Instruments of Darkness

by Imogen Robertson

  “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 it.”

  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.”

  Hugh shifted in his chair and murmured something no one could make out. He was not asked to repeat himself.

  Crowther looked down at the younger man.

  “Did you know your father is being tortured, Captain Thornleigh?”

  Hugh’s eyes struggled to focus.

  “Tortured? What do you mean?”

  Crowther stared at him for a moment, then turned away as if the sight disgusted him.

  “He has been cut. Someone is making him atone for his sins, we think. And perhaps yours.”

  Hugh went rather pale, but before he could produce any reply the grand doors were swung open and the party from the table came into the room. Wicksteed and Lady Thornleigh were arm in arm, the squire bobbing in their wake. Harriet had to admit they made a very handsome couple. They looked, both of them, vigorous and aware of their powers. Their dark colorings complemented one another, and Wicksteed had seemed to acquire a grace and control in his movements, as if that animal power had transmitted itself through the perfect arm that rested over his. Only an unhealthy glitter in
their eyes, and the strange dark cloud they dragged with them, made them unattractive. Harriet felt her skin creep, and wondered if Squire Bridges were choking in the wrongs that streamed behind them both like smoke.

  Lady Thornleigh released Wicksteed’s arm and made her way to the long oak trestle table that split the hall in two, resting her hand on the wood. Her dress rustled against it. She smiled at them lazily. Harriet blinked her green eyes, unwillingly drinking in all that beauty glowing under the ancient arms and portraits of the Thornleigh family. The woman looked at each of them in turn before she spoke.

  “Well?”

  Crowther bowed to her. “We are here to speak to Squire Bridges, Lady Thornleigh.”

  My lady arched one eyebrow and looked at her guest. Bridges took a blustering step or two forward.

  “Anything you wish to say, you may say in front of these good people, sir.”

  Harriet did not quite manage to stifle a bitter laugh that rose in her throat. Wicksteed looked at her angrily. Crowther nodded to the squire.

  “Very well. I shall give you the story. You were right, Bridges, about the murder of Sarah Randle. It was indeed Lord Thornleigh who killed her for her pregnancy or his own pleasure, and for whatever reason of his own, he took her locket. Some years later, Hugh’s mother found it, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble.”

  The squire was open-mouthed. Hugh shrank back into his armchair as if stung. So Shapin had told him. Wicksteed was very pale. Lady Thornleigh silently drummed her fingers on the table, looking at the floor, and apparently rather bored. Crowther continued.

  “Hugh Thornleigh was told as much in America by the former servant of this house, Shapin. And I suspect Claver Wicksteed overheard. What happened to him, by the way, Mr. Thornleigh?” Hugh seemed struck dumb and Crowther noticed a tight smile on Wicksteed’s face. “You killed him yourself, didn’t you? Is that the murder you are willing to hang for now?”

  The squire lifted his hands. “I really must protest. How dare—?”

  Wicksteed spun round on him. “Shut up, Bridges.”

  The squire recoiled in shock. Crowther nodded to Harriet. She continued.

  “Wicksteed, you blackmailed your way into this house, knowing both its masters were sickening.” Some last vestige of sympathy was present in her face as she said this, looking at Hugh. “You had Hugh, but when he saw your friendship with Lady Thornleigh developing, he made one last struggle and asked Joshua Cartwright to find someone to track down Alexander Thornleigh. In doing so, he gave you a chance to make your hold here complete. You murdered Brook in my copse, stole the address he had provided for Hugh, and sent a hireling of your own to rid Thornleigh of the only heir not under your control.” She looked up at him. “When did you find out it was Alexander who had sent Nurse Bray to care for Lord Thornleigh?”

  Hugh struggled upright in his chair, and looked about him amazed. Wicksteed did not move. Harriet shrugged.

  “She wrote a note to Hugh and you found it, did you not? Just as you found Brook’s note to him? I doubt any piece of paper has crossed these halls without you taking a look at it since you arrived. Perhaps she tried to speak to Hugh, and you intervened. In any case you removed her, and for good measure you sent Hugh off with the arsenic to poor Joshua, to make sure that no news of Alexander’s whereabouts could be found, and to put his head in the noose for your crimes.” She gave a little laugh. “And while you are causing all this slaughter you are campaigning with the College of Arms to have your name and heritage recognized! Presumably you wish to marry Lady Thornleigh when she becomes a widow. I am sure if Lord Thornleigh survives to see Hugh hang, he will not live long thereafter. You have already carved a score of the bodies mounted up into his arms. No doubt the final mark will be for his own murder.”

  Wicksteed colored a little at these last words. Then he walked across the room to where Lady Thornleigh still lounged against the trestle, took her hand and pressed it to his lips with great delicacy. She gazed into his eyes, and for a moment every other person in the room felt that strange exclusion in the presence of two people who see only each other. Harriet watched them; there was something perfect about them in that moment and part of her was jealous.

  Then Wicksteed straightened, and turned back to them, his voice soft and even.

