Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Crowther nodded and returned quickly to a leather folder on the desk in front of him.

“There are pieces of manuscript in different hands here,” he said. Harriet watched him, her blood thudding under her skin. In the next room, the music was replaced by applause. “I may have something, Mrs. Westerman.”

The door suddenly opened and Lord Carmichael stood in the entrance. He looked between them with curiosity. Harriet took hold of the mantelpiece and staggered a little.

“No, Mr. Crowther, do not trouble looking for the salts anymore, I swear I am quite recovered.” She stumbled again, forcing Carmichael to come forward and take her arm. She looked up at him from under her long lashes. “Oh, thank you, my lord. I am so sorry. .”

Crowther had to stop himself from staring at her in astonishment. He would at no point in his long career of study, from the ancient wisdom to the best thoughts of the modern day, have believed that the ability to fake a swoon was something he would admire, and that would save him.

“Carmichael. Do you have smelling salts? Failing that, I was looking for paper to burn under Mrs. Westerman’s nose. It seems to cure a variety of female ills.” Harriet blushed a little. His tone was harsh, impatient.

Lord Carmichael turned his lined and slightly ashy face between them. No man would have thought the pair in front of him friends or allies.

“Really, it is not necessary, sir!” she said sharply in Crowther’s direction, then looking at Carmichael said more softly, “I am so sorry, my lord. It is simply I found myself overcome. The song is one of my husband’s favorites. He sings it still. .” A single tear ran down her cheek and she blinked her green eyes. “You know he is very unwell. Hearing it so beautifully performed. .”

Carmichael looked at her cautiously. “Of course, madam. Quite understandable.”

“And Mr. Crowther assisted me from the room.”

“How good of him.”

“How is your son, Lord Carmichael-Mr. Longley, whom I met yesterday?”

Carmichael’s smile was unpleasant. “He is atoning for his sins.”

Crowther looked sternly at Harriet. “Recovered then, Mrs. Westerman? If so, I think it best if we take you back to Berkeley Square where you may more comfortably indulge your grief.”

Harriet lowered her head as if chastened. Crowther turned to his host.

“Oh, Lord Carmichael. On this sordid little business of the opera house-is Mr. Johannes in residence here? I understand he goes everywhere with your house pet Manzerotti.”

Lord Carmichael led Harriet to a chair and seated her there with a low bow before replying.

“Manzerotti is an artist, not a house pet. Johannes makes his own arrangements in Town. He would not be comfortable here, I think. He is an artisan, and from time to time a very useful one. But he is not a guest in this house.”

Harriet looked up at Carmichael as if he was a savior. He touched the bell and said, “Emotions seem to be running very high this evening. Miss Marin was so overcome by her own performance she had to leave immediately after the duet.”

The carriage was summoned and Carmichael moved to leave the room, adding to Crowther with a bow, “Ah, women, Keswick. Such delicate ornaments to our society. They should be protected, yet you drag this poor woman through the mud. What an oddity your family has become.” Then he left the room before Crowther could find any answer to give.

Jocasta fell asleep as soon as she had arranged the blankets around her. She and Sam had gone cautiously through the streets till they reached the cellar of a cobbler Jocasta knew. She had read the cards for the man a number of times and he, his wife and children thought her as great a sage as any in London. She had directed the man to a lost brooch of his wife’s, and predicted in a cloudy way the coming of a stranger who would do them a good turn the night before a careless maid had begged him to mend a shoe of her mistress she had broken at the heel. Maid and mistress were so pleased with the work he had done, he had found himself with a new steady stream of commissions from that lady and her friends. The new income had allowed the family to take an additional room where they now slept, so they were more than happy to let Jocasta and Sam lay their heads down in the cellar workshop. It had been a struggle not to let them give up their own beds. Now Sam and Jocasta slept with the one entrance to the place shut and fastened, and the family promising them secrecy and peace.

Jocasta dreamed. It felt as if she had woken; sudden. The room seemed quiet enough, Sam and Boyo both snoring away in their corners, though it had a soft, buttery sort of feel to it, as if she were in a painting of the place rather than the flesh of it. Then it seemed to her that Kate was standing right in front of her and beckoning. For all the stories in the cards, Jocasta had never seen anything like a ghost before, so she was puzzled to find there was no sort of fear on her. She was curious, was all, and felt more friendly and trusting of the vision than she was of most living creatures she knew.

She stood up from her bed, and Kate took her hand and turned to lead her off. As she did so, Jocasta caught what seemed like a glowing glimpse of the back of her head. It was red and matted, and the sight of it sent a tremor through her that Kate’s ghost seemed to feel. She turned again and shrugged with a twisted smile. Then without waking or sleeping, with no space in time you could slip a card in, it seemed that they were in the front room in Salisbury Street. There was a big ugly dresser in the corner of the room, made of heavy wood and squat on the floor as if it was hunkering and frowning. Then in front of it, a pretty little table in rosewood, oddly placed in the room. Kate led Jocasta toward it and, taking hold of both of Jocasta’s hands in her own, lifted them to the overhanging lip. Kate’s hands seemed very cool and dry; there was no clammy deathliness about the touch. She placed Jocasta’s fingers on the hidden surface of the wood, and moved them along a bit. Jocasta felt a button, a space in the wood, and pressed. There was a click deep inside the wood, and with a shuffling whisper, a long, thin drawer popped out from under. There were papers in it, smoothed very straight and flat, and all covered tight in black writing.

Jocasta looked up at Kate, who didn’t move or smile. She gave no nod, she spoke no word, made no plea for justice, gave no news of what waits on the far side of the grave. She simply moved to Jocasta’s side. Jocasta felt a light touch in the small of her back, Kate’s other hand drifted over Jocasta’s eyes and rested on her forehead, and she pushed. Jocasta felt her center give way.

Then found herself in another place, struggling to get back onto her feet in some version of the rookeries around behind Chandos Street. Strange fires leaped in the braziers, and the drunks lolling around them were interspersed with other figures. She recognized them from the cards. A man in motley with a staff over his shoulder and a sharp little beard was dancing for the drunken Irishman and his girl. When he laughed, you could see his crooked gums, his teeth all black and yellow stumps or gone. The High Priest stumbled past, his red and gold cloak trailing in the muck and his layered hat on backward; spittle hung from his fat open lips. Jocasta felt her elbow knocked and her hand went to her purse; she found herself looking into the blank eyes of The Magician. He was throwing up a ball in his cup and catching it again. He moved past her, and behind him she saw a figure sitting on the step of a doss-house on the other side of the way. He was winged like a bat, and the thin skin of his wings twitched slowly. On his head were horns that seemed to move and taste the air like the soft stalks of a snail. They reached about him, moving shadows thrown by the flames of the brazier. He lifted his head and looked straight at her. She saw a face made of burned and twisted roots, his skin like charred bark. He had his familiars with him-winged, sharp-eared and naked-the shape of young boys. They turned toward her with terrible slowness. Their faces were those of Finn and Clayton. The Devil hissed.