Shadow of the Raven (20 page)

A
s he rode out of the quadrangle at Christ Church on his way to Brandwick, Thomas knew his mission was twofold: First he needed to collect Abe Diggott's earthenware flagon, which might prove the old man's innocence, and second he wished to visit the kiln where Aaron Coutt's badly burned body was found. During an investigation he had made it a principle to always see for himself where crimes of such a serious nature were committed. He felt it imperative that he familiarize himself with the terrain and conditions and, of course, that he conduct a thorough examination of the surrounding area. He was becoming more convinced with every investigation he undertook that everything, be it human or animal, animate or inanimate, left a trace.

Accordingly, late that afternoon, he found himself outside the Diggotts' cottage. He knocked and was answered by the coppicer's wife, Rachel. She was clearly relieved to see her caller was Thomas, but fearful of what he might say.

“Dr. Silkstone! You bring news?” she said, quickly ushering him inside.

The room was gloomy but warm, and Thomas glanced over to the bed where he could see the young boy still lay.

“How does he fare?” he asked, walking over to him. He saw that he was now on his side, although asleep.

His mother, wringing her hands, pulled her features into a smile.

“The fever is gone,” she said. “And the pain lessens.”

She showed Thomas to a chair by the fire, and he settled himself down as she poured a tankard of small beer and set it by his side. It was clear she was anxious to hear news.

“I have seen your father-in-law in jail,” he reported. She sat opposite him and leaned forward. “He is frail. Very frail,” he said.

“And . . . ,” she urged impatiently.

“And it is clear to me that he was physically incapable of firing a pistol, and has been for some time.”

“But . . . ?” Thomas felt the woman's eyes tugging at his.

“But the court will not take my word for it, Mistress Diggott. I need proof.”

“Oh?” Rachel frowned, then followed Thomas's eyes to the earthenware pot, now standing on the mantelshelf.

“The flagon,” Thomas said bluntly. “It has gin in it?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “ 'Tis full. It's not been touched since they took him.”

“May I?”

Thomas rose and, leaning toward the hearth, picked up the vessel, the liquid sloshing inside it. He peered into it. It was as he suspected. The glaze of the pot was pitted inside.

“May I take this with me back to Oxford?” he asked.

Rachel gave him a quizzical look. “You think 'twill help?” She was putting all her trust in Thomas.

“I do,” he replied with a shallow nod.

“Then you must do anything you can to bring Abe back safe, doctor,” she replied.

 

With the earthenware flagon and its contents stored safely in a saddlebag, Thomas rode up to Raven's Wood in search of Zeb Godson. The climb was steep, and now and again his horse stumbled on the jagged shards of flint that peppered the bridle path. Before long, however, he reached a plateau and the going became easier.

The weather seemed to have turned; the wind had changed direction and there was a sense that spring, so long absent, was beginning to show its welcome face. Thomas noted that the woodland floor was bursting into life, too. Clusters of cowslips and celandine peeped yellow heads above the leaf carpet, and the green spears of bluebell shoots pushed through the beech mast underfoot. Now and again a breeze made the fallen leaves rustle and dance. The slightest sound caused him to look about him. He now knew that Raven's Wood belonged not only to sawyers and coppicers and charcoal burners, but to smugglers as well as highwaymen.

He ventured farther into the forest, all the while following the main track that he had taken before, and after a while he came to a clearing. A familiar structure in the shape of a dome, half turfed, like some prehistoric burial mound, loomed up ahead. Zeb Godson, wearing his strange hat, was at work near it, shoveling turf.

At the sound of approaching hooves, the charcoal burner looked up. When he saw Thomas, he stopped what he was doing. Leaning on his shovel, he pushed back his bonnet with a thumb and wiped his forehead.

“Mr. Godson,” greeted Thomas as he drew near.

“Dr. Silkstone,” said Zeb Godson, returning a wary look.

“I am come about the body. I am here with the coroner's authority.” Thomas knew Sir Theodisius would have sanctioned his visit.

Zeb Godson grunted and gave a shallow nod.

“I need to see where you found it.”

The charcoal burner's grimy finger pointed to the disheveled pile of turf and wood only a few feet away. It seemed unkempt and unfinished. “There,” he said.

Thomas dismounted and walked forward to inspect the kiln. Half of the logs were laid neatly, but the rest of the timbers seemed already charred and blackened. He turned to Godson.

“The body was in here?”

The charcoal burner nodded. “Aye.” He coughed suddenly and spat phlegm on the ground.

Thomas could see that this interview would be like drawing blood from a stone.

“Where, precisely, if you please?”

Godson pointed to the blackened circle that measured around six feet in diameter at the nearest edge of the kiln.

