Instruments of Darkness (17 page)
Read Instruments of Darkness Online
Authors: Imogen Robertson
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction
‘Thirsty work, Michaels. Is the bar open?’
‘Always got a drink for the King’s servants, friend. And that stands for the jury men too. The rest of you are buying your own.’
The room began to empty very quickly.
II.4
T
HERE WAS A good crowd round the open grave. News of Alexander’s death and burial had travelled from one side of the city to the other, judging by the variety of faces in the crowd. Even in such days of riot and discord, neighbour spoke to neighbour and the words flew up and out into the breeze, till it seemed one inhaled the latest news with the air itself. Alexander Adams had made good friends during his years in London, and had kept them. Almost every player from the Drury Lane Theatre had attended. Graves watched them huddle together a pace or two away, as if their long association cramped under the stage of that theatre had made it natural to them to bunch together even when the walls around them were removed.
HERE WAS A good crowd round the open grave. News of Alexander’s death and burial had travelled from one side of the city to the other, judging by the variety of faces in the crowd. Even in such days of riot and discord, neighbour spoke to neighbour and the words flew up and out into the breeze, till it seemed one inhaled the latest news with the air itself. Alexander Adams had made good friends during his years in London, and had kept them. Almost every player from the Drury Lane Theatre had attended. Graves watched them huddle together a pace or two away, as if their long association cramped under the stage of that theatre had made it natural to them to bunch together even when the walls around them were removed.
Composers who had relied on Alexander to engrave and print their works had come too. Mr Paxton came over and tried to speak to Susan, but the words had died in his throat, and all he could do was put a hand, briefly, on her shoulder before quickly turning away and marching off among the tombstones with his polished cane glimmering in the sun.
It was a hot and surly day. The signs of riot from the previous night were all around them, and though the streets were quiet enough there was a tension in the air, an uneasy temper to the streets. A man slept across the gutter as they arrived at the churchyard, and had to be stepped around by the bearers. He wore a surplice tied around his hat, and he cradled in his drunken sleep a torn fur fragment as if it were his only love and care. The Constable of the parish, old and dirty, and careful of avoiding any attention from those who might demand his help defending their property from the mob, slunk along in their midst. He kept up a murmuring chant under his breath, ‘Poor Mr Adams, poor Mr Adams. What times we live in,’ until Graves, afraid that he would prove a strain to Susan, frowned him into embarrassment and silence.
Susan still said nothing, but Graves hoped she was returning a little to herself. He had offered her his hand as they met the body at the door of the shop without thinking, and without thinking she had taken it. Jonathan held her other hand, and he would not move unless he could feel Miss Chase close to him, so, unwieldy and awkward through the narrow streets, the foursome had walked behind the coffin as principal mourners.
Any questions about the death were answered by the common intelligence of the crowd, and Graves felt each pair of eyes tracing the wound on his face when they thought they might not be noticed. He wondered if he would scar. The wound was not deep, and Miss Chase was careful to make sure he kept it clean, though he often wondered if the water of London was of much aid to cleanliness.
The priest was waiting for them by the grave. The sun was even now at its high point, and he was suffering visibly in the heat. He puffed his cheeks, and sweat poured under his wig through the canyons of his red face, but he smiled at Susan, and bent his elderly knees to address Jonathan and whisper to them both a little about how the ceremony would unfold, and tell them their papa was comfortable in heaven before taking his place at the graveside and clearing his throat.
Before he began to speak, however, two carriages bearing variously the arms of the Earl of Cumberland and Viscount Carnathly drew up at the gates. The crowd noticed and murmured. Susan did not look up. Both peers were enthusiasts of music, and Alexander had corresponded with both, Graves knew, and regularly sent them samples of new work. It was a handsome compliment to send their carriages to stand sentinel at the gates.
Graves saw Susan eventually turn to look at them without emotion. Jonathan stared wide-eyed at the horses. They were handsome beasts. Graves hoped they would remain long enough to let the little boy get closer, and talk to the coachmen. He would give anything to put other images in that gentle, forming mind, than those he had been witness to the previous day. Graves felt he was observing all from a great distance and height. The gathered men and women solemnly shuffling through the funeral service, and the way Susan’s hand contracted round his own as the first shovelful of earth skittered onto the lid of the coffin. He noticed an acquaintance, a Grub Street hack who wrote up news for the
Daily Advertiser
lurking at the back of the crowd. He looked as hungry and tired as Graves felt himself, and he could not condemn him as he quietly questioned one of Alexander’s neighbours. The news-sheets must be fed, the curiosity of the nation satisfied. He looked up and caught Graves’s eye with a look of enquiry, but Graves shook his head and with a nod the man retreated again.
