Shadow of the Raven (2 page)

“ 'Tis T-Talland, s-sir. I've lost s-sight of him.”

Turgoose strained his eyes in the woodland gloom.

“Talland,” he called. “Talland.”

They waited in silence for a reply. None came. Charlton's expression grew even more fearful. He started to say something. His mouth opened and he tried to form a word. His tongue jutted out and he grunted, but his master cut him off.

“We'd best catch up,” said Turgoose in his no-nonsense fashion. He did not want to betray his own unease at the prospect of losing their guard. If they were waylaid by an unruly mob here, they would have little chance of assistance from any quarter. He barged forward, past Charlton, intent on finding Talland, only as he did so he heard something crunch beneath the thin sole of his shoe. It was definitely not a twig. He glanced down. The carcass of a dead raven, or rather part of a carcass, lay under his foot. Its head was the only recognizable feature that remained intact. The rest of its body, save for a few feathers, was nowhere to be seen. The surveyor's nostrils flared in disgust as he scraped the sole of his shoe on nearby leaves.

“What time is it?” he barked, looking up to see the young man's anxious face.

Retrieving his watch on a chain from his pocket, Charlton flipped open the cover.

“Almost f-five of the clock, sir.”

“We must press on.” There was an urgency in the surveyor's voice. “Talland! Talland!” he called.

They quickened their pace in the direction where they had last seen their guide. Without him they were lost. They were too far into the woods now to retrace their steps. The old mare was happy to oblige at first and hurried her pace, too, but then slowed again, becoming agitated after only a few yards. The trees were pressing in around them, their branches twisted into grotesque shapes against the sulfur yellow of a dusky sky. A mist was rising from the woodland floor, making it harder to find their footing as the gradient began to climb again.

“Talland. Talland,” Turgoose called. Still no reply, but a noise.

“Wh-what . . . ?”

They stopped in their tracks to listen. They heard footsteps heading toward them through the undergrowth. Talland reappeared.

“All clear up ahead, sir,” the guard shouted to Turgoose.

Charlton edged forward, tugging at the mare's leading rein, but she refused to budge. Seeing that the young surveyor was having difficulty with the horse, Talland offered to lead her.

“Let me, sir,” he said, walking over to the mare and taking her by the rein. He began to walk on ahead once more.

Despite the fact that Talland had endeavored to clear it, the path grew narrower and the trees' gnarled fingers still reached across it. To make matters worse, the mist was thickening and made visibility poor. In his mind Turgoose determined that they should abandon this foray altogether. He would inform Talland of his decision. Before he could do so, however, he felt the whip of a twig lash his cheek, and the stinging sensation momentarily robbed him of his breath. He gasped and let out a sharp cry.

“S-sir!” came Charlton's plaintive voice from behind him.

“A scratch! Nothing to worry about.” Turgoose rubbed his cheek and felt the syrup of warm blood on his fingers. Talland, a few paces up ahead with the horse, did not even bother to look 'round. They set off once more. They had gone only another few paces, however, when, from somewhere nearby—it was hard to tell where—there came a shuffling and the sound of cracking twigs.

“S-sir, d-did . . . ?”

“Yes, I heard it, Charlton,” snapped Turgoose. Suddenly he found himself feeling very slightly afraid. Perhaps they were being watched by the villagers, mocked silently as they braved the woods. Or worse still, a highwayman. He would give the villain anything he wanted: his pocket compass, his silver flask, even all his equipment. But he digressed. He gathered his courage and tried to dismiss his fears. He looked up ahead. The horse's rump appeared now and again through the trees, but Talland seemed to be powering on regardless of his charges' much slower pace.

“S-sir. We must g-go back,” Charlton whined again.

“You're probably right,” conceded Turgoose. “We shall try again tomorrow.”

“Y-yes, s-sir,” answered the youth, his shoulders heaving in a sigh of relief.

No sooner had Turgoose decided to call to Talland, however, than up ahead he heard the horse let out a loud whinny.

“What the . . . ? Talland?” the surveyor called. There was no reply.

Charlton stayed rooted to the spot, his legs planted by fear. His body, however, began to shake violently. Turgoose shot the sniveling wreck of a youth an irritated look. He may have been his master, but he was not a soothsayer. How was he to know what had happened to Talland up ahead, any more than the chainman? Naturally the surveyor feared he had been ambushed, waylaid by the mob, but he must not show his own trepidation to Charlton. He appeared circumspect.

“Wait here,” he said.

“S-sir?” His assistant looked at him with baleful eyes, as if pleading not to be left alone. His master, however, was adamant. Charlton was more of a hindrance than a help. Nevertheless, as he started to walk toward where he had last seen Talland, he remembered the pistol. He patted his pocket. It was still there. He turned.

“If it makes you feel any safer, take this,” he said, plunging his hand into his coat and placing the firearm in the youth's palm. He closed Charlton's fingers 'round the walnut grip.

