Theft of Life (17 page)

‘I hope you have not come to make confession, Mr Christopher,’ Crowther said coolly. ‘I am not sure what the rules of hospitality would suggest in such a circumstance.’

Christopher looked across at him. ‘Ha! Indeed, a terrible thing it would be, to put a lady in that position. But I am not such a monster. I have English manners now.’ His smile was broad and sudden, then it disappeared again. ‘No. I had reason to hate Trimnell. I loathed him, I despised him – but when I heard he was in London, I was also afraid. Afraid he would know me and claim me.’ The idea of this man having anything to fear from that hollowed-out corpse with its broken and failed heart seemed incredible to Harriet. ‘Mrs Westerman, my family have a letter ready for a lawyer I know. If I am late coming home they have instructions to run to him quick as they might with it so he may lay a writ of habeus corpus.’

‘Habeus corpus?’ Harriet asked.

‘It is the legal method used to prevent slaves being taken out of this country against their will,’ Palmer said, an elegant chorus. ‘There was a legal case in 1772, Somersett. A slave cannot be forced against his will onto a ship to the West Indies, though of course it still happens from time to time. When it does, obtaining a writ of habeus corpus has proved effective. Assuming it can be delivered in time.’

‘I believed slavery illegal on English soil, after that case. I remember being proud,’ Harriet said faintly. She put her hands together on her lap again and her silks sighed with her.

Palmer studied his wine ‘Many do. In truth, the matter is more complex.’

The African reached into his coat pocket and produced a heavy sheet of paper, folded into thirds. ‘I raised my glass on that Day of Judgement too, madam. But the legal ins and outs are not the business of today. Yes, I hated Trimnell. Trimnell was my master. Yet Mr Trimnell came alone to my house last week – and he brought me this.’

He gave the paper to Harriet. She read it and handed it to Crowther.

‘Your manumission,’ he said simply. ‘So Trimnell relinquished all legal claim over your person and gave you this document to prove it. You have the air of a wealthy man, Mr Christopher. Did Trimnell ask you for money? I would imagine you would be worth a great deal.’

For a moment Harriet thought Mr Christopher was angry, then he smiled again. ‘I am. And he so wasted and dirty a man, sir, I was ashamed to think he owned my fine blood and bones.’ Christopher tutted a little, then turned his face to Crowther’s, his dark eyes wide and serious. ‘But no, Mr Crowther. He did not ask for my money, and here we come to why Mr Palmer has brought us together to tell stories in this handsome room. You see, Mr Trimnell asked for my forgiveness.’

T
HE LETTER ARRIVED A
little after midday. It was brought into the shop by the same constable who had pulled Francis from the flames. Francis was glad of the chance to see him again and this time managed to thank him. The constable – Miller, he said his name was – was grateful for the offer of refreshment. It was not until they were both seated in the privacy of the back parlour that Francis broke the seal and read the letter. It was from Eliza Smith’s sister-in-law, and he had to read it twice before it made much sense to him. As its meaning became clear, his heart sank. Her husband George – Francis’s old friend, Eliza’s brother and presumably her heir – was travelling in the north of the country. Letters were being sent to his friends there, but his itinerary was uncertain, and with the best will in the world it was likely to be a week before he could be back in London. His wife, who was still in fragile health after the birth of her fourth child, begged Francis to take charge of affairs in London until her husband returned. She wrote that she trusted in his good sense and loyal heart, and gave her authority that he should act just as he saw fit. It was all Francis could do to stifle a groan; the weight on his shoulders already felt more than he could bear. The constable was watching him.

‘She sent us a note too, Mr Glass. Saying it was all put into your hands.’ He cleared his throat; the smoke had got deep into his lungs too. ‘There’s a fair bit of stock could be saved, I think. And some of the machinery too. Printed up engravings, didn’t they? Fire sort of smashed itself out when it came down on that poor lady’s head. Then there’s her body: she needs burying and the bloke who owns the land wants the place pulled down and cleared so he can get building again. He came around looking while I was on guard this morning. Drooling like a dog outside a butcher’s, he was.’

Francis put the letter to one side. ‘The ashes aren’t even cold.’

‘Aye well, business in the city, you know. They’re not ones to stand about. My impression was he reckoned he’s been underpaid for that spot for years. But you know, with Mrs Smith’s reputation so high I guess he never dared put up the rent on her.’

Francis looked at the constable, frowning suspiciously, and Miller read his mind. ‘No, no. He got off the Bath stage this morning – I checked. So he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Yet it does seem queer, the fire going off like that. The inquest takes place this afternoon. Three o’clock in the Black Swan.’

Through the taste of smoke in his throat, Francis told him again of what he had seen – Eliza’s body, her wound and the coldness of her flesh. The constable rubbed his chin with his yellow fingers and made him describe the fire again, the way it ran around the room in waves.

