Theft of Life (16 page)

Graves rocked back on his heels. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that indeed! Yes, they were acquainted. Mrs Service thought very highly of her. She had the impression you were old friends?’

‘We were playfellows in our youth, she, her brother and I.’ Francis was glad of the smoke in his throat. It gave him a better excuse for the break in his voice.

Mr Graves spoke gently. ‘My sympathies to you, sincerely. May I ask you to let us know in Berkeley Square when the funeral is arranged?’ He took a visiting card from his pocket and handed it to him. Francis took it without a word. ‘I am very sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘Mr Graves, I have unlocked the door and taken my place on the floor. How may I be of service to you?’

Graves straightened. ‘Thank you, Mr Glass. Eustache, come here and confess your sins.’ The news of Mrs Smith’s death had knocked the rage out of him, but his voice was still serious and low. The boy had looked surly when he first came in; now he seemed confused, nervous.

He stepped up to the counter and reached into his coat pocket to produce a board-bound volume Francis recognised with a sinking heart. The volume which held the portrait of Eustache’s mother, and the tale of her scandalous youth and later, terrible crimes.

‘I stole a book, sir. And I am very sorry for it.’ His voice was a whisper.

‘An accident?’ Francis said. ‘Perhaps you put it in your pocket by mistake.’

It was Graves who answered. ‘Even if it was a mistake it became a crime. Look inside.’ Francis picked up the book and opened it rather awkwardly. On the title page someone had written in unsteady copperplate
Ex libris Eustache Thornleigh 1785
. It was slightly smudged.

‘I am sorry for taking it, Mr Glass,’ the boy said again.

Francis sighed. He would have to explain to Graves and take the blame for placing such a thing in the hands of his ward in the first place. ‘No, Eustache, I understand. Let me explain …’ The boy’s face went white and his eyes became very wide and pleading. Francis paused. The boy did not want his guardian to know his choice of reading materials? Very well. He cleared his throat. ‘It is one of the most exciting volumes we sell here; there are a great many pirates in these family romances. It was cruel of me to put it in Eustache’s hands when he had not the opportunity to finish it.’ The boy’s shoulders sagged with relief.

Graves replied, ‘I could pay you for the book, Mr Glass, and if you prefer it I shall, but I would be grateful if instead you let the boy earn back its purchase. He will sweep your floors for a week. Give him the worst jobs you can find, if you please. He must learn that what he takes, must be earned.’

If Francis had been rested, or less sunk in his own misery, he would have made some other answer, but as it was the words were out of his mouth before he was aware of even thinking them. ‘Since when did a child born rich in this country have to work for what they make use of?’ Graves looked away and Francis closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Forgive me, Mr Graves. That was ill-said. Master Eustache, has your guardian explained to you that children are transported or whipped for stealing in this country?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you willing to work?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Francis could feel the wounds pulsing in his hands. He thought for a few moments before he spoke again. ‘You’ll forgive me, Mr Graves, but I would not like it to be known that a boy of Eustache’s birth is sweeping up in my shop. It might bring the wrong sort of talk, and I am sure you do not wish every loiterer in the city to come in and stare at him.’ It was clear Graves had not thought about this. He looked more embarrassed than Eustache. ‘But I think we can find a use for him’, Francis went on. ‘I cannot hold a pen, so I may need a scribe – and Master Eustache, there is a pile of manuscripts in the back room that must be nearly as tall as you are. You will read them and tell me which of them you think Mr Hinckley and I should print and why. Would that be punishment enough?’

Eustache bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir.’ Graves looked doubtful for a moment, then nodded his agreement. Francis called Joshua and told him to show Eustache into the back room, but before he could be led off, Eustache turned back to him.

‘Do bookshops often catch fire?’ he said.

‘Not often, Eustache,’ Francis said, ‘and never during the day.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I do. Get along now.’ And he let himself be taken away.

‘The boy has a particular fear of fire,’ Graves said awkwardly.

‘Because of his mother, no doubt,’ Francis said.

Graves clasped his hands behind his back. ‘You know who we are, of course, and must have heard the stories … We make efforts not to mention it in front of the children. He in particular was so young, we doubt he remembers.’

