Shadow of the Raven (11 page)

“I intend to bring her back here to Boughton, Mr. Diggott,” he replied, adding: “She will be home soon.”

 

Before returning to the Three Tuns down along Brandwick High Street, Thomas made his way to the apothecary's shop. As well as replenishing his supply of gauze, exhausted in the treatment of young Diggott, he wished to pay his respects to Mr. Peabody. The little man, who seemed to be in a continual state of anxiety, had been most helpful to him during the Great Fogg. He found him behind the counter, as active as a weevil in a sack of flour.

“Dr. Silkstone,” Peabody greeted the doctor as he walked in the door. The familiar film of perspiration that always added a sheen to his face was still evident.

“Mr. Peabody,” said Thomas with a smile. The apothecary was occupied labeling various jars. “I see you are busy, as usual.”

Peabody paused for breath in an exaggerated gesture, his shoulders slumping. “If there is a complaint, Doctor, then the people of Brandwick will suffer from it.”

Thomas understood his meaning. There were many, especially those better off in the village, who worried themselves unduly over their bowel movements or their occasional aches and pains.

“At least the noxious fog has lifted,” said Thomas.

The apothecary nodded. “Now 'tis bellyaches and gripes that ail them,” he mumbled, resuming his labeling.

“Bellyaches and gripes?” repeated Thomas.

“Yes,” nodded the little man. “And nausea, among the men in particular.” He took his kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

“And you know of no especial cause of these symptoms?” pressed Thomas.

The apothecary paused, then shook his head. “I can't say I do, Doctor. But 'tis a sickness that grows daily.” He palmed his hands onto the counter as if to draw an end to that line of conversation. “Now, sir, how may I serve you today?” he asked.

I
t was Mistress Geech, the landlady of the Three Tuns, who saw to Thomas's needs that evening. She was a cheerful, bawdy sort of woman, popular with the locals. A strand of auburn hair had worked its way loose and hung down from beneath her white cap, giving her a slightly wanton look as she stood behind the bar. Thomas did not know whether that was intentional or not. All he cared about was being left alone in his room to read and to think. He hoped sleep would follow. He ordered a plate of cold cuts and a tankard of ale.

“Early to bed, eh, Doctor?” asked the landlady cheekily.

Ignoring the obvious innuendo, Thomas nodded. “It has been a challenging day,” he replied with a tired smile.

“Been up to Raven's Wood again, have we?”

Thomas shot her a curious look. “How . . . ?”

She gave a throaty giggle. “Get to know all sorts here, Doctor,” she told him with a wink, adding enigmatically: “The woods have eyes and ears.”

Thomas found this last remark somewhat unnerving, although he hoped he did not show it in his face. He took the opportunity to pry deeper. “Yes, I came across an old ruin, quite by chance,” he said, watching for any reaction. “Most enchanting,” he added. He noted that her eyes slid away for a fraction of a second, before returning to meet his gaze.

“Well, I hope you'll be comfortable here,” she told him cheerily, bobbing a curtsy behind the desk. Thomas felt her eyes follow him as he began to ascend, and he even heard what he thought was a heavy sigh, as if she were relieved that he was out of the way for the rest of the evening. He suspected he knew the reason.

 

In a small outhouse just off the inn's courtyard, Peter Geech was holding up a flask to the lamplight. He'd had great hopes of the new still. He had bought it last year, but the liquid it produced was on the cloudy side. Flattening his thin lips, he clucked like a hen; then after a moment, he shrugged. The murkiness would be an issue for the more genteel sort. They liked their gin, if indeed they liked it at all, to be clear. But he'd mixed his with a measure or two of powdered chalk to lessen the effects of the turpentine. The last thing he wanted was a death on his hands. His gin was a slow pickler, not a poison, as such, although many a regular with a sore head would dispute it. But this latest batch would be passable. He'd just make sure he brought it out late into the evening when most of the punters were well into their cups anyhow and too far gone to notice.

He and his stable lad, Aaron Coutt, would be working well into the early hours. The copper had only just got up to heat and they'd fallen behind. He had left it to his wife and Molly, the serving maid, to round up the last stragglers in the taproom. Mistress Geech had a fine left foot and had been known to kick a man ten paces down the street when minded to. She would clear up the tankards and lock the doors, then join him as soon as she was able in the outhouse to lend a helping hand. This was where he concocted what he called his special mix. His wife and most others called it mother's ruin or mother's milk, depending on their taste. Everyone else called it fire water.

