Shadow of the Raven (12 page)

Thomas cleared his throat and began to read out loud. “Let's see who we have today, sir,” he began. “The Earl of Harlow, aged ninety-two.”

Carruthers's lips lifted at the corners. “I attended him once at Ascot. Kicked by a horse at the races, he was!” he recalled cheerfully.

Thomas continued. “Sir Robert Knox, eighty, Whig politician.”

The old anatomist heaved his shoulders and snorted. “ 'Twas a wonder he lived so long. There were plenty who would have got rid of him sooner, including myself.”

Expecting Thomas to continue reading, Carruthers inclined his head to listen once more. When his companion remained silent, however, the old anatomist tapped his white stick on the floor.

“So who's next, young fellow? Tell me another knave or varlet who has shuffled off this mortal coil.”

Thomas lifted his head from the newssheet. His face was as white as the paper on which the words were printed. Looking down once more, he saw the notice swim in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth, but the name snagged in his throat.

“Well?” Carruthers snapped impatiently.

Thomas swallowed and forced himself to push the words onto his tongue.

“Lady Lydia Farrell,” he said. “Lydia is dead.”

T
here was still a chill on the spring breeze, but the sun shone and it called the winter-weary parishioners of Brandwick to market like a peal of bells to church. There was hardly any fresh produce to be had. The harsh frosts had taken their toll on the winter wheat, and the dried legumes were in short supply, but there was enough milk, butter, and cheese to satisfy the demand. And for those whose tastes stretched beyond the dairy parlor, there was tea, too, if you knew whom to ask. Few of the villagers could afford the proper leaves, of course, so they were happy to flout the law and settle for the next best thing. Until recently one of the servants at Boughton Hall had supplemented his living by collecting, drying, and rolling discarded leaves and reselling them for a pretty penny to those whose palates were more discerning than their pockets would allow. Now, however, the village had a new, more plentiful source of tea that bypassed the traditional market. Even the new vicar, the Reverend Unsworth, had been known to imbibe on such ill-gotten leaves. He was riding past the stalls in the High Street on his way to Boughton Hall. The village was in the grip of a general malaise.

News that the traditional annual ceremony of the beating of the bounds was threatened with cancelation only added to the melancholic mood. The day was usually one of mirth and merriment, when villagers walked the boundaries of the parish. Maidens carried nosegays and apprentices were given the day off. There was, however, one bright spot on the Brandwick horizon. Now that at least one of the surveyor's murderers had been apprehended, and the other would be caught soon enough, the vicar hoped for a return to some semblance of normality. Good cheer in the face of adversity was to be encouraged, he told himself. He doffed his hat to anyone who would look his way.

Early that morning he had received a message that bid him pay an urgent visit to Mr. Lupton. He assumed it was in relation to his recent inquiry about the establishment of a workhouse in the village for those who were dispossessed. A letter, written on behalf of the parish board, had been dispatched a few days ago. In it the members of the board informed Mr. Lupton that a vacant property in the village, belonging to the Boughton Estate, had been identified as a possible venue. It would take a little work to convert it into suitable premises for the anticipated dozen or so occupants, but it could be done. He felt encouraged by such a swift response.

The reverend found Mr. Lupton seated at his desk in the study at Boughton. Although he rose to greet him as he entered the room, the steward's expression was so grave it seemed that he was burdened by a huge weight.

“Please be seated,” he said. The vicar did as he was bid, while Lupton remained standing, his features set hard. Any feelings of optimism that the reverend had felt on his journey to the hall were now dashed, only to be replaced by a sense of dread.

“I fear I have been in receipt of some tragic news, Reverend Unsworth,” Lupton began.

The vicar's thoughts immediately turned to Sir Montagu Malthus. He recalled his surgery a few weeks before and hoped the wound had not become infected and led to his demise.

“Sir Montagu?” he ventured.

The steward frowned and shook his head. “No, I am pleased to say he is in rude health,” he said.

“Praise be,” said the reverend, lifting his eyes heavenward. He shifted in his seat. “Then . . . ?”

Lupton's body shuddered as he sighed deeply. “I fear it is Lady Lydia.”

The vicar leaned forward, his eyes wide and staring. Like every soul in the parish and its surrounds, he was aware of her hospitalization. “Her ladyship?”

