by Tessa Harris
The professor began to blink very quickly as his gaze latched, limpet-like onto Thomas. “His Excellency knows India has more to give the world than lakhs of rupees and bales of silk. It has vast stores of wisdom, too.”
“And you believe we can learn from the ways of the native Indians?” Thomas asked. He knew from his own dealings with the Delaware and Mohican tribes in his homeland that some of their medicines were far superior to anything even the best European physicians could offer.
The professor let out a strange laugh. “We English are like jackdaws,” he said, relinquishing his soupspoon so that he could gesture with his hands. “We pick and pluck at other countries’ dazzling riches at whim, but we glean nothing from their cultures.” His fervor, it seemed, caused him to blink rapidly once again. “We can learn so very much from India—its many religions, its cultures, its social organization—if we but open our minds, Dr. Silkstone. Yes, indeed.”
Dr. Carruthers pushed away his plate. “I fear I am far too tired to open anything other than the door to my bedchamber,” he chimed in, cheerfully. He declared himself utterly defeated by the food and wine, and Mistress Finesilver was summoned.
The professor also pronounced himself ready to retire. “We must continue our conversation another time, Dr. Silkstone. Yes, indeed,” he told Thomas, rising.
Thomas also rose and bade him good night, but then sat down again, choosing to remain at the table. Mistress Finesilver had just poured him a brandy. He sipped it slowly, contemplating his visit to Marian Hastings the next day. It would be difficult to frame his questions about Flynn and the diamond in such a way as to not arouse suspicion.
By the time he’d downed his nightcap he was still no nearer to a solution. He snuffed out the candles and walked into the hallway. From under the study door he could see a light still burned. Thinking Mistress Finesilver had neglected her duties, he went to remedy the situation when, as he reached for the handle, the door suddenly opened and out came Professor Carruthers, burdened down by a pile of books and bundles of papers. Unable to see Thomas, he bumped straight into him, sending his load flying.
“Forgive me, sir!” cried Thomas, even though the fault was not his. “Let me help you,” he volunteered, bending low to start retrieving the fallen papers.
The professor seemed most agitated and dropped to his knees. “No!” he barked. “I can manage. Yes, indeed. I can manage,” he told Thomas; then, to himself, he started muttering “Quickly! Quickly!” as he scrambled to gather his books, which were strewn across the hallway.
Thomas noted the professor’s face was now twitching violently. “I can manage,” the professor repeated in a more measured way. But it was too late. Thomas’s eyes had already strayed. In his hand he held something extraordinary, something he was clearly not supposed to see. He had caught sight of an open notebook. The left-hand page was covered in a strange hieroglyphic writing made up of lines and symbols, while the right-hand was filled with images: pen-and-ink drawings depicting men engaged in vile practices. Thomas’s eyes widened at a drawing that showed an executioner dropping hot balls into the cavity of his victim’s head so that his boiling brains bubbled and spilled over. On the same page men were surrounded by their own amputated noses and ears, blood spurting from the relevant orifices.
Thomas shot a troubled look at the professor, who was frantically scooping up his papers. He does not realize what I saw, Thomas told himself. He continued gathering the books, feigning ignorance.
“Here, sir,” he said, managing a beguiling smile. He handed the professor a bundle, among which was the notebook.
“I am most obliged, Dr. Silkstone,” the professor said, holding out his hand to take the papers. For a moment he regarded Thomas intently, as if gauging whether or not he had seen the contents of his notebook. His violently twitching left eye betrayed his anxiety. After an awkward pause he said finally: “I bid you good night, Doctor.”
“Good night, sir,” replied Thomas, and he watched the professor slope off upstairs, still trying to make sense of what he had just seen.
