She must have dozed, because something woke her, and she could tell by the taste of the night air creeping in that it was coming up to dawn again. Boyo had been woken too and was looking at the door. He was rearing up against the coverings of the couch, his ears flat and teeth bared, and a low growl starting in the back of his throat. Jocasta frowned, then stood slowly and crossed the room. The latch lifted odd, strangely reluctant under her thumb. She pulled it open, letting more shadows tumble into the room to pile on the heaps of grays already curled around her bed and spilling out from the cold grate of the fireplace. There were a pair of rats, quite dead with their little white teeth showing, slung on a bit of string and hooked around the latch on the outside of her door. Someone had gone to the trouble of tying a noose around each furry throat and pulling it tight. The hallway was empty, and the only noise in the house was the quiet of its people sleeping.
Jocasta threw the bodies into the stink heap in the yard and looked about her. Nothing but the shake of the pear tree, old man Hopps coughing in his sleep in the front room opposite, a light footstep out on St. Martin’s Lane. The little corpses were still warm.
PART V
1
TUESDAY, 20 NOVEMBER 1781
Rachel knew she had upset her elder sister, and however right she believed herself to be, it was in her nature to feel guilty as a result. At breakfast the following morning she fetched her sister coffee and toast and handed her her letters with careful naturalness. She did not dare smile yet, but neither did she frown. Harriet accepted this as an apology, and by thanking her sister gently, but without meeting her eye, made her own.
Lady Susan and Mrs. Service grinned at each other when they thought they were unobserved, and Stephen Westerman and the Earl of Sussex were aware enough of the pleasantly warming atmosphere to start chasing each other around the table until the threat to my lord’s china made Mrs. Service speak rather sharply to them.
The first letter Harriet opened made her give a little cry of delight. Graves had just walked into the room and was peering under the covers in hopes of warm eggs. He almost dropped the lid from his hand.
“Some good news, Mrs. Westerman?” he asked, juggling the silverware.
“Very,” said Harriet, and looked about the table. All those older than ten looked back. “This note is from the good Dr. Trevelyan. It is not about James, dear heart,” she said to her sister, seeing a frown of concern on Rachel’s face. “It is about Miss Marin’s old singing teacher, Theophilius Leacroft.”
“Has he been found, Mrs. Westerman?” Mrs. Service asked. At the same moment she put out her hand in front of Lord Sussex, palm raised. The young peer looked a little glum and handed her the cat’s cradle he had been playing with under the table since his races had been stopped. It disappeared into Mrs. Service’s reticule and he despaired of seeing it again before dinner. Oblivious, Harriet continued reading from her note.
“He has indeed. Dr. Trevelyan thought he had heard a colleague of his who runs a private madhouse down Kennington Lane mention a melancholic musician, and sent to him at once. The colleague confirms it. Mr. Leacroft is confined for his own safety, but is in no way dangerous and I have his address before me.”
Susan clapped her hands. “Oh, Mademoiselle will be very happy!” Then she looked confused. “But why is her singing teacher here? Did she not grow up in Paris?”
Graves coughed. “I’ll explain it to you later, Susan. I promise. But that is good news, indeed. Mrs. Westerman. As soon as you have written your note, Philip will take it straight to her rooms in Piccadilly.”
When Crowther arrived to accompany Mrs. Westerman to their assignation with Mr. Palmer, he walked in on such a scene of domestic harmony and goodwill that he felt as if someone had doused him with a pail full with the milk of human kindness. He did not enjoy the sight of Mrs. Westerman and her sister in dispute, but this improving scene of family business and pleasure was almost equally exhausting. He thought of the privacy and quiet of his workroom with a now familiar nostalgia, and steeled himself to be spoken to by several people at once.
It was not long before they were interrupted, however; Alice knocked on the door to tell them Mr. Tompkins had returned and was waiting for them in the library, with apologies for his early call. When Harriet opened the door, their visitor shot to his feet as if he feared he had committed some deadly sin by sitting in the first place.
