Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

  Graves stood in front of the fireplace and put his hands behind his back, rocking forward off his heels. He looked steadfastly at the floor in front of him. Harriet began to attempt some light remark but was cut off.

  “Really, Mrs. Westerman, I must ask you what you are about.”

  Harriet took in a breath, but Graves continued at once.

  “Lady Susan is eleven years old, yet you bundled her out of this house and took her to an asylum. Took her to visit a madman of whose temperament you knew little, and that little only by report. Took her to a place, a situation, that sounds unpleasant at best and involved her—intimately involved her—in the investigation of a murder. All this without a word to her guardian or friends. I must ask you again, what are you about, madam?” Now he looked up. His face was flushed and he repeated slowly with bell-like clarity: “She is eleven years old.”

  Harriet said in a rush, with a smiling placatory tone, “Graves! You were not to be found, and I believe Susan enjoyed the visit. She got along with Leacroft quite famously, you know.” She found as she finished that her pulse was running rather fast.

  “Indeed, Mrs. Westerman. Such is the nature of Susan’s open, good heart I find my ward has promised to watch over this gentleman’s interests. Lady Susan will be noticed as a regular visitor to this dreadful place, thanks to you. And I returned from the lawyers to the shop within an hour of your departure. You knew perfectly well if you had only a little patience, you would find me there during the day.”

  “But Mr. Leacroft, it seems, is a family friend. You are possibly acquainted with him yourself!”

  “So Susan informs me. But you did not know that, Mrs. Westerman, did you? The man could have been raving! Even if Trevelyan had told you he was not dangerous, can you tell me you had assurances from him, or from anyone, that he was suitable company for an eleven-year-old girl?”

  “I did not think—”

  “That much is clear, madam. You must think more about the consequences of your actions. You trust again and again to luck and your own forward momentum. At some point you will seriously harm those near to you, who can do nothing to defend themselves against the damage you bring.”

  Harriet had been listening angrily, feeling her face growing hot, but at this last a vicious little bud blossomed in her mind and she said with a quick shake of her head, “My sister has made you her confidante, I see, in the matter of her concerns as to my behavior.”

  Graves looked a little disgusted. Harriet could tell he was clasping his hands together hard behind his back. She felt her own nails beginning to dig into her palms.

  “She has done no such thing. But if she has made mention to you of such concerns already, I wish to God, madam, you had listened to her! Miss Trench is a model of good behavior without ever losing her naturalness. And she is possessed of remarkable good sense.”

  Harriet felt a jealous flame in her throat. The world seemed suddenly unjust in the extreme. Her words came spitting out, hot and angry as grapeshot. “Yes, and she can make up a dozen foul-smelling recipes from the Household Doctor!” She held onto the back of one of the armchairs hard enough to whiten her knuckles and showed her teeth in an unnatural smile. “She is a paragon of all virtues. I admit it. The community round Caveley declare it, just as they used to in my father’s parish, and now she is lauded here! Perhaps her virtues even exceed those of Miss Chase. Poor Verity, and just when she has persuaded her father to spend her marriage portion on buying the shop for you from the estate, but instead it seems so overwhelming are my sister’s attractions, you will be too busy cutting out Daniel Clode to make use of it. And as to Susan and Jonathan, where would they be now if it were not for my headstrong ways and Crowther’s knives you all shrink from so!”

  She came to a sudden stop, looking at the pain flickering in his young, kind face, and in the silence that followed began to realize with a cold sort of horror what she had just said.

  Graves spoke softly. “The children had other friends.” His hand traveled unconsciously to the right side of his waistcoat, as if the scar there he had received from a blade the previous year had woken and needed calming. He had defended the children. He had put his own flesh between them and danger. Harriet found herself dumb with sudden shame. She could admit she liked to think herself rather above her fellow creatures at times, but when Rachel was praised above her, when her own actions were condemned, she found herself behaving like a jealous child. If Stephen had spoken as she just had, she would have been ashamed of him.

