Secrets in the Stones

by Tessa Harris

  Sir Theodisius pointed to the mahogany cabinet that held several decanters. “Pour yourself a brandy, Thomas,” he directed.

  Thomas protested. “What is it?” He felt the cold steel of a knife twist inside him.

  “Please.” The coroner lifted up his flattened palm in front of his face to silence him.

  Thomas reluctantly obeyed and seconds later, glass in hand, sat down beside Lydia on the sofa. His stomach began to knot once more. He braced himself for bad news.

  The coroner took a gulp of his own brandy. “’Tis a case of both good news and bad,” he began.

  Thomas straightened his back as if readying himself to bear the blows. “The good first, then, if you please.” He needed to remain positive.

  Sir Theodisius nodded to Lydia. “My dear,” he said, inviting her to take the lead.

  She took a deep breath and forced a smile to lift her lips. “Sir Montagu left his entire estate to Richard.”

  Thomas considered what she had said for a moment. He had feared that neither Lydia nor Richard would benefit at all from the late lawyer’s will. Such a bequest would ensure not only the young earl’s financial security but that of Boughton, too. “That is indeed good news!” he said, casting around for appreciation. “Is it not?” For a moment he could not understand why neither of the others shared his pleasure.

  “It is indeed good news,” agreed the coroner, nodding enthusiastically. “Of course until Richard’s majority ’twill be held in trust by his mother.” He jerked his head toward Lydia.

  Thomas nodded. “That seems reasonable.”

  “Ye-es,” drawled Sir Theodisius.

  “But there is a caveat?” Thomas had already guessed there was a negative aspect to this arrangement.

  “Of course there is a caveat,” said Lydia, no longer able to contain her frustration. She rose from the sofa and headed over to the window, as if she could not bear to face Thomas when he heard the news.

  Sir Theodisius remained seated, but the anatomist made to rise.

  “No, wait,” snapped the coroner, his outstretched arm barring his way. Thomas looked at him askance and stayed where he was. Sir Theodisius took a deep breath, put down his glass, and tried to compose himself again. He lifted his troubled face. “All this can come to pass only on condition that Lydia remains unmarried,” he said. He clasped his hands behind his back so that his large stomach was thrust forward.

  And there was the rub. For a moment Thomas remained rooted to the sofa as the news and its implication sank in. His shoulders sagged and his expression darkened.

  “So Richard cannot inherit Draycott if we marry?”

  Sir Theodisius sucked in his cheeks. “’Tis not just you, Thomas, ’tis . . .”

  Thomas leapt to his feet. This time the coroner did not try to stop him. “Of course the clause was designed specifically for me. That tyrant could not bear to think of me as the master of Boughton,” he cried. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. “He could not bear it if we were wed.” Looking over to Lydia for some shred of comfort, he suddenly remembered the ring. Plunging his hand into his pocket, he brought out the box and opened it. He strode over to where she stood and thrust it in front of her.

  “This is the real reason I came here today. I was going to ask you to marry me, again,” he said, the words almost choking him. “But I can see I wasted my journey.” He snapped shut the box and turned, not wishing her to see that his eyes were welling up with tears.

  “No!” cried Lydia. “No!” she called out again, rushing after him as he headed toward the door. Tugging at his sleeve, she pulled him around to face her. Her eyes were glassy, too. “You don’t understand, my love,” she said, her hands reaching for his jacket.

  Thomas nodded his head and swallowed back his anguish. “I do understand, dearest Lydia. I understand that your son’s inheritance and the continuation of the Crick line is more important than any love we ever had for each other.” His voice remained measured. “And the fault is all mine. I was deluding myself if I ever thought an American anatomist could be considered worthy of an English noblewoman,” he said. And taking her right hand in his, he kissed it and bowed low. “Good-bye, m’lady,” he said. He turned ’round and bowed to the coroner. “Sir Theodisius,” he muttered, then continued toward the door.

  “No!” cried Lydia once more. “Thomas.” She rushed after him. “I will marry you,” she called after him as he grasped the door handle.

