‘Well. When Anne is nineteen, I shall be . . . twenty-eight, so very old and respectable and married, and rich and with plenty of
rank.
So I will find her a nice husband if you are too busy finding murderers and saving people like me.’
Harriet was surprised to feel her throat tightening. ‘Thank you, Susan.’
The little girl sprang off the bed and kissed her. ‘I’d be glad to, you know. Now it is time for you to dine soon, and Cook has been cross and had a great deal of trouble getting oysters today, so remember to be especially nice about them.’ Then she pulled her slippers back on and was out of the room before Harriet could say another word.
IV.6
C
ROWTHER HAD A sense of some danger a
s he mentioned to Harriet that he had asked Mr Harwood to call on them after dinner, and then murmured his reasons for doing so. Mrs Westerman’s movements were constrained, her only remarks insipid in the extreme and the muscles in her jaw tightened considerably when Rachel joined them. Once the formalities of dining were disposed of, rather more swiftly than usual, and she had spoken at some length of the quality of the oysters and demanded the recipe be brought to her as soon as convenient, Harriet retired to the library. Crowther did not linger long over his wine with Graves, and joined her there after only a few minutes.
‘Dear God, Mrs Westerman, what was that?’
She was slumped again in the armchair by the fire – which, Crowther hoped, indicated that her performance was at an end.
‘What are you talking about, Crowther?’ she said wearily, without looking up.
‘I understand you have had some disagreement with your sister, but it seems cruel to subject Graves, Mrs Service and myself to your simpering parody of good manners. I am glad it was not one of the occasions where Lady Susan dined with us.’
Harriet folded her arms. ‘Do not lecture me, Crowther.’
‘You are a guest in this house.’
Harriet was silent for a while. She had been angry, she still was, but it was that most bitter and uncomfortable anger that came with a sensation of guilt. She did not think it would ever occur to Graves, admiring her as he did, to question her behaviour. For that kindness she had called him a fool in the blackness of her heart. Mrs Service was never anything but reasonable and friendly. Rachel was still in many ways a prim little girl, much more the vicar’s daughter than Harriet, but she did not deserve Harriet’s scorn, and it had been scorn that was the driver of her performance at dinner. She had been mocking and humiliating Rachel, she had known she was doing it, and now here was Crowther to tell her so. Graves it had left confused, Rachel miserable, Mrs Service slightly exasperated and Crowther angry, and she had got no relief from it.
‘Should I apologise to Graves and Mrs Service?’
Crowther took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. ‘Personally, I never compound an offence with apologies,’ he said. Harriet laughed suddenly and glanced across at him. Some of the gravity had left his expression. She felt a weight shift from her shoulders and let her breath out slowly before speaking.
‘Very well. Did Rachel tell you she and I had disagreed?’
‘Not as such, but she sought me out to ask my advice about the love affairs of Mr Graves and Verity Chase. I cannot imagine she would have done so unless you had already proved an unwilling audience.’
‘We managed to be at each other’s throats before she had much chance to tell me a great deal. What was the matter of it?’
‘Miss Chase wishes to plan her wedding to Graves, but knows he hates the fact that the food he eats – that we all eat – is paid for by the estate of the Earl of Sussex. He cannot make his own fortune while he is managing another, and is too proud to add a wife and family to the charge he makes on Lord Thornleigh’s fortunes. Miss Chase wants him to use her marriage portion to buy the music shop from the estate of the Earl of Sussex, and so provide them with an independent income. However, she fears he no longer wishes to marry her. Perhaps she is dazzled senseless by the enormous quantity of gilt in this house. I think Rachel assured her that he does, but wished to know if I thought it likely Graves would approve of the plan for the shop, or whether his pride would prevent him acquiescing.’
Harriet found herself amused by the idea of Crowther receiving this information from her sister and wondered what his expression had been as he had listened. ‘And your reply?’
