Theft of Life (24 page)

‘I don’t know,’ Joshua said. ‘But Penny would never lay a finger on her. If you’d found
me
dead and stuffed up a chimney, or half the shopkeepers on Paternoster Row poisoned, and you said “Penny did this”, I might believe you, sure. But not Mrs Smith. Penny loved her – thought she was a saint come to bless us. She only gave you hard looks because she worried you were trifling with Mrs Smith’s “pure and charitable heart”.’

Francis turned and looked at him squarely, at his small hands wrapped round the pastry. The boy ate in the same way Francis used to eat, caught between a hunger that made you want to consume whatever you were given in a crazed rush, and a desire to make the delicious process of eating last. Even so, he radiated absolute conviction.

‘Penny had led a bad life, Joshua.’

The boy looked at him as if he were stupid. ‘She had to eat, didn’t she? She was at the Foundling, you know, years ago, but they ’prenticed her out to an evil old cow in Hampstead who beat her with a strap and whose son liked to catch her alone. She ran away. Then she had to eat. And she didn’t steal even then.’

He tore off a lump of the pie with his teeth and chewed vigorously.

‘Very well, Joshua,’ Francis said. ‘Tell me what happened. I know you had your own duties, but who came and went during the afternoon of the fire?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I was cleaning upstairs in the print room.’

‘Did you go through Mrs Smith’s parlour to get back to the kitchen then?’

The boy wiped some of the crumbs from his face. ‘No, Mr Glass. I used the back staircase. I was all inky, see.’

‘Still, Joshua, what did you hear? After I left.’

He put the last of the pastry in his mouth, then when it was swallowed, he stood up and brushed the crumbs off his front. ‘We were in the kitchen at the back. Someone knocked on the front door, and Penny went to let them in, but she didn’t say who it was. I heard the front door close again a while later, so I reckoned whoever it was had shown themselves out. Most people do. Then we had our supper. Penny took a tray up to Mrs Smith, then I got ready for bed and she sat up with her sewing.’ He settled his elbows on the wall in front of them, and Francis did the same as they watched the water together. ‘She used to sing while she worked. I liked that. I think she knew I liked it too, though she’d never want it known she was doing anything for my benefit.’

Francis remembered his stumbling fall on the landing, at the door to the parlour, the glass on his hands. The glass that had cut him had been full. ‘Did Penny always take the supper in to Mrs Smith?’

The child shook his head. ‘No. Mrs S. prayed. A lot. Specially Sunday evenings. She’d close the door so as not to be bothered, and Penny would leave the tray outside for her to have when she and God had talked things out.’

‘And no one else came that evening?’

‘Maybe,’ he shrugged. ‘I was bone weary, Mr Glass. Penny knew you were meant to call, so I suppose she was listening out for a knock. Perhaps I heard her move off again. Next thing I remember, right after Penny singing, is that constable shaking me – and the smoke.’

Francis studied the waters below them for a few moments longer, thinking of the tray, the locked door. ‘Come along then. Let’s settle you for the night.’

They turned together and walked back up Puddle Dock Hill.

On her return from Portman Square, Harriet had made her way to the top of the house to visit the children. Anne was making a model of the balloon with her nurse and was as joyfully filthy and proud of it as a five year old can be. Eustache was helping her, which meant that Anne was in a state of near ecstasy. Harriet watched the boy. He was being kind to her daughter and seemed to take pleasure in her enjoyment.

Susan received Harriet with icy politeness then retreated to a corner with a book, though Harriet noticed, as she admired the model and advised on its decoration, that she never turned a page. Jonathan and Stephen lay on the floor, playing at Fox and Geese. Jonathan asked his sister for help, which she ignored until he had made too many loud and obvious tactical mistakes for it to be borne, and she took a place on the floor next to them. Harriet joined in with the model-building and asked Eustache about his day, but he gave only short answers in return and did not look at her.

Once Anne was taken off for her very necessary bath, Harriet retreated to the library and stared at the paintings of ships, most of which wore too much sail for the apparent weather conditions. She realised she was preparing a narrative for Crowther of her visits to Cheapside and Portman Square, hoping that he would laugh at her for losing her temper and expecting to feel better when he did. Hearing the clang of the bell in the hall, followed by the door to the library opening, she looked up with a smile, expecting to see him on the threshold. Instead of Crowther though, she saw William.

