Instruments of Darkness (26 page)
Read Instruments of Darkness Online
Authors: Imogen Robertson
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction
He looked for a second as if he wished to say something, then turned away, but paused again at the door.
‘Just wished to say, ma’am, Miss Rachel, that Mr Crowther was a gentleman to Cartwright. I hope I get care like that when I go. Though I hope not to die so hard.’ He left before they could reply.
The door shut behind him and Rachel got up and took her position behind Harriet’s chair, so she could read over her shoulder. The note was short and to the point.
It is over. The dose was massive. I know where Alexander is.
19 April 1775, Boston, Massachusetts Bay, America
T
HEY SET OUT like boys promised a picnic that morning, but it was a shocked and bloody Army that made its way back to camp the following evening.
HEY SET OUT like boys promised a picnic that morning, but it was a shocked and bloody Army that made its way back to camp the following evening.
Hawkshaw had a tear in his cheek from a farmer’s blunderbuss, and he had lost three of his company to the rebels on the retreat from Lexington. He had not seen Hugh since the carnage of Bloody Angles, where the rebels had taken advantage of a sharp turn in the round to ambush and harry his men. He had never felt so exposed. These pretty wooded hills and valleys, their irregular roads and riverways made for pleasant farming country, but it was the devil’s own work to fight in. The rebels came up out of nowhere at them as they made their way back into Concorde, some piling right into their midst to send off a shot though it was certain death to do so. The Army could not be sanguine about any meeting with these men in the future, surely. They were ragged and undisciplined, but brave, and knew how to use the land to their advantage.
Hawkshaw pulled off his coat in the relative peace of his quarters and tried to wash out his wound. He took some of the water from his bowl in his mouth and spat it out again, thick with his own blood. He had even seen a woman firing by the side of her husband from one of the farms along the way. Both had been killed, and the house set alight, but it was a chilling scene. If they could make their women fight like that, how great a force would be required to subdue them? More than were here, and more than were likely to come soon, and in the meantime they were in danger of being pinned down in this bloody bay like animals in a pit. The rebels seemed to him like little boys throwing sharp rocks at bears. Not much of a competition in a straight fight perhaps, but if they could not reach out a claw and connect, and the stones were sharp enough, it was plain where any sensible man should lay his bets.
The door behind him opened and he looked up, expecting to see his servant come in with a fresh shirt. It was Hugh. He was worn, and his shoulders slumped, but Hawkshaw could not see any sign of wounds. They looked at each other for a moment with satisfaction, then Hugh held out a long plain bottle towards him.
‘Here. Brought this for you. My father sent over a half-dozen bottles of brandy so the mess can toast him and his new wife. We’ll use it to wash out our wounds.’
Hawkshaw took it from him and lifted it high, letting a long draught into his mouth and swilled it over his gums. It found the wound and made him wince. He could not say anything about the quality of the liquor. All he could taste was his own blood and dirt.
Hugh watched him. ‘Can you talk?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It looks worse than it is. No long speeches from me though. Who did you lose?’
Hugh kicked out at the wall of the little hut hard enough to make the floorboards jump.
‘Four good men. Young, Spicely, Ball and Tom Cartwright. Spicely was one of the first killed up at the bridge. The animals scalped him. And Cartwright died hard. He only joined up six months ago, comes from my home, and took one in the guts. He was looking at me in the eye as he died, rattling back on the cart, and all I could think of was how pathetic that little moustache he’s been trying to grow looked. He was a baby still. And all the time looking at me like I’m a god who can heal him with a handshake and trying to be brave.’
‘It was good you stayed with him.’
‘Much good it did him. To hell with it! Four good men! And for what? Throwing half a tonne of shot into a duckpond, and burning a couple of gun carriages.’
Hawkshaw passed him the brandy bottle and Hugh took a long gulp of it before he continued. ‘We cannot afford to throw men away like this. Two others wounded, won’t be fit for months. I’ll have to fill the company again. What about you? Seen your injured yet?’
