Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  Thomas cleared his throat and began to read out loud. “Let’s see who we have today, sir,” he began. “The Earl of Harlow, aged ninety-two.”

  Carruthers’s lips lifted at the corners. “I attended him once at Ascot. Kicked by a horse at the races, he was!” he recalled cheerfully.

  Thomas continued. “Sir Robert Knox, eighty, Whig politician.”

  The old anatomist heaved his shoulders and snorted. “ ’Twas a wonder he lived so long. There were plenty who would have got rid of him sooner, including myself.”

  Expecting Thomas to continue reading, Carruthers inclined his head to listen once more. When his companion remained silent, however, the old anatomist tapped his white stick on the floor.

  “So who’s next, young fellow? Tell me another knave or varlet who has shuffled off this mortal coil.”

  Thomas lifted his head from the newssheet. His face was as white as the paper on which the words were printed. Looking down once more, he saw the notice swim in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth, but the name snagged in his throat.

  “Well?” Carruthers snapped impatiently.

  Thomas swallowed and forced himself to push the words onto his tongue.

  “Lady Lydia Farrell,” he said. “Lydia is dead.”

  Chapter 21

  There was still a chill on the spring breeze, but the sun shone and it called the winter-weary parishioners of Brandwick to market like a peal of bells to church. There was hardly any fresh produce to be had. The harsh frosts had taken their toll on the winter wheat, and the dried legumes were in short supply, but there was enough milk, butter, and cheese to satisfy the demand. And for those whose tastes stretched beyond the dairy parlor, there was tea, too, if you knew whom to ask. Few of the villagers could afford the proper leaves, of course, so they were happy to flout the law and settle for the next best thing. Until recently one of the servants at Boughton Hall had supplemented his living by collecting, drying, and rolling discarded leaves and reselling them for a pretty penny to those whose palates were more discerning than their pockets would allow. Now, however, the village had a new, more plentiful source of tea that bypassed the traditional market. Even the new vicar, the Reverend Unsworth, had been known to imbibe on such ill-gotten leaves. He was riding past the stalls in the High Street on his way to Boughton Hall. The village was in the grip of a general malaise.

  News that the traditional annual ceremony of the beating of the bounds was threatened with cancelation only added to the melancholic mood. The day was usually one of mirth and merriment, when villagers walked the boundaries of the parish. Maidens carried nosegays and apprentices were given the day off. There was, however, one bright spot on the Brandwick horizon. Now that at least one of the surveyor’s murderers had been apprehended, and the other would be caught soon enough, the vicar hoped for a return to some semblance of normality. Good cheer in the face of adversity was to be encouraged, he told himself. He doffed his hat to anyone who would look his way.

  Early that morning he had received a message that bid him pay an urgent visit to Mr. Lupton. He assumed it was in relation to his recent inquiry about the establishment of a workhouse in the village for those who were dispossessed. A letter, written on behalf of the parish board, had been dispatched a few days ago. In it the members of the board informed Mr. Lupton that a vacant property in the village, belonging to the Boughton Estate, had been identified as a possible venue. It would take a little work to convert it into suitable premises for the anticipated dozen or so occupants, but it could be done. He felt encouraged by such a swift response.

  The reverend found Mr. Lupton seated at his desk in the study at Boughton. Although he rose to greet him as he entered the room, the steward’s expression was so grave it seemed that he was burdened by a huge weight.

  “Please be seated,” he said. The vicar did as he was bid, while Lupton remained standing, his features set hard. Any feelings of optimism that the reverend had felt on his journey to the hall were now dashed, only to be replaced by a sense of dread.

  “I fear I have been in receipt of some tragic news, Reverend Unsworth,” Lupton began.

  The vicar’s thoughts immediately turned to Sir Montagu Malthus. He recalled his surgery a few weeks before and hoped the wound had not become infected and led to his demise.

  “Sir Montagu?” he ventured.

  The steward frowned and shook his head. “No, I am pleased to say he is in rude health,” he said.

  “Praise be,” said the reverend, lifting his eyes heavenward. He shifted in his seat. “Then . . . ?”

