Crowther let the ice in his own voice thaw.
“So your son knew Claver Wicksteed as well?” he said.
Mr. Cartwright pulled himself together and looked up with a shrug of surprise.
“He did, yes-though there was only one mention of him in Tom’s letters. Mr. Wicksteed was not a favorite, I think. Tom thought he was a spy. He said the lads mistrusted him as he was always writing things down in his little leather books. He does so still. I’ve seen him often enough, writing away with his glass beside him in the Bear and Crown. Though he keeps more to the Hall now, than he did at first. Even Captain Thornleigh we see less of these last months.” Cartwright frowned. “Not that Wicksteed ever bothered himself to say anything to me about Tom. Probably never even realized the connection. Only cares for himself and his position.”
His voice was bitter. Harriet sipped her lemonade.
“It appears Mr. Thornleigh trusts you more than his own steward, judging by the request he made of you regarding Brook.”
Mr. Cartwright scratched a little under his ear as he considered.
“Oh, I don’t know if I could say that, Mrs. Westerman. It is most likely Captain Thornleigh just remembered that I had mentioned Brook, or a man like him in conversation.”
Harriet nodded. Crowther tilted his head on one side.
“Did you see Brook on his way to meet Mr. Thornleigh?”
Cartwright started.
“You did? Mr. Cartwright, do tell us,” Harriet said eagerly.
Mr. Cartwright looked about him with great nervousness. “How can that matter? The coroner said that it was a thief come from London who killed him. Let it rest.”
“And Nurse Bray?”
“It was a suicide, they are saying. Undoubtedly. She was no doubt depressed by being always in company with Lord Thornleigh, and if she wished to burn her papers before taking such a desperate step, then why should she not?”
“Mr. Cartwright, whatever is being said, I tell you sure as I sit here, that that poor lady was murdered,” Harriet informed him. “And it must be bound up with Brook’s death, you see? You’re probably right that any meeting you had with Brook just before his death is of no significance, but please do tell us anything you can. I pray I am wrong, but I cannot sleep easy in my bed, or think of my little boy, my sister or the baby at play with any calmness while I suspect there may be darker dealings taking place. You’re a good man and father. You would feel the same, would you not?”
The appeal to Cartwright as parent and protector was a wise one. He looked down at his knees and sighed, then seemed to make up his mind to speak.
“I did see Brook on his way into town, and spoke to him.”
“And did you observe anyone on the road behind him?” Crowther asked.
“No, sir.” Cartwright glanced at them sadly. “I am afraid I did not.”
Crowther was almost sorry himself. “And what passed between Brook and yourself?”
“He hailed me at the edge of the village, to thank me for putting some work his way. He seemed very pleased with himself.” Cartwright paused and looked about him guiltily. “He showed me the ring-said he got it while the family was out visiting neighbors. Which shows he may have boasted about it elsewhere, and to the wrong man, does it not?”
Harriet said very softly, as if she was pulling free a strand of some very delicate fiber, “Did he tell you how he got the ring?”
Cartwright resumed contemplation of his knee, and coughed a little before replying. “Said he lifted it from the man’s bureau in his parlor-from Alexander.”
Crowther’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. “And did he tell you where Alexander was?”
Cartwright looked deeply distressed.
“He had it written on a bit of paper,” he mumbled.
Harriet looked up sharply and caught Crowther’s eye.
“He waved it about, talking of the money he would get for it,” Cartwright went on. “Better than a banknote, he said. I’ve tried so hard to remember. I told Captain Thornleigh I have tried, but nothing comes. Meadow Street, perhaps-I cannot be sure.”
Crowther felt his heart thud heavily in his chest. Harriet wet her lips.
“Anything more, Joshua? Did he say anything more about Alexander?”
“Only that it had been the devil’s own work to find him. New name, new situation. He said he thought no other man in London could have done it, and that was as much by luck. Said it was my mention of Alexander being wild for music, he followed that route first. And I’d told him all I knew of Alexander-his looks, and the bad leg and all. It was that and some child he chanced upon which led him to the right place. Thought himself very smart for taking a sketch of the Thornleigh coat of arms with him too.” He looked up at them again. “It was getting late, so he took himself off. Never seen a man look so pleased with himself.”
“He was on foot?” Crowther asked.
“Yes. Must have staged down to Pulborough.” The little man looked up at them again. “I didn’t know what to say at the hearing. They didn’t ask me anything. I told Mr. Hugh afterward, though it felt like a cruelty, and Wicksteed stuck to his side throughout. It didn’t seem to add anything but salt to the problem. I wish I could see that paper in my mind more clearly.”
Crowther blinked slowly over his tented fingertips. “The mind is a mystery, Mr. Cartwright. Try not to struggle with it too much. As you go about the work of the day, let the meeting with Brook play in your imagination from time to time. You may well know more than you think.”
Cartwright looked at him hopefully. “Do you think so, sir?”
“Such things have occurred in the past.”
“It would be such a comfort to help the captain. I shall do as you say.”
They left him soon afterward, with all the proper compliments and considerations. Crowther turned back to see the draper standing lost in thought at the street door where he had showed them out. His bulging eyes were fixed on the ground, his lips moving gently as he attempted to recover those lost filaments of memory-the only things, it seemed, that now bound Alexander to Hartswood at all.
4
Mrs. Westerman was lost in thought as they followed the path back to Caveley. Crowther looked about him at the thick and heavy hedgerows, fat with new growth, fists of Queen Anne’s Lace and curls of white bindweed. He wondered how his old lands were thriving under a new master. He had never met the man who bought the estate. He knew from his former agent that he was a brewer who, having established a fortune and married his daughter to a lord, now wanted some slice of convenient country to call his own. The agent had quoted him: “A true Englishman will never count himself truly happy till he has a bit of land to feed his children from.” Crowther had been glad to be rid of it. It was never supposed to be his, like the title, until the hanging of his elder brother. The ground would recognize a better master and flourish under a wise hand rather than an old name.
He realized they had turned up toward the copse where Brook had been discovered and glanced at his companion, wondering if the direction of her steps was unconscious or the result of some plan on her part. She caught the look and the question without him having to speak it.
“I was wondering if there were anything we could learn from the scene of the first murder. We would not have noticed the ashes of the letters by the witch’s cottage if Rachel had not seen the fire.”