Theft of Life (2 page)
He had set out at a good pace, happy he would be back in Berkeley Square before the house was fully awake. Then he saw the crowd gathering close to St Paul’s Cathedral’s northern flank, inside the railings. He hesitated, but curiosity drove off the pain in his head; he crossed the roadway and clambered up on the stone wall, clinging onto the railings to look down at whatever the crowd was circling.
A constable was trying to shoo the people back, but what they saw excited them too much and they continued to move past and about him like water round a rock. It was an early-morning crowd all dressed in labouring clothes; the ragged who had been turfed out of their tuppenny beds at first light; the porters on their way to the riverside and markets; servants and housewives ready to lose sleep for the best bargains. London’s broad base in all its colours and conditions. Then, as the constable harried and begged them to move away, William caught his first sight of the body. A man, dressed only in his undershirt, face down in the dirt. A drunk? A lunatic? But the people seemed disturbed – shocked, not amused. William lifted himself a little higher and craned his neck. He saw the loops of rope. The skin on the body’s thin and naked calves looked a greyish-blue. William began to sweat under his linen shirt. A clergyman was kneeling by the man’s head, hiding it from William’s view. As he lifted his eyes and looked around the crowd, William saw desperate tears running down his pink, round face.
‘I cannot get it off!’ he cried out. ‘There’s a padlock! Is there a key?’
William saw the iron and leather bands around the body’s skull, and his heart began to thud, leap and pitch but he could not look away. A man in a soft-brimmed hat pushed to the front of the crowd and knelt by the priest. He swung his satchel off his shoulder and pulled out a chisel and hammer. William’s mouth was dry. The hammer came down and the echo of it was lost in the sudden clang of the bell of St Paul’s striking the half-hour. The priest pulled away the broken padlock and threw it aside, then, as the man with the tools stood back, he turned the body over gently, onto his knee.
The heavy metal mask which still hid the corpse’s face was a rough bit of work. It was a rude clamp, with a plate welded under the chin to hold the jaw closed. Almond-shaped eyeholes, a riveted pyramid open at the base for the nose, and a blank where a mouth should be so that whoever wore it could breathe and go about their work, but could neither eat, drink nor speak. William had never seen such a thing on the head of a white man. The priest lifted it carefully away and William saw the face underneath, the high cheekbones, long nose and sharp chin, a heavy white stubble. The skin was slightly purplish, bruised. So many years older, but it was him. Unmistakably him. It seemed to William as if he had come crashing and floundering down to the dust, though he still could not move. Suddenly he smelled the heat of the docks, tar and rope; the sweet scent of white orange blossom …
The priest looked around the crowd. ‘Does anyone know this man? His name?’
William managed to release his grip on the railings and, slowly and painfully, slid down to the roadway, then began to walk away while the priest was still calling for a name. He reached the relative privacy of Swan Yard before his stomach gave a final heave and he threw up, resting his forearm against the crumbling Tudor bricks among the chemical stink coming from the workshops and the sharp rot of old piss. He rested there a minute till the colours of London, the rattle of carriages and the fading clap of the bells returned him the five thousand miles and fifteen years from the harbour of Kingston, Jamaica. Then he began, a little more unsteadily now, his walk home to the London residence of the Earl of Sussex and his family in Berkeley Square where his employer, Mrs Harriet Westerman, was staying for some weeks; and where, even now, she would be stirring in her bed and ringing her bell for her maid and her coffee.
Cutter, the clerk of Hinckley’s Bookseller, Stationer & Printer in Ivy Lane, brought word of the body in on his first breath. He was delighted to have the chance to tell the news. Ivy Lane was close by St Paul’s, off Paternoster Row, so in the heart of the book-printing and bookselling district of the capital. He thought the others would all have heard about it by now, but it seemed they had stumbled from their lodgings to their place of employment at first light, before the body was found. The presses were already at work upstairs; the more hours of light in the day there were, the more pages could be printed. Cutter, however, who served, bowed and totted up the accounts in the shop, did not come in until the later hour of eight. The respectable clientele who bought their stock of novels, histories, prints, music and more novels never thought to attend before nine. He rattled through a description of the body and its discovery with great excitement.
