Secrets in the Stones

by Tessa Harris

  The track was dry and dusty, although the rainstorm earlier in the month had scoured deep ruts that she was careful to avoid. Two of the house dogs, the spaniels Jipp and Juno, set off with her, bounding up ahead of the cart, then stopping suddenly when they caught a scent and running off at a tangent. The pony was a hardy little beast and responded well to her commands, and soon they reached the top of the ridge. Tugging at the reins, Lydia paused for a moment to take in the view. There had been times during her incarceration in Bedlam when she thought she would never see such a sight again. At one point, shackled to her narrow bed, she had been forced to content herself with the memory of the hall. Thoughts of its honey-colored stone, its fine pediments and its barley-twist chimneys, had kept her sane in her darkest hours. And Richard, too. Her dearest Richard. How his short life had been blighted by the wiles of men. Sir Montagu’s aim might have been to control Boughton through her son, but surely he had cared for him, his own flesh and blood, in his own strange way.

  Down below she saw the men and women planting in the fields, scattering corn from their panniers onto the furrows of the rich brown soil. She saw, too, the sheep grazing on the higher pasture, their wool providing a staple of the estate. It was a scene that gladdened her heart, a scene she had no wish to change. Any plans to enclose Boughton had died with Sir Montagu, and the commoners and coppicers, the pit sawyers and the charcoal burners, could rejoice in the knowledge that she would not deprive them of their ancient rights. The villagers of Brandwick would remain free to glean for corn at harvest time and to put out pigs to pannage in the forest in autumn. The coppicers could carry on working their coupes, and the power of water, not steam, would turn the fulling stocks that pounded the wool cloth.

  The sight of the estate from her perch comforted her, but her memory was also tinged with sadness. Up ahead on the ridge, just beyond the pavilion, she could make out the simple wooden cross that marked her late husband’s grave. The dogs had run on ahead in that direction, no doubt chasing after a rabbit or hare, so she decided to follow. She could pay her respects, perhaps even pick a few spring flowers and lay them at the foot of the cross. The Church’s strict laws regarding those who took their own lives meant that Michael had been denied his rightful place in the family vault. She had chosen his resting place herself, near the pavilion where they both used to ride in the early days of their short marriage when they were briefly happy together.

  After his death she had intended to erect a more permanent memorial to the captain on the site. At the time she had taken care to bury him in his best clothes and to see that his precious diamond ring, the one that he had brought back from India, was placed on the fourth finger of his right hand. He had worn it thus in life, before she had told him it was vulgar and that he should remove it, and he had in her presence. Yet there was another reason she did not approve of the magnificent gemstone. It had, it seemed, a checkered history. She had heard rumors, although she had never shared them with her husband, that he had stolen it from a dead merchant in Hyderabad. Such accusations would only have widened the rift that grew daily between them. At the memory of it, however, she felt a tinge of regret. Perhaps she had been too harsh on Michael. At any rate, events had conspired against her so that she had never even managed to commission a fitting headstone. Now, however, there was nothing to stop her. She could design an elaborate mausoleum or even a mortsafe to protect him from sack-’em-up men, if she chose to. Not that there had ever been any likelihood of anyone trying to steal the captain’s corpse in such a remote spot. But it was up to her to erect a fitting memorial.

  As the pony walked steadily along the ridge, past the pavilion, she noted how dilapidated the building looked. The roof was covered in moss, and ivy was creeping up the columns of the veranda. She made a mental note to ask her new steward, whoever he might be, to make its renovation a priority. She could not allow it to fall further into disrepair.

  She was contemplating the expense of such an endeavor when the pony came to a sudden and unbidden halt. It shuffled backward and snorted through its flared nostrils. Lydia frowned and gave it a tap with the whip, but to no avail. She tried a different tack and pulled gently on the reins to soothe the creature, but again it was no use.

  “Steady, girl!” she called. “Steady!” Hearing its mistress’s voice, the pony seemed to calm down, yet despite Lydia’s best efforts, it could not be coaxed on. “What is it?”

