She sat bolt upright in her bed in the cellar and waited for her heart to slow. Boyo and Sam slept on, just as she had seen them. But there was no ghost in the room and the air felt damp, rotten and familiar. Jocasta lay back down, turned to the wall and wondered.
PART VI
VI.1
Wednesday, 21 November 1781
S
TEPHEN WESTERMAN’S DAY had begun well. He had been overjoyed to be woken by his mother and taken out to play a while in the gardens of Berkeley Square before he had even washed his face, and skipped among the shrubberies in front of her, describing the various anchorages and landing places, the haunts of strange tribes which would amaze even Captain Cook that he and Lord Thornleigh had discovered between the rhododendrons. It felt like a sort of miracle to have her complete attention. She had laughed and praised his courage, gasped when he described his battles with the French and Spanish navies and nodded sagely as he described his negotiations with the natives of the newly christened isles of Servicia and Gravesonia.
But then one of the servants had come out of the house with Jonathan and leading Anne by her fat little fist. The woman had spoken to his mother out of his hearing, and she left him at once, only wishing him fair sailing and kissing him distractedly on the top of his tousled head. He watched her go and meet two figures on the far side of the lawns. One was Mr Crowther, the other he could not recognise at this distance.
The little boy hated watching her grow small in his sight, and wondered if he had missed breakfast, and how he could be forgotten so quickly. Would she remember that he still had her ring? It was tucked in his waistcoat now. Part of him hoped that she had forgotten, as that meant she would not ask for it back. Some other part told him that it was bad if she had done so. That the ring, like himself, should not so easily be dismissed.
Just then, Jonathan slapped him between the shoulders and began to dash along the path in front of him. It was a challenge, and could not be ignored. Turning, Stephen began to race after him, ignoring the cry of the nursemaid to mind his step.
‘Good morning, Crowther, Dr Trevelyan.’
The good doctor looked worried. Harriet was so used to his demeanour of calm good sense, she hardly knew him with his eyebrows drawn together and his chin low. Her heart fluttered and her mouth became dry.
‘Sir, is my husband well?’
Trevelyan placed his hand on her arm and said quickly, ‘Indeed he is.’ Harriet’s world steadied again and the sounds and sights of the Square returned to her.
‘He is quite well, I did not mean to alarm you,’ the doctor went on. Harriet managed a faint smile and drew in her breath. ‘It is on the matter of Mr Leacroft I wish to speak to you, and I am sorry to call so early in the day. I met Mr Crowther as I was hesitating on your doorstep.’
Harriet dismissed his apology with a shake of her head.
‘What do you have to tell us?’ she demanded, then caught herself, continuing to calm her breathing. ‘My apologies, sir. Would you rather come into the house? You have had an early ride.’
‘No, madam,’ Trevelyan said. ‘I must be returning to Highgate as soon as I may. I come because my colleague from Kennington Lane and I met by chance at our club last night, and something of what he said has been troubling me. I found I could not be easy till I had told you of it, though the significance of his words escapes me.’
They turned and began to walk along the pathway that ringed the gardens. It was a broad path, and it was easy for all three to walk abreast. Trevelyan found himself with Crowther on one side and Mrs Westerman on the other, and had a fleeting sympathy with felons accompanied to their places in court.
He went on: ‘When I met this gentleman, we of course remarked on having found Mr Leacroft. I do not know why you enquired after him, and on being asked, said as much. My colleague – his name is Gaskin, by the way – told me it was most strange, as after some year or so with no enquiries being made to his well-being, or visitors received, Mr Leacroft had found himself the subject of a flurry of calls very recently, culminating in the arrival yesterday afternoon of Miss Isabella Marin, the soprano.’
‘A flurry of calls, you say?’ Crowther asked, and came to a halt. He had his cane with him, and began to twist it slowly into the gravel of the pathway.
Trevelyan nodded. ‘That was his phrase. He was entranced to meet Miss Marin, of course. She swore him to secrecy about her visit, but having happened to meet me, he could not resist informing me that she had been in his house. I wondered if she were there because of your enquiry.’
