by Tessa Harris
“Dr. Silkstone,” she said to Thomas, “allow me to introduce you to my husband.”
“Mr. Motte?” Thomas could not hide his shock. “Forgive me, sir, but I understood you were—”
“In jail, Dr. Silkstone? In Calcutta?”
Again, Thomas could not hide his shock. “Yes.”
“Indeed I was, up until four months ago, when I was mercifully freed,” explained Motte, his cheeks hollow and his skin weathered. “A close friend of mine paid my passage, and my ship anchored in the Channel two days ago. I made it to London yesterday to discover my worst fears founded.”
Bibby Motte beamed and looked up at her husband. “It was a complete surprise, but a most wonderful one.”
“A surprise?” repeated Thomas, thinking aloud.
Motte nodded. “You are wondering why I did not inform my wife of my release, Dr. Silkstone?”
“I . . .” Thomas found himself floundering.
“It was because I came to warn certain people.”
“Warn? Warn who?” asked Thomas, growing increasingly agitated.
Motte turned to Mrs. Hastings. “Perhaps I could be permitted a moment alone with Dr. Silkstone,” he said.
“Of course,” agreed Marian Hastings, fluttering her fan. She glanced at Bibby Motte, who slid her arm out of her husband’s. Both left the room.
“Please.” Motte gestured Thomas to a chair by the fireplace and the doctor sat. “I understand you have been investigating these terrible murders, Dr. Silkstone,” he began, settling himself opposite.
“I have,” replied Thomas, eager to allow Motte to explain himself.
The chair in which Motte sat swallowed him up, making him look even more emaciated than before. It was clear to Thomas he had been through a great ordeal.
“My only regret is that I arrived too late to prevent them,” he said, shaking his dark head.
Thomas leaned forward, eager to know more. “Pray explain yourself, sir,” he urged.
Motte took a deep breath, but his eyes slid away from Thomas’s.
“The information I am about to divulge is for your ears and yours alone, Silkstone,” he began. “Mrs. Hastings tells me you are a man of integrity and can be trusted.” His gaze switched back and latched onto Thomas’s face.
“Sir, if you have any intelligence about these murders, I beg you tell me. I fear more lives could be at stake,” Thomas told him.
Motte nodded gravely. “You are right, Dr. Silkstone. You are right.” Suddenly he rose and leaned his elbow on the mantelshelf. “While I was in prison, I shared a cell with a merchant.” His head darted back to Thomas. “Have you ever been in a jail, Dr. Silkstone?”
Thomas nodded. “I have had the misfortune to see its appalling conditions several times,” he said.
Motte stuck out his chin. “Then you’ll know that it can be the loneliest place in the world and that any companionship is most welcome.”
“I can imagine it must provide some comfort.”
“This merchant and I passed the days avoiding the scorching sun and the nights avoiding the rats, but in between we talked.” There was a faraway look in Motte’s eyes. “We swapped our life stories, as you might expect, but little did we know that our paths had already crossed.”
“How?”
Motte returned to his seat and faced Thomas. “This merchant was a bania, a Gujarati, who once had an associate with a diamond to trade, a huge diamond from Golconda that had been brought to him by an escaped miner.”
“Go on,” urged Thomas, feeling his muscles tense.
“So my cell mate’s associate made a deal with some East India Company men.”
Thomas’s eyes widened as a picture suddenly began to take shape.
“By the names of Farrell, Lavington, and Flynn?”
Motte nodded. “Farrell, Lavington, and Flynn,” he repeated, spitting out the names as if they were venomous. “The scoundrels had already approached me and told me of this magnificent gem. They wanted to make a trade for it and they knew I had a map of Sumbhulpoor.”
“Showing the location of the untapped mines,” interjected Thomas.
“That was what they believed and I did not discourage them, but in truth, I thought it worthless. I had brought back many mementos from my travels to the interior, and Farrell wanted what he thought was a map.”
“What he thought was a map?” queried Thomas.
“India is a land of mysticism, Dr. Silkstone, of rich and fanciful things, where legends abound. Rumor had it that I had an ancient map in my possession. It was a decorative silk scroll, embroidered with lines and symbols. No Englishman could either read it or translate it. But for some reason, Farrell thought it valuable.”