The chainman's eyes bulged as if he had just been handed a poisoned chalice or dubbed with a mariner's black spot.

“You'll not need to discharge it, I'm sure,” his master reassured him, “but if you are threatened, just point it at anyone who challenges you. They will take fright and run.”

Charlton, looking down at his hand, his mouth wide open, swallowed hard.

“Y-yes, sir,” he said.

Satisfied he had gone some way to relieving his assistant's anxiety, Turgoose turned and resumed his quest to find the guard. “Talland!” he called.

Within seconds Turgoose had disappeared from Charlton's sight and had located the prizefighter a few yards ahead. He was struggling with the mare. The old horse had stumbled into what seemed like a deep ditch and appeared unable to extricate herself. Talland was tugging at her rein, trying to coax her out, but she was reluctant to oblige.

“A sawpit, sir,” he explained, pulling at the horse. “Woods are full of 'em.”

Although he appreciated the difficulty that the situation presented, Turgoose found himself smiling. It was a minor inconvenience compared with the ambush he had envisaged.

“I must fetch Charlton. He will help you,” he told the guide. He turned back to retrace his steps. How relieved his chainman would be, he told himself, rustling back through the bushes once more. He could see him now, still visibly shaking, his back to him, but only a few feet away. His gangling body was framed by thick foliage. The surveyor opened his mouth to call to him, but before he could make a sound, the youth twisted 'round violently, his eyes wide in terror. Suddenly a high note split the air, a semiquaver of a shout, a warning perhaps. It was followed a heartbeat later by a shot, a single report that sent a murder of crows scattering above the trees. There was an odd gurgling sound, as if a new spring had bubbled its way above ground, a rustling of leaves, and a dull thud as Jeffrey Turgoose hit the strew of the woodland floor. Then silence. This time the dark stains that spattered his worsted stockings were not just mud. They were most definitely blood.

H
ad he not known what horrors lay within its walls, Dr. Thomas Silkstone would have surmised this magnificent building was a bishop's palace or the Lord Mayor of London's residence. The fine, towering façade of Bethlem Hospital was surrounded by pleasant avenues of trees and shrubs that afforded a place of recreation for those of its patients well enough to enjoy them. Yet, despite its pleasing aspect, the edifice before which he now stood held only trepidation for him. Somewhere inside those thick walls with their grand pediments and colonnades, Lady Lydia Farrell was held captive. Taken against her will and certified insane by a corrupt physician on the orders of her late brother's guardian, Sir Montagu Malthus, she was a prisoner. Thomas had not set eyes on her for almost two months. Despite repeated requests and letters to the hospital's principal physician, Angus Cameron, his efforts had drawn a blank.

Once more Thomas found himself proceeding toward the grandiose entrance. He had lost count of the number of visits he had made. Glancing up he saw the familiar elaborate carvings depicting melancholy and raving madness on either side of the door. At this point he always found himself seized by the same sense of deep unease that he had experienced when poised on the threshold of Newgate Jail. This institution may have called itself a hospital, but care and compassion were seldom prescribed.

Proceeding through a grand central door and down a hall that opened out onto a great central staircase at its end, Thomas was directed into a reception office. There, behind a high desk, sat an officious clerk with bulging eyes. Thomas noted that they were probably a symptom of goiter, but the man's brusque manner did nothing to solicit empathy. Thomas had encountered him on several previous occasions, but the man had never endeared himself to him. Yet again the doctor felt himself tense. His efforts to see Lydia had never taken him beyond this point. He had always been refused admission. Judging by the clerk's familiar expression of contempt, today would be no different.

“Yes?”

“I am come to see Lady Lydia Farrell,” Thomas heard himself say for the umpteenth time, knowing the fellow was fully aware of his intentions. His voice sounded thin and hollow, as if it belonged to someone else, and the words scratched in his mouth.

With the supercilious air bestowed on him by his modicum of authority, the clerk looked down a list in a ledger before him. He cleared his throat but said finally, “I regret, sir, her ladyship remains indisposed.”

These regular encounters had degenerated into a type of pantomime farce, with each man having his set lines and gestures. After the first shake of the head, Thomas would move forward and repeat his request. The clerk would lean backward, blink—slowly because of the size of his eyes—and look vaguely indignant; then the doctor would sigh heavily and retreat, admitting defeat once more. Only on this occasion it was different. On this particular morning the clerk conveyed a further message to Thomas. “Her ladyship is indisposed, and furthermore I am to tell you, Dr. Silkstone, that you will no longer be allowed within the hospital grounds until further notice.” His words were haughty and deliberate. He was clearly a willing messenger.

Thomas dipped his brows. Unprepared for such a rebuke, he felt his normal self-control tested to its limits. “I demand to see Dr. Cameron!” he said firmly. “Fetch him, if you please.” He slapped the desk. The clerk's bulging eyes registered an affront, but he withdrew, leaving the doctor to pace the room. Suddenly, from a low door at the side, two men in hospital livery marched in. Approaching the doctor, but without warning, they grabbed him by both arms.

