Theft of Life (21 page)

‘My God is the God of love Who rejoices when a sinner returns to Him. He asks for our repentance, not our pain. Though I applauded Mr Trimnell’s attempts to make amends.’

‘He paid for the room at the Red Lion?’ Harriet said gently.

Willoughby nodded. ‘Oh yes. And he arranged and paid for the printing of my handbills, but he did more. He meant to do more. I rejoiced with Mr Trimnell when he found that a runaway slave of his was in London, so that he might assure the man that he was free. It must have been a great relief for the poor fellow. He also believed that he had a mulatto daughter in the city. He told me he was planning to acknowledge her and bring her up in his home. He even found another boy whom he had sold to a merchant, working in a grocer’s shop in Charles Street, and gave him all the money he had about him.’

No wonder he was poor then, Harriet thought. ‘And Mrs Trimnell?’ she asked.

‘I do not know. She never came with him to pray with me. But she lost four children during their years in Jamaica. Whatever her sins, surely God punished her enough by taking her children from her.’

His hands were shaking now and the fire of his preaching had grown cold.

‘When you saw him on Friday evening,’ Crowther said, ‘was Mr Trimnell carrying a metal mask with him?’

Willoughby shuddered. ‘No – that is to say, I have no recollection of his having it. He had once brought it to a meeting. He wished to show another member of the congregation that such things did in truth exist. I asked him not to bring it again. Such an evil object.’ His voice had become distressed. ‘Forgive me. If you wish to speak more to me, you may find me here or in my lodgings. I must pray. I
must
pray. Good day to you both.’

He hurried off along the street and Harriet looked back to the corner where he had been preaching. ‘Did you see what happened when he dropped his Bible, Crowther? How he took the blow and his body wished to defend itself, but he would not allow it?’

‘I did. You believe it might explain why Trimnell did not defend himself from his attackers?’

‘Perhaps.’ The glimmer of the goldsmith’s wares caught her eye. The shopkeeper was removing something from the window. She could just see him passing it with a bow to a gentleman waiting inside. ‘I think I shall call on Mrs Trimnell.’ She looked down at her dress. ‘Though I should probably wear something a great deal less muddy to do so.’

C
ONSTABLE MILLER HAD BEEN
right about the proceedings of the Coroner’s Court. The coroner seemed to be attending only under duress and was expecting to close the proceedings before his beer had even settled in his tankard. He noted carefully that there was ready money in the house which had not been taken, so dismissed the idea of a robbery and seemed not to note the disappearance of the maid at all.

Francis recognised the look the man gave him when he stated that he had seen a wound to Eliza’s eye and that her body was cold. It was a twitch in the lip that indicated he was being troublesome. The jury paid attention, however. Constable Miller had gathered together a group of men who had got used to these sorts of proceedings over the years and were not intimidated by Barthlomew’s stares. The constable produced the graver, and it was passed between them. They handled it as carefully as a relic, though Bartholomew only frowned at it and waved it back into the constable’s possession. The jury asked to speak to the surgeon again, a man as dismissive as the coroner. Under the foreman’s careful questioning, however, he conceded that the condition of the body when pulled from the ruin meant he could not say there was no injury to the eye. He equally could not say whether ‘the woman’ had died in the fire or not. If he had called her by her name, the coroner might have got the answer he wanted, but the foreman was Scudder indeed, and was justifying the faith that Miller had shown in him.

‘It needs adjourning,’ the butcher said, and crossed his fat arms over his chest. The coroner began to argue but Scudder shook his great head. ‘Now, Mr Bartholomew. You know I served on a dozen juries like this and for the Aldermen too. Happy to do my duty, as are we all.’ He looked around him and the rest of the jurors, local tradesmen all and a bookseller or two among them, Francis noted, bobbed their heads in agreement. ‘If this fella can’t say how good Mrs Smith died, get someone who can. And bills. You can print up bills asking if anyone saw anything dubious. Tell ’em to take the cost out of my rates.’

The coroner was irritated. ‘It is likely no one could tell, Mr Scudder, from the condition of the body. And we cannot go to the expense of printing bills just because of the impressions of one confused man.’

