Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  He walked over to Carruthers and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Primum non nocerum,” he declared.

  The words of affirmation from the Hippocratic Corpus brought a smile to the old man’s lips.

  “Quite right.” Carruthers nodded and clapped his hands as if spontaneously applauding Hippocrates himself. “Never forget you must first do no harm, dear boy.”

  “I shall not, sir,” Thomas assured him.

  Returning to his case, the young doctor was about to resume his preparations for travel when Mistress Finesilver, the anatomists’ peevish housekeeper and cook, arrived at the open laboratory door. She sucked in her cheeks and took a deep breath as she handed a missive to Thomas on a salver.

  “A message came for you not two minutes ago, sir,” she told him with an unthinking curtsy.

  Opening the seal, Thomas read the letter. It was from Sir Theodisius Pettigrew, the Oxford coroner and his most powerful ally in his battle against Sir Montagu.

  “Well, young fellow?” Carruthers tapped his stick impatiently.

  Thomas looked up. “It seems, sir, that I will need to break my journey in Oxford before I reach Boughton.”

  “Oh? And why might that be?” asked a baffled Dr. Carruthers.

  “Sir Theodisius wishes to see me urgently,” he replied. “There’s been a murder on the Boughton Estate.”

  Chapter 3

  There had been a hanging at Oxford. Or, more precisely, three. After breaking his journey in Amersham, Thomas arrived in the city shortly after eight o’clock in the morning, to see a stream of people flowing from the gates of the castle. Some women seemed most distressed and in need of comfort. He shot a look into the courtyard as his carriage passed and saw that the gallows had recently taken the weight of three men. They still hung from the crossbeam like limp rag poppets. Yet the mood among the spectators was not one of raucous celebration, as he had so often witnessed at Tyburn. Those who came away from watching the gruesome spectacle seemed more solemn and reflective. There were those who seemed even angry, the scowls on their faces speaking of some great injustice. A few hapless souls clustered ’round the dead men’s feet with cups to catch any sweat that might drip from their corpses. Thomas knew they believed the secretions contained healing properties. He turned his head away with a mixture of despair and disgust.

  The carriage set him down in the High and he ordered his baggage to be taken to the Jolly Trooper, where Sir Theodisius had booked him a room. From there he made his way to the coroner’s office. It was only a short walk, and after the rigors of the journey he felt as stiff as a wrung-out rag and was glad to stretch his aching limbs.

  Ushered into his office by the coroner’s familiar sneezing clerk, Thomas found his old friend chomping his way through a pear, the juice squelching down his chin.

  “Silkstone, my dear fellow! How good to see you,” Sir Theodisius called through his mouthful, then in a more measured mood, added, “But at such a testing time.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “You have heard no word of her lady-ship?” The coroner frowned as he spoke and cocked his head. He and his wife, Lady Harriet, had remained childless and regarded Lydia with an affection that would have been shown to their own daughter. He had already gleaned from the aggrieved expression on the young doctor’s face that she was not faring well in Bethlem.

  “It seems I am forbidden to see her ladyship,” Thomas replied, seating himself on the edge of the chair.

  “Malthus?” asked the coroner, wiping his juice-spattered chin with a napkin.

  “I can think of no other reason, sir,” conceded Thomas.

  Sir Theodisius nodded. “He is tightening his grip,” he muttered cryptically, eyeing the bowl of fruit that sat on his desk.

  “Your note spoke of a murder,” said Thomas, still unaware of the circumstances of his summons. His own eyes settled on the fruit. He noted that one of the pears was overripe and a dark brown stain of mold was blooming on its skin.

  Sir Theodisius paused to frame his reply, fingering a goblet of claret on his desk with his sticky fingers. “Yes. Murder. A most distressing affair,” he said. “An old friend of mine, as a matter of fact.”

  Thomas showed his concern. “What happened, sir?”

  The coroner relaxed into his chair and sighed deeply. “ ’Tis a long story, Silkstone.”