‘Of course. Parkinson looks in a bad way. The others who made it back will live. Thank God Percy made enough noise to be allowed to come up and cover the retreat. There’d be a lot fewer of us here now if he hadn’t.’
Hugh sat down heavily on the bed. ‘I shall send him some of the brandy.’
Hawkshaw watched him in silence for a moment, then began the work of getting blood and grit out from his fingernails.
‘It’s true about the marriage, by the way.’ Hugh looked at the emptying brandy bottle. ‘Of course you know. My father writes to say she will be an ornament to Thornleigh and the London scene.’
Hawkshaw took a seat on his trunk, and reached an arm out for the bottle again without comment.
‘My father has made us ridiculous, and thinks it all a very fine joke. I hope he chokes on it.’
‘I met an old friend of your family today.’
Hugh looked up with his eyebrows raised.
‘A man called Shapin. He heard Gregson mention your name and claimed to know you as a child.’
‘I don’t recall the name.’
‘Seems he was a servant, transported for theft when you were a boy.’
Hugh shrugged and took the bottle back again.
‘I am surprised my father didn’t arrange to have him swing. He has never been forgiving of other people’s sins.’
Hugh held the bottle to his forehead, as if he expected to find some cool and comfort in it.
PART IV
IV.1
Monday, 5 June 1780
S
USAN MUST HAVE slept, but as the light began to crawl between the shutters, and she heard the familiar sounds of a London street beginning to stir like a drunk awakening from bad dreams, it seemed to her she had spent the whole night watching the shadows on the ceiling.
USAN MUST HAVE slept, but as the light began to crawl between the shutters, and she heard the familiar sounds of a London street beginning to stir like a drunk awakening from bad dreams, it seemed to her she had spent the whole night watching the shadows on the ceiling.
She had asked Graves and Miss Chase if she might be able to tell her brother about his - about
their
- strange change in situation and expectation, and the three of them had decided to say nothing to anyone else, until she had had time to do so. It seemed right to her that she should tell him, but the decision to do so was easier than the telling. She had promised herself it would be after supper, then told herself that Jonathan was tired and needed rest, and now she had lost her own chance of sleep trying to find words that were gentle and right, and would be clearly understood.
their
- strange change in situation and expectation, and the three of them had decided to say nothing to anyone else, until she had had time to do so. It seemed right to her that she should tell him, but the decision to do so was easier than the telling. She had promised herself it would be after supper, then told herself that Jonathan was tired and needed rest, and now she had lost her own chance of sleep trying to find words that were gentle and right, and would be clearly understood.
She sighed and sat up, then swung her feet to the floor to watch him sleeping in the bed next to hers. His blond hair fell over the pillow, his arms thrown out as if he were racing up some steep slope in his dreams. His skin was as perfect and pale as the first clouds. She reached over and shook his shoulder roughly.
‘Jonathan! Jonathan, wake up.’
He stirred and opened his eyes. She saw in them the same confusion she felt whenever she woke in this room. Those first few seconds of peace then doubt as the familiar objects of their own room in Tichfield Street above the shop failed to appear, then the squeeze of his eyes, the little gulp in his chest as he remembered where he was, what had happened.
‘Jonathan, I have to tell you something.’
He pulled himself up onto his elbows, and rubbed his eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘Are you awake?’
‘Course I’m awake. You just shook me.’
‘Our name isn’t Adams, it is Thornleigh. You are probably a Viscount, and you’ll be an Earl some day.’
Jonathan frowned at his sheets. ‘Of where?’
‘Sussex.’
He looked across at her. ‘Oh. Is that where the picture comes from?’
‘What picture?’
‘The one on Papa’s ring. With the dragon and the bird holding a shield. Perhaps that man knows.’
‘It’s a phoenix and you’re talking silly - what man?’
Jonathan sat up properly and said indignantly, ‘I am not talking silly! The man showed me a picture like the one on the ring and asked if I’d seen it. I told him about the ring and he said I was clever. Then he promised he’d come back and give me a waistcoat just like his. I liked it, it was nice. But he hasn’t come back.’
