Anatomy of Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mr Palmer saw the morning’s newspaper folded on the settee, a pile of correspondence on the writing table at the far end of the room. The pair had been camping-out in a distant corner of all this grandeur, waiting for him.

    ‘Perhaps it would be better if I explained matters from the beginning.’

    Mrs Westerman tilted her head to one side, examining him as if he were an optical illusion to be squinted at. ‘That might be best, sir.’ Her tone was somewhat clipped.

    Mr Palmer began. ‘I have already spoken to you, madam, something of these matters. I shall repeat the story for Mr Crowther’s benefit and so bring myself to the reason for my visit and my request for your assistance. If that is acceptable.’ He turned his head towards Mr Crowther’s narrow profile. The man did not look up from his contemplation of his fingernails. ‘We heard this spring that certain gentlemen of importance in the French Court were apparently crowing over some new master of intelligence they had recruited and expected to have in place in London shortly. Though we had no particulars.’ He paused. ‘The war with the American Rebels does not go well.’

    Mr Crowther glanced up at that, with a slight tilt to his eyebrows as if to say, ‘I did not need a Mr Palmer to tell me that.’

    Palmer glanced at the newspaper on the gilded couch and cleared his throat again. The government, the Admiralty were being criticised at every point, for either being too slow, or too foolhardy – both with equal vigour. The brief patriotic fervour that had flared when France made treaty with the Americans had died away. The country was sick with a war fought on the other side of the world and with people she believed to be her kin. The Navy struggled to protect trade, Spanish flags were flaunted in the Channel, and every piece of information that Palmer could not prevent slipping to the French was like a musket shot against his King. He was still young enough to feel those blows, and drive himself to greater efforts, more ingenious methods, stranger allies in his attempts to stem the flow. If the French received the intelligence they hoped from this new servant in London, it would be worth more to them than a dozen ships of the line. He thought of England as a body bleeding vital knowledge of her strategies, struggles and capacities into the waters round her coast. Better organisation of that flow could make the wounds gout blood. He must do what he could to put pressure on the injury, sew up the tear. He watched Crowther’s long fingers.

    ‘I believe the Captain found out something of that . . .’ Palmer lifted his hand to try and conjure a term from the air ‘. . . spy-master our European enemies wish to install as he interrogated the individual from the French vessel he captured in June.’

    Crowther looked at him down his long nose and said simply, ‘Why?’

    Any question was an indication of interest, surely? Palmer seized on it and turned to Crowther, speaking quickly. ‘You know, perhaps, sir, that the ship was laden with supplies for the American Rebels, and this man was not one of the naval officers. I believe his work was intelligence. Captain Westerman indicated as much to his officers after his interrogation of this individual and before his accident. He also made some expression of anger about what he referred to as “traitorous scum in every corner imaginable”. That they stained every beauty. Though what he meant by that, we cannot know.’

    Mrs Westerman stood suddenly and began to walk up and down behind her chair, her skirts sweeping over the carpet in regular clicking sighs. The contrast between her activity and Mr Crowther’s stillness was unnerving. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Palmer,’ she said agitatedly. ‘You told me as much months ago – but as I told you James remembers nothing of his last cruise as yet. There is no reason to believe he ever will. You have questioned his officers and I even gave you sight of his private