Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

“They were in the yellow man’s pocket. The pocket of the man who killed Alexander, I mean. The children called him the Yellow Man. Susan is very brave.” He let himself fall back into the pillows. Crowther put water and brandy to Clode’s lips. “He escaped when Newgate burned… Had to run. . Got them safe. .”

Daniel sighed, his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed. Crowther watched him for a second.

“Good. It seems he will allow himself to sleep now.”

He picked up the papers and walked around to where Harriet was sitting and put the papers in her hand. Michaels and Crowther stood behind her chair as she unfolded them. They were all silent a few seconds.

“You still have that piece of paper from Brook’s body, I trust?”

She nodded. “Yes. And I know that this is the hand of Claver Wicksteed.”

“Then I suggest it is certainly time we went to see the squire.”

Harriet looked up at him. “He dines this afternoon at Thornleigh Hall-Mrs. Heathcote heard it.”

Crowther removed the papers from between her fingers, folding them and neatly fitting them into his coat.

“Then I suggest we make a visit there. Will you join us, Mr. Michaels?”

The man shrugged his bearlike shoulders and colored a little.

“Not used to going up to the front gate, so much. But I don’t see why I should not come with you.”

“We must see the squire.” Crowther spoke quietly, but Thornleigh’s senior footman had begun to look uncomfortable.

“He is at table, and we have orders that no one from Caveley-or you, Mr. Crowther-are to be admitted to this house.” His orders did not seem to make him happy. He turned toward Michaels and straightened a little. “You, we would not admit in any circumstances.”

Michaels smiled at him and rested his fists on his waist.

“Foolish of you to let us into your hallway, in that case.”

Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed the maid who had first opened the door and fallen back to let them enter blush and take a step back. The footman’s eyes traveled the same way.

“That was an error,” he said stiffly.

Michaels looked entirely at his ease.

“Well, if any of you fancy lads want to try and throw us out, good luck to you, that’s all I can say.” He flexed his massive hands.

Crowther sighed. “We must see the squire,” he repeated.

They were shown into the Great Hall to await the party who were dining and found Hugh already there, slumped in front of the empty fire with a carafe at his side. He looked up at them, his eyes already rather dull.

“What? More corpses?”

Harriet made her way awkwardly over to the other armchair and let herself down into it. Hugh watched her for a few seconds, then realizing she was not going to speak, asked grudgingly, “What happened to you?”

She looked directly at him.

“Wicksteed paid a couple of lads to knock Crowther and me flying in Pulborough earlier today. I hurt my ankle.” Hugh looked confused. She explained, as one might to a rather simple child: “He has demanded that I leave Caveley, my husband and my children. He is showing me what to expect if I do not comply.”

Hugh shifted in his chair and murmured something no one could make out. He was not asked to repeat himself.

Crowther looked down at the younger man.

“Did you know your father is being tortured, Captain Thornleigh?”

Hugh’s eyes struggled to focus.

“Tortured? What do you mean?”

Crowther stared at him for a moment, then turned away as if the sight disgusted him.

“He has been cut. Someone is making him atone for his sins, we think. And perhaps yours.”

Hugh went rather pale, but before he could produce any reply the grand doors were swung open and the party from the table came into the room. Wicksteed and Lady Thornleigh were arm in arm, the squire bobbing in their wake. Harriet had to admit they made a very handsome couple. They looked, both of them, vigorous and aware of their powers. Their dark colorings complemented one another, and Wicksteed had seemed to acquire a grace and control in his movements, as if that animal power had transmitted itself through the perfect arm that rested over his. Only an unhealthy glitter in their eyes, and the strange dark cloud they dragged with them, made them unattractive. Harriet felt her skin creep, and wondered if Squire Bridges were choking in the wrongs that streamed behind them both like smoke.

Lady Thornleigh released Wicksteed’s arm and made her way to the long oak trestle table that split the hall in two, resting her hand on the wood. Her dress rustled against it. She smiled at them lazily. Harriet blinked her green eyes, unwillingly drinking in all that beauty glowing under the ancient arms and portraits of the Thornleigh family. The woman looked at each of them in turn before she spoke.

“Well?”

Crowther bowed to her. “We are here to speak to Squire Bridges, Lady Thornleigh.”

My lady arched one eyebrow and looked at her guest. Bridges took a blustering step or two forward.

“Anything you wish to say, you may say in front of these good people, sir.”

Harriet did not quite manage to stifle a bitter laugh that rose in her throat. Wicksteed looked at her angrily. Crowther nodded to the squire.

“Very well. I shall give you the story. You were right, Bridges, about the murder of Sarah Randle. It was indeed Lord Thornleigh who killed her for her pregnancy or his own pleasure, and for whatever reason of his own, he took her locket. Some years later, Hugh’s mother found it, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble.”

The squire was open-mouthed. Hugh shrank back into his armchair as if stung. So Shapin had told him. Wicksteed was very pale. Lady Thornleigh silently drummed her fingers on the table, looking at the floor, and apparently rather bored. Crowther continued.

“Hugh Thornleigh was told as much in America by the former servant of this house, Shapin. And I suspect Claver Wicksteed overheard. What happened to him, by the way, Mr. Thornleigh?” Hugh seemed struck dumb and Crowther noticed a tight smile on Wicksteed’s face. “You killed him yourself, didn’t you? Is that the murder you are willing to hang for now?”

The squire lifted his hands. “I really must protest. How dare-?”

Wicksteed spun round on him. “Shut up, Bridges.”

The squire recoiled in shock. Crowther nodded to Harriet. She continued.

“Wicksteed, you blackmailed your way into this house, knowing both its masters were sickening.” Some last vestige of sympathy was present in her face as she said this, looking at Hugh. “You had Hugh, but when he saw your friendship with Lady Thornleigh developing, he made one last struggle and asked Joshua Cartwright to find someone to track down Alexander Thornleigh. In doing so, he gave you a chance to make your hold here complete. You murdered Brook in my copse, stole the address he had provided for Hugh, and sent a hireling of your own to rid Thornleigh of the only heir not under your control.” She looked up at him. “When did you find out it was Alexander who had sent Nurse Bray to care for Lord Thornleigh?”

Hugh struggled upright in his chair, and looked about him amazed. Wicksteed did not move. Harriet shrugged.

“She wrote a note to Hugh and you found it, did you not? Just as you found Brook’s note to him? I doubt any piece of paper has crossed these halls without you taking a look at it since you arrived. Perhaps she tried to speak to Hugh, and you intervened. In any case you removed her, and for good measure you sent Hugh off with the arsenic to poor Joshua, to make sure that no news of Alexander’s whereabouts could be found, and to put his head in the noose for your crimes.” She gave a little laugh. “And while you are causing all this slaughter you are campaigning with the College of Arms to have your name and heritage recognized! Presumably you wish to marry Lady Thornleigh when she becomes a widow. I am sure if Lord Thornleigh survives to see Hugh hang, he will not live long thereafter. You have already carved a score of the bodies mounted up into his arms. No doubt the final mark will be for his own murder.”