by Tessa Harris
“You first,” he said, then added, almost apologetically: “Sir.”
The three of them had swapped wary looks, but Farrell had nodded to Lavington. It was the signal for him to produce the map. He opened the satchel that was slung across his shoulder and brought out the scroll. Lifting it up by its wooden shaft, he let it unfurl itself to reveal a length of parchment so long that it almost reached the ground.
He recalled the look on the bania’s face. His eyes opened wide at what he saw. Then he blinked, as if to reassure himself he was not dreaming. It was clear that this map exceeded his expectations. Against a yellowing background, he could see the inked outline of mountains and valleys and rivers. There were place names, too; names written in his own language, names he could understand. These were places he had heard of: Aurangabad, Seringapatam, and Sira. His eyes played on the minute depictions of palaces and camels before settling on the northwestern corner of the map. And there it was. His eyes bulged from their sockets.
“The Great Snake!” he cried. He lunged forward for a closer look, but Lavington took a step back.
“Not too close,” he had warned. “Not yet.”
So the trader stood in awe for a second or two longer, regarding this purportedly ancient map of the region that detailed the exact location of the diamond mines that everyone thought had been lost forever. And there, at the center, was the Great Snake, the guardian of the greatest treasure trove of all.
“It is good?” asked Farrell.
The Gujarati could barely speak. “Good, yes,” he’d muttered.
He, Flynn, had watched the transaction from the doorway. He was supposed to be the lookout, so when shouts suddenly cut through the thick air, he switched his attention.
“The nizam’s men. They are closer!” he had called.
“The miner,” Farrell hissed. “Quick!”
The command jolted the trader back into the present, and from then on everything happened quickly. Manjeet untied the neck of the sack in the cart to allow a small emaciated body, wearing nothing but a loincloth, to emerge. But it was the dirty rag, dusted with red earth, that was wrapped around the man’s left leg that everyone wanted to see.
“Here he is,” announced the trader excitedly.
The man, a dazed look in his eyes, lurched forward as he left the cart. He was clearly unable to stand unaided, and quick-thinking Manjeet grabbed a large cushion and he slumped onto it.
The surgeon, who had been silent during the proceedings, studied the man for a moment. “An untouchable?” he asked.
Lakhani nodded. “Yes, a Dalit, Sir Surgeon, but I believe him to be honest. You see his leg.” He pointed to the bloody rag and added: “He must not die, sir. You know that.”
The surgeon, a man in his late fifties with an air of calm efficiency, arched a brow. “I shall take the greatest of care,” he assured the merchant. He knew the murder of one of the local jagirdar’s miners would be punishable by death. “Then let’s get to it, shall we?” he’d said. “He needs to lie down.”
The shouts of the guards could be heard in the near distance now.
“Hurry it up, can’t you?” Flynn had urged from the doorway.
The trader nodded to Manjeet, who rushed the Dalit over to the small alcove and pushed him down roughly on a filthy straw mattress. The lamp, encircled by all manner of small flying insects, was duly fetched and placed on the ground nearby.
“You have examined the wound?” asked the surgeon, unwrapping the dressing.
The trader nodded. “I have seen the bulge. Big as an ibis egg, it is.”
“Big as an ibis egg,” Flynn now said out loud. It was not an exaggeration. He regarded the drawstring bag that lay on the worm-eaten table beside his plate. Despite the jeweler’s low valuation, he would not give up hope of a lucrative sale.
“Sahib feel better now?” inquired Manjeet, hearing his master’s voice.
“I do,” replied his master.
The naukar poured coffee. “Sahib would also like his newspaper?”
