Theft of Life (43 page)

William took him upstairs to visit Eustache. The boy was looking pale, but he grinned when he saw Francis arrive. The girl who had come to the shop with him that first morning was sitting by his bed, a book in her hand.

‘It makes me a bit sick to read, Mr Glass,’ Eustache said. ‘So Susan is reading to me. She’s the best at doing voices. Did you find the maid?’

‘Yes, and I think she might recover yet. Mr Scudder, the butcher, and Mr Christopher are guarding her as if she was one of their own. Sir Charles was shot, though he lives, but please ask me no more. My tongue is thick with the tale and I am sure Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther will explain the rest in the morning.’

‘But Mrs Trimnell, sir?’ Susan asked.

‘Constable Miller took her up and saw her secured in the watch-house.’

Eustache sighed. ‘You sound as if you were sorry for her.’

‘I cannot help but pity anyone who is hunted, Eustache. No matter what they have done.’

‘I do not pity Dr Fischer. I wish he would hang.’

Francis shook his head slightly, but said nothing.

Susan marked her place in the book and set it down. ‘Would you like to see our copy of the manuscript, Mr Glass?’ She looked down at the counterpane and spoke sadly. ‘Graves has explained to us that it cannot be published or used in evidence or anything, because there is nothing to say we did not make it up, but you know we didn’t.’

‘I would like to see it very much.’

She went into the next room to fetch it, and when she returned there were two other boys with her of about Eustache’s age. Francis guessed who they were, but it did not seem an occasion for formal introductions. Susan put the pages into his hands and he began to look through them while the children watched him. There was something unbearable about seeing the horrors recorded in the handwriting of children of their age.

The darker of the two boys said sadly, ‘And it was all a waste of time.’

‘You knew about Dauda and where he lived,’ Francis said mildly. ‘The help you sent was very gratefully received, I assure you.’

Trimnell’s confession was very thorough. Francis began to feel his mouth go dry as he read. The corruption of it, the hours worked and the punishments handed out.

‘And saving this is not wasted, children,’ he told them. ‘I do not care what the law says. I don’t think any person living could read this and not recognise it as the truth. You have saved it. If you do nothing good for the rest of your lives, you can always be proud of this, and you have my deepest gratitude.’

The boys looked both pleased and embarrassed. The girl actually leaned over Eustache and kissed Francis on the cheek before blushing and sitting back down again.

‘But how can they know it’s the truth if they don’t read it?’ the dark boy said. He had a definite look of Mrs Westerman about him. ‘Everyone should know. Then people can’t pretend any more.’

Francis found himself frowning. The thought of Mrs Westerman’s red hair had reminded him of something.

‘There might be a way. Would you trust me with this, my friends?’

It seemed they trusted him completely.

There was a knock at the door and Graves looked up to see Jonathan hesitating on the threshold. He pushed the papers away from him.

‘You should be in bed, Jonathan. But I suppose we can be a little lax this evening.’

His ward nodded then walked stiffly over to the settee and sat on its edge so his feet would touch the ground. Graves watched him, not knowing if he should be concerned or amused. ‘What can I do for you, Jon?’

‘My grandfather had slaves, didn’t he? You freed them and sold the estate.’

‘That’s right. In the winter of ’eighty-one.’

‘It’s not enough.’

Graves felt the old ache of it. ‘I could not arrange to farm the land with free labour, Jon, my dear. I tried …’

But the boy was shaking his head. ‘No, not that – I know that. I mean we kept the money, didn’t we? The money from the sale and all the profit made from the place for years and years and years. We kept that, didn’t we?’ Graves nodded. ‘Stephen was doing calculations with his mother about William – what he should have got and what was owed to him. Really owed to him from when Captain Westerman owned him.’

Graves ran a hand through his hair. ‘Jonathan, I’m not sure it would be possible to find those former slaves again. We did make provision for them when they were freed, I assure you, but to trace them …’

‘I know you did all that, Graves, and I’m glad. But we’ve been talking about it since Mr Glass left. Not Anne because she only cares about balloons, but the rest of us. We could work out the profit we got from the plantation while my grandfather was alive, couldn’t we? And the interest earned. And then we could give the money to people who hate slavery so they can print pamphlets and books and write petitions tell
everyone
. Mr Christopher could tell us what to do, whom to give it to.’

