by Tessa Harris
An anxious-looking Major Scott stood on the threshold. “I apologize for the interruption, ma’am”—he bowed, then turned to Bibby Motte and gave another bow—“but I have news from the customhouse which I thought you would be anxious to hear.”
The two women swapped glances. “From ze expression on your face, it is not good, Major,” said his mistress, shooting the officer a wary look as he approached.
“I regret to say the customs men have detained not only the ivory bedsteads and the chairs but the horses, too, ma’am.”
Marian Hastings looked scandalized. Her large mouth dropped open in shock. “But zat is preposterous. First my silk gowns, zen my bed? Now ze horses. Am I to sleep naked on ze floor?”
An image of the lady in such a predicament clearly flashed through the major’s mind as he reddened at the thought, but he soon composed himself. He went on to say: “They assure me that you are not being singled out and that everyone arriving from India is subject to the same rules.”
“Do you think I care about everyone else, Major?” she snapped, walking to the window. “I should not be subject to ze same rules as everyone else because I am not everyone.” She turned back to face him. “I am the vife of ze governor-general of India. Would Queen Charlotte’s belongings be impounded? Tell me zat?”
The major’s mouth opened, then shut again before he could think of a reply. His mistress answered her own question. “I think not.
“No, you must continue to press for ze release of my belongings, including my silk robes. How can I be expected to attend all zese social engagements, let alone be presented to ze king and queen, vith only four gowns to my name?” She pointed to the mantelshelf that groaned under the weight of several gilt-edged invitation cards. “And vat am I to give Zeir Majesties?” she continued. “You know as vell as I zat zose Arab horses vere intended for zem.”
“I shall tell them of your displeasure, madam.” The officer’s brow was crumpled in a frown.
“Yes, Major, please do,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her fan.
Bibby Motte watched him leave in silence, then asked her friend: “What will you do?”
“Vat can I do but vait, dear Bibby?” came the reply. Marian Hastings’s eyes slid along the mantelpiece at the numerous invitations to balls, a concert, and a soiree. But there was one card, smaller than the others, that took her fancy. Major Scott had left it up there unthinkingly when the two medical men visited her the other day. She picked it up, studied it, and smiled. “And vile ve are vaiting, ve can organize an intimate dinner party,” she said.
“A dinner party?” repeated Bibby Motte.
Marian Hastings nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, just five or six vell-chosen guests,” she replied; then, taking her friend by the hand, she assured her: “It vill take your mind off your travails, my dear. And I know just the person to invite.”
Chapter 31
It was later in the day, and Thomas had been toiling over the Indian’s corpse in the mortuary for at least four hours. His grim work complete, and the Indian stitched up as neatly as possible, the doctor began clearing away his tools. As he stretched over the body to reach one of his knives, his arm caught a scalpel. It clattered to the stone floor below, and he bent down to pick it up. As he did so, he noticed what looked like a leather thong under the dissecting table. Curious, he picked it up. He frowned. It was a shoe, a strange shoe that must have belonged to the dead man. The leather on its upper had been pricked and worked into a simple pattern, while the sole was flat and without a heel or a back. It was like a lady’s slipper. Its sole, he realized after a moment, was surely like that of the mysterious shoe that had left a bloody imprint in the study at Boughton Hall.
Sir Stephen Gandy’s arrival interrupted his train of thought. He knew the coroner was expecting his preliminary findings in a written summary. He also believed that Sir Stephen would be eager to know what conclusions could be drawn from the examination. He was, only not in the way that the anatomist had envisaged.
Once again the coroner loitered near the doorway.
“You have finished the autopsy?” he asked, seeing Thomas dip his hands in a ewer.
“I have, sir,” he replied, shaking the water away and reaching for a cloth.
“Good,” snapped Sir Stephen.
Thomas walked toward him, picking up his notes as he did so. He drew level with him and handed them to him for perusal. But the coroner shook his head and pushed them away.
