Shadow of the Raven (6 page)

A
s luck would have it, Joseph Makepeace, Brandwick's bury man, as haggard and world-weary as most of the corpses he lowered into their graves, had spotted the party from Boughton as it neared the churchyard toward midday. He had alerted one of Will Ketch's lads, who ran to tell Old Brindle, the bellman. In less than ten minutes he was ringing his bell, broadcasting to the entire High Street what was about to happen, and the villagers began heading toward St. Swithin's.

Moments later Gilbert Fothergill made his appearance. Sir Montagu's envoy was escorted by two of Boughton's newest recruits, burly thugs with permanent scowls on their faces who were paid to enforce Lupton's commands. The fussy little clerk had arrived to read out the Act of Enclosure on the steps of St. Swithin's, as required by law. Soon it seemed that the whole of the village had gathered outside the church to hear what this unimpressive emissary from the estate had to say.

Dressed from head to foot in black and crowned with a wide-brimmed hat, Fothergill looked more like a parson than one of Sir Montagu's men. He cleared his throat and stared with unseeing eyes at his audience. He knew full well that what he had to say would not go down at all favorably among his listeners. The chatter of the crowd faded in anticipation.

“Notice is hereby given . . .”
Fothergill's voice sounded croaky. He cleared his throat and began again.
“Notice is hereby given that the commissioners named and passed by an Act of Parliament, made and passed in the tenth year of His (present) Majesty, intituled an Act for dividing and enclosing the open common, fields, meadows, pastures and woodlands and other commonable lands in the lordship of Brandwick in the County of Oxfordshire.”

The clerk looked up. His throat was already dry and he had finished only the first sentence. A crowd of at least three dozen had gathered and was growing at every turn. The noise began to swell again until one of the sidemen called for order. Fothergill resumed reading.

Despite the call to order, Fothergill's voice did not carry well and his words were audible to only a few. It was clear that the clerk was decidedly uncomfortable. His spectacles kept slipping from the bridge of his nose, such was the effect of his perspiration, and his elbow was constantly nudged by the crowd that pressed around him, so that he kept losing his place on the scroll. Nevertheless, he struggled on to deliver his message. Anyone, he declared, interested in undertaking the cutting and making of drains, banks, and sluices for the drainage of the wetlands to be enclosed should contact the commissioners.

“In the meantime,” Mr. Fothergill concluded, looking up from his script, “the plans may be inspected at the offices of Turgoose & Mather, surveyors, Oxford.”

His mission now complete, the clerk rolled up the scroll, patted the crown of his hat as if securing it for the foray, and made a hasty retreat down the church steps. At first some of the village men tried to prevent him from returning to his conveyance. Obviously they did not care for him, nor, more importantly, for his message. He was gently jostled and his glasses were knocked off his nose—not deliberately, although the incident heightened the tension. The sidemen who accompanied him brandished their coshes and lashed out randomly, keeping the malcontents at bay. Josh Thornley, a sawyer, sustained one of the blows and fell to the ground. Will Ketch, the cowman—all act first, think later—sprang to his defense but soon joined his friend as a blow rained down on him, too. Within a few moments, all opposition and ill temper, such as it was, seemed to dissipate into a subdued sense of fear.

After what seemed an age to him, but which was in reality only a few seconds, Gilbert Fothergill managed to remount the chaise. Flanked by the thugs, he took a certain satisfaction in his performance and gave a self-congratulatory nod as he seated himself. The wheels of enclosure had been set in motion. He had played a vital part, and he was driven back to Boughton Hall secure in the knowledge that his legal duties had been successfully discharged.

 

It was too late in the day to start back to London, so Thomas rode from Boughton to Brandwick, intending to stay the night at the Three Tuns. As he glanced about him, the countryside seemed strangely dormant. The bitter winter had taken its toll on the land. In the fields the ploughed furrows, normally swollen and pregnant with shoots, remained regimented. No birds pecked for juicy worms among the rows of still-cold clods, as if they knew their foraging would be fruitless. Even the hedgerows, usually hazed with green at this time of year, were bare. There were fewer lambs, too. He could see only a dozen dams at most tending to their sickly offspring. What was more, the weather was still inclement. Eastertide had been and gone, and yet few signs of spring were evident. For the people of Brandwick, he knew it would mean only one thing—continued hardship. With an undoubtedly late harvest, the price of food would be forced up, heaping more suffering onto an already hard-pressed population.