‘Ma’am, Mr Crowther’s been attacked.’

She flew from her chair and pushed past him. Crowther was in the hallway and standing, but dead white. He was being supported by Graves on his left and Mr Bartholomew on his right. She ran across the tiles towards him. ‘Gabriel! Oh, Gabriel. Good God, what happened?’

‘The sofa in my study, I think,’ Graves said. ‘William, the door.’ They half-carried, half-dragged him in while Harriet could only watch, her hand over her mouth and tears already running down her face.

As soon as they lowered his weight onto the settee and let him sink onto his side, the men stepped away. Mrs Martin came in at once with ice and towels. William followed with brandy. They gently removed his coat and then Harriet dropped to her knees beside him and began to undo the buttons on his waistcoat while Mrs Martin pulled off his shoes.

‘Mr Crowther said he’d meet me in the taproom to give me his conclusions,’ Bartholomew was saying to the room in general. ‘He hadn’t come, so I went to look for him and found him outside the stables, knocked cold.’

Harriet was pushing through the buttons on his waistcoat when she sensed a change in him. Crowther had opened his eyes slightly and was looking at her.

‘Mrs Westerman?’

She blushed in spite of herself. ‘I must see how badly you are injured, Crowther, and let you breathe at least.’

She undid the last. There was no sign of blood other than the grazes on the side of his face. His eyes fluttered shut again. Harriet felt a touch on her shoulder. Graves was standing over her, a glass of brandy in his hand. She took it from him and put it to Crowther’s mouth. He swallowed some and then winced. His jaw was an angry red. Harriet set the glass down and touched the place with her hand. It was beginning to swell, but seemed whole. Then she began to feel round the back of his head. He hissed. Harriet drew back her hand: her fingertips were bloody.

‘Mrs Martin, can you make an ice pack, please – no, two – and hand me the cloth.’ She wiped very gently the wound at the back of his head. It was at least not bleeding badly. ‘Crowther? How should I know if you are injured internally?’

He did not open his eyes again. ‘I can breathe, so I have hope for my lungs. If I piss blood or develop a fever you may despair of me.’

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she turned to Graves and Bartholomew. ‘Gentlemen, if you would leave us, I shall care for him now. Mrs Martin, please would you make up the fire in here, and William – I wish you to fetch some blankets and pillows, please. Crowther, are you likely to be sick?’

‘Very likely.’ Harriet glanced at William and he nodded. Bartholomew and Graves tactfully followed the servants out of the room. For a moment they were alone. Harriet bent over Crowther and kissed his forehead very lightly. He opened his eyes again and managed to smile at her.

‘Who did this, Gabriel?’

‘A man who struck me in the stomach like a fighter, while his friend held me.’ He spoke quietly, moving his jaw as little as possible.

‘Oh Lord! You think you were attacked by the same men who set on Trimnell?’ She sat back a little.

‘I am certain of it, but there
will
be bruising on my upper arms.’ He went pale again and clenched his teeth as the pain washed over him. She lifted the brandy to his mouth again and he drank.

‘What can I do for you? Should I send for a physician?’

‘Not unless you want me dead.’ He sighed. ‘Ice. Your sister’s lotions …’

The door opened and Mrs Martin came in with pillows and blankets and an enamel basin which she passed to Harriet. She held it for him while he vomited then wiped his mouth. He panted for a few moments then seemed to relax a little. Harriet put her hand over his.

‘You have green paint on your face,’ he said at last. ‘Go and wash it off, my dear, and then tell Bartholomew that Mrs Smith was certainly murdered. My notes are in my coat pocket.’

She would not go until William had set the fire ablaze and taken a seat beside it where he could hand Crowther his brandy and make sure the ice packs for his head and jaw were kept in place. Then she stood reluctantly and went out into the hallway. The light of the candles shone off the tiles and pale plasterwork, giving a dusk-like glow to the air. She looked up. A row of small frightened faces were peering through the upper bannisters. She noticed that Eustache had his arm around Anne and felt a stab of affection for him. She smiled and climbed the stairs to tell them that Crowther was not mortally wounded, and to wash her face.

