Imogen Robertson: Circle of Shadows

Her household still recognised Crowther as part of the larger family of Caveley, however. It was never questioned that on seeing Harriet in distress, they would send for Mr Crowther at once. Their faith was justified. Whatever Crowther’s involvement with his work, or reluctance to stir from his house, he was in the Long Salon at Caveley within half an hour of the messenger stirring the gravel on the driveway. He had been afraid on seeing her servant’s pale face, and ridden at a pace that would have impressed even in a far younger man, but as he rode he did not speculate, only concentrated on the speed he could draw from his horse. Mrs Heathcote had the door open for him before he had dismounted. He handed her his hat, and following her nod, walked into the Long Salon unannounced. Harriet was seated on the settee, her back straight. She was not ill, it seemed. He felt his relief, took the letter she held out towards him and retreated to one of the armchairs. It was only then he became aware that his heart was thudding at a startling rate and a blossom of pain opened out through his shoulder. He put his fingertips to his forehead and tried to read.

At first he could hardly make it out, an hysterical outpouring of fear, an assertion of Daniel’s innocence, a sudden conviction that the terrible misunderstanding would be speedily cleared up. He would have struggled to make any sense of it at all, but there was another, longer letter attached from a Colonel Padfield. The Colonel appeared to be an Englishman, employed in Maulberg and resident there some two years. This letter was a great deal clearer, but in its way more worrying. It gave a short account of the facts of the case against Clode, the seriousness of the situation and a simple statement that Mr and Mrs Clode were in need of support from their friends in England. Crowther only had time to read it twice, carefully, before Mr and Mrs Graves arrived from Thornleigh Hall and he put it into their hands. Mrs Heathcote served coffee, and he noticed that her eyes were red. Stephen could be heard in the hallway demanding information, and his tutor sharply insisting he return to his lessons. At last Verity Graves spoke.

‘You will go, Owen, at once, of course.’

Graves nodded. ‘Thank you, my dear. Though I hate to leave you with so much business to conduct.’

‘Mrs Service already has the Hall running like clockwork,’ his wife answered briskly. ‘I shall ask my father and mother to make a long visit while you are away. You trust Papa to advise me?’

‘No one better than Mr Chase.’

‘His poor parents!’ Verity turned to her hostess. ‘Harriet, would you like me to carry this news to Pulborough?’

Harriet started. ‘Oh, yes! His father and mother … I had forgotten. Thank you, Verity.’

‘I shall tell them Graves leaves at once, and …?’

‘I shall come with you, Graves,’ Harriet said, then looked at Crowther. ‘Gabriel?’ He only nodded. ‘Thank you.’ He watched her as she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, staring at the carpet, her eyes slightly wide. He wished they were alone, then he could tell her to stop trying to think of everything at once. He did not find the company of Mr and Mrs Graves overly trying, which in the general scheme of humanity made them part of a particular and privileged group, but he could not speak to Harriet as frankly as he would wish in front of them. ‘Should I go and see them too?’ Harriet said. ‘Clode’s parents?’

Verity put out her hand and took Harriet’s. ‘I shall take the news to them. They will be relieved and grateful you are all going to his aid and will not want you to waste time calling on them. Leave this to me, Harriet.’ Crowther thought, not for the first time, that Graves had chosen very well.

The company parted and returned to their households to share the news, or what parts of it they felt they must, and make their preparations for an uncertain journey. Crowther’s housekeeper received her instructions calmly and began her work. He retreated to his study, a generously-sized space which had served as the dining room of the house when it had more sociable occupants, and wondered what he could save from the work he was now forced to abandon. There was no time to take the steps necessary to preserve the samples he had been studying, and it would be difficult to replace them. Still, it could not be helped. Mrs Westerman had asked him to go, and go he would.

He unwound the soft leather roll that held his knives to check all was in place, then opened the walnut case that held his bone saw, forceps, tweezers and hammers. The instruments were German-made, commissioned and bought while he was a student in Wittenberg some thirty years before. It had been the first place he had fled to after the execution of his elder brother. He had abandoned his title, sold his estate, and under the name of Gabriel Crowther had turned his interest in anatomy into his occupation; his knowledge into expertise. He fitted the magnifying glass into its velvet bed. It was ridiculous to carry them. The body of this Lady Martesen was buried already, and by the time he and his companions could reach Maulberg the flesh would have putrefied, but he intended to take them with him anyway. They were, like his cane, his signifiers. His markers and talismans. In all likelihood he was leaving his home for no good reason at all, but it never occurred to him not to go. If Mrs Westerman was riding off into any sort of danger he would always follow while he had the strength.

It dawned on him, slowly, that while he had been packing away his effects the street door had opened and closed a number of times. Indeed, it sounded as if the door had just closed again now. He looked into the hall.

‘Hannah?’

His housekeeper turned towards him. She had a large wicker basket over her arm.

‘The news has spread, sir. Just about every soul in the village has come to the door with something to ease the journey. Wool blankets from the drapers … enough dried meats to feed you all half a year.’ Crowther frowned and Hannah smiled at him. ‘Mr and Mrs Clode are well liked, sir, and it is more convenient to leave things in this house rather than take them to Caveley or Thornleigh Hall.’

‘They do have food on the continent.’

‘Not any that our butcher thinks healthy for an Englishman.’

‘Of course.’ He was about to turn back into his study when he hesitated. ‘I do not know how long I shall be gone, Hannah.’

She nodded. ‘Of course, sir. But do not concern yourself. We shall manage quite well.’

‘If you find yourself in any need, you may apply to Thornleigh Hall.’

‘I know, Mr Crowther. Your friends there will take good care of us for your sake.’

He said no more, but withdrew to his study and his papers.

16 March 1784, Caveley

Crowther’s luggage and the offerings of the village were carried to Caveley just after dawn. He followed them some hours later. The front of Mrs Westerman’s house was all activity. The party were to travel in two coaches. One for Graves, Crowther and Mrs Westerman, the other for their luggage and Mrs Westerman’s maid, Dido. It seemed to Crowther that as they were travelling without the usual large entourage of servants, they could have managed with only one coach. He said as much to Graves, who was observing the activity with an expression of wonder.

‘Michaels insists, Mr Crowther,’ Graves said. Crowther only now noticed the landlord of the Bear and Crown, who was directing the placing of the baggage and checking that the leather straps around the band-boxes were properly tightened. ‘He says it’s better to travel with two lightly packed, otherwise we shall spend a month up to our axles in mud, this time of year.’