It was midafternoon by the time Thomas reached the outskirts of Brandwick. Passing St. Swithin's, he noticed a sizable huddle of villagers on the church steps. He urged his horse nearer. He could glean that the few men who knew their letters were reading excerpts of some bill or notice out loud. He dismounted and walked up the church path to see what was going on. After a moment or two he understood. The Act of Enclosure, the infamous measure allowing landowners to enclose land and charge rents for what used to be free to all men, had been posted on the church door. It also quickly became clear to him that not everyone understood what they were reading.

“Dr. Silkstone, sir!” came an anxious voice. He turned to see Susannah Kidd, the young widow of Boughton's former head gardener. Grief had furrowed her brow and dulled her complexion.

“What does it mean?” She pointed to the notice. “There's talk of a hanging.”

The huddle suddenly parted to allow Thomas up the steps so he could read the document for himself. A quick glance told him that phrases like “the execution of such act” were to blame for causing consternation among some of the womenfolk. He turned to Mistress Kidd. “No hanging,” he reassured her, “but changes to how the land is used. The Boughton Estate wishes to fence off the common and woods.”

Thomas observed the reaction of those around him to the news. Some of those he knew to be cottagers and commoners muttered among themselves and shook their heads. Thomas knew they were the ones who would lose out to Boughton's grand scheme, but he was confident they were fighters, too. They all knew their rights—handed down by the famous lady who entrusted them with her flaming brand—and those rights over the land were in perpetuity.

As he watched the stragglers disperse down the church steps, Thomas remembered Nicholas Lupton's diatribe. He would have it that these villagers, these downtrodden men and women, were so angry and vicious that they had already killed a man to protect these land rights. Yet all Thomas could see that afternoon was the quiet despair and the dignified anxiety that was etched on their faces as they drifted away from St. Swithin's. He read the act once more, this time for his own interest.

He studied the details, written large in black and white, and as he read, it occurred to him that this piece of parchment bore all the heinous marks of Sir Montagu Malthus himself. Everything had fitted so neatly into place. Gabriel Lawson's death had been most fortuitous in enabling Nicholas Lupton to slide effortlessly into the steward's shoes. While learning the intimate workings of the Boughton Estate and pretending to labor for the benefits of its tenants, as well as Lydia, the snake in the grass had, all the while, been plotting and scheming. And now Sir Montagu's intentions had been made public, exposing him for the tyrant he was.

With a heavy heart Thomas turned and headed toward the Three Tuns. Before he returned to London on the morrow, he still needed to investigate further into Jeffrey Turgoose's murder. He suspected there was much more to it than Lupton would have him believe. With or without the steward's cooperation, he planned to pursue his inquiries.

 

Thomas rode through the narrow arch and into the courtyard of the inn. Hearing the clatter of hooves on cobbles, the stable lad, his hair greasy and limp, loped forward with an odd gait to greet him. The anatomist quickly noted that he had an artificial leg, a shaft fashioned, it seemed, from metal, and held fast below the knee. It did not appear to hamper the youth, however, and he swiftly took Thomas's mount and unloaded his saddlebags, which contained a change of clothes.

Ducking through the low back entrance, Thomas found himself in the inn's familiar hallway. The flags were sticky with ale, and stale smoke hung in the gloomy air. Since there was no one at the reception desk, he ventured into the bar, where he spied the landlord. Wiry, thin-lipped Peter Geech, his eyes close set and beady, was deep in conversation with a heavily built man Thomas did not recognize. Dapperly dressed for Brandwick in a brocade coat and riding boots, and wearing a black wig, the stranger leaned nonchalantly against the counter. Pulling at his earlobe with his forefinger and thumb, he kept his head low and his face turned from sight. An open bottle of fine French wine was at his side.

Seeing the doctor approach from the corner of his eye, Geech broke off from his patron immediately, as if he were a hot coal. He greeted Thomas cordially enough, although his welcome was not entirely convincing. Peter Geech was a businessman before he was a host. The smartly dressed man demurred. It seemed he took no offense and left.

Forming his features into a shallow smile, Geech greeted his new arrival. “Dr. Silkstone, sir.” He beamed with false enthusiasm, adding, “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Thomas nodded, brushing aside the remark. “I would stay in one of your rooms for the night, if you please,” he said.

He was painfully aware that all of Brandwick knew his business and of the terrible goings-on at Boughton. They would have expected him to stay away, not dare show his face again until Lady Lydia Farrell was returned to her rightful place at the hall. He did not belong in Brandwick, they said. Never had. What did he know of English ways? Granted he had pulled his weight during the Great Fogg, helping the sick and dying. He was savvy enough in his ways with corpses, too, telling how a man died from the contents of his gut, or a murder weapon from the marks it left, but that did not make him one of them. Brandwick mud may have been on his riding boots, but Brandwick blood did not run in his veins.