‘Don’t like the sound of that, Mr Glass. Not at all. I’ve seen enough fires here in my time and they don’t just dash about like that unless they’re following a trail that’s been set for them. You’ll have to tell the coroner and he’ll look down his nose at you. He’d rather have an accident than a murder. But you’ll have to tell him, just the same. First things first though. If you’re at liberty now, you’d best come with me and sort through what’s worth saving and make some arrangements.’ He set down his tankard. ‘The maid’s still not turned up, you know. There’s talk on her.’

Francis thought of the sharp-faced girl. ‘I did not wish Eliza to employ her. But Mrs Smith said she was doing well, and seemed to be growing fond of her. Perhaps Penny’s evil habits did stay with her and even Eliza’s kindness could not wash her clean.’ He got up from his chair, his bandaged hands making him clumsy.

‘I can’t say that being a constable has taught me to think better of my fellow creatures, Mr Glass, but I hope you’re wrong.’ Miller hauled himself up and blew out a long breath. ‘Girl seemed to be doing well with Mrs Smith, as you said. Still, she isn’t there, and there’s still no sign of the cashbox and poor Mrs Smith killed.’

Francis began to struggle into his coat, and seeing his difficulty Miller helped him, holding it so he could slide in his arms without pulling at the bandages. ‘You’d best bring a purse with you,’ Miller advised. ‘There’ll be men to be paid for gathering and carrying and guarding, and now you’ve got that letter looks like they’ll be on your charge.’

The expense did not disturb him. He drank little and his entertainment consisted of the books he read, so he had a fund saved from his wages. However, Francis realised for the first time through his grief that he was angry. It was not an emotion with which he was very familiar and it took him a few moments to identify the feeling of cold constriction under his heart. Someone had taken Eliza away. Someone had destroyed her, broken her and left her as if she was of no account, as if no one would miss her or come for her. He put the letter into his pocket. Someone would pay. If it were the maid, then she would be found.

‘All that can be done, I’ll do,’ he said. ‘Might I ask your assistance, Mr Miller?’

‘Happy to oblige, Mr Glass, in all that’s lawful.’

The two men did not manage to leave at once; as they passed through the shop floor Francis stopped a moment to tell Cutter what had occurred and where his business was taking him. Cutter only nodded and scratched his ear. This he did in a manner that suggested the world was a wicked and weary-making place, and that he was happier to stay in the shop. As Francis was still speaking, a very tall gentleman in a scholar’s clothing and with wide blue eyes came in. He had red hair, a sight which always stopped Francis dead even after all these years in England. He had thought the first red-headed man he had seen a demon for certain, so unnatural did the colour seem, and he still could not help suspecting them a little.

‘Good day,’ the demon said, smiling very widely. ‘I am looking for a book.’ He had got the whole sentence out before he noticed the colour of Francis’s skin. His expression changed from open enquiry to surprise to a sort of fascination. The constable mumbled something about waiting for Francis outside.

‘You are certainly in the right place,’ Francis said with a slight bow. ‘Was it a particular book you are looking for?’

The man laughed. ‘Oh yes, Edward Long’s
History of Jamaica
. Do you have it?’

‘We do not,’ Francis said evenly.

‘Are you
quite
sure?’ the demon asked, still beaming. ‘I was told by the gentleman in Humphrey’s to come here specifically to buy it.’ It seemed to dawn on him that the atmosphere in the shop was become suddenly chilly. ‘Have I said something wrong?’ Francis wondered if any face could in truth be as innocent as this one appeared to be. ‘I am writing an essay for the Cambridge Latin Prize. This year, the subject is
Anne liceat invitos in servitutem dare
. That means—’

‘Is it legal to sell a man against his will. I have enough Latin to understand that, sir.’

‘
Do
you? How interesting! Yes, and I am here in London to buy books and I was told …’ He tailed off.

Francis prayed for patience; the man did not seem to be malicious. ‘The clerk in the other shop means to make a joke of us both, sir,’ he explained. ‘The book you mention contain some unflattering commentary about people of my colour. We sell works of fiction here, music and some history. But not that book.’

The man flushed such a furious scarlet, it was as if his pale skin had been suddenly doused in red paint. ‘Oh, I see. My apologies.’

Francis bowed. ‘You could not know. If you require anything else, my clerk will be happy to help.’

The young man put his hand on Francis’s sleeve. The blush had faded a little, leaving his skin looking mottled. Francis could not help noticing the dry skin on his lips, the thin-boned fingers. He stooped slightly, his head on one side.

‘Were
you
a slave? I do hope you were. You would do me a great kindness by telling me of it. I won the Junior Latin Prize last year, and if I were to win the Senior Prize, my chances for a good career in the Church would be much enhanced. I am sure the judges would be impressed if I managed to get a first-hand testimony. You know, the winning essay is often
published
.’

Francis felt his muscles tense. ‘You must forgive me, I am much occupied today.’