“Sanskrit,” murmured Thomas.
“Meaningless patterns,” Motte countered with a flap of his hand. “Anyway, the scoundrel insisted I give him a down payment to secure my interest in the merchant’s stone that he intended to purchase. Twelve thousand pagodas I gave him. That’s almost five thousand pounds. He assured me it was worth at least fifty times that amount.”
“And that was the last you saw of him?”
“Oh, I waited for him to show up with the stone, of course. But he did not. He was meeting with the merchant and the miner at the appointed time, but he never returned. I was forced to cut my losses.”
“You were plunged into debt?”
Motte shook his head. “Hear me out, if you will, Doctor.” He sighed deeply. “I was still reeling from the financial blow when, three days later, I was invited by the nizam himself to witness an execution. As an Englishman of some standing, I was to be the honored guest. I never relished the prospect. I had been to a couple before. But this, this was to be a special execution. It was the nizam’s birthday and he had selected the method of death. A merchant had been found guilty of murdering one of his escaped miners and stealing a large diamond. His punishment was to be pulled limb from limb by an elephant.”
Thomas thought immediately of the newspaper cutting and the same wave of revulsion flooded over him. “But I have seen a report of this, sir.”
Motte shrugged. “It was much talked about at the time, but I doubt it mentioned that the merchant’s young son fell at the nizam’s feet and begged mercy for his father.”
Thomas pictured the heart-wrenching scene. “What happened?”
A look of disgust swept over Motte’s face. “The nizam ordered the child strapped to a chair by his throne and forced him to watch his father’s anguish in front of the cheering crowd.” He closed his eyes for a second. “I am not squeamish, Silkstone, but the sight will stay with me for as long as I live. Can you blame the boy for swearing to avenge his father’s death by killing everyone who had betrayed him?”
Thomas’s mind was racing to catch up with the shocking story Motte was telling. “What happened to the child?” he asked.
Motte’s tone lightened slightly. “The boy was shown pity by an Englishman who took him into his service.”
“An Englishman?” Thomas was intrigued.
“Yes.” Motte fixed Thomas with a stare. “An Englishman who arrived in London but recently, bringing his trusty servant with him.”
“And this trusty servant . . . ?”
“. . . is the very same.” Motte nodded.
“And you fear that this young man is still hell-bent on revenge?”
Motte reached into his waistcoat pocket. “I know he is.” He flourished a letter. “Shortly before he left India, he wrote to me in jail. After all these years, he was finally traveling to England. He taunted me with his intentions, knowing I was powerless to act. Before I could warn anyone, his ship had set sail for London.” He handed the letter to Thomas, who scanned the poorly formed characters. The English was poor, but the intention very plain.
“Who is the young man’s master?”
Motte shook his head. “I fear I have not managed to find out. All I know is that he is a surgeon.”
“A surgeon!” repeated Tho
mas. He leaped to his feet. “A surgeon turned academic?”
Motte’s head jerked up. “You have someone in mind?”
“I do,” said Thomas, heading for the door. Everything was suddenly falling into place. “And from what you’ve told me, I fear he could be the next victim.”
Chapter 54
There was a great flurry of excitement as Professor Carruthers’s carriage pulled up outside Sir Theodisius’s house. Plans had changed due to the elderly anatomist’s indisposition. Rather than arrive at the venue alone, the professor had decided to rendezvous with the rest of the party prior to setting off for St. James’s Park. He had therefore hired his own carriage.
The Oxford coroner stood on the threshold to greet the professor. Lady Pettigrew was dressed in all her finery and even sported two stuffed finches in her hair. Richard, too, was dressed in a new pale blue silk coat.
“Can I travel with Sir Theo, Mamma, please?” asked Richard as they gathered on the steps.
“You may, my dear, if that is well with Sir Theo,” replied Lydia, looking at the coroner as she spoke.
Sir Theodisius chuckled. “Lady Hattie and I always welcome young company. Of course you may, young sir,” he said, and with that Richard was ushered into the first carriage, together with Nurse Pring. In Dr. Carruthers’s absence, Lydia was left to take the other.
