by Tessa Harris
No, he had lied to Silkstone, but the situation had subsequently changed. Keeping his ear to the ground, he had heard that the anatomist was not the only one who wanted to talk with Captain Flynn. There was someone else. And what was more, that someone had put a price on the captain’s head and a good one at that, although he knew he could raise the stakes. So that was what brought him here, to this shabby haunt of brokers and wheeler-dealers, at the behest of someone who wanted to find Flynn just as much as Dr. Thomas Silkstone but who was willing to pay for the service.
And there he was coming into view, scanning the tables, seeking Lupton out: a stocky man with a military bearing, his back as straight as if he were at court. An officer undoubtedly. He had told Lupton in his note that he would be carrying a copy of the London Gazette, but there was no need. He stuck out among the merchants like a vicar in a brothel. Well-groomed but with a drink-bloated face, he had an air of a man who would brook no nonsense. Lupton had heard of his needs through an old friend of his father’s. It was all about who you knew, not what you knew, in this game. Any good businessman would tell you that. This gentleman chose to remain anonymous. Such a position always rendered a man vulnerable, in his experience.
“Nicholas Lupton at your service, sir.” He rose to greet his new associate as he looked around him warily. They exchanged handshakes before sitting opposite each other.
“You would have coffee, sir?”
In reply, the gentleman pursed his lips as if the very thought of the taste repulsed him. “I’d rather drink water from the Thames,” he snapped back, settling himself on his chair. “Let us get down to business, shall we?”
“By all means,” retorted Lupton.
“You come on good account,” began the gentleman. He eyed Lupton as if trying to convince himself that he could place his trust in the slightly rakish man across from him whose head was slung low into his shoulders.
Lupton did not reply. He did not feel he should be forced to justify himself. He simply twitched his lips into a smile. That the gentleman was reticent, nervous even, was obvious from the sheen of sweat around his upper lip and on his forehead. He continued, “My m—” but then stopped himself. It seemed he had no wish to incriminate his employer by disclosing his or her sex. He bit his lip and started once more. “I am bidden to find Captain Flynn. He owes a great deal of money to an associate of mine who now finds himself in jail because of his debts.”
Lupton nodded. “And you believe Flynn has the diamond?”
The gentleman looked uncomfortable. He fingered his stock to try and loosen it. “You know about that?”
Lupton let out a little laugh. “It is the fodder of the newssheets. All of London knows that a diamond was stolen from a grave at Boughton Hall.”
The gentleman took out his kerchief and dabbed his forehead. He might as well have been waving a white flag in surrender. Lupton knew he had wrong-footed him. “There are grounds to believe that it is in his possession, yes,” he conceded.
“So you would have him sell it to pay off this unfortunate gentleman’s debts?”
“In summary, yes.”
“By all accounts it is a very large diamond. I read it is the size of a plover’s egg. Surely such a stone will fetch many thousands of pounds?”
“Perhaps.”
“And you are offering two guineas to find this scoundrel Flynn, asking me to risk my own life in the bargain, and bring him to you?”
The gentleman suddenly realized he was being played for a fool. He leaned forward in his seat.
“Now look here!” he snarled indignantly.
Lupton cast his gaze at the men around him as if he thought he might draw courage from their steely business acumen. “I will accept two,” he said, taking another sip of his coffee.
The gentleman’s back stiffened as if he had snatched a victory from the jaws of defeat. He nodded and his lips curled. “Good,” he retorted. But his conquest was short-lived.
“Yes. Two and twenty percent of the value of the diamond,” added Lupton.
The other man’s face flushed crimson. “What!” he growled.
“You forget, sir. I have friends in high places. ’Twould not be hard to find out on whose behalf you are acting. And I suspect your employer would not appreciate your actions being broadcast among polite society.”
“You would blackmail me, sir!”
