by Tessa Harris
“I spoke with Lovelock, you see,” he explained. “He told me the corpse was already unidentifiable.”
Thomas tensed. He knew he was beaten on that score. “Lovelock was right,” he replied. “There was no way of telling if the corpse was Lydia . . .” He paused for effect. “Or whether it was Annalise Kent.”
At the mention of the young spinster’s name Sir Montagu’s brow arched. He seemed uncharacteristically disconcerted. It was clear Thomas had riled him. He steadied his mood by walking to the window and staring out. After a moment he said, “It appears I underestimated you, Doctor.”
“Where is she, Malthus?” cried Thomas, marching up behind him. “What have you done with her?”
Turning to face the young doctor, Sir Montagu let out a strange, muted laugh. He was the puppet master, pulling the strings, and he wanted to make Thomas dance to his tune.
“Don’t you see, Silkstone,” he began, “it really is of no consequence whose cadaver lies in the vault? What you must understand is that Lady Lydia is dead to the world and”—he poked Thomas’s chest as he delivered his verbal blow—“in particular, to you.”
Unable to hold himself in check, Thomas responded by lurching forward toward the lawyer, but the henchman grabbed him by his coat sleeve and pulled him back.
“Your conduct does not become a gentleman, sir,” butted in Lupton.
Thomas turned on the steward. “And what would you know about being one?” he cried, tugging his disheveled frock coat back into place. “Lady Lydia put her trust in you and you betrayed her.”
Sir Montagu shook his head. “We acted in her ladyship’s best interests,” he corrected.
Thomas stared at him incredulously. He wondered how a man could be so contemptuous and cruel toward his own flesh and blood. Still, he realized that if Sir Montagu ever found out that he knew the truth—that the lawyer was Lydia’s real father—he would be placing himself in grave jeopardy. Being privy to Sir Montagu’s secret was his trump card and he would play it when he felt the time was right. Now was not the moment. Instead he took a different tack.
“In her best interests?” he echoed. “And what of her son? What of Richard? Where is he? Or have you disposed of him to suit your purposes, too?”
Lupton took particular offense at this last remark. “Curb your tongue, sir!” he roared indignantly, but Sir Montagu lifted his hand to silence the steward.
“My purposes, Dr. Silkstone?” queried the lawyer. “And what, pray, does your razor-sharp intellect tell you they are?”
Thomas shook his head. “I know you wish to control the Boughton Estate. That is why you want to enclose it with your fences and hedges.”
Lupton intervened. “Enclosure is the only way forward, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas nodded. “I’ll admit ’tis a convenient way of controlling the landless and the poor and washing your hands of your responsibilities to your tenants.”
Sir Montagu slid an odd look toward the steward and gave a wry smile. “My responsibilities?” he huffed. “You have been swayed by the Frenchman Rousseau and his social contract, have you not, Dr. Silkstone? With rights come responsibilities, yes? Such notions do not hold weight with we English landowners.” He put particular emphasis on the word “English” to try to alienate the young doctor even further.
Thomas could see it was futile arguing with a man so Machiavellian in his outlook. He suspected he had an even deeper purpose than the control of Boughton and its many hundreds of acres. Men like Sir Montagu, ruthless yet enterprising, always kept their eye on the wider scheme of things. Something was brewing. He gleaned it from the looks that were exchanged between the lawyer and his steward and from the new guards employed on the estate. They were plotting and Lydia was an inconvenience in their scheme, an obstacle that needed to be swept aside before their plans could come to fruition. Boughton’s old order was changing, yielding place to a new, less benevolent structure, so at odds with her ladyship’s own vision for the estate. Thomas knew he had to do everything in his power to mitigate it in Lydia’s name.
The young doctor shot back, “You do the people of Brandwick a disservice if you think they will lose their common land and woods without a fight, sir.”
Sir Montagu arched a formidable brow. “A threat, Dr. Silkstone? Surely not?”
Thomas’s mind flashed to Mr. Turgoose’s corpse and to the cottagers and tenants who had gathered to protest on the common. He knew the villagers would not go quietly into the long, dark night of dispossession that surely lay before them and their families.
