by Tessa Harris
Presenting himself at the head keeper’s lodge, Thomas was escorted to a cell on an upper floor of the debtors’ tower.
“Why is the prisoner assigned here?” the doctor asked the craggy-faced jailer as he was led through a corridor with cells on either side.
“’Cos he greased the old palm,” came the turnkey’s reply. He held up a grubby hand, then rubbed his thumb against his fingers to signify that money had been exchanged.
Thomas had to admit to himself that he could not blame Lupton for investing in his own welfare. His mind switched to the vermin-infested dungeons that he’d been unfortunate enough to visit before. If the wretched inmates didn’t end up on the scaffold, they were just as likely to suffer from jail fever. These upper cells were cramped. He could tell that by the number of arms that wormed through the door bars as he passed and the volume of the voices raised in pathetic pleas. At least, however, they were favored with a little natural light, and the stench, although gut-wrenching, was diluted by the odd draft of fresh air. Seth Talland, Thomas assumed, would be wallowing with the majority of the accused below. His would be an even worse fate, awaiting trial in the most squalid of conditions that harbored even more diseases than rats in the many nooks and crannies of the dungeon. He would be in good company. Together Talland and Lupton had formed a tight unit: Lupton the master, the brains behind the smuggling ring that had terrorized the village of Brandwick for months, and Talland the brutal enforcer. Those who had crossed them had paid with their lives. Thomas’s thoughts turned to Aaron Coutt, the peg-legged stable lad whose charred body had refused to submit fully to the charcoal burner’s flames. Lupton had not killed the boy himself but had surely instructed Talland to put a bullet through his brain. The bald-headed brute was a murderer, no doubt, but had he murdered Sir Montagu? Had Lupton ordered Talland to hack his erstwhile master’s neck with a sickle or a machete to make it appear as though a coppicer or some other commoner were to blame? Thomas was about to put his theory to the test.
Through the rusty bars Thomas could see Nicholas Lupton sitting on a low bed. His large head had sunk right down into his shoulders, and the air of arrogance that had previously exuded from him seemed to have dissipated. Stripped of his fine frock coat and all the trimmings of the English aristocracy, his pomposity and contempt appeared to have deserted him. It was a phenomenon Thomas had witnessed before. He recalled Captain Michael Farrell had undergone a similar transformation when he languished in a cell in the selfsame prison, accused of murdering Lydia’s brother. It seemed that the prospect of dangling from the end of a rope concentrated the mind seriously. And, in Thomas’s own experience at least, from the tight bud of contemplation and introspection, a little humility usually emerged to see the light of day.
The door creaked open onto the small cell, with a window high up in its wall. Only a little sunlight penetrated the room, but the wing was south-facing and inside the heat was stifling. A bluebottle buzzed frenetically around an untouched platter of bread and cheese on the floor. The supply of such victuals served as a minor consolation for those prisoners rich enough to pay for it.
Lupton jerked his head toward the door at the sound of the key. When he set eyes on Thomas, however, his only reaction was swift and loud. Leaping up from the bed, he cried out with all the terror of a man convinced he had just seen a ghost.
“Good God! Silkstone!” His normally ruddy face whitened. “They told me you were dead, that I was charged with murder.”
Thomas held back an ironic laugh. “And you still may be,” he replied calmly, “but not mine.”
“What!” Lupton’s arrogance suddenly resurfaced for a moment. “What goes on?”
Thomas signaled his desire to be left alone with the prisoner, and the jailer acceded. The doctor walked over to the chair under the window. “Please,” he said, pointing to Lupton’s low pallet. It was a gentlemanly gesture so out of place in such surroundings.
The prisoner obeyed, even though he remained agitated. Thomas, still suffering from his wound, eased himself onto the seat, but just as he did so, his adversary rose once more in anger.
“You have come to gloat,” he snapped, a fleck of spittle arcing across the floor. He turned his back on Thomas to face the door. The thin cotton shirt he was wearing was plastered to his sweat-soaked back. The fly started to circle his head, and he batted it away with his hand.
