Instruments of Darkness (47 page)

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Authors: Imogen Robertson

Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction

BOOK: Instruments of Darkness
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His spittle hit her face. He released the end of the crop, and her mind nothing more than white horror, Harriet turned and plunged back down the slope to Caveley.
VI.5
‘
S
HE WILL NOT speak to me!’
Crowther patted Rachel’s hand as it lay on his arm. ‘What happened?’
The young woman looked at him tearfully. ‘She came running in just as I came down to breakfast - crying, I think, and Harriet never cries. Then went straight up to her room. I’ve knocked and knocked, but she just asks to be left alone.’
Crowther frowned. ‘No more letters this morning?’
‘Nothing. But she did not seem overly concerned about them last night.’
Crowther shrugged, and rested his cane against one of the salon bookshelves.
‘Would you like me to go and speak to her, Miss Trench?’
She nodded, and opened the door for him with alacrity.
Crowther was concerned. If, a week ago, he had been told he would be outside a respectable woman’s bedroom door asking for admittance, he would have been too surprised and offended even to laugh. Yet here he was. And he thought he knew Mrs Westerman well enough now to know she would not do this without some reason more than the usual feminine hysterics. He knocked softly and called her name.
‘Mrs Westerman. It’s Crowther. May I speak with you? Your sister is concerned.’
There was a sigh and rustle in the room. A footstep came to the door from within and hesitated. He heard her voice:
‘Are you alone?’
‘I am.’
The door opened and Crowther saw Harriet, her eyes bruised with tears and her face very white.
‘Come in, Crowther. Something has happened.’
 
He let her relate the conversation with Wicksteed and without interruption, then sat a long moment before he rang the bell. The speed with which the summons was answered suggested Mrs Heathcote had been hovering outside for some time. He met her at the door.
‘Mrs Heathcote, I believe Mrs Westerman could do with her coffee and toast in her rooms.’ He made to move away, then paused and turned back. ‘And would you tell Miss Trench that her sister is quite well.’
Mrs Heathcote looked gratefully at him. ‘Of course. Thank you, sir.’
There was such genuine warmth in her tone Crowther smiled. He then returned to the armchair by the fire opposite Harriet and crossed his legs.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Mrs Westerman, and that is a shocking confession for our age. Any man of civilisation should know exactly what to say in any circumstances.’
This drew a reluctant laugh.
‘I have never thought of you as particularly civilised, Crowther.’ He smiled. Then saw the spasm of pain cross her face again. ‘Oh, God! Do you think I might have to leave Caveley?’
He was saved from answering by the arrival of Mrs Heathcote with Harriet’s breakfast. She had brought him a cup as well, and poured the coffee with ostentatious care. As soon as she pulled the door closed behind her though, he replied.
‘Perhaps.’
‘But what would I do? He told me I must leave my family here. I have been made an exile.’
‘It is not a happy role - that I know. Though it can be bearable.’ He spoke gently and she nodded slowly in reply. Crowther cleared his throat, and his voice became more robust. ‘His arms were unmarked, you say?’
‘Completely. Perhaps it was Hugh.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘No.’
He studied his fingernails then picked up his cup, and sat back in his chair.
‘Well, Mrs Westerman. Do not abandon hope as yet. We must try to find out something about the poison, and we do have one advantage over Wicksteed.’
She looked up at him quickly.
‘We have the children.’
 
