Instruments of Darkness Page 5

  Turning back to the body, he crouched down to examine the wound afresh, and with infinite gentleness placed a finger on the edges of skin.

  “Mrs. Westerman.” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the room, after their long silence. “If you have the stomach for it, come and look at this wound again and tell me what you see.”

  Her greenish eyes searched his face for a moment, then she walked slowly around the edge of the table, her bloodied cloth still in her hands, and gave her attention directly to the place he indicated, her face bent to the horror of the wound. Her voice as she spoke was composed.

  “The cut is deepest here, on the right side. So if he was surprised from behind ...” She frowned.

  Crowther took a knife from the roll behind him. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He stood behind her, took the knife in his right hand and said, “You are looking forward ...”

  “Waiting for whomever I am meeting to appear in the clearing ...”

  “I come up behind you. Take you by the shoulder ...” He did so, placing his left hand on her shoulder, and with his right brought the knife in front of her body, hovering a few inches from her throat. His own mouth went suddenly dry and as if from a great height he saw himself, the woman, the body.

  “I see,” Harriet said. “The force came on the right side of the wound as the cut was completed. He was murdered by a man who favored his right.”

  “And who was of about the same height, since the cut goes straight back to the vertebra.”

  Harriet looked at the knife that hovered still in front of her. “Whereas if you were to cut my throat,” she told him, “the wound would most likely be angled upward, given your superior height.”

  He bowed and moved carefully away.

  Mrs. Westerman stood a little apart as Crowther looked for evidence of a break in the lower limbs of the corpse. He opened the flesh to expose the bone from knee to ankle. Again he felt the sweat slowly gathering at his neck. The bone in both legs was solid and clean. Harriet did not speak as he worked, merely nodding as he showed her that the bones were true. He felt her attention as he folded the flesh back over the leg and with a curved needle of his own design knitted the skin back together with silk. It was neatly done, and some part of him expected to be praised for it, but when he looked up, he saw that her mind was already elsewhere.

  “This was a cowardly attack,” she said.

  “To cut someone’s throat from behind, in the night? Yes, that is cowardice—or desperation. You never believed this was an affair of honor, I think.”

  “I did not, but I have been thinking further as you sliced up his shins. The murder was done swiftly, quietly. There is no sign to suggest this was done in the heat of the moment, in a fight or argument.”

  “Though words may have been exchanged and the murderer returned.”

  “Perhaps. In either case the murder was done, and the note taken ... the note—but not the ring. It was not hard to find and it suggests a connection to the family at Thornleigh Hall. If the murder was done with an aim to secrecy, as the wound indicates, why not take the ring and conceal the body, at least to some degree?”

  Crowther walked to the ewer and found himself briefly confused about how to wash his hands without getting matter on the water jug. Harriet came over and lifted it to pour over his wrists. He worked the blood free from his short nails, then took up a fresh cloth and began to dry his fingers, looking up into the shadowed roof space above them. Harriet moved away to cover the body again.

  “Perhaps the murderer was disturbed,” he said to the empty air above him.

  “Someone, other than the murderer, arrived to keep the appointment? That would be interesting,” Harriet mused, then continued with a sigh, “I wish we knew more about this man, Crowther. Neither rich nor poor, tall nor short. He is a blank.”

  “As you say, Mrs. Westerman. But the clothes tell us something. It is they that convince me this man is not Alexander Thornleigh—”

  “The Honorable Alexander Thornleigh—Viscount Hardew to give him his proper title. One should address an earl’s son properly, even in absentia.”

  “I stand corrected,” he said, then continued, “As I was saying, the contrast between cloak and waistcoat convinces me more than the soundness of his leg bones or even his brother’s word. This is a man who would spend a large amount of money on a waistcoat, but not his traveling cloak. That speaks of one who wishes to pretend in company that he has more money than his cloak tells us he has, yet Mr. Thornleigh, from what you tell me, has abandoned for fifteen years great rank and fortune.”

  Harriet looked at Crowther for a long time, considering, then threw up her hands.