“I will give you our finest room, sir,” said the landlord, his voice thick with false bonhomie. He lifted a key from the board in front of him.

“That is most kind,” replied Thomas, recalling a previous stay's damp bedding, chair with uneven legs, and ill-fitting windowpane that allowed the rain in. “But first I must ask for some assistance.”

“Oh?” The landlord cocked his head.

“I know that a man, a surveyor, was shot recently in Raven's Wood,” Thomas began.

Geech nodded his sleek black head. “Terrible do, sir,” he replied. “The curfew's not good for business, neither.”

“I'm sure not,” said Thomas quickly. “But I've been asked by the Oxford coroner to report on the matter and I need to visit the scene of the incident.”

Geech's small eyes narrowed further. “And . . . ?”

“And I wondered if you knew of anyone who might be able to show me.”

For a moment, the landlord regarded his patron, as if trying to gauge just how much he wanted to see where the surveyor had been shot.

“I will pay,” added Thomas hopefully.

Yet it was clear that even this most wily of landlords did not believe that in such dealings, the law of supply and demand should apply. He shook his head and pursed his lips, making an odd sucking sound as he did so. “You'll not get no one 'round these parts to take you up to Raven's Wood, Doctor,” he said finally, “no matter how much money you offer.”

I
t did not take Thomas long to realize that any investigation he undertook into the surveyor's murder would be conducted on his own. Such was the antipathy toward Sir Montagu and the prospect of enclosure among the villagers that no one would volunteer any assistance. He would have to act alone. So, less than an hour after his arrival at the Three Tuns, Thomas's fresh mount was being saddled to transport him up to Raven's Wood.

The stable lad with the false leg bobbed up and down with remarkable dexterity as he readied the horse. “She's a good girl. Not like the one that kicked me in the shin,” he volunteered, patting the mare.

“Is that how you lost your leg?” asked Thomas.

“Aye,” came the reply. “But this one's not easily spooked.”

Thomas picked up on his words. “Spooked? Is that likely?”

The lad looked away. “You be going into Raven's Wood, ain't ya, sir?”

“Aye.”

The youth shook his head. “No one goes there 'less they have to,” he said.

“Like Mr. Turgoose and his assistant?” Thomas suggested, poised on the mounting block.

The stable lad nodded warily. “I warned him, sir,” he replied, watching Thomas settle himself on the saddle.

“You warned Mr. Turgoose? Of what, pray?”

The boy stood back from the horse, looking up at Thomas, but his furtive expression gave him away. He knew he had said too much and backtracked. “I told 'em not to go into the woods. 'Tis not a place for gentlemen. 'Tis the Raven, see.”

“The Raven?” queried Thomas.

The lad squinted in the bright light. “Him and his gang, sir—” He broke off to allow Thomas to imagine for himself the horrors the eponymous highwayman might wreak. “And you, sir. You take care, too,” he said.

“I intend to,” replied Thomas with a smile as he tugged the rein. The goings-on in the wood seemed to have cast some sort of ghastly spell on the villagers. Whether local superstition was to blame or other, more earthly, reasons he could not be sure, but if no one in Brandwick would tell him precisely where the murder had taken place, he would try to find someone who would. In all probability that would mean asking a sawyer or a charcoal burner or someone of that ilk who worked in the forest.

He rode up the incline past the fulling mill. On the nearby tenter frames, the woolen cloth flapped in the wind. The noise of the stocks as they pounded the fabric echoed around the narrow valley. There had been rain the previous day, and the river, while not in flood, was flowing well, turning the waterwheel at a goodly pace.

At the foot of the slope Thomas dismounted and led his horse up the steep incline that led to Raven's Wood. It was dotted with shards of flint, and the overnight rain had turned the cart track into a greasy mire. When the hill leveled out at the top of the incline, he remounted his horse and turned left onto a well-trodden path. The trees were not yet in leaf; nevertheless, as Thomas rode on, the branches overhead seemed to thicken and entwine into a single canopy, blocking out much of the light. The birdsong that had been so lively at the beginning of his journey had all but disappeared, save for the shriek of a pheasant or the call of a red kite up above. Rainwater from the earlier downpour hung in droplets from twigs, dripping constantly onto his hat, and wet branches whipped his coat. He carried on deeper into the wood until, at a point where the track narrowed and dipped into a hollow, his horse suddenly jerked its head and pricked up its ears. Patting its neck, Thomas tried to reassure the animal.

