Secrets in the Stones

by Tessa Harris

  Carruthers tented his arthritic fingers. “So, do you have any idea where he may have taken the captain and his man?”

  “Not Boughton Hall, I’ll wager.” Thomas stomped across the room like a man trudging through deep snow. He looked out of the window.

  “So Flynn is not Malthus’s killer?”

  Thomas whipped ’round. “It seems not. But whoever has lured him away from his lodgings could be.”

  The old anatomist shook his head. “Be careful, dear boy. Remember, you are first and foremost an anatomist,” he warned. “It is not your place to chase after villains. You would do well to let those with authority take over.”

  His mentor’s words of caution brought Thomas up sharp. His expression remained grave. “You know that if I do, Flynn will never be found,” he replied.

  Carruthers’s devilish chuckle lifted the moment. “Of course I know,” he said with a wink of his unseeing eye. “That is why I only warn. I would never prevent.”

  Once upstairs in his own room, Thomas palmed his chest. It still throbbed and his breath was tight. Easing off his coat, he flung it onto the bed and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Still uneasy, he sat down at his desk and, taking paper from his drawer, started to compose a letter. As he did so, something Dr. Carruthers once said to him reverberated inside his head. “You are an anatomist, and the dissecting room and the lecture theater are where you belong, not the courtroom,” he had chided when Thomas had first become embroiled in the search to uncover how Lydia’s brother had died.

  Of course he knew the dear man to be right. The courtroom was a foreign territory to him, and yet, over the past four years, it was where he had fought so many of his battles. His old enemy was most often injustice, and it paraded in the garb of corrupt attorneys like Sir Montagu Malthus. Now that his biggest adversary was dead, however, perhaps it was time for him to change course. He had taken the Hippocratic Oath. He had sworn to do no harm. Perhaps now he should return to concentrating on healing the living rather than bringing the dead back to life by making their bodies talk.

  He dipped the nib of his pen into the inkwell. He would write to his old ally Sir Stephen Gandy, the Westminster coroner, regarding his investigation into Sir Montagu’s murder and the subsequent discovery of the theft of the diamond. He would tell him he had traced Captain Farrell’s erstwhile associate in India, Captain Patrick Flynn, and that he believed him to be in possession of said stone. Sir Stephen could then bring his authority to bear and request that the Westminster magistrate issue a warrant to search Flynn’s lodgings. There they would find the diamond and have grounds to arrest the captain and his servant. Under questioning, they would reveal their connection, if any, to Sir Montagu’s murder. And that would be that. The perpetrator of the crime would hang and justice would be done. Or would it?

  As Thomas wrote the words, they began to seem hollow. He suddenly felt what little confidence he had in the judicial system ebb away as fast as the Thames at low tide. Had he placed his faith in the courts before, at least three innocent men and two women would have finished their days dangling at the end of a rope. He laid down his pen, rubbed his tired eyes, and thought of Lydia. He recalled her warm smile and her tears and how she nestled her head gently on his shoulder. He could not wait until they were man and wife. But there was his mentor’s nagging voice again. Perhaps it was time he distanced himself from murderers and their methods. Perhaps from now on his actions should begin and end at the autopsy. Perhaps he should no longer put himself in danger in the pursuit of justice, risk life and limb in his quest to protect the innocent and condemn the guilty. After his marriage, perhaps he should leave it to others to follow up on his findings and recommendations. From now on, should his first duty not be to Lydia and to young Richard? He blotted the letter and sealed it. He was washing his hands of the investigation.

  Chapter 28

  The fine carriage jounced and clattered its way through Mayfair toward the fresher air of Hyde Park and the temporary residence of Mrs. Marian Hastings in South Street. Inside, seated opposite Sir Percivall Pott, sat Thomas. The latter, now in his finest frock coat and wearing a hint of cologne, did his best to hide his apprehension over his decision to walk away from his inquiries into Sir Montagu’s murder. The ailments, either real or imagined, of a wealthy and by all accounts unscrupulous woman were not uppermost in his mind. It seemed, however, that Sir Percivall mistook his anxiety for apprehension over the upcoming encounter.

