The wood around the lock splintered at the second attempt. Crowther nodded his thanks to Harwood’s man, and stepped into the room. He became still at once. The fire behind them was burning with a fierce light; in front of it, at right angles to the door, was a tin bathtub. Bywater was in it, eyes closed, naked and very white. He had slumped down far enough so that his shoulders were underwater. The firelight swum over it. It was the same color as Graves’s Madeira. One arm hanging over the lip of the tub had prevented the dead man from slipping entirely under the water. The wrist was an angry red mouth. Crowther had time to note that the cut had been made along the artery rather than across it before he was distracted by the sound of Harwood’s servant vomiting in the corridor behind him.
“Molloy? How long will you be at this?”
“Hush, woman. Street door you could open with a fish bone. This one into the family rooms is a little more fancy. . little bit more sophisticated, you might say. Needs more than a tickle and a slap to get this lady to open up.”
Jocasta folded her arms. He felt her look even in the darkness of the lobby and laughed softly. “Patience, Mrs. Bligh. I’m nearly there.”
Crowther waited till the sounds of sickness had passed, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and threw it over his shoulder without pausing in his careful scrutiny of the room.
“Go back to His Majesty’s,” he told the other man. “Tell Harwood and Mrs. Westerman that Bywater is dead. Tell them to send to Bow Street and inform them of what has passed, and to Justice Pither on Great Suffolk Street and tell him Mr. Crowther would be happy to meet him here tomorrow morning early and inform him of developments. Then send two men here to guard the place. I will pay them. Make sure they have stronger stomachs than you yourself.”
He hardly heard the mumbled thanks and apology. The man’s footsteps retreated down the stairs at a pace. Crowther set his cane in front of him and leaned on it. But made no further move.
“There, Mrs. Bligh! You’re in. Just pull it to sharp as you come out, and no one will know different. I’m away and good luck to you.”
Harwood uncovered his face and looked at Harriet. “I must help get the people out.”
Harriet did not take her eyes away from Morgan. “Do. I will stay with them.” She heard him stand and move off. “Morgan? What happened?”
Morgan looked at Harriet again, but this time Harriet thought she did so with some understanding.
“He killed my little bird, Mrs. Westerman.”
Harriet came forward till she could slip her arm around the old lady’s shoulders. The woman leaned into her and wept. Harriet almost slipped under the weight of her.
“Who killed her, Morgan?”
“Bywater! That fool, Bywater! She’d asked to meet him in the scene room after the second act when it would be a little quieter. He’s been strange, the last day or two.”
Harriet put her other arm across them, holding Morgan and the dead Isabella in a loose embrace. “Did she see he was not in the pit?”
“Of course, of course. Though it didn’t seem to surprise her, and she still swore he’d be there to meet her. Said he’d have to be there.”
“Do you know why she was to meet him, Morgan?”
She felt rather than saw the old woman shake her head. “No, no. I thought perhaps he was angry with her. Her all followed and courted, and invited places he ain’t. She smiles at the rich men, but it’s her work. She means nothing by it. Do you, little bird?”
Harriet became aware that she was not alone in listening to Morgan. A couple of the corps de ballet were standing behind them, their heads hanging. Two or three of the chorus singers, the leader of the opera band sitting on the bare stage, his violin dead in his hands. There was a stir in the crowd. One of the servants of the place approached, pale, shaking, out of breath, with Crowther’s soiled handkerchief still in his hand. He knelt beside her, whispering in her ear.
Harriet nodded and said to him, “Let Crowther know what has happened here and say that I shall wait for him.”
Jocasta slid into the room like a cat sneaking into a dairy and pulled the door closed just behind her. Then she made for the gray shadow of the side table. The lip was certainly thicker than it needed to be. She slipped her fingers below it, began to feel along the length hoping her heart would calm enough not to leap out of her chest where she stood. It was not as easy as in the dream. There seemed to be no magic spot to make a secret jump free like a jack-in-the-box. For a second Jocasta thought of turning and running and calling the dreams traitor. But there was something wrong in the make of this. She began to feel along the way a little lower down. Fingering for weakness, for an unhappy joint.
The servant retreated and earnest whispers began to rustle among the groups around them.
Morgan looked drunk, bemused with grief. “What has happened?” she said.
“Bywater is dead,” Harriet said simply.
“Good. By his own hand?”
“It seems that way.”
Morgan held Isabella up in her arms again and kissed her forehead. Harriet looked around them. There was a face that looked familiar, young and tear-streaked in the corner. She recognized the assistant from the scene room.
“Boyle! We are in need of your help. Fetch something to use as a stretcher and two men to carry it.” He nodded and turned to go. Harriet said more softly to Morgan: “Let us take her back to her room, Morgan, where she may be more private.”
Morgan gave no sign of having heard, but kissing Issy’s forehead again said softly to the cooling corpse, “We shall make you comfortable now, my sweetheart. Did you hear all the shouting and Bravos? Did you hear them calling for you even when the ballet was begun? While you hurried off to see that silly man. But we must rest now, my love. Come to your room and we will make you cozy.”
Crowther waited till he was sure that he could draw the plan of the room from memory, then stepped into it. He walked the edges of the space. The arrangement of the place was not unlike Fitzraven’s, though the house had none of the pretensions to civility of Mrs. Girdle’s establishment. A clavichord and desk. The latter was covered in manuscript paper. There were many beginnings, many scratched out or torn. On top of them all lay a sheet which Crowther carefully picked up, read and folded into his pocket.
Jocasta’s fingers almost missed it. Then she paused and set her hands either side of the circular top. She breathed deep, then gave it a sharp twist. With a little judder of protest the top turned, making the bowl that sat in its center rattle in its place. The sides of the table opened up like a flower, revealing four neat drawers, shaped like petals. Two were empty. Two had rolls of paper in them, done up with string. She pulled one out and unrolled it. Writing, and plenty of it. For a moment she was still, then taking two sheets and laying them on top of the table, she curled up the others again and laid them back in the drawer. With a start she noticed the little brooch that Kate had been so pleased with. She was just reaching for it as if she was in a dream again when she went very still. Footsteps. A woman’s and the front door creaking open. She looked about her. The room seemed suddenly bare and small. Her eyes caught on the door. There was a rattle of a key, a pause. The handle began to turn.
Mr. Harwood himself and the leader of the band carried Isabella back to her room. Harriet followed behind, trying to support Morgan. She could hear words whispering around her.
“So much in love. .”
“Jealousy. . it’s killed many a man. .”
Harriet kept her head down and tried to keep the woman at her side moving forward.