Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  He’d taught him well, showing his heir by example that the quality of the cut was more important than the tool used and that not all species of tree reacted the same. The common alder was best left untouched, and if an ash was coppiced in winter, the stool might not throw out shoots for fifteen months or more.

  Adam’s son, Jake, was also learning. Just thirteen years of age, he already knew how to slice a clean pole. But his grandfather feared the days of the younger ones could be numbered. Rumors had been blowing around like fallen leaves for days, and when the mapmakers came, the woodsmen knew them to be true. The place his family had called home for generations would soon be subject to an Act of Enclosure. The very trees they were felling would be used by the Boughton Estate to fence off not just the commons, but the forest, too. Their livelihood could be cut away anytime soon, just as surely as their saws could sever a branch from its trunk.

  When they stopped to sup their small beer close to midday, it was clear the same thoughts were troubling Adam.

  “We’re building our own coffins,” he told his father. They had become just three in an army of men Nicholas Lupton had engaged to fell trees for the very posts and fences intended to bar them from their livings.

  Young Jake was at the whetstone that had been nailed to a stump nearby, sharpening the billhooks. Adam did not want him to hear what he had to say. The older men sat on mossy trunks and ate hunks of bread. A weak sun trickled through the trees. The air smelled sweet with sap and was full of birdsong.

  “There’ll always be need for us coppicers,” replied his father through a half-chewed mouthful of crust.

  “Aye, but we won’t be our own men. We’ll be under Boughton’s yoke,” countered Adam. He’d heard the stories from Northampton and from south of High Wycombe. Families were being driven out of woodlands and off commons. Forced to pack up their belongings and leave their messuages, they had no other choice but to head for the towns and cities to find work. A few had not gone quietly. They had gathered in the village square and broken windows. They’d even fired a hayrick in Fritwick, but in the end those who weren’t jailed still had to pack up what few belongings they had and depart.

  “If this petition goes through, we’ll be turned out of the forest.” Adam clapped his hands on his broad thighs. “Mark my words.”

  Abe, his gray hair flecked with bark and twigs, shook his head. “We’ve been through hard times before, son, and we will again.”

  Adam was not so sure. His father was of the forest, a man of the trees and of the seasons. To him everything had its turn and its place, a natural order and rhythm. But life was not so simple. One family’s winter did not always give way to spring, and the promise of a good harvest was so often dashed by violent storms.

  “I’ll not stand by and do naught as they close the wood to us.” The younger man jerked his head in Jake’s direction as the boy sat peening an ax. “I owe it to myself and I owe it to him.”

  His father shrugged his withering shoulders. “You’ll do what you must do,” he said. “Like you did the other day.”

  Adam shot him a nervous look. “What do you mean?”

  Abe gave a wily nod as he recalled seeing sooty smears on his son’s forehead and neck. “I know you’ll put up a fight and I know you won’t be the only one.”

  Adam sighed deeply. “We stand to lose everything, Pa,” he said.

  The old woodsman nodded and was silent for a moment before he raised his gaze toward the crowns of the trees in the coupe, as if he half expected to take some inspiration from them. He chewed his scabby lip until finally he said, “You’ve a future ahead of you, son. You must do what you think fit. Only have a care for Jake. He needs you, and so do I.”

  Chapter 7

  By the time the postmortem on Jeffrey Turgoose was complete and notes had been made, the light had begun to dwindle. After washing the blood away from his hands and scrubbing his fingernails, Thomas politely declined the offer of a schnapps with Professor Hascher so that he might go and report directly to Sir Theodisius, who was anxiously awaiting news.

  A good fire blazed in the grate in the study of the coroner’s town house. Thomas found Sir Theodisius seated in a winged chair, staring morosely into the hearth. The voluminous bags under his eyes suggested to the doctor that sleep had evaded his old ally. Indeed, his whole visage seemed to have drooped, as if being pulled downward by the burden of both worry for Lydia and grief for his dead friend. It was clear to Thomas that he was in need of company. A decanter of brandy and a glass sat on a small table at his side. Acknowledging his visitor with a nod, the coroner lifted his tumbler into the air.

