by Tessa Harris
Lupton was holding up a scrap of paper to the candlelight. Thomas narrowed his eyes to focus on the lettering and read out loud: “Captain Patrick Ignatius Flynn, East India Company.”
Thomas retrieved the note and brandished it. “If this Flynn is in the employ of the East India Company, it should be possible to trace his whereabouts,” he said.
“Yes. It may be possible,” agreed Lupton.
“And when I find him, he will certainly have some questions to answer,” said Thomas.
Lupton nodded and began fumbling with the strap on his satchel. “But some of those answers may lie in here,” he replied enigmatically.
“What have you there?” asked Thomas, peering at the leather pouch. He watched as Lupton produced a small parcel wrapped in brown-tinged paper and secured with string. The steward placed it in front of the anatomist.
“Something that might help in the search for Sir Montagu’s killer,” he said.
Thomas gave him a quizzical look. He wondered why his old enemy was suddenly being so helpful. “Tell me, why should this interest you any longer? You have been cleared of any involvement.”
The corner of Lupton’s mouth lifted slightly. “Sir Montagu and I may have had a major disagreement, but I did not wish to see him dead any more than I wished to see you die. His killer must be brought to justice.”
Thomas nodded and returned a flat smile. The shoots of decency and honesty that Lydia had reportedly seen in Lupton when she engaged him as her steward might still resurface, he told himself. “Amen to that,” he replied.
Taking a nearby scalpel to the string that secured the parcel, Thomas cut it and opened the paper binding.
“Letters?” He shot Lupton a questioning look. With his forefinger and thumb, he picked up the topmost and held it up to the lamplight. It seemed aged and tattered, but it was what was written on the front that caused him to shudder. He recoiled at the name. In bold letters on the front of the packet was written: Mr. James Lavington, Esquire, Boughton Hall, Brandwick, Oxfordshire, England.
“James Lavington,” he said out loud, his eyes latching onto Lupton’s. “What the . . . ?” For a second time the name sent chills down his spine. “Where in God’s name did you find these?”
Lupton cleared his throat. “I came across the first one in Lady Lydia’s unopened correspondence shortly after she engaged me. The other four arrived over the course of last year. Their nature made me conceal them from her among my own papers.”
Thomas frowned as he started to unfold the first letter. “You know . . . ?”
Lupton nodded. “Sir Montagu told me all about the scoundrel,” he replied. “I know that he was an ex-army friend of Farrell’s and that an explosion in India left him severely injured.”
Thomas shrugged. “Both in body and in mind,” he said, opening out the brittle paper. “While to all the world he was a friend to Farrell, he was, in reality, plotting to kill him.”
“He represented the captain at his murder trial, did he not?” Lupton butted in.
“He did,” acknowledged Thomas, “but when Farrell was found hanging in his cell and it seemed he had killed himself, I had my doubts.”
“Well-founded ones, I believe.”
Thomas sighed. “He tried to force her ladyship to marry him in haste, to pay off Farrell’s gambling debts and gain control of the Boughton Estate.” He paused for a moment. That was four years ago, yet it suddenly seemed as if it were yesterday. An image of Lavington’s battered skull flashed into his brain.
“But he got his just deserts,” remarked Lupton.
Thomas returned his gaze to him. “Yes, he came to a terrible end, bludgeoned to death in Raven’s Wood.”
Lupton nodded. “Thus ended the life of a career liar, cheater, schemer, and ultimately killer,” he summarized.
“Or so I had thought,” said Thomas, peering down. “But he seems to have come back to haunt us.” He scanned the first letter as he spoke and noted the date: October 28, 1781. He frowned and looked up at Lupton. “How so?” he asked. “Lavington was already dead when this was sent.”
The sender’s address was written at the top right-hand corner of the dog-eared paper: Hyderabad, India. It read:
My Dear Lavington,
I have heard of your good fortune and trust that you are enjoying marital bliss with your new bride. I am sure that now that you are in such a felicitous position, you would wish to share some of your newfound wealth with your old friend. I would therefore remind you of our agreement and, as a true gentleman, you will, of course, be bound by it.
