Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Harriet let her attention wander to Rachel and Verity, sitting with their own libretto open between them. They made a charming study of young womanhood, and Harriet felt fond of them. They had both found men whom they could love and admire, and as far as it was possible to judge such things, Harriet thought they had as much chance of happiness as any pair of young couples. She remembered the pleasure and excitement of the time of her engagement to James and looked at her hands. She had the promissory ring on her finger again. Stephen had handed it over very gravely to her that evening, saying he thought it best she should have it back. She had forgotten she had left it with him, and felt guilty, so when Stephen asked, after taking a deep breath that seemed to lift his little body up like a balloon, if he might visit his father, she had agreed at once and told him they would go the following morning. A week had passed since her last visit-surely Trevelyan would be satisfied she had waited long enough?

Harriet watched Rachel’s pale cheek as she followed the action on stage. She wished her happiness; she wished her comfort and patience and love. She wished she were a better and more generous elder sister to her. If anyone were formed to create domestic harmony, it was her Rachel. All that she could wish for herself was that she might not do too much damage, and from time to time manage to do some good.

The music had lost her. She leaned forward again to look down into the pit, then frowned and touched Crowther’s sleeve. He turned toward her and lifted his eyebrow. “Where is Bywater?” she breathed.

He followed her gaze. The figure directing from the keyboard, though he had his back to them, was certainly not Bywater. This man’s girth was considerable and the little part they could see of his face was red and fleshy.

Crowther nodded, but not being one of those who thought the opera house a place for general conversation, did not reply.

On stage the panels of the Forum pulled back, and in time to the footfall of the music, others replaced them. The scene became pastoral, with a great mountain at the back rearing suddenly over the audience. At its summit, a slender figure dressed all in gold and crowned with great plumes appeared and opened its arms. Manzerotti. The orchestra ceased and he sang a single, simple phrase. The last note began strongly, then faded to a whisper that had each head in the audience craning forward, hardly breathing, then it swelled again to a power that could set the lamps fluttering, and pulling down his hand in a fist, Manzerotti brought the orchestra in again in a thundering restatement of the theme. He made his way down the mountainside to the hysterical approval of the crowd and the ringing of trumpets.

“You saw it in a dream, Mrs. Bligh?”

Jocasta and Sam were back in the shoemaker’s cellar. Her work for the night prepared for, Jocasta was more comfortable off the streets and quiet till the time came to meet Molloy. Sam and she spent their leisure looking over the cards and playing with Boyo in a corner while their host cursed and sweated at his leather and molds and his wife cut shapes out of silk and hemmed them narrow and sweet. “I thought you must have asked the cards while I was sleeping.”

Jocasta bent forward to rest her chin in her hands. “Way I see it, boy, the stories and stuff the cards show us are only half the skill of it. Lots depends on opening up and hearing what people are telling you without them knowing they are telling, or even knowing that they’ve got something to tell. Sometimes a fat truth will jump up clear as day without them even twitching. Like Kate’s cards. They had an evil snap to them, but that’s not the usual way. Other times it’s more like the cards are a set of keys and they open up stuff you thought was all dusty and locked in your head, and show you it in a new light.”

Sam looked serious and put his own chin in his hands. “But the dream? Did God send you it?”

“Ha! Don’t recall God ever sending me telling other than through the priest, lad.”

“So how do you know where those writings are?”

“I’m saying the dreams are like the cards. They shuffle stuff about. Reckon I must have seen something when I went to try and warn Kate. Something odd about that ugly furniture when I looked through the window, or maybe she looked at it funny as she went in, or touched it somehow. Then I had the dream.”

Sam looked confused and opened his mouth, but Jocasta cut him off. “Sam, I think there are things the mind knows loud, and things the mind knows quiet. Times I think dreams are you working out what’s important or what’s not. Something in my blood wants me to go and look at that table and guess what’s in it. I’ve gotta listen to that. Maybe my blood’s wrong. But we’ll know.”

She was quiet a space, then put her hand on his shoulder.

“You ain’t coming tonight, Sam.”

He started to speak, but she held his shoulder tight and lifted her other hand. “You ain’t coming.”

He was all white and his eyes looked wet. She could see him searching for words and finding nothing but fear. She narrowed her eyes. “Think, lad. I need you to look after Boyo.” Fear began to change into confusion in his face. She pushed home. “You’re going to be here. Martha will feed you, then shut the lid on you. You’ve got the lock and you don’t open to anyone but me in the night. If in the morning I ain’t back, let Martha in and do as she says.”

Jocasta could tell the cobbler and his wife were paused in their work. “Sam,” she added, “there’s no use fighting me. I’ll bind you to the chair all night, if needs be. You stay here and look after Boyo. Head down. I ain’t risking either of you on the streets.”

Sam pulled away from her and threw himself into the heap of blankets in the corner, face to the wall. Boyo looked up at Jocasta and sneezed. She shrugged at him, and he trotted over to Sam’s side and lay down next to him, crawling under his arm on his belly.

The roars of approval that kept Manzerotti and Marin on stage after the duet were enough to leave Harriet feeling rather deaf and stupid. She was eager to go and find Harwood at once to escape the noise, but as she began to move from her seat, the door to their box was opened and he entered.

He greeted them, then glanced at Verity and Rachel. Miss Chase got to her feet.

“I would like some refreshment, I think. Rachel, will you come with me to the coffee room?”

Rachel was willing, and so with no more loss of time the ladies removed themselves and gave the others the privacy of the box. Mr. Harwood did not waste words on unnecessary preamble.

“Mrs. Westerman, sir. I must ask you if you believe this business with Fitzraven might put anyone else in harm’s way?”

Crowther looked at him with a frown. “It is possible. Once a man has become desperate enough to take one life, he may be willing to try and hide the deed by killing others. Such was the case in Sussex last year.”

Harwood looked very serious. “Then I must tell you I am concerned for Richard Bywater.”

“ For Richard Bywater!” Harriet repeated in surprise.

Harwood nodded. “You mean. .? No matter. Yes, I am concerned for him. I have not seen him here all day. I sent to his house an hour before the performance to ask him what he was about, but my servant returned empty-handed. He had been seen in the morning in apparent health, and his landlady had thought he had returned to his room, but had had no view of him since then. His door was locked and there was no reply to my servant’s knocks.”

“You think this is cause for concern?” Crowther asked, and tented his fingers together.

Harwood put his hands to his eyes. “I fear so. Bywater may not be the most talented of men but I never doubted his commitment to this place. He has attended every performance of his own work, or that of others, since I first employed him. He has never been late for a rehearsal, nor late delivering the material we have required of him. This is most unlike.”