Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

“Might I trouble you to spend a few moments with me in the library, madam? I have some information I should like you to pass on to a friend.”

Harriet had flung herself into her riding clothes and was coming back down the stairs before a very few minutes were over. The street door was open, and already the horses were saddled and waiting. They seemed to have caught the urgency in the air and were stamping on the ground and shaking their great heads. Graves and Clode stood in the entrance hall, checking their pistols and then sheathing them under their coats. Crowther emerged from the library and took the riding cloak that was offered to him without comment. Harriet’s last image of the house, fleetingly caught as she was lifted up into the saddle and took the reins, was of the dinner table still laid. The candles and crystal, the food, and silverware all fine and shining.

Mr. Palmer hesitated as the library door closed behind him some little time later. Instead of Mrs. Westerman or Mr. Crowther he saw sitting in front of the fire a thin, elderly woman with steel-rimmed spectacles and a workbasket on her knee.

“My apologies, madam. I believe I have been shown into the wrong chamber,” he said, and began to retreat.

The lady put down her work. “No, Mr. Palmer. I have news from Mrs. Westerman and Mr. Crowther. Manzerotti, the castrato at His Majesty’s, seems to be the lead of the French intelligence activities in London. Lord Carmichael is the conduit through which the information travels to France, and Johannes is his pet killer and fixer. Oh, and I am Mrs. Service.”

Mr. Palmer was at a loss for words.

“Perhaps you should sit down, sir, and I shall elaborate,” Mrs. Service said with an encouraging smile, and touched a bell at her side. Mrs. Martin appeared in the doorway. “Port for myself and Mr. Palmer, if you please, Mrs. Martin. The gentleman has had a shock. And if our friends downstairs have finished eating, perhaps you might invite them to join us.”

Some months later, Rachel asked her sister what her thoughts had been during the ride to Highgate. Harriet lied, saying that she remembered little of it beyond her growing physical exhaustion and her continual calculations of how many hours of darkness would have elapsed before they could reach Dr. Trevelyan’s house and James. In truth, though, she had awareness of both of these, it seemed that during her ride through the darkness she had seen a steady progression of images, a storybook of her husband since their first meeting. She felt that each view was being held up before her eyes like the pictures Mrs. Spitter had shown Gladys. She would have said it seemed like the pages of her life being turned in front of her. She could not stay with the images she loved, or avoid those she did not. Their progress was inevitable: with each thundering phrase of her horse’s hooves they changed and demanded she see and acknowledge.

There was his face, the first time they had met, her impressions of the line of his throat, the light in his eyes when he talked of the sea, then strange, but exciting, later a trick of movement on his face that would become so familiar; the sight of him in shirtsleeves at the chart table in his cabin, dividers in hand, his smile when he saw her enter. His gray pallor, the stubble on his chin and throat as he supported her by the grave of their first child who lived but a few days under a foreign sun, the expression of hope and belief when he put the key to Caveley in her gloved hand. Even as her fingers gripped the leather of the reins, she felt its weight. She thought of him with Stephen in his arms, looking at the baby as if he were some miracle. You would have thought to see him smile that no man had ever had a healthy son before. Some images were soaked in sea air, some drenched in some taste, sensation. His first kiss came back to her, joyous, clumsy and full of a new and unnameable longing; she bit her lip.

The hooves thudded beneath her, the cold November air drenched her. Then, as they reached the open road, she saw his face altered almost beyond knowing by bitter confusion and frustration; felt the crack of the back of his hand across her face a week after he had returned to Caveley. The pain had been such that for a moment the world shattered into fragments, her vision run over with hot white filigree, but worse than that was looking up from the ground where the force of the blow had thrown her to her knees to see him impassive, empty of any feeling, watching her and waiting for her to rise. Such had been her shock, she had simply stood and left the room, and could have been found only a few minutes later at her desk reading over some of the estate correspondence and apparently her usual self, while black panic and horror washed back and forth in the craters of her mind.

Mr. Palmer turned the pages Jocasta had just given him over in his hands. It was as serious as it possibly could be.

“And there were more like this?”

Jocasta was seated on the settee dealing and redealing her cards with a soft steady slap onto the upholstery beside her.

“Two bundles-like that, as far as I could tell. Reckon there will be more tomorrow. Fred seemed eager to please the thin fella, the one with the voice like a crow.”

“Tonton Macoute,” said Sam. He was lying curled on the hearth rug with the dog beside him, watching the flames. Mr. Palmer looked up with a slight frown.

Molloy would not sit, regarding the fine furnishings with suspicion as if he thought they might tip him out again if he took the chance of denting them with his narrow behind. Instead, he had leaned his thin frame into the corner on the far side of the mantelpiece with his cloak wrapped around him despite the fire. He had his pipe on the go, permission to light it having been politely asked of Mrs. Service, and wholeheartedly given. “It’s the name the street children have given him, him having picked off two of theirs,” he said. “Creole name for the bogeyman. Mrs. Westerman named him as Johannes.”

Mr. Palmer nodded slowly, reading the papers again. The information was accurate and current. The force of His Majesty’s Navy with detailed notes on the location, armament and provisioning of each ship of the channel fleet. If the bundles were more of the same, it could be all the ships available to His Majesty would be described in this way. There were notes here too about the current problems some ships were having with their new copper sheathing. As yet, the French knew only that the coppering of the hulls made the ships faster. If they discovered the weaknesses they also brought with them, especially in the Indies. . Mr. Palmer shuddered. These were not musket shots, but heavy guns. If Manzerotti had the reputation for delivering matter of this sort, no wonder the French intelligence officers had been rubbing their hands and toasting themselves in Paris. Then he frowned and looked again at the drowsing boy.

“Do I not know you, Sam?”

The lad stretched and looked up, the light warming his thin face. “You gave me a shilling once, sir. For bringing a message.”

Jocasta’s cards slapped softly on the tabletop. The pictures were almost hypnotic: Cups, Swords, Coins. Mr. Palmer thought of the papers that would pass through a clerk like Fred Mitchell’s hands. He could gather the lists of the ships, but these notes on the copper sheeting were something else. “Do you think, Mrs. Bligh, that Fred has been working alone at the Navy Board?”

There was no pause in the rhythm of the cards. If they were telling her anything, she did not share it. “Maybe. Though Sam and I have seen him leaning in close with a couple of others. And they were all free-spending and overbright at St. Martin’s chophouse last night. One has a face like a freckled fish. The other is a fleshy pudding of a man. Lips always wet and his wig stood up as if it’s leaping off his head. Wouldn’t shock me to hear he gathered from them too, by their looks and manner.”