Free Instruments of Darkness by Imogen Robertson Page A

off, it is still a great power. A little King in stone for the county. And she wishes to bang on their gates and cry murder! Her husband has his connections, of course, but not many. I can tell you my story, but I advise you to forget it. Retire to your previous seclusion and persuade Mrs Westerman to confine herself to her proper duties.’ He rubbed his chin with his palm. ‘Perhaps my story may serve as a parable that in the end we are wise to leave justice in the hands of God.’

    He looked up at Crowther’s face. Crowther merely blinked slowly at him. Bridges took a swallow of wine and, having settled himself in his chair, he began to speak.

    ‘Well then, when I was a young man - oh, some forty years ago now, long before Mrs Westerman was even born or Lord Thornleigh married for the first time - there was a girl killed on the edge of the village of Harden, some two miles south of here. She was a good child, a general favourite in the area and respectably brought up. Search-parties were organised and in short order her body was found. Her name was Sarah Randle. She was twelve years old.’

    The Squire paused and drained his glass, nodding his thanks as Crowther refilled it.

    ‘I found her, I’m sorry to say. I would rather have lived my life free of that image, but the only service I can render her is to remember. I was out riding and came upon one of the search-parties as they neared the woods on the outskirts of Harden. Knowing the girl myself, I dismounted to join them. It was a summer’s evening, much this time of year, the air warm and delicate, the paths and f ields so alive with the buzz of creation - everything becoming, it seemed, more perfectly itself. Such a pale little thing she was. She had been thrown down, some yards from one of the smaller paths in the wood. So terribly wrong, it seemed, that she lay there all broken and stopped amongst such a profusion, such vigorous life. Her face was quite unmarked, but her clothes were black with blood. Her body had been stabbed about in a frenzy. Thirteen wounds I counted in her breast and stomach. She was in her holiday clothes, and they were so torn and bloodied about her . . . It was sunset when we found her, and the sky was gold and red, with magnificent deep purple clouds draining from the day. The two images are linked in my mind. Her broken body and the glory of the sun sinking in the west. Poor innocent. It could not have been an easy death, or a quick one.’

    Crowther did not trust himself to speak. He realised he was held by a narrator of talent; he had felt the late sun on his back, heard the thrum of life in the hedgerow.

    The Squire continued, ‘Her belly was swollen. There was no doubt she was with child.’

    ‘No one knew who the father could be?’

    ‘There was gossip that damaged several good men over the coming months, but she had been close. Not one of her friends had, I believe, been confided in. Nor had the sister who shared her bed. Some passing pedlar in the village was taken up by the hue and cry, but he was vouched for by two or three of the better people, and the crowd had fixed on him more in sorrow than in anger. He got away unharmed. The whole village turned out for the burial, but Lord Thornleigh did not attend. However, he did ride by with one of his friends, while we were burying the poor sinner. They were laughing at something and I looked up from my prayers and caught his eye. That look I saw on his face is the only reason for the suspicion I have ever had against the man. It chilled my soul then, and the memory of it does so still. It was triumphant, exhilarated. Quite wild.’

    One of the household passed along the passage outside the dining room, their shoes skimming carpet and stone. Crowther drank deeply.

    ‘And no one enquired further into his connection with the girl?’ he asked.

    ‘I believe I have said enough of his character to suggest why no one had the stomach to enquire more closely,’ the Squire