Theft of Life (27 page)

‘I am. And the surgeon called in by the jury confirms it.’ Francis paused in turn. ‘Dr Fischer, you knew Mrs Smith well, I think?’

‘Indeed. We were good friends, I hope. Good enough friends for me to know she thought very highly of you, Mr Glass.’

‘May I ask you then, sir, did she confide any trouble to you? I cannot think of anyone who might wish to do her harm and her apprentice, Joshua, is convinced we suspect Penny unjustly.’

Dr Fischer appeared to consider. ‘No, no. She said nothing to me, and as you said, she was a good woman. A very good woman. Joshua’s faith is touching, but …’ He lifted his palms and shrugged sadly.

There was little else left to say. They made their farewells with careful politeness on both sides and Francis left the man to his piles of papers. Having walked halfway down the street, however, he found himself growing irritated. He had much to do and worry over, yet Fischer had made no offer or effort to take any part of the burden from him. His church was due to receive a good sum of money, yet he shuffled the entire work of dealing with the estate over to Francis. He stopped in the street and thought. Then he turned back. He would simply, and with the greatest courtesy, tell Dr Fischer he had enough to do organising the sale of the stock, and ask him to undertake the necessary visit to her bankers. No doubt they would much prefer to deal with Fischer than with an African barely mentioned on the official documents. It would take but an hour of Fischer’s time.

Rehearsing his speech, Francis began to walk back along the road, but was surprised to see as he approached the house the Reverend himself leaving it, marching along the pavement with every appearance of great haste. Francis cursed him and himself. It was bad enough to force all the work on him, but then not even to stay at his desk afterwards! He followed the Reverend at a steady pace, meaning to catch him up and make his speech on the pavement if necessary. Dr Fischer was not going far, however. Before Francis had quite managed to close the distance between them, Fischer turned in off the street – straight into the Jamaica Coffee House. Francis stopped. There were not many places in London he disliked more, and a civilised conversation with Dr Fischer there would be impossible. The idea of an African trying to teach a white Reverend his business and responsibilities on those premises … He would be thrown out bodily at best and he did not wish to be humiliated.

The boy sweeping the street next to him was following the direction of his eyes and seemed happy to take the chance of conversation.

‘You don’t want to go in there, Pompey,’ he said with deep emphasis.

‘I know,’ Francis said, still so intent on watching the door, he hardly noticed the ‘Pompey’. He told himself he was a British man now. A man of responsibilities. If they assaulted him, he would prosecute. Though half the magistrates in the city were planters or bankers whose wealth had been born and swelled in the West Indies. He would be mocked.

‘Honestly, fella. Don’t do it!’ The sweeper sounded alarmed. Francis stared at him – an undernourished and grubby-looking boy just reaching his teens, he guessed.

‘Rest easy, I will not. Do you work here every day?’

‘I do. Anything goes on here, I see it. What do you want to know?’

‘Does Reverend Fischer go to that place often?’

The boy nodded happily. ‘Course he does! He worked the slave trade for
years
before he got religious and started writing his hymns, so he comes here to chat over the good old days with his pals. Surgeon on one of the boats, he was. Have you never noticed how his preaching is full of “on the night of the hurricane”, and “as the great seas swelled below me” …?’

Francis frowned. ‘I do not go to his church.’

‘You should! Good preaching, but not so heavy on the hellfire as the Methodists. And he gets the crowds in now. Yup, he’s an up and coming.’

The boy leaned on the handle of his broom while he spoke, a weary and wise observer of the world before he had even reached fourteen. Francis was feeling for a shilling to give to the lad when the Reverend Fischer re-emerged onto the street, in the company of another man. ‘Watch out, cock,’ the boy hissed. ‘Step back if you don’t want to be seen gawking.’

Francis found he did not and retreated into the shadow of a neighbouring building. ‘All clear,’ the boy said a minute or two later.

Francis handed him his shilling with his thanks and the boy looked very pleased with the exchange.

‘Who was he talking to?’ Francis asked.

‘Sir Charles Jennings. Lovely gentleman. Civil to everyone and a big tipper. If the world were full of men like him it’d be cake every day for us all.’ The boy scratched his nose.

‘Did you hear what was said?’

