by Tessa Harris
The French doors were wide open, and Thomas walked over to them. Glancing down, he spotted a large bloody footprint on the threshold. Tracing the path back to the desk, he found more.
“The murderer entered from the garden?” ventured Sir Theodisius.
“He certainly escaped that way,” replied Thomas, circling the desk where Sir Montagu’s body sat in its chair. “Footprints.” He pointed to the floor.
Already the flies were buzzing around the source of the blood. Moving closer, Thomas blanched at the sight, and a cold feeling ran down his spine. Before him lay the man who had stood in the way of his happiness, his nemesis, his archenemy, and now he had been defeated. But not in the way he would have wished. Patience, logic, and reason were his own weapons of choice. That was how he had always planned to triumph over Sir Montagu, but now someone else had beaten him to it. And in one of the most savage ways imaginable.
Thomas paused to inspect Sir Montagu’s head. Like a surveyor, he skirted it and eyed it intently, sizing up angles and taking measurements. Presently, he lifted the cranium gently in his two hands and turned it to its side. Sir Theodisius shuddered, wide-eyed, as he saw the lawyer had been gagged. A piece of fabric had been thrust into his mouth to stifle his screams. It was sodden with blood. Unconsciously, the coroner balled his own kerchief in his hand and held it to his mouth. “A most brutal murder,” he mumbled.
“Indeed,” agreed Thomas, still clutching the dead man’s cranium. He peered at the back of his neck, but there was so much blood it was difficult to determine the nature of the wound, so he rested the head on the desk once more. Taking a step away, he reached for his own kerchief to wipe his bloodied hands.
“The list of people who would have liked to see the scoundrel dead is as long as my arm,” continued the coroner, backing away from the corpse. “Any one of the villagers, for a start.”
Thomas cast about the room, this time settling his eyes on the scattered documents and ledgers that covered the floor amid the general disarray. “Whoever murdered Sir Montagu was searching for something,” he ventured.
The coroner looked up. “What?”
“This chaos was not caused for amusement,” replied Thomas slowly. His eyes suddenly settled on a skewed portrait of an elderly Crick ancestor.
Sir Theodisius followed his gaze. “Money?” he suggested.
“There is a safe.” Thomas’s look locked onto the wall.
The coroner headed toward the lopsided picture. The doctor followed as the painting was pushed to one side. Behind the portrait the safe door was unlocked.
“Empty,” pronounced Sir Theodisius, sticking his hand into the space.
Thomas eyed the pile of papers that lay on the floor immediately below. “Our murderer was looking for something specific,” he said. Clearly visible among the documents was a banknote. He bent down slowly and picked it up. It was worth fifty guineas. “And it was most definitely not money.”
As the anatomist began leafing through the other discarded bills and documents on the floor, Sir Theodisius craned his neck and cupped his hand ’round his ear.
“Hear that?” he asked, moving as fast as his bulk would allow him toward the threshold.
There appeared to be some sort of altercation in the hallway. Voices were raised. Feet were marching across the marble floor. Thomas looked up to see the coroner fling open the door, and there, in the hallway, stood Sir Arthur Warbeck, the magistrate. Wearing a bouffant wig and carrying a cane, which was clearly for effect rather than any physical need, he was accompanied by the stalwart constable, old Walter Harker, and another sideman. From the way he was addressing Howard, he was obviously annoyed about something. On hearing the door groan on its hinges, the magistrate turned to see Sir Theodisius glowering at him from the study. From his reaction, it was clear he had not expected to see his colleague.
“Pettigrew!” he exclaimed, somewhat taken aback. He pursed his lips and, after a short pause, added: “The murder brings you here, no doubt.”
The coroner tugged indignantly at his waistcoat, which had ridden up over his large belly. It was clear he felt he had every right to be at the hall, and needed no permission from Warbeck to attend. “Indeed it does. A most troubling and gruesome affair,” he replied. And as if to demonstrate his point, he took a couple of paces back and opened the door wide, silently inviting the magistrate to view the scene of the hideous crime for himself.
