Instruments of Darkness (48 page)

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Authors: Imogen Robertson

Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction

BOOK: Instruments of Darkness
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‘And has used that knowledge to run the Hall since he got free of the Army.’
Crowther relaxed, and smiled at her.
‘I believe that may be it. A pretty set of neighbours you have, Mrs Westerman. Shall we go and visit the local poisoner now?’
Augustus Gladwell was one of the tallest men Mrs Westerman had ever laid eyes on, and so thin he made Crowther seem stout. Crowther peered at him with such interest Harriet was almost uncomfortable. His cheeks were hollow, and his hair sparse and silvered, tied simply at the nape of his neck. The shop was of a good size, though the enormous height of its owner made it seem lower and more boxy than it should. The tools of his trade were all about him. The wall behind his counter was fitted with a set of a hundred small drawers, each labelled in a spidery copperplate. The counter itself, and side-tables, were stacked with large jars, curled and glittering in the afternoon sun. Harriet was surprised she had never had cause to come here herself in the four years she had called Caveley her home. She had purchased from here, but only via her servants. The smell reminded her of her own kitchen when Mrs Heathcote was making the preserves for winter. Oil of cloves hung in the air which made the room taste to her like autumn even on a summer’s day. The counter also supported a number of sets of balance scales, one which would have done for potatoes, down to the smallest which Harriet was sure could measure the weight of her own breath, so fine and delicate it seemed.
Mr Gladwell smiled at them, and stooped forward.
‘You are Mr Gladwell, sir?’ Crowther asked. The man nodded slowly. ‘I am Gabriel Crowther. I was recommended to visit you by Sir Stephen.’
The man’s eyes lit up with genuine affection.
‘He is one of my best customers, and one of my most challenging. I believe I have heard your name, sir, and was hoping to make your acquaintance.’
His voice was oddly whispering, like parchment being blotted with sand. Crowther looked around him in great contentment.
‘I feel I have found a friend here, sir.’ Crowther peered into one of the glass jars where something floated that Harriet had decided for her own peace of mind not to attempt to identify. ‘How old is this preparation?’
‘Two years.’
‘Remarkable.’
‘I spent as much time on the sealant to the jar as the liquid itself. But I have heard you have a remarkable collection.’
The two men leaned towards each other over the jar. Harriet cleared her throat, and Crowther straightened reluctantly.
‘I hope we will have time to discuss these matters fully, but first, my friend wishes to ask you something.’
Harriet smiled politely and stepped forward. ‘I need something to kill my mice,’ she said.
Gladwell frowned a little. ‘Mrs Westerman, your housekeeper had something appropriate from me for the animals in your long barn only a month ago.’
Harriet blinked and fluttered her hands. ‘Oh, but I was told by the Thronleigh household that they have something even better, and I think we should try that.’
The frown deepened, and the traces of welcome seemed to disappear from Gladwell’s face, as if blown away by a desert wind.
‘They have just the same preparation as your house, madam.’
‘But I thought Mr Wicksteed—’
Crowther interrupted her. ‘Enough, Mrs Westerman.’
Gladwell looked up at him in surprise. Crowther leaned on his cane and looked at his companion.
‘Remarkable as your performance often is, I am sure that we shall get more from Mr Gladwell with a little plain dealing.’
Harriet dropped her smile. ‘Really?’
‘I am sure of it.’
Harriet shrugged and took a seat next to one of the side-tables. The jar at her elbow contained a mouse with two tails. Its lids were closed, dreamily, and it floated as if in free flight across the skies. She resisted the temptation to tap on the glass and see if it would open its eyes and look at her. Mr Gladwell remained frowning behind his counter, watching Crowther.
‘Joshua Cartwright was poisoned on Sunday evening in Hartswood. Arsenic. I suspect it was the steward at Thornleigh who had him killed, and wondered if he had recently bought arsenic from you.’
Mr Gladwell held Crowther’s gaze for a long moment. At last he cleared his throat.
‘I assume, Mr Crowther, that you—’
‘Yes, we tested what was left in the bottle on a dog.’ Harriet winced in spite of herself. ‘It was certainly arsenic. Did Wicksteed buy any from you?’
Rather than answer at once, Mr Gladwell stepped round from the counter and crossed the room to shut the street door and pull down the blind. He seemed to cross the space in a single step, more unfolding and folding his limbs again than walking.
‘Perhaps I can offer you both a little refreshment? If you would be so kind as to step into the parlour.’
 
