by Tessa Harris
Sir Theodisius straightened his back. “Flynn’s servant?”
“He could not say.”
The coroner stuck out his fleshy chin. “Then that settles it,” he barked.
“Settles what, pray?”
“You and Richard shall stay with Lady Hattie and me at our London residence until this most terrible business is brought to a satisfactory conclusion.”
Lydia felt her mouth open in a natural protest. But then she thought better of it. She did not refuse.
Chapter 33
The day after the postmortem, Thomas rose early and made his way to his laboratory to finish writing his report on the murdered Indian. Before he settled himself at his desk, he scanned the bookshelves for studies on insects until he came to his trusty copy of Carl Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae. Propping the dusty volume on the nearby work surface, he thumbed through the leaves until he found the object of his search. “Formicidae,” he muttered to himself; then, carrying the still open volume, he set it down on his desk, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the musty air.
A glass jar in front of him contained what might have been mistaken for small dried fruits, currants or raisins, at first glance. They were, in fact, the desiccated corpses of at least twenty red ants that Thomas had removed from the innards of the unfortunate Indian. There had been many more, but it would have taken too long to extricate them all from both lungs. A cold chill suddenly shot down his spine as he thought of the insects swarming in the dead man’s lungs. The hot weather seemed to have triggered a plague of them in the city. They were to be found anywhere where there was anything sweet, and the Indian’s killer had used this to his advantage.
Thomas opened the jar and delved inside with a pair of forceps to retrieve one of the creatures and set it on a glass slide next to an illustration in the well-thumbed reference book.
A knock at the door interrupted him. He groaned at the thought of Mistress Finesilver airing yet another complaint about the Indian servant’s manners or some such triviality.
“Yes,” he called. He did not even bother to look toward the door when he heard it open, but simply waited to hear his housekeeper’s waspish invective.
“Forgive the intrusion, Dr. Silkstone,” came a voice. It belonged not to Mistress Finesilver but to Professor Carruthers.
Thomas leapt to his feet. “Good day to you, sir,” he said, suddenly feeling on edge. There was something about his mentor’s brother that made him uneasy. Catching sight of the professor’s grotesque and disturbing images had not endeared him to Thomas. Nor had the fact that his clothes needed boiling so soon after the Indian’s murder. There might be innocent explanations for both. And there might not.
The professor, however, seemed unabashed as he moved toward Thomas. “I am sorry to disturb you, Doctor. I know you are working, but I wondered if I might offer you some assistance.” His gaze was as intense as ever, and his left eye flickered as he spoke.
“Oh?” Thomas registered surprise.
“I heard about the naukar’s murder, you see.”
Thomas tensed. “The murder?” he repeated, wishing to draw out the professor.
“Sajiv told me the lascars are up in arms over it.”
Thomas was reminded of Sir Stephen’s words. “I believe so,” he said, offering the professor a seat.
“There is talk that the Indian was killed in—how shall I put it?—a most irregular fashion,” he continued, seating himself by Thomas.
The young anatomist resumed his place at his desk. “That is one way of putting it, yes,” he said, wondering just how much was common knowledge.
Carruthers drew close to Thomas, close enough that the anatomist could feel his breath on his skin. It smelled familiar, sweet and pungent. He did not relish the experience and drew back a little. Then the professor said something that unnerved him.
“I know you saw my notebook.” His stare locked onto Thomas’s face.
Thomas was uncertain whether he was being accused or upbraided or both. “I am not sure what you mean, sir,” he said, hedging his bets.
The professor’s left eye began to twitch again. “I think you do, Dr. Silkstone,” he said. “You saw those heinous images.”
Thomas decided to go on the offensive. “I saw them, yes, Professor, and I have to admit, I wondered why they were in your possession.”
This time both the professor’s eyes blinked rapidly. “And I have to admit I have not been entirely forthcoming about my work, Dr. Silkstone,” he began.
Thomas was intrigued. “Pray, go on.”
“There are few Europeans familiar with the ancient texts of India, let alone Englishmen,” he began. “And knowing the governor-general to be a good but much misunderstood man, I offered my services as a translator.”