Graves considered. Certainly a national campaign against slavery would need funds from somewhere. ‘I’m sure he could. Jonathan, you do understand it is likely to be quite a large sum of money? Lord knows, you have enough – but I must know you understand what you are asking, and that this is truly what you want. And there will be questions asked: if you have been unduly influenced by myself. You might have to explain to any number of lawyers your reasons and beliefs.’

‘But it can be done?’

‘Certainly it can, if it is your wish.’

‘It is what I want done. I can tell any lawyer what I think.’

‘Then we shall speak of it again in the morning and I shall set some of your bankers to work.’

‘Thank you.’ The boy got to his feet and walked to the door, his hands still deep in his pockets.

‘Good night, Sussex,’ Graves said as he went. He did not realise what he was saying until it was spoken, and then he looked up at the boy a little amazed. Jonathan was smiling at him shyly.

‘Good night, Graves.’

The taproom at the White Rose was densely crowded. It took some time before Francis could find someone who would show him where Mr Clarkson’s room was. Eventually a sulking waiter in a torn apron showed him to the upper storey and a rather cramped room under the eaves. The immensely tall, red-headed young man was folded over his small desk writing. Around him, a dozen volumes lay open and there were a number of sheets of paper drifting round the bare floorboards.

‘Mr Clarkson?’

The redhead almost jumped out of his skin. He turned and for a moment Francis was afraid that he was not recognised. ‘Francis Glass, from Hinckley’s Bookshop,’ he said.

The redhead wiped his face with slightly shaking hands. ‘Of course, forgive me. I have hardly slept this week.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘I am so glad you have come. What I have learned even in these past days, every hour some fresh horror … Might you be willing to tell me of your experiences?’

Francis shook his head. ‘No, Mr Clarkson. I would rather tell my own story. But take this.’ He handed him the trade card of Christopher’s Academy. ‘Tobias Christopher has a story to tell you that you should hear before you leave London. And there are other Africans in London he knows who will be willing to talk to you, with his blessing. I will write to him and tell him you come at my suggestion and with my approval.’

‘Thank you,’ Clarkson said, staring at the card as if it were a winning ticket in the lottery. ‘Thank you indeed!’

‘That is not all I have for you.’ He put the portfolio into his hands and took a seat on the end of Mr Clarkson’s rather rickety bed. Clarkson looked at him, surprised. Then he sat back down at the table and began to read. After a few minutes he looked up. ‘Did a child write this?’

‘A man wrote it; four children copied it out to save it from the fire.’ He told him as briefly as he could, the story of Mrs Smith and the manuscript. Clarkson offered his condolences sincerely, but Francis noticed even as he did so that he continued to read the pages in front of him. His eyes were wide and he was already looking a little sick. Francis watched him read, feeling himself at a great distance from the shadowed room. At last Clarkson looked up.

‘
Can
such things indeed be true?’ There were tears in his eyes.

Francis stood, shrugged off his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat and then lifted it and his shirt over his head and set them down on the bed and waited. Clarkson was staring at the brand on his chest just below his collarbone.

‘They say,’ he swallowed. ‘They say the branding does not hurt and the Africans do the same to their own people with hot knives.’

‘It does hurt, Mr Clarkson. A great deal. And yes, there are villages where the headmen are scarred on the face. It is a sign of standing among our people. Not the same, I think you’ll agree.’

‘I do.’

Then Francis turned his back to the young man and heard Clarkson’s gasp. He stared deep into the shadows clustering in the corners of the modest room. He knew the picture of suffering his back showed, the scar tissue from a hundred beatings crossed into an ugly mass in the middle of his spine. The pale snaking twitching ghosts of pain and humiliation that he would carry with him always. He counted to fifty under his breath, trying not to rush the count, then picked up his clothing from the bed and covered himself again with his clean shirt, his pressed waistcoat, shrugged on his broadcloth coat with pewter buttons and smoothed down the wide sleeves before turning back. Clarkson’s face was drawn and paler than mist on the river. He did not speak for a while, but Francis saw his lips were moving and realised the man was praying.

