by Tessa Harris
“Tobacco,” he said out loud. The sound of his voice prompted a rustle of leaves, and for a moment, his heart missed a beat, until he saw a squirrel suddenly scurry along a branch and run off. This was an eerie place. He could understand why the landlord had told him no one would accompany him into the wood, yet the forest gave work to so many. He resumed his own travail, his eyes latching onto every blade of grass, every leaf in the immediate vicinity, to see if he could find any more shreds of tobacco. Sure enough, he soon found more, much more; a small, thin trail of it led up toward the wall and continued on the other side.
Taking a cotton bag from his pocket, Thomas began to gather up the flakes. In places there was but a sprinkling; in others it had fallen in small heaps. As he collected the shreds, it suddenly occurred to him that a sack must have burst to leave such an amount. He kept his eyes on the trail of flakes until he came to what seemed to be a dead end: a broken-off column of stone, no more than a foot high, where the trace stopped suddenly. Around it tufts of grass grew, but on closer inspection he saw that there was a patch that had been recently flattened. Bending low, he grasped the column with both hands and slowly but surely tried to pull it toward him. It resisted at first but then yielded, causing Thomas to fall back with the effort.
When he picked himself up, however, he was rewarded with an intriguing sight—what appeared to be a trapdoor. Taking a deep breath, Thomas tugged at the large metal handle in the center. To his relief, although the door protested loudly, it opened easily enough. Peering into the gloom below, he could make out a ladder that led into what seemed to be an old cellar. He lowered his head into the mouth of the opening and blinked away the darkness. It took only a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light, and even then he could not see much, but he could certainly see enough.
Ranged along the nearest wall were wooden casks and barrels, piled high beside large wooden chests and bulging sacks. He craned his neck and strained his eyes. Could it be that he saw the word “Tea” printed on one of the crates? Here was his proof. The tobacco he had collected was not destined for the pipe of a passing traveler who had fumbled with his pouch and dropped a few flakes. This tobacco was contraband, smuggled before it was smoked. Tea, too, carried a hefty excise tax, as well as gin and brandy. There was much profit to be gleaned from the illegal sale of all these goods. Could it be that Mr. Turgoose and his party had inadvertently stumbled across this illicit stash and the surveyor had paid for the discovery with his life? The theory sounded plausible, but the only people who could verify it—Charlton and the guide—remained at Boughton Hall. It suited Malthus to keep the villagers under suspicion, and from what he had witnessed, there was no way of telling whether this smuggling racket was the work of locals or outsiders.
Suddenly there was a flapping overhead. Thomas looked up to see a large black bird settle on a branch nearby and remembered the words of the stable lad. He had warned of the Raven. Mayhap this was the scoundrel’s hideout. Questions whirled around in his head like an eddy of leaves, but very few answers presented themselves to him. Nevertheless, he had evidence to prove that criminal activity occurred in the ruins. Armed with his samples of tobacco, he decided to make for Brandwick before the rest of the day’s light was lost to him. His return to the scene of Mr. Turgoose’s murder would have to wait.
Once more, to Mr. Geech’s great surprise, Thomas found himself back at the Three Tuns, being shown into his usual room. No sooner had he climbed the stairs, however, than the lank-haired stable lad bounded up behind him and appeared at his door.
“Dr. Silkstone, sir,” he began breathlessly. “There’s Mistress Diggott downstairs for you. She says she needs you.”
Thomas nodded thoughtfully. From the boy’s tone, the matter seemed urgent.
Picking up the medical case he had only just laid on the table, Thomas followed the youth immediately as he hopped down the stairs. A woman was waiting for him. Her dark hair peeped from her cap to frame a face that bore the familiar lines of want and worry.
“Oh, Doctor, will you come?” she pleaded. “’Tis my son, Jake.”
Young Jake Diggott had lain on his belly for the past two days, barely able to move, as the fever raged. They had carried him home after the whipping and rubbed his wounds with salt to stop corruption, but still the ague came, and his mother was beginning to fear for his life. She had bathed the cuts with cold water, but they still wept as much as she did every time her son cried out in pain.