I await to hear how you propose to implement the transaction.
Yours sincerely,
Patrick Flynn
“Flynn?” muttered Thomas, looking up from the letter.
Lupton nodded. “The very same stranger who called at Boughton.”
Thomas nodded. “The very same stranger who needs to be tracked down as soon as possible,” he said.
Chapter 19
In the dead of night, Thomas retreated to his room. He sat at his desk with the neatly written missives from Captain Flynn to James Lavington in front of him. The summer heat allowed the stench from the London gutters to rise to the second floor of the town house, from where it refused to budge. It was too hot to close the sash window, so the sounds of the street below joined the stink and together they made their unwelcome presence felt.
In the absence of laudanum Thomas had resorted to brandy as he pored over the letters. Seated at his desk, a bolster cushioning his aching back, he squinted over the second. There were only five letters in total, their dates spanning the period between October 1781 and just eight weeks ago. Dated seven months after the first, this second communication took a more severe tone.
Dear Lavington,
I am most disappointed that it seems you have chosen to ignore my last letter. If this is not the case and the fault lies with unreliable messengers, then forgive me. If not, then I would choose to remind you of our agreement. On Farrell’s death the proceeds of the diamond were to be divided equally between us. Yet to date I have received no payment. I understand the stone went to the grave with Farrell on his widow’s insistence, but you assured me it would be retrieved in good time. That time has now elapsed.
I await with the utmost impatience to hear your explanation for the unpaid monies.
The voyage to India, Thomas knew, usually spanned six months, although messages conveyed overland sometimes took only four. He noted the next letter was dated five months after the first one. The tenor was even more urgent. A particular sentence leapt out at him: If my demand is not met, then I fear I shall have to return to England and claim what is rightfully mine in person. The tone of the letters was becoming more threatening. The following one even more so, with Flynn declaring he would “take by force” what was his, if necessary. But what was “rightfully” his? The diamond, Thomas presumed. It seemed in the correspondence that Flynn had no idea that Lavington was dead. How could he have before he visited Boughton in person and was told by Howard?
Thomas was about to reread them all yet again when he noted something that had escaped his notice before. Attached by a pin to the fourth letter was a torn fragment from a newspaper. Across the cutting, Flynn had scrawled: I kept this archived report as proof that there is no danger that the merchant will speak.
Thomas reached for his magnifying glass. The report was dated May 1, 1775. The print was small, but there was no mistaking what it said. The headline ran: Merchant executed for theft of diamond. It appeared the report’s author had witnessed firsthand the public execution of the man, one Bava Lakhani, who allegedly acted on behalf of a miner who’d escaped with a huge diamond from the Golconda mines. It read:
In the presence of the nizam and in front of a huge crowd, the wretch’s legs were secured by ropes to the ground. These ropes were then fastened to a ring on the right hind leg of the elephant. At every step the animal took, it jerked him forward, dislocating his limbs. Af
ter an hour of such torture, the unfortunate man, still alive, was put out of his misery when the beast, given an order, stamped on his head.
Thomas pushed the paper away from himself as a wave of repulsion washed over him. He felt the nausea rise in his stomach. He could not comprehend such cruelty. He knew, however, that he had to force himself to read the rest of Flynn’s letters. He was glad he did. It was the fifth letter that provided the most information. He looked at the address. London. This final missive, dated June 16, 1784—just over two weeks ago—gave East India House as the address. So Flynn was true to his word, thought Thomas. He had traveled to England to claim what was “rightfully” his. The words suddenly took on a chilling significance in light of what had happened: I shall be arriving at Boughton Hall on Thursday next. Thomas reached for his almanac on the bookstand by his bed and thumbed through it. June 16. Twelve days before Sir Montagu’s murder. He looked up from his book and stared out of the window. The date might well tally with the theft of the diamond, the day that Joseph Makepeace was paid to rob Michael Farrell’s grave. But why would Flynn return the following week to murder Sir Montagu if the diamond was already in his possession?