The captain nodded, and Manjeet handed him a copy of the London Gazette. Flynn scanned it for news of Marian Hastings’s arrival. He could see none and was about to rise and call Manjeet to help him dress. As he folded the newspaper and placed it on the table, however, he stopped suddenly. His attention snagged on a lurid headline on the front page. He craned his neck to read: Barbarous murder at Boughton Hall. For a moment he froze as the words swam in front of him. This time he felt his hands tremble not because of the ague but from trepidation. As he delved deeper, his fears mounted. He forced himself to concentrate. The victim of this vicious crime was called Sir Montagu Malthus. He searched his memory. The name was unknown to him. He read further: The murder is being linked to the theft of a diamond from the grave of the late Captain Michael Farrell. Again he felt that same terrible jabbing sensation, the bolt of electricity that charges through a man’s body when something awful and calamitous descends upon him like a catastrophic storm. Flynn thought of the bury man and his promises to make good the grave—“So as no one’ll ever know,” the dour peasant had assured him. He had rewarded him handsomely for his work, too. The old fool had even joked that he would buy new boots with the money and lifted a foot to show him the tongue of his boot hanging loose. Everything, he assumed, had gone smoothly. How wrong he was.
In a fit of unbridled rage, Flynn swept his coffee cup from the table. It smashed to pieces on the floor, splattering its contents as it went.
“Sir! Sir!” Manjeet hurried in from the other room.
He found his master pacing up and down, shaking his red head.
“What is it, sahib?” he cried. “You ill again?”
Flynn eyed his servant. “’Tis worse than the ague, Manjeet. Much worse,” he said. “I fear I am wanted for murder.”
Chapter 22
The morning dawned clear and bright over the south coast of England as the sailing ship Atlas weighed anchor off shore. Another vessel, the Besborough, accompanied it. But if there was much excitement, and indeed relief, on board the vessel that the long and arduous passage from India had ended safely, there was also much anticipation on shore. The ship’s most precious cargo was neither spice nor silk, but none other than the wife of the governor-general of India, Mrs. Marian Hastings. Her husband had sent her, most reluctantly, back to England on the grounds of her poor health. The subcontinent’s climate had not agreed with her, but it had been reported that, even before her arrival in St. Helena en route, she had recovered her spirits. Now, some six weeks later, the ship was mooring in the Channel and its very important passenger appeared fully restored.
As soon as the Indiaman ship was spotted, the commissioner of the dockyard at Portsmouth ordered the king’s yacht be dispatched to fetch the esteemed visitor. To the peal of church bells, many of the town’s inhabitants turned out with the intention of greeting the celebrated lady. For many weeks now, the talk had been of the manner in which the governor-general had spared no expense in fitting up the roundhouse of the ship for his lady’s luxurious accommodation. Much had been made of the profusion of sandalwood and carved ivory that adorned her cabin, not to mention the dazzling array of jewels that were said to accompany her. Hence handkerchiefs were laundered, wigs powdered, and carriages readied to greet such an important visitor.
Unbeknown to those aboard the king’s yacht, however, Mrs. Hastings and her companion Mrs. Bibby Motte, escorted by a friend, William Markham of Benares, had left the ship off Dun-nose Point, on the Isle of Wight. Consequently they missed the yacht. Nevertheless, as soon as the mistake was realized, all those in authority rallied ’round and the party was still accorded every civility on landing.
Among the first to greet Mrs. Hastings was the eminent surgeon and physician Sir Percivall Pott. A few months previously he had received a personal letter from the governor-general, asking him to examine his wife when she arrived in England. The meat of the letter ran thus:
My dear wife is most out of sort
s. Her mood is lively and depressed by turn and her appetite waxes and wanes like the moon. She blames the Indian climate and we can all attest to its severity and extremities, however, sir, I fear that there is something much more serious that causes her general malaise. I would therefore be most beholden to you if you, as a most esteemed physician of the highest character, could examine her and give me your honest opinion of her health.
And so it was that the most respected Sir Percivall, an avuncular gentleman who walked with a pronounced limp, was engaged. He visited Mrs. Hastings at the inn where she had taken rooms for her first night on terra firma in weeks. Her salon was modest, even by English standards, but by all accounts the landlord was aware of his guest’s importance and had spared no expense to make her stay a comfortable, if not luxurious, one.