Old Abe Diggott had taken his grandson’s punishment hard, too. He’d been so stricken with grief that he’d been unable to join Adam in the coupe since the whipping. He simply sat in his bentwood chair by the hearth. Gin was his only solace. He kept it by him in a large brown earthenware flagon and drank it as if it were springwater.
“ ’Tis the only thing that eases my pain,” he would moan to anyone who would listen.
That evening Rachel had been standing over the stewpot when Adam returned home from the wood.
“The boy any better?” he asked as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
His wife wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head. Adam walked over to the cot where Jake lay. Gently he lifted the covering over the wounds. A crust had not yet formed and his savaged skin still oozed like a swamp. Every time Adam looked at his son he felt the rage well up inside him. He turned away and kicked the wall. A clump of plaster fell away and crumbled on the ground like stale cake.
It was then Rachel knew she had to act. She had seen the American doctor pass their cottage as he rode down the track from Raven’s Wood not an hour before. She understood that her husband remained wary of the colonist, even though she knew him to be a good man, so she slipped out of the house as he dozed with his father by the fire, to ask the doctor to ease her son’s pain. He had consented and now stood with her in the cottage.
“Dr. Silkstone is here to help us,” announced Rachel. She spoke as if to reassure her menfolk.
Adam Diggott leapt up from his chair and stood to attention, although the angry look he flung his wife did not escape Thomas’s notice. Such behavior made him aware that while he might have been a physician, he was first a stranger, and a foreigner to boot.
“I understand your son has been flogged, Mr. Diggott. May I see his wounds?” he asked. “There will be no charge,” he added. For a moment there was a stunned silence, until the coppicer bowed his head in a show of both gratitude and acquiescence.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he replied.
Relieved at her husband’s assent, Rachel guided Thomas toward the cot where the boy lay prone. Damp cloths covered his flayed skin, but they did little to mask the smell of putrescent flesh.
Husband and wife exchanged glances across the room as Thomas gently peeled back the makeshift dressing. Adam clenched his jaw and moved toward the bedside.
“He were whipped through the street for firing a stack of fence posts, Doctor,” he said, staring at his son.
Thomas frowned and shook his head. So Malthus’s barbarity extended to children now, he told himself. Crouching low, he examined the suppurating wounds. The lacerations were deep, administered with a great force, he surmised. Clearly no allowance was made for his age or strength. The young skin was gouged and puckered into great welts from the neck down to the coccyx. A foul-smelling, watery ooze seeped from the lesions.
Opening his case, Thomas took out a jar of aloe vera unguent. He had come to swear by it since he first used it in the treatment of infected wounds in London.
“Now, Jake, I am going to smear some ointment on your back,” he said softly. The boy grunted in reply and shuddered as Thomas began applying the cooling syrup, but he soon quietened as the soothing balm began to take effect. Thomas then covered the wounds in gauze. Next the doctor brought out a jar of willow bark. Knowing it to contain healing properties, he sprinkled the dried flakes into a flask of boiled water and urged the boy to drink it.
“The fever should be gone in the next few hours,” Thom
as said, finally rising from the bedside.
He had repacked his medical case and begun to walk to the door when he caught sight of old Abe Diggott, sprawled in his bentwood chair. He threw a questioning look at Rachel.
“He is unwell?” asked Thomas.
Rachel regarded her father-in-law, a despairing look in her eyes.
“He’s sharing the boy’s punishment,” she said plainly. “All he’s done since the whipping is drink gin to ease his own pain.” Her eyes wandered to the earthenware flagon at his side.
Thomas followed her gaze, then looked at the old man, half-awake, half-asleep, a string of saliva spooling from the corner of his mouth.
“Drinks the stuff like mother’s milk, ’e does,” chimed in Adam, joining them.
All eyes had turned to the stupefied old man, as if he were some curiosity to be pitied.
It was Rachel who changed the subject. “We cannot thank you enough, Doctor,” she said, as if wishing to draw Thomas’s visit to a close. She gestured him to the door.
Adam, standing at her side, managed a flicker of a smile. “We are grateful to you, sir,” he said.
Thomas nodded in reply and turned to go. Just as he did so, however, Adam called him back. “Is there any news of ’er ladyship, Doctor?” he asked.
