by Tessa Harris
Wrapping a shawl around herself, Lydia slipped out of the French doors and through the kitchen garden. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was not being watched, she opened the heavy gate in the wall and took the path that led past the game larder and onto the track up to the pavilion.
The path was dry underfoot as it had not rained for the past three days. She walked quickly, now and again stopping to catch her breath and to take in the view. Halfway up she allowed herself a moment to drink in the vista of the dark clumps of trees and the sweeping parkland below before marching on toward the top of the hill.
The wooden structure of the pavilion looked inviting in the sunset, the gentle rays reflecting off the white painted planks. She remembered her father designing it with the help of an architect, the long piece of parchment laid out on his desk in the study. She had spent many a happy hour playing in the copse nearby as her father had sat and drawn or written inside his retreat and now she felt it was hers. She was glad in a way that her dear Papa had been spared the nightmare of Edward’s death. He and his only son had not always seen eye-to-eye. He did not approve of his libertine ways and on more than one occasion had withdrawn his allowance, but he would have been heartbroken at his death.
Lydia opened the glass-paneled doors and walked inside. It smelled damp and uninviting, so different from how it used to be when Papa was alive and the smell of his tobacco hung sweetly on the air. Cobwebs were now festooned in the corners and rats had chewed a hole in the floorboards, leaving a pile of droppings in their wake. She made a mental note to tell Kidd to see that the place was thoroughly cleaned.
Such neglect made her feel uneasy again and the anger returned once more. “I should not have come to this place,” she told herself and was just about to close the door behind her when she saw, tucked away in a corner, a stone jar, about the size of a pitcher, with a narrow neck plugged by a cork. She stopped for a moment, then bent down and picked it up. Liquid slopped around inside as she did so. It felt quite heavy, so she balanced it on the window ledge as she gently tugged at the stopper. It came off with little resistance. Cautiously she put her face closer to the neck so that she could sniff the contents, but she did not have to bend too far before she knew. It was that smell that was so familiar to her, which she had smelled so often in the glasshouse and outside by the compost heap in the kitchen garden and by the rubbish pile at the back of the stables. The smell that was so commonplace and so repellent. It was the smell of bitter almonds.
Chapter 17
Thomas worked into the early hours of the morning. It was as if that small blue bottle, given to him by Mr. Peabody, had wrought a spell on him. He was convinced it held secrets; strange and exotic properties that could exercise the power of life or death over living beings. By themselves they may seem harmless enough, yet mixed together, in certain ratios, they may prove lethal.
When he became too tired to stand at his workbench, he sat down at his desk. First he would test whether the substance was acid or alkaline by dipping in a piece of litmus paper, which had been impregnated with dye obtained from lichens. If the substance was an acid, the paper would turn red, if alkaline, blue. Each result he recorded, with meticulous precision, noting the exact measurements, but none produced any surprises.
Next he began pouring a few droplets of the mysterious liquid from one phial to another. To one container he might add a few grains of sodium, to another a drop or two of citric acid, all the time waiting and watching for a reaction, a discoloration, a fermentation, or a separation. Quill in hand, Thomas was poised to record every observation. Yet after each experiment, the result was always the same. Nothing untoward or unexpected happened. The contents of the bottle remained steadfast in their refusal to yield up their secret properties.
The clock struck two and Thomas leaned back in his chair, stretching out arms that felt as tense as steel. A pain shot across his shoulders and he rubbed his aching neck with the palm of his hand. He thought of Lydia, with her large, vulnerable eyes. He had to keep going for her sake as much as his own. The inquest was only three days away and there were still so many tests to be conducted.
At that moment there was a sudden movement in the corner of the room. Thomas looked ’round quickly to see Franklin the rat, who had been content to sit in the corner all night, venturing out, as if sensing his master could do with some company. He scuttled across the floor, jumped up onto a stool by the desk, and then onto the desk itself.
Thomas smiled and held out a hand to the rodent. The rat drew nearer and sat himself down contemptuously on the pile of notes, as if he were telling Thomas to rest. But instead of shooing Franklin away, the young doctor began to stroke his furry companion.