Mr. Tompkins was not a very sensible young man. His clothes were all in the current fashion and had, no doubt, cost his father a fair penny, but instead of making him look at home in society, they marked him out as a man too easily seduced by his tailor. Every line of his dress was a little too one thing or the other. He was already rather fleshy for his age, and seemed to be made of softer stuff than other men. In his conversation, when he wished to be manly and authoritative he overtopped it and seemed more a boy than Stephen, and when he tried, as he had done on their previous meeting, to make some elegant compliment, he sounded like a poor actor, overrehearsed but stumbling nevertheless. The general impression was of a hen who had dressed herself in peacock feathers and was trying to pass them off as her own with a casual shriek on the summer terrace of Thornleigh Hall.
Harriet made a silent promise to be kind. When last this gentleman had visited, he had had nothing of interest to tell them, and had told them that nothing in an uninteresting manner. She had made no effort with him, but before he left the house Graves had opened the door to speak to them, and spent a few minutes in conversation with the man. He had been generous in his attention, perhaps reminded of his own arrival in London and his early difficulties. Because of his kindness, Mr. Tobias Tompkins had left the house rather more comfortable and a little less afraid. The incident had made Harriet ashamed. Now she looked at the young man again she thought his coat suspiciously like the one Graves had been wearing on the evening in question.
Tompkins began to speak as soon as the door opened.
“I have had a thought, madam! At least, I had a thought, and I. . and I hope. . I mean-oh, forgive me.” He bowed and the shoulders of his coat strained a little. “Good morning, Mrs. Westerman, Mr. Crowther. You are both looking terribly well.”
Harriet managed not to laugh and, ignoring the sigh behind her from Crowther, she stepped forward and offered her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Tompkins. Now do take a seat and tell us about this exciting thought of yours.”
Crowther remained standing, and as Tobias sat down he could not help glancing up at him from time to time like a rabbit who has spotted something unsettling in the undergrowth. His nose was rather flat and his jowls had a pronounced swell. It looked as though his wig, a little elaborate for a morning visit, had forced his cheeks too low on his face.
“Well, that is. . I mean, after I called and we. . The thing is. .”
Crowther had turned his back on them to shuffle some papers on the desk. “Do take a breath, Mr. Tompkins.”
Tobias made a visible effort to collect himself.
“I know I was not of any great assistance to you when we last spoke.” He looked very miserable, as if suddenly deflated. “I wish I had been reading some other stuff; if I’d had a novel in my hand I’m sure I would have been awake and heard everything. Being a lawyer might be a respectable career to aim at, but one has to read a great many very dull books.”
“You prefer novels?” said Crowther, still with his back turned.
Tobias lifted his chin. “Some novels can be very improving!”
Harriet tried to remain patient. “Yes, though those sort can send one to sleep as quickly as law books, I find.” Mr. Tompkins considered and was forced to nod fiercely in agreement. “But please, Mr. Tompkins, your idea.”
“Of course. I knew that you had spoken to Mrs. G’s other residents, but I was thinking surely someone must have seen something. I mean, in London one never really seems to be alone.”
Crowther did not turn away from his papers, but said, “I have often thought th
e same thing.”
Tobias visibly brightened at this moment of communion and continued, “So I was wracking and wracking my brains to think of someone till they hurt, you know, they really actually hurt! And then I remembered Gladys.”
Harriet realized that Crowther had taken a step toward them. His voice when he spoke had lost its unpleasant edge, and became one of cautious interest. “Gladys?”
“Yes, Gladys,” Mr. Tompkins said, and looked between them with a happy grin.
“And who,” Harriet said, willing patience on herself, “is she?”
Mr. Tompkins slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I am a fool-how should you know who Gladys is?” It was perhaps fortunate that he did not look up at Harriet and Crowther at precisely this point. “The house we live in shares a backyard with the houses on King Street, you see, and Gladys lives in the one that backs onto ours.” Mr. Tompkins rubbed his chin. “She is a daughter of the lady who lives there, a widow, but she is a little simpleminded and likely to turn into a spinster. Never gives anyone any bother though, and nods to us all in the street, but not really with her full wits.”
