Instruments of Darkness caw-1

by Imogen Robertson

  “I am. Alexander was my best friend.” He looked hard at Clode; the man did seem tired and genuinely concerned. He would have to take his chances, it seemed, but he could not bring a stranger into the house where the children sat at Miss Chase’s feet in the parlor until he knew a little more. “There is a gin shop round the corner here. Rough, but no one cares there for anything but their own business, and I do not like to leave the children for long. Will that suffice?”

  Clode nodded shortly and waited while the other man returned to the street door and had some whispered conversation with the servant there. As Graves rejoined him, Clode stopped suddenly and looked into his face.

  “Are the children well guarded?”

  The tone of his voice made Graves cold in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, and looked about the street. Suddenly it seemed to be populated with all the demons and witches from Susan’s storybooks.

  “Mr. Chase and his family are at home.”

  Clode put his hand to his face, another wave of tiredness flowing up from the street like a tide, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Good. Come. I shall buy you a glass and explain myself.”

  Watching him leaning up against the greasy wall in the gin basement, hearing him talk, Graves began to realize how exhausted Clode actually was. In the gloom his face looked emptied, his cheekbones unnaturally prominent. He was not surprised then to hear that Clode had ridden all night, and fought his way through London in the heat of the day.

  “We have only heard a little of the disturbances, being so far back in Sussex,” Daniel explained, “so I had no idea. .”

  “. . that London could be brought to its knees so fast.” Graves tossed back the liquor in his glass and felt his throat sting. He hissed in the thick air through his teeth. They spoke low, leaning toward each other in one of several dark corners the gin shop offered. Small clusters of men in dusty coats filled the room with a low mumble and a cloud of tobacco smoke. By the door a woman of middle age crouched against the wall; she began singing some soldier ballad to herself, ignored by the rest of the drinkers. Graves did not bother to look round as he went on, “The world has turned over in the last week. Pray God it finds its way back to a center again, before we all lose our footing. Tell me more about Thornleigh Hall.”

  Clode lifted his glass and opened his throat. The fire of the gin made him cough, and stung his eyes, but he felt it knit his bones together again, a temporary relief.

  “I have told you of our suspicions as to the true name and condition of the children.”

  Graves nodded. “You are correct. I have proof of it, and their legitimate claim.”

  “Thank God.” Clode seemed to slump a little further into his corner. “That should make things easier when the danger is past, but. .” he leaned forward and placed his hand on his companion’s sleeve, “danger there is. We do not know if anyone other than Alexander’s murderer knows of the children, and the relief that he is in custody is such I can hardly stand, but Mrs. Westerman and Crowther believe that whoever arranged his killing has murdered three times with their own hands in Hartswood. The danger is real. Another man could ride as I have done, make the same enquiries.”

  Graves put his own hand over his new friend’s where it clutched his coat and tried to speak with more confidence than he felt.

  “We can watch over them. We shall, but first I must take you back to Mr. Chase’s home. You need to rest, and I must find a way to tell the children what you have told me. It seems Susan was right in all her worst suspicions.”

  Daniel smiled a little grimly, examining the smears on his dirty glass. “She sounds a smart girl.”

  “And a good one as is her brother. Alexander raised them well.”

  At that moment, the door to the outside steps of the gin shop swung open, and Mr. Chase’s kitchen boy darted in.

  “Mr. Graves! Quickly, sir! My master’s warehouse by the river is on fire and he goes to defend it. You must look to the children.”

  Graves swore under his breath and, throwing down his pennies for the liquor, hurled himself out of the door, dragging Clode with him.

  The house was all confusion. Graves shoved Clode bodily into Mr. Chase’s study and instructed him to rest. Between the ride, the day and the gin Daniel managed no more than a mumble of protest before he took to the sofa and drew his cloak over himself.

  In the hallway Mr. and Mrs. Chase argued with their daughter while the carriage rattled to the door and the male servants gathered by it, agonies of hurry and concern on each face.

  “Come, Verity! You must come with us! I cannot leave you here!”

