“Shush, Jonathan. Papa needs to rest.” She wet her lips, and never ceasing to smooth her father’s hair, began to sing in a cracked and whispering voice:
Will you sleep now, my little child?
For the sky is growing dark.
Will you sleep now, my lovely child?
For the sky is growing dark.
She was careful of her word, and would not let anyone into the shop until Mr. Graves returned a quarter of an hour later with a surgeon panting and complaining behind him. When he arrived he had to fight his way through a crowd of the concerned citizenry who had gathered in the doorway, having heard the shouts and seen men running. They were pressed to the plate glass of the window, staring and exclaiming at the sight of the straight back of the little girl, who knelt with her brother in a seemingly shoreless pool of their father’s blood, stroking his hair and murmuring lullabies.
8
Dinner at Caveley Park was a pleasant enough affair considering Crowther said very little, and all were aware of the body of the stranger lying in the stable block.
The various dishes having been brought to table, the family waited on themselves and each other. The scrape of knife on plate and the comfort of good food well prepared provided all the background and counterpoint necessary to the squire’s news and enquiries, and to Harriet’s and Rachel’s good-humored responses.
Crowther let much of it pass without interest or remark until he heard Harriet ask, in response to some light remark of the squire’s which touched on Thornleigh Hall, “My dear sir, I hope you will not mind me asking in the circumstances, but I am curious about your impressions of Lord Thornleigh. We know so little of him. What did you think of him, as a man, before his illness?”
The squire did not reply at once, and pushed his plate a little way from him. He pursed his lips, and for what seemed to be the first time that afternoon, thought carefully before he spoke-and when he spoke, his tone was serious and considered. Crowther saw a more thoughtful man appear to take the squire’s place, or rather saw the mask he habitually wore put carefully aside. Crowther examined him with renewed interest.
“Well, I struggle to say much that is good of him.”
He drew a long slow breath and let his eyes rest on his half-worked plate, though it was clear he was seeing something else.
“I knew him in the blossom of his life, though we were not closely associated, his rank and fortune being so much greater than my own. He was very proud, and the people he had about him I could not like. They held, it seemed to me, their fellow creatures in contempt. Among the staff in his house, good honest creatures did not seem to thrive, and those in this neighborhood I had least cause to love, and most reason to doubt, always seemed to do better in his service than their virtues might merit.” He dragged his gaze upward to meet Mrs. Westerman’s for a moment, then cleared his throat as if to drive some troublesome taste from it. “But these are idle prejudices, and I must not speak ill of one brought so low.”
Crowther spoke for the first time since dinner had begun.
“I understand, sir, that Lord Thornleigh fell victim to a seizure some years ago.”
The squire nodded and gave a slight shrug of his massive shoulders.
“I am not a medical man, Mr. Crowther, but yes, that is what I believe. It was within a year of his second marriage. He lost almost all his capacity for movement, and all his abilities of speech. Yet he lives. What sort of existence it can be I cannot say, yet live he does. Perhaps the Almighty in His infinite mercy is giving him time to repent the wrongs of his youth, though the servants say he is to all intents and purposes an idiot now.”
“Has he so much to repent?” Rachel asked lightly.
The squire did not choose to hear her, but instead lifted his head and stared into the corners of the dining room.
“We assumed he would not long survive the attack, yet still he continues. It speaks well to the care that is taken of him, yet it seems a cruel fate to me, and one I could not wish on any man.”
“You’ll forgive me, Squire,” Crowther said, “but you speak as if you suspect him of some greater sin than pride?”
“Perhaps I do. But that suspicion must remain between me and my God at this moment. I will not slander a man who cannot make a reply, nor share unpleasant stories with the ladies for the time being. I know, Mrs. Westerman, you have the stomach of a warrior, but there are things I would not have your sister hear me speak of.”
Rachel looked down at her plate, and Harriet smiled at him, while gently placing her hand over her sister’s.
“Shall we have rain tomorrow, do you think?” she asked brightly, and the squire took up the subject. Nothing more of significance was spoken of until the ladies retired.
When the wine had been poured and the servants released, Crowther introduced the subject of the squire’s suspicions once more. The older man put down the wine in front of him, and slowly shook his head. Crowther looked hard at the soft red profile the squire presented from under his hooded eyes. He let the silence between them lengthen till it formed a pressure in the room. The squire was frowning a little, and began to turn Harriet’s delicate wine glass distractedly with his sausagelike fingers until Crowther wondered if it were quite safe.
“Mrs. Westerman wishes to know the truth of what has happened here,” Crowther stated. “It is clear she suspects some dark doings at Thornleigh, and the murder took place on her land. She will not be satisfied with a simple ‘killed by persons unknown’ at the inquest. She has requested my help and I have given my word to assist her.”
As Crowther spoke, the squire let his glass rest, and his profile hardened with deep attention. Crowther had the sense that his companion was listening not merely to the words themselves, but their undertow, what they brought with them. He felt some judgment was being made on him.
“Well, Mr. Crowther, I shall tell you then, since you ask in such a manner,” the squire said heavily. “I have no reason, however, to believe it pertains at all to the death of this poor wretch. You cannot say you speak for the family here without drawing me to you in some degree-though I sometimes feel they might do better in some other place. For all her experience in the larger world, Mrs. Westerman does not yet understand the pull of the little threads that hold us all together and in our place in such a society as ours. Nor do you. Just because the head of Thornleigh is in some ways cut off, it is still a great power. A little king in stone for the county. And she wishes to bang on their gates and cry murder! Her husband has his connections, of course, but not many. I can tell you my story, but I advise you to forget it. Retire to your previous seclusion and persuade Mrs. Westerman to confine herself to her proper duties.” He rubbed his chin with his palm. “Perhaps my story may serve as a parable that in the end we are wise to leave justice in the hands of God.”
He looked up at Crowther’s face. Crowther merely blinked slowly at him. Bridges took a swallow of wine and, having settled himself in his chair, he began to speak.
“Well then, when I was a young man-oh, some forty years ago now, long before Mrs. Westerman was even born or Lord Thornleigh married for the first time-there was a girl killed on the edge of the village of Harden, some two miles south of here. She was a good child, a general favorite in the area and respectably brought up. Search parties were organized and in short order her body was found. Her name was Sarah Randle. She was twelve years old.”
The squire paused and drained his glass, nodding his thanks as Crowther refilled it.