My lord, can you understand me? Will you blink once if you can?” The ice-blue eyes skittered back and forth over the room. “Please, my lord. Just try and listen to me. Blink once if you can understand me.” Again the gaze flittered around, glancing across Crowther’s face. Harriet could hear steps outside.
“Crowther …”
“Please, sir. Just try.” For a moment the eyes locked onto Crowther’s own. The lids dropped and rose again. The door burst open. Lady Thornleigh stood on the threshold. It was as if a phoenix had torn off the front of a dovecote.
“Mrs. Westerman. What do you mean by this?”
Harriet moved smoothly forward. “Lady Thornleigh! I do so hope you are feeling better. .”
Lady Thornleigh held out her hand in front of her as if driving Harriet off.
“Do not play the lady with me! You come here to torture my husband, do you?” She turned toward Crowther. “Size him up for specimens, perhaps?” Lord Thornleigh began again his low moan of distress. Lady Thornleigh did not look at him as she said, “Don’t worry, my love. I shall bury you in a lead-lined coffin as soon as your time comes.”
“Is it you that has been torturing him, Lady Thornleigh?”
Crowther asked conversationally. Rage made the woman even more beautiful than he had seen her before.
“Get out! Get out at once! I cannot wait to see what the county will make of you now, when the story of this little adventure is known. I hope your husband is no longer interested in a parliamentary career.” Harriet merely folded her wrists in front of her and smiled. “Get out, I said! Now!” Lady Thomleigh crossed to the chair and shoved Crowther away, placing her husband’s arm on the chair again, and busying herself with the buckle that held his arm in place. “If you have not left by the time I have fastened this strap,” she continued with a growl, “I shall have my footmen throw you out bodily on to the highway.”
Harriet and Crowther made their bows and turned to go, leaving Lady Thornleigh to the straps, her husband’s voice rising and falling with all the lonely desperation of the last soul in hell.
3
Harriet and Crowther climbed into the woods where Brook had died. They reached the bench and Harriet sat, covering her face. Crowther lowered himself at her side and waited. The crows bleated above them, the breeze turned a few of the leaves over in its palms. Harriet’s shoulders stopped shaking, and after a few minutes she pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose loudly.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not at all, Mrs. Westerman. Are you recovered?”
“No.” She looked intently in front of her, as if trying to fix her own house and home in her mind, to drive out the other. “What horrors, Crowther. My head is spinning with them. How can a man be in that condition and live?”
Crowther rolled his cane in his hands. Its foot buried itself among the debris of the ground at their feet with a cracking spin.
“He has been well cared for-at least until recently. Alexander sent a good nurse. I doubt many doctors could have kept him alive so long.”
“But his mind. .? Did you really believe it might be possible to communicate with him?”
“The body does not always reflect or obey the mind that dwells within it. I think he is conscious of himself and his condition. At moments, anyway.”
Harriet shuddered and leaned forward, putting her chin in her hand.
“What is the significance of the locket, do you think?” she asked. “From all his sweethearts. .”
“I told you of the squire’s suspicions regarding the death of the young girl.”
“Indeed. It did look like the sort of bauble a girl of that age might carry. A relatively poor girl too. I cannot imagine that many of the women that Lord Thornleigh used to associate with wear anything but gold.”
“Who was magistrate at that time?”
Harriet turned to him. “I have no idea. It would have been more than thirty years ago.”
Crowther lifted his cane from the little pit he had dug with its tip and started on a new excavation.
“More likely forty, I think. But if his family were conscientious about keeping his documents …”
“Is it likely that such ancient history would have a bearing on what is happening today?”
Crowther raised his eyebrows.
“It would be kinder not to refer to something as ‘ancient history,’ Mrs. Westerman, when it took place in my own lifetime.” She gave a swift snort of rather wobbly laughter. Pleased, he continued, “I’ve been thinking of what Hugh said about the guilt of his family, and about the locket and those wounds. I wonder if he is being held to account for something in his past, and if we cannot press forward, let us go back. Perhaps that death is like the slip knot of a rope. If we pull it free, the rest may unravel of its own accord.”
The house of Sir Stephen Young was showing signs of neglect. The former magistrate had died at a healthy age and of natural causes some twenty years before. His son and heir, they were told, was a little eccentric.
