Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

He paused and looked up. All three of them were staring at him as if he had just performed some terrible or miraculous trick in the neat salon. He felt a little at a loss.

“I hope you don’t think I have done wrong in sharing this information with you.”

Crowther smiled narrowly at the top of his cane. “So Alexander is called ‘Adams’ now, is he?”

Mrs. Westerman stood, her face was flushed, her eyes bright. “He has a child! Crowther!”

Miss Trench leaned forward over her knees in apparent deep concentration.

“Shush, Harry,” she said urgently. “That name. . I remember this morning. .” Then with a cry of horror she leaped to her feet and ran to the desk at the far end of the room, plucking the Daily Advertiser from it and running back to them.

Crowther rose to meet her and Clode stood in confusion to avoid being the only member of the group sitting down. Harriet caught her sister’s elbow.

“Rachel, what is it?”

The younger woman began turning the pages of the paper in her hands, then thrust it into her sister’s hand.

“There-oh Harry-there!”

She took a step back, and would have stumbled if Mr. Clode had not steadied her elbow, and guided her to her seat. She looked up at him gratefully.

Harriet scanned the page and put her hand to her mouth. Crowther tapped the bottom of his cane on the carpet.

“Mrs. Westerman, for the love of God, do not keep me in suspense.”

Harriet began to read in an unsteady voice, “Horrid murder done in Tichfield Street.” Crowther’s eyes snapped to her face. She glanced at him, felt her hand tremble and had to steady it before she could read on. “‘On this Friday past, among the many disturbances of the crowd was done a most terrible murder in the music shop and printers of Mr. Alexander Adams of Tichfield Street.’ Oh Crowther! They have killed him!”

“Read on, if you would, Mrs. Westerman.”

“‘A man, his identity at this time still a mystery, came into the shop as Mr. Adams and his children were at supper and killed the proprietor with one cruel knife blow to his stomach. It seems that were it not for the accidental arrival of a friend, this devil in human form may have snuffed out too the young lives of Mr. Adams’s two defenseless and motherless children, Susan Adams, only nine years of age, and her younger brother Jonathan.’ Oh, the children live then!” She caught Crowther’s look and continued to read. “‘The murderer lost himself in the crowds, and though Mr. Adams lived long enough to comfort his children and confide them to the care of his friend, the efforts of the surgeon were not enough to save his life.’”

She looked around, Rachel pale, Clode confused but horrified, Crowther, his hands clasped so tightly around the ball of his cane, his fingers were white.

She almost whispered, “Who is this friend? He must be warned! There’s a little more…‘The motive for the killings may most likely be robbery, but what a matter, oh England, when such murder is done in daylight in the home of a respectable man leaving his little son and daughter alone and adrift in this cruel and chaotic world. Mr. Adams’s funeral was well attended by his many friends, filled with respect for the murdered man’s great knowledge of the glorious music available in the city at this time, and his commitment to introduce the finest qualities to the most advanced tastes.’”

Harriet dropped the paper to her side. Crowther could almost see her fears and horrors crowding around her in the growing shadows, monsters of imagination and sympathy pulling at her dark red skirts and plucking her hair with long waxy fingers.

Clode looked about him amazed. “I do not understand. This is the man who was Nurse Bray’s benefactor?”

Rachel turned to him, her face calm, but a little emptied; there was a hollow ring in her voice that made Clode feel as if he were lost in the night and cold.

“We believe that Alexander Adams was by birth Alexander Thornleigh. Heir to Thornleigh Hall and Viscount Hardew.”

It was Clode’s turn to look pale. Harriet spoke to the air around her.

“ And he had children.”

Crowther stooped a little over his cane. “They may not be legitimate.”

Harriet shook her head. “If Alexander gave up his family for the love of their mother, I cannot think but he married her and they are legitimate.”

Clode stood again, with sudden urgency.

“They are in danger,” he said. No one replied. He appealed to Crowther. “Mr. Crowther, are they not? I have not your understanding of this business, but I can see there is some desperate hand at work here, and it has stretched its influence to London. Any child can see that. We must warn them, warn their friends, as Mrs. Westerman said-take them to some place of safety till the danger is past.”

Crowther did not look up from the top of his cane. He could feel the young rush of blood, the quivering energy in the man across the space between them. One corner of his mouth twisted into a wary smile.

“Yes. I think you have grasped the fundamentals of the situation, Mr. Clode.”

Clode glanced down briefly at Rachel, who was staring off intently into a corner of the room, then back to the figures of Harriet and Crowther, each seemingly cut off in their own worlds. He spoke softly.

“Let me go.”

Harriet seemed to wake and turned with a frown. “No, Mr. Clode, I shall.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Westerman, but that makes no sense.” The young man stepped forward. “These children will not be safe until whoever is behind this is brought to justice. You can help that happen more effectively than I. Let me go. I can set off at once and be in London by dawn.”

Harriet hesitated. She thought of her own children asleep upstairs, then gave a quick nod and turned away. The fears and confusions of the evening still had her by the throat.

Clode continued, “I only wish I knew of some place to take the children if the need arises. The closer they are to Tichfield Street, the greater their danger, yet I do not think their grandfather’s house to be a place of safety for them now, if,” he looked at them. “If I understand the situation correctly.”

Crowther walked over to Harriet’s writing table with quick steps.

“You do, sir. And the place of safety I believe I can supply.” He pulled out paper and examined Harriet’s quills till with a grunt he selected one he believed would suit him. “I am writing a note for you to take to a Mr. John Hunter. He has been a teacher of mine in London, a great man for many reasons and with better sense than most. He has a house out at Earl’s Court. He’ll take you in if you think it necessary. He’s a rough man, and has a queer household.” Crowther shook sand onto the sheet. “He also knows some individuals who may be of use if you come under threat.” He folded the note and handed it to Clode. The latter’s face wore a slight frown. “Grave robbers and their like, Mr. Clode,” Crowther explained further. “He is an anatomist, like myself, and a great one, but his needs for material have led him into some strange alliances. You may trust him with your life, however, and those of the children. He’d not betray you if the king and the archbishop of Canterbury knocked at his door asking for them.”

Harriet shook herself free from her imaginings and also stepped swiftly behind the desk, making Crowther move quickly out of her way in her impatience to open a little drawer in its honey-colored side. She withdrew a money box and, opening it with a key from her own pocket, pulled out a handful of notes. Mr. Clode looked a little offended and tried to wave her away. She all but stamped her foot.

“Oh, take it, Mr. Clode! You may have need of it and have expenses you did not envisage when you left your home this morning.”