The room was steamy and the windows were misted, which suited his purpose. Working by the light of a couple of lamps, Coutt was pounding the mash for a second batch. Geech watched him run the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. It was tough work, pulping the barley malt. He, meanwhile, prized open the lid of a small cask and peered inside. The vapor wafted up and hit him full in the face, instantly making him splutter and gasp for breath. His eyes began to water and he flapped the fumes away with his hand. Such discomfort, nevertheless, brought a smile to his lips. He knew this would be a good batch.

Careful not to spill a drop, he poured the contents of the flask into the still's condenser and opened the valve. On a square of muslin before him sat a mixture of leaves and seeds: an unappealing pile of detritus from the woodland floor, beechnuts and acorns. He'd long ago given up on using the magic ingredients that transformed the base liquid into a worthy liquor: cardamom, coriander, orrisroot, and lemon peel. Such luxuries were far too expensive and were never appreciated by his clientele. So now he simply mixed beech mast with a dash of powdered chalk and no one was the wiser. The quality of the flavor seemed the last thing to bother his customers. All that interested them was the speed with which oblivion settled upon them, dulling their brains to the cold or hunger or scurvy, or whatever other ill pained them.

He poured in the token crushed juniper berries and the rest of the ingredients and looked at the mixture longingly. He could do with a good tipple himself right now, if he didn't value his guts so much. Business was brisk and he was tired. Ever since the new steward had been installed at Boughton and the rents had gone up, the villagers seemed to look to their bumpers for comfort. How did the saying go? One man's meat is another man's poison. How true, he mused. He was chuckling to himself when he heard footsteps. They were light on the cobbles, but hurried. The latch lifted quickly and in came his wife. He could see that her pretty plump face was sullied by a scowl.

“What is it, my precious?” He put down his flask and walked over to her, his arms outstretched.

Remaining flattened against the door, she regained her breath. “You was right,” she panted.

Coutt stopped mashing and looked toward his mistress.

Geech's brow creased. “And?”

“He were up in Raven's Wood. I'm sure he knows something.”

Geech, however, seemed not in the least bit concerned. He turned and pulled the stopper from a bottle that rested on his table. This was from a quality batch, the sort he reserved for himself and his friends. Pouring the relatively clear liquid into two pots, he handed his wife one, but she remained on edge.

“What if he finds out? What if he calls the customs men?” Her imagination was running away with her.

“Now, now, my lovely,” soothed her husband. “Have no fear. We are beyond the reach of the law, remember?” He drew his wife close to him and hugged her just a little tighter than she found comfortable.

A
s the coach bounced and lurched its way back to London, Thomas stared down at the palm of his hand. In it he held the silver locket that Lydia had given him all those months ago. He remembered how he had been riding down Boughton's drive with a heavy heart. He had not known when, or even if, he would see her again, when Will Lovelock, the carrot-haired groom, had come running after him. Gasping for breath, he had panted out his message. Her ladyship wanted Thomas to have the locket as a keepsake. He had slipped it into his pocket and carried it with him ever since. Now, however, he knew she would take it back if she could. She felt he had betrayed her, and knowing that she thought him so utterly dishonorable hurt more than any scalpel ever could. That was why he could stay in Brandwick not a day longer. Adam Diggott's inquiry about Lydia kept repeating itself in his head. It had jolted him back to his own pain. He needed to return to London. His investigation into the surveyor's murder would have to wait. So, early the very next morning, after a near sleepless night, he had ridden to Oxford and from there had taken the next available coach for the capital.

Only four days had passed since Thomas's last visit to Bethlem Hospital, yet, once again, the bulging-eyed receptionist was being exceptionally abstruse.

“Lady Lydia Farrell?” The clerk looked down the list in a ledger, as he had so many times before, and as on previous occasions he cleared his throat. Thomas was preparing himself for another rejection, so the response that came this time was wholly unexpected.

“She is not here, sir.”

The words had barely left the man's lips before Thomas felt the room spin. “What do you mean she is not here?”

The clerk looked up imperiously. “Precisely what I say, Dr. Silkstone. Her ladyship left us two days ago.”

“But this cannot be.” His initial bewilderment started to give way to anger. He felt it rising in him. He clenched his fists in an effort to remain calm. “Let me see.”

The clerk obligingly slid the ledger across the desk toward Thomas and pointed at an entry next to Lydia's name. It read:
Transferred.

“Transferred,”
Thomas read aloud. “What does this mean? Where has she been taken?”

With a tilt of his head and a smug smile, the clerk replied, “I am not at liberty to say, sir.” There was a certain swagger in his manner as he retrieved the ledger with a flamboyant gesture. He had the upper hand, and his arrogance unleashed Thomas's fury.

