Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

Thinking of her again now, he glanced about him and held his bag tight to his chest. She had become in his mind a spirit of London, and he half-turned, expecting to see her on the street in front of him, mocking him. He stood still and the traffic surged around him. At last he put out his hand and stopped a man who looked at least clean, if not friendly. No one looked friendly.

“Tichfield Street?”

The man turned and looked at him suspiciously.

“North of here,” he grunted, then, seeing the confusion on Clode’s face, explained further: “Just go to the end here, then right and follow your nose. It’s near Golden Square and if you hit fields, you’ve gone too far.”

Daniel released him and nodded. The man took a step on, then turned back and scratched his head.

“Mind how you go, sonny. Gordon’s lot are pretty hot round there.” As Clode nodded his thanks again, the man sighed and stepped back beside him. “And for the love of God, don’t carry your bag like that. Here-swing it round and to your side under your cloak. Seeing you clinging to it like that, I’m almost tempted to rob you myself.”

He rearranged how it lay, moved back to admire what he had done, then had turned into the surge of the crowd again before Clode could even speak.

“No.”

“Miss, it’s very important.”

“No. If you wish to leave a message with me, I shall see it gets to the children, but more than that I shall not do. You can have no business with them that can’t wait.”

“I do-I have ridden all night to see them.”

“Then tell it.”

“It is confidential.”

“Then it must wait.”

Jane made to close the door in his face. Daniel held up his hand.

“But I am a lawyer!”

“Well, I’m very happy for you, sir. Good-bye.”

The shop door was slammed. Clode turned and rested his back against it. He did not know what strength had carried him this far. The day was advancing, he could already taste the first notes of evening in the air. He had not slept and the long ride had sewn aches into his muscles like red threads, which pulled whenever he moved. He thought again of Nurse Bray, her wide face and little blue eyes counting off her bequests in the second-best office in his uncle’s establishment, his own nervousness in setting pen to paper, watching he made no blot for his uncle to lift his eyebrows at. He remembered the recitation of her modest wealth, her odd phrasing, her pride as she counted the bequests on her pink fingers: the brooch, the surprisingly large bequest for her friend. His tiredeness fell from him, and he spoke aloud to the oblivious air.

“Mrs. Service, Tichfield Street.”

He was shown into the modest parlor and took a seat on one of the two armchairs by the empty grate as Mrs. Service jiggled tea cups and leaves on her rackety little side table. Her cheeks were smooth, but each was dotted with red. Clode wished he could tell her she had no need to apologize for the dark little room, or the kitchen girl who had dragged up the hot water from the kitchen with a whistle and wink rather than a curtsy. Mrs. Service’s dress was worn and patched. Still, everything about her and her room was neat and clean. Clode wondered how many guests she had to entertain and how she spent her evenings in front of that empty fire with nothing but the noise in the street to keep her company.

When it was time to speak, Daniel tried to choose his words carefully. He waited till he had taken and tasted the tea-weak and made with old leaves-and complimented it before he made any mention of the reason for her call.

“I am sorry, ma’am, but I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Mrs. Service put down her cup with great care and drew herself straight, ready to be brave. Clode’s heart pulsed; he could see in every line of her face that Mrs. Service had withstood bad news many times, and he silently wished her strength.

“I am afraid a lady I believe to be an old friend of yours, Madeleine Bray, has died.”

He waited for her to begin to cry. Instead her shoulders relaxed and she smiled at him.

“Oh, no! My dear boy! I think you are mistaken. I had a letter from her only this morning.” Doubt suddenly drifted across her face. “Though I did think the tone of it a little strange. Not like herself.”

He waited, and the fears began to show on her face.

“Perhaps that was. . oh, oh dear. Really, sir? You are quite sure, the nurse, Madeleine Bray?”

Clode put down his cup. “Yes, of Thornleigh Hall. I am sorry. It is my understanding she died on Saturday afternoon. My condolences.”

Mrs. Service looked down at her lap. One hand tapped on the other on the unfashionable gray-green folds of material of her dress. She did not speak for some time. Clode began to realize she was made of stronger stuff than he had imagined.

“Was it a fever, sir?” she asked quietly. “They can come on terribly quickly. Perhaps that letter was the first sign.”

He cleared his throat. “I am sorry, no. I fear I must cause you more distress. She was found hanging in an old cottage on the Thornleigh estate.” He waited, unsure what he could or should say. He was very aware of those pale eyes watching him closely. “There is some debate as to whether the death was suicide, or-or something more suspicious.”

The voice of Mrs. Service acquired an edge. Daniel realized as she spoke that the old lady was angry.

“My poor Madeleine. She was murdered. She would never have turned her hand against herself.”

“But you said yourself, in the letter, she did not sound herself.”

“Oh, that’s quite different.” She got up briskly and pulled at the top drawer of a little chest under the room’s one mean window, producing a folded sheet and returning to her seat with it.

“Here is the letter. I shall not bore you with the usual nonsense women of our age write to one another.” She paused suddenly, and her manner lost much of its sudden energy. “I had already begun my reply to her, Mr. Clode. No need to finish that letter now, I suppose. Poor Madeleine.” Then she turned again to the paper in her hands. “Here is the passage that gave me some cause for concern: ‘My dear Beatrice’- that is myself, Mr. Clode- ‘I wonder to what extent humble beings such as us should involve ourselves in the matters of our masters. There has been an incident here today, a shocking one, which has caused me much grief, and I shall write to you further of it in a later letter’ -oh, how the gods laugh at us when we make our plans, Mr. Clode- ‘but it has made me fretful, for I think I have information that may serve some in this household, but I do not know enough of the circumstances to know if I should speak or not. Perhaps I should say nothing, yet something weighs on this house. I have told you before, my dear, I think the Hall for all its comforts an unhappy and corroded place. It has made me suspicious, but I know no great evils of Mr. Hugh, so perhaps I should give him a hint. I am sure this reads as nonsense to you, but even writing it, I see your wise kind face, and that gives me the answer I need. I find I have another letter to write this evening, so must close this and leave you in confusion for a day or two. Forgive me, with best love, Madeleine.’”

Mrs. Service looked up at Clode, and his blue eyes looked steadily back at her.

“Do you know Mr. Hugh Thornleigh, sir? I think he is the son of the house where Madeleine was engaged.”

“I have only seen him from a distance, but he is currently under suspicion of Nurse Bray’s murder, ma’am.”

She nodded slowly, then said, “I wonder what the other letter was she had in mind to write. .”

“Madam, I know nothing can soothe the wound we feel on losing a friend,” Daniel began, and a sad ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, as if she guessed he was too young to have suffered many such wounds, “but I drew up Mrs. Bray’s will for her. She has left you the sum of fifty pounds. If I may take the details of where you would like the money deposited, I can arrange the funds to be sent to you.”