Instruments of Darkness

by Imogen Robertson

  “I do—I have ridden all night to see them.”

  “Then tell it.”

  “It is confidential.”

  “Then it must wait.”

  Jane made to close the door in his face. Daniel held up his hand.

  “But I am a lawyer!”

  “Well, I’m very happy for you, sir. Good-bye.”

  The shop door was slammed. Clode turned and rested his back against it. He did not know what strength had carried him this far. The day was advancing, he could already taste the first notes of evening in the air. He had not slept and the long ride had sewn aches into his muscles like red threads, which pulled whenever he moved. He thought again of Nurse Bray, her wide face and little blue eyes counting off her bequests in the second-best office in his uncle’s establishment, his own nervousness in setting pen to paper, watching he made no blot for his uncle to lift his eyebrows at. He remembered the recitation of her modest wealth, her odd phrasing, her pride as she counted the bequests on her pink fingers: the brooch, the surprisingly large bequest for her friend. His tiredeness fell from him, and he spoke aloud to the oblivious air.

  “Mrs. Service, Tichfield Street.”

  He was shown into the modest parlor and took a seat on one of the two armchairs by the empty grate as Mrs. Service jiggled tea cups and leaves on her rackety little side table. Her cheeks were smooth, but each was dotted with red. Clode wished he could tell her she had no need to apologize for the dark little room, or the kitchen girl who had dragged up the hot water from the kitchen with a whistle and wink rather than a curtsy. Mrs. Service’s dress was worn and patched. Still, everything about her and her room was neat and clean. Clode wondered how many guests she had to entertain and how she spent her evenings in front of that empty fire with nothing but the noise in the street to keep her company.

  When it was time to speak, Daniel tried to choose his words carefully. He waited till he had taken and tasted the tea—weak and made with old leaves—and complimented it before he made any mention of the reason for her call.

  “I am sorry, ma’am, but I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  Mrs. Service put down her cup with great care and drew herself straight, ready to be brave. Clode’s heart pulsed; he could see in every line of her face that Mrs. Service had withstood bad news many times, and he silently wished her strength.

  “I am afraid a lady I believe to be an old friend of yours, Madeleine Bray, has died.”

  He waited for her to begin to cry. Instead her shoulders relaxed and she smiled at him.

  “Oh, no! My dear boy! I think you are mistaken. I had a letter from her only this morning.” Doubt suddenly drifted across her face. “Though I did think the tone of it a little strange. Not like herself.”

  He waited, and the fears began to show on her face.

  “Perhaps that was . . . oh, oh dear. Really, sir? You are quite sure, the nurse, Madeleine Bray?”

  Clode put down his cup. “Yes, of Thornleigh Hall. I am sorry. It is my understanding she died on Saturday afternoon. My condolences.”

  Mrs. Service looked down at her lap. One hand tapped on the other on the unfashionable gray-green folds of material of her dress. She did not speak for some time. Clode began to realize she was made of stronger stuff than he had imagined.

  “Was it a fever, sir?” she asked quietly. “They can come on terribly quickly. Perhaps that letter was the first sign.”

  He cleared his throat. “I am sorry, no. I fear I must cause you more distress. She was found hanging in an old cottage on the Thornleigh estate.” He waited, unsure what he could or should say. He was very aware of those pale eyes watching him closely. “There is some debate as to whether the death was suicide, or—or something more suspicious.”

  The voice of Mrs. Service acquired an edge. Daniel realized as she spoke that the old lady was angry.

  “My poor Madeleine. She was murdered. She would never have turned her hand against herself.”

  “But you said yourself, in the letter, she did not sound herself.”

  “Oh, that’s quite different.” She got up briskly and pulled at the top drawer of a little chest under the room’s one mean window, producing a folded sheet and returning to her seat with it.