“There will be trouble, sir, unless you compensate people fairly for their losses,” Thomas warned.
“Oh, what a very noble sentiment,” sneered Sir Montagu. “But I am afraid the people of Brandwick have proved themselves little more than savages in their treatment of those I engaged to survey the estate.”
Swooping upon the desk, Sir Montagu retrieved some bound sheets of foolscap. Thomas recognized them instantly. “Your enlightening postmortem report did not make comfortable reading, Silkstone,” said the lawyer, waving the document in the air. “And one of the barbarians who killed my surveyor is still at large and may well strike again.” His great shoulders rose in a sigh. He threw the postmortem report back at Thomas in disgust, as if the parchment on which it was written were bloodied. “So,” he continued, “I know exactly where my responsibilities lie, Silkstone. I will avenge the death of the man who has died in my service.”
Chapter 29
By the light of a single tallow candle, Thomas tried to marshal his thoughts. He was still reeling from his encounter with Sir Montagu, and for more than an hour since his return to the Three Tuns, he had been unable to do anything but pace up and down across his bedroom floor, considering the options open to him in his search for Lydia. There was now no possibility that Sir Montagu would allow him to ascertain once and for all the identity of the body in the vault. Every time he closed his eyes he was reminded of the woman’s face: the bruising around her mouth and the swollen tongue. The uncertainty was eating away at him, just as surely as the maggots were feasting on the cadaver’s flesh. But he must not allow his own vexation to cloud his judgment. There would be another way. There had to be. If Lydia was still alive, and he had to believe that she was, then his search for her would have to resume at the Bethlem Hospital. He had reached a dead end at Boughton. There was nothing left for him here. He would return to London the following day. He dipped the nib of his quill into the inkpot. He would write to Sir Theodisius and inform him of his inconclusive trip to the Crick family vaults and of his decision to revisit Bethlem.
As his pen hovered above the paper, however, he heard a noise, like rain on the pane. He lifted his gaze to the window, but the glass was dry. Rising from his chair, he looked out onto the street. All was deserted; everyone had heeded the curfew; everyone, that is, except a figure who stood in the half shadows below. Thomas watched him as he aimed a handful of dirt at the pane again. Opening the window, he peered down to see the familiar face of Adam Diggott looking back up at him. Without a word, he motioned to his visitor, then slipped out of his room and down the stairs to lift the latch of the inn’s side entrance. The coppicer scurried in through the door like a frightened mouse. His face was hazed with stubble and he stank of stale sweat, reminding Thomas that he had been hiding in the woods for several days.
“You should not be here,” Thomas told him bluntly. “If Lupton’s men find you—”
Adam Diggott grunted but had to catch his breath before he spoke. It was clear he had run a long way. Doubling over, he planted his hands on his thighs and sniffed, before standing upright.
“You know my pa is charged with the murder and they’re after me, too?”
Thomas knew, of course, and suddenly felt guilty that he had not paid more attention to the men’s plight. He pictured the old drunkard lazing by the hearth, babbling and confused, barely able to lift his head, let alone a pistol. “And you say you are innocent?�
�
Lifting his shoulders, Adam let his breath escape from his chest in a loud sigh. “I swear we never hurt the mapmaker, sir.”
Thomas did not respond for a moment, then said, “What makes them think you did?”
Adam shook his head. “They see’d my pa wandering after curfew and found a pistol and a pocket watch in the cottage, sir,” he replied. “But they put it there. I know they did.” His fists were balled and raised to shoulder height, as if pleading for help.
The doctor nodded. He could easily believe that Sir Montagu was capable of such a feat. He wanted revenge at any price, even if it meant victimizing an old man and his innocent son. He must have given orders to arrest and charge any man breaking the curfew, no matter their innocence, no matter the unlikeliness of their guilt. That Abe Diggott just happened to be grandfather to a boy whipped for arson made a conviction even more likely. As far as Sir Montagu was concerned, the whole family bore the stain of guilt.
