Anatomy of Murder Read online

  ALSO BY IMOGEN ROBERTSON

  Instruments of Darkness

  IMOGEN ROBERTSON

  ANATOMY

  of

  MURDER

  PAMELA DORMAN BOOKS

  VIKING

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First American edition

  Published in 2012 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Imogen Robertson, 2010

  All rights reserved

  A Pamela Dorman Book / Viking

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Robertson, Imogen, 1973–

  Anatomy of murder / Imogen Robertson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-56022-8

  1. Anatomists—Fiction. 2. London (England)—History—18th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6118.O2376A53 2011

  823'.92—dc23 2011036291

  Designed by Carla Bolte

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For Ned

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  PART II

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  PART III

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART IV

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  PART V

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  PART VI

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  PART VII

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART VIII

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks are due to a great many people. For particular help and advice I am grateful to the composer Gwyn Pritchard, who first mentioned to me the use of the castrati in eighteenth-century opera, and the implications of their position in society; to Maya Magub, Sebastian Comberti, Alex Anderson-Hall and James McOran-Campbell for speaking to me about the lives of professional musicians and singers; to the countertenor Iestyn Davies for our discussions of the castrati repertoire and history; to Gerald Stern for speaking to me about the possible and plausible effects of brain injury; to Richard Woodman and the excellent staff of the National Maritime Museum on matters naval; to the staff of the British Library for their help with much other research and to Christine Woodman for a particular moment of inspiration.

  My friends and family have continued, very kindly, to provide the essential patience, care and enthusiasm which makes writing possible; I’d also like to thank Richard Foreman and the writers I have met through working with him and David Headley at Goldsboro Books for their support, also my agent, Annette Green, the team at Headline, and all at Pamela Dorman Books for their enthusiasm, hard work and many kindnesses. Every day of writing this book I have been cared for, indulged, supported and occasionally scolded by Ned. It helped.

  LONDON, 1871

  Key Points of Interest

  1 Residence of the Earl of Sussex

  2 Residence of Lord Carmichael

  3 Mr. Fitzraven’s rooms

  4 Mrs. Spitter’s house

  5 Adams’s Music Shop

  6 Mr. Bywater’s rooms

  7 His Majesty’s Theatre

  8 The Admiralty Office

  9 Mrs. Bligh’s room

  10 The Rookeries

  11 The Mitchells’ rooms

  PROLOGUE

  Thursday, 3 May 1781, sixth year of the American Rebellion; third year of the Franco-American Treaty of Amity and Commerce

  HMS Splendor of the North American Fleet, under command of Captain James Westerman, off the coast of Newfoundland

  SIX BELLS OF THE MORNING WATCH (7 A.M.)

  Captain Westerman was in his cabin reading the letter from his wife for the fourth time when he heard the officer of the morning watch ring Six Bells. At the last double clang the door opened and his servant, Heathcote, came in with the coffee. Westerman did not need to go on deck to know they were having a good run on a fine day. The creaking of the planks and sound of the water hissing at the stern told him that. The air of happy expectation in the ship had curled into her timbers; even the bell sounded tuneful.

  Heathcote tried, none too subtly, to read over James’s shoulder as he delivered the coffee. James twitched the papers to his chest.

  “Any news from home, Captain?”

  “Yes, Heathcote. Your wife has run off with the innkeeper and my wife is forced to cook her own dinner.”

  His servant drew his brows together and pursed his lips.

  “Always thought yourself amusing, haven’t you, sir? Mrs. Heathcote might have the sense to run from me, but she’d never leave Caveley or Mrs. Westerman, so there’s no good funning.”

  James took his coffee and drank. “Fairly said, Heathcote. Your wife is well and comfortable, as is mine. Harriet says the new Lord Thornleigh has returned to London with his sister and guardian—oh, and the baby uncle—while the rebuilding works at the Hall are carried on. Also, the squire has sent them a ham.”

  “Is it recent news, sir?”

  “No—two months old.”

  “Well, you do keep running about, sir. Makes it hard to keep track of you.”

  James smiled. Other than his first lieutenant, his current officers on the Splendor were a relatively young lot, so inclined to be respectful of their captain. Heathcote, however, had sailed with him for years, and had got in the habit of treating Westerman like a slightly wayward nephew.

  The Splendor, a neat frigate of forty-four guns, had been hailed the previous night by the sloop Athena. The latter had been dodging American and French sails for a week to reach them, bringing letters from home and orders from the fleet. The letters were very welcome, and the orders to jo
in and help protect a convoy of merchant ships bound for England equally so. The crew of the Splendor had not thought they’d have a chance to kiss their wives for another year, but the merchant fleet was valuable and Admiral Rodney wanted good men to guard it, so had ordered James and his men back to England.