A huddle of merchants at a nearby table switched ’round in unison, hoping to witness a fight. But Lupton pulled the conversation back from the brink. “Like all these good men around us,” he said, gesturing toward the merchants, “I would merely strike a fair bargain. I have a service I can provide, and if I succeed, you will have the wherewithal to pay me for it. What could be fairer than that?”
The gentleman drummed the table. It was clear a strategy was playing through his mind. Finally he declared grudgingly, “Very well.”
“Excellent,” said Lupton, offering his hand to seal the deal. The gentleman took it reluctantly. “Give me a week and you shall have your man.” He enjoyed the thrill of the chase, especially when there was such a sizable reward at the end of it.
Lupton watched the gentleman stride out of the coffeehouse. He, too, was eager to be gone from the place, and rose to leave immediately after. He now had a mission to undertake, inquiries to make. He would call in a few favors from his old company associates, prod a few vipers’ nests. He would surely turn up some information that would lead him to his quarry.
So preoccupied was he in planning his modus operandi that he did not notice a shadowy fellow seated only a few feet away from him. Bundled by the nearby chimney breast, his hat planted so far down on his head that his face could not be seen, he had been listening to every word. In front of him was a dish of coffee, which he stirred slowly and deliberately. He watched Lupton for a few more moments, then began to drink. His was a hatred that bided its time.
Chapter 35
Thomas’s latest encounter with Sir Stephen Gandy had ended disastrously, as he had feared it would. He had held his breath as the coroner flicked through his report and settled straight on its conclusion. It was not, of course, the one that he wanted. Thomas had found no evidence to connect Captain Flynn with his servant’s murder, and in a fit of pique, Sir Stephen had flung the document on the fire in his office.
“A waste of your time and mine, Silkstone!” the coroner had exclaimed as the flames licked the report he’d consigned to the grate.
So, newly returned from his bruising encounter and having fulfilled his duty to examine Mrs. Hastings, Thomas found himself free to travel to Boughton. He planned to spend two days there. He hoped it was not too much to dare that Lydia would have already forgiven him for not attending Sir Montagu’s funeral. He knew she would have missed him sorely, but Thomas was sure he could still be of some comfort to her.
Upstairs in his room in Hollen Street, he began to pack a few clothes into his small trunk. Then he remembered. Walking over to the window, he opened the drawer of his writing desk and took out a round case in red leather. And there it was: a modest sapphire surrounded by small diamonds and set on a gold band. It had belonged to his late mother and Lydia was the only woman he had ever wished to wear it, but he had not given it to her—yet. They had never formally announced their betrothal. There had been a tacit understanding between them when he rode away from Boughton after her mother died. Six months later, however, she had shattered his dreams when she told him she was breaking off their unofficial engagement. After that, of course, she had tried to take her own life, and then they had searched for Richard. In among all the upheaval and the drama, their own future seemed to have been lost. Not that he had abandoned any hope that Lydia would one day consent to wed him again. A light had always burned inside him. Surely now was the right time to propose?
He closed the case and placed it in his coat pocket. He would pick his moment and then he would ask her, once more, to be his wife. With Sir Montagu gone, surely she had no reason to refu
se. He smiled to himself as he patted his pocket, but then he looked out of the window once more when he thought he heard a carriage pull up outside. He was right, and the sight wiped the smile from his face. He thought it odd. To his knowledge no visitors were expected, and in his experience unexpected visitors usually brought bad news.
Deciding to ignore the carriage, he returned to his packing until, moments later, he heard voices in the hallway. He stopped, then looked out of the window once more. The carriage was still there, and now footsteps were coming up the stairs. He recognized the familiar tread.
“Yes, Mistress Finesilver?” he called through the closed door.
“Dr. Silkstone,” she told him, out of breath and clearly out of sorts, “Sir Theodisius Pettigrew is downstairs to see you.”
“Sir Theodisius?” repeated Thomas, opening wide the door. His first thought was for Lydia. Had something terrible happened? He brushed past his peevish housekeeper, forcing her to flatten herself against the wall as he rushed onto the landing.