Lupton nodded and pushed the latest copy of the
Oxford Journal
across the desk. “The announcement,” he muttered. “You can read it for yourself.”

The vicar looked down at the print, which seemed to blur before his very eyes. Trying hard to focus, he pored over the text. An insertion at the bottom of the death notices confirmed the shocking news.
On Friday last Lady Lydia Sarah Farrell, of Boughton Hall, in the parish of Brandwick, following a short illness.
He lifted his gaze.

“But this is most tragic,” bleated the vicar. “Most tragic, indeed. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

Lupton's brows knitted. “Terrible news, yes, Vicar. A seizure, I believe.” He turned his back on the shocked clergyman, as if to hide his own grief. After a moment, he seemed to have composed himself and turned once more. “We will need to make arrangements.”

The reverend nodded. “Of course. Her ladyship will be buried in the family vault?”

“Naturally.”

“Lady Lydia was well loved. There will be many mourners, no doubt.” The vicar was nodding to himself as he spoke, but Lupton was quick to upbraid him.

“No. No mourners, save for her immediate family. This will be a private affair,” he snapped.

Taken aback, the vicar twitched his lips into a nervous smile and blinked. “As you wish, sir.”

“It is the wish of Sir Montagu, Vicar, who is”—he stopped short and corrected himself—“who was her ladyship's legal representative.”

“Very well, sir.” The clergyman felt like a small child who was being scolded for speaking out of turn.

Lupton had walked behind him and now stood leering over him. Again Unsworth felt unduly pressured. He hoped for at least three days in which to prepare for the service. Once again he was thwarted.

“The interment needs to take place as soon as possible,” Lupton informed him.

“There will be hymns to choose, an order of service—” protested the reverend.

“I am afraid not.” The steward shook his head as Unsworth looked at him askance.

“I do not follow, sir.” The cleric's expression had changed from one of sympathy to one of deep concern.

Lupton returned to his desk and sat down. “Her ladyship died in London and her remains have been transported here. The journey was delayed, so she needs to be interred as soon as possible.” He added by way of clarification, if any were needed, “For delicacy's sake.”

The vicar nodded. He understood. He had heard about the unfortunate business of Lord Edward, how his remains were allowed to decay before burial in a most unseemly manner.

“Would Thursday be convenient? That would give me time to—”

Again Lupton broke in. “This afternoon, Vicar, if you please.”

The reverend's eyes opened wide once more. “This afternoon?” he repeated.

Lupton nodded. “Her ladyship has been prepared. Her coffin lies in the chapel as we speak.”

Reverend Unsworth let out a resigned sigh. He could not think of any further objections he might raise. “Very well. This afternoon it shall be, sir,” he said, rising. “I must prepare my vestments.”

Lupton pulled the bell cord and Howard soon appeared at the threshold to usher the vicar out. Before he did so, however, another thought occurred to Unsworth. He turned.

“And who will give the eulogy, sir?” he asked with a frown.

Lupton smiled. “Sir Montagu told me he wished to speak,” he replied. “This tragedy has hit him harder than anyone.”

 

Thomas was numb to the usual discomfiture experienced on his regular journeys to Oxford. Despite the fact that his shoulder was still not completely healed, the lurching and bounding no longer troubled him. He sat silent and impassive in his shock. Nothing seemed real to him since he had read the news that Lydia was dead. Time was standing still. The world had stopped. His very soul felt bandaged, distanced from reality and emotion. He arrived in the great city, unable to recall much of his journey, despite the fact that he had not slept during the ten hours he had been on the road. He had not even been able to shed a tear. And yet his demeanor was such that it alarmed Sir Theodisius Pettigrew the moment he set eyes on his visitor.

“Good God, Silkstone! But you look like death, man. What has befallen you?” he inquired when Thomas shambled into his office.

Lifting his head, the doctor fixed the coroner with his bloodshot eyes.

At the sight of his visitor's anguished demeanor, Sir Theodisius's forehead crumpled instantly into a frown. “You are the bearer of bad news.” It was a statement, not a question.

Thomas nodded. “Oh, sir, I fear so,” he replied, dropping into a chair. His expression was so pained and his anguish so plain that the coroner immediately feared the worst.

