Instruments of Darkness (49 page)

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Authors: Imogen Robertson

Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction

BOOK: Instruments of Darkness
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Harriet nodded and began to turn towards the carriage again. As she put her foot on the step she almost fell. David swung down from his seat.
‘Hold the horses, boy.’ He was by her side in a second. ‘If you’ll allow me, ma’am?’
She blushed and nodded, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders, allowing him to lift her bodily in his arms and place her comfortably in the carriage. He returned unsmiling to his seat. Crowther climbed up to take his place, still aware of Wicksteed grinning at them from his post at the edge of the forecourt. He heard a little cough next to him, and peered over the barouche’s side into the yard. Harriet’s new stable boy stood below him, holding up the two pieces of his cane. He looked up, very white and nervous. His new coat seemed a little on the large side. Crowther looked down into his round, unformed face, a picture of a life yet to begin, then put out his hands to take the pieces, his thin, papery skin, spotting in places with brown, his bony fingers lifting the remains of his cane from the boy’s fresh palms. He nodded.
‘Good lad. Thank you.’
The boy smiled and clambered up to ride next to David. Wicksteed stood upright and sauntered over to Harriet’s side of the carriage. He hardly sketched a bow, but spoke a few words to her, and with a nod to Crowther moved away again. Mrs Saunderton looked a little confused. Wicksteed gave her a broad grin and she bobbed a curtsy, doubtfully, in his direction. Harriet said clearly, ‘Drive on.’
David clicked to the horses. They lifted their hooves and with a jerk and clatter the carriage began to move. Crowther carefully placed the remains of his cane on the seat next to him and leaned forward.
‘What did he say?’
‘That it is beginning.’
Crowther sat back into the corner of the carriage and crossed his hands in his lap.
VI.8
D
AVID CARRIED MRS Westerman from the carriage to the salon, then was hurried into the kitchen to have his own injuries dealt with. Mrs Heathcote returned moments later with hot water in a basin, and strips of linen over her shoulder, to find Miss Trench at her sister’s feet trying to remove her shoe. The scene was too feminine for Crowther, and with a nod to his hostess over the shoulders of her nurses, he left his broken cane on the desk, and stepped out of the French windows for a moment to walk among the lavender. His steps eventually took him to the front of the house, and he paused under the oak tree that Commodore Westerman had thought would be a guardian to his family in his absence. The summer breathed through the leaves, making them sigh heavily. Crowther leaned his weight against the trunk.
‘We have made a poor job of it, friend,’ he said, resting his palm against the bark.
There was a movement by the gate, and he turned to see two horsemen entering the driveway. The first was Michaels on his favourite ride, a beast as massive as himself who had the reputation of a biter. He had his arm out to the other rider, as if holding him in his saddle. As they came a little closer Crowther recognised Clode, the lawyer they had sent down to London. Both men started, then encouraged their horses forward as he emerged from the shade of the tree. Daniel began to dismount as they came abreast of him, and his slim form almost dropped into Crowther’s arms. The latter held him by the shoulders.
‘The children?’
Clode looked feverish, and worryingly pale under his stubble.
‘Well. Safe. Legitimate.’
His relief was such, Crowther flung his arms around the boy and held him for a second. Michaels had dismounted, and as Crowther released him, he put a beefy arm around Clode’s shoulders.
‘I met him on the road two miles out, hardly able to keep on his mount. Let’s get him in, Mr Crowther. I don’t think he has slept since he left Hartswood.’
Between them they lifted him into the house and Mrs Heathcote found herself with another invalid just as her first was made comfortable. Crowther shouted the same words that Clode had given him over his shoulder as they carried the man upstairs and heard Harriet’s cry of relief follow him upstairs.
As soon as he was laid on the bed, Clode fell into an uneasy drifting sleep. Crowther watched over him. His jaw was badly bruised, and there was more heavy bruising on his shoulder and the pale flesh of his side. Crowther had brandy and water brought up, and ordered a fire lit in the room. So there had been some sort of violence given and received in London. He saw the remains of the bloodstains on the young man’s chest, but saw no wound, noted the scrapes on his palms and knuckles, the deep cut in his thumb - a sign that he had held a knife and in some press of action used it, not expertly, but with force.
Michaels sat with him. ‘You look as if you are reading a book,’ he said quietly.
Crowther looked up, and nodded slightly. ‘What we do leaves marks on us. Especially if we are involved in violence. When he wakes, I am sure Mr Clode will be able to tell us of some violent altercation on a roadway somewhere. I think the other man died, and that Clode found safe refuge afterwards. Why he should decide to leave it so soon, his body will not tell me.’
‘How could you know any of that?’
‘There was enough blood, not of his own, that it could not be washed away quickly. Yet he is wearing a clean shirt.’
‘Will he survive? I have no great desire to watch someone else die in your company, Mr Crowther.’
Gabriel smiled. ‘Aside from the bruising, I think his symptoms are of shock and exhaustion. He is young. He should mend.’ Crowther paused and picked up Clode’s wrist again; the pulse fluttered and struggled. ‘But something is keeping him from the rest he needs.’
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Harriet limped into the room. He smiled at her and turned back to his patient. As the door fell shut again behind Harriet, Clode groaned and opened his eyes.
‘Crowther!’
‘Yes, Mr Clode, you have reached us. And you must rest.’
The young man lifted himself on his shoulders, shaking his head. He saw Harriet.
‘Oh, Mrs Westerman too. So glad.’
He looked like an engraving in her bed, the white of the sheets and his skin contrasting with the dark of his hair and the hollows visible under the collar of his shirt. She smiled at him.
‘Crowther told me the children are well.’
‘Yes, and under the best of guardians. We killed the man who murdered their father. Or rather a leopard did.’ Harriet wondered if he were delirious and glanced at Crowther, her expression all concern. ‘At least I think Hunter said it was a leopard.’
Crowther looked confused for a second, then smiled with understanding.
‘Mr Hunter has some exotic pets,’ he said to Harriet. She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. Michaels sat forward in his chair. Clode did not seem to notice anything; his hands were feeling round the sheets about him.
‘I have a paper, rode since dawn to get it to you. I must have it.’
Crowther turned to the end of the bed where Clode’s coat was laid over the back of a chair and passed it to him. He reached forward eagerly and dived his hand into the pocket. He pulled out the two sheets folded and creased. He must have put his fingertips to them to check they were still there every other minute during the ride. Now he passed them over to Crowther, and at once fell back on his elbows.
‘They were in the yellow man’s pocket. The pocket of the man who killed Alexander, I mean. The children called him the Yellow Man. Susan is very brave.’ He let himself fall back into the pillows. Crowther put water and brandy to Clode’s lips. ‘He escaped when Newgate burned . . . Had to run . . . Got them safe . . .’
Daniel sighed, his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed. Crowther watched him for a second.
‘Good. It seems he will allow himself to sleep now.’
He picked up the papers and walked round to where Harriet was sitting and put the papers in her hand. Michaels and Crowther stood behind her chair as she unfolded them. They were all silent a few seconds.
‘You still have that piece of paper from Brook’s body, I trust?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. And I know that this is the hand of Claver Wicksteed.’
‘Then I suggest it is certainly time we went to see the Squire.’
Harriet looked up at him. ‘He dines this afternoon at Thornleigh Hall - Mrs Heathcote heard it.’
Crowther removed the papers from between her fingers, folding them and neatly fitting them into his coat.
‘Then I suggest we make a visit there. Will you join us, Mr Michaels?’
The man shrugged his bear-like shoulders and coloured a little.
‘Not used to going up to the front gate, so much. But I don’t see why I should not come with you.’
VI.9
‘
W
E MUST SEE the Squire.’ Crowther spoke quietly, but Thornleigh’s senior footman had begun to look uncomfortable.
‘He is at table, and we have orders that no one from Caveley - or you, Mr Crowther - are to be admitted to this house.’ His orders did not seem to make him happy. He turned towards Michaels and straightened a little. ‘You, we would not admit in any circumstances.’
Michaels smiled at him and rested his fists on his waist.
‘Foolish of you to let us into your hallway, in that case.’
Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed the maid who had first opened the door and fallen back to let them enter, blush and take a step back. The footman’s eyes travelled the same way.
‘That was an error,’ he said stiffly.
Michaels looked entirely at his ease.
‘Well, if any of you fancy lads want to try and throw us out, good luck to you, that’s all I can say.’ He flexed his massive hands.
Crowther sighed.
‘We must see the Squire,’ he repeated.
 