Clarkson was in a pool of candlelight, the children’s manuscript held tightly in his hands, his eyes fixed on the floor.

‘Forgive us,’ he said at last. His voice a whisper.

‘Earn our forgiveness,’ Francis replied, and picked up his hat and cloak. Clarkson only nodded and Francis left him there, going down the stairs into the throng and the jostle of the coaching yard. Into the noise and stench of London, its comings and goings, its sharp laughter and clink of coins.

T
HE ADJOURNED CORONER’S INQUEST
into Mrs Smith’s death found she had been murdered by Mrs Lucinda Trimnell; the papers were passed to the quarterly sessions at the Old Bailey. George Smith arrived in London on the same day and buried his sister two days later. Her funeral was attended by a large crowd, and most of the book- and print-sellers in that part of town lowered their shutters early so that the owners, the authors, the printers, the artists and engravers, the apprentices, book-binders and ink-makers could follow her coffin. Francis walked behind George with Penny, pale but determined, leaning on his arm and Scudder, Walter and Miller just behind them.

Sir Charles Jennings disappeared from the house near Hornsey the same day. Rumours that he had killed his old overseer and had kept a young mulatto boy as a lover flew around the city and were repeated in whispers at every fashionable party for the rest of the season.

The coroner’s inquest into Sawbridge’s death was held late one evening in an out-of-the-way tavern in one of the smaller yards of the city. Mrs Trimnell was not called as a witness, since the fact that she was awaiting trial for murder herself rendered any evidence she gave as highly suspect. The servants at the Jamaica Coffee House had all developed holes in their memory, and Mr Crowther was not called to attend. In fact, the first he knew of the hearing was that it had taken place and found that Sawbridge had committed suicide. Crowther protested – and his protests were met with silence. In revenge, he wrote an additional chapter for his book about the possibility of corruption in the Coroner’s Courts. His book was well-received, and the evening he spent watching Harriet read it was one of the happiest he had spent in many years.

After negotiating very politely with Graves and Mrs Service, Susan agreed to go to a school that had been recommended by Mrs Smith. There was still an amount of what Susan thought of as nonsense to be learned, but the ladies were also taught geography, some mathematics and languages. When Susan learned the amount that had been written on music in German, she took to it with some enthusiasm. She also, at her request, received private lessons in composition with M. Pieltain, and took her compositions with her when she visited her musical friends in Soho and elsewhere. They were admired, and she took increasing pains with her work. Harriet and Graves decided on Westminster for Jonathan and Stephen. Eustache said he preferred to be educated at home, and Graves remarked that finding tutors clever enough for him would drain Jonathan’s fortune entirely. Eustache laughed. Harriet took the time to speak to him at length about his mother and all she knew about her. Mrs Graves’s pregnancy continued well, and Harriet wrote a firm but loving letter to her sister. Mr Babington’s sister did not call again.

George Smith stayed in London for some days after his sister’s funeral. There was business he had to do both with Eliza’s estate and his own. He made a careful tour of all the newspaper proprietors and gave them to understand that while he understood the need for some discretion, any man who wrote slightingly of his sister, of Mr Francis Glass, or of any members of, or friends of a certain family in Berkeley Square, would find the costs of their paper rise considerably. Mostly, however, he remained in London to be with his friend Francis, and they talked to their hearts’ content of Eliza, of their childhood and the house on Norfolk Street, and both took comfort in their conversation.

Shortly before George was due to return home, the two men came back to the shop from their dinner to find a print laid out in the middle of the counter. It showed a number of cartoonish Negroes dressed in satirical exaggerations of the current fashions. Francis looked out of his door in time to see the clerk from Humphrey’s gallery peering in from the street and grinning. George clenched his fists but Francis shook his head.

‘This is mine, George,’ he said, picked up the print and walked out of the door. Alarmed, the clerk scuttled back into his own workplace. Francis followed him inside and round the counter, then grabbed the man’s collar, almost lifting him off his feet. With his free hand he crumpled the print into a ball and forced it in between the man’s lips.