  “I am told that Mrs. Hastings enjoyed a good night’s sleep. Hopefully she will be in a relaxed frame of mind when we examine her,” Sir Percivall informed him, clearly trying to put him at ease.

  Thomas nodded. He only wished his own frame of mind could be equally unperturbed. The disappearance of Captain Flynn and his servant had only complicated matters further. The trail that might have led him to Sir Montagu’s murderer had gone cold. It was unfinished business, and it irked him. A visit to this famous Mrs. Hastings was not at all what he would have wished, even though Professor Carruthers had assured him that he would be the envy of every physician in London. Nevertheless he knew he owed it not only to his new patient but to Sir Percivall, too, to give the governor-general’s wife his undivided attention during the course of the consultation.

  “You are concerned about the lady’s health, sir?” asked Thomas as the carriage trundled along Bond Street.

  Sir Percivall nodded gravely. “I have heard there is a new and very virulent strain of phthisis in India. It causes great fatigue and a cough.”

  “And these are the symptoms displayed by Mrs. Hastings?”

  The eminent surgeon sucked in his cheeks and answered Thomas with a question. “You have brought your listening device with you?”

  Thomas patted his case. A few years ago he had discovered that a rolled-up tube when held to a patient’s chest might magnify the sounds made by the heart and the lungs, making it possible to diagnose certain conditions. It had proved invaluable when dealing with the poisonous cloud of gas that had settled on Brandwick and the surrounding area several months back.

  “Good,” said Sir Percivall. “Let us hope we find nothing of a serious nature.”

  The door of the imposing town house in South Street was opened by a servant in eye-catching garb. Instead of a formal frock coat, he was wearing saffron-colored robes and a turban. More servants could be seen in the hallway carrying boxes and heaving trunks upstairs. Great vases of fresh blooms, some of which Thomas recognized from his cataloging of exotic plants, must have come from Kew, and were being transported into various rooms. A few feet away, near the staircase, stood a man who appeared to have a military bearing. Keeping his back ramrod straight, he boomed out directions as if they were commands to the regiment of servants.

  “Take that into the dining room,” he cried, pointing to a crate. “And in God’s name be careful with it!” He was about to deal with another sepoy who was buckling under the weight of a large chest when, amid the mayhem, he spied Thomas and Sir Percivall.

  “Gentlemen!” he called. He made toward them, and bowed low as he reached them. “Major Scott at your service, sirs.” He switched his gaze to the older man. “And you must be Sir Percivall Pott,” he said with a studied smile. Thomas noted his face bore scars sustained, he suspected, from a battle with the bottle rather than on the field.

  A bemused Sir Percivall nodded. “I am, sir, and this is Dr. Thomas Silkstone. We are here at the request of His Excellency to examine Mrs. Hastings.”

  “Then you are most welcome,” replied the major. “Please, come this way.” He gestured toward double doors that lay ahead, and Thomas followed Sir Percivall into what he assumed was the drawing room.

  There were several people in the salon, both men and women, all dressed in garments that were de rigueur. Scents of sandalwood and exotic spices fought with body odor. But Thomas had no difficulty in marking out the famous—or, in some circles, infamous—Marian Hastings. The huddle of people around her high-backed chair sudd
enly parted to reveal an appealing woman in her thirties. She was of slender build and pale-skinned, with auburn hair that she wore piled loosely on top of her head. Ordinarily she would have been regarded as a woman of modest attributes. Her eyes were large yet perhaps a little too far apart, her nose slightly hooked in the Germanic way, and her lips quite thin. Yet she was dressed in such a flamboyant fashion that one could not help but be dazzled by her. At her neck there was an amethyst necklace, in her hair there were feathers, and almost every finger of her hands displayed a ring. Yet these outward shows alone would not have impressed Thomas in the least. It was something in her speech and in her manner that made him think her quite captivating.

  “. . . and this is my colleague Dr. Silkstone,” he suddenly heard Sir Percivall say.

  For a moment Thomas had allowed himself to be pulled into this woman’s sphere, as gravity attracts objects to earth. Suddenly he realized that all eyes in the room were on him. Quickly he drew himself upright, gave Mrs. Hastings a polite smile, then bowed low.

  “Dr. Silkstone,” she addressed him directly, “my husband has told me about you.”

