by Tessa Harris
Outstanding praise for Tessa Harris and her Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mysteries!
The Lazarus Curse
“Stellar . . . Harris’s prose and characterizations
have only become more assured.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Harris successfully balances history, homicide,
sorcery and social justice in her idealistic
hero’s fourth case.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Devil’s Breath
“Stunning . . . perfect book club fodder.”
—Library Journal
“A fascinating series . . . Harris is at her vivid best
describing in precise, fearsome detail the ‘Great Fogg’.”
—The New York Times Book Review
The Dead Shall Not Rest
“Highly recommended.”
—Historical Novel Reviews
“Outstanding . . . well-rounded characters, cleverly
concealed evidence and an assured prose style
point to a long run for this historical series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Populated with real historical characters and admirably
researched, Harris’s novel features a complex and engrossing
plot. A touch of romance makes this sophomore outing
even more enticing. Savvy readers will also recall
Hilary Mantel’s The Giant, O’Brien.”
—Library Journal
The Anatomist’s Apprentice
“Densely plotted . . . We await—indeed, demand—the sequel.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“An absorbing debut . . . Harris has more than a few tricks up her
sleeve and even veteran armchair puzzle solvers are likely to be
surprised.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Smart misdirection and time-period-appropriate medical details
make for a promising start to a new series. A strong choice for
readers of Ariana Franklin and Caleb Carr.”
—Library Journal
Books by Tessa Harris
THE ANATOMIST’S APPRENTICE
THE DEAD SHALL NOT REST
THE DEVIL’S BREATH
THE LAZARUS CURSE
SHADOW OF THE RAVEN
SECRETS IN THE STONES
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
SECRETS IN THE STONES
A Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mystery
TESSA HARRIS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Outstanding praise for Tessa Harris and her Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mysteries!
Books by Tessa Harris
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Postscript
Glossary
Copyright Page
For Harry and Tom, because I made a promise
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
As a child I loved the stories of the Arabian Nights—or, One Thousand and One Nights, to give the collection its proper title. The first English language translation of these exotic fables was in 1706—a time when the West was really just waking up to the vast cultural and religious treasures of the East. Tales of far-flung kingdoms, fabulous jewels, fanciful creatures, and daring heroes fueled my imagination. Many of them had their roots in ancient Sanskrit legends as well as Buddhist stories.
One of my favorites featured the exploits of Sinbad the Sailor. The eponymous hero was transported by a giant bird, called a roc, to a land where the floor of the valley was “carpeted with diamonds.” Between the fourteenth and eighteenth centuries many young explorers and adventurers were drawn to India and the Far East by such tales of riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.
Little did I ever imagine, however, that in my adult life I would stumble across a true account of an expedition in India by an English traveler that could rival those stories. The Narrative of a Journey to the Diamond Mines at Sumbhulpoor in the Province of Orissa is a most extraordinary document. Published almost thirty years after the original journey was undertaken in 1766, it details the exploits of Thomas Motte. Motte was commissioned by Lord Clive, or Clive of India, to open up trade and purchase diamonds from the rulers of that region. The mission was a highly dangerous one. Indeed, Motte’s English traveling companions and servants all died of fever during the trip. His account of the journey, however, is a fascinating travelogue, in which he explores not only the natural history but also the beliefs and customs of the tribes of that region. Among the many observations about the day-to-day life of these people we find extraordinary firsthand accounts of supernatural happenings, huge scorpions and spiders and—most amazingly of all—a monstrous snake with sacred powers. The name of the snake was Naik Buns, and it was worshiped by the mountain rajas in this area. If it died, so ran the belief, the world would end. To stave off the possibility, the sacred serpent was appeased with chickens and goats every week, which were deposited at the mouth of the cave where it lived. Motte actually witnessed the snake devour this prey and estimated that in diameter it was “upwards of two feet.”
During the mid eighteenth century, Britain was one of several European powers vying for dominance in India. There was much to play for—spices, silks, and, of course, gems. Before the early 1700s, India was the world’s only source of diamonds. The mines of Golconda were famous for yielding the most magnificent diamonds, including the famous Koh-i-Noor and Hope diamonds.
A succession of wars and various subsequent treaties led Britain to establish Fort William, which later became Bengal. Its first governor was Warren Hastings, who went on to be the first governor-general of India from 1773 to 1785. His story also makes for fascinating reading, as do the many love letters he wrote to his second wife, Marian, on which I have drawn for this novel.
