by Tessa Harris
Thomas gave a resigned shrug. “They remain in jail, I fear.” Lovelock’s shoulders slumped at the news.
It did not come as a surprise to Thomas to learn that the former steward had been telling the truth. What was more, the barbarity of Sir Montagu’s murder was surely beyond even Talland’s capacity and Lupton had vouched for his innocence. Yet the intelligence gave the doctor no further assistance in tracking down Sir Montagu’s murderer. Until he did so, the commoners, of whose innocence he was convinced, still faced the prospect of rotting in Oxford Jail, or worse.
The messenger’s horse began stomping on the cobbles and snorting through its nostrils. “A reply, sir?” asked the young man.
Thomas looked across at him, his own horse champing at the bit.
“There will be a reply,” he told him. “But in person. I shall go directly to Oxford to see the coroner myself.”
Chapter 16
Great Tom, the Christ Church bell, was tolling ten as Thomas rode into Oxford. Originally he had planned to call on Sir Theodisius, but as the sturdy keep of the castle loomed over him, he thought of the Brandwick men entombed in its prison dungeons below. He needed to offer them a crumb of comfort and, quite possibly, dress any wounds they might have sustained during or since their arrest. Po-faced Joseph Makepeace and Abe Diggott were not young men and were the most vulnerable. And even though Adam Diggott and Will Ketch were strong enough, youth was no guarantee of survival in a place where death stalked every nook and cranny.
On presentation of a letter of authority from Sir Theodisius—the coroner had helpfully enclosed it with his original message—the guard allowed Thomas to ride through the gates and into the great festering wound that was the prison. The stink was all too familiar: the dirt, the tang of urine that stung the eyes, the coppery smell of blood.
The doctor had followed a cart inside, and he watched as it disgorged its delivery of new prisoners, two men and two women. From a row of grilles at ground level, hands were suddenly thrust out, some holding bowls, begging for food or money or both. At the pathetic sight one of the women took fright. As she was shoved toward the entrance, she let out a shout. “I didn’t do it, I tell ye!” But her protestation was quickly silenced by a turnkey who coshed her about the head. She dropped to the flagstones and had to be dragged inside.
In the courtyard several debtors, allowed to roam during the day, took advantage of the sun. They leaned against the walls or squatted on the cobbles that they shared with the rats. A ragged boy scampered along the line of men, seemingly running errands for them. There were three or four women, too, carrying panniers of bread or laundry on their hips.
Thomas dismounted and handed his horse to a hostler. As he did so, some activity in the far corner of the courtyard vied for his attention. A huddle of men was being shepherded out from the lodge into the sunlight by two jailers. They reminded him of dazed fledglings that had fallen from their nest. It seemed they had just been discharged. One man in particular caught Thomas’s eye. He was especially tall and rubbed his eyes as he blinked away the darkness of the jail. He recognized him almost immediately as Adam Diggott.
Thomas covered the few yards between them quickly and drew closer to see the familiar faces of the villagers who had been so maligned. They had only been detained for three days and yet they already appeared to be changed men; their faces were drawn and their skin was like ash. He had expected them to be chained, but looking at their wrists and ankles, he saw no restraints.
“Are these men free?” he asked one of the jailers.
Before the man could scowl back his reply, however, Adam Diggott piped up: “Dr. Silkstone!” In his excitement he rushed up and grabbed hold of the doctor’s jacket. “We knew it had to be you!”
Thomas backed away a little, gagging on the coppicer’s stink. Bewildered, he shook his head. “They are setting you free?”
“Aye, Doctor. Free to get out of this hellhole,” replied Diggott, baring his few remaining teeth at his erstwhile jailers. One of them raised his cosh, but the other stayed his hand, knowing that very soon they would no longer have any authority over the men. Sneering at their impotence, Diggott turned to Thomas once more. “And ’tis surely thanks to you.” He held out a grateful hand.
Thomas shook it, but remained perplexed. “Me? But I do not understand. I fear I’ve had nothing to do with your release.”
