Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  At that moment, Sir Montagu’s butler and two maids entered carrying the tea service on trays.

  “Would you do the honors, my dear?” asked the lawyer.

  “Of course,” replied Lydia, and the maids set down their trays on a table at her side.

  Waiting until they were alone once more, Lydia took the lid off the tea canister and spooned some leaves into the pot. She was acutely aware that Sir Montagu’s hawklike eyes were following her as she lifted the jug. Adding a little milk to the bowl, she poured in the tea and handed it to him as he sat on the opposite side of the small table.

  “Thank you,” he said with a nod.

  An air of polite civility pervaded the room. There was an unspoken acceptance between them; a scene of domestic quietude, if not bliss, that seemed to defy the events of the past few weeks. Yet, as Lydia sipped her tea, it was obvious that beneath her calm exterior, she remained troubled.

  “You have heard nothing, sir?”

  Sir Montagu shook his head. “I fear not, my dear. Your last letter was sent five days ago. If a reply was to be forthcoming, I am sure it would have reached you by now.”

  Lydia’s shoulders sloped suddenly. This was the fourth letter she had written to Thomas and the fourth that had gone unanswered. Ever since Sir Montagu had rescued her from Bedlam, she had taken refuge in Draycott House, where she had been reunited with her son. The nightmare of her stay in the hospital remained with her, but it was receding. Her strength had grown daily and her confidence returned. What she could not forget, nor forgive, however, was Thomas’s role in her incarceration. She did not understand how someone she had loved so fiercely and so passionately could have abandoned her.

  “I know you are right, but it has hit me hard, sir.”

  Sir Montagu nodded. “Of course it has, my dear, but I did warn you.”

  It was true, she acknowledged, but it still galled her. Night after night she had cried herself to sleep, longing for Thomas to come and take her away from the living hell that enveloped her, and when, eventually, after weeks of waiting, he had come, he had conspired with Dr. Cameron to let her remain. Oh, he had appeared full of righteous indignation at the time. He had championed her, railed against the restraints used on her, pretended to be appalled by her mistreatment, when in fact he had sanctioned it all. Of course he did not reply to her letters. His plans had misfired. Sir Montagu had heard of her travails and sent a carriage to take her away. She had been sorely mistaken before, thinking that her son’s legal guardian and the man who had revealed himself as her real father was responsible for her terrible misfortune. Yet she had been cruelly misled. Sir Montagu had explained everything to her. All along it had been Thomas, the man with whom she had intended to spend the rest of her life, who had seen that she was taken to Bedlam. It was he who had left the instructions for her confinement. Sir Montagu was insistent that he and Dr. Fairweather had simply been acting on his orders. Had she not seen Thomas’s signature for herself she would never have believed such calumny. The script, so familiar, yet so shocking, sat next to Dr. Fairweather’s on the paper that certified her insane. She had not credited it at first. How could he have betrayed her trust in such a cruel and heartless way? It had taken her many weeks to come to terms with the loss. She had written to him so many times asking him to explain himself, yet he had steadfastly ignored her. She had been jilted in the cruelest of fashions, and slowly but surely she was reconciling herself to the fact that she would never see him again.

  “Yes, you did warn me,” she acknowledged. Yet again her own judgment had proved flawed. The three men she had loved in her life had all been unworthy. First there was her cousin Francis when she had been little more than a child, then her late husband, Michael, who had been such a wastrel, and now Thomas. His betrayal had been the worst because he had appeared so unswerving in his love, and it was very much reciprocated. Despite being a colonist he had seemed nobler than any highborn aristocrat she had ever encountered. Perhaps now she should lay her future at the feet of her own father, the man who had shown her such infinite wisdom. Lifting her gaze, she looked directly at Sir Montagu. “And I am so very grateful to you, Papa,” she said.

  Chapter 31

  Taking the main road to Oxford via Milton Common, Thomas paid his dues where two turnpike roads intersected. A corpse had been strung up at the gibbet. The body, blackened by tar to preserve it, dangled in an iron cage. A raven sat perched on the gallows frame, eyeing up the banquet that swayed before it in the stiff breeze. It was a sight intended to reassure travelers that highwaymen would be dealt with in the most severe way. It was also a warning to would-be offenders. Thomas only hoped that Abe Diggott would not be treated in the same manner. He urged his horse on even faster.

