Instruments of Darkness

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Gabriel Crowther opened his eyes.

“Mr. Crowther, sir?”

The light in the room was weak. Morning light.

“Whoever it is, send them away,” he said.

He blinked. The maid was still there.

“She won’t go, sir. It’s Mrs. Westerman from Caveley Park. She said she is determined, sir. And she said to give you this.”

The maid held out a piece of paper, staying as far away from the bed as she could, as if she feared her master would bite.

The intrusion was unusual. Crowther had done a good job of ignoring his neighbors since taking up residence in Hartswood, near Pulborough, the previous summer, and their visits had swiftly petered out. He did not need companions with whom to pass his time and had no intention of participating in diversions, picnics and subscription dinners of what passed for society in the county. The rest of the village never expected to have much to do with him, but after a month or two of observation, many of the local women found the easiest way to still a child was to threaten it with Mr. Crowther and his big knife. He was a student of anatomy. He wanted to know how bodies lived, what record a man’s life left on his physical remains, and he had the leisure and means to inquire.

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