Instruments of Darkness (24 page)

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Authors: Imogen Robertson

Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction

BOOK: Instruments of Darkness
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‘Were the Thornleigh family at church this morning?’ Crowther asked suddenly.
‘Yes. Lady Thornleigh came in on Hugh’s arm. She likes to give the populace a chance to admire her from time to time and we do. It is impossible not to.’
‘And Wicksteed?’ She nodded. ‘I take it you would have mentioned to me by now if anyone attending had scratchmarks apparent.’
She did not look at him, but he could hear the dry smile in her voice.
‘Yes, I rather think I should have done.’
‘If not the face, then it is most likely the arms of the attacker that are scratched.’ Crowther pictured a man, waiting for the nurse in the cottage with the rope standing by, removing his coat in preparation for the heavy, physical work of killing another human being. The scene shifted in his head. The woman with her wrists bound, struggling, watching the rope being slung over the beam.
Harriet spoke. ‘She must have been gagged.’
No ride to Tyburn with all the crowd hooting and leering could be more terrifying than lying in that cottage on a summer afternoon, wrists tearing at the rope, gagging at the fine linen in one’s throat. He looked deep into the wood.
‘I know you are not looking for comfort, but remember that blow to the back of her head. She may have been unconscious from that injury when her murderer put the rope around her neck.’
Harriet kicked at the ground beneath her feet.
‘Perhaps. The wound was bloody, but the skull was not broken. It is as likely the blow was to stop her struggling while her wrists were tied, and she woke straining against them.’
Crowther could feel the cold earth of the ground against his cheek, the aching head, the desperate pull at the wrists. He could see the gloom, a gentleman’s boots stepping in and out of his range of vision as the slow preparations were made. He felt terror run through under his skin as if it had been injected into his bloodstream like mercury, slippery and cold.
‘That is as likely, Mrs Westerman.’ He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. ‘We should ask the Squire to make a search of Thornleigh Hall. Check everyone in the household for scratches. Do you think he would dare?’
She shifted a little in her seat to look at him, her head to one side.
‘Perhaps if the Coroner finds the case to be one of Murder, but I doubt it. Even if he found something suspicious, such scratches could be explained away, and the unpleasantness could be extreme.’
Crowther nodded slowly and got to his feet.
‘Then we must find it ourselves - and quickly. In three or four days any wounds Nurse Bray left on her killer will have healed, and the moment be lost.’
 
Graves felt his heart sink. Having persuaded Susan and Miss Chase back to the table on which the black box lay, and lifted up the first armful of papers it held, he found only faulty copies of old scores. His stomach lurched. He had not realised what faith he had put in the contents of the box. He stood to hide his emotion from the ladies and walked over to the window to stare down into the street - only to find himself looking directly into the upturned face of Molloy. He moved away again sharply.
Miss Chase had taken a handful of papers and was carefully turning them over in front of her, when she said, ‘Mr Graves, I think I have found something.’
He took a seat opposite her and she slid a letter over to him. It was written in a simple, careful hand - female, he would guess - and dated some four years in the past. Above the date was written simply
Thornleigh Hall, Sussex
. He looked across at Susan, who blinked widely at him, and began to read aloud:
Dear Mr Adams,
 
I have been received into the household with much relief. The people here have no experience, I think, in dealing with such an illness as the Earl’s. He has lost his powers of speech almost entirely, and they fear the noises he makes. I believe he is just as he ever was behind his eyes though, and am happy to offer the poor gentleman what comfort I can. My lady visits from time to time, and I think it pleases him to look at her. I admire her devotion in remaining in residence. She has asked if he might ever be able to travel, and gave him a bitter look when I said I thought it not advisable. I think the Earl must have missed the look though, for he continued to seem very content. They say that Mr Hugh Thornleigh has decided to return from the wars in America to take charge of the estate in a few months, as soon as he can take passage over.
I should like to thank you again, Mr Adams, for putting me in the way of this position, which I think shall suit me very well, and for your kindness in fitting me out for the journey. I shall continue to write every six months as we agreed, and of course keep quiet about how I happened upon this place. I would of course respect your wishes in these regards without your continued generosity.
 
Yours most sincerely,
Madeleine Bray
Graves ran a hand across his forehead. ‘What can this mean? Who
are
these people? Have you heard of them, Miss Chase? Do you recognise any of the names, Susan?’
The little girl shook her head and looked afraid. Graves was worried he had spoken with more heat than he had intended.
Miss Chase took hold of the little hand and patted it. Then she said slowly, ‘Was there not an Earl who married a dancer a few years ago, then fell ill within a year?’
Graves frowned at the table-top in front of him, trying to pull the threads together.
Miss Chase continued: ‘Perhaps Alexander had family at the house. He was an educated man. I remember once hearing of a gentleman who was brought up very well in a country house. He was the son of the steward, got a thorough education and was raised to take his father’s place. He fell out with the family as a young man though, wanted to go and make his own fortune rather than look after that of another man.’
Mr Graves looked at his fingernails, then curled them into his palms.
‘What became of him?’ he asked.
‘He became rich and bought an estate of his own. That is the way of the world these days, I think. Good men can make their own way, if they keep their courage.’ She looked at him with a gentle smile and he felt his heart lift a little.
Susan turned another letter towards Graves, her smooth forehead drawn down into a rather fierce frown.
‘This is a funny letter! From the same lady, I think. Will you read it, Mr Graves? I am not sure I understand it.’
He took it from her and cleared his throat.
Thornleigh Hall, Sussex
 
Dear Mr Adams,
 
All continues here much as in my last. Mr Hugh Thornleigh and Lady Thornleigh are not very friendly, and it is a shame when a family cannot comfort each other in such times, do you not think, Mr Adams? I have learned however that the eldest son, Alexander, Viscount Hardew, has been missing from this place some years - indeed, I had the opportunity to see a portrait of that gentleman in his youth while cleaning some miniatures with the housekeeper and heard the whole story. I would tell it to you now, sir, but I suspect you know it already! I do not wish to give you any disquiet, Mr Adams. Your secret, I swear, will never be won from my lips, nor will I ever make allusion to it again.
 
