by Tessa Harris
“I know you think I had something to do with your brother’s death,” he said softly. His words pricked at her skin like so many hot needles and she suddenly felt a pang of disloyalty. Her husband’s accusations, delivered as they were with all the vulnerability of a wounded child, jolted her back to reality and she darted ’round to face him.
“You are my husband,” she began, “and my first duty is to you, but we need to rid ourselves of this suspicion once and for all.” She went to him and tried to take his hands in hers, but he pushed her away.
“Rather you feel I need to rid myself of suspicion,” he corrected her.
She sighed deeply and looked into his eyes. It was almost as if they belonged to a stranger. There had been a time when she could gaze far into his soul, as if it were a deep pool, and know exactly what lay at the bottom. Now suspicion muddied those clear waters until they had become unfathomable. “I beg you, for all our sakes,” she pleaded, “let the surgeon do his work.”
Chapter 10
The call came at dusk. Thomas was seated on a chair by the window reading, endeavoring to catch the feeble rays from a streetlamp outside in Broad Street. Now and again he became distracted by calls from drunken scholars, pouring out of the tippling houses, or by the rattle of a carriage. In the distance Great Tom, the Christ Church bell, was striking a seemingly endless toll. He thought it quaint to give a bell an intimate name, like an old friend. He thought, too, of Professor Hascher, ensconced in his study there, surrounded by books and body parts. The effects of the schnapps would be wearing off now and the cavity where once his tooth had been rooted would be throbbing. He had been generous enough to offer the services of his laboratory and Thomas wondered if he would be called upon to need them.
He returned to his papers once more. The author’s hand was difficult to decipher and he found himself squinting to try and make sense of the treatise. He had been given only one candle to last him the night, but he knew the light would soon defeat him. His eyes were strained and he was just about to submit to the darkness when there came a knock at the door. His heart missed a beat. He had been half expecting it, but not quite so soon.
Jacob Lovelock stood nervously at the doorway. Thomas recognized him from earlier on in the day by his pockmarked face.
“Dr. Silkstone?” The servant spoke in a coarse whisper, as if it was something that was quite alien to him to speak in a hushed tone.
Thomas nodded and bade him enter immediately, checking that no one was loitering on the darkened landing. The servant wasted no time in delivering his message. “Her ladyship says you must present yourself to the Oxford coroner first off tomorrow morning. There is to be an in ... an in ...” He stumbled over an unfamiliar word, which he had been obliged to learn specially for the mission.
“Inquest?” coaxed Thomas.
“Yes, sir,” nodded a grateful Jacob.
The young doctor delved into his purse and pressed a few coins into the man’s grimy hand. “Go back to your mistress and tell her I will do as she bids.”
The servant touched his cratered forehead with his forefinger and was turning to go when Thomas called him back.
“Be careful,” he warned. “No one must see you leave.” Jacob nodded once more and slipped out into the shadows. A moment later he emerged at the front of the inn and Thomas watched him mount his horse that had been tethered outside and then ride off. He only hoped no one else had noticed him, too.
He turned and looked around the unfamiliar room that was now in almost total darkness. The bed, the solitary chair, the washstand in the corner, and the wardrobe by the door made him crave the comforts of his own room in London and he suddenly found himself wondering what on earth he had become involved in. All this secrecy and intrigue—he was a surgeon, not a spy. The next morning he would present himself to the coroner and offer his expertise in the service of an inquest at the behest of a total stranger. What the coroner must never know, of course, was that Thomas had come to Oxford at the request of Lady Farrell, sister of the deceased in question. If any link were discovered, his integrity and independence would be immediately called into question and any of his findings thrown into doubt. His career would be over, his reputation in tatters. Yet he was prepared to risk it all. Why, he asked himself, as he sat watching the flame of his candle flail around as if gasping for oxygen. It was certainly not for monetary gain. He had already made up his mind not to accept any payment for his services. He gazed into the dying flame and saw Lydia’s hauntingly beautiful face appear, and just before it breathed its last and expired, his question was answered.
Michael Farrell sat alone in his study, cradling a glass of brandy in his hand. He had allowed the fire to die down so that it was now only a mass of glowing embers. Lydia had retired shortly after dinner, excusing herself with a headache after the journey from London. She had sensed his anger toward her, although he had tried to hide it. He felt she was clinging to some naive belief that once this surgeon had wrought his magic they would know for sure what had killed her brother and that he, Michael, would be able to clear his tarnished name.
Sometimes he wondered at his wife’s gullibility. He was angry, too, that she had gone behind his back, deliberately deceived him and called in this anatomist from London, whose presence would surely only complicate matters. He had no faith in these quacks. After all they had shown themselves to be a lily-livered lot, allowing themselves to desert their professional duties because they did not have the stomach for a turning corpse. What could this charlatan, a colonist according to Lydia, be capable of that English doctors were not?
The captain shrugged, as if reiterating to himself the futility of it all. The brandy was calming him down, but making him feel moribund. He prodded the fire with the poker and it momentarily sprang into life, spewing out red-hot embers and letting out an odd hissing sound. Once more he was reminded of Edward’s last moments; the cries, the blood around the mouth, those bulging eyes. Again, he cast his mind back to that fateful morning. Nothing had seemed out of order. The bout of vomiting and diarrhea from which he had suffered the previous week only troubled him for a day or two and he was shortly restored to his normal spirits.