Chapter 26
Thomas glanced up at the sign hanging above a bowfront window on New Bond Street. On it were painted two crossed swords overlaid with a circlet of precious stones, and in gold lettering below it proclaimed: William Gray and Co. Yes, this was the shop, he told himself. Mr. Gray senior was apparently a master cutler, turning out the finest of swords for the nobility, but he also prided himself on his knowledge of gems, and diamonds in particular. Agents for none other than Prince George were known to consult him when wishing to acquire various pieces of jewelry for His Royal Highness’s lady friends.
Judging by the fashionable gentry he saw promenading around him, this was the place to frequent—during daylight hours at least. The street was lined with various shops catering to those with wealth, though not necessarily good taste, Thomas thought, noticing a woman with garish plumes in her hair. Several of the younger ladies had abandoned their powdered wigs and covered their hair with shepherdess hats in the style of the French queen, while a few men adopted what Thomas considered a most foppish look, all lace and ribbons. He even spied a dandy walking along in a very odd manner. At first he assumed he was suffering from some sort of embarrassing ailment until he realized it must be the famous Bond Street roll. Most of the promenaders seemed more eager to be seen by their peers rather than to shop, although some of the women would pause now and again outside a milliner’s window or venture into a mantua maker’s establishment.
Thomas, however, was not tempted to browse. He was on a mission. He moved forward toward the door, and a footman, dressed in a fine crimson livery, opened it for him with a bow.
Inside the shop felt quite small and was made even smaller by the fact that it was crammed with glass cabinets. Some displayed swords of various styles and sizes. Most of the cases were, however, taken up with fine jewelry. An exquisite diamond tiara sat on a blue velvet cushion. Below it was a gold bracelet encrusted with rubies and emeralds, and in another case there were several rings made of a myriad of stones.
“May I help you, thir?” lisped a voice behind.
Thomas looked ’round to see he was being studied by an elegant young man, his bewigged head tilted in the polite manner of one who wishes to be of service.
“I do hope so,” Thomas began. He had concocted a story. “I intend to ask for a young lady’s hand in marriage and I am looking for a suitable ring. A diamond ring.”
The young man’s tilted head suddenly righted itself. “A diamond ring, thir. Of course.” He gave an imperious smile.
Thomas remembered what Lydia had told him about the stone. “But my intended is very particular. It must be a brilliant.”
This time the young man nodded, although his obliging smile suddenly waned a little.
“And it must be the size of a shilling coin.” The assistant’s eyes slid toward the red velvet curtain. “And it must be from Golconda,” Thomas added.
The young man’s tone hardened. “Thir is motht thpethific in hith requirementh.”
“I am,” agreed Thomas, “because I was told that you may have recently acquired such a stone.”
Another glance at the curtain, and the young man shifted uneasily. “I cannot imagine who told you that, thir,” he said, clasping his hands together. Despite his undoubted discretion, Thomas could easily read the telltale signs. He was lying.
“My fault. I must have been mistaken, then,” said Thomas. “Do forgive me.” He turned and was about to head for the door when he saw the red curtain swish aside. An elderly man in an apron stood in the doorway. He had obviously been listening to the conversation.
“You seek a particular diamond, sir?”
Thomas eyed the man and smiled. “That is correct. I hope to be engaged to be married, and I understood that you may have recently acquired a particularly fine brilliant.”
The older man, in possession of the same nose as the younger one, shook his head, and Thomas prepared
himself for another denial.
His son jumped in. “You are mithtaken, thir. We have not rethently acquired a diamond.” Thomas could see that the young man had been groomed in discretion by his father. That was why he was even more surprised by the older man’s intervention.
“Although we were offered one,” he said.
Thomas held his breath. “Oh?”
The young man shot a reproving look at his father, but unperturbed, the older man continued. “But ’twas not fine. It was slightly flawed.”
Thomas frowned. “Flawed?” he repeated.
The jeweler nodded. “Polished in India, it was. Not a good shine. I declined it, of course.”
Thomas nodded. “Of course,” he said, adding: “You have your reputation to maintain, after all.” He was playing for time, wondering how he could gain more information without appearing to pry. “All the same, I would very much like to see this diamond. It sounds exactly like what my intended described. Do you have the gentleman’s contact details?” Thomas asked, even though he knew he was clutching at straws.