  “For a man so unwilling to look his fellow creatures in the eye, you are a subtle student of psychology,” she declared, and he bowed.

  There was a gentle knock at the door, and Dido put her face around the opening. Seeing the body covered, her expression became less fearful and she came far enough into the room to drop a curtsy to them.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. The squire has returned from the village and Cook is ready to serve dinner.”

  “We shall come in at once.” The maid let the door drop behind her. Harriet turned back to Crowther with a half-smile.

  “Well, it seems we have had all the private dealings with this poor wretch that we may expect. I suppose we’d better make matters known to the proper authorities.” As she turned toward the door, Crowther held his ground and cleared his throat.

  “I have made an examination of the body, ma’am. That is all the true expertise I can offer in this case. I must ask you then, why have you made me an ally in this puzzle solving of yours?”

  She looked at him. “Because I think you are by nature a clear-headed man, and you are an outsider, sir, who cares little for the politics of society in this place. That makes you very important to me. I am trusting you to keep us honest. You have already been very rude to me on several occasions, so I am more and more convinced of my need of you. There are very few independently minded, unencumbered and intelligent men in this neighborhood, particularly when my husband is at sea, so perhaps my hand was forced.”

  “And would your husband approve of your actions in this matter, madam?”

  She looked at the floor. “Probably not. He is more of a politician than I am, and he is rich enough already.” Crowther frowned, and she continued, “But it will be six weeks before he can hear of this, and another six before any scolding he has for me will be able to reach Caveley. He can clear the decks of any embarrassment I cause when he returns. He has done so in the past. Does that concern you?”

  “No. Though perhaps it should concern you.”

  She smiled at him mildly, then turned and without further comment began to walk toward the door.

  7

  “Father,” Susan called, running back into the shop from the family parlor. She came to a sudden stop in the doorway, seeing Alexander by the shop window peering out into the street, and remembering a little too late that now she was nine she was supposed to have stopped dashing about the house like a street urchin. He turned when he heard her, and although he was frowning she thought it was not so much at her as at his own thoughts.

  “Is everything well, Papa? Would you like to eat? Jane and I have made a pie!” She became serious. “Are you still fretting about your ring? I am sorry we could not find it.”

  He smiled at her. “No. I have decided not to miss it and the pie sounds wonderful.” He glanced out into the square again. “I think all is well. Lord George Gordon has roused up a mob. They think giving Catholics the right to own their own property is an offense against every English Protestant and wish to stop the bill allowing it from being passed. Fools. Mr. Graves just came by to tell me that Parliament itself is under siege, but the mob should not worry us here. Does Jonathan miss the ring? I think he thought more of it than you or I.”

  Some half-memory stirred in the back of Susan’s mind. The
ring appeared before her, the picture on it, and something Jonathan had told her when he came back from play some days before. He had said something about a waistcoat.

  Susan had just opened her mouth to tell her father this when her brother swung into the room.

  “No popery! No popery!” he shouted, waving his handkerchief in the air and dashing across to their father. Alexander swung him up into his arms.

  “No need to ask if you have been out at play, sir. But watch your words, young man. They cause hurt to your friends and do you no honor.” Jonathan looked a little confused and was about to question when his father shushed him. The serving girl had appeared behind them, looking anxious.

  “Sir, they say the crowds are coming back from Westminster, and looking black.”

  Jonathan opened his mouth to shout again—then, catching his father’s eye, shut it.

  “You are worried about your people, Jane?” Alexander looked with a friendly concern at the girl.

  “A little, sir. They say the crowd is heading for the fancy houses, but our religion is known, and there’s only my mother there. I’m afraid she’ll be nervous, sir.”

  “Well, you must go to her. And give her our best wishes.”

  Jane had begun to untie her apron as soon as the first words were out of his mouth, and spoke again in a rush.

  “Thank you, sir! I’ll be back as soon as it’s quiet. Miss Susan and I have made a pie that will do for dinner, and there is cheese in the crock, and bread for supper.”

