“Very well, very well, Mr. Crowther.” The squire put his hand on Crowther’s arm and held it for a moment as a man might steady himself on a moving ship. “And you maintain the nurse was murdered also?”
“I do. Do you doubt it?”
“It is not a matter of doubt, I simply cannot understand what is happening here. Might it be a series of unrelated, unhappy events? Might that not be the simplest of conclusions?”
“It is unbelievable. These people have been murdered, and not by some lone thief.”
“You point to Mr. Hugh Thornleigh.”
“If Alexander is never discovered, or found dead, then he inherits the estate! Who else stands to benefit so?”
The squire looked at him hard in the gloom. “And if both brothers are removed? One by stealth and one by the law—who gains there? I would not expect you to be so keen to see a man hanged for the murder of one of his family.”
Crowther flushed. “I am not keen, as you choose to say it, to see any man hanged. But do not ask me to believe this an accident or Nurse Bray a suicide so you can keep Hugh safe!”
“Hugh may be better than what comes after him.”
“Even if he murders?”
“I do not necessarily believe that a murder has been committed.”
“Perhaps you might like to discuss that with the victim.”
Crowther pushed the bedroom door open again. Michaels had taken his place at the bed, and now moved aside to let him approach. He nodded at Crowther in such a way he suspected the conversation outside the door had not gone unheard. Bridges bent over the bed and cleared his throat.
“Now then, Mr. Cartwright, I hate to see you in such a state! What has happened here? Some mistake with the household poisons?”
Cartwright opened his eyes and the squire recoiled slightly. The breath came in rattling gasps.
“Water,” he said.
Crowther filled the glass and pushed past the squire to give him drink. Cartwright sank back, then sighing, opened his eyes again.
“Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. We were killing mice last Sunday.” He looked up into the squire’s round face with desperate eyes. “I took water with the liquor Captain Thornleigh brought. Perhaps. Must have been so.”
The squire rocked back on his heels with a satisfied smile and blinked innocently at Crowther. The latter said nothing, but did not trouble to hide his disdain. Joshua he would not blame. If the draper wished to believe himself a victim of accident, and that belief soothed him, then so be it.
Turning to the table, he added a few drops to the water glass from a brown bottle. A swirl of light purple sunk and spread in the water, and he offered the glass again to his patient. The eyes suddenly opened and locked onto Crowther’s face. Cartwright put up his hand and held the glass away from him, his bloody palm fixing round Crowther’s wrist with force, pulling him close to his lips. Crowther could smell death on him.
“Tichfield. It was Tichfield Street.”
Crowther felt the blood in his brain stir. He nodded carefully to show he understood; the tension fell away from Cartwright’s limbs and his eyes closed. He let himself be fed the water, and with a slow sigh slipped under the waves of his suffering again.
The squire stepped forward. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing but the delirium of his brain.” Crowther did not take his eyes from Joshua’s face. “He will not speak again.”
It was past three in the morning when David returned to Caveley for the last time. The ladies had not gone to bed. Harriet would not give up the watch, and Rachel would not leave her. He came in without removing his cloak and handed over the paper to Harriet, but she could have guessed half of what it contained by the expression on his face. She smiled at him very sadly. He looked pale and uneasy in the candlelight.
“Thank you, David. You have been very good. Rest now.”
He looked for a second as if he wished to say something, then turned away, but paused again at the door.
“Just wished to say, ma’am, Miss Rachel, that Mr. Crowther was a gentleman to Cartwright. I hope I get care like that when I go. Though I hope not to die so hard.” He left before they could reply.
The door shut behind him and Rachel got up and took her position behind Harriet’s chair, so she could read over her shoulder. The note was short and to the point.
It is over. The dose was massive. I know where Alexander is.
19 APRIL 1775, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS BAY, AMERICA
They set out like boys promised a picnic that morning, but it was a shocked and bloody army that made its way back to camp the following evening.
Hawkshaw had a tear in his cheek from a farmer’s blunderbuss, and he had lost three of his company to the rebels on the retreat from Lexington. He had not seen Hugh since the carnage of Bloody Angle, where the rebels had taken advantage of a sharp turn in the road to ambush and harry his men. He had never felt so exposed. These pretty wooded hills and valleys with their irregular roads and riverways made for pleasant farming country, but it was the devil’s own work to fight in. The rebels came up out of nowhere at them as they made their way back into Concord, some piling right into their midst to send off a shot though it was certain death to do so. The army could not be sanguine about any meeting with these men in the future, surely. They were ragged and undisciplined, but brave, and knew how to use the land to their advantage.
Hawkshaw pulled off his coat in the relative peace of his quarters and tried to wash out his wound. He took some of the water from his bowl in his mouth and spat it out again, thick with his own blood. He had even seen a woman firing by the side of her husband from one of the farms along the way. Both had been killed, and the house set alight, but it was a chiling scene. If they could make their women fight like that, how great a force would be required to subdue them? More than were here, and more than were likely to come soon, and in the meantime they were in danger of being pinned down in this bloody bay like animals in a pit. The rebels seemed to him like little boys throwing sharp rocks at bears. Not much of a competition in a straight fight perhaps, but if they could not reach out a claw and connect, and the stones were sharp enough, it was plain where any sensible man should lay his bets.
