Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Harriet rose. “Thank you, Graves. You are a better friend than I deserve.”

“No, Mrs. Westerman. Rather the world does not deserve you. But here you are, you and your dashings, and Mr. Crowther and his knives, and we must learn how to make best use of you. Enjoy the performance. You will not see a better opera in London for five years.”

She left and made her way slowly up to her own chamber.

Harriet, Rachel and Crowther were to have the use of Mrs. Service’s box at the opera that night, and Mr. Crumley was provided with papers for the pit. Harriet was a little surprised to find that the coach did not make its way directly to Hay Market, but matters became clear when she realized they were turning into Sutton Street. The carriage paused and Miss Verity Chase was handed into it by one of her father’s servants. Harriet was very pleased to see her. The strained nature of the understanding between this lady and Owen Graves meant that her visits to Berkeley Square to see the children were fleeting, hurried and only to be undertaken when Graves was sure to be away from the house. Mrs. Service took the children to Sutton Street whenever their entreaties reached a fever pitch, but she was unsure if she should be encouraging the bond between the children and Verity to continue to flower, and the visits made her uncomfortable.

Rachel patted Miss Chase’s hand and smiled reassuringly at her. Verity seemed more comfortable at once and began to ask them about Fitzraven and their investigations to date. Harriet and Crowther were happy to tell her what they could without repeating Mr. Palmer’s concerns. Miss Chase was a practical and intelligent woman and her remarks were always to the point, and worth attending to. She was quite as beautiful as Rachel, but had a little less of her yielding femininity. Her nature and humor was rather more dry and exact. For all that she had been raised as a gentlewoman, Harriet could see something of her father, the man of business in her, and admired her for it.

“So Miss Marin discovered yesterday what you did this morning. Do you know if she has spoken to Mr. Bywater? Surely that would be her first thought if she felt for him as Carmichael and Manzerotti suggested. Her distress must have been extreme.”

Harriet was a little shocked. “I had not thought of it till now, Miss Chase. She was certainly distressed by something when I spoke to her last evening.”

Crowther frowned. “Did not Carmichael say she left the party as soon as her portion of his little entertainment was complete?”

Harriet nodded and looked at the elegant reticule she held on her lap. It was a pretty thing, but not practical. “He did. We must speak to Bywater ourselves tonight, Crowther, and challenge him. Do you think if he murdered Mr. Fitzraven he will confess it now?”

Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed Rachel shiver a little at the word “murder.” Miss Chase merely watched their discussion with calm interest.

“Possibly. I’ve already told you his behavior seemed to betray guilt of some sort. Though it is just as likely that he was nervous his plagiarism was about to be exposed. He had no great difficulty finding Leacroft. We must assume he realized we would not find it impossible ourselves.”

Harriet nibbled the tip of one of her gloved fingers in thought. “I am very glad you are here, Miss Chase. It may be a night of unpleasant scenes. We shall have our conversations in private, and you and Rachel may remain in the box together.” She flashed her eyes up at the two young women. “I hope you will find more pleasant topics of conversation.” Miss Chase lost her calm demeanor for a moment and blushed. Rachel gave a little gurgling laugh, and patted her knee.

“I am sure we will, Harry,” she said. “After all, we just have to find a way to persuade a proud man to allow himself to be made happy.”

Miss Chase kept her eyes low, but smiled.

Rachel looked past her out of the carriage window. “Dear heavens. It is even more crowded than Saturday evening.”

The Hay Market was jammed with carriages. It seemed that not only Graves would profit from the popularity of “C’e una rosa.” A pair of women in white caps were trying to sell rather tired-looking yellow roses in through the carriage windows from great baskets on their hips, and for those who could not afford fresh blooms, a few young boys were handing out flowers cut from paper for pennies.

Crowther noticed a tall, thin-faced woman in brown emerge from the rear of the theater with a sack over her shoulder. She called a boy over to her, cuffed his ear and gave him from her bag a fresh stack of librettos to sell. He put some coins in her hand and she counted them over carefully, her lips a hard line, while Crowther watched her.

“What an enterprise this is,” he said, turning away from the window again.

Harriet sent a note to Mademoiselle Marin via one of the servants of the place as her party settled into the box. Before the opera commenced she had received a courteous response from Isabella saying indeed there were many things she wished to discuss with Mrs. Westerman, but she did not think she would be equal to such interviews until the performance was complete. Harriet handed the note over to Crowther without comment and he nodded.

“Perhaps it would be best to meet with Mr. Bywater after the performance as well,” he said. “We may send Miss Chase and your sister home in a respectable manner, then confine the unpleasantness to Mr. Harwood’s office.”

“Should we tell Mr. Harwood what we know?” Harriet asked as the musicians began to take their places in the pit. She leaned awkwardly over the edge of the box to try and spot Mr. Bywater. The seat at the harpsichord remained empty.

“Let us find him between acts and speak with him then.”

Harriet was content and settled back in her chair to derive what pleasure she could from the entertainment. The theater was bursting. The chandeliers were brilliant enough for the company to read their librettos and wave at their friends with ease. Everything was in movement. The Quality moved between their boxes and those of their friends, whispering scandal or politics to make the women laugh and the jewels in their hair sparkle. Some breach of etiquette in the pit had led to a man’s wig being plucked off his head and tossed back and forth among the crowd while he tried to struggle toward it. As the overture began, it seemed the pit felt he had been punished enough and a young man handed it back to him with a slap across his shoulders and an order to mind his manners better. There was a smattering of applause as he took his seat again, pulling the bruised horsehair firmly over his ears. The galleries were clamorous, and all through the pit, people were shouting greetings and comments to one another.

Harriet scanned the boxes around her. The Royal Box was taken by a group of women and men, beautifully dressed, but not anyone she could recognize. Friends of the Prince of Wales perhaps. She caught sight of Sandwich opposite and responded to his polite bow with a gracious nod. She was aware that after she had done so, various other pairs of eyes sought her out from the pit and boxes, and so kept her gaze on the stage and did not risk peering over to see Mr. Bywater again.

There was movement, and to a stately march a large chorus of singers in an approximation of Roman costume gathered on stage. According to the little book in Harriet’s hand that gave both the Italian and a rather free, she suspected, English translation of it, they were now launching into a rousing musical debate on the politics of their day. The audience turned away from their various discussions and conversations and began to pay attention to the performance. A minor god descended in clouds of fury to a call from the horn section and flew to a position at the front of the stage. The device earned some gasps and some applause of its own. The god seemed pleased.