“Then may I have the honor of accompanying you, your ladyship?” asked the professor from the carriage window.
Lydia looked up at him. “The honor is mine, sir,” she said with a smile as she settled herself into the carriage, smoothing her skirts. The professor sat opposite, with Sajiv, resplendent in a saffron turban, next to him. A moment later the whip was cracked and off they went, and at a goodly pace behind the coroner’s carriage.
“And I believe congratulations are in order?” The professor’s droopy face suddenly lifted as he struck up the conversation.
Lydia smiled back. “Yes, indeed,” she replied. She touched her hand almost involuntarily, just to reassure herself that the ring remained on her finger.
The professor noted it, and an odd look returned to his face, as if an unwelcome thought or memory had reminded him of a past event. “A little more modest than your late husband’s diamond,” he said, thinking aloud.
The remark shocked Lydia, and she withdrew her hand like a crab retreats into its shell. “You knew my husband, Professor?” she asked, hiding the ring in the folds of her skirts.
Seeing her displeasure, however, Carruthers tried to rectify his thoughtlessness.
“Forgive me, your ladyship, I . . . I did not . . .” he said, groping for an excuse. “Yes, I did encounter your late husband.”
Although she was taken aback by his candor, Lydia had no desire to make the professor squirm with embarrassment any more than he already was.
“My late husband was an interesting character,” she told him with an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps we should leave it at that.”
The professor, eager to seize the diplomatic lifeline she had thrown him, had just begun to nod his head enthusiastically when their vehicle, which had made painfully slow progress, suddenly came to a halt.
The two carriages had originally set off in convoy, but as they approached the park, the thoroughfares had become unusually busy. Several times, the driver was forced to pull up to allow another conveyance to pass or overtake them. As a consequence the party became separated, Sir Theodisius’s carriage making better progress. Such delays put Lydia a little on edge. She began looking out of the window, wishing the buildings to pass faster. Now that they were stationary, the professor put his head out of the window to see what was amiss.
“Some chickens have escaped from their crate!” he told Lydia. “’Tis mayhem!”
Lydia looked out to see for herself several men running hither and thither after a dozen squawking fowl. Shouts and caterwauls filled the air, and it was a full five minutes until the road was once more cleared. By this time it was almost dark and buildings were no longer landmarks but obstacles to be avoided. In the gloom, the streets merged into one long thoroughfare that twisted and turned, with long bends and sharp angles. Indeed such was the general confusion of the journey that both Lydia and the professor assumed when the driver veered down a side street that he was taking a short cut to avoid the traffic.
Shortly after, however, Lydia began to express her doubts.
“Surely we must be nearing the park soon,” she said, lifting her gaze to the window once more.
The professor shrugged. “It is madness out there, your ladyship,” was all he could say.
Soon, however, they felt the carriage start to slow. Lydia craned her neck. “But surely this is the King’s Mews?” she asked.
The professor also peered out. “The King’s Mews?” he repeated incredulously. “By Jove, so it is.”
Although they were only a quarter of a mile from the park gates, Lydia knew they were not in the right place. They drew to a halt in front of a large brick block with grilles high up in the tall walls.
“This is where all the king’s carriages are kept,” she protested. “We are in the wrong place. We must tell the driver.”
A loud roar suddenly tore through the air, followed by several hollers or grunts.
“What on earth?!” Lydia’s hand flew up to her chest, as if to still her heart.
The professor smiled. “It must be one of the king’s tigers. Yes, indeed. There is also a small menagerie housed there, I believe, your ladyship.”
Lydia remembered the elephant. “Ah, yes,” she replied with a nod. “But what are we doing here? Surely we do not have to make our way to the park gates on foot?”
“Most strange,” agreed the professor as his left cheek began to twitch. “Most strange. Yes, indeed.”
Chapter 55
Darkness now cloaked St. James’s Park as Thomas frantically elbowed his way through the throng. Somewhere in the near distance the strains of violins could be heard. They mingled with the calls of vendors selling nosegays for the ladies and pies for the men. Ignoring the pain that had flared once more in his chest, the doctor sprinted toward the long gallery. Here the more genteel people who had paid a pretty penny for their tickets could be found. He prayed Lydia’s party would be there by now.
