by Tessa Harris
Chapter 3
Sir Montagu Malthus would never have called himself a man of faith, but he had been inclined toward prayer throughout the day. As yet, however, his request had met with no divine response. He had received no word from Geech. To his knowledge, Silkstone was still alive. Now his only supplication was that he would not survive the night.
The lawyer sat in the study at Boughton Hall. The evening was warm, and the French windows at the far end of the room were open. The noise of the guard dogs barking in the far distance made him look up and flatten his back against his chair. He was wading through unopened correspondence that had been left to mount over the past few tumultuous weeks. For most of the day his enormous shoulders had been hunched over the desk, and his neck ached. The occasional gulp of claret from a glass at his side had been all there was to break the tedium of the mound of documentation. Now, however, he allowed himself the indulgence of breaking off from reading his papers. It was not the sudden barking that roused him, but the appearance of a moth. Flying dangerously close to the naked flame of his candle, it was quite large and brindle brown. It skimmed and pranced in the enticing circle of light cast on the wall above his desk. Its quivering silhouette made it appear even bigger than it actually was. Fluttering in on the sultry night air through the open windows, the creature provided a welcome diversion. So now he set down his silver paper knife, eased back in his chair, and studied the insect with a macabre fascination.
The moth next settled on a volume of accounts on the desk, but Sir Montagu resisted the urge to swat it. It would be all the more pleasurable to watch it hover around the flame a little longer, thereby prolonging its dance toward inevitable death. He was therefore irritated when a sudden zephyr from the open doors rustled his papers and disturbed its rest. It flew toward the lighted candle, lingered for no more than a second, then succumbed to its fiery embrace. There was a slight hissing sound as a tongue of flame licked its wings before it fell like a singed fragment of parchment onto the desk. Sir Montagu’s lips twinged with satisfaction. Could this be a sign that his prayers had been finally answered?
With a sweep of his hand he scooped the charred remnants of the moth to the floor and resumed his work. Another missive required his urgent attention, no doubt another plea requesting a larger allotment. There were times when he regretted abiding by the law of the land. It would have been so much simpler to fence off the commons and the woods and be done with it, rather than to subject himself to all these irritating legal procedures. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry, it seemed, felt entitled to protest against the plans to enclose the Boughton Estate. He had been forced to post his intentions and invite comments, and it irked him beyond measure that he was legally obliged to deal with all these petitions. Holding yet another missive toward the candlelight, the lawyer took the paper knife and began to slice through the seal. He acted with such gusto, however, that the blade slipped and nicked his finger. Sir Montagu grimaced, and the knife clattered onto the desk. The cut, although small, began to bleed, and two or three drops fell onto the bundle of papers, the color of the blood matching that of the seal. In fact he was sucking at the wound, a metallic taste on his tongue, when he heard a noise outside. Footsteps? He held his breath for a moment. Could it be Geech come with news of Silkstone’s death? There it was again: the sound of feet crunching on the gravel below the terrace.
The lawyer rose and walked over to the open doors. He took a deep breath and advanced over the threshold, out onto the parterre. He was surprised to find it was slightly warmer outside than in. Palming his hands onto the stone balustrade, he cast his gaze over the gardens. The night was clear and the moon was almost full, so he could just about discern the outline of the rose garden with its clipped hedges. Somewhere in the woodland beyond an owl hooted. As far as he could see, however, nothing was untoward.
“Geech!” he called out in a hoarse whisper. He craned his neck into the darkness. “Who goes there?”
There was no reply. He allowed for a moment of quiet, just to satisfy himself that there was no one else in the grounds, before he wheeled ’round to return to the study. The doors remained ajar, although a little more open than he remembered. He supposed a breeze had blown them apart. Once inside, however, he decided to close them, just to err on the side of caution. It had suddenly occurred to him that Nicholas Lupton, now a wanted man, might pay him an unwelcome visit. They had parted on less than friendly terms, and the steward was a man with a hot temper. He could well do without his presence. He turned the key in the lock. It made a satisfying clunk as the latch dropped. He felt safe.
