Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

“Mr. Tompkins.” Harriet’s smile became quite genuine. “Mr. Tompkins, you have had a very fine thought indeed. We shall certainly pay a call on Gladys.”

Mr. Tompkins blushed. “Oh, I have already had a word with her, Mrs. Westerman. Didn’t want to send you round to see her if she’d been out that afternoon or some such; she goes on her walks, you see. Would have felt even more of a fool! And as I mentioned, she’s a little simple. I didn’t want her to be frightened, and she knows me slightly, so I popped round there yesterday evening to say hello. I knew her mother would want to hear all about Fitzraven anyway, so there would be no bother about it.” He stopped speaking.

Harriet felt her jaw beginning to clench again. Crowther tented his fingers together and said very slowly, “And what did she say, Mr. Tompkins?”

Mr. Tompkins’s hand went to his chin again. “Well, as it turns out, she was out most of that day.” Harriet tightened her grip on the arm of her chair. “But it was a rum old thing. I was asking her about that afternoon, and telling her mama the news, and of your involvement.” He tried a little extra bow from his chair, then recovered himself. “Fearsome lady that, and Gladys said I shouldn’t worry about Mr. Fitzraven, because he was a very, very good man and she knew he was in heaven. She’s rather religious as well as simple,” he added in an apologetic undertone to Harriet, then continued in his normal voice, “I didn’t know him very well, but I never thought of him as terribly pious, so I said how was she so sure and she said the strangest thing!” Mr. Tompkins examined the carpet and shook his head with wonderment at his fellow creatures.

Harriet managed to force her words out between gritted teeth. “What did she say, Mr. Tompkins?”

Tobias looked up again. “Oh. Yes. Indeed. She said she knew he was in heaven and had been very special, because in the night God sent an angel to come and get him.”

Jocasta paused and looked about her. So used had she become to Sam’s little figure trotting at her side with Boyo, when he was not there she sensed it like a physical thing. He was still hanging around the way into the alley and looking up or down the street.

“They aren’t coming, Sam. So have done with looking.”

Sam came toward her smartly enough at that, but he was still looking over his shoulder.

“But they said they’d be here, Mrs. Bligh. And they’re friends of mine, Finn and Clay. Finn’s shared food with me a couple of times, and Clay let me sleep in his doss down once. But I didn’t like the other fellows there. Or the lady.” Jocasta could tell by the tone of his voice there weren’t many he could call friend.

She sniffed the air, saying, “It’s not a bad day. Like as not they found easier work to do, and they think you’re the daft one for sticking with me.”

The boy rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, smiled a bit and seemed comforted.

“What are we to do then, Mrs. Bligh?”

“I’ve been thinking on that, youngling. You know where Fred works then, do you? This Admiralty Office?”

“That I does, Mrs. Bligh. It’s that big place down Whitehall from Northumberland House. You want me to go and watch?”

“No, I’ll find it. You keep an eye on his mother.” The lad nodded and was about to disappear off again when Jocasta stopped him. “Sam! Stay low, and stay out the way, eh? Just keep an eye out; no need to make any enquiries or get chatting with the lads or anything.”

He nodded again and headed away from her at a pace. Jocasta felt a prickling up the back of her neck and thought of the little thud the rats’ bodies had made when they hit the heap.

Mr. Palmer was waiting for Harriet and Crowther in Mrs. Wheeler’s parlor. He thanked that lady gravely as she showed Harriet and Crowther in, then after she had withdrawn said: “Mrs. Wheeler is an old friend of mine, and of the service. I ask that you trust her as I do. If anyone has seen you enter, it is enough to say that you are acquainted via your husband. Now please, tell me what you have learned.”

It was Harriet who took the role of narrator of their investigations and conclusions to date. Crowther merely watched her as she spoke, adding the odd detail or explanation when called upon. Her tone was calm and measured. The seriousness of Mr. Palmer made her careful in her choice of words and the weight she placed on them. As Crowther looked at her, he conjectured he had made this woman a voice for part of himself; or rather some part of his intellect had blended with some part of her own, and this voice, calm but warmed with life and curiosity, was how it spoke. She concluded with Mr. Tompkins’s call.

“I believe, if Mr. Tompkins will introduce us to this Gladys,” she said, “we may have means to find out who this angel is.” Palmer looked at her with interest. “I thought at first, of course, we could take her to the opera house and see if she could recognize this angel among the people and company there, but I am aware. .” her voice slowed, “that persons of her sort may find the unaccustomed noise and confusion of such a place painful to a degree that might make any such recognition unlikely.”

Mr. Palmer sighed. “I believe what you say. What do you propose?”

“Mr. Graves has in his employ a gentleman very gifted in taking likenesses, even without seeing the individuals himself in the flesh, only by description.”

“A remarkable skill,” Palmer said with a smile.

“Indeed, and a useful one. I hope we may ask him to make some portraits which we could then show to poor Gladys in her own home, and see if her angel is among them. We intend to employ Lady Susan to instruct him, since she knows the personages well.”

Palmer nodded. Harriet sighed and leaned forward; her voice became her own. “But are you convinced, Mr. Palmer, that Fitzraven is indeed the man mentioned by your agent in France? He was, it seems, a rather lowly creature. What could he know, or discover, that the French would be willing to pay for?”

Palmer was not a man who rushed into speech. He considered before he replied.

“I believe Nathaniel Fitzraven was the man mentioned. The proof that he has been in France would be evidence enough to make me extremely suspicious, but your discovery of his account book, his new wealth, your suspicion that the room was searched before your arrival, convince me of it.” He paused and adjusted his cuff. “I believe he must have made some contact with an agent of the French in Milan. Someone there must have noted his habits and character and decided to make use of them for the benefit of our enemies. I fear there are spies of every color in every city across Europe.”

Harriet sighed. “Indeed, you have your friend who heard of this ‘spy-master,’ and of Fitzraven’s name.”

A look of pain crossed Palmer’s face like a cloud as he said, “He was likely then sent to France to receive money, or the blessing of my counterparts there, or further instructions, and had time to acquire his remarkable teeth. He has had, it seems, more money since, but if that is a result of spying or some other petty, private blackmail, I cannot say. As to what the French thought he might be able to tell them, it seems he was a man who liked to boast of his knowledge and connections. Of course, the French Navy has no interest in the gossip of His Majesty’s Theatre, but that place is attended, throughout the season, by some of the most important men in our land. He could well hear things, follow men about, find others like himself. For whomever is at the core of the French intelligence operations here he might have proved a useful servant.”

Crowther watched these various conjectures move across Palmer’s face, like the weather on a deep lake, ruffling its service one way or another.