Instruments of Darkness

by Imogen Robertson

  “Good! You are still awake. Look what we found in that man’s coat!” He thrust a handful of paper at them. Graves reached out over Susan’s head to take it. Miss Chase looked at him expectantly. He opened his eyes wide.

  “It’s a note: ‘Here is the address. Do him, and any family you find there.’ Well, that’s fairly clear. And this scrap has the address of Alexander’s shop written on it. In a different hand.”

  Daniel nodded. “I think I know whose hand wrote the address. Carter Brook.”

  “The first man killed at Thornleigh?”

  “That’s right. And I bet any money Mrs. Westerman and Crowther will be able to tell me who the other writer is. We have it! We’ll get the vipers out of your house, sir.” He nodded to Jonathan with a wink. “So by the time you come to it, it’ll be fit for you.” He looked around at the faces. “For you all, I hope. But I must go. Hunter will give me horses, and I should get this into Mrs. Westerman’s hands as soon as I may.”

  Miss Chase put up her hand. “But Mr. Clode, you’ve hardly slept for days! You are injured! You must rest.”

  He shrugged at her, feeling the tender place of his jaw with his free hand.

  “There will be time for that later, Miss Chase. This is the endgame, the last cards. I’ll rest when this is done.”

  He turned on his heel and headed for the door again. There was a soft patter of feet behind him, and he felt Susan’s arms close around him. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his dirty, stubbled cheek.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clode.”

  He blushed and as she freed him, gave her a formal bow. “My pleasure, Miss Thornleigh.”

  He looked up and caught Graves’s eye. They nodded to each other and in a moment he was gone. Susan watched the space he had occupied for a long time.

  Harriet had managed a few ragged hours of sleep, but it was not long after the early dawn that she found herself walking in her woods. Something drew her back here again and again. It was a pleasant situation, right enough, but she knew it was more to see the patch of earth on which Carter Brook had fallen that she came here. She paused there now, her hand resting on the thorn tree where the scrap of embroidery had been found, and walked through her actions of the last few days. Was there something she should have done differently?

  Turning back to the bench, she sat down heavily, dropping her head into her hands with a sigh. Images swam around her tired brain. Nurse Bray, hanging in the old cottage, the foul depth of the wound on Brook’s neck, the hissing hatred of the letter that had found its way into her hands last night, the pathetic struggles of Michaels’s little bitch in the face of the poison, Wicksteed, his hand raised to whip Hugh’s lover. Could the poison be tracked? She would ask Crowther who might have such a thing. Why would Hugh not say that the bottle had been put into his hands by his steward? What possible hold did the man have over him?

  She heard a movement behind her and leaped up, spinning round to see Wicksteed in the flesh smiling at her.

  “Wicksteed!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Westerman. You are having an early walk?”

  His manner was oddly brash. He had become less watchful, more triumphant. The deference was stripped out of it. He looked straight at her, and she could not help feeling that he was amused at the sight of her. She drew herself up very straight and tried to look at him with an air of cold command. A smile twitched the corner of his lips.

  “Yes. As you see,” she said coolly.

  “I like to have a little look around my lands before the work of the day begins, Mrs. Westerman.”

  “Your lands?” The laugh she tried to give to her voice almost choked her.

  “The lands of my betters, I should say, shouldn’t I? Though, if Captain Thornleigh hangs, the heir will be the son of a cripple and a whore, and I think my blood is as good as his.”

  He took a seat on the bench with studied ease and smiled up at her, blinking. She stood in front of him.

  “Will they still employ you, do you think, Wicksteed, if it is known you speak of Lady Thornleigh in that way?”

  A sudden tenderness touched his face, and for a second he seemed almost gentle. He drew a snuffbox, extravagantly jeweled, from his waistcoat and offered it to her, but she waved him away with disgust. Shrugging, he took his time balancing the powder on the inside of his wrist and inhaling. He then spun the little box in his palm as he replied. She noticed that when he was relaxed in this way his voice had a pleasant tenor lilt; it made his words all the more violent.