“Not Lydia?” He did not wait for a reply. It was enough to witness the young anatomist's dire condition. The coroner's own features twisted into a grimace.

“Oh no!” he gasped. “No!” Grasping his desk with both hands, as if to anchor himself in the moment, his eyes suddenly flooded. “'Tis not true! Tell me 'tis not true!” He searched Thomas's face frantically for some reassurance, but, finding none, he brought out his kerchief and held it to his face. The sight was too much for Thomas to bear, and he, too, for the first time, felt himself giving way to tears. Brushing them away with trembling hands, he roused himself from his torpor and made his way 'round the desk to put a comforting arm on Sir Theodisius's shoulders. He knew the coroner regarded Lydia as a daughter.

Lifting his brimming eyes to meet Thomas's, the coroner asked, “How? How did it happen?”

“According to the announcement in the newssheet, it was a ‘short illness'.” His voice shook as he spoke.

“What sort of illness?” The coroner groaned.

“The last time I saw her, she was in a terrible state. I fear her treatment may have taken its toll, sir.” Thomas fought back tears as he thought of Lydia's fragile body swathed in that despicable jacket. “If only I had taken her with me. I should have helped her escape.” Suddenly angry, he banged his fist on the desk.

“You must not blame yourself. You could have done no more.” Sir Theodisius shook his head as he dabbed his eyes, but the floodgates of Thomas's fury had been opened.

“But I do blame myself!” he cried, suddenly pacing the room. “I was playing by the rules and I should have learned by now that I cannot change anything by complying.”

The coroner's jowls quivered in protest. “But the hospital had certain procedures that had to be followed.”

Thomas, still pacing the room, shot back, “Don't you see? I let them put me in a straightjacket, too. I was weak. I should have acted!” He strode over to the window and gazed out, as if cursing the rest of humanity for going about its business while his own world seemed at an end. “I should have acted and now it's too late.”

Sir Theodisius could see there was no point in arguing with Thomas until the maelstrom in his mind had subsided. He had dealt with too many bereaved loved ones to know that anger and self-recrimination often followed a sudden death. His own experience in the aftermath of Jeffrey Turgoose's demise bore testament to that.

Both men remained silent for a few seconds, lost in their own personal agonies, until the coroner's mind suddenly turned to more practical matters that needed addressing.

“Do you know when the funeral will be?” he asked, his voice quavering.

Thomas, turning back from the window, faced Sir Theodisius, whose cheeks were reddened and his eyes still moist.

“No, sir, but I assume the burial will be in the family vault.”

“Of course.” The coroner paused for a moment, waiting for Thomas to say what needed to be said. He did not have to wait long. Walking toward the desk in a more measured manner, the doctor nodded, filled his lungs, and sighed deeply. Looking at Sir Theodisius squarely yet purposefully, he said, “We must leave for Boughton without delay.”

P
reparations for the formal public meeting at the Three Tuns that morning were well under way. Peter Geech was expecting most of the village to flood into his hostelry, and he knew space would be limited, like pouring a quart into a pint pot, but he could accommodate the gentlemen and more important tenants of the village in the upper room. The rest of the rabble would have to spill into the stableyard. The landlord had been running around like a headless cockerel, wishing he could have been in at least two places at once, so behind was he in his plans. There were seating arrangements to be organized and refreshments of ale, porter, and of course gin for his regulars, or sack for the gentlemen, to be made ready. Sir Montagu Malthus himself was to chair the meeting.

It was midmorning when the coach from Oxford to Brandwick pulled up in the High Street. Thomas had anticipated finding the village in mourning: the bells of St. Swithin's tolling, shops shut, the streets deserted as a mark of respect for Lydia, their mistress. But no, the place was much busier than usual. A regular flow of carriages and other vehicles seemed to be depositing passengers outside the Three Tuns.

Thomas frowned as his conveyance came to a halt opposite the inn. People were gathered on the street outside, seemingly anxious to be granted entry into the courtyard.

“What goes on?” asked the coroner.

Thomas thought for a moment. “What date is it?”

“The thirtieth, I believe,” replied Sir Theodisius, looking perplexed.

Thomas nodded. “Then this must be the public meeting called to discuss the Act of Enclosure.”

“But surely the meeting should have been postponed!” said the coroner crossly.

