Theft of Life (39 page)

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Which causes me to believe they had good reason to kill Sawbridge.’

She nodded. ‘He must have known something that would bring great shame on them – but why would Sawbridge overplay his hand so badly? Suppose the truth of Mr Trimnell’s death had been made public. There would have been a scandal, but also sympathy for the widow of a mad man in some quarters. She and Sawbridge would have been able to expect some quiet assistance. If he and his daughter had been accused of murdering someone by their own hands on
these
shores, then of course even the West Indian community would have cast them off. They might try to blackmail the wrong person for protection or help in escaping the country …’ The expression on her face changed. ‘Crowther, I think we may have been investigating the wrong killing.’

‘Mrs Westerman?’

She left her post in the doorway, reached into her reticule and produced the handbill for Willoughby’s prayer meetings, then lifted it close to her face so she could read the fine print at the bottom of the page. She then passed it to Crowther to read. At the bottom of the page where the copperplate had sunk into the paper, he read
Engraved by Mrs Eliza Smith, Paternoster Row.
At once he was back in the chill stables again, bending over her fire-blackened corpse in the candlelight.

‘I remember that Willoughby said that Trimnell arranged and paid for the printing,’ he said slowly. ‘So they knew each other. A strange coincidence, but why would that lead to the murder of Mrs Smith?’

‘She was a bookseller, Crowther. And Martha said that Trimnell spent his time while he was wearing that mask, writing. Remember, no one would listen to him. He was crazed with the wish to confess his sins, but no one listened! They threw him out of the coffee house, Mr Christopher could not stand to hear him repeat his crimes, and even Willoughby had not the strength to listen!’

‘He wrote out the confession,’ Crowther said at last. ‘And gave it to the bookseller and engraver whom he had met, in hopes of a wider audience. But how would anyone but Trimnell and Mrs Smith know that?’

Harriet’s eyes were glowing again as she followed the thought down. ‘I saw her, Crowther! I saw her speak to Dr Fischer on the morning she was killed. Fischer was a trader. He’d known Trimnell for years. What if
his
sins were in there alongside Trimnell’s? Oh, do remember! Sir Charles said Fischer and Trimnell had known each other well in their youth. And Mrs Smith liked Dr Fischer, just as Mrs Service does. Tell me, if someone gave you a manuscript, claiming that I was guilty of all manner of monstrous crimes, you would tell me of it, would you not?’

He smiled. ‘Not before I had burned it and beaten the man who gave it to me in the street, but I understand you. So you think Mrs Smith told Dr Fischer and he alerted his friends to the existence of the manuscript?’

‘Yes, and who better to go and ask for its return than the grieving widow and her father? What reasonable person would refuse to give it back to her?’

‘A woman of strong convictions.’

Harriet groaned. ‘The bruises on her wrists. The stiffness of her movements when I saw her on Monday. I thought that her father or lover had beaten her, and thought all the viciousness theirs. What if Mrs Trimnell received those bruises fighting with Mrs Smith and then killed her?’

‘It was her fault, not mine!’

Francis heard the words and felt the strength leave his body. The woman in black was still on her knees.

‘I came, I came as a widow, as one woman to another, to beg that she give me back his manuscript. I thought if I could bring it back, put it in Randolph’s hands, he would see that I loved him, and his father. They would welcome me. But she would not give it to me! She wanted to
pray
with me! Then I saw my husband’s writing on a sheet on the desk, but the manuscript was not there.’

Dauda had covered his eyes as if the sight of his half-sister on her knees was no longer to be borne.

‘She began it – she tried to pull me away as I was looking, but I needed it, Dauda – I
needed
it – but she would not be still and let me look. I swear to you I did not mean to kill her. The first I knew of it, she was dead at my feet. I did not even know I had picked up the tool until I saw it in her eye.’

C
ROWTHER WAS TRYING TO
recall the name of the young man who had found the engraving tool. ‘He is a bookseller, as I remember, near St Paul’s. Francis Glass.’

‘We must go to him, but I want to find Mrs Trimnell first, Crowther. Either she is hand in hand with whoever killed her father, or she is in danger from them. I will see what news they might have of her at Portman Square. Will you wait for the coroner here? Then I will come and search you out at the bookshop.’