They were shown into the Great Hall to await the party who were dining and found Hugh already there, slumped in front of the empty fire with a carafe at his side. He looked up at them, his eyes already rather dull.
‘What? More corpses?’
Harriet made her way awkwardly over to the other armchair and let herself down into it. Hugh watched her for a few seconds, then realising she was not going to speak, asked grudgingly, ‘What happened to you?’
She looked directly at him.
‘Wicksteed paid a couple of lads to knock Crowther and me flying in Pulborough earlier today. I hurt my ankle.’ Hugh looked confused. She explained, as one might to a rather simple child: ‘He has demanded that I leave Caveley, my husband and my children. He is showing me what to expect if I do not comply.’
Hugh shifted in his chair and murmured something no one could make out. He was not asked to repeat himself.
Crowther looked down at the younger man.
‘Did you know your father is being tortured, Captain Thornleigh?’
Hugh’s eyes struggled to focus.
‘Tortured? What do you mean?’
Crowther stared at him for a moment, then turned away as if the sight disgusted him.
‘He has been cut. Someone is making him atone for his sins, we think. And perhaps yours.’
Hugh went rather pale, but before he could produce any reply the grand doors were swung open and the party from the table came into the room. Wicksteed and Lady Thornleigh were arm-in-arm; the Squire bobbing in their wake. Harriet had to admit they made a very handsome couple. They looked, both of them, vigorous and aware of their powers. Their dark colourings complemented one another, and Wicksteed had seemed to acquire a grace and control in his movements, as if that animal power had transmitted itself through the perfect arm that rested over his. Only an unhealthy glitter in their eyes, and the strange dark cloud they dragged with them made them unattractive. Harriet felt her skin creep, and wondered if Squire Bridges were choking in the wrongs that streamed behind them both like smoke.
Lady Thornleigh released Wicksteed’s arm and made her way to the long oak trestle table that split the hall in two, resting her hand on the wood. Her dress rustled against it. She smiled at them lazily. Harriet blinked her green eyes, unwillingly drinking in all that beauty glowing under the ancient arms and portraits of the Thornleigh family. The woman looked at each of them in turn before she spoke.
‘Well?’
Crowther bowed to her. ‘We are here to speak to Squire Bridges, Lady Thornleigh.’
My lady arched one eyebrow and looked at her guest. Bridges took a blustering step or two forward.
‘Anything you wish to say, you may say in front of these good people, sir.’
Harriet did not quite manage to stifle a bitter laugh that rose in her throat. Wicksteed looked at her angrily. Crowther nodded to the Squire.
‘Very well. I shall give you the story. You were right, Bridges, about the murder of Sarah Randle. It was indeed Lord Thornleigh who killed her for her pregnancy or his own pleasure, and for whatever reason of his own, he took her locket. Some years later, Hugh’s mother found it, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble.’

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