  At her words he stopped still, then wheeled ’round. His brows remained dipped in a frown.

  “What did you say?”

  Hurrying forward, she threw herself into his arms.

  “I will marry you,” she repeated. “I have no care for what others might think.”

  “But Richard? His inheritance?”

  Sir Theodisius intervened. Judging from his startled look, this decision was clearly news to him. “My dear, are you sure?”

  Lydia turned and lifted her face toward the coroner, thrusting forward her chin.

  “Richard will come to understand that a person’s happiness is worth so much more than any land and property,” she said.

  “That is true,” conceded the coroner with a nod.

  “Yes. Yes, it is true,” replied Lydia, reaching for Thomas’s hand and gazing at him. “Richard will not miss something he has never had. And I want to be your wife, my love. More than anything else, I want to be your wife.”

  Thomas took a breath and looked deep into her eyes for a moment. He knew she was speaking the truth. He smiled and reached into his pocket once more. “Then, you will consent to wearing this?” he said, opening the box. Removing the ring, he took her hand in his and slipped the stone on her finger. She held her hand out for a moment, studying the small sapphire. “’Tis the most beautiful ring I ever set eyes on,” she said.

  Chapter 52

  “But we must celebrate!” Dr. Carruthers clapped his hands gleefully.

  “We must indeed! Yes, indeed!” chimed in his brother. “Hearty congratulations, Doctor,” he said, shaking Thomas’s hand, then muttering, “’Tis welcome news in among all this murder.”

  The professor’s mumbled words did not, however, go unnoticed. They jabbed sharp as a stiletto, suddenly deflating Thomas’s buoyant mood. For several hours he had barely given a single thought to the four unsolved murders that had hung over him for the past few days. He had returned to Hollen Street in the late afternoon. Sir Theodisius had insisted he stay for a celebratory luncheon washed down with liberal amounts of wine and port and had loaned him his carriage for the return journey home.

  “A dinner! We shall host a dinner!” exclaimed the old anatomist.

  “And fireworks!” added the professor.

  “Fireworks?” queried the old anatomist.

  “There are fireworks in St. James’s Park tomorrow evening. ’Twill be most spectacular, and Lady Lydia was anxious to make up a party,” explained his brother, barely pausing for breath.

  Thomas regarded this verbal sparring with a mixture of amusement and dismay. His happiness at Lydia’s acceptance of his marriage proposal was tempered by the thought that he was really no nearer to unmasking the killer or killers at large. His unease was compounded by the fact that he had also just remembered he had accepted a supper proposal with Marian Hastings and her coterie. He knew the meeting could prove very useful to his investigations. He also planned to find out if any of them knew of the existence of this ancient map. Finally he interrupted the brothers’ banter.

  “Gentlemen. Gentlemen, your attention,” he pleaded. Both men turned in his direction. He went on: “I have accepted an invitation to sup with the governor-general’s lady tomorrow.”

  The old doctor looked crestfallen. The professor’s expression registered disappointment. Any plans for a celebratory dinner were thrown into disarray.

  Thomas raised a finger. “But the fireworks will not begin until dark, so I propose that we all rendezvous in the park a little later.”


  His suggestion was considered in silence for a moment until first the professor and then his mentor nodded slowly.

  “Yes. Yes,” agreed Dr. Carruthers, adding: “As long as you describe the displays to me, dear brother.”

  “’Twould be an honor. Yes, indeed,” came the reply.

  “Good, then ’tis settled,” said Thomas, clapping his own hands and rubbing them together. Tomorrow evening would be a combination of business and pleasure. He was aware that to mix the two often proved wholly unsatisfactory. He very much hoped that his plans would prove the exception rather than the rule.