  “You cannot prove anything. And no one will listen to the ravings of a madwoman who has deserted her family, and the brother of a patricide.” He sneered at Harriet. “You saw my arms during our interesting chat in your woods the other day. Where are the marks of Nurse Bray’s hands which you insisted would be there? You are storytellers, that is all.”

  Michaels shifted out of the shadows behind Harriet’s chair.

  “Oh, a fair amount of it can be proved, Claver.”

  Wicksteed looked vaguely amused. “You dare call me by my Christian name?”

  “I dare call you a murderous dog, Claver,” the big man told him.

  Wicksteed laughed, and swung his hand in Lady Thornleigh’s; she smiled up at him warmly.

  “I always liked you, Michaels,” Wicksteed said. “Why don’t you come and stand with us? I could make you a rich man. Why cast your lot in with them?” He nodded toward Crowther and Harriet. “They may be civil to you, but they will always expect you to stand while they sit, and never ask why that should be.”

  “We shall see, Claver,” Michaels said calmly. “But for all your smarts—and I’m not saying you aren’t a sharp lad—I know something you do not.”

  Crowther could see the tension appear in Wicksteed’s face; it pulsed just under his jawline. Michaels nodded to Crowther, who waited till he could feel the tension in the room like a beat on a distant drum.

  “You have miscalculated. Lady Thornleigh’s son is not the only heir. Alexander had two children—a boy and a girl. Both legitimate and recorded under their true names. Both safe and under good supervision in London. Your murderer failed to cut off the line, and is dead himself.”

  Hugh leaped to his feet and at once stumbled to his knees in front of Harriet.

  “It is true? He had children? They live?”

  He looked up at her, his face a pattern of confused joy. She put out her hand and touched his cheek.

  “They live, and are well, and have precedence. The Hall will be theirs. And we can prove Wicksteed arranged for the murder of their father. He wrote a letter, and it will hang him.” Her tone was soft, comforting.

  Crowther turned to Wicksteed. The latter had dropped Lady Thornleigh’s hand and looked at the flagstones in front of him. His hands closed into fists at his sides. There was a laugh, and Harriet twisted to see Lady Thornleigh, her body trembling. She put her hand up to the jewels in her hair and began to tear them out, throwing them to the stone floor of the hall.

  “Then they should have this, and this!”

  Wicksteed tried to grab hold of her wrists but she tore away from him and spun round the far end of the table. Her lazy humor had evaporated; her body seemed to thrill, lit within with rage.

  “Poor old yellow-faced Moore!” she said. “Who killed him? God, there were enough times he was selling me on the streets when I wished I could have stuck a knife in him, but I was only twelve, and he seemed as indestructible as a god!” She laughed again. “Now he’s dead! Burning in hell, just as I always knew he would! Oh, I shall go down there now and pull his hair for playing us such a trick!”

  Wicksteed seemed to startle awake and tried to reach her, his face white and sweating.

  “My love! Dear God! Say nothing.”

  Lady Thornleigh pulled the diamonds from around her throat and sent them skimming across the floor, where they came to rest at Crowther’s feet.

  “Take ’em! Clever boy! Justice be done! Get away from me, Claver. It’s done and I will speak.”

  She looked wild-eyed into Harriet’s pale face.

  “What? You thought I just sat here and let Claver do my work for me?” Her loose hair curled over her bare shoulders. “It was old
Moore, the bastard was a hundred even then, who sold me to my first old man before I could even bleed—though he made me, and others after. I knew who to turn to when Claver got that note out of Brook’s hand. And you think those wounds on Thornleigh are for his sad, pretty wife and his servant?” Her voice rose. “What do I care about them? No, they are for the little girls like me, younger even than I was, who he raped in London since I knew him. Almost every week he’d have some poor kid brought to him, always dark, always in a plain gray dress to remind him of his first love—just as I did once. I used to see them being bundled out of the back of my fancy house afterward, crying and stumbling—and I’d get pearls for my silence. I’ve worn that locket! Each of us did. Perhaps he even put it around his wife’s neck. She was a young one too when he got hold of her, I hear. He knew I’d be waiting to pay him back! But he never suspected I’d have the chance. It amused him to have a whore who hated him as a wife. He never dreamed he’d be cowering under my knife.”

  She stared up at Crowther again; she had bitten her lip and the blood welled up in her mouth. Her voice dropped a little.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it, Crowther, how the flesh gives and opens under a blade?”

  Harriet looked at her. “You helped kill Nurse Bray.”

  Lady Thornleigh lifted her hand to the shoulder of her dress and tore the sleeve open at the seam. Across the soft white of her upper arm were four deep scratches, just beginning to heal. Crowther thought of the paper in his pocket. He could tell they were a perfect match even at this distance.

  “She came to me! To tell me she thought she might know where Alexander was—though she never mentioned the children, I’ll give her that. She said she thought it best to speak to the woman of the house. Lord knows, that has always been Hugh!” Lady Thornleigh groaned and spun around on her heel. “We burned all her papers! How did you know about the children?”

  Harriet’s voice was trembling as she replied.

  “She made a will. She left a cameo brooch to Alexander’s little girl.”