by Tessa Harris
“Something small, but to which great pressure could be applied,” replied Thomas reflectively.
“A thumb, perhaps,” suggested the coroner.
Thomas shook his head. “That would not have pierced the skin.” His gaze had dropped to the ground, where the men’s shovels and pickaxes lay. Seeing the shafts of the tools, he was suddenly reminded.
“A walking stick!” he said deliberately, as if a light had suddenly illuminated his thinking. “I’ll wager my life it was Lavington’s walking stick that did this.”
Wide-eyed, Sir Theodisius nodded. “ ’Tis proof enough.”
Just then, a cry went up from Hannah, who had been keeping watch over the chapel. “They’re coming out,” she called hoarsely.
Knowing there was no time to lose, Lovelock and Kidd quickly replaced the coffin lid. “Take Sir Theodisius to the chapel in the cart,” Thomas directed.
“But what of you, sir?” asked Amos. Thomas did not reply. He was already scrambling down the muddy bank, heading for the chapel. Halfway down, he slipped on the wet grass and tumbled a few feet, but he soon righted himself and continued charging down the steep incline.
In the distance he could see Lydia and Lavington, now man and wife, walking slowly toward the wedding carriage. He could not yet make out Lydia’s face, but he knew there would be no smiles of joy on her lips. He saw her climbing up dolefully onto the carriage, followed by Lavington, who pulled the wretched side of his body up awkwardly to sit on the driver’s seat.
All Thomas could hear now was the blood pounding through his ears as he ran the last few yards toward the wedding party. “Stop,” he called out. “Stop!”
All eyes turned to see his mud-spattered figure racing toward them.
“Thomas,” cried Lydia, rising in her seat, but she was firmly pushed back by her new husband.
“Another guest for our wedding breakfast,” called Lavington as the doctor drew level with the carriage.
“There will be no wedding breakfast, Lavington,” panted Thomas. “You are under arrest.”
The lawyer snorted. “On whose authority?”
“On mine,” called Sir Theodisius as the dogcart pulled up.
Lavington looked contemptuous. “This has to be a sick jest,” he said disdainfully.
“No joke, sir,” warned Sir Theodisius. “I would ask you to accompany me to Oxford.”
“On what charge?” chided Lavington.
“On that of the murder of Captain Michael Farrell.”
Lydia, still seated on the phaeton, let out an involuntary cry.
Lavington suddenly changed his tone. “And you have proof of this?”
“A postmortem has just been conducted on Captain Farrell’s body,” replied Sir Theodisius.
Lavington paused for a moment, mulling over the implications. “No doubt that was performed by our man of medicine here,” he said, sneering at Thomas.
Lydia turned to Lavington once more, her eyes wide in horror. “You killed Michael?”
At first he looked shocked that she could even contemplate such a thing, but then his expression of dismay gave way to an almost demonic smile. “Just as he killed me on the day he did this to me,” he said, touching his disfigured face.
Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”
Lavington’s tone suddenly became agitated. “He did this to me,” he reiterated, pointing to his cheek and then his limp arm. Suddenly he stood up, as if addressing some imaginary rally or a meeting.
“Come down, sir,” urged Sir Theodisius.
But Lavington ignored him and instead began to call out to his stunned audience. “ ’Twas in India. It was Farrell’s watch, but he took too much liquor that night. Almost senseless, he was. I knew if the senior officers found him, he would be court-martialed, so I tried to get him to his quarters. We were walking back under cover of darkness when he suddenly stopped by the ammunition shed. I saw him take out a cheroot and strike a match, then toss it over his shoulder. I shouted and pushed him out of the way before the first explosion. I took the full force of the blast from a barrel of gunpowder. Farrell was injured, but only slightly. He must suddenly have come to his senses, for he pulled me out of the burning rubble, my skin hanging off my bones. They awarded him a medal for his paltry efforts and me, well, I was rewarded with this.” He lifted up his limp hand and turned to Lydia. “So, you see, my dearest, your beloved husband owed me. He felt obliged to me. That is why I came to live on the estate, his poor crippled friend to whom he gave charity, in return for silence.”
