Imogen Robertson: Instruments of Darkness

Crowther glanced across at his companion. For the first time that morning she looked a little shocked, and he thought he saw a tremble in her hand. He stepped forward and bowed-low enough to suggest sarcasm.

“Well, at least, sir, this gentleman had the consideration to be murdered relatively close to your home. So the inconvenience is kept to a minimum.”

The young man started and turned to face him, Crowther realized he had been standing where Mr. Thornleigh’s damaged vision might have missed him, and wondered if he would have spoken in such a manner to a lady if he had not thought she was alone. He looked strong, powerful still in spite of the drink. Riding probably, though youthful bulk was already beginning to turn to fat. Crowther imagined what his muscular forearm would look like with its skin removed. The younger man cleared his throat, and had the decency at least to look a little embarrassed.

“You are our natural philosopher, Mr. Crowther, are you not?”

“I am.”

“I am Hugh Thornleigh.” He bowed and shook his head, and seemed to deflate a little. “My apologies, Mrs. Westerman. I spoke very ill-naturedly. Thank you for your note, and I hope the shock of finding this unfortunate has not been too great.” He paused again, and cleared his throat. “I hope your family is well.”

Crowther could almost like him now. There was a residual charm under the ill temper, a pleasing deference to Mrs. Westerman. It was as if when he had shaken his head it had dislodged a mask, and he had found his own better self beneath it. He was a bear in a frockcoat. A beast-domesticated. Crowther remembered his own brother.

Mrs. Westerman, though, was still angry. Her voice was cold, and she looked through the young man as she spoke rather than at him.

“We are all well, Mr. Thornleigh. Here is the body.” She flicked aside the cloak again from the body’s face with the tip of her crop. Thornleigh sucked in his breath.

“I had thought perhaps a vagrant. You did say murdered …” He stepped nearer. “Was anything found on him?” Harriet dropped the ring into his outstretched hand then withdrew, pulling on her glove again. Hugh shuddered a little as it hit his palm and caught the sun. Then he looked at them again quickly. “Nothing else?”

“We have not completed rifling through his pockets, I’m afraid,” Crowther said. “May I ask, sir, do you know this man?”

Hugh caught his tone and steadied himself.

“I am sure he is not Alexander, though this man is of his age and coloring. Again my apologies, madam. I do not know how he came by the ring, though. That is indeed Alexander’s. I wear one very much the same.” He extended his left hand, showing them the twin of the ring they had found, shining on his middle finger.

“Can you be sure?” Harriet asked. “I think you once said you have not seen Alexander for many years.”

“I saw him last in ’65, shortly before I joined my regiment. But I am sure. If Alexander ever lay before me, I would know him, however many years had passed. This man means nothing to me. I believe, therefore, it cannot be my brother.” He turned to Crowther. “My brother broke his leg badly as a child in a fall. After, he walked always with a slight limp. Would you be able to tell if this man had had such an injury, were you to examine him more fully? But perhaps I ask too much.”

“The injury would show, and I am happy to examine the body further.”

Hugh nodded shortly. “Well, that may serve as confirmation for the coroner and his men, and you have my thanks. But I am sure in my own mind that this is not Alexander. And thank God for that.”

Mrs. Westerman sighed. “Well, I am glad to hear it. I believe the body is just in Caveley Park lands, so I will have this poor man taken into my house till the squire arrives, and we find out what is to be done-unless you have any objection, Thornleigh.”

Hugh looked at her longer than perhaps he should have done before he spoke, and as he looked, Crowther saw an expression of longing and shame that made him think of a whipped dog, pass over his face. Crowther found himself speculating. The young, battle-scarred neighbor, the husband away at sea … Then he smiled at himself. He was turning romantic.

“Of course, Mrs. Westerman. Can I be of any further assistance?”

“No. The men from the park will be here shortly and we will accompany the body.”

“Very well.” And with no more than a bow to them both, Hugh turned and made his way back down the hill again-as fast, it seemed, as he could manage without running from the place.

“He drinks,” Crowther said, as he watched the blue frockcoat swallowed up again by the woodland. Harriet had leaned against one of the ash trees on the edge of the path.

“Yes, I’m afraid he does. The steward, Wicksteed, runs the place while he keeps company with a bottle.”

“It will kill him in the end-and fast, I think, if he is already at this stage in such relative youth.”

“Good.”

Crowther twisted round to stare at her. An unusual woman certainly, but to say such a thing! He had not realized he could still be shocked by the speeches of a gentleman’s daughter. His manners must have remained more nice than he had thought. Mrs. Westerman continued merely to look at the ground in front of her, tapping her crop. It was only moments before he heard more footsteps and saw Harriet’s groom with another man approaching up the path. She sighed and lifted her eyes.

“My poor peaceful copse. It is as busy as Cheapside this morning.” She straightened and gave the men their orders with calm good sense, then turned back to Crowther. “Come over to the house with me, Mr. Crowther. We shall meet with the squire and then examine this man a little more closely.”

As her servants made ready to carry the body to Caveley, Crowther noticed her gaze at the path down which Hugh had disappeared. Her anger seemed to have dissipated, and her face was filled now only with regret.

Her fear that she was about to hear that Hugh had slit his own throat nearly within sight of her home had left Rachel pale and nervous for some time, but she had recovered enough to greet her sister and Mr. Crowther when they arrived and pour tea for them both without any shake in her hand.

She had seen Mr. Crowther once or twice in the street, and once through the upper windows of his own house, staring out into the road apparently unaware of anything before him, and naturally she had heard the gossip about him from her maid when he first arrived. A recluse and a mystery. She had not thought of him a great deal, however, over the year he had been in Hartswood, her mind being much engaged with her own concerns, but she was glad of the opportunity to study him more closely now. She guessed him to be in his fifties, he wore his own hair, he was very pale and almost painfully thin, but his height and the steady confidence of his deportment gave him a presence she could not help admiring. She had expected the brusqueness she associated with professional men, but his movements were smooth. There must have been a time, she thought, when he was used to company. His features were fine, though the lips were thin and his expression was, if not welcoming, then not outright hostile either. He looked around their salon with polite curiosity and so she decided to like him.

Rachel had often thought her sister was not the most gracious of hostesses, but even she was surprised at the complete lack of any attempt to make conversation with their guest. Harriet was staring out across the room with her chin in one hand, rapping her fingers against her cheek. Rachel felt the duty of the house fall on her shoulders; she was young and therefore keen to supply what deficiencies she sensed in others.