“No, sir,” the old jeweler said, his hands on his hips. “He left in quite a hurry. He seemed most disappointed in my valuation.”
Thomas did not have to feign his own disappointment. “A pity. My beloved will be most disheartened,” said Thomas. “But thank you, gentlemen, all the same.”
The older man left, with a swish of the curtain, while his son followed the doctor to the door. With his hand poised over the handle, he suddenly turned to Thomas. In a low voice he said: “The gentleman with the diamond . . .”
“Yes?” said Thomas with a frown.
“I recall the footman hailed a carriage for him and hith ther-vant.”
Thomas tried to sound nonchalant. “Do you recall where he wished to go?”
“Field . . . Field Lane, I think it wath. Yeth, that wath it, in Clerkenwell.”
“I am most grateful to you,” said the doctor, and as he, too, hailed a carriage to take him to the east of the city, Thomas felt he was finally making progress.
Within the hour Thomas exchanged the fashionable streets of Mayfair for the less salubrious environs of Clerkenwell. The area was one of faded gentility. Once favored with several well-tended gardens, these were now overgrown or built upon, and Thomas found himself standing outside an unprepossessing block of houses that was in stark contrast to Bond Street. Instead of satins and silks, those who trudged along this street wore coarse wool and worsted and seemed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. He lifted the knocker and rapped hard. He waited for a moment, then knocked again until he heard a voice: “All right. All right. I’m coming. Lord give me strength.” The bolt was drawn, and Thomas was confronted by a fat squat woman fixing him with small beady eyes that sank back into the fleshy folds of her cheeks.
Standing on the front steps, she looked Thomas up and down. “Well, well. A real gent, I’ll be bound,” she said in a mocking singsong voice. Then suddenly her expression turned on a sixpence and she scowled. Leaning forward, she thrust her large bosom into Thomas’s face. “If you’re looking for Captain Flynn, he ain’t here,” she yelled, and she began to slam the door. Thomas, however, was too quick for her and jammed his foot over the threshold. “Owes me rent, he does.”
“Captain Flynn has left?”
The woman’s face reddened under her grubby cap. “What’s it to you?”
The news of Flynn’s arrears did not surprise Thomas. The captain had been relying on the sale of the diamond to provide him with a welcome windfall. Now that he knew the stone was tainted not only by its association with Sir Montagu’s murder but also because by its disappointing quality, he would be forced to sell it to less than scrupulous traders.
Thomas thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a shiny coin.
“Might this alleviate some of his debt to you?” He held out a crown.
The landlady’s expression suddenly switched, and she snatched it and bit into it as if it were a biscuit.
“What d’you want?” she asked, dropping the coin down her cleavage. “I ain’t no ’ussy, you know.”
Thomas smiled politely, but ignored her innuendo. “In return, I would gain access to his lodgings and ask for your”—he broke off, searching for the right word—“discretion,” he said, even though he doubted she had any.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Very well,” she agreed. “I don’t expect he’ll be back anytime soon.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Thomas, watching the woman open one of the doors off the hallway. A ginger cat scampered out and hurtled down the passage.
“Went yesterday morning, ’e did. ’Im and ’is Indian without a nose.” She cringed at the thought as she began to climb the stairs.
“Do you know where they were going?” asked Thomas, following her up the sagging treads.
She paused on the half landing. “All I sees is them coming and going,” she replied, breathless from the ascent.
Thomas, also forced, by his wound, to gasp for breath, looked downstairs at the door from where the cat had emerged. The landlady was indeed well placed to see Flynn’s movements.
“Did Captain Flynn have any visitors?” he wheezed as they resumed the climb. He had to wait until they reached the top landing for a reply. The woman puffed so vigorously that her upward breath ruffled the lace frill of her cap.
“Now you mention it, there was one yesterday,” she replied, reaching for a key on her belt.