“Where is Dr. Cameron?” His balled fist thudded on the desk, causing the clerk to shudder. “I would speak with him. Now!” He banged the desk again.

The clerk rose warily, backing away from Thomas. “I am to tell you that Dr. Cameron is away. You are to leave now, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, tugging at a cord.

Within seconds the same thugs who had forcibly ejected him before appeared once more and went through their ruffians' routine. Yet again Thomas found himself being marched through the gardens toward the main gate. A few of the patients were being escorted 'round the grounds. Some sat on benches. These were the inmates regarded as posing no threat either to themselves or to others. Perhaps they had endured some mental breakdown and their faculties had temporarily deserted them. Perhaps they had acted rashly out of a moment of passion and lived to regret it. There were so many ways to madness, thought Thomas as the main gates loomed up ahead. And for a moment, his outrage was so great that he felt himself poised on the brink of it himself, when suddenly a vision broke into his thoughts. To his left he fancied he could see the elfin-featured woman who had so reminded him of Lydia. She was out walking with an attendant. He recalled her name.

“Anna!” he cried.

Clearly riled by such impertinence, the guards jostled Thomas on, yet, ignoring his vulgar escorts, the young woman broke away from her nurse and approached him.

“Sir! Sir!” she called to him. She seemed agitated and, despite the presence of the guards, snatched at his hand.

“Where is she, Anna? What have they done with Lydia?” he yelled as she ran alongside him like a faithful dog.

“Shut it, will ya?” one of the guards warned him.

Undeterred, Anna looked up at Thomas with large, dark eyes. “She's gone,” she said breathlessly.

“Where did they take her, Anna?” He dragged his feet so that the guards were forced to take all his weight. “I can find her if you tell me.”

Suddenly her eyes widened at the prospect of seeing her friend again. For a split second she gave Thomas hope that she knew where Lydia had been taken. He held his breath. But then her expression changed to one of bewilderment.

“Where did she go? I must look for her!” she pined.

She broke away, shaking her head, and began ambling off down the path, calling Lydia's name.

T
he bell of St. Swithin's tolled the curfew. It was seven o'clock and the sun had set only minutes before. Doors were bolted and windows shut. The streets of Brandwick were deserted, save for the odd stray dog or contemptuous cat that flaunted the magistrate's edict. Nobody was allowed out in the evening until the surveyor's murderer had been caught. Nicholas Lupton had made the order and the local magistrate had sanctioned it. Until the perpetrators of the most heinous crime against the commissioner were apprehended, all villagers would be confined to their homes after dark. No man, woman, or child was granted leave without express permission and only then in the case of life or death. Evil was abroad in Brandwick once more, and suspicion festered like untreated sores among the villagers. Neighbors gave one another sly glances and women doubted their husbands, but they all harbored the guilty feeling that the surveyor and his man only got what they deserved. They'd no right to measure and map and apportion land as they saw fit; land that had belonged to the village since before the days of French William.

Nevertheless, the general feeling was fearful rather than angry, curious rather than belligerent. What they'd heard were rumors, gossip, tittle-tattle. But there was no smoke without fire—any charcoal burner would tell you that—and if the worst came to pass and an Act of Enclosure was sanctioned by Parliament, then there was nothing to be done.

The watchman, Walter Harker, was charged with enforcing the curfew. He had allowed Widow Treacher to deliver Susan Thornley of her fourth child when she went into labor past midnight, and he had sanctioned the Reverend Unsworth's presence when old Clem Widginton began to fade rapidly in the early hours of a Tuesday morning and wanted to prepare to meet his maker. Other than for those most pressing circumstances, no one had been allowed to leave their dwellings after nightfall. Or so it was said.

Just why Abe Diggott chose to break the curfew that evening was not immediately apparent. It was generally thought that he must have been in his cups, that the gin must have got the better of him yet again. Ever since his grandson had received the lash, he had been acting in a peculiar manner, raucous and confused by turns. His dull pallor was most evident and his weight loss was clear for all to see.

“Who's there?” asked Walter Harker, making his way up the High Street, his lantern in his hand. He saw a shadow moving from cottage to cottage and heard a footfall. His cudgel drawn, he ventured closer, only to find Abe Diggott cowering near a wall.

“What you doin'?” queried Harker, grabbing the old man by the shirt and hoisting him up. It was then that he saw the earthenware flagon in his hand.

“'Twas empty,” said the coppicer hoarsely, pointing to the flagon.

“And you went to the Three Tuns to get it filled again?” said Walter Harker, nodding. He leaned closer and sniffed at the old man's breath. “You've had enough already this evening,” he told him stiffly, relieving him of the flagon. Taking him by the arm, the constable shook his head. “Don't you know there's a curfew? If Lupton's men find you, there'll be hell to pay, you old fool,” he chided.