Convinced he must have heard a fox or a badger outside, he returned to his desk and sat down to resume his examination of the petitions. He started to unfold a paper. By this time, however, his candle had begun to gutter. Although there was another lamp in the room, the flickering annoyed him. It caused the circle of light on the wall to dim slightly. He reached for the wick trimmer, but just as he did so, he heard another noise—only now, it seemed inside the room.
“Geech, is that you?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder before dropping his gaze to the candle once more. “Please tell me that Dr. Silkstone is dead,” he quipped.
In the semidarkness, he waited for the message for which he so longed, trimming the wick as he did so. None came.
“Geech?” he called out, looking behind once more. When he saw no one, he shrugged, but still he fumbled for the tinderbox. He struck the flint. The flame burst into life and took hold of the candle. He was right. Someone else was in the room. From nowhere a silhouette suddenly loomed large against the wall. He started to twist ’round.
“What the... ?”
It was too late. A hand clamped across his mouth, and his hooded lids all but disappeared as his eyes opened wide with fright. From his mouth a strangled cry tried to emerge, but it was no use. The lawyer found himself fighting for breath, and his hands flew up as he gasped, flapping like a frightened bird. In the commotion the claret glass was knocked over, and its contents spilled across the desk. Sir Montagu felt his head yanked back, and he let go of his grip on his assailant. A gag was suddenly stuffed between his lips. In the next moment his arms were wrenched behind him. Through the mayhem, he could see something glint in the candlelight. The paper knife? Seconds later, he realized only too well that the sensation he could feel against the skin of his neck was the cold, hard steel of a blade.
Chapter 4
The journey to Boughton Hall, although short, allowed Lydia a few minutes’ peace after the day’s momentous events. She could take stock and reflect. It had been a day like no other: a day of high drama and deep emotion, of machinations and deceptions gone awry, and of anxious watching and endless waiting. And as the gates of the hall loomed up ahead of her carriage, she was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. Previously they had signified home and security, but latterly they reminded her that she was a virtual prisoner and that Sir Montagu controlled her every move. Suddenly she knew what she had to do.
Those torturous hours spent at Thomas’s bedside, not knowing whether he would live or die, had made her realize what was important to her in life. Tomorrow morning, at first light, she would leave. Taking Richard with her, she would escape from Boughton. When she feared Thomas had been shot dead, she had seen in the flash of a moment what life would be like without him. In those few short seconds, she knew she never wanted to be apart from him again. He was the only man who had ever truly loved her. Now she had made up her mind. As soon as he was fit, they would run away, all three of them—Thomas, Richard, and her—to America. Yes, America. To Philadelphia, perhaps. Thomas’s home city. They could make a new life there, together, away from Boughton and the estate and away from England. No one would know her. And no one would care who she was. She would renounce her title, and once relieved of its burden, she could become Mrs. Thomas Silkstone. She mouthed her new name silently. Mrs. Thomas Silkstone. Her heart beat faster at the thought of it.
&n
bsp; The chimneys and cornices of Boughton Hall suddenly came into view, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. The sight made Lydia tense. It seemed as if years had passed since she and Eliza had left that morning. After everything that had happened, the sight of its imposing walls now made it even more like a prison. She needed to escape. She must make plans immediately, but away from Sir Montagu’s glare. Her own experience had shown her he would stop at nothing to prevent her and Thomas from being together. Ever since he had revealed to her that he was her real father, then immediately regretted it, Sir Montagu had shown her not a shred of humanity. He had tossed her feelings aside like a spent pipe. She thought of his threats to take Richard from her, his success in turning her against Thomas. She thought of Bedlam and how, even after her release, he had managed to control her.
“Not anymore,” she muttered between clenched teeth.
“Are you all right, m’lady?” Eliza, sitting opposite her, broke into her thoughts. She had seen her mistress’s eyes open wide as if she had suddenly had a revelation, then heard her mumble to herself and had become concerned.
