by Tessa Harris
They had stopped at the side of the path, along with a few other parties of women and gleeful children. Carruthers looked intently at Richard as he held his nurse’s hand. “He is so like you,” he remarked to Lydia as they waited in the sunshine.
Lydia caught something sad and doleful in his tone. “Do you have children, Professor?” she asked.
Carruthers’s eyes still played on Richard. “No children. No wife. I am married to my work,” he replied wanly.
Lydia felt as though she had intruded on his personal life when he suddenly lifted his gaze and gave a tight smile, something she had rarely seen him do. For a split second, she felt the professor had lifted his mask. But it came down again soon enough.
“Mamma, look!” Richard cried excitedly. His hand shot away from hers to point to her right. Just emerging from the tree-lined avenue a few yards ahead was an enormous elephant. Draped in a large blue cloth that was fringed with gold, the beast was being led by a keeper dressed in a jacket of matching blue with a rose-colored silk robe and a cap in the Turkish style. Two liveried Indians followed on behind, carrying long staffs.
By now a number of other onlookers were also lining the path to watch the regular ritual. Several of them cheered as the elephant passed, its trunk swaying placidly from side to side. Richard seemed transfixed by the sight at first, but as the creature advanced to within a few paces of where he stood, he seemed to grow more anxious. He suddenly clung to his mother’s skirts and hid his face.
“There is no need to fear,” Lydia told him, stroking his head. “Look, my sweet. Look!”
Whether it was because of the cheering of the crowd or the fact that a flock of cackling geese took off from the nearby lake was not clear, but the elephant suddenly raised its trunk and trumpeted loudly. Some of the women screamed, a few men laughed and jeered, but the combined effects of the noise seemed to make the creature even more agitated. It shunted its rear off the path, and in response, its keepers hit its flanks. Their actions only appeared to irritate the elephant further, however. Its slow, measured pace suddenly turned into a trot, and it veered off onto the grass. The little clusters of onlookers started to disperse, and some children broke away from their mothers and nursemaids and began running hither and thither.
“Get back!” called the professor, grabbing Lydia by the hand.
“Richard!” she cried, reaching out to her son. She managed to grasp him and pull him to her. Nurse Pring, picking up her skirts, ran, too. Retreating into the shelter of the trees, they huddled together and watched anxiously. The elephant had stepped up its pace and started to run amok, trampling through the carefully tended flower beds up ahead.
The keepers ran behind it, shouting and waving their sticks to warn any unsuspecting walkers who found themselves in harm’s way.
“You are unhurt?” asked the professor, still catching his breath.
Lydia nodded and drew Richard closer to her.
“Look! Soldiers!” yelled the boy.
From the direction of the main gate, half a dozen guards suddenly appeared. With muskets at the ready, they hurtled toward the elephant, which by now had reached the outer perimeter fence. A loud cry went up and a volley of shots rent the air. A deafening trumpeting followed, then silence.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Lydia, shielding Richard’s eyes.
“Mamma! What has happened?” he wailed.
Lydia glanced at the professor, who had ventured out from the shelter of the trees. He stood a few feet away, within view of the soldiers. His back was toward her, but she suddenly heard another low trumpet, then an enormous splash. The professor stood motionless, watching the action. Lydia dared not look.
“Is the elephant hurt, Mamma?” Richard was pulling at her arm, straining to see the creature.
A moment later the professor turned and started making his way back toward them. Lydia read his expression. He seemed relieved.
“All is well,” he told them.
“But the gunshot . . . ?” pressed Lydia.
“They fired into the air,” he replied, shaking his head. “A foolish move, but the creature plunged into the water. He is calmer now. See. Yes, indeed. Calmer now.” He pointed to a large dark mound on the edge of the lake. The elephant was half submerged, scooping up trunksful of water and showering itself. It appeared much more contented as its keeper tried to soothe it with pats and soft words.
“We must be thankful that no one was hurt,” said Lydia.
“Quite so. Quite so,” agreed the professor.