  “Oh, my lady knows what she is, Mrs. Westerman. She is fearless in the face of truth. But what of you—who are you? Some sailor’s bitch charging about the countryside turning over one affair or another like one of your pissed-up crew on shore leave.”

  Harriet felt suddenly nauseous. She swallowed. “How dare you speak to me in that way?”

  He smiled. “What have I to fear from you? You and your knife man have tried your best, and done nothing but put Mr. Hugh’s head more neatly in the noose and the squire in my pocket.” He tilted his head to one side and his right hand lifted and danced in the air as if directing the flow of affairs with its lazy parabolas. “No, sweetheart. You should be afraid, not me. I do not like you, and I do not think you should continue at Caveley.”

  Harriet blinked. “What have you to say on the matter?”

  “Come now! Haven’t I just said? Pay attention, dearie! In a month Hugh will be dead, and I’ll be the power in the house. You know it, just as clear as I do. Then my first, my only task, will be to make your life here hell on earth. None of the gentry will speak to you, you will not be able to supply your household from any concern that has trade with Thornleigh. Your reputation, such as it is, will be beyond respectable, and your sister will be despised.” He paused and said kindly, “This will happen, Mrs. Westerman. Be assured.”

  She took a step back from him, as the image of a yellow lizard who shot out a pink tongue to trap flies in Barbados came back to her. It was like seeing the beast again, dressed and conversing.

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Wicksteed. There is more to come from this. And those scratches on your arm may well condemn you yet.”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “Scratches?”

  He shrugged off his coat in a moment, and rolled up the loose linen sleeves of his shirt to his shoulders, turning his wrists slowly so Harriet could see that, shoulder to hand, the skin was unmarked. Buttery and pale, but unmarked. He saw her surprise and laughed again.

  “You mean to scare me, and leave me all the more secure, honey!”

  Harriet felt her heart beating fast; his face was pink with pleasure. Without thinking, she lifted her crop, aiming to strike him. He was too quick for her. His flying right hand darted across and caught the end of it on his palm. He closed his hand around it and pulled hard, so she stumbled forward. He was breathing hard and the amusement of a few moments before became anger. She could see it glinting in the chips of white in his pale blue eyes.

  “Tell you what, bitch.” Their faces were so close she could feel the heat of his breath. “You leave. Just you. Leave your husband, your sister, your children, go somewhere else and I’ll be the sweetest neighbor to them in the world. You stay, or sell and take them with you, and I’ll hunt you through society. Your fortune, your husband’s, your sister’s ... It’ll be gone. Ruined. Nothing left by the time I’ve done. But leave, and you can save them from your punishment. Yes. That’s even better. I’ll take your whole family from you.”

  His spittle hit her face. He released the end of the crop, and her mind nothing more than white horror, Harriet turned and plunged back down the slope to Caveley.

  5

  “She will not speak to me!”

  Crowther patted Rachel’s hand as it lay on his arm. “What happened?”

  The young woman looked at him tearfully. “She came running in just as I came down to breakfast—crying, I think, and Harriet never cries. Then went straight up to her room. I’ve knocked and knocked, but sh
e just asks to be left alone.”

  Crowther frowned. “No more letters this morning?”

  “Nothing. But she did not seem overly concerned about them last night.”

  Crowther shrugged, and rested his cane against one of the salon bookshelves.

  “Would you like me to go and speak to her, Miss Trench?”

  She nodded, and opened the door for him with alacrity.

  Crowther was concerned. If, a week ago, he had been told he would be outside a respectable woman’s bedroom door asking for admittance, he would have been too surprised and offended even to laugh. Yet here he was. And he thought he knew Mrs. Westerman well enough now to know she would not do this without some reason more than the usual feminine hysterics. He knocked softly and called her name.

  “Mrs. Westerman. It’s Crowther. May I speak with you? Your sister is concerned.”