“A visitor?” asked Thomas.
She put the key in the lock. “The one they left with,” she replied flatly.
The door creaked open on rickety hinges to reveal a small, shabby room. Paint was peeling from the walls, and in the far corner, bare timbers were exposed where a section of the ceiling had fallen in. It was not the sort of accommodation where Thomas had expected to find one of Michael Farrell’s closest associates. He stepped over the threshold and sniffed. There was the familiar smell of damp melded with dirt in the air.
“I keeps the room clean enough,” said the landlady. She folded her chubby arms across her body defensively.
Thomas ignored her and walked past a threadbare sofa, through into another room. In it was a large bed neatly made, a chair, and a cheval mirror. Under the window sat a traveling trunk. It was padlocked. He went over to the bed. A small chest of drawers stood at the bedside. Making sure the landlady was not looking, he opened the top drawer. A pistol lay inside. He lifted it out and inspected it. It did not surprise him to find it was primed. If word got out that Flynn was in possession of a diamond in these parts, no matter its poor quality, his own safety could not be guaranteed. Yet he wondered why the captain had ventured abroad without it.
“Find anything?” the landlady called through.
Thomas hastily placed the pistol back in the drawer. “No,” he replied. He sneaked a look under the bolster. There was nothing. He glanced again at the trunk. If the diamond was not on Flynn’s person, then he knew it might well be inside, but the lock was a sturdy one, beyond his own capabilities.
He put his head ’round the door into the third and final room. It was little more than the size of a large cupboard. There was a pallet on the floor. This would be where Flynn’s Indian servant slept, he supposed.
“Owes you money, too, does ’e?” asked the landlady, suddenly appearing in the doorway.
Thomas let out a muted laugh. “Not exactly.”
Brushing past her ample bosom, he returned to the first room. He stopped and inhaled the air once more. Walking to the mantelshelf, he picked up a clay pipe and sniffed the bowl. It smelled of nothing more than stale tobacco.
“What you after then?” queried the landlady.
Thomas frowned. “I will let you know when I have found it,” he replied distractedly, casting an eye along the dusty mantelpiece.
“If that’s all . . .” She was clearly eager to be shot of him and grabbed hold of the door handle. Just as she did so, she stopp
ed suddenly and let her hand fall as she watched Thomas seize hold of a small card next to a candlestick. His eyes appeared glued to the script, and as he read, the landlady saw the color drain from his face. The card belonged to none other than Lydia.
“Bad news, sir?” she asked, her tone suddenly softening.
“You said the captain left with a visitor?” asked Thomas, the card in his hand.
The woman scowled disapprovingly. “Yes. It was ’im that gave ’im that card. Said ’e was some lady’s agent.”
“What?” asked Thomas. An uncomfortable feeling suddenly solidified inside him like ice. He strode toward her.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“What did this visitor look like?”
The landlady suddenly went on the defensive. “’Ow should I know? ’E kept ’is ’at on. All bundled up, ’e was.” Opening the door for Thomas, she followed him out into the hall.
He could tell that there was no use pressing the point. It was clear she could not identify this stranger who had, so evidently, lured Flynn into a trap.
“You have been most helpful, mistress,” said Thomas, not being entirely truthful. He secreted the card in his breast pocket and slipped another crown into her hand. “For your pains,” he told her. What he did not reveal was that now he feared not only for Captain Flynn’s safety but also, with the discovery of the calling card, for Lydia’s.
Chapter 27
“Who gave this to Flynn?” Thomas, back in the study at Hollen Street, was barely able to control his anxiety. In his hand he brandished the card he had retrieved from the captain’s lodgings.
“Might it have been stolen from Sir Montagu’s study on the night of the murder?” the old anatomist ventured.
Thomas slapped his forehead in frustration and flung the card onto the mantelshelf. “Of course!” he said. “And now Flynn has walked right into a trap. The landlady heard the man say he was acting on Lydia’s behalf.”