  “I shall not leave until I hear it,” replied the doctor, dipping his brows.

  “Then you’ll be needing one of these,” the coroner said, reaching forward and pouring out another glass of claret. He pushed it across the desk to Thomas, then took another gulp of his own, as if he needed the strength it gave him to continue. “Great changes are afoot at Boughton,” he began.

  “Changes?” Thomas leaned forward in his seat.

  Sir Theodisius heaved his frame closer to Thomas, his elbows on the desk. He lowered his voice. “An Act of Enclosure was lodged at the quarter sessions last month.”

  “Enclosure?” Thomas repeated. The implications of such an act were not entirely familiar to him. Even so, he knew it would involve the fencing off of much of the Boughton Estate. His mind flashed to the common land, with its vast acreage that was home to cattle, geese, and pigs; the wetlands, too, around Plover’s Lake. He thought of the beech forests that skirted the village of Brandwick and covered the surrounding hills, and he thought of the people who relied upon them. Such land, held as it was by the community, bestowed its bounty without charge, or stint as it was known. He knew it to support many a man and his family. At this time of year, the woods would be singing to the sound of saws as the beeches were pollarded, their branches cut for firewood and their canopies thinned so that animals could graze on the growth below.

  “This will have a most detrimental effect on all those who live on the estate and in Brandwick,” Thomas ventured.

  The coroner’s shoulders suddenly shook in a mocking laugh.

  “My dear boy, ’twill change everything. It means that Sir Montagu is applying to take control of the whole area, to use the land for his own profit.”

  Thomas paused for a moment, digesting the unwelcome news.

  “And he can do this with the sanction of the law?”

  Sir Theodisius nodded. “Young Richard is his ward. Malthus argues that he is acting in his best interests and that enclosure is necessary for economic improvement. Remember he is a lawyer, too. His case will be watertight.”

  The coroner’s logic made perfect sense to Thomas. Sir Montagu’s estate near Banbury bordered Boughton at its northernmost reach. It was as if a fog had suddenly lifted to reveal the lawyer’s real intentions. The man’s machinations were even more far-reaching than Thomas had ever envisaged. He had always believed that the enmity Sir Montagu had shown him was purely personal, that it was entirely due to his American citizenship. He had never imagined that there was some greater plan for the control of the Boughton Estate. Yet here it was, evidence that his adversary had set his sights on a bigger prize.

  Thomas looked at the coroner incredulously. “So this is why he wanted Lydia put away, to add Boughton to his own lands and profit from their annexation.”

  “Exactly so,” said Sir Theodisius, nodding. He took another gulp of claret.

  “And he would make the young earl his puppet while . . .”

  “. . . while the Right Honorable Nicholas Lupton holds sway on his behalf.”

  Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “And this act will give him even more power.”

  “Indeed,” said the coroner with a nod. “The common land and the woodlands where parishioners are allowed to roam freely will be fenced off and become exclusively part of the Boughton Estate. The villagers will lose their rights to graze their cattle, to gather firewood, to catch rabbits—” He broke off, shaking his head in tacit disagreement with the policy.

  Thomas was aware of the new thinking in agriculture. He had seen for himself the puny cattle and the bare-worn grass of the commons. He knew from inspecting Boughton’s own led
gers that the common harvest never yielded as much as those crops planted on estate land. He’d heard landowners argue that the soil possessed by many in common was neglected by all and that greater efficiency and productivity could be achieved only by taking complete control of it. And yet he was also aware that such progress came at a price and the poor would have to pay for it.

  “Will there be no compensation?”

  Sir Theodisius heaved his great shoulders. “Some landowners are fair. Tenants are granted allotments in return for giving up their parcels of land, but you know as well as I, Silkstone, that fairness and decency are not words in Montagu Malthus’s vocabulary.”

