Theft of Life (10 page)

Drax pulled out a chair and made himself comfortable while Palmer folded his paper and set it down. The monkey clambered down from Drax’s shoulder then placed one paw on his sleeve. Drax looked at the little creature and raised an eyebrow.

‘Now, Cleopatra?’ The monkey bobbed its head and Drax pulled out an enamelled snuffbox from his waistcoat, opened it and held it out. The monkey reached forward and took a pinch from the box, then waited until Drax had snapped the box shut again. At this signal the little creature put the pinch to its nostril and inhaled, sneezed and stretched itself upwards, pirouetting on its back legs. The chain on its collar clinked. It then sprang up Drax’s arm again and buried its head in the man’s neck.

‘Would
you
care for any refreshment, Dr Drax?’ Palmer asked.

‘My thanks, but no, Mr Palmer. This is an out-of-the-way place, isn’t it? How many dark corners there are in London.’ Mr Palmer felt no need to answer so waited. Drax smiled swiftly.

‘You have heard, I think, of this murder this morning at St Paul’s?’ he said, tapping on the short squashed paragraph in the evening paper. Palmer only nodded. ‘I understand you are acquainted with Lord Keswick – that is, the man who calls himself Gabriel Crowther – and with the Widow Westerman.’

‘Captain Westerman was much admired in the service, Dr Drax. And is still greatly missed.’

Drax seemed to be trying to read his face. Mr Palmer silently wished him luck.

‘That is, some friends out of Germany hinted perhaps … and that business at the opera house some years ago. There was some suggestion you might …’ Drax’s eyes were almost hazel and the half-smile on his lips did not reach them. Without looking round, he put his hand up to stroke the monkey. She gripped his fingers and rubbed her cheek against them. Palmer watched for a moment before replying.

‘I am still acquainted with Mrs Westerman, and I have met Mr Crowther on occasion. He has spoken twice at the Royal Society this year and is not, I think, the recluse he once was. Does the Lord Mayor perhaps wish for their assistance? Or the Aldermen? Is that why you mention the killing?’

‘I was there when Mrs Westerman and the coroner brought the news to the widow. Poor Mrs Trimnell. Deeply upsetting. Mr Crowther has already taken it upon himself to examine the body on the coroner’s behalf.’

Palmer held the coffee pot in the air and as the girl came to collect it, said, ‘Indeed. I understand Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman were able to give Bartholomew the first hint as to poor Mr Trimnell’s identity. Useful, since so many of his acquaintance were watching the balloon-raising. Was it edifying?’

Palmer’s life was that of a gambling man, though he never sat at a table. He guessed that his information was better than Drax’s or that of Sir Charles Jennings, and felt it was worth demonstrating it in this small way. If a man is about to ask you a favour, show him your strength.

‘It was inspiring,’ Drax replied, ‘but what is the good of all this wondrous progress, this innovation and our investment in human ingenuity, if we are not safe from the savages on the street. I have, as I am sure you know, appealed to the Government on numerous occasions to stem the tide of Negroes sweeping into this country. Mr Trimnell’s death was an unavoidable result of our concerns being ignored.’

Mr Palmer appeared interested. ‘Was it? You have proof of that?’

‘I am certain proof will be forthcoming.’

‘So, a strong suspicion only.’ Drax shrugged and spread his hands. Palmer continued. ‘Many of the Africans recently arrived here fought with our troops in America and were promised their freedom. Would you have had us desert them?’

Drax looked amused. The monkey chattered and bobbed its head. ‘Yes, and returned to their masters. It would have been better for us, better for our relations with this new “United States”, better for Mr Trimnell possibly and certainly better for the Negroes. We brought them here to idle, thieve and starve on the London streets. I fear that many do not understand the Negro nature as we who have lived with them do. They are savage, brutish, and given their freedom have no notion of how to live in a civilised world. Slavery is their salvation. Free them, and their minds turn easily to mischief and revenge. Undoubtedly this is the case in this instance. We did try and warn you.’ He sighed.

Palmer spoke slowly. ‘Then you must be eager to see Trimnell’s killer bought to justice. Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther have had some success – you must welcome their help.’