“It doesn’t make sense,” Thomas muttered to himself. He flung down the almanac in frustration and, rising slowly from the table, he walked over to the mantelshelf, lost in his own thoughts. Whatever the truth, now that he had a recent address for this elusive Captain Flynn, he could pick up his scent and track him down before the bumbling Runners got to him first.
Chapter 20
Manjeet looked on as his master fitted and shivered like a naked madman in the mountain snows. Captain Flynn had taken to his bed as soon as they had returned from the jeweler’s shop two days before. At first the naukar put his master’s fever down to his anger. He knew that discovering the diamond was worth much less than his friends had led him to believe had stirred his blood. The captain had a hot temper and would strike him for the slightest mistake, so he’d hoped that the chills would serve to quell his black humor. Unfortunately, he had been much mistaken. Some things he wished he could have brought with him from India, but others, he knew, were best left there. This ague was one of them. The fever had struck his master every now and again for years and laid him low while it ravaged his body. To Manjeet’s dismay, it had followed his sahib back across the ocean to his motherland. And now his teeth chattered like so many women at a water pump and his sheets were damp with sweat as his whole body burned.
Although he did not let on, Manjeet understood a great deal more than his master ever credited him with. The naukar knew, for example, that it did not help that their lodgings, in Clerkenwell, were not what the captain was accustomed to. The open sewer they called the Fleet was not half a mile away, and the stink crept in through broken panes and chinks in the plaster where the rain could penetrate. Until his master sold the diamond, however, Manjeet suspected his means were somewhat limited. The offer of one thousand guineas he had received from the jeweler, his master had revealed in an unguarded moment, would just about pay off his current debts, but no more.
Manjeet was, of course, used to Flynn’s episodes; sometimes they lasted a few days, sometimes only hours. Thankfully this one seemed to know it was not welcome and was subsiding after less than forty-eight. But not before the captain had suffered his customary delirious rantings. Although Manjeet’s grasp of the English language was fairly rudimentary, he could always make out the names of the captain’s friends. “Farrell! Lavington!” he often called out. “Quick!”
Manjeet had a good idea what caused his master such distress. He, too, still lived with the nightmares. He also recalled the night it happened as if it were yesterday. He drifted back, back to the fateful night in Hyderabad.
“They’re coming!” he had warned his old master.
Even though he had no nose, he could smell fear on the air, like a dog that knows another of its kind has passed that way. The pair of them quickened their pace, heading away from the nizam’s guards. He, Manjeet, was pushing the cart over the cobbled lanes, sending clouds of dust into the sultry air. Snaking through the back streets that ran like veins inside the city, they finally saw a cluster of buildings through the pitch black. One of them was his master’s office. Perhaps “office” was too grand a name for it. It was a small ramshackle lean-to next to a warehouse that he rented from a Portuguese merchant at the back of the souk. It was where the trader kept his scales and his safe and where he carried out his business transactions. The ceiling always leaked in the rainy season, and now and again a snake managed to slither through a crack in the wall. He knew his master wanted no such intrusions that evening. Everything must go according to plan.
They stopped outside and he put down the cart. A muffled protest filtered through the hessian, but he hit the sack and the noise stopped. His master shot him a disapproving look, then reached for his belt. He could see his nerves were jangling like the keys he held in his shaking hands. A chorus of crickets serenaded them from the surrounding mango trees, and it had occurred to Manjeet that if someone approached them now, they would not hear them over this symphony of insects. His master was putting the key in the lock when, from out of the deep shadows of a nearby pakar tree, Manjeet saw someone moving toward them. The trader saw him, too, and punched his own chest with his fist as he recognized the man.
“Sir Surgeon! You gave me a fright,” he mumbled in a hoarse whisper.