The man had sense enough to release his hold and take a step backwards. ‘Of course, I understand. But should you have a moment over the next few days … My name is Clarkson and I’m staying at the White Rose until Friday.’ Francis nodded and began to turn away. ‘I am against it,’ Clarkson said, too loudly. ‘Slavery, I mean. The Bible does not support it, I think I can demonstrate that
unanswerably
. And it would aid my thesis, in that section where I argue against the assertion that Negroes are not human as such but part-monkey, to talk to some unusually intelligent examples of the sable brotherhood.’ His wide blue eyes remained as innocent as ever.

It was impossible to make him understand. ‘I really must leave you now, Mr Clarkson. Perhaps you might ask Cutter here to show you the verses of Miss Phillis Wheatley. She remains a slave and the book contains a number of letters from prominent people supporting her claim to be the genuine author.’

Clarkson looked delighted. ‘Oh, has a Negress written a poetry book? How wonderful! Yes, that’s
just
the sort of thing. I am grateful. You know, there are reports of another in America who is terribly good at mathematics!’

Cutter was already trotting towards them with the volume mentioned, and as quickly as possible. Clarkson all but clapped his hands and Francis took his chance to finally leave the shop. As he left, he saw the clerk of Humphrey’s shop in his doorway. The man raised his hand and smirked. Francis resisted the temptation to cross the road and spit in the man’s face, though how he did so he could not readily say.

‘T
RIMNELL CAME TO ASK
your forgiveness?’ Harriet repeated. Tobias Christopher only nodded. ‘And did you give it to him?’

He took the glass in his hand and drank from it slowly before replying. ‘I did not do so. I
could
not do so. Perhaps I fail as a Christian to say it, but I cannot forgive or forget what that man did, what hundreds of others such as him have done. How can I offer forgiveness for all that death? I cannot. Some sins only God can forgive, and even then … No. He and all his kind must stand before Heaven to answer. I heard him as far as I could. I let him speak and he left my home as he came to it. He could ask no more than that. I am not a priest to hear his confession and send him into the world clean.’

‘You have no desire for revenge?’ Crowther asked.

‘Revenge?’ His voice was soft. He stared off into the air above them for a while. Harriet wondered if he was examining the paintings on the library ceiling. There was a theme of exploration among them, ships, high seas, foreign shores – painted to inspire, Harriet supposed, the reading and dreaming of those land-locked within the house. They made her uncomfortable as she tried to see them again through Mr Christopher’s eyes.

‘Have you heard of a ship named the
Zong
, Mr Crowther?’ Christopher said at last. Crowther shook his head, though Harriet noticed Palmer blink and look away. ‘So few Englishmen have. Four years ago, that ship sailed from the coast of Africa with more than six hundred Africans packed into her hold. There was sickness on the ship, there is always sickness on the ship, and before they got near to Jamaica, there were many dead. Now the commander of that ship, Collingwood, was a bad sailor and he missed his way. There he is, out at sea watching his profit vomiting and dying in the hold, and he makes a plan. The cargo is insured. If the slaves he carries die in their own blood and filth below, it is his loss. If, however,
of necessity
, they are thrown overboard while breathing, the insurers must pay him money for each soul he destroys.’ His voice still had that low and rocking tone to it, like a father telling a story to his child before he sleeps. ‘Necessity. So Mr Collingwood declares there is not enough fresh water left, and orders his crew to throw the living sick into the waters. More than two hundred of the slaves he carried were cast off that ship, and even when the rain had fallen and filled up his water casks again, he sent more to the bottom of the ocean. Still fettered together. Some nights I dream of them sinking in their chains.’ He looked away from the spreading sails painted above him. ‘He was prosecuted by the insurers, Mr Crowther, but for fraud, not murder and Lord Mansfield – a man whose health I drank in 1772 when he freed the slave Somersett – said there was no difference in the case between the killing of slaves, or the killing of sheep. Now what would you say if Collingwood asked you to forgive him? If the sailors who obeyed him asked you? If the insurers? What of the man who toils away making the fetters that bound those slaves together? What of the man who owns shares in the enterprise? How could you forgive, and how would you take revenge for that?’ Crowther said nothing. ‘What I desire, Mr Crowther, is not revenge. I am a more ambitious man than that. I would have truth.’ His voice grew stronger. ‘I would have every person in these islands stand up, declare themselves against slavery and curse the slavers and plantation-owners for the lying, inhuman dogs they are. The insurers, the smith, the shipbuilder, the housekeeper who sweetens her tea with slave sugar, let them stand up beside me and call not for revenge or forgiveness, but for truth. Let them tell the truth.’ He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘They tell the world we are hardly human, fit only for whip and chains so the English will not feel for us. I have been a slave and worn that mask and I am a
man
. Just as much a man as those who sold me. That is the truth. That is what must be acknowledged.’ He finished his wine then set the glass very carefully back on the table as if conscious it might break into nothing between his fingers. His voice softened again. ‘The English people here, the rich, the educated, the civilised people I meet and train … Sometimes I am at a loss to understand. You are become so dissolute you think robbery, slavery, rape and murder no crimes?’