The maid who showed them in did not seem used to visitors and reacted to them as a bishop might, confronted with a talking lion: curious, but at best a little uncertain. They were hurried into a salon which was dusty and unaired, the furniture bulky and chipped, the paint on the panels blistered and paled where the sunlight reached them, and sooty and greasy where it did not. They had not waited long before the door was pushed open again with a bustle and fuss, and a man of about Crowther’s age tumbled into the room. He was remarkably short, and made himself shorter still by carrying his head down and his shoulders bunched. His wig, rather yellow, was slightly adrift and his coat oddly stained about the cuffs. His energy was unmistakable though, and his pleasure at having guests seemed to almost overwhelm him. It was a little, Harriet thought to herself, like being greeted by an enthusiastic mole. He squinted up at them through rather smeared glasses, and wrinkled his nose happily, almost as if he sought to identify them by smell rather than sight.
“So happy, so happy! Such great visitors! I hope you will forgive my home. I have no time for it! No eyes for it! It is a mere shell! My work is the heart of it, and I need no salons for that.” He nodded rapidly as he spoke.
“You are very kind to receive us, sir.”
Harriet extended her hand. He snuffled over it.
“I am honored! When I heard that the great Mr. Crowther himself was in my home-such a joy! So good to meet a fellow natural philosopher, an explorer of the universal beauty of God’s creation.” He turned to Crowther. “You know my name from my publications on the beetles of this area, I think, sir? You have found me out for a little further schooling on the subject?”
The violent nodding continued, and Harriet realized why his wig was always likely to be askew. She could not help liking the little man, and hoped only that Crowther would be kind. She could not bear to see her mole crushed underfoot like one of his studies. She need not have feared, however. Crowther seemed in generous mood.
“I have a double purpose in coming here with my friend. I would be honored to hear more of your work,” Sir Stephen wrinkled his nose again with delight, “but I wonder if you could also help us with a matter of ancient history.”
Harriet put her hand to her lips to hide a smile, and Sir Stephen blinked rapidly, clasped and unclasped his hands and flicked his head to one side. The wig did not quite manage to keep pace with the movement, but seemed to stumble after him like a drunken suitor after a lively dancer.
Crowther cleared his throat. “I believe your father was a magistrate in this area, some forty years ago, and I wondered if you had kept about you any of his papers relating to that time. There is a matter we would be glad to know more of.”
“Oh yes!” Mo
re nodding. “My father was a careful taker of notes. They are all in his library. I mean to send them somewhere sometime. But anything not related to my work … I never find the time to attend to it.”
Crowther bowed. “I understand, of course.”
Sir Stephen glowed in the glory of the fellow feeling. Crowther seemed to consider a second, and then suggested, “Perhaps, if you would allow it, Mrs. Westerman might have a glance through the papers while we talk a little more about your work.”
The nodding increased to such an intensity, Harriet feared the wig would fly off entirely.
“Of course, of course. I shall have Hester bring you a cup of something, my dear.” He grinned up at her, the smears on his glasses catching the light, then told Crowther in a confidential whisper, “The fairer sex, I fear, do not always understand the fascinations of the natural sciences.”
Harriet murmured something appropriate and lowered her gaze.
It was some two hours later that Crowther opened the door to the former Sir Stephen’s office and found Harriet, her hat and gloves laid aside, coughing through a cloud of dust she had caused to be thrown into the air on placing a volume on the table in front of her a little too emphatically.
“Good hunting, Mrs. Westerman?” he inquired after a polite pause.
“Very, Mr. Crowther,” she replied with a choke.
Crowther approached the desk and took in the piles of papers balanced on the various chairs surrounding it. He looked at Harriet questioningly.
“Yes, you can move those. I have what I need here.”
He lifted one pile onto the floor and examined the seat. Frowning, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and attempted to disperse some of the dirt before he sat down.
“I don’t think you will be able to avoid dust here, Crowther. How are the beetles?”
“Numerous. I wonder at the arrogance of humanity that it is assumed we are made in God’s image. Judging by the variety and adaptations of Sir Stephen’s specimens-their ability to find a hold in any environment-I would not be surprised to discover that our Creator is, in fact, a very large insect.” He grinned. “Perhaps we should all learn to tread a little more carefully.”
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