“Nothing amiss,” he soothed, his own eyes darting from left to right, scanning the wooded terrain. It was then that he spotted what had distracted his horse. A wooden cross, girded with red rowanberries, was dangling from a branch up ahead, directly in the horse's eyeline. He had seen such crosses before, when the Great Fogg, which local people called the Devil's Breath, had covered the countryside and many thought the world was about to end. Such talismans were believed to ward off evil spirits. Thomas gently pulled on the rein so that the animal skirted the disturbing object, then guided her back on the track.

A few yards on, he suddenly spotted great clouds of bluish gray smoke, billowing through the trees. At first he thought he had come across a smoldering forest fire, even though the ground was damp. Quickly he dismounted and, shielding his nose and mouth from the clinging smoke, he approached on foot. It did not take him long to realize his mistake. In the clearing he could see through the gritty haze a huge round mound raised on an earth platform. From it rose plumes that swirled around it and filled the air with the tang of burning wood. Covering the mound were clods of clay and slabs of turf, and at its center stood an odd-looking chimney out of which most of the smoke was escaping. A lone man with a shovel seemed to be tending what appeared to be some sort of kiln, lifting sods of moss and patting them down over vents, choking off the smoke, trapping it inside.

Thomas took the man to be one of the charcoal burners who lived and worked in the wood. He was small but solid in build, and on his head he wore a strange kind of leather bonnet with flaps that covered his ears. It was tied by laces under his chin. His face and hands were so deeply ingrained with soot that he looked as though he had been dipped in tar.

The workman did not notice his visitor at first, or if he did, he did not acknowledge him. He seemed too busy with his shovel, firming down the clods, until after a few moments he stood back to take stock of his work. He coughed and spat forth sooty spew. It was then that he caught sight of Thomas out of the corner of his eye.

He looked at him warily. “Yes?” he grunted.

Thomas urged his horse forward. “Good day,” he said, doffing his tricorn.

The man's eyes looked bright white set in his blackened face, but they narrowed as he studied his visitor. “You come about the mapmaker?” he asked. He had obviously heard of the murder. “I don't want no trouble.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, sir, I am not,” he replied politely, aware that he needed to tread carefully. “I am a surgeon and physician.”

The charcoal burner straightened his grimy neck. “I may have a cough, but I'm not sick,” he replied.

Thomas smiled. “I can see that,” he conceded, but he refused to be put off. He went straight to the point. “I understand you know these woods.”

The charcoal burner shrugged. “As well as any man.”

Thomas pried a little deeper. “Did the mapmakers come this way?”

“What's it to you?” came the crabby reply.

“I am sent by the coroner. I need to find out more about how the man died.” Thomas did not mean to be officious, but he feared he might have sounded that way. “Do you know the place where he was shot?”

The charcoal burner shuffled his feet and let his shovel take some of his weight. “What if I do?” There was a defiance in his manner that Thomas had not anticipated.

“Then I would ask you to take me to that place,” Thomas persisted.

The charcoal burner paused for a moment and eyed the doctor with a simmering resentment. It was plain he did not trust this stranger.

“I will make it worth your while,” said the doctor, delving into his pocket and bringing out his purse. “A guinea for your pains,” he offered, tossing a silver coin into the air. It landed on the carpet of dead leaves by the man's boots. He picked it up and bit into it as if it were an oatcake, before tossing his shovel to the ground, like a surly child.

“I'll take ye,” he conceded, but still under sufferance. “ 'Tis a good walk from here.”

The man led the way north through the forest, tramping along leaf-strewn paths and through muddy ruts. Thomas followed on horseback, dipping low under overhanging branches, until eventually they left behind them the coupe full of squat, coppiced hazel and entered the thicker forest. Walking over to a deep depression in the ground, scantily lined with leaves, the workman pointed to the steep-sided pit.

“Here.”

Thomas dismounted and skirted the hole. He recalled that Sir Theodisius had told him that the horse had stumbled into a pit before the murder. It was not much deeper than a man's waist, but judging by the fresh spade marks at its sides, it had been quite recently dug out.

“And where did the surveyor fall?” he asked. He glanced at the man, but seeing his reaction, it was obviously a question too far. The charcoal burner shook his head vigorously.

“I dunno,” came the quick reply. “Near,” was all he would say.

“Yes,” said Thomas with a knowing nod. For the woodsman to pinpoint the exact spot would be to incriminate himself. “Thank you. You have been most helpful, Mr. . . .”