“Sir Theodisius!” he called down, then began his descent, striding two stairs at a time.
The Oxford coroner’s great bulk was standing in the center of the hallway. He lifted up his large head to greet Thomas. He was clearly feeling the heat and was mopping his brow.
“Silkstone! Pray do not alarm yourself, man!” he cried as Thomas made it to the half landing.
“No?” asked a breathless Thomas, carrying on down the stairs. He felt his chest muscles relax at such an assurance.
“No. I bring good news!” replied the coroner.
“Then you are even more welcome than usual, sir,” replied Thomas, finally making it to the foot of the stairs.
“Yes, dear fellow. I bring you a visitor.” Spreading his arms wide, like some theatrical impresario, Sir Theodisius shifted his rotund frame to reveal a petite figure behind him.
“Lydia!” exclaimed Thomas. He rushed forward and, forgetting all decorum, embraced her. She offered no resistance and allowed Thomas to take both her hands in his.
“What goes on here?” Dr. Carruthers’s cheerful inquiry interrupted their reunion. The old anatomist appeared at the doorway of his study, waving his white stick.
“Lady Lydia is here, sir, with Sir Theodisius,” Thomas explained.
Young Richard, Nurse Pring, and Eliza followed on over the threshold, and in an instant all was noise and bluster in the house.
Dr. Carruthers beamed. “What a wonderful surprise!” he chuckled.
“Indeed, sir. Most wonderful,” replied Thomas, forgetting his wound and playfully scooping up Richard in his arms.
“Then let us adjourn to the drawing room,” declared the old anatomist, tapping his stick excitedly on the floorboards. “And we shall have some tea.”
“And perhaps some cake?” suggested Sir Theodisius.
“Cake, yes. And muffins. I shall call my brother, too.” Dr. Carruthers turned toward the stairs—“Oliver! Oliver!”—then back again. “Oh, what a time we shall have!” he cried.
Hooking his arm into Sir Theodisius’s, the old anatomist headed up the stairs to the drawing room on the second floor. The young earl took Nurse Pring’s hand. Thomas held back with Lydia.
“I planned to catch the coach to Oxford later today,” he told her, taking her hand in his.
“Then we are fortunate that our paths did not cross,” she said earnestly.
He saw something troubling in her expression and lowered his voice. “What is it? Is it Flynn?”
She nodded. “Your letter said he was missing, and I have learned that Richard or I, or both of us, may be beneficiaries of Sir Montagu’s will.” She swallowed hard. “Sir Theodisius thought it best if we stay at his London house for a few days until the captain is apprehended.”
Thomas nodded. “He is right. As long as no one finds out that you are here, then you are safer than at Boughton.” He squeezed her hand tightly. “Flynn will soon be found, I am sure of it. Lupton is on the case.”
“Mr. Lupton?” Lydia pulled away.
Thomas understood her reaction. Lupton was, after all, the man who had tried and almost succeeded in killing him. “We are reconciled,” he explained. “I can assure you he wants to help us.” He corrected himself. “Or rather to help you.” Lupton’s jealousy, he knew, could never be fully exorcised.
She nodded and smiled. “Very well,” she whispered.
Thomas returned her smile. “Then come. Let us join the others,” he said, holding out his arm for her. Lydia took it, and together they walked up to the drawing room.
By now Professor Carruthers had joined the party and introductions had been made.
“Come, come, you two,” called Dr. Carruthers as he heard Thomas and Lydia enter. “Sajiv here is going to make us tea the Indian way,” he announced gleefully.
Thomas shot a look at Mistress Finesilver, standing redundant in the corner. “And perhaps we might have some of Mistress Finesilver’s excellent pastries, too,” Thomas said, looking directly at the housekeeper. “I know jam tarts are Master Richard’s particular favorite.”
The kettle was already singing in the hearth, and Sajiv set to work making the tea.
“This is such a pleasant surprise,” reiterated the old anatomist, shaking his head as if he could not believe his good fortune.