  Miss Chase seemed the only calm player in the piece, her hands loosely folded in front of her.

  “And I cannot leave the children, Papa, and as they cannot-must not-go, I’m afraid you must leave me.”

  “And if the crowd take it into their heads to come here?”

  “You must place me under the protection of Mr. Graves and his friend.”

  So she at least had noticed Clode’s arrival. Graves hoped that Mr. Chase would not smell the gin on his breath. Mrs. Chase murmured something. Graves caught the word “reputation” and felt himself wince. Miss Chase replied with a smile in her usual clear tones.

  “I shall play guardian to Susan, and she play chaperone to me.”

  Her parents exchanged glances, Mr. Chase shrugged and having cast a look at Graves that conveyed more than a sermon would from any other man, kissed his daughter’s cheek and swept his wife out of the house. The door was slammed and bolted behind them. Graves stepped toward Miss Chase.

  “Why has your father been targeted? He is no Catholic.”

  She took his arm and began to lead him toward the parlor.

  “His neighbor in the docks is, however, and that seems to be enough this evening.”

  The parlor door opened and Susan’s face peered around anxiously. Her thin shoulders dropped in relief as she saw Miss Chase and Graves approaching her. She stepped forward and pressed her face into his coat. He put his arm around her shoulders and bent forward to kiss the top of her head. She looked up at him.

  “Where have you been? Urgh! Your coat smells disgusting! And who is that other man? Is he a friend?”

  He smiled down at her. “He is. But a tired one. I have sent him to rest.” He hesitated. “He has brought news with him, Susan. Is Jonathan. .?”

  The young face grew serious. “He is asleep on the hearth rug like a cat. You can tell us without frightening him. That is what you mean, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Yes, little woman. It is.”

  They walked into the bright of the parlor, and the noise and fury of the crowd seemed to be sealed away as the door fell to behind them.

  Graves was frank with the girl, and she heard him out with a quiet gravity, holding onto Miss Chase’s hand and apparently studying the sleeping form of her brother, curled on the floor with Miss Chase’s shawl over him. She was silent for a moment when he had finished, then, without looking at him she asked, “What was the name of the man in the wood, the one with Papa’s ring? Was it Carter?”

  Graves frowned. “I believe it was, Susan. Carter Brook. But how did you know? Did you ever meet the man?”

  She shook her head and the fair ringlets round her ears bobbed and swung like corks in water.

  “No, but Jonathan did. The man showed him a picture, the coat of arms on Papa’s ring, when he was out at play, and Jonathan told him all about the ring, and where it was too, I suppose. Jonathan liked him. Said he was a nice man-that he had a nice waistcoat. He’ll talk forever if he likes someone.” She swallowed. “If he hadn’t have told, then Papa might still be alive, mightn’t he? Papa, and those other people.”

  Miss Chase bent toward her. “We cannot know that, my love.”

  The little girl was very still and straight. “No, but I think they would be.” She looked up into Graves’s face. He let his eyes travel over her still-forming features, felt his tenderness
for her flower. “Let us never tell him, Mr. Graves. It would not be good if he knew.”

  Graves could only nod his agreement and all three looked back again toward the form of the Honorable Jonathan Thornleigh, Viscount Hardew, sleeping still with his fingers caught in the tassels of the hearth rug, dreaming of horses.

  7

  Patience was waiting for them in one of the upper private rooms which the Bear and Crown provided for travelers who needed a bed, or for those who wished to take refreshment in privacy for reasons of their own nicety, or protection. She stood when Crowther and Harriet entered and bobbed a curtsy to them. Harriet wondered if she would be able to take this woman into her own household. There was a hardness to her looks and manner that made Harriet mistrust her. Caveley, she feared, would be at her mercy. She stepped forward, however, and took the maid’s hand with her usual open manner.

  “We meet again, Patience. Thank you for speaking with us.”

  Patience smiled a little tightly before retaking her seat. Harriet perched on one of Michaels’s mismatched dining chairs, and Crowther took up a position next to the mantelpiece.