  There was a sigh and rustle in the room. A footstep came to the door from within and hesitated. He heard her voice:

  “Are you alone?”

  “I am.”

  The door opened and Crowther saw Harriet, her eyes bruised with tears and her face very white.

  “Come in, Crowther. Something has happened.”

  He let her relate the conversation with Wicksteed and without interruption, then sat along moment before he rang the bell. The speed with which the summons was answered suggested Mrs. Heathcote had been hovering outside for some time. He met her at the door.

  “Mrs. Heathcote, I believe Mrs. Westerman could do with her coffee and toast in her rooms.” He made to move away, then paused and turned back. “And would you tell Miss Trench that her sister is quite well.”

  Mrs. Heathcote looked gratefully at him. “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

  There was such genuine warmth in her tone Crowther smiled. He then returned to the armchair by the fire opposite Harriet and crossed his legs.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Mrs. Westerman, and that is a shocking confession for our age. Any man of civilization should know exactly what to say in any circumstances.”

  This drew a reluctant laugh.

  “I have never thought of you as particularly civilized, Crowther.” He smiled. Then saw the spasm of pain cross her face again. “Oh, God! Do you think I might have to leave Caveley?”

  He was saved from answering by the arrival of Mrs. Heathcote with Harriet’s breakfast. She had brought him a cup as well, and poured the coffee with ostentatious care. As soon as she pulled the door closed behind her though, he replied.

  “Perhaps.”

  “But what would I do? He told me I must leave my family here. I have been made an exile.”

  “It is not a happy role—that I know. Though it can be bearable.” He spoke gently and she nodded slowly in reply. Crowther cleared his throat, and his voice became more robust. “His arms were unmarked, you say?”

  “Completely. Perhaps it was Hugh.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No.”

  He studied his fingernails then picked up his cup, and sat back in his chair.

  “Well, Mrs. Westerman. Do not abandon hope as yet. We must try to find out something about the poison, and we do have one advantage over Wicksteed.”

  She looked up at him quickly.

  “We have the children.”

  Miss Chase knocked softly at the door and let herself into the room where Graves was resting. He was attended by John Hunter, who looked up fiercely when she entered, then, recognizing her, relaxed his face into a smile.

  “How is the patient, Mr. Hunter?”

  The older man finished counting out Graves’s pulse before he replied, and laid the patient’s hand, with great gentleness, on the bedcover.

  “He is young. If there is no infection in the wound, and I see no sign of it, he will do well enough.” Graves settled himself back on the pillows. He looked a little white, but otherwise much as Miss Chase had expected.

  “You don’t mean to bleed me then, sir?”

  Hunter gave a bark of laughter. “God, no! Other fella bled you enough, I think. Barbaric practice, I believe. I only bleed ladies of fashion, who fancy themselves a little nervous and want an excuse to faint and look pale. It’s no part of medicine. Never seen it do anything but make a weak body weaker.”

  Miss Chase smiled at him. “You’re a revolutionary, sir.”

  He nodded. “I am proud to call myself a scientist, Miss Chase—like Gabriel Crowther. We learn with the eyes and ears and minds God gave us. Half the men who call themselves physicians in London learned all they know by reciting the Latin of the ancients and grinding pretty powders. Never take notes. Never really observe the body at work, and so just get in the way.” He seemed to shake himself. “There, you have got me on one of my hobby horses, Miss Chase, and I could ride it till dinner if I am not careful.” He looked down at the injured man again. “I shall leave you to the society of this young lady, sir. But you must rest. And do not let the little boy jump all over you and disturb my dressing on your wound. I shall know if you have done so.”

  He bowed and left the room, and Miss Chase took a seat by the bed. Graves lifted himself on his shoulder and turned to her. She could see the shape of his collarbone under his shirt, the pool of it at his neck. She smiled briefly and looked down at her hands, suddenly awkward.