Taken aback by such a question, Thomas stopped in his tracks. It was a mark of the affection the villagers felt for Lydia that her well-being should concern them even when their own futures were in jeopardy. He thought of her pained expression, her body sheathed in the restraint. The inquiry only served to strengthen his resolve. As he turned to face the coppicer, he felt a sudden surge of energy.
“I intend to bring her back here to Boughton, Mr. Diggott,” he replied, adding: “She will be home soon.”
Before returning to the Three Tuns down along Brandwick High Street, Thomas made his way to the apothecary’s shop. As well as replenishing his supply of gauze, exhausted in the treatment of young Diggott, he wished to pay his respects to Mr. Peabody. The little man, who seemed to be in a continual state of anxiety, had been most helpful to him during the Great Fogg. He found him behind the counter, as active as a weevil in a sack of flour.
“Dr. Silkstone,” Peabody greeted the doctor as he walked in the door. The familiar film of perspiration that always added a sheen to his face was still evident.
“Mr. Peabody,” said Thomas with a smile. The apothecary was occupied labeling various jars. “I see you are busy, as usual.”
Peabody paused for breath in an exaggerated gesture, his shoulders slumping. “If there is a complaint, Doctor, then the people of Brandwick will suffer from it.”
Thomas understood his meaning. There were many, especially those better off in the village, who worried themselves unduly over their bowel movements or their occasional aches and pains.
“At least the noxious fog has lifted,” said Thomas.
The apothecary nodded. “Now ’tis bellyaches and gripes that ail them,” he mumbled, resuming his labeling.
“Bellyaches and gripes?” repeated Thomas.
“Yes,” nodded the little man. “And nausea, among the men in particular.” He took his kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“And you know of no especial cause of these symptoms?” pressed Thomas.
The apothecary paused, then shook his head. “I can’t say I do, Doctor. But ’tis a sickness that grows daily.” He palmed his hands onto the counter as if to draw an end to that line of conversation. “Now, sir, how may I serve you today?” he asked.
Chapter 18
It was Mistress Geech, the landlady of the Three Tuns, who saw to Thomas’s needs that evening. She was a cheerful, bawdy sort of woman, popular with the locals. A strand of auburn hair had worked its way loose and hung down from beneath her white cap, giving her a slightly wanton look as she stood behind the bar. Thomas did not know whether that was intentional or not. All he cared about was being left alone in his room to read and to think. He hoped sleep would follow. He ordered a plate of cold cuts and a tankard of ale.
“Early to bed, eh, Doctor?” asked the landlady cheekily.
Ignoring the obvious innuendo, Thomas nodded. “It has been a challenging day,” he replied with a tired smile.
“Been up to Raven’s Wood again, have we?”
Thomas shot her a curious look. “How . . . ?”
She gave a throaty giggle. “Get to know all sorts here, Doctor,” she told him with a wink, adding enigmatically: “The woods have eyes and ears.”
Thomas found this last remark somewhat unnerving, although he hoped he did not show it in his face. He took the opportunity to pry deeper. “Yes, I came across an old ruin, quite by chance,” he said, watching for any reaction. “Most enchanting,” he added. He noted that her eyes slid away for a fraction of a second, before returning to meet his gaze.
“Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” she told him cheerily, bobbing a curtsy behind the desk. Thomas felt her eyes follow him as he began to ascend, and he even heard what he thought was a heavy sigh, as if she were relieved that he was out of the way for the rest of the evening. He suspected he knew the reason.
In a small outhouse just off the inn’s courtyard, Peter Geech was holding up a flask to the lamplight. He’d had great hopes of the new still. He had bought it last year, but the liquid it produced was on the cloudy side. Flattening his thin lips, he clucked like a hen; then after a moment, he shrugged. The murkiness would be an issue for the more genteel sort. They liked their gin, if indeed they liked it at all, to be clear. But he’d mixed his with a measure or two of powdered chalk to lessen the effects of the turpentine. The last thing he wanted was a death on his hands. His gin was a slow pickler, not a poison, as such, although many a regular with a sore head would dispute it. But this latest batch would be passable. He’d just make sure he brought it out late into the evening when most of the punters were well into their cups anyhow and too far gone to notice.
