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Mr. Gabriel Crowther was not known for his sociability. Indeed, when the Royal Society invited him to address them it had been more out of respect than in expectation that he would accept. But he had accepted. It was Mr. Crowther who had, in September of this year and after careful correspondence, found and recommended Dr. Trevelyan’s establishment as a suitable place for James Westerman to be confined. It was Mr. Crowther who had written to Graves to advise him of the matter, and his letter that had prompted the family’s warm invitation to Harriet and her family to treat their establishment as their home while James was resident in Highgate. Mr. Crowther had rarely done so much for any other human being. The reward for his unusual activity was to discover in a distressingly short time that he missed the society of the ladies of Caveley, so when the invitation from the Royal Society at Somerset House arrived he drew up a list of reasons why it would be advantageous to spend time in London, and ordered his housekeeper to make the necessary preparations.

His welcome in Berkeley Square had been warm, and he was forced to admit he had been glad to see them all. However, he had not lost his habits of silence and isolation completely. A noisy table of young people could still feel something of a trial. Lady Susan was giving her guardian an account of her day that included a cruelly accurate impersonation of her Italian master. Miss Rachel Trench, Harriet’s younger sister, was trying hard to interest her sibling with an account of some wallpapers she had seen, which she thought might be suitable for the salon in their country house of Caveley. Graves was torn between listening to Susan and preventing his jugged hare from escaping over the edge of his plate. The candles blazed and the footmen went to and fro setting down dishes or taking them away, and Stephen and Lord Sussex were competing to entertain the table with their story of a dead rat in the cellar and their plans for the corpse in various schemes to terrify the maids.

At the head of the table, the personification of calm good grace, sat Mrs. Beatrice Service. Her dress was modest and neat, and her gray curls were pinned up neatly under a white cap. Her eyes suggested she found the world an amusing and pleasant place in general. When Owen Graves had taken on the task of constructing a proper household in which these two ennobled orphans, Lord Sussex and Lady Susan, might grow, he naturally turned to those who had already shown themselves to be their friends in their time of poverty and obscurity. Mrs. Service was such a one. She had lived in the street where the children were born, and had known both their parents. A poor widow, albeit a gentleman’s daughter, she had passed her days quietly starving and trying not to cause any difficulty for anyone in the process. Now she lived with Jonathan, Susan and their guardian as friend and companion in Berkeley Square. She had a box at the opera, good food when she wanted it, and thought herself a very lucky woman.

There was an element of the governess about Mrs. Service’s role, though Susan had masters who visited the house to instruct her in music and, despite her early reluctance, French and Italian, but there was never any question among the household as to her status. Mrs. Service was counselor to Graves; she held the keys to the store cupboards; the housekeeper came to her for directions; and she acted as a sort of honorary grandmother to the children. She was by nature retiring, but her principles were sound and held with conviction, so if she ever had cause to speak to Susan about the propriety of her behavior, her words carried great force, and were attended to. Just now, she gave the Earl of Sussex a mild look and the speeches about the rat came to an abrupt halt. In the little silvered moment of silence that followed she asked Mr. Crowther how he had occupied his day.

“Mrs. Westerman and myself have been recruited to investigate a murder, Mrs. Service,” he replied.

The silver silence became something harder, and the room seemed to still. Graves put his fork down and said, “Susan, Jonathan. I am afraid Mr. Fitzraven, the gentleman from the His Majesty’s Theatre, has been killed.”

The children were silent a moment, till Jonathan, looking up at Crowther under his pale lashes, asked in a small voice, “Was he stabbed, sir?”

Crowther watched him carefully as he replied, “No, Lord Sussex. He was strangled and thrown into the river.”

Lord Sussex nodded. He had, Crowther surmised, been thinking of his own father’s death; it seemed his sister’s thoughts followed a similar trajectory.

Susan looked up at her guardian. “Graves, did he have any children? He never mentioned any.”

Graves reached out his hand to touch her hair. “No, my love. He was alone in the world. That is why Mr. Crowther and Mrs. Westerman must try to give him some justice.”

The argument, Crowther thought, sounded a little weak. He and Harriet had already agreed that Mr. Palmer’s role in the case should not be known to anyone else in the household. It would seem to involve unnecessary risk to all concerned. However, noticing as he did now the tightening of the muscles around Miss Rachel Trench’s jaw, he wished his conscience would let him be more frank. He then became aware that Lady Susan Thornleigh was looking at him with wide and thoughtful eyes.

“You are going to find out who killed Mr. Fitzraven, then? I am glad.” Her glance returning to the plate in front of her; the little girl chased some morsel of meat through its gravy with her fork like a god idly steering ships onto rocks or toward treasure. “Though he was never very nice to me till I became rich. Then he smiled much too much. Before then he used to just ignore us and try and impress Father with talk of the opera. Isn’t it foolish to like someone just because someone else has died and left them money and things?”

He nodded. “Yes, my dear. Very foolish.”

Rachel stood up rather suddenly. “I had thought you in better spirits this evening, Harriet. I hope this new adventure is not the reason for that. Forgive me, Mrs. Service, I have a sudden headache. I fear you must excuse me.”

Mrs. Service nodded to her pleasantly. Harriet rested her forehead on her fingertips and closed her eyes. Graves merely looked serious.

“Mr. Crowther, I think you have not tried the salmon,” Mrs. Service said. “Let me help you to some.”

As she was so employed she continued, “Mr. Graves, Susan and I were planning on attending the opening night of the season at the Italian Opera. It is tomorrow, you know. I hope Miss Trench will join us. Will you come with us also, as part of your. . investigations?”

Mr. Crowther looked at the pink flesh of the fish in front of him, the buttered pastry flaking around it, and found his appetite, always light, was gone.

“I believe we will be at His Majesty’s rather before that, Mrs. Service. And of course, Mrs. Westerman and I would not wish to expose you or the children to any scenes that might be awkward, or unpleasant.”

“Of course not,” Harriet echoed rather wearily.

Mrs. Service smiled and beckoned the footman behind her to remove her plate.

PART II

1

SATURDAY, 17 NOVEMBER 1781, LONDON

Jocasta sniffed and adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. The fire was going well enough now to drive out any shred of the London fog from the room; her breakfast had been eaten and tidied away and Boyo had had the fat of the chop. She should have been happy as a cat in a blanket, but there was an itching at the back of her neck. She looked down at Boyo. He scratched behind his ears and then licked his mouth with a smack.