The justice gave a little instinctive skip away from him.
“What Crowther is suggesting, Mr. Pither, is that Bywater was killed some time before the performance, and therefore could not have been the murderer of Miss Marin.”
“But her maid Morgan says-”
Harriet continued, “Her maid says only that she intended to meet Mr. Bywater. Her note to that effect is also on the table. Perhaps he was composing a note to her to be delivered rather than keep his appointment. Morgan found Isabella dying in the scene room. She did not see who attacked her.”
“And more than that, look!” Crowther’s voice was another angry shout. He rocked the body over in the tub, splashing the pink waters on his shirtsleeves. Pither lifted his chin as if attempting to see what was indicated without approaching any nearer. “No, in all damnation come closer.” Pither gave a look of appeal to Harriet, who simply shrugged, then inched toward the tub trying to avoid the suspicious pools on the floorboards. “His femoral artery has been severed. That was done with a knife. I’d swear his wrists were cut with the same blade. Not with. .” he let the body fall back into the water then picked up a handkerchief from the mantel, shaking it open to reveal a bloody razor “. . this cheap shaving kit.”
Mr. Pither gave a little shiver at the sight of the blade. “It is all bloody!”
“Yes-but in the wrong way! All smeared and pasted on, though Bywater’s hand is clean. This is a performance-a trick.”
Pither peered at them. “But can you swear, either of you, that he absolutely could not have died after Miss Marin?”
Crowther slammed the razor back down on the mantelpiece. “The room was warm; the body in warm water. .”
Harriet raised her head again. “No one, not a single person, Mr. Pither, saw Bywater at His Majesty’s at any point yesterday.”
Mr. Pither became prim, trembling a little with a glorious sense that he was regaining some control of the situation. “That was not my question.”
Crowther said quietly, “I know of no way to ascertain precisely the time of death. With the wound to his leg he would certainly have died in minutes. That could have been at any time between five o’clock and my arrival here. The fire was low, but healthy.”
Mr. Pither almost smiled. “So he could have arranged to have the bath prepared. Popped out to the theater to murder the lovely Miss Marin then back to kill himself in despair. And you cannot prove otherwise. As to the knife, perhaps he stabbed his leg then. . then. . threw the knife into the street, where any vagabond passing might have picked it up!” He looked pleased with his inspiration.
As Harriet’s shoulders slumped and Crowther turned away in disgust, Pither continued, “As to these strange theories of yours, you can provide neither myself nor the magistrates at Bow Street with any suspect to interrogate, so I see no reason to regard them seriously.”
“But the evidence,” Crowther growled again.
“The evidence is quite clear to any reasonable human being,” Mr. Pither said, his mouth pursed together like a rosebud. “Indeed, I am sorry you could not capture Mr. Bywater before he killed poor Miss Marin, but there it is. Your assistance has been invaluable. I shall instruct the coroner and am very happy to inform the newspapers of the debt we all owe you.”
“The papers be damned,” Harriet said in the same weary voice she had used all morning.
Pither sniffed. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Westerman. Mr. Leacroft’s authorship of the duet will be acknowledged in due course. Or rather we will keep his name out of it if the gentleman wishes to be left alone. Miss Marin’s unfortunate origins need not be exposed. She will be honored as a martyr to truth, sacrificing love and her life so that Leacroft’s work would not be stolen. I understand a number of notable ladies are already in the process of arranging a subscription for a monument to that effect-one has already been in contact with my wife. Now I wish you good day.”
He turned and scurried out of the place, with nothing but Crowther’s black looks to follow him.
2
Jocasta called softly at the cellar entrance, half-expecting she’d have to knock loud before the boy woke up, but the bolt flew back in a hurry and before she could step back, she had Sam throwing himself against her and Boyo yapping around her feet.
Sam released her almost at once and ran back into the dark of the workshop, hiding himself under the blankets with his face to the wall.
Jocasta came and sat by him, then pulled a fold of newspaper full of fried bits of meat from her pocket. His swift hug had made the grease run, but she divided what was there and put his share by his side, chucked Boyo some scraps and began to eat her portion.
“I thought you were dead.”
Jocasta sniffed. “Well, I’m not. Got stuck is all.”
There was a long pause then Sam turned in his bed and began to pick away at his food. “I was up all night.” His voice was sulky and sore.
“What are you, mother to me now, whelp?”
Sam turned his back on her again, through he took his share with him. Jocasta finished eating, balled the newsprint in her hand and said, less fiercely, “Got it though. And Molloy came good. Got me in and saved my arse ten minutes later.”
“How so?” Sam asked, muffled and damp-sounding.
“Gave me a moment to hide when I needed it.” She looked down at the thin bones of his shoulders. “Sorry you were scared, Sam. I was scared enough for us both, but I had to wait till Missus and him were sleeping before I could slip out, and they talked half the night. That is, Milky Boy was shouting and slurping his words. Ripley got him good and drunk at the chophouse.”
Sam shifted and looked at her with his strange, serious eyes. “What were they talking on, Mrs. Bligh?”
“I’ll tell you. Reckon I met your Tonton Macoute an’ all.”
Sam’s eyes got wide. “You saw him?”
“Not saw him exactly, just a little bit. Heard. Or sort of heard. Get us something to drink now, I’ve been breathing slut’s wool all night and my mouth’s too dry to tell.”
He was up and grabbing the pitcher so fast, Boyo spun a circle and barked.
Harriet pushed herself away from the wall while Crowther tried to speak a little more like himself.
“We must examine the body here, I believe. If you would care to send Harwood’s men into the room, we may arrange the corpse and I can begin.”
Harriet took her cloak from the chair behind her and began to set it round her shoulders.
“I shall certainly send them in. But for myself, I have to go, Crowther. I am taking Stephen to visit James this morning. It is already a little past the hour I promised him we should depart.”
Crowther looked at her in surprise. “Surely, Mrs. Westerman, you can have no intention of traveling all the way out to Highgate this morning?”
She paused in the fastening of the cloak and said evenly, “I have every intention of doing so. I made a promise to my son.”
“A promise made before these people were murdered! This is nonsense.”
Harriet stiffened. “You call it nonsense? I have a duty to my husband and son, and what could I do here? You know Bywater bled to death. You do not need me to examine his stomach contents. I have seen the room and we agree. We shall meet later in the day.”
“As you wish, madam.” His voice was very cold.
Harriet’s hands fumbled at her fastenings and she said fiercely, “Oh, don’t talk to me in that tone, Crowther! Lord, I am bullied and harried at every side. Rachel, Graves, Mrs. Service’s concerned looks! Now you begin. You told me yourself to take Stephen. It is not his fault this blood has been spilled, and my husband is ill, and I must care for him.”
Crowther spoke with a faint drawl. “Care for him, or be seen to care for him, Mrs. Westerman?”