Of course Thomas had no such intention. Pity was rather the emotion elicited by the former steward of Boughton. Admittedly, there was a certain justice in seeing a man of such powerful and evil intent, a man who thought little of swindling and cheating and even killing anyone who was fool enough to stand in his way, in such dire straits. And yet, in Lupton’s dealings with the young earl at least, Thomas knew the man to possess some humanity. The boy seemed to adore him, and to Thomas’s mind, if a child could see good in someone, then it had to be there, albeit in small measure.
“You should know me better than that,” replied the doctor.
The sentiment seemed to calm Lupton a little. He studied Thomas for a second, then returned to his bed. Seating himself, he slouched forward and started scratching and rubbing the palms of his hands, as if they had been tainted by something.
Both men sat in silence for a moment, but rather than divide them even further, the peace seemed to soften the steward.
“I am relieved you are not dead,” he said finally, still playing with his hands. Thomas registered the surprise on his face. He raised a brow and nodded. But there was more. “I did not intend to kill you, you know,” mumbled Lupton. Slowly he lifted his gaze to address the anatomist directly. “I had no intention of challenging you to a duel, but I’d been drinking and by the time I’d sobered up it was too late.”
Thomas nodded once more, like an earnest confessor. “Your honor was at stake.”
“Precisely. I had to go through with it.”
“But you thought you’d killed me.”
“I knew you were still alive, but I feared for how long. They told me you were gravely wounded.”
“So you fled.”
Lupton let out a long sigh and let his eyes drop to his hands once more. “I knew I no longer enjoyed Sir Montagu’s protection. I had no other choice.”
Thomas tensed. Lupton had traveled to the nub of the matter without being steered in that direction. His captors had been under strict instructions not to mention Malthus’s murder in the hope that the steward could be led into a trap. Despite the obvious conclusion drawn by Sir Theodisius and Sir Arthur Warbeck, and indeed by Thomas himself, it was becoming apparent to him that Lupton knew nothing of the brutal murder.
The irritating fly settled in a corner, only to find itself entangled in a cobweb. Both men watched, fascinated, as a large spider suddenly stirred.
Thomas decided to play the devil’s advocate. He took a gamble. “Is that why you killed him?”
Lupton’s head jerked up. “What?”
Thomas tried to remain composed even though he felt his heart barreling in his chest. “Sir Montagu Malthus is dead.”
“No.” The reaction was tinged with incredulity, and the noise roused the struggling fly, which immediately buzzed off again, avoiding the spider’s clutches. “How?” asked Lupton.
“I think you know how.”
“What are you saying?”
“He was murdered in a most brutal and barbarous way.” Thomas did not prevaricate.
Lupton leapt up. “And you think I . . . ?” He raked his fingers through his hair and paced to the cell door and back, to stand over Thomas. “No. No.” He shook his head vigorously, then slumped back down on the bed.
“So that is why they refused to release me?” He gasped, as if thinking out loud. “But I did not . . . I . . .”
“Where did you spend the night after the duel?”
Lupton regarded Thomas with a frown. He was being asked for an alibi and frantically searched his memory. “In an inn. Yes. The Unicorn at Deddington. The landlord wil
l verify it.”
Thomas nodded. “Rest assured he will be asked.” He cast a look into the corner and saw that the spider had retreated once more. “You were making your way back to your estate in Yorkshire, I assume.”
The nobleman nodded. “I had nowhere else to go. Being a fugitive limits a man’s choices, Silkstone.”
“So does being a murderer,” Thomas countered. His eyes hooked onto Lupton’s as he thought of the stable lad at the Three Tuns who had been dispatched by Talland, his body partly burned in a charcoal kiln.
As if reading Thomas’s thoughts, Lupton snapped: “I did not order Coutt’s death.”
Thomas was not inclined to show mercy. “Please, do not try and distance yourself from that brute. He was acting on your orders.”
Lupton shook his head. “I did not order him to kill the lad.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
Lupton nodded. “I do because ’tis true.” His eyes met Thomas’s. “I know you are a man of integrity and I confess I am not. But when I say I had nothing to do with Sir Montagu’s murder, I swear, I am telling the truth.”