Yours,
Madeleine Bray
Graves stopped reading, and there was a heavy silence in the room. He looked cautiously at the little girl, trying to guess if she had understood.
Susan stared hard at the table-top; she could feel nothing but the gentle weight of the ring around her neck. A lost son? An Alexander? Her father was Alexander and a gentleman, but could he be so grand? She had seen Earls while walking out in the park. They had none of them looked like her papa, and they had none of them seemed comfortable to her. Her mouth was dry. She blinked and looked up into Graves’s dark blue eyes.
‘Might my papa have been the son of this sick man?’
Graves wet his lips and looked down a little hopelessly at the paper in his hand.
‘This Miss Bray seemed to think so! It all seems very strange, Susan. Did your father ever say anything to you, that might have suggested . . .’
Susan shook her head vehemently. ‘No. Only when he asked about carriages and dresses the other evening.’
‘There must be something else here.’ Graves reached into the box again. ‘Let us go through the pages one by one.’
They set to work on the box again, each apparent off-cut of score turned over, every bundle shaken to check nothing hid within.
It was Miss Chase who found it - a trio of papers concealed within a bundle of music Graves had previously put aside as mere camouflage.
‘Here! Oh here, Mr Graves.’
She spread them out on the table. A marriage certificate and two others registering the births of Susan and Jonathan. The names on the marriage were Elizabeth Ariston-Grey and Alexander Thornleigh. The children were Susan and Jonathan Thornleigh.
They stared at the writing until Graves was sure he would be able to recall the penmanship on his deathbed. He looked at the little girl.
‘It seems . . .’ His voice cracked and he swallowed as the little girl stared up at him, her eyes wide. ‘It seems Alexander always wanted you to have the means to return to the Thornleigh family, if you wished it, Susan. There is no doubt. These are your true names.’
‘So I am not Susan Adams at all?’
‘You are your father’s daughter, and he was too honourable a man to deny you what he chose to deny himself.’
He looked up, feeling Miss Chase’s eyes on him. She smiled at him and nodded. Susan’s hand suddenly flew up and covered her mouth with a little cry.
‘Oh! But we must not say, we must say nothing! I do not think they are good people!’ Her eyes filled with tears.
Miss Chase took her hand and held it between her own. ‘What is it, Susan? Why are they not good people?’
Susan turned her head from one to the other a little wildly.
‘The man, the yellow man, said it was a message from the Hall! That’s what he said: “a message from the Hall”. That must be this Hall, mustn’t it? If we say anything, they may send another man to kill Jonathan and me.’
III.5
M
RS WESTERMAN’S THOUGHTS, as they walked down the slope to Caveley, still ran on Wicksteed’s journal.
‘There must be a way I can get sight of his papers. There is business enough between the estates to justify me visiting the housekeeper, or Wicksteed himself. If I could get into his office and find a way to make him leave me there alone a little while . . .’
Crowther sighed. ‘Mrs Westerman, he may not keep his diary in his office, and if it contains anything that might be incriminating, it is probably locked away.’
She looked up at him angrily, then kicked an offending branch clear of the path in front of her with a soft leather boot.
‘I shall try, however. I will not slink away from this. I may find nothing, but I know we will learn nothing if we do not make the attempt.’ And when Crowther allowed himself a roll of his eyes: ‘Do you have any better plan, sir?’
He studied the earth in front of him. ‘No.’
‘Well then.’
There was a clap of a door slamming in front of them and they looked up to see Rachel hurrying across the grass towards them. They glanced at each other, saw their own worries reflected, and lengthened their stride to join her.
‘Mr Crowther, oh Harry! Thank goodness! It is Mr Cartwright!’
Harriet looked confused. ‘What do you mean, Rachel? We were there only half an hour ago.’
‘Michaels has just ridden up this minute. Cartwright has been taken very ill and the doctor is attending a sickbed in Pulborough. He has come to ask your help, Crowther.’
She was very pale. Crowther did not think to question or protest but, spotting where Michaels waited, mounted at the corner of the house with his own horse beside him, set off swiftly towards him. He climbed into the saddle with a vigour he would have thought impossible days before.
‘How bad?’
Michaels handed him the reins. ‘Bad.’
The big man dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and Crowther set off after him at a gallop, the hooves throwing dust and grass out behind them, their bodies held straight and low. He caught a glimpse of the women stranded on the grass behind him, pale and distant on the great lawn of Caveley.
 
Harriet turned to her sister and took her arm.
‘What do you know?’ she asked.
Rachel was flushed, her breathing still shallow.
‘Very little. Michaels arrived only a moment ago. Cartwright has violent pains. Michaels met his girl on the street, crying her eyes out because she could not find the doctor, and so he has taken charge of the situation.’

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