Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

The little man nodded hard enough to send his wig scrambling over one ear. “I need to find who the better apothecaries are in the area. It is not convenient to continually send to London for my chemical preparations. What gentlemen are skilled with poisons in the area?”

Sir Stephen’s face shone. “Oh, there is not a great deal of choice, Mr. Crowther, but I think you should be satisfied with Augustus Gladwell here in Pulborough. He is the apothecary the whole area turns to. His establishment is only a step from here, and though the bulk of his work is household poisons and cures, I think you’ll find he is suited to more complex formulations too, if. .” he bent forward and dropped his voice to a confidential level “. . if he is properly instructed. I think he sighs a little when he sees me arrive in his shop, for occasionally I like to experiment with the effects of different additions and proportions in my killing gases and preservatives. But his curiosity becomes engaged and we often have quite a little adventure in getting just the sort of mix we need. He collects curiosities himself, so he should revel in your acquaintance.”

He cocked his head and blinked hard. The movement caught the wig unawares, with the result that for one of the first times since Crowther and Harriet had met Sir Stephen, it now sat almost exactly where it should.

Sir Stephen saw them provided with refreshment and left them to their studies. It was not long before Crowther found Harriet calling him to her side.

“You were right. Old Sir Stephen did not let anything escape his diaries. Here is what he said about Lady Thornleigh’s death: ‘I spoke to my lord, who freely admits he was with his wife when she fell, then looks me in the eye as if curious to see if I dare ask him anything further. Nothing easier than a fall. We all trip from time to time. I saw my lady laid out, and believe she appeared now to be peaceful, though perhaps that is just my mind trying to quiet itself, particularly given the unquiet moments I have had waiting for her to accuse her husband of the murder of that young girl a few years ago. The body was largely unmarked, though there was some bruising at the wrist as if she had been held. I asked the earl, who looked a little distressed and said he had tried to grab her wrist and hold her as she fell, but in vain. Whoever made those marks looked like they had a firm enough grip, but whether he tried to save her, or threw her down himself I cannot tell. The servant, Shapin, who saw the fall, had little of use to say-not that his testimony would have ever been taken against his master’s. And of course, Thornleigh was there in the room as we spoke. Shapin thinks she was alive still when he got to her. “I saw the light go out of her eyes, sir,” he said to me. The earl did not agree. “When your neck is broken, the lights go out at once, Shapin.” The latter looked meek enough and said he supposed he could be mistaken. My lord intends to spend most of his time in London when his wife is buried. I am glad of it. I hope his sons turn out to be better men than their father. They have at least half their mother’s blood.’”

Crowther smiled. “Do you see it, Mrs. Westerman?” She put her hand to her forehead. “I think. .” He brought his stick down on the heavily carpeted floor with a sudden thump. A little miasma of dust lifted and fell over his polished shoes. “We know . Tell me!”

She looked up at him with sudden intelligence, saw the color in his cheeks, the chink of ice in his eyes.

“Lord Thornleigh killed Sarah Randle, kept the locket with his own hair in it as a souvenir. His wife found it, challenged him, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble and Shapin saw, saw perhaps more than he knew at the time.”

“So he was removed from his friends, framed for a theft and transported to America.”

“Where eventually he met Hugh. .” Harriet said.

“. . and Wicksteed. I think that is the man for whose sake Captain Thornleigh is punishing himself. He must have killed Shapin. Wicksteed knew it-and knew why.”

“And has used that knowledge to run the Hall since he got free of the army.”

Crowther relaxed, and smiled at her.

“I believe that may be it. A pretty set of neighbors you have, Mrs. Westerman. Shall we go and visit the local poisoner now?”

Augustus Gladwell was one of the tallest men Mrs. Westerman had ever laid eyes on, and so thin he made Crowther seem stout. Crowther peered at him with such interest Harriet was almost uncomfortable. His cheeks were hollow, and his hair sparse and silvered, tied simply at the nape of his neck. The shop was of a good size, though the enormous height of its owner made it seem lower and more boxy than it should. The tools of his trade were all about him. The wall behind his counter was fitted with a set of a hundred small drawers, each labeled in a spidery copperplate. The counter itself, and side tables, were stacked with large jars, curled and glittering in the afternoon sun. Harriet was surprised she had never had cause to come here herself in the four years she had called Caveley her home. She had purchased from here, but only via her servants. The smell reminded her of her own kitchen when Mrs. Heathcote was making the preserves for winter. Oil of cloves hung in the air, which made the room taste to her like autumn even on a summer’s day. The counter also supported a number of sets of balance scales, one which would have done for potatoes, down to the smallest which Harriet was sure could measure the weight of her own breath, so fine and delicate it seemed.

Mr. Gladwell smiled at them, and stooped forward.

“You are Mr. Gladwell, sir?” Crowther asked. The man nodded slowly. “I am Gabriel Crowther. I was recommended to visit you by Sir Stephen.”

The man’s eyes lit up with genuine affection.

“He is one of my best customers, and one of my most challenging. I believe I have heard your name, sir, and was hoping to make your acquaintance.”

His voice was oddly whispering, like parchment being blotted with sand. Crowther looked around him in great contentment.

“I feel I have found a friend here, sir.” Crowther peered into one of the glass jars where something floated that Harriet had decided for her own peace of mind not to attempt to identify. “How old is this preparation?”

“Two years.”

“Remarkable.”

“I spent as much time on the sealant to the jar as the liquid itself. But I have heard you have a remarkable collection.”

The two men leaned toward each other over the jar. Harriet cleared her throat, and Crowther straightened reluctantly.

“I hope we will have time to discuss these matters fully, but first, my friend wishes to ask you something.”

Harriet smiled politely and stepped forward. “I need something to kill my mice,” she said.

Gladwell frowned a little. “Mrs. Westerman, your housekeeper had something appropriate from me for the animals in your long barn only a month ago.”

Harriet blinked and fluttered her hands. “Oh, but I was told by the Thronleigh household that they have something even better, and I think we should try that.”

The frown deepened, and the traces of welcome seemed to disappear from Gladwell’s face, as if blown away by a desert wind.

“They have just the same preparation as your house, madam.”

“But I thought Mr. Wicksteed-”

Crowther interrupted her. “Enough, Mrs. Westerman.”

Gladwell looked up at him in surprise. Crowther leaned on his cane and looked at his companion.

“Remarkable as your performance often is, I am sure that we shall get more from Mr. Gladwell with a little plain dealing.”

Harriet dropped her smile. “Really?”

“I am sure of it.”

Harriet shrugged and took a seat next to one of the side tables. The jar at her elbow contained a mouse with two tails. Its lids were closed, dreamily, and it floated as if in free flight across the skies. She resisted the temptation to tap on the glass and see if it would open its eyes and look at her. Mr. Gladwell remained frowning behind his counter, watching Crowther.