Edward had risen earlier than usual, perhaps, that morning, recalled Farrell, but he assumed he went for a ride along the gallops. He saw him go out of the back door and cross the courtyard toward the stables. It was not uncustomary for him to rise at dawn on light mornings and saddle up his mare. His medication sometimes caused him severe headaches and he would often say that fresh air and exercise were the only palliatives that eased his discomfort.
He had taken his breakfast in the company of his mama and then announced he would be going fishing down at Plover’s Lake on the southeastern corner of the estate. Farrell recalled he had been reading the newspaper at the time. He never liked to engage in conversation with his brother-in-law. It almost invariably ended in a row. He endured his endless prattling for Lydia’s sake, but now and again he succumbed to the urge to throw the odd barbed comment toward Edward.
Farrell had taken an instant aversion to the spindly youth when he first clapped eyes on him while visiting him at Eton. He saw him boxing his fag around the ears for no good reason other than he looked him in the eye, and from that day he realized that his young brother-in-law was not only puny and physically unappealing, but a coward and a bully, too. Of course he had hidden his contempt for the young lord until he had placed a wedding band on his sister’s finger, but after that day he had made no attempt to conceal his disdain.
As Eliza poured tea to take to her mistress on that particular morning, he remembered reminding Edward that the apothecary was bringing a new batch of physick later. “ ’Twould be a pity to miss a dose,” he had remarked sarcastically. The young earl had turned and snarled, baring his uneven teeth. He sometimes reminded Farrell of a rat, not only in nature but also in his rodentlike looks. He loved to bait his irksome brother-in-law, especially in front of the servants, but the irony o
f his words now haunted him.
The embers had settled down to a warming glow once more and the captain was contemplating pouring himself another brandy when he heard footsteps outside. Hannah suddenly appeared in the room, looking strained. The woman was still in mourning for her lost daughter and Farrell noted that her suffering had etched itself in her face. Streaks of white now flecked the auburn hair that peeped under her cap.
“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, but Farrell sensed there was more to her question than a mere eagerness to serve. He smiled at her.
“Yes.” He held out his empty glass and she took it over to the sideboard, set it down, and lifted the stopper off the decanter. He watched her and saw that she was shaking.
“Steady now,” he called across the room as the stopper fell out of her grasp and clattered, thankfully unbroken, onto the rug below. Once more the tears flowed freely as the servant suddenly broke down, lifting her apron up to her face. Farrell rose and went over to her, putting a comforting arm around her. He had long abandoned any sense of propriety when it came to female members of staff.
“There, there,” he comforted her. She looked at him with reddened eyes. “What is it?”
“Will they tell me to say things in court, sir, about his lordship?” she asked with all the vulnerability of a helpless child.
Farrell paused, slightly nonplussed by the maidservant’s question. “You saw what happened to your master, did you not, Hannah?”
“I’ll never forget it, sir. His eyes, the blood ...”
The Irishman nodded impatiently, not wishing to relive the scene. “Then I am afraid you must tell the coroner what you saw.”
She nodded slowly, regaining her composure. Farrell took the decanter and poured out a glass of brandy. He was just about to down it himself, when he thought better of it and offered it to Hannah. “Here, drink this,” he told her. She looked at him and took the glass, gulping from it quickly, as if it were some vile-tasting medicine. With an outstretched hand he stroked her arm in a gesture of comfort. His hand brushed her bare lower arm and she lifted her head toward his.
“Sir, Mr. Lavington is here to see you.” Howard’s unbidden voice broke the moment. He stood agitated at the doorway, then, suddenly realizing what he had just witnessed, he became even more harassed. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said disapprovingly, “but he said it was important... .”
James Lavington also appeared, wearing a worried expression on the side of his face that was not paralyzed. Farrell smiled. “That will be all, Howard. Leave us now.” He turned to Hannah. “You, too,” he instructed and he guided his friend inside the study.
“I came as soon as I heard,” said Lavington, accepting the glass of brandy Farrell handed him. “ ’Tis the talk of the village.” Both men sat down in front of the fire. Lavington was tense, hunching over his glass.
“The godfather is behind it,” Farrell said.
“Sir Montagu? I see,” nodded Lavington.
“He would do anything to exact his revenge on me.” The Irishman’s voice was strangely measured and calm. Lavington was silent for a moment and sipped at his brandy as if taking in the gravity of the situation.
“These inquests are usually thorough affairs, Farrell,” he said earnestly. As a lawyer, he had been present at two while in India and knew that any coroner worth his salt would explore every avenue, especially in a case such as the young earl’s.
The captain let out a forced laugh. “I imagine they will try and find out how Crick died,” he countered sarcastically.
