Harriet found herself amused by the idea of Crowther receiving this information from her sister and wondered what his expression had been as he had listened. “And your reply?”
“I said that in matters of the heart my concerns are more practical than metaphysical. If she wished to bring me Mr. Graves’s heart in a jar I could tell her if it were healthy or no, but further than that I had no idea and advised her to talk to Mrs. Service.”
Harriet sighed. “Poor Rachel. We have not been of great assistance. I wonder why she did not go to Mrs. Service at once, having instructed me on my proper behavior.”
Crowther put his fingers together and said lightly, “I imagine because she knew you and I would be having this conversation at some point during the evening and wished you to be informed of the plan for the music shop. Your sister is young, and a little overcautious of your reputation perhaps, but she is no fool, Mrs. Westerman. And my remark about Mr. Graves’s heart made her smile.”
“I am hasty with her.”
He did not reply but let the silence unfold between them till Harriet said: “I fear I learned very little from Lord Carmichael other than I do not like him, and his stepson is wholly in his power. He had nothing to say of Fitzraven that did not confirm what we knew of him previously. Tell me of your meeting with Bywater.”
Crowther put his hand to his chin. “That gentleman is certainly guilty of something.”
“Of love?”
“As we have already said, I am no expert in such areas, but of something more, I believe. However, I do not think him a likely spy for the French. He claims he had no idea that Fitzraven was following him. My impression is he wishes public renown rather than private riches. That would make it unlikely for him to trade secrets for money, though he might for influence, but really, what could a composer with limited connections know that would be of interest to the French?” Harriet assumed the question was rhetorical so did not reply. “And, Mrs. Westerman, we have an appointment tomorrow morning.”
“With Bywater?”
“No, madam. With Mr. Palmer. There was a note delivered here this afternoon. We are invited to call on a Mrs. Wheeler in Conduit Street, where we shall meet an old friend. I assume that is Mr. Palmer.”
“He is most circumspect.”
“He most likely has his reasons. If his suspicions are correct, and Fitzraven’s having spent time in France this summer, when Mr. Harwood thought him only in Milan, suggest they might well be, then we are on dangerous ground. It is a high-stakes game. Men are hanged for murder. They are drawn and quartered for treachery.”
Harriet was still digesting this comment when there was a rap at the door and Mrs. Martin stepped in.
“Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman. A gentleman is here and wishes to speak to you. A Mr. Winter Harwood from His Majesty’s Theatre.” She paused then held out a piece of paper to Harriet. “And here is the recipe for the oysters, ma’am.”
It may have been he was only clearing his throat, but to Harriet it sounded suspiciously as if Crowther laughed.
Jocasta, Sam and Boyo had made their way back into the heart of the city through the shadows and were all weary and slow by the time they reached Jocasta’s alleyway. There was a stirring in the dark under the pear tree as they approached and two boys emerged from the gloom and exchanged nods with Sam.
He pointed at each of them. “This is Finn, Mrs. Bligh. And this is Clayton.”
They touched their foreheads to her and shuffled their feet. Jocasta led them into her room, where Sam set about making the fire. The shorter of the two, Clayton, sat on his hands to warm them and said Fred had changed his coat in Salisbury Street after the burial, then gone to the Admiralty Office. He’d come out with two other men like him and got settled in at the alehouse in Crag’s Court.
“He looked funny though.”
“What do you mean, boy?” Jocasta said.
“He was walking slow and heavy, and the others were sort of holding him up. He was wailing a bit, and the others were looking about them as if they were worried he’d be heard. He looked to me like he didn’t want to go anywhere with them, but they wouldn’t let him be. He was there a while then went back home on his ownsome. I thought. .”
“Tell on.”
“I thought he was crying like, as he was walking along. Then I met up with Finn in Salisbury Street, and we thought we’d head back here.”
Finn, the taller, skinnier one who had red hair, had been keeping an eye on Mrs. Mitchell.
“She didn’t do much. Got to her coffee shop after the burying and stayed there till supper, then headed back to Salisbury Street. There was a man paid a visit-he was just leaving when Fred came back.”
Jocasta sniffed. “Her man?”
“Couldn’t say, Mrs. Bligh,” the boy said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Tall fella. Dressed plain. That Fred was very respectful of him, bowing and scraping as they talked like he was the Emperor of China. Got the feeling the words between them weren’t kindly. Tall Man said something and Fred flinched and wiped his eyes and tried to stand a bit straighter. Then Clayton came and tapped me on the shoulder and by the time we turned back, Tall Man was gone and the door was shut.”
“Fairly said.” Jocasta folded her arms. “Anything more?”
“I got talking to one of her boys what help out in the shop.”
“What did he say, Finn?” Sam asked, as he set the lighter stuff for the fire, and started to strike up Jocasta’s steel.
“That some weeks ago the missus was looking grim, but last Tuesday the landlord was in and she put money in his hands like she was the Queen of Sheba tossing away stones. Oh, and that he likes Wednesday and Saturday best because he gets extra tips selling books to the rich livers in the coaches.”
“Books and coaches?” Sam asked, then started to blow on the embers.
“Mrs. Mitchell has the right to sell coffee and oranges and storybooks. She gets the words from the theater, then has them printed in Hedge Lane, the liberrrettos,” he trilled, enjoying the word. “She pays fifty pounds a year for it. Wednesday and Saturday are when they do the singing there, at His Majesty’s Opera House in Hay Market.”
Mr. Winter Harwood was very poised.
“You asked me to come here, Mr. Crowther, and I have. It was not convenient, but I came. Is it too much to hope you have found out who killed Fitzraven and that the matter is concluded?”
Harriet found Mr. Harwood a most interesting study. Without appearing impolite he had taken a seat, declined all offers of refreshment and done so with such economy of movement and word, this speech sounded by comparison like an oration. Harriet thought if he were similarly thrifty with his resources at the Opera House, for all its extravagances, he was probably amassing a considerable fortune there. Though the question was addressed to Crowther, it was she who replied.
“Mr. Crowther has been wondering at your continued employment of Mr. Fitzraven after he ceased to play for you.”
A slight frown appeared between Mr. Harwood’s fine sandy eyebrows. “I believe I have already explained, Mrs. Westerman-”
“Indeed,” Crowther interrupted, “running errands, writing puffs in the newspaper and so forth. But I have been wondering, Mr. Harwood, if you did not find it convenient, dealing with the great individuals on and off the stage, to know a little more about them than it was agreeable to ask in person.”
Mr. Harwood’s face gave no sign of shock or anger. Harriet found she was holding her breath. If Fitzraven had followed the leading players of the opera around the place with Harwood’s blessing, it would give them meat indeed for Mr. Palmer. Fitzraven was quite possibly trained in the value-the monetary value-of information before he went to France, and had no difficulty with trading in it.
“You are suggesting. .?”