Thomas said nothing for a moment, allowing the tension between them to hang in the air.
“I believe you,” he finally conceded, “although I cannot be certain that Talland would not kill.”
Lupton nodded. “I am sure the brute is capable of it,” he said, wringing his hands once more. “But I swear, he could not have murdered Sir Montagu. He was with me from the moment we left Brandwick.”
Thomas resolved to question the henchman later, but for now, he felt he should draw the interview with Lupton to a close. Pushing against the arms of the chair, he rose slowly, and the pain of the movement manifested itself in his face.
“Your wound troubles you?” asked Lupton.
“Not as much as you would have liked,” retorted Thomas with a wry smile. He walked toward the door to summon the jailer.
As he did so, Lupton said suddenly: “And her ladyship . . .” Thomas switched ’round. “How is she taking all this?”
The doctor noticed his old adversary’s features seemed to have softened a little at the thought of Lydia, but he spared no punches. He spoke angrily as he recalled her horror.
“It was she who discovered Sir Montagu’s body. She saw the blood, the wound . . .”
Lupton tensed at the thought of it. “God, no. A terrible shock,” he mumbled.
“A terrible shock indeed,” conceded Thomas. He wanted Lupton to dwell on the thought for as long as possible. He wanted him to share in the nightmarish vision that had confronted Lydia and feel remorse for all the ill he had caused her. But it was not to be. The jailer’s key suddenly turned in the lock.
As Thomas made his way to the door Lupton rose to his feet. “I am innocent,” he protested. “You have to believe me,” he implored.
“It is not up to me to decide, Lupton,” the doctor replied just before the door slammed shut.
The steward’s hands grasped the metal bars of the small grille in the door as he cried out once more: “I didn’t kill him, I tell you. I swear I didn’t.”
Thomas did not respond, even though, on this rare occasion, he believed the steward to be telling the truth. Instead, the interview over, the doctor allowed himself to be escorted by the turnkey back to the main entrance, where his carriage remained. He stepped out into the relative fresh air of the courtyard just in time to see a prison conveyance trundle through the gateway. Watching the carriage disgorge its wretched cargo to four waiting jailers on the other side of the yard, Thomas counted a dozen men. Shackled together, they were being jostled through the open doors. It suddenly struck him that there was an odd familiarity about them, something in their dress and their demeanor. But it was not until the final man jumped down from the carriage that he recognized the large frame of someone he knew. It was none other than Adam Diggott, the coppicer who had spent the last few months challenging Sir Montagu’s plans.
“Adam!” Thomas called involuntarily. Of course the coppicer did not hear him. He was too far away. But the head jailer nearby did. He cocked his head at the doctor and frowned.
“Those men,” said Thomas. “Why are they under arrest?”
“Them lot?” The turnkey shrugged. “They’re in for murder. They killed that lawyer at Brandwick.”
Thomas suddenly felt the weight of responsibility press down even further on his shoulders. As he had feared, Magistrate Warbeck had clearly ignored everything he had said and used the findings of his report to justify the arrest of the villagers. Now they were shackled and doomed to hang on the gibbet within his sight. The onus was on him to prove their innocence. It was even more imperative that he examine the evidence he had gathered from the scene of the crime. But he could not do it alone. He needed to pay Professor Hascher a visit as quickly as possible.
Chapter 11
“Thomas, my dear fellow! Vat on earth!?” Professor Hascher’s effusive greeting was tempered with such shock that it made his white hair seem to stand on end even further. The young anatomist was the last person he had expected to find on the threshold of his Oxford rooms. “You should be resting. Willkommen. Come in.”
Thomas secretly concurred with the Saxon professor. He should indeed be resting. His light-headedness and breathlessness persisted, but he managed a smile as he flopped into a chair.
Hascher had left Boughton two days ago, fully conversant with the appalling affairs at the hall. “You are here about Sir Montagu?” he asked, pouring Thomas a schnapps into a small glass.
The young anatomist nodded. “I am here to prevail upon your kindness yet again, sir,” he replied, taking the glass in a trembling hand. “I have certain items retrieved from the scene of the murder.”
