Free Anatomy of Murder by Imogen Robertson Page A

to stand. Justice Pither scrambled to his feet.

    ‘But please . . . I . . . Mr Crowther, Mrs Westerman. Do not desert me! Please tell me you intend to look further into this matter. My duties . . . I cannot invetigate this poor man’s death in any satisfactory way myself.’ At that moment, in the street, and with a deplorable lack of respect for the solemnity of the moment, a rather harsh-voiced person started yelling that they had mackerel for sale. Harriet and Crowther were looking at each other. ‘Surely, you have a duty . . .’ the Justice said pitiably. ‘Mr Graves, please help me to persuade them.’

    Graves looked between the Justice and Mrs Westerman. ‘I believe that, in doing what they have already done, my friends have more than fulfilled their duty,’ he said. ‘Beyond this point, their chances of success are no greater than yours.’

    Justice Pither looked distressed. ‘I beg you, sir, madam!’ His shoulders slumped and he looked at the table in front of him, at his little leather volumes, and said more quietly, ‘But I have nothing to offer you. I have no influence, no connections to compare with those which you already enjoy in your own rights. I know most people in this city think me a fool for trying to see the laws enforced, the guilty punished and so on.’ He sighed. ‘You are right, Mr Graves.’ He drew himself straight, trying to be brave. ‘Thank you, Mr Crowther, Mrs Westerman, for your valued assistance. I shall do my best – place the proper advertisements and so on. I am most grateful to you both for telling me so much about this unhappy wretch.’

    There was a long pause. Mr Pither could hear Mrs Westerman’s gloved fingers beating a tattoo on the cloth of her dress, and some part of him began to hope.

    ‘Oh dear,’ said Harriet at last. ‘Now you have made us your allies in a way all the influence in the world could not. Do you not fear it to be so, Mr Crowther?’

    ‘I do, Mrs Westerman,’ that gentleman replied.

    Pither almost shook with relief. Harriet offered him her hand and he snatched it up in both of his own, his total confidence in their abilities shining out from him.

    ‘Thank you.’

    Harriet patted his hand and released herself with a slight wince. ‘We shall regret it, I imagine. I hope you shall not, sir. We are at your service.’ She glanced at the clock on Mr Pither’s mantel. ‘Or at least we shall be so in the morning. The dinner-hour approaches and Mr Graves’s house keeps careful hours.’

    Graves took advantage of the carriage trip returning them to Berkeley Square to tell them what he could of Nathaniel Fitzraven, musician. It became clear at once that he had not liked the man, and as Graves seemed to like and value most people to a degree Harriet found frustrating, she had pushed him for his reasons and impressions. He had spoken haltingly at first, watching the damp, darkening streets pass by through the carriage window. He shivered.

    ‘He liked to pretend intimate knowledge of his betters. He played in the band of His Majesty’s Theatre for some years and the association with the singers and patrons there was a tonic to him. To hear him speak, you would have thought him the confidant of every music-lover of note in the city. Then his talents began to desert him; his fingers stiffened to the point he could no longer perform what was required.’

    ‘The swelling of the joints was not extreme,’ Crowther said, his eyebrows raised.

    Graves looked down at his own young hands for a moment, then hid them in his pockets. ‘It does not need to be extreme to lose a musician his livelihood. He managed to wheedle himself back into the employ of the Opera House, however. Perhaps the manager there, Mr Harwood, pitied him. This year and last he was running errands for them, and acting as if he was Harwood’s right-hand man. He bought last season’s selections to be made up into songbooks.’ Graves, among his other responsibilities, also