Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

  PART III

  1

  SUNDAY, 18 NOVEMBER 1781

  London rolled over in its bed and yawned at the approaching morning, then cursed it. In the churches, old men turned large keys in the doors and shoved them cautiously open, letting the darkness out before the first worshippers found their way in. Those who had got enough pennies together to drink the night before flinched at the dawn and their empty pockets. In the better houses, young girls, their hands already worn red with work and cold water, cleaned the grates and set the fires, dreaming of the narrow beds they had just left. In the rookeries the day began with angry growls and hands grasping for what comfort they could find in the dark. Another day to live through.

  The night had gone and dawn was wearying away at the skin of the November gloom as best it could when there was a low tap at Jocasta’s door. She was in her usual place among the patchwork blankets on her little settee, but everything existed in only shades of gray. Her fire had gone out and she had lit no candle. Until she jerked her head up at the knock, the scene could have been one of stone; even Boyo was still and waiting.

  “Come in then,” she said, not bothering to raise her voice. The door opened a crack, and a little boy peered round its edge. He looked very young, and mangy. His fingers were black with filth, and his hair so greasy it looked like he’d been dipped into a tar pit by his heels.

  “Mrs. Bligh? Ripley said I should come to you once I’d seen the morning in. Tell you what I been looking at on Salisbury Street.”

  “Good lad. Ripley said he’d send Sam. That you?” He nodded. “You been there all night?”

  The lad began to sidle around the door and rubbed his nose on his hand. “I have, Mrs. Bligh.” He paused.

  Jocasta waited a moment then looked up at him frowning. “Out with it, boy.”

  “Mrs. Bligh, I don’t mean no disrespect, but are you a witch, Mrs. Bligh?” The words tumbled out of him like a sailor’s pay.

  Jocasta sucked on her few good teeth. “Wish that I were. But if I were, you’d see more frogs and toads round here and fewer men. I have my talents. See forward sometimes. Right—I’ve satisfied your asking, now satisfy mine.”

  The boy looked a bit confused and Jocasta thought for a second he wouldn’t have the sense to stop with his own questions, but he seemed to take a hold of himself and said, “Ripley told me at your asking to stay outside the Mitchell place. By the time I got myself there, there was a candle lit, and a lady walking about inside. Young, like.”

  “Kate.”

  Sam shrugged. “Can’t answer to her name. So she closed the shutter, then evening-timeish came a man, not that old, all yellow-haired and milky-looking . . .”

  “That’d be Fred.”

  “I guess so. Anyhow, he was in a while then he came out and spotted me, lurking, and he gave me a penny to carry a note to Hay Market. Said it was urgent. Told me to give it to Mrs. Mitchell in the coffee rooms there.” He puffed out his chest a bit as he said the last, then his shoulders dropped again. “I wasn’t sure what to do, so I got my mate Clayton to stand watch while I went. Was that right?”

  “It was.”

  The boy looked relieved.

  “So I took it where I was told and she was there flogging oranges and coffee fast as she could take the money. She read the note and looked bitter as dry lemons, and made a face like she’s smelled something real bad, and said, ‘You go back to the man that gave you this, and tell him to come fetch me at midnight and say nothing but sweets till then,’ and sent me out of the place. She made me repeat it a couple of times first.”

  Jocasta nodded slowly. “Can you read, boy? Did you look at what was writ?”

  The boy scratched the back of his neck with sudden energy and force for a moment then replied, “No, Mrs. Bligh. But I brought it with me.” He reached into his waistband and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper. “She just dropped it after I gave it her, so I picked it up again, pretending to be after touching her manky oranges. Cost me a slap.”

  “No use handing it to me, lad.”

  “Oh,” he said, and put it a little disappointedly on the table between them.

  Jocasta pulled her shawl around her shoulders. “All right then, boy—then what?”

  “I went back to that milky bloke, gave him the message and he gave me the penny.” The boy looked sadly at his feet. “I gave it to Clay, though I might’ve kept it because he said no one had been or come since I was gone.” The corner of Jocasta’s mouth twitched. “Then late, real late, Milky Boy heads out again, and about an hour later I see them turn in at the top of the street and stand there a while.”

