“That is so. His distress last night was palpable. I believe he loves his opera house. Beyond his human sympathy for Miss Marin and Bywater, I think the scandal washing over his place of business was horrible to him.”
“I would agree, so I must look around the place for another figure of authority, a man ready with his knife. .”
The door swung suddenly open and Stephen stumbled into the room, followed by Lady Susan, who was laughing and telling him to wait. Harriet turned around with a frown.
“What is it, young man?”
“Sorry, Mama. I just had to say, I sang Papa’s tune to Susan and she knows what it is.”
Harriet sighed and smiling, turned to Crowther. “Forgive me, Crowther. James was troubled by a returning melody this morning during our visit. Perhaps knowing the name of it will give him some relief.” Then, getting up from her seat and crouching to be on a level with Stephen, she prompted, “Tell me then, my dear.”
It was Susan who answered. “It’s just funny, Mrs. Westerman, because it is the same tune that Mr. Crowther sent over very early this morning on the scrap of paper. It is ‘Sia fatta la pace,’ Manzerotti’s favorite aria.”
Crowther’s cane came to a sudden stop. “I sent some of the manuscript from Lord Carmichael’s study, but it was untitled. Is that what it is, Lady Susan?”
“Yes, sir. But Mrs. Westerman, I am surprised you did not know it yourself when the captain sang it to you. Did you not hear it last night? It is his last aria.”
Harriet swallowed and answered calmly, “There was no third act last night, Susan.”
The young girl blushed and looked down. “Of course-Miss Marin. I am stupid-I forgot. She was so lovely.”
Crowther stood and walked over to her, setting his cane very firmly in the space between them. “Lady Susan, can you explain to me exactly to what degree are the aria and the man interlinked.”
Susan considered carefully. “As near as they can be, sir. I do not think anyone who knows any music thinks of Manzerotti without hearing that tune, and no one hears that tune without thinking of Manzerotti. It has been popular here some time, and always with the notation that it is as sung by him.”
She looked nervous. “Did we do right to come and tell you?”
Harriet put out her arms and hugged both the children to her, briefly and fiercely.
“Very right,” she said. “Very right.”
They had neither of them noticed that Susan was carrying a neat roll of papers in her hand.
“Oh, and here,” she said, holding them out with a slight blush of pleasure. “Mr. Crumley and I have finished the pictures.”
As soon as the children had been sent back out of the library, Harriet stumbled through a more detailed account of that morning’s visit with James and his play with the boat.
“The song came to him as he spoke about the Frenchman in the sick bay. He said. . he said. . Oh, Crowther, I think my husband may have tortured that man to get that song from him!”
Crowther did not look at her. “It was a hard engagement, I think, was it not?”
When Crowther looked up he saw there were tears in her eyes and she was biting her lip. “Indeed, the French captain struck their colors, then fired again. Only when he was killed did they surrender. When James’s first lieutenant spoke to me, he was still so enraged by it he shook.” She was looking at him with a desperate sort of appeal in her eyes. Crowther would have been glad to tell her he thought it impossible that James would have resorted to abusing a prisoner in his care, that whatever the battle or the stakes involved he would have behaved righteously, but though he hardly knew Captain Westerman at all, he knew something of men. He offered her the only comfort he could.
“I am sure Captain Westerman thought only to serve his country.”
Harriet choked slightly and put her hand over her mouth.
“Mrs. Westerman, we must make use of these pictures.”
7
Jocasta liked the look of Proctor as soon as she laid eyes on him. He was taking shelter from the weather in a lean-to close to the Stairs, smoking his pipe with concentration and knocking the ashes out on his stool from time to time as they approached. He saw them coming and kept them under steady observation, then, having heard all they were ready to say, called out to a much younger man who was still jostling for trade across the river farther down the Stairs.
He asked them to repeat what they had just said in the younger man’s hearing. They did so. Then he stroked at his massive beard a while, ending by giving it a good hard tug as if his hand was trying to pull his mouth open and get the words out by main force.
“Man I’d want to see in your shoes is an old captain of mine. Not that he’s old himself, and he’s in London now, which few of the good ones are, what with the Frenchies and the Americans getting all roused.”
He went quiet again. Jocasta was content to wait him out, but Molloy was getting pulled out of shape with the stopping and retelling.
“Why don’t you name him then?” he said, with a narrowing of his eyes.
Proctor knocked out his ash again. “Poor bloke got hit on the head, and he’s gone kind of simple now, it’s said. So I hesitate to trouble him with you.” He cast an eye toward the younger man at his side. “Jackson, I called you here to answer a question, and the question you must answer is this: what do you reckon to handing out his wife’s name? She’s a smart woman and her husband was known and liked enough, so she’ll know a face or two at the Admiralty.”
Jackson lifted his hand to stroke where someday his own beard might grow. “Pither had her in to look at the body, didn’t he? And she didn’t look a fool to me. Her, or that bloke she had with her.”
“What body?” said Molloy with quick interest.
“We found a man.” Proctor pointed into the middle of the river with his pipe. “He was drowned but tethered. Heard him named as Fitzraven, someone from His Majesty’s, is the talk.”
“And this lady came to look at the body? Nice entertainment,” Jocasta said.
“Not sure as it was for a pleasure. She seemed to have some concerns with the business.”
Jocasta folded her arms across her chest. “The opera house? Seems to me this is the lady we need to have words with.”
Proctor and Jackson looked at each other for a long moment, till Proctor turned back toward them and, like a barreled mirror of Jocasta, crossed his arms as well.
“I can’t tell you where she stays at,” Proctor said, “but her name is Westerman, and the fella she had with her was called Crowther. That help you?”
Molloy looked a little confused and wondering for a second, then began to laugh. He let out a “Ha!” Then another one. Proctor frowned deeply, and Jackson crossed his arms as well, looking dark.
“I do not take it kindly, sir,” Proctor said in a low rumble, “that you see that name as an occasion for mirth.”
Molloy wiped his eyes and held up his hands as if to protest. “No lack of respect, Mr. Proctor. None at all.” Then he straightened up, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Never met her, but know her. Know Mr. Crowther too! Never met him neither, but I know him. Know where her friends are!” He turned around to Mrs. Bligh, his grin showing off his three remaining teeth like tombstones set in front of a cave. “What you say to that, Mrs. Bligh?” He shut his mouth and his laughter dropped away like a lock emptying. “What’s up, lady? Seeing ghosts again?”
Jocasta’s mouth was dry as slate in summer. “That’s it. That’s the name.”
“What name?”
“The sailor they had their eye on to do harm. Westerman.”
Molloy grew serious. “It all bundles up together now, don’t it? When you said a sailor was in trouble I thought you meant some bow-legged fool who had staggered in the wrong direction searching out his grog. This is a matter of a different stripe.” He rubbed his nose. “For one thing, they are rich and inclined to be grateful. We need to find our way to Tichfield Street, and smartly so.”