If Trevelyan had been hoping that his words might lead to some sort of explanation from Crowther and Mrs Westerman, he was disappointed. Harriet sat down on a bench by the walkway and gestured for him to join her. He did so. Crowther remained standing in front of him, his eyes low and still twisting his cane.
‘Can you tell us anything more of his other visitors, Dr Trevelyan?’ Crowther asked, without looking up.
The good docound that the weight of their attention was making him nervous. ‘I asked him,’ he replied. ‘He said the first was ten days ago, a rather nervous young man whose name Gaskin did not recall. He was apparently closeted with Mr Leacroft for some hours. He returned a day or two later, again for some considerable period, but has not been seen since.’
Harriet put her hand to her face. ‘Could that be Bywater? He was making enquiries, after all. So Bywater did find him! Yet he said nothing to Isabella, despite their fondness for one another . . .’
Crowther looked up and met her eyes, which were heavy with thought.
‘Remember, Mrs Westerman, that despite that fondness he believed only that Mr Leacroft was some acquaintance of her French singing teacher. He did not know the connection was personal. He may have thought that in concealing his discovery he was doing her no great injury, especially if he found some other greater advantage from his visits.’
Crowther and Harriet turned their attention to Trevelyan again. ‘But two visits, and another from Miss Marin yesterday does not constitute a “flurry”,’ Crowther said. ‘What more?’
‘The second visitor was on Wednesday, only a week ago, and was a much older man. He too spent some time with Leacroft, and Gaskin was careful this time to remember his name. It was Fitzraven. That is the name of the gentleman whose death you have been investigating, is it not? As Mrs Westerman mentioned in her note.’ He looked up at Crowther, who merely nodded. There was a long silence.
Crowther leaned forward on his cane and addressed Mrs Westerman. ‘So let us suppose that Fitzraven followed Bywater on one or other of his visits. Might he have been able to enquire what sort of man Bywater was visiting, his profession, the nature of his malady –
without
announcing himself?’
Harriet turned to Trevelyan, who raised his hands. ‘Hardly impossible. Gaskin has a number of servants, of course. A man may gossip about his employer for the price of a drink. Such is the way of the world.’
‘So,’ Crowther said, ‘let us suppose that Fitzraven knew Bywater was visiting a mad, secluded musician. Then a week ago he decided to visit the man himself. What encouraged him to make that visit?’
‘Wednesday last . . .’ Harriet said, rapping her fingers against her dress with increasing speed. ‘If the “
C’ è una rosa
” duet was first rehearsed on Thursday, then the parts would have to be got ready the previous day.’
Crowther ceased to dig his cane into the pathway. ‘Which was the responsibility of Mr Fitzraven.’
‘Dr Trevelyan,’ Harriet said very slowly, ‘does Mr Leacroft continue his musical pursuits? Does his condition prevent . . . ?’
The doctor turned to her with his kind grey eyes a little confused, but as frank and honest as ever. ‘No, Mrs Westerman. Theophilius Leacroft has a harpsichord in his chamber and spends most of his hours at the keyboard.’
‘What does he play?’
‘A great quantity of works of the masters, ancient and modern, I understand. And he finds some relief from his melancholia in composition.’
Dr Trevelyan found himself at liberty to return to Highgate very shortly afterwards. The moment Harriet stepped into the hallway of the house in Berkeley Square, she asked for the carriage to be sent round as soon as it could be managed, then began to pace up and down the corridor.
‘It must have been Bywater who visited first, Crowther. Surely!’
‘But it must be proved.’
‘Fitzraven must have followed him on one visit or another, and having seen the music for the “Yellow Rose Duet”. . .’
‘Concluded that Bywater had not had a sudden inspiration, but had rather stolen the tune for his great triumph. Indeed, Mrs Westerman, I think it likely. But we cannot assume that it is true. Mr Leacroft had many pupils when in health. Some gentleman may have just returned to Town and decided to call. We are building castles in the air.’