Sir Theodisius’s face wobbled as he nodded. “We agreed it would be best for all concerned,” he said, then added, “given the circumstances.” He shot a glance at the young naukar, who was pouring out the tea. It was clear he did not want to say too much in front of a servant, and the professor picked up on his suspicion.
“You may talk freely in front of Sajiv, sir. His English is really quite limited,” Professor Carruthers told him, watching the youth grasp a particularly large lump of sugar in the silver tongs.
Seeing this, Lydia politely raised her hand. “Not so much sugar, if you please,” she said, switching her appeal to the professor for fear of not being understood.
The professor smiled. “Have no fear,” he told her, swiftly producing an implement from his pocket. “Here,” he said, leaning forward to the sugar bowl and unsheathing a knife from an elaborately decorated scabbard. In one fell chop, he had severed the large lump in two. Lydia caught sight of the curved blade at the same time as Thomas. They swapped an awkward glance.
Professor Carruthers saw the exchange. Latching onto Thomas’s thoughts, he butted in with an explanation. “A khanjar, Dr. Silkstone,” he ventured, slipping the dagger back into its scabbard. “It is most practical. I find it especially useful when peeling fruit, particularly mangoes.”
The perfectly plausible explanation left Thomas feeling a little uncomfortable. It had become his habit to read meaning into the slightest detail, sometimes to his own embarrassment. “Yes, very practical, I am sure, sir,” he agreed, picking up his bowl to sip the tea.
Sir Theodisius rescued the young doctor with a question for the professor. “How long have you lived in India, sir?” he asked.
“More years than I care to remember,” came the reply. “But I still find its diversity and customs endlessly fascinating. And I hope to persuade my fellow Britons of their merit, too.”
“A laudable aim indeed,” said the coroner, his fork poised over a large slice of chocolate cake.
Much of the rest of the afternoon was spent in conversation about life in Hyderabad. Thomas was glad that any mention of Captain Flynn had been brushed aside. He would need to talk in confidence with Sir Theodisius and with Lydia to inform them of developments, but he knew that such conversations would best be conducted in private. Any indiscretion might make the captain even harder to track down.
The chimes of the mantel clock brought proceedings to a close.
“Good lord, is that the time?” asked Sir Theodisius, licking sticky crumbs from his fingers. “We must away, my dear,” he said to Lydia. “Lady Hattie will be expecting us.”
Thomas and the professor rose to bid them farewell, but onl
y the former accompanied his guests into the hallway. His intention was to catch a moment with Lydia.
“I am forgiven?” he whispered to her as Mistress Finesilver handed Sir Theodisius his hat.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she replied with a smile as Eliza and Nurse Pring arrived from below stairs. Aware that they were being watched, Lydia offered Thomas her hand to kiss. “We shall meet again soon, Dr. Silkstone,” she told him formally.
The coroner echoed the sentiment. “Indeed we shall, Silkstone.” Both men knew there were pressing matters to discuss.
“Soon,” Thomas repeated as he watched the party walk down the steps and, one by one, climb into the waiting carriage. He patted his frock coat pocket. The ring was still there, and very shortly he would, he hoped, be placing it on Lydia’s finger.
Chapter 36
There was a new spring in Nicholas Lupton’s step. Like a man just cleared of the clap, he strode cheerfully down Fenchurch Street toward the Magpie Ale House. The air was as steamy as the hot springs at Bath after a heavy shower, and mist rose from gutters and ruts in the roads. He leapt over a filthy puddle with ease and even avoided the splashes from a chamber pot that was being discharged just ahead of him. His fortunes seemed to have changed. He’d quarreled with Sir Montagu and left Boughton in a rage. Then he’d allowed his jealousy over Lydia Farrell to get the better of him when he challenged Silkstone to a duel. But he’d seen the inside of a jail cell and lived to tell another tale, and now he was on what might, hopefully, prove a most lucrative mission.