by Tessa Harris
“Oh, and what might that be, sir?” asked Thomas, perching himself on an opposite seat.
The surgeon leaned forward. “I shall get straight to the point, Silkstone,” he said earnestly. “You may have heard that the governor-general of India’s wife has lately arrived to these shores.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise. “Indeed I have, sir. The lady is the subject of great admiration in polite society, I understand.”
Sir Percivall slapped the arm of the chair as if in agreement. “Yes. Yes. But do you know the reason for her sojourn in England?”
Thomas nodded. “I believe the harsh climate was taking its toll on her constitution.”
The surgeon responded, “Correct. His Excellency commissioned me to examine the lady when she arrived and to report back to him on her physical and mental state.”
“And I trust she is in good spirits, sir.”
The surgeon’s lips drooped slightly at the corners and he shrugged. “Her spirits are good enough, but there are certain symptoms that cause me concern.”
“Concern, sir?” repeated Thomas.
The surgeon nodded. “And that is why I am come to you, Silkstone.”
Thomas was taken aback. That England’s foremost surgeon, a pioneer in many chirurgical practices, should consult him was indeed flattering, to say the least.
“Me, sir?” he asked with a frown.
“I believe you were recently involved in the study of tropical plants for the curation of certain diseases and conditions.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Thomas. “I was given the honor by Sir Joseph Banks. He entrusted me to catalog various specimens returned from an expedition to Jamaica.”
The surgeon smiled. “And you treated a plantation owner for a parasite, too, I believe.”
“You are well informed, sir.”
“I make it my business to be, Silkstone,” he replied. “That is why I am asking you to examine Mrs. Hastings, too.”
“You wish me to give a second opinion?” Thomas felt flattered.
“Indeed I do, just to check that I have not overlooked anything of a serious nature.”
“Then of course, sir. It would be a privilege,” he replied, adding, “although totally unnecessary, I am sure.”
Sir Percivall proceeded to furnish the details. “The lady arrived in London last night. She had rooms prepared for her by an advance party, I believe. Everything has been executed with military precision. The house is in South Street, close to Hyde Park.”
Thomas pictured the area. “I am told there are fine views of the park and the Surrey Hills from there,” he ventured.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Sir Percivall, clearly in no mood for light conversation. “I understand some of her retinue is already in residence. I will call for you at two of the clock tomorrow, and we can consult better to see what treatment, if any, she will require.” With these words he heaved himself out of the chair, his leg clearly still troubling him, and rose.
Thomas followed suit and bowed. “Let me assure you of my utmost attention, sir.”
Sir Percivall smiled as one smiles at an equal. “I would expect nothing less of you, Dr. Silkstone. Tomorrow afternoon it is,” he reiterated.
Thomas watched him go. He was grateful for the opportunity to attend such a lady of rank, yet at the same time, he did not wish to neglect his own investigation into Sir Montagu’s murder. Today he would have just enough time to visit East India House to see if he could trace the whereabouts of Captain Flynn. The arrival of Marian Hastings and her entourage was just another unwanted complication.
Chapter 24
The headquarters of the East India Company were housed in a grand, imposing building in Leadenhall Street. The intention, Thomas supposed, was to reflect the power and global reach of an organization that stretched from London to the smallest islands in the Pacific Ocean, many thousands of miles distant. Yet there was also a solidity to it, designed, no doubt, to inspire confidence while impressing investors.
His coach drew up a few yards away from the main entrance. It was the last in a line of perhaps four or five conveyances that were either parked or about to pull away.
Thomas ducked down his head to peer out of the carriage window at the mighty edifice. The curtilage outside was crowded with merchants and company men. They milled about and talked earnestly, assuredly hatching their grand moneymaking schemes, no matter the human cost. Fortunes would be made and lost in this building, Thomas told himself, and lives, too. Trade might have been the engine that powered the world, but people were the cogs in its wheels.