“What is the meaning of this?” Thomas asked indignantly.

The clerk reappeared, his eyes seeming to protrude even further from their sockets. “Orders, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, barely able to hide his satisfaction. “You must be escorted from the premises.”

 

Dr. William Carruthers had never known his protégé so dispirited. Despite the fact that he could not see the frustration on Thomas's face, the scowl on his lips, or the furrow on his brow, the old anatomist could hear the drawers being rifled and the cupboard doors being slammed in wrath.

“You were refused entry again?”

He knew there could be no other reason for Thomas to exhibit such uncustomary ire. He had tapped his way to the laboratory with his stick to investigate the noise and found the young doctor gathering his equipment with undue haste. Thomas paused as he packed his medical case.

“Worse, sir,” he replied, pausing to look up. “This time I was thrown out of the hospital like a common criminal.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, not with weakness but with rage.

Carruthers shook his head sympathetically. “So what will you do now, dear boy?”

Not usually one to abandon any goal, Thomas took a deep breath. “It is useless trying to gain access to Lydia by conventional means,” he said enigmatically. He reached for a reference book from the shelf, sending dust motes dancing about the room, and dropped it into the case.

“Ah!” Dr. Carruthers raised a finger, certain that his protégé had formulated another plan. “So you will approach the conundrum by an unconventional route. What other means do you propose?”

Thomas shrugged his shoulders and continued packing his case. There was nothing scientific in his methods of dealing with Lupton or Sir Montagu Malthus. He only wished there could have been. Had they been tumors, he would have cut them out long ago and been rid of them both. As it was, there seemed no logical way of dealing with these Machiavellian charlatans who had so blighted his beloved Lydia's life and, therefore, his own.

“I shall simply go to Boughton and see if I can persuade Nicholas Lupton of the error of his ways before I confront Sir Montagu,” he told his mentor, securing the stopper on a bottle of iodine.

“So you believe Lupton is Malthus's weak spot, as it were?”

Thomas detected a note of skepticism in the old anatomist's voice. He nodded to himself and paused in thought for a moment. “I do. I refuse to believe that there is not a shred of humanity within him. He befriended her ladyship and her son, and the young earl's affection for him was clear to see. Call me naïve, but that surely counts for something.”

Dr. Carruthers nodded. “It is good to know that even after all the betrayal you've suffered, you can still see goodness in everyone.”

Thomas looked up suddenly, slightly taken aback by the observation. “It is the only way forward,” he replied.

The old anatomist clicked his tongue. “This is such a ghastly business, dear boy,” he said. “So removed from the tenets of our vocation.”

Carruthers's words pulled Thomas up short. His mentor was right, of course. He had not traveled more than three thousand miles, leaving his family home in Philadelphia, to endure the hostility and suspicion of an enemy nation, only to throw away all the vast knowledge he had gleaned on some vengeful quest. How different, how ordered and logical his life had been up until the day Lydia had walked into his laboratory. She had pleaded for his help to uncover how her brother, Edward, the sixth Earl Crick, had died, and he had found himself incapable of resisting her entreaties. She had turned his methodical, organized world upside down. It had been a world of clear delineation. There had been boundaries: sickness and health, life and death. If a tooth was decayed, it was removed. If a foot was gangrenous, it was amputated. But in this new and unexplored realm, nothing was so straightforward. Contagion spread, arteries leaked, infection set in, and prognoses were harder to give, let alone remedies. But of one thing he remained sure. He would not allow the corruption of others around him to infect his own beliefs and principles.

He walked over to Carruthers and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Primum non nocerum,”
he declared.

The words of affirmation from the Hippocratic Corpus brought a smile to the old man's lips.

“Quite right.” Carruthers nodded and clapped his hands as if spontaneously applauding Hippocrates himself. “Never forget you must first do no harm, dear boy.”

“I shall not, sir,” Thomas assured him.

Returning to his case, the young doctor was about to resume his preparations for travel when Mistress Finesilver, the anatomists' peevish housekeeper and cook, arrived at the open laboratory door. She sucked in her cheeks and took a deep breath as she handed a missive to Thomas on a salver.

“A message came for you not two minutes ago, sir,” she told him with an unthinking curtsy.

Opening the seal, Thomas read the letter. It was from Sir Theodisius Pettigrew, the Oxford coroner and his most powerful ally in his battle against Sir Montagu.

“Well, young fellow?” Carruthers tapped his stick impatiently.

Thomas looked up. “It seems, sir, that I will need to break my journey in Oxford before I reach Boughton.”

“Oh? And why might that be?” asked a baffled Dr. Carruthers.

“Sir Theodisius wishes to see me urgently,” he replied. “There's been a murder on the Boughton Estate.”