Thomas nodded and watched the professor produce the notebook he had rescued from the floor the other night. He set it on the desk and opened it at one of the shocking images.
“As you are no doubt aware, Dr. Silkstone, this is a catalog of the most unspeakable practices known to man. A litany of the vilest tortures ever devised.” His voice was flat as he began to turn the pages, each featuring cruel and twisted torments.
Thomas looked at them in horror. “You are translating these texts?”
“Quite so,” Carruthers said with a nod. “There are some fearsome rulers in power in India at the moment who delight in such punishments. These forms of torture are widely employed to subjugate slaves and citizens alike. Even widows are often forced to climb on funeral pyres with their dead husbands to burn.”
Such an explanation did nothing to enlighten Thomas. “And why should Mr. Hastings take such interest in this . . . this . . .” Thomas tried to find the words. “This barbarity?”
The professor’s neck stiffened and he twitched again. “You misread my meaning, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied indignantly. “Only when we understand the full extent of these practices can the governor-general outlaw them.”
Thomas suddenly felt relief flood into his tense muscles. His shock at seeing the vile images had led him to jump far too quickly to the wrong conclusion. He had fallen into a trap of his own making and felt very foolish. “Of course, sir,” he said.
The professor fixed his glare on Thomas once more. “I can assure you I do not condone them, but I do know something about them. That is why, when I heard of this Indian’s fate, I wondered if I could be of assistance to you.”
Thomas felt his color rise a little. Perhaps he had rushed to judgment after all. “I would welcome such help,” he said with a smile, and he saw no reason to prevaricate. Reaching for the glass jar that contained several dead ants, he set it down before the professor. “In your research, have you come across a method of torture that employs ants or biting insects?” Thomas waited for the professor’s reaction as he held the jar up to the light.
“I have heard of such a practice, yes.” The professor grimaced at the sight of the shriveled insect corpses.
“Can you elucidate?” Thomas pressed.
Carruthers’s gaze settled on the glass jar. “The victim is usually tied down, unable to escape, and a particularly vicious genus of ant, native to Africa and certain parts of Asia, is unleashed on his face and neck. He is forced to endure the slow gnawing of his soft tissue; his nasal passage, his aural cavities, even his eye sockets become fodder for these marauding savages.” His mouth contorted as he spoke at the very thought of such barbarity.
“And he dies by the venom?” asked Thomas.
The professor shook his head. “No, Doctor. Small children and animals have been known to suffer death by their poison, but ’tis by entering the body through the airways and swarming through the mouth and down the bronchial tract and into the lungs that these creatures are able to kill a man.”
“So he is asphyxiated?”
“Precisely. A most gruesome death.” Carruthers set down the jar and pushed it away from him in disgust. “But surely the Indian . . . ?”
Thomas explained. “Th
e ants were not of the same genus, but commonly found in England, and they were set on the victim’s face.”
“But English ants do not kill,” exclaimed the professor.
Thomas remained silent but, opening his case, took out a phial. He had managed to scrape off some of the honey from the dead man’s neck and face with a spatula. Uncorking it, he sniffed at it. It gave off quite a distinctive aroma.
“The victim’s face was covered in this.” He held the phial up to the professor’s face, allowing him to sniff it, too. “And he did not have a nose.”
The professor’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah, there are many such unfortunates in certain parts of India. It is a common punishment.”
Thomas nodded. “So I believe,” he said. “The ants must have been poured onto his face and were free to invade his respiratory system through his widened nasal canal, causing death by suffocation.” The mental image of such an invasion led both men to pause for a moment so that even before Thomas could replace the cork on the phial, the tap-tapping of Dr. Carruthers’s stick was heard at the threshold. They turned to see the old anatomist shuffling into the room.
“Ah! There you both are!” he cried, waving his stick in the air. He stopped as he drew level with Thomas, then twitched his nostrils. “Honey,” he said suddenly.
Thomas swapped looks with the professor. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “Here.” He wafted the glass tube under Carruthers’s nose.
