Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

Her parents exchanged glances, Mr. Chase shrugged and having cast a look at Graves that conveyed more than a sermon would from any other man, kissed his daughter’s cheek and swept his wife out of the house. The door was slammed and bolted behind them. Graves stepped toward Miss Chase.

“Why has your father been targeted? He is no Catholic.”

She took his arm and began to lead him toward the parlor.

“His neighbor in the docks is, however, and that seems to be enough this evening.”

The parlor door opened and Susan’s face peered around anxiously. Her thin shoulders dropped in relief as she saw Miss Chase and Graves approaching her. She stepped forward and pressed her face into his coat. He put his arm around her shoulders and bent forward to kiss the top of her head. She looked up at him.

“Where have you been? Urgh! Your coat smells disgusting! And who is that other man? Is he a friend?”

He smiled down at her. “He is. But a tired one. I have sent him to rest.” He hesitated. “He has brought news with him, Susan. Is Jonathan. .?”

The young face grew serious. “He is asleep on the hearth rug like a cat. You can tell us without frightening him. That is what you mean, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Yes, little woman. It is.”

They walked into the bright of the parlor, and the noise and fury of the crowd seemed to be sealed away as the door fell to behind them.

Graves was frank with the girl, and she heard him out with a quiet gravity, holding onto Miss Chase’s hand and apparently studying the sleeping form of her brother, curled on the floor with Miss Chase’s shawl over him. She was silent for a moment when he had finished, then, without looking at him she asked, “What was the name of the man in the wood, the one with Papa’s ring? Was it Carter?”

Graves frowned. “I believe it was, Susan. Carter Brook. But how did you know? Did you ever meet the man?”

She shook her head and the fair ringlets round her ears bobbed and swung like corks in water.

“No, but Jonathan did. The man showed him a picture, the coat of arms on Papa’s ring, when he was out at play, and Jonathan told him all about the ring, and where it was too, I suppose. Jonathan liked him. Said he was a nice man-that he had a nice waistcoat. He’ll talk forever if he likes someone.” She swallowed. “If he hadn’t have told, then Papa might still be alive, mightn’t he? Papa, and those other people.”

Miss Chase bent toward her. “We cannot know that, my love.”

The little girl was very still and straight. “No, but I think they would be.” She looked up into Graves’s face. He let his eyes travel over her still-forming features, felt his tenderness for her flower. “Let us never tell him, Mr. Graves. It would not be good if he knew.”

Graves could only nod his agreement and all three looked back again toward the form of the Honorable Jonathan Thornleigh, Viscount Hardew, sleeping still with his fingers caught in the tassels of the hearth rug, dreaming of horses.

Patience was waiting for them in one of the upper private rooms which the Bear and Crown provided for travelers who needed a bed, or for those who wished to take refreshment in privacy for reasons of their own nicety, or protection. She stood when Crowther and Harriet entered and bobbed a curtsy to them. Harriet wondered if she would be able to take this woman into her own household. There was a hardness to her looks and manner that made Harriet mistrust her. Caveley, she feared, would be at her mercy. She stepped forward, however, and took the maid’s hand with her usual open manner.

“We meet again, Patience. Thank you for speaking with us.”

Patience smiled a little tightly before retaking her seat. Harriet perched on one of Michaels’s mismatched dining chairs, and Crowther took up a position next to the mantelpiece.

“We wanted to ask you about the events of this Saturday just passed,” Harriet began.

“Yes, ma’am. Michaels said.”

“Do you recall what happened when Mr. Thornleigh and Wicksteed came back from the inquest into the death of the stranger in the woods?”

Patience shrugged. “Nothing much. Mr. Wicksteed dined alone. Lady Thornleigh had been waiting to dine until my master came home. Then when he did, he said he was not hungry and went into his own apartments to drink and play billiards.” Patience smiled a little. “Lady Thornleigh was annoyed.”

Harriet cocked her head to one side. “So Hugh spent the night playing billiards and drinking alone?”

“Mostly, though he has taught me a little,” the maid told her. “Sometimes he teaches me when I serve him.”

“And he taught you some more on Saturday?”

“Yes, ma’am. He said he would make me an expert. We’ve been practicing a little while now.”

Again the slow smile, and it had such a sensual curve to it Harriet was afraid she might blush; she was aware of the catlike eyes scanning her face for a reaction.

Crowther shifted his weight against the wall. Patience blinked and turned her head toward him.

“So you were with Mr. Thornleigh most of that evening?” he asked.

She lifted her chin toward him. “Oh, I had other duties to attend to now and then. Like taking Mr. Wicksteed his tray. I suppose you would like to know what Mr. Wicksteed had with his supper?”

“Would we?”

“Oh yes, I think so. When I took his leavings back to the kitchen he had me fetch back up a bottle of the Aqua Vitae.” She paused to pluck a thread clean of her gray skirt, enjoying the sharpness of their attention. “Though Lord knows what he did with it, because I never saw the bottle in his room again. Madam Dougherty was all spikes in the morning because she could see there was a bottle missing, but Mr. Wicksteed tipped me a shilling not to write it in the book.” She patted her thigh, indicating, Crowther supposed, where her purse lay concealed. “Of course, later Mr. Hugh said he had taken a bottle to old Cartwright, and that sent her quiet again. The old lady miscounted, like enough. Wouldn’t be surprised to know she had her own supply, and has been dipping into that a bit fierce of late.”

Harriet drew in her breath, and leaned forward.

“Patience, think what you have told us. Mr. Hugh was drinking and playing billiards all night; Wicksteed had a bottle in his room which seemed to disappear; Cartwright was poisoned by that liquor. You must tell the squire what you have told us. It could save Mr. Hugh from the noose!”

The girl regarded her with great composure.

“Mr. Hugh must look to himself. I have my own concerns, and have no mind to talk to the squire. I have told you, after all.” Her hand drifted across her belly. “And I have left Thornleigh. I am to go to London. That is why I am here. Michaels’s boy met me on the way down from the Hall.” Her face became a little flushed and her eyes brightened. The word “London” seemed to work on her like a tonic. Crowther looked a little confused.

“You were keen enough to look out for Hugh last night, Patience, when you locked him away from his guns.”

She nodded, and her speaking palm slid back to her thigh and gave it a pat.

“My prospects are much improved today. I am to go into business-my cousin and I have decided to open a little shop. We shall all do quite nicely, I think. But you must let me go now. I am taking a ride to Pulborough to catch the evening stage. George will be wanting to leave by now.”

There was a rattle and shout downstairs. Crowther glanced out of the window to see one of the local farmers’ lads on the front of his cart twisting round and looking up toward them, just as the girl had said. Patience bent down to pick up her cloak, and for the first time Crowther noticed the neat little bundle under the chair.