Diggott let his hand drop and cast around at the other men who were gathered about him, searching their eager faces for answers. When none were forthcoming he turned back to Thomas. “But we was told that Captain Farrell’s grave had been robbed on the night of Sir Montagu’s murder.” His tone was most insistent.
Again Thomas shook his head. “There is no proof of that,” he protested, thinking of the sprouting grass on the soil heap. Even if the murder and the robbery had a direct connection, he was still at a loss to understand its bearing on the men’s freedom.
Adam Diggott moved closer, his eyes growing wilder by the second.
“But that’s when old Joseph came clean!”
“Joseph Makepeace?” Thomas thought of the grave digger, whose shovel they had found to incriminate him in the robbery. He had not noticed his absence before. He was not among the motley gaggle of commoners. “What has become of him?”
Diggott coughed out a sarcastic laugh. “He only owned up to robbing the captain’s grave.”
“Did he indeed?” Thomas feigned surprise, even though he was still at a loss as to why the bury man would do such a thing. Diggott soon provided his motive.
“Put up to it by an old friend of Farrell’s, he was. Claimed the diamond was rightfully his.”
Thomas saw that his theory might be confirmed. “Who?” he pressed. “Who claimed the diamond?”
“Said he had an agreement with the cap’n.” Diggott turned back toward the others, seeking support. Several ayes rose into the tainted air.
Thomas rolled his eyes in despair. “No, no,” he muttered to himself and took a few paces away from the man, as if the distance might help him think. He snatched off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. He was angry that his words had been misinterpreted. Somehow his message to Sir Theodisius about the robbing of the grave had leaked out. Someone had put two and two together and made five, deducing that whoever stole the diamond murdered Sir Montagu. Yet Thomas could show that these acts were executed at different times and might not be connected at all.
Plumping his tricorn back down on his head, he marched back to the huddle of men. “I can prove that the diamond was stolen days before the murder,” he told Diggott.
The coppicer shrugged. “That don’t matter to us no more, Doctor,” he said with a half smile.
Thomas frowned. “Why not?”
“Because old Jo says a gent paid ’im to steal the stone!”
Thomas’s eyes widened. A man could swing for robbing a grave, and Old Jo certainly risked the noose, unless, perhaps, he could name the commissioner of this foul crime.
“And where is Makepeace now? I must speak with him.” There was an urgency in the doctor’s voice that wiped Diggott’s smile from his face.
The coppicer shoved his thumb behind him toward the grilles of the stinking dungeon he had just escaped. “He’s still to go to court, Doctor. We’ve left him in there.”
“Then I must go,” said Thomas, fixing his gaze on the door of the keeper’s office next to the lodge. He switched back to Diggott. “I am glad you are free,” he said; then, lifting his face to the other men, he added: “I never doubted your innocence.” They acknowledged his words with low mumbles. But as they started their walk to freedom, Thomas headed deeper inside the jail.
The keeper’s rooms were on the second floor of the wing that offered the governor a commanding view of the courtyard. From his vantage point the man responsible for the prison could oversee the enduring misery that was suffered by his inmates firsthand. The keeper’s ill-advised name was Solomon Wisdom, and from their previous enc
ounters, Thomas knew him to be a hard overseer with scant regard for those in his charge, be they convicted felons, debtors, or, for a short while before their dispatch, murderers.
As he made his way toward the office, Thomas mulled over the shocking news he had just learned. Joseph Makepeace. Yes, it made sense—the way the grave had been so skillfully entered, the special trowel, the boot leather in the woods. He already had enough evidence to convict him even without his confession. Money was his motive. But he needed to speak with him face-to-face, to find out who paid him to steal the diamond from the grave—and quickly.
Thomas stopped at a desk at the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes?” said the guard, eyeing him suspiciously. His nose, the doctor could tell, had been broken and set, badly, at least once.
Thomas took a deep breath. “I wish to see Mr. Wisdom, if you please. My name is Dr. Silkstone, and I am come on an urgent matter.”
The guard let out a mock laugh. “It’s always urgent,” he mumbled; then, fixing Thomas with his bloodshot eyes, he smirked. “There’s a gentleman with the gaffer at the moment, you’ll have to wait your turn.” He pointed to a solitary chair near the stairwell.