“Acacia honey,” barked the old anatomist instantly. His olfactory perception and his ability to instantly name any scent were, Thomas knew, quite remarkable. “My favorite. What’s it doing here, by Jove!?”
Thomas pulled out a stool for the old man, and he sat.
“It had been smeared over the face and neck of the Indian servant whose autopsy I conducted yesterday, sir.”
“What?” Dr. Carruthers had barely settled on the stool before he jolted upright.
“It was used to attract ants, sir. They invaded his lungs and suffocated him,” Thomas explained.
The old anatomist’s forehead was ridged with deep furrows as he floundered to find words. “But who could . . . I cannot . . . Such devilry!”
“I fear it is a method of torture exercised in India, brother,” explained the professor, this time quite calmly.
It had already occurred to Thomas that no one would go to such elaborate lengths to kill another man unless he wished to extract information from him before he died. Just as the turn of a handle can increase the exertion of a rack wheel, so an inquisitor could have added more and more ants onto his victim’s upper torso in the hope that he would divulge any secrets he might have been keeping. In this case the Indian either could not or would not tell, or perhaps his fate was sealed from the outset and he was a dead man the moment he was pinioned by the ropes.
“The rope,” Thomas muttered to himself, reaching once more into his case. He had salvaged a length of it from the dead man’s feet.
“Rope?” repeated Dr. Carruthers.
Thomas pulled a few fibers from the length and placed them on a glass slide. Walking over to the window, where his microscope could best take advantage of the light, he peered down into the eyepiece. It was as he suspected.
“Coir rope,” he announced, straightening his back.
“There is a connection?” The old anatomist was thinking out loud.
“Between this death and Sir Montagu’s? ’Tis possible,” Thomas replied.
“But I thought you had ruled out Flynn?” interjected the old anatomist.
Thomas raked his fingers through his hair in thought. “I could not see—I still cannot see—why, if he was in possession of the diamond, the captain would have returned to murder Sir Montagu. It makes no sense.”
“But the captain is still missing?” asked the professor.
Thomas nodded. “Sir Stephen has informed the local magistrate, and the Runners are on the case, but I do not hold out much hope of them finding him.”
The old anatomist tapped the floor with his stick. “Then what is our next move?” he asked just as there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” called Thomas.
Mistress Finesilver, her face as dreary as a wet Sunday, entered carrying a small tray. She gave a shallow curtsy. “Beg pardon, Doctors, Professor,” she said, “but this just came for Dr. Silkstone.” She shoved the tray in front of Thomas, and he reached for the letter on it. Breaking the seal with a scalpel that was to hand, he read the contents.
“What is it?” snapped the old anatomist tetchily. He was used to bad news being delivered in such a fashion.
On this occasion, however, Thomas regarded his old mentor with a smile. “An invitation, sir,” he replied.
“Oh?”
“I have been invited to dine at Mrs. Hastings’s residence.”
Dr. Carruthers chuckled. “Have you, by Jove? The dear lady must have taken a shine to you.”
“You are indeed honored,” chimed in the professor.
Thomas felt his cheeks flush slightly. From her look, Mistress Finesilver noticed his color rise.
“That will be all now,” Thomas told her. But as she turned to go, Dr. Carruthers raised his stick.
“No, wait,” he trilled. “Acacia honey.”
Mistress Finesilver stopped in her tracks. “Sir?” she replied with a bemused look on her face.
“We have some, do we not?” Before his housekeeper’s answer was forthcoming, the old anatomist turned to Thomas to explain. “An old patient of mine sent me a few jars, and I do so enjoy it.”
Mistress Finesilver nodded. “I believe there’s some in the pantry, sir,” she replied.
Dr. Carruthers smiled. “Then I would have it for my breakfast, dear lady,” he told her. “Spread thickly on my toast.” He licked his lips as if imagining the taste of the honey.
“Very good, sir,” she told him, and with that she aimed another curtsy at the gentlemen and was away.
Thomas wondered that the old anatomist could countenance eating acacia honey ever again after what he had just been told. For him the taste of it would always remind him of the ravaged corpse he had examined the night before.