“Only if her ladyship's death had been publicly announced,” said Thomas, a look of resignation creeping across his face.

“You mean . . . ?”

“The villagers do not know,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Sir Theodisius slapped his huge thighs. “But you must attend the meeting in all haste and tell them,” he urged. Then, looking Thomas squarely in the eye, he added: “In her absence, you must be Lydia's mouthpiece. You must speak for her and Boughton.” His voice trembled as he spoke these last words.

Thomas knew what the coroner said was right. An image of Lydia flashed across his vision once more. She had never envisaged enclosing the estate, fencing it off and depriving the very poorest of their rights to collect fuel and forage in the woods and on the common.

“I shall. And you, sir; perhaps you could call at Boughton first? Lupton will be occupied at the meeting and the staff at the hall will be more than eager, I am sure, to tell you what they know,” he suggested.

The coroner nodded. “They will have been hit hard by the news,” he agreed.

Accordingly, Thomas alighted by the Three Tuns and his baggage was flung down to the ground. The coach, with Sir Theodisius still aboard, was soon on its way to Boughton. There was no time to lose. Hurriedly the doctor picked up his valise and headed through the archway of the Three Tuns. He found the courtyard packed with villagers. Men with tankards in their hands were leaning against posts or sitting on casks and hogsheads. Women were in small clusters, their arms crossed over their bosoms in fighting mode. The low drone of anxious chatter filled the air, but it stopped as soon as Thomas was spotted worming his way through the crowd. Heads turned and tongues wagged as the villagers eyed him climbing the staircase that led to the upper meeting room.

They do not know. No one has told them, he thought. Despite being surrounded by so many people, Thomas felt totally isolated. A bitter tang, like ashes, filled his mouth. He knew it to be the taste of sorrow.

Standing at the doorway, but out of view of those gathered, he surveyed the room. He counted sixteen men, seated on three rows of chairs in front of a long table at the top end of the room. Sir Montagu sat haughtily at its center, flanked by Nicholas Lupton and, to Thomas's surprise, the ailing Sir John Thorndike. There were other familiar faces: Bartholomew Bailey, the owner of the fulling mill, and two yeomen whose children he had treated for bronchitis. The other attendees, he assumed by their dress, were reasonably well-off tenants who farmed larger acreages. They were certainly not peasants. Heads to the fore, they were listening intently to a plump man whose shoulders bore a light dusting of wig powder. In his hand he held a short cane, which he used to point out various features on a map affixed to a board on an easel.

“In conclusion, gentlemen, we invite you to lodge your claims within the next two months. As the appointed commissioner”—he turned to defer to Sir Montagu—“I shall endeavor to ensure that all are dealt with fairly and that compensation is awarded where I see fit.”

So this must be Jeffrey Turgoose's replacement, thought Thomas. He recalled from the public notice that he had a business partner, a Mr. Mather, if he remembered correctly. He was no doubt a most competent individual, but Thomas also detected a definite whiff of pomposity about him, which seemed so endemic in English professionals. Behind him sat the younger man with the flame-red hair and the bandaged eye whom Thomas had encountered before at Boughton, when he seemed so distressed. He was, he surmised, the late Turgoose's assistant and chainman, James Charlton.

There were nods of approval from among the assembled tenants. Most could see the logic in what the commissioner had to say. It made no sense to farm in narrow bands and let the land lie fallow throughout the winter. Where was the merit in walking furlongs between their various strips when they could have their own neat parcels? As long as they were granted allotments in exchange for the land they held, then they would raise no objections. Polite applause rippled around the chamber.

Just when Thomas thought the meeting was about to end, however, he heard a rumpus from somewhere in the far corner. He craned his neck. A laboring man was elbowing his way to the front.

“I would speak!” cried the workman hoarsely. “I would speak for the commoners!” Thomas recognized him immediately as Will Ketch, who'd lost a daughter to the Great Fogg.

Nicholas Lupton shot Sir Montagu a look, then nodded to a bald-headed man who had been standing at his side throughout the proceedings.

“Commoners have no right to speak!” the steward called loudly over the din, in an effort to restore calm. As Ketch approached, the bald guard grabbed him by his arm and forced it behind his back. Another burly man assisted him and together they dispatched the cowman, cussing and shouting, from the room.

