Secrets in the Stones

by Tessa Harris

  “Get on with it,” grunted the coroner in a curmudgeonly fashion.

  “Subject to the payment of my debts, funeral expenses, and administration expenses, and having no legal issue, I give all my estate, to include Draycott House, its adjoining lands and farms, both real and personal, to Richard Michael Frederick Crick, the seventh Earl Crick, to be held in trust by his mother, Lady Lydia Sarah Farrell, until he reaches the age of twenty-one,” pronounced the solicitor.

  Lydia had not realized that up until that point she had been holding her breath. She now allowed herself to exhale. Sir Theodisius reached for her hand and patted it once more. She felt there was a certain justice to the legacy, a righteousness in Sir Montagu bequeathing his entire estate to her son by way of an apology for the torment he had caused her.

  It was then, however, that Fothergill produced a trump card, or rather the ace that Sir Montagu had held up his sleeve. “There is, I must warn you, a caveat,” he told Lydia without daring to look her in the eye.

  Sir Theodisius scowled. “A caveat?” he repeated. “What the deuce . . . ?” He leaned forward in an attempt to grab the document from Fothergill’s hands. “Caveat? Give me that!”

  “Sir, please!” urged Lydia, staying the coroner’s hands. “Allow Mr. Fothergill to continue.”

  The solicitor’s feathers were clearly ruffled, but he carried on: “The said bequest is made on condition that the said Lady Lydia Sarah Farrell shall not remarry, but remain in her widowed state. Failure to comply will result in the trusteeship of the estate reverting to the Court of Chancery.”

  For a moment there was silence in the room. Outside a blackbird chirruped in a tree, and a bell tolled the hour, but inside the solicitor’s chambers Lydia was in shock. She had not expected this. “A mere formality,” Sir Theodisius had said.

  “Oh, my dear, even in death he continues to haunt you,” said the coroner, the edges of his mouth sloping sharply in his disappointment.

  Lydia, however, straightened her back and stuck out her chin. “Can I not challenge this, Mr. Fothergill?” she asked.

  “In court, m’lady?”

  She nodded. “Yes, in court.”

  Sir Theodisius intervened. “That would be most costly, my dear, and—”

  “And if I do remarry, Mr. Fothergill, what happens then?” She leaned forward, her voice growing more agitated.

  The solicitor lifted the document from the desk, then put it down again nervously. He pushed back his glasses, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose, and focused once more on the will. “There is a clause here that will put the entire estate in the hands of the Treasury,” he said. “In that case, m’lady, I fear the earl would lose all his inheritance.”

  Chapter 47

  That night Thomas set the trap. Over dinner Dr. Carruthers had informed his brother about the existence of the map and that it lay, until its collection the following morning, in the laboratory. It would then be presented, the professor was told, to Sir Stephen Gandy, the Westminster coroner. Thomas had spent the evening with both siblings; then, as the clock struck ten, he announced he would retire. The brothers followed suit, and Thomas saw both enter their respective rooms. He, on the other hand, after a decent interval had passed, grabbed a candle and returned downstairs to the laboratory.

  Deliberately leaving the door unlocked, he entered the darkened room. The street lamp up above shone through the high windows, providing a little extra light. In the corner Franklin could be heard rustling and squeaking intermittently in his cage. Feeling his way through the gloom, Thomas headed for his desk and lit the lamp he kept primed on top of it. As the light pooled, he opened the top drawer and took out a scroll of paper. It was an old map of the Boughton Estate. He had secreted it in his case a few weeks back so that he could show it to Lydia at the height of Sir Montagu’s efforts to enclose the common land. Now it was, to all intents and purposes, redundant, but he had a much more valuable use for it. As long as the professor did not inspect the map too closely at first, there was every chance he would be fooled. In the dark, such a document might well pass for a sketch of the diamond fields. At any rate, that was what he was gambling on.

