Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

“Indeed.” Crowther nodded, smiling his chilly smile.

“Good night then, sir.”

The shopkeeper stumbled a little, climbing over the stile under Crowther’s suspiciously benign stare, and set off back toward the village with busy officious strides through the uncomplaining grass of the meadow. He turned back every other minute, as if hoping Crowther might simply disappear, though without apparently slackening his pace, an impressive maneuver on uneven ground. Crowther remained mounted and still until the shopkeeper was lost in the gloom of the first cottages, then slid from his horse and led it behind the hedgerow, returning to assume Cartwright’s position leaning on the low stile. He hoped he would not have to wait long.

He was lucky; the moon had shifted her position but little in the sky when Crowther heard someone moving down the road toward him. He stepped into the road, just as the man who had surprised him had done. A figure on horseback approached. When he spoke, Crowther knew him at once as Hugh Thornleigh.

“Joshua?” And when Crowther said nothing: “Well, what will you have of me? Much good your assistance, or that of this Carter Brook, did me. We have nothing to speak on. Send me no more messages, but give your Hannah this coin at least-get her a salve for her sore feet. She must be exhausted, the number of times you’ve sent her tripping up to the Hall today.” The voice was fat and slurred; a gloved hand reached toward him. “Well, take it then, Cartwright.”

Crowther stepped closer and lowered his cloak.

“You may keep your coin tonight, Mr. Thornleigh. Joshua found it necessary to return to the shop. He seemed rather concerned, however, about what he should say to the coroner tomorrow.”

Hugh was surprised enough to jerk at his reins, and his horse whinnied and shook her head in protest.

“Mr. Crowther! You have a talent for coming up on my blind side. What do you mean, skulking around the bushes?”

“It is a pleasant evening. I have no reason to hurry home.”

“Aye! This is a coincidence, is it? You sent Joshua running away, did you? Damn it, what business is it of yours whom I choose to meet and where!”

Crowther opened his eyes innocently wide, and waited for Hugh to calm his ride before he replied.

“I think it may be a matter of more general interest at the moment, Mr. Thornleigh. Who is Carter Brook, and in what way was he to assist you?”

“Again I ask, what business is it of yours? By what right do you, sir, question me?”

“In the cause of the general good, naturally.”

Hugh snorted, and Crowther stepped forward a little. “And as I spent the better part of the day examining this Mr. Brook’s body, I would say my curiosity is therefore both right and natural in the circumstances.”

“Reaching, I call it. I have never met Mr. Brook,” Thornleigh paused, and his voice became a little lower, “though I was due to do so last night. I was prevented from keeping to the time of the appointment, but I did intend to meet him in the copse. When I managed to get there, no one was waiting, so I stayed till my coat was getting dew on it, then came home. It may well be his throat that was cut-though never having seen the man I could not say for sure. But I still see no reason to answer to you on that.”

“You may have to answer to a higher power than myself.”

“You a religious, Crowther? How does that square with cutting up bodies and leaving them all mangled?”

Crowther raised an eyebrow. “I meant the coroner.”

“I have every intention of telling the coroner,” Hugh said irascibly. “Cartwright has no reason to fuss at me. But, yes, it is likely that the body is that of Carter Brook.”

“You will also tell the coroner the manner of your business with the man, I suppose?”

“He was employed to find out the address of my elder brother. I had hoped he had met with some success. The ring would seem to say as much, but whatever else he knew, he can no longer tell.”

Crowther plucked one of the white flowers free of the hedgerow next to him and stared into the darkness.

“Yes, he was very effectively prevented from sharing any secrets.”

Hugh looked down his nose at the elder man.

“You suggest his errand and his death were connected?” He laughed. Crowther thought the similarity to the noise his horse had made moments before uncanny. “No, Crowther, you are pursuing a false trail there. I am simply a man cursed with the worst sort of luck in the world, and any step forward I attempt will always send me sliding backward again. I dare say some other business followed him from London.”

Crowther found he was uninterested in whatever conclusions Hugh decided to draw.

“And why did you arrange to meet him at night, and away from your home?”

“Perhaps I had hopes of it being a fine night,” Hugh said with a sneer.

“Could the shopkeeper, Mr. Cartwright, identify the body?”

“I believe they knew one another. Joshua met him in London and engaged him on my behalf. I will ask him to address himself to the coroner.”

Crowther nodded, and began to move away toward his horse. Hugh raised his chin.

“You have been whipped up by the women of Caveley, I presume.” Crowther could hear the edge in Thornleigh’s voice. “How exciting for you. Go careful there, sir. A nasty, pushing family. Visit them more than twice and it will be chanted through the neighborhood that you have made a bid for the hand of the little one. And the elder is a shrew, and a bluestocking, everyone admits it. The Commodore is likely very happy to have stowed her ashore and gone on his way himself. Perhaps he finds women who know their place and duties a little better away from home.”

Crowther turned back slowly toward the speaker, brushing the remains of the flower he had plucked from his fingertips.

“I have heard that many disappointed men find comfort in wine and slander. You give a thorough example of it. I wonder if your ill luck caused you to become what I see, or if it was your behavior that has brought the ill luck upon you.”

The worst thing about these words, spoken so clearly into the evening air, was their lack of passion. An earl could not have spoken more coldly of a dog. Crowther continued to watch Hugh as he smarted under them. Even in the relative darkness he could see the unmarred cheek of the young man flush indignantly.

“Do you wish me to ask you to name your friends?”

Crowther felt himself smile. This was what came of leaving the dissecting room, he thought-his secrets discovered, murder, duels, missing sons and dead children. He should have kept his doors locked more tightly.

“If you wish to fight, I shall certainly meet you, Thornleigh. Though I warn you, my hand is always steady at dawn. I doubt if you can say the same.”

They held each other’s gaze a moment.

“Damn your eyes, Crowther,” Hugh whispered, jerking hard at his horse’s head and he turned away, riding hard back toward Thornleigh.

Crowther led his own horse out into the lane again, and mounted with a grunt of effort. He looked up to see the first of the stars appearing above him. Well, he thought, we must follow where the signs lead us. As we follow the pathways of the body to their sources and springs, so this blood spilled must take us to the heart of the matter. He had already stepped clear of the path advised by the squire. Now he must see where his steps took him, and if the family at Caveley had to pay for their curiosity, then so be it. They would be wiser for it, and Mrs. Westerman seemed eager to be educated. He thought again of Hugh, his scarred face and dead eye, and wondered how much the devil had marked him for his own under that torn skin. The family at Caveley had liked him once, and yet now the Mistress seemed happy to see him killing himself with drink. Crowther urged his horse forward.