Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

“Joshua Cartwright was poisoned on Sunday evening in Hartswood. Arsenic. I suspect it was the steward at Thornleigh who had him killed, and wondered if he had recently bought arsenic from you.”

Mr. Gladwell held Crowther’s gaze for a long moment. At last he cleared his throat.

“I assume, Mr. Crowther, that you-”

“Yes, we tested what was left in the bottle on a dog.” Harriet winced in spite of herself. “It was certainly arsenic. Did Wicksteed buy any from you?”

Rather than answer at once, Mr. Gladwell stepped round from the counter and crossed the room to shut the street door and pull down the blind. He seemed to cross the space in a single step, more unfolding and folding his limbs again than walking.

“Perhaps I can offer you both a little refreshment? If you would be so kind as to step into the parlor.”

Mr. Gladwell’s private rooms at the rear of the shop were not very different in style or furnishing from those in which he conducted his business, but here the chairs were designed for longer occupation, and the drawers of herbs and tinctures gave way to leather-bound volumes. The oddities in jars, however, became a little more prevalent. Mr. Gladwell seemed to have a predilection for the unusual in nature, suggested by the mouse with two tails, and confirmed in his sitting room by a lizard with two heads. This specimen the men discussed at some length until tea was served and they took their seats. Mr. Gladwell’s cup looked like a child’s in his long thin hands, so white they made the glistening china look dull and yellowed. “Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Crowther,” Gladwell began in his sandy voice, after a little beat of silence that suggested they were moving forward to a new topic. “What I told Mrs. Westerman is perfectly true. The preparation Thornleigh Hall take for ridding themselves of unwanted animal life is just as we have supplied to Caveley, and it is based on strychnine-not arsenic. But I had a conversation recently that I think I should share with you.”

Harriet put down her cup, making space to do so on the side table by edging along a jar out of which a bull’s eye stared kindly at her.

“We should be interested to hear,” she said.

The giant smiled slowly.

“I have a number of competitors in the area. Some are good men, some I think are not. One of the latter dropped into my shop only yesterday. He hoped he might commission me to carry some pill of his own devising against gout. He made various claims for it, which I thought extravagant and perhaps I did not hide the fact. He grew a little angry with me.”

He smiled thinly at the memory, and raised his hand as if to brush his colleague’s crossness away. Harriet was reminded of her horse flicking its tail at the summer midges.

“His pride was a little hurt, I thought, and he told me not to rely on Thornleigh Hall as a customer in the future, as he himself was now having dealings with them. However, it was not Mr. Wicksteed who made the purchase of which he spoke. He told me he had sold one hundred grains of arsenic on Saturday morning, to Lady Thornleigh herself.”

Harriet swallowed suddenly and Crowther set down his cup. After a moment he spoke.

“That is a considerable amount.”

“Indeed. Enough to rid the whole town of its mice. And cats. And dogs. I think my colleague was proud to have made such a large sale. He will always sell more than his clients require, and never suffers them to leave his shop empty handed. I know several people who have entered his shop quite healthy, and left convinced they were in fact on the point of death as a result of any number of maladies. They think themselves blessed and lucky to have chanced in on him at just the right moment to avoid disaster.”

Crowther smiled at his fingertips. “That cannot be good for your own business, sir.”

The giant lifted his thin shoulders. “Most return to me in the end. He does not do many of them lasting damage, but the sale of such a large quantity of arsenic stayed in my mind.”

Crowther flexed his hand. “As you say, Mr. Gladwell, it is indeed a thing to be noted. Did you know Mr. Cartwright?”

“In passing, as all of us in trade do in the county. He did not seem a man who deserved to die in such a way. Arsenic sends our bodies to hell long before the soul escapes to join it. And Lady Thornleigh took such a quantity. I hope you do not break bread at her table, for your sakes.”

Harriet took up the cup again. The eye in the jar shook a little as if trying to catch her attention.

“We do not. But I do not like living so near.”

“Do you wish to go to the squire?” Crowther was on the point of handing Mrs. Westerman into her carriage in the forecourt of Pulborough’s best coaching inn. Harriet turned to him, one foot on the ground, one raised onto the step of the elegant little barouche she used for local journeys, her hand in his.

“But we do not know how Wicksteed heard of the meeting with Brook, and our conclusions about Shapin are guesswork at best. Do you think …?”

But before the thought was completed two young men, their rough shirts flying, barreled into the lady and gentleman. With sudden shock Harriet found herself thrown to the ground, and felt her ankle twist under her. Her back hit hard against the high wheel of her coach. She heard her coachman, David, roar and leap from his seat, shouting at his boy to hold the frightened animals steady. Crowther’s cane crashed to the ground, and rolled from his grip across the cobbles. David grabbed one of the lads, twisting him by the collar. The other spotted Crowther’s cane, and as Crowther reached for it, brought down his heel on the slender strength of the wood. It cracked between the pillowlike stones of the yard. Crowther struggled to his feet with a yell, managing to catch his attacker’s face with the back of his hand as he rose. The youth’s head jerked back and he lifted his fist, then laughed, and spat at his feet. Crowther reached for him again, but the lad was too quick and darted over to his companion, throwing himself between him and Harriet’s red-faced coachman to break the grip. They ran from the yard at full tilt with David pursuing as Crowther turned to Harriet and began to help her to her feet. Already the inn’s landlady had come hurrying across the cobbles, her apron ballooning around her in a cloud of upset.

“Oh, Good Lord! What on earth?” She put her arm around Harriet’s shoulder and helped to raise her.

“I’m quite all right. Just winded, I think.” She tried to put her weight on the hurt ankle and went rather white, then shifted her balance to allow Crowther’s arm to take most of her weight.

The landlady seemed on the point of tears. “I cannot believe it! I’ve never seen such a thing.”

Harriet tried to smile at her. “Really, Mrs. Saunderton, I am quite well. It is nothing. A couple of foolish young men.”

Crowther looked about him. In the doorway of the inn he saw the familiar form of Wicks teed. He was smiling at them, his arms crossed over his chest. David came running back into the yard. Crowther noticed the little boy’s at the horses’ heads look of relief as he handed over the bridle. That must be Jake Mortimer, the sewing woman’s nephew. He could see David had been injured in his struggle with the man. The skin around his eye was already very red.

“Sorry, ma’am. They got away from me in the square.”

Mrs. Saunderton was trying to knock the dust of her yard from the long folds of Harriet’s dress; the latter put out a hand to stop her.

“Not at all, David. Thank you. Are you injured?”

“Not worth mentioning, Mrs. Westerman.”

The landlady was still trembling with distress. “I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on either of those lads before. Oh, Mrs. Westerman, what you must think of us! Will you not come in for a moment to recover? What a shock!”