Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

Johannes bowed his head and submitted; his great grief seemed to rise from the center of the earth, poured up his body through his throat and out into the world. It was a wave of silence, taking whatever was left of his voice with it. He never opened his lips to sing again.

Mrs. Service rapped lightly at the door and went in.

“Mrs. Bligh, a young man called Ripley just called. He said you and Crowther should attend at the place thought of. Do I have the message right?”

Jocasta swept up her cards and pocketed them. Crowther shrugged on his frock coat and smoothed the sleeves.

“Aye, Mrs. Service. You have it right.”

When the audience heard the introduction to the “Yellow Rose Duet” they called and wept afresh. The leader of the band stood and put his violin to his chin, and as Manzerotti gracefully stepped aside and offered him up to the audience, he began to play Isabella’s part. From the back of the stalls Mr. Harwood observed his theater. It was a world of light; the oil lamps blazed above him and cast down across the gilt moldings on the boxes, across the jewels and dresses of the women and threw their shimmerings to and fro like fireworks, blessed by the colors around them.

It was a woman in one of the boxes closest to the stage who began it. With trembling fingers she undid the yellow rose from her bodice and threw it down onto the stage at Manzerotti’s feet. Then, from the box opposite, another woman in red silk did the same. Soon the theater was alive with the rustle of foliage and paper, and the roses began to flow forward. Those who could not reach the stage dropped their flowers into the stalls, and they were passed forward and overhead till those nearest the footlights could gather them in armfuls and, passing them over the heads of the musicians in the pit, lay them with the other tribute.

Manzerotti began to sing his line, stepping forward so the petals made a carpet for the jeweled heels of his shoes to rest on. That clarion call of his voice. . it seemed to Harwood that the song of duty and loyalty was not simply the voice of a single man, but the spirit of all he loved about the opera sculpted into sound. He knew he was an illusionist and a businessman, knew better than any the petty betrayals and rivalries, the viciousness of ambition and ambition thwarted that lay behind the music and the golden stage; knew too his house was full because his audience came to see where blood had been shed, and try and imagine they could see the stains, but for a moment he let his spirit rest on the glories of Manzerotti’s voice and forgot that anything else had ever existed in time but music and light.

Lord Sandwich watched Carmichael across the auditorium. He was observing the stage with such profound satisfaction one could believe Manzerotti was his man, not his master. Lord Sandwich was not a man easily shocked, but the story Mr. Palmer had laid out for him that morning in his office at the Admiralty had shaken him. Worst was the note he had received telling him that Carmichael’s stepson Longley had been killed attempting to flee the King’s Messenger sent to stop him at Harwich. He had panicked and been trampled to death by a startled horse on the main thoroughfare of that town. They had hoped to turn him. Give him a chance to redeem himself in their service, but on being approached, the child had only thought of the executioner’s noose and knife, and was dead before Palmer’s letter could be put into his hand.

And there sat Carmichael in his box as assured and comfortable as a cat on silk. Sandwich crushed in his hand the note received from Mr. Palmer’s man. It was a singular pleasure to be about this business himself. The First Lord then bent over the delicate white palm of the lady with whom he was seated and with a smile left her to flirt with her fan alone for a little while. He closed the door to the box behind him and began to walk the corridor around to the other side of the auditorium, nodding to a man waiting there as he went.

Johannes was becoming dizzy from the pain in his leg. A black-skinned boy appeared from the shadows behind him. Johannes looked about him. The braziers were lit, but the filth-floored roadway was deserted. There had been people here before.

The boy, when he spoke, did so with the soft-water French accent of a Creole. “All alone, Tonton? Do you need a place? I’ll show you somewhere warm.” Johannes gritted his teeth and nodded. The boy took him by the hand and began to lead him forward through the leaping shadows, the flames thrown up on either side. The whistle again. Another laugh.

The door to Carmichael’s box opened, and he twisted around in his chair. Seeing the First Lord of the Admiralty enter he started to stand, but Sandwich placed one hand on his shoulder.

“No, no, Carmichael. Do not get up.” He took a seat next to him and whispered to Carmichael’s heavily rouged companion, “My dear, I have confidential business with this man. Would you be so kind?” She gave him a bold look, then smiled and cocked her head so the jewels about her handsome throat glimmered. She made her way out into the corridor. Sandwich watched her go with an appreciative eye.

“Carmichael, I congratulate you. I had no idea you could afford a whore that fine.” Then Sandwich leaned into him, murmuring, “Tell me, does she fuck your friends for tidbits useful to the French, or is she pure recreation?”

Carmichael’s arm spasmed and he tried to stand, but Sandwich had him firmly pressed to his chair. He continued in his pleasant whisper.

“No, no, my dear. Do not attempt to leave. Do you not wish to answer? No matter, we shall ask her ourselves.” Again Carmichael made an effort to stand; again he was forced down. “Really, Carmichael, be still. There is a gentleman outside the door to whom I have paid a large sum of money for his assurance that he will shoot you if you try to leave. And I think Harwood has had enough blood spilled in his theater in the past few days. Shortly we shall return to your house to discuss matters more fully, but for now, stay still. Enjoy the end of the aria. It will be the last music you ever hear, you know. He sings prettily, does he not?”

“Yes.”

“How it must have burned, to have him sent here to take control of your activities. A half-man like that, a performer. Yet he would never have tried to use your stepson to carry messages. I am sure that was your plan, and not approved. Longley was too young, too honorable; even given his debt to you and fear of you, he was bound to be too open in his ways. Manzerotti did far better with the woman who sells coffee and oranges here, and that runt Fitzraven. Did you even notice that Longley told Mrs. Westerman he was going to Harwich? You were too busy flaunting your power. Your wish to see others dance to your tune has made you a bad spy, Carmichael, and the boy is dead with some of your papers still on him. All that chatter about corruption in the Admiralty, and who in London supports the rebel cause. You did well there, I admit.”

He watched Lord Carmichael’s face for any reaction. The man did not move, but he looked as if some light had disappeared from under his skin.

“What will happen to my collection, Sandwich?” he said finally as on stage Manzerotti extended his arms to the painted skies.

“We could arrange for it to be donated to the British Museum. Anonymously, of course. In a month, Lord Carmichael, it will be as if you never existed at all.”

“This way, Tonton,” the boy said, and led him up the last few steps to the attic. “You shall be taken care of here.”

Johannes could barely see, but if it was the pain or the gloom of the place, he could not tell. He guided himself up the stairs leaning his palm on the plaster walls. The love he had given to Manzerotti was the greatest glory of his life. His own talents with the trickeries and artistry of the scene room were insignificant to him, their only merit being that they allowed him to travel at Manzerotti’s side and do his bidding. Manzerotti traded government to government across Europe, charmed them into thinking him their own creature, but never loyal to anything other than his music and himself.