Lydia looked at him askance.
“He owed me and now I have collected my debt,” he said calmly.
“So, you would treat his widow as a repayment?” cried Thomas, incensed by Lavington’s revelations. The doctor lurched forward, tugging at Lavington’s sound leg, but with the full force of his body he kicked Thomas to the ground. Lydia screamed and Lavington turned, pushing her off the phaeton with a single blow, so that she, too, landed on the sodden earth, causing the horse to rear up.
As Lovelock ran to Lydia’s aid, Thomas grabbed hold of the rail of the phaeton and pulled himself up onto the back just as the horse set off at full gallop.
“In God’s name, stop,” shouted Thomas, trying to grab hold of the reins. But, like a man possessed, Lavington kept lashing the whip so that the horse was in a frenzy and went careering along the track, throwing up mud and stones in the phaeton’s wake.
“You’ll get us both killed,” pleaded Thomas, wrestling with Lavington, but he was just pushed back each time with greater force. He knew he would have to take drastic action and was just about to deliver a heavy punch to the madman’s jaw when the phaeton suddenly veered sharply to the left. Both men looked ahead to see the wooden bridge over the lake ahead.
The heavy rains had swelled the waters so that they lapped over the planks. Seeing this, the horse suddenly took even more fright. It pulled up short and then reared, sending both Thomas and Lavington falling.
Thomas landed with a thud on the bank, but when he recovered his composure, Lavington was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly he heard a sharp cry and ran to the edge of the lake. Lavington was in the water, fighting for breath, his sound arm waving in the air.
Grabbing a fallen branch, Thomas edged out onto the bridge and, lying on his belly, proffered the stick to Lavington. “Take hold,” he shouted above the sound of the torrent. Flailing in the black waters, Lavington managed to reach the branch and grasp it as Thomas pulled it closer to the bank. He hauled an exhausted Lavington up through the reeds, coughing and spluttering. Putting an arm around him, Thomas sat him upright, supporting him, so that he could breathe more easily.
“Take deep breaths, now,” he told him, suddenly adopting the role of rescuer and carer. But instead of submitting, Lavington, once he had regained his composure, punched Thomas in the face with such force that he was sent flying backward. He then started to run off toward the woods.
Thomas leapt up and followed. He knew with his crippled leg Lavington could not go far. He caught up with him seconds later by the bridge, grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him ’round, and delivered a blow to his face, knocking him backward. Bending over him, Thomas felt in no mood to be charitable.
“So, you killed Farrell. Did you kill Crick, too?” he cried, pitting his voice against the nearby waterfall.
Lavington looked at him with scorn. “Well, did you?” screamed Thomas angrily, bringing his foot down hard on Lavington’s hand. He cried out in pain.
“No. No, I did not kill him.”
Thomas found himself believing him and, taking a deep breath, offered his own hand to help Lavington up. But instead of accepting the offer, the lawyer took hold of Thomas’s hand and jerked it, pulling him forward and wrong-footing him, so that he fell to the ground near the bank once more. This time Lavington fell on top of him like a mad dog, pounding him with the fist of his sound hand. Thomas managed to prize him off and Lavington rolled over, perilously close to the lak
eside.
“Give yourself up, Lavington,” shouted Thomas. “This is hopeless.”
“Not to one who has already lost all hope, it isn’t,” he replied almost gleefully. He heaved himself up and began running again, this time toward the bridge, the weight of his soaked clothes dragging him down. The rain was heavier now, too, slicing through the air like needles, whipping the waters into an even greater frenzy.
“Come back,” called Thomas, as he watched Lavington drag himself out over the bridge as the waters lapped over it. “Come back, you fool.”
But his words fell on deaf ears and Lavington struggled on until suddenly he heard a terrible creaking sound. Thomas heard it, too. “The bridge!” he cried. Lavington turned to see the planks suddenly give way under the weight of the floodwater. Frantically he tried to grab hold of the rail, but he lost his grip. His arm shot out, trying to regain his balance, but he could not and he fell, his body disappearing into the murky depths. Thomas rushed to the bridge, but the waters had gathered apace and had now covered most of it, so that only a few posts remained visible like jagged teeth.