They heard a step on the stairs and Mr Christopher appeared in the doorway. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight. ‘I can get no sense from the maid. The door to these rooms opens from the same lobby as the door to the coffee house itself. Half of London was in and out last night.’

Harriet turned to him. ‘We must find Mrs Trimnell – she was here when it happened. Crowther will wait for the coroner here and then join us …’

‘At Hinckley’s Bookshop,’ Crowther supplied.

‘So her lodgings, or Portman Square,’ Christopher said. ‘I shall try her lodgings then, while you take the carriage to Portman Square, Mrs Westerman. I shall join you at Hinckley’s.’ He touched his hat to them and was gone.

‘They must have destroyed the manuscript,’ Harriet said as she put up her hood. ‘I wonder what horrors were in it?’

‘Enough to ruin a fashionable preacher, I imagine.’ Crowther sighed. ‘Go then, and good luck to you. I shall wait for the proper officials and put matters into their hands. If they will be willing to hear the suggestion that this is murder and not suicide though, I cannot say.’

Eustache was led into Dr Fischer’s study by a friendly-looking maid who winked at him before announcing his title with great ceremony. He had walked from Ivy Lane as quickly as he could and his hands were sweating where they held the leather portfolio. There was a fire already burning in the grate in spite of the warmth of the day.

Fischer turned in his chair, but did not get up. ‘Thank you, Mary. No, we require no refreshment.’ He smiled at her with great warmth until she had closed the door again. Then his face became a blank. ‘Give it to me.’

Eustache handed over the portfolio and watched as the man undid the straps with his long fingers and began to look through the pages. Apparently content there was no trick, he stood, dragged his chair to the fire and began to feed the pages into the flames one by one, checking as he did so that each page followed on from the last. Eustache watched him and a tight white rage began to build again in his bones.

‘You have read these pages, Master Eustache,’ Fischer said, ‘and I am sure you feel for the slaves mentioned in them, but you cannot understand the complexity of the trade from this nonsense. There are occasional abuses, deeply regrettable, but they are the exception, not the rule. You must trust those of us with direct experience. The slaves are happy! Often fond of their masters and deeply grateful to have been saved from the savagery of their native lands.’ Eustache made no reply, and when Fischer looked up at him and saw the fierce concentration on the boy’s pale face, he spoke on very calmly. ‘The country needs the slave trade. Requires it absolutely. You will forget what you have read in time, and I am sure when you are grown into a man you will thank me for doing this. The incident that led to young Jennings being sent home to England, for instance. He did not know his own strength and the wife of the slave in question had been deeply disrespectful. It is wrong that the son of so great a family should be ruined by a youthful indiscretion.’

‘I will
not
forget,’ Eustache said. ‘I will not forget because I aim to be a good man – and no good man could forget this once he has read it.’

Fischer snorted.’ A good man? With your parentage? A bold ambition indeed. When did you decide this?’

‘Last night.’

Fischer laughed again, more comfortable now the flames were being fed and no pages were missing. ‘How charming.’

‘Titus,’ Eustache said.

‘What?’

‘Titus is the name of the slave Randolph Jennings beat to death because he would not whip his wife as ordered. You told everyone he had died of a fever.’

‘Was it? Well, Randolph Jennings, his prospects and career were more important than the truth. Even a child might see that. In any case, Titus is dead now. No more harm can come to him.’

‘Punch and Quacoo.’

‘What do you say, boy?’ Fischer was sweating a little from leaning so close to the fire. Eustache pictured him in Hell already and felt the satisfaction of it in his bones.

‘Punch and Quacoo. It was after you and Mr Trimnell had dined together and discussed the best treatments to put on a slave’s skin after a whipping. When Punch and Quacoo were whipped, he had bird pepper, lime and salt rubbed into their wounds.’ Fischer began feeding the pages into the fire a little more quickly. ‘Stompe and Polly. You and Trimnell went to see them hanged. They had tried to run away.’

‘Enough. Be quiet, boy.’