‘Eustache told me the story himself within a minute of our meeting, Mr Graves. It seems to me he remembers quite enough.’ Francis thought of the fire running round the blue and yellow wallpaper, knowing that the image and sound would remain in his bones though he lived to a thousand.

Graves crumpled rather. He was a little younger than Francis, but at that moment they both looked like old men. It took him some moments to find his voice again. ‘A neighbour of ours in Sussex makes the most excellent cures. I think perhaps your throat pains you?’ Francis conceded that it did. ‘We never come to London without a supply. I shall have some sent here. Your hands are burned also?’

‘Cut by glass.’

‘Something for that too then.’

‘That is kind of you, Mr Graves. I thank you for it.’

Graves shook his head. ‘It is a kindness to let me do some little good when it seems I manage so much else so badly,’ he said.

‘I liked both the children, Mr Graves. I know enough of men to trust my feelings in such matters. Whatever trouble they cause you, I think their hearts are good.’

‘Is that enough, Mr Glass?’

‘It has to be,’ Francis replied. They exchanged polite bows and Graves left the shop obviously deep in thought. Francis watched him go and for a moment pitied him, then heard a stifled laugh from the back room. The boys had made friends already, it seemed.

‘Joshua, get back upstairs to Mr Ferguson,’ he said over his shoulder, then turned once more to his accounts, trying to find comfort in the unthinking numbers.

H
ARRIET AND CROWTHER WERE
waiting for Mr Palmer in the library, but when he was announced they were surprised to find he was not alone. The tall African Harriet had noticed in the Coroner’s Court came with him, and was introduced to them as Mr Tobias Christopher. Harriet was surprised to see Crowther smile and step forward with his hand out when he heard the name.

‘How do you do, Mr Christopher,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘I had it in mind to visit you while I was in town. There are gentlemen at the Royal Society who swear you are the best swordsman in London.’

Christopher’s voice was deep; his vowels were rounded and broad. Harriet found she had a sense of his words decorating the room as if he were placing polished stones in the air between them. ‘They do me much honour to say so, though they are quite right. And you would be welcome indeed in my home.’

‘If Mr Christopher likes you, he will teach you to fight for survival as well as elegance,’ Mr Palmer said. ‘What he taught me yesterday will probably save my life at some point.’

Harriet looked from Mr Christopher to Palmer with interest. She had always thought of him as confined to the offices and coffee houses near Whitehall and his wars fought largely on paper or in whispers. It was interesting to know he expected to be in bodily danger. She felt oddly forced out of communion with the gentlemen, however, by the presence of all these invisible swords.

‘Mr Palmer, I thought our involvement in this business would end this morning. What do you want of us?’ The men turned towards her as if they had forgotten she was there.

‘You had questions at the inquest, Mrs Westerman,’ Palmer said with a polite smile. He leaned against the mantelpiece while Crowther and Tobias took their seats opposite one another in front of the empty fireplace. Harriet settled herself on the cherry-striped sofa, her silks rustling.

‘I was curious. But still, I have no great wish to find whoever it was that beat Mr Trimnell. Nor do I think Crowther and I are the best people to find the guilty party, even if we wished to do so. I know you have found us useful in the past, Palmer, but we would make ourselves ridiculous asking questions among those who inhabit the city at that hour of the night. Surely the constables and thief-takers are better suited for the task.’

Christopher gave her a slow and careful smile. ‘You agree with the hints of the newspapers this morning, Mrs Westerman? That it was an ugly act of revenge by a savage who does not understand the English way of life? You think when they took Guadeloupe they had the right of it?’

She found his gaze unsettling. ‘I do not know, Mr Christopher. The manner of the attack suggests revenge of a former slave, does it not? I suppose a decent English thief might make a man found with such a thing wear it, but the attempt to stake him out certainly implies some knowledge of slavery. And the boy did have the watch.’

‘It does,’ he said. ‘And he did. And I like your notion of a decent English thief, madam, though I cannot say I have enjoyed the pleasure of meeting such a one.’

Harriet was not sure she had met one either, other than in the tales of Robin Hood, and she looked away.

‘You think Guadeloupe is innocent, Mr Christopher?’ Crowther asked. ‘Palmer would not have removed you from the room if he did not fear you might protest.’

