The Devlin Diary

“I really couldn’t tell, sir. Young, I suppose.”

  “Tall, short, fat, thin?”

  “Tall and sort of medium-size, I’d say. Her hair was red,” he adds, happy to remember something.

  “Was it a wig?”

  “I don’t rightly know, sir. It looked real enough to me.”

  “And how did she arrive here? On foot?”

  “Hackney coach, sir.”

  He pauses and studies the faces staring back at him. Beneath the bland, inexpressive mask of servitude, they’re afraid, and not just because someone has committed a heinous crime in their midst. The sudden death of the master of the house means the sudden loss of their positions and pay. As Sir Granville’s heir, it will be up to Edward to decide how the house is managed, how many servants will be necessary, who stays and who goes.

  “Thank you, James,” he says, certain that the porter has no more information to impart. “You’re all free to go about your duties. Please carry on as you would any other day, if you can. You’ll all be paid through the end of the month, at which time I shall determine the needs of this household. In the meantime, there are more pressing things to attend to. Mr. Callow, if you would come with me?”

  Surrounded by stacks of leather-bound journals and yellowing papers, Hannah sits on the floor of her bedroom reading through her father’s medical notes and observations.

  Mr. Sadler, aged 60, who labored of a grievous cough, difficulty of breathing, and loathing of meat, was cured thus…The Lady Green was oppressed with scorbutic symptoms, binding of the belly, melancholy, watchfulness…the child of Agnes Barnes, aged six, was afflicted with the falling sickness, and by consent was thus freed…

  Much of it is instructive, but none of it is pertinent. So far, she has found nothing that mentions Sir Henry or Mr. Osborne, nothing from her father’s time in France attending Henriette-Anne.

  She hears Hester’s footsteps on the landing and calls out to her before she reaches the open door. “You may come in.”

  Hester lingers uncertainly on the threshold. “You have a visitor, ma’am,” she says with eyes lowered. She’s been inconsolable ever since Lucy left. For all their squabbling, she and Lucy were as close as sisters; Lucy’s running off with the boy Hester fancied must feel like a double betrayal. Hannah has tried to cheer the girl with special treats of sugared plums, oranges, and chocolate, and she has allowed her to ignore her chores and even her studies when she wished. Mrs. Wills frets that this kind of indulgence only makes it worse, but Hannah cannot bear to see her so sad. Unhappily none of it has worked.

  “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Strathern, ma’am.”

  Just the mention of his name makes her feel breathless. Only a week has passed since they last saw each other and she asked him not to call on her. Why is he ignoring her request? A small voice inside says that he may have broken off his engagement, but she knows better than to listen to it. Hope only leads to disenchantment.

  As she descends the stairs, Edward turns from his study of the chimneypiece, a tapestry her parents bought years ago in France. He is attired much as he was the week before, sans wig, in an everyday coat and breeches and plain silk cravat.

  “Mrs. Devlin,” he begins as she crosses the parlor, “I would not intrude on your privacy except for a matter of the utmost importance.” His expression is grim, his eyes dulled by dark half circles underneath. She knows at once that his purpose here is not romantic, but she is too concerned by his obvious suffering to feel disappointed.

  “What is it, Dr. Strathern? What has happened?”

  “My uncle was murdered,” he says, his voice low but tinged with an unmistakable edge of anger.

  “When?”

  “Just last night. He was in his own home—actually, his own bedroom.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Hannah shakes her head, baffled. “No words are adequate for occasions such as this. Please sit down. You look quite distressed.”

  “Thank you.” He absently settles into the nearest chair, looking around as if he is just beginning to take notice of his surroundings. “I don’t think I realized just how distraught I felt until seeing you. All morning I have been contending with the most horrible…” He trails off, not wanting to burden her with the details, but she can see by the stark, pale line of his jaw that they remain fresh in his mind. “It is one thing to clean a stranger’s body in the theatre, quite another to prepare one’s own relative. Especially after a murder such as this.” He sighs and shakes his head. “First your father, then Sir Henry, then Mr. Osborne, and now Sir Granville.”

