Instruments of Darkness by Imogen Robertson

arrange to meet him at night, and away from your home?’

    ‘Perhaps I had hopes of it being a fine night,’ Hugh said with a sneer.

    ‘Could the shopkeeper, Mr Cartwright, identify the body?’

    ‘I believe they knew one another. Joshua met him in London and engaged him on my behalf. I will ask him to address himself to the Coroner.’

    Crowther nodded, and began to move away towards his horse. Hugh raised his chin.

    ‘You have been whipped up by the women of Caveley, I presume.’ Crowther could hear the edge in Thornleigh’s voice. ‘How exciting for you. Go careful there, sir. A nasty, pushing family. Visit them more than twice and it will be chanted through the neighbourhood that you have made a bid for the hand of the little one. And the elder is a shrew, and a bluestocking, everyone admits it. The Commodore is likely very happy to have stowed her ashore and gone on his way himself. Perhaps he finds women who know their place and duties a little better away from home.’

    Crowther turned back slowly towards the speaker, brushing the remains of the flower he had plucked from his fingertips.

    ‘I have heard that many disappointed men find comfort in wine and slander. You give a thorough example of it. I wonder if your ill-luck caused you to become what I see, or if it was your behaviour that has brought the ill-luck upon you.’

    The worst thing about these words, spoken so clearly into the evening air, was their lack of passion. An Earl could not have spoken more coldly of a dog. Crowther continued to watch Hugh as he smarted under them. Even in the relative darkness he could see the unmarred cheek of the young man flush indignantly.

    ‘Do you wish me to ask you to name your friends?’

    Crowther felt himself smile. This was what came of leaving the dissecting room, he thought - his secrets discovered, murder, duels, missing sons and dead children. He should have kept his doors locked more tightly.

    ‘If you wish to fight, I shall certainly meet you, Thornleigh. Though I warn you, my hand is always steady at dawn. I doubt if you can say the same.’

    They held each other’s gaze a moment.

    ‘Damn your eyes, Crowther,’ Hugh whispered, jerking hard at his horse’s head and he turned away, riding hard back towards Thornleigh.

    Crowther led his own horse out into the lane again, and mounted with a grunt of effort. He looked up to see the first of the stars appearing above him. Well, he thought, we must follow where the signs lead us. As we follow the pathways of the body to their sources and springs, so this blood spilled must take us to the heart of the matter. He had already stepped clear of the path advised by the Squire. Now he must see where his steps took him, and if the family at Caveley had to pay for their curiosity, then so be it. They would be wiser for it, and Mrs Westerman seemed eager to be educated. He thought again of Hugh, his scarred face and dead eye, and wondered how much the devil had marked him for his own under that torn skin. The family at Caveley had liked him once, and yet now the Mistress seemed happy to see him killing himself with drink. Crowther urged his horse forward.

    7 April 1775, Boston, Massachusetts Bay, America

     
     
    CAPTAIN HUGH THORNLEIGH of the 5th curled awkwardly over his writing desk and stared at the wall of his billet, trying to compose his thoughts.

    He understood little of the complexities of the political situation of the colonies and cared less. The legal niceties of taxes and teas did not concern him. The Army had appealed to him as a career, not just because of the possibilities to give further glory to his ancestors’ name, and create a comfortable life for himself independent of the family estate, but also because it knew how to use men of action like himself. He hoped he would one day lead armies rather than companies into battle, but he fully expected to leave the rationale for those battles to other men. He cared for those under his