Crowther frowned. “The corner is not far away. If you saw Mr. Bywater arriving, walked your path one more time then returned here, his visit must have been very brief.”
Gladys looked at her hands. “If the man in the picture is Mr. Bywater then his visit lasted not more than twenty-three minutes. It does not take that time to do the walk, but I had to wait, and Mr. Bywater, if that is his picture, was one of the persons who released me.”
Harriet leaned toward her a little. “I’m sorry, my dear?”
“When I have finished my walk I must wait very quietly with my eyes down until three pairs of shoes have gone by in front of me. Sometimes I have to wait a long time, particularly if the weather is dirty, and sometimes when people see me waiting they walk a ways away, then I cannot see the shoes, even if I hear them, and that does not count. I was released by a lady who I did not see the face of, by Mrs. Little who is not little but very nice and always makes sure she walks where I can see her too, for I have told her about what God wishes and she always wears black shoes and white stockings not very much muddy, and by him.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Harriet asked. “Only seeing the shoes?”
“Yes. I had already seen his shoes and his buckles so I knew them again. Then I looked at my pocket watch and it was seventeen minutes from the moment I had to wait, to the moment he crossed past me, and that was six minutes from when I saw him first. When were you born?”
“I was born on the eighteenth of April, Gladys.”
“What year?”
“Seventeen forty-eight, my dear.”
“Thursday. A blue day. I like Thursdays.”
Gladys turned and looked very directly at Crowther. It took him a moment to realize what was being asked of him before he said, “The twenty-seventh of July, Miss Spitter, in seventeen twenty-nine.”
“Oh, a Sunday which is green, and the best day! Mr. Tompkins was born on a Monday which is the color of,” she pointed very carefully at the stripe on the settee on which she sat, “this.”
“I see,” Harriet said, somewhat amazed. She kept her voice soft. “But you do not see the angel in the pictures?”
Again she gave a violent shake of her head. “No. None of these is His angel. But this one. .” she merrily plucked the picture of Manzerotti from the pile and pushed it toward them “. . he looks a little like His angel. And he came in earlier, before I had my supper.
Everyone was very still. Mrs. Spitter said to her daughter, “Dear, will you tell us what you saw of this gentleman.” She tapped Manzerotti’s picture, and the jet on her fingers clicked.
“Yes, Mama. It was between the seventh picture and the eighth. I saw that man in Mr. Fitzraven’s window. He waited by the window a second and looked down. Then he went past, then two minutes later he walked back. Then a long time after supper there was a candle lit in the room and I saw His angel pick up Mr. Fitzraven to carry him to heaven. Perhaps this gentleman was a lesser angel come to see where the great angel should come to later, for there are many sorts of angel in heaven all ready to do His will. But even if he was an angel he was not Fitzraven’s angel. God let me see Fitzraven’s angel only after the fourteenth candle was lit.”
Crowther swallowed and said carefully, “Gladys, what do great angels wear? Do they wear bright colors? I think I would expect to see an angel in gold or silver. .”
Gladys leaned forward very eagerly. “No, not at all. I thought His angels would be dressed in gold too, but no! His angel dresses all in brown. This color,” she added helpfully, tapping the knee of the astonished Mr. Tompkins’s breeches. “Which is also Saturday, but only the mornings.”
Harriet turned to Crowther in astonishment. He gave a twisted smile in return. “We did not ask Mr. Crumley to draw Johannes, Mrs. Westerman.”
Harriet was a little angry to find Crowther’s interest was as much awakened by the strange condition of Gladys Spitter as by the revelation of her angel.
“We must have Mr. Crumley draw Johannes too, if one of us has a moment to give the description, do you not think so?” she said, as they mounted the steps toward the door of Berkeley Square. “Then I think we must ask Mr. Palmer’s advice. Surely he must have the power to employ the King’s Messengers and press the Bow Street Constables to service. We have done all we can. Bywater murdered Fitzraven, Manzerotti is the spymaster, and Carmichael most likely the channel through which information flows. Probably he is making use of his poor stepson to carry information to France even now.”
“Yes,” Crowther replied with a slight drawl, “I suppose there was no ‘mutual acquaintance’ in Milan. Manzerotti realized Fitzraven would be of use placing him at the heart of society in England, and sent him to France, then England to warn Carmichael of his coming and prepare for it.”
“I would like to see in what hand he writes music. That fragment of ‘Sia fatta la pace’ you found in Carmichael’s study was likely his signature and seal. Well, now we may return to the usual pattern of life, though we have very little we can say against Manzerotti. His activity in this, all we can lay at his door at this point, is caught in two rather lost and searching minds and that scrap of music.”
“I would pay a fair proportion of my fortune to have that young woman’s brain under my knife,” Crowther replied.
He was spared the commentary of Mrs. Westerman by the flinging open of the street door and a great number of voices telling them all at once that Daniel Clode had arrived and they were all very pleased to see him. The principal descended the stairs with a smile and a blush at all the fuss his arrival seemed to be causing, and Harriet gave him her hand with great pleasure. She glanced at her sister and saw a bloom on her that made her both happy for Rachel, and perhaps a little jealous. Crowther’s retreat was prevented by Mr. Graves none too subtly closing the front door before he could escape.
“Excellent! Let us dine. You too, Mr. Crowther-you will be part of the party if you like it or no. And Mrs. Westerman, a man left a message for you during the afternoon. It is that Mrs. Wheeler’s friend will call during the course of the evening-if that means anything to you.”
Harriet acknowledged the message and made her way upstairs to dress. The light had almost faded from the day.
Molloy put all his weight behind it and released a thunderous knocking on the door of Adams’s Music Shop.
“Open up! Open the door, damn your eyes! I see a light in there and I will not stir from here till I have speech with you! Now open the door!”
Jocasta had made her way to Tichfield Street via the Pear and Oats and came up to join him now at a brisk pace, with Sam and Boyo at her heels. As she reached his shoulder there was a stir of movement in the shop and a young woman’s face appeared at the window.
“Jane! It’s Molloy here. Open up, girl!”
She did quick enough and held the door open with her foot, her hands being occupied with holding and guarding a candle flame. At the doorway to the parlor behind, Mr. Crumley appeared patting his mouth with a napkin.
“Molloy! What do you want here?” Jane said. “I know for a fact there isn’t a person here owes you a penny.”
“I need to know where Graves is. And better yet, Mrs. Westerman’s address in Town, if you know it.”
Jane scowled at him. “Of course I know it, but why should I tell you? What you got to say to either of them?”
Molloy breathed hard. “I hate to make it habitual but I’ve a warning and it touches on Westerman. You know me as a serious type, Jane. Do I look like I’m playing the fool to you?”
The girl made her decision quickly and stepped back into the parlor, leaving the door ajar.