  It was late afternoon by the time the anatomist rode into the city. Going straight to Christ Church, he soon found himself outside the familiar brass-studded door of Professor Hascher’s study. He knocked and waited. No reply. Putting his ear to the keyhole, he listened. There was movement within. He knocked again, only louder. Still no reply was forthcoming, and yet it was evident someone was inside. Fearing a mishap had befallen his friend, Thomas seized the handle and pushed the door hard, the momentum carrying him into the room. No sooner had he entered than he was blinded by a bright flash. Simultaneously a loud report filled his ears. It tore through the air, filling it with the smell of saltpeter. Instinctively he dived to the floor as a missile flew past his head, narrowly missing him.

  “Mein Gott!” came the cry, and the next thing the doctor knew was that Professor Hascher was standing over him, patting his back and encouraging him to stand. Thomas could barely hear his words at first, so great was the ringing in his ears, but seeing the professor safe, he staggered to his feet.

  “Sir!” he cried with a mixture of surprise and relief.

  “Vhat?” cried the Saxon; then, suddenly realizing his ears were stuffed with gauze, he removed the wadding. “I could’ve killed you!” he huffed, waving a walnut-handled pistol.

  Thomas had to acknowledge that the professor was right.

  “I not hear you,” wailed the older man, pointing to his ears, which protruded from beneath clouds of white hair. “I vas doing experiment.”

  Thomas took a deep breath and managed a smile. Of course the professor had been oblivious to his knocking. His mind, let alone his hearing, had been fixed on greater things. Nor had he been expecting a visitor. He had rigged up a makeshift target from a tea chest on the other side of the room and had been aiming at it when Thomas interrupted. In his hand he held Sir Theodisius’s pistol.

  “So what conclusions can you draw, Professor?” asked the doctor, steadying himself against a chair.

  “Ah!” came the response. “I shall show you.”

  Walking over to his workbench, the professor beckoned. “Look here,” he said. “I procure several shots of differing caliber from local gunmaker.”

  Thomas followed him. “And?”

  “And ze only one zat fired correctly vas zis one.” The professor held up the small ball between his finger and thumb. It was no bigger than a pea. “I am told it belongs in a tventy-five-bore pistol.”

  “The same size as the missile that I extracted from our surveyor.”

  “Exactly.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, that means twenty-five lead balls of the right size to fit into the barrel of the pistol would weigh a little over half an ounce each and the caliber would be just over half an inch,” said Thomas, thinking aloud.

  “Correct again,” said the professor with a clap of his hands.

  Thomas arched a brow. “So it is safe to say that the shot that killed the surveyor was fired from Sir Theodisius’s pistol.”

  “Ja.” The professor jerked his head. “Find ze pistol and you find ze killer.”

  Thomas frowned. “If only it were that simple, Professor.” Events had moved on apace since their last meeting, and Thomas knew he needed to ensure that Hascher was informed. “I fear the pi
stol has been found, but in the possession of a man I believe wholly innocent of the crime,” he told him, picking up the duplicate from its box on the workbench. “I am convinced Sir Montagu’s men planted it in his home. I am going to have to find some other means of proving he did not commit murder.”

  “Vhat vill you do?”

  “I need to gain access to the accused in Oxford Jail,” replied Thomas. “But first I must visit Sir Theodisius.”

  Before he left, however, Thomas remembered the small flagon of Geech’s gin in his case. Handing it to Hascher, he asked, “May I prevail upon you to analyze the contents of this vessel, Professor?”

  Taking the flagon, the Saxon unstoppered it and sniffed. His head jerked back as if electricity had just shot through his body. “Mein Gott!” he cried, his eyes clearly smarting from the escaped vapor. “Not schnapps?”

  Thomas smiled. “No, not schnapps, but the English equivalent. Gin.”

  Hascher nodded knowingly. “Mozer’s ruin, as zey say!”