  “Just standing, were they?”

  “Fighting, I’d say. The Mitchell woman was all hissy and him cowering like a kicked dog.”

  “Did you hear what passed?”

  The boy looked suddenly miserable. “No, Mrs. Bligh. I tried, but they kept their voices low. Her maid was following on behind, and I didn’t want to be seen. He looked like he was asking something, getting her to say a yes to it. Just guessing, mind.”

  “All right then, lad, say on.”

  “They went in the house, both looking sour, and there were a few lights about.”

  Jocasta rocked herself back and forth a while, sucking on her teeth. Thinking on it, she forgot the boy for a moment, and was almost surprised when she came to herself and saw him still standing in front of her.

  “All right, Sam. You can earn back that penny, if you like. Get that fire going and cook up the bacon in the crock under the window and you can warm up and have your breakfast here. My dog Boyo will whine at you for a share, but don’t you be fooled by his blandishments. But stroke him if you care to.”

  Sam beamed and got to work with a vigor, although till the fire was bright and the bacon starting to sing, Jocasta could see his thin shoulders were still shivering from the cold of his watch. Out all night in nothing but rags, enough to make you spit.

  She looked at the paper Sam had retrieved lying on the table. There were a few words on it. What they were, she had no way of knowing.

  2

  Gabriel Crowther may not have attended the opera the previous evening, but by the time Mrs. Westerman made her appearance in the drawing room in Berkeley Square on Sunday morning, he thought that he might as well have done. He was shown into the room just as the other ladies had come back from church and he was pounced upon by Rachel, Harriet’s younger sister, and by Susan as a fresh audience for their enthusiasms. As they began to talk to him, Lady Susan skipping around his chair like a puppy in need of exercise, Crowther bowed to Mrs. Service, who gave him a friendly nod and took her usual place in the corner, fetching out her work basket.

  If there had been some element of appeal in Mr. Crowther’s glance, she chose to ignore it and did not check her young charge, thinking, as many did, that a little liveliness would do Mr. Crowther no harm, but sat by the fire with her sewing and smiled as she listened to the retelling of the opera.

  Susan Thornleigh knew enough to realize it had been a great indulgence in her guardian to let her attend the opera with Rachel and Mrs. Service and himself, and perhaps suspected she should not let herself be as obviously excited as she was, but the joy of an audience and pleasure in having something to tell was too intoxicating. Her natural abilities as musician and actress made her retelling more interesting than monologues from little girls usually are, and the palpable joy with which she told Crowther the whole argument of the entertainment was so innocent and wholehearted, to hold her back would have been an unnatural cruelty.

  “Then Fléance—Signor Manzerotti, you know . . .” She pulled herself up straight, opened her eyes wide and set her shoulders down and at an angle. The effect was so like Manzerotti, Crowther could not help smiling. “He is convinced he must leave Indomida—that’s Miss Marin.” Now she pointed her chin upward and fluttered her eyelashes, her hands clasped and raised. Again, it was uncanny. Crowther was surprised into a dry bark of laughter, which ma
de Susan skip with pleasure before taking up her story. “Indomida does not know why Fléance is become so cold and is very upset, and it is just after that, they sing the duet! You heard it yesterday—Mrs. Westerman told us you did.” He nodded, and Susan began to hum the tune. “Oh, it is so beautiful, isn’t it, Rachel, dear?”

  Miss Trench nodded and said dreamily, “They had to encore it twice, Mr. Crowther, and even the composer was given his own ‘bravo!’ The roses on stage! Oh it was heaven, and such noise in the theater, I thought the ceiling would go flying off! In truth, if the performers had not left the stage, I think that we would be applauding still. I certainly should.”

  “Did the composer seem pleased?” Crowther asked.

  Susan shrugged and replied, “Not really. Just a little embarrassed, I think. Some people are shy like that.” Lady Susan put the composer from her mind with a brutal simplicity. “Then there was another ballet, which was very nice, I thought, except one of the dancers danced like this.” She put her arms out in front of her and performed a few steps with a strange halting diffidence, looking about her as she did as if trying to copy the invisible performers around her. “However, she was at the back, so didn’t spoil it much.”

