Anatomy of Murder (44 page)
VII.7
J
OCASTA LIKED THE look of Proctor as soon as she laid eyes on him. He was taking shelter from the weather in a lean-to close to the Stairs, smoking his pipe with conce
ntration and knocking the ashes out on his stool from time to time as they approached.
OCASTA LIKED THE look of Proctor as soon as she laid eyes on him. He was taking shelter from the weather in a lean-to close to the Stairs, smoking his pipe with conce
ntration and knocking the ashes out on his stool from time to time as they approached.
He saw them coming and kept them under steady observation, then, having heard all they were ready to say, called out to a much younger man who was still jostling for trade across the river further down the Stairs.
He asked them to repeat what they had just said in the younger man’s hearing. They did so. Then he stroked at his massive beard a while, ending by giving it a good hard tug as if his hand was trying to pull his mouth open and get the words out by main force.
‘Man I’d want to see in your shoes is an old Captain of mine. Not that he’s old himself, and he’s in London now, which few of the good ones are, what with the Frenchies and the Americans getting all roused.’
He went quiet again. Jocasta was content to wait him out, but Molloy was getting pulled out of shape with the stopping and retelling.
‘Why don’t you name him ?’ he said, with a narrowing of his eyes.
Proctor knocked out his ash again. ‘Poor bloke got hit on the head, and he’s gone kind of simple now, it’s said. So I hesitate to trouble him with you.’ He cast an eye towards the younger man at his side. ‘Jackson, I called you here to answer a question, and the question you must answer is this: what do you reckon to handing out his wife’s name? She’s a smart woman and her husband was known and liked enough, so she’ll know a face or two at the Admiralty.’
Jackson lifted his hand to stroke where someday his own beard might grow. ‘Pither had her in to look at the body, didn’t he? And she didn’t look a fool to me. Her, or that bloke she had with her.’
‘What body?’ said Molloy with quick interest.
‘We found a man.’ Proctor pointed into the middle of the river with his pipe. ‘He was drowned but tethered. Heard him named as Fitzraven, someone from His Majesty’s, is the talk.’
‘And this lady came to look at the body? Nice entertainment,’ Jocasta said.
‘Not sure as it was for a pleasure. She seemed to have some concerns with the business.’
Jocasta folded her arms across her chest. ‘The opera house? Seems to me this is the lady we need to have words with.’
Proctor and Jackson looked at each other for a long moment, till Proctor turned back towards them and, like a barrelled mirror of Jocasta, crossed his arms as well.
‘I can’t tell you where she stays at,’ Proctor said, ‘but her name is Westerman, and the fella she had with her was called Crowther. That help you?’
Molloy looked a little confused and wondering for a second, then began to laugh. He let out a ‘Ha!’ Then another one. Proctor frowned deeply, and Jackson crossed his arms as well, looking dark.
‘I do not take it kindly, sir,’ Proctor said in a low rumble, ‘that you see that name as an occasion for mirth.’
Molloy wiped his eyes and held up his hands as if to protest. ‘No lack of respect, Mr Proctor. None at all.’ Then he straightened up, slapping his hand on his thigh. ‘Never met her, but know her. Know Mr Crowther too! Never met him neither, but I know him. Know where her friends are!’ He turned round to Mrs Bligh, his grin showing off his three remaining teeth like tombstones set in front of a cave. ‘What you say to that, Mrs Bligh?’ He shut his mouth and his laughter dropped away like a lock emptying. ‘What’s up, lady? Seeing ghosts again?’
Jocasta’s mouth was dry as slate in summer. ‘That’s it. That’s the name.’
‘What name?’
‘The sailor they had their eye on to do harm. Westerman.’
Molloy grew serious. ‘It all bundles up together now, don’t it? When you said a sailor was in trouble I thought you meant some bow-legged fool who had staggered in the wrong direction searching out his grog. This is a matter of a different stripe.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘For one thing, they are rich and inclined to be grateful. We need to find our way to Tichfield Street, and smartly so.’
Proctor had stood; his face was red and his beard seemed to stand out from his chin.
‘What can be done?’