  “Get yourself one of these, will you, Silkstone,” he mumbled, pointing to a cabinet on the other side of the room. Thomas obeyed, poured himself a drink, and joined the older man by the hearth.

  Cradling his brandy in his chubby hand, Sir Theodisius gawked blankly as the flames danced in the grate. Sensing his mood, Thomas settled himself opposite and prepared to lend a sympathetic ear. There seemed to be a tacit understanding that as the coroner talked, the anatomist would listen.

  “We were friends at Eton, you know,” Sir Theodisius began, his eyes remaining fixed on the blaze. “Grew up together, then went our separate ways, yet still remained in touch. Had a practice in the High.” His delivery grew more maudlin with every gulp of brandy, until by the time he had told Thomas of his friend’s life history, of his wife, three sons, and twelve grandchildren, his eyes were brimming with tears. Not wishing to embarrass the coroner, Thomas also directed his own gaze toward the fire. He had been attentive. As was so often the case with his patients, his presence and the ability to listen were all that had been required.

  The fire had begun to die down when, after a reflective pause, Sir Theodisius asked, “What did you find?”

  The sudden question, delivered with such surprising bluntness, pulled Thomas back into the moment. There was no delicate answer. “A shot to the heart.” He paused to gauge the reaction; then, when none was forthcoming, and to soften the harshness of his words, he added: “It severed a main artery, sir. Death would have been swift.” Yet his answer was met by the coroner with an unforeseen show of indignation.

  “Damn it, Silkstone. I know how the man died. What I need to know is what varlet discharged the gun so that I may personally see him choke at the end of a rope!”

  Thomas nodded. “Of course, sir,” he replied, sensing that despite unburdening himself, the coroner remained in a state of deep distress. It was as if he was carrying some of the blame for his friend’s death. It seemed to weigh so heavily on his broad shoulders. Here is a man, thought Thomas, who deals daily with mortality and the fragility of human existence, yet he clearly finds it difficult to cope with the passing of an associate.

  Sensing more was expected of him, Thomas continued. “The ball was a small caliber. Not a blunderbuss, as one might expect in such a case, but quite possibly a pistol.”

  At these words, the coroner’s bulky frame suddenly gave an odd jerk, as if he was tensing. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

  “A pistol?” he repeated.

  “Yes, sir, a flintlock, most probably, a—”

  But Sir Theodisius’s hand flew up, stopping the anatomist in mid-sentence.

  “Not a blunderbuss? You are sure?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  Sir Theodisius dipped his brows. A look of unease settled on his face. “I feared as much,” he muttered.

  “Sir?” Thomas watched as, despite the warmth from the fire, the coroner seemed to grow pale before his very eyes. “There is something—?”

  “Yes, Silkstone.” The coroner cut him short. “There is something, something most troubling to me, and I must tell you now.” His eyes cut to a key that sat on the small round table, next to his brandy glass. Thomas watched in silence as the coroner struggled to pick it up in his plump fingers, then unlocked a concealed drawer in the table. Pulling it open, he brought out a brass-bound mahogany box
. He opened the lid.

  “You see, I gave him one of these,” he said, sliding the box toward Thomas.

  The anatomist’s eyes widened and his head suddenly shot up when he looked inside at the contents. The open box revealed a red velvet lining upon which lay one flintlock pistol. Its grip was plain walnut and its frame was silver and engraved with an acanthus leaf pattern. Underneath it was an indentation where another pistol—Thomas presumed it was one of a matching pair—usually rested.

  “You gave Mr. Turgoose your firearm?” he asked, fixing Sir Theodisius with an incredulous stare.

  “God help me, Silkstone, I did,” he replied with a nod.

  The coroner flattened his lips as if to stop them from trembling. The prospect that had occurred to both men hovered in the air until the coroner summoned up the courage to ask the question outright.

  “Could it be he was shot with my pistol?” His eyes were glistening as he spoke. He was looking directly at the anatomist.