He and his stable lad, Aaron Coutt, would be working well into the early hours. The copper had only just got up to heat and they’d fallen behind. He had left it to his wife and Molly, the serving maid, to round up the last stragglers in the taproom. Mistress Geech had a fine left foot and had been known to kick a man ten paces down the street when minded to. She would clear up the tankards and lock the doors, then join him as soon as she was able in the outhouse to lend a helping hand. This was where he concocted what he called his special mix. His wife and most others called it mother’s ruin or mother’s milk, depending on their taste. Everyone else called it fire water.
The room was steamy and the windows were misted, which suited his purpose. Working by the light of a couple of lamps, Coutt was pounding the mash for a second batch. Geech watched him run the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. It was tough work, pulping the barley malt. He, meanwhile, prized open the lid of a small cask and peered inside. The vapor wafted up and hit him full in the face, instantly making him splutter and gasp for breath. His eyes began to water and he flapped the fumes away with his hand. Such discomfort, nevertheless, brought a smile to his lips. He knew this would be a good batch.
Careful not to spill a drop, he poured the contents of the flask into the still’s condenser and opened the valve. On a square of muslin before him sat a mixture of leaves and seeds: an unappealing pile of detritus from the woodland floor, beechnuts and acorns. He’d long ago given up on using the magic ingredients that transformed the base liquid into a worthy liquor: cardamom, coriander, orrisroot, and lemon peel. Such luxuries were far too expensive and were never appreciated by his clientele. So now he simply mixed beech mast with a dash of powdered chalk and no one was the wiser. The quality of the flavor seemed the last thing to bother his customers. All that interested them was the speed with which oblivion settled upon them, dulling their brains to the cold or hunger or scurvy, or whatever other ill pained them.
He poured in the token crushed juniper berries and the res
t of the ingredients and looked at the mixture longingly. He could do with a good tipple himself right now, if he didn’t value his guts so much. Business was brisk and he was tired. Ever since the new steward had been installed at Boughton and the rents had gone up, the villagers seemed to look to their bumpers for comfort. How did the saying go? One man’s meat is another man’s poison. How true, he mused. He was chuckling to himself when he heard footsteps. They were light on the cobbles, but hurried. The latch lifted quickly and in came his wife. He could see that her pretty plump face was sullied by a scowl.
“What is it, my precious?” He put down his flask and walked over to her, his arms outstretched.
Remaining flattened against the door, she regained her breath. “You was right,” she panted.
Coutt stopped mashing and looked toward his mistress.
Geech’s brow creased. “And?”
“He were up in Raven’s Wood. I’m sure he knows something.”
Geech, however, seemed not in the least bit concerned. He turned and pulled the stopper from a bottle that rested on his table. This was from a quality batch, the sort he reserved for himself and his friends. Pouring the relatively clear liquid into two pots, he handed his wife one, but she remained on edge.
“What if he finds out? What if he calls the customs men?” Her imagination was running away with her.
“Now, now, my lovely,” soothed her husband. “Have no fear. We are beyond the reach of the law, remember?” He drew his wife close to him and hugged her just a little tighter than she found comfortable.
Chapter 19
As the coach bounced and lurched its way back to London, Thomas stared down at the palm of his hand. In it he held the silver locket that Lydia had given him all those months ago. He remembered how he had been riding down Boughton’s drive with a heavy heart. He had not known when, or even if, he would see her again, when Will Lovelock, the carrot-haired groom, had come running after him. Gasping for breath, he had panted out his message. Her ladyship wanted Thomas to have the locket as a keepsake. He had slipped it into his pocket and carried it with him ever since. Now, however, he knew she would take it back if she could. She felt he had betrayed her, and knowing that she thought him so utterly dishonorable hurt more than any scalpel ever could. That was why he could stay in Brandwick not a day longer. Adam Diggott’s inquiry about Lydia kept repeating itself in his head. It had jolted him back to his own pain. He needed to return to London. His investigation into the surveyor’s murder would have to wait. So, early the very next morning, after a near sleepless night, he had ridden to Oxford and from there had taken the next available coach for the capital.