A few seconds later, as Thomas watched helplessly on the bank, he saw Lavington’s black cloak float to the surface not far from where the bridge had collapsed. Racing toward it, he lay down on the bank and, using a long branch, hooked the material toward him. It came easily, without its owner. Puzzled, Thomas looked up just in time to see Lavington struggling out of the lake on the opposite shore.
“For God’s sake!” he cried, scrambling to his feet and giving chase.
The fugitive was only a few yards ahead, but in front of him lay the thick beech woods. A few seconds later and he had disappeared into them, vanishing from sight.
Thomas arrived at the edge of the woods only a minute or two later, but Lavington was nowhere to be seen. He stopped in his tracks and listened. The dry crack of calling crows overhead was the only sound that could be heard. Lavington must be hiding somewhere, thought Thomas. He picked up a large stick and proceeded slowly onward, edging from tree to tree, stopping at every pheasant call and every rustle of the undergrowth. The wetness of the ground muffled his footsteps and the rasping of his breath rose and filled his own ears, blocking out all other sounds.
In this strange, eerie half silence he walked on toward the clearing until his foot caught something in his path and he stumbled over it, sending his stick falling from his hand. Shaken, Thomas looked backward, expecting to see Lavington behind him. But there was no one there. He had tripped over a log, half hidden by sodden leaves. It was only when he allowed himself the luxury of propping his weary body up against the lichen-covered trunk of a beech tree by the clearing to catch his breath that he caught sight of his quarry.
Lavington, too, was propped up against a nearby tree. Thomas looked at him and he seemed to return the gaze, but remained motionless. Reaching for another large stick for protection, Thomas approached him warily.
“For God’s sake, man. Stop playing games,” he said, edging forward. But there was no movement. No reply. Thomas moved closer, his heart beating faster with every step. Only when he came to within three or four yards of him did the awful truth dawn.
“Lavington,” he called to him again. “Lavington!” But the eyes remained fixed in a stare and the mouth remained half open and from it appeared a thin trickle of blood. “Lavington!” Thomas cried, this time reaching out to him.
With this touch, he knocked him on the shoulder and sent him off balance, so that he fell, facedown, onto the sodden ground.
It was then that the full horror of what had happened was revealed. The back of the lawyer’s skull had been smashed to a bloody pulp.
Chapter 51
Jacob Lovelock and Amos Kidd arrived at the scene a few moments later to find Thomas crouching over Lavington, the large stick still in his hand. As they drew closer they saw, too, the smears of blood on the doctor’s shirt.
Thomas looked up at the men, dazed and unsure. They returned his gaze, but the difference was they were certain of what they saw.
“Dr. Silkstone!” exclaimed Kidd.
Still stunned, Thomas looked at the men, then at the thick branch he held in his hand. He let it drop to the ground. “Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I did not.... He was like this. I found him like this.”
Lovelock and Amos remained silent for a moment, stunned by what they saw.
“Did you see anyone?” pleaded Thomas. “Search the woods.” But the men remained rooted to the spot. “The murderer must be nearby!” he shouted.
“Yes, he must,” replied Kidd, fixing a stare on the doctor.
“ ’Twas self-defense,” chimed in Lovelock. “We know that, sir.”
Thomas shook his head. “No. No. I found him like this. Look at his skull. Someone hit him. Someone hit him with ...”
“With this?” said Kidd, holding up the heavy stick that Thomas had just dropped.
“There was a fight, sir,” intervened Lovelock, trying to ease the tension.
Thomas looked at him incredulously. “There was no fight with me. He was murdered, I tell you. Someone hit him from behind.”
“But where did the murderer go, sir?” asked Lovelock. He pointed ahead to the high stone wall that ran around the perimeter of the estate. “He could not have scaled the wall and he didn’t come our way.”
Thomas swallowed hard. “You think I did this?” The reality of his situation dawned on him for the first time.
“You better come with us, sir,” said Kidd, stepping forward and taking Thomas by the arm, but he fended them off in a gesture of defiance.