“There is no need for those, Silkstone,” he blustered. “Just as long as we can say that Flynn is the murderer.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” blurted Thomas, taken unawares. His aching back stiffened. “I don’t understand.”
The coroner jutted out his chin, making it clear to Thomas that he felt he had overstepped the mark. “Surely ’tis obvious? The Indian stole the diamond. Flynn caught him, but the thief refused to divulge where he had hidden it, so was subjected to this.” He waved his hand disdainfully at the corpse.
Thomas suppressed his rising frustration. “It is plausible, sir, but we cannot lay the blame on Captain Flynn without evidence.”
Sir Stephen sniffed at his nosegay once more. “Of course not, and that is why I called you, Silkstone, to find evidence against this Flynn. I cannot have such a madman running around my streets. There will be mayhem. Riots. The lascars are already gathering in numbers to protest at the brutal slaying of one of their kind. We need to pin the blame on Flynn and quickly.” The coroner paused and allowed his eyes to slide toward the dead man for a moment. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?” he muttered. He turned his head away again quickly, unable to stomach the sight of the corpse.
Thomas wished he could take a deep breath to ease the tension in his chest, but his own wound had begun to throb once more. Instead he shook his head. “Never, sir,” he replied. And as the coroner beat a hasty retreat to the door, he muttered under his breath: “But Flynn isn’t your man.”
By the time Thomas arrived back in Hollen Street, Dr. Carruthers had taken to his bed. He found Mistress Finesilver in an even worse mood than usual. She barely greeted the young doctor in the hallway when she took his hat, and even then made a show of how bad it smelled. Only when she was recovered from the stench did she ask grudgingly if he wanted anything to eat. He did and said as much, although he was not sure his request for bread and milk registered with her. When, however, he asked her what troubled her, she was more than willing to vent her spleen.
“’Tis that servant, Sajy or Sajiv, I neither know nor care which,” she blurted, hanging Thomas’s hat on the hall peg.
“What has happened?” asked Thomas.
The housekeeper huffed. “He insisted on washing the professor’s clothes in the copper. I told him the washerwoman calls next week. Lord knows I don’t have time to iron and starch them myself. But no. He seemed to think they needed boiling.”
“Boiling?” Thomas picked up on the word.
“Yes,” said the housekeeper. She produced a duster from her apron pocket and ran it over a picture frame as she talked. “Mark you, the shirt did look real filthy,” she added.
“Did it?” asked Thomas. “And where had he been to make it so dirty, I wonder?” He did not receive an answer. The housekeeper was flouncing off downstairs in the direction of the scullery. So, abandoning all hope of any food, Thomas lit a candle and hauled himself up the stairs, his mind simmering away like a stew pot.
Chapter 32
The funeral of Sir Montagu Henry Ambrose Malthus, King’s Counsel and Solicitor at Law, was to be held in the chapel at Draycott House, near Banbury. Lydia sat stony-faced in the carriage that was taking her and young Richard to the service. Nurse Pring and Eliza were in attendance and sat opposite as all four of them were jounced and buffeted through the Oxfordshire countryside and over the border into Northamptonshire.
Lydia had hoped Thomas would travel with her. Before he returned to London, he had assured her he would attend the
funeral; then his letter arrived just as they were about to leave Boughton. In it he had spoken of a murder. The Westminster coroner needed him urgently. He begged her forgiveness for his unexpected absence, yet still she clung to the vague vision of him awaiting her arrival at Draycott, even though with each passing mile that vision faded slightly.
“Sir Theodisius and Lady Pettigrew will be there, m’lady,” ventured Eliza cheerfully, trying to reassure her mistress.
“Yes, of course,” replied Lydia with a tight smile. She would be strong. There were those who would be surprised to see her at all after what had passed between herself and Sir Montagu. All eyes would be upon her, but she would not break down. She would not show the emotion she felt. It was not grief alone but anger, too, that welled up inside her and needed to be suppressed. She now knew her incarceration in Bedlam had been on Sir Montagu’s orders, and she could never forgive him for what he had put her through there.