  “We will manage. Go and see to your family, and come back again when you can.”

  Susan looked about her unhappily. She had never seen Jane look so nervous before, and she did not like the tone of her father’s voice. Jane disappeared out into the kitchen and away, and Alexander crossed over and put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

  “Don’t fret, little woman. Just silly people making a lot of noise and trouble for their entertainment. We’re safe enough. Now let’s go and try this remarkable pie of yours.”

  Crowther and Harriet were walking up to the French windows that gave onto the main lawn, when they heard a sharp slap and a child’s cry of surprise. Crowther looked to Harriet, who hurried over the last few steps to the house. He followed. As they stepped into the room, Crowther saw Rachel, her cheeks flushed, holding a boy of about five by the arm and vigorously shaking him. There was already a red mark rising on the little boy’s cheek and he was clutching a paintbrush in his free hand. Rachel’s voice, as she spoke, was quavering and hot.

  “Stephen, you naughty boy! How could you?” The boy caught sight of Harriet in the doorway and, shaking himself free, ran over to her and buried his face in her skirts, crying lustily. Miss Trench saw them both and gave a start. She held out her arms to Harriet in appeal.

  “Oh Harry, I am sorry. I did not mean to, but he has painted black marks all over my picture just out of badness—and it was just as I wanted it!”

  Harriet knelt to better embrace the boy and, having removed the dangerous brush from his hand, she handed it wordlessly to Crowther and stroked her son’s hair. His crying slowed a little. He put his face into her neck and mumbled something between sobs.

  “What is it, Stephen? I can’t hear you,” Harriet asked him softly, still not looking at her sister.

  “Crows. She forgot the crows,” he said, then his voice rising to a bitter wail, “I was helping!” He tucked his face into Harriet’s neck again, his small hands gripping the collar of her riding dress in determined fistfuls.

  Rachel looked more stricken than ever. Crowther remained in the shadows of the drapery, as if Harriet’s curtains might provide some protection from the emotions flying around the room like the Chinese fireworks at Vauxhall. He looked down at the dirty brush between his fingers.

  Harriet waited until the little boy was calmer and spoke to him gently.

  “Perhaps Aunt Rachel did not want crows in her picture, Stephen. Have you thought of that? You would not like it if she painted all your soldiers yellow, now would you? Even if she thought they looked better that way.”

  The little boy’s sobs stopped suddenly, and he pulled away from his mother as he considered this horrid possibility. He shook his head. She took his small face in her hands and smiled at him, then kissed him on his hot smooth forehead.

  “Well, you do not seem much hurt, young man. Apologize to your aunt and perhaps she will not paint on your things in revenge.”

  Stephen shot a glance toward Rachel, then walked carefully over to her.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt. I thought it would look nicer with crows.” He thought for a moment and extended his hand. Rachel knelt down and took it with great seriousness.

  “I didn’t realize you were helping, Stephen. And I am very sorry to have been so cross. May we be friends again?”

  “You won’t paint my soldiers yellow, then? Because they should all wear red coats.” She shook her head. Crowther found he was smiling a little, and stepped clear of the curtains. Stephen grinned with relief and pounced forward to kiss his aunt on the cheek, then struggling free from her embrace, turned and started with surprise as he caught sight of Crowther hovering in the doorway behind his mother and twisting the brush between his fingers.

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “I am Gabriel Crowther.”

  The little boy considered for a moment, then his eyes widened considerably.

  “Do you eat children, sir?”

  Crowther stooped slightly from the waist, till he had brought his thin body to the point where he could look the little boy in the eye.

  “Not as often as I would like.”

  Stephen looked at him with awe and pleasure, thrusting one small fist to his mouth. He then announced to the world in general that Mrs. Heathcote had made cake and he would be allowed to eat the crumbs from the tin, and raced out of the room. Harriet stood and smiled at Crowther, then, her eyes growing more serious, she turned to her sister.

  “I’m so sorry, Harriet. I didn’t mean, I—”

  Harriet looked irritated, and held up her hand. “This is not like you, Rachel.”

