Instruments of Darkness (13 page)

Read Instruments of Darkness Online

Authors: Imogen Robertson

Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction

BOOK: Instruments of Darkness
8.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
He put up his hand. ‘Mrs Westerman. Please do not let me frighten you into trying to protect the reputation or conduct of your sister or yourself. I am sure it has been above reproach.’
There was a dryness in his tone that made Harriet uncomfortable. She tried to think what he had seen of them the previous day. A horrid image of herself appeared in front of her; her worst traits blown up and highly coloured, her motivations petty and foul.
‘And now you think I wish to attack Thornleigh and the Hall as revenge for his jilting my sister?’
Her voice was crystalline. Crowther looked at her with surprise. Harriet noticed his cravat had been tied very sloppily, and there were crumbs of bread on his sleeve. She was sorry to find it did not make her feel any better.
‘No, madam,’ he said gently. ‘I do not think that, though Hugh may suggest it to your neighbours at some point.’ He sighed and shifted in his chair. ‘Mrs Westerman, we both know any discussion of the relations between your sister and Mr Hugh Thornleigh between us is irregular, and I am well aware I am neither confidant nor counsellor to you. But not knowing these things leaves me more in the dark than ever. The Squire tried to persuade me last night to convince you to go no further into the concerns of Thornleigh Hall. It irritated me. But he promises matters will become unpleasant, and if you are too nice to speak to me of Hugh Thornleigh without worrying about your reputation, perhaps he is right, and you
had
better keep to household management.’
His voice had risen a little as he spoke. Harriet held up her hand without looking up from her napkin and nodded.
‘I do trust you,’ she said simply. ‘And for some strange reason, I seem to value your good opinion.’ Her fingers plucked at the tablecloth. ‘I am not sure I behaved well. It is ridiculous, I like to tell myself I do not care what the world thinks of me. But I find it unpleasant to talk about these matters.’
‘I very much doubt, Mrs Westerman, if anything you can say will alter the opinion I have of you.’
He said these words almost tenderly, and when Harriet looked up it was with a smile and a faint blush.
‘Lord! That almost sounds like a challenge. Oh, very well. I will be as frank as I know how. And I am sorry to be so overly sensible.’ She put her elbows on the table, and rested a cheek on one hand. As she talked, the fingers of the other tapped out an irregular rhythm on the stained tablecloth.
‘Hugh came back from the war in America with the injury to his face and eye that you see. He had been away since before we purchased Caveley - indeed, it was only two months before, that we had met Lady Thornleigh. The family had not been in evidence at all until Lord Thornleigh’s illness. I believe Hugh wished to continue to serve, since the injury did not stop him being a useful soldier, but when he heard of his father’s illness, and that Alexander’s whereabouts were still unknown, he thought it his duty to return home. It was the first time he met his stepmother, you know. She was a dancer before she became Lady Thornleigh, and only a year or two older than Hugh. They were not friendly. Still, I was glad he had come back, and he became a regular visitor here.’
Harriet looked up into the air to her left, and Crowther waited in silence for her to continue. ‘Hugh was not then as he is now. A little prone to bluster perhaps, rather loud - but there was humour there and, I thought, a generosity of spirit that wanted only encouragement. He did not drink much more than other men, and though life at the Hall was not perfect, he seemed very happy to sit here with us, swapping war stories with me or listening to Rachel read.’ She smiled briefly. ‘She has a talent for it, you know. I should put her on the stage.’
Crowther returned her smile, then, leaning back in his chair with his fingers tented in front of him, he waited once more for her to continue.
‘I say he seemed content enough, but he was still a troubled man. Hugh had black moods from time to time, and twice stood up in the middle of conversation with us and left the house without a word. I never did reason out the cause of those strange departures. We were talking the dullest of estate business on both occasions.’
Crowther stretched his fingers in front of him, apparently absorbed in contemplation of his short nails, and spoke to the air in front of his nose.
‘You know better than most, I think, Mrs Westerman, that time in battle can do strange things to the spirits of the bravest men.’
She picked up a teaspoon from the tablecloth and spun it between her fingers.
