Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Jocasta twitched Molloy over with her finger. In turning, he slipped a little in the mud and snapped at the man who steadied his arm.

“We have a beginning,” she said.

“At last,” Molloy grumbled, with a bitter and bitten look. “Though they would point us back all the way we’ve come and a step more. I don’t like water. Never have. I was built to travel on land.”

“I’m of your mind. And the bank stinks worse than the Shambles. Our way lies along it though, so watch your step or the river gods will grab you and drag you down to drown you.”

Harriet was feeling rather content with herself by the time she and Mrs. Martin had returned to Berkeley Square. Mrs. Martin had been greeted as a celebrity in Lord Carmichael’s kitchen, bringing as she did selected gossip of Crowther and Mrs. Westerman’s investigations. She had been there a good while and was a little apologetic on returning to her seat in the carriage.

After relating what she had learned, she added quietly, “I am sorry, ma’am, but I did speak of you coming home last night with Miss Marin’s blood on your dress. It is the sort of picture the cook there reads all the true confessions of Newgate for, and it turned her most confiding.”

Harriet immediately reassured her. “Mrs. Martin, you have been wonderful, and I have no argument with you.”

They carried on together to the workshop of a Mr. Prothero as a result of the information Mrs. Martin had won from the household, and the little shock of Mrs. Martin’s earlier reprimand was salved by Harriet’s own performance as a rich and chatty wife. When the carriage steps were let down in Berkeley Square again therefore, Harriet was most satisfied.

She was keen to share what she had learned, and it was not until she was opening the door to the library that she remembered she was very angry with Crowther. He was standing in front of the fire when she came in, leaning more heavily than usual on his cane. He turned toward her, his expression uncertain. She paused on the threshold.

“Mr. Crowther, do you admit that you are at times a cruel and vicious-tempered cur?”

He bowed toward her. “I cannot do otherwise. Mrs. Westerman, I have been trying at various points throughout this long morning to think how I can apologize for my words.”

“Have you indeed? That must have been very unsettling for you.”

“It was.”

Harriet entered the room and closed the door behind her. There was a silence.

“It would appear nothing appropriate occurred to you,” she said finally.

“I fear not.”

Harriet opened her mouth to protest, then, seeing Crowther looking up at her hopefully, found herself surprised into laughter.

“You are beyond hope, Crowther! Though Lord knows, your manners have never given much cause for optimism.”

He nodded his agreement and shifted his weight off his cane. Those intimately acquainted with him might have noticed a look of relief and satisfaction cross his face in a breeze, but Harriet was too eager to share her findings of the day to take particular note, and not another being in London would have seen it.

“Lord Carmichael had a fair amount of work done on his study a little under a month ago, Crowther.”

“Indeed? That is of interest.” Crowther took a seat in the armchair that had by custom become regarded as his own. “How did you discover this, Mrs. Westerman?”

Harriet looked uncomfortable and began to walk her usual route back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I have to admit my first plan was to dress rather more simply and go and present myself at the kitchen door and ask for work and generally get into conversation. However, Mrs. Martin convinced me that any London servant would know me as a fraud at once. So I left that end of the business with her.”

Crowther raised his eyebrows. “Remarkable. After what you told me this morning, I believe that means you have listened to that young woman’s advice now twice in the space of a few hours. It seems she is unique in the household.”

Harriet frowned at him and he looked innocently up into the air. She continued: “I then visited Mr. Prothero, who coordinated the works for Carmichael, under the guise of possibly employing him myself. I laid emphasis on the fact that my dear husband has fears of security in London, and he informed me that he had recently built a number of secret compartments into the study of ‘a certain gentleman of rank’ to conceal particular items from casual thieves or safe breakers. He spent a long time admiring my husband’s foresight, which was a little wearing. But I believe Mr. Palmer would be very interested to hear of his work, do you not think?”

“I do,” Crowther replied. “The study, you say?”

“Indeed. Mrs. Martin learned that the household were not allowed in the room until the works were complete. Mr. Prothero, however, spoke of how his workers created two concealed spaces ‘convenient for the storage of papers or jewels,’ behind some Latin texts, and behind a false front of a marbled fireplace.”

“Mr. Palmer will, no doubt, be grateful for the specifics.”

“Yes. I feel Mrs. Martin and I have done the work of a squadron against the French today.” Crowther noticed a certain degree of self-satisfaction in Harriet’s face, but as her mind moved on, it slipped away and her expression became serious again. “Also, I think Isabella knew rather more of her father’s involvement with some unsavory business than she was willing to tell us at first.” Drawing Isabella’s last letter from her pocket, Harriet handed it to him before seating herself opposite. Crowther rested his cane against his thigh to take it and read for a few moments in silence.

“I come to you having examined her body,” he said. “I wish she had thought to share this with us before.”

Harriet’s mood darkened a little further. “I must take my portion of blame for that, I fear. Perhaps she expected me to read these letters in a more timely fashion, and unpack her concerns on my prompting. Did you learn anything more from her poor self?”

Crowther shook his head. “Nothing but that she died far too young and in the full bloom of health. Though I had some thoughts as to the shape and form of the knife used. It is consistent with that used on Bywater’s thigh. Speaking of his body, I believe the damage to the femoral artery was given when he was already in the water. A sort of coup de grace.”

“And the wounds on his wrists?”

“They could easily have been made with the same instrument. But the wound on the thigh gives a better indication of the size and shape of the blade; it matches the wound over Miss Marin’s heart quite precisely.” He set the letter down on the table beside him. “To complete my report, I note there were no marks of attempt on the wrists, and the cut was made along, not across the radial arteries.” He glanced up and caught her look. “Most suicides who use a knife, at least those I have examined, make lighter cuts at first before learning what proper pressure is needful, and while they summon their courage. It is also more common in my experience that they cut across the wrists. The blows that killed Bywater were unhesitating and accurate.”

They were both quiet a little while, before Harriet said softly, “We are convinced that Bywater killed Fitzraven.”

“I am sure of it. I do not think that line he wrote could have any other meaning. But I remember what he said to me that afternoon in the British Museum-that he did not put him in the river.”

Harriet sat down and put her chin in her hand, the better to listen. “Tell me a story, Crowther. What could have happened here?”

He picked up the cane again and began to turn it between his palms. “Firstly, I believe that Fitzraven hinted to Bywater that he knew the secret of his inspiration. That meant Bywater went to Fitzraven’s room to find the extent of his knowledge and his intentions. Fitzraven named a price for his silence that was too high, or else used his knowledge to vaunt himself over the young man. Passions ran high. I would be surprised if Bywater went there with the intention to kill. The room told the story of an argument. There were some bruises just fading round Bywater’s wrists.”