by Tessa Harris
“What is it, Dr. Silkstone? What has happened? Have they found Hannah?” she asked nervously.
“Your ladyship, please.” Thomas motioned to the chaise longue. He was afraid she might swoon when he told her the news.
“There is no easy way of putting this,” he said.
Lydia looked at him with her doelike eyes. She seemed more fragile than ever to Thomas, waiting for his words.
“I am afraid your husband ... Captain Farrell is dead.”
“What are you saying, man?” cried Lavington, rushing forward.
For a moment Lydia was silent, as if her brain were processing the dreaded message it had just received, then she let out a muffled cry.
“No. No!” she screamed, leaping up and whirling around. Lavington took hold of her by the arms. She tried to fend him off.
“Lydia. Lydia. Calm yourself. For God’s sake,” shouted the lawyer, gripping her tightly and shaking her.
Thomas could see the onset of hysteria, but he did not like the way Lavington was handling Lydia. He feared he might hurt her.
Quickly delving into his bag, he brought out a phial of smelling salts and wafted them under her nose. They took effect almost instantly, jolting her back to reality. Lavington lessened his grip and the young woman’s tears began to flow.
“How? How?” she sobbed as Lavington eased her back onto the chaise longue.
Thomas shot a glance at the lawyer. He had agonized over whether to reveal the whole truth to Lydia, but had decided that perhaps it was for the best. “I ... I found him hanging in his cell this morning, your ladyship,” he told her.
She looked up at him incredulously. “What? You mean ... you mean he took his own ... ?”
Her voice trailed off wanly, but before Thomas could answer, Lavington intervened.
“I am afraid it does not surprise me in the least,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“What are you saying, Mr. Lavington?” asked Thomas.
The lawyer sighed deeply and sat himself down beside the distraught Lydia.
“You remember what he said? You told me yourself.”
A look of shock darted across Lydia’s face as she remembered her husband’s words on one of her last visits. In a moment of indiscretion she must have divulged them to Lavington.
“If you ever lost faith in him ... ?”
Lydia shot a glance at Thomas. They both knew that what Lavington was saying was true. The lawyer reached out his hand to take hers, but she withdrew instantly. “He could not face life without your trust. We all knew that.”
Thomas watched Lydia’s reaction to Lavington’s cruel words. The lawyer may as well have pierced her flesh with a stiletto and then twisted it inside her, but he felt powerless to intervene.
Lydia looked away. “No. No. Tell me this is not true,” she screamed, doubling over and sobbing uncontrollably. The lawyer put a comforting arm around Lydia’s back as it heaved violently up and down, then looked up at Thomas. “Give her something to calm her, will you?” he said coldly. “I must away to court. The judge needs to be informed.”
As soon as Lavington had limped out of the room Thomas took his place on the chaise longue next to Lydia. He put a tentative arm around her. He was not sure how she would react. She did not prize herself away, as he feared she might, but rather sat up and allowed her face to nestle into his shoulder.
“Lydia,” said Thomas softly as she continued to weep. “Lydia. Please, do not blame yourself.” He would never forgive Lavington for showing such insensitivity. “I have to tell you something. Please listen to me.”
At these words Lydia raised her head from his shoulder and faced him with tear-stained cheeks. Just as there had been no easy way to break the news of Captain Farrell’s death, there was no easy way of imparting his deepest fears. “I do not think your husband took his own life.” Her glassy eyes gazed questioningly into his.
“What are you saying?”
Thomas looked at Lydia. She seemed so delicate, he did not know if she would stand the shock of what he was about to say, but say it he must. He took a deep breath and said: “I have reason to believe the captain was murdered.”
Chapter 44
“I am afraid that is out of the question, Dr. Silkstone.” Sir Theodisius pushed away the remnants of a veal pie. He was so irked by the young doctor’s insistent request for a postmortem that he had suddenly lost his appetite.
“But, sir, I beg you, for the sake of justice,” pleaded Thomas.