  Lupton’s body shuddered as he sighed deeply. “I fear it is Lady Lydia.”

  The vicar leaned forward, his eyes wide and staring. Like every soul in the parish and its surrounds, he was aware of her hospitalization. “Her ladyship?”

  Lupton nodded and pushed the latest copy of the Oxford Journal across the desk. “The announcement,” he muttered. “You can read it for yourself.”

  The vicar looked down at the print, which seemed to blur before his very eyes. Trying hard to focus, he pored over the text. An insertion at the bottom of the death notices confirmed the shocking news. On Friday last Lady Lydia Sarah Farrell, of Boughton Hall, in the parish of Brandwick, following a short illness. He lifted his gaze.

  “But this is most tragic,” bleated the vicar. “Most tragic, indeed. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

  Lupton’s brows knitted. “Terrible news, yes, Vicar. A seizure, I believe.” He turned his back on the shocked clergyman, as if to hide his own grief. After a moment, he seemed to have composed himself and turned once more. “We will need to make arrangements.”

  The reverend nodded. “Of course. Her ladyship will be buried in the family vault?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Lady Lydia was well loved. There will be many mourners, no doubt.” The vicar was nodding to himself as he spoke, but Lupton was quick to upbraid him.

  “No. No mourners, save for her immediate family. This will be a private affair,” he snapped.

  Taken aback, the vicar twitched his lips into a nervous smile and blinked. “As you wish, sir.”

  “It is the wish of Sir Montagu, Vicar, who is”—he stopped short and corrected himself—“who was her ladyship’s legal representative.”

  “Very well, sir.” The clergyman felt like a small child who was being scolded for speaking out of turn.

  Lupton had walked behind him and now stood leering over him. Again Unsworth felt unduly pressured. He hoped for at least three days in which to prepare for the service. Once again he was thwarted.

  “The interment needs to take place as soon as possible,” Lupton informed him.

  “There will be hymns to choose, an order of service—” protested the reverend.

  “I am afraid not.” The steward shook his head as Unsworth looked at him askance.

  “I do not follow, sir.” The cleric’s expression had changed from one of sympathy to one of deep concern.

  Lupton returned to his desk and sat down. “Her ladyship died in London and her remains have been transported here. The journey was delayed, so she needs to be interred as soon as possible.” He added by way of clarification, if any were needed, “For delicacy’s sake.”

  The vicar nodded. He understood. He had heard about the unfortunate business of Lord Edward, how his remains were allowed to decay before burial in a most unseemly manner.

  “Would Thursday be convenient? That would give me time to—”

  Again Lupton broke in. “This afternoon, Vicar, if you please.”

  The reverend’s eyes opened wide once more. “This afternoon?” he repeated.

  Lupton nodded. “Her ladyship has been prepared. Her coffin lies in the chapel as we speak.”

  Reverend Unsworth let out a resigned sigh. He could not think of any further objections he might raise. “Very well. This afternoon it shall be, sir,” he said, rising. “I must prepare my vestments.”

  Lupton pulled the
bell cord and Howard soon appeared at the threshold to usher the vicar out. Before he did so, however, another thought occurred to Unsworth. He turned.

  “And who will give the eulogy, sir?” he asked with a frown.

  Lupton smiled. “Sir Montagu told me he wished to speak,” he replied. “This tragedy has hit him harder than anyone.”

  Thomas was numb to the usual discomfiture experienced on his regular journeys to Oxford. Despite the fact that his shoulder was still not completely healed, the lurching and bounding no longer troubled him. He sat silent and impassive in his shock. Nothing seemed real to him since he had read the news that Lydia was dead. Time was standing still. The world had stopped. His very soul felt bandaged, distanced from reality and emotion. He arrived in the great city, unable to recall much of his journey, despite the fact that he had not slept during the ten hours he had been on the road. He had not even been able to shed a tear. And yet his demeanor was such that it alarmed Sir Theodisius Pettigrew the moment he set eyes on his visitor.