“And how do you suppose it got there?” He was purposely evasive, not wishing to disclose the victim's identity.

The charcoal burner shifted uneasily, as if affronted by the question. “I didn't kill 'im, if that's what you mean,” he snapped. His blackened hands tensed around the handle of his shovel. His eyes gleamed from out of their sooty sockets.

Thomas smiled. “I am not suggesting you did, Mr. Godson, but I am trying to ascertain—” Thomas stopped himself and began again in more colloquial language. “I am trying to gather information as to what circumstances may have led to this death. I would be most obliged if you could tell me when and how you found the body.”

At this assurance, Godson seemed to relax a little. “I woke early and smelled smoke,” he began. “So I came out and I saw the kiln was alight.”

“How could that be?” interrupted Thomas. “Someone had to set it alight, I assume.”

The charcoal burner could not hide his low opinion of a city dweller, ignorant of country ways. “ 'Course they did. I'd laid most of the logs for the burn, but I'd not finished. They'd put 'im over the side and put a light to 'im to get 'im started. Only 'e didn't take proper. Too much air, you see.”

Thomas was aware that a human body could be as slow to burn as it could be quick. The combustion depended on so many various factors.

“And you have worked on the kiln since?” Despite evidence to the contrary, Thomas very much hoped that the kiln had remained as it was when Godson discovered Coutt's body. He was sorely disappointed.

The charcoal burner snorted. “I needs earn a crust, Doctor. I can't waste a whole burn.”

“So you are stacking new logs on top of the charred ones?”

Godson shook his head. “Them that's charred are wasted. I'm taking 'em out.” He lifted his shovel slightly from the ground.

“And have you found anything among the burned wood? Anything you think strange?”

Again Godson remained taciturn. He shrugged. “No,” came the reply.

Thomas leaned over the shallow ridge of the kiln and peered into the blackened remains of Aaron Coutt's funeral pyre. There was nothing obvious to be seen, save for the charred logs that carried blooms of white ash upon them.

“There is one more thing, Mr. Godson,” said Thomas, walking toward his horse. “Did you hear a shot at any time last night?”

The charcoal burner thought for a moment. “I got pissed last night, fit for nothing,” he replied. “No, I didn't 'ear nothing.”

Thomas would wager it was Geech's gin that put him in such straits. He thanked Godson for his cooperation.

He grunted once more. “So you going after 'em?” he asked, just as Thomas was about to mount.

“After whom?”

“Them that killed Coutt, o' course.”

Thomas turned. “You knew Coutt?” Thomas thought of the lad's metal leg, which would have made him easily identifiable to the villagers.

“I knowed 'im all right,” said Godson, adding: “ 'E played a dangerous game.”

“What do you mean?”

“ 'E were a spy for them at the hall,” came the blunt reply. “For that new steward.”

The unexpected sight of the stable lad at Boughton suddenly flashed before Thomas. He knew there had to be some connection with the stash of smuggled goods at the old ruins.

From his saddle he looked along the track, now framed by verdant leaves. “How far is it from the old ruins to where Mr. Turgoose was murdered, Mr. Godson?” he asked.

The charcoal burner cupped his sooty hand and rubbed his neck in thought. “A mile, I'd say.”

Thomas wondered it was so far. The distance cast doubt on his theory that the surveyor and his party had come across the smugglers' stash at the ruins.

“Thank you, Mr. Godson,” said Thomas. He was just about to turn his horse when the charcoal burner raised an arm.

“There is something you wish to tell me?” asked the doctor.

The charcoal burner squinted against the sunlight that now lanced its way into the clearing.

“Abe Diggott,” he said.

“Yes?”

“He didn't kill the mapmaker. Nor did Adam.”

Thomas steadied his horse, which was growing restless. “What makes you so sure?”

Godson shifted awkwardly and paused before delivering his words. “Because we was near the place where the mapmaker was killed, sir.”

Thomas whipped 'round. “Oh? Why was that?”

“We wanted to fright 'em,” he mumbled. “They wasn't welcome, so we gave 'em a scare.”

Thomas thought of the soot he had scraped off the foliage near the scene of the murder. “You blacked your faces, yes?” It suddenly made perfect sense. He'd heard of gangs in Surrey sooting themselves so they could continue hunting free of charge on common land. From the charcoal burner's expression, however, there was more. “You saw something, didn't you?” pressed Thomas. “You saw who killed Mr. Turgoose?”

The charcoal burner shook his head vigorously. “I swear we never. We 'eard the 'orse whinny when it fell into the pit and we 'eard the shot. Then we ran as quick as lightning.”

“We?”

“There was a few of us.”