“Tell me what I should be doing, boy. Where am I going wrong?” whispered Thomas, running his fingers gently against the rat’s back. As he did so, the rhythmic motion of the stroking made him feel even drowsier and he let his head rest gently on a pile of books that lay on his desk. But even if Franklin had been able to voice a reply, he would not have been heard, for within a few seconds, his master had fallen fast asleep. His hand fell motionless against the rodent’s back and, feeling trapped, it wriggled out of his senseless grasp. As it did so, however, it knocked over a glass jar that had contained a little water. It spilled over onto the desk and a rivulet just skirted the edge of the parchment on which Thomas had written his meticulous notes.
The clatter of hooves on cobbles woke Thomas from his deep sleep. It was the milk cart doing its early morning rounds. The recognition of the familiar sound came slowly, however, and it was not until a few seconds later that Thomas realized what had happened. He sat upright. He was still at his desk; still fully dressed and several of the phials full of ingredients that were ranged before him in a rack were still all to be tested. He felt angry with himself, but even angrier when he saw the upturned jar and the water spilled on his notes. The telltale signs of rat’s footprints were traced across another blank piece of paper.
“Franklin,” he scowled, looking at the rat preening himself disrespectfully in the corner.
Thomas picked up the sheaf of ink-written notes and stared in wonderment at the top sheet. A strange rainbow pattern had formed. Starting from the edge of the parchment where the water had been spilled, the ink had been separated into various shades and tones; each a band of color with its own distinct color. He wondered what it could mean—these strange pigmentations ranged so precisely and so orderly.
Quickly he took up another sheet of paper, dipped his quill into ink, and scribbled along the bottom. He then poured a little water into a tray that was on his desk and dipped the bottom of the paper into it. Nothing happened. Why would it? he asked himself. Wait, be patient, he told himself. Science must not be hurried. It is like a fine wine. It must be given time to mature. He would fetch Dr. Carruthers. No. He glanced at the clock. He would still be abed and besides, there was nothing to show him, apart from a strange rainbow on a page. There was nothing and there was everything. He waited, pacing the room, allowing himself only now and again to see if any more magic was being wrought by some great, unseen magician.
Five minutes past, then ten. Still nothing. How long had he been asleep? His last recollection was of the clock striking three. It was now six o’clock. This magic had been wrought in less than four hours, but if it was to occur again, it may take another four. He would have to occupy himself fruitfully in the meantime. He could not forbear like the husband of a woman in labor, waiting for the miracle of life to appear. He would carry on examining the ingredients. Next the jalap—a purgative used widely in Mexico, so he believed. Should he allow himself one more glance at the paper? He did and—what was this? As the water was sucked up into the paper, the ink began to separate, slowly but surely. Before his very eyes he saw the dyes and pigments emerge, first into red, then into light blue, then to green.
It occurred to him that if ink could be separated thus into pigments and dyes, then surely the same could be don
e for the purgative? He felt his hands start to tremble with excitement, but he must remain calm. He would conduct a similar experiment, this time using the purgative instead of the ink. If the mixture behaved in the same way, separating out into various components, then he would be making progress.
Chapter 18
Michael Farrell watched Lord Crick’s godfather and the executor of his late brother-in-law’s will descend on Boughton Hall like a great raven. Sir Montagu Malthus’s hair was jet black, his eyes hooded, his nose hooked like a beak, and he had come to pick over the carrion. He flew into his study three days before the inquest and, shoulders hunched, eyed up the family as they waited anxiously for the will to be read.
Farrell knew Sir Montagu had his own suspicions about his ward’s untimely death; he was aware of the vile murmurings, whispered accusations, loose talk in the taverns. Above all he knew he disliked him as much as he had Edward. That was why, when Farrell had extended a hand on his arrival, he was not surprised to be regarded with disdain from under black knitted brows.
“I think not, under the circumstances,” countered Sir Montagu, his voice dry and crackly.
