Instruments of Darkness (41 page)
Read Instruments of Darkness Online
Authors: Imogen Robertson
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction
Harriet frowned as she replied, ‘We are presuming that the blow that knocked her to the floor was enough to render her docile as well. And then her hands were tied.’
Crowther handed the candle to her and removed from his pocket a little rosewood box. He opened it and spat into it, only looking up to see Harriet’s surprise as he stirred the resultant mess with his fingertip. He angled the box to show what it contained.
‘A contribution to the sciences from the young Michaelses’, nursery. It is a watercolour block. We are to do a little finger-painting.’
Harriet nodded, and found she was glad he had chosen the black rather than the scarlet from the paints available.
They moved towards the body. The nurse’s skin was beginning to show purple in places. Harriet was careful to hold the candle steady. When Crowther lifted the corpse’s right hand, the body sighed with the early stink of corruption, but the light did not waver. He pressed the cold, waxy fingertips into the colour, then setting down the box withdrew a piece of writing paper from his pocket. Harriet saw the little picture of a dancing bear feinting at an outsized diadem printed onto it, a little smudged. He held it up on the nurse’s chest. Taking the hand by the wrist, and supporting the palm so the fingers fell into the same, rough claw that Harriet had formed with her own hand, he then dragged it down the length of the sheet. It left four marks, slow trails down the paper, which rustled against the body’s grave clothes. Harriet shivered. Crowther looked at his work and gave a nod, then, spitting on his handkerchief began to wipe the pigment away from the dead fingertips.
‘I think,’ he said, bending over his work, ‘that this piece of paper might make it harder for someone to claim the scratches on his arm were the work of an animal.’ He paused and looked up at her. ‘Though perhaps I should prepare a few others for comparison.’
Harriet watched him in the play of the candlelight, his tone so casual, his hands enfolding those of a dead woman.
‘Time enough for that if it proves necessary,’ she said. ‘Let us give Michaels the nod that Toller can resume his guard duties and see whether he has managed to conjure Patience from the Hall.’
Crowther laid Nurse Bray’s arm back along the table, and having blown on it a little, folded his paper.
‘What did you think of what Michaels said?’ Harriet asked. ‘About buying up the Hall before its owner knew what they were about?’
Crowther straightened his coat, replying, ‘My old lands are farmed by a former storekeeper who made a fortune in London. That man accumulated as much wealth in twenty years as my family had gathered in hundreds.’
Harriet nodded slowly. ‘Do you think there will be revolution here?’
Crowther smiled. ‘I doubt it. Every Englishman still has the stink of civil war in his nose. There was forty-five, of course.’ He remembered the panic in the London of his boyhood as Prince Charlie came down the country like a comet, the slaughters and reprisals that followed. ‘No, I was teasing Michaels when I used the word revolution, but we live now in an age where a man can - indeed, he must - rise by his own talents. That can only be good, I think.’
He held the door open for her and as she paused, startled by the sudden brightness of the day, blew out the candle.
V.6
G
RAVES APPROACHED THE street door with wavering confidence. He had only been told that a gentleman wished to see him on confidential business, and preferred to wait in the street, so was expecting to meet the crumpled sneer of Molloy, grown bold and hungry. It was with surprise then that as he stepped out into the street he realised he was being approached by a man of his own age, or perhaps a little older. He was smooth-skinned, blue-eyed, and although he looked exhausted, he also looked healthier, Graves thought, than any London dweller had the right to appear. Only a growing smear of stubble across his chin suggested any urgency in his business, and the flick of his eyes up and down the street as he approached.
RAVES APPROACHED THE street door with wavering confidence. He had only been told that a gentleman wished to see him on confidential business, and preferred to wait in the street, so was expecting to meet the crumpled sneer of Molloy, grown bold and hungry. It was with surprise then that as he stepped out into the street he realised he was being approached by a man of his own age, or perhaps a little older. He was smooth-skinned, blue-eyed, and although he looked exhausted, he also looked healthier, Graves thought, than any London dweller had the right to appear. Only a growing smear of stubble across his chin suggested any urgency in his business, and the flick of his eyes up and down the street as he approached.