“Who?” As soon as he had asked the question, Thomas knew it would be futile to ask the man to betray his friends. “What were you doing in the woods?”

The charcoal burner lifted his smoke-smudged face and looked Thomas squarely in the eye. With a rueful expression that betrayed his deep regret, he confessed: “ 'Twas us that dug the pit.”

“S
o vhat have we here?” asked Professor Hascher, watching Thomas set down the earthenware flagon on his workbench back in Oxford.

“I very much hope it is the proof that will save a man's life,” he replied.

For a moment, the professor looked puzzled until he realized: “Ah, it contains ze gin?”

Thomas nodded. “This is Abe Diggott's flagon. The glaze inside is deeply pitted.”

“And you zink zere is lead in ze glaze zat is reacting viz ze gin,
ja?
”

“I am convinced of it,” he replied.

The pair of them set to work. Professor Hascher took charge of the controlled experiment once more, impregnating a piece of paper with schnapps, while Thomas worked with the gin. To each sample
Hepar sulfuris
was added. Both of them tensed. Hascher's sample remained unaltered, but within a minute the gin sample had turned a murky gray; within four it was completely black.

“You vere right.” The professor beamed. “Ze lead concentration must be at least double zat of ze ozer gin.”

Thomas nodded. The relief was obvious in his expression, although he knew it was only one step in proving Abe Diggott's innocence. He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Now all I need do is convince a judge and jury of the effect this poison can have on a man,” he said.

 

The trial of Abraham Diggott, coppicer of Brandwick, was held on the tenth day of May. The old man was due to be arraigned with four other defendants, who were charged with lesser offenses such as theft and poaching, but in all cases the specter of the gallows loomed large.

Such a prospect drew a sizable crowd, and the courtroom was full to bursting a good half hour before proceedings began. The fashionable ladies and gentlemen of Oxford had ensured they took the seats with the best view, whereas the rest of the rabble had to make do with standing like cattle in market pens. The room itself had been sprinkled with herbs and scented flowers in order to prevent the spread of disease. However, the gesture did little to mask the smell of the spectators, let alone the unwashed prisoners who stood accused. The stench caught in the back of more genteel throats, sending those of a delicate disposition reaching for their kerchiefs and nosegays.

Thomas was accompanied by Sir Theodisius that morning. The coroner had insisted he be present for the trial of the man accused of murdering his friend, even though he doubted his guilt. The previous evening, over dinner, Thomas had presented a very good case for acquittal and had swayed his friend's opinion on the matter. The coroner had, however, been wary of the prosecution counsel. He had already warned his dining companion.

“Watch out for Martin Bradshaw,” he had said through a mouthful of mutton. “He's a slippery one, and a personal friend of Malthus's to boot, I fear.” His warning only served to make Thomas even more determined to fight in the accused coppicer's corner.

Consequently, in court the following morning, the coroner introduced Thomas to an official as a medical man wishing to offer his expertise in Abe Diggott's defense. The clerk made a note of his name and assured him he would be called in due course.

It was then that Thomas spotted Nicholas Lupton, seated on a chair by Martin Bradshaw. The two men were engaged in conversation, and Sir Theodisius's words echoed in the anatomist's head. Seeing these adversaries crouched in collusion was a reminder that the odds were stacked most firmly against poor old Abe Diggott.

Thomas did not fancy his chances of squeezing his way along rows of rowdy spectators to a seat and so was relieved when another official offered him a chair near the front of the courtroom, between the witness stand and the huddle of black-clad lawyers. As he sat down, Lupton caught his eye and acknowledged him with a leer before turning to converse with his neighbor. Sir Theodisius saw the rebuff and clamped a friendly hand on Thomas's arm. He then nodded to him to signify that they must part, and he eased himself onto a bench a few feet away.

On the stroke of nine o'clock Judge Anton Dubarry entered the court. He was a large man, and his enormous wig made him seem even larger. His scarlet robes lent a sense of religiosity to the occasion. A reverent hush descended on the proceedings, imbuing upon them an instant solemnity that previously had been so absent. The preliminaries were observed in a well-rehearsed manner—the selection of a jury and the swearing of oaths. As was the custom, the lesser cases were heard first, with startling efficiency. Only one man pleaded guilty, and he was dealt with in less than a minute. Three others protested their innocence, but even they were dispatched in less than ten. It seemed that, come the end of the day, when it was time to sentence all the miscreants, Judge Dubarry would have recourse to don the black cap more than once.