Abe Diggott came quietly. He seemed not to understand, but obeyed meekly as Walter Harker led him up the High Street, back toward his cottage at the foot of the slope that led to Raven's Wood. His steps were faltering and once he staggered and had to right himself against a post, but they made steady progress. The fulling mill and the nearby cluster of cottages had just come into view when the sound of horses' hooves splashing through muddy puddles could be heard. Walter Harker turned to see two men on horseback approaching through the gloom. As they drew close, he recognized them as Lupton's sidemen, all brute force and brawn.

“What you got here, then?” called one of them, pulling up his mount beside the constable.

Harker sketched a smile. He identified the man by his flattened nose. He knew him to be the prizefighter, Seth Talland. He also knew he had to make light of old Diggott's transgression.

“A straggler. The old fool's pissed as a newt. Couldn't find his way home.” He slapped Abe Diggott playfully on the back and the old man lurched forward, nearly falling. “Look at him, see? I be taking him to his bed,” he said laughingly.

Talland, however, did not see the humor in the incident.

“Not so fast,” he called as Harker turned to resume his journey. “'E's broken the curfew.” The constable stopped in his tracks. “There's a price to pay for that.”

Harker wheeled 'round. “The man's done no harm,” he complained.

“How can you be sure?” came Talland's riposte. His companion nudged his horse forward now, so that the two of them towered over the constable and his charge.

“I've known Abe Diggott for a good forty years and I know he's no murderer, if that's your meaning,” replied Harker.

“You think so, do you?” growled the prizefighter. “Let's see about that, shall we?”

The constable frowned. “What do you mean?”

At that point, Diggott staggered once more and perched himself on a nearby tree stump. “Home,” he moaned.

“Yes, old man,” said the other sideman gleefully. “Show us where you live, eh?!”

“There's no need—” interjected the constable.

“Show us!” barked Talland, pointing to the cosh that hung from his belt to show he meant business. “Hurry!” he cried.

So with renewed vigor, Walter Harker crooked his arm through Abe Diggott's and half dragged him the fifty yards or so up the track to his cottage. Talland rode at their side, the other sideman behind, corralling both men like sheep, and it was the clatter of hooves that alerted Adam Diggott. He had only just realized that his father was missing and was about to break the curfew himself to search for him when he heard the approaching horses. Opening the shutters he looked out just in time to see the men dismounting. Seconds later one of them was shouldering the door and bursting into the cottage.

Rachel, wiping supper dishes, screamed. Jake, still lying in his cot, moaned.

“What the . . . ?” cried Adam, standing stunned by the door.

Talland and the other thug hustled the old man into the cottage, where he crumpled like a sack of old rags against the wall. Walter Harker stayed close by him, his face like thunder.

“We have authority to search this dwelling,” said Talland, hands on hips, the cosh clearly visible as it dangled from his belt.

“What for?” protested Adam. He cast a look at Harker, but it was all the constable could do to shake his head helplessly and shrug.

Without a word, both sidemen marched into the room and began to overturn the few sticks of furniture there were; three chairs and two stools were sent skittering across the earth floor. Talland pulled out drawers in the dresser, emptying the contents where he stood. The other man, thickset and swarthy, went over to the cot at the far side of the room.

“What are you doing?” shouted Adam, remonstrating with the men. “What are you looking for?” He followed them toward where Jake lay.

The swarthy man, rifling through bedcovers and causing the boy to cry out, turned at Adam's question. “This,” he said. In his hand he held up a flintlock pistol like a trophy.

“And this,” announced Talland, emerging from the door of a second room, brandishing a large gold pocket watch.

Adam Diggott's jaw dropped open and his eyes bulged at the sight. “No. No, it cannot be!”

Talland moved forward and stood looking down on Abe Diggott as he mumbled and shook in the corner. Bending low, he and the other sideman heaved the old man up; then he clamped his hand on his bony shoulder. “Abe Diggott, I arrest you for the murder of Jeffrey Turgoose,” he declared.

The old drunk shook his head. A pewter plate Rachel had been holding fell from her hands and clattered on the floor. And, as if the noise helped him gain a little clarity, Abe began to protest his innocence.

“No. I didn't kill no one! Tell them, Adam!” he shrieked. He tried to stagger over to his son, but the sideman held him fast. Adam moved closer to his father and grabbed the old man by the arm, but the swarthy brute struck him in the face, sending him hurtling to the floor. They pulled the old man's arms behind his back, and he cried out in pain as they tied his hands securely.

