She grinned at him. Her anger passed as swiftly as it had come, like the shadows of the clouds chased across the hillside he used to watch as a child. “Indeed. With your help I have found a way to feel greatly superior to anyone else in the room, so now I am having a much better time.”
“I am glad, Mrs. Westerman.” The song ended and the room rattled with the applause of gloved hands, the feathering thud of fans struck against brocade dresses and a flurry of polite exclamations. A new chord rang out on the harpsichord. Harriet leaned toward Crowther again.
“What it might have to do with the murder, I cannot say, but I am sure Mr. Palmer would be pleased if we managed to discover the identity of this mutual friend that links Carmichael and Fitzraven.”
Crowther nodded. “I imagine Carmichael’s study will be on this floor. Shall we leave the music for a while?”
“Why not. Let me add to my disgrace with a little burglary, if at all possible.”
By the time Jocasta and Sam had reached the end of Chick Lane, Sam was crying hard. He had not put Boyo down again, but was clutching the little dog to his chest as he wept. Boyo did not struggle to get away. It was as if he understood his role as comforter to the frightened lad, and endured his fierce embrace with stoicism.
Jocasta’s mind felt white with it. She did not believe in Tonton Macoute or the bogeyman, but felt sure now that those two rats on her door had been more than a warning. They were a reckoning of things already done. Spotting an alley, she pulled Sam into the shadows with her.
“Mrs. Bligh? They’re dead, ain’t they-Finn and Clayton. Tonton Macoute got ’em. Fred got the devil working for him and now they’ll be coming for me.” His voice was rising and gasping and he was trembling hard.
“You got some place to go, Sam? Any other places you can doss down? Don’t reckon it’s safe being by me.”
He gave a little wail, and still holding Boyo to him with one arm, he flung the other around Jocasta and buried his face in her side. She almost staggered with his small force. “Nowhere. I don’t know no one. Don’t send me away, Mrs. Bligh. The devil will get me. You knew, didn’t you-before we went? You saw it in the cards! What else, Mrs. Bligh? Am I going to get got by the devil too?”
Jocasta let her arm drop awkwardly around his shoulders and he clung closer to her.
“Whist, lad! I saw you standing lonely, but I saw you standing. For now anyways.” She looked unseeing into the dark around them and gripped his shoulder. “It ain’t a devil, it’s a man, my lad. And men can be trapped and stopped and hanged.”
Sam’s voice was muffled. “But how? We spent all day watching and we’re no wiser!”
Jocasta went down on her haunches so she could look the boy in the eye and took hold of his shoulders. “Neither we are. But we will be.”
Sam drew in his breath and tried to stop his weeping. “Don’t send me off alone, Mrs. Bligh. Let me stay with you and Boyo. I won’t be any bother. Please, you won’t send me off alone, Mrs. Bligh?”
She was caught by the asking in his eyes, then shook her head. The relief in his face struck her like a fist and she looked down at the ground between them. Sam put Boyo out of his arms and the little dog nosed his mistress.
After a few moments Sam spoke in a whisper: “Mrs. Bligh. It weren’t your fault that the devil-man took ’em.”
Jocasta felt her belly clench. She thought of the two young boys sitting in front of her fire, eating meal and milk.
“It was, lad. It was. They’re lost over a day’s work I paid them a penny for. I was stupid. And I am now for not driving you off. Cards sometimes see a long way, sometimes close. I haven’t got any promises that you’ll be safe with me.”
The little boy waited till she looked up at him again. When she did he was standing straight as a soldier, and his fists were closed and tight. “Don’t need the cards to tell me that, Mrs. Bligh. Or you. I know it for myself.”
She smiled and roughed up the hair on his head. “Do you now? Well, we ain’t going home tonight, but I know a place. Then tomorrow we will see where we are at.”
Crowther was right. There was a study just adjacent to the room where Isabella and Manzerotti were performing. Crowther began to look through the papers on the desk.
“Anything of significance?” Harriet asked him. She was standing near the doorway and rubbing the nape of her neck.
He did not reply but began to open the desk drawers in turn. Harriet looked about her. The walls were high and lined with gold-tooled volumes. Most, it seemed, were in Latin.
“Is Carmichael a scholar?”
“He never was. They are show. Everything here is show. There is nothing here. Or I cannot say rather whether there is or not.”
“Would a spy bring a letter of introduction? ‘Dear Traitor, the man bearing this letter is another such as yourself and in the pay of the French. Make use of him.’”
Crowther scowled. “It seems unlikely. But there must have been some signal between them. Something that could have been hidden in plain sight, yet which showed they were servants of the same master.”
Harriet came away from the door and began to walk back and forth on the thick Turkish rug in front of the fireplace, avoiding the draft from the open window.
“Something that could be hidden in plain sight. . That a musician might carry across any number of borders, and do so free from fear of detection.” She came to a sudden halt. “Do you remember that gentleman who visited Graves with a manuscript from Mr. Handel? Music! A code, a language of its own. It was in the music Fitzraven was carrying!”
Crowther nodded and returned quickly to a leather folder on the desk in front of him.
“There are pieces of manuscript in different hands here,” he said. Harriet watched him, her blood thudding under her skin. In the next room, the music was replaced by applause. “I may have something, Mrs. Westerman.”
The door suddenly opened and Lord Carmichael stood in the entrance. He looked between them with curiosity. Harriet took hold of the mantelpiece and staggered a little.
“No, Mr. Crowther, do not trouble looking for the salts anymore, I swear I am quite recovered.” She stumbled again, forcing Carmichael to come forward and take her arm. She looked up at him from under her long lashes. “Oh, thank you, my lord. I am so sorry. .”
Crowther had to stop himself from staring at her in astonishment. He would at no point in his long career of study, from the ancient wisdom to the best thoughts of the modern day, have believed that the ability to fake a swoon was something he would admire, and that would save him.
“Carmichael. Do you have smelling salts? Failing that, I was looking for paper to burn under Mrs. Westerman’s nose. It seems to cure a variety of female ills.” Harriet blushed a little. His tone was harsh, impatient.
Lord Carmichael turned his lined and slightly ashy face between them. No man would have thought the pair in front of him friends or allies.
“Really, it is not necessary, sir!” she said sharply in Crowther’s direction, then looking at Carmichael said more softly, “I am so sorry, my lord. It is simply I found myself overcome. The song is one of my husband’s favorites. He sings it still. .” A single tear ran down her cheek and she blinked her green eyes. “You know he is very unwell. Hearing it so beautifully performed. .”
Carmichael looked at her cautiously. “Of course, madam. Quite understandable.”
“And Mr. Crowther assisted me from the room.”
“How good of him.”
“How is your son, Lord Carmichael-Mr. Longley, whom I met yesterday?”
Carmichael’s smile was unpleasant. “He is atoning for his sins.”
Crowther looked sternly at Harriet. “Recovered then, Mrs. Westerman? If so, I think it best if we take you back to Berkeley Square where you may more comfortably indulge your grief.”
Harriet lowered her head as if chastened. Crowther turned to his host.
“Oh, Lord Carmichael. On this sordid little business of the opera house-is Mr. Johannes in residence here? I understand he goes everywhere with your house pet Manzerotti.”