  Crowther did not comment, though he saw Mrs. Service look up from her work with an eyebrow raised and caught Susan shrugging an apology while mouthing, “But it’s true!” across the room.

  He hid his own smile to ask, “And how did you enjoy the rest of the opera, Susan?”

  “Oh, it was very pleasant, I think. Though mostly in the old style. Graves said Mr. Bywater saved all his originality for the duet. That is where he is now—Graves, I mean—supervising the printing of the duet to go on sale in the shop tomorrow. He’ll sell thousands! Everyone will want it. Everyone was talking about it at church today, weren’t they, Rachel? Even people who weren’t there.” Susan shook her head at the madness of the world, then continued, “Though I don’t need the music, I can remember it all anyway. And Manzerotti sang, ‘Sia fatta la pace,’ his favorite aria. He sings it every time he performs, you know, and it was quite wonderful.” She hummed a little, then exclaimed, “But we must show you what happens in the end! There is a sea battle and a very funny bit where Manzerotti is chased round the stage by the Furies. Rachel, I shall be Manzerotti and you must be Miss Marin because that is not so hard. All you have to do is clasp your hands and blink as if you have dust in your eyes.”

  Crowther missed the retelling of the Third Act, however, as it was at that moment Mrs. Westerman came in to join them.

  “You see, Crowther?” she said. “We are the best entertained household in London.” She looked at Rachel and Susan playing Manzerotti and Marin in front of the proscenium arch of the fireplace. “All of the luminaries of the theater and music world come to us here in the shape of Lady Susan.”

  That young lady grinned up frankly at Harriet then swept a theatrical bow to her. “Madam, I thank you.”

  Rachel put her arm around Susan’s shoulders, her good humor apparently dissipated by the arrival of her sister. “Come along, dear heart. Let us see what mischief the young gentlemen are about and leave Harriet and Mr. Crowther to talk over unpleasant things.”

  Mrs. Service began to put away her work.

  “An excellent plan, Miss Trench,” she agreed. “Then let us set Susan to work at her keyboard and see how many of last night’s arias she can pull out of the air.”

  Before Susan could be shepherded from the room, however, Harriet put up a hand.

  “Susan, Rachel! One moment, my loves. You said something about being allowed to visit the performers at the end of the evening?”

  Susan turned on her heel at once. “Oh yes! And you told us we must tell Mr. Crowther about it too.” She flew back to her stage in front of the fireplace, ignoring the slight frown of Mrs. Service. “Well, everyone was just standing around being awfully polite to each other as people do. The king had left—he seems like a nice man, though he must be terribly worried about America. Then Mr. Harwood came in and beckoned Manzerotti and Bywater and Miss Marin over to him.” She took a couple of steps over to her right, then with a frown crooked her finger at some imaginary artists, looking very serious. “Rachel and I guessed that he was telling them about Mr. Fitzraven, didn’t we?” Rachel nodded somberly. “From where I was standing,” Susan went on, “I could see Miss Marin best. She did this.”

  The little girl actually went pale, and staggered slightly. Crowther found himself on his feet ready to take her arm. She grinned, enchanted at having fooled him.

  “Come, Mr. Crowther, stand here on my right. You are now Mr. Bywater. Miss Marin clutched onto his arm and sort of half-fell on him for a second. Mr. Bywater was facing forward still and his lips got all bunched up. He looked a bit like a confused herring.” She dropped Crowther’s arm and took a smart step to her left. “Manzerotti just went very still—like when he got turned into a statue at the end of Act Three—and all the others just started talking. I thought Miss Marin’s maid was going to lead her away, but after a few seconds she straightened up again and started talking to Lord Sandwich. I like him. He knows a lot about music for a naval man.”

  She smiled around at the adults watching her, expecting more of their praise, but each seemed lost in his or her own thoughts.

  “Then Mr. Harwood came and made a bow to Rachel and said he hoped Mrs. Westerman and Mr. Crowther would be successful again in their efforts for justice. And I said I hoped you would be too, for although I was not fond of Mr. Fitzraven, no one should be thrown in the river like that.”