The professor nodded his white head while pouring himself a drink.
“But of course. Vat do you have?”
Opening his case, Thomas produced a phial containing the strange fiber from the rope that he had retrieved from Sir Montagu’s wrists.
“I would examine this specimen under your microscope, if I may, sir,” he said. He put down his schnapps, untouched, and heaved himself up from the chair.
Together the two men walked over to the professor’s workbench, where he kept his scientific apparatus. Hascher took a glass slide and placed the fiber upon it. Fixing his eye to the microscope, he adjusted the lens and invited Thomas to look through it.
“Zis is no ordinary hemp or vool,” he ventured, as the young anatomist bent low to view the specimen.
Through the magnifying lens Thomas could see the professor was right. The cord appeared foreign to English shores. He had come across it for the first time only recently when he was tasked by Sir Joseph Banks to examine the specimens brought back from the Jamaican expedition. The fiber was extremely narrow and hollow, and the lignin on its walls yellow. It was coir.
“It is fiber from a coconut,” Thomas pronounced, straightening his aching back. “Such rope is not made in England. It comes from a tropical clime.”
The professor raised a brow. “And you think zat might be relevant?”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders, momentarily forgetting his injury. He winced and shook his head. “We must neither rule any possibility in nor out at this stage, Professor,” he replied earnestly. “There is another piece of evidence that puzzles me, too.”
“Oh?” queried Hascher. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Thomas produce a sheet of paper from his case.
“Does anything odd strike you about this footprint?” he asked, handing it to him.
The Saxon squinted at the clear dark outline of the bloody print. Raising his finger, he traced the shape of the print in the air. After a moment he declared: “A shoe wizout a heel.”
Thomas nodded. “Quite so. More like a slipper,” he said, returning them to his case.
The professor gasped. “You are not saying a voman . . .”
Thomas stopped him short. “No.” He shook his head. “It is too bi
g.”
“Pattens, zen. I know ze English peasant to vear zem.”
Thomas had already thought of the overshoes favored by many of the villagers, but had discounted them on the grounds that they were made of heavy wood that was less porous and would not have left such a clear imprint. “For the moment, I am at a loss to—” Thomas began before he was interrupted by a loud knock at the professor’s door. Hascher caught his breath and cast a worried look at his young friend.
Answering the urgent summons, the professor hurried over to the door to find Jacob Lovelock standing, panting, on the threshold. His pitted face was flushed and spattered with mud. Thomas joined Hascher at the door as soon as he saw the Boughton groom.
“What is it, Jacob?” he asked.
“Oh, Dr. Silkstone, sir, my lady asks you return to the hall as soon as you can.” Lovelock gulped down his breath and added: “Something terrible has happened.”
Chapter 12
It was hard to say what compelled Lydia to pay a visit to her late husband’s grave. She had told herself, and her servants, that she wished to be alone a little while. The events of the last few days had been so shocking that she needed time to herself away from the hustle and bustle of the hall. She asked Lovelock to ready the dogcart so that she might drive up to the pavilion. This was her favorite spot on the whole of the estate. The small wooden structure had been designed by the fifth earl, who was inspired by the architecture of India. Painted white and bordered on three sides by a veranda that offered superlative views, it was her refuge. In difficult times, it was where she always sought solace. She wanted to blot out the horrific events of the last three days: the duel, Thomas’s injury, and, of course, Sir Montagu’s murder. The sight of the blood, the smell of it, the stickiness of it on her fingers still lingered. She needed to be rid of it, to slough it off, and simply by being in this beautiful place she hoped she would feel cleansed.
The sky was streaked with white mares’ tails, a sign that the weather was set fair as she started off up the stiff hill. On either side of the track, the blades of grass that had been so browned and broken by the Great Fogg last year had grown back even stronger and were now verdant and flourishing. The leaves on the trees, too, had been coaxed out by the sunshine of the past few days, clothing the wood in a green haze. Up ahead the red kites wheeled and dived on the warm thermal currents that formed below the ridge, and a skylark in full song hovered over a nearby cornfield.
