“I assume, Mr. Crowther, that you-”
“Yes, we tested what was left in the bottle on a dog.” Harriet winced in spite of herself. “It was certainly arsenic. Did Wicksteed buy any from you?”
Rather than answer at once, Mr. Gladwell stepped round from the counter and crossed the room to shut the street door and pull down the blind. He seemed to cross the space in a single step, more unfolding and folding his limbs again than walking.
“Perhaps I can offer you both a little refreshment? If you would be so kind as to step into the parlor.”
Mr. Gladwell’s private rooms at the rear of the shop were not very different in style or furnishing from those in which he conducted his business, but here the chairs were designed for longer occupation, and the drawers of herbs and tinctures gave way to leather-bound volumes. The oddities in jars, however, became a little more prevalent. Mr. Gladwell seemed to have a predilection for the unusual in nature, suggested by the mouse with two tails, and confirmed in his sitting room by a lizard with two heads. This specimen the men discussed at some length until tea was served and they took their seats. Mr. Gladwell’s cup looked like a child’s in his long thin hands, so white they made the glistening china look dull and yellowed. “Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Crowther,” Gladwell began in his sandy voice, after a little beat of silence that suggested they were moving forward to a new topic. “What I told Mrs. Westerman is perfectly true. The preparation Thornleigh Hall take for ridding themselves of unwanted animal life is just as we have supplied to Caveley, and it is based on strychnine-not arsenic. But I had a conversation recently that I think I should share with you.”
Harriet put down her cup, making space to do so on the side table by edging along a jar out of which a bull’s eye stared kindly at her.
“We should be interested to hear,” she said.
The giant smiled slowly.
“I have a number of competitors in the area. Some are good men, some I think are not. One of the latter dropped into my shop only yesterday. He hoped he might commission me to carry some pill of his own devising against gout. He made various claims for it, which I thought extravagant and perhaps I did not hide the fact. He grew a little angry with me.”
He smiled thinly at the memory, and raised his hand as if to brush his colleague’s crossness away. Harriet was reminded of her horse flicking its tail at the summer midges.
“His pride was a little hurt, I thought, and he told me not to rely on Thornleigh Hall as a customer in the future, as he himself was now having dealings with them. However, it was not Mr. Wicksteed who made the purchase of which he spoke. He told me he had sold one hundred grains of arsenic on Saturday morning, to Lady Thornleigh herself.”
Harriet swallowed suddenly and Crowther set down his cup. After a moment he spoke.
“That is a considerable amount.”
“Indeed. Enough to rid the whole town of its mice. And cats. And dogs. I think my colleague was proud to have made such a large sale. He will always sell more than his clients require, and never suffers them to leave his shop empty handed. I know several people who have entered his shop quite healthy, and left convinced they were in fact on the point of death as a result of any number of maladies. They think themselves blessed and lucky to have chanced in on him at just the right moment to avoid disaster.”
Crowther smiled at his fingertips. “That cannot be good for your own business, sir.”
The giant lifted his thin shoulders. “Most return to me in the end. He does not do many of them lasting damage, but the sale of such a large quantity of arsenic stayed in my mind.”
Crowther flexed his hand. “As you say, Mr. Gladwell, it is indeed a thing to be noted. Did you know Mr. Cartwright?”
“In passing, as all of us in trade do in the county. He did not seem a man who deserved to die in such a way. Arsenic sends our bodies to hell long before the soul escapes to join it. And Lady Thornleigh took such a quantity. I hope you do not break bread at her table, for your sakes.”
Harriet took up the cup again. The eye in the jar shook a little as if trying to catch her attention.
“We do not. But I do not like living so near.”
7
“Do you wish to go to the squire?” Crowther was on the point of handing Mrs. Westerman into her carriage in the forecourt of Pulborough’s best coaching inn. Harriet turned to him, one foot on the ground, one raised onto the step of the elegant little barouche she used for local journeys, her hand in his.