The coroner brought his fist down hard on the desk so that the knife that rested on his pewter plate jumped and clattered as it landed.
“In France justice dictates that suicides are dragged, facedown, through the streets on a hurdle, then strung up by the feet and their goods confiscated, sir,” he roared. His flaccid face had reddened with anger, but then, as if realizing that his temper was getting the better of him, his tone became measured.
“I am satisfied that Captain Farrell took his own life. He had every reason to do so and unless I see proof to the contrary, that is my final say on the matter.”
Thomas had wanted to at least have the opportunity to provide the coroner with that proof and did not see the logicality of his argument, but he could also see he was getting nowhere.
“I am sorry to have troubled you, sir,” he said, fingering the brim of his tricorn forlornly. He turned to go, but then swung ’round quickly, as if he had had an afterthought.
“I would ask just one thing of you, sir,” he said excitedly.
“Yes?” retorted Sir Theodisius, obviously irritated.
“I understand that in this country it is still common practice to bury a suicide at a crossroads with a stake through its heart.”
The coroner shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable that an upstart colonist should look down upon centuries-old English ways. He nodded: “Aye, that is true.”
“And that a suicide cannot be buried in consecrated ground?” Another nod from the coroner.
“Then,” continued Thomas, “may I make a request on behalf of Captain Farrell’s widow that his body be returned to Boughton Hall and buried on the estate?”
Sir Theodisius sat back in his chair, his large frame bulging over the sides. He thought for a moment of Lydia and the pain she must be suffering. It was within his remit to alleviate some of that suffering by exercising his discretionary powers. He looked Thomas in the eye.
“For the sake of Lady Lydia, I shall permit this.”
Thomas smiled. “You are a compassionate man, sir,” he said and, with that, he turned and left to make his way to the prison to see to the appropriate arrangements.
The same black-toothed jailer sat in his chair, still nursing his throbbing jaw. He stiffened as soon as he saw Thomas.
“I am here to prepare the corpse,” explained the doctor, lifting his black bag slightly. “Can you let me attend to Captain Farrell’s body?”
He could see clearly through the grille. The Irishman remained in the cell, where he had been laid, but he was hidden under a large piece of hessian.
“I can’t let you do that, sir,” said the jailer, rising slowly to his feet.
“What do you mean? I am here to prepare the body for burial,” protested Thomas indignantly.
“ ’Tis orders, Doctor. I am not allowed to let anyone see the body,” replied the jailler.
“Whose orders?” snapped Thomas.
“Mr. Lavington’s.”
The young doctor nodded. He should have expected as much. As his attorney, Lavington had a right to claim jurisdiction over access to Farrell’s body. Now he would never be able to examine the captain’s neck properly to see if it was as he suspected and that it remained unbroken. The silken cord that he had found around his neck seemed too delicate to have withstood a struggle or a sudden jolt. A sense of powerlessness suddenly enveloped him.
“I shall go and speak with Mr. Lavington,” he told the jailer.
“No need to go anywhere, Dr. S
ilkstone,” came a voice from the stairs. Thomas turned to see Lavington limp into view. “I am here.”
“I am glad of it, sir,” said Thomas. “I have been told by Sir Theodisius that I am not allowed to conduct a postmortem on the body.”
Lavington frowned. “Indeed you are not, sir. Lady Lydia has expressly said she does not want her late husband filleted like a side of beef.”
“Very well,” replied Thomas. “But you might at least allow me to prepare the captain’s body for burial.”
Lavington looked contemptuously at the young doctor. “Yes, I hear that Sir Theodisius has generously suggested that he be buried at Boughton.” Thomas knew the lawyer made a deliberate error to discredit him, refusing to acknowledge the fact that it was he who had interceded as regards the burial. “But your help will not be necessary, Dr. Silkstone. They are well used to dealing with the dead here,” he said, glancing toward the jailer. “It is in their hands,” he said finally, not brokering any discussion on the subject. With that he bid Thomas a good day and made his way back up the steps.