  “He has, madam?” asked Thomas, unable to hide his surprise.

  Mrs. Hastings nodded. “Sir Joseph Banks has praised you for ze vork you have done for him.”

  Thomas felt the color rise in his cheeks. There was something in this woman’s attitude that made him feel like a child once more. “He flatters me, madam,” came his hurried reply.

  Noting that Thomas was quite taken by his newest patient, Sir Percivall stepped in. “We are here at your husband’s request, madam,” he told her.

  Mrs. Hastings rolled her eyes. “My dear husband,” she cooed. It appeared it was the signal for those who remained in the room to smile and nod politely. “He vorries too much. I can assure you zere is nothing wrong with me zat a little London society vill not cure.” This time her words were met with a ripple of laughter, which she acknowledged with a nod of her head to the assembled coterie. “And once zose abominable customs officers allow me my creature comforts, I shall feel most at home here.”

  Sir Percivall had told Thomas on the journey there that officials had confiscated all of Mrs. Hastings’s muslin gowns and silks when her ship had docked at Blackwall.

  “Do you know, Sir Percivall, zey have even seized my red velvet riding habit because it vas vorked vith pearls?” she complained.

  “For shame, dear lady!” Sir Percivall commiserated.

  Buoyed by such a response, she continued to rant. “Zey virtually threatened me vith ze loss of my entire vardrobe but for zose items I had carried to shore.”

  Major Scott, hovering beside her, rallied to her cause. “There never were such a set of vermin as the customhouse officers,” he told the assembly, whose collected heads nodded as one.

  Thomas swapped a bemused look with his senior colleague. His newest patient seemed rather highly strung. Anxiety, he had read, might cause the force of blood, as measured by Mr. Hales some years earlier, to engender palpitations. This in turn might lead to hard-pulse disease. Conventional wisdom would dictate bloodletting to reduce the force. He suspected, however, that Sir Percivall and he were of the same mind: Venesection was not the way forward. Nevertheless, in his experience it was often those with the most severe issues of health who shrugged off their conditions, refusing to acknowledge them until it was too late to treat them. A good dose of cajoling and encouragement was the first treatment required, thought Thomas.

  Sir Percivall knew it, too. “Then, madam, let us make sure that you are at the peak of your health to enjoy all the delights that this fine city can offer,” he told her firmly, but with a smile. It was clear he would not take no for an answer.

  Mrs. Hastings fluttered her fan with a studied coquettishness.

  “Oh, Sir Percivall,” she said with a coy shrug. “How can I refuse you?” Then, turning her fan from an instrument of flirtation into a vehement weapon, she flapped it vigorously at the others in the room as if to ward off a flock of marauding pigeons. “Off you go, now. Go, if you please,” she called out. “Zese good gentlemen must attend to me.”

  The room was quickly vacated, the men skulking out and the ladies tittering, leaving Mrs. Hastings still seated. One other woman remained close by her side. Sir Percivall gave a questioning look.

  “I shall require a chaperone, gentlemen,” she told them. Thomas’s unfortunate encounter with Lady Thorndike suddenly rose to haunt him. He would never allow himself to be exposed to such an attempt at seduction again and was only too happy to examine Mrs. Hastings in the presence of another lady. He had not, however, expected her to be someone who was strangely familiar to him.

  “Gentlemen, zis is Mrs. Motte,” said Mrs. Hastings, reaching out for her friend’s hand.

  Thomas was forced to stifle a sharp intake of breath with a cough as it struck him there was a remarkable similarity between this lady and the woman who had ploughed into him at East India House the day before. The likeness was too much of a coincidence.

  “Of course,” he replied, recovering his composure.

  Mrs. Motte eyed Thomas, but whether she recognized him, the young doctor could not be sure. Her expression was inscrutable. All trace of the anger and frustration that she had expressed during their first encounter had melted away to be replaced by a placid mien. She was a little younger than her friend and, to Thomas’s eye, much more feminine, with dark eyes fringed by long lashes and black hair swept back from an oval face.

  “Zen pray sit,” said Mrs. Hastings, pointing to a nearby chaise longue.