‘When, Jonathan? What man?’
‘Days and days ago. I just told you. He was called Carter. Like horse and Carter. Why?’
‘Perhaps he took the ring!’ She let her voice drop and plucked at the bedclothes. ‘He did not look like . . . the other man?’
Jonathan shook his head. ‘No, and he was nice. Why would he take the ring? He had the picture.’ They considered this for a moment, then the boy looked at her again with his head on one side. ‘If I am a Viscount, does that mean you are a Lady or something?’
Susan swung her feet. ‘Probably.’
Jonathan yawned and wriggled back among his sheets, and put his head on the pillow.
‘They will make you learn French.’
Susan’s eyes widened.
Crowther did not come home till Cartwright’s body had been decently laid out, spending the time between his death and the moment the women told him that the body was clean and at rest in the glovemaker’s kitchen, drinking red wine with Michaels. The huge man had left the house as soon as Crowther had closed Joshua’s eyes with his long white fingers, only to return before many minutes had passed with a bottle of burgundy clasped like a toy in his huge hand, and carrying two glasses which he rubbed briefly on the edge of his shirt and set down on the table without comment.
Crowther took the glass offered him with a nod and drank deep. He wondered if he would be asked to perform an autopsy on the man. He realised he did not wish it. He had seen the effects of arsenic poisoning on the organs of a dog in London, and did not think it would add much to the sum of his knowledge to see what the poison had done to the systems of a man. He felt the wine hit his empty stomach and warm it. Without realising he was doing so, he stretched his limbs and sighed. Michaels was watching him narrowly.
‘All the bottles and jars are locked away,’ the innkeeper said. ‘He had not taken anything to eat before the attack came on since his breakfast. Perhaps, though, you should take away the bottle that was opened from the Hall and lock it up in your medicine cabinet.’
Crowther looked up in surprise. ‘You think it unsafe here?’
Michaels shrugged and spread out his thick fingers in front of him.
‘I’m not sure, Mr Crowther. There are two bottles. One had been drunk from, the other not. Take the opened one away with you for my peace of mind. I’d rather not say what I think. Hardly know myself.’
Crowther turned back to his wine without commenting further. They remained in silence till the bottle was empty and the sky outside the kitchen window was beginning to thin from a summer dawn to its first full light. The door opened, and a young-looking woman came in with a firm step and a bundle of linens that she took out through the back door. She returned and laid her hand on Michaels’s shoulder. He grasped it and held it briefly to his cheek. She bent over to kiss the top of his head, and Crowther felt his heart reach out. He had not seen Michaels’s wife before, had not imagined so trim and young a woman, had not imagined they could portray such an allegory of domestic support. She seemed to feel his eyes, and looked up at him.
‘Mr Crowther, you and my husband should go home and rest now. Hannah and I will keep vigil.’
He nodded, but when he stood, his feet took him upstairs again to the sick room. There were herbs burning in a little brass dish on one side of the room, and candles had been set on either side of where Joshua lay. Hannah sat in the chair that Crowther had occupied most of the night, and she stood hurriedly when the door creaked open. Crowther waved her back into her seat, and looked at the face of the body on the bed. How strange it was, how dead the dead looked. Joshua could never be mistaken for a man at rest. The body was empty and senseless; whatever had been human had left him. He noticed Hannah wipe her eyes.
‘You were fond of your master?’
She nodded, looking a little frightened. ‘Yes, sir. And . . .’
Perhaps tiredness was making him gentle, for his voice was softer than usual. ‘What, child?’
She sighed and laid her hand on the bed beside her master. ‘Squire Bridges was asking all sorts of things, about the poison for the mice. I’m afraid they’ll say it was my fault, sir.’ Her hand patted the arm of the corpse like a woman settling a child. ‘As if I’d ever hurt him.’
Crowther was silent for a second, looking at her profile in the candlelight.
‘I know you did not.’ She smiled up at him, quick and grateful. ‘And if you have any problem finding another position, you will be welcome in my household.’
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