  Next Thomas walked over to a large barrel in the corner in which sand was stored. He started to shovel some out, spreading it thinly on the flags below, as was his practice before an autopsy. It soaked up blood and body fluids. Now, however, its purpose was different. It would, he hoped, help trap a murderer. Even if, by some strange twist of fate, he failed to apprehend the professor, or perhaps an accomplice, stealing the map red-handed, the culprit’s footprints would be left behind. If they matched the bloody imprint he collected from Sir Montagu’s study, then he would have more evidence that might lead to a conviction.

  Satisfied that the sand was evenly spread around the desk, Thomas then snuffed out the lamp and groped his way through the blackness toward the large store cupboard. He was relieved when he felt the handle of the door and opened it. The dank space, crammed as it was with bottles and jars and casks of all sizes and descriptions, was large enough to accommodate three men comfortably, but it was not an enticing place to spend the night. Preserved livers and pickled brains did not make good bedfellows. Nevertheless, Thomas did find a moth-eaten blanket that had been used to wrap a femur. He laid the bone in the corner and pulled the blanket around himself. Leaving the cupboard door slightly ajar, he settled himself down to watch and to wait.

  He knew it would be an interminably long night, but he also knew that by the end of it, there was a real chance he might have some answers. Not that he relished the prospect of catching Professor Carruthers, or his servant for that matter, in the act of stealing this elusive map. He hoped he would be proved wrong, and if he was, although he would be none the wiser as to the murderer’s identity, neither would anyone else. There could be no aspersions cast and no recriminations.

  For the first hour or so, Thomas managed to keep awake, listening to the sounds of the street above as they crept through the grille. As the night wore on, however, so the music of the humdrum died away; the carriage wheels stopped turning, the horses’ hooves ceased clattering, and sleep came calling, until suddenly . . . The sound of the lifting latch startled Thomas from his half-sleep. His eyelids sprang open, and he shook the fug from his head. Someone was entering the laboratory. His heart beat fast as he listened to footsteps cross the floor. He frowned. They were light, not a man’s heavy tread. He held his breath as the intruder came into view and stood in the circle of light cast by the street lamp. So stunned was Thomas by what he saw that he cried out.

  “Mistress Finesilver!”

  Leaping ’round to face him, the housekeeper crossed her hands over her breasts as if to try and still her own heart.

  “Dr. Silkstone!” she cried, steadying herself by the desk.

  Thomas jumped to his feet and marched out of the cupboard.

  “What on earth . . . ?”

  Still panting, Mistress Finesilver straightened herself and pulled her wayward shawl around her shoulders. “You gave me such a fright, sir!” she wailed.

  Thomas reached for the lamp and lit it quickly. “May I ask what you are doing creeping ’round in my laboratory at this time of night?”

  The housekeeper lifted her peevish face to his, but the normal look of resentment was replaced by embarrassment. “I . . . I . . .” she began hesitatingly.

  “Well, mistress?” Thomas knew that she sometimes trespassed into his domain for her laudanum in his absence, but this foray was so brazen that it beggared belief.

  “I came to see if you had any honey, sir,” she said.

  “Honey?” repeated Thomas. “Whatever for?”

  “For Dr. Carruthers, sir. He asked me most particularly to have acacia honey for breakfast the other day.”

  “Yes.” Thomas recalled the occasion.

  “I knew we had three or four jars that an old patient had given to him a few weeks back, but when I went to the pantry, I couldn’t find th
em anywhere.”

  “So you thought I might have taken them?” he asked in a more measured voice, realizing it was a thoroughly plausible explanation.

  “Yes, Doctor. I didn’t want to cause a fuss. I thought you might have used the honey for your experimenting, sir, or your pills and potions.”

  Thomas let out a deep sigh. “I can assure you I did not, Mistress Finesilver,” he replied, thinking that she made him sound more like a warlock or a wizard than a medical practitioner. “Perhaps it might be easier to ask me directly in future.”

  In the lamplight Thomas saw her purse her lips together, as if she were slightly wounded and wished to retort. She did not. Instead she dipped a curtsy. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” she replied, even though the apology seemed to stick in her gullet. Nevertheless there was a smattering of humility that Thomas was not used to. “Good night then, sir,” she told him, dismissing herself.