“I can give a good account of myself, gentlemen,” he told them. “I do not need restraining.”
Back at Boughton Hall Lydia and Sir Theodisius waited for news in the drawing room. By this time Francis Crick had also arrived and was helping to comfort his cousin when Kidd and Lovelock arrived with Thomas.
Seeing Thomas’s shirt ripped and muddy, with blood on his face and shoulder, Lydia began to rush forward, but Francis prevented her, taking her by the arm.
“No, Lydia,” he said firmly.
“But Thomas, what is happening?” she cried. “Where is he? Where is Lavington?”
“He is dead, my lady,” said Thomas slowly.
“Dead?” echoed Sir Theodisius.
“Murdered,” said Kidd.
Lydia gasped. All eyes turned on Thomas. “But who ... ?” she cried.
“I found him. His skull had been struck from behind,” Thomas told her.
Kidd and Lovelock both looked at him accusingly.
“So who is responsible for this crime?” intervened Sir Theodisius.
“I have no idea, sir,” retorted Thomas. “I saw no one.”
Aware that his version of events lacked credibility, Thomas stumbled to find an explanation. “He can only have been dead two or three minutes before I found him, sir.”
“And yet you neither heard nor saw anyone else in the wood? Nor did these men?” ventured Sir Theodisius.
Thomas closed his eyes momentarily, hoping to awake from this nightmare when he reopened them. Instead he saw Kidd hand the heavy stick that he had found in the woods to Sir Theodisius.
“Dr. Silkstone was holding this when we saw him. Hunched over the body, he were,” he said.
“Is that true?” asked the coroner, perplexed.
“Yes, sir, but ...”
It was Francis who came to the doctor’s rescue. “Perhaps we should carry on this investigation in the study,” he suggested. Thomas looked at him. He had not seen him for a few days and his whole demeanor seemed changed. He appeared more confident in the way he conducted himself, as if the events of the past weeks had made him grow in wisdom and character.
Thomas watched him usher Lydia into the study, followed by the coroner.
“Please, sir,” he said, showing Sir Theodisius to a seat. The young student then proceeded to sit next to his cousin on the chaise longue and took her hand in his i
n a gesture of comfort.
“Pray tell me what is happening,” pleaded a distressed Lydia.
Sir Theodisius looked grave. “This is a serious situation, Doctor,” he said. “You give me little choice.”
“I do not understand,” replied Thomas.
“Dr. Silkstone, by the power invested in me by His Majesty King George III, I am arresting you for the murder of James Lavington.”
“ ’Tis not true!” shouted Thomas. Kidd came forward to restrain him once more, but Sir Theodisius called him off.
“Who else could have killed him, Dr. Silkstone?” quizzed the coroner. “We all saw you fighting with him before. You had the wherewithal and,” he said, pointedly looking at Lydia, “it seems, the motive.”
“Motive?” questioned Thomas.
Sir Theodisius shook his head. “I am not blind, Dr. Silkstone. Your hatred of Lavington was obvious.”
The young doctor darted a look at Lydia, then hung his head in exasperation, but just as he lowered his gaze to the floor, he noticed Francis Crick’s shoes. They were spattered with mud. What especially caught Thomas’s eye, however, were some other gray deposits that clung to the student’s stockings.
“Perhaps you should ask Mr. Crick what he was doing while I was going after Mr. Lavington in the woods,” ventured Thomas, his voice suddenly more assured.
All eyes now moved to Francis, who shifted awkwardly.
“Well, Mr. Crick,” urged the coroner.
“I came up from London this morning, sir. I arrived just as Lady Lydia returned from the chapel.” His voice was slightly indignant.
“So, why are your shoes and stockings so dirty, may I ask?” pressed Thomas.
Francis looked uneasy. “It was raining, sir, and I had to walk from the carriage to the door,” he replied.
“My cousin arrived not more than ten minutes after I came back,” interjected Lydia.
Sir Theodisius nodded. “That seems to me to be a perfectly reasonable explanation,” he concluded.
Thomas nodded. “Indeed it is, sir, until you ask him how he came to have that grayish powder on his stockings.”