So, it is against an exotic backdrop of oriental intrigue in the 1780s that I decided
to set this, the sixth novel in the Dr. Thomas Silkstone mystery series. As ever, my research has taken me on my own fascinating journey, from the extraordinary ruins of the Golconda Fort in India to the British Library.
In my writing I have been helped and encouraged by the following people: historian and London guide Peter Berthoud, David Baldwin, and Georgina Peek. As ever my thanks also go to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and my agent, Melissa Jeglinski. I am also grateful to Carolyn Cowing for her interest in the project. Finally, I wish to acknowledge the love and support of my husband, Simon, and my children, Charlie and Sophie, and my parents, Patsy and Geoffrey.
Good friend, for Jesu’s sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blest be the man that spares these stones
And curst be he that moves my bones.
—William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
THIS EPITAPH ON THE POET’S TOMB IN STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
WAS PURPORTEDLY CHOSEN BY THE BARD HIMSELF.
Chapter 1
Hyderabad, India,
in the Year of Our Lord 1775
From high up on a loop of the great wall, the bania watched the pinpricks of flame blister the blackened city. Swords in hand, blazing torches aloft, the nizam’s men gathered near one of the thirteen great gates. The citadel was sealed. No one could enter and no one could leave. But most of the ordinary inhabitants were cowering inside their dwellings, fearful for their lives.
Bava Lakhani was the bania’s name. He was a Gujarati merchant who’d always lived by his wits. He’d known he was taking a gamble, but in a land where fanciful stories grew like pomegranates, he was certain this legend was seeded in truth. For years he’d acted as a middleman between the jagirdars who owned the diamond mines and the Europeans. He would be the first to admit that he did not always play by the rules, the few that there were. Yet the gods had smiled on him so far. The French, the Dutch, the Portuguese, and, of course, the English all knew him to supply a good bulse. They trusted him to select a few fine stones among those of poorer quality and to ask a fair price. When they opened the small purses, they were seldom disappointed: bloodred rubies, cobalt blue sapphires, and, of course, diamonds. Always diamonds. But what he had now was far too valuable to be included in an ordinary packet. What he had now might, just might, be a legend about to be uncovered, waiting to dazzle, delight, and amaze with its fantastical brilliance once it had been cut. What he had now might be worthy to grace the collections of the crowned heads of Europe, who would, no doubt, be willing to pay a most generous price for the privilege.
Yes, there was a risk. There always was, but this risk was bigger than all the swollen bulbs of the old rulers’ tombs put together. And now it was looming over him like a monstrous cobra, readying itself to strike. There’d been an edict. Somehow, word had got out. Somehow the nizam’s vakil had discovered that a miner had not declared his find and had escaped with a huge gemstone from the nearby diamond fields. The miner, a Dalit of the lowest caste, had come to him, and he, Bava Lakhani, had agreed to act for him. But the law was plain. Anyone who found a diamond of more than ten carats was required to hand it over to the governor of the mine. And that law had been violated. The Dalit risked death, and so, of course, did he. He knew that, should they be caught, their executions, the more torturous and gruesome the better, would serve as an example to others who might think of following in their wake. He tugged at his enormous moustache. The thought of his own death sent a runnel of cold sweat coursing down his back and set his heart beating as fast as a tabla drum. Now he must do, or die.
So secret was the mission and so precious the cargo that the transaction had to take place after dark. And how dark it was. Night coated the city’s minarets and spandrels like melted tar. The air was close and the sky pregnant with monsoon rain. Everyone knew the Lord Indra would make the clouds burst any day now. Even though he was a good distance away, the bania could see the guards swarming like locusts on the poor quarter that oozed like a festering sore inside the walls. This was where the mosquitoes and rats were the fattest and the residents the thinnest. The stench was always bad, but at the end of the dry season, it was almost unbearable. Dust choked the narrow streets. And now it was mixed with something else. Fear. He could hear the shouts and screams, too. He knew the guards were approaching fast.
Scrambling down from the wall, the merchant nodded to his naukar. The servant, spindly as a spider, waited below, standing by a handcart that held a large hessian sack. The trader’s gaze settled on the bundle. He gave it an odd look, taking a deep breath as he did so. The deal he was about to broker could mean life or death. The exchange he was about to undertake would seal not just his own fate but that of his only son and his sons, too.
“Come, Manjeet,” he whispered. “We must hurry.”