  Thomas parted the tails of his frock coat and sat alongside Sir Percivall, who seemed content to make small talk. They spoke of London’s unusually warm weather and of the voyage from Madras. Politics reared its controversial head, and Mr. Fox and his “ghastly” Whigs were soundly castigated by Mrs. Hastings. Thomas nodded in agreement now and again or smiled politely as he followed the conversation. It seemed to him that Mrs. Motte, seated by her friend’s side, was often employed as a sounding board, called upon to endorse various statements: “Didn’t ve, Mrs. Motte? Do you not agree, Mrs. Motte? Have ve not, Mrs. Motte?” She sat quite passively, but with an expression that denoted she was perfectly at ease with the situation. Thomas suspected that she was absorbing all that was said and storing it in a mental notebook to be retrieved as and when necessary.

  At a point where there was a natural pause in the conversation, Sir Percivall clearly thought it was time to act. He began by taking Mrs. Hastings’s pulse. Thomas was heartened when the surgeon declared it “satisfactory.” Next, with a nod of approval from Sir Percivall, Thomas reached for his listening tube from his case. He rose and approached Mrs. Hastings.

  “I shall rest this on your chest, madam, and listen to your breath and your heartbeat,” he explained.

  His patient appeared slightly alarmed and looked to Mrs. Motte for reassurance, then switched back to Thomas.

  “I am to breaze normally, Doctor?” she asked.

  “If you please,” he told her. “And I will need silence.”

  She let out a nervous giggle and once more glanced at Mrs. Motte, who gave a measured smile.

  Thomas moved toward her bodice and pressed the cold tube on her décolleté. She shivered a little as she felt the instrument on her naked skin.

  “Have no fear, Mrs. Hastings,” he assured her. “’Twill not hurt.”

  Leaning forward, Thomas put his ear to the tube. For a moment there was silence as he listened intently to the throb and thrust of the woman’s heart as it pumped blood ’round her body. Her breathing seemed steady enough. He could hear no sign of congestion in the lungs. He righted himself, then passed his tube to Sir Percivall, who likewise listened intently for a few seconds.

  “Vat can you hear? Oh, do tell!” said Mrs. Hastings, as if she could bear the suspense no longer. Thomas detected that underneath her bravado there was an underlying anxiety.

  “I hear the machinations of a mo
st wondrous organ, dear lady,” Sir Percivall replied with a wicked smile, adding, “But first I must consult with my colleague.”

  The senior surgeon guided Thomas over to the fireplace, away from their patient. He spoke in a low voice.

  “In my opinion there is nothing wrong with that lady that a stricter and less doting husband wouldn’t cure,” he whispered.

  Thomas stifled a laugh. “I agree, sir,” he concurred, even if he would not have worded his conclusions so honestly. “Her pulse and heartbeat are normal. Her eyes, her skin, and her tongue give no cause for alarm. She appears in generally rude health.”

  The two medical men returned to their waiting patient and her companion.

  “We are pleased to relate that we find nothing amiss, dear lady,” pronounced Sir Percivall.

  Marian Hastings’s fan instantly began to flutter. “I am most relieved, Sir Percivall.” Her voice was tinged with laughter. “I trust you vill inform my husband of your findings.” She swapped looks with Mrs. Motte. “I am sure he vould not believe me if I told him zere was absolutely nothing to vorry about.”

  “We will indeed tell him, madam,” replied Thomas.

  Mrs. Hastings eyed him for a moment. “Sir Percivall is dining vith us, Dr. Silkstone. I trust you vill stay, too.”

  Although flattered by the invitation, Thomas felt disinclined to accept. He could sense that he was expected to bring wit and joie de vivre to the company, and he felt himself lacking on both counts in his present mood.

  “I fear I am already committed,” he told her.

  Mrs. Hastings fluttered her fan again. “Such a pity. Another time, zen.”

  Thomas gave a shallow bow. “I would like that very much, but for now I must be away.” He took her hand and kissed it; then, bowing to Mrs. Motte and Sir Percivall, too, he took his leave. He really did have to make haste. In the mayhem he had all but forgotten that Sir Montagu’s funeral was to be held the following day. He would need to hazard his chances on catching the mail coach that left for Banbury that evening. It was his duty to be at Lydia’s side to give her the support she deserved on such a challenging occasion.