  The dogs, a few yards away by the grave, also began to bark. Knowing it was useless to urge on the pony, Lydia lifted her skirts and, still clutching her whip, clambered down from her perch. Frowning, she hurried toward the wooden cross.

  “What the . . . !”

  Instead of the smooth green burial mound where she had stood in silent prayer on her last visit, there was a mound of earth, freshly dug. She surveyed the scene incredulously. An animal must have been pawing at the grave, she told herself. A badger or a fox. But surely there was too much dark mulch to have been shifted by a single wild creature. She drew closer, the nausea suddenly rising in her throat.

  The dogs were no longer barking. Instead they were growling at each other. They were fighting over something, baring their teeth, snatching at whatever it was: a bone perhaps.

  “Jipp! Juno!” she called, but they ignored her voice. She walked toward them, her heart beating faster with each step. “Jipp! Juno! Away!” she repeated, only louder, but the dogs continued to tug at something, slavering and baying in turn. She felt her body start to tremble as she drew level with them. She cracked the whip. The dogs parted. And then she saw it. Beyond the pile of earth, a few fragments of material lay ragged on the grass, and beside them was a small carcass of some sort: a bird or a rabbit.

  Still wary, she moved forward until she could see more clearly. A bird or a rabbit, she kept telling herself. Then her stomach lurched and her eyes widened in sheer terror.

  “No!” she said. Her voice was soft at first. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her. She looked closer. “No!” she repeated, this time in a scream. She tried to blink away the sight, but the horror of it only drew her even further toward it, as if she had fallen under some ghoulish spell. Her mouth opened, allowing another faint cry to escape her lips, but she remained transfixed by what she saw. It was part of an arm. A human arm. Surely not Michael’s? Her eyes shot to the material, the ragged silk that lay nearby. She recognized it. It was a fragment of the shirt in which she had laid him to rest. She looked back to the arm. The skin on it was the color of lead, prinked with purple, and great hunks of it clung to the white of the bone like filthy rags. It suddenly dawned on her that the grave must have been opened. No animal could have done this, she told herself. Her breathing came in short, sharp pants as she realized this had to be the work of some depraved resurrectionist. The fiend must have been looking for a corpse to sell to an anatomist, but his despicable errand had been interrupted. Her own hand suddenly flew up to her forehead, and she felt it dotted with sweat. She gazed upon the sight in a morbid daze, bewildered and outraged at the same time. It was then, through her shock and revulsion, that it struck her that an even greater sacrilege had been committed. She forced herself to look again at Michael’s arm—his right arm—and, more specifically, at his hand. His once-elegant fingers stuck up in the air like rotten twigs. But there were only three. One was missing; the one that had borne the captain’s ring. The diamond was gone.

  Chapter 13

  It was early evening by the time Thomas reached Boughton Hall. He found Lydia pacing the drawing room in a most distressed state. Eliza was with her, but seemed unable to calm her mistress. Before the return journey Lovelock had primed the doctor about the horrific findings at Michael Farrell’s grave.

  “One of the shepherds ’eard ’er scream,” the groom had said. “In a terrible state, she were.”

  As soon as he entered the room, Thomas saw that Lydia’s face remained ashen gray. She hurried to him, still trembling. “Who would do such a thing? Who would do such a
thing?” she kept asking, over and over again.

  “Calm yourself,” soothed Thomas, taking her by the hand. Dismissing Eliza with a nod of the head, he led Lydia to the sofa and together they sat. “I know what happened,” he said. He put his arm around her shoulders. “And I must go and see the grave for myself before I can try and answer your question.”

  She acknowledged the sense of this, but he could tell she was still in a state of shock. He reached for his medical case and took from it a glass phial.

  “Drink this,” he told her, handing her a draft.

  Closing her eyes, she downed the dark syrup and shuddered a little at its bitter taste.

  “’Twill calm your nerves until I return,” he told her, but she immediately opened her eyes and tugged at his coat.

  “No. No, you can’t go. Please don’t leave me.”