  “Here is the letter. I shall not bore you with the usual nonsense women of our age write to one another.” She paused suddenly, and her manner lost much of its sudden energy. “I had already begun my reply to her, Mr. Clode. No need to finish that letter now, I suppose. Poor Madeleine.” Then she turned again to the paper in her hands. “Here is the passage that gave me some cause for concern: ‘My dear Beatrice’—that is myself, Mr. Clode—‘I wonder to what extent humble beings such as us should involve ourselves in the matters of our masters. There has been an incident here today, a shocking one, which has caused me much grief, and I shall write to you further of it in a later letter’—oh, how the gods laugh at us when we make our plans, Mr. Clode—‘but it has made me fretful, for I think I have information that may serve some in this household, but I do not know enough of the circumstances to know if I should speak or not. Perhaps I should say nothing, yet something weighs on this house. I have told you before, my dear, I think the Hall for all its comforts an unhappy and corroded place. It has made me suspicious, but I know no great evils of Mr. Hugh, so perhaps I should give him a hint. I am sure this reads as nonsense to you, but even writing it, I see your wise kind face, and that gives me the answer I need. I find I have another letter to write this evening, so must close this and leave you in confusion for a day or two. Forgive me, with best love, Madeleine.’”

  Mrs. Service looked up at Clode, and his blue eyes looked steadily back at her.

  “Do you know Mr. Hugh Thornleigh, sir? I think he is the son of the house where Madeleine was engaged.”

  “I have only seen him from a distance, but he is currently under suspicion of Nurse Bray’s murder, ma’am.”

  She nodded slowly, then said, “I wonder what the other letter was she had in mind to write . . .”

  “Madam, I know nothing can soothe the wound we feel on losing a friend,” Daniel began, and a sad ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, as if she guessed he was too young to have suffered many such wounds, “but I drew up Mrs. Bray’s will for her. She has left you the sum of fifty pounds. If I may take the details of where you would like the money deposited, I can arrange the funds to be sent to you.”

  Mrs. Service opened her eyes very wide.

  “Good Lord! Wherever did Madeleine get fifty pounds from?” Daniel smiled at her. “Well, I am poor, as you see, Mr. Clode. Fifty pounds means as much to me as a thousand might to others. She is kind.” She looked down at her lap again, then back at him with a curious tilt to her head. “She has named you as executor then, I conclude. Well, fifty pounds.” Her eyes dropped again to her clasped hands. “Thank you, my love. Though I would rather have the company of your letters than all the money in the world.” She was silent a little longer, then said to Clode, “You may think it wrong of me to ask, but was there any mention of a cameo brooch in her will?”

  “Indeed. She asked for it to go to a little girl of her acquaintance. Susan Adams. I believe she lives in this very street.”

  Mrs. Service started. “How strange! Yes, Susan Adams lives here. The poor child! Her father was murdered in this very street only a few days ago. What a world we live in, Mr. Clode. Strangely enough, I gave her the twin of that cameo brooch. I am glad they will be reunited in her ownership again. You will find her staying with Mr. and Mrs. Chase under the guardianship of her father’s friend, Mr. Graves. They are just around the corner in Sutton Street.” She returned to the window, wrote a few words in a notebook and tore out the page, then turned and handed it to him.

  “The money can be deposited at this address.” She paused for a second. “For all those fifty pounds, Mr. Clode, Madeleine had few friends, and none of any influence, I think. Will her murderer be found? Was it Mr. Hugh Thornleigh?”
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  Daniel looked at his feet.

  “I do not know ma’am,” he confessed. “But there is a lady at the neighboring estate, and a gentleman, a natural philosopher of great reputation, I understand, who have already begun to pursue the case, and are trying to discover who was truly to blame, and bring justice to them.”

  The old lady nodded slowly and said, “Thank you for telling me that. I shall rest easier now. I hope you shall write to me and let me know what occurs, if that would not be too much trouble.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Daniel bowed to her. “You shall have the money in a few weeks.”

  So Clode set out again, leaving Mrs. Service to contemplate the strange turnings through poverty, death and wealth along which life dragged her.