Warbeck swaggered in, brandishing his cane, clearly wishing to take charge of the situation. He cast his eyes about the room, yet as soon as he was confronted by the sight of the bloody footprints and the scarlet splashes on the walls, his swagger seemed to desert him. Startled by what he saw, even before he caught sight of the cadaver, he began to heave as if to retch. He would probably have swooned had he not clapped eyes on Thomas as he turned away.
“Silkstone!” he cried. “But I thought . . .” The magistrate’s normally florid complexion, reflecting his penchant for port, turned decidedly pale, as if he had seen a ghost.
Thomas had remained in the study to inspect the safe, but by this time his throbbing wound had left him feeling a little light-headed. He was steadying himself on a nearby chair. “I was injured, sir, but I am pleased to report I am very much alive.” He arched his head in the direction of the desk, where the body remained. “Unlike Sir Montagu.” A quick glance at the lawyer’s corpse, its head at an odd angle, was sufficient for the magistrate. The pooled blood was clearly visible from a few paces away, and the ferrous smell of the corpse was making its presence felt as the sunlight warmed the room.
Sir Arthur, catching a glimpse of his old ally’s face, shot away quickly.
“Dear God!” he muttered, jerking his head as fast as if his cheek had been slapped. Blinking away the shocking image of his murdered friend, he forced himself to focus on the desk. His eyes soon settled on the smeared paper knife in among the crimson-soaked papers. There was blood on the blade. His eyes snapped back to Sir Theodisius.
“The weapon, I presume.”
Thomas intervened. The scene of the crime was his domain. He did not want quick assumptions made. “We cannot be certain, sir.”
The magistrate turned to face the doctor. “We? We cannot be certain? And what do you think you are doing here, Silkstone?” he sneered, his voice like acid.
Sir Theodisius stepped in with a reply. “As coroner for this county, I asked Dr. Silkstone to investigate the death.”
Warbeck, whose wig added at least three inches to his height, looked at his colleague narrowly. “And as magistrate for this part of the county, I am also here to investigate with a view to making an arrest.”
Thomas, his eyes wide, balked at the very suggestion. It was far too soon to accuse anyone. “An arrest?” he repeated. “Who?”
The magistrate’s expression became even sterner. “It is no concern of yours, Silkstone,” he snapped, stalking toward the door.
Thomas would not be deterred. He followed him. “You have evidence on which to base your arrest, sir?”
Sir Arthur turned. “I have sufficient reason,” he said, and he carried on walking through to the hall, where his men were waiting alongside an anxious Howard.
The magistrate addressed the butler directly. Drawing himself up to his full, yet not considerable, height, he said: “I would see Lady Lydia.”
Howard shot a look of dismay toward Thomas, who stood on the threshold of the study, then back at Sir Arthur. “But, sir, her ladyship is resting,” he protested.
“Fetch her immediately,” ordered the magistrate, tapping his cane on the marble floor. “I will wait in here,” he told the distraught butler, and he brushed past him on his way to the drawing room.
“Warbeck!” barked Sir Theodisius. “What do you think you are about?” The coroner began to trail Sir Arthur.
The magistrate wheeled ’round, a smirk on his face. “I am about to question Lady Lydia,” he replied.
“But you heard. She is resting,” Sir Theo
disius repeated forcefully.
Sir Arthur merely smiled. “It is a luxury I do not usually allow those under suspicion,” he countered.
By this time, Thomas had also progressed painfully into the hallway. The shock of Sir Arthur’s intervention had unsettled him and left him gasping for breath. He clung onto the hall table to steady himself. “What are you saying, sir?”
Sir Theodisius looked askance as he shambled toward the magistrate. “Surely you do not suspect her ladyship?”
Warbeck gave a slight nod of his bewigged head. “I have been reliably informed that Lady Lydia was found with blood on her hands and robe.”
Shocked by such a revelation, Thomas wondered who could have betrayed Lydia; then he recalled that Dr. Fairweather, the duplicitous physician, had been called to attend her. He suddenly found his strength. “That proves nothing,” he interjected, lurching forward. “She was simply unfortunate enough to be the first to find Sir Montagu.”
