Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

Harriet managed a smile. “Thank you, no. I am sure I am quite well, now I have caught my breath. But how strange …”

Her eyes drifted away from the landlady and she too caught sight of Wicksteed. Her face lost all its color and the voice died in her throat.

Crowther stepped forward. “I think Mrs. Westerman would be better recovering from the shock in her own home.”

Harriet nodded and began to turn toward the carriage again. As she put her foot on the step she almost fell. David swung down from his seat.

“Hold the horses, boy.” He was by her side in a second. “If you’ll allow me, ma’am?”

She blushed and nodded, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders, allowing him to lift her bodily in his arms and place her comfortably in the carriage. He returned unsmiling to his seat. Crowther climbed up to take his place, still aware of Wicksteed grinning at them from his post at the edge of the forecourt. He heard a little cough next to him, and peered over the barouche’s side into the yard. Harriet’s new stable boy stood below him, holding up the two pieces of his cane. He looked up, very white and nervous. His new coat seemed a little on the large side. Crowther looked down into his round, unformed face, a picture of a life yet to begin, then put out his hands to take the pieces, his thin, papery skin, spotting in places with brown, his bony fingers lifting the remains of his cane from the boy’s fresh palms. He nodded.

“Good lad. Thank you.”

The boy smiled and clambered up to ride next to David. Wicksteed stood upright and sauntered over to Harriet’s side of the carriage. He hardly sketched a bow, but spoke a few words to her, and with a nod to Crowther moved away again. Mrs. Saunderton looked a little confused. Wicksteed gave her a broad grin and she bobbed a curtsy, doubtfully, in his direction. Harriet said clearly, “Drive on.”

David clicked to the horses. They lifted their hooves and with a jerk and clatter the carriage began to move. Crowther carefully placed the remains of his cane on the seat next to him and leaned forward.

“What did he say?”

“That it is beginning.”

Crowther sat back into the corner of the carriage and crossed his hands in his lap.

David carried Mrs. Westerman from the carriage to the salon, then was hurried into the kitchen to have his own injuries dealt with. Mrs. Heathcote returned moments later with hot water in a basin, and strips of linen over her shoulder, to find Miss Trench at her sister’s feet trying to remove her shoe. The scene was too feminine for Crowther, and with a nod to his hostess over the shoulders of her nurses, he left his broken cane on the desk, and stepped out of the French windows for a moment to walk among the lavender. His steps eventually took him to the front of the house, and he paused under the oak tree that Commodore Westerman had thought would be a guardian to his family in his absence. The summer breathed through the leaves, making them sigh heavily. Crowther leaned his weight against the trunk.

“We have made a poor job of it, friend,” he said, resting his palm against the bark.

There was a movement by the gate, and he turned to see two horsemen entering the driveway. The first was Michaels on his favorite ride, a beast as massive as himself who had a reputation as a biter. He had his arm out to the other rider, as if holding him in his saddle. As they came a little closer Crowther recognized Clode, the lawyer they had sent down to London. Both men started, then encouraged their horses forward as he emerged from the shade of the tree. Daniel began to dismount as they came abreast of him, and his slim form almost dropped into Crowther’s arms. The latter held him by the shoulders.

“The children?”

Clode looked feverish, and worryingly pale under his stubble.

“Well. Safe. Legitimate.”

His relief was such, Crowther flung his arms around the boy and held him for a second. Michaels had dismounted, and as Crowther released him, he put a beefy arm around Clode’s shoulders.

“I met him on the road two miles out, hardly able to keep on his mount. Let’s get him in, Mr. Crowther. I don’t think he has slept since he left Hartswood.”

Between them they lifted him into the house and Mrs. Heathcote found herself with another invalid just as her first was made comfortable. Crowther shouted the same words that Clode had given him over his shoulder as they carried the man upstairs and heard Harriet’s cry of relief follow him upstairs.

As soon as he was laid on the bed, Clode fell into an uneasy drifting sleep. Crowther watched over him. His jaw was badly bruised, and there was more heavy bruising on his shoulder and the pale flesh of his side. Crowther had brandy and water brought up, and ordered a fire lit in the room. So there had been some sort of violence given and received in London. He saw the remains of the bloodstains on the young man’s chest, but saw no wound, noted the scrapes on his palms and knuckles, the deep cut in his thumb-a sign that he had held a knife and in some press of action used it, not expertly, but with force.

Michaels sat with him. “You look as if you are reading a book,” he said quietly.

Crowther looked up, and nodded slightly. “What we do leaves marks on us. Especially if we are involved in violence. When he wakes, I am sure Mr. Clode will be able to tell us of some violent altercation on a roadway somewhere. I think the other man died, and that Clode found safe refuge afterward. Why he should decide to leave it so soon, his body will not tell me.”

“How could you know any of that?”

“There was enough blood, not of his own, that it could not be washed away quickly. Yet he is wearing a clean shirt.”

“Will he survive? I have no great desire to watch someone else die in your company, Mr. Crowther.”

Gabriel smiled. “Aside from the bruising, I think his symptoms are of shock and exhaustion. He is young. He should mend.” Crowther paused and picked up Clode’s wrist again; the pulse fluttered and struggled. “But something is keeping him from the rest he needs.”

There was a gentle knock at the door, and Harriet limped into the room. He smiled at her and turned back to his patient. As the door fell shut again behind Harriet, Clode groaned and opened his eyes.

“Crowther!”

“Yes, Mr. Clode, you have reached us. And you must rest.”

The young man lifted himself on his shoulders, shaking his head. He saw Harriet.

“Oh, Mrs. Westerman too. So glad.”

He looked like an engraving in her bed, the white of the sheets and his skin contrasting with the dark of his hair and the hollows visible under the collar of his shirt. She smiled at him.

“Crowther told me the children are well.”

“Yes, and under the best of guardians. We killed the man who murdered their father. Or rather a leopard did.” Harriet wondered if he were delirious and glanced at Crowther, her expression all concern. “At least I think Hunter said it was a leopard.”

Crowther looked confused for a second, then smiled with understanding.

“Mr. Hunter has some exotic pets,” he said to Harriet. She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. Michaels sat forward in his chair. Clode did not seem to notice anything; his hands were feeling round the sheets about him.

“I have a paper, rode since dawn to get it to you. I must have it.”

Crowther turned to the end of the bed where Clode’s coat was laid over the back of a chair and passed it to him. He reached forward eagerly and dived his hand into the pocket. He pulled out the two sheets folded and creased. He must have put his fingertips to them to check they were still there every other minute during the ride. Now he passed them over to Crowther, and at once fell back on his elbows.