‘Are you Mr Graves, sir?’
Graves nodded.
‘I am Daniel Clode, a solicitor from Sussex.’ Graves tried to keep his eye steady, aware that he was being closely watched for a reaction. ‘From near Thornleigh Hall.’ That did it. Graves looked a little shaken; he glanced back over his shoulder to see if the street door to the Chases’ house had been closed behind him, relaxed a little to see that it was. The young solicitor noticed and was relieved.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk quietly?’ Clode asked him. ‘I have been informed correctly, have I not, that you are named guardian of Mr Alexander Adams’s two children? I was expecting someone a little older perhaps.’
Graves straightened. The young man in front of him could not have formed a greater contrast with the yellow-faced monster who had killed his friend, but when the devil fails to conquer us with fire and contagion, he can take a more pleasing form. Graves tried to decide what trust to extend.
‘I am. Alexander was my best friend.’ He looked hard at Clode; the man did seem tired and genuinely concerned. He would have to take his chances, it seemed, but he could not bring a stranger into the house where the children sat at Miss Chase’s feet in the parlour until he knew a little more. ‘There is a gin shop round the corner here. Rough, but no one cares there for anything but their own business, and I do not like to leave the children for long. Will that suffice?’
Clode nodded shortly and waited while the other man returned to the street door and had some whispered conversation with the servant there. As Graves rejoined him, Clode stopped suddenly and looked into his face.
‘Are the children well-guarded?’
The tone of his voice made Graves cold in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, and looked about the street. Suddenly it seemed to be populated with all the demons and witches from Susan’s storybooks.
‘Mr Chase and his family are at home.’
Clode put his hand to his face, another wave of tiredness flowing up from the street like a tide, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
‘Good. Come. I shall buy you a glass and explain myself.’
Watching him leaning up against the greasy wall in the gin basement, hearing him talk, Graves began to realise how exhausted Clode actually was. In the gloom his face looked emptied, his cheekbones unnaturally prominent. He was not surprised then to hear that Clode had ridden all night, and fought his way through London in the heat of the day.
‘We have only heard a little of the disturbances, being so far back in Sussex,’ Daniel explained, ‘so I had no idea . . .’
‘. . . that London could be brought to its knees so fast.’ Graves tossed back the liquor in his glass and felt his throat sting. He hissed in the thick air through his teeth. They spoke low, leaning towards each other in one of several dark corners the gin shop offered. Small clusters of men in dusty coats f illed the room with a low mumble and a cloud of tobacco smoke. By the door a woman of middle age crouched against the wall; she began singing some soldier ballad to herself, ignored by the rest of the drinkers. Graves did not bother to look round as he went on, ‘The world has turned over in the last week. Pray God it finds its way back to a centre again, before we all lose our footing. Tell me more about Thornleigh Hall.’
Clode lifted his glass and opened his throat. The fire of the gin made him cough, and stung his eyes, but he felt it knit his bones together again, a temporary relief.
‘I have told you of our suspicions as to the true name and condition of the children.’
Graves nodded. ‘You are correct. I have proof of it, and their legitimate claim.’
‘Thank God.’ Clode seemed to slump a little further into his corner. ‘That should make things easier when the danger is past, but . . .’ he leaned forward and placed his hand on his companion’s sleeve . . . ‘danger there is. We do not know if anyone other than Alexander’s murderer knows of the children, and the relief that he is in custody is such I can hardly stand, but Mrs Westerman and Crowther believe that whoever arranged his killing has murdered three times with their own hands in Hartswood. The danger is real. Another man could ride as I have done, make the same enquiries.’
Graves put his own hand over his new friend’s where it clutched his coat and tried to speak with more confidence than he felt.
‘We can watch over them. We shall, but first I must take you back to Mr Chase’s home. You need to rest, and I must find a way to tell the children what you have told me. It seems Susan was right in all her worst suspicions.’
Daniel smiled a little grimly, examining the smears on his dirty glass. ‘She sounds a smart girl.’