  “He was killed in the same manner?”

  “I’m afraid so. Although I believe he was strangled first, so that no one would hear his screams.”

  Hannah shudders. She had no great affection for Sir Granville, but she would never wish such savage cruelty upon anyone. She wants to say again that she’s sorry, but it seems unnecessary. Dr. Strathern knows that she of all people understands how he feels. Perhaps that’s why he’s come here.

  She goes down to the kitchen and asks Mrs. Wills to prepare some food and wine. When Hannah returns, Edward is on his feet again, pacing the room.

  “Dr. Strathern, please; you are overtired and should rest.”

  “I am unable to rest. I feel as if I must do something, only I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’ve already alerted the constable?”

  “To what purpose? Even the King’s Guards are no help in this matter. Look at what happened after Sir Henry’s death—an innocent man was hanged.”

  “We can’t be certain of that.”

  “You may not be certain, but I am. The only way to find the truth is to search for it ourselves. I came here for a reason: to ask you if you’d found anything among your father’s papers.”

  “I’ve looked, but so far have come up with nothing.”

  Edward sits down again, easing back into the chair with a bewildered sigh. “I felt so certain there’d be something—some reference to that night at Saint-Cloud.”

  “I’ve found no mention of it. In fact, I have not found any notes on the princess at all, or from that entire period in which he attended her.”

  “Does that seem unusual to you?”

  “Under the circumstances, yes.”

  He looks down at his hands, interlacing his fingers and tapping his thumbs together thoughtfully. When he looks up, there’s a renewed optimism in his eyes. “Did your father correspond with anyone regularly?”

  “With many people.” She grasps the direction of his thoughts. “But I can think of no one who might be familiar with those events.”

  Hester enters carrying a tray with bread, cheese, sliced meat, and a decanter of claret. She sets it on the table between them and makes a short, solemn curtsy before hurrying back to the kitchen.

  Edward’s eyes follow her from the room. “Have you heard from Lucy?”

  Hannah shakes her head sadly. “Not a word.”

  “Have you made any other effort to find her?”

  “We have inquired of everyone hereabout, to no avail. Other than that, I know not what to do. Lucy is a free person. She did not steal from us; she took only what was hers. I have no legal or moral grounds for preventing her from doing as she wishes. But it has been hard. My mother asks for her every day. And I worry so; Lucy is very young, and so much more innocent than she imagines she is.” She smiles ruefully. “But you do not want to hear about the problems of my little household.”

  “Indeed, I do not mind at all.” His clear gray eyes lock onto hers and she is reminded of the day they met, the first time they truly looked at each other. It provokes a flutter in her chest and a sudden shyness that she would not have thought herself capable of feeling, but with Dr. Strathern she has felt many things that she thought were long behind her. She looks away and busies herself with pouring the wine. “Please, you must eat,” she says, pushing the plate with bread and meat closer to him. Judging by the way he eagerly takes up their simple meal, he i
s famished. “You have not eaten all day,” she observes.

  “No, it was a bad business. I’ll be lucky if any of the servants want to stay on after this. It is so odd. My whole life has—” He stops, seeming to think better of following that train of thought. Instead, he shakes his head as though he knows not what to make of anything anymore. “I had no notion of having a large house and a staff to worry over, not quite so soon.”

  “Where do you make your home now?”

  “My brother’s house near Leicester Square. I was planning to stay there until…”

  “Until your marriage,” Hannah finishes for him.

  He looks down and slowly rubs his hand across his mouth. “I find it difficult to speak of it to you,” he admits. “I feel…confused.”

  Hannah stands up. “Dr. Strathern, perhaps you should go home. You must be very tired after what has happened. It’s not surprising that you are feeling so unsettled. Tomorrow you will feel better, I am certain.”