Daily Advertiser
lurking at the back of the crowd. He looked as hungry and tired as Graves felt himself, and he could not condemn him as he quietly questioned one of Alexander’s neighbours. The news-sheets must be fed, the curiosity of the nation satisfied. He looked up and caught Graves’s eye with a look of enquiry, but Graves shook his head and with a nod the man retreated again.
The priest reached his ‘Amens’ and the crowd began to drift away from the graveside and leave the sexton to fill the hole behind them. Graves made no move himself, content to let Susan watch. He realised Miss Chase’s thoughts were following a similar pattern to his own, however, regarding Jonathan. As soon as the crowd began to shift she led him quietly towards the horses. Graves watched as the coachmen greeted him. The little boy was lifted up onto the box and allowed to hold the reins, then taken down again to pat the noses of the leading pair of the Earl of Cumberland. Graves looked down at Susan, and saw she was watching her brother also. Her eyes and cheeks were wet with tears, and he could not help pulling her gently to his side. She wept a while longer into his coat, then took a great, shuddering sigh and opened her lips.
‘Mr Graves?’
‘Yes, Susan?’
‘There is a box in the shop. Papa told me to look for it and keep it with me. I’m afraid I forgot it for a while.’ Her voice was so dry and whispering, Graves could hardly hear her. ‘May we go and fetch it? I remember where it is hidden. Papa said.’
‘Of course, Susan.’
They walked through the last of the mourners, each of whom muttered their condolences and lifted their hats to the little girl, till they reached Miss Chase, and as Graves told her of their mission, Susan went across to her brother. The adults watched the children negotiate - Jonathan looked around him with wide eyes, alarmed at any separation, then seemed to grow calm under his sister’s caresses and whispers. They saw her pause as if waiting for an answer, and watched Jonathan nod slowly. She then turned and came back to them, and with a composure that almost broke their hearts said, ‘I am ready, Mr Graves. May we go?’
He bowed and offered her his arm.
II.5
M
RS WESTERMAN, CROWTHER and Rachel were the only mourners at the burial of Carter Brook. When they arrived in the churchyard the sexton and his men were already shuffling the coffin into the open ground. As they crossed from the path to the church door to the graveside, there was a brief conversation between the men, and the youngest, only a boy really, put down his spade and ran swiftly to the vestry. Crowther smiled thinly as the boy returned a moment later with the vicar on his heels, adjusting his collar and trying to look as if he had meant to be there all along.
RS WESTERMAN, CROWTHER and Rachel were the only mourners at the burial of Carter Brook. When they arrived in the churchyard the sexton and his men were already shuffling the coffin into the open ground. As they crossed from the path to the church door to the graveside, there was a brief conversation between the men, and the youngest, only a boy really, put down his spade and ran swiftly to the vestry. Crowther smiled thinly as the boy returned a moment later with the vicar on his heels, adjusting his collar and trying to look as if he had meant to be there all along.
Crowther glanced at Miss Trench. It was at her insistence they were there at all. The strange sinuous current that spread news between the households, between the sexton’s boy and the butcher’s, which then found its way into Caveley Park with the beef shanks, meant that Rachel knew that the burial would take place that evening before Harriet and Crowther had even thought of it. When they had returned from the inquest, they found their late dinner already laid out and Rachel determined they should be quick about it as they would have to turn back into the village within the hour. Harriet had protested.
‘Rachel, we must have some peace! And some time to talk about what has passed.’ She looked up wide-eyed at her sister from the little sofa where she had dropped. ‘Surely that is the best service we can render to Mr Brook - that we discover why he died and at whose hand. You don’t think it was an unlucky thief, do you?’
Her sister’s slim frame shone with all the moral conviction that eighteen years, and only eighteen years, can give.
‘No. I wish I could, but no. But you can consider later, or tomorrow, Harriet. You too, Mr Crowther. This poor man will only be buried once, and I think someone should bear witness to that. Would you like to be put in the ground all alone and unmourned?’
‘I doubt very much I’d care at that point.’ Harriet saw she had lost the argument and abandoned her attempt at reasonable sweetness. She folded her arms and buried her chin in her chest. ‘And how are we fit to mourn him, anyway? I only met the man when he was cold.’
Rachel clenched her hands, and looked in danger of stamping her foot.
‘Harry, it is the right thing to do, and you know it. You are bearing witness to his death - very well, then bear witness to his funeral. Whatever sort of a man he was, he was one of God’s creatures and deserves this courtesy from the rest of us.’
Harriet did not move - except, Crowther noted, to wrinkle her nose when God was mentioned. Rachel narrowed her eyes.