‘I said that in matters of the heart my concerns are more practical than metaphysical. If she wished to bring me Mr Graves’s heart in a jar I could tell her if it were healthy or no, but further than that I had no idea and advised her to talk to Mrs Service.’
Harriet sighed. ‘Poor Rachel. We have not been of great assistance. I wonder why she did not go to Mrs Service at once, having instructed me on my proper behaviour.’
Crowther put his fingers together and said lightly, ‘I imagine because she knew you and I would be having this conversation at some point during the evening and wished you to be informed of the plan for the music shop. Your sister is young, and a little over-cautious of your reputation perhaps, but she is no fool, Mrs Westerman. And my remark about Mr Graves’s heart made her smile.’
‘I am hasty with her.’
He did not reply but let the silence unfold between them till Harriet said: ‘I fear I learned very little from Lord Carmichael other than I do not like him, and his stepson is wholly in his power. He had nothing to say of Fitzraven that did not confirm what we knew of him previously. Tell me of your meeting with Bywater.’
Crowther put his hand to his chin. ‘That gentleman is certainly guilty of something.’
‘Of love?’
‘As we have already said, I am no expert in such areas, but of something more, I believe. However, I do not think him a likely spy for the French. He claims he had no idea that Fitzraven was following him. My impression is he wishes public renown rather than private riches. That would make it unlikely for him to trade secrets for money, though he might for influence, but really, what could a composer with limited connections know that would be of interest to the French?’ Harriet assumed the question was rhetorical so did not reply. ‘And, Mrs Westerman, we have an appointment tomorrow morning.’
‘With Bywater?’
‘No, madam. With Mr Palmer. There was a note delivered here this afternoon. We are invited to call on a Mrs Wheeler in Conduit Street, where we shall meet an old friend. I assume that is Mr Palmer.’
‘He is most circumspect.’
‘He most likely has his reasons. If his suspicions are correct, and Fitzraven’s having spent time in France this summer, when Mr Harwood thought him only in Milan, suggest they might well be, then we are on dangerous ground. It is a high-stakes game. Men are hung for murder. They are drawn and quartered for treachery.’
Harriet was still digesting this comment when there was a rap at the door and Mrs Martin stepped in.
‘Mr Crowther, Mrs Westerman. A gentleman is here and wishes to speak to you. A Mr Winter Harwood from His Majesty’s Theatre.’ She paused then held out a piece of paper to Harriet. ‘And here is the recipe for the oysters, ma’am.’
It may have been he was only clearing his throat, but to Harriet it sounded suspiciously as if Crowther laughed.
Jocastam and Boyo had made their way back into the heart of the city through the shadows and were all weary and slow by the time they reached Jocasta’s alleyway. There was a stirring in the dark under the pear tree as they approached and two boys emerged from the gloom and exchanged nods with Sam.
He pointed at each of them. ‘This is Finn, Mrs Bligh. And this is Clayton.’
They touched their foreheads to her and shuffled their feet. Jocasta led them into her room, where Sam set about making the fire. The shorter of the two, Clayton, sat on his hands to warm them and said Fred had changed his coat in Salisbury Street after the burial, then gone to the Admiralty Office. He’d come out with two other men like him and got settled in at the ale-house in Crag’s Court.
‘He looked funny though.’
‘What do you mean, boy?’ Jocasta said.
‘He was walking slow and heavy, and the others were sort of holding him up. He was wailing a bit, and the others were looking about them as if they were worried he’d be heard. He looked to me like he didn’t want to go anywhere with them, but they wouldn’t let him be. He was there a while then went back home on his ownsome. I thought—’
‘Tell on . . .’
‘I thought he was crying like, as he was walking along. Then I met up with Finn in Salisbury Street, and we thought we’d head back here.’
Finn, the taller, skinnier one who had red hair, had been keeping an eye on Mrs Mitchell.
‘She didn’t do much. Got to her coffee-shop after the burying and stayed there till supper, then headed back to Salisbury Street. There was a man paid a visit – he was just leaving when Fred came back.’