  5

  “What now, Crowther?”

  Harriet had been still a long time, her hand resting on the letter in front of her. Crowther lifted his head, and looked at her through half-closed eyes, like a cat summoned by a change in the wind. “I do not know.”

  “Can we force the squire to examine Hugh and Wicksteed for scratches from Nurse Bray?”

  “It is not conclusive. Anyone can get scratched, anyone can say the skin under the nurse’s nails comes from another source.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “Of course not. That quantity, that vigor. No, Mrs. Bray did damage to her attacker, and he carries those wounds still. On the forearm probably.” He fell silent, and when he looked up again saw Harriet was watching with narrowed eyes.

  “What are you considering, Crowther?”

  “Where is Nurse Bray’s body?”

  “She is in the old icehouse at the Bear and Crown with the village constable watching the door, and Michaels watching him until such time as the inquest is held. What are you planning?”

  “Gathering a little further evidence from that good lady.”

  “How do you know she was a good lady?” Harriet asked.

  “She took good care of her charge. I am extending a professional courtesy.” Crowther then added, “And I wonder if you might make use of our remaining friend at the Hall.”

  “Patience, you mean? The maid attacked by Wicksteed?”

  “Yes.”

  Harriet looked at the ceiling of Sir Stephen’s study, considering. “She seems not entirely stupid, and is keen to impress a new employer, perhaps. I wonder if she has anything she could tell us about how that bottle made its way from the stores to Cartwright’s hands.”

  Harriet picked up the anonymous letter again and turned it between her fingers. “By the time we come to an end of this, our households will have doubled.”

  Crowther thought of the intelligent eye of Cartwright’s former servant and his promise to her.

  “I suspect mine already has.”

  “Very well.”

  There was a tapping at the door and the young Sir Stephen appeared, searching for their shadows in the gloom and dust.

  “Good Lord! How things get themselves into such disorder—and all by themselves! Well? Did you find what you were looking for, Mrs. Westerman?”

  Harriet stood and smiled. “Indeed we did, sir. Thank you.” She looked into the wrinkled, glowing face of their host. “We were searching for any observations your father may have made about the death of Sarah Randle.”

  Sir Stephen’s face crumpled sadly and he pointed his nose to the ground.

  “Poor Sarah. 1739. Summer. Not as warm as this. Sad.”

  “Your father mentioned in his notes . . .”

  “Yes. Found her. Knew her. Used to play together.” He looked up suddenly and grinned. “She liked beetles too!” Then his face fell again.

  “I remember when Lord Thornleigh came. Shouted at my father. Foul man.” He cocked his head to one side. “Though I think he saved a footman of his from the noose. Or perhaps he pretended. Failed to hang him. Called it mercy. Juries are funny.”

  Harriet bent forward. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t quite . . .”

  Sir Stephen looked up at her. A little of his own white hair had escaped from under the fringe of his wig. It looked as if the wig had been out collecting thistledown.

  “Footman of his, good character, but caught stealing in the London house soon after he was moved down there. They transported him for the full fourteen years. Should have been hanged, really.”

  Crowther stretched his fingers and looked at them as if noticing them for the first time.

  “Do you remember when this was, Sir Stephen?”

  “Two months after Lady Thornleigh died, in 1748. She was very beautiful, but rather sad when I knew her.”

  His eyes darted up to Harriet’s face and he blushed a little, though the usual animation and joy of his character seemed to have vanished as soon as Sarah Randle’s name was mentioned, and he had yet to take it up and fit it around his shoulders again.

  “Sir Stephen, we should not trouble you any longer,” Harriet said, “but before we take our leave, and though I have not the learning to fully understand, I would love to see some of the beetles too. Mr. Crowther says they are quite remarkable.”

  The color and life sprang back into Sir Stephen’s bent form as if a sluice gate had been opened.

  “Would you?! Oh, of course! Some have many pretty colors. I have a niece in London who says she would like a silk dress just the color of her favorite. Should you like to see it?”