As her carriage drove up the lane that led to the chapel, she could hear the slow toll of the bell. Its mournful sound made her recall how she had found Sir Montagu caked in blood in the study. She shivered at the recollection. Seeing her mistress shudder, Eliza handed over her silk embroidered shawl.
“Here, m’lady. You are cold.”
Lydia looked at the wrap. It was one that Michael had brought back from India and given to her as a wedding gift. He would be smiling now from his place in heaven or hell, or wherever the Lord had seen fit to place him, she thought. He had loathed Sir Montagu almost as much as he loathed her late brother. Few had mourned Edward, and few would mourn Sir Montagu.
“Thank you, Eliza,” she replied. “But I do not need it.” She was not cold. She was full of fear. It was dread that made her shudder. The fact that whoever killed Sir Montagu and stole her husband’s diamond was still on the loose filled her with trepidation. For all she knew, the malefactor might even attend the funeral. Her stomach lurched at the thought. Instead of wearing it herself, however, she took the shawl from the maid and covered her sleeping son.
As the carriage breasted the final hill before the ascent to the mansion, Richard awoke. Still nestled on Lydia’s shoulder, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then propped himself upright to peer out of the window.
“We are here, Mamma?” he asked her, looking up.
Lydia gave him a warm smile. “Yes, my darling,” she told him gently. Today would be hard for him. He understood that Sir Montagu was dead. Even though he was still only seven years of age, Richard was no stranger to death. He had seen it too often in his short life. In his nightmares, he so often relived the times when he was a pipe boy. Lydia knew that more than once he’d witnessed a fellow sweep being dragged dead from a flue, choked by soot in his lungs. His past still haunted him, as it did her. She held him close to her and kissed the top of his curly head. She had to be strong for him.
Hers was not the first carriage to arrive outside the chapel. There were at least half a dozen more lined up on the drive outside. Several men in black suits congregated like so many crows along the path. As Lovelock helped her from the carriage, Lydia saw their heads turn and felt their eyes boring into her. She dared not return their looks, keeping her own gaze to the ground, although she did recognize the occasional familiar face. There was Sir John Thorndike, for one. He was confined to a bath chair that was being pushed by a liveried servant. He wore the deathly pallor of one not long for this world and appeared painfully aware that his own funeral, in all probability, would be next. Then there was the Earl of Rainton, sly as a fox, and even in the subdued mood of the moment, she heard Lord Fitzwarren’s irritatingly loud laughter, more apt at a bordello than a burial, ring out. There was Gilbert Fothergill, too, the fussy, jumpy little clerk, too officious for his own good. He bowed low when he caught sight of Lydia, and she nodded back but quickly switched her gaze to the ground once more. She did not dare search for Thomas amid the dozens of mourners. Of him there was no sign. She had hoped that he might have won against the odds and ridden hard overnight to be there with her. But he had not. Even though she was sure his absence was no fault of his own, she could not help but feel the slightest bit let down, the slightest bit tested by him. Like a small stone in one’s shoe, his absence irked her. It was therefore with great relief that she heard a familiar voice.
“My dear.” She looked up to see Sir Theodisius, a warm smile splitting his flaccid face. He folded his hand over hers. “How are you faring?”
Lady Pettigrew came to his side, her black-veiled head inclined. “Lydia.” She held out her arms and kissed the woman she had come to regard as her own daughter on either cheek; then, bending down, she acknowledged Richard. “Dear boy,” she said.
“Let us go in together,” suggested Sir Theodisius, crooking his arm and offering it to Lydia. She smiled and took it. Lady Pettigrew gave her hand to Richard, and the four of them walked somberly into the chapel.
They sat in one of the box pews with a good view of the altar, but shielded from most of the other mourners. Lydia was relieved. The only other person privy to her secret, apart from Thomas and Dr. Carruthers, was with her, inside this wooden palisade. No one else knew that Sir Montagu was her real father. None of these black-clad vultures now gathered to pick over the remains of his life had an inkling. Or had they?
