Imogen Robertson: Instruments of Darkness

She nodded at the suggestion and tilted her chin up as she chose her words. Her voice was light.

“Well, my footman has gone to the squire, in fact, but I read your paper last spring in the Transactions of the Royal Society ; you wrote, if you recall, about the signs murderers can leave on their victims, and when I found the body I thought you might be able to read his death like the gypsies read picture cards.” He looked at her with frank astonishment, and she frowned suddenly and looked out at the road in front of her again. “Just because I have my hair curled doesn’t render me incapable of reading, you know.”

Crowther could not decide whether to be offended at her tone or to offer his apologies again and so did neither as they turned off the main road to Balcombe and then London and entered a narrower lane that, he guessed, must mark the boundary between the lands belonging to Caveley Park and those of the great estate of Thornleigh Hall.

“The body is in the copse at the top of the hill,” she said. “The best path to it lies through the woods, so we must continue on foot. My man will see to the horses.”

Susan could tell by her brother’s breathing that he was asleep.

The music finished in applause, and a low female voice began to introduce the next item. As Susan strained to hear, a floorboard in the passageway outside her door suddenly groaned, making her jump. She could hear people talking.

“I should have gone years ago, when Elizabeth died. She told me I should, that the past must be looked at squarely or it will chase you down. But there was always a reason to delay.”

It was her father’s voice. On hearing her mother’s name, Susan’s heart squeezed a little in her chest, and she was lost briefly in an odd confusion of pain and comfort. Her mother had smelled of lavender, and had had very soft brown hair. She had died a week to the day after Jonathan was born. The little girl had held her hand till her father told her it was time to let go.

Another voice replied. It belonged to Mr. Graves, and was nearly as familiar to her as her father’s. She had heard it almost every day in the shop or at their table, ever since he had come to London. She had seldom heard it so low or so serious as now, though. She thought of how his face might look, and her own tilted down in unconscious mimicry. His collar was not always neat but his gray eyes were always sympathetic, and though he was slender as a reed he could still pick her up and swing her around the shop till she was half-sick with laughing. Miss Chase had come in once to find them playing in this way. Mr. Graves had become very red and set her down a little heavily. Susan did not think Miss Chase had minded what they did, or noticed that his brown hair had got rather ruffled.

“You have spoken so little of your time before London, Alexander,” he said now. “How can I advise you? Why has losing the ring concerned you so? Was it valuable? I have never seen you wear it.”

“It had no great value to me, or at least I thought not.” There was a pause. “I am surprised that losing it has caused me such upset. It has been nothing but a plaything of Jonathan’s for some years-he likes the lion and dragon on the seal, and I keep it in my bureau and let him play with it whenever I wish to keep him quiet and still-but it was a last connection to my old home, and now it is gone I begin to worry again. Perhaps I owe something to the people I left there, or to the children. I have told myself I did not, but it itches at me.”

Graves spoke again. “There must be some reason you have held back so long. Think further on the matter. You are happy now and it is a fragile and delicate thing, happiness. Jonathan will not grieve long over a ring. Why so disturb your life over a trifle that he will have forgotten in a week?” He hesitated. “Do not attract the attention of the gods now, when you still have so much to lose.”

“You are right. …” Her father stopped again and sighed. Susan knew from his voice that he would be rubbing his chin with his right hand, and shifting the weight off his bad leg. “Perhaps the ring will turn up somewhere and my mind will be quiet. I’ll have Jonathan search the workshop again in the morning. He was quite determined that he hadn’t taken it from the bureau without my leave, however, and is rather indignant that I think he may have done so.” Susan could hear the smile in his voice and looked back toward the bed where her brother slept. He had not mentioned the ring since he had cried so on finding it gone from its little box, but she did not think he had forgotten it yet.

Silence, then the lady downstairs started singing. Susan scrambled to her feet and went to open the door. Alexander and Mr. Graves jumped like guilty truants as the light spilled from the children’s room across her shoulders and onto the landing.

Graves smiled at her. “Listening to the music, Susan?”

“Yes, but what are you talking about? Is Papa going away?”

Her father looked between his friend and his daughter and knelt down.

“Come here, daughter of mine, and tell me something.” She took the hand he held out toward her. “Are you happy, Susan? Would you like to have a maid and a carriage and a large house and a hundred pretty dresses?”

She looked at him to see if he were teasing, but his eyes remained steady and serious; his breath smelled a little of punch. She was confused.

“I like this house. And I have seven dresses.” She heard him sigh, but he pulled her to him at the same time, so she supposed the answer had pleased him.

“Well then. If you have dresses enough, I don’t think I need go away at all. And I am glad you like this house. I hope we may share it a long while.”

Then he released her and said, “Now, as you are awake I think you may be allowed to join us downstairs for a while. Mr. Paxton is to give us his concerto.”

For the rest of her life Susan would search out that music, or any that reminded her of it, not only for its elegant passions, but for the memories that it carried of the long parlor by candlelight, the profiles and shoulders of her early friends and neighbors and the feel of her father’s chest rising and falling below her small hand, her cheek pressed against the silver threads of his waistcoat.

It was a particularly handsome, particularly English summer’s day, and the Sussex countryside was full of the pleasing and fruitful colors of the season. The meadow where Harriet and Crowther dismounted was glowing with tall buttercups and purple knapweed, and the morning wind that stirred them was lazy and good-humored. Any civilized man, or woman, might be expected to pause a moment and consider the landscape and his or her place in it. A good season to be away from the city, its bustle and stink. Here the earth was preparing to offer up its gifts to its lords and their dependents. Crops grew, the animals fattened and the soil served those who had cared for it through the year. Here was England at her best, providing reward to satisfy the body, and beauty to feed the mind and soul.

Mrs. Westerman and Crowther, however, were indifferent to the scenery. Neither paused to admire the picturesque swell of the valley’s flanks, or philosophize on the greatness of the nation that had borne them. They disappeared into the woods without a backward glance. The groom dismounted and made his arrangements to lead the horses in his charge to their stables, and it was left to the beasts themselves to admire the view and tear up the wildflowers in their satin jaws.

The path ended in a clearing after some thirty yards of roughish rising ground, overhung with the branches of elm and oak. The way was dry-Crowther tried to remember the last time he had heard rain from the confines of his study-and the air was heavy with the scents of the woodland uncurling into its summer wear. Wild garlic, dew. It would be a pleasant place to walk before beginning the duties of the day, he thought; no doubt that was why Mrs. Westerman had happened along this path.