Crowther took a seat, murmuring, “Who among us can lay claim to that?”
Tobias gave another deep nod. “Yes, indeed. Well said, sir! So, to continue, she has a little perch by the back window where her chamber is and watches the birds flying about and the cats and things. Just watches, you know. Spends half her days and nights there.”
Crowther looked at him with new attention. “I saw her,” he said. “She seemed to be looking straight into the room as I was at Fitzraven’s desk.”
“Mr. Tompkins.” Harriet’s smile became quite genuine. “Mr. Tompkins, you have had a very fine thought indeed. We shall certainly pay a call on Gladys.”
Mr. Tompkins blushed. “Oh, I have already had a word with her, Mrs. Westerman. Didn’t want to send you round to see her if she’d been out that afternoon or some such; she goes on her walks, you see. Would have felt even more of a fool! And as I mentioned, she’s a little simple. I didn’t want her to be frightened, and she knows me slightly, so I popped round there yesterday evening to say hello. I knew her mother would want to hear all about Fitzraven anyway, so there would be no bother about it.” He stopped speaking.
Harriet felt her jaw beginning to clench again. Crowther tented his fingers together and said very slowly, “And what did she say, Mr. Tompkins?”
Mr. Tompkins’s hand went to his chin again. “Well, as it turns out, she was out most of that day.” Harriet tightened her grip on the arm of her chair. “But it was a rum old thing. I was asking her about that afternoon, and telling her mama the news, and of your involvement.” He tried a little extra bow from his chair, then recovered himself. “Fearsome lady that, and Gladys said I shouldn’t worry about Mr. Fitzraven, because he was a very, very good man and she knew he was in heaven. She’s rather religious as well as simple,” he added in an apologetic undertone to Harriet, then continued in his normal voice, “I didn’t know him very well, but I never thought of him as terribly pious, so I said how was she so sure and she said the strangest thing!” Mr. Tompkins examined the carpet and shook his head with wonderment at his fellow creatures.
Harriet managed to force her words out between gritted teeth. “What did she say, Mr. Tompkins?”
Tobias looked up again. “Oh. Yes. Indeed. She said she knew he was in heaven and had been very special, because in the night God sent an angel to come and get him.”
2
Jocasta paused and looked about her. So used had she become to Sam’s little figure trotting at her side with Boyo, when he was not there she sensed it like a physical thing. He was still hanging around the way into the alley and looking up or down the street.
“They aren’t coming, Sam. So have done with looking.”
Sam came toward her smartly enough at that, but he was still looking over his shoulder.
“But they said they’d be here, Mrs. Bligh. And they’re friends of mine, Finn and Clay. Finn’s shared food with me a couple of times, and Clay let me sleep in his doss down once. But I didn’t like the other fellows there. Or the lady.” Jocasta could tell by the tone of his voice there weren’t many he could call friend.
She sniffed the air, saying, “It’s not a bad day. Like as not they found easier work to do, and they think you’re the daft one for sticking with me.”
The boy rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, smiled a bit and seemed comforted.
“What are we to do then, Mrs. Bligh?”
“I’ve been thinking on that, youngling. You know where Fred works then, do you? This Admiralty Office?”
“That I does, Mrs. Bligh. It’s that big place down Whitehall from Northumberland House. You want me to go and watch?”
“No, I’ll find it. You keep an eye on his mother.” The lad nodded and was about to disappear off again when Jocasta stopped him. “Sam! Stay low, and stay out the way, eh? Just keep an eye out; no need to make any enquiries or get chatting with the lads or anything.”
He nodded again and headed away from her at a pace. Jocasta felt a prickling up the back of her neck and thought of the little thud the rats’ bodies had made when they hit the heap.