Harriet came to a sudden stop. Her skirts eddied round her ankles. ‘Crumley has not yet completed his portraits to identify the angel Gladys spoke of, but perhaps he has done Bywater already. I asked Susan to help him yesterday.’
‘Yes, we did Mr Bywater,’ said a sleepy voice from the stairs. They turned to see Lady Susan descending the main stairway in search of breakfast. She rubbed her eyes and smiled at them. ‘Shall I go and fetch it? I brought it home. It’s in my Italian book.’
Harriet clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, yes, Susan. Please do.’
The girl spun on her heel and dashed back upstairs again, all the sleep shaken off her.
Crowther frowned. ‘Mrs Westerman, we are neither of us great musicians.’
‘Truly said, sir,’ she replied with a grimace.
‘Suppose that Mr Leacroft’s compositions
are
the source of the “Yellow Rose Duet” – will we know it for sure?’ Crowther fretted. ‘If it has been altered in some way, will we be able to swear?’
Harriet shook her head and began to bite the edge of her thumb, still pacing the corridor. When Susan came skittering down the stairs again, a paper in her hands, she asked her, ‘Susan, where is Mr Graves this morning?’
‘He had to go and see a lawyer. Something to do with investments of Grandpapa’s just coming to light, I think.’
Harriet thought for a second, then took the girl by the shoulder, saying, ‘My dear, we need you to come with us. Go and fetch your cloak.’ Brightening with excitement, Susan turned to ran upstairs again.
Crowther had taken the piece of paper from her before she went and looked approvingly at the profile and full-faced image of Richard Bywater. The picture was accurate. Once again, it seemed as if much of his and Mrs Westerman’s luck seemed to depend on the people their friends chose to employ.
Gregory approached. ‘The carriage is ready, ma’am.’
‘And where is Mrs Service?’
Susan came downstairs again at a pace. ‘Oh, she is teaching Uncle Eustache his ABCs. Shall I tell her we are going out?’
Harriet glanced impatiently at the door. ‘No need, my dear. Gregory, will you tell Mrs Service that Mr Crowther and I have taken Lady Susan out and will return before dinner?’
The footman nodded and Harriet took Susan’s hand and made for the doorway.
VI.2
W
HAT IS THE day, Sam?’
‘Wednesday, Mrs Bligh.’ Sam was looking better for a sleeping, though his eyes were still red. He ate the bread he was handed with an appetite but Jocasta could see the thought of his friends pass over his face from time to time.
‘An opera night . . . Does the servant from the house work there on opera night?’
He shrugged. ‘I should think. She was following on when the Missus and Milky Boy were coming back that night I watched.’
Jocasta looked unseeing at the cobbler’s tools around her, hung up and waiting for their master – dead things till a man put his hand to them and gave them purpose.
‘Boy, we have business today. Ripley first, another place later. You fed?’
Sam swallowed and nodded.
‘Right then. Let’s be off.’
Mr Gaskin was much impressed by the carriage, and Harriet’s first thought as Slater guided it into the driveway was that she was very glad she had had Crowther’s counsel when finding a place for James to recover. It was not that the house in Kennington Lane was particularly unpleasant; Harriet knew enough from accounts published that some institutions where those whose wits were troubled found themselves were hells almost beyond imagining. Mr Gaskin’s establishment was a pleasant villa, not unlike Dr Trevelyan’s home and place of business, but there was an air of neglect here which made its atmosphere very different to the neatness and calm good order in Highgate. The garden bers were obviously only occasionally tended; the floors in the public areas of the house were swept badly, and the woodwork on the sash-windows at the front of the building had grown rotten and not been replaced. Harriet wondered if the friends and relatives of those confined here visited a great deal. She imagined not. It was a place where people were forgotten, and only thought of, briefly, when the bills for their accommodation and care arrived on some sunny breakfast, then were forgotten for another quarter.