  As is proper, Edward stands, too, but he makes no move toward the door. “I don’t want to go home,” he says, his tone as vexed as it was when he first arrived. “I want to find out who murdered my uncle. Your father must have seen something, must have known something—if he had not, I believe he would still be alive.” He pauses, calming his impassioned thoughts with a few measured breaths. “Has it not occurred to you,” he continues, brow knitting with worry, “that you may also be in danger?”

  “Yes. And so may you.”

  “We must do whatever we can. Perhaps if I helped you read through your father’s papers…”

  “Wait—earlier you asked if my father had any correspondents.” Hannah smiles. “I’ve just thought of someone we should call upon.”

  Chapter Forty

  BY THE TIME they reach Dr. Sydenham’s house on Pall Mall it’s well after six of the clock and the last vestiges of daylight are long gone. Hannah emerges from the carriage into a cold, clear night and breathes in the fresh tang of flourishing greenery and rich, loamy earth still fragrant from yesterday’s rain. This part of London is sparsely inhabited; the aristocratic mansions that have sprouted up in recent years are surrounded by private gardens, public parks, open fields. In comparison to the neighboring estates, Dr. Sydenham’s residence is modest in size and lacking ostentation. In the latter respect it resembles its owner, a Puritan among Royalists. Hannah raps the brass knocker in the shape of a caduceus, and soon a woman in a ruffled white cap opens the door.

  “Hannah Briscoe!” she exclaims, her eyes wide with delight. “Can that be you?”

  “Indeed it is.” They embrace warmly. Dr. Sydenham’s housemaid has changed little in the years since Hannah last saw her. Grown a bit more plump, perhaps, but her coppery hair is as bright as ever, her broad face welcoming.

  “It’s been much too long since you paid us a visit.” Maureen steps back from the doorway and impatiently waves them both inside.

  Hannah introduces Edward and inquires after Dr. Sydenham as they remove their hats and gloves in the wood-paneled hall.

  “He’s at home,” Maureen replies, “though he’s been feeling rather poorly all day. But I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. One moment, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Should I be nervous?” Edward asks as Maureen hurries away down the hall. “I’ve heard the good doctor can be quite imposing.”

  “It’s true you might find yourself arguing the merits of morbid anatomy,” Hannah says, “but he has always been kind to me.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would be otherwise.” His eyes look large in the dim light.

  Hannah is suddenly conscious of how close they stand in the narrow hall, aware of Edward’s warmth and the faint, spicy-sweet scent of his skin. On the ride over they carefully avoided any further discourse on subjects of a personal nature, an unspoken agreement to put private matters aside while embarked on their pursuit of the truth. But those feelings are right under the skin, ready to surface again at the least opportunity. Edward moves closer, close enough that if she tilts her face up to his, their lips would nearly meet. Bridging that distance is only a matter of inches, and the desire to do so suffuses the air between them. “Hannah,” he whispers hoarsely, and for a second she allows herself to imagine it, everything falling away, their cares, their obstacles, this house they stand in, everything disregarded for the sensation of his lips on hers.

  Maureen appears at the end of the hall. She must notice how quickly they step away from each other, but she discreetly ignores it. “He’ll see you in his study,” she says brightly. Hannah follows, hoping no one will notice the flush spreading over her face. Their unconsummated kiss resonates in her body like a missed heartbeat as the housemaid ushers them into a comfortable room with a wood fire burning in the hearth. Dr. Sydenham sits facing the flames, his slippered feet propped on a footstool, a light blanket draped across his legs.

  “Forgive me for not rising to greet you,” he says amiably. Hannah is pleased to notice that Edward is favorably impressed by the physician’s direct yet agreeable manner and his understated attire, a dark woolen suit with a square linen collar. At forty-eight, Dr. Sydenham is still striking, with a magnificent head of graying hair that flows in waves to his shoulders and a strong-featured face absent of the usual marks and furrows of age, except for a deep crease of concentration between his brows. His expression is one that those who are not well acquainted with him might deem arrogant, but Hannah knows he is capable of great compassion. He is also, from her father’s own accounts, prone to pigheaded resolve—a charge that Dr. Sydenham often leveled back at his friend.