  “Good night, Mistress Finesilver,” he said as he watched her go. “Honey,” he said to himself with a shrug, but then the memory of Flynn’s hapless servant returned. “Acacia honey,” he mumbled. He grimaced as he recalled the man’s face smothered in the sweet substance to attract ants. Dr. Carruthers had been certain that it had been acacia honey when he smelled it. Thomas flinched suddenly as the unwelcome thought took root: Could someone in this very household have stolen the honey and used it to torture the Indian? His mind turned again to Professor Carruthers and his servant. Were they, between them, capable of such barbarity? It was difficult to tell what heinous crimes a man might commit under the influence of opium when his reasoning and senses were in altered states. The store cupboard door remained ajar. The professor might yet venture into the laboratory in search of the elusive map, Thomas told himself. He returned to his place. The wall clock opposite remained in his sight. It was not quite eleven. The night was, regrettably, yet young.

  Chapter 48

  “Still no honey?” moaned Dr. Carruthers, munching his buttered toast at breakfast the following morning. He stuck out his tongue to signify his displeasure.

  Mistress Finesilver, pouring him a glass of milk, was about to answer when Thomas entered the room. He had slipped upstairs just as the housemaid rose to light the kitchen fire and managed to change his clothes. Nevertheless, he still bore the scars of a virtually sleepless night: dark bags under his eyes and a pale complexion.

  At the sound of the opening door, Mistress Finesilver’s gaze met Thomas’s, but hers slid away almost immediately. She busied herself collecting dirty plates.

  “No, sir, still no honey, I fear,” she mumbled, conscious that Thomas’s eyes were upon her.

  The news made the old anatomist more insistent. “But I swear Joseph Crossley gave me some jars from his own hives a few weeks back.”

  Seeing the situation might escalate, Thomas intervened. “I am sure they’ve been put safely somewhere,” he soothed, seating himself opposite his mentor.

  Carruthers wiped his chin with his napkin. “There you are, dear boy!” he greeted through a mouthful. “That will be all, thank you, Mistress Finesilver,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. The housekeeper was pleased to oblige and, gathering up her stack of dishes, left the room as quickly as she could.

  “Well?” asked the old anatomist as soon as he heard the door click shut. Thomas could not decide whether his tone was conspiratorial or self-righteous.

  “The professor is . . .” Thomas began slowly, wanting to make sure they would not be disturbed.

  “My brother is not yet up. We are quite safe.”

  “Then I am pleased to report that no one attempted to steal the decoy last night.”

  Carruthers gave a triumphant nod. “By ‘no one’ you mean my brother and Sajiv?” There was an aggrieved righteousness in his tone.

  Thomas could see that the old anatomist wanted him to eat his words. “I am sorry I doubted the professor and his man,” he said, humbly. He was happy to make such an apology, although he did not regret laying the trap. Nor did he let on that he had not ruled Oliver Carruthers and his servant entirely innocent.

  The old anatomist let the words hover on the air for a moment, allowing himself to savor them before he asked: “So what now?”

  Thomas shrugged as he buttered a slice of toast. “What now indeed?” he repeated, letting his knife slice easily through the soft pat before him. “Tomorrow I shall be seeing Major Scott and I shall try and prize some information from him.”

  “And in the meantime?” Thomas detected a mischievous note in the question. “Might you take a little time off from the laboratory to clear your head?” The old anatomist paused. “And perhaps pay a visit to Lady Lydia later on? I know she is engaged this morning, but . . .”

  “Engaged?”

  Carruthers nodded. “My brother, my blameless brother,” he added with relish, “is taking her ladyship and young Richard to see the elephant in the park, I believe.”

  Thomas arched a brow. “Oh?” was all he could say. He did not divulge that there was still something about the professor that made him uneasy. His rapid speech, his intense gaze, and, above all, his nervous tic—so often associated, in his experience, with stress or a singular trauma. He was, Thomas deduced, a troubled man with a hidden past.

  His mentor picked up on his reticence, and his features hardened a little. “You still harbor your suspicions about Oliver?”

  Thomas’s mind knew it was useless being anything less than absolutely honest with his mentor. “I confess there are certain things . . .” he admitted, pouring himself coffee from the pot.