Tightening the knots, the other sideman lowered his lips to his prisoner's ear. “Sir Montagu will be pleased to see you,” he growled.

By this time Adam was on his feet once more. The sidemen swapped glances.

“Why don't we take the other one, too?” suggested the swarthy one.

Suddenly Abe Diggott was shoved to one side like a discarded sack, and the two sidemen lunged toward Adam.

“No!” screamed Rachel. Running in front of her husband, she tried to bar the men's way, clawing at their faces with her nails. She succeeded for a moment, drawing blood on Talland's cheek with her scratches. Adam seized the opportunity and dashed out of the open door, before his wife was grabbed and thrown to the floor. The ruffians followed outside, but they were too late. Adam Diggott had already jumped on one of their horses and a second later was galloping off up the slope toward Raven's Wood.

Talland mounted his horse, too, and rode off in pursuit, while the other man remained to guard his prisoner.

“He'll get 'im,” he snarled, walking back into the cottage. He headed toward the old man, bound and bewildered on the floor. Once again Rachel headed to protect her father-in-law.

“Leave him,” she cried, planting her hands against the sideman's chest and trying to push him away. Walter Harker, bewildered and angry by turn, came to her. Putting his arms around her shoulders, he looked deep into her frightened eyes.

“You'll have to let the law take its course, my dear,” he told her, as the sideman heaved Abe Diggott toward the door.

They both knew what that meant.

 

Thomas sat staring at the open volume that lay on the desk in his laboratory. Three days had passed since his last visit to Bedlam; three days spent in anguish. He had no idea where Lydia had been taken, so on Dr. Carruthers's suggestion he had consulted a list of private madhouses within a seven-mile radius of London and Westminster. Such premises were, in theory, licensed by the Royal College of Physicians. He knew, however, that so many of these mansions of misery were simply dumping grounds for discarded wives—women of breeding consigned to the madhouse to enable their husbands to install new mistresses. If they were not mad when they entered such institutions, they were soon turned so by the barbarous treatment they were forced to endure. A pencil tick by a name denoted that Thomas had paid the establishment a visit. There were six ticks, but none of the calls had yielded any useful information, except to confirm what he already knew: that these hospitals were little more than prisons for inconvenient wives, places where well-born women became nameless and faceless and deprived of their children for no crime other than marrying a brute.

Thomas had been working by candlelight, hunched over small print. He rubbed his tired eyes and eased himself back in his chair. The hour was approaching six and he knew that Dr. Carruthers would soon be trying to persuade him to break for supper. Stretching his aching arms wide, he looked up and saw his pet white rat scuttling about the workbench.

“Where is she, Franklin, eh?” he said out loud, sighing deeply. “Where is she?”

“You are talking to that rat again?” came a familiar voice around the door. It was Dr. Carruthers. Thomas had not heard the usual tap of his stick and jumped up from his seat out of habit.

“I am afraid so, sir,” he replied, smiling. As he did so, he watched Franklin, frightened by the sudden noise, bolt across the workbench and through the door of his open cage, sending papers flurrying in his wake. “You made us both jump!” he added.

The old anatomist smiled. “I like to keep you on your toes, young fellow,” he replied; then, on a more serious note he inquired: “I take it you have made no progress?”

“I regret to say no, sir,” Thomas replied, walking over to Franklin's cage to secure the door. The rat had retreated to his normal place of safety, and as he fastened the lock behind the creature, a thought suddenly occurred to Thomas. “Or perhaps I have,” he said suddenly.

“Oh?”

“Where is the last place that anyone would expect Lydia to be held captive?”

Dr. Carruthers felt his way farther into the laboratory and leaned against the workbench. “I suppose I would have to say in Sir Montagu's home,” he mused.

“Precisely,” replied Thomas. “I vouch that he has taken her back to Draycott House, where he can personally see to it that she is denied her liberty.”

The old anatomist nodded. “I see your logic,” he said slowly. “So next you will be paying Malthus a visit?”

“I am sure my journey will not be wasted.”

Buoyed by his latest theory, Thomas joined Carruthers for supper; then both men retired to the study for a nightcap and their usual read of the newssheet.

“You will leave tomorrow?” inquired the old anatomist as Thomas poured him his customary brandy.

“I will, sir,” he replied, handing his mentor his drink, then seating himself by the fire.

Picking up the copy of
The London Chronicle
that Mistress Finesilver had laid on the arm of the chair, Thomas scanned the front page. There was news from Parliament and gossip from Bath, alongside sundry other tidbits. As usual he turned to the obituaries next. There would almost invariably be a tribute to someone Dr. Carruthers had treated during his long and illustrious career.