‘Do I look like a rabbit to you, with ears to hear that far off? Dr Fischer looked sad and Sir Charles put a hand on his arm, as if he were comforting him. Then they both went their ways.’

‘Sir Charles Jennings?’ Francis tasted something bitter in his mouth. The clerk from Humphrey’s had left a pamphlet by Sir Charles on his counter last year and Francis had picked it up before Cutter could throw it on the fire. The tone was one of sorry sympathy, of reason and forgiveness. It pointed out that though slavery could be abused, it was a far gentler state than that which the African enjoyed in his own country. Slavery was a mercy. He should not have read past the first line, but he had been unable to resist that soft reasonable tone. He read the recommendations on how to better care for the slaves on their journey between Africa and the West Indies. Regulation, moderation and Christian instruction for the captured savages. He had wondered what Sir Charles Jennings looked like. Now he knew. The man was as smooth and polished as his prose.

W
HEN HARRIET LEFT THE
Christophers’ house she told David to walk the horses in the Square for a while and found her own way to Canford’s grocery shop on Carlisle Street. The business of the day was in hand. The shopkeepers had set out their goods on trays in front of their windows and chalked up the prices. Maids scrubbed at the stone steps of the better houses, and the boot-menders had carried their tools and their chairs from the basements to work in the open air and enjoy what spring breezes managed to waft between the high houses. A boy no older than Jonathan was setting down a basket of spinning tops on the pavement and beginning to demonstrate the whipping of them to a little girl whose mother lingered too long at the fishmonger’s, and so her daughter was hooked.

Harriet crossed the road as coin and top were exchanged and approached the boy. She asked him if he had been selling here the previous Thursday. As she spoke, he began to whip up his top again: it was a strange-looking thing attached to a long string, and as he listened he jerked it upwards so it span on the palm of his hand. ‘You got little ones, my lady? Only fivepence to make them happy all afternoon.’

‘There was a young girl. A man stopped her on the street just there. The shopkeeper had to come out and speak to him. Did you see it?’ she said.

‘What, Miss Sally? The black lass with a pa who looks like he could pull your head off with two fingers?’ Harriet nodded. The boy span his top again. ‘Well, I
was
here, right enough, but my recollection gets a bit cloudy when I haven’t had any breakfast. How many little ones you got? Three for tenpence, then I won’t get cloudy with worry as for how I’m to eat.’

Harriet sighed. ‘You will get enough for your breakfast. Did you see anything?’

He pursed his lips. ‘There was a mangy old fella grabbing on her arm. And there might have been another bloke standing here and watching. Here, look at this.’ He whipped the cord again and sprang the top up so it landed on his shoulder.

Harriet fished for a shilling in her bag. ‘I’ll take four.’ The boy made a grab for the coin but she lifted it out of his reach.

‘Own hair, darkish coat,’ he said. ‘Came out the wine merchant’s two doors down.’

The shop was empty when she entered. It was a dark room which smelled deeply of coffee and spice. Harriet paused for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the gloom and pretended to admire the displays of various snuffs and tobaccos in small polished barrels, the selection of coffees and teas. There were a number of sets of scales on the counter and behind it a great variety of dull green bottles. It was obviously an establishment of some standing; every surface glowed with a sort of superior ease. The shopkeeper emerged and made her a deep bow. He was a short, broadish man of considerable personal dignity. A shilling would not be enough. Harriet decided to aim high and placed a half-sovereign on the shining counter. It made a satisfyingly heavy click.

‘Thursday morning. You had a customer. A gentleman in a darkish coat who wore his own hair. I should like very much to know his name.’

The shopkeeper hardly moved his mouth when he spoke. ‘We have many customers, naturally. But we prefer gentlemen to keep an account.’ Very smoothly, he pushed a large leather-bound volume towards her. ‘If you’ll excuse me, there is something I must attend to, briefly, to the rear of the building.’ He bowed again and turned away. The fat gold coin had somehow disappeared.

Harriet turned the pages back to Thursday. It was the first entry on the list.
Dr Drax. For delivery to Portman Square. One dozen Port Wine 1776 vintage
.

She nodded to herself and left the shop, the brass bell above the door ringing as it closed behind her like dignified applause.