“Please help us, Doctor. I’ve heard you’ve ways to prove a man’s innocence or guilt. Save my pa, will ye? I beg.” The coppicer clasped his hands together in supplication.
“There is no need to beg,” replied Thomas. “Of course I will try and help your father, because I believe he played no part in the murder.”
A sigh escaped Adam’s lips. “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he said.
“Save your thanks until I see your father pardoned,” he replied.
At that moment a latch clicked nearby and a shadow appeared in a candle’s glow against the far wall. “Who’s there?” called a voice. It was Peter Geech.
“Go,” whispered Thomas, bundling Adam Diggott out of the door.
“Who’s there?” The landlord drew nearer, his silhouette looming larger. Thomas managed to draw the bar across just before he turned the corner.
“Dr. Silkstone!” came the startled greeting.
“Mr. Geech.”
“Everything all right?” The landlord squinted into the darkness, holding his candle aloft.
“My horse,” replied Thomas.
“Your horse?”
Thomas nodded. “Your stable lad . . .”
“Coutt?”
“Yes. He saw a cut on her forelock. I was checking on her.”
Geech let out an odd chuckle. “Doctoring animals now as well, eh?” He shook his head as if he found the very notion amusing.
Thomas smiled flatly. “All’s well.”
“I’ll bid you good night, then, sir,” said the landlord. He turned and chuntered to himself as he walked back down the corridor.
Thomas’s breath quivered in his chest as he exhaled. On the morrow he would leave for Oxford.
“I must settle my account,” Thomas told Geech early the following morning.
“You are leaving us so soon?” The landlord was wiping spilled ale off the bar counter with a dirty rag.
“Urgent business in Oxford, I’m afraid,” said Thomas, not wishing to enlighten the landlord further. But from the look on his face, he already knew.
“Old Abe Diggott’s in trouble, I hear.” There was a cruel glee in Geech’s voice.
Thomas indulged him. Leaning across the bar he said, “And one of your best customers, too.”
The landlord nodded in agreement. “He likes a tipple.”
“Gin, I’ve heard. I’ll take some, if I may. ”
Geech narrowed his eyes. His gin was supposed to be a secret, known only to the regulars and to his business associates.
“Gin?” he repeated softly. “Are you sure, Dr. Silkstone? ’Tis not a beverage normally consumed by gentlemen such as yourself.”
“A flagon, if you please.” Thomas laid a shilling on the counter.
The landlord looked puzzled.
“’Tis not for me, Mr. Geech. ’Tis for Abe Diggott,” he replied, adding: “ ’Twill help him take his mind off the noose.”
Chapter 30
Sir Montagu Malthus glanced up from examining the estate’s accounts to see his clerk approaching. Gilbert Fothergill entered the study at Draycott House laden down with a pile of scrolls, his face masked by his burden. Finding the sight vaguely amusing, the lawyer arched a heavy brow.
“Is that you, Fothergill?” he asked with a smirk.
The little man’s reply sounded muffled. “Aye, sir.”
“So what have we here?” he queried, just as the clerk’s burden fell and scattered across the desk.
“Petitions, I fear, sir,” came the reply. It was not only the cottagers and commoners who were angered by the plans to enclose the Boughton Estate. Despite their acquiescence at the public meeting, it seemed several yeoman farmers had changed their minds on seeing the plans. After digging deeper, they felt they were being cheated by their new lord, too. Their many petitions bore testament to the fact. Some asked to increase the size of their allotment, while others simply opposed the move altogether. All were dissatisfied.
The deposited scrolls covered most of the desk, and Sir Montagu leaned back to survey them. “Well, well. The plebeians have been busy,” he commented. He waved a large hand above the sea of white tubes secured with lengths of ribbon or sealing wax.
“Indeed, sir. There is general disquiet, I fear,” Fothergill informed his master. He pushed back his spectacles, which had slipped down his glistening nose.
The lawyer looked up at his clerk and sketched an odd smile.
