Crowther leaned back in his own chair. “You do, madam. Though I have one more fact and one more conjecture to offer you.”
“You proffer them like sweetmeats to a baby. Say on, sir.”
“The main performers of the serious opera arrived three weeks ago; the players of the comic opera and the ballet master arrived only earlier this week, so it seems unlikely that any of them paid Fitzraven, though he may in that time have given them reason to throttle him. .”
Harriet nodded. “And your conjecture?”
“I was thinking again of the papers in Fitzraven’s bedchamber. The letters from Isabella were well-concealed: we would not have thought to examine the case but for your moment of musical whimsy, but there were no others. He must have had other correspondence, yet no sign of it remained, nor were there any records of his income, which, given that he was so careful to note his expenses, seems unusual.”
Harriet frowned. “You are suggesting, I think, that someone other than Fitzraven. .”
“I am wondering, Mrs. Westerman, if we were not the first to search Fitzraven’s room, and what those missing letters might have contained.”
As Harriet sprang to her feet again, Crowther wondered vaguely if she had ever managed to keep her seat for more than ten minutes at a time.
“It would certainly explain the lack of ready money, or any note of where Fitzraven’s newfound wealth came from,” she said. “And it would seem to suggest that my liking of Miss Marin is well-founded. She would not have left her own letters there and removed his pocketbook, only to return for them later. Perhaps Mr. Tompkins from the rooms below will be better able to tell us of the comings and goings in the house.”
She turned to him and smiled. He thought perhaps her looks were beginning to improve a little.
“But I must visit the children. I hear the day has been full of spectacular military victories and Anne has learned to say ‘cake.’ I am the mother of prodigies.”
Crowther expected her to leave at once, but instead she paused and with an unusual hesitation in her manner turned back to him. He placed his papers flat on the desk and gave her his full attention.
“Crowther, Dr. Trevelyan has suggested I take the children to see James, and I am afraid.”
He folded his fingers together. “Your son is a thinking child, Mrs. Westerman. Be open with him.”
“But if James. .” Harriet halted and drew breath before continuing. “If James does not recover, will not Stephen then always remember his father as he is now?”
Crowther considered before he spoke. “Dr. Trevelyan is a good man. Follow his recommendation. As for Stephen, he will grow up with the portrait of the captain at Caveley and the testimony of your household and yourself to temper whatever impressions he gains now. He must know it is a thing that can be spoken of.”
Harriet thanked him and left the room with her brow furrowed. Crowther drew out his pocket watch and tapped the glass gently. Now he would have to sup here and wait for Mr. Tompkins to appear. He thought of the desk in his study in Hartswood where the maids were not so flighty and the air clearer, and with a spasm of irritation cursed his king and the Navy and most especially Mr. Nathaniel Fitzraven.
The door to the roundhouse opened and Sam started up from the shadows like a pointer-bitch spotting game. Jocasta shuffled out with Boyo in her arms. The constable had some words with those left inside and pushed the door to again, making it fast with a flick of his wrist. Sam watched as Jocasta put something in the man’s hands and heard the clink of coin. He waited till the constable had turned his back again and picked up his pipe before he slipped into step beside her.
“Youse all right, Mrs. Bligh?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “You here, are you? Yes, lad. I’m all right.” She bent down and set Boyo on the ground beside them, stretching her back like an old woman as she stood again.
“They’re not sending you up before the justice, then?”
“No, Sam. I came to an arrangement with the constable.” She spat the last word out and set off again. The little boy bobbed at her side.
“Was it true, what you said?”
“It was.”
“That Milky Boy and that sour mother of his killed that pretty lady?”
“I’ve just said so, haven’t I?”
“They got awful angry with you.”
Jocasta didn’t see any need to reply, so after a moment Sam tried again.
“What are you going to do, Mrs. Bligh? No one believes you, do they? I mean, no one that matters anyway.”
Jocasta straightened her back, and her pace became more assured. Sam had to scurry a little to keep up.
“Neither they do, boy. But then they think my cards are nothing but fairy tales, and I’ve got nothing but a scrap of paper with four words on it otherwise.”
“You ain’t going to let it lie though, are you?”
“No, boy, I ain’t. Did that once before and it ruined my peace a while.”
Sam hopped along beside her a few more moments, then said in a rush, “May I stay with you again tonight? It’s cold.” Jocasta stopped and turned to look at him. He blushed then held out his hand. He had a shilling in it. “You can have this.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that, Sam?”
“Honest!” he said. “After the constable pulled you away I watched them take the lady home again. Milky Boy gave me a note to take to his offices and the man there gave me this.”
“So you know where the Admiralty Office is then?”
Sam nodded so hard, Jocasta thought his ears must be ringing.
“All right then. Come on. I need bread and bed. There’s much to think on.”
“What will you do though, Mrs. Bligh? People never listen to us.”
“Papers and facts and times and things seen in the real-that’s what those people like. We’ll find ’em and we’ll make them listen, Sam. We’ll make them.”
Harriet was greeted in the nursery with great affection. Her little daughter Anne, with Susan’s promptings, displayed the full range of her talents at pointing out objects around the room or fetching them on the other children’s instructions. She did not, it seemed, resent being ordered about by her fellows, but fetched ball, and hoop and soldiers with a firm waddling gate and great pride, laughing and clapping her hands at the praise she received. Harriet’s son, Stephen, was a little more withdrawn than usual when the initial rush of excitement at his mother’s presence had worked itself out, so when Susan had Eustache, Jonathan and Anne curled in a corner looking at the pictures in Little Goody Two-Shoes, Harriet took him on her lap, and as he pulled on her copper-colored curls and played with the rings on her left hand, she asked him if anything had upset him that day.
“No,” he said carefully and exactly. He had taken off her promise ring and was examining its opals now in the last light of the fire. He had the dark hair and blue eyes of her husband. Love for them both fell over her in a sudden rush, and she pulled him close to her. It was a terrible thing to love. It made the whole world dangerous. Her son submitted a moment, then wriggled his shoulders. She bit her lip and released the pressure of her embrace. Stephen leaned against her and continued to twist the ring to make the milky stone in its center catch colors. After a few moments he said. “Mama, do you remember when I was very little and Hartley got hurt?”
Harriet struggled for a second, then nodded. He was speaking of one of the many cats their housekeeper in Caveley had owned during the years they had been in residence. Hartley had been an adventurous beast, and having made his way out of a window on one of the upper stories of the house, had slipped on the damp roof slates and fallen to the yard. Stephen had found him while walking the grounds with his nurse. The cat had still been breathing, but was badly hurt and in pain. It had tried to bite Stephen when he attempted to comfort it, and Harriet had asked her coachman, David, to break its neck.