Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

“Release her, please.” Crowther spoke very softly, very slowly. Wicksteed let her wrist go. She began to massage it. “Run along now, my dear,” Crowther added, without moving.

She seemed to waken, and scuttled off her knees and back toward the kitchen, where she was hauled in through the door by her fellow servants like a shipwreck victim gathered into a lifeboat. Crowther waited a long moment before moving his cane. Then he set it back on the ground and leaned on it. Wicksteed stared at the space in front of him where the girl had been, his chest rising and falling, then without looking again at Crowther or Harriet, he turned on his heel and marched away.

Harriet took a few steps to bring her to Crowther’s side.

“You don’t need that stick at all, do you, Crowther?”

He watched Wicksteed’s retreating figure.

“I needed it yesterday. Today I am just enjoying its company.”

He offered his arm and they turned back toward the front of the house.

“He wants to be a gentleman,” Harriet commented.

“Wicksteed? Horsewhipping women hardly seems the way to go about it.”

She smiled. “No, I’ve had no chance to tell you as yet. I visited yesterday and had a look through his desk.”

“I take it you didn’t find the notebooks detailing all his crimes?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, one of his desk drawers is locked. I did find drafts of a rather unctuous letter to the College of Arms, though. And we have just seen that he is capable of violence against a woman.”

Crowther murmured, “There are times when we are all capable of that.”

Harriet chose to ignore him and continue her own train of thought. “I am sure that he has some hold over Hugh.”

“You think he sent the bottle to Cartwright by Hugh’s hand, too?” Crowther gave a slightly exasperated sigh.

And when she nodded, “Why, though, Mrs. Westerman? There is no sense in it. If he has this hold over Mr. Thornleigh, then his wishing to remove the threat of Alexander’s return, or that of his heirs, has some logic to it. But if that is his wish, then he would surely not want Hugh to be hanged for his crimes. And why would he want the man to have the freedom to shoot himself? There can be no other interpretation of the scene we have just witnessed. He was angry that his benefactor could not shoot himself while drunk because of the actions of that little maid. That hardly suggests his fortunes depend on Hugh.”

Mrs. Westerman did not look dismayed.

“Perhaps his allegiances are elsewhere now, Crowther. If both Hugh and Alexander are removed, then the control of the family wealth falls to Lady Thornleigh. He may think her a better patron.”

The remark made Crowther stop, then with a shrug he moved on.

“There is no proof,” he said. “Nothing. Speculation and gossip and a bottle of poison is all we have, and they point clearly at Hugh.”

“Isn’t the proper scientific method to suggest a hypothesis and then look for the evidence to support it?”

“No, it certainly is not. It is to observe, gather all the information one can, then hypothesize with a great deal of circumspection and care.”

Harriet shrugged. “I like my method better.”

Crowther did not reply, only gave a speaking sigh as they approached the entrance to the house.

They were not the first visitors of the morning. As they waited under the heavy ornament of the hallway, they saw Squire Bridges pause on the stairway, taking, it seemed, a very friendly farewell from Lady Thornleigh. He bent low over her hand, his eyes looking up into her lovely face with great warmth. She was smiling at him, with her head a little to one side, and with some last word turned from him and made her way out of sight toward the state rooms above. The squire began to descend the stair, then caught sight of them, and his step faltered a little. The lines on his forehead deepened.

“Crowther. Mrs. Westerman. You are making an early call.”

Crowther smiled. “Not as early as yourself, sir.”

Bridges drew himself up. “I have business here at the moment, as I am sure you can imagine. Though I do not understand what might be your matter here.”

They regarded each other steadily for a while. Crowther began to wonder how long the match might last when a maid appeared at their side.

“Lady Thornleigh’s apologies, but she is unable to receive guests today. She is feeling a little unwell.”

The squire’s face took on an air of great contentment. Crowther turned to him with one eyebrow raised.

“I do hope your visit did not render her bilious, sir.”

He reddened, and was on the point of reply when Hugh, pale and un-shaved, entered from one of the lower corridors.

“Mrs. Westerman! Crowther! Come in. I will see you, even if my respected stepmother will not.”

The squire did not look at him, but turned away. As they followed Hugh through the archway into the old meeting hall, Crowther glanced at Harriet’s face.

“The squire was once a great friend to us, Crowther,” she whispered.

“He is a politician.”

“And seems to have joined the party of Lady Thornleigh. I thought they hated each other.”

“He must believe he has evidence that is sure to hang Hugh, and is hoping to make friends with the new power in the house.”

Hugh looked back at them over his shoulder. “What are you whispering about?”

They were entering the old hall of the house. It had been built some two hundred years before the rest. The modern property had been conjured around it, an elegant frontage on the ancient heart of the place. It was still stone-flagged, the furniture massive and dark. The walls were hung with old arms and portraits so stained with age one could hardly make out the stiff profiles of the first earls of Sussex that brooded high above them. At the far end of the Hall two halberds bearing the arms of the family on rotting silk were crossed on the wall. The huge empty fireplace could have roasted a whole ox. Probably had, Harriet thought, as the first earls drank with their dogs and servants and dragged in parcels of game across the flagstones from their hunt, the stag’s head loose and sightless, slipping and bouncing over the stone, while the dogs leaped and yapped at it.

Hugh approached the wide oak table in the center of the room. Harriet moved toward him, her dress whispering on the stone floor as she moved.

“We did not know the squire and Lady Thornleigh were on such good terms.”

Hugh reached for the wine bottle on the great table a little uncertainly.

“They are negotiating over my blood.” His fingers closed around the thin green neck, he lifted it and began to slop the claret into one of the large glasses. It splashed a little over the rim.

“Bridges is in hock to us. It never worried me-I’m told he pays the interest in a regular fashion. A political loan of my father’s, I think. I dare say my beautiful mama has been promising it will cause him no trouble if I am hanged and control comes to her, but if he looks too hard in other directions, then he will not find Thornleigh a friendly broker when I am gone. Or dead by my own hand. She will make him suffer-whatever she says to him now.”

The evenness of his tone horrified Harriet.

“Hugh, please! What is happening in this house?”

Thornleigh put down the wine glass, but kept his head turned away. Harriet walked quickly toward him, brushing off as she did the warning hand Crowther had placed on her sleeve.

“Did you murder that man, Carter Brook, kill Nurse Bridges, poison Joshua? I cannot believe it. Will you not save yourself? Mr. Thornleigh, your brother. .”

Hugh spun round and grabbed her by the wrist. His wine glass toppled from the table and smashed on the old stone flags below them. The shattered crystal seemed to chime in the air.