Lydia turned away from the window and fixed her maid with the enigmatic look of a lost woman who had suddenly found her way. “Yes, thank you, Eliza,” she replied with a smile. “I have never felt better.”
As her carriage drew up outside, Lydia saw that only in the ground-floor study did a light burn dimly. She assumed Sir Montagu had stayed up late attending to his business affairs. A small part of her also thought that he might wish to learn whether Thomas was alive or dead. The doctor’s death would, of course, suit his purpose. She suddenly imagined his expression had she been the bearer of such news. He would have dipped his brows, feigned shock and concern, and reached out to put a comforting arm around her. Yet underneath, his dark heart would be leaping for joy.
Lovelock helped his mistress down from the vehicle, and Howard was there on the steps to greet her and Eliza. He had obviously seen the carriage lamps on the drive, although it was clear he had not expected them back.
“Your ladyship,” said the butler with a worried frown. “Dr. Silkstone . . .” The whole household had been on tenterhooks for the entire day, waiting to hear news from the village about the doctor’s state of health. The gossip among visiting tradesmen had forewarned of serious injury and possible death.
“The wound is bad enough, Howard. But God willing, Dr. Silkstone will make a full recovery,” she told him as he helped her off with her cape.
The butler relaxed his stiff stance a little. “That is most gratifying to know, your ladyship.” Then after a moment he added, “Will you require refreshment, m’lady?”
Lydia shook her head. “No, Howard. I will call in on Sir Montagu, then Eliza will see me to bed.”
“As you wish, m’lady,” he replied with a bow, and he padded off back to his quarters.
Eliza looked at her mistress. “Shall I go up, your ladyship?”
Lydia nodded. She would inform her of her plans to leave Boughton in a moment. She would need the maid’s help in order to make ready Richard’s escape, too, but she knew she could trust Eliza. She might even ask her to accompany them. After all, she was the one who showed her that Thomas had been fighting for her freedom from Bedlam. Before she could make the maid privy to her plans, however, Lydia first had to inform Sir Montagu of the doctor’s condition. It was a task she would relish, a victory for her after such a long series of defeats at her father’s callous hands. A shaft of light lanced into the hallway from underneath the study door, telling her that he was still working. She crossed over and took a deep, steadying breath before she tapped lightly on the door. She waited a moment. There was no reply.
With her mouth to the door she called softly: “Sir, ’tis Lydia.” Still no reply. Not wishing to disturb the peace of the household, she turned the handle quietly and walked inside. A single candle burned.
Glancing to her right, she saw that her father seemed to have dozed off at the far end of the room. His head was resting on the desk, but curiously, his goat-hair wig appeared to have slipped from his scalp and now lay at the foot of his chair. Suddenly she shivered. The temperature in the study was much cooler than in the hall, and turning, she saw the French windows were wide open.
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” she muttered, even though she knew her father would be oblivious to her warning.
She made her way across the room toward the windows when suddenly she felt something below her shoe. Looking down, she saw she had stepped on some stray papers that had fallen on the floor. She frowned and raised her eyes to the desk. Her father had not stirred. It was then that she also noticed all the drawers in the cabinet ahead of her had been pulled out. Quickly she turned ’round and squinted into the gloom. The shelves on the facing wall were half empty. The ledgers normally kept there had been thrown to the ground. Panic suddenly flared in her chest.
“Sir,” she called. He did not move. “Father!” She hurried over to him. As she did so, she noticed the odd position of his body. His arms appeared to be behind his back. It was only when she drew level with him and the pool of light from the candle illuminated the surface of the desk that she saw the upturned claret glass. For a moment she thought the liquid that was spreading across the desk was red wine. Without thinking she dipped her finger into the crimson fluid, and felt it warm and syrupy against her skin. The piercing scream that emanated from her lips a split second later came from the realization that what she was touching was not spilled claret but fresh blood.
Chapter 5
The shock of Sir Theodisius’s words caused Thomas to jolt. He raised his head from the pillows. Heaving himself up on his elbows, he contorted his face in a grimace.