“But we do not know how Wicksteed heard of the meeting with Brook, and our conclusions about Shapin are guesswork at best. Do you think …?”
But before the thought was completed two young men, their rough shirts flying, barreled into the lady and gentleman. With sudden shock Harriet found herself thrown to the ground, and felt her ankle twist under her. Her back hit hard against the high wheel of her coach. She heard her coachman, David, roar and leap from his seat, shouting at his boy to hold the frightened animals steady. Crowther’s cane crashed to the ground, and rolled from his grip across the cobbles. David grabbed one of the lads, twisting him by the collar. The other spotted Crowther’s cane, and as Crowther reached for it, brought down his heel on the slender strength of the wood. It cracked between the pillowlike stones of the yard. Crowther struggled to his feet with a yell, managing to catch his attacker’s face with the back of his hand as he rose. The youth’s head jerked back and he lifted his fist, then laughed, and spat at his feet. Crowther reached for him again, but the lad was too quick and darted over to his companion, throwing himself between him and Harriet’s red-faced coachman to break the grip. They ran from the yard at full tilt with David pursuing as Crowther turned to Harriet and began to help her to her feet. Already the inn’s landlady had come hurrying across the cobbles, her apron ballooning around her in a cloud of upset.
“Oh, Good Lord! What on earth?” She put her arm around Harriet’s shoulder and helped to raise her.
“I’m quite all right. Just winded, I think.” She tried to put her weight on the hurt ankle and went rather white, then shifted her balance to allow Crowther’s arm to take most of her weight.
The landlady seemed on the point of tears. “I cannot believe it! I’ve never seen such a thing.”
Harriet tried to smile at her. “Really, Mrs. Saunderton, I am quite well. It is nothing. A couple of foolish young men.”
Crowther looked about him. In the doorway of the inn he saw the familiar form of Wicks teed. He was smiling at them, his arms crossed over his chest. David came running back into the yard. Crowther noticed the little boy’s at the horses’ heads look of relief as he handed over the bridle. That must be Jake Mortimer, the sewing woman’s nephew. He could see David had been injured in his struggle with the man. The skin around his eye was already very red.
“Sorry, ma’am. They got away from me in the square.”
Mrs. Saunderton was trying to knock the dust of her yard from the long folds of Harriet’s dress; the latter put out a hand to stop her.
“Not at all, David. Thank you. Are you injured?”
“Not worth mentioning, Mrs. Westerman.”
The landlady was still trembling with distress. “I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on either of those lads before. Oh, Mrs. Westerman, what you must think of us! Will you not come in for a moment to recover? What a shock!”
Harriet managed a smile. “Thank you, no. I am sure I am quite well, now I have caught my breath. But how strange …”
Her eyes drifted away from the landlady and she too caught sight of Wicksteed. Her face lost all its color and the voice died in her throat.
Crowther stepped forward. “I think Mrs. Westerman would be better recovering from the shock in her own home.”
Harriet nodded and began to turn toward the carriage again. As she put her foot on the step she almost fell. David swung down from his seat.
“Hold the horses, boy.” He was by her side in a second. “If you’ll allow me, ma’am?”
She blushed and nodded, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders, allowing him to lift her bodily in his arms and place her comfortably in the carriage. He returned unsmiling to his seat. Crowther climbed up to take his place, still aware of Wicksteed grinning at them from his post at the edge of the forecourt. He heard a little cough next to him, and peered over the barouche’s side into the yard. Harriet’s new stable boy stood below him, holding up the two pieces of his cane. He looked up, very white and nervous. His new coat seemed a little on the large side. Crowther looked down into his round, unformed face, a picture of a life yet to begin, then put out his hands to take the pieces, his thin, papery skin, spotting in places with brown, his bony fingers lifting the remains of his cane from the boy’s fresh palms. He nodded.
“Good lad. Thank you.”
