Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

The gentlemen made their bows, and Harriet prepared to be carried off by Lord Sandwich.

Off Bedford Street and late in the day. The stink of filth was choking as they turned into one of the nameless overbuilt yards. Jocasta could hear the grunting of pigs on the offal pile. Every few yards a brazier burned, and around it a few wretches gathered. A man wearing hardly rags enough to keep him decent was singing at one desperate-looking fire. One arm was slung over the shoulders of a dirty-faced girl, in the other he held a bottle. They were both glassy-eyed and laughing the way the damned laugh. Jocasta thought of the days before the cards came when she paid tuppence a night for a share of a bed in a room not far from here. She thought she’d never get the hell of it out of her. Strange what you can become accustomed to, what you can forget.

There was no use in trying to mind where they walked. The foulness was everywhere, but she kept her eyes down to check that she wasn’t going to break her neck falling down one of the open cellars. Bending over, she picked up Boyo and thrust him into Sam’s arms. He took the dog and then pointed to the house just opposite them.

“That where Clayton stays, is it?” she asked, and he nodded. “Up or down?” He gestured up.

Jocasta stepped into the doorway. The door itself was long gone. There’d be no banister either and her bones were cold and stiff from the day. There was another, leering shout of laughter from the singing drunk and his girl, and Sam darted to Jocasta’s side. They started to climb through the dark and stink, Jocasta feeling the wall with her palm to watch they didn’t fall into the night below.

Lord Sandwich did wish to have some conversation with Harriet, but first he wanted to walk her on his arm through the various rooms that were full of company. She was grateful, but it was a great relief to be led, finally, to an empty settee on one side of the drawing room to talk about naval matters for a little while. However, as they sat Sandwich said rather abruptly: “You are looking into the death of this little man from the opera, are you not?”

Harriet was surprised, and searched his face for any indication that he might know of their dealings with Palmer. She saw none. “Indeed. That is how we come to be here this evening, for he was acquainted with both Lord Carmichael and Manzerotti. Did you know him, my lord?”

Lord Sandwich scratched his jaw. “Had no idea of the fellow’s name till Carmichael told me of his death and said that you were coming here. He meant to embarrass you, you know, my dear. I have no doubt Lady Sybil was in collusion with him for that bit of unpleasantness. However, I shan’t have the wife of one of my best men treated that way, no matter what strangeness she gets involved with.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harriet said, and thought of Rachel.

“But I remembered him when he was described to me. I love the opera, you know, madam. Not the fuss, just the music-though no one comes close to Old Handel, of course. Yes, I’d seen that fellow sneaking about. I saw him a week or two after my poor Martha was shot outside Covent Garden. Man was practically drooling with excitement. If you find the fellow who killed him, he must be hanged-but I’d be happy to shake his hand first. Sure his death has something to do with His Majesty’s?”

Harriet looked down at the small glass of champagne a servant had placed between her fingers.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

The earl harrumphed into his cravat. “Very good. No. Sorry, I know no more of him than that. Well, murder and whatever scandal you discover aside, Harwood has a spectacular success on his hands. Mademoiselle Marin and Manzerotti are both here to sing this evening, you know-the only reason a nasty little man like Carmichael has such a crowd in here. Beautiful girl, that Marin. Odd sort of mood this evening, though.”

“Indeed? I had hoped to see her in good spirits tonight.”

Sandwich pulled his waistcoat straight. “They are funny sorts, these singers. Particularly the women. She has been very prettily behaved toward me since she came to London, but tonight she can hardly look at anyone. Say whatever you like to her, it is clear her attention is elsewhere.”

“And what do you think of Manzerotti, my lord?”

“Marvel of a voice. Beyond that I have nothing to say on him. But tell me, my dear, how is the captain? Such a tragedy. He is sorely missed in our current trials.”

As Harriet looked at the bubbles glinting in her drink, the pink and white noise of conversation seemed to rattle and echo in the glass. “He is not well at all still, sir. Dr. Trevelyan doubts he will ever be the man he was.” When Sandwich patted her knee like an uncle unused to dealing with small children in distress, Harriet straightened her back and looked him in the eye with a determined smile. “But I live in hopes of continued improvement. Shreds of his memory are beginning to return. He is recovering something of himself, I hope, though his mind runs a great deal on spies and espionage at the current time.”

“Seeking enemies everywhere? Such things occur, when people’s wits are disordered. When my wife was in her decline she thought the coal scuttle was a devil from hell come to claim her, and myself a monster come to torment her.”

Again Harriet was forced to remember that there were people other than herself who had suffered, and did it with a better grace than she often managed. Lord Sandwich had seen his wife descend into madness, and his lover Martha shot by a jealous rival, and had still done his duty as First Lord well enough to be regarded by those active in the service as “a good sort.” This was the highest praise possible for any man not currently under sail.

At that moment, Lord Sandwich looked up over her shoulder, and Harriet turned to find that Isabella Marin and Manzerotti were close behind her. Isabella did not look entirely well, and Harriet had to fight the temptation to place a hand on her forehead to check for fever.

“Dear Mrs. Westerman!” the young woman said. “Manzerotti tells me we are to sing very soon, then I think I must. . but I wished to say thank you. I have seen him.” Harriet made to stand. “No, do not disturb yourself, please. But thank you.” Isabella turned on her heel and swept out toward the farther room again in a blossoming of pink silk. Harriet felt Manzerotti’s black eyes travel over her for a moment, as dark and drawing as ever before he bowed to them both and followed her.

“See? Told you. Funny bird,” said Sandwich, with a shake of his large head. “But no matter. We should go and hear the music, madam.”

Harriet put an arm on his sleeve. “Will you do me a kindness, sir? I have not seen Lord Carmichael yet. Whatever his motives, I should thank him for his hospitality. Do you know where he might be?”

The twist of her mouth drew a throaty chuckle from the peer.

“Nothing easier. He is on the other side of this room talking to Mr. Crowther.”

Harriet glanced up to see the gentlemen exchange bows and separate. Catching her eye, Carmichael bowed, Harriet nodded in response and the gentleman moved on. He was dressed again with great elegance. Harriet took in the tableau around him, the gilded furnishings, the marble fireplace behind him-even the smart goblet held between his fingertips. It shall all outlast him, she thought. His lips were rather red and he was looking after Crowther with a slight sneer. She could see no sign of his stepson in the crowd. Harriet continued to watch him as she addressed Lord Sandwich.

“Why do you come here, sir, when you do not like your host?”

Sandwich gestured toward the company. “There is as much government business done at events such as these as in Parliament, dear lady. The Season is just beginning, and there are, as yet, not too many of these parties. There were people I had to meet tonight. Some of my most successful alliances have been forged over champagne. And here the women may guide us about and whisper in our ear. We think we are statesmen. They remind us we are politicians.”