Thomas removed his tricorn and made his way to the seat. Above him, on the next floor, he could hear voices. A handle turned, and he looked up to see the office door open. A gentleman sporting a high peruke stood in its frame.
“Warbeck,” muttered Thomas to himself.
At that moment, the magistrate peered down from the landing and caught sight of him.
“Silkstone! Is that you?” he called.
Thomas swallowed hard. He had not anticipated seeing the Brandwick magistrate, but was eager enough to take advantage of the chance encounter. He strode toward the bottom of the stairs.
“Aye, Sir Arthur,” he replied.
By this time, Wisdom had joined the magistrate at the threshold. He was broad in stature, and his face was streaked with a meanness that so often engrained itself on the expression of such officials. The two men swapped looks from their vantage point.
“How fortuitous,” said Sir Arthur before turning to the keeper. “I am sure we would both like to speak with the good doctor.”
Thomas noted the touch of relish in the magistrate’s tone and suspected that this meeting might not be weighted in his favor.
“Come up, Doctor,” barked Wisdom.
“But slowly, now,” added the magistrate, his lips curling in a knowing smile. “You must take care after your ordeal.”
Thomas duly obeyed and managed to negotiate the stairs, even though the effort robbed him of his breath. Once on the landing he was shown into an airy office with a large window at one end. Unlike every other window in the castle, it was not barred. The room was simply furnished, but his eyes latched onto a glass cabinet that was given pride of place behind the large desk. Inside was displayed a single leather whip, hanging as if it were a prize exhibit in a museum. Thomas had heard it was the keeper’s personal lash, reserved for those prisoners unfortunate enough to be singled out for his “special” treatment.
“Take a seat,” said Wisdom. It was an order rather than an invitation.
Thomas did as he was bid, while Sir Arthur sat at his side and the head keeper resumed his seat.
“So, Dr. Silkstone.” Wisdom planted his elbows on his desk in a no-nonsense fashion. “What brings a colonist here?” He placed a deliberate emphasis on the word “colonist.”
Thomas hoped his nervousness did not show. The two men were clearly setting out to intimidate him, but he would not let them know that they were succeeding. He lifted his chin.
“I understand there has been a development in the case of Sir Montagu Malthus,” he began.
The keeper’s shoulders heaved in a laugh. “My, my. News travels fast,” he sniggered, directing his comment at Sir Arthur.
The magistrate nodded in agreement. “I got word of the unsavory robbery at Boughton and I naturally told Mr. Wisdom straightaway.”
The keeper butted in. “And I had a word with the men in my custody.”
A word, thought Thomas to himself. No doubt it was the usual euphemism for torture. Even though it had been officially abolished under English law more than a century ago, he was under no illusion that such inhumane methods had actually ceased in institutions such as this. “And the bury man Makepeace confessed to robbing the grave?”
Sir Arthur nodded. “Indeed he did.” He shot a look at the keeper. “Most accommodating he was.” The magistrate tugged at his lace cuff. “He told us he was paid two crowns for his travails.”
Thomas could not dispute his words. There was no denying that Makepeace had, in all likelihood, taken the diamond from Farrell’s grave. But on whose orders?
Sir Arthur, in full flow, continued. “It follows that whoever commissioned such an act had Sir Montagu murdered, too.”
Thomas could feel his anger roiling inside him. He shook his head. “There is no evidence to link the two crimes, sir.”
“Evidence!” snorted Wisdom.
“Ah!” Sir Arthur held up his hand, as if to stop the keeper from any further outburst, and gave a tight smile. “Your famous science, Silkstone, eh?”
“My science is based on facts, sir, and facts trump allegations, if I am not mistaken.”
Unable to contain his temper, Wisdom now butted in. “So Sir Montagu is murdered at Boughton, and three days later Captain Farrell’s grave is found robbed, and you think it a coincidence?” He slapped his palm on the desk as if to swat the notion like a troublesome fly.