‘Just what I thought. So I did not worry over-much, and when I saw an affection growing between Mr Thornleigh and my sister, I thought it would be a help to him.’ Her smile twisted a little. ‘In fact, I congratulated myself that Rachel would be so soon and so well settled. I thought it was all but decided on, and that he was waiting only for the Commodore’s next leave to ask to pay his addresses.’
‘And then?’
‘Then things began to change. This was about two years ago, so two years after he had returned to Thornleigh. He drank more, his moods became darker. Sometimes he seemed quite wild.’ Crowther felt her regret, her sympathy for the man, flow from her. ‘Then he arrived here one evening very drunk. Raving even.’ Her mouth set in a line. ‘I had David and William throw him down the steps. There were bitter words.’
‘And your sister?’
‘I suspect she tried to speak to him shortly afterwards, and he said ... unpleasant things to her. She was desperately unhappy for some time.’
She let her forehead drop into her palm, and brought the teaspoon in her other hand down onto the table with a dull crack.
‘I was a fool. I should not have let her be so friendly, but society here is so limited, and I truly believed he loved her. My husband calls me naive, and there have been times perhaps when I have not been such an asset to him in his career as I should have been.’
‘An alliance with such a great family would have had its advantages.’
‘James is a fine Commander. And as for Mr Hugh Thornleigh - yes, there was that, but also . . .’ she began to twirl the spoon again, watching it pick up the sun flowing into the room, and throwing it up along the walls ‘. . . Crowther, I enjoyed his company. I think we both felt ourselves creatures out of their natural sphere.’ She looked resigned, letting the reflection of the light hover over an Italianate landscape above the empty fireplace. ‘I believe the business did our family’s reputation some damage. But then my husband came home for some months in the summer and made us show our faces at every event and gathering within five miles. Rachel is so sweet-natured, anyone who meets her knows she is no schemer, and my husband is every inch the gentleman, and Hugh’s behaviour continued so . . . Well, people began to talk of poor Rachel’s lucky escape. And I was glad. He had made us very wretched.’
Crowther waited till she looked up and met his eye, and asked her kindly, ‘Do you think there is any connection, any link between that change of behaviour and the events of yesterday?’
Harriet tilted her head to one side. ‘Rachel is afraid she did something wrong, something that made Hugh cease to love her, and I wish I could make her easy on that point. She has not been happy since.’
‘And yourself, perhaps, Mrs Westerman? You too would like to make yourself easy on that point?’
She did not reply, but nodded sadly. Crowther returned his gaze to his fingertips.
‘Did anything else of significance occur at about that time?’
‘His new steward, Wicksteed, arrived. I will tell you what I can of him.’
Crowther abandoned the study of his nails, and brushed some of the crumbs from his sleeve, having noticed them for the first time.
‘Very well. I am content you are not a pair of scheming harridans. Before you tell me of this steward, however, shall I tell
you
about my conversation with the Squire and my meeting with Mr Hugh Thornleigh last night?’
Harriet gave a horrified laugh into what was left of her coffee, and still choking a little, waved her hand to encourage him to continue.
‘Very well, I shall. But only on condition you stop playing with that spoon.’
She put it down very smartly and sat straight. The model of an attentive audience.
II.2
A
LEXANDER WAS TO be buried in St Anne’s churchyard, half a mile or so from his home. There were burial grounds far prettier, but it was here that his wife had been laid to rest, and Mr Graves believed that Alexander would not wish to be separated from her. Graves’s first duty though was to reach the magistrate of the parish and find what the law could do to pursue the murderer of his friend. Morning had only just begun to stretch across the city before he was on his way, leaving the children in the care of Miss Chase. Susan was still silent, but more watchful than stunned now, and Jonathan repeatedly found himself caught by sudden waves of grief that seemed to lift and drop his little body at will.
It was not long before Graves came upon the signs of the previous night’s work. The destruction of the Catholic Church in Golden Square shocked him. The ground was dotted with pages ripped from the hymn and prayer books, the words singed, wounded, fluttering. The smouldering remains of a bonfire brooded in the centre of the embarrassed-looking square of houses. He could see the bars of pews and other fittings of a church rearing within it like the blackened ribs of an animal caught in a forest fire. He paused for a second and a plain-looking man crossing the Square halted next to him.