The boy smiled and clambered up to ride next to David. Wicksteed stood upright and sauntered over to Harriet’s side of the carriage. He hardly sketched a bow, but spoke a few words to her, and with a nod to Crowther moved away again. Mrs. Saunderton looked a little confused. Wicksteed gave her a broad grin and she bobbed a curtsy, doubtfully, in his direction. Harriet said clearly, “Drive on.”
David clicked to the horses. They lifted their hooves and with a jerk and clatter the carriage began to move. Crowther carefully placed the remains of his cane on the seat next to him and leaned forward.
“What did he say?”
“That it is beginning.”
Crowther sat back into the corner of the carriage and crossed his hands in his lap.
8
David carried Mrs. Westerman from the carriage to the salon, then was hurried into the kitchen to have his own injuries dealt with. Mrs. Heathcote returned moments later with hot water in a basin, and strips of linen over her shoulder, to find Miss Trench at her sister’s feet trying to remove her shoe. The scene was too feminine for Crowther, and with a nod to his hostess over the shoulders of her nurses, he left his broken cane on the desk, and stepped out of the French windows for a moment to walk among the lavender. His steps eventually took him to the front of the house, and he paused under the oak tree that Commodore Westerman had thought would be a guardian to his family in his absence. The summer breathed through the leaves, making them sigh heavily. Crowther leaned his weight against the trunk.
“We have made a poor job of it, friend,” he said, resting his palm against the bark.
There was a movement by the gate, and he turned to see two horsemen entering the driveway. The first was Michaels on his favorite ride, a beast as massive as himself who had a reputation as a biter. He had his arm out to the other rider, as if holding him in his saddle. As they came a little closer Crowther recognized Clode, the lawyer they had sent down to London. Both men started, then encouraged their horses forward as he emerged from the shade of the tree. Daniel began to dismount as they came abreast of him, and his slim form almost dropped into Crowther’s arms. The latter held him by the shoulders.
“The children?”
Clode looked feverish, and worryingly pale under his stubble.
“Well. Safe. Legitimate.”
His relief was such, Crowther flung his arms around the boy and held him for a second. Michaels had dismounted, and as Crowther released him, he put a beefy arm around Clode’s shoulders.
“I met him on the road two miles out, hardly able to keep on his mount. Let’s get him in, Mr. Crowther. I don’t think he has slept since he left Hartswood.”
Between them they lifted him into the house and Mrs. Heathcote found herself with another invalid just as her first was made comfortable. Crowther shouted the same words that Clode had given him over his shoulder as they carried the man upstairs and heard Harriet’s cry of relief follow him upstairs.
As soon as he was laid on the bed, Clode fell into an uneasy drifting sleep. Crowther watched over him. His jaw was badly bruised, and there was more heavy bruising on his shoulder and the pale flesh of his side. Crowther had brandy and water brought up, and ordered a fire lit in the room. So there had been some sort of violence given and received in London. He saw the remains of the bloodstains on the young man’s chest, but saw no wound, noted the scrapes on his palms and knuckles, the deep cut in his thumb-a sign that he had held a knife and in some press of action used it, not expertly, but with force.
Michaels sat with him. “You look as if you are reading a book,” he said quietly.
Crowther looked up, and nodded slightly. “What we do leaves marks on us. Especially if we are involved in violence. When he wakes, I am sure Mr. Clode will be able to tell us of some violent altercation on a roadway somewhere. I think the other man died, and that Clode found safe refuge afterward. Why he should decide to leave it so soon, his body will not tell me.”
“How could you know any of that?”
“There was enough blood, not of his own, that it could not be washed away quickly. Yet he is wearing a clean shirt.”
“Will he survive? I have no great desire to watch someone else die in your company, Mr. Crowther.”
Gabriel smiled. “Aside from the bruising, I think his symptoms are of shock and exhaustion. He is young. He should mend.” Crowther paused and picked up Clode’s wrist again; the pulse fluttered and struggled. “But something is keeping him from the rest he needs.”
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Harriet limped into the room. He smiled at her and turned back to his patient. As the door fell shut again behind Harriet, Clode groaned and opened his eyes.