The shop’s senior salesman and de facto manager, Mr Francis Glass, looked up sharply at the mention of the mask but made no comment.
‘Perhaps they’ll never know who he is,’ Cutter said cheerfully, looking about the shop for something to neaten or straighten or dust with the edge of his coat-sleeve. ‘I dare say they’ll have to keep his head in a jar of spirits. All the abandoned ladies of London can go and see if it’s their husband come back.’
Mr Francis Glass began writing in the account book again and spoke without looking up. ‘Was he white, this man in the churchyard?’
Cutter had found a mark visible only to himself on the edge of a bookshelf, seldom disturbed, holding a run of Histories of the Anglican Church. He scrubbed at it furiously. ‘What? Oh yes. He was white. Why do you ask?’
Mr Glass returned his pen to its stand and carefully blotted the page. ‘Because in that case it will not be long before he is identified, I am sure. All the West Indian slavers and traders know each other.’ Puzzled, Cutter frowned and opened his mouth. Francis closed the book. ‘What you describe is a punishment mask for slaves, Cutter. The dead man must have connections with the West Indian community in London, don’t you think?’ His voice was as calm as ever.
Cutter suddenly became aware that the conversation was moving into a dangerous area, but was not quite sure why. He was about to ask something further, but at that moment Francis looked up at him. Mr Glass had large eyes, very dark, and the smooth ebony glow of his skin made Cutter very conscious of the red veins becoming visible in his own cheeks as he reached middle age. ‘Oh, was it? Do they? No head in a jar then. Understood.’ He returned to his invisible mark with renewed concentration.
M
RS MARTIN WAS HOUSEKEEPER
to the family of the Earl of Sussex, a role which gave her both standing and satisfaction. She had grown used to the great ancestral hall in Hartswood, but since she was by birth, habit and choice a Londoner, she had an especial love of the family’s Town residence at 24, Berkeley Square and took pride in its smooth running. The senior servants of the other great families of England thought Mrs Martin very young for her responsibilities but, they admitted grudgingly, she acquitted herself well – particularly given the circumstances.
Jonathan Thornleigh, Earl of Sussex, nominal head of the family and inheritor of its vast wealth, was eleven; his elder sister, Lady Susan, was fourteen. The pair were orphans. They were not the first children of blood to find themselves parentless, but their situation was complicated by the fact that they had been raised in ignorance of their heritage, growing up above a music shop in Soho; furthermore, their murdered father had at his death entrusted the children to the care of a young writer and lover of music named Owen Graves.
The great families of England had been disturbed. Most of the dukes in the country could claim some sort of kinship with the Thornleigh family, and it was suggested to young Graves – a good fellow, but of no family at all – that it might be more fitting to bring up the children in one of their established, aristocratic households. Graves, uncertain of his capacity, also thought it might be for the best, but Jonathan and Susan would not leave him. So Mr Graves took on his shoulders the management of the young Earl’s great wealth, and to help him brought into the household an elderly, impoverished widow named Mrs Service, who had known the children since their birth. Graves also took on the care of the Honorable Eustache Thornleigh, half-uncle to the newly orphaned Jonathan and Susan, though a little younger than them both. Various dukes had offered the child a home also, but were secretly relieved when he refused them. Eustache reminded them too much of his horrendous parents and their disgrace.
Graves saw Thornleigh Hall rebuilt after a terrible fire, and bought the lease of a handsome building in Berkeley Square. He seemed to be discharging his responsibilities well enough and had since married himself and purchased with his wife’s dowry the little music shop where the Earl had been born. In the face of such ‘circumstances’, the housekeeper Mrs Martin managed very well indeed.
Mrs Martin had arrived in London three months ago, in the middle of February, and opened up the house in Berkeley Square. She set about airing the nursery rooms for Lord Sussex, Lady Susan and Master Eustache, hired two girls as undermaids, a kitchen boy and, after a lengthy correspondence with Mrs Service, an excellent cook.