The door behind him opened and he looked up, expecting to see his servant come in with a fresh shirt. It was Hugh. He was worn, and his shoulders slumped, but Hawkshaw could not see any sign of wounds. They looked at each other for a moment with satisfaction, then Hugh held out a long plain bottle toward him.
“Here. Brought this for you. My father sent over a half-dozen bottles of brandy so the mess can toast him and his new wife. We’ll use it to wash out our wounds.”
Hawkshaw took it from him and lifted it high, letting a long draft into his mouth and swilled it over his gums. It found the wound and made him wince. He could not say anything about the quality of the liquor. All he could taste was his own blood and dirt.
Hugh watched him. “Can you talk?” he asked.
“Yes. It looks worse than it is. No long speeches from me though. Who did you lose?”
Hugh kicked out at the wall of the little hut hard enough to make the floorboards jump.
“Four good men. Young, Spicely, Ball and Tom Cartwright. Spicely was one of the first killed up at the bridge. The animals scalped him. And Cartwright died hard. He only joined up six months ago, comes from my home, and took one in the guts. He was looking at me in the eye as he died, rattling back on the cart, and all I could think of was how pathetic that little mustache he’s been trying to grow looked. He was a baby still. And all the time looking at me like I’m a god who can heal him with a handshake and trying to be brave.”
“It was good you stayed with him.”
“Much good it did him. To hell with it! Four good men! And for what? Throwing half a ton of shot into a duckpond, and burning a couple of gun carriages.”
Hawkshaw passed him the brandy bottle and Hugh took a long gulp of it before he continued. “We cannot afford to t
hrow men away like this. Two others wounded, won’t be fit for months. I’ll have to fill the company again. What about you? Seen your injured yet?”
“Of course. Parkinson looks in a bad way. The others who made it back will live. Thank God Percy made enough noise to be allowed to come up and cover the retreat. There’d be a lot fewer of us here now if he hadn’t.”
Hugh sat down heavily on the bed. “I shall send him some of the brandy.”
Hawkshaw watched him in silence for a moment, then began the work of getting blood and grit out from his fingernails.
“It’s true about the marriage, by the way.” Hugh looked at the emptying brandy bottle. “Of course you know. My father writes to say she will be an ornament to Thornleigh and the London scene.”
Hawkshaw took a seat on his trunk, and reached an arm out for the bottle again without comment.
“My father has made us ridiculous, and thinks it all a very fine joke. I hope he chokes on it.”
“I met an old friend of your family today.”
Hugh looked up with his eyebrows raised.
“A man called Shapin. He heard Gregson mention your name and claimed to know you as a child.”
“I don’t recall the name.”
“Seems he was a servant, transported for theft when you were a boy.”
Hugh shrugged and took the bottle back again.
“I am surprised my father didn’t arrange to have him swing. He has never been forgiving of other people’s sins.”
Hugh held the bottle to his forehead, as if he expected to find some cool and comfort in it.
PART IV
1
MONDAY, 5 JUNE 1780
Susan must have slept, but as the light began to crawl between the shutters, and she heard the familiar sounds of a London street beginning to stir like a drunk awakening from bad dreams, it seemed to her she had spent the whole night watching the shadows on the ceiling.
She had asked Graves and Miss Chase if she might be able to tell her brother about his—about their—strange change in situation and expectation, and the three of them had decided to say nothing to anyone else until she had had time to do so. It seemed right to her that she should tell him, but the decision to do so was easier than the telling. She had promised herself it would be after supper, then told herself that Jonathan was tired and needed rest, and now she had lost her own chance of sleep trying to find words that were gentle and right, and would be clearly understood.
She sighed and sat up, then swung her feet to the floor to watch him sleeping in the bed next to hers. His blond hair fell over the pillow, his arms thrown out as if he were racing up some steep slope in his dreams. His skin was as perfect and pale as the first clouds. She reached over and shook his shoulder roughly.
“Jonathan! Jonathan, wake up.”
He stirred and opened his eyes. She saw in them the same confusion she felt whenever she woke in this room. Those first few seconds of peace, then doubt as the familiar objects of their own room in Tichfield Street above the shop failed to appear, then the squeeze of his eyes, the little gulp in his chest as he remembered where he was, what had happened.
“Jonathan, I have to tell you something.”
He pulled himself up onto his elbows, and rubbed his eyes. “What is it?”
“Are you awake?”
“’Course I’m awake. You just shook me.”
“Our name isn’t Adams, it is Thornleigh. You are probably a viscount, and you’ll be an earl some day.”
Jonathan frowned at his sheets. “Of where?”
“Sussex.”
He looked across at her. “Oh. Is that where the picture comes from?”
“What picture?”
“The one on Papa’s ring. With the dragon and the bird holding a shield. Perhaps that man knows.”
“It’s a phoenix and you’re talking silly—what man?”
Jonathan sat up properly and said indignantly, “I am not talking silly! The man showed me a picture like the one on the ring and asked if I’d seen it. I told him about the ring and he said I was clever. Then he promised he’d come back and give me a waistcoat just like his. I liked it, it was nice. But he hasn’t come back.”
