by Tessa Harris
Thomas’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a shout that went up from the direction of the grave. He looked up from the shadows of the wood to see young Will running toward him and waving frantically.
“Dr. Silkstone, sir! Come quick.”
Breaking into a run, Thomas arrived at the open grave in seconds to see Jacob Lovelock clambering out, holding an object.
“Whoever robbed the grave left this behind,” said the groom. He handed Thomas a flat wooden shovel, the sort used by grave diggers—and grave robbers, too. It was encrusted with dirt, but as he rubbed off the soil that clung to the shaft, the anatomist’s eyes snagged on its handle. Taking out his magnifying glass once more, Thomas made out two roughly carved nicks on the wood. He looked up to see a stunned expression cleave to Jacob Lovelock’s face.
“It can’t be,” muttered the groom.
“Them’s Jo Makepeace’s marks!” cried Will instantly.
“No,” said his father in disbelief. “Old Jo could never—” He broke off suddenly, recalling how he and his son had helped the bury man dig many a grave last year in St. Swithin’s churchyard during the Great Fogg.
“Joseph Makepeace?” asked Thomas. “You think . . . ?”
“’Tis nothing,” snapped the groom.
Thomas persisted. “You must tell me what you know, Jacob.”
The groom chewed his lip. “The last time I see’d ’im was at the Three Tuns, the night you was shot.”
“The night of Sir Montagu’s murder?”
“Yes. I was waiting in the hall for her ladyship to come down, and the men was making a real racket, drinking and laughing, they was.”
Thomas thought of the smoky taproom. It was often quite a lively place, so for Jacob to remark upon it, the atmosphere must have been raucous indeed. “Was there a particular reason?”
The groom nodded. “The drinks were on Joseph Makepeace,” he said.
“Were they indeed?” Thomas mused. He thought of the down-at-heel bury man.
“He said he’d been paid handsome for a job.”
Thomas could not hide his surprise. “What sort of job?”
“He didn’t say. Only that he’d been told to lie low for a few days. With Lupton gone, he must’ve thought it safe.”
“And he were showing off a new pair of boots,” chimed in Will.
“New boots,” repeated Thomas. He looked down at the fragment of stiff leather he still held in his hand. Joseph Makepeace was one of the villagers locked up in Oxford Jail. Perhaps Sir Arthur had arrested the right man after all.
Chapter 14
As his carriage jounced along the streets of Mayfair, Captain Patrick Flynn reflected on what he saw. It was the color he missed most. He had returned to England only the previous month and was still acclimatizing himself after his many years in India. He found the cooler weather suited him better, although the gray skies, even on relatively temperate days, did nothing to lift his mood. The people, the common-or-garden Englishmen and -women, seemed to him less deferential than when he departed, too. Not only were they insolent now, they were drab, too. Brindle browns, dull taupe, and funereal blacks were the staple shades of their garb. How different from the rainbow hues of Madras and Calcutta, he mused—the peacock blues, the emerald greens, the fuchsia pinks, the saffron yellow and brilliant crimson. He missed the smells, too, the pungent wafts of coriander, turmeric, and silky cinnamon that hid a multitude of malodorous sins. Rather than the fabled gold of Dick Whittington’s day, the streets of London now seemed to be paved with rotting cabbage and horse dung. They no longer held any allure for him.
Presently the carriage delivered the captain and Manjeet to a jeweler’s shop in fashionable New Bond Street. There were more dandies here, and perhaps a little more color to break up the drabness, but Flynn still found it a relatively dull affair. A liveried footman helped him down and ushered him inside the shop. I can still carry it off, he thought to himself. The captain retained the bearing of an officer and a gentleman even though he wore no wig. Instead his flame-red hair was tied back with a black ribbon, and he sported an expression of superiority so often espoused by those with the least claim to it. He had abandoned his fustian coat in favor of a deep blue frock coat trimmed with gold braid. Manjeet, too, was decked out in his finest silk sherwani and white turban with a plume at the front.
