Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Crowther continued to consider his fingernails. “I see.”

Harwood turned to Harriet. “But madam, am I to understand that Bywater is under some sort of suspicion himself? I cannot see the man as a murderer.”

Harriet replied seriously, “We have as yet no proof that he is. But we do know he is a plagiarist. The ‘Yellow Rose Duet’ was composed by a gentleman called Leacroft who is confined in a madhouse in Kennington.”

Harwood looked genuinely shocked, then stood up angrily. “The fool! I thought it more than a touch beyond his talent, but to take such a risk! His reputation is destroyed. He will not find further employment here or in any other place in London.”

Crowther looked up at him. “Are not such accusations common? Would it destroy him so completely?”

Harwood’s voice was utterly cold. “Completely. Accusations are common, since it is only natural to borrow from your betters, but direct borrowings are acknowledged. It may be that if it were only some minor matter. . but ‘C’ e una rosa’ is the shining star in this work. Graves has sold two hundred copies already, and the street singers are warbling it after a single public performance. Are you certain?”

Crowther continued to observe him and simply nodded.

“Fool! Damned fool! The scandal will taint his name forever, and he has not talent enough to redeem himself. If that is all he is guilty of, he is nevertheless condemned. He may eke out a life teaching piano to provincial gentry, but he’ll never be spoke to here again. If Marin continues in her affection for him now, she will condemn herself utterly as well. Fitzraven knew?”

“Yes,” Harriet said quietly.

“Yet he told me nothing! What is afoot here? Fitzraven knew he could ask me for a loan of twenty pounds for information such as that.”

Crowther spoke. “We suspect he wished to use the information to warn Bywater away from Miss Marin.”

Harriet noticed that while they had been talking, a ballet had begun on stage. She thought she could recognize the individual Susan had thought less competent than the rest.

Harwood spoke again, more calmly. “But perhaps then, there is no cause for great concern for his personal safety. If Bywater is guilty of what you accuse him of, even if he had no role in Fitzraven’s death, it is likely he may have fled the town.” Then, frowning, he asked Harriet, “Might Bywater have known you had found out about this gentleman?”

“He cannot know we have discovered his plagiarism,” she replied, “but Mademoiselle Marin visited Leacroft yesterday.”

The ballet was finishing, but it seemed the opera enthusiasts far outnumbered the lovers of dance that evening, and the applause was lukewarm. Harwood grimaced. “That reception will put Master Navarre and his troop in a rage. No matter. He must realize the crowd will have its favorites every season.” He leaned against the wall of the box. “Mademoiselle Marin has visited this gentleman, you say?” Harriet drew breath to explain, but Harwood put up a hand to stop her. “No, Mrs. Westerman. Say nothing more. I have heard revelations enough this evening.”

Crowther stood. “Give me Bywater’s address if you please, Mr. Harwood. And the services of one of your men. If Bywater will not answer his door, I am afraid we must knock it down. If he is fled, he might have left some trace of the direction he has taken. If he is there, we shall speak to him.”

Harwood nodded. “Of course. He has a room in Charles Street, a moment away. He would have taken up residence in the theater itself, if I had allowed it.”

Harriet looked up at Crowther’s thin, frowning face. “You wish me to remain here and speak to Isabella after the third act, sir?”

“If that is acceptable, madam.”

Harriet managed to resist the temptation to roll her eyes. “Naturally. I will send the girls home, and you must come and collect me when you are done turning over Bywater’s rooms.”

Harwood opened the door to the box and bowed Crowther out, then bowed Miss Trench and Miss Chase back in, each with an orange in their hand and sparkling with good humor. They found Harriet hunched over, too busy with her thoughts to speak to them and her fingers rapping on her skirts.

Jocasta was almost spitting with impatience when Molloy reached her. He swaggered up and grinned at her mirthlessly.

“Not got your familiars with you tonight, Mrs. Bligh?”

“Never mind that, Molloy. You got no mind to the hour? I’ve been waiting for you for longer than I like.”

He winked. “I’ve got a good mind for the time, never you worry. It’s just my little test like. If you ain’t willing to wait, you ain’t got a serious eye to the business, and if you ain’t got a serious eye, then I’m not about to risk sticking my head in a noose for you.”

“You could have found some other way, you dog.”

“Watch your mouth,” he said, though his voice was still mild enough, just rough with pipe smoke and old beer. “Now where are these doors you need to ghost through?”

Harriet could not have said at what moment the atmosphere in the auditorium began to change. The crowd had chattered or applauded its way through some piece or other from the pit and spat out sunflower-seed shells onto the sawdust on the pit floor for a period, till softly the whispering began to change its tone. Harriet looked up, seeing what was around her for the first time in some minutes. The occupants of the boxes looked irritable and a number of the ladies were hiding yawns behind their fans. The musicians were exchanging shrugs and shaking their heads. Those on the upper part of the gallery began to clap, slow and regular, a few at first, then more and more joined till the walls seemed to shake with the regular rhythm of it. One or two ladies began to follow the beat with their closed fans rapping on the velvet lips of their boxes. Harriet was confused; Rachel leaned over to her to explain.

“The third act should have begun some time ago.”

The pace of the handclap began to accelerate. Harriet found herself beginning to stand, a confused wonder and fear crawling up her spine. The thud of the clapping reached a frenzied climax and collapsed. Catcalls, whistles and shouted complaints began to echo around the walls in its place.

“Rachel, Miss Chase. .” Harriet said slowly. “I think you should go home at once. Send the carriage back for us when you are safe at Berkeley Square.”

It was Rachel’s turn to look confused. “But Harriet-”

Before she could say any more, there was a scream. A woman’s voice, full of rage and grief, poured into the air and scorched it silent. The voice came from somewhere in the wings. For a moment everything was still, then as if the touch of the sound had burned the skin of the audience, everyone began to shout at once. Other feminine cries of distress around the theater echoed the first. Harriet found herself unable to move. On the stage below them, arranged as for a temple with a sea glittering blue in the back, Mr. Harwood staggered out and approached the footlights. His arms raised for quiet.

The flames threw strange shadows up his face and over his arms, and made his shape huge and crowlike on the canvas seascape behind him.

“Ladies and gentlemen- please !” The noise level ebbed away and the audience leaned forward. Harriet found her hands were trembling. “Tonight’s performance of Julius Rex cannot, I am afraid, continue. . One of our performers is no longer able-”

The scream came again, vicious and angry. Harwood paused, his arms still raised, and looked off stage. He seemed terrified, like a man who finds himself fallen suddenly into hell. From the wings a figure in gray crawled forward.