  Thomas retired to his room a little earlier than usual. Slipping off his clothes, he laid them neatly over his chair, and eased on his nightshirt. Then, after plumping his pillows, he climbed into his bed to contemplate events. It had been a momentous day; a day of surprises, both welcome and unwelcome, but above all a day of celebration. Thanks to Sir Theodisius’s hospitality, he still had the headache to prove it. The wine had flowed freely and future plans were discussed. When the late hour forced him to go, he had left Lydia happier than he had seen her in many a long month. She was positively flushed with excitement. They would read the marriage banns as soon as possible, as soon as Lydia felt it safe to return to Boughton. Their wedding would take place before Christmas. At least that was what was hoped. Of course until Sir Montagu’s killer had been apprehended there could be no ceremony. Even in death he stood in the way of their happiness.

  Thomas turned over to lie on his side. And yet, he told himself, by making Lydia Richard’s executrix, the dead lawyer had, in effect, been testing her. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he had staked everything on her acceptance of his terms: that, for Richard’s sake, she would not turn down the Draycott Estate. Sir Montagu had not, however, bargained on her putting her love for an American before her duty. But then again, neither had he. When faced with such a choice, Thomas had feared Lydia would put Richard’s future before their own in order to secure the vast acreage that adjoined Boughton. Instead, she had chosen to follow her heart rather than her head. For that he would be eternally grateful. He only hoped that Richard would not resent his mother’s decision. He turned onto his back once more.

  Somewhere in the night a dog barked. It set a baby crying, who caused a man to shout. Thomas sat up and walked over to the open window, reaching for the latch. As he did so, he remembered the devastation of Lydia’s room and the casement through which the intruder had gained access. He thought, too, of the large thumbprints on the window ledge. They had puzzled him at the time and now he suddenly realized why. Stepping forward, he felt something beneath his feet. He looked down to see a pencil on the floorboards. He stepped back and bent down to pick it up from under his toes, and that was when it struck him. The strange prints had not been made by a thumb at all. They had been made by toes. Big toes. Whoever shinned up the tree and slid in through the window did so in bare feet—a climbing boy, perhaps, although there was no sign of any soot. Few Englishmen would have been capable of such a maneuver. An Indian mayhap? He thought of the coir rope, the curved blade, and the bizarre ant torture. It was suddenly even more important that he attend Marian Hastings’s supper. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the murderer was of Indian origin. Somehow he needed to question members of the large entourage that had accompanied her.

  Glancing over at his desk, he saw the pile of letters written by Patrick Flynn. In the light of all he now knew, he would go through them one more time. Perhaps he had missed a vital clue. It would be another long night.

  Chapter 53

  It was all arranged. Shortly before dark, at nine o’clock, a carriage was to call at Hollen Street to pick up Dr. Carruthers and his brother, accompanied by his naukar. They would be transported to St. James’s Park. There they would make their way to the grand viewing gallery to meet the rest of the party. Sir Theodisius and Lady Pettigrew, Lady Lydia, and the young earl and his nurse would all be there, no doubt in a high state of excitement as they awaited the start of the firework display. Thomas would join them as soon as he could make his excuses from his prior engagement in South Street.

  By late afternoon the young doctor had readied himself upstairs. Bewigged and perfumed, he was about to leave the house when he looked in on Dr. Carruthers to make sure he was happy with their plans. However, what he saw as he opened the door disturbed him. He found the old anatomist very out of sorts. Ensconced in his usual chair, he barely acknowledged Thomas’s presence when he entered the room.

  “Sir, you are unwell?”

  “I fear I am most light-headed,” came the feeble reply.

  Thomas felt the old man’s pulse. It was weak. He had seen him in a similar condition before and was forced to acknowledge that his aging body was beginning to falter.

  “Some of my tonic, perhaps?” he suggested, walking over to a bottle on a nearby table that was kept for such eventualities. He poured out the thick, syrupy fortified wine and handed his mentor a glass. He guided the rim to his mouth.

  Carruthers slurped the tonic. “I fear I will not be able to come tonight, dear boy,” he said, licking his lips.

  Thomas squeezed his hand. “I think you are wise, sir,” he replied. “No doubt the fireworks will be very loud.”

  “But there is no reason why my brother cannot go.”

  Thomas shook his head. “No. If he still chooses to.”

