Harriet looked up into the air to her left, and Crowther waited in silence for her to continue. “Hugh was not then as he is now. A little prone to bluster perhaps, rather loud-but there was humor there and, I thought, a generosity of spirit that wanted only encouragement. He did not drink much more than other men, and though life at the Hall was not perfect, he seemed very happy to sit here with us, swapping war stories with me or listening to Rachel read.” She smiled briefly. “She has a talent for it, you know. I should put her on the stage.”
Crowther returned her smile, then, leaning back in his chair with his fingers tented in front of him, he waited once more for her to continue.
“I say he seemed content enough, but he was still a troubled man. Hugh had black moods from time to time, and twice stood up in the middle of conversation with us and left the house without a word. I never did reason out the cause of those strange departures. We were talking the dullest of estate business on both occasions.”
Crowther stretched his fingers in front of him, apparently absorbed in contemplation of his short nails, and spoke to the air in front of his nose.
“You know better than most, I think, Mrs. Westerman, that time in battle can do strange things to the spirits of the bravest men.”
She picked up a teaspoon from the tablecloth and spun it between her fingers.
“Just what I thought. So I did not worry over-much, and when I saw an affection growing between Mr. Thornleigh and my sister, I thought it would be a help to him.” Her smile twisted a little. “In fact, I congratulated myself that Rachel would be so soon and so well settled. I thought it was all but decided on, and that he was waiting only for the commodore’s next leave to ask to pay his addresses.”
“And then?”
“Then things began to change. This was about two years ago, so two years after he had returned to Thornleigh. He drank more, his moods became darker. Sometimes he seemed quite wild.” Crowther felt her regret, her sympathy for the man, flow from her. “Then he arrived here one evening very drunk. Raving even.” Her mouth set in a line. “I had David and William throw him down the steps. There were bitter words.”
“And your sister?”
“I suspect she tried to speak to him shortly afterward, and he said … unpleasant things to her. She was desperately unhappy for some time.”
She let her forehead drop into her palm, and brought the teaspoon in her other hand down onto the table with a dull crack.
“I was a fool. I should not have let her be so friendly, but society here is so limited, and I truly believed he loved her. My husband calls me naive, and there have been times perhaps when I have not been such an asset to him in his career as I should have been.”
“An alliance with such a great family would have had its advantages.”
“James is a fine commander. And as for Mr. Hugh Thornleigh-yes, there was that, but also …” she began to twirl the spoon again, watching it pick up the sun flowing into the room and throw it up along the walls, “… Crowther, I enjoyed his company. I think we both felt ourselves creatures out of their natural sphere.” She looked resigned, letting the reflection of the light hover over an Italianate landscape above the empty fireplace. “I believe the business did our family’s reputation some damage. But then my husband came home for some months in the summer and made us show our faces at every event and gathering within five miles. Rachel is so sweet natured, anyone who meets her knows she is no schemer, and my husband is every inch the gentleman, and Hugh’s behavior continued so … Well, people began to talk of poor Rachel’s lucky escape. And I was glad. He had made us very wretched.”
Crowther waited till she looked up and met his eye, and asked her kindly, “Do you think there is any connection, any link between that change of behavior and the events of yesterday?”
Harriet tilted her head to one side. “Rachel is afraid she did something wrong, something that made Hugh cease to love her, and I wish I could make her easy on that point. She has not been happy since.”
“And yourself, perhaps, Mrs. Westerman? You too would like to make yourself easy on that point?”
She did not reply, but nodded sadly. Crowther returned his gaze to his fingertips.
“Did anything else of significance occur at about that time?”
“His new steward, Wicksteed, arrived. I will tell you what I can of him.”
Crowther abandoned the study of his nails, and brushed some of the crumbs from his sleeve, having noticed them for the first time.
“Very well. I am content you are not a pair of scheming harridans. Before you tell me of this steward, however, shall I tell you about my conversation with the squire and my meeting with Mr. Hugh Thornleigh last night?”
Harriet gave a horrified laugh into what was left of her coffee, and still choking a little, waved her hand to encourage him to continue.
“Very well, I shall. But only on condition you stop playing with that spoon.”
She put it down very smartly and sat straight. The model of an attentive audience.
2
Alexander was to be buried in St. Anne’s churchyard, half a mile or so from his home. There were burial grounds far prettier, but it was here that his wife had been laid to rest, and Mr. Graves believed that Alexander would not wish to be separated from her. Graves’s first duty though was to reach the magistrate of the parish and find what the law could do to pursue the murderer of his friend. Morning had only just begun to stretch across the city before he was on his way, leaving the children in the care of Miss Chase. Susan was still silent, but more watchful than stunned now, and Jonathan repeatedly found himself caught by sudden waves of grief that seemed to lift and drop his little body at will.
It was not long before Graves came upon the signs of the previous night’s work. The destruction of the Catholic church in Golden Square shocked him. The ground was dotted with pages ripped from the hymn and prayer books, the words singed, wounded, fluttering. The smoldering remains of a bonfire brooded in the center of the embarrassed-looking square of houses. He could see the bars of pews and other fittings of a church rearing within it like the blackened ribs of an animal caught in a forest fire. He paused for a second and a plain-looking man crossing the square halted next to him.
“Shocking, isn’t it, sir? Don’t they know it’s the same Bible we use?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and settled the linen bag of goods he carried more comfortably on his shoulder. “How do you call yourself a defender of true religion and then burn down a church? That’s what I want to know.”
Graves nodded sadly, then stepped back in slight alarm. Apparently out of the black and clinging ashes of the fire another man reared up, like a devil come to claim them from the ruins of the destroyed church; he staggered toward them, a damp blue cockade hanging from his hat and his back black with the soot of the fire, next to which he had presumably slept. Graves and his companion stood their ground as he weaved across the square toward them, mistaking them for admirers of the handiwork of his crowd. He looked at them both, then leaning forward into Graves’s face said with a leer, and with a broad wink, “No popery!”
Graves recoiled at the stench of stale alcohol on his breath, and thrust the man away from him. The Protestant hero was still too out of himself to maintain his balance and tottered backward, tripping over the remains of a burned cross at his feet and landing heavily on his arse.