A liveried footman opened the carriage door, and Thomas stepped down. He gave the driver his fare, and then made his way under a great Doric pilaster into the cavernous entrance hall. The building was much deeper than he had imagined and stretched far back from the road. Its wide corridors seemed to run for many yards into the distance. Around him clusters of men stood deep in conversation or, with heads down, hurried past him. Somewhere in this vast labyrinth of rooms and passages and warehouses, there had to be information about Patrick Flynn. It was Thomas’s supposition that the captain’s entry on a passenger manifest from his voyage from India might also give a forwarding address. Although he thought it unlikely and believed it to be a vain hope, he had to try. In the absence of any prominent signage in the great entrance hall, he suddenly felt very lost.
Up ahead of him loomed a large, wide marble staircase, and at its foot a stone tablet was set into the wall. He noticed two or three men seemed to be consulting it. He wondered if it was some sort of directory and he headed toward it. Just as he was within a few feet of it, however, he suddenly became aware of something or someone hurrying toward him, quick footsteps pattering along the marble floor. He jerked ’round just in time to see a young woman rushing out of a nearby corridor with her forlorn maid in tow. Seemingly in an agitated state, she was waving her fan vigorously, as if she were at the center of a swarm of bees. Such was her anxiety that she clearly did not see Thomas in front of her. Quickly he tried to sidestep out of her way, but she clipped his shoulder with such force that he staggered back and feared, for a moment, that he might fall. He gave out a muffled cry as a stab of pain lanced his chest again. His tricorn went flying, and the maid gasped. The lady, however, although momentarily stunned, shot Thomas a look of disdain and carried on her way toward the main exit. The maid slid the doctor an apologetic glance as he retrieved his hat with great difficulty from the floor, then hurried after her mistress.
The strange encounter was watched by several onlookers, who, for a second or two, broke off their conversations and interrupted their errands to gawp. As soon as the petulant woman was out of the door, however, some shrugged, a few chuntered, but they all resumed their own affairs, leaving Thomas to pursue his. For a moment he stood rubbing his chest and was left wondering what could have irked the lady so. That she was a lady, Thomas was sure. He could tell from her dress, if not from her manner. His eyes followed her through the main portico and outside, where he saw her being helped into a waiting coach. It was one of the vehicles he had noticed when he had first alighted: a private coach and particularly handsome. On both doors were painted a coat of arms in red and yellow, although the heraldic symbols meant nothing to Thomas.
“Can I help you, sir?” A voice behind him made him turn away from the door. A livered clerk regarded him warily, as if he knew that Thomas was not in his usual environment and was floundering to find his way.
The relief on the doctor’s face gave way to a smile. “Thank you,” he said. After he explained the purpose of his visit, the footman pointed him in the direction from where the mysterious woman had appeared.
“The office is the third door on the right, sir,” he told him helpfully. So Thomas set off down the corridor and duly reached a door marked Records Office. The room was large and lofty, and ledgers were arranged around the walls on huge shelves. Three clerks sat, quills in hand, at three desks. Thomas approached the nearest one.
“I am seeking an employee recently returned from India,” he said.
The clerk looked over the rim of his spectacles. “India is over there,” he replied, pointing with his quill.
Thomas walked to the farthest desk and repeated the purpose of his visit.
“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk straightaway. He even gave a reassuring smile. “The name of the vessel?” A large ledger lay open before him, and his hand was already hovering over the pages. He looked up when his question was greeted with silence.
“I fear I have no idea,” said Thomas, embarrassed. “All I do know is that the vessel arrived from India in the last few weeks and that the passenger’s name is Captain Patrick Flynn, formerly of the Irish Dragoon Guards but lately of the East India Company.”
On hearing Thomas’s words, the clerk suddenly clasped his hands together and placed them firmly on the ledger. “Captain Flynn, eh?” he repeated.
“Yes.” For a moment Thomas allowed himself to feel more confident, only to have his hopes dashed seconds later.
“He is a popular man,” said the clerk.
Thomas smiled nervously. “How is that?”
