Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

The house of Sir Stephen Young was showing signs of neglect. The former magistrate had died at a healthy age and of natural causes some twenty years before. His son and heir, they were told, was a little eccentric.

The maid who showed them in did not seem used to visitors and reacted to them as a bishop might, confronted with a talking lion: curious, but at best a little uncertain. They were hurried into a salon which was dusty and unaired, the furniture bulky and chipped, the paint on the panels blistered and paled where the sunlight reached them, and sooty and greasy where it did not. They had not waited long before the door was pushed open again with a bustle and fuss, and a man of about Crowther’s age tumbled into the room. He was remarkably short, and made himself shorter still by carrying his head down and his shoulders bunched. His wig, rather yellow, was slightly adrift and his coat oddly stained about the cuffs. His energy was unmistakable though, and his pleasure at having guests seemed to almost overwhelm him. It was a little, Harriet thought to herself, like being greeted by an enthusiastic mole. He squinted up at them through rather smeared glasses, and wrinkled his nose happily, almost as if he sought to identify them by smell rather than sight.

“So happy, so happy! Such great visitors! I hope you will forgive my home. I have no time for it! No eyes for it! It is a mere shell! My work is the heart of it, and I need no salons for that.” He nodded rapidly as he spoke.

“You are very kind to receive us, sir.”

Harriet extended her hand. He snuffled over it.

“I am honored! When I heard that the great Mr. Crowther himself was in my home-such a joy! So good to meet a fellow natural philosopher, an explorer of the universal beauty of God’s creation.” He turned to Crowther. “You know my name from my publications on the beetles of this area, I think, sir? You have found me out for a little further schooling on the subject?”

The violent nodding continued, and Harriet realized why his wig was always likely to be askew. She could not help liking the little man, and hoped only that Crowther would be kind. She could not bear to see her mole crushed underfoot like one of his studies. She need not have feared, however. Crowther seemed in generous mood.

“I have a double purpose in coming here with my friend. I would be honored to hear more of your work,” Sir Stephen wrinkled his nose again with delight, “but I wonder if you could also help us with a matter of ancient history.”

Harriet put her hand to her lips to hide a smile, and Sir Stephen blinked rapidly, clasped and unclasped his hands and flicked his head to one side. The wig did not quite manage to keep pace with the movement, but seemed to stumble after him like a drunken suitor after a lively dancer.

Crowther cleared his throat. “I believe your father was a magistrate in this area, some forty years ago, and I wondered if you had kept about you any of his papers relating to that time. There is a matter we would be glad to know more of.”

“Oh yes!” More nodding. “My father was a careful taker of notes. They are all in his library. I mean to send them somewhere sometime. But anything not related to my work … I never find the time to attend to it.”

Crowther bowed. “I understand, of course.”

Sir Stephen glowed in the glory of the fellow feeling. Crowther seemed to consider a second, and then suggested, “Perhaps, if you would allow it, Mrs. Westerman might have a glance through the papers while we talk a little more about your work.”

The nodding increased to such an intensity, Harriet feared the wig would fly off entirely.

“Of course, of course. I shall have Hester bring you a cup of something, my dear.” He grinned up at her, the smears on his glasses catching the light, then told Crowther in a confidential whisper, “The fairer sex, I fear, do not always understand the fascinations of the natural sciences.”

Harriet murmured something appropriate and lowered her gaze.

It was some two hours later that Crowther opened the door to the former Sir Stephen’s office and found Harriet, her hat and gloves laid aside, coughing through a cloud of dust she had caused to be thrown into the air on placing a volume on the table in front of her a little too emphatically.

“Good hunting, Mrs. Westerman?” he inquired after a polite pause.

“Very, Mr. Crowther,” she replied with a choke.

Crowther approached the desk and took in the piles of papers balanced on the various chairs surrounding it. He looked at Harriet questioningly.

“Yes, you can move those. I have what I need here.”

He lifted one pile onto the floor and examined the seat. Frowning, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and attempted to disperse some of the dirt before he sat down.

“I don’t think you will be able to avoid dust here, Crowther. How are the beetles?”

“Numerous. I wonder at the arrogance of humanity that it is assumed we are made in God’s image. Judging by the variety and adaptations of Sir Stephen’s specimens-their ability to find a hold in any environment-I would not be surprised to discover that our Creator is, in fact, a very large insect.” He grinned. “Perhaps we should all learn to tread a little more carefully.”

Harriet smiled, though without looking up from her reading.

“I shall be revenged, however,” Crowther went on. “Sir Stephen is to visit me in a week to have a tour of my preparations.”

Harriet looked up at that. “I don’t envy your staff keeping those horrors clean,” she remarked. “And is Sir Stephen worthy to be shown the discoveries of the great Mr. Crowther?”

Crowther placed his hands on top of his cane and rested his chin on them. If he noticed her satirical tone, he refused to rise to it.

“He is not unintelligent, if a little keen to see God in everything-particularly in beetles-though I don’t think he would subscribe to my new theology. And my staff are not allowed to go anywhere near my preparations, which are, in their own way, very beautiful.”

“We shall have to differ. I prefer the human body whole, and not injected with resins…. Damn, I have lost my place with all your chattering! No, here! You are come at a happy moment.”

Crowther stood and stepped carefully around the piles of papers till he could peer over her shoulder. She held a fat, handwritten volume in her hand, and pointed to a passage in it.

“Sir Stephen was right,” she said. “His father was also a great recorder of his observations, it seems, though he was more interested in men than insects, and I suspect less happy as a result, from what I have read. His notes are plentiful. The volumes for the thirties were behind those for the twenties, rather than alongside, and I now know a lot more about my older neighbor’s business than I should, but enough of that. I have found Sir Stephen’s journal for the year of Sarah Randle’s murder. It was in thirty-nine. He wrote about the death and search, and I have read it.” She looked up at Crowther. “It was not the squire who found her. It was our friend here.”

Crowther lifted an eyebrow, and commented, “The current Sir Stephen cannot have been much more than a boy himself at that time.”

Harriet nodded. “Only twelve, poor thing. The same age as Sarah. His father spills a lot of ink regretting that it was so, and fearing the shock would affect him badly. Bridges was of the party following, that much is true. Why would he lie to you, do you think?”

“He wished to be at the center of the story, I imagine. I am flattered he sought to impress me. Is there any description of the body?”

“Yes, but that is not the part I wish to show you.”

“Indulge me, Mrs. Westerman.”