‘Shocking, isn’t it, sir? Don’t they know it’s the same Bible we use?’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and settled the linen bag of goods he carried more comfortably on his shoulder. ‘How do you call yourself a defender of true religion and then burn down a church? That’s what I want to know.’
Graves nodded sadly, then stepped back in slight alarm. Apparently out of the black and clinging ashes of the fire another man reared up, like a devil come to claim them from the ruins of the destroyed church; he staggered towards them, a damp blue cockade hanging from his hat and his back black with the soot of the fire, next to which he had presumably slept. Graves and his companion stood their ground as he weaved across the Square towards them, mistaking them for admirers of the handiwork of his crowd. He looked at them both, then leaning forward into Graves’s face said with a leer, and with a broad wink, ‘No popery!’
Graves recoiled at the stench of stale alcohol on his breath, and thrust the man away from him. The Protestant hero was still too out of himself to maintain his balance and tottered backwards, tripping over the remains of a burned cross at his feet and landing heavily on his arse.
Graves’s companion laughed heartily and pointed at him. The man ignored him but fixed an angry eye on Graves.
‘I’ll have you for that, you Catholic bastard! I’ll know you again, and I’ll have you.’
He made no move to rise though, and Graves turned on his heel without bothering to reply and continued on his way. The journey was wasted, however. The Justice’s house was besieged, and the mob would not let him through. Some of the rioters of the previous night had been taken up and were to be examined and confined to Newgate for trial. Through the crowd he could see the flash of redcoats. Soldiers on the steps to guard the gate.
‘It’s a matter of murder!’ he protested. ‘I must speak to the Justice!’
Some of those nearest to him turned enough to look him up and down.
‘Will be murder, if they send those prisoners down. True Protestant heroes, every one.’
Graves tried to step forward, and was shoved back by a vicious-looking man twice his size.
‘Get out of here, boy. Your business will wait.’
Graves made one more attempt and the same man twisted his arm hard behind him and whispered in his ear with horrible intimacy, ‘Will your business be served better when this crowd has torn you all up to pieces? Get away, I say.’
Graves slunk back, only able to comfort himself with Mr Chase’s words of the previous night, and went to make his arrangements with the priest of St Anne’s. The man was sorrowful and kind, and confirmed the wisdom of letting Alexander be buried and turn to the Coroner when the city was calm again.
Graves returned briefly to his own lodgings - a room in one of the least disreputable houses in the vicinity of Seven Dials - to change his clothing, on which he at least could still see the marks of his friend’s blood. As he changed his clothes, he paused a long moment before the pocked and dusty mirror. He no longer looked, he thought, like such a young man. His own wound was still fresh and livid, of course, but the real change was a heaviness in his eyes he did not recognise.
Owen Graves was only twenty-one. He had come down from the country three years before, from his father’s home in the Cotswolds, determined to make a living in London with his pen. It had caused a breach with his family who, struggling to live like gentry on a clergyman’s income, had hoped he might find advancement in the law. But Graves had been romantic. He had struggled to feed and clothe himself through those three years with the work of his pen, and though his work was often admired, it had yet to prove profitable.
He wrote best about music, offering his short reports of concerts to the various presses turning out papers to entertain and inform the capital, but the publishers often complained that though he wrote prettily, he had an unfortunate tendency to write more about the music itself and how it struck him, rather than give a list of any fashionable personages in attendance, and describe their manner of dress and behaviour. He often tried to combine the necessary with what he regarded as the essential by claiming that some darling of the
haut ton
was particularly captivated by a certain melody in a certain piece. The trick served him well enough, as those to whom he gifted this great musical sensibility seldom wanted to contradict him, and so he lived. Barely.

Other books

The Peace Correspondent by Garry Marchant
Puckoon by Spike Milligan
Tied Up, Tied Down by James, Lorelei
Breathe Again by Joelle Charming
Honor Thy Teacher by Teresa Mummert