  Carruthers shook his head. “O ye of little faith,” he muttered. “My brother may be a little eccentric, but he is no murderer. You will be proved wrong.”

  “I hope I will, sir. I really do,” replied Thomas. He downed his coffee quickly, then rose from the table, his chair scraping on the floorboards. “And now if you’ll excuse me.”

  The old anatomist raised a buttery knife in the air. “Just one more thing,” he called as Thomas made for the door.

  Thomas switched back. “Yes, sir?”

  “Lady Lydia left her shawl here yesterday. I think Mistress Finesilver put it over there.”

  Thomas scanned the room and spotted the wrap folded over the back of one of the dining chairs.

  “Perhaps you could take it to her?” There was a wheedling note in the old man’s voice.

  Thomas caught his meaning. “Perhaps I could,” he said with a smile. He lifted the shawl and instantly smelled Lydia’s perfume. For a moment it was as if she was standing next to him.

  “Promise me this,” said Dr. Carruthers suddenly, breaking the spell.

  Puzzled, Thomas looked up. “Sir?”

  “Do not let Lydia go again, dear boy. Even if you neglect your own happiness, you cannot put right all the wrongs in the world. You know that, don’t you?”

  Thomas nodded and let a sigh escape from his lips. He acknowledged his mentor to be right. He needed to rekindle the fire between Lydia and himself that had been doused by countless absences and obstacles. In among all this murderous mayhem, he still had to find time for her. “I do, sir,” he replied.

  Chapter 49

  Professor Carruthers was in good spirits when, as arranged, he called at Sir Theodisius’s mansion at a quarter to eleven o’clock later that morning. Unaware that his integrity had been tested and appeared to be unimpeachable, he arrived to collect Lydia and Richard. Nurse Pring was in attendance, too.

  “Richard is most excited,” Lydia told the professor as they made the short carriage ride to St. James’s Park. “He has never seen an elephant before.” She paused to look at her son, who was leaning out of the carriage window, his curly hair blown back from his face. “Nor have I,” she added with a slight shake of her head.

  “Then I am honored to be the one to introduce you. I am sure you will both be most impressed. Yes, indeed,” the professor told her with his usual brusque delivery.

  The party decanted at the grand gates
of the park—carriages were only allowed inside by express permission of the king—before making its way on foot. Inside was a hive of activity. There seemed to be more deer and cattle than people, and the squawking of the waterfowl only added to the general sense of gaiety. On strict orders, the park sentinels were to bar any rude boys, beggars, or anyone hawking their wares, so Lydia felt quite at ease. There was little else to do but promenade with the other gentlewomen around the park, but still she found the novelty of it all quite enchanting. The trees were in full leaf, and there were displays of flowers in beds dotted alongside the shallow lake.

  Beyond the commonplace sights and sounds, there was, however, another novelty that vied for Lydia’s attention. An army of carpenters was camped at one end of the park, putting the finishing touches to a long wooden structure.

  “What are they doing over there?” asked Lydia as she strolled along with the professor. Up ahead Nurse Pring trotted along behind Richard.

  Carruthers crinkled his nose and stared intently ahead. “I believe they are constructing a gallery for the display, m’lady,” he replied.

  “A display?”

  The professor stopped to study the large awning being fixed into place to form a covered gallery. “Fireworks,” he told her curtly. “There is to be a firework display in honor of some visiting prince or foreign potentate tomorrow.”

  The prospect of such a display clearly pleased Lydia. “It is open to the public?” she asked.

  “Yes, indeed. There is a poster at the gate. ’Tis possible to pay for seats in the gallery.” He jerked his head toward the embryonic structure in front of them.

  “Then we must go,” she said excitedly. “We shall make up a party.”

  Meanwhile Richard was tugging at Nurse Pring’s hand. “Where is the elephant, Mamma? Where is he?” He was jumping up and down impatiently.

  The professor bent low to address the child, who backed away, a little afraid. Undeterred, Carruthers explained: “The creature will come from the direction of the King’s Mews.” He pointed beyond the trees. “Here should be a good spot from which to see him. Yes, indeed.”