Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

“Should I apologize to Graves and Mrs. Service?”

Crowther took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. “Personally, I never compound an offense with apologies,” he said. Harriet laughed suddenly and glanced across at him. Some of the gravity had left his expression. She felt a weight shift from her shoulders and let her breath out slowly before speaking.

“Very well. Did Rachel tell you she and I had disagreed?”

“Not as such, but she sought me out to ask my advice about the love affairs of Mr. Graves and Verity Chase. I cannot imagine she would have done so unless you had already proved an unwilling audience.”

“We managed to be at each other’s throats before she had much chance to tell me a great deal. What was the matter of it?”

“Miss Chase wishes to plan her wedding to Graves, but knows he hates the fact that the food he eats-that we all eat-is paid for by the estate of the Earl of Sussex. He cannot make his own fortune while he is managing another, and is too proud to add a wife and family to the charge he makes on Lord Sussex’s fortunes. Miss Chase wants him to use her marriage portion to buy the music shop from the estate of the Earl of Sussex, and so provide them with an independent income. However, she fears he no longer wishes to marry her. Perhaps she is dazzled senseless by the enormous quantity of gilt in this house. I think Rachel assured her that he does, but wished to know if I thought it likely Graves would approve of the plan for the shop, or whether his pride would prevent him acquiescing.”

Harriet found herself amused by the idea of Crowther receiving this information from her sister and wondered what his expression had been as he had listened. “And your reply?”

“I said that in matters of the heart my concerns are more practical than metaphysical. If she wished to bring me Mr. Graves’s heart in a jar I could tell her if it were healthy or no, but further than that I had no idea and advised her to talk to Mrs. Service.”

Harriet sighed. “Poor Rachel. We have not been of great assistance. I wonder why she did not go to Mrs. Service at once, having instructed me on my proper behavior.”

Crowther put his fingers together and said lightly, “I imagine because she knew you and I would be having this conversation at some point during the evening and wished you to be informed of the plan for the music shop. Your sister is young, and a little overcautious of your reputation perhaps, but she is no fool, Mrs. Westerman. And my remark about Mr. Graves’s heart made her smile.”

“I am hasty with her.”

He did not reply but let the silence unfold between them till Harriet said: “I fear I learned very little from Lord Carmichael other than I do not like him, and his stepson is wholly in his power. He had nothing to say of Fitzraven that did not confirm what we knew of him previously. Tell me of your meeting with Bywater.”

Crowther put his hand to his chin. “That gentleman is certainly guilty of something.”

“Of love?”

“As we have already said, I am no expert in such areas, but of something more, I believe. However, I do not think him a likely spy for the French. He claims he had no idea that Fitzraven was following him. My impression is he wishes public renown rather than private riches. That would make it unlikely for him to trade secrets for money, though he might for influence, but really, what could a composer with limited connections know that would be of interest to the French?” Harriet assumed the question was rhetorical so did not reply. “And, Mrs. Westerman, we have an appointment tomorrow morning.”

“With Bywater?”

“No, madam. With Mr. Palmer. There was a note delivered here this afternoon. We are invited to call on a Mrs. Wheeler in Conduit Street, where we shall meet an old friend. I assume that is Mr. Palmer.”

“He is most circumspect.”

“He most likely has his reasons. If his suspicions are correct, and Fitzraven’s having spent time in France this summer, when Mr. Harwood thought him only in Milan, suggest they might well be, then we are on dangerous ground. It is a high-stakes game. Men are hanged for murder. They are drawn and quartered for treachery.”

Harriet was still digesting this comment when there was a rap at the door and Mrs. Martin stepped in.

“Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman. A gentleman is here and wishes to speak to you. A Mr. Winter Harwood from His Majesty’s Theatre.” She paused then held out a piece of paper to Harriet. “And here is the recipe for the oysters, ma’am.”

It may have been he was only clearing his throat, but to Harriet it sounded suspiciously as if Crowther laughed.

Jocasta, Sam and Boyo had made their way back into the heart of the city through the shadows and were all weary and slow by the time they reached Jocasta’s alleyway. There was a stirring in the dark under the pear tree as they approached and two boys emerged from the gloom and exchanged nods with Sam.

He pointed at each of them. “This is Finn, Mrs. Bligh. And this is Clayton.”

They touched their foreheads to her and shuffled their feet. Jocasta led them into her room, where Sam set about making the fire. The shorter of the two, Clayton, sat on his hands to warm them and said Fred had changed his coat in Salisbury Street after the burial, then gone to the Admiralty Office. He’d come out with two other men like him and got settled in at the alehouse in Crag’s Court.

“He looked funny though.”

“What do you mean, boy?” Jocasta said.

“He was walking slow and heavy, and the others were sort of holding him up. He was wailing a bit, and the others were looking about them as if they were worried he’d be heard. He looked to me like he didn’t want to go anywhere with them, but they wouldn’t let him be. He was there a while then went back home on his ownsome. I thought. .”

“Tell on.”

“I thought he was crying like, as he was walking along. Then I met up with Finn in Salisbury Street, and we thought we’d head back here.”

Finn, the taller, skinnier one who had red hair, had been keeping an eye on Mrs. Mitchell.

“She didn’t do much. Got to her coffee shop after the burying and stayed there till supper, then headed back to Salisbury Street. There was a man paid a visit-he was just leaving when Fred came back.”

Jocasta sniffed. “Her man?”

“Couldn’t say, Mrs. Bligh,” the boy said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Tall fella. Dressed plain. That Fred was very respectful of him, bowing and scraping as they talked like he was the Emperor of China. Got the feeling the words between them weren’t kindly. Tall Man said something and Fred flinched and wiped his eyes and tried to stand a bit straighter. Then Clayton came and tapped me on the shoulder and by the time we turned back, Tall Man was gone and the door was shut.”

“Fairly said.” Jocasta folded her arms. “Anything more?”

“I got talking to one of her boys what help out in the shop.”

“What did he say, Finn?” Sam asked, as he set the lighter stuff for the fire, and started to strike up Jocasta’s steel.

“That some weeks ago the missus was looking grim, but last Tuesday the landlord was in and she put money in his hands like she was the Queen of Sheba tossing away stones. Oh, and that he likes Wednesday and Saturday best because he gets extra tips selling books to the rich livers in the coaches.”

“Books and coaches?” Sam asked, then started to blow on the embers.

“Mrs. Mitchell has the right to sell coffee and oranges and storybooks. She gets the words from the theater, then has them printed in Hedge Lane, the liberrrettos,” he trilled, enjoying the word. “She pays fifty pounds a year for it. Wednesday and Saturday are when they do the singing there, at His Majesty’s Opera House in Hay Market.”