Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

With that she turned and her footman handed her into the carriage. Harriet and Crowther, having nothing to add, followed her in silence, leaving Mr. Gaskin gasping and bowing on the gravel.

Harriet felt Susan trembling a little beside her. After a while, the girl turned toward her, and Harriet found herself looking down into her clear blue eyes. They had a thin rim of gold that matched her hair: it reminded her of Rachel.

“I did not want to be a lady, or rich, Mrs. Westerman,” she said. “But there are times when it is very useful, I think.”

Harriet put her arm around her and Lady Susan settled into her shoulder with a sigh.

“Indeed it is, my love. Indeed it is.”

The man Jocasta was looking for did not have any fixed place of business. He kept his wife and two boys in a first-floor room and saw that they ate well enough, but one was not likely to find him there after dark. His nature was not settled, nor did he hunger for domestic comfort, and he had made enemies enough in his time to make him wary of fixed sleeping places. His business made it needful though that he could be found by those who wanted him, so he had his public haunts. She knew he’d be in one of half a dozen places, so was ready to visit them in turn. The Season had started, so the Quality were beginning to run back to Town and get through their allowances. That meant the start of his hunting season, and as long as there was blood in the water he’d be in one of his haunts, though where he laid his head on any night remained a secret even from his woman.

Jocasta had taken a slow walk around Seven Dials, went first to the Peacock and then to the George’s Head before she found him hunched over a pint pot and with a clay pipe of cheap tobacco in his dirty hand. His face was hidden by the pointed brim of his hat and his figure shrouded by the shadows of the dark corner in which he sat curled, but she knew him well enough. Jocasta set herself down on the opposite side of the table. Sam stood behind her like a scrubby footman with Boyo in his arms.

“How do, Molloy?” she said.

The hat tipped slowly back to reveal a face so lined and cracked it looked like a milk jug smashed and restuck a dozen times. His cheeks were caved. He let the smoke drift out of his mouth softly, softly, like fog rising off the river.

“Mrs. Bligh. And a young friend. There’s nice.”

“I need a little tutoring from you, Molloy.”

“Them cards gathered you a bit of capital, have they? Want to learn how to send it to work in rich men’s pockets?”

Jocasta sniffed and folded her strong arms. “I’ll leave that business to you and the long beards in Whitechapel,” she retorted, then let her words come out slow after that. “I want tutoring in the ways of your former trade.”

Molloy leaned back, putting one arm along the back of the settle, his mouth twisting round his pipe.

“And what might that be, Mrs. Bligh? I don’t rightly know what you mean.”

Jocasta pulled out the pack from her pocket.

“You forget, I’ve been round here a time. And people who are proper and tight-mouthed in their day-to-day get chatty about all sorts of things when they look at the pictures. I know where you got that first guinea you lent to some fool and made into two. Take a card.”

Molloy reached warily into the pack, looked at the image on the card in his hand and slapped it down on the table. Jocasta spoke over her shoulder to Sam. “Remember this one, boy?”

The lad concentrated hard, then his face suddenly brightened. “Thief!” He caught the look on Molloy’s face and dropped his eyes, mumbling into Boyo’s fur, “That is, can say a few things, like pulling apart, but mostly that’s thief, thieving and that.”

Molloy watched him go red then he reached forward and slid the card suddenly back to Jocasta, following it with his thin body till his cracked face was up close to hers. She didn’t flinch.

“Ha! A pretty trick, lady! Say what you like. Old stories and I know how to keep quiet.”

Jocasta looked into his eyes, all reddened with the smoke, his blue irises swimming about in them like devils in hell. “Me too, Molloy.”

He pulled away from her again, took the pipe from his mouth and blew a smoke ring into the dusty air, watching her cautiously. “I suppose I can hear you out. What’s the matter of it then, Mrs. Bligh?”

She spoke low. “I need to get in somewhere quick and quiet, then out. And I don’t want to leave any sign of my coming or going.”

Molloy considered the ceiling for a while.

“You after something of your own, or something of theirs?”

“Something that belongs to another, I reckon. And I reckon they should have it back.”

His eyes narrowed. “That smacks of philanthropy to me.”

“It’s known you’ve done a favor before where there was no need.”

“I don’t like that put about. Doesn’t do any good for a man in my business to get a reputation for charity.” He spat on the floor, thick and yellow it came from him, and sank into the wood. “When?”

“Tonight.”

“You’ll never learn the trick of it in a day,” he said angrily, “even if I were willing to share. Locks are like your fancy cards. They take learning and a little love.”

Jocasta remained still. “It needs doing, Molloy.”

Behind them, a man rolled up to the bar and set down a coin. The barmaid gave him a measure of gin without a word, and without a word back he drank it and turned to go. Molloy didn’t move, but Jocasta could see the blue devils swimming the way the man went out of the room.

“Give me the hour and place and I’ll open up,” he grunted. “Then I’m gone. You see trouble, it’s all yours. Coin, and you share-and don’t think I won’t find out if you don’t. Good enough for you?” He put the pipe back into his mouth.

“Good enough. Nine o’clock,” Jocasta replied evenly. “Top of Salisbury Street.”

She stood and walked out of the room, feeling him watching her all the way.

Knowing that Harriet and Crowther were to attend the second performance of Julius Rex that night, Mrs. Service had arranged for dinner to be brought forward, and so the company sat down at the rather country hour of four o’clock. The interim had been consumed with an intense debate between Harriet and Crowther as to the wisdom of going immediately to see Mr. Tompkins’s acquaintance, Gladys, with only Mr. Bywater’s picture in their hands, or whether they should wait till Mr. Crumley’s artistry had provided them with a full set of the leading figures at the opera house. Harriet wished to go at once. Crowther urged caution and was in the end successful, if only because the time had become impossibly short. Susan they had delivered back into the bosom of the household as soon as the carriage had drawn up. Beyond hearing Graves’s general greeting as he returned from the shop and various footsteps throughout their discussion, the rest of the household did not enter the library.

“Fitzraven must have been attempting to blackmail Bywater,” Harriet stated with great determination. “He went to visit Leacroft as soon as he saw the parts for the duet. He wished any romance between Bywater and Isabella to end, and no doubt thought he could put some of Bywater’s wages in his pocket too. He would never have been able to resist. No doubt he told Bywater what he knew and arranged for him to visit and discuss terms on Thursday afternoon, then they fought.”

Crowther leaned against the library desk, watching her stride back and forth in front of the fire like a general.

“But what of the French, Mrs. Westerman? What of the spies and Mr. Palmer?”

Harriet threw up her hands. “Whatever else they are guilty of, perhaps they are innocent of this. Mr. Palmer himself thought it odd that Fitzraven was killed.”