‘And a good one as is her brother. Alexander raised them well.’
At that moment, the door to the outside steps of the gin shop swung open, and Mr Chase’s kitchen boy darted in.
‘Mr Graves! Quickly, sir! My master’s warehouse by the river is on fire and he goes to defend it. You must look to the children.’
Graves swore under his breath and, throwing down his pennies for the liquor, hurled himself out of the door, dragging Clode with him.
The house was all confusion. Graves shoved Clode bodily into Mr Chase’s study and instructed him to rest. Between the ride, the day and the gin Daniel managed no more than a mumble of protest before he took to the sofa and drew his cloak over himself.
In the hallway Mr and Mrs Chase argued with their daughter while the carriage rattled to the door and the male servants gathered by it, agonies of hurry and concern on each face.
‘Come, Verity! You must come with us! I cannot leave you here!’
Miss Chase seemed the only calm player in the piece, her hands loosely folded in front of her.
‘And I cannot leave the children, Papa, and as they cannot -
must
not - go, I’m afraid you must leave me.’
must
not - go, I’m afraid you must leave me.’
‘And if the crowd take it into their heads to come here?’
‘You must place me under the protection of Mr Graves and his friend.’
So she at least had noticed Clode’s arrival. Graves hoped that Mr Chase would not smell the gin on his breath. Mrs Chase murmured something. Graves caught the word ‘reputation’ and felt himself wince. Miss Chase replied with a smile in her usual clear tones.
‘I shall play guardian to Susan, and she play chaperone to me.’
Her parents exchanged glances, Mr Chase shrugged and having cast a look at Graves that conveyed more than a sermon would from any other man, kissed his daughter’s cheek and swept his wife out of the house. The door was slammed and bolted behind them. Graves stepped towards Miss Chase.
‘Why has your father been targeted? He is no Catholic.’
She took his arm and began to lead him towards the parlour.
‘His neighbour in the docks is, however, and that seems to be enough this evening.’
The parlour door opened and Susan’s face peered round anxiously. Her thin shoulders dropped in relief as she saw Miss Chase and Graves approaching her. She stepped forward and pressed her face into his coat. He put his arm around her shoulders and bent forward to kiss the top of her head. She looked up at him.
‘Where have you been? Urgh! Your coat smells disgusting! And who is that other man? Is he a friend?’
He smiled down at her. ‘He is. But a tired one. I have sent him to rest.’ He hesitated. ‘He has brought news with him, Susan. Is Jonathan . . . ?’
The young face grew serious. ‘He is asleep on the hearth rug like a cat. You can tell us without frightening him. That is what you mean, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, little woman. It is.’
They walked into the bright of the parlour, and the noise and fury of the crowd seemed to be sealed away as the door fell to behind them.
Graves was frank with the girl, and she heard him out with a quiet gravity, holding onto Miss Chase’s hand and apparently studying the sleeping form of her brother, curled on the floor with Miss Chase’s shawl over him. She was silent for a moment when he had finished, then, without looking at him she asked, ‘What was the name of the man in the wood, the one with Papa’s ring? Was it Carter?’
Graves frowned. ‘I believe it was, Susan. Carter Brook. But how did you know? Did you ever meet the man?’
She shook her head and the fair ringlets round her ears bobbed and swung like corks in water.
‘No, but Jonathan did. The man showed him a picture, the coat-of-arms on Papa’s ring, when he was out at play, and Jonathan told him all about the ring, and where it was too, I suppose. Jonathan liked him. Said he was a nice man - that he had a nice waistcoat. He’ll talk for ever if he likes someone.’ She swallowed. ‘If he hadn’t have told, then Papa might still be alive, mightn’t he? Papa, and those other people.’
Miss Chase bent towards her. ‘We cannot know that, my love.’
The little girl was very still and straight. ‘No, but I think they would be.’ She looked up into Graves’s face. He let his eyes travel over her still-forming features, felt his tenderness for her flower. ‘Let us never tell him, Mr Graves. It would not be good if he knew.’
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