The young doctor felt humiliated. He looked at the jailer taking a swig of gin from the bottle on the table. One side of his stubble-covered face was noticeably bulging. His instinct as a surgeon was to offer to remove the offending tooth for the wretched man; his instinct as a man in search of the truth was to bargain.
“Do you want me to take it out?” he said, pointing to the man’s inflamed cheek.
At the very suggestion the jailer’s eyes lit up and his head nodded so vigorously that it made his tooth hurt even more.
Thomas smiled. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I remove your rotting tooth and in return you do a little something for me.”
“Anything, sir,” whimpered the man.
Thomas opened his black bag and took out a pair of pliers. He held them in front of the man’s terrified face, as if they were an instrument of torture rather than relief.
“First tell me who was the last person to see Captain Farrell alive.”
The jailer looked at Thomas shiftily. “Me, sir. It was me.”
Thomas thrust the pliers nearer to the man’s face. “I can take this tooth out quickly, or I can make you suffer. You choose,” he warned.
“He ... he gave me money not to tell,” he squealed.
“Who? Who gave you money?” Thomas lunged for the man’s head and stood behind him, holding it in a lock, the pliers poised to draw.
“Mr. Lavington, sir.”
The man’s garbled words merely confirmed Thomas’s suspicions.
“Good,” he said, relaxing his hold on the jailer’s head. “We shall proceed presently, just after you have agreed to one more thing.”
The helpless man grunted his assent. “You see that bottle of gin on the table,” said Thomas. “You will douse Captain Farrell’s body in it before wrapping it in sacking.”
Again a grunt from the man, followed by a loud cry as Thomas swiftly and with infinite dexterity extracted the rotting tooth by its root from the gum.
The great gargoyles of Merton College glowered down on Thomas as he made his way along the cobbled streets to Lydia’s lodgings. He needed to speak with her in private, so he planned to deliver a note via Eliza, requesting a secret assignation where he could tell her his fears.
Eliza did, indeed, answer the door, but before he opened his mouth, she pressed a wad of bank notes in his hand.
“Lady Lydia has asked me to pay you your fee and bid you farewell, Dr. Silkstone,” she said, not daring to look Thomas in the eye.
The young doctor stared in disbelief at the money in his hand. He had not undertaken this tortuous journey that had ended so tragically for financial gain. Feeling tainted he returned the notes to Eliza. “Please tell Lady Lydia I cannot accept her money for a task I have not completed,” he said and with those words he handed back the bills.
Upstairs Lydia looked out of the window. She saw Thomas below and, unaware of the altercation, was about to instruct Eliza to allow the doctor inside immediately when James Lavington entered the room.
“Dr. Silkstone is downstairs,” she told him, walking toward the door. “I must see him.” But as she passed him, Lavington took hold of her arm.
“I think not,” he said firmly.
She frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked, looking at her wrist, which remained in his grip.
Lavington smiled his twisted smile. “I’m afraid your doctor is no longer welcome here,” he told her.
“But I must ...” Lydia tried to break free of his grip, but he held on tight.
“You must agree it is not seemly for a new widow to see her lover on the day of her husband’s death.”
Lydia froze. “What are you talking about?”
Lavington shook his head. “There’s no denying it, my dear,” he smirked, then reaching into his coat pocket he brought out a button and held it up in front of Lydia’s face. “Eliza found this in your bed; from Dr. Silkstone’s waistcoat, I believe.”
Lydia felt her heart beating in her chest and the blood coursing through her veins. “No. It wasn’t like that. He ...”
Lavington reached out his index finger and pressed it against her lips. “Save your excuses, dear Lydia. I need no explanation, just your obedience.”
Chapter 45
Thomas Silkstone sat alone in his laboratory, as he had done ever since his return from Oxford three days before, and pondered on the events of the past few weeks. He could not dispel his last image of Lydia in Merton Street. He had backed away from the front door and looked up at the drawing room window. There, standing gazing down, he saw her. Her face was expressionless and she did not try to speak. For a second or two he held her icy stare, hoping it might melt. He willed her to say something, to show some emotion, but she did not and he turned reluctantly to walk away.