The magistrate remained unmoved. “May be,” he began. “But couple this with the fact that her ladyship has just been released from a mental institution and that the knife was already to hand—we may well be looking at the deranged and impetuous actions of a madwoman.”
The glib assessment bewildered and angered Thomas in equal measure. Momentarily stunned, he watched Sir Arthur proceed toward the drawing room door, which was held ajar by a footman. He refused to allow him to have the last word.
“But that is all circumstantial,” he called out. He clenched his fists. Then he had an idea. “Better to question Nicholas Lupton.”
The magistrate turned once more, slowly this time, as if the very action of the turn allowed him to think. He inclined his head and arched a brow. “Your rival, I believe, Dr. Silkstone?”
Thomas felt the blood return to his cheeks. “My personal circumstances have nothing to do with it, sir,” he replied firmly.
“Is that so?” There was contempt in the magistrate’s voice.
Unsure as to whether his words might hold some sway, Thomas launched into his justification. “He has the motive.”
“Oh?” Sir Arthur’s interest was clearly piqued.
Thomas continued. “I know he and Sir Montagu quarreled the day before the duel and he left his employ.” He recalled Lupton’s visit to his room at the Three Tuns.
The magistrate nodded in agreement. “I had heard rumors, too.”
Perhaps, thought Thomas, he was making progress. “And then there are the footprints,” he blurted.
“Footprints?” repeated Sir Arthur, intrigued.
Thomas nodded. “Bloody ones that lead from the body back to the doors and out into the garden,” he replied. “If you but let me, we can compare those footprints with Lupton’s.”
The magistrate paused in thought for a moment, stroking his long chin. “Lupton, eh? There is already a warrant out for his arrest.”
Thomas coughed back a laugh. “For my murder?” he asked with a wry smile.
Sir Arthur flashed the anatomist a haughty look. “Happily it is no longer valid.”
Sir Theodisius stepped in. “Happily indeed, but you could let the warrant stand to give Silkstone more time to carry out his investigation,” he suggested.
The magistrate paused to gather his thoughts. After a moment he nodded. “Very well,” he said, adding: “And I shall engage a thieftaker, too.”
“Most judicious,” agreed Sir Theodisius.
“A thieftaker?” Thomas’s eyes darted from one man to the other.
“To track down Lupton,” explained the coroner.
Sir Arthur arched his head in the direction of the study. “I owe it to an old friend.”
“Of course,” acknowledged Sir Theodisius with a nod.
The magistrate turned again, this time changing course and heading toward the front doors. “But I shall still need to question her ladyship,” he shot back, waving his cane in the air.
Sir Theodisius frowned. “But perhaps tomorrow, when she will be better able to cope?” he ventured.
Sir Arthur stopped dead and pivoted ’round on his cane. First he glanced at Thomas, then back at the coroner. “Very well,” he conceded, adding to Sir Theodisius: “But in the meantime Silkstone will accord Sir Montagu’s body the dignity it deserves.”
The coroner was about to offer his assurances when Thomas butted in. “Of course, you have my word, sir,” he said. He gave a shallow bow, but his seeming courtesy masked what he muttered under his breath. “Just as soon as I have gathered more evidence,” he whispered to himself.
The magistrate deferred to the two gentlemen and made his way toward Howard, who waited with his tricorn and cape. The footman had hurried to open the front door. “I shall return tomorrow,” warned Warbeck, plumping his hat onto his large wig. “And I shall expect some answers.”
Thomas and Sir Theodisius waited until the top of Sir Arthur’s tricorn had disappeared from view down the front steps of the hall before they exchanged anxious looks.
“You have much work to do,” said Sir Theodisius, shaking his head.
But Thomas did not seem to hear. Instead he slumped into the nearby chair, clutching his chest. The coroner clamped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder and clicked his tongue. He was suddenly angry with himself for forgetting Thomas’s injury. “Forgive me. You should be resting.”