As the pipe organ struck up, the congregation rose in solemn unison. All eyes were upon the funeral procession as it progressed up the aisle. Six pallbearers, their faces hard as granite, shouldered the draped coffin to the altar. Memories of her brother Edward’s burial came flooding back, and she was forced to dig her nails into her palm to keep herself in the moment. It was then that the thought suddenly occurred to her: What if Sir Montagu had confided in someone? What if he had revealed that he was her real father and that person had sought to use the secret against him in some way? Blackmail, perhaps? Could the same person who robbed Michael’s grave have returned to kill Sir Montagu? And if so, why? While Jo Makepeace had been unable to furnish much useful information about his paymaster, her personal plea to Sir Arthur meant that at least he had been spared the gibbet, if not a jail sentence. At least his death was not on her conscience. But it was small consolation when her father’s killer was still at large. She surveyed the flock of black crows that stood with their heads bowed, looking to pick over the carrion. They were scavengers, all right, but were they murderers? Right now there was no way of knowing.
“Your ladyship!” The shrill calling of Gilbert Fothergill followed Lydia as she left the chapel. “Your ladyship!”
The service over and the interment in the family vault complete, Lydia found herself more than a little relieved to be out in the fresh air once more. Sir Theodisius had remained at her side throughout. The two of them swapped bemused looks at the sound of the clerk’s voice and stopped.
“Mr. Fothergill,” said Lydia as the little man presented himself in front of her. He was slightly out of breath.
The clerk removed his large brimmed hat and gave a studied bow. “My condolences, your ladyship,” he told her, fingering the brim of his hat. “A most distressing affair.”
Lydia did not need to be reminded of the circumstances surrounding Sir Montagu’s death. Her look betrayed her own distress, and Sir Theodisius stepped in.
“You have something to say, Fothergill?”
The clerk, seemingly embarrassed by his own awkwardness, apologized. “I wished to tell her ladyship, sir, that the reading of Sir Montagu’s will is on Friday in London. I would advise her that she will be requested to attend.” He delivered his speech without once looking at Lydia.
Sir Theodisius drew himself up to his full height and plumped out his chest before deferring to Lydia. “Her ladyship has heard the request and is obliged to you,” relayed the coroner. Lydia nodded her assent. “And she will indeed make sure she is present.”
Seemingly satisfied, the clerk bowed low once more and took his leave.
“So, you are remembered in Sir Montagu’s will, my
dear,” said Sir Theodisius in a low voice, making sure he was not overheard.
Lydia was not so sure. She suspected she was being asked to attend the reading in her capacity as the young earl’s mother. “I believe Richard will inherit the Draycott Estate,” she said, in an equally low voice. It was a proposition to which she had given some thought, and her conclusion, she felt, was quite probable. Sir Montagu had been widowed many years, and he had no other natural heirs, to her knowledge.
Sir Theodisius’s forehead creased in a frown, and he shifted on his large frame, yet he did not look at her. His eyes danced about the chapel grounds at all those still milling around, huddled in small groups, whispering and, perhaps, even plotting. Lawyers always plotted and schemed. It was their natural state, just as ravens roosted at dusk. “If that is the case, my dear,” he began, finally switching his gaze to hers, “then you may both be in very grave danger.”
Lydia frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Whoever killed your father was looking for something. The murderer may return, and if you and Richard are the heirs . . .”
She digested the thought and felt it settle uncomfortably inside her. “I fear you may be right,” she said. Her breath juddered as she inhaled deeply. Like the bell that tolled for Sir Montagu, the coroner’s words clanged through her mind for a moment. She was in danger, he had counseled, grave danger. “There is something else you must know,” she told him, recalling Thomas’s letter.
“Oh?” Sir Theodisius was looking about him as if he had landed in a den of thieves.
“Captain Flynn is missing.”
“What?”
“According to Thomas, he and his man left their lodgings three days ago and have not been seen since. Then Thomas was called to attend a postmortem by Sir Stephen Gandy.”