Once Harriet was tidy she went in search of Bartholomew and found him with Graves and Mrs Service in the Salon on the first floor. Harriet took her seat among them and told Mrs Service she had spoken with the children. Graves frowned and turned away as she said it, and she remembered with a pang her promise only hours ago not to bring violence into the house. She then handed Crowther’s notes to Mr Bartholomew and reported his conclusions.

Bartholomew read over the notes and tutted. ‘It was the maid then. I hope she will be found, though London is full of places to hide.’

Harriet took the glass of wine Philip offered to her. ‘The maid?’ she repeated.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘A former prostitute whom Mrs Smith took in out of charity.’

Mrs Service covered her mouth. ‘And to think I spoke with them both on Saturday. Mrs Smith was such a kind woman. Such goodness, but a merry heart with it.’

Graves finished his wine and held the glass out for more. The crystal shimmered as Philip took it from him. ‘The man at Hinckley’s, Mr Glass, seemed broken by the loss, poor fellow. He was injured trying to save her and the shop.’

Bartholomew grunted over the notes. ‘Oh, him. Yes, well. It seems he was right that the fire did not kill her, though we would all rather not have another murder within a stone’s throw of St Paul’s so soon.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Smith and her friends would agree with you,’ Mrs Service said a little tartly. Bartholomew had the grace to look embarrassed.

The slight lull in the conversation that followed this was broken by Harriet. ‘Who knew Crowther was there this evening?’ she asked.

Bartholomew looked confused. ‘Footpads, surely? Mere bad luck.’

‘No one ran away as you approached. You said you found Crowther senseless on the ground, so if it were footpads, they had time to rob him and escape. Crowther has his money about him. I found his purse while I was fetching those notes. We have been making enquiries today about how Mr Trimnell spent his last weeks. Crowther told me he was attacked in the same manner as Mr Trimnell was. So I ask you again, Mr Bartholomew, whom did you tell that Crowther would be examining the body of that unfortunate lady at the Black Swan?’

He looked offended. ‘Are you suggesting that the same person who beat Trimnell, also beat Mr Crowther? Nonsense!’

Mrs Service sipped her wine. ‘I think Mrs Westerman is not just suggesting it, but asserting it. And quite reasonably in the circumstances.’

‘We have the boy in custody who attacked Trimnell!’ Bartholomew said.

‘You have a boy who found a watch,’ Graves replied. Harriet glanced at him. She had not realised he had been paying such close attention. ‘He did not admit the crime, did he?’

‘No, but—’

‘Mr Bartholomew, whom did you tell?’ Graves asked again. For the first time in the years since she had known him, Graves looked to Harriet like a man she would entrust with the fortune and safety of an Earl. By now, the coroner had grown a little red in the face.

‘I … I wrote to Mr Crowther from the Jamaica Coffee House. I was out of temper with the jury. I thought their insistence on an adjournment unnecessary. I said as much to Mr Sanden, and any number of people might have overheard me. And of course I sent a note to Sir Charles at Portman Square. As Alderman, he likes to be kept informed of such matters as this.’ He lapsed into a miserable silence. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘Thank you for the assistance you gave to Mr Crowther,’ Harriet said, ‘but I do not think there is a mistake.’

It was with some difficulty that Harriet was persuaded she was not the person to sit with Crowther overnight. Only when he told her sharply that he would be a great deal more comfortable with William’s assistance when he needed to check his urine for blood did she withdraw.

Crowther slept at least part of the night. At one point he awoke and groaned.

‘Do you need anything, Mr Crowther?’

He let the world steady itself before he answered. ‘No, William. Thank you. I was not quite awake.’ Nevertheless, William took the chance to apply more of one of Rachel’s salves to his jaw and to the back of his skull.

‘May I ask, Mr Crowther, why you seem to trust Miss Rachel’s – pardon, Mrs Clode’s – remedies rather than those of professional physicians?’

Crowther leaned forward so William could adjust the pillows under his head. ‘She and those who have taught her learn by trial and observation, Mr Geddings. The physicians in the capital learn by reading Latin and Greek philosophy.’ There was a candle lit on the table behind them and in its glow, Crowther saw him smile.

‘I am sorry I ever mentioned the body, Mr Crowther.’

‘At this moment, so am I.’ Crowther shifted his position. He thought one at least of his ribs was cracked, and his stomach ached from the blows it had taken, but the pain in his head was lessening and his memory was clear. ‘William, why do you go and listen to the African music?’