  Graves moved away from the fireplace and sat down heavily in one of the armchairs.

  “I do not care what you do, Mrs. Westerman. I am well aware of the debt we owe you. But Susan and Jonathan both look up to you so much. You are a model to them. They must live in the world and learn to do so soberly and decently, despite their wealth, the history of their blood. I am trying to guide them. Yet you do these things . . . Remember they look to you, that is all I ask.”

  Harriet took a step toward him. “Graves, I am so very sorry!” He did not look at her. “And what I said about Rachel and Verity—it is such nonsense.” He twisted painfully in his chair. “I am weary, yet this business has lit up my brain and carries me forward.” Harriet sat down in the armchair alongside his own and put her head in her hands.

  Graves looked at her with alarm. “Oh good Lord, Mrs. Westerman! You won’t cry, will you?” he said, sounding much younger again. “You can’t behave so abominably then take such a feminine way out. Unfair!”

  Harriet gave a rather damp snort. “No, Graves, I promise you I shall not.” She looked up at him. “I am sorry though. It was wrong to take Susan, and I knew it the moment we arrived, but by then . . . though I’m glad I did.” Graves opened his mouth to protest again. “No, truly! She was so wonderful with him, Graves. We would never have managed without her. And when she told that horrid Gaskin she would burn down his house if he destroyed anymore of Leacroft’s music . . .”

  Graves shook his head with a reluctant laugh. “Oh, she did, did she? I was only told she’d asked the man to send Leacroft’s music here. Of course, she told me about ‘C’è una rosa.’” He turned his head away and fell into a study of the fire. “She is a remarkable girl. I wish I had met her mother. In fact, it seems as if I am surrounded with remarkable women. Verity is planning on buying me out, is she? Giving me the chance to work for my living?”

  “You work very hard for your living and your wards. No one thinks otherwise but you. Yes, I believe that is her plan. But I understand she doubts if you still hold her in the same regard.”

  Graves smiled gently into the fire. “She is the only person in the world who could do so. Though I cannot ask her to be my wife under the circumstances, I think of her every moment.” Then he added, looking at Harriet with an eyebrow raised, “At least, when I am not trying to save the children from your pernicious influence.”

  Harriet let herself smile and placed a hand on his sleeve. Graves nodded to the clock on the mantelpiece. “You should go and dress, Mrs. Westerman. And Stephen made me promise to ask you to come and kiss him good night before you leave. I think he wishes to see his mama in her finery. And he has something to ask you. He has thought about it quite carefully, so I would ask that you listen.”

  Harriet rose. “Thank you, Graves. You are a better friend than I deserve.”

  “No, Mrs. Westerman. Rather the world does not deserve you. But here you are, you and your dashings, and Mr. Crowther and his knives, and we must learn how to make best use of you. Enjoy the performance. You will not see a better opera in London for five years.”

  She left and made her way slowly up to her own chamber.

  6

  Harriet, Rachel and Crowther were to have the use of Mrs. Service’s box at the opera that night, and Mr. Crumley was provided with papers for the pit. Harriet was a little surprised to find that the coach did not make its way directly to Hay Market, but matters became clear when she realized they were turning into Sutt
on Street. The carriage paused and Miss Verity Chase was handed into it by one of her father’s servants. Harriet was very pleased to see her. The strained nature of the understanding between this lady and Owen Graves meant that her visits to Berkeley Square to see the children were fleeting, hurried and only to be undertaken when Graves was sure to be away from the house. Mrs. Service took the children to Sutton Street whenever their entreaties reached a fever pitch, but she was unsure if she should be encouraging the bond between the children and Verity to continue to flower, and the visits made her uncomfortable.