One of the younger jurors tapped Scudder on the shoulder and leaned forward to him, whispering. Scudder bent his neck slightly to listen. ‘Two things, Mr Bartholomew. Thing one, Mr Glass here don’t seem confused to us. Thing two, young Jarvis here has just mentioned you had a smart fella in for that slave-monger this morning. Let him have a look at her.’

Mr Bartholomew said severely, ‘Mr Trimnell was a landowner in Jamaica, not a trader, and Mr Crowther is an authority who happened to be on hand. I cannot order him to come again.’

Scudder was a stubborn man. He seemed to settle himself even more firmly into his seat. ‘What would be the harm in sending this authority a little note with our compliments. Seeing as this other bloke don’t seem to know his arse from his elbow,’ he added in slightly lower, but still perfectly audible tones. It was too much for the surgeon. He stood up and stalked out of the room. Scudder watched him go with no sign of either discomfort or regret.

Mr Bartholomew stared at Scudder, who met his gaze with calm assurance. Bartholomew blinked first. ‘Very well. I shall adjourn for a week and write to Mr Crowther – though I doubt he will come. But this is most irregular, Mr Scudder. And a waste of our time.’

The younger juror murmured something and Scudder laughed. Bartholomew did not ask the reason and gathered his papers with obvious irritation. Scudder did not move until the coroner was gone, then he stood with a deep sigh and approached Francis.

‘Take an ale with me, Mr Glass?’ he said. Normally Francis would have refused him, but he couldn’t say no today.

When they had their beer in front of them, Scudder offered a toast to Mrs Smith and Glass drank with him.

‘Not that she’d approve of us taking a drink, even in her name,’ Scudder said.

‘She wouldn’t. Thank you, Mr Scudder, for insisting.’

‘Didn’t do it for you, Pompey,’ he said. Francis managed to conceal his flinch. ‘He’s getting above himself, Bartholomew, ever since he started dreaming of becoming an Alderman some day. It’s good to remind him, once in a while, that he serves us. I’ll not be asked to sit on a jury for a while either, which suits me fine.’ Glass said nothing. ‘You know I don’t have any great fondness for you black fellows, but Mrs Smith liked you and I’ve never heard it said you are dishonest.’

‘Her apprentice says he heard nothing, saw nothing out of the ordinary,’ Glass said.

‘Some mornings I have to wake my apprentice by throwing the frying pan at the little bugger.’ The butcher stood up. ‘They won’t print bills though. I’ll ask about and you’d best do the same. Miller’s asking all the ladies for word of Penny. We’ve got a week and the hopes this Crowther fella will come along and be useful – leastways say a murder is a murder. Where’s Mrs Smith’s brother?’

‘Travelling in the north. I’ve been asked to manage the business until he returns.’

Scudder rolled his massive shoulders. ‘Poor sod. He’ll take it hard.’

Glass finished his beer and stood as well. ‘I need to get back to the shop. Thank you for the drink.’

Scudder hesitated then put out his hand. ‘Do right by her, Mr Glass.’

Francis shook it and left Scudder still staring thoughtfully after him.

Crowther waited in the tiled hallway of 24, Berkeley Square while Harriet changed. As he did so, the kitchen boy from his own home brought a note to the house, and in it he found Mr Bartholomew’s tightly worded request for a consultation on the body of another unfortunate. Crowther had refused the housekeeper’s offer of refreshment, but William appeared with bread and cheese anyway, and he ate it without noticing he did so. When Harriet came back down the stairs looking a great deal less muddied and windblown, he handed the note to her.

‘You must go, Crowther. I think perhaps it would be better for me to visit Mrs Trimnell alone, in any case. What bounty London bestows on you! Another body. I hope the clergy of St Paul’s have not been at this one too, redressing and washing it.’

William was removing Crowther’s plate from the side table as they spoke.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Westerman.’

‘Yes, William?’

‘When slaves are bound down for a whipping, their shirts are removed. Not their britches,’ he said. ‘Your mention of the clothing brought it to mind, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, William.’ She handed the note back to Crowther and he folded it into his pocket. ‘African or English, I thought whoever did this had intimate knowledge of slavery. Could someone have paid for the attack?’ She sighed. ‘You do not wish me to examine the body with you this time? Has your faith in my powers wavered?’

Crowther stood. ‘Not in the least, but fire does almost as much damage as the clergy of St Paul’s. You are better occupied visiting the widow before word reaches her that we have been asking about her husband. How shall you explain your visit?’

