Free Anatomy of Murder by Imogen Robertson Page B

managed a small music shop in Tichfield Street, a much less fashionable part of Town. He continued: ‘I did not like the way he treated the children. As soon as their true lineage and worth was acknowledged, he became ingratiating. My heart sank if they were keeping me company in the shop and he entered on some pretext or other. I am sure he told everyone he stood like an uncle to them.’

    Harriet smiled gently at him as she pulled her cloak more tightly round her throat. ‘Lord Thornleigh and Lady Susan know who their friends are, Graves.’

    The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Susan does, I think. But Jonathan is still very young. However, whatever my doubts about Fitzraven, Harwood placed great trust in him this summer. He sent Fitzraven to the continent to recruit singers for the current season. Fitzraven came back bristling with pride, and looking rather sleek. He had engaged Isabella Marin in Milan and, indeed, this new castrato of whom such praises are spoken – Manzerotti. They say he is the greatest singer to come to London since Gasparo Pacchierotti’s debut of seventy-seven. One of my customers heard him at a party in Devonshire House some days ago and was all but overcome.’

    Harriet and Crowther must have looked a little blank at the names. The noise of London was crashing in on them through the windows of the carriage as it bullied its way along Cockspur through horses, carts and bobbing sedan chairs in the gathering dark. The carriage wheels spat mud up the doors as they jostled between ruts, the light had bled out of the day and already the shadows were deepening and the colours folding in on themselves. A pieman, his tray almost empty, chucked the last of his wares to a group of dirty-looking boys who had been following him down the road. After a brief struggle the strongest of them emerged in victory and held his prize high above the heads of the others. He tore pieces of the misshapen pastry off and stuffed them into his mouth, while keeping the rest out of the reach of his mewling, begging band and their long skinny fingers. Hawkers and song-sellers walked by them shouting out their produce and prices, occasionally running a casual, assessing eye over the carriage, which here at least moved scarcely faster than they did, and over its occupants. A girl, no more than fourteen, but already pox-marked and old in her expression, peered in and whistled at Graves, then noticing Harriet winked at her, and with a swing of her hips was gone. Graves was too busy marvelling at his companions’ expressions to notice her.

    ‘Really, Crowther, Mrs Westerman,’ he said, ‘you are educated people but your ignorance of music is astonishing.’

    Harriet looked very serious. ‘Forgive us, Graves! We are nw to the capital, and I was in the East Indies in seventy-seven and Crowther was in—?’

    Crowther looked up from his fingernails. ‘Oh, I was in London. And I went to a concert or two, but my occupations were in general less polite.’ And when Graves looked enquiringly at him, Crowther met his gaze and said very evenly, ‘I was cutting up dead people.’

    Graves cleared his throat and crossed his legs.

    ‘Then, Graves, my dear boy, you must educate us.’ Harriet smiled and folded her arms. ‘Who is this Manzerotti? And who is Isabella Marin?’

    Graves leaned forward with a sudden enthusiasm that reminded Harriet that, for all his cares and responsibilities, he was still not yet twenty-five.

    ‘Manzerotti is said to be the greatest soprano castrato living. He is much spoken of. It is a marvellous thing to have him in London! They say that with both him and Marin in the company, the serious opera or “opera seria” could equal the success of Creso in seventy-seven, and there were sixteen performances that season.’ He sat back again with the air of having delivered a startling revelation.

    Crowther exchanged a glance with Harriet, and lifted his eyebrows, murmuring, ‘Is that