  “Good God, Silkstone! But you look like death, man. What has befallen you?” he inquired when Thomas shambled into his office.

  Lifting his head, the doctor fixed the coroner with his bloodshot eyes.

  At the sight of his visitor’s anguished demeanor, Sir Theodisius’s forehead crumpled instantly into a frown. “You are the bearer of bad news.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Thomas nodded. “Oh, sir, I fear so,” he replied, dropping into a chair. His expression was so pained and his anguish so plain that the coroner immediately feared the worst.

  “Not Lydia?” He did not wait for a reply. It was enough to witness the young anatomist’s dire condition. The coroner’s own features twisted into a grimace.

  “Oh no!” he gasped. “No!” Grasping his desk with both hands, as if to anchor himself in the moment, his eyes suddenly flooded. “’Tis not true! Tell me ’tis not true!” He searched Thomas’s face frantically for some reassurance, but, finding none, he brought out his kerchief and held it to his face. The sight was too much for Thomas to bear, and he, too, for the first time, felt himself giving way to tears. Brushing them away with trembling hands, he roused himself from his torpor and made his way ’round the desk to put a comforting arm on Sir Theodisius’s shoulders. He knew the coroner regarded Lydia as a daughter.

  Lifting his brimming eyes to meet Thomas’s, the coroner asked, “How? How did it happen?”

  “According to the announcement in the newssheet, it was a ‘short illness’.” His voice shook as he spoke.

  “What sort of illness?” The coroner groaned.

  “The last time I saw her, she was in a terrible state. I fear her treatment may have taken its toll, sir.” Thomas fought back tears as he thought of Lydia’s fragile body swathed in that despicable jacket. “If only I had taken her with me. I should have helped her escape.” Suddenly angry, he banged his fist on the desk.

  “You must not blame yourself. You could have done no more.” Sir Theodisius shook his head as he dabbed his eyes, but the floodgates of Thomas’s fury had been opened.

  “But I do blame myself!” he cried, suddenly pacing the room. “I was playing by the rules and I should have learned by now that I cannot change anything by complying.”

  The coroner’s jowls quivered in protest. “But the hospital had certain procedures that had to be followed.”

  Thomas, still pacing the room, shot back, “Don’t you see? I let them put me in a straightjacket, too. I was weak. I should have acted!” He strode over to the window and gazed out, as if cursing the rest of humanity for going about its business while his own world seemed at an end. “I should have acted and now it’s too late.”

  Sir Theodisius could see there was no point in arguing with Thomas until the maelstrom in his mind had subsided. He had dealt with too many bereaved loved ones to know that anger and self-recrimination often followed a sudden death. His own experience in the aftermath of Jeffrey Turgoose’s demise bore testament to that.

  Both men remained silent for a few seconds, lost in their own personal agonies, until the coroner’s mind suddenly turned to more practical matters that needed addressing.

  “Do you know when the funeral will be?” he asked, his voice quavering.

  Thomas, turning back from the window, faced Sir Theodisius, whose cheeks were reddened and his eyes still moist.

  “No, sir, but I assume the burial will be in the family vault.”

  “Of course.” The coroner paused for a moment, waiting for Thomas to say what needed to be said. He did not have to wait long. Walking toward the desk in a more measured manner, the doctor nodded, filled his lungs, and sighed deeply. Looking at Sir Theodisius squarely yet purposefully, he said, “We must leave for Boughton without delay.”

  Chapter 22

  Preparations for the formal public meeting at the Three Tuns that morning were well under way. Peter Geech was expecting most of the village to flood into his hostelry, and he knew space would be limited, like pouring a quart into a pint pot, but he could accommodate the gentlemen and more important tenants of the village in the upper room. The rest of the rabble would have to spill into the stableyard. The landlord had been running around like a headless cockerel, wishing he could have been in at least two places at once, so behind was he in his plans. There were seating arrangements to be organized and refreshments of ale, porter, and of course gin for his regulars, or sack for the gentlemen, to be made ready. Sir Montagu Malthus himself was to chair the meeting.