Miss Chase knocked softly at the door and let herself into the room where Graves was resting. He was attended by John Hunter, who looked up fiercely when she entered, then, recognising her, relaxed his face into a smile.
‘How is the patient, Mr Hunter?’
The older man finished counting out Graves’s pulse before he replied, and laid the patient’s hand, with great gentleness, on the bedcover.
‘He is young. If there is no infection in the wound, and I see no sign of it, he will do well enough.’ Graves settled himself back on the pillows. He looked a little white, but otherwise much as Miss Chase had expected.
‘You don’t mean to bleed me then, sir?’
Hunter gave a bark of laughter. ‘God, no! Other fella bled you enough, I think. Barbaric practice, I believe. I only bleed ladies of fashion, who fancy themselves a little nervous and want an excuse to faint and look pale. It’s no part of medicine. Never seen it do anything but make a weak body weaker.’
Miss Chase smiled at him. ‘You’re a revolutionary, sir.’
He nodded. ‘I am proud to call myself a scientist, Miss Chase - like Gabriel Crowther. We learn with the eyes and ears and minds God gave us. Half the men who call themselves physicians in London learned all they know by reciting the Latin of the ancients, and grinding pretty powders. Never take notes. Never really observe the body at work, and so just get in the way.’ He seemed to shake himself. ‘There, you have got me on one of my hobby horses, Miss Chase, and I could ride it till dinner if I am not careful.’ He looked down at the injured man again. ‘I shall leave you to the society of this young lady, sir. But you must rest. And do not let the little boy jump all over you and disturb my dressing on your wound. I shall know if you have done so.’
He bowed and left the room, and Miss Chase took a seat by the bed. Graves lifted himself on his shoulder and turned to her. She could see the shape of his collarbone under his shirt, the pool of it at his neck. She smiled briefly and looked down at her hands, suddenly awkward.
‘Mr Hunter is very kind to us.’
Graves laughed. ‘I suspect we could not have had a better introduction than hauling in a couple of fresh corpses. Particularly ones he did not have to pay the resurrection men for.’
She smiled. ‘I tried to explain a little more. He shushed me and told me he had no interest in stories, and had work to do.’
‘I pity the colleagues for whom he has so little respect. I doubt he has any compunction about showing it.’
There was a moment of silence; it swam between them. Miss Chase did not look at him, but felt herself so aware of his presence it was almost painful.
‘Miss Chase . . .’
She did not remember his voice as being so low. She had always liked him, of course, but thought him a rather awkward young man. She had noticed that he admired her, and was pleased with the attention, but it had not occurred to her for a moment that she would ever develop stronger feelings for him. Then everything seemed to change, and he with it. She interrupted him.
‘I have sent to my parents. I hope to hear from them soon.’ Then she grinned and glanced up at him. ‘And I think you may have a little difficulty with one of your wards. I suspect Miss Susan Thornleigh has fallen violently in love with Daniel Clode.’
Graves laughed hard, then grimaced as the newly forming skin around his wound protested.
‘I think she could do a great deal worse. He’s a good man, and handsome too, damn his eyes. She has my whole-hearted permission to like him.’
Miss Chase blushed a little and smiled back at him.
‘You’re a terrible guardian. She is to be rich. Titled. Connected. You should have a Duke in mind for her at least, not the local solicitor.’
He rolled onto his back and contemplated the canopy of bed-hangings above him.
‘The rich all need lawyers. It could save the family a fortune in fees. Though the children have a grandfather still living, do they not?’
‘That is what Mr Clode said. And an uncle, though I got the feeling he did not like either of them.’
Graves felt suddenly tired. His wound itched and his eyes felt heavy and hot. He let them close briefly and it seemed to him that the presence of the woman in the room formed a glow behind his lids. Golden and right in the darkness.
‘He has gone to help clear out the vipers from Thornleigh Hall, remember. We must trust him and our new friends, this Gabriel Crowther and Mrs Westerman, to make the place fit for the children.’
VI.6
T
HE LITTLE MOLE-LIKE face peered up at them with snuffling animation.
‘Mr Crowther, Mrs Westerman! What a joy! A pleasure! Is there something else in my father’s papers you wish to examine?’ Sir Stephen opened his arms and gathered them into his hallway. Harriet smiled at him and offered her hand.
‘Quite right, sir. And we are sorry to trouble you again.’
‘Lord, no trouble at all, Mrs Westerman. I have not been so sociable for years. It is all quite heady.’
He trotted them straight to his father’s former office and followed them in. Crowther looked briefly around him, then turned back to his host.
‘I also have some professional advice to glean from you, sir.’ The little man nodded hard enough to send his wig scrambling over one ear. ‘I need to find who the better apothecaries are in the area. It is not convenient to continually send to London for my chemical preparations. What gentlemen are skilled with poisons in the area?’
Sir Stephen’s face shone. ‘Oh, there is not a great deal of choice, Mr Crowther, but I think you should be satisfied with Augustus Gladwell here in Pulborough. He is the apothecary the whole area turns to. His establishment is only a step from here, and though the bulk of his work is household poisons and cures, I think you’ll find he is suited to more complex formulations too, if . . .’ he bent forward and dropped his voice to a confidential level ‘. . . if he is properly instructed. I think he sighs a little when he sees me arrive in his shop, for occasionally I like to experiment with the effects of different additions and proportions in my killing gases and preservatives. But his curiosity becomes engaged and we often have quite a little adventure in getting just the sort of mix we need. He collects curiosities himself, so he should revel in your acquaintance.’
He cocked his head and blinked hard. The movement caught the wig unawares, with the result that for one of the first times since Crowther and Harriet had met Sir Stephen, it now sat almost exactly where it should.
 
Sir Stephen saw them provided with refreshment and left them to their studies. It was not long before Crowther found Harriet calling him to her side.
‘You were right. Old Sir Stephen did not let anything escape his diaries. Here is what he said about Lady Thornleigh’s death: “I spoke to My Lord, who freely admits he was with his wife when she fell, then looks me in the eye as if curious to see if I dare ask him anything further. Nothing easier than a fall. We all trip from time to time. I saw My Lady laid out, and believe she appeared now to be peaceful, though perhaps that is just my mind trying to quiet itself, particularly given the unquiet moments I have had waiting for her to accuse her husband of the murder of that young girl a few years ago. The body was largely unmarked, though there was some bruising at the wrist as if she had been held. I asked the Earl, who looked a little distressed and said he had tried to grab her wrist and hold her as she fell, but in vain. Whoever made those marks looked like they had a firm enough grip, but whether he tried to save her, or threw her down himself I cannot tell. The servant, Shapin, who saw the fall, had little of use to say - not that his testimony would have ever been taken against his master’s. And of course, Thornleigh was there in the room as we spoke. Shapin thinks she was alive still when he got to her. ‘I saw the light go out of her eyes, sir,’ he said to me. The Earl did not agree. ‘When your neck is broken, the lights go out at once, Shapin.’ The latter looked meek enough and said he supposed he could be mistaken. My Lord intends to spend most of his time in London when his wife is buried. I am glad of it. I hope his sons turn out to be better men than their father. They have at least half their mother’s blood”.’
Crowther smiled. ‘Do you see it, Mrs Westerman?’
She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I think . . .’
He brought his stick down on the heavily carpeted floor with a sudden thump. A little miasma of dust lifted and fell over his polished shoes.
‘We
know
. Tell me!’
She looked up at him with sudden intelligence, saw the colour in his cheeks, the chink of ice in his eyes.
‘Lord Thornleigh killed Sarah Randle, kept the locket with his own hair in it as a souvenir. His wife found it, challenged him, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble and Shapin saw, saw perhaps more than he knew at the time.’
‘So he was removed from his friends, framed for a theft and transported to America.’
‘Where eventually he met Hugh . . .’ Harriet said.
‘. . . and Wicksteed. I think that is the man for whose sake Captain Thornleigh is punishing himself. He must have killed Shapin. Wicksteed knew it - and knew why.’

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