  However, it was the tidbit from the Athena’s captain that had caused the general state of excitement. His crew had spotted what seemed to be a French frigate the previous day sitting low in the water and apparently alone, heading up the coast. The Athena’s captain had recognized, he regretfully informed Westerman over dinner, that the French ship outgunned him, but reckoned the more heavily armed Splendor could take her.

  The crew was desperate for a decent prize. By the time they had arrived in the Leeward Isles early the previous year, the place had been picked clean by the admirals, and though James and his crew had taken some merchantmen and privateers, these had not been sufficient to make their fortunes. If they managed to take a frigate with her holds bulging with powder and ordnance for American rebels, every able seaman would receive enough gold to go home a respectable man, and James would be able to buy another estate if he had the mind. It felt as if the ship herself were straining at the leash to reach it.

  Heathcote normally left James alone to drink his coffee in the morning, yet today he was slow to leave the cabin. James looked up at his servant’s long face therefore with his eyebrows raised.

  The man reached into his pocket and produced a pamphlet. Even before he could read the title, James sighed.

  “Who had that then, Heathcote?”

  “One of the young gentlemen, sir. His mother enclosed it with her own letter. I caught him showing it to the other boys and boxed his ears for reading trash.”

  “Thank you.” James picked it up. A rather unpleasant woodcut on the front of the pamphlet depicted a man’s body lying prone on a patch of grass. Beside him, a woman stood in a bad actor’s stance of horror. There was a castle in the background. The woman looked nothing like Harriet, and Thornleigh Hall, unlike this castle, was an elegant residence fitting for an ancient and wealthy family, but without a turret in sight. The title claimed that the pamphlet was a complete, accurate and astonishing account of the late terrible murders in Sussex and London and the investigations of Mrs. Harriet Westerman and Mr. Gabriel Crowther. James flicked through it and curled his lip.

  “What nonsense this is! Half stolen out of the Advertiser, and half the perverted imaginings of the writer.” He held it up and tapped the female figure on the front. “Does this look like my wife to you, Heathcote?”

  Heathcote considered. “Looks more like the master gunner in a dress, sir.”

  James did not laugh. A career in the Navy was as much about politics as prizes, and it did him no good to have a wife that drew such attentions to herself. He loved Harriet unashamedly, but such things were, at best, awkward.

  There was a knock at the door and one of the youngsters, a bright lad of about fourteen and James’s favorite among the midshipmen, put his head in, his face shining with excitement. “Mr. Cooper’s compliments, sir, but he thought you might like to know we’ve spotted a sail.”

  “Did he, indeed, Mr. Meredith?” James replied, downing the last of his coffee and clambering into the coat Heathcote was already holding out for him. “Tell him I shall join him directly.”

  Mr. Cooper found his captain beside him on the quarterdeck in moments, already twisting his telescope open as he spoke.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Good morning, sir. Fine on the starboard bow and a fair way off still, sir.”

  James lifted his glass and pointed it where Cooper had indicated. There it was, a little smudge of sail on the horizon. This could indeed be a piece of luck. If they had had no sight of the potential prize today or tomorrow, James would have been forced to abandon the chase to meet the convoy, but there she was, as early as could be expected.

  Mr. Mansel, the major in the command of the ship’s company of marines, joined them. He had been up in the rigging straining for a better view.

  “Lord, I hope she’s a fat one,” he said. “The Americans and those damned French have seemed to know where we are more often than the Admiralty, and keep sneaking round our backs like rats. I met a fella in Kingston says every ship has a soothsayer on it who kills chickens and reads where our ships are in their guts.”

  James ignored him. “Very good, Mr. Cooper,” he said, slowly lowering his glass again. “Feed the men, then beat to quarters and clear the decks for action, please.”

  Mr. Cooper began to give his orders, Mr. Mansel went to tend to his marines, and James rested his hand on the gunwale, a vague smile on his lips. It was possible the ship they were chasing was one of their own, or a prize already taken, but James felt a familiar stirring in his blood. He was sure this was a Frenchman and a prize—her course, her position, the report of the Athena’s captain all suggested it. The Splendor herself seemed to agree; she was surging toward that tiny speck between the gray sea, and the gray skies, gaining steadily. The midshipmen noticed the glitter in their captain’s blue eyes and punched each other’s shoulders as they scrambled down the rigging.