“I kept my word,” replied the man. “And here are my associates.”
Out of the darkness stepped three smartly dressed white men. The trader bowed his head and pressed his palms together in the traditional greeting. As they came closer, Manjeet could tell these men were officers—they wore East India Company uniforms. One of them was Captain Patrick Flynn. Within the hour he was his new master.
Chapter 21
On the third day of his ague Patrick Flynn awoke from his very long sleep. It was past noon. He emerged from his soggy bed linen weakened but fully in charge of his faculties. He heaved himself up on his elbows, his nightshirt still clinging to his skin, and lifted up the bolster. Peering under it, he saw the bag was still there. He picked it up, and after a quick glance at the door to make sure it was shut and Manjeet was not watching, he peered inside the neck. The ring, the magnificent diamond, was still there. Yet knowing now that it was not worth the fortune he had envisaged tarnished its shine. It no longer dazzled like before, in his eyes at least. But his judgment was informed by the stone’s value, and he remained convinced that Marian Hastings, when she set eyes on the brilliant, would feel compelled to buy it, no matter how much he asked for it. He’d heard that her passion for her fortunate husband paled by comparison to her love of diamonds and precious jewels. Her appetite for such gems verged on avarice, and this stone, he told himself, would be the one to satiate her cravings. Drawing the string once more, he patted the bag. All was not lost.
Hearing his master move, Manjeet arrived a few minutes later bearing water to wash and a towel. Quite soon the captain was changed into a clean nightshirt and a banyan and was seated in a chair, eating a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon. As he ate, Flynn’s mind returned to the diamond. Breaking the yellow yolk of his egg with his fork, he was reminded of what the Indian trader told them when he first set eyes on the gem all those years ago.
The three of them, Farrell, Lavington, and he, had found their way through the warren of muddy streets in Hyderabad to the shabby shack where the Gujarati merchant conducted his business.
There they made a rendezvous with the surgeon, an Englishman. Farrell had enlisted him for the procedure. A miner had escaped from the mines with a huge gem. He’d accomplished this in a most unusual way, secreting the stone within his own body. He had made a large incision in his calf muscle and hidden the diamond inside the wound before making his getaway. It would be the surgeon’s task to remove it.
Remaining in the deep shadows of a nearby pakar tree, they watched in silence. A few minutes later,
the merchant arrived with his naukar. That was the first time he saw Manjeet. He was pushing a handcart, and as he waited nervously in a pool of light, it became clear the servant had no nose. He recalled how Farrell had remarked on the fact and smiled cruelly at James Lavington, who had also lost his nose and part of his face in an explosion the previous year. There was always a vicious streak in Farrell that should have told him he should not be trusted.
They continued to watch as the cart came to a halt, when suddenly they heard a muffled protest filter through the hessian. Manjeet hit the sack, and the men smiled at one another knowingly.
They could tell the trader was nervous. His keys jangled in his shaking hands. They slipped through his clammy palms twice before he found the lock. The surgeon signaled that he would make his move and walked toward the merchant, who twisted ’round at the sound and punched his own chest with his fist.
This had been their cue to step out of the darkness. Bava Lakhani greeted them, and they had replied with shallow nods. They, too, were on edge, although obviously they tried to hide their concern. They were mavericks. They were a band of brothers. Or so he had thought.
“Come,” the trader whispered, opening the door to his office. He showed them into a long room with a low ceiling. Flynn recalled there were cushions on the floor, a chest, and very little else apart from a machete in the corner, he assumed for the trader’s own protection. Manjeet followed swiftly behind with the cart. Lamps were lit quickly, and the shutters remained closed. No one wanted to be seen.
“He is in there?” Farrell asked, craning his neck toward the cart. He’d stepped forward, bullish and assertive as ever. From his expression it was clear he had no time for pleasantries, but the trader was not fazed. He tacked sideways, shielding the cart from view. He tensed as if summoning his courage and lifted his chin.