The clerk nodded. “You’re the second person to ask for the captain this morning.”
A cold feeling slid down Thomas’s spine. “And the first was a lady?”
The clerk’s brows lifted in unison. “How . . . ?”
“She was in a great hurry to leave the building and did not look where she was going,” the doctor replied. “I assume you were unable to furnish her with the information she sought?”
Unclasping his hands, the clerk began to turn the pages of the ledger. “I’m glad to say I could be of some help, sir.” His finger prodded a tightly written entry before him. “Captain Flynn arrived from Madras on the Aurora on the thirtieth day of May.” He looked up with a self-satisfied smile, as if anticipating Thomas’s gratitude.
The doctor was indeed grateful for the information. It was proof that Flynn was in England at the time of the theft and, moreover, at the time of Sir Montagu’s murder. But he needed more.
“There is a forwarding address?” Thomas could feel his heart barreling in his chest as the clerk gave the page a perfunctory glance.
“No, sir,” he said almost immediately. “The lady asked the same. All I can tell you is Captain Flynn resigned from the company almost as soon as he came ashore. We have no record of his whereabouts.”
Thomas felt his heart sink. He took a deep, steadying breath as he eyed the clerk. “Thank you,” he told him. “You have been most helpful,” he added, even though he found himself no nearer to tracking down the errant captain. The one man who could hold the key not only to the theft of the diamond but to Sir Montagu’s murder, too, was proving as elusive as ever. And not just to him. He pictured the angry lady with her fan. Someone else wanted to find Flynn as much as he did.
Thomas returned to Hollen Street in the late afternoon to find Dr. Carruthers in the small courtyard outside the laboratory. He was sitting on a bench, his face lifted toward the waning sun. The fragrant herbs that were planted to dilute the overwhelming stench that often emerged from the dissecting room were in full bloom. Their powerful fragrance perfumed the warm air. Wafts of sweet thyme and rosemary came and went on an intermittent breeze, and on the nearby lavender bush, the bees were hard at work. Thomas could see there was a smile on the old anatomist’s lips. He felt uncomfortable disturbing him, but he knew Dr. Carruthers would want to be updated on his progress or, rather, the lack of it. He had already informed his mentor of Flynn’s letters and their revealing contents.
On hearing footsteps, Dr. Carruthers turned his head toward the sound. He recognized Thomas’s step immediately.
“No joy, young fellow?” he asked. It seemed that simply by listening to the speed and resonance of his tread the old man could gauge his protégé’s mood.
“I fear not,” replied Thomas. “The East India Company has no forwarding address,” he told him, settling himself beside his mentor. “What’s more, Flynn resigned from his post shortly after he came ashore.”
Carruthers nodded. “No doubt to free himself for the task ahead. He clearly planned to visit Boughton and confront Lavington all along.”
Thomas closed his eyes and also lifted his face toward the sun. He pictured an angry Flynn calling at the hall, only to be told that his erstwhile colleague was dead. He imagined his frustration at having been ignorant of his death all those years, believing that his one-time friend had betrayed him. He had decided to take matters into his own hands and retrieve what he described in his own words as something that was “rightfully” his. He was a gambling man, that much Thomas knew, and he had either bet on the assumption that the diamond had remained buried with Farrell, or had somehow found out. That was why he engaged Joseph Makepeace. He trusted the grave digger to do a good job. He was to plunder the corpse, then reinter it as best he could so that his crime would go undetected for a long time, if not forever.
“There was something else,” said Thomas, remembering the clerk’s words.
“Something else?”
“I was not the only person looking for Captain Flynn this morning.”
“What?” The old anatomist tapped his stick on the paving stones, disturbing a resting butterfly.
“The clerk told me someone else had inquired about him a few minutes previously.”
“Who?”
Thomas thought of the young woman who had been in such a hurry to leave the building that she careered into him. “I cannot be sure,” he replied. “A lady. I saw her, although I do not know her name, but . . .” Thomas trailed off, suddenly remembering the crest on her carriage.