Lydia nodded and took Richard firmly by the hand. “Now let us return to the carriage, shall we?” she said. “We have had quite enough excitement for one day.”
Thomas felt his pulse race even though he was standing stock-still. His bedchamber was chilly. The sun had not yet come ’round to heat it, but it was too warm to have a fire laid. And yet the palms of his hands were clammy. After another moment’s pause, he reached for the desk drawer. Once more he took out the ring case and opened it. He held it to the light. It was a modest jewel, certainly compared with the magnificent diamond brilliant he had retrieved from Flynn’s throat, and certainly by the standards of the English aristocracy. The meagerness of his offering suddenly seemed quite pathetic. He was not Lydia’s social equal, not in English eyes, at least, and his income was paltry when measured against the wealth of the Boughton Estate. Most would say he was mad to even contemplate marriage to a titled lady. And yet . . . she had said yes to his proposal before. They were standing in the orangery at Boughton Hall on the morning of his departure after her mother’s death. He had asked her to be his wife, and without hesitation she had said yes and nestled her head on his shoulder. There had been no ring, then, just a tacit agreement between them that they would be conjoined in holy matrimony. Events since had marshaled against them, but now that Sir Montagu was dead, there were no more obstacles, no more excuses. Why should she not agree again?
“Lydia,” he whispered under his breath as he slipped the case into his pocket and tapped it gently. This time there would be no prevarication, no hesitation. His mentor was right. He could not afford to lose his beloved again. He would propose to her that very afternoon.
Chapter 50
Lydia took a deep breath. She was relieved they were all safely back at Sir Theodisius’s house after the incident with the elephant. Although none of them had ever been in any real danger, the whole episode could have turned out very differently. Professor Carruthers had called it “an adventure,” and he and Richard had talked animatedly about the episode until they dropped him off in Mayfair to visit a friend. She had seen a whole new side to him on the excursion, and for that, too, she was gratified.
“Shall I take Master Richard for his nap now, m’lady?” asked Nurse Pring as they congregated in the hallway.
“Yes, please,” replied Lydia, stroking her son’s curly head. “Go with Nurse,” she told him with a smile; then, turning to Eliza, who had just appeared, she said: “I think I will lie down, too.”
The maid curtsied. “Very well, m’lady,” she replied and began to climb the stairs to turn down the bed for her mistress.
Hearing the general commotion, Sir Theodisius put his head around his study door. “Ah, you are back, my dear,” he remarked. “I trust you had an enjoyable excursion?”
Lydia nodded, but before she could answer in full, a scream tore through the house.
“What in God’s name?” thundered the coroner.
“Eliza!” Lydia gasped, hurrying toward the foot of the stairs. “Eliza!” she called again as she climbed to the second floor as quickly as she could. Dashing along the upstairs corridor, Lydia saw Nurse Pring leave Richard’s bedroom and head toward her chamber. The housemaid, too, appeared from the linen store and hurried in the same direction. They all converged at the open door at more or less the same time to see Eliza, her hands still clamped over her own mouth in shock, as she scanned her mistress’s room.
Lydia gulped back a cry. “What t
he . . . ?”
The others at the door drew aside to allow their mistress to pass. Lydia’s mouth first opened wide, then shut again as she walked into the scene of devastation. Every cupboard had been emptied, every drawer pulled out, every pillow and bolster slashed open so that fluff and down were scattered all around. A breeze suddenly blew in from the open window and caught a pile of the feathers, lifting and whirling them like snowflakes.
Lydia dropped onto her bed, as if the shock had made her light-headed. She surveyed the room. Pictures were torn from the walls, a vase had been upturned, and even the heavy drapes had been lacerated.
“God’s wounds!” cried Sir Theodisius breathlessly. He had lumbered up the stairs in the wake of the ear-piercing scream to see for himself what calamity had been visited upon his household. His jaw dropped as he contemplated the scene.
By now Eliza’s shock had turned to tears. “Who could have done this, m’lady?” she sobbed, standing by the window.