“The circumstances are very unfortunate, sir,” acknowledged Farrell, slightly unnerved, as Sir Montagu brushed past him. The man was followed by another smaller gentleman, whom he assumed was a notary. And now there the large man sat, grave-faced and judgmental.
Directly opposite Sir Montagu stood Lydia; stiff backed and tense, like the taut string of an exquisitely crafted violin that could break at the slightest vibration. Less than an hour ago he had told her that Lavington was a beneficiary and she was still reeling from the shock. To her knowledge her brother’s only connection to James Lavington had been the fact that her husband had persuaded Edward to let his old friend lease a cottage on the estate for a peppercorn rent. As far as she knew his only association with Edward was through cards on a Thursday night. To her knowledge there was no real friendship between the two men.
And so the company waited nervously and uneasily as Sir Montagu Malthus took his seat behind a large desk.
“He suspects,” whispered Lavington to Farrell through clenched teeth.
“He is here to read the will, not pass judgment on it,” scowled the Irishman. Nevertheless he noted Lavington’s palms were clammy and his eyes were fixed to the floor.
Beyond her own anxieties Lydia was having to contend with her poor demented mother, who kept raising her right hand and calling out, as if bidding at an auction.
“I like that painting. I must have it, my dear,” she said, pointing to the gilded mirror on the opposite wall. Her daughter was trying to calm her, like a troublesome child, but to little avail.
“Lydia, my dear, please accept my deepest sympathies,” said Sir Montagu, taking the young woman’s hand. She was unaware of the less than civil exchange that had just taken place between him and her husband and she smiled politely.
“And dear Felicity,” he said, moving on to Lady Crick, who was seated next to her daughter.
“Montagu. Is that really you, Montagu?” she asked, a glint of recognition in her dull eyes.
Lydia was surprised, but delighted. “It is indeed Sir Montagu, Mama,” she said, almost breathless with pleasure at her mother’s apparent lucidity.
“ ’Tis I, Felicity. And how charming you look,” he told her, admiring the pink ribbons she sported so absurdly in her graying hair. Sir Montagu had been a loyal friend to the old earl and had spent many a pleasant sojourn there with his late wife.
“You will stay for dinner, will you not? I’ll have Mistress Claddingbowl cook your favorite mutton pie,” she told him sweetly, clasping his clawlike hand.
Lydia was amazed. Her mother’s thoughts and speech had not been so clear for weeks.
“That is kind, but my business is brief,” said Sir Montagu, managing to prize the old woman’s hand from his.
Without bothering to sit down he addressed the room. “As you know, as executor of his lordship’s will, it is my duty, along with Mr. Rathbone’s here”—he motioned to the little man beside him who had said nothing, but constantly shuffled a sheaf of papers—“to read it to you, the beneficiaries.”
Farrell shifted and Lavington cracked his knuckles in a nervous gesture, but Lydia simply kept her gaze to the floor.
The formidable gentleman continued: “As Lord Crick’s executor, it is also my duty to see that there are no improprieties in the execution of that last will and testament.” He darted a pin-sharp glance at Farrell. “However, it has come to my attention that there have been certain irregularities of which I was not aware before yesterday.”
Lydia frowned. She looked at her husband, who remained impassive. “I am afraid, therefore,” continued Sir Montagu, “that, under the questionable circumstances, I have decided to postpone this reading.”
Farrell remained calm, but Lavington leaned forward with indignant haste. “What mean you, sir?” he asked aggressively.
“Precisely what I say, Mr. Lavington.” Sir Montagu remained unruffled by the confrontation. “I have decided to await the outcome of the inquest before I read the will.”
“But you cannot do that,” protested Lavington. Farrell, clearly embarrassed by the whole episode, pulled on his friend’s arm.
“No. Please,” the captain urged, drawing his friend close to him.
Lavington, swinging ’round, caught sight of the look of consternation on Lydia’s face. It was enough to calm him. He composed himself.
“Of course, Sir Montagu. You are right,” Farrell conceded graciously, standing up and tugging at his topcoat. “But might you tell us what these irregularities are? Technicalities, surely?”