If Thomas had not been in so much pain, he would have sighed. As it was, all he could do was give a shallow nod. “It is a luxury I must do without,” he replied, heaving himself up from the chair. He lifted his hand and signaled to Howard. “My case, if you please. It is in the study.” The butler bowed and went to retrieve the bag. “I need to conduct a thorough search of the room before the light is lost,” he continued.
“And the postmortem?” asked Sir Theodisius.
Howard returned a moment later with the case and set it on the nearby console table.
“I fear Sir Montagu will have to wait a while in the game larder until I can perform one,” replied Thomas, unlocking his bag.
Sir Theodisius frowned as he watched his ailing friend retrieve a phial of brownish liquid and uncork it. “I am sorry to put this upon you, Silkstone,” he said, mindful of the doctor’s own condition.
Thomas shook his head before swigging back the contents of the phial. His face registered a look of disgust as he swallowed the fluid. “My discomfort is irrelevant. Whoever committed this terrible murder is still abroad,” he said, plugging the phial once more. “He needs to be caught as soon as possible.”
Chapter 6
Sir Montagu’s corpse was beginning to turn. Thomas knew at least sixteen hours had passed since the murder and probably more. Rigor mortis had spread to all the muscles and could remain for several hours until they relaxed again. It was a warm spring day and already the flies were infesting the body. Thomas had promised Sir Arthur he would accord the eminent lawyer his dignity, and while his professional priorities certainly took precedence, he nevertheless had no wish for the cadaver to remain in the study a moment longer than necessary. Standing by the mantelpiece, he pulled the bell. Howard appeared a moment later.
“Dr. Silkstone?”
“Tell Lovelock that Sir Montagu’s body needs to be taken to the game larder, will you?”
The butler nodded grimly.
“We’ll need sheets and some sort of stretcher to transport him.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
In preparation for the removal, Thomas inspected the body once more. Lifting the head, which was bereft of its wig, he could see a short gray bristle hazed the scalp. It was the first time he had seen the lawyer thus, and such nakedness made him look oddly vulnerable.
Still pained by his chest, Thomas knelt down to retrieve the wig. The lawyer’s hands were bound behind his back with rope. The binding had been tied so tightly that it had cut into the flesh at the wrists. He would examine the resulting wounds during the postmortem. For now, however, it was the cord itself that caught Thomas’s attention. He ran
a finger along the surface of the rope. It was harsh and almost prickly. Taking a pair of tweezers from his case, he plucked at one of the fibers that protruded from the length. He peered at it through his magnifying glass. It seemed to him as if it might be from a plant of some sort, but not standard linen. Nor was it wool. He dropped the fiber into an empty phial. He would examine it under the lens of a microscope later. For the moment, he knew he would have to cut the rope to free up Sir Montagu’s arms so that he could be transported more easily.
Using a scalpel, he severed the cord cleanly, but the dead man’s hands were so stiff, they did not move. Thomas rescued the rope and saved it for a later inspection. Just as he had finished the grisly task, there came a knock at the door and the head groom’s pock-marked face peered ’round it.
“Ah, Lovelock,” Thomas greeted him somberly. “I fear I have an unpleasant undertaking for you. You are not alone?”
The groom moved gingerly into the room. “No, sir. I have Will with me,” he said, clutching a large white sheet to his chest.
“Good,” said Thomas. “And I’ll take that,” he added, pointing to the sheet. He moved forward and relieved the groom of the drapery, which the latter held at arm’s length, his eyes darting everywhere but on the ghastly spectacle. Seeing Lovelock’s discomfort, the doctor was quick to cover the gaping wound at the back of the neck with the murdered man’s own wig. “To the game larder, if you please,” he instructed. “Oh, and avoid the footprints,” he warned, pointing to the floor.
Lovelock was all too familiar with the routine. The larder had become a mortuary on more occasions than he cared to remember over the past three years. With its marble slab and drainage sluice so the blood could be washed easily away, it made the most suitable setting for a makeshift dissecting room. The groom signaled to his reluctant son, who had remained, shivering, at the door. Together they heaved their unwieldy cargo onto a wide plank that had been purloined from the woodshed and marched as quickly as they could out of the room.
