Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

“Man I’d want to see in your shoes is an old captain of mine. Not that he’s old himself, and he’s in London now, which few of the good ones are, what with the Frenchies and the Americans getting all roused.”

He went quiet again. Jocasta was content to wait him out, but Molloy was getting pulled out of shape with the stopping and retelling.

“Why don’t you name him then?” he said, with a narrowing of his eyes.

Proctor knocked out his ash again. “Poor bloke got hit on the head, and he’s gone kind of simple now, it’s said. So I hesitate to trouble him with you.” He cast an eye toward the younger man at his side. “Jackson, I called you here to answer a question, and the question you must answer is this: what do you reckon to handing out his wife’s name? She’s a smart woman and her husband was known and liked enough, so she’ll know a face or two at the Admiralty.”

Jackson lifted his hand to stroke where someday his own beard might grow. “Pither had her in to look at the body, didn’t he? And she didn’t look a fool to me. Her, or that bloke she had with her.”

“What body?” said Molloy with quick interest.

“We found a man.” Proctor pointed into the middle of the river with his pipe. “He was drowned but tethered. Heard him named as Fitzraven, someone from His Majesty’s, is the talk.”

“And this lady came to look at the body? Nice entertainment,” Jocasta said.

“Not sure as it was for a pleasure. She seemed to have some concerns with the business.”

Jocasta folded her arms across her chest. “The opera house? Seems to me this is the lady we need to have words with.”

Proctor and Jackson looked at each other for a long moment, till Proctor turned back toward them and, like a barreled mirror of Jocasta, crossed his arms as well.

“I can’t tell you where she stays at,” Proctor said, “but her name is Westerman, and the fella she had with her was called Crowther. That help you?”

Molloy looked a little confused and wondering for a second, then began to laugh. He let out a “Ha!” Then another one. Proctor frowned deeply, and Jackson crossed his arms as well, looking dark.

“I do not take it kindly, sir,” Proctor said in a low rumble, “that you see that name as an occasion for mirth.”

Molloy wiped his eyes and held up his hands as if to protest. “No lack of respect, Mr. Proctor. None at all.” Then he straightened up, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Never met her, but know her. Know Mr. Crowther too! Never met him neither, but I know him. Know where her friends are!” He turned around to Mrs. Bligh, his grin showing off his three remaining teeth like tombstones set in front of a cave. “What you say to that, Mrs. Bligh?” He shut his mouth and his laughter dropped away like a lock emptying. “What’s up, lady? Seeing ghosts again?”

Jocasta’s mouth was dry as slate in summer. “That’s it. That’s the name.”

“What name?”

“The sailor they had their eye on to do harm. Westerman.”

Molloy grew serious. “It all bundles up together now, don’t it? When you said a sailor was in trouble I thought you meant some bow-legged fool who had staggered in the wrong direction searching out his grog. This is a matter of a different stripe.” He rubbed his nose. “For one thing, they are rich and inclined to be grateful. We need to find our way to Tichfield Street, and smartly so.”

Proctor had stood; his face was red and his beard seemed to stand out from his chin.

“What can be done?”

“Clode! Lord, as I live, Daniel Clode! What-has Sussex run dry of lawyerly business for you?”

Graves had burst out of the back of the shop with long strides as soon as he heard his friend’s voice inquire for him, and now destroyed the space between them in a moment, throwing his arms around Daniel’s shoulders and slapping him so hard on the back, it would have wounded a lesser man.

“Graves! I thought I’d find you here. Let me go, man, I’m stinking with the road. I’m just this moment out of the stagecoach and seeing the hour, thought it better to call here rather than at Berkeley Square.”

Graves stood back and looked at his friend as if he were a miracle walking. Clode was a remarkably handsome man with large brown eyes and a face that seemed sculpted more than grown. If he knew what advantages nature had given him in this way, he never showed any sign of it though. Graves had never seen him respond to any of the soft feminine looks cast openly upon him, unless they came from the eyes of Miss Rachel Trench. A look from her was worth the compliments and favors of all other women, it seemed.

“But why are you here? Why no notice of your coming? Is there some problem at Thornleigh Hall?”

Clode looked a little shy. “No, everything is in order in Sussex, and the rebuilding progresses. I was summoned here by Miss Trench and by young Lady Susan. They seemed to believe you might wish to negotiate the purchase of this shop from Lord Sussex’s estate. And I am here to see you do not rob yourself or your future father-in-law too far for the children’s sake.”

Graves looked sorry for a moment, then laughed. “Lord, I am plotted against on every side. Everyone insists I should be happy. But I am very glad to see you, coconspirator that you are.”

“Miss Trench said something in her note about her sister and a murder?”

Graves shrugged and turned to a pile of scores on the counter. They were the latest edition of the “Yellow Rose Duet.” On the title page of each, the name Bywater had been crossed out by hand, and replaced with Composition of a certain Gentleman.

Giving up on ever getting the corners square, Graves spoke over his shoulder. “Yes, Mrs. Westerman and Crowther surround us with bodies and horrors again. I can see why Miss Trench might have some need of your support, as well as wishing to see Miss Chase and I properly bound up and established. I do not see what drives them. . There must be something more to the case, as I cannot think with the captain so ill, Mrs. Westerman would involve herself in such a business for mere amusement.”

Clode smiled, showing an almost unnatural number of good teeth. “Be comforted, Graves. Mrs. Westerman would not do such things without an excellent reason.”

Graves turned back to him and folded his arms. “You are too trusting a person to be a solicitor, Clode. I fear for the children’s fortunes in your hands. But perhaps you are right. You will be a breeze of good sense and clean air among us.”

Clode made a sharp bow, clicking the heels of his boots together as he did, then said more gently, “But what of the captain, Owen? Has he improved?”

Graves sighed and wiped his hand across his brow. “The improvement is slight, but steady. I understand from Stephen that he was both calm and affectionate in his manner this morning, if still rather erratic or childlike in his speech.”

His friend stepped forward and put a hand on Graves’s elbow. “Then I’d say the improvement was considerable.”

Graves looked into his friend’s open face above him, saying, “Was it very bad when he first came home, Daniel?”

Clode nodded and turned away a little before replying. “Past endurance. He was vicious, hardly rational, horribly demanding and dangerous when thwarted. Mrs. Westerman and Miss Trench had so longed for him to return, but when he did it was dreadful. Lord, Owen! If Crowther had not found Trevelyan, it might have become necessary to intervene to keep the children and ladies safe. Did you know their footman and groom at Caveley had twice to forcibly lock their master in his chamber to save Mrs. Westerman’s neck? These are men who had served with him, who had entrusted their lives to him, now forced to confine him in his own home. Equally I saw him at moments when he was no more than a little strange, but still friendly, affectionate to his children. Stephen, however, I think he must have struck at some point. No boy should flinch in that way when his father approaches. No mother should look so fearful when her son and husband come together.”