Dr. Carruthers turned to the professor once more. “I came to see if you would accompany me to the park this morning, Oliver. The weather is set fair, I believe,” he said. “But I vouch you are enjoying your time back in a laboratory after all those years of absence, eh?”
Thomas shot a puzzled look at the professor. “I didn’t know you were interested in such matters, sir.”
From the far end of the large room, the old anatomist chuckled.
“You haven’t told Thomas?” he asked.
“Told me what, pray?” pressed Thomas. He turned a quizzical look on the professor, who suddenly seemed most uncomfortable.
“Oliver was a surgeon before he dropped his scalpel and took up his pen,” revealed the old anatomist cheerfully.
The professor shot Thomas an embarrassed look. “It was a very long time ago, William,” he replied, his left eye starting to twitch.
And one you clearly wish to forget, thought Thomas, judging by the professor’s pained expression. He let the matter drop.
“If I am not needed here . . .” said the professor, by way of an excuse to leave.
“You have already been most helpful,” Thomas assured him. “Please do not remain on my account.”
“That settles it,” announced the old anatomist, tapping his stick on the floor. “Then let us ready ourselves.”
The professor nodded and began walking to the door with his brother. As he did so, Thomas called out.
“There is just one more thing, Professor.”
“Yes, Doctor?” Carruthers turned to see Thomas approaching as his brother continued to the door.
“Do you have any idea what these characters mean?” he asked, his own notebook in his hand. He was pointing to the strange marks he had seen on the dead Indian’s chest and copied down.
The professor glan
ced at them for a moment, then frowned. “Why yes,” he replied, his eyes blinking in rapid succession. “This says ‘Gaddar.’ ”
“ ‘Gaddar’?” repeated Thomas.
Carruthers twitched again. “It is a Hindu word. It means ‘traitor.’”
Thomas took a moment to digest the translation. “Traitor?” He looked up at the professor.
“Oliver!” Dr. Carruthers called out as he reached the laboratory door.
“Coming, brother,” the professor replied, switching back to Thomas to take his leave.
“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said. “That is most helpful.”
Chapter 34
The coffeehouse was as busy as a beehive, but then it always was. Tucked down an alley off one of the main wharves lined with warehouses, it made an excellent meeting place for those involved in commerce. It was also a favorite haunt for those in the East India Company. Merchants in drab, dusty coats hawked and haggled around the many wooden tables that cluttered the sprawling rooms. They had their cargoes to sell: sugar, ginger, and dye-woods from the West Indies and spice and silk from the East Indies, not to mention goodness knows what else from all points in between. While the merchants were hard men, enduring hell and high water to bring back their goods to England, the buyers were made of even sterner stuff and always drove a difficult bargain. There would be the odd challenge, the occasional fight, but by and large everyone knew his place and the order of things, and more often than not deals were done and hands shaken.
Nevertheless Nicholas Lupton did not feel at ease in this sort of place. He preferred White’s on St. James’s Street, where punters could place bets on how long customers had to live, then gamble away their entire estates. He’d heard of a fellow who’d done just that, only to be found drowned in the Thames the next day. He had bagged himself a seat in the far corner, away from the merchants and moneymen. He’d ordered a dish of thick, grimy coffee that tasted like brewed soot, but it kept him alert. In fact he was sipping it with particular relish because he was savoring his freedom after his wretched sojourn in Oxford Jail. Yes, he was savoring and he was waiting. For the past few days he’d stayed in London. He’d told Silkstone he would search for this reprobate Flynn. He had not meant it, of course. He no more intended to help the American upstart than return to that stinking prison. True, he had caught sight of the redheaded varlet mounting his horse and riding off from Boughton. He would be best placed to find him, but for what? If he had murdered Sir Montagu, then he had rid the world of an overbearing tyrant. If he had dug up Michael Farrell’s grave and stolen a diamond, then good luck to the man for his enterprise. He only wished he had known that such a stone had been buried in Boughton’s grounds. He’d have been onto it in a trice.