  TWO BELLS OF THE AFTERNOON WATCH (1 P.M.)

  The mood of excitement had changed to one of wariness. The Splendor was ready and warlike. The panels had been stripped from James’s cabin, the hammocks rolled up and strung along the bulwarks to stop splinters, and the guns run out with a thunderous roar. Now everything was still again. The surgeon’s station was set up in the cockpit on the lower decks, and he and his mate sat in silence, saws, tourniquets and bandages lying neatly beside them. Ready.

  Behind each of the cannons its crew waited, powder, shot and sand buckets standing by. Mr. Meredith stood behind the hulking iron back of the eighteen-pounder under his command on the top deck, trying not to watch the captain on the quarterdeck out of the corner of his eye. It had seemed at first that the ship in front of them would try to outrun them. When it became clear she could not, her pace had slackened considerably. An hour ago it had become possible to read the name on her side—the Marquis de La Fayette; it was also possible to see her flags. A British flag flew above the French, the sign that the ship had already been taken as a prize by some other, luckier, crew.

  Another of the midshipmen, Hobbes, commanding a neighboring gun, leaned over to Meredith and hissed, “Doesn’t smell right. What would a taken prize be doing on this course?”

  Meredith did not respond but kept looking at the Marquis as she grew large in their vision. Her gun doors were closed. A figure became visible on the stern, a tall thickset man in shirtsleeves. He watched them approach, then when they were close enough to draw his portrait, the man suddenly shrugged on his coat and shouted something.

  “French!” Meredith bawled, and threw himself to the deck as the black mouths of two cannons emerged at the stern of the Marquis and belched smoke.

  He heard the shot tear into the rigging and looked up to see the fore-topsail yard smashed and then the shouts of the captain as wood and rope clattered to the deck around him.

  “Fire bow chasers! Wear away, Mr. Mackensie. Master Gunner, ready port guns and fire as they bear!”

  The Splendor’s forward guns gave a great cough and spat fire. Her gun crews cheered; one had caught the Marquis’s stern and left a ragged hole in her. Meredith balled his fists and scrambled to his feet. The French ship had made all sail and was trying to run for it again, but Captain Westerman was having none of that. Even without the fore-topsail, the Splendor still had pace enough. Already there were men up in the yards splicing cut ropes.

  The ships were horribly close. The marines in the Splendor’s rigging were firing down onto the decks of the French ship and doing horrible slaughter, but the Marquis had her own men armed with muskets. When Meredith heard a shout and horrible thwack behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to see the major of the marines on his back on the deck behind him, groaning, a red wou
nd blossoming on his thigh. The master’s wife got her arms around him and began dragging him back toward the hatch to the lower decks and the surgeon, leaving a thick red trail behind them.

  Spinning back around, Meredith saw the flanks of the Marquis just coming into sight; her guns were run out now. He could see men moving behind them, distorted mirrors of his own crew. The Splendor began to rake the stern quarter of the Marquis. The guns on all three decks thundered as one, hitting her low and hard.

  Meredith waited for his moment, then gave his order. His gunner touched fire to the cannon and the beast roared, throwing herself back on the ropes. Scrambling forward, Meredith peered over the bulwark. Their shot had been as accurate as the guns forward of them. Three of the gun ports on the Marquis’s starboard side had been torn into one great hole. Meredith could see one of the French lying in the opening screaming, his leg crushed and half torn away. Only the stern chasers of the Marquis could do them real damage here. The roar and whistle of ordnance passed above him. There was a scream and another man fell from the tops. His body never hit the deck, but was rather swung in the festoon of half-cut rigging like a child in a giant’s cradle.

  “They must yield!” shouted Hobbes. “We’ve shot her to hell!”

  Meredith found he was murmuring prayers between gritted teeth, his hands trembling. Then came a yell of victory from the bow. The Marquis had struck her colors. It was done. Unclenching his fists, the young man began to stand, the heat of the battle replaced by a flow of relief. The men around him were doing the same. The marines began to sling their muskets over their shoulders and descend from the ropes; Hobbes was all but dancing and his gun crew was smiling at him like proud parents.

  Then the Frenchman let fly her sails, suddenly slowing her to allow her guns to bear on the Splendor. The broadside struck them hard and Meredith stumbled and felt the ship shudder under the impact. He looked to see Hobbes, his mouth wide and tears in his eyes.

  “But she struck her colors! She surrendered! Dear God, how can they?”

  Meredith felt an anger slick up his throat like a sickness.