  Thomas returned his forlorn gaze, but knew he could not deny the possibility. “There is a chance, sir. Yes,” he conceded. “But I cannot say for sure until I have conducted further tests.” He shook his head. “Either way, you must not blame yourself, sir.”

  Suddenly Thomas understood why the coroner might feel weighed down by guilt. He held himself partly responsible for his friend’s death.

  “I gave it to him purely as a deterrent,” explained Sir Theodisius, trying to justify his action. He shook his head. “I never thought . . .”

  “I know.” Thomas was sympathetic. Even so, he could not let the matter lie. “I will need to examine the other pistol, sir.”

  The coroner jerked his head backward so that the rolls of flesh beneath his chin came to the fore. “Of course,” he replied, closing the lid of the gun box and pushing it away from him, as if it were an evil talisman. “Take it out of my sight.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Thomas. “I know this is not easy for you.”

  Chapter 8

  Thomas had set off from Oxford for Boughton at first light. Leaving Sir Theodisius’s pistol in the care of Professor Hascher, he had asked him to take the weapon, along with the shot retrieved from Mr. Turgoose’s body, to a renowned gunmaker in the city. He was to ascertain whether or not the missile removed from the dead man’s chest could have been fired from the other pistol in the pair. Until his suspicions were proved, Thomas needed little excuse to concentrate on his original mission: to, at the very least, gain access to Lydia. The delivery of the preliminary postmortem report into the death of the surveyor, who had been in Nicholas Lupton’s employ, gave him the perfect excuse.

  It was with mixed emotions that he finally turned his horse into Boughton’s familiar driveway. He had ridden this way so many times, urging his mount to go faster so that he could see Lydia a few minutes sooner. He pictured how she would stand on the steps to greet him and he would kiss her hand. He would let his lips linger a little longer than was seemly and she would blush. And now she was not here. Nor was young Richard. His heart felt heavy. Everything had changed and nothing had changed. Boughton Hall’s façade remained unflinching and sturdy. Its barley-twist chimneys still smoked, but the shutters at most of the windows were closed, and no one was there to greet him. He dismounted, climbed the front steps, and rang the bell.

  He was gladdened when Lydia’s butler answered the door. “Dr. Silkstone!” he said, his voice rising in a rare show of emotion. Thomas was not sure if his unannounced visit was welcome or not.

  “Howard,” Thomas greeted him. “I know my arrival is unexpected, but I was hoping Mr. Lupton would receive me,” he said.

  The butler bowed and took the visitor’s hat and gloves. “I shall inquire, sir,” he told him formally, even though the look in his eye told Thomas that his arrival would not be greeted favorably by the new steward. Just as Howard headed off, however, the study door was suddenly flung open and raised voices could be heard. A young man whom Thomas did not recognize stomped out. His hair was flame red and his face freckled. His head was swathed in a bandage that covered his right eye, and he seemed in a most wretched state, snorting back tears. He stormed down the hallway toward the servants’ quarters, barging in front of Thomas without bothering to acknowledge his presence. The obvious altercation made even the unflappable Howard arch a brow. He knocked at the open door and entered, reappearing a moment later.

  “Mr. Lupton will see you now, sir.”

  Relieved at being granted an audience, Thomas nevertheless tensed as he was led into the study. He found Nicholas Lupton pacing up and down in a most choleric manner, his hands clasped behind his back. Seeing Thomas, the steward greeted him curtly with a nod of his head, which sat deeply in his broad shoulders, then made his way back to the desk. It was piled high with rolls of parchment.

  “So, Silkstone,” he sneered, easing himself into his chair, “wherever death is, you seem to follow, like a scavenger crow that picks over carrion.” The comparison seemed to amuse him, and he let out an odd sound by way of self-congratulation.

  True, Thomas had anticipated a frosty welcome from Lupton, but he was not prepared for such utter derision. The easy and affable manner the steward had displayed in front of Lydia had completely disappeared. Gone was the bluff simplicity of a country estate manager. His sun-bleached hair was now covered in a gray wig that aged him by at least ten years. It was clear he carried a weight of authority on his stocky frame that he had not previously displayed. Nevertheless, the excuse fitted Thomas’s plans perfectly.

