Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Crowther looked at him impassively. “I understand you, sir. You have done very well. What are your further duties?”

“I am to wait near Lord Carmichael’s, sir. Discreet like, till I am called for.”

“Then do so.”

The man backed out of the room. As the door shut behind him, Jocasta stopped laying her cards and studied Crowther from under her brows. The ceasing of the regular beat of her cards disturbed him and he glanced toward her.

“Wasn’t sure of it last night, but now the daylight’s on you, I know you.”

“Do you, madam?”

“Ask me where I was born and when.”

Crowther laid down his pen and sat back in his chair. “Where were you born and when, Mrs. Bligh?”

“Keswick. Seventeen thirty-seven.”

“I see.”

“I don’t hold as a rule with waking up what’s been left resting a long while, my lord. But should you ever wonder about the days of my youth, and what I remember of it, you may find me and ask me.”

Crowther felt his throat tighten. “I would prefer you called me simply Mr. Crowther. Or as we are acquaintances from childhood, you may call me Crowther.”

Jocasta did not reply and the cards began to slap down again. Some moments passed before she said, “Sam has returned with the lad that saw my Kate done for.”

“Where are they now?”

Jocasta nodded upward. “Making friends with Lady Susan and her little uncle and that gray-eyed beauty, Miss Chase. That young girl’s a smart one. You could throw her on a dunghill or into a palace and she’d prosper. If they feed my boy macaroons he’ll be sick on their carpet. He’s not used to it.” Crowther was unsure if she meant the dog or Sam. “It’s a queer household this, Mr. Crowther. I turn my cards here, I see blood and harmony all woven together. Strange rope to swing from.”

Crowther’s pen made small scratching movements on the paper. “As good as any. Did you make your arrangements?”

“I did. And Molloy continues with his own.”

Crowther looked across at her. “I will be there?”

“Don’t fash yersel’. You’ll be there, and you’ll be fetched when needed. I wouldn’t walk the rookeries as a general habit, gentleman like you. But tonight you’ll pass in and out again.”

“Thank you.”

Jocasta said nothing but continued at the cards.

The world was becoming simpler again. The strange aching fog that had been battering at his mind, the whistling headaches. . his stumbling senses were beginning to clear. He opened his eyes a little. The ship, his other darling, was there waiting for him, trim and thirsting to be away. He saw old comrades on the deck; men he’d thought drowned or shattered were there whole and urging him toward them. And on the quarterdeck, with the baby in her arms and Stephen at her side, was Harriet. She was wearing the green riding habit she had been dressed in the first time they met. It matched her eyes. And she was laughing, trying to stop the wind driving her red curls across her face and waving to him, telling him to hurry because all was ready and the ship was straining for the off. The smell of the sea flooded his nostrils, the wind stung his cheeks and he began to run down the slope to the bay where the jolly boat was waiting to take him on board; he could already hear the bosun’s whistle, feel the shift of the timbers on the deck as the wind caught her sails, feel his wife’s hand cool and loving in his own as they made their way out into open water.

She held onto his hands as if she could pull him back from the flood, as if by fastening her fingers where his pulse now threaded away to nothingness, she could hold him back from the wastes beyond.

“James?” she said in a whisper, as his breath emptied from him. “James? No, please stay, James! Stay! Stay, my love!” He was gone. She fell forward over his body and promised any god who might listen her breath and bones, offered every sacrifice, every love, she tried to offer them her life, her children, and taking him by the shoulders, buried her mouth in his neck.

Her sister fell on her knees beside her and wrapped her arms around Harriet’s waist and called out to her through her own weeping. Harriet drew her husband’s lifeless arm across her shoulders and swore to die herself, go with him rather than carry on a moment alone.

Taking Stephen by the hand, Clode led him out of the door and called for Trevelyan in a breaking voice. The boy at his side began to cry and the man lifted him in his arms and held him so hard he feared the little bones might break under his hands.

Night began its slow belly slide up over the streets as if it were escaping the Thames. No man or woman with anything worth stealing on their person should be abroad at such a time, but tonight they might walk unharmed. The rookeries swung open and from the hovels of St. Giles, the doss-houses of Clerkenwell, the dens and pits of Southwark, the lost people of London began to move. Men and boys set down their drinks and shrugged into whatever clothing they had, the whores let down their skirts and walked with their eyes clear. So many people on the street, and so serious. They moved out like a fog across the city, nodding each to each, putting aside their other business for an evening. Death sat on their shoulder, pinching their cheeks and pulling their hair every day with his long greasy fingers, but some things should not be done, and some action could be taken.

At the opera house Mr. Harwood sat in his office, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him as he listened to Graves speak. The noise of the arriving hordes danced in through the windows, fought at the padding of his office door, kicked up with the laugh of some diamond-studded female. Winter Harwood, however, heard nothing but Owen’s voice. After a few minutes he nodded, and Graves left the room. Harwood looked down at his hands and swallowed. He thought of the wreckage of his season and even while his mind was white with surprise, some part of him was already thinking of singers and composers who might be available, might be recalled to favor, might come scrabbling to him for another chance at glory in front of his silk-strangled crowd.

The carriage, overdecorated with footmen powdered and liveried, left from outside Carmichael’s porch. Mr. Palmer stepped out of the gardens of the Square and whistled. At once there were men at every entrance to the house. As Mr. Palmer crossed the road he continued to whistle, forming his lips around the aria of Manzerotti. When he reached the door it was opened and flung wide by his men. Others forced the servants to the walls and held them there to allow Mr. Palmer clear passage through; still with the song on his lips, he made his way to the study, the brilliants on his evening shoes dancing with Carmichael’s candlelight. Finding the door locked, he turned and beckoned to one of his men. The man adjusted his cape-he carried a hammer in his arms like a child.

Johannes had managed to bind the leg as he lay in the muck of an overgrown ditch not far from Highgate. He had then set out as soon as he dared, knowing that the way between his hiding place in the hedgerow and the security of his friends in Town was long. He leaned on a length of ash torn green from the tree and thought of his lost knife with a pang, as a man remembers the lover he has just deserted and wonders if the new fields are greener, after all. Then he shuffled forward again along the road.

Despite the fact that the benefit had been announced only the previous afternoon, and the tickets engraved and printed with a haste not compatible with fine workmanship, His Majesty’s was brim full. Most of the women wore or carried a yellow rose, or a paper one, some of these so lush and elaborate in design they shamed nature. Lady Sybil had done something cunning with the family citrines, arranging them in her hair into the shape of the same flower. Many of the men wore red ribbons on their wrists. The applause when Manzerotti appeared on stage was immense. He stepped forward into the footlights and lifted his arms.