  “We wanted to ask you about the events of this Saturday just passed,” Harriet began.

  “Yes, ma’am. Michaels said.”

  “Do you recall what happened when Mr. Thornleigh and Wicksteed came back from the inquest into the death of the stranger in the woods?”

  Patience shrugged. “Nothing much. Mr. Wicksteed dined alone. Lady Thornleigh had been waiting to dine until my master came home. Then when he did, he said he was not hungry and went into his own apartments to drink and play billiards.” Patience smiled a little. “Lady Thornleigh was annoyed.”

  Harriet cocked her head to one side. “So Hugh spent the night playing billiards and drinking alone?”

  “Mostly, though he has taught me a little,” the maid told her. “Sometimes he teaches me when I serve him.”

  “And he taught you some more on Saturday?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He said he would make me an expert. We’ve been practicing a little while now.”

  Again the slow smile, and it had such a sensual curve to it Harriet was afraid she might blush; she was aware of the catlike eyes scanning her face for a reaction.

  Crowther shifted his weight against the wall. Patience blinked and turned her head toward him.

  “So you were with Mr. Thornleigh most of that evening?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin toward him. “Oh, I had other duties to attend to now and then. Like taking Mr. Wicksteed his tray. I suppose you would like to know what Mr. Wicksteed had with his supper?”

  “Would we?”

  “Oh yes, I think so. When I took his leavings back to the kitchen he had me fetch back up a bottle of the Aqua Vitae.” She paused to pluck a thread clean of her gray skirt, enjoying the sharpness of their attention. “Though Lord knows what he did with it, because I never saw the bottle in his room again. Madam Dougherty was all spikes in the morning because she could see there was a bottle missing, but Mr. Wicksteed tipped me a shilling not to write it in the book.” She patted her thigh, indicating, Crowther supposed, where her purse lay concealed. “Of course, later Mr. Hugh said he had taken a bottle to old Cartwright, and that sent her quiet again. The old lady miscounted, like enough. Wouldn’t be surprised to know she had her own supply, and has been dipping into that a bit fierce of late.”

  Harriet drew in her breath, and leaned forward.

  “Patience, think what you have told us. Mr. Hugh was drinking and playing billiards all night; Wicksteed had a bottle in his room which seemed to disappear; Cartwright was poisoned by that liquor. You must tell the squire what you have told us. It could save Mr. Hugh from the noose!”

  The girl regarded her with great composure.

  “Mr. Hugh must look to himself. I have my own concerns, and have no mind to talk to the squire. I have told you, after all.” Her hand drifted across her belly. “And I have left Thornleigh. I am to go to London. That is why I am here. Michaels’s boy met me on the way down from the Hall.” Her face became a little flushed and her eyes brightened. The word “London” seemed to work on her like a tonic. Crowther looked a little confused.

  “You were keen enough to look out for Hugh last night, Patience, when you locked him away from his guns.”

  She nodded, and her speaking palm slid back to her thigh and gave it a pat.

  “My prospects are much improved today. I am to go into business-my cousin and I have decided to open a little shop. We shall all do quite nicely, I think. But you must let me go now. I am taking a ride to Pulborough to catch the evening stage. George will be wanting to leave by now.”

  There was a rattle and shout downstairs. Crowther glanced out of the window to see one of the local farmers’ lads on the front of his cart twisting round and looking up toward them, just as the girl had said. Patience bent down to pick up her cloak, and for the first time Crowther noticed the neat little bundle under the chair.

  “Be careful,” he said, watching her gather up the little parcel and annoyed, in spite of himself, at the ease and self-satisfaction in her movements. “From what we hear, Lord Thornleigh’s servants do not always prosper in London.”

  She stood and pulled her cloak over her shoulders.

  “You mean Shapin?” she asked. “The man that got transported, all those years ago?”

  Harriet nodded.

  “He was my uncle. He was killed fighting for the rebels in Boston in the end. Mother always said he was a simpleton really, surprised her that he turned thief. She didn’t think he had the wit for it.” She gathered her bundle into her arms, holding it over the slight curve of her belly. “I have wit. But perhaps some day I shall go to America too. They have thrown out all the kings and lords there. You will know where to find me in London by applying to Caleb Jackson’s tea shop in Southwark.”