  “I will not be long,” he promised, “but I need to see the site for myself.” He touched her shoulder gently. “Lovelock is waiting to take me to the grave.” He paused. “You will not be alone,” he added. “Eliza will stay with you.”

  Lydia gulped a lungful of air and nodded her acquiescence. “Of course,” she agreed, placing her hand on his.

  Lovelock was indeed waiting at the reins of the dogcart, with Will, his son, in tow. The sun was low over the Chiltern Hills, leaving a pinkish glow in the sky as they headed up toward the desecrated grave. The crows, gathering like black rags blown by the breeze, were already roosting high up in the trees of the nearby woods, and although no one said anything, they all knew that any remaining carrion might be picked clean by now.

  Without delay Thomas dismounted from the cart. He did not relish the thought of what he was about to see. He had been informed of the grisly remains and the disturbed grave. Whoever had opened it to steal the diamond might well have left behind some vital evidence. Moreover, whoever was responsible might also have murdered Sir Montagu. A careful examination of the area could well throw up meaningful clues.

  “Stay back,” Thomas ordered Lovelock and his son, even though the pair seemed in no hurry to move nearer the grave. It did not take long to find the severed arm. As he feared, much of the flesh had been picked off the bone and only a few flies buzzed around it, but Lydia had been correct. Just three fingers and a thumb were left. Moving up the heft, only the ulna remained. But it was the cut that interested Thomas most. He examined it carefully. The bone had been hacked through cleanly, possibly with an ax.

  Next he turned to the grave itself. The earth was patted into a mound. Bending down, Thomas felt the top. It was dry to the touch. He lifted a handful of dirt, and it crumbled through his fingers like stale cake. It was obvious to him that this topsoil had been baking in the sun for a while. He cast his mind back to the terrible storm two weeks before that had drenched the earth. There had been no rain since, although he noted there were ruts and gullies in the soil where it had been exposed to the torrential downpour. He hazarded a guess that the mound had been dug before the storm. Taking out his magnifying glass from his coat pocket, he scrutinized the brown loam more closely. He could see shoots of grass already. The ones that had been in full sun during the day had already germinated. From their growth he estimated they had burst forth from their seeds at least a week ago, but probably much earlier. He paused. This meant that the act of desecration was certainly not committed on the same night as Sir Montagu’s murder but well before it. Possibly several days prior.

  It was three years since Thomas’s last visit to the grave, three years since he had opened Michael Farrell’s coffin. The captain had been newly dead, the flesh putrefying and wet, the stench gut-wrenching, but at least Thomas had been able to confirm his suspicions. Lydia’s husband did not take his own life and, from the nature of the wound on his neck, he had been able to identify his killer. He did not relish the thought of reacquainting himself with the corpse. Nor, judging by their reluctance to stay near him, did Jacob Lovelock and his son. The head groom’s memories were still raw, too, but at Thomas’s request, father and son shuffled forward. The doctor had no intention of putting them through an unnecessary exhumation. He would not make them witness the work of the worms in the last three years. They would have feasted on the skin and soft tissue, leaving only the white pearl of bone in their wake, he told himself. He was as reluctant as they were, but he knew what needed to be done.

  Armed with shovels, Jacob and Will started to dig away at the loose mound. After a few minutes their spades hit what sounded like wood. Renewing their efforts, they uncovered the whole of the lid. Mercifully it was still in place, although no longer secured, making the men’s task much easier.

  Squatting low on their haunches, with Jacob at the top and Will at the bottom, they grabbed the lid and, instinctively holding their breaths, pulled it upward and toward them. They both fell backward, away from the grave, Thomas suspected by design, so that they did not have to confront the body in the coffin. He, however, had no choice. He peered down into the grave. And there lay what remained of Captain Michael Farrell. For yet a second time his interment had been disturbed.

  Thomas and Lovelock exchanged anxious looks, but it was the former who took off his hat and coat and made to descend.

  “You can’t go down there in your state, Doctor,” protested the groom.