“When, Jonathan? What man?”
“Days and days ago. I just told you. He was called Carter. Like horse and carter. Why?”
“Perhaps he took the ring!” She let her voice drop and plucked at the bedclothes. “He did not look like ... the other man?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No, and he was nice. Why would he take the ring? He had the picture.” They considered this for a moment, then the boy looked at her again with his head on one side. “If I am a viscount, does that mean you are a lady or something?”
Susan swung her feet. “Probably.”
Jonathan yawned and wriggled back among his sheets, and put his head on the pillow.
“They will make you learn French.”
Susan’s eyes widened.
Crowther did not come home till Cartwright’s body had been decently laid out, spending the time between his death and the moment the women told him that the body was clean and at rest in the glovemaker’s kitchen, drinking red wine with Michaels. The huge man had left the house as soon as Crowther had closed Joshua’s eyes with his long white fingers, only to return before many minutes had passed with a bottle of burgundy clasped like a toy in his huge hand, and carrying two glasses which he rubbed briefly on the edge of his shirt and set down on the table without comment.
Crowther took the glass offered him with a nod and drank deep. He wondered if he would be asked to perform an autopsy on the man. He realized he did not wish it. He had seen the effects of arsenic poisoning on the organs of a dog in London, and did not think it would add much to the sum of his knowledge to see what the poison had done to the systems of a man. He felt the wine hit his empty stomach and warm it. Without realizing he was doing so, he stretched his limbs and sighed. Michaels was watching him narrowly.
“All the bottles and jars are locked away,” the innkeeper said. “He had not taken anything to eat before the attack came on since his breakfast. Perhaps, though, you should take away the bottle that was opened from the Hall and lock it up in your medicine cabinet.”
Crowther looked up in surprise. “You think it unsafe here?”
Michaels shrugged and spread out his thick fingers in front of him.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Crowther. There are two bottles. One had been drunk from, the other not. Take the opened one away with you for my peace of mind. I’d rather not say what I think. Hardly know myself.”
Crowther turned back to his wine without commenting further. They remained in silence till the bottle was empty and the sky outside the kitchen window was beginning to thin from a summer dawn to its first full light. The door opened, and a young-looking woman came in with a firm step and a bundle of linens that she took out through the back door. She returned and laid her hand on Michaels’s shoulder. He grasped it and held it briefly to his cheek. She bent over to kiss the top of his head, and Crowther felt his heart reach out. He had not seen Michaels’s wife before, had not imagined so trim and young a woman, had not imagined they could portray such an allegory of domestic support. She seemed to feel his eyes, and looked up at him.
“Mr. Crowther, you and my husband should go home and rest now. Hannah and I will keep vigil.”
He nodded, but when he stood, his feet took him upstairs again to the sick room. There were herbs burning in a little brass dish on one side of the room, and candles had been set on either side of where Joshua lay. Hannah sat in the chair that Crowther had occupied most of the night, and she stood hurriedly when the door creaked open. Crowther waved her back into her seat, and looked at the face of the body on the bed. How strange it was, how dead the dead looked. Joshua could never be mistaken for a man at rest. The body was empty and senseless; whatever had been human had left him. He noticed Hannah wipe her eyes.
“You were fond of your master?”<
br />
She nodded, looking a little frightened. “Yes, sir. And ...”
Perhaps tiredness was making him gentle, for his voice was softer than usual. “What, child?”
She sighed and laid her hand on the bed beside her master. “Squire Bridges was asking all sorts of things, about the poison for the mice. I’m afraid they’ll say it was my fault, sir.” Her hand patted the arm of the corpse like a woman settling a child. “As if I’d ever hurt him.”
Crowther was silent for a second, looking at her profile in the candlelight.
“I know you did not.” She smiled up at him, quick and grateful. “And if you have any problem finding another position, you will be welcome in my household.”
“I should like that, sir.” She looked back down at the body beside her. “But my place is here for now.”
Crowther bowed with no less respect than he would have shown to a duchess, left the room, and pausing only to receive a bundle from Michaels with a heavy nod, walked out of the front door and back to his own house.
2
Susan thought that having told her brother her news she would sleep, but she was more awake than ever. She stepped softly over to the shutter and pulled it open a way, flinching as the brightness of the morning hit her eyes. The room she and Jonathan were sharing was on the upper floor of the house, and she could see across the city strange plumes of smoke exhaling into the sky as if half a dozen giants about London were smoking their first pipes of the day. Something caught her eye and she looked down. The thin man who seemed to be interested in Mr. Graves was looking up at her. He caught her eye and swept off his hat with a flourish that made her smile. Then he looked either way along the road and lifted his hand to beckon her. She frowned. He beckoned again. She turned back into the room. Mr. Graves did not like this man, she had seen that. In fact, he did not seem comfortable when this man was around. Perhaps if she asked him, he would go away. She did not want Mr. Graves to be uncomfortable. She wanted him, she realized, to stay as near to her and Jonathan as it was possible to keep him.
Instruments of Darkness Page 19