“Crowther!”
“Yes, Mr. Clode, you have reached us. And you must rest.”
The young man lifted himself on his shoulders, shaking his head. He saw Harriet.
“Oh, Mrs. Westerman too. So glad.”
He looked like an engraving in her bed, the white of the sheets and his skin contrasting with the dark of his hair and the hollows visible under the collar of his shirt. She smiled at him.
“Crowther told me the children are well.”
“Yes, and under the best of guardians. We killed the man who murdered their father. Or rather a leopard did.” Harriet wondered if he were delirious and glanced at Crowther, her expression all concern. “At least I think Hunter said it was a leopard.”
Crowther looked confused for a second, then smiled with understanding.
“Mr. Hunter has some exotic pets,” he said to Harriet. She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. Michaels sat forward in his chair. Clode did not seem to notice anything; his hands were feeling round the sheets about him.
“I have a paper, rode since dawn to get it to you. I must have it.”
Crowther turned to the end of the bed where Clode’s coat was laid over the back of a chair and passed it to him. He reached forward eagerly and dived his hand into the pocket. He pulled out the two sheets folded and creased. He must have put his fingertips to them to check they were still there every other minute during the ride. Now he passed them over to Crowther, and at once fell back on his elbows.
“They were in the yellow man’s pocket. The pocket of the man who killed Alexander, I mean. The children called him the Yellow Man. Susan is very brave.” He let himself fall back into the pillows. Crowther put water and brandy to Clode’s lips. “He escaped when Newgate burned… Had to run. . Got them safe. .”
Daniel sighed, his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed. Crowther watched him for a second.
“Good. It seems he will allow himself to sleep now.”
He picked up the papers and walked around to where Harriet was sitting and put the papers in her hand. Michaels and Crowther stood behind her chair as she unfolded them. They were all silent a few seconds.
“You still have that piece of paper from Brook’s body, I trust?”
She nodded. “Yes. And I know that this is the hand of Claver Wicksteed.”
“Then I suggest it is certainly time we went to see the squire.”
Harriet looked up at him. “He dines this afternoon at Thornleigh Hall-Mrs. Heathcote heard i
t.”
Crowther removed the papers from between her fingers, folding them and neatly fitting them into his coat.
“Then I suggest we make a visit there. Will you join us, Mr. Michaels?”
The man shrugged his bearlike shoulders and colored a little.
“Not used to going up to the front gate, so much. But I don’t see why I should not come with you.”
9
“We must see the squire.” Crowther spoke quietly, but Thornleigh’s senior footman had begun to look uncomfortable.
“He is at table, and we have orders that no one from Caveley-or you, Mr. Crowther-are to be admitted to this house.” His orders did not seem to make him happy. He turned toward Michaels and straightened a little. “You, we would not admit in any circumstances.”
Michaels smiled at him and rested his fists on his waist.
“Foolish of you to let us into your hallway, in that case.”
Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed the maid who had first opened the door and fallen back to let them enter blush and take a step back. The footman’s eyes traveled the same way.
“That was an error,” he said stiffly.
Michaels looked entirely at his ease.
“Well, if any of you fancy lads want to try and throw us out, good luck to you, that’s all I can say.” He flexed his massive hands.
Crowther sighed. “We must see the squire,” he repeated.
They were shown into the Great Hall to await the party who were dining and found Hugh already there, slumped in front of the empty fire with a carafe at his side. He looked up at them, his eyes already rather dull.
“What? More corpses?”
Harriet made her way awkwardly over to the other armchair and let herself down into it. Hugh watched her for a few seconds, then realizing she was not going to speak, asked grudgingly, “What happened to you?”
She looked directly at him.
“Wicksteed paid a couple of lads to knock Crowther and me flying in Pulborough earlier today. I hurt my ankle.” Hugh looked confused. She explained, as one might to a rather simple child: “He has demanded that I leave Caveley, my husband and my children. He is showing me what to expect if I do not comply.”
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