Nine years later, Brandwick Common,
the county of Oxfordshire, England
The moment after the shot tore through the air there was silence. Silence and smoke. It was as if time itself stood still, caught up in the haze of gunpowder, watching to see what would happen. No one had to wait long. The man’s mouth fell agape, and he gasped for the air that was already escaping from his punctured breast. He reeled backward, clutching his chest, then dropped, like a stone, to the ground.
“No. Please, God. No!” cried Lady Lydia Farrell. She rushed forward, careening down the hollow, followed by her maid, Eliza. When she reached the limp body, she slumped to her knees on the dew-sodden grass. A red stain was blooming on the man’s chest. To her horror, she had seen the well-aimed shot hit Dr. Thomas Silkstone.
The apothecary, Mr. Peabody, was the doctor’s second at the duel and the first to reach him. Lydia found him pressing hard on Thomas’s breastbone, trying to stop the dark patch from growing. Jacob Lovelock, the groom, had been waiting with the carriage. As soon as he’d seen the doctor fall, he’d jumped down and begun to run over, too.
“Tell me he is not dead,” Lydia whispered in disbelief. “He cannot be dead.” She reached over and clutched Thomas’s cold hand. Then her own heart missed a beat as she watched the apothecary rip open the bloodstained shirt to reveal the wound.
Mr. Peabody looked up. Even though it was a chilly morning, the little man’s face was glistening with sweat. Lowering his head, he put his ear to Thomas’s mouth, then felt for a pulse in his neck. “He lives,” he told her after a moment. “But only just.”
Lydia felt panic strangle her voice. “He can’t die. He can’t,” she croaked. Eliza, fighting back her own tears, put an arm around her mistress, but Lydia would have none of it. She shrugged her off. “What must we do?” she asked Mr. Peabody.
“We must get him to the carriage, my lady,” he replied.
The morning light was pearly, but a blanket of mist still hugged the ground and Lydia suddenly became aware of men’s voices and the sound of horses. She struggled to her feet and could just make out a carriage on the opposite side of the hollow. A whip cracked and the carriage sped off, heading away from the common.
Jacob Lovelock saw it, too. “Coward!” he cried. “You bastard!” He coughed up a gob of spittle and sent it arcing in the carriage’s direction.
The Right Honorable Nicholas Lupton was leaving the scene in all haste. It was he who had challenged the doctor to the duel. It was he who had fired the shot. And it was he who would face a murder charge if his opponent died.
“He’ll not get away with it, m’lady,” yelled the pock-marked groom, approaching fast.
Seeing her former steward make good his getaway, Lydia also felt the anger rise in her. Like the rat she knew him to be, he was deserting the scene, leaving his rival to die. She also knew her ire needed to be channeled. Now she must devote all her energies to saving Thomas and there was no time to waste.
“Jacob!” she cried to Lovelock. “Help here!” She pointed to Thomas lying motionless in Mr. Peabody’s arms. “We need to get Dr. Silkstone to the Three Tuns.”
A breathless Lovel
ock nodded and slid his arms under Thomas’s legs.
“Be careful,” Mr. Peabody instructed as he hooked his own hands under his patient’s arms. Together the two men lifted him up.
“But he will live?” Lydia asked the apothecary as he staggered under Thomas’s weight. Eliza steadied her mistress as they headed for the carriage.
Mr. Peabody, his face still grave, grunted, struggling with his burden. “We can but hope, your ladyship, but he needs great care,” he told her.
Reeling across the wet grass, the two men arrived at the carriage and heaved their patient inside, laying him lengthways on a seat. The women followed and Eliza found a blanket to lay over him. Suddenly Thomas started to shake violently, and Lydia shot a horrified look at the apothecary.
“We must get him to the inn,” said Mr. Peabody, feeling the pulse once more. “The professor should be there soon.”
“The professor?” asked Lydia, frowning.
“Professor Hascher, from Oxford,” replied the apothecary. “He will be on his way.”
Puzzled, Lydia shook her head. News of the imminent arrival of Thomas’s anatomist friend from Oxford, although most welcome, confused her. “But how did he . . . ?”
Mr. Peabody’s eyes slid away from hers. “Dr. Silkstone made plans, m’lady,” he said, returning to his charge and pressing on the wound.
“Plans?” repeated Lydia. “What sort of plans?”
Still not lifting his gaze, the apothecary bit his lip, as if trying to stop himself from divulging a secret.
“What sort of plans, Mr. Peabody?” she insisted.
The apothecary shook his head, and then regarded her for a moment.
“The doctor did not accept Mr. Lupton’s challenge lightly,” he began cryptically.