  “I have conducted a postmortem on Jeffrey Turgoose, if that is what you mean,” replied the anatomist coolly.

  “You have the report?” The steward held out his hand.

  “I do.” Thomas tapped the document he carried under his arm. “But it is not complete.”

  “Why not? You have examined the body, have you not?” came the short riposte.

  Thomas took a deep breath. “I cannot be sure of the type of weapon used.”

  Lupton showed his frustration with a grunt, then spoke through clenched teeth, as if trying to check his own irritation. “It was plain for any fool to see that the man died from a gunshot wound. But who pulled the trigger?” He lurched forward, making a grab for the report, but Thomas sidestepped.

  “Before I can answer that question, I need to carry out further investigations,” he replied. Reining in any temptation to lash back, he kept his voice measured.

  “Investigations!” Lupton spat the word out as if it were poison. “It is most obvious to Sir Montagu and me who killed the surveyor.”

  Thomas’s face registered surprise. “Who, pray tell?”

  Lupton snorted, as if the question was below contempt. “The benighted villagers, of course! The ones who plagued the man while he was about his work.”

  Thomas recalled Sir Theodisius’s account of his dead friend’s travails, but shook his head. “You are jumping to conclusions, and until—”

  “Give it here and be damned!” cried Lupton, suddenly lunging at Thomas once more. The doctor, however, stepped backward, hugging his report to his breast. Realizing the encounter was turning into a pantomime charade, Lupton relented, slapping his palm on the desk.

  “If you can bring us any further toward finding which of those village heathens murdered the surveyor, then you must do what is necessary,” he conceded, with the grace of a pouting child.

  Thomas inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I am most grateful,” he replied, his voice tinged with sarcasm. But his reply was followed by another question that took Lupton completely by surprise. “The gentleman who was with you, just now?”

  Lupton’s head jerked up. “Turgoose’s man, Charlton?” he barked. “What of him?”

  “He seemed in a most agitated state,” observed Thomas.

  “He saw his master shot before him and feared for his own life. Of course the man was agitated,” Lupton snapped, his thick neck straightening itself indignantly.

  The reply, ho
wever, did not satisfy Thomas. He persisted. “And his injury?”

  The steward did little to hide his growing exasperation. “He was hit about the face and head, Dr. Silkstone.”

  Thomas nodded but would not be put off. “Then perhaps you would permit me to examine him?”

  “Certainly not,” came the terse retort. “Dr. Fairweather has already administered to Mr. Charlton.”

  Hearing this, Thomas realized any further discourse was futile. He would have to pursue another tack if he were to reach the bottom of this mystery. As if Lupton read his thoughts, he added: “Do not waste your time on the murder, Silkstone. We shall want to see your full autopsy report in due course, but my men will apprehend the killer. They are working on it as we speak.”

  He began rearranging papers on the desk, obviously anxious to rid himself of his uninvited guest. Thomas, however, remained planted to the spot until Lupton raised his gaze, aware that his visitor had not yet moved. “And if that is all . . . ,” he said flatly.

  Now was Thomas’s chance. “It is not all,” he retorted, standing his ground. His voice was resolute. “Lady Lydia—”

  Lupton’s head shot up and he cut in. He threw down the papers he had only just picked up, sending them skidding across the polished surface of the desk. “Of course, you have come to plead her ladyship’s cause,” he said with a sour smile. “You know she is locked up for her own good.”

  Thomas felt his nerves tighten. “She is locked up for no one’s good apart from Sir Montagu’s and your own,” he replied, trying to curb his mounting frustration. “I know of your plans to enclose the estate. I also know that her ladyship would never have agreed to them.” He heard his own voice rising in anger as he spoke.

  Lupton’s reaction was, however, surprisingly cool. He slumped back in his chair and eyed Thomas. “What is it that you want, Silkstone? Money? A better position at one of the London hospitals? I am sure it can be arranged.”