  Miss Trench flushed red. “I have been more upset than I know. There was a moment when I heard of the body when I thought ...”

  Harriet put the heel of her hand to her forehead for a moment, then moved across the room to take her sister’s arm and lead her to a chair.

  “Oh Rachel, I’m so sorry. It never occurred to me ... Then I was unkind to you. You must have wished us all to the devil.”

  Rachel shook her head. “It was stupid, and only for a moment.” She glanced up at where Crowther hung awkwardly in the background. “I’m sorry you have seen me display such a temper, sir. I am ashamed.”

  Her sister laughed. “Oh, I’ve said at least seven shocking things to him this morning myself, Rachel. Have I not, Mr. Crowther? He could blacken us across the county if he has a mind. But then, as Mr. Crowther hardly moves in society at all, he can do no more damage to our reputations than we do ourselves. Please, take a seat, sir.”

  Rachel looked across at Crowther as he sat, placing the brush gingerly in a vase on the side table.

  “Still, I am sorry you were witness to my bad behavior, sir. I trust you will try not to think ill of me, and I rely, as my sister does, on your discretion.”

  Crowther felt the warmth of her eyes and voice like a benediction; to the family good looks present in the elder sister was added real feminine grace. The girl’s hair was more honey than her sister’s, though the sunlight caught the fire in it and made it shine. Her eyes were the same green as Harriet’s. Softened a little, and a little wider perhaps, but their close kinship was obvious. She was a little thinner than she should be, but it gave her a delicacy that Crowther had already noted as rather lacking in Mrs. Westerman. The younger woman still had the freshly unwrapped softness of youth in her skin. She looked as if she had, as yet, suffered no rough weather. Again, she could not be ranked as a remarkable beauty, but he felt his old charac
ter of connoisseur of women stir in his breast.

  “Till death, ma’am.”

  Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Well, let’s hope that will not be necessary, sir.” Crowther squirmed a little on his chair. “Now Rachel, could you tell me if you have hidden Squire Bridges somewhere in the house?”

  Rachel gave a slight choking laugh under her breath.

  “He’s in the library finishing his letters. We should dine shortly or we will annoy Cook and Mrs. Heathcote. She so loves the squire, I think the whole of the storeroom is coming to table, and it will be all the worse for us if it is spoiled.” She turned toward Crowther and continued: “Will you be joining us, sir? We dine quite informally and you’ll be most welcome.”

  Crowther felt that somehow, and by doing very little, he had made himself a touch ridiculous.

  “I fear not, Miss Trench, though I thank you for the invitation. I dine at a later hour and at home.”

  Harriet did not turn toward him, but said nevertheless, with a slightly bored tone that suggested she found these society shufflings rather wearying, “Please let us persuade you, Mr. Crowther. The squire will certainly dine with us, and I would be glad to talk further on your impressions of what has passed.”

  Mr. Crowther felt Miss Trench’s encouraging smile on him and, bowing as best he could from his perch on the edge of one of Harriet’s neatly upholstered chairs, he accepted the invitation.

  “I will tell Mrs. Heathcote,” Rachel said, giving him a slight curtsy as she stood and hurried out of the room. Crowther could hear the rapid scuff of her shoes on the flagstones of the passageway while the door was still closing; she was running as if she were still a girl.

  Harriet rose and walked up to an elegant desk at one end of the narrow salon, where she began to glance through some of the correspondence neatly piled upon it. Crowther realized that this room must be her main place of business as well as leisure. It suited her, he thought, being pleasant and practical, but without the profusion of frills and fancies that Crowther had found oppressive in many feminine apartments. The room was long and well lit from the garden; the furniture was modern and practical but showed taste. The wall behind the desk was lined with volumes bound in brown leather, and the little objets d’art collected on the sidetables and above the mantel were interesting and well chosen for the spaces they occupied. Her husband had obviously collected a deal of prize money as well as household staff on his voyages, and delivered his wealth to a careful manager. Harriet put the papers back down on her desk with a sigh.