“Godson. Zeb Godson,” came the reply. “But folk call me Black Zeb.”

Again Thomas smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Godson,” he said. “I shall find my own way back.”

The charcoal burner needed no further encouragement to leave. He disappeared into the trees within seconds, leaving Thomas alone, deep in the woods. He knew the exact site of the murder would be within a radius of a few yards, so he tethered his horse and began pacing along the track that led away from the deep pit. All the while he kept his eyes trained on the ground, following a set of recent hoofprints.

Within seconds, he arrived at what he knew must be the place. Several flies had discovered a cache of blood on top of the leaves, a thick dried pool of dark red, barely discernible among the russets and gold. Thomas crouched down. A small fragment of brown material fluttered among the rest of the leaves, its edges jagged and ripped. Thomas picked it up. It was fustian. His mind flashed to poor Mr. Turgoose's frock coat, torn at the pocket. It was easy to see where he had fallen and lain for a moment or two in this woodland grave. There were gouge marks in the mud where the leaves had been disturbed and the deadweight of his body must have been dragged out and heaved onto the horse.

Thomas looked about him. The clearing was small and surrounded by thick bushes, many of them evergreen. It would be easy for men to lie in wait here, unseen and ready to pounce. He pushed his way into the thick undergrowth, looking for signs, footprints in the mud, scraps of clothing, any clues left behind by Mr. Turgoose's attacker, or attackers. Despite his best efforts, he found nothing and decided to return to his horse. It was just as he put his foot in the stirrup and grabbed hold of the saddle to heave himself up that he noticed his right sleeve. It was covered in what appeared to be black dust. He inspected it more closely but did not brush it off. He dismounted and returned to the bushes from whence he had just come. Peering at the waxy leaves of a large holly bush, his eyes scanned the foliage, looking for something out of the ordinary. It was then he spotted it: some type of blight, he thought at first. When he touched what appeared to be the black mold and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb, however, he was not so sure. He needed to take a sample.

 

Meanwhile, less than half a mile away, Maggie Cuthbert, or Mad Maggie as most people called her, sat in her tumbledown cottage nestled among the beeches. Although she was a cunning woman, gifted with certain powers, or so she said, she had not needed any shew stones to tell her that something was wrong in the woods the afternoon the surveyor was killed.

For as long as anyone could remember, she'd hawked her herbal remedies and her hag stones in Brandwick. For the soothing of stomachache, Brandwick belly as it was known, her lavender water was proving particularly popular these days. And for the few who'd cross her palm with silver, for amusement or mere curiosity, she'd read her shew stones. Rolling them on the flat ground with a shake and a flick of her scrawny wrist, she'd study them carefully. Sucking at her gums, she'd either shake her head solemnly or twitch her lips into a smile and nod, depending on what she said she saw. A few people believed her. Many did not, but on this particular afternoon she hadn't needed her powers to know something was amiss. Her fowl had told her, her chickens and turkeys. They'd clucked and squawked and gobbled, and above their din she had heard a horse whinnying. She'd been sitting by a hissing fire at the time. The logs were damp and the room was smoky. Using the last remnants of daylight, she'd been threading a chicken feather through the memory cord that hung by the door; each one marked a week since her husband passed. She'd not wanted to lose track of time, so every seven days she looped another feather into the yarn, just to remind her of her old Jack. She counted the quills. It had been thirty-six weeks since he'd died, choked by the Devil's Breath, like so many others. The monstrous fog had scoured his lungs and caused him to cough blood. Soon she'd have to start a new cord.

At the sound of her hens' clamor, she'd craned her scraggy neck to look out of her window. It was then she heard the noise that caused her most alarm. It had split the peaceful air with a mighty crack, like lightning cleaves a sturdy oak. It was the blast of gunshot; of that she was certain. Her first thought was that the Raven and his men were abroad, out to prey on innocent travelers. She'd drawn her bolts, blown out her candle, and kept low. It was then, from her window, that she saw the bushes shake and the dark shapes of men race away from the thicket. There were three, or maybe four of them. She watched them charging down the track as if the very devil himself were in hot pursuit. She had a good idea who they were, so she was more curious than afraid.

The next time she opened her door was on the following day. Three sidemen in Boughton livery dismounted on the dead leaves outside her cottage. They knocked and called her name. A gentleman had been murdered, they said. Had she seen or heard anything? they asked. She shook her head. She did not like this new breed at Boughton. They would have to break her old bones on a rack wheel before she'd tell their sort anything.