Christopher crossed his legs and sat back in the chair. ‘Very few of us are innocent, and Guadeloupe is poor enough to want to rob, but I do not think he attacked Trimnell. He has been sleeping in the outbuilding behind my house for the last week while we try to find him work. He is new in England, but before then was in a field-gang in Barbados. He would not know Trimnell as a slave-owner.’

‘And that is why you think him innocent?’ Harriet asked. ‘Suppose he aimed to rob Trimnell, then found that mask about his person – would that not enrage him?’

Christopher considered for a moment. ‘It might. Would you understand me, Mrs Westerman, if I said, however, that this simply does not taste right under my tongue?’ He folded his hands together under his chin and watched her expression. ‘It does not taste so sweet to you either, is my thinking. That is what my friend Mr Palmer meant when he said you had questions. Good. Would you unfold them before us, madam? As a favour to myself?’

Before she could do so, William entered the room with a tray of wine glasses and a decanter. He sat it down and they watched as he poured and handed the glasses to their guests. Mr Christopher said something to him as he took what was offered and William replied. There followed a short conversation. William seemed slightly embarrassed, Mr Christopher delighted.

‘Do you and William know each other, Mr Christopher?’ Harriet asked, taking her own glass.

‘We have not had that pleasure,’ Christopher said. ‘But we are both from Igbo stock. Not close relatives, that is why I am so much more handsome than he is.’ His eyes shone, suddenly mischievous. ‘But our language is close enough that we can exchange proper greetings.’

Crowther took his glass from the tray and noticed William’s suppressed smile. ‘Thank you, William.’

‘Mr Crowther.’

He left the room and Harriet watched him go; he seemed another being suddenly to her, having heard that language on his tongue.

‘Your questions, Mrs Westerman?’ Christopher said after William had closed the door. ‘What sticks and bites when we say Guadeloupe has done this thing and must be punished?’

She tried to collect her thoughts. ‘The timing of the attack. The unlikelihood of a boy as slight as Guadeloupe managing Trimnell alone. And it seemed … elaborate – personal – his killing. I realise I only saw Guadeloupe for a moment, but nevertheless …’

‘Your instinct is correct. A knife in the belly on a dark street would be more his fashion,’ Christopher said. His voice was almost affectionate. ‘And where are Mr Trimnell’s clothes? Guadeloupe was not caught pawning them, I think.’ He looked up at Palmer for confirmation. The man from the Admiralty nodded. Mr Christopher brought his hands together and smiled. ‘But I think my new friend has brought me here to tell you something else, to feed your curiosity – and not about Guadeloupe – though I can’t be certain what Mr Palmer’s larger purpose is. Does our friend always have a larger purpose, do you think, Mrs Westerman?’

She studied Palmer, who remained quite calm under their combined scrutiny, neither amused nor uncomfortable. ‘I believe he does, though what it is I cannot say. What do you think, Crowther?’

Crowther sipped his wine then set it down beside him. ‘Sometimes I think Mr Palmer treats us like dried leaves, Mrs Westerman. He throws us up into the air just to see which way the wind is blowing.’

The corner of Palmer’s mouth twitched slightly at that, but he said nothing. The African laughed, low and soft. ‘Very well. This is what I told Mr Palmer yesterday, after he had flattered his way into my confidence, and what I think he wishes you to know. It is not a story I like to tell, but here in this beautiful room, with my new friends, how could I refuse to share it? I am a runaway slave, madam. It was Trimnell himself I ran from some fourteen years ago. I managed to smuggle myself on board a merchant ship, made my way here and learned my trade. I am a warrior by nature and took to the sword. Now I own a school of the defensive arts in Golden Square.’

Harriet looked again at the whiteness of his shirt collar, the cut of his coat and the gleam on his shoe buckles.

‘You have done very well,’ she said.

‘I have. But hear this, madam: not one day in all these years have I forgotten that the shadows might hold a group of men desirous to bundle me onto a ship and back to Trimnell and his whip. Is it any wonder I studied to fight well and quickly? That mask has stopped my tongue, madam, and many times. I swore the day I escaped, it would never do so again. Never.’