  “I can and I must,” replied Thomas. “Here.” He handed his belongings to Lovelock and, kneeling down, lowered himself into the grave. His chest wound still caused him pain, but without too much grief he arrived at a point where there was just enough room for him to stand. There was Farrell’s familiar white brocade jacket—the one he had asked to wear for his sentencing in court. The robber had slipped it off the corpse’s shoulder to get a better purchase at the arm. Reaching into his pocket for his magnifying glass once more, Thomas inspected what remained of the mutilated limb. The thief had been in such a hurry that he had simply hacked it off above the elbow with a sharp blade. Thomas’s previous thoughts were confirmed. The motion had been downward. The pattern on the bone indicated a chop, not a slice. A sickle rather than a knife. Could this mean that the weapon used to mutilate Farrell’s corpse had been employed to murder Malthus, too? He could not be sure. What was undeniable, however, was that whoever did this unspeakable deed knew exactly what he wanted. This was no opportunistic theft but a carefully planned and executed crime. It would have been no mean feat. It was robbery to order, undertaken by someone skilled who knew precisely what he was about. Someone who knew that Michael Farrell was buried wearing a diamond ring.

  Thomas was just about to call for Jacob to help him scale the steep wall of the grave when he stopped. His memory flashed to an image of Farrell’s hand and the diamond ring that Lydia had placed on it in death. He recalled her telling him that the gem had been acquired during her husband’s time in India.

  India. He whispered the word.

  “Sir?”

  Thomas wheeled ’round, aware that Lovelock and his son had been watching him in the grave trench from a distance. The groom’s voice jolted the doctor back into the moment.

  “What? Nothing, Lovelock.” Thomas stretched out both arms, and gently the groom and his son helped ease him out.

  “You think they knew the diamond was there, sir?” asked Jacob Lovelock as the doctor sat on the soil on the other side of the grave.

  “I have no doubt,” he replied, sifting the loose earth between his fingers. He stopped suddenly.

  “What is it, Doctor?” asked Will, watching Thomas’s eyes casting around him.

  “Footprints,” he replied. His gaze settled on a single indentation left at the edge of the mound.

  “What have we here?” he asked suddenly. Thomas moved closer on all fours. “Did either of you make this?”

  Father and son both shook their heads in unison, so Thomas took the tape from his pocket to measure it. Would it match the print in the study? To his surprise he found it was much longer than the other, bloody print. It was a different shape, too. Made by a stur
dy boot, he’d wager. The grave robber and Sir Montagu’s murderer might not, after all, be one and the same person. Rocking back on his haunches, Thomas looked toward the grave.

  “You can secure the lid,” he told Lovelock, clapping his hands to rid them of extraneous soil.

  “Aye, sir,” replied the groom.

  Man and boy set to work while Thomas investigated a little farther afield. It occurred to him that whoever had prized open the coffin would have used heavy tools that might well have impeded a getaway. He decided to venture into the nearby woods, hunting for a discarded pickax or shovel, perhaps. Keeping his eyes on the beech mast of the woodland floor, he had gone only a few yards when his acuity was rewarded. He had homed in on what he thought, at first, was a piece of broken-off bark. But no. He bent down to pick up something brown the size of a man’s hand. It was a fragment of leather, the tongue of a boot perhaps. His mind flashed to the poachers who plied their trade at night in Raven’s Wood. Mayhap they hunted here, too, on occasion. He picked up the fragment, turned it in his palm, then sniffed it. It was leather all right and as stiff as if it had been starched. It had been left out in the rain, but there had been no rain for several days, not since the terrible storm. The leather tongue might have nothing to do with Sir Montagu’s murderer. It could have lain there for many days, if not weeks. He thought better than to discard it. He could not rule out the possibility that whoever robbed the grave had some connection to the dead lawyer. Perhaps it was something. Perhaps not. He slipped it into his pocket. Nothing could be discounted, nothing ruled out, but at the moment, in his hunt for the killer, Thomas was forced to admit to himself that he was grasping at straws in the wind. And now a most burning question had surfaced: Who knew that Michael Farrell was buried wearing the precious stone?