  It was midmorning when the coach from Oxford to Brandwick pulled up in the High Street. Thomas had anticipated finding the village in mourning: the bells of St. Swithin’s tolling, shops shut, the streets deserted as a mark of respect for Lydia, their mistress. But no, the place was much busier than usual. A regular flow of carriages and other vehicles seemed to be depositing passengers outside the Three Tuns.

  Thomas frowned as his conveyance came to a halt opposite the inn. People were gathered on the street outside, seemingly anxious to be granted entry into the courtyard.

  “What goes on?” asked the coroner.

  Thomas thought for a moment. “What date is it?”

  “The thirtieth, I believe,” replied Sir Theodisius, looking perplexed.

  Thomas nodded. “Then this must be the public meeting called to discuss the Act of Enclosure.”

  “But surely the meeting should have been postponed!” said the coroner crossly.

  “Only if her ladyship’s death had been publicly announced,” said Thomas, a look of resignation creeping across his face.

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “The villagers do not know,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

  Sir Theodisius slapped his huge thighs. “But you must attend the meeting in all haste and tell them,” he urged. Then, looking Thomas squarely in the eye, he added: “In her absence, you must be Lydia’s mouthpiece. You must speak for her and Boughton.” His voice trembled as he spoke these last words.

  Thomas knew what the coroner said was right. An image of Lydia flashed across his vision once more. She had never envisaged enclosing the estate, fencing it off and depriving the very poorest of their rights to collect fuel and forage in the woods and on the common.

  “I shall. And you, sir; perhaps you could call at Boughton first? Lupton will be occupied at the meeting and the staff at the hall will be more than eager, I am sure, to tell you what they know,” he suggested.

  The coroner nodded. “They will have been hit hard by the news,” he agreed.

  Accordingly, Thomas alighted by the Three Tuns and his baggage was flung down to the ground. The coach, with Sir Theodisius still aboard, was soon on its way to Boughton. There was no time to lose. Hurriedly the doctor picked up his valise and headed through the archway of the Three Tuns. He found the courtyard packed with villagers. Men with tankards in their hands were leaning against posts or sitting on casks and hogsheads. Women were in small clusters, their arms crossed over
their bosoms in fighting mode. The low drone of anxious chatter filled the air, but it stopped as soon as Thomas was spotted worming his way through the crowd. Heads turned and tongues wagged as the villagers eyed him climbing the staircase that led to the upper meeting room.

  They do not know. No one has told them, he thought. Despite being surrounded by so many people, Thomas felt totally isolated. A bitter tang, like ashes, filled his mouth. He knew it to be the taste of sorrow.

  Standing at the doorway, but out of view of those gathered, he surveyed the room. He counted sixteen men, seated on three rows of chairs in front of a long table at the top end of the room. Sir Montagu sat haughtily at its center, flanked by Nicholas Lupton and, to Thomas’s surprise, the ailing Sir John Thorndike. There were other familiar faces: Bartholomew Bailey, the owner of the fulling mill, and two yeomen whose children he had treated for bronchitis. The other attendees, he assumed by their dress, were reasonably well-off tenants who farmed larger acreages. They were certainly not peasants. Heads to the fore, they were listening intently to a plump man whose shoulders bore a light dusting of wig powder. In his hand he held a short cane, which he used to point out various features on a map affixed to a board on an easel.

  “In conclusion, gentlemen, we invite you to lodge your claims within the next two months. As the appointed commissioner”—he turned to defer to Sir Montagu—“I shall endeavor to ensure that all are dealt with fairly and that compensation is awarded where I see fit.”

  So this must be Jeffrey Turgoose’s replacement, thought Thomas. He recalled from the public notice that he had a business partner, a Mr. Mather, if he remembered correctly. He was no doubt a most competent individual, but Thomas also detected a definite whiff of pomposity about him, which seemed so endemic in English professionals. Behind him sat the younger man with the flame-red hair and the bandaged eye whom Thomas had encountered before at Boughton, when he seemed so distressed. He was, he surmised, the late Turgoose’s assistant and chainman, James Charlton.