“Sir Montagu dead? But how?”
The coroner, his shoulders sloped and his eyes to the floor, floundered to find his words. “I had not wanted to tell you, Thomas, but I knew there was no way to avoid it. The shocking manner of it . . .”
“What?” wheezed Thomas, the pain in his chest making it hard for him to breathe.
Sir Theodisius shook his head, as if he, too, found it difficult to digest the news. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” echoed Thomas incredulously. He slumped back down on his pillows, unable to bear the pain any longer. “Murdered,” he whispered again, as if to convince himself that he had heard the coroner correctly the first time. His initial thought had been that the aneurysm on which he had operated last year had burst, or that the lawyer had suffered heart failure or apoplexy. But murder? “Who . . . ? Where . . . ?”
“In the study at Boughton,” the coroner replied, reluctantly adding: “Her ladyship found him.”
Thomas’s eyes widened. “Lydia found him?” Suddenly, summoning what little strength he had, he flung back the bedclothes and shot up as if he’d been fired out of a cannon. “I must go to her.”
Mr. Peabody rushed forward. The apothecary had been left in charge of the doctor’s ministrations while Professor Hascher took a well-earned rest.
“No, sir. I must urge you not to move.” The little man grabbed hold of the sheets and gave Thomas a disapproving look. He need not have worried. The exertion was too much for the young anatomist, and he fell back onto the mattress like a limp doll.
“But Lydia . . . I must . . .” cried Thomas as Mr. Peabody reordered the bedcovers.
“Dr. Fairweather has given her a draft,” Sir Theodisius reassured him. “The last I heard was that she was sleeping.”
It was some comfort to Thomas to know that she had been sedated, but it did not compensate for his frustration at his own injury and his inability to be at her side.
After a moment he asked: “Do you know who did it?”
The coroner’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “I wish I did,” he replied. “You know I loathed the man, but I would never have wished the manner of his death on anyone.”
Thomas’s gaze shot up. “How, sir? Tell me how?”
Sir Theodisius swallow
ed hard. “He was all but beheaded.”
“Holy Christ!” muttered Thomas. “And Lydia found him?” Once more he flung back the covers and tried to leave his sickbed, and once more Mr. Peabody tried to prevent him.
“You must allow your wound to heal, sir,” advised the little apothecary.
“But I must go to Boughton,” replied Thomas, wincing as he planted his stockinged feet on the floor. He shot a glance at Sir Theodisius. “Is that not right, sir?”
The coroner eyed the anatomist sheepishly, then addressed Mr. Peabody. “I fear the good doctor is right,” he assured the apothecary. “Dr. Silkstone is needed urgently at the hall.”
In less than an hour, Thomas, accompanied by Sir Theodisius, arrived at Boughton Hall. Leaning on Lovelock, the doctor had to be helped from the carriage and up the front steps into the hallway, where a flustered Howard greeted him.
“Dr. Silkstone, sir!” There was a note of relief in the butler’s voice at seeing the anatomist both alive and about to take charge of a most unsettling situation.
“Howard,” Thomas acknowledged. The effort of walking up the steps had left him short of breath. “Her ladyship?”
“She was in a most distressed state, sir.”
“I am sure.”
“But she is resting now, sir.”
“Then I shall not disturb her,” said Thomas. Instead he turned to Sir Theodisius, who had waddled in behind him. “Shall we get to work?”
Being privy to the anatomist’s methods, the coroner had instructed that no one should enter the study. Nothing had been touched, and the chaotic scene that greeted the two men was just how Lydia had chanced upon it late the previous night.
Daylight now flooded into the room, revealing the full extent of the horror. Drawers had been tipped out, curtains slashed and, amid it all, blood spilled. A great deal of blood. There was something else, too. Thomas sniffed at the air around the desk. A strange perfume lingered, sweet and exotic. He looked for cut flowers but could see none. It troubled him, but then this was clearly a most troubling case.