‘Clode! Lord, as I live, Daniel Clode! What – has Sussex run dry of lawyerly business for you?’
Graves had burst out of the back of the shop with long strides as soon as he heard his friend’s voice enquire for him, and now destroyed the space between them in a moment, throwing his arms around Daniel’s shoulders and slapping him so hard on the back, it would have wounded a lesser man.
‘Graves! I thought I’d find you here. Let me go, man, I’m stinking with the road. I’m just this moment out of the stage-coach and seeing the hour, thought it better to call here rather than at Berkeley Square.’
Graves stood back and looked at his friend as if he were a miracle walking. Clode was a remarkably handsome man with large brown eyes and a face that seemed sculpted more than grown. If he knew what advantages nature had given him in this way, he never showed any sign of it though. Graves had never seen him respond to any of the soft feminine looks cast openly upon him, unless they came from the eyes of Miss Rachel Trench. A look from her was worth the compliments and favours of all other women, it seemed.
‘But why are you here? Why no notice of your coming? Is there some problem at Thornleigh Hall?’
Clode looked a little shy. ‘No, everything is in order in Sussex, and the rebuilding progresses. I was summoned here by Miss Trench and by young Lady Thornleigh. They seemed to believe you might wish to negotiate the purchase of this shop from Lord Thornleigh’s estate. And I am here to see you do not rob yourself or your future father-in-law too far for the children’s sake.’
Graves looked sorry for a moment, then laughed. ‘Lord, I am plotted against on every side. Everyone insists I should be happy. But I am very glad to see you, co-conspirator that you are.’
‘Miss Trench said something in her note about her sister and a murder?’
Graves shrugged and turned to a pile of scores on the counter. They were the latest edition of the ‘Yellow Rose Duet’. On the title page of each, the name Bywater had been crossed out by hand, and replaced with
Composition of a certain Gentleman
.
Composition of a certain Gentleman
.
Giving up on ever getting the corners square, Graves spoke over his shoulder. ‘Yes, Mrs Westerman and Crowther surround us with bodies and horors again. I can see why Miss Trench might have some need of your support, as well as wishing to see Miss Chase and I properly bound up and established. I do not see what drives them . . . There must be something more to the case, as I cannot think with the Captain so ill, Mrs Westerman would involve herself in such a business for mere amusement.’
Clode smiled, showing an almost unnatural number of good teeth. ‘Be comforted, Graves. Mrs Westerman would not do such things without an excellent reason.’
Graves turned back to him and folded his arms. ‘You are too trusting a person to be a solicitor, Clode. I fear for the children’s fortunes in your hands. But perhaps you are right. You will be a breeze of good sense and clean air among us.’
Clode made a sharp bow, clicking the heels of his boots together as he did, then said more gently, ‘But what of the Captain, Owen? Has he improved?’
Graves sighed and wiped his hand across his brow. ‘The improvement is slight, but steady. I understand from Stephen that he was both calm and affectionate in his manner this morning, if still rather erratic or childlike in his speech.’
His friend stepped forward and put a hand on Graves’s elbow. ‘Then I’d say the improvement was considerable.’
Graves looked into his friend’s open face above him, saying, ‘Was it very bad when he first came home, Daniel?’
Clode nodded and turned away a little before replying. ‘Past endurance. He was vicious, hardly rational, horribly demanding and dangerous when thwarted. Mrs Westerman and Miss Trench had so longed for him to return, but when he did it was dreadful. Lord, Owen! If Crowther had not found Trevelyan, it might have become necessary to intervene to keep the children and ladies safe. Did you know their footman and groom at Caveley had twice to forcibly lock their master in his chamber to save Mrs Westerman’s neck? These are men who had served with him, who had entrusted their lives to him, now forced to confine him in his own home. Equally I saw him at moments when he was no more than a little strange, but still friendly, affectionate to his children. Stephen, however, I think he must have struck at some point. No boy should flinch in that way when his father approaches. No mother should look so fearful when her son and husband come together.’
Graves was quiet a long while. ‘I had no idea it had been so serious.’