“Doth thir have an appointment?” asked the young man behind the counter. He spoke with a pronounced lisp. His head was tilted in a slightly patronizing manner that put Flynn on his mettle straightaway.
“No. I am here for a valuation.”
“May I ask thir the nature of the item?”
“A most precious diamond,” replied Flynn, producing the gem from the bag.
The young man’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. “Thir hath indeed come to the right plathe.”
The captain did not need to be told that he was in the right “plathe.” He had done his homework. He knew that the owner of this shop, one William Gray, was jeweler to Prince George. There were rumors that this was a less than satisfactory arrangement on the craftsman’s part because the prince never paid his bills on time. Yet as Flynn glanced around him, he could see the royal patronage obviously brought in custom. The shop was an elegant space, lined with display cabinets that held not only trays of rings and bracelets, necklaces and tiaras, but elaborate swords, too.
“I will thee if Mr. Gray ith free,” said the young man, taking the diamond with him. He disappeared through a door that lay behind a red curtain. He reappeared a moment later. “Thith way pleathe, thir,” he said to Flynn. Manjeet was signaled to wait for his master.
William Gray sat hunched over the diamond like a hungry hyena over its prey. With his mouth open wide to accommodate a thick loupe that was jammed into his eye socket, the jeweler, Flynn thought, looked almost comical. The stone itself was held in the grasp of a pair of pincers. It sparkled under the glare of a lamp, a thousand stars twinkling on its brilliant surface. He did not acknowledge his visitor at first.
As he watched the jeweler at work, Flynn held his breath. He held his breath, and he listened to his own heart beating, beating faster than he had ever heard it in his life, even though he was standing quite still. That was because his future depended on what this old man had to say any moment now. This was his first foray into the hub of the capital. A month had passed since his return to England. It was a month in which he had learned what it felt like to be betrayed. First Farrell, then Lavington had thought he could do as he wished with the gem behind Flynn’s back. They had humiliated him. They had made a mockery of him. It reminded him of a punishment he had seen inflicted on an Indian father who failed to pay his daughter’s dowry. He was stripped and publicly flogged. Although he had suffered no physical wounds, the mental ones were just as real. But now Flynn had won the day. He was having the last laugh. He had the diamond. He’d heard nothing, so he assumed his crime had not been uncovered. Not yet. His secret was still safe. So he had seen fit to act.
“Well?” he asked. He could wait no longer. The old jeweler finally eased himself back into his chair.
“It is indeed a fine stone, sir,” he mumbled, still not lifting his gaze.
“Fine?” asked Flynn indignantly. “It is surely the finest you have ever set eyes on!”
The loupe popped from the jeweler’s eye socket. He turned to face the captain, but from the old man’s glum expression, Flynn gleaned he was not about to hear good news.
“Not the finest, I fear,” Gray replied. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
Flynn stiffened, then let out a little laugh. “There must be some mistake.” His nostrils flared resentfully. “That ring was cut from one of the largest stones ever found in Golconda.”
The jeweler nodded his head. “I am sure it was, sir,” he replied. “But it was cut in India, yes?”
Flynn’s face fell. Yes, it had been cut in India. The smaller stones had been sold off and the proceeds shared among the
three of them, Farrell, Lavington, and himself, but the brilliant remained. It had been mounted on a gold ring to be kept in Farrell’s possession.
“What of it? Surely it makes no difference where the stone is cut.”
The jeweler screwed up his eyes. “I fear so, sir. The method of cutting is very different there. The Indians are unable to give the stones such a lively polish as we give them in Europe.”
“What?” The captain’s color was rising.
The jeweler pointed to the large steel wheel on his workbench. “Their wheels do not run as smoothly as ours.” He pulled his lamp toward him and shone it on the stone, then unlocked a small drawer nearby and brought out another, smaller diamond, which flickered and dazzled under the light. “You see there,” he said, a diamond in each hand. “Yours is dull compared with this one.”