When it was put so plainly, Thomas admitted to himself that his theory did sound a little far-fetched, but he knew that all the evidence he had collected pointed to two separate incidents. He refused to be moved. Switching his regard from one man to the other, he reiterated: “All I can do is convey to you what I have found.”
The keeper narrowed his eyes in anger. “So whoever ordered the grave to be robbed is a thief but not a murderer?” He slapped the desk again in exasperation.
Thomas decided it was time to reveal his hand. “The grass on the disturbed earth on Farrell’s grave was already growing back when I saw it. It had been disturbed several days before the murder. Surely the grave digger will testify to the date?”
The magistrate and the keeper exchanged wary glances once more.
Sir Arthur raised his brows. “It seems you may have a point. But that still does not clear the diamond thief of Sir Montagu’s murder.”
Thomas felt he was finally making progress. “No, it does not,” he conceded. “But from what I understand, ’tis likely that the man who paid Makepeace, whoever he is, will have taken the diamond to London to be valued and to find a buyer. Did Makepeace give a name?”
Wisdom’s eyes widened. “Who do you think you are?” he barked.
Thomas refused to be bowed. He continued: “Whoever he is, I would track him down and—”
Sir Arthur’s hand flew up immediately. “You will do no such thing, Dr. Silkstone,” he snapped. “May I remind you, you are an anatomist. It is not your place to hunt down criminals.”
Yet again Thomas had let his desire to pursue the truth lead him over the boundary of his profession. He had strayed into foreign territory and was duly chastised.
“If this thief is in London, then ’tis up to the justices’ men to track him down,” chimed in Wisdom.
Thomas pictured the worthy band of men known as the Bow Street Runners, who could arrest offenders on the authority of the magistrates, traveling nationwide to apprehend criminals. He had no confidence in them at all.
“Mr. Wisdom is right, Dr. Silkstone.” Sir Arthur twirled his cane in his hand. “It is not your business to pry into these affairs, even though you seem to have made it a habit of yours. I suggest you get back to your dissecting room and leave the pursuit of justice to those of us Englishmen who are more qualified to execute it.”
The slight wounded Thomas, even though he was used to such barbed comm
ents about his motherland. Still he endeavored to remain measured. “If that is your wish, gentlemen,” he conceded.
The magistrate shook his head. “It is not a wish. It is an order, Silkstone,” said Sir Arthur, tapping his cane sharply on the floor.
Thomas rose slowly. The throbbing in his wound was growing more fearsome with each passing minute. Remarking his pained expression, the magistrate threw a parting insult.
“You should consult a physician, Silkstone. I am sure he would advise you to rest.”
Thomas did not rise to the bait. Instead he smiled. “As I always say, there is no rest for the wicked, gentlemen,” he shot back, then mumbled under his breath: “So I am sure you have much work to do, too.” He threw them a parting nod. “Good day to you both.” And with that he left the keeper and the magistrate and made his way back down to the prison courtyard. In his quest to track down the diamond thief and solve Sir Montagu’s murder, he knew that, yet again, he was on his own.
Chapter 17
“Oh, my dear boy, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have you back safely!” Dr. William Carruthers struggled to heave his arthritic frame from his chair to welcome Thomas home to Hollen Street.
“I am relieved to be back, sir,” replied the young anatomist, laying his hands gently on his mentor’s shoulders. “Please, do not trouble yourself,” he said cheerfully, trying to hide his own pain. The coach journey from Oxford was challenging at the best of times, but with several stitches in his chest, Thomas had found it even more so. He had been bounced around so much, he thought it a wonder that his wound had not burst open. Thanks to Professor Hascher’s excellent needlework, however, the sutures had held. Nevertheless his discomfort remained.
Settling himself back into his chair once more, Dr. Carruthers shook his head. “Sir Theodisius sent word of your injuries after the duel.” He suddenly let out a chuckle. “And that old bugger Hascher patched you up, I hear. I trust he did a good job!”
Thomas eased himself down in his usual chair facing Carruthers. Each time he returned after a period of absence, the old anatomist appeared to him even frailer. On this occasion, for the first time, he noticed that his cheeks were beginning to hollow.