Lavington looked annoyed. “They will call witnesses. They will probe. Awkward questions will be asked.” Farrell had rarely seen his friend look so apprehensive. He had played with him for high stakes at some of the most unforgiving tables in Bath and Cheltenham and he had always kept his composure, but tonight his nerves were clearly on edge. Farrell gazed deep into his half-empty glass. “I do not doubt that you are right and that is why it is important that when I am called, and if you are called, we have our story straight.”
Chapter 11
Shortly after nine o’clock in the morning Thomas presented himself at Oxford Coroner’s Court. The clerk, a man with a weasel face, looked at him suspiciously. “What is the purpose of your visit?” he quizzed.
“I am a surgeon and anatomist, come from London, and wish to see Sir Theodisius Pettigrew,” said Thomas, trying to appear confident. Lady Lydia had told him the coroner’s name before, but all the same a sickly feeling rose in the pit of his stomach and traveled up as far as his gullet.
“I will see if he is available,” said the clerk, rising from his desk and walking to the double doors behind him. He knocked, poked his head into the gloomy study beyond, and then nodded to Thomas.
Sir Theodisius Pettigrew sat behind a large desk, eating. A white napkin was tucked into his collar and held in place by the lowest of his three chins. By the looks of it, he had been eating for some time, thought Thomas; such were the dollops of egg yolk and spots of grease on the linen. In front of him were several plates, some empty, and some still piled high with food. There was a side of ham, some quails’ eggs, a truckle of cheddar, and a dish of pickles, together with a loaf of bread.
The coroner looked up and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Dr. Silkstone, is it?” He extended his hand, but did not rise. Thomas surmised the effort of lifting his corpulent frame from the chair would be too much for him.
“Have you breakfasted?” he asked.
“Thank you, yes,” Thomas replied, even though he had not.
The coroner dabbed the corners of his mouth with the napkin and smiled broadly to reveal two blackened stumps in his mouth. “So, what brings you here from London?”
Thomas had anticipated the question and told Sir Theodisius that he was a student of the famous Dr. Carruthers, and was visiting a fellow anatomist, Professor Hascher, at Christ Church.
It just so happened, Thomas explained, that the professor had told him about the strange case of young Lord Crick and, intrigued, he wondered if he might be of any assistance.
“Poor devil’s beyond help,” exclaimed the coroner, suddenly grabbing a chicken leg and taking a large bite out of it. “I ordered an inquest into the death only yesterday. Funny business.” He tore away at the leg voraciously, as if the excitement made him hungry. “Gossip, rumor, tittle-tattle. Murder. Money. Revenge! Such a to-do! Had to do something!”
Thomas, accustomed as he was to dissecting organs and dismembering dead bodies, had to force himself to look at the coroner while he ate.
“I believe the corpse is in an advanced state of decomposition,” he ventured.
Sir Theodisius shook his head so that the rolls of fat that covered his face quivered with the effort. He leaned forward, as if to impart to Thomas something that must stay within the four walls of his office.
“Two surgeons were tasked to conduct one but failed.” He paused and then lowered his voice, as if trying to be discreet. “Too far gone,” he mouthed before returning to his chicken leg.
“That was last week?” asked Thomas.
Sir Theodisius nodded. “Last Thursday. Surely there is nothing you can do on that score?” He tossed the fleshless chicken bone onto an empty plate and tore away a crust from the loaf.
“I would very much like leave to conduct a postmortem examination, sir,” said Thomas.
Sir Theodisius choked on his bread and reached for his ale. “But the fellow’ll be half eaten by now,” he protested.
The turn of phrase was unfortunate, given the circumstances, but Thomas ignored it. “I know it will not be easy, but I may be able to discern certain vital information,” insisted the young doctor.
Sir Theodisius chewed his bread thoughtfully. “You mean you might be able to ascertain the cause of death?” he asked.
“Precisely.”
“That would be most useful,” acknowledged the coroner, wiping his fingers on his napkin. He leaned back in his chair and let out a
belch, which he did not try to disguise. “I shall prepare the necessary papers.”
Thomas looked earnest. “You understand that time is of the essence?”
Sir Theodisius tried to click his fingers, but the amount of grease on them prevented him from doing so. Instead he called out aloud and in marched the clerk.
“Personally I believe that time has run out as far as a postmortem is concerned, but I will bow to the opinion of an expert,” he said graciously. “Fetch me the exhumation order papers,” he instructed, then, dipping the nib of his quill into his inkpot, he said to Thomas: “The sooner we get to the bottom of this whole ghastly business, the better.”
Chapter 12
Lydia breathed in the scent of aromatic thymes and pungent sages. The delights of the potager were relatively new to her. She loved spending time in the kitchen garden, surrounded by the sweet-smelling herbs and the colors of the fruits and vegetables. The head gardener, Amos Kidd, had given her a great enthusiasm for gardening and she now found herself taking delight in the exquisite symmetry of his planting, in the manner in which he positioned arrangements of shrubs and trees to enhance their neighbors’ hues and shapes and in the way that patterns could be created with plants just as tapestries with stitches. Kidd kept the garden well stocked with all manner of herbs from bergamot to bay, each having a specific purpose. For its antiseptic qualities there was woad, and to flavor beer there was costmary. The roots of elecampane were good for treating bronchial complaints and cinnamon was an excellent purgative.