Harriet smiled. ‘I shall take her an improving book. James was hardly cold before someone thrust Marcus Aurelius into my hands with their earnest good wishes.’

The maid who opened the street door in Cheapside informed Harriet quite sharply that Mrs Trimnell was not at home.

‘Then I shall go and leave my gift for her in her rooms. Stand aside, if you please.’ And when the maid hesitated: ‘Good God, girl. Do you think I am going to rob the place?’ Harriet moved just enough so the maid could see the Earl of Sussex’s carriage and Philip, gorgeous in his blue and gold livery, beside it. The maid gave her a wary look, then stood aside.

‘First floor, first on your right, ma’am. The door is open.’

The rooms that Mr and Mrs Trimnell occupied were large but shabby. There was a good-sized parlour with armchairs by the fire and a lady’s desk under the window, but the whole room had an air of exhaustion. The furniture was scuffed, the cheap prints on the walls had worked loose in their frames, and the carpet that lay in front of the fire was bald in patches. No wonder Mrs Trimnell fled as often as she might. There were two doors leading out of the room. Harriet pushed one open. It made the main room look cheerful by comparison. A desk, a bed, a dresser and a wash-stand, all in poor repair, but it was the atmosphere of the room that Harriet felt like a cold rain. Misery seemed to have soaked into the walls. For a moment she believed she could hear weeping, then she heard a movement next door and realised the weeping was real. Her heart froze. Perhaps Mrs Trimnell was at home and grieving. She went quickly back into the main chamber then lifted her hand to knock gently at the second door, her volume of Marcus Aurelius held in her other hand feeling like a poor excuse. There was a flurry of movement and the door opened, but instead of Mrs Trimnell, Harriet found herself facing a young woman dressed in black. She looked at Harriet, astonished and afraid.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, my dear,’ Harriet said. ‘Are you Mrs Trimnell’s maid?’

The girl covered her face with her hands and began to cry again. Deep, terrified sobs. Harriet put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and led her to one of the armchairs, then crouched beside her.

‘My dear, please do not cry so. What is your name?’

‘Martha, madam,’ the girl said, and tried to control herself.

‘And are you Mrs Trimnell’s maid?’

‘I
was
. Ten years and now she means to turn me off. Master says I am to go free, but he left no paper for me! Now
she
will send me back, I know it. She says she must have a French maid now, and I’ve kept her so fine all these years with nothing but my own needle to do it with. French!’

Harriet patted her arm. ‘I am grieved to hear that. Was the dress Mrs Trimnell wore on Saturday your work?’ A nod. ‘It was very fine. No Frenchwoman could do half so well, I’m certain.’

Martha pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘She did look fine, didn’t she? I bought the silk for it only last week. The ribbons came from an old dress of hers, but I know how to hide the worn parts.’

‘I thought it very beautiful. And such lovely jewels. A present from Randolph Jennings, I believe?’

The maid nodded, all innocence. Harriet pulled up the other chair so she could sit close to her. ‘I came to see your mistress. She is not at home?’

‘Sir Charles bade her to stay at Portman Square, while I’m sent to pack up the last of her things. Oh, I don’t want to go back to Jamaica! But she’ll get good money for me. Oh, after all these years …’

‘She cannot send you back,’ Harriet said stoutly. ‘It is against English law to send you back against your will.’

Martha looked up at her, confused. Harriet began to search through her reticule until she found Mr Christopher’s card. ‘Pack up her things and send them to Portman Square, then go and see this gentleman. He will help you. You shall not go back, Martha. And a woman as clever as you are with a needle can earn good money in this town. Better than a Frenchwoman.’

The girl said dully, ‘She’ll give me no reference, and I have no friends here. I was born under Mr Trimnell’s roof.’ Harriet did not know what to say. ‘Though Mr Willoughby was kind to me.’

‘You went to the prayer meetings?’

‘Sometimes. When Mrs Lucy didn’t need me. They all speak very nicely to me there.’ She began to weep again, though quietly this time. ‘What shall happen to me?’

Harriet felt a bubble of rage burst in her chest. ‘Nothing that you do not wish to happen, Martha! You must only be brave.’ Martha looked up at her, on her face an expression of such disgust that Harriet’s blood went from hot to cold in a heartbeat.