Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

The guardians of the British Museum were still basking in the acquisition of Sir William’s remarkable collection of Greek pottery and very ready to show them to anyone who made an appointment. It seemed, from the nods Mr. Bywater received and the information he imparted, that he was a regular visitor there. He spoke in hushed tones with knowledge and affection of the shards in the display cases as their little group was encouraged from exhibit to exhibit.

Crowther could not see the appeal. The Greeks had been of use to the sciences, but he saw nothing remarkable about that which was in front of him other than its age. In the end, he thought, we all become old. Instead, he watched his companion. He seemed rather young, Crowther thought, to hold so high a position in the opera house, but he recalled that such a position often involved hackwork and wondered if Harwood had paid for his expensive performers by employing a cut-rate composer. His face was blandly handsome, and occasionally attractive when he spoke with animation. His manner was nervous, however, and his gaze flicked on and off Crowther’s face as if it was afraid of settling there. His eyes were darkly shadowed and their were ink stains around his cuffs.

“Do you tend to work at night, Mr. Bywater?” Crowther said.

“I do. Though it is foolish during the Season when there is so much work to be done in the day. I should not exhaust myself.” Bywater looked surprised. “How could you tell?”

“I am familiar with the signs.”

As the main group moved forward, Crowther lingered and took the chance offered by their relative seclusion to say, “Did you kill Fitzraven, Mr. Bywater? We have been told he was following you around the town and the annoyance may have provoked you to murder.”

It was said in the same light conversational tone they had been using for the last half hour and Crowther did not look up from the display case in front of him as he spoke. He glanced up as he finished however.

Bywater had gone white. He opened and closed his mouth once or twice, then went red.

“I most certainly. . Of course not-how could you think. .?”

“You’re quite sure? It would so enhance the reputations of Mrs. Westerman and myself if we could offer up a felon to Justice Pither with such expediency.”

Bywater stifled a gasp. “Of course I’m sure. Look, I am most sorry, of course, to do damage to your reputations, but I cannot help you. It is not by my hand that Mr. Fitzraven found himself in the Thames.”

“You did not know he was following you then?”

“No, I did not. Was he, indeed?”

Crowther had apparently become more interested in the pottery than his wandering gaze had hitherto suggested.

“Strange. He seemed to flaunt the knowledge he got rather than conceal it.”

“I have known Fitzraven three years. It was my experience that he liked to pretend he knew a great deal, but tended to say very little specifically-perhaps to Harwood, but not to the principals involved. Really, Mr. Crowther-why would I put Fitzraven in the river? This is not a reasonable suggestion, sir.” He attempted a laugh, not with any great success.

“Murder is seldom reasonable, I think. The motivations of men are mysterious. What is valuable to one, may mean nothing to another.”

“All that is valuable to me, is my art.” Bywater crossed to a display case on the other side of the room and tapped on the glass. Crowther joined him. In the adjacent room a group of three ladies was standing by a display case of burial ornaments. Two were only girls, perhaps a year or two older than Lady Susan. They stared around the ceilings with wide, vacant eyes, only looking at the case to admire their own reflections in it. The other lady, Crowther thought their governess perhaps, was keeping up a steady commentary on what was before them, though without, it seemed to Crowther, any genuine hope or expectation of capturing their interest. Education for the ladies and gentlemen of the growing empire. Crowther wondered if they would learn anything more than the appearance of sophisticated taste, but perhaps in this instance that was the aim of the lesson; those not able to achieve real learning would study how to give the impression of it, and grow the wealth of the nation by consuming what they were taught was good and never have to trouble with forming an opinion of their own.

Bywater wished him to look at another piece of pot. “Do you see what this says, Mr. Crowther?”

Crowther peered through the glass and examined the Greek lettering. “Androkidias made me.”

“Think of that, sir. To have created something that can last through the centuries in this way. A man made this, but through his art, through his talent and craft, he has become an immortal.”

Crowther smiled a little. “And luck, of course. Better pots, better painted, might have been crushed under the heels of careless Greek housewives.”

Bywater flushed. “No. Look at the beauty here. Art of this quality, art of great quality must survive and carry the name of its creator forward.”

“Do you mean the shape of the vessel or the designs drawn on it? One man might shape, another paint-and who of us can say whose name it is that we read here? It may be the man who owned the house where the craftsmen worked.”

The effect of this speech of Crowther’s was rather more extreme than he expected. He had spoken only to dampen the fire in Bywater’s upturned eyes, but somehow his words seemed to have extinguished it entirely. His shoulders drooped and he turned away as if to hide symptoms of distress. If Crowther had, with the force of a man twenty years his junior, struck the composer in his belly, he could not have produced a reaction anymore marked. He looked at the younger man with naked surprise. Noticing this, Bywater made an effort to straighten his back.

“I choose to believe this object was made by the man who put his name to it, and that because of this thing of beauty his name shall live,” he said a little hoarsely.

“You must believe what you wish, of course. I do not deny you that right.” Crowther worked his thumb over the silver head of his cane. “You expect immortality because of your duet?”

Bywater waved his hand as if troubled by a moth. “No, no. That is nothing. I am surprised by its success. I have written much better pieces, and will write greater works in the future. Though its popularity might be of use.”

“In what manner?”

“I need time to give voice to the music of which I know I am capable.” His words were suddenly passionate, coming out in an angry hiss. “That means I require commissions, patronage. If some rich music lover is seduced enough by the ‘Yellow Rose Duet’ to provide me with that, it will have served its purpose.” He seemed alarmed at his own vehemence and said, more lightly, “Perhaps, sir, you would like to have a Mass I have been in the process of composing the last three years dedicated to you. It wants only a little work before it is ready for performance.”

“I am no expert judge of music,” said Crowther, ignoring this last, “any more than of pottery, but I have been told by people who are that ‘C’e una rosa’ is a far greater piece of work than anything you have accomplished hitherto.”

Bywater clenched his fists. “Nonsense,” he ground out.

Crowther sighed, and wary of another request for his patronage, said, “Tell me, Mr. Bywater, how far have your investigations into the fate of Mr. Theophilius Leacroft progressed?”

Again the young man started. Crowther was almost sorry to rain down so many blows on his thin shoulders.

“Mademoiselle Marin told you? Of course, why should she not. She was seeking an old friend of her singing teacher in Paris at his request. But how could that be part of your investigation into the death of Fitzraven?” Crowther did not trouble himself to reply. “Very well. I have made no progress. I wrote a number of letters and visited some physicians who had rooms in the area of Mr. Leacroft’s last address.” Bywater halted suddenly. “Is Mademoiselle Marin displeased with me in some way? I did not think she attached great importance to this man. .”