Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘That’d be a real treat, ma’am.’ Michaels pushed out the chair and bowed.

‘Such nice manners! Gurt, go and fetch the flask and shut the door, then maybe Mr Michaels can tell us how he comes to be in Ulrichsberg.’

Frau Gruber thought her excitements for the day were over, and was glad of it, when there was a firm knock at the door and the tall thin figure of Mr Crowther appeared on the step. He reminded her of the priest in the village where she had grown up, with his formal German and the severe glint in his eye. She had hoped that she had got past the age where a man could make her feel nervous, but this one did. He was so unlike her old master, his belly busting out of his waistcoat and his laugh of brandy and tobacco.

He said he wanted to talk to her a little more, and was invited in. Not wishing to receive him as if she were mistress, but feeling the kitchen would be inappropriate, she ushered him into her master’s study and went to fetch a little of her own stock of sweet sherry. When she returned he had his cane under his arm and was flicking through one of the master’s books. He turned as she came in and went about arranging the liquor and glasses on the table, but remained with the books till she invited him to sit.

‘You are most kind, madam,’ he said, and she felt herself blush.

‘How may I be of assistance, sir?’ she said as she poured out the wine. Lord she was sounding like her old priest now. If her niece came in and heard her talking so fine she’d laugh her silly head off.

‘Will you tell me, madam, anything you can remember of the last day of Mr Fink? I am sorry to discomfort you in any way, but such was our amazement this morning, we did not make detailed enquiries.’

She sipped her wine a little gingerly. ‘Discomfort’, eh? Might just be his German but it sounded like he’d heard about the whores. Lord save me, she thought. In for a penny.

‘His Excellency had breakfast at home, as always was his custom. He then did some work here.’ She pointed at the desk and they both looked at it for a moment.

‘Did he receive any visitors at that time?’

‘No, sir.’ She nodded and was about to sip her sherry again when she saw her glass was near empty. Mr Crowther saw it too and made to pour her another. He really wasn’t so bad, after all. She noticed his glass was still full, though.

‘He went to the palace for a time, then came back about two and had his dinner here.’

Mr Crowther took a sip of his sherry and gave a look as if he approved of it. Man just needed some feeding up.

‘I have heard there were signs that he also had visitors in the evening.’

Some of the jollity left her. He did know about the whores. ‘He did love his wife, Mr Crowther. But men … I don’t think she minded, really, and he was always very sweet to her when she came home.’

‘I do not judge,’ he said.

She looked at him sideways, taking in the black clothes, the thin face and the still-brimming glass of sherry. Like hell you don’t, she thought.

‘I said good night to His Excellency as he went back to court, sir. And before you ask, there was no bandage on his wrist then. I’d have seen it as I helped him on with his overcoat. I go home at ten, and I always leave a little something out. Wine and nuts or the like.’ She felt her eyes fill with tears and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Then I came in at six the next morning, as ever, to make sure the girl had the fires going. Poor child, she’d gone in and found him there on the bed, half-dressed and blue round the lips. I sent her for the doctor, but it was too late. He was cold. There were two glasses and the decanter by the bed — and the nuts, of course. Poor fellow.’

He waited and she found herself carrying on talking, just as if he was a priest and a friendly one. ‘Once the doctor had been I cleaned him up and took away the glasses. That’s when I noticed the bandage on his left wrist. He liked his under-shirts long in the arm. That’s why you couldn’t see it at first.’

‘Were there any other signs of … activity?’

She shook her head. ‘No, sir, and that was the other odd thing. He never usually … entertained in that room. That was the bed he shared with his wife, you see. He never … with other women there. Out of respect.’

She reached for the handkerchief again. By the time she had recovered herself it seemed Mr Crowther was ready to depart. She thought of the little owl fob and wondered if she should mention it. She also wondered if she had made too much of a fool of herself already with her talk and the sherry, but at that moment Mr Crowther happened to smile at her, and thank her for her hospitality.

‘There is just one other little thing, sir,’ she said.

‘Oh, that’s nice of you! To take trouble after a cousin you’ve never met.’ Mrs Valentin had no family of her own other than Gurt, so she saw a large one as a blessing. Michaels knew there was no point in pretending he hadn’t travelled here with Mrs Westerman, Graves and Crowther. It was only his reasons he twisted a little to help his current ends.

‘Your mother’s niece? You think she was here?’

‘Last word I had. And that I got by accident. My mother was no writer, nor her sister neither, but her girl Beatrice must have picked up some schooling. She sent a letter to my mother and that got held by the barmaid in the inn we used to live at. She’s a sweet old duck. Known me since I was all scabs and bones. I always go and visit when I’m in London, and when I was up selling horses there last year, she put it into my hands. Didn’t know what to do with it, truth to tell. Not much of an address on it, but when I heard of Mr Clode’s troubles and that Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther were coming out, seemed like God giving me a push, you know.’

Mrs Valentin nodded sagely. ‘The ways of providence, Mr Michaels, the ways of providence …’

‘What’s she like, your Mrs Westerman?’ Gurt said, leaning forward. ‘I heard she shot a spy!’

‘Gurt …’ her mother said.

‘What, Mum? Peter said she had a look of a devil about her. He helped carry her luggage yesterday.’

Michaels looked at her. Her eyes were light blue, and some of her blonde hair had escaped from under her cap. She looked eager as a puppy. ‘Don’t think she shot a spy,’ he told her. ‘Helped catch some once, and shot another fellow up north. And if she did, I know she had good reason for it. She’s a good woman.’

‘And what of this Mr Crowther? He that cuts up dead bodies? Is he an alchemist too? I saw him going into Whistler’s place yesterday.’

‘Did you now?’ Michaels said, placing that snippet in his pocket like a windfall. ‘No, Mr Crowther don’t believe in magic. Whatever his business was there, wasn’t that.’

‘And this cousin of yours worked for old Whistler?’ Mrs Valentin asked politely.

‘Not sure as sure, ma’am. Just said she was working for a man used to be an apothecary. They told me at the palace about this place.’

‘There are two others, retired apothecaries still breathing in town. All made a fortune stirring up vats of powder and paint for the court. But I know them. Never had a girl in the house that could read. What age would she have, Mr Michaels?’

‘Born well after my mother left for England. No more than twenty-five now. I’d like to help her out if she can be found. I was still poor when my folks died. Be nice to do a bit of good if I can.’

‘And Mr Crowther? Does he cut up bodies with his sword-stick?’

‘No. Uses a special knife though. He brought it with him.’

Gurt shivered, delighted. ‘So I hear that maybe the lawyer didn’t do it. What do you say, Mr Michaels?’