  Rachel patted Miss Chase’s hand and smiled reassuringly at her. Verity seemed more comfortable at once and began to ask them about Fitzraven and their investigations to date. Harriet and Crowther were happy to tell her what they could without repeating Mr. Palmer’s concerns. Miss Chase was a practical and intelligent woman and her remarks were always to the point, and worth attending to. She was quite as beautiful as Rachel, but had a little less of her yielding femininity. Her nature and humor was rather more dry and exact. For all that she had been raised as a gentlewoman, Harriet could see something of her father, the man of business in her, and admired her for it.

  “So Miss Marin discovered yesterday what you did this morning. Do you know if she has spoken to Mr. Bywater? Surely that would be her first thought if she felt for him as Carmichael and Manzerotti suggested. Her distress must have been extreme.”

  Harriet was a little shocked. “I had not thought of it till now, Miss Chase. She was certainly distressed by something when I spoke to her last evening.”

  Crowther frowned. “Did not Carmichael say she left the party as soon as her portion of his little entertainment was complete?”

  Harriet nodded and looked at the elegant reticule she held on her lap. It was a pretty thing, but not practical. “He did. We must speak to Bywater ourselves tonight, Crowther, and challenge him. Do you think if he murdered Mr. Fitzraven he will confess it now?”

  Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed Rachel shiver a little at the word “murder.” Miss Chase merely watched their discussion with calm interest.

  “Possibly. I’ve already told you his behavior seemed to betray guilt of some sort. Though it is just as likely that he was nervous his plagiarism was about to be exposed. He had no great difficulty finding Leacroft. We must assume he realized we would not find it impossible ourselves.”

  Harriet nibbled the tip of one of her gloved fingers in thought. “I am very glad you are here, Miss Chase. It may be a night of unpleasant scenes. We shall have our conversations in private, and you and Rachel may remain in the box together.” She flashed her eyes up at the two young women. “I hope you will find more pleasant topics of conversation.” Miss Chase lost her calm demeanor for a moment and blushed. Rachel gave a little gurgling laugh, and patted her knee.

  “I am sure we will, Harry,” she said. “After all, we just have to find a way to persuade a proud man to allow himself to be made happy.”

  Miss Chase kept her eyes low, but smiled.

  Rachel looked past her out of the carriage window. “Dear heavens. It is even more crowded than Saturday evening.”

  The Hay Market was jammed with carriages. It seemed that not only Graves would profit from the popularity of “C’è una rosa.” A pair of women in white caps were trying to sell rather tired-looking yellow roses in through the carriage windows from great baskets on their hips, and for those who could not afford fresh blooms, a few young boys were handing out flowers cut from paper for pennies.

  Crowther noticed a tall, thin-faced woman in brown emerge from the rear of the theater with a sack over her shoulder. She called a boy over to her, cuffed his ear and gave him from her bag a fresh stack of librettos to sell. He put some coins in her hand and she counted them over carefully, her lips a hard line, while Crowther watched her.

  “What an enterprise this is,” he said, turning away from the window again.

  Harriet sent a note to Mademoiselle Marin via one of the servants of the place as her party settled into the box. Before the opera commenced she had received a courteous response from Isabella saying indeed there were many things she wished to discuss with Mrs. Westerman, but she did not think she would be equal to such interviews until the performance was complete. Harriet handed the note over to Crowther without comment and he nodded.

  “Perhaps it would be best to meet with Mr. Bywater after the performance as well,” he said. “We may send Miss Chase and your sister home in a respectable manner, then confine the unpleasantness to Mr. Harwood’s office.”

  “Should we tell Mr. Harwood what we know?” Harriet asked as the musicians began to take their places in the pit. She leaned awkwardly over the edge of the box to try and spot Mr. Bywater. The seat at the harpsichord remained empty.

  “Let us find him between acts and speak with him then.”

  Harriet was content and settled back in her chair to derive what pleasure she could from the entertainment. The theater was bursting. The chandeliers were brilliant enough for the company to read their librettos and wave at their friends with ease. Everything was in movement. The Quality moved between their boxes and those of their friends, whispering scandal or politics to make the women laugh and the jewels in their hair sparkle. Some breach of etiquette in the pit had led to a man’s wig being plucked off his head and tossed back and forth among the crowd while he tried to struggle toward it. As the overture began, it seemed the pit felt he had been punished enough and a young man handed it back to him with a slap across his shoulders and an order to mind his manners better. There was a smattering of applause as he took his seat again, pulling the bruised horsehair firmly over his ears. The galleries were clamorous, and all through the pit, people were shouting greetings and comments to one another.

