Read Online Instruments of Darkness by Imogen Robertson - Free Book Online
Authors: Imogen Robertson
Tags: Historical fiction, Crime Fiction
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bored tone that suggested she found these society shufflings rather wearying, ‘Please let us persuade you, Mr Crowther. The Squire will certainly dine with us, and I would be glad to talk further on your impressions of what has passed.’
Mr Crowther felt Miss Trench’s encouraging smile on him and, bowing as best he could from his perch on the edge of one of Harriet’s neatly upholstered chairs, he accepted the invitation.
‘I will tell Mrs Heathcote,’ Rachel said, giving him a slight curtsy as she stood and hurried out of the room. Crowther could hear the rapid scuff of her shoes on the flagstones of the passageway while the door was still closing; she was running as if she were still a girl.
Harriet rose and walked up to an elegant desk at one end of the narrow salon, where she began to glance through some of the correspondence neatly piled upon it. Crowther realised that this room must be her main place of business as well as leisure. It suited her, he thought, being pleasant and practical, but without the profusion of frills and fancies that Crowther had found oppressive in many feminine apartments. The room was long and well-lit from the garden; the furniture was modern and practical but showed taste. The wall behind the desk was lined with volumes bound in brown leather, and the little objets d’art collected on the side-tables and above the mantel were interesting and well-chosen for the spaces they occupied. Her husband had obviously collected a deal of prize money as well as household staff on his voyages, and delivered his wealth to a careful manager. Harriet put the papers back down on her desk with a sigh.
‘Nothing of importance here, I think. Well then, sir. Shall we dine?’
Normally when the shop bell rang while they were at table, Jane would go into the public room and let them know if the master was required. Since she had now left for her parents’ home, Susan leaped to her feet when they heard the bright brass chime in the parlour and dashed into the shop before her father could put down his napkin.
She had forgotten about the yellow-faced man. He closed the shop door carefully behind him and pulled down the blind, then turned towards her with the same unpleasant smile of the morning. She came to a sudden stop in front of him. He took a step forward and bent down to her.
‘And what is your name, young lady?’ His breath smelled like Shambles Lane where the butchers threw the meat that had spoiled.
‘Susan Adams.’ This seemed to amuse him.
‘Adams, is it? That’s charming, charming. And is your father at home, Susan Adams, and your little brother?’
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Susan turned to see her father, his coat off and his eyes severe, coming into the room. He came up behind her and gently moved her out of the way. She slunk gratefully behind him a little, glad he kept his hand on her shoulder.
The man looked deep into her father’s eyes for what seemed a very long time, before saying, ‘I believe you can, sir. I was told to give you a message from the Hall.’
Susan saw the man move, and heard her father grunt as he did sometimes when picking up a bundle of scores. He pressed down suddenly on her shoulder and she stumbled under his weight; they landed heavily on the floor together. She struggled to sit, and looked up in confusion. The man was standing over them, still smiling. He was holding something in his hand she had not noticed before, red and wet. She could hear her father breathing hard, ragged. She turned to him; his hand was pressed to his side where he had been struck, his eyes wide with surprise. She looked up again at the yellow man for explanation. The man looked back.
‘Stay easy, child. It’ll all be over soon enough.’
She could not move, but her hand found her father’s and she felt it grip her own. Jonathan, bored at being left so long, wandered into the doorway.
‘May I eat the pie crust if you do not want it,
Mr Crowther felt Miss Trench’s encouraging smile on him and, bowing as best he could from his perch on the edge of one of Harriet’s neatly upholstered chairs, he accepted the invitation.
‘I will tell Mrs Heathcote,’ Rachel said, giving him a slight curtsy as she stood and hurried out of the room. Crowther could hear the rapid scuff of her shoes on the flagstones of the passageway while the door was still closing; she was running as if she were still a girl.
Harriet rose and walked up to an elegant desk at one end of the narrow salon, where she began to glance through some of the correspondence neatly piled upon it. Crowther realised that this room must be her main place of business as well as leisure. It suited her, he thought, being pleasant and practical, but without the profusion of frills and fancies that Crowther had found oppressive in many feminine apartments. The room was long and well-lit from the garden; the furniture was modern and practical but showed taste. The wall behind the desk was lined with volumes bound in brown leather, and the little objets d’art collected on the side-tables and above the mantel were interesting and well-chosen for the spaces they occupied. Her husband had obviously collected a deal of prize money as well as household staff on his voyages, and delivered his wealth to a careful manager. Harriet put the papers back down on her desk with a sigh.
‘Nothing of importance here, I think. Well then, sir. Shall we dine?’
Normally when the shop bell rang while they were at table, Jane would go into the public room and let them know if the master was required. Since she had now left for her parents’ home, Susan leaped to her feet when they heard the bright brass chime in the parlour and dashed into the shop before her father could put down his napkin.
She had forgotten about the yellow-faced man. He closed the shop door carefully behind him and pulled down the blind, then turned towards her with the same unpleasant smile of the morning. She came to a sudden stop in front of him. He took a step forward and bent down to her.
‘And what is your name, young lady?’ His breath smelled like Shambles Lane where the butchers threw the meat that had spoiled.
‘Susan Adams.’ This seemed to amuse him.
‘Adams, is it? That’s charming, charming. And is your father at home, Susan Adams, and your little brother?’
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Susan turned to see her father, his coat off and his eyes severe, coming into the room. He came up behind her and gently moved her out of the way. She slunk gratefully behind him a little, glad he kept his hand on her shoulder.
The man looked deep into her father’s eyes for what seemed a very long time, before saying, ‘I believe you can, sir. I was told to give you a message from the Hall.’
Susan saw the man move, and heard her father grunt as he did sometimes when picking up a bundle of scores. He pressed down suddenly on her shoulder and she stumbled under his weight; they landed heavily on the floor together. She struggled to sit, and looked up in confusion. The man was standing over them, still smiling. He was holding something in his hand she had not noticed before, red and wet. She could hear her father breathing hard, ragged. She turned to him; his hand was pressed to his side where he had been struck, his eyes wide with surprise. She looked up again at the yellow man for explanation. The man looked back.
‘Stay easy, child. It’ll all be over soon enough.’
She could not move, but her hand found her father’s and she felt it grip her own. Jonathan, bored at being left so long, wandered into the doorway.
‘May I eat the pie crust if you do not want it,
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