  Harriet, who was standing with her arms folded, apparently lost in an examination of the carpet at her feet, said, “And what did Rachel say?”

  Susan looked at her with a frank smile. “Why, nothing. You just curtsied, did you not?”

  The young woman nodded.

  “And she did so very neatly—you need not be ashamed of her, Mrs. Westerman. Three times in ten when I curtsy I still catch my slipper on my petticoat.”

  No one offered any remark to that.

  “There! Did I help?”

  “Yes, Lady Susan,” said Crowther. “You certainly did.”

  “Good,” she said, snatching up Rachel’s hand and dragging her toward the doorway where Mrs. Service was still waiting for them. “I like to be of help.”

  Harriet took the seat Rachel had just left, and they had the room to themselves.

  “It seems,” Harriet said after a few moments, “that Miss Marin was worth the trouble of her hiring. If the congregation of St. James’s is anything to measure by, all of London is enraptured. Do you think her reaction to Fitzraven’s death is suggestive?”

  Crowther tented his fingers. “You think she too might be a spy? Though of course we have as yet no reason to believe Palmer’s suspicions of Fitzraven to be accurate.” He seemed lost in contemplation of his cuffs, though Harriet knew wherever he directed his gaze at such moments, he saw nothing. The strange chemical stains that often appeared around his wrists were testament to that. He continued: “I pity Fitzraven. From what we have learned of him, this would be the sort of day to make him very happy.” He reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper. “I have had an interesting note this morning from our friend Justice Pither. He gives us his full authority, and a great deal of thanks, and would be delighted if we can—and I must quote him here—‘perform those duties due to the dead man from which pressure of other business under his jurisdiction keep him.’”

  He passed the note to Harriet and she read it, wincing. “That is an ugly phrase, ‘duties due.’ Strange man, Justice Pither. I wonder that he cannot hear his own awkwardness. However, I presume he means he would like us to find him a killer if we can.”

  “Note also,” with his long fingers Crowther tapped at the significant passage in the paper Harriet held, “he reminds us that a considerable award is available to those who bring such black-hearted villains to the King’s Justice.”

  Harriet pu
t the note aside and half-smiled at the floor in front of her.

  “Very well then, Crowther. It seems Mr. Palmer has managed to arrange authority for us through whatever means. I feel sorry for Mr. Pither to be used so, but I suppose we are in the service of a greater good. Let us see what we can do. What do you suggest?”

  Crowther returned to his examination of his fingertips, saying, “Graves said Fitzraven had lodgings in a house in Great Swallow Street. I suggest we go there and see if there is anything which might suggest that Palmer’s suspicions are well-grounded.”

  “Crowther,” Harriet said slowly, “I have been thinking more about Mr. Palmer and whether, by engaging us to act in this way, he hopes I will continue to press James for what he learned from the agent aboard the Marquis. Might that not be his primary motive?”

  “I cannot say, though I believe that when a man like Mr. Palmer, however frank his demeanor, says he has three reasons for a course of action, he in all probability has four or five,” Crowther replied. Upstairs, the faint song of Susan’s harpsichord began. The notes seemed to tumble through the ceiling rose and dance like dust motes in sunlight around them. “However, I do not think any additional motive he has renders the reasons he stated invalid.”

  There was a laugh from above. Harriet recognized the voice of her sister. Her hand lay on the arm of one of the elegant but functional chairs that were dotted about the room. Under her fingers the wood seemed to change from gilt into the smooth timbers of a ship’s gunwale, and the scattered brightness of the instrument playing over their heads became the sound of water rippling under the bow on one of those blessed days where the wind is generous, though the sea is calm. It had been on such a day in the East Indies when her husband’s ship and the merchantman she shadowed had been attacked by a privateer. The attempt would never have been made against a ship of His Majesty’s Navy had not the crew of the privateer received intelligence of the coming of the ship, and the wealth of the merchantman she accompanied. It had allowed them to take advantage of the play of coast and prevailing wind, and the engagement had been sharp. Three members of James’s crew had never been ashore again. It was one of the crew of the merchantman who had betrayed them. Harriet had seen the man hanged and felt no qualm at his death.