  “Mr. Hunter is very kind to us.”

  Graves laughed. “I suspect we could not have had a better introduction than hauling in a couple of fresh corpses. Particularly ones he did not have to pay the resurrection men for.”

  She smiled. “I tried to explain a little more. He shushed me and told me he had no interest in stories, and had work to do.”

  “I pity the colleagues for whom he has so little respect. I doubt he has any compunction about showing it.”

  There was a moment of silence; it swam between them. Miss Chase did not look at him, but felt herself so aware of his presence it was almost painful.

  “Miss Chase . . .”

  She did not remember his voice as being so low. She had always liked him, of course, but thought him a rather awkward young man. She had noticed that he admired her, and was pleased with the attention, but it had not occurred to her for a moment that she would ever develop stronger feelings for him. Then everything seemed to change, and he with it. She interrupted him.

  “I have sent to my parents. I hope to hear from them soon.” Then she grinned and glanced up at him. “And I think you may have a little difficulty with one of your wards. I suspect Miss Susan Thornleigh has fallen violently in love with Daniel Clode.”

  Graves laughed hard, then grimaced as the newly forming skin around his wound protested.

  “I think she could do a great deal worse. He’s a good man, and handsome too, damn his eyes. She has my wholehearted permission to like him.”

  Miss Chase blushed a little and smiled back at him.

  “You’re a terrible guardian. She is to be rich. Titled. Connected. You should have a duke in mind for her at least, not the local solicitor.”

  He rolled onto his back and contemplated the canopy of bed hangings above him.

  “The rich all need lawyers. It could save the family a fortune in fees. Though the children have a grandfather still living, do they not?”

  “That is what Mr. Clode said. And an uncle, though I got the feeling he did not like either of them.”

  Graves felt suddenly tired. His wound itched and his eyes felt heavy and hot. He let them close briefly and it seemed to him that the presence of the woman in the room formed a glow behind his lids. Golden and right in the darkness.

  “He has gone to help clear out the vipers from Thornleigh Hall, remember. We must trust him and our new friends, this Gabriel Crowther and Mrs. Westerman, to make the place fit for the children.”

  6

  The little molelike face peered up at them with snuffling animation.

  “Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman! What a joy! A pleasure! Is there something else in m
y father’s papers you wish to examine?” Sir Stephen opened his arms and gathered them into his hallway. Harriet smiled at him and offered her hand.

  “Quite right, sir. And we are sorry to trouble you again.”

  “Lord, no trouble at all, Mrs. Westerman. I have not been so sociable for years. It is all quite heady.”

  He trotted them straight to his father’s former office and followed them in. Crowther looked briefly around him, then turned back to his host.

  “I also have some professional advice to glean from you, sir.”

  The little man nodded hard enough to send his wig scrambling over one ear. “I need to find who the better apothecaries are in the area. It is not convenient to continually send to London for my chemical preparations. What gentlemen are skilled with poisons in the area?”

  Sir Stephen’s face shone. “Oh, there is not a great deal of choice, Mr. Crowther, but I think you should be satisfied with Augustus Gladwell here in Pulborough. He is the apothecary the whole area turns to. His establishment is only a step from here, and though the bulk of his work is household poisons and cures, I think you’ll find he is suited to more complex formulations too, if . . .” he bent forward and dropped his voice to a confidential level “. . . if he is properly instructed. I think he sighs a little when he sees me arrive in his shop, for occasionally I like to experiment with the effects of different additions and proportions in my killing gases and preservatives. But his curiosity becomes engaged and we often have quite a little adventure in getting just the sort of mix we need. He collects curiosities himself, so he should revel in your acquaintance.”

  He cocked his head and blinked hard. The movement caught the wig unawares, with the result that for one of the first times since Crowther and Harriet had met Sir Stephen, it now sat almost exactly where it should.

  Sir Stephen saw them provided with refreshment and left them to their studies. It was not long before Crowther found Harriet calling him to her side.