  “My rheumatism has got the better of me today, I fear,” he says. He has been troubled with the gout for nearly two decades, and in recent years he has suffered a host of other ills. But he continues to write medical treatises, teach, and practice physick, with a practice so extensive that it includes both the indigent poor of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and persons of quality such as John Locke and Lord Shaftesbury. “Please come in and make yourselves easy.” He gestures to the two chairs that help complete a cozy half circle in front of the fire.

  “Hannah Briscoe,” he says affectionately, his brown eyes merry behind spectacle glasses glimmering with the fire’s reflected light. “It seems only yesterday that you were a girl putting my medical students to shame. She used to visit here with her father,” he tells Strathern, “and went ’round to his patients with him. She knew more about medicine at sixteen than most young men coming out of Oxford or Cambridge at twenty-two.”

  Dr. Sydenham’s casual reference to the past feels foreign to her; so much has happened since then that the time he speaks of seems very long ago. “You are too generous,” Hannah says, although she remembers being astonished by how ignorant the university graduates were.

  The sparkle fades from his eyes. “I regret I could not attend your father’s funeral last year.”

  “Your letter of condolence was quite enough,” Hannah says sincerely.

  “I cannot agree, but I was in the country and unable to travel at the time. A great shame, as there is nothing more salubrious for gout than exercise and fresh air. But my other ailments prevented me.”

  “Exercise and fresh air is your recommended remedy for gout?” Edward asks.

  Dr. Sydenham nods. “Horseback for those who are able, otherwise a daily coach ride will do. Along with the steady consumption of small beer and retiring early of an evening, no later than nine of the clock.” He smiles at Edward. “Surprised, are you? Do not credit every wild tale told about me. Most are the extravagant foolishness of prejudiced people. After I recommended a cooling regimen for the treatment of smallpox, the story went ’round that I take those who are so afflicted out of their beds and put them in a bath of ice water. It’s balderdash, of course. This is the kind of thing one must put up with if one dares to be different. Some simply don’t like the fact that I don’t prescribe a great deal of medicine. Often there’s nothing better than to leave
a sick body alone to allow it to be healed by that prince of physicians, time. But that’s not how doctors and apothecaries get rich.” He chuckles softly to himself and shakes his head, as if at his own folly. “But I go on too long. I suspect you are not here to listen to my theories of physick.”

  “Dr. Sydenham,” Hannah begins, “Dr. Strathern and I have discovered something very distressing. My father was murdered not by a thief but by someone with a darker purpose, one we do not yet know. But we are quite certain”—she glances at Edward, who nods solemnly—“that my father’s death is in some way connected to that of Sir Henry Reynolds and, more recently, Dr. Strathern’s uncle, Sir Granville—”

  “Sir Granville Haines?” Dr. Sydenham says with surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “I had not heard of this.” He looks quizzically at Edward.

  “It’s only just happened,” Edward explains.

  “This is distressing indeed.” The furrow between his brows deepens as he assimilates their news.

  “We believe that these murders have something to do with my father’s time in Paris attending Princess Henriette-Anne,” Hannah says. “Did he ever speak to you of it?”

  The doctor stares thoughtfully into the fire. Finally he looks back at Hannah with resolve. “Did your father ever tell you why he left court?”

  “Not exactly, no. Only that he had some sort of argument with Lord Arlington.”

  “It wasn’t precisely an argument. Your father simply refused to do something Arlington asked him to do.”

  “What was that?”

  “Lie.” Dr. Sydenham leans forward as if to get up from the chair, but as soon as his feet touch the floor he grimaces with pain. “Dr. Strathern, if you would be so kind?”

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “On the top shelf of that cabinet,” he says as he points across the room, “there’s a cherrywood box. Can you bring it to me?”

  Edward retrieves the box and puts it in Dr. Sydenham’s outstretched hands. Inside is a stack of aging papers: legal documents, a few deeds, old letters. From the bottom of the box he extracts a folded page with a broken wax seal. He looks at it intently, as if he is uncertain about what to do with it.