“General disquiet, eh?” he asked. He leaned forward. “We shall see about that,” he said, and in one fell swoop, he extended his arm and brushed all the scrolls from the desk. They toppled to the floor and scattered like leaves. Fothergill watched wide-eyed as the papers tumbled over one another and rolled across the boards.
“That is what I think of these petitions, Fothergill,” said Sir Montagu as soon as the last scroll had settled. “There is no question of any amendments to the act, so I see no point in prevarication.”
A flustered Fothergill stood stunned for a moment before bending down to pick up the wayward petitions.
“No, sir. Quite, sir,” he replied, his spectacles slipping along the bridge of his nose every time he bobbed down to pick up a scroll.
Sir Montagu walked over to him, his shadow looming over the clerk, blocking out the natural light and darkening his vision.
“Do not waste my time again, you hear?” he barked. He kicked a nearby scroll hard and sent it flying into the air before seating himself behind his desk once more. Indeed, Boughton’s new lord had been extremely swift to act when it came to implementing his program of enclosure. Felling was in full swing, and within the next few days enough spars and posts would be produced to start fencing off the common.
Fothergill, the petitions now bundled under his arms, stood once more before his master. The latter had resumed the work that had engaged him prior to being so rudely interrupted. The clerk cleared his throat.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he began nervously. “But there is one more matter that craves your attention at Boughton.”
Sir Montagu slapped the desk and clicked his tongue. “Do I not engage Mr. Lupton for such trivialities?”
Fothergill nodded. “Indeed, sir, but this request comes from Mr. Lupton himself.”
“Well?” he snapped.
“He wishes to know if you will sanction the beating of the bounds, sir?”
Sir Montagu leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful. Next week it would be Rogationtide, the three days over which this infernal tradition was usually enacted. It had completely slipped his mind. Having little care for such a custom, he intended to instruct Lupton to begin fencing the common that same week. The beating attracted hundreds of people from the surrounding parishes, too. Implementation of his plans would undoubtedly mean that a tradition as old as the Domesday Book itself would be consigned to the soil heap of history. The idea of quashing such an ancient custom rather appealed to him. If he were to instigate his plans, the observance could no longer go ahead.
The lawyer drummed the
desk. “Tell Lupton to begin fencing,” he said finally. “Allow the peasants to exercise their ridiculous ceremonies and in no time at all they’ll be sacrificing virgins! Make sure the work gets under way as soon as possible so that they know who is in command.”
Fothergill, who had anticipated such a reply, exhaled slowly. He did not relish the thought of being the bearer of more bad news. “Yes, sir,” he said, bowing. He was about to beat a hasty retreat when Sir Montagu raised his large hand.
“Oh, and, Fothergill,” he called, his features suddenly softening.
“Sir?”
A smile reappeared on the lawyer’s lips, as if he had found a certain pleasure in his own generosity. “Send word upstairs to Lady Lydia, will you? Tell her she is invited to join me for tea this afternoon.”
Fothergill, slightly bemused by his master’s change of mood, found his own lips twitching into a smile. “Yes, sir,” he replied.
Later that afternoon Lady Lydia Farrell glided into the drawing room. Her back straight and her eyes bright and alert, she seemed to have regained the health that had deserted her in Bedlam. Her cheekbones, though remaining prominent, sat above the pale blush of a fair complexion, and she filled her new gown well. Indeed, the lace cap that she wore to disguise the fact that her hair was above shoulder length was the only outward sign of the terrible torment she had suffered.
“My dear, how well you look,” said Sir Montagu, walking toward her with his arms outstretched.
They exchanged a well-meaning, if stiff, embrace.
“I feel much restored, sir,” she replied with a nod.
Sir Montagu gestured to the sofa and rang the bell.
“And young Richard?” he inquired.
Lydia smiled. “He is enjoying the warmer weather and has been playing in the gardens.”
“That is good news, indeed,” said Sir Montagu, seating himself opposite her. “I shall pay him a visit in the nursery shortly, although I find that my time is most precious at the moment.”
Lydia nodded. “Running two estates cannot be an easy task, but you know you can rely on Mr. Lupton.”
