Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

Thank you, Miss Trench. Patience has not served me well in the past, but neither has action improved my lot. I am grateful you do not think me capable of such crimes.

Hugh had added his compliments to them both and his name. Harriet turned the paper over in her hands as if she hoped some secret message might appear scribbled in the corner of the sheet.

“I wonder what he means? If one had the mind, one could read this as a full confession, Rachel.”

Her sister looked up at her with a slight frown.

“I thought when he says ‘action,’ he meant sending Brook to search for Alexander. That did seem to be the start of all this horror.”

Harriet nodded, and winced a little, her headache still insistent and angry. It had been punishing her all evening, and she always told everyone she was never ill. She would be more sympathetic with ladies who fancied themselves sick and nervous in future.

“Rachel, we have not spoken of Mr. Hugh Thornleigh for a long time.”

Rachel smiled a trifle bitterly. “Indeed? It seems to me we have spoken of little else for the last few days.”

“You know what I have in mind.”

Rachel did not look up, but covered her sister’s hand with her own.

“It is passing, Harry. I was very unhappy for a while, you know that. I am a little unhappy from time to time even now, but it is more like a memory of sadness, than sadness itself. Does that make sense?”

Harriet nodded. “I am so sorry, Rachel.”

“Don’t be, Harry.” Rachel looked at her with great tenderness. “It was through no fault of yours, and though I believe Hugh is innocent, I would not wish to be his wife now, nor have I wished it for many months. I promise you that. I am not the wife he needs, nor is he the man to make me happy. Still, there were moments … when he used to talk about his campaigns with such enthusiasm, or his plans for the estate, there was a rightness about it. I miss thinking of the future with such happiness and excitement, Harry, that is all.”

Harriet closed her hand around her sister’s, and bowed her head.

There was another knock and Mrs. Heathcote opened the door again, with rather more of a flourish this time. The women looked up at her in surprise.

“Mr. Crowther for you, ma’am-and a Mr. Clode.”

They had not mentioned Crowther on the way home, though for her part Harriet had thought of little else, and she blamed her headache on him and his murderous family. It was not right of him to blame her for knowing. Lying on her bed upstairs she had concocted some half-plan of visiting him in the morning and demanding what he had learned from Cartwright of Alexander’s whereabouts, but no righteous indignation she could muster was able to smother the misery of his apparent defection and her own ill-tempered words. She stood cautiously as he was announced. If he gave them his usual dry smile, she would cross to him and give him her hand with all the joy in the world, but she doubted his demons were to be put aside so swiftly. Though if not, why had he come?

Crowther still looked dark and tired as he entered, and his bow to them was at best perfunctory. Harriet held herself back with a sting of regret, making her back straight, and her smile of welcome swift and cautious. He was followed into the room by a far younger man, dark-haired and slim. He was dressed well, the fashions suited him, and he carried about him an air of earnest seriousness. She smiled more gently at him, thinking perhaps she recognized him now, a face from the back of the crowd during the inquest. Crowther waved his hand over his shoulder, without looking at any of them directly.

“Mrs. Westerman, Miss Trench. May I present Daniel Clode?”

Rachel too was on her feet. They both curtsied, and Mr. Clode bowed. He seemed a little ill at ease, and could not lose his slightly worried smile. A gentleman, Harriet decided, though not an idle one.

Crowther continued: “Mr. Clode is a solicitor from Pulborough. He came to visit me this evening after the inquest, and having heard him explain his matter a little, I have asked him to lay it all before us both, madam.”

“I am happy to know you, Mr. Clode,” Harriet said. “Do take a seat.”

He did so with a small smile and a nod.

“Thank you, Mrs. Westerman.” His voice was a smooth baritone, with a touch of the local burr under it. “I knew this house a little when I was a boy and my uncle had business with the previous occupants. It seems to be doing very well under its present owners.”

Harriet mumured her thanks, and thought him a very sensible-looking man. He paused, and her gaze drifted to where Crowther sat, brooding over his cane as he had done in the back room of the Crown and Bear. At once she could not endure it, she could not sit under this cloud they had made between them, and before she had made, it seemed to her, any conscious decision, she found herself on her feet again. Mr. Clode stood also, looking faintly surprised. Crowther merely glanced at her sulkily.

“Mr. Clode, forgive my rudeness, but before we hear what you have to say, I must ask Mr. Crowther for a word in private. Rachel, perhaps you could ask Mrs. Heathcote for some refreshment for our guests.” She turned to Crowther. “Mr. Crowther, if you please, a moment of your time,” and without waiting to see him stand, she left the room and crossed the hallway into the empty dining room, holding the door until he followed her in. She let it close behind her as he walked into the room and turned to rest her back against it.

The lights had not been lit here. They were in a world of dove-gray shadows. Crowther stood in the middle of the room for a moment or two, till it was clear she was not going to speak, then, hardly looking in her direction, he grunted, “Well, madam?”

She felt her temper snap within her with the sudden concussion of a dried branch underfoot.

“Don’t ‘well, madam’ me, Crowther! How dare you? How dare you hate us for knowing your secret? It is appalling of you. I am sorry at what I said, but I was angry with you. You know we had no hand in making your situation public. We had no knowledge of it. Do you fear our sympathy? You shall get none from me. You have had the luxury of being able to run away from any unpleasantness life can offer you. I can only envy you that.”

He stared at her in astonishment, very white about the mouth.

“Unpleasantness, Mrs. Westerman? You dare refer to what passed in my family as unpleasantness?”

She cursed herself for the word, but was carried forward again; the wind had caught her and there was no turning now.

“So you do wish for sympathy then. My mistake.” She looked him in the eye and would not be afraid. “Damn it, Crowther, you are perverse! I’m surprised you haven’t run through half a dozen identities by now if this is how you react to anyone knowing anything of your past. Strange how pride can make a man into such a coward!”

He took a step toward her; she felt the door at her back.

“If you were a man,” he said quietly, “I would kill you for such a remark.”

She felt her hand tremble a little where it was clasped behind her back. She turned her head, so her eyes looked directly into his own.

“Killing me would not make it any more or less true.”

Their faces were only a breath apart. She felt her heart beat, she thought of him where she had found him, among his preparations with his back to the world, thought, clearly, swiftly and for the first time how he removed himself from the stream of the day-to-day, had a sort of calm, how she had pulled him back into the swiftest of currents. Her eyes began to tear again; she blinked them away.

“Oh Crowther, I am so sorry. And so sorry if involving you in all this has caused you any distress.”