  Thomas thought of Brandwick’s poor cottagers, the people whose meager homes he had entered on so many occasions to treat their various ills. Their misfortunes were often brought on by their wretched living conditions. Lydia had made it her goal to improve the lot of her tenants, but now Malthus, it seemed, wished to reverse their fortunes. He appeared intent not on mending their roofs and repairing their windows, but on driving these people out altogether.

  “But surely the villagers will protest?”

  Sir Theodisius raised a brow. “If they do they’ll end up dangling at the end of a rope like the peasants this morning.”

  The image of the three lifeless bodies strung up from the gallows resurfaced in Thomas’s mind. “They were hanged for protesting?”

  “Arson. They set fire to a hayrick, and I doubt if they’ll be the last to resort to such violence.”

  “And you fear the same will happen at Boughton?”

  “I fear it has already started.”

  “Your friend’s murder?” asked Thomas.

  Sir Theodisius raised his hands and rolled his eyes in a gesture of despair. “Jeffrey Turgoose was his name. Known him since Eton. Fine surveyor with a practice here in Oxford. I saw him last month. Told me he had been commissioned to work at Boughton, asked to make a preliminary map of the whole estate before the posting of the Act of Enclosure.”

  “So that Sir Montagu knows just how much land he would control?” interrupted Thomas.

  “Exactly so, but Turgoose was having trouble—I knew that much.”

  “Trouble?”

  “The villagers resented his work. Jeered and taunted him and his chainman as they went about measuring. I dined with him one evening. Told me his surveying chains had been sabotaged.” The coroner paused to slurp more claret. “He was mapping the woodland when he was shot.”

  “Shot?” echoed Thomas. The word rang out across the room. “And you think one or more of the villagers killed him?”

  “Malthus thinks so. He looks on each and every man, woman, and child as guilty. He’s enforcing a curfew, and until the murderer is caught, the entire village will suffer.” The coroner’s eyes had settled once more on the bowl of fruit.

  “And you, sir? Who do you think is responsible?”

  Sir Theodisius shrugged and reached for the moldy pear.

  “A vengeful villager, a highwayman—I believe the woods are plagued by them. . . .” The coroner’s voice trailed off as he considered the options.

  “I see,” said Thomas. He knew that Sir Theodisius was looking to him to uncover the perpetrator of this heinous act. Moreover, until the surveyor’s murderer was apprehended, the people of Brandwick would continue to endure their new master’s wrath. The killing offered Sir Montagu the perfect excuse to run roughshod over the whole community. “And you wish me to conduct a postmortem on Mr. Turgoose?”

  The coroner was studying the moldy pear as it lay in the palm of his hand; then, without warning, he closed his fist ’round it and squeezed. It squelched in his hand, so that the juice oozed through his fingers, leaving behind a mushy pulp. He looked up at Thomas, who had been observing him with a strange fascination.

  “His body arrived this morning,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  Sir Montagu Malthus received Gilbert Fothergill in his study at Draycott House, near Banbury. His clerk’s arrival from London just as the light was fading could not have been more fortuitous, coming as it did at the end of a meeting with the neighboring landowners. Of course there had been some expectation that the good news would arrive that day, but the way in which the little man entered the room, flourishing this most important scroll, proved, in the lawyer’s opinion, rather a coup de théâtre.

  Nor did Fothergill arrive a moment too soon. Talk had inevitably turned to the murder of the Boughton surveyor three days before. Sir Montagu had shaken his head and said he was doing all in his power to apprehend the vile peasants who had carried out such a villainous crime. It was an unwelcome diversion from the matter in hand, so when the clerk arrived from London, his mood lightened.

  Present that afternoon was the elderly and ailing Sir John Thorndike, whose estate bordered Boughton, along with Lord William Fitzwarren, the owner of three thousand acres in Northamptonshire, and the Earl of Rainton, whose lands also fell within the proposed, but as yet most secret, scheme. Another landowner, Sir Arthur Warbeck, who happened to be Brandwick’s magistrate, was also present. Nicholas Lupton had ridden up from Boughton Hall that morning.