‘If you do not come, I shall ask Mr Crowther to take me alone. Really, Harry, if you are going to be thinking about death all evening, you may as well do it in the peace of a churchyard.’
That made her sister laugh at least, and so it was agreed. Before their supper had time to settle in their stomachs they set off for the village again, this time on foot as Harriet felt the carriage would carry, along with themselves, altogether too much noticeable pomp for such a quiet visit.
Seeing the priest tumble out to the graveside, Harriet was glad her sister had bullied her, and it
was
a good place to think about death. She had not been surprised by the verdict of the Coroner, although she wondered how many of the villagers truly believed it. It had been a very convenient conclusion: plausible enough if one could swallow the notion of robbers pursuing each other in leisurely fashion over a day’s ride for the sake of a ring. For a moment she considered the option of believing it herself. She could then put on the self-satisfied smile of a country matron, play with the baby and go about seeing only what was in front of her, like her sister. She frowned quickly, knowing the characterisation was untrue and unfair, and angry with herself for thinking it. The priest caught the expression and looked momentarily confused, checking his prayer book to be sure the fiery Mrs Westerman had not found him out in some mistake. Reassured, he read on.
was
a good place to think about death. She had not been surprised by the verdict of the Coroner, although she wondered how many of the villagers truly believed it. It had been a very convenient conclusion: plausible enough if one could swallow the notion of robbers pursuing each other in leisurely fashion over a day’s ride for the sake of a ring. For a moment she considered the option of believing it herself. She could then put on the self-satisfied smile of a country matron, play with the baby and go about seeing only what was in front of her, like her sister. She frowned quickly, knowing the characterisation was untrue and unfair, and angry with herself for thinking it. The priest caught the expression and looked momentarily confused, checking his prayer book to be sure the fiery Mrs Westerman had not found him out in some mistake. Reassured, he read on.
Harriet looked across at her sister. She was not self-satisfied in the least, and knew more than Harriet about the pressures and secrets of life in the country. The trouble with Rachel was, she was actually good. It gave her a patience and moral certainty her sister sometimes envied, and sometimes found almost unbearable. When they had finished their prayers, Rachel gave her hand to the priest with a smile that made him look comically proud. Harriet and Crowther made their bows and the little party moved away back onto the road to Caveley, each travelling in their own thoughts to various destinations.
They had not gone far when they saw the figure of a man ahead of them. The evening was still bright enough to see, before they had approached much further, that it was Hugh Thornleigh. Crowther felt more than saw the slight falter in Rachel’s steps, and from the corner of his eye observed her chin lift in determination. What torture it must be, he thought, to live always in the presence of disappointed love. He wondered why Harriet had not taken her sister away. Perhaps it was Rachel’s own decision to face her demons daily. It would not be Crowther’s recommendation for an easy mind, no matter what the habits of industry and religion did to ease her.
Hugh became conscious of their presence and turned. They exchanged bows.
‘I came to see Brook buried,’ he told them. ‘Thought someone should, and Cartwright wouldn’t. Not very happy to be associated with such types as it is. Then I saw you, and thought I wouldn’t bother. It was good of you to go. Like you. Well. Good evening.’
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that these words were meant for Rachel, but all maintained the polite pretence that the remarks were general. Harriet cleared her throat as if to begin speaking, though she had no idea at that moment what could be said, when she was saved by a shout from the rising slope behind them on the edge of the park of Thornleigh Hall. A boy was running down the slope towards them, his rough jacket flying out behind him and his feet slipping over the long grass.
‘Mr Thornleigh, Mr Thornleigh, come quick, sir!’
‘What is it?’
The boy tumbled to a halt beside them. He was very pale.
‘Nurse Bray! In the witch’s cottage.’
He turned and ran back the way he had come. Crowther looked at Harriet. She was already picking up her skirts to set off after the boy. She said tersely, ‘It’s an old keeper’s cottage on the edge of the wood.’
She began to head up the slope, Crowther, Rachel and Hugh all following. Behind the trees at the top of the rise Crowther got his first sight of the broken-up little house. It was indeed suitable for witches, if your imagination were that way inclined. Its walls and ceiling were punctured and cloaked by trees, and its remaining stonework covered in ivy. The wide door was ajar, hanging with horrible determination by the last of its hinges. The party by a common consent came to a halt in the lee of the wall. The little boy pointed in through the doorway, the whiteness of his skin making the dirt on his face stand out. He looked like a sentimental allegory of the pastoral and picturesque. They stepped forward, Hugh leading the way, their eyes struggling to make sense of the patterns of light and dark in the interior. Rachel suddenly screamed and turned into Harriet’s arms. The latter held her, looking past her sister’s buried head into the depths with wide eyes. The two men paused as if caught by the withdrawing motion of a great wave.
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