“What!” The molten anger that had been simmering inside Flynn suddenly exploded. “This is preposterous. You will never find a finer diamond. Never!” He slammed his fist on the workbench, then took two paces to the door and banged on that, too.
“Sir, calm yourself, please!” urged the old man. “I would tell the king of England the same if he came to me with such a stone.”
The workshop door suddenly opened and the younger man reappeared. He saw the captain, then switched his gaze to the jeweler. “Ith everything in order, Father?” he asked.
The old man slid a look at Flynn, then back to his son. “Quite,” he said.
The young man nodded. “If you’re thure, thir,” he replied with an uneasy bow. He cast a wary look at the captain, then closed the door behind him.
The interruption seemed to have soothed Flynn’s ire a little. He tugged quite deliberately at the cuffs of both his coat sleeves, as if to signify he wanted a fresh start. He kept his voice flat. “How much will you give me for it?” he asked.
The jeweler turned the stone in his palm. “A thousand guineas.”
A look of disdain settled on Flynn’s features. “A thousand guineas,” he repeated.
The old man’s tone was apologetic. “It needs much work and even then . . .”
“You insult me, sir. I shall take the gem elsewhere.”
Flynn snatched the stone away and, flinging the workroom door open wide, strode into the front of the shop. Manjeet was waiting for him, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Come!” barked the captain. “We have no further business here.”
Outside the shop, the footman hailed the captain and his servant a carriage. Inside, Flynn’s simmering rage erupted once more at this second betrayal. Questions collided into one another as they roiled around his brain, then spilled out as expletives aimed at a silent Manjeet.
“Curse the bastards! If they were here, I’d . . . Damn them. I hope they are both rotting in hell!”
Had Farrell and Lavington known that the diamond was not the priceless stone they’d led him to believe? he wondered. If so, why had he not been told? His plans now lay in ruins. Somehow he had to work out how to pay off his mounting debts and salvage a reputation that was even more tarnished than his lackluster diamond.
Chapter 15
“James Lavington.” The name that cleaved to the roof of Lydia’s mouth suddenly broke loose. She had been gazing into the empty fireplace in the drawing room at Boughton, but now her eyes latched back onto Thomas’s as she managed to say it. “Somehow he knew.”
“Lavington?” repeated the doctor. His mouth suddenly turned dry.
James Lavington was a name he had never wanted to hear again, let alone say. It resurrected memories of a dark episode in the past. The lawyer had served with Farrell in the East India Company and purported to have been his best friend. He had been hideously disfigured in an explosion near Golconda and lived in a house on the Boughton Estate. Bearing a simmering resentment, it seemed, he always blamed Farrell for his injuries and had murdered him in jail. His plan was to slip into the dead man’s bed with a hasty marriage proposal to Lydia. Forced by monetary circumstances to acquiesce, Lydia had married the monster, only for him to be murdered on the very same day. His remains had been buried away from the estate and with them, Thomas had hoped, his memory.
Lydia looked down, as if suddenly ashamed. “After you returned to London, he told me Michael had died owing him vast amounts of money”—she switched back—“and that if I did not consent to marrying him, he would sell the house.”
Thomas tried to console her. She had told him before of her trials at Lavington’s hands. “You were under a terrible strain,” he assured her, holding her close.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I had no choice but to agree. He would have thrown Mamma and me out.” Thomas thought of the swarthy lawyer with his prosthetic nose that had been made for him in India from ivory. He now understood him to be ruthless enough to make Lydia and her aged mother destitute.
“I know,” he told her gently, but he guessed there was more to come.
Suddenly she pulled away and sat upright. “But I remember one day he made a curious remark,” said Lydia.
Thomas sensed she had been holding something back. “What did he say?”
She looked wistful, as if in thought. “He said how foolish I had been to bury the diamond with Michael.”