‘Indeed. Whoever made this foul mockery of a man in the Bishop of London’s own churchyard must be brought to justice, but I have … concerns. Suppose those who would destroy our trade with Africa out of some mistaken sense of fellow feeling with the slaves, suppose they were to suggest there was some justification for the killing … Oh, my dear! The argument could become violent on both sides. And while I would not call Mrs Westerman foolish as such, women
are
sensitive, and prone to be swayed by passionate appeals from those who like to pretend their misfortunes are the fault of others. Did you know Mrs Westerman has a black servant who, I hear, helps her with her accounts? Whom she left in charge of her estate, and her white tenants, when she went dashing off to Maulberg last year? I understand she is a widow and so whatever help is available must be welcome – but still! There are rumours she is likely to let her black marry one of her other servants. Are there not enough tawny brats clogging up the poorhouses already? Keswick’s father owned shares in some of our enterprises, but he sold them out and then, of course, Mrs Westerman is currently residing in Berkeley Square with
Mr Graves
.’ He spread out his arms, inviting sympathy, and the monkey ran down one of them again and crouched on the table, staring hard at Mr Palmer, while Drax tutted more in sorrow than in anger. ‘The people of this country do not understand the trade, Mr Palmer. We are accused of being monsters by people who have never left this island and step over their starving countrymen on their own doorsteps to wave their fingers at us. There are some ugly necessities, of course, but the Africans we take from that dark place are saved from the savagery of their own people. Mr Palmer, I have seen with my own eyes black traders slit the throats of men who have been rejected as unfit for sale off the coast of Guinea. Many captains risk their profits to buy such slaves out of mercy, and yes, then some die on the journey.’

‘It is strange the Africans are not more grateful for their deliverance,’ Palmer said innocently. ‘Many go to great lengths to destroy themselves, rather than be saved by you, I am told. Must not the ships be fitted with netting to stop them throwing themselves to the sharks?’

‘You make my case for me. Some people must be protected even from themselves. They are children. Now, all right-thinking subjects of His Majesty are, naturally, quite grateful to Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman for their energy, but they do not understand the city, the trade or the Negro race. Many of us would be glad if they might be informed, tactfully, by a friend such as yourself that they need trouble themselves no more in this particular matter. The city has its own resources.’

‘Your confidence is most reassuring,’ Palmer said.

Drax was waiting, hoping perhaps for an assurance that the message would be passed along. None came. He studied the air above Mr Palmer’s head as the low chatter in the coffee house continued. Notes exchanged, plans made, futures plotted and pasts picked over.

‘The city, Mr Palmer, our great city. It seems so robust, so vigorous, but it is in truth a delicate place. The right conditions must exist for it to flourish, like a bloom in a hot house. The air itself must be managed.’ He lifted his hand as if to stimulate the breezes where they languished. ‘There is no doubt Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman have righted wrongs. I admire their industry, but … now what is the naval phrase? I have it. The city would not have loose cannon on its streets.’

Mr Palmer remained silent. It was not an entirely unreasonable argument. Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther did have a talent for stirring things up, but he did not like the argument, or Drax. He continued to listen while thinking on other rumours, other currents he had felt moving in the city waters.

‘They might damage that delicate balance of which I speak. You would not have children throwing stones near a glasshouse? Whatever their intention, if some pane were broken, some new current allowed within, all our prize blooms might begin to sicken. Think of the waste, the expense.’ He smiled again. ‘A word from a good friend, Mr Palmer. I think you understand me.’

He waited, his head on one side until Palmer smiled back. ‘I do.’

‘Excellent.’ Drax got to his feet and the monkey leaped lightly into the crook of his arm and up onto his shoulder.

‘Dr Drax, did you like Trimnell?’

A slight hesitation. ‘We were not well acquainted, even during my time on Jamaica.’

Palmer finally stood and bowed to him, then remained on his feet until Drax had left the room. Then he took his seat once more and picked up the newspaper article again. Without moving, he said softly, ‘Did you hear that, Mr Molloy?’

There was a grumble in the shadows behind him. ‘Not deaf yet, son. I’ve got sharper hearing than you, I’d reckon.’