The idea was that now Lady Susan was fourteen years old, it was time she acquired a little town polish. Graves wrote to the Duke of Devonshire for advice and he suggested that Susan attend as a day pupil one of the fashionable schools for young ladies in the capital; he recommended one based in Golden Square. His Grace also gave a hint that perhaps the young Earl should attend one of the better schools close to London. It was time the children got to know their peers and the world in which they operated.
Mr Graves took His Grace’s advice very seriously, and after talking it over with Mrs Service and Verity, his wife, the plan was made. They would spend at least two months in London. Jonathan and Eustache would take lessons in the morning to prepare them for the curriculum at Harrow or Eton. Susan would go to school and learn how to behave in a manner fitting to her rank. Graves would deal in person with the bankers, investors, creditors and lawyers who swarmed round Jonathan’s money, and Verity would accompany him, to make sure he didn’t mind it all too much.
The plan had gone terribly wrong. First of all, Graves’s wife had discovered she was in a delicate condition and began to feel the exhaustion that often troubles young mothers-to-be. Her physician advised her to remain in the country, but she insisted that Graves go up to London without her. Mrs Service would be mistress of the London house in her place and she would have peace in the country. Graves reluctantly agreed and the family came to town. Then, after only a fortnight had passed, their Sussex neighbour, Mrs Harriet Westerman, descended on them for a visit of unknown duration with her own two children, several servants and only half a day’s notice. Her sudden arrival shook up the whole household. She also seemed to be in a high temper. Her personal servants were discreet, but there were hints that Mrs Westerman had been arguing with her younger sister, Rachel. To crown it all, two days ago, Lady Susan had come home with a letter from the Headmistress of the Respectable Establishment. It covered a great many pages with complaints relating to Susan’s character and behaviour, and an assertion that unless she undertook to behave better in future she would no longer be welcome at the school. Mr Graves had spoken to the girl at length about the letter and Susan had refused absolutely to apologise for anything or return to Golden Square. Mrs Martin herself had heard the end of the interview, when the young lady had sworn that if Graves expected her to go back there, they would have to tie her up and deliver her like a parcel. The elegant furniture of Berkeley Square shuddered as she ran from her guardian’s office and slammed every intervening door between there and her own chamber at the top of the house.
Now, despite all of Mrs Martin’s best efforts on this Saturday morning, the general bad temper and confusion had made its way down into the servants’ hall. William, Mrs Westerman’s senior footman who had travelled with her, should have been helping to serve breakfast, but instead he was having a rather tense interview with Mrs Westerman’s maid, Dido, in one corner of the kitchen. He hadn’t been home last night, and he and the maid were sweethearts. Not so sweet this morning though. Mrs Martin would never have allowed similar relations between the servants under her authority, but these two served Mrs Westerman, so she could do nothing but hope they would not quarrel too loudly. The cook’s boy, in trying to eavesdrop, had left the sausages to burn, which led to a great deal of smoke and raised voices. Cook was trying to pack a hamper while asking everyone in earshot if they wanted kippers this morning upstairs and whether the children liked raisin-bread, and Mrs Westerman’s coachman was arguing with the groom about their mistress’s abilities as a judge of horseflesh. Into the middle of this turmoil Philip, senior footman at Berkeley Square and Mrs Martin’s right hand, came charging into the room, his face red and coffee spilled over the front of his waistcoat.
‘Philip, what on earth have you done?’ Mrs Martin felt her voice had come uncomfortably close to a wail.
‘Those damned children! Young Master Westerman always gets My Lord playing the goat,’ Philip said, pulling off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a wooden chair. Mrs Westerman’s coachman and groom turned slowly towards him and glowered. Any suggestion of an insult to young Stephen was an insult to them. Philip didn’t notice.
‘Simon, go and fetch a clean waistcoat from my room.’ He began to undo his buttons as the kitchen boy scampered out and up the backstairs, thudding all the way, and Mrs Martin took over the watch on the next batch of sausages. ‘Master Stephen teased My Lord into chasing him round the table while I was serving Mr Graves his coffee, then I swear Master Eustache just put out his foot to trip him as he came by. He goes falling into me and the pot goes flying.’ The groom and coachman turned back to their discussion. They felt no obligation to defend Master Eustache.