  Fothergill had clearly not expected such a reception. Never a man given to showing his emotions, he nevertheless managed a gracious, if slightly awkward, nod of his gray goat-wigged head as the gentlemen rose and applauded his entrance.

  “Bravo!” guffawed Lord Fitzwarren, a ruddy-faced man and the loudest of them all.

  “Hear, hear!” echoed Rainton and Lupton in unison.

  Sir John Thorndike, however, remained seated. His heart condition was growing steadily worse. Nevertheless, he still managed to raise his glass of sack to Fothergill.

  Sir Montagu stood to pat the bemused clerk on the back. It was the first time he had shown such a gesture of appreciation to Fothergill in more than thirty years’ service.

  “So, gentlemen,” he began, “we have successfully reached the first milestone in our exciting journey.” He was beaming as he scanned the assembled faces for shows of appreciation.

  “But there are many more hurdles to jump,” butted in Lupton, continuing the traveling analogy.

  Sir Montagu threw him a disapproving look. There was no love lost between the two men. It suited the lawyer’s purpose to have Lupton in place at Boughton as his temporary steward, but he was not showing himself to be the man of vision Sir Montagu had originally thought. Rather too egotistical, he felt, although time would tell.

  “But we shall overcome them!” exclaimed Fitzwarren, as bullish as ever.

  From his seat, Sir John nodded. “Indeed we shall, but it will take time.”

  Rainton concurred. “’Twill be another year until the act is passed, at the earliest.”

  Sir Montagu was clearly irked by his companions’ wavering. “But it will be passed. Of that there can be no doubt, and in the meantime, we can enlist the support of more backers, gentlemen. Do you not see? We cannot fail in our endeavors.”

  Rainton, however, seemed unconvinced. “And what of the objectors?”

  Lupton shot an anxious look at Sir Montagu, who parried the question. “A minor setback.” He nodded dismissively.

  Rainton snorted. “You call the murder of your surveyor a minor setback?” he retorted, casting around for support from his fellow landowners.

  Sir John nodded and looked pointedly at Sir Montagu. “The villagers obviously hold you responsible for depriving them of their beloved Lady Lydia and stepping too hastily into her shoes,” he said plainly, adding: “There is a general ill feeling at Boughton and in Brandwick.”

  “ ’Twas ever thus among the proletariat,” sneered Fitzwarren, coming to the lawyer’s rescue.

  Sir Montagu’s nostrils flared as he shot a look of disdain at the ailing old knight.

  “Those responsible will be made an example of; I can assure you of that, gentlemen,” he said, adding: “And, of course, Lupton, as my steward, will see that order is kept on the estate and in the village
.”

  “So you are the proverbial whipping boy?” said Rainton, fixing a look of cynical amusement on Lupton. The steward’s expression remained neutral, even though inwardly he acknowledged he would be the one to bear the brunt of the villagers’ wrath.

  Before he could answer, Sir John piped up. “Speaking of boys, where is young Crick?” he croaked. “Where are you hiding him, Malthus?”

  Sir Montagu straightened his back and sniffed. “Not hiding him; merely shielding him from harmful outside influences, sir.”

  “Does that include us?” Fitzwarren quipped before bursting, once more, into a fit of laughter.

  “May we see him?” asked Rainton, ignoring his colleague. “After all, it is he who will ultimately benefit from our scheme.”

  The lawyer thought for a moment. Lydia’s son had been made a ward of the court of Chancery, and he was his guardian. “Very well,” he said, pulling the bell cord. A few seconds later his butler was taking instructions to bring in Richard Crick. Before the young earl arrived, however, Sir Montagu had a word of warning for those assembled.

  “This matter must be treated with the utmost discretion, gentlemen. If word gets out, I needn’t remind you that all hell will break loose.”

  Lupton raised a brow. “ ’Tis bad enough now. There is general disquiet among the villagers about us raising rents.”

  Rainton concurred. “The lower sort could prove a great thorn in our sides. There have been riots at Fritwick.”