Sir Percivall found his new patient seated in a chair, looking out of a window with a view onto the sea. At her side was another woman, whom he took to be Mrs. Motte, her companion on the voyage. Both looked up and smiled when he was announced.
“Sir Percivall,” Mrs. Hastings greeted him warmly, holding out her fingers bedizened with several colored gemstones. She remained seated.
The surgeon duly took her hand and kissed it. Lifting his gaze, he saw that he was addressing a most handsome woman. For weeks the gossip columns in the newssheets had trumpeted her voyage from India, and now that she had arrived he could easily see why. Her high cheekbones gave her a most noble countenance, and her aquiline nose added strength to her face. Despite the fact that she had landed earlier in the day and had only a few personal effects with her—the rest being still on board the Atlas, which was sailing on to London—her attire was extremely decorous. Her elaborately embroidered dress of blue taffeta was complemented by a row of sapphires around her neck, while matching earrings hung from her lobes.
Before Sir Percivall could say another word, however, Marian Hastings preempted him. “I know my husband has sent you,” she told him with a coy smile. He detected the sharp clip of a Germanic accent in her voice.
The surgeon returned her smile. “You also know that the governor-general ranks your welfare as high as that of India itself, madam,” came his swift and accurate reply.
Marian Hastings nodded and fingered the gemstones at her throat. She twitched her lips to show that she knew what her visitor said was true.
“And so you vish to examine me.”
Sir Percivall tilted his head. He could tell from her manner that she had a strong will and would do nothing that she did not feel inclined to do. He replied: “If that is amenable to you, madam.”
She sighed in a rather dramatic fashion and glanced at Mrs. Motte, who watched attentively. “I suppose ze sooner you report back to my husband, ze sooner he vill stop fretting,” she ventured. “Come, let us get on with it.”
Chapter 23
A stranger sat next to Dr. Carruthers at the breakfast table in Hollen Street. At least he was a stranger to Thomas. Yet even though he had never clapped eyes on him before, the young anatomist knew his identity straightaway.
“Professor Carruthers,” he greeted the visitor cordially.
“Dr. Silkstone,” came the reply as the gentleman rose to shake hands. Although ten years younger, Oliver Carruthers bore a striking resemblance to his brother: He had a small, flattish nose and prominent cheekbones, but appeared much taller and carried less weight. It was as if he had been lifted up at both ends and stretched to make him longer and thinner, thought Thomas. Then, of course, there were the eyes. Dr. Carruthers’s were most often shut. When open, they were dull and swiveled in their sockets. But his brother’s, by contrast, were sharp as scalpels.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” said the professor, fixing Thomas with an intense gaze. “William has told me so much about you and your work.” His delivery was extremely quick and precise as he offered his hand to the young doctor.
Thomas had also gleaned much about Professor Carruthers from his letters to his brother. For the past six years, he had read them out loud to Dr. Carruthers because of the latter’s failed sight and had gained the impression that here was a man in love with India and entranced by its ancient customs and culture.
“It is a pleasure to meet you finally, sir,” Thomas replied, taking him firmly by the hand. “You are restored after the voyage?” he asked as he took his seat.
Professor Carruthers smiled at Thomas’s remark. “I’ve been two weeks ashore but have only just recovered my balance,” he told him, adding, “which is more than can be said about English politicians.”
Dr. Carruthers paused as he munched his toast. “We were just discussing Mr. Pitt’s India bill, dear boy,” he explained. “My brother is most concerned by it.”
Thomas knew there was talk of a bill going through Parliament that would give the British Crown control over the territory of India. He also knew that Warren Hastings was under fire. Blamed, some said unfairly, for the recent and ruinous wars in the subcontinent, he was losing hold of his position.
“What will happen to the governor-general if the bill is passed?” he asked, helping himself to coffee from the pot.
The professor turned in his seat toward Thomas, as if the very thought had fired him up. “Such is the strength of feeling against him that I fear he will be forced to resign and return home,” he replied, without pausing for breath.