  Harriet scanned the boxes around her. The Royal Box was taken by a group of women and men, beautifully dressed, but not anyone she could recognize. Friends of the Prince of Wales perhaps. She caught sight of Sandwich opposite and responded to his polite bow with a gracious nod. She was aware that after she had done so, various other pairs of eyes sought her out from the pit and boxes, and so kept her gaze on the stage and did not risk peering over to see Mr. Bywater again.

  There was movement, and to a stately march a large chorus of singers in an approximation of Roman costume gathered on stage. According to the little book in Harriet’s hand that gave both the Italian and a rather free, she suspected, English translation of it, they were now launching into a rousing musical debate on the politics of their day. The audience turned away from their various discussions and conversations and began to pay attention to the performance. A minor god descended in clouds of fury to a call from the horn section and flew to a position at the front of the stage. The device earned some gasps and some applause of its own. The god seemed pleased.

  Harriet let her attention wander to Rachel and Verity, sitting with their own libretto open between them. They made a charming study of young womanhood, and Harriet felt fond of them. They had both found men whom they could love and admire, and as far as it was possible to judge such things, Harriet thought they had as much chance of happiness as any pair of young couples. She remembered the pleasure and excitement of the time of her engagement to James and looked at her hands. She had the promissory ring on her finger again. Stephen had handed it over very gravely to her that evening, saying he thought it best she should have it back. She had forgotten she had left it with him, and felt guilty, so when Stephen asked, after taking a deep breath that seemed to lift his little body up like a balloon, if he might visit his father, she had agreed at once and told him they would go the following morning. A week had passed since her last visit—surely Trevelyan would be satisfied she had waited long enough?

  Harriet watched Rachel’s pale cheek as she followed the action on stage. She wished her happiness; she wished her comfort and patience and love. She wished she were a better and more generous elder sister to her. If anyone were formed to cre
ate domestic harmony, it was her Rachel. All that she could wish for herself was that she might not do too much damage, and from time to time manage to do some good.

  The music had lost her. She leaned forward again to look down into the pit, then frowned and touched Crowther’s sleeve. He turned toward her and lifted his eyebrow. “Where is Bywater?” she breathed.

  He followed her gaze. The figure directing from the keyboard, though he had his back to them, was certainly not Bywater. This man’s girth was considerable and the little part they could see of his face was red and fleshy.

  Crowther nodded, but not being one of those who thought the opera house a place for general conversation, did not reply.

  On stage the panels of the Forum pulled back, and in time to the footfall of the music, others replaced them. The scene became pastoral, with a great mountain at the back rearing suddenly over the audience. At its summit, a slender figure dressed all in gold and crowned with great plumes appeared and opened its arms. Manzerotti. The orchestra ceased and he sang a single, simple phrase. The last note began strongly, then faded to a whisper that had each head in the audience craning forward, hardly breathing, then it swelled again to a power that could set the lamps fluttering, and pulling down his hand in a fist, Manzerotti brought the orchestra in again in a thundering restatement of the theme. He made his way down the mountainside to the hysterical approval of the crowd and the ringing of trumpets.

  7

  “You saw it in a dream, Mrs. Bligh?”

  Jocasta and Sam were back in the shoemaker’s cellar. Her work for the night prepared for, Jocasta was more comfortable off the streets and quiet till the time came to meet Molloy. Sam and she spent their leisure looking over the cards and playing with Boyo in a corner while their host cursed and sweated at his leather and molds and his wife cut shapes out of silk and hemmed them narrow and sweet. “I thought you must have asked the cards while I was sleeping.”