Francis was in thoughtful mood when he returned to Hinckley’s, but the necessities of the day pushed Fischer and the Jamaica Coffee House from his mind. He scribbled down a few words then went upstairs to the lair of Mr Ferguson. A handbill needed printing for the sale, to take place at the Chapter Coffee House at 4 p.m. Viewing allowed at Mrs Smith’s establishment between noon and 3 p.m.

Ferguson made his recommendations; a mention of the religious prints available was added.

‘How many do you want?’ he asked, once he had made his neat pencil notes on Francis’s scrawl.

‘Say a hundred, that should be more than enough. I want Joshua to take them down Paternoster Row, then along to London Bridge.’ Ferguson nodded and set to work without complaint. Francis had reached the head of the stairs before he turned back.

‘What if we added a line, asking for information into her killing? Say, “Any persons who have knowledge of the unlawful killing of Mrs Smith or the whereabouts of her maid, Penny, should apply to Francis Glass at Hinckley’s Booksellers, Ivy Yard. All useful information rewarded”.’

‘I think we can fit that into the page. Particularly if we squeeze up a little on the sale details.’ Ferguson sniffed. ‘Add “good” – “killing of
good
Mrs Smith”, and after your name say “or his clerk Cutter”. That way, they’ll leave their names and thoughts if you’re out.’

‘Just as you say. Thank you, Mr Ferguson.’

When Harriet returned to Berkeley Square she found Crowther sitting upright on the sofa, wrapped in a long linen dressing gown and supported by a great many pillows. His jaw was much inflamed and his skin was pale. There were grazes on his forehead. Someone had provided him with paper and ink.

She sat in the armchair opposite him and took off her hat, a little careless with the arrangement of her hair, and told him the sum of her adventures that morning.

‘I think I shall pay a visit to Dr Drax this afternoon and ask who he told about what he saw,’ she said as she finished, and pulled at one of her red ringlets. She stood up again and tried to see what Crowther had been writing. ‘They are a violent group of men, I think. Mrs Trimnell had bruising on her wrists yesterday. I think someone has struck her.’

He moved the papers so she could not see them.

‘What are you thinking on, Crowther? You always write when you think.’

He sighed. ‘I have not had as much time to think as I would have liked. I had a visit from Mr Palmer while you were gone.’

‘I hope he apologised for putting you in harm’s way.’

Crowther smiled. ‘He did. He also offered me the services of an agent of his who has been listening in at the Jamaica Coffee House since Mr Trimnell’s death. Mr Molloy.’

Harriet turned back towards him. ‘Molloy? No! He is working for Palmer?’

‘Palmer has found him a very useful person since he first made his acquaintance through ourselves, it seems. From what Palmer said, I suspect Molloy is finding money-lending a little dull and enjoys spicing up his days with assisting our friend from the Admiralty. He is no doubt well rewarded for it.’

Harriet abandoned her attempt to read over his shoulder. ‘I would imagine his skill with a lock-pick might serve Mr Palmer’s purposes well from time to time.’

‘All for King and Country, I am certain,’ Crowther said mildly. ‘Though Molloy did apparently say he was afraid his skills in that area were in danger of becoming rusty.’

There was a knock at the door and William entered with a folded piece of paper in his gloved hand. ‘The address of Dr Drax, Mrs Westerman.’

‘Thank you, William. I shall leave you to your thinking, Crowther.’

‘Hat,’ he said, pointing and without looking up. She grabbed it up and swept out of the room, closing the door behind her. Crowther returned to his papers. ‘Why thank you, Mrs Westerman. I am feeling much improved,’ he murmured.

Francis was giving Joshua detailed instructions as to where the finished handbills should be delivered and glancing at his watch to see if he still had time to visit Mrs Smith’s bankers when Eustache interrupted them.

‘Mr Glass, are you going out again today?’

Eustache was so quiet in the back office among the manuscripts that Francis hardly remembered he was there. ‘I am sorry for it, Eustache, but I must. I hope you have not found the work too wearisome. Remember, you must ask Cutter if you are hungry or need any other thing, and I am sure he would be glad to talk to you when the shop is quiet.’

Eustache shook his head. ‘I am not bored at all, only I was wondering: I’ve just started reading a new manuscript, and I was hoping I might take it home with me if William comes to fetch me before I have finished it.’