‘Yes,’ Clode said. ‘And of course, if during any of his more apparently lucid moments he had sold the estate for less than you keep in your pocketbook, it would have been very hard to retrieve it. There – you see? I do speak like a lawyer from time to time.’
‘Was that likely?’
Clode nodded. ‘One afternoon he attempted it. He tried to sell the estate, his wife and his children for enough money to buy a horse and cover his expenses to regain Plymouth and the
Splendour
. He even had some of the necessary documents about him. It seems he had sense enough to gather themhen his servants and family refused to have his horse saddled and concealed the cashbox.’
Splendour
. He even had some of the necessary documents about him. It seems he had sense enough to gather themhen his servants and family refused to have his horse saddled and concealed the cashbox.’
‘What happened?’
‘He made the offer to Michaels at the Bear and Crown who is a better man than most, and smarter.’
‘Yes, I remember him. He refused the offer, I assume?’
‘No. I would have done, and I’d have been a fool to do so. Michaels knew that the next man the Captain had the ear of might not be so scrupulous. He gave Westerman money and a horse, took the papers and shook hands with him, then sent word straight back to Caveley. Mrs Westerman’s servants restored her husband to her the following day. He did not resist. Indeed David, the coachman, was convinced he had already forgot his purpose and was merely happy to see faces with which he was familiar. Michaels said he had been desperate when he had seen him to warn the crew of the
Splendour
that they had a spy on board and England was teeming with more of the same.’
Splendour
that they had a spy on board and England was teeming with more of the same.’
Graves shook his head. ‘Good God. To have the person you love best re-delivered to you, but in such a changed manner. I had no idea . . .’
Clode clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enough! This is too serious a welcome. Come – smuggle me into your home so I may make myself respectable and greet the ladies of your household looking like a gentleman.’
Mr Tompkins was delighted to see Harriet and Crowther, and spent the time it took to walk from Mrs Girdle’s to Gladys’s house telling them so, when he was not remarking on the terror of an audience with Gladys’s mother, Mrs Spitter. The lady was a tyrant, according to his report: fierce in her opinions, final in her judgements and occasionally crushing in their delivery.
‘She loves Gladys, though,’ Tompkins admitted. ‘She’d kill anyone who ever troubled that girl. Funny thing that she is.’ Bearing this in mind, they sent up their cards and were swiftly shown into a pleasant parlour on the first floor. The room had generous windows overlooking the main street and by the fire was a low circular table with neat striped settees on either side. The whole gave the impression of modest prosperity, sensibly enjoyed.
Two ladies rose to greet them. Mrs Spitter was a woman of generous proportions with a firm jaw and shoulders that would have made her a Grenadier if she had been born a man. The lines of her dress were certainly severe, bodice and skirt striped purple and black, but what made her appearance a little eccentric was the quantity of jet with which her person was adorned. Three great ropes of glimmering stones hung around her neck, her fingers were hidden to the knuckles with black lozenges, her wrists bristled with beads, bangles and bracelets all pitch polished. They gave her a sort of dark glow. Harriet was sure that in many of the less frequented places she had visited on the globe, Mrs Spitter would, on first sight, have been acknowledged as some Goddess of Revenge or Queen of the Underworld, and Harriet for one would not have thought the natives unwise in their choice.
Next to her stooped a girl whom Harriet guessed to be twenty-five or Qe most. She was all milk to Mrs Spitter’s tar. Her face was not unpleasant, but rather blank, and her mouth never seemed quite shut, while her eyes looked and blinked at the company with an air of mildly curious surprise. She was so pale her complexion seemed tinged blue, and her hair was blonde but very thin and weak. Her gaze picked out Mr Tompkins and she gave him such an open-hearted smile of welcome that Harriet found herself oddly touched.
It seemed Mr Tompkins was a little at a loss as to who to introduce to whom, so simply opened his mouth once or twice and shut it again. Mrs Spitter started to raise her eyebrows, which Harriet guessed to be an unhappy sign, so she took a step forward towards the lady with her hand held out. Something about this matron suggested to her it would be best to state her business with the minimum of flummery.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Spitter. Thank you for receiving us. We would like very much to talk to Gladys about her angel.’
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