  “Very much,” Harriet said, coming around the table and taking his arm. “And do tell me about your niece.”

  Crowther followed, slowly.

  Some hours later they were seated in the private parlor of the Bear and Crown. Michaels’s massive frame leaned up in a corner and was largely motionless as they narrated what had passed since they last met. He lifted a pewter mug to his lips and drank it off as they finished.

  “I know this Patience a little. Don’t think much of her or her people myself, mind, but I can get a message to her now. She may not be able to leave the house for some days,” he said in a low growl. “She had her free afternoon only a week or two ago. But I may be able to contrive something to bring her here this evening. They say the housekeeper is complaining to all and sundry that she is much misunderstood and is becoming lax about discipline, and Wicksteed spends all his time dancing attendance on the lady.” Harriet and Crowther made no comment. “I can ask about to see if anyone remembers the footman. You have a name?”

  “Sir Stephen could not recall,” Harriet said softly.

  “As to the other business, Toller is a good man. I can bring him in here for his supper and you can spend some time with the late Mrs. Bray without the squire finding out.”

  “What is being said about the squire?” Crowther asked.

  Michaels ran his hand through his black beard, pulling on it a little.

  “That he intends to hang Hugh and pin his favors to the lady’s mast. Fool!”

  He said the last word with enough force to make Crowther raise his eyebrow.

  Michaels went on, “He and the lady, and all their sort will wake up one day to find me and Cartwright’s daughter have bought up their mortgages and own the silk they wrap themselves in, and they will never think it possible until they find it has happened.”

  “That sounds like revolution, Michaels.” Crowther looked faintly amused.

  The man swung his great weight round to face him.

  “Progress, I call it, Mr. Crowther. Progress. Now let’s tempt Toller in. My wife will smile at him, and he’ll be docile as a kitten for an hour at least.”

  Crowther hesitated at the door to the old icehouse and turned to Harriet with a questioning look. She met his gaze and nodded. He pulled the door open and a rush of cool air spilled over them; it would have been welcome but for the gray high notes of the grave which mixed with it.

  Crowther was satisfied. The body had been well placed, and putrefaction was not far advanced. He set down his candle and took flint and strike from his pocket, tapping it till he got flame enough to
startle the wick into life. He had to stoop a little under the curve of the wall. It was an intimate space to share with a body three days dead.

  Nurse Bray lay on a trestle table in the middle of the round brick building. Harriet remembered the Parthenon in Rome, which she had visited with her husband soon after their marriage. The shape of the country icehouse recalled it to her, however different the dimensions. She could still hear the soft calls of the wood pigeons outside. Michaels had, it seemed, arranged for some of his straw and ice to be brought in to chill the air. She could hear it from time to time crack, delicately echoing, and the slow drip of water fighting to be free of its solid form, and wild again. In this light, and from this distance, Nurse Bray did not seem anything other than at peace, though the unnatural stillness and taste of the air reminded the living woman of the rank dangers and darknesses that so often lie beneath apparent calm. The candle fluttered into life, and the bricks danced with their shadows, looming rather monstrously over the body as Harriet spoke:

  “Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

  To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

  This sensible warm motion to become

  A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

  To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

  In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice”

  Crowther glanced at her over his shoulder. “You are a devotee of Shakespeare, Mrs. Westerman?”

  “I think him the greatest of our poets. Do you not?”

  “I know it is fashionable to regard him as such of late. I prefer Pope, myself.”

  “That seems appropriate.”

  He ignored her, but peered about him, his eyes resting on the blocks of ice hissing under their straw coverings.

  “However, I admit your quotation is apt. How came Mrs. Bray to lie here? I thought she was to be taken to the Hall.”

  “She was,” Harriet agreed, “but Michaels said that after the inquest he suggested this place to the coroner, and the Thornleigh party seemed happy to have rid of the charge. Hugh was being arrested at the time, of course, and I believe the coroner would have agreed to anything put to him at that moment.”