‘Damsel. You were staying with Trimnell between voyages out to the Guinea Coast. You dressed her leg after she was bitten by a dog. She’d hidden the wound from Trimnell and he waited for you to tell her she was fit enough to be whipped and put in the stocks for wishing to die. It was punishment for wanting to rob Trimnell of his property.’

Fischer shoved the last pages into the flames as if touching them might poison him. ‘I told you to be quiet, boy, or I shall make you shut your mouth.’

‘Phoebe! When she died, you told Trimnell he had “worn her through”. She kept trying to run but they kept finding her and bringing her back – and he’d rape her again and again – and you knew that – and
you
tell us to pray! You stand there every Sunday and
you
dare tell
us
to pray!’

Fischer stood up, red in the face and his fists tight closed. ‘I told you to be quiet.’

Eustache was lost in the delicious passion of his own rage. He stood firm where he was and shouted it, shouted it so he thought the panes in the windows might break. ‘Titus! Punch! Quacoo! Stompe! Polly! Damsel! Phoebe!’ The fear and rage on Fischer’s face made him drunk. ‘Titus! Punch! Quacoo! Stompe! Polly! Damsel! Phoebe!’ He did not stop even as Fischer drew back his arm. ‘Titus! Punch! Quacoo! Stompe! Polly! Damsel! Phoebe!’ The blow came across the side of his head, knocked him across the floor.

M
RS SERVICE WAS A
stronger supporter of Harriet’s against charges of unnatural or unwomanly behaviour than perhaps Harriet had ever realised. She felt Harriet did what was necessary, but she still was worried and upset by the effect these alarms seemed to have on the children. They were all listless and red about the eyes but full of a sort of nervous energy that made her extremely suspicious. Only little Anne went about her morning as usual, drawing a great many pictures of cats and seeing how much of the house she could cover with strawberry jam. Despite all of the hopeful signs the previous evening, Susan was rude to her maid and would not settle to her sewing, but neither would she play the harpsichord or work on her music. She jumped every time the door to the street opened, and every other minute ran upstairs on some unlikely errand. The gentleman who came to teach the boys short sword found them so distracted and careless that he left early. Before ten Mrs Service, in desperation, suggested taking them all to one of the parks for some exercise, and they all shook their heads in unison. Susan glanced at the boys then looked up at her.

‘Might we visit Eustache?’ she said. ‘You are always saying Jonathan and Stephen should read more. He might show us some new books we might like.’ Mrs Service waited for the boys to treat this suggestion with masculine scorn. No protest came.

Jonathan thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Eustache did say they had some quite
exciting
books there.’

Mrs Service wondered if the boy was ill. ‘We have already caused Mr Glass quite enough trouble. It would go against my conscience to bother him any further.’

‘But Mrs Service, it’s a
shop
,’ Jonathan said, then noticing the looks he got from the others added, ‘I only mean we wish to buy some books, so that would not be bothering him at all, would it? I mean, rather the opposite.’

She had to concede that point. ‘Is this really what you wish to do this morning?’

They all assured her that it was, and so, rather warily, she rang the bell and asked Philip to order the carriage round. She sent the children off to get themselves ready and a few moments later was in the hallway herself, tying the ribbons of her cloak, when William came into the hall and bowed.

‘Ma’am, I hear you are going to Hinckley’s and I was wondering whether I might ride along with you, unless you particularly wish for Philip or Gregory.’

Mrs Service smoothed down her ribbons. ‘You are very welcome to join us, but what is happening, William? I see no reason why those three little monkeys should not visit Eustache, but they are in such an odd humour today and I am afraid I am suspicious. If you know anything, I do hope you will tell me.’

William’s hands were clasped behind his back. ‘I am not sure, ma’am. Only Eustache has been in a strange mood for the last day or so, and he looked unwell this morning when I took him to Ivy Lane. I asked if he wished to come home, but he would not. I noticed the other children looked much the same when I came back. I do not know what they are about, and I hope you don’t think I am speaking where I should stay silent, but I am a little concerned.’

Mrs Service considered. She had seen a great deal since she had met Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman, and much of it had disturbed her. The children were behaving strangely and Harriet and Gabriel were chasing round the capital after slavers. ‘I hear the bookshop was broken into the evening before last, William.’