Jocasta sniffed. ‘Her man?’
‘Couldn’t say, Mrs Bligh,’ the boy said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. ‘Tall fella. Dressed plain. That Fred was very respectful of him, bowing and scraping as they talked like he was the Emperor of China. Got the feeling the words between them weren’t kindly. Tall Man said something and Fred flinched and wiped his eyes and tried to stand a bit straighter. Then Clayton came and tapped me on the shoulder and by the time we turned back, Tall Man was gone and the door was shut.’
‘Fairly said.’ Jocasta folded her arms. ‘Anything more?’
‘I got talking to one of her boys what help out in the shop.’
‘What did he say, Finn?’ Sam asked, as he set the lighter stuff for the fire, and started to strike up Jocasta’s steel.
‘That some weeks ago the missus was looking grim, but last Tuesday the landlord was in and she put money in his hands like she was the Queen of Sheba tossing away stones. Oh, and that he likes Wednesday and Saturday best because he gets extra tips selling books to the richlivers in the coaches.’
‘Books and coaches?’ Sam asked, then started to blow on the embers.
‘Mrs Mitchell has the right to sell coffee and oranges and storybooks. She gets the words from the theatre, then has them printed in Hedge Lane, the liberrrettos,’ he trilled, enjoying the word. ‘She pays fifty pounds a year for it. Wednesday and Saturday are when they do the singing there, at His Majesty’s Opera House in Hay Market.’
Mr Winter Harwood was very poised.
‘You asked me to come here, Mr Crowther, and I have. It was not convenient, but I came. Is it too much to hope you have found out who killed Fitzraven and that the matter is concluded?’
Harriet found Mr Harwood a most interesting study. Without appearing impolite he had taken a seat, declined all offers of refreshment and done so with such economy of movement and word, this speech sounded by comparison like an oration. Harriet thought if he were similarly thrifty with his resources at the Opera House, for all its extravagances he was probably amassing a considerable fortune there. Though the question was addressed to Crowther, it was she who replied.
‘Mr Crowther has been wondering at your continued employment of Mr Fitzraven after he ceased to play for you.’
A slight frown appeared between Mr Harwood’s fine sandy eyebrows. ‘I believe I have already explained, Mrs Westerman . . .’
‘Indeed,’ Crowther interrupted, ‘running errands, writing puffs in the newspaper and so forth. But I have been wondering, Mr Harwood, if you did not find it convenient, dealing with the great individuals on and off the stage, to know a little more about them than it was agreeable to ask in person.’
Mr Harwood’s face gave no sign of shock or anger. Harriet found she was holding her breath. If Fitzraven had followed the leading players of the opera around the place with Harwood’s blessing, it would give them meat indeed for Mr Palmer. Fitzraven was quite possibly trained in the value – the monetary value – of information before he went to France, and had no difficulty with trading in it.
‘You are suggesting . . . ?’
‘I am suggesting that Fitzraven spied for you, Mr Harwood,’ Crowther continued. ‘You knew his reputation to be bad, but he was obviously of some use to you, even before his miraculous delivery of Miss Marin and Manzerotti. I think you made use for your own purposes of his love of finding out the details of the lives of those influential or renowned beings with whom he came into contact.’
There was a long pause. Very few men had the courage to remain so calm under Crowther’s eye. Mr Harwood would be a remarkable opponent at the card-table.
‘You are very bnt, sir.’
Through the closed door to the library the small sounds of the household filtered; a living thing. One of the servants moving through the passageway. A door upstairs opening and closing. Lady Thornleigh was practising at the harpsichord before retiring; its soft voice curled down the main stair and whispered sweetly under the door.
‘Mr Harwood,’ Harriet said, ‘if Fitzraven was bringing you information about the personalities in your establishment, we would like to know. How you manage the Opera is your concern, but if he found something in his wanderings after your employees and patrons and that knowledge led to his death . . .’