  The old doctor smiled. “Oh, he seems most excited by the prospect of roaring rockets and thunderous explosions!”

  Thomas smiled, too. “Then I shall see him there,” said Thomas. “If you are sure . . .”

  Carruthers waved a feeble hand. “I am much better off here,” he assured his protégé, “although I doubt I’ll get much rest with all the bangs.”

  “I doubt if any of London will, sir,” agreed Thomas, letting the old man’s hand drop. “But now I must away to see Mrs. Hastings.”

  “Ah, yes,” replied Carruthers. “The enigmatic Marian. She has clearly fallen for your charms, dear boy,” he remarked with a chuckle, then added: “But your interest is purely professional.”

  “I shall be asking some surreptitious questions about her servants, yes,” he admitted.

  Thomas had remained awake until the early hours, reading and rereading Flynn’s letters to Lavington. With the benefit of the knowledge now gleaned, he had paid particular attention to the account that reported in horrific detail the execution, by elephant, of an Indian merchant. It was then that he discovered something he had previously overlooked. Buried in the tiny text, he had picked up the fact that the merchant was reported to be from the Gujarat region, and his name was Bava Lakhani. In the solitude of his room, Thomas had coupled this new intelligence with a throwaway remark made by William Markham after dinner the other night. Referring to Michael Farrell’s diamond ring, he’d said there was a rumor that the captain had “murdered for it.” He feared there might well have been blood on the precious stone long before he’d removed it from Patrick Flynn’s throat.

  Acutely aware that he needed to act with caution, Thomas settled into the sedan chair to take him to South Street. He had no desire to arouse suspicion among the select party, and yet he was convinced that there had to be a link between the arrival of the governor-general’s wife in England and the four murders, even though Sir Montagu was killed before her coming. The strongest connection surely lay with Mrs. Motte. Her husband languished in a debtors’ prison in Calcutta, thanks, at least in part, to Patrick Flynn. There was no doubt she had a motive to murder the captain, but what of the others? He contemplated Scott, a close ally and friend of Motte’s. Was his bite equal to his bark? He had arrived in an advance party and had been in England when Sir Montagu was so brutally murdered. Might he have mistaken the lawyer for the late and not-at-all-lamented James Lavington? Could he have commissioned a lascar to inflict such horrendous torture on the Indian servant and Flynn? Or Markham? Quietly efficient William Markham, with his
addiction to opium. Warren Hastings had enlisted his organizational skills to ensure that his wife’s stay in London passed effortlessly. Perhaps he had also applied these skills to murder. The countless possibilities whirled around Thomas’s head as he alighted from the sedan chair. He marched up the steps of the town house.

  Shown into the drawing room by a turbaned servant, Thomas was greeted by Mrs. Hastings and Mrs. Motte.

  “Ah, Dr. Silkstone. Ve are delighted to see you again,” Marian Hastings gushed.

  Her companion also seemed more lively than usual, and her smiles appeared more forthcoming than on previous occasions.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Thomas said with a bow.

  An Indian servant immediately appeared with a tray of glass cups containing some sort of punch. Thomas waited until the ladies had taken theirs. He had expected to be joined by Major Scott and Mr. Markham, but after a minute or two of small talk and idle pleasantries it became obvious that neither was going to make an appearance.

  “Ve vanted you all to ourselves, Dr. Silkstone,” explained Mrs. Hastings. She slid a sideways look at Mrs. Motte. “You see, Dr. Silkstone”—she hooked an arm through Thomas’s—“ve heard about ze murders: first Captain Flynn’s servant, then Mr. Lupton, and now Captain Flynn himself.”

  Few things, Thomas knew, could be kept secret in London, so it did not surprise him to discover they knew of the murders of the captain and his man, but it beat him how the ladies could have known about Lupton’s death.

  “You are well informed,” he told them, “but how—”

  “I told them,” said an unfamiliar voice from the doorway. Thomas’s head jerked ’round to see a smallish gentleman, smartly dressed, making his way toward them. Bibby Motte turned as he approached, then linked her arm in his.