  Crowther stepped forward.

  “One more thing, Patience.” He reached into his pocket and brought out the small shard of embroidery they had found on the thorns in the coppice. “Do you recognize this?”

  She glanced at it. “I do. Mr. Hugh used to have a waistcoat made of such stuff. Mrs. Mortimer made it up. He handed it over to Mr. Wicksteed in the winter, though. I had to take it in for him. Mr. Hugh is naturally broader in his shoulders.”

  She lifted the latch to the door, then turned back on her heel.

  “I don’t think Mr. Thornleigh did poison Cartwright, or do for Nurse Bray, but he is probably right when he says that he deserves to hang, you know. Most men do deserve it, I think-don’t you, ma’am?”

  She smiled at them again, and without waiting for a reply stepped out of the door and away, leaving Harriet and Crowther staring after her.

  “Good God,” Harriet said after a few moments. They heard a laugh outside and then the cart crunch forward on the road. Patience was away. Harriet imagined her holding onto its rocking sides with her smug smile and wide eyes, for all the world looking as if she had just finished licking cream from her lips. Crowther examined his fingertips.

  “What do you think-perhaps four months gone?” Harriet nodded. “Hugh’s child.”

  “So it seems he believes. I think it not unlikely.” A thought seemed to strike Crowther. “Are you shocked?”

  Harriet considered. “Perhaps I am. How upsetting to find oneself a prude.”

  Crowther looked at her. “I think it is not your prudery, but the fact you do not like the girl that leads you to be shocked. Come. Let us return to Caveley. Your sister will think us lost forever, and we must decide if we have enough to scare the squire back into Hugh’s camp.”

  “I am not sure we will, until Wicksteed’s motive and the manner of his hold over Hugh are made clearer. And Patience was right, we still have to struggle with Hugh’s conviction that he should hang for some reason. Until we can get under that, we have nothing.”

  Rachel had indeed been long anxious for their return. She greeted them rather white-faced, and befor
e the room to the salon door had closed behind them she had put a letter into Harriet’s hands.

  “I have had one. They arrived just after you left. I am sure just such another waits you at home, Crowther.”

  She looked in danger of tears, so Crowther took her elbow and guided her to a seat. Harriet meantime had opened the letter and was reading it. High spots of color appeared in her cheeks. She looked up at her sister.

  “Were there any others?”

  “Mrs. Heathcote received one, and brought it straight to me as I was reading my own. Said she thought we should burn them, and that she would follow us to the ends of the earth.” Rachel smiled faintly. “I have never seen her so indignant.”

  “Good.”

  Harriet put the sheet in Crowther’s hand. It was neatly written, grammatically faultless, twenty lines of pure hate. Harriet was an adulteress, a witch; he an evil heathen who cut souls from men’s bodies and ate their flesh. They should leave the area before the populus knew what the letter-writer did and their homes were burned out from under them. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, it ended. Crowther was not surprised to find there was no signature.

  “I agree with Mrs. Heathcote,” he said, throwing the sheet onto the side table. Rachel eyed it nervously as if it still had the power to leap up of its own accord and bite her. “They should be burned. Do you recognize the writing?”

  Harriet sat down and dropped her gloves on top of the letter with studied carelessness.

  “Yes. I think it is that of Thornleigh’s housekeeper. The squire has probably been talking to her, or Wicksteed. She needs very little encouragement to be vicious at the best of times, from what I know of her.” She paused and folded her hands on her lap. “Well, I am glad we have got them.”

  “Oh, Harry!”

  “No, Rachel, I am. I feel we have been floundering around, discovering any number of unpleasant things, but getting no nearer to the truth. This. .” she looked down at the letter, “seems to show that we are hitting home.”

  But Rachel would not be comforted.

  “Does it? Or does it mean that the people here are beginning to find us a rather troublesome bunch of neighbors?”