“That I cannot say, Captain Farrell, until after the inquest,” came the terse reply. It was clear Sir Montagu would not be moved.
In the hallway, Howard helped the visitor on with his large black mantle and he and his small notary swept toward the front door.
“No doubt we shall see each other at the inquest, Captain,” he croaked, and Farrell watched him and his silent associate drive off in the carriage with a feeling of inexplicable dread. It was as if he had suddenly realized that the inquest into his brother-in-law’s death would by no means be the formality for which he had hoped. Lavington joined him and together they watched the carriage turn out of the drive.
“He suspects, does he not, Farrell?” said Lavington when he was sure no one would overhear.
“Yes, my friend, I believe he does,” replied the Irishman.
Lydia joined the two men.
“May I speak with my husband, Mr. Lavington?” she asked urgently, taking Farrell by the arm and drawing him away. “Michael, what is it? There is something you are not telling me.” Her voice was poised halfway between anger and disbelief.
The Irishman raised his hand and stroked her flushed cheek. “Do not fret so, my dear. ’Tis nothing you should worry yourself over,” he told her. The charming smile appeared once more on her husband’s face, but this time Lydia could see there was apprehension in his eyes. She prayed to God that by sending the stone jar to Thomas to analyze she had done the right thing.
Chapter 19
Thomas rubbed his eyes and grimaced. It was as if the lenses were covered in shards of glass and it pained him every time he blinked. Over the past two days he had slept hardly at all. He had become a voluntary prisoner in his own laboratory as he tested each ingredient in the purgative by this new separation method and with each experiment he had witnessed a miracle of nature. He had then compared this with the ingredients he knew to be pure. He had found nothing strange nor irregular.
Each finding of each ingredient correlated exactly to the other, like a footprint on the soil or a signature on parchment. Each ingredient had its own unique pattern, its own kaleidoscope of color. There was no foreign substance present in the purgative that Mr. Peabody had given Lord Crick, at least he could be sure of that; at least he would be able to stand up at the inquest tomorrow and b
e certain of that fact, he told himself.
Two possibilities had occurred to him during the course of his experiments. Either the young earl had reacted violently to one or a combination of the ingredients used, or the purgative had been tampered with after it left Mr. Peabody’s hands.
Just then Franklin leapt up onto the ledge of an open drawer of Thomas’s desk and sniffed the air disdainfully. His master looked down at the rodent and a memory flashed through his mind. He recalled seeing the rat in the garden at Boughton Hall and Lady Lydia’s torment at seeing the rodent on the path. “I thought they’d all been poisoned,” she had wailed.
Thomas wondered what sort of poison might have been used on the vermin. His duty was to report the facts to the inquest, but he was also allowed to interpret them. Was it also his place to conjecture? He was not sure, but now that the thought had sown itself in his brain, it was rapidly taking root. He had to obtain a sample of whatever poison was used to kill rats at Boughton Hall. But how? If the still had been destroyed and with it all its produce, there could be no proof.
Sleep did not come easily to him that night. Every time he closed his eyes he would see rats, whole plagues of them overrunning the kitchen garden at Boughton Hall and in among the hordes of squeaking, undulating rodents he could see Lydia, her face full of anguish, calling for help. His heart was pumping fast, its vibrations thumping against the pillow like a drumbeat. At times like this, Thomas thought, it was a curse knowing the mechanisms of the body without knowing where the soul lay.
Will Lovelock was also finding it difficult to sleep that night, as he had every night since his sister died. His young mind kept reliving the time he had been out looking for her. She had been missing for a few hours. It was not like her. She would normally help her mother with her duties, taking out the ashes or scrubbing the kitchen floor. But on that particular day, she disappeared shortly after breakfast and no one knew where she had gone. His father had been angry, called her a “sluggard” and said he would take his belt to her when she returned. But Mother had been anxious. He could see it in her face, so that was why, after he had seen to the horses, he had made some excuse to go over to Mr. Lavington’s cottage at the far edge of the estate.
