Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

“You do not think Fitzraven our spymaster then, Mr. Palmer?”

Mr. Palmer stood and walked to the window. Harriet noticed that when he looked out, he kept his body to the left of the window frame. From the street he would have appeared only as a shadow. “The French would not have been proud of so small a man. They had arranged some coup. Fitzraven was a pawn in the game. A little man, and a little death.”

For the first time since she had begun to learn something of Fitzraven’s character, Harriet felt some pity for him.

Palmer went on, “He may have aimed to recruit others. Or he may have acted as a go-between with agents already in place in society. He had much influence with Miss Marin, for instance.”

“She had grown to dislike him,” Harriet said.

“So she told you, madam. But the bonds of blood can prove very strong. A woman may be wronged grievously by a father or lover, then betray herself and all she holds dear to seek still the love of that man.”

Harriet visibly stiffened. “A man might do the same.”

Palmer gave her a slight nod. “Indeed. But I am speaking of Miss Marin. She is a very beautiful woman. Many men of rank and influence, in hopes of gaining her admiration, might tell her tidbits that the French would be very glad to hear. Those she could pass on to her father in hopes of the reward of his affection.”

Crowther spoke before Harriet had any opportunity to launch into a lengthy defense of Miss Marin. “What of his sudden association with Lord Carmichael?”

Mr. Palmer turned around and looked directly into Crowther’s icy eyes. “He was involved in the case of your brother and father, I believe?”

Crowther’s throat went a little dry and he said simply, “Peripherally.”

Palmer turned back to the street outside. “I shall not tell you to guard against prejudice. I have my suspicions of Carmichael and would be glad if you could tell me more of him and his connections. I am wondering if he offered accommodation to Manzerotti in order to tempt a number of noble lovers of song into his house. He has a hunting lodge close to the Kent coast and a great many people seem to work for him in some capacity or other. He moves in the political world, yet does not involve himself directly. He is rich indeed, but his habits are expensive. He would be a great asset to the French, and could be the conduit through which information flows to France.”

Harriet frowned and sat back in her chair. “But he is rich enough to pay for whatever he wishes, and pay his stepson Longley’s debts. Why risk death to spy?”

Mr. Palmer came and took the seat opposite her again.

“There is a darkness in the souls of men, Mrs. Westerman. The stimulation of it, perhaps. I know he gambles and has fought duels over trifles. Who can say?”

Crowther’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in his own head when he spoke. “He enjoys manipulating those whom he knows, or suspects, to be weaker characters than himself.”

Harriet folded her arms. “That I can believe. I found him a deeply unpleasant character, and I fear for his stepson. He was being sent to Harwich,” she added quietly. “Might Carmichael risk sending Longley to France bearing intelligence?”

“I fear for him also. I can arrange to have him pursued. Quietly,” Palmer replied with a deep sadness in his voice, then he watched Harriet with steady attention as she continued.

“So let us say we believe Fitzraven was a spy, or to some degree involved in espionage. For what reason was he killed?”

“I do not know,” Palmer said, “and I believe it is important that you find out if you can, madam. He may have thought to betray his conspirators. It may have sprung from other causes. We are putting our faith in you.”

Harriet was looking down at the floor, deep in thought. She did not appear to revel in this statement of his trust. She stroked her brow as if trying to dislodge some irritation in her brain. “Dear Lord, treachery, bedroom gossip, men of such malignancy as Carmichael and Fitzraven. My husband fought clean battles for his country.”

Mr. Palmer’s expression lost its softness and became fierce. “And some of them he won because of information that persons such as myself managed to procure for him and his fellow officers.” Crowther saw the note of rebellion in Harriet’s green eyes. Mr. Palmer saw it too perhaps, and possibly his memory of being at the sharp end of Harriet’s temper returned to him as he went on in a more conciliatory tone: “Life becomes more. . complex, the more closely we consider it. Would you not agree, Mr. Crowther?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Wars, battles, competition for trade, struggles for liberty or control-everything is influence: networks of information, moments of confrontation or compromise. Yes, we like to believe in the grand victory nobly fought, but life delivers very little to us so tidily, no matter what our own abilities or the rightness of our cause. So, Mrs. Westerman, you must understand that such business is as much a part of war as brave officers and well-trained men. This matter with Fitzraven is sordid, but we may save the lives of our men by our actions. We are in danger of losing the colonies in America, and more important perhaps, our reputation as masters of the sea. This cannot be. Whatever we can do to prevent or lessen our losses will be bringing some happiness, saving our countrymen from treachery, defeat, poverty, shame.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I have not heard from the agent who supplied Fitzraven’s name for some time. I can only hope she is well. She is a brave servant of her king.”

It seemed to Crowther that with that last remark Palmer had won his point with Harriet, for after a moment she asked in more subdued tones: “Has much damage been done already, Mr. Palmer?”

“Perhaps, and our enemies aim to do a great deal more. I wish I had some comfort to offer you. Fitzraven’s death is strange. It has drawn our attention and it may be the unraveling of whatever organization is in place before it has the chance to deal our Navy fatal blows across its back. Let us hope that is the case.”

Mrs. Wheeler knocked at the door to tell them Mr. Palmer’s carriage was waiting, then spent half an hour in calm conversation with Harriet and Mr. Crowther on neutral subjects until they thought it safe to summon their own.

Jocasta had a long day outside the Admiralty Office watching for Fred, and had little profit on it. She marked the man appear at midday and have some talk with two others. They held their heads low. Then they went their separate ways and in twenty minutes Fred was back inside wiping crumbs from his mouth. The sun had got as high as it could in the sky and fell shamefacedly backward in the murk. It was then Sam tapped up beside her. The days of food and rest in a warm bed had been doing him some good, but as he appeared at her side he looked pale and shivering again.

“What’s with you, lad?” Jocasta asked with a frown. Taking a grip on his chin, she tilted it up toward her. “Tell me.” She could feel the tremor in his bones.

“Nothing. Just. I haven’t seen Finn or Clayton all day, and there’s stuff being said.”

“What manner of stuff?”

“A man stopped by me where I was watching and told me all laughing to get indoors because the bogeyman was about and carrying off boys like me and eating them. Told me to watch for lights in the dark.”

She could feel that cold prickling up her neck again; she let his chin go but held his eyes. “Was he drunk?”

Sam thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Stank of gin and smoke, made me think of my dad, but. .” He looked down, digging his shoe into the muck at his feet. “Could you not ask the cards on ’em, Mrs. Bligh?” And when Jocasta sighed and folded her arms: “I mean, there’s no proof needed there. Not like Milky Boy and the lady. I just want the knowing. Please, Mrs. Bligh?”