‘What do you think of it?’

The shadows seemed to shrug and a curl of pipe smoke lifted from them and into the light. ‘I think that fellow is a slimy bugger, and I’d count my fingers after I shook hands with him for one thing.’

Palmer smiled. ‘As would I. Mrs Westerman
is
staying in Berkeley Square, I take it?’

‘She is. The Coroner’s Court are meeting in the back parlour of the Black Swan off Little Carter Lane, Monday morning. And Mr Crowther will be giving his evidence around ten, should you happen to find yourself in the area.’

‘Did you discover anything else?’

‘There’s a big fella owns a riding and fencing school in Soho Square, name of Christopher. It’s said he helps slaves who come to England and get it into their heads they should be paid for their work.’ There was a long pause and the curl of tobacco smoke curled ghostly upwards through the gloom. Palmer knew to wait. There was a sigh and a creak as the shadow stretched its legs out under the table and yawned. ‘Talked to a couple of boys. One says, “You want to know about Trimnell, ask Christopher.” Other fellow then cuffs him over the back of the head. I took that as a confirmation, you might say, that the information was good.’

Palmer stared blindly at the table in front of him. The relationship between the merchants of London and the Royal Navy was of vital importance. The Merchant Navy trained and employed the sailors the Navy needed in time of war, and the revenue the Government managed to chivvy out of them fitted out the Navy’s ships with guns and powder. In return, the Navy protected trade. Businessmen, bankers, admirals and politicians in easy concord. It was, in general, a situation that Palmer applauded and he exerted his considerable influence to keep these relationships easy and friendly, but the slave trade – the trade which gathered such great armfuls of revenue into the country, which paid its servants and filled its ships with tobacco, rum and sugar – made Mr Palmer uneasy.

Those captains and sailors who spent years buying slaves on the African coast then shipping them to Barbados or Jamaica had, in his experience, something broken about them. It was as if some cord between them and their fellow men had been severed. The gossip he heard in the dockyards unsettled him. Any captain might order a whipping; it was part of the code of discipline, but the punishments some of these slave-ship captains handed out to their sailors were of such severity, they suggested the actions of madmen. Ordinary seamen deserted before they were paid rather than risk being pressed into service in their crews again. Suicide was not uncommon and the general rates of mortality among the sailors were appalling. He had read accounts of the trade and had found them disturbing, even when they were written to reassure the reading populace that the trade was of benefit to all men, savages included.

There were more of these accounts appearing every year. A strange, narrow-faced man from a family of musicians – a self-taught master of the law named Granville Sharp – had taken up the Negro cause twenty years ago. He had been dismissed at first, but slowly and surely his prosecutions of slave-owners, his writs of
habeus corpus
and petitions had attracted notice. The man subsisted happily on the charity of his family and no one could find any subtle way of making him stop. Poems were being written against the trade. The Quakers published against it, then last year the Reverend James Ramsay’s book had been widely read. It did not condemn slavery absolutely, but it shone a light on the practices that had shocked many. His character had been attacked with such ferocity by the planters and their friends, that Mr Palmer had begun to think there must be a great deal of truth in what he had written.

Indeed, Mr Palmer thought it possible the public mood might change, and it would be wise of the Government to reconsider its closeness to the West Indians. But then they had such a great deal of money and, one way or another, had paid for half the Members of Parliament currently in the Chamber.

‘Do you know the Jamaica Coffee House, Mr Molloy?’ Mr Palmer said at last.

‘Well enough to spend the rest of my evening hours of leisure in that part of town. You’ll be at your lodgings tonight?’

‘Sleeping the sleep of the pious and righteous, as always.’

The shadows gave a low sound that might have been a laugh. Mr Palmer took a small purse from his pocket and passed it over his shoulder into the shadows. There was a soft chink of coin and a low grunt which Palmer chose to interpret as satisfaction. He stood and dusted off his hat. ‘Always a pleasure, Molloy.’

‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ the shadows rasped and Mr Palmer went to pay his bill.

I
T WAS LATE IN
the evening when Crowther was shown into the Library at Berkeley Square. He found Mrs Westerman writing at the large desk under the north window. She put her pen aside.