“What is it, dear boy?”
“There was a heraldic device on the side panel of the coach. It was red and yellow and bore an image of a knight’s helmet with great flowing plumes.”
The old anatomist twiddled his thumbs. “Well, well,” he mused. “If that isn’t the coat of arms of Warren Hastings.”
“Ah,” replied Thomas. He had wondered as much.
“Your visit to Mrs. Hastings tomorrow will be interesting,” observed Carruthers playfully.
“Indeed it will,” replied Thomas.
“You think she has something to do with the diamond?”
This latest revelation certainly put a spoke in the wheel of Thomas’s line of investigation.
Dr. Carruthers’s thoughts, however, followed his protégé’s thinking.
“So if Flynn has the diamond, you think he may approach her?”
“Not until he has a verified valuation,” replied Thomas. “He has no position and, I suspect, little income. He will want to sell it, but he will need it authenticated.”
The old anatomist pursed his lips and tapped his stick on the ground. “Surely if you have a large diamond that you believe is worth risking jail, if not your life for, then you will want the best possible price for it? You would take it to a place where the jeweler is highly skilled yet discreet.”
Thomas’s eyes suddenly opened. “Of course,” he replied, blinking away the sunlight. “A jeweler used to dealing with clients of the highest caliber.” He twisted in his seat. “A jeweler who deals with royalty.”
The old anatomist chuckled and slapped his thigh. “By Jove! Yes, indeed, dear boy. And I know just where that would be!”
Chapter 25
“Is the professor not joining us this evening, sir?” asked Thomas of Dr. Carruthers as he sat at the dinner table later. Mistress Finesilver was already ladling out thin brown soup into their bowls.
“He will be here shortly,” replied the old anatomist, tucking his napkin into his stock. “He must be mediating, or meditating, or whatever he calls it.”
“Forgive me, brother,” came a voice from the doorway. Professor Carruthers strode toward the table. “I lost track of the time.” He sat down opposite Thomas, and Mistress Finesilver set a bowl in front of him and slopped the unappetizing liquid
into it.
Dr. Carruthers bent low and sniffed. “Venison broth, if I’m not mistaken,” he said cheerfully as soon as Mistress Finesilver had left them. “I should’ve known. We had venison stew yesterday and roast venison the day before.”
Thomas smiled at the gibe and picked up his spoon. The professor, neither understanding nor caring to understand the quip, did not smile. Yet his cheek did twitch quickly three or four times. It was an affliction the young doctor had noted before in patients who suffered with their nerves.
Ignoring the strange mannerism, however, Thomas made polite conversation. “So, sir. I am interested to hear about the Indian way of meditation. Might you be able to describe it to me?”
The professor stared intently ahead as he considered the question for a moment. “It is the quest for enlightenment,” he said thoughtfully.
Thomas raised a brow. “Many of us are seeking that at the moment,” he commented dryly.
“Yes, Doctor, but this is an ancient means of transforming the mind. It encourages concentration, clarity, and emotional and spiritual well-being by seeing the true nature of everything.”
“I’ll drink to that!” chimed in Dr. Carruthers with a hearty laugh.
The conversation continued as the soup plates were cleared away and Mistress Finesilver deposited a roast capon on the table. As Thomas carved, the professor continued expounding Indian philosophies. “You see, some of the ancient texts teach us that much of man’s ability to heal lies within himself.”
“And this meditation helps one achieve that?” Thomas latched onto the thought that one’s physical state might be controlled by the mental. He assumed it was an exercise that might help ease the professor’s nervous twitch.
“I believe it does,” said Professor Carruthers, helping himself to potatoes from a dish. “The governor-general has even expressed an interest. Yes, indeed.”
Thomas had heard that Warren Hastings was championing a new movement that no longer regarded India as merely a source of profit. He also knew that his views made him unpopular with several other politicians. “Mr. Hastings has a great affection for India, does he not, sir?”