Mr. Palmer was waiting for Harriet and Crowther in Mrs. Wheeler’s parlor. He thanked that lady gravely as she showed Harriet and Crowther in, then after she had withdrawn said: “Mrs. Wheeler is an old friend of mine, and of the service. I ask that you trust her as I do. If anyone has seen you enter, it is enough to say that you are acquainted via your husband. Now please, tell me what you have learned.”
It was Harriet who took the role of narrator of their investigations and conclusions to date. Crowther merely watched her as she spoke, adding the odd detail or explanation when called upon. Her tone was calm and measured. The seriousness of Mr. Palmer made her careful in her choice of words and the weight she placed on them. As Crowther looked at her, he conjectured he had made this woman a voice for part of himself; or rather some part of his intellect had blended with some part of her own, and this voice, calm but warmed with life and curiosity, was how it spoke. She concluded with Mr. Tompkins’s call.
“I believe, if Mr. Tompkins will introduce us to this Gladys,” she said, “we may have means to find out who this angel is.” Palmer looked at her with interest. “I thought at first, of course, we could take her to the opera house and see if she could recognize this angel among the people and company there, but I am aware. .” her voice slowed, “that persons of her sort may find the unaccustomed noise and confusion of such a place painful to a degree that might make any such recognition unlikely.”
Mr. Palmer sighed. “I believe what you say. What do you propose?”
“Mr. Graves has in his employ a gentleman very gifted in taking likenesses, even without seeing the individuals himself in the flesh, only by description.”
“A remarkable skill,” Palmer said with a smile.
“Indeed, and a useful one. I hope we may ask him to make some portraits which we could then show to poor Gladys in her own home, and see if her angel is among them. We intend to employ Lady Susan to instruct him, since she knows the personages well.”
Palmer nodded. Harriet sighed and leaned forward; her voice became her own. “But are you convinced, Mr. Palmer, that Fitzraven is indeed the man mentioned by your agent in France? He was, it seems, a rather lowly creature. What could he know, or discover, that the French would be willing to pay for?”
Palmer was not a man who rushed into speech. He considered before he replied.
“I believe Nathaniel Fitzraven was the man mentioned. The proof that he has been in France would be evidence enough to make me extremely suspicious, but your discovery of his account book, his new wealth, your suspicion that the room was searched before your arrival, convince me of it.” He paused and adjusted his cuff. “I believe he must have made some contact with an agent of the French in Milan. Someone there must have noted his habits and character and d
ecided to make use of them for the benefit of our enemies. I fear there are spies of every color in every city across Europe.”
Harriet sighed. “Indeed, you have your friend who heard of this ‘spy-master,’ and of Fitzraven’s name.”
A look of pain crossed Palmer’s face like a cloud as he said, “He was likely then sent to France to receive money, or the blessing of my counterparts there, or further instructions, and had time to acquire his remarkable teeth. He has had, it seems, more money since, but if that is a result of spying or some other petty, private blackmail, I cannot say. As to what the French thought he might be able to tell them, it seems he was a man who liked to boast of his knowledge and connections. Of course, the French Navy has no interest in the gossip of His Majesty’s Theatre, but that place is attended, throughout the season, by some of the most important men in our land. He could well hear things, follow men about, find others like himself. For whomever is at the core of the French intelligence operations here he might have proved a useful servant.”
Crowther watched these various conjectures move across Palmer’s face, like the weather on a deep lake, ruffling its service one way or another.
“You do not think Fitzraven our spymaster then, Mr. Palmer?”
Mr. Palmer stood and walked to the window. Harriet noticed that when he looked out, he kept his body to the left of the window frame. From the street he would have appeared only as a shadow. “The French would not have been proud of so small a man. They had arranged some coup. Fitzraven was a pawn in the game. A little man, and a little death.”
For the first time since she had begun to learn something of Fitzraven’s character, Harriet felt some pity for him.
Palmer went on, “He may have aimed to recruit others. Or he may have acted as a go-between with agents already in place in society. He had much influence with Miss Marin, for instance.”
“She had grown to dislike him,” Harriet said.
Anatomy of Murder caw-2 Page 21