Any hope of leniency that Thomas might have held for Abe Diggott was fast ebbing away. As they brought the old man from the prison, the anatomist tried to catch his eye. The coppicer staggered up the steps of the dock and looked with an unseeing gaze at the masses who jeered and shouted at his arrival. Word had been put about that they were to see a dashing rake who had held up the surveyor's party in the woods. At first, it was said, there had been playful banter. He had knocked off the chief mapmaker's hat and taunted him and his man a little but had no intention of harming either. Shortly after, however, he had been joined by others not yet apprehended and the mood turned ugly. Coshes were wielded, a pistol was drawn, and a single shot fired. The chief surveyor fell mortally wounded and the rest of the cowardly gang fled, leaving the surveyor's assistant and their guard in a most terrible state and remaining in fear of their lives.

What they saw in court, however, could not seem further from the truth. Could this decrepit old fool be one and the same? A highwayman of renown? It was hard to envisage high-society ladies clamoring for an audience in his cell as they did with dashing James MacLaine. Nor could they see this dolt chatting to the topsman before launching himself off the ladder like the famous Dick Turpin. A murmur of undisguised disappointment rippled around the courtroom.

The charge against Diggott was that on the afternoon of April 20, on the Boughton Estate, he “did lie in wait in Raven's Wood for Mr. Jeffrey Turgoose and his chainman Mr. James Charlton and did willfully and without regard rob them of their possessions.” He then assaulted Charlton, causing him injury to his head, before firing a single shot that killed said Mr. Turgoose.

“How do you plead to the charge?” asked the clerk of the court.

Diggott, who seemed not to have registered his predicament, let alone indictment, remained silent. Shaking violently, he appeared overwhelmed by the entire proceedings. What was more, he began to sway. Within less than a second he had disappeared below the stand.

Many in the court leapt to their feet. Ladies gasped; fans fluttered. “He's saved you a job, Judge!” called one cove from the gallery.

“Let's gibbet him and be done!” shouted another.

The two guards who flanked Diggott tried to right the defendant, and one of the officials actually slapped the old man's face. Seeing the situation, Thomas presented himself. He was acutely aware that if the accused did not enter a plea, then standing mute would be deemed the same as admitting guilt. He spoke to the clerk amid the surrounding uproar.

“Sir, as you know, I am the surgeon here to speak on this man's behalf. I would testify as to the nature of his illness and its bearing on his ability to commit the crime,” he told him. “Would I be allowed a moment with him?”

The official raised a brow. “You would speak for the man's character?”

“I am an expert in my field, acting for the defense, sir,” Thomas told him.

The clerk considered the request for a moment before marching straight to Judge Dubarry. Pointing at the anatomist, he relayed his message, and the judge lifted his gaze toward him. A second later he brought down his gavel.

“This court is adjourned for twenty minutes,” he barked. It was more than Thomas could have hoped for.

The jailers dragged Abe Diggott into a small anteroom where Thomas could attend to him. They sat him down and a cup of water was offered. The old man put his face to the rim and lapped like a dog. Thomas knelt down at his side and took from his pocket a phial of smelling salts. He uncorked it and wafted the pungent vapors under Diggott's nose.

“Abe, 'tis I, Dr. Silkstone.”

Diggott's head suddenly shook from side to side as he gasped for breath, and his lids blinked as he tried to focus.

“Do you remember I came to see you in jail?”

There was a flicker of recognition between coughs. Thomas looked at the man's hands. They remained bound by cord, pinioned in front of him. He held them in his and touched his fingers.

“Do you remember you had lost the power of movement in your hands?” he said softly.

Diggott frowned, then nodded. “I can't move 'em, Doctor,” he hissed through his gappy teeth.

“They trouble you still?”

“Aye. Aye,” he mumbled. “That and the gripes.”

These were classic symptoms, thought Thomas. “And your bowels?” he asked.

The old man shook his head. “ 'Tis a long, long time since I shat, sir,” came the reply.

Thomas knew his case was growing stronger by the minute. The guards stood on either side of the door, allowing them a little privacy. He put his hand on the accused man's shoulder.

“You do realize that you are being tried for murder, Abe?” the anatomist said calmly.

At his words, however, the old man suddenly became agitated. He tried to haul himself up but was not strong enough. “Murder? Whose murder?” he protested.

The guards suddenly became more alert, their hands on their coshes, at the ready. Again Thomas tried to soothe the accused. Such confusion was a well-known symptom of lead poisoning.

“When we return to the courtroom, the judge will ask you how you plead.” Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the guards and lowered his voice. “You must say, ‘Not guilty.' ”

“Not guilty,” repeated the old man, parrot-fashion.

“Do you understand?” asked Thomas.

“Yes, sir. I didn't kill no one.”

“I know you did not,” Thomas assured him, rising to his feet once more. Turning to the guards he said, “The prisoner is ready.”