Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

“I know them. One is another of the clerks. The other is my personal secretary. You have good eyes, Mrs. Bligh.”

“I’ve grown practiced at seeing,” she replied, without looking up from the cards.

Sam settled himself again and pulled at Boyo’s wiry mane, saying, “Maybe you should have given them more of your shillings, Mr. Palmer, rather than me.”

Before Crowther could dismount, Clode was already at the top of the steps of Trevelyan’s porch and hammering at the door. The doctor himself opened it, looking at first angry, then amazed. He saw the party racing toward him.

“Mrs. Westerman. .?”

“My husband.”

“In his rooms and quiet, I think.” But she had already pushed past him and made for the stairs. On the first step, she stumbled. Crowther stepped forward to catch her elbow before she fell. He glanced over his shoulder. Clode and Graves had taken up positions at the foot of the stairs and were pulling out their pistols. As he did so, Graves was speaking to Trevelyan.

Harriet threw herself up the stairs and Crowther followed her. Ahead of her he could see the door to James’s room. A slight breeze stirred the drapery around an open window on the landing. She fought forward, lifting her skirts to move faster along the corridor.

As her hand touched the wood of the door, Crowther heard a fierce grunt from within; the door swung open and he saw James bent double in Johannes’s arms. The latter’s right arm was over James’s back, his left under his stomach. Harriet screamed.

Johannes looked up at them, his face as white and smooth and expressionless as the first time they had seen him. Giving a cry, James yanked the knife from his own belly and drove it into Johannes’s thigh. The assassin twisted and swore, rolling James onto the floor. He heaved the blade from his leg and limped toward the window. Harriet fled to her husband with a groan. Crowther fell toward Johannes, wrapping his arms around the ankle of the dragging, injured leg. Johannes turned and hissed, then brought his right leg back and kicked hard at Crowther’s throat and jaw.

There were footsteps and a shout outside; Crowther felt his world dissolve into a red mist. His grip slackened. There was an explosion and the taste of gun smoke in the air. Then the world left him.

The first face he saw on waking was Clode’s, looking down pale and breathing hard.

“Thank God, Crowther! I feared he’d killed you.”

Crowther managed to turn his head a little. “The captain?”

Clode moved slightly to one side. Crowther could see James’s body lying a few feet from his own. His torso was hidden by the figure of the doctor. Crowther could hear the sound of fabric being ripped and folded. Harriet was kneeling on the far side of her husband, holding his hand between her own, looking down at him and whispering. Graves was at his feet holding his legs as they jerked spasmodically. Crowther could see the pool of blood inching toward him. The world went dark again.

When next the room swum toward him he was being helped into a chair. A brandy glass was held to his lips. The first sip he took, the next he pushed away. The captain had been lifted onto his bed. Harriet was seated at his head with her hands on his arm. She looked as if she had been carved from ivory like the figures the Westermans had brought back with them from their stations abroad. On the other side of the bed Trevelyan sat with his head in his hands. Graves was leaning against the door. It was Clode who was still holding the brandy glass to Crowther’s lips. He turned his head to look at him and a spasm of pain tore through the surface of his brain like a knife through wet cloth.

“Did you kill him?” he said in a whisper. Clode shook his head.

“I think I may have winged him as he went through the window,” he said softly. “And Graves loosed another as he fled, but his aim is appalling. I made a quick survey of the grounds while you were unconscious and found his horse, but no sign of him.”

Crowther struggled to his feet, pushing away the arm that tried to support him. He hobbled toward Harriet and stood behind her, looking down at the captain. His eyes were open, and fixed on his wife. His breathing ragged and terrible. Crowther put his hand on Harriet’s shoulder. She lifted her own hand and let it rest on his for a moment, without taking her gaze from her husband’s face.

Crowther crossed to Trevelyan with a firmer step, leaned in close and spoke to him a moment, then, trying to fight down the nausea and bitterness that rose in his throat as he straightened, approached Graves.

“Clode can stay here. We must return to Berkeley Square. You need to bring the captain’s children to him, and I have business to attend to.” Graves nodded, and Crowther looked again at Harriet. She had turned toward him. Her face was calm, and her voice distinct and clear.

“Gabriel, do not let him live.”

“You have my promise, madam.”

She nodded, turned back to her husband, and Graves opened the door.

As he mounted his horse, the pain made him gasp. Graves looked at him in concern.

“Can you ride, sir?”

“Yes.”

“There was a rope. I think he intended to make it seem a suicide, but our arrival surprised him into action, or the captain was too strong.”

“What is the hour, Mr. Graves?”

The younger man removed his pocket watch and consulted it. “A little after midnight, sir.”

Crowther urged his mount into a trot and they began to ride at a pace into the city and the cold dark morning.

FRIDAY, 23 NOVEMBER 1781

Only the youngest children slept. Graves found Susan and Rachel in the latter’s chamber drinking chocolate and saying little to each other. Rachel, after Graves had told them what had passed, went calmly to wake Stephen, and Graves for a moment took her place by his ward.

“Susan, my dear. This will be another heavy day. And you have had too many in your life.” The girl did not answer but curled her hand around his own. “How would it be, my dear, if, as soon as it is light, you send a note to our friend Miss Chase and ask her to come and sit with you today? Miss Trench should be with Stephen and her sister.”

Susan looked up, searching his face for signs of awkwardness or distress. “I should like that very much, Graves, if it does not trouble you. She and I may look after my brother and Eustache.”

He returned the pressure of her hand, fear and love for her drenching him like a hopeless tide. “It does not trouble me. I think I must learn to swallow my pride a little and accept the care I am given.”

“That would be much more sensible of you. You ask Jonathan and me to accept all you do for us without thanks. It is unfair of you not to do the same.”

He lifted her small hand to his lips and kissed it. She shuffled into his side and laid her head on his shoulder.

“You are growing, little woman.”

Rachel returned. She carried baby Anne sleeping on her shoulder, and led Stephen, white-faced and confused, by the hand.

“Graves, Stephen wishes to bring his model of the Splendor with him. I said we should inquire if there is room enough.”

“Papa likes it.”

Graves got to his feet. “Yes, of course you must bring it then.” He crossed to the little boy and picked him up in his arms. “Susan, will you fetch it and bring it down?” She nodded and scudded out toward the nursery. Graves felt Stephen’s arms link behind his neck and he began to carry him down to the waiting carriage.

“Did the spies attack Father, Mr. Graves?”

“They did, Stephen. Now Mr. Crowther and his friends will hunt them down.”

“Tell Jonathan I am sorry not to be there when he wakes. Sometimes he has bad dreams.”