Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

Her sympathy was a thousand times harder to bear than her anger. Two decades’ worth of grief rushed over him in a flood. He dropped the cane with a rattle and turning from her put his head into his hands. His shoulders shook, and a low groan escaped him. She did not move, but felt her body relax. The shadows in the room made him look like a creature of the lonely dark, and cold, but something uncomfortable and cruel between them seemed to fracture and wash away, like a child’s dam in a stream overwhelmed by spring floods.

Then she stooped down on her knees to pick up the cane. The long skirts of her day dress billowed out around her. She did not stand up again at once, but remained where she was, looking up at him. He sighed deeply, and passing his hand across his face, stepped slowly past her to one of the suite of long windows that lit the room, and looked out of it onto Harriet’s carriageway. It was open, and the oblivious breeze shifted the drapes a little. They carried with them the heavy memory of the heat of the day across the oak that defended the front of the house, and let it drift into the dining room. The scent was peaceful, calming.

“Forgive me.”

His voice sounded awkward, like a man who has not spoken in many years, and has not yet become used to forming words again. Harriet stood and walked to his side. She said nothing, but having put the cane in his hand, she let her fingers rest on his sleeve and left them there, looking out at the oak. It was a full minute before she spoke.

“The tree is one of the reasons we came to Caveley. My husband said he would worry less about us while at sea if he knew we had such a friend and guardian.”

He did not answer at once, but when he did he sounded a little more like his usual self.

“Do you really need a guardian, Mrs. Westerman?”

She smiled. “I’d like to think not. But everyone needs allies, don’t you agree, Mr. Crowther?”

“Perhaps.”

She glanced up to see the ghost of one of his weary smiles hovering on his lips. She felt her headache lift a little.

“Do you wish to speak of it at all?”

He knew what she had in mind, and shook his head slowly.

“No, not now. But perhaps at some point in the future. Tonight I wish to hear what Mr. Clode has to say.”

They remained together in the gloom a little longer, letting the peace between them deepen till it seemed right, sufficient. He offered her his arm, and they began to move away. “I am sorry I have not yet told you of Alexander’s whereabouts. I have feared at every point being overheard. Carter Brook found him in Tichfield Street.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “I know it. Near Soho Square.” She smiled and Crowther opened the door for her into the salon. “Oh Crowther, perhaps we will be able to make sense of this horror in the end.”

Rachel and Mr. Clode were on their feet when Crowther and Harriet reentered the room. Rachel appeared to be giving him a tour of some of the curiosities dotted about the salon and describing where on Harriet’s and her husband’s travels they had been found. Harriet rather wondered if Rachel did not know their stories better than she did herself. They discovered them with Rachel laughing at her companion’s rather bemused expression as he looked at the carvings on a small bone flute. Harriet hoped for all their sakes that the serious young man did not examine it too carefully. It was normally played during the fertility rites of an island in the West Indies. Rachel looked into her eyes, and Harriet smiled at her. Mr. Clode bowed to them again, and placed the flute very carefully on the table. There was a certain light in his eye that made Harriet wonder if he had looked at the little instrument rather more closely than she had hoped. She was angry to find herself almost blushing.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Clode. I trust Rachel has not been boring you with sea stories?”

He smiled. “We have traveled to the Indies and back, crossed Europe and made a brief visit to Gibraltar, Mrs. Westerman. I have never been better entertained.”

Rachel looked pleased.

“You are very kind, sir,” Harriet said with a nod.

“I am fascinated, Mrs. Westerman.” He looked at her quite seriously, and Harriet recognized the attractiveness of black hair and blue eyes in him that she had first noticed when she met her husband. “I have barely been out of the county and would love to travel. It is a joy to hear your stories, and Miss Trench tells them very well, I think.”

How old was he, she wondered-twenty-five, twenty-six? Before she could stop herself she found she was thinking how handsome he and Rachel looked next to each other.

“I am sure she tells them better than I do, and my husband and I trust her to make us appear appropriately heroic. Now, Mr. Clode, I am at your disposal if there is something you wish to tell us.”

He immediately frowned again, and took the few moments it required for them to find their seats to consider.

“I feel perhaps-I hope you will indulge me-I should explain why I have not spoken first to the squire. I would have done, but of course with Mr. Thornleigh’s arrest immediately after the inquest was suspended… In short I walked around the village for some hours, and as the information I have is not strictly confidential, and having seen you both at the inquest. . And the squire did not seem. .”

He looked uncomfortable, but the decision had been taken during his walk about the village, and it seemed that nothing he now saw caused him to reevaluate it. Harriet wondered if he had any acquaintance with Michaels.

Crowther turned the cane between his palms and spoke calmly. “We understand you, Mr. Clode. And respect your scruples.”

The young man nodded. “Thank you. My uncle is the senior partner in our practice in Pulborough. I have been with him two years now, but he is away and I thought perhaps I could seek your guidance, the squire being. . unavailable.”

“Thank you for your trust,” Harriet said.

They waited a moment longer. Mr. Clode looked at his cuff. Harriet felt her impatience rise again, but held herself steady till the young man continued.

“Lord Thornleigh’s nurse, Madeleine Bray, left a will with us for safekeeping.”

Harriet straightened suddenly and looked brightly across at Crowther. He held up his hand as if to ward something away.

“That is as much as I know too, Mrs. Westerman. When Mr. Clode had told me that much, I asked him to accompany me here.”

Harriet was pleased, though felt herself a little guilty for being so. It did not seem appropriate to be jealous of information, and she still had her own secrets to tell, but nevertheless she was glad that what more Mr. Clode had to tell, he would share with them both. Crowther turned his eyes back on the young man.

“Tell on, Mr. Clode.”

“Drawing up the will was one of the first duties I took on for my uncle, so I remember Mrs. Bray well. When I heard of her death in town, I decided to attend the inquest to see if I could make contact with her legatees. My uncle and I are to act as executors.”

Crowther nodded and examined the fingernails on his right hand. Mr. Clode looked a little uncertain. Rachel saw he was looking at Crowther and smiled at him.

“Do not mind Mr. Crowther. He always does that when he is particularly interested in what he thinks one is about to say next.” Crowther looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “You do, you know,” she told him.

Crowther cleared his throat and returned his hand to his cane. Rachel turned back to the young man.

“Do go on, Mr. Clode.”

He nodded to her.

“Mrs. Bray had, it seems, few relatives or friends in the world, but to them she left rather more perhaps than one might have expected. There is a sum of fifty pounds to be paid to her old friend, a Mrs. Service, in Tichfield Street, London.” Harriet suddenly clasped her hands together very tightly. Mr. Clode waited, but when she did not speak, continued, “And a little cameo brooch that she notes was given to her by Mrs. Service’s mother, but that she wishes to go to the daughter of her ‘benefactor.’ The daughter is called Susan and, really, this is the part that struck me a little strange and I thought someone’s attention should be drawn to it; this benefactor, the will says, is also of Tichfield Street and ‘goes by the name’ of Alexander Adams.” He did not notice quite the effect his words had had on his audience, as he was frowning at his cuff again. “I thought as I wrote it down for her that it was a strange phrase, and questioned her on it. She seemed most insistent, and there was real delight in her countenance as she specified the wording …”