Lydia rose and walked over to her maid. Putting a comforting arm around her, she shook her head. She did not have a reply. There were no words.
“Only Dr. Silkstone can find the answer to that,” mumbled the coroner, still trying to catch his breath. “We’d best send for him immediately.”
As good fortune would have it, Thomas was already on his way. The weather was pleasant and he had decided to walk the mile or so to Sir Theodisius’s house. Banishing all thoughts of the many burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders, he concentrated instead on how he was going to frame his proposal of marriage to Lydia. He patted his frock coat pocket. The shawl was there. Its return gave him a good pretext for his visit. Not that he should need one, but it could be used to his advantage. After he had placed it in Lydia’s hands, he might suggest they take some air. Together they would venture into the garden, and there, in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers and birdsong, he would hold her hand in his and ask her to be his wife. Or should he be more formal? In the absence of Lydia’s father, should he first ask Sir Theodisius’s consent, even though he held no official role? Should he ask her in the drawing room? Either way, should he go down on one knee, or should he remain standing? Spontaneity was not in his nature, and yet on this occasion and in these circumstances, he really could not make up his mind. As he walked through the wrought iron gates of the mansion, he was forced to concede that he might have to do what seemed most natural when the time came. Feeling slightly more confident, but nevertheless nervous, he climbed the front steps and lifted the knocker.
The sound of the rapping broke into the shared sense of bewilderment and fear of those who had gathered upstairs in Lydia’s ransacked room.
“Who . . . ?” barked Sir Theodisius, almost jumping out of his skin.
But Lydia’s finger flew up to her lips to call for silence. The butler was heard to answer the door, and a familiar voice inquired if her ladyship was at home.
“Thomas,” she cried. “’Tis Thomas.” She hurried out of the room and onto the landing to see the young doctor hand the butler his tricorn.
“Dr. Silkstone,” she called down, more formally. “Thank God. Come, please.”
From the distraught look on her face and the note of panic in Lydia’s voice, Thomas could tell that something terrible had happened. He loped up the stairs two at a time and within seconds witnessed for himself the devastation wrought.
“What the... ?” He cast his gaze around the room: the slashed curtains, the ruffled bedding, the drawers tossed onto the floor. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, hurrying over to Lydia.
She shook her head. “No, mercifully not. I was out and came back to find this.” She flapped a hand distractedly.
“But I was in my study,” exclaimed the coroner indignantly. “Such dashed nerve!”
“Has anything been stolen?” asked Thomas.
Lydia and Eliza exchanged a quick glance, and the maid rushed over to the casket where her mistress kept her jewelry. It lay discarded on the rug by the bed. She picked it up and inspected it. The lock had not been tampered with. She shook her head.
Striding across the room, Thomas headed for the open casement. “I fear this was no random intrusion,” he said, sticking his head out of the window. The branches of a large tree reached to within inches of the ledge. Glancing at the pavement below, he could see a few broken twigs and several fallen leaves. It was clear to him that the intruder had climbed the tree to gain access.
Sir Theodisius, running his fat fingers over the shredded drapes, nodded in agreement. “Whoever did this must have known you were out, my dear,” he told Lydia.
Thomas turned to her frowning. “And you were with Professor Carruthers,” he said.
Lydia looked puzzled. “How . . . ?”
“Dr. Carruthers told me about your planned excursion to the park,” he replied. “I thought you would have returned and—” Thomas suddenly stopped mid-sentence, realizing that the real reason for his visit needed to be postponed in the circumstances.
“And . . . ?” Lydia pressed, sensing he was holding something back. Her suspicion forced him to think on his feet.
“I wanted to return this to you.” Suddenly remembering the shawl that Lydia had left at Hollen Street, Thomas delved into his pocket and brought it out.
“Thank you,” she told him with a smile, taking the wrap from his grasp. She let it fall open, then slipped it around her shoulders, shivering as she did so.
Seeing her body judder, Thomas recognized the telltale signs.
“You are in shock, m’lady,” he told her. “You should rest.”