As Thomas ran, the first punch of a volley of rockets burst forth, scattering white sparks like diamonds into the dark blue sky. Screams went up from the crowd, which was taken unawares by the thunderous bangs. Next came a cascade of red feathers spilling out from a huge explosion of gold, then shards of silver that exploded and shimmered like stars. Loud alarums and squeals of delight rose into the air. A group of ladies nearby flapped their fans excitedly. Others broke into spontaneous applause.
The night air was heavy with the bitter smell of sulfur. Gray clouds of it rolled along like fog. There were other notes, too. Had he been there, thought Thomas, Dr. Carruthers would have been able to identify them: antimony and possibly a hint of phosphorus. Noxious gases billowed in puffs where the fireworks had been ignited, as if from the mouth of some great unseen dragon. Where amid all this was Professor Carruthers, and where was Lydia?
Soon he reached the gallery and his heart missed a beat when he managed to pick out Sir Theodisius in no time at all. He and his gentlemen friends were laughing loudly, downing cups of punch. Lady Pettigrew was one of a huddle of elderly ladies, whispering and nodding as they watched the crowd like hawks. But of Lydia and the professor, there was no sign.
Richard, licking a lollipop, sat next to Nurse Pring. Spotting Thomas in the crowd straightaway, he leapt up.
“Dr. Silkstone!” he called, waving. The doctor hurried toward the young earl. “Where is my mamma, Dr. Silkstone?” he asked as Thomas drew level.
Thomas looked anxiously to Nurse Pring for an answer. “Her ladyship and the professor were following in the carriage behind, sir,” she replied with a shrug. “They must have been delayed.”
The news sounded alarm bells in Tho
mas’s head. His heart began to pound even faster in his chest.
“There you are, Silkstone!” The coroner’s voice boomed across the gallery. His face was flushed red, and it was immediately clear to Thomas that the punch had gone to his head. “By Jove! What a show, eh?”
“Lydia, sir,” replied the doctor, ignoring the coroner’s question. “Have you seen Lydia or Professor Carruthers?” His eyes were firmly set on the sea of heads in front of the gallery, scanning their familiar faces. Thomas edged forward. “Are her ladyship and Professor Carruthers not here, sir?” he asked. It was no use trying to suppress his mounting anxiety.
“Dash, no!” declared the coroner. “Must have got lost. Be about somewhere, Thomas. Do not worry yourself.” He lifted his tankard. “Here, have some punch. It’s got a real kick to it,” he added with a wink.
Lady Pettigrew chimed in: “’Tis a pity dear Lydia is missing the display.”
Thomas nodded. “Indeed,” he acknowledged solemnly. “And you do not know why she might be delayed?”
The elderly lady shook her head so that one of her bird ornaments dislodged itself slightly. “Although I believe the driver was new,” she added, not taking her eyes from the crowd before her.
“A new driver?” Thomas frowned.
“Yes, the professor’s boy recommended him. An Indian, I believe,” she said, fluttering her fan excitedly.
Thomas’s eyes widened, and his stomach churned at the news.
Lady Pettigrew noted his fearful expression. “Whatever is it, Dr. Silkstone?” she asked. She did not receive a reply. Thomas melted back into the crowd, his brain awash with nightmarish thoughts. An Indian driver? A stranger, recommended by Sajiv? Loyal, dutiful young Sajiv. He tried to suppress the thought, but like an infected swelling it kept rising and throbbing in his brain. Could he be the dead merchant’s son? How easily he could slip out of Hollen Street to commit his heinous crimes. Where had he been the other day when the professor was at the park with Lydia? Ransacking her bedchamber perhaps? Thomas suddenly thought of the other opportunities the servant had been handed: Had he not had access to the opium and the acacia honey? Perhaps it was he who was listening when he had hatched the plan to trap the professor? And now he was missing along with Lydia. Thomas had to get away from these crowds. He had to find her before Sajiv took yet more revenge. If Professor Carruthers was, indeed, the surgeon who showed pity to him, then perhaps he was safe, but Lydia, as Farrell’s widow, would surely be the deluded servant’s next victim.