  “Indeed. And anyone else’s who is fool enough to drink it,” quipped Thomas.

  The professor held the flagon at arm’s length to avoid breathing in the fumes. “You vant me to find vhat is zerein?”

  Thomas went a step further. “I would be most obliged if you could test for lead,” he answered.

  Hascher’s eyes widened. “Lead?” he repeated.

  On the ride from Brandwick to Oxford, Thomas had been musing on the seemingly nonspecific symptoms of some of Brandwick’s residents. Abe Diggott appeared to suffer from the most striking debilitations—confusion and lethargy, to name but two. Yet there were others whom he had encountered who might be construed as affecting the signs of some ailment. He’d noted unexplained hair loss in younger men like Josh Thornley and bluish gums and discolored teeth, as in Abel Smith. He recalled that Mr. Peabody, the apothecary, had also commented on the growing band of both men and women who were suffering from bellyaches and gripes. These seemingly disparate symptoms might well be manifestations of a substance that was contained in a source that was tainting all those who partook of it. That source, mused Thomas, could well be the illegal gin distilled by Peter Geech at the Three Tuns. That he did so to avoid duty was neither here nor there to Thomas. What worried him was that somehow a noxious miasma or substance had entered into the liquor. Such a possibility had led him to cast his mind back to a paper he had read by a fellow Philadelphian, Thomas Cadwalader, about the similarities of the dry gripes suffered in the West Indies to an outbreak of colic in France. It was this treatise that had prompted Sir George Baker, the highly respected physician, whom he had met several times in London, to investigate the possible cause of an outbreak of colic in his native Devon. Sir George had conducted a series of tests on cider, that drink so beloved of Devonians, and found that much of it was contaminated with lead.

  “I know from my father’s correspondence with Benjamin Franklin that lead has long been recognized as injurious to health,” explained Thomas. He recalled having been shown a letter from the great man about an episode from his boyhood in Boston when several residents complained of the dry bellyache and the loss of use of their limbs after consuming New England rum. “A subsequent examination of the distilleries led physicians to believe that the mischief was occasioned by the use of lead in the still heads and worms,” he concluded.

  “So zat is vhy you believe lead could be present in zis gin?” The professor held up the flagon.

  “It is a distinct possibility, so we will need to devise ways to test for it,” replied Thomas.

  At his words, the professor’s eyes suddenly brightened, as if he relished the prospect of such a challenge. “Zen allow me to get to vork straightavay,” he declared, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

  The coroner’s office was Thomas’s next destination. Not only did he wish to convey the news that Sir Theodisius’s pistol had definitely fired the shot that killed Mr. Turgoose—news that would hardly be welcome—but he also needed permission to visit Abe Diggott in jail.

  “So they have charged the brigand!” boomed Sir Theodisius as soon as Thomas set foot inside his office. There was a triumphant tone in his voice and he banged his clenched fist onto the desk as if it were a gavel in court and the case had been closed. Yet Thomas had a sneaking suspicion that such bravado and such faith in the judicial system were but a wafer-thin veneer. What information the doctor had to impart was therefore most undesirable. His solemn expression warned the coroner of the bad news to come.

  Sir Theodisius raised a brow. His bravado was already crumbling. “You do not share my satisfaction, Silkstone? You are going to tell me they have the wrong man, are you not?”

  The doctor gave him a mildly disapproving look, like a child who has been caught telling tall tales. “In your heart of hearts you know it to be true, sir.”

  The coroner tilted his head upward and rolled his eyes. “Another of your theories?” He did not attempt to hide his frustration.

  Thomas strode up to the desk. “Conveniently they found your pistol in the coppicer’s cottage.”

  “My pistol?” he barked.

  There was no easy way to break the news. “I fear it has been proved beyond doubt that ’twas your pistol that fired the fatal shot, sir,” said Thomas.

  Sir Theodisius’s forehead furrowed instantly, and he raised his fist to his mouth. “Dear God, no,” he mumbled.

  “Tests have been conducted, sir—” began Thomas.