“The doctor is right, my dear,” agreed Sir Theodisius, lumbering forward and hooking an arm around her.
“And you?” she asked, fixing her eyes on Thomas.
He gave her a reassuring smile and cast a look around the room.
“I fear I have work to do here,” he replied.
“Come, my dear,” said the coroner, guiding Lydia toward the door. “We must leave the good doctor to his own devices.”
Lydia nodded, but turned back suddenly. “You think you might be able to discover who did this?” she asked.
Thomas nodded. “There will be clues somewhere among this mess,” he told her. “It is my task to find them.”
“Come, my dear,” repeated Sir Theodisius, growing slightly impatient.
Thomas watched the pair leave the room, followed by Nurse Pring. Eliza stayed behind and, bending low, started to pick up the shards of a broken mirror from the floor.
“No!” Thomas called out.
The maid froze. She switched ’round, her eyes wide.
“Please do not touch anything,” he told her. “I need to inspect the damage for myself.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said. “Shall I . . . ?” She pointed to the door.
“If you please.”
She dipped a curtsy and scurried away, once more on the verge of tears, shutting the door behind her.
The escritoire near the window had suffered most in the burglary. Not only had all the drawers been cast aside, the leather that lined the inside of the drop-down lid had been slashed, too. This was not the work of some opportunist thief. This destruction, he could tell, was targeted and purposeful.
“The map,” he muttered to himself. The lining would have been an obvious place to hide the ancient Sanskrit document that appeared to be in the murderer’s sights. He would wager that it was the object of this search, conducted with the same frenzied fury as all four killings.
Suddenly a breeze rustled the drapes once more and he strode over to the casement, this time armed with his magnifying glass. Bending low, he inspected the window ledge. The intruder clearly had climbed up the nearby sycamore tree. But it would have been no mean feat. The trunk was relatively smooth. There must have been rope. He squinted at the branches once more. There was no sign, but there were marks on the sill. Muddy smears—the prints of fingers, no doubt, holding onto the ledge. He peered at them through his glass. There were thre
e—no, four—marks of varying size. Something did not ring quite true about them, although he was not sure what. Nevertheless he moved on, inspecting the slashed pillows and the ransacked drawers over the next few minutes. No bolt of lightning struck him. There was no eureka moment. No inspiration. No hard evidence that told him who was responsible. As so often happened with this mystifying case, at the end of his inspection, he had drawn a blank.
Chapter 51
“Ah, Thomas!” Sir Theodisius greeted the young anatomist when he entered the drawing room half an hour later. “Found anything of note?” he asked, cocooned in his favorite armchair. Lydia sat opposite him.
Thomas sighed and closed the door behind him. “Nothing conclusive, sir,” he replied, walking into the room, “although I do believe that the intruder may well have been searching for the map.”
“A map?” asked Lydia. She was seated on a sofa, still wrapped in the shawl.
Sir Theodisius recapped his conversation with Michael Farrell about the existence of a rich source of stones.
“Did he ever mention anything to you about the mines?” Thomas asked her.
“Never.” Lydia shook her head.
“And you found no evidence of any documentation when you were going through the captain’s papers?” ventured the coroner.
Again Lydia shook her head. But in the ensuing silence, the mention of the affairs of a dead man raised the specter of Sir Montagu in all their minds. It was as if the very thought of him cast a dark shadow across all their faces. Thomas broached the subject.
“And there was nothing telling in Sir Montagu’s will?” He switched his gaze from Lydia to Sir Theodisius and back. “The reading went ahead as planned, I assume?” he asked quickly.
Sir Theodisius and Lydia swapped wary glances, and Thomas caught the anxiety in their expressions.
“Something is amiss?”
All along he had harbored a fear that Sir Montagu would, even in death, have the last laugh. He imagined the tyrant acting like a puppet master, pulling the strings of those left behind to pick up the pieces of his empire from the comfort of his coffin. It was obvious they were holding something back from him. He needed to know. “Tell me, I pray.”