Sir Montagu, whose mask of complete decorum had slipped only a little during the incident, fingered the gavel on the table. He slid a sideways look of disdain at Lupton before moving to establish his authority once more.

“My apologies for that unfortunate interruption, gentlemen.” A wry smile played on his lips; then, turning to the surveyor, he said: “Thank you, Mr. Mather, for that most comprehensive review of the proposals, and now, if there is no other business . . .” He lifted the gavel and was just about to bring it down when Thomas knew it was his turn to interrupt the proceedings. Sidestepping into the room he called out, “But there
is
other business, Sir Montagu.”

All heads turned to see Thomas standing at the back of the chamber. Lupton leapt to his feet. “Remove this man!” he shouted, and one of the guards pushed his way toward Thomas. Clamping rough hands on his arm, he tried to pull him to the door.

Sir Montagu, however, had other ideas. “Wait,” he called, flapping his arm. “Dr. Silkstone is not a resident of this parish, but I am sure these gentlemen are curious to hear what he has to say.” He stretched his lips into a smile, but his hooded eyes gave nothing away. He rose in an unhurried manner and addressed Thomas directly. “Pray tell us what other business you would like us to discuss, Doctor,” he urged, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Pulling his arm away from the ruffian, Thomas tugged at his coat.

“I believe you should be making another announcement, sir.”

Sir Montagu arched a brow. “Another announcement? Really?”

The anger that his shock had suppressed for so long was now welling up inside Thomas. “An announcement, not just to this room, but to the people of Brandwick.”

The lawyer threw his head back in a scornful laugh. “And what might that be, Dr. Silkstone?”

Thomas felt his heart beat faster as he struggled to contain his rage, but the words came tumbling out in a great torrent. “Is it not your duty to announce that Lady Lydia Farrell, the mistress of Boughton and the woman whom the villagers held in the greatest regard and affection”—he was suddenly choked—“is dead?”

A collective gasp rippled 'round the room. The audience was stunned, as if everyone suddenly held their breath. All eyes fastened on the young doctor, who seemed most distressed.

“And that she died at your hand!” Thomas pointed at Sir Montagu.

The mark had been overstepped. At a signal from the lawyer, the guard grabbed hold of Thomas once more and began jostling him back through the door. This time he did not resist. He had said what he had come to say. The pent-up words had flooded from his mouth with such force that he felt drained, but relieved. Now the world knew. The people of Brandwick could join in his mourning and unite against the machinations of the man who was ultimately responsible for Lydia's tragic death. Dazed, he made his way downstairs and out into the courtyard, where the news was seeping out like blood from a severed vein.

A servant must have heard his rant in the upper room and rushed to impart news of it to the waiting crowd. In an instant the commoners who had gathered to hear their own fate no longer cared about themselves. One by one the men took off their hats and bowed their heads as a mark of respect. The women, too, lowered their gazes. Some did not try to staunch their tears.

Thomas stood among them, his chest still heaving with anger. Looking up, he could see that all eyes were on him, willing him to speak. He took a deep breath, trying to still his shaking body. Standing on a low wall, he addressed the crowd.

“I fear that what you have just heard is true,” he began. He drew another deep breath, as if to steady his anxiety. “Lady Lydia Farrell is dead.”

From the throng, a mournful wail rose into the air. Sobs were heard. Men shook their heads.

“How? How did she die?” came a shout.

“ 'Tis said she had a short illness,” replied Thomas. “I know no more than that, save to say her death was wholly preventable.” He surveyed the anxious faces and knew he needed to throw them a crumb of comfort. “But it is my intention to discover the whole truth, and when I do, I shall share it with you.” His voice cracked as he uttered these last words, and he bowed his head and stepped down from the wall. He felt the sturdy pats of men's hands on his shoulders. It seemed that finally they were acknowledging him as one of their own, no longer a foreigner. Their sympathy offered him some solace, but no hope. The truth was that after his outburst at the public meeting, he had even dashed any chance he might have had of attending Lydia's funeral. Now he would never be allowed back on Boughton soil, never see his beloved lying at rest in the family vault, never be able to say his final good-bye. As he made his way into the inn, he silently cursed himself for a display of impetuosity that was so at odds with his usual measured character. He felt lost and alone.