  “You and your tests, Silkstone!” blurted the coroner. His fist stamped the desk and he took a deep breath to calm himself. “So this man, this coppicer, is the victim of a conspiracy? Is that what you are saying?”

  Thomas nodded. “That is my belief, sir, and I would ask you to give me access to him in jail so that I can prove his innocence.”

  Sir Theodisius sighed deeply once more, sending his jowls quivering. “Very well,” he said, taking up his quill. “I will grant you a meeting with this man, but on one condition.”

  “Sir?”

  The coroner leaned his bulky frame forward. “If you prove him innocent, you will not stop searching for Turgoose’s murderer.” There was a thinly veiled plea in his voice.

  Thomas eyed him squarely. “You have my word, sir,” he said.

  Chapter 32

  Armed as he was with Sir Theodisius’s letter of authorization, it did not take long for Thomas to gain entry into the jail. Not that he welcomed having to return. Even after all this time, the memories were still raw. The sounds, the smells, the sights, all conspired to remind him of his visits to see Lydia’s late husband as he, too, wallowed in a stinking cell in Oxford Jail awaiting trial for murder.

  Captain Michael Farrell had been kept in relative luxury. At least he had not been forced to share his cell with other criminals; at least he had his own pot to piss in and had not been shackled to the wall, the irons chafing his flesh. Abe Diggott had been accorded no such niceties. Three other men and a boy were crowded in with him, not to mention the cockroaches that scurried and scrambled across the floor.

  The door groaned open and the turnkey allowed the doctor entry. One of the prisoners rushed up to him and tugged at his topcoat. The jailer fended him off with a quick clip of his cosh and the man retreated, whimpering.

  “Anyone else?” growled the jailer. He flexed his muscles and slapped his palm with his cosh. “There he is,” he said to Thomas, using his weapon as a pointer. “There’s your man.”

  Abe Diggott was lying in a crumpled heap on the slippery cobbles, manacled at the ankles.

  “ ’Tis Dr. Silkstone, Abe,” he said softly, kneeling down beside the woodsman. Diggott lifted his head slowly, as if waking from a dream. Thomas noticed that his eyes were swimming in their sockets as he tried to focus. His cheeks caved inward and his shirt draped itself as loose as a shroud over his torso.

  “Here,” Thomas said, holding up a cup of a draft he had prepared to give the old man energy.

  Diggott lifted his han
ds slowly upward, but as he tried to hold the cup, his fingers seemed to freeze.

  Thomas frowned when he saw that he seemed unable to grasp the vessel. “What is it?” he asked.

  The coppicer fixed him with a blurry gaze. “ ’Tis my fingers, sir. I can’t move ’em,” he moaned, studying his hand like a curious child might look at a strange, alien object.

  Thomas reached out. The digits were icy cold. Holding them between his own palms, he began to rub the fingers, trying to encourage the blood to circulate, but with little success. “How long have you suffered like this?” he inquired.

  The old man shrugged. “ ’Tis hard to say. A few days now,” he replied with little conviction. “I ain’t been able to hold an ax or a knife for a few weeks—I know that much,” he added.

  “Enough now,” shouted the turnkey. “Your time is up,” he told the doctor.

  Thomas protested. “I have had no chance to examine the prisoner properly.”

  “He’ll be dead soon enough, anyways,” came the crushing reply.

  Abe Diggott shook his head resignedly. “He’s not wrong,” he groaned.

  “But you are innocent, are you not, Abe?” asked Thomas.

  The accused man shrugged. “Makes no difference, Doctor,” he replied. “If Sir Montagu wants me dead, then I may as well put the noose ’round me own neck.”

  Thomas gave no reply. He could not counter the man’s words because he knew them to be true. It was left up to him to prove otherwise.

  “I will not abandon you, Abe,” he assured the woodsman. But Diggott simply rolled himself into a ball once more, his head in his hands, seemingly accepting his fate.

  Returning immediately to the anatomy school, Thomas found Professor Hascher hard at work in his laboratory. In fact, such was the Saxon’s enthusiasm that he had even donated the last of his bottles of finest-quality schnapps to act as the controlled element in the experiment he was conducting.