Mr Gladwell’s private rooms at the rear of the shop were not very different in style or furnishing from those in which he conducted his business, but here the chairs were designed for longer occupation, and the drawers of herbs and tinctures gave way to leather-bound volumes. The oddities in jars, however, became a little more prevalent. Mr Gladwell seemed to have a predilection for the unusual in nature, suggested by the mouse with two tails, and confirmed in his sitting room by a lizard with two heads. This specimen the men discussed at some length until tea was served and they took their seats. Mr Gladwell’s cup looked like a child’s in his long thin hands, so white they made the glistening china look dull and yellowed.
‘Thank you for your frankness, Mr Crowther,’ Gladwell began in his sandy voice, after a little beat of silence that suggested they were moving forward to a new topic. ‘What I told Mrs Westerman is perfectly true. The preparation Thornleigh Hall take for ridding themselves of unwanted animal life is just as we have supplied to Caveley, and it is based on strychnine - not arsenic. But I had a conversation recently that I think I should share with you.’
Harriet put down her cup, making space to do so on the side-table by edging along a jar out of which a bull’s eye stared kindly at her.
‘We should be interested to hear,’ she said.
The giant smiled slowly.
‘I have a number of competitors in the area. Some are good men, some I think are not. One of the latter dropped into my shop only yesterday. He hoped he might commission me to carry some pill of his own devising against gout. He made various claims for it, which I thought extravagant and perhaps I did not hide the fact. He grew a little angry with me.’
He smiled thinly at the memory, and raised his hand as if to brush his colleague’s crossness away. Harriet was reminded of her horse flicking its tail at the summer midges.
‘His pride was a little hurt, I thought, and he told me not to rely on Thornleigh Hall as a customer in the future, as he himself was now having dealings with them. However, it was not Mr Wicksteed who made the purchase of which he spoke. He told me he had sold one hundred grains of arsenic on Saturday morning, to Lady Thornleigh herself.’
Harriet swallowed suddenly and Crowther set down his cup. After a moment he spoke.
‘That is a considerable amount.’
‘Indeed. Enough to rid the whole town of its mice. And cats. And dogs. I think my colleague was proud to have made such a large sale. He will always sell more than his clients require, and never suffers them to leave his shop empty-handed. I know several people who have entered his shop quite healthy, and left convinced they were in fact on the point of death as a result of any number of maladies. They think themselves blessed and lucky to have chanced in on him at just the right moment to avoid disaster.’
Crowther smiled at his fingertips. ‘That cannot be good for your own business, sir.’
The giant lifted his thin shoulders. ‘Most return to me in the end. He does not do many of them lasting damage, but the sale of such a large quantity of arsenic stayed in my mind.’
Crowther flexed his hand. ‘As you say, Mr Gladwell, it is indeed a thing to be noted. Did you know Mr Cartwright?’
‘In passing, as all of us in trade do in the county. He did not seem a man who deserved to die in such a way. Arsenic sends our bodies to hell long before the soul escapes to join it. And Lady Thornleigh took such a quantity. I hope you do not break bread at her table, for your sakes.’
Harriet took up the cup again. The eye in the jar shook a little as if trying to catch her attention.
‘We do not. But I do not like living so near.’
VI.7
‘
D
O YOU WISH to go to the Squire?’ Crowther was on the point of handing Mrs Westerman into her carriage in the forecourt of Pulborough’s best coaching inn. Harriet turned to him, one foot on the ground, one raised onto the step of the elegant little barouche she used for local journeys, her hand in his.
‘But we do not know how Wicksteed heard of the meeting with Brook, and our conclusions about Shapin are guesswork at best. Do you think . . . ?’
But before the thought was completed two young men, their rough shirts flying, barrelled into the lady and gentleman. With sudden shock Harriet found herself thrown to the ground, and felt her ankle twist under her. Her back hit hard against the high wheel of her coach. She heard her coachman roar and leap from his seat, shouting at his boy to hold the frightened animals steady. Crowther’s cane crashed to the ground, and rolled from his grip across the cobbles. David grabbed one of the lads, twisting him by the collar. The other spotted Crowther’s cane, and as Crowther reached for it, brought down his heel on the slender strength of the wood. It cracked between the pillow-like stones of the yard. Crowther struggled to his feet with a yell, managing to catch his attacker’s face with the back of his hand as he rose. The youth’s head jerked back and he lifted his fist, then laughed, and spat at his feet. Crowther reached for him again, but the lad was too quick and darted over to his companion, throwing himself between him and Harriet’s red-faced coachman to break the grip. They ran from the yard at full tilt with David pursuing as Crowther turned to Harriet and began to help her to her feet. Already the inn’s landlady had come hurrying across the cobbles, her apron ballooning around her in a cloud of upset.
‘Oh, Good Lord! What on earth?’ She put her arm around Harriet’s shoulder and helped to raise her.
‘I’m quite all right. Just winded, I think.’ She tried to put her weight on the hurt ankle and went rather white, then shifted her balance to allow Crowther’s arm to take most of her weight.
The landlady seemed on the point of tears. ‘I cannot believe it! I’ve never seen such a thing.’
Harriet tried to smile at her. ‘Really, Mrs Saunderton, I am quite well. It is nothing. A couple of foolish young men.’
Crowther looked about him. In the doorway of the inn he saw the familiar form of Wicksteed. He was smiling at them, his arms crossed over his chest. David, the coachman, came running back into the yard. Crowther noticed the little boy at the horses’ heads look of relief as he handed over the bridle. That must be Jake Mortimer, the sewing woman’s nephew. He could see David had been injured in his struggle with the man. The skin around his eye was already very red.
‘Sorry, ma’am. They got away from me in the Square.’
Mrs Saunderton was trying to knock the dust of her yard from the long folds of Harriet’s dress; the latter put out a hand to stop her.
‘Not at all, David. Thank you. Are you injured?’
‘Not worth mentioning, Mrs Westerman.’
The landlady was still trembling with distress. ‘I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on either of those lads before. Oh, Mrs Westerman, what you must think of us! Will you not come in for a moment to recover? What a shock!’
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 colour 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.’

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