Thomas frowned. “But if you did not tell him about the diamond, then how . . . ?”
Lydia broke in. Her gaze hovered over the hearth and settled on a portrait of her late mother that hung on the wall near the fireplace. “That was the strange thing. I only told Mamma, and I know she would never have—”
“Of course not,” snapped Thomas. He was keen to steer clear of any mention of Lydia’s mother for fear she might uncover the secret that he had guarded so closely for the past four years. Yet he could tell by her look she was still holding back. “And?” he pressed.
“Lavington said, ‘If the sack-’em-up men get wind it’s there, they’ll be buzzing ’round the grave like flies.’” Lydia’s eyes widened, as if the recollection, retrieved from so far back in her memory, had surprised even herself.
Thomas took a deep breath before voicing a thought he had been formulating ever since the discovery of the theft. “I am thinking Sir Montagu’s murder has nothing to do with his plans to enclose Boughton, nor indeed with Nicholas Lupton.”
“You think this has something to do with Michael?”
“I do,” he replied with a nod. “With his time in India.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Because of the diamond?”
He did not tell her about the odd fibers or the strange footprints he had found at the scene of the crime. Or the fact that Sir Montagu’s head had been all but severed with a curved blade that he was beginning to think might not have been a sickle after all. There was also the matter of what the murderer was searching for in the study.
“Yes,” he replied, fixing her with a frown.
Lydia reached for his hand and regarded him with a look of resignation. “Then I am to lose you again?”
Thomas returned her sad gaze. “Whoever stole the diamond will be looking for a buyer,” he told her, covering her hand fondly with his. “I shall leave for London tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she echoed.
“I fear so,” he replied, and he drew her toward him and kissed her on the forehead.
“There is always something that keeps us apart,” she whispered forlornly, lifting her face to his.
“Not for much longer,” he told her. He found her lips and kissed them; then, pulling back, he wiped away a lone tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I swear that as soon as I have found Sir Montagu’s killer, nothing will keep us apart again,” he said. “Nothing.”
Jacob Lovelock and his son, Will, readied Thomas’s horse at first light, as planned. For the past two weeks the weather had been fair, and the roads, so rutted and muddy from the terrible storm earlier in the month, had recovered well.
“You should have a good journey, sir,” ventured Will. He cupped his hands to help Thomas mount.
The doctor’s chest wound, although healing well, still troubled him, so it was with the greatest care that he heaved himself up and flung his leg over the saddle. Despite the early hour, the sky had lightened to a pale blue and the June sun was already warming the land. As the groom adjusted his stirrups, Thomas squinted toward the drive that led down to the village. He had to agree.
“Let us hope so, Will,” he replied with a smile, but the second he said it, his expression changed. “Although I fear my journey may be delayed.”
Lovelock rubbed his forehead and straightened to see the doctor was no longer smiling. “Delayed, sir?” He saw a frown had settled on Thomas’s brow, and he followed his gaze. A horseman was approaching fast and a moment later was clattering into the stableyard. “Who goes there?” shouted Lovelock.
A squat young man in a battered hat pulled up his horse. “A message for a Dr. Silkstone!” he called down, breathless from riding hard.
Thomas urged his mount toward the disheveled courier. “I am Dr. Silkstone.”
Remaining in the saddle, the messenger took off his hat with a sweeping gesture; then, reaching into his leather satchel, he handed Thomas a letter. The doctor recognized the script immediately. It was Sir Theodisius’s hand. The previous afternoon Thomas had sent word about the terrible violation of Captain Farrell’s grave and the theft of the diamond. This, he anticipated, would be the coroner’s response. With his pocketknife he broke the seal and read the message. Yet it was not the communication he had anticipated. After a moment Thomas looked up.
“It seems Lupton and his man have been released from prison. They both have solid alibis,” he told Lovelock.
The groom nodded, and then frowned. “But what of the commoners, Doctor? Of Adam Diggott and Abel Smith?” he asked.
