“Fitzraven is dead, you say? Thank you for the information.”
His desk, Harriet noticed, was too tidy. Mr. Harwood’s writing equipment was laid out in front of him as if it had been placed there with the aid of a set square and ruler. To his right sat a neat pile of letters, unopened. To his left, several sheets smoothed out flat and others folded and ready, it seemed, for the penny post. Having spoken, he took another letter from the pile to his right and broke the seal on it. Then glanced up again at his visitors, as if surprised to find them still there.
“Is there anything further?”
Crowther spoke. “The rope that bound his legs together came from this house. We intend to seek his murderer here. If you know anything that would expedite that search, it would be good of you to reveal it, and save us both some inconvenience.”
Mr. Harwood sighed, and put down his letter very carefully.
“I doubt I can be of much assistance. The rope came from here, did it? You are sure?” Crowther simply nodded. “How unfortunate.” There was a long pause. Harriet was, she knew, appallingly bad at letting such silences stretch. Her impulse was always to leap into the conversational fray, to charm and chatter those with whom she talked into confidence, but she had learned from Crowther the power of stillness.
Mr. Harwood looked at them sharply and eventually continued: “I am glad murder is still so rare a thing, even in these fallen days, but we have enough experience of it to know that unless the perpetrator is found with the knife in his hand, or makes the mistake of mentioning his guilt in public, it is unlikely he will ever be found. Is that not the case?” Again, neither Harriet nor Crowther replied. Mr. Harwood frowned. “What use then to tell stories, and force people into slandering their neighbors and colleagues with suspicion? Are there not other amusements in Town sufficient for you?”
Harwood got to his feet and moved to look out of his window into the street outside, linking his hands together behind his back. Harriet could hear the scrape of iron wheels on stone, the shouts of the chair carriers.
“I know your names, of course. Do I assume you are once again-now how did that rather colorful pamphlet last autumn put it? — ‘taking up the flaming sword of truth on behalf of your king?’” Harwood turned to look at them over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I wish you could choose a more noble object for your crusade. Nathaniel Fitzraven was a rather poisonous little man, though he was a good musician in his time. Why make his sordid little life your subject? I doubt he has any hidden heir or suffering children for you to save.” He moved away from the window, and with a gentle nod, continued, “Do you know, one of my colleagues was offered a one-act interpretation of your adventures last summer for the public stage? Were it not for the fact a rather neat little comedy called The Coffee-Shop became available, you would have had a run in Drury Lane.”
His lip curled a little, whether at herself and Crowther, or at the quality of the drama about them, Harriet could not say. She was annoyed to feel herself blush; she would have given a great deal to hide her discomfort. When Crowther spoke, however, his voice showed no sign of embarrassment or awkwardness. His tone was as dry as Mr. Harwood’s and his words more distinct and glassy. She did not need to look at him to know that his right eyebrow was raised and he was examining the manager along the line of his thin nose.
“Unlike yourself, Mr. Harwood, I cannot dictate the manner in which the populace chooses to entertain itself. It is not my concern. Mrs. Westerman and I were asked by a magistrate trying to do his duty, a Mr. Pither in Great Suffolk Street, to examine a body. The body, we discovered, was that of Mr. Fitzraven. He was not the victim of some casual robbery, or public confrontation. He was throttled, then some hours later his body was tied and thrown in the river in an attempt, I believe, to conceal the crime and rob him of a proper burial.” Harriet found her discomfort gone and began to enjoy herself as Crowther spoke on: “If he had friends capable and willing to search out his killers, I would gladly hand over those duties to them. It seems he did not, and if Mrs. Westerman and I can discover a murderer, and prevent him from killing again, then we shall do so. Pamphlets, stage plays, orphans and heirs. . these are irrelevant.”
Harwood looked at them both with attention as Crowther finished, then having taken his seat again spread his hands wide on the table.
“Very well.” He closed his eyes for a moment then pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand before going on. “I will tell you what I can of Fitzraven, though I would request you make no further enquiries in this house today, at least, whatever your suspicions. These people must entertain their Sovereign tonight and nerves are stretched. I do not ask this lightly.” He looked up at them, Harriet met Crowther’s eye then turned back to give Harwood a slight nod. The manager spoke through clenched teeth. “I will speak to everyone after the performance and give them your names. Mrs. Service has a box, of course, and her company are normally invited to the Green Room, but. .”
“Mr. Crowther and I have no plans to attend the opera tonight,” Harriet said calmly.
“Good. Fitzraven was an irritant, but useful at times. He was keen to continue his association with the Opera House after we ceased to ask him to play, so I employed him to supervise the copying of parts and run errands. There are two boys we employ during the season who do much the same work, and for much the same pay, but since Fitzraven dressed in a frock coat and talked like a gentleman, mostly, many assumed his responsibilities were more extensive than they were.”
Harriet lifted her chin and now comfortably meeting his gaze, said, “Yet we are told that this summer you placed considerable trust in him. Did you not send him to Milan to recruit for the current season? Why, if you were doubtful of him, did you do such a thing?”
Harwood settled back in his chair and seemed to lose himself in contemplation of the far corner of his office. The decoration in this room seemed to find a mean between the plain functionality of the backstage rooms and the gaudy extravagances of the lobby. The decoration was present, but polite. Three or four portraits in heavy gilt frames formed the main interest of the room. They were all of solid gentlemen, richly dressed-the former Managers of the Opera House, if the little plaques under the frames were to be believed. They looked down on their successor with a weary disdain and intense self-satisfaction.
“I did. It was a risk, but the prize offered was well worth reaching for. I have been attempting via my agents abroad to persuade Miss Marin to come to London each season since I took over management of His Majesty’s. I heard her sing in Paris four years ago and was astonished. I expect all London to be astonished now. However, she was always snatched away from me by another, richer employment elsewhere on the continent, and I fear my voice was only one among many. Then, in the spring, Fitzraven came to me and said he was in private correspondence with the lady, and believed he could persuade her to come for this season if I agreed to let him act as the agent of the theater in Italy over the summer.”
“And you trusted him?” asked Harriet.
Harwood shook his head. “No. But he showed me parts of a letter from the lady to himself that seemed warm in its tones and asked him to visit her. I admit I was surprised at his success in eliciting the invitation, but he had managed it and I thought it was worth the risk to send him. I limited his expenses and gave him no great latitude in his negotiations. We have good friends among the bankers of Florence and Milan, and I did not believe they would allow him to damage us with extravagant fees. To this point I have had no reason to regret my decision. Miss Marin is here. I have heard great things spoken of Manzerotti: several influential judges of music told me of his talents, and from what I have heard of his voice, those praises have been justified. Some of the other singers I think may have been selected by Fitzraven more for their ability to put money into his pocket than their skills, but they are. .” he shrugged “. . competent.”