Shunning the wit and conversations of the coffeehouse, the distractions of the theater, and the company of his students, he emerged only to take meals with Dr. Carruthers. His mentor always seemed eager to discourse and Thomas did not wish to disappoint. Perhaps he had been wrong, after all, to venture out of the confines of his own world. His fingers were more at ease exploring the moist, familiar landscapes of the human body than in the dry and combative environs of the courtroom. He was after all a surgeon, not an enforcer of the law. He was a man of science, not of letters. His mission was to wield a knife as an instrument of healing, not of torture.
Time and time again he asked how he had allowed himself to be lured away from all that he knew, all that he could be certain of, and into a world of duplicity and intrigue and mistrust, and time and time again, he came to the same conclusion. At first he had lied to himself. He had deluded himself about some higher cause: a search for truth and justice. But in the end he had to admit he had been guided by an undeniable, unquenchable, and forbidden love for Lady Lydia Farrell.
Poets talked of broken hearts, but at the moment he felt as though someone had wrenched out his own heart and pulverized it. Lydia had reciprocated his feelings for her, had she not? She was willing to give herself to him. He could not believe that her touch was not genuine, her kisses a sham. The recollection of her icy stare as she looked down at him from the window in Oxford was burned indelibly on his memory, as if it had been etched in acid. He wanted to forget it, but her face came back to haunt him time and again and on each occasion he found himself asking the question, “Why?”
When the captain was alive their love was forbidden. True, he had died in tragic and mysterious circumstances, and now a respectful period of mourning was in order. Thomas would have been discreet. Surely she knew that? Perhaps she was feeling guilty, he told himself, for her infidelity.
And what of James Lavington? Had not the captain nominated him as Lydia’s guardian should anything happen to him? He mixed in the same social circles. Moreover, he was not a foreigner. Lavington would be the logical successor to step into the captain’s shoes and he, Thomas, would be consigned to a mere me
mory.
After Lydia had dismissed him so summarily, Thomas had made his way back to Christ Church Anatomy School to see Professor Hascher. He had told him of events and asked him to see to it that Jacob Lovelock was summoned to try and identify the body of the battered woman. This, Hascher had duly done and earlier that morning Thomas had received word that the woman’s corpse was not that of Hannah Lovelock. He was relieved, of course, but the maidservant’s whereabouts still remained a mystery. Thomas was convinced that she held the key to at least some of what had happened in the past week and until she was found, he would not be able to move forward.
Since his return Thomas had tried to busy himself. There were new specimens to dissect and notate and medicaments to make up for aged ladies with nothing better to do than count their agues as they awaited death. He glanced toward his shelves and saw the neatly labeled jars that held Lord Crick’s stomach and other tissue samples. If only they could speak, he thought, their eloquence and insight would put an end to this charade immediately.
Dr. Carruthers had tried to persuade Thomas to accompany him to the coffeehouse, but he had declined. He did not feel that he would add anything to the gathering in his present state of mind. The only living thing whose company he could tolerate right now was Franklin’s. The rat suddenly appeared from a pile of papers on the floor and meandered over to his desk. Whiskers twitching, nose to the ground, he scurried intently past Thomas and headed for the young doctor’s coat, which hung on a peg adjacent to the desk. There the rodent stopped and began sniffing at the pocket, which was level with his nose. Next he sat on his hind legs, and with his front paws, he began clawing at the pocket, as if attracted by something inside.
“What is it, Franklin?” asked Thomas puzzled. “You’ll not find any scraps in there, boy.”
It was then that Thomas remembered what the rat would find. He rose and walked over to the coat. Thrusting his hand deep into his left pocket, he brought out the object of Franklin’s curiosity—the bloodstained silken cord, which Thomas had cut from the neck of Captain Michael Farrell.