The old anatomist nodded his head in agreement. “Hastings has many enemies.” He chuckled and looked pointedly at Thomas. “He even fought a duel with that cad Philip Francis, dear boy!” The enmity between the two men was well-known in certain English circles, but the professor was clearly puzzled by the teasing tone of his brother’s remark. He turned his questioning gaze toward Thomas again. The latter, sipping his coffee, put down his cup to explain.
“I have also just fought a duel, sir,” he said, a little awkwardly.
“And he has the wound to prove it, don’t you, dear boy!” chimed in Dr. Carruthers, rather too cheerfully than was seemly.
The professor raised a brow. “I trust you are well used to my brother’s rather odd sense of humor by now, Dr. Silkstone.” He shook his head and shot a disapproving look at the old anatomist. “I hope your injury is not serious.”
“Thank you. I’ll survive,” replied Thomas, gently laying a hand on his chest. His wound still irked him.
“Which is more than can be said for Hastings’s political career,” gibed Dr. Carruthers with a chuckle.
Steering the conversation into what he thought might be less choppy waters, Thomas jumped in. “We hear that Mrs. Hastings is due to arrive any day now,” he said.
The professor, who had taken up his spoon and was about to resume eating his porridge, nodded but did not smile. “Ah, the dazzling Mrs. Hastings.” His left eye twitched slightly as he spoke.
“You know her personally?” inquired Thomas, draining his cup.
“Only by reputation,” said the professor, framing his reply carefully. He downed a spoonful of his porridge before adding: “Yes, I am sure London society will be clamoring to see her.”
“Ah, this is the lady famed for her love of precious stones,” said the old anatomist, dabbing a dollop of butter from his chin.
“You are well informed, brother,” said the professor, continuing to eat.
Dr. Carruthers chuckled again. “Dr. Silkstone keeps me abreast of all I need to know,” he said. “Don’t you, Thomas?”
His protégé smiled. “I try my best, sir,” he replied, rising and scraping his chair away from the table.
“But you are leaving us so soon, dear boy?” responded the old anatomist.
Thomas dipped a shallow bow to the professor. “I fear I have a great deal to do, sir.”
Dr. Carruthers nodded. “Ah, the ghastly murder,” he said knowingly.
The professor’s expression registered both surprise and alarm.
“I shall tell you all about it,” the old anatomist assured his brother as Thomas strode toward the door. Just a
s he did so, however, there came a loud knock from outside. So clearly could it be heard, and so confident was it in its execution, that it sounded official.
“What the deuce?” cursed Dr. Carruthers as Thomas opened the dining room door just in time to see Mistress Finesilver answer the caller. A moment later, Thomas could hardly believe his eyes. None other than Sir Percivall Pott was standing on the threshold, leaning on a walking stick. He was small and round in stature, and his face was kindly yet learned. An old leg fracture left him with a limp. It was clear, however, that Mistress Finesilver, who had planted herself firmly across the entrance in a belligerent manner, had no inkling of the importance of the visitor. Thomas would never forget when, newly arrived in London, he attended one of Sir Percivall’s lectures on scrotal cancer in chimney sweeps at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. It had been an enlightening experience—the first time he had ever heard of anyone linking a malignancy to a patient’s environment. Ever since that day, he had held Sir Percivall in the highest regard, and had had the privilege of meeting him, too. Now, fearing the great man was about to be barred from entry by an overprotective housekeeper, he stepped up quickly before any more damage could be done.
“Sir Percivall,” Thomas greeted him with an outstretched hand. It was a calculated maneuver that forced Mistress Finesilver to step aside.
Seeing the anatomist approach, the surgeon, who had appeared a little disconcerted by the housekeeper’s manner, broke into a smile.
“Dr. Silkstone,” he said, shaking Thomas’s hand.
“We are honored by your visit, sir. Come in, please,” replied the young doctor, gesturing toward the study. Sir Percivall gave an open-mouthed Mistress Finesilver his hat and limped across the hall and through the open study door.
“Forgive my unannounced call,” said the surgeon as he was shown to a chair, “but I am come on an urgent matter.”
