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Authors: Tessa Harris

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Will rose immediately, nodded an acknowledgment, then, taking the same whisket that had held the kindling, he made his way to the store that lay off the courtyard. Dust motes danced in the autumn sunlight as he opened the door. Inside it was dark and it smelled sickly sweet with the fragrance of the fruit.
The cooking apples lay in a barrel at the back. Large, waxy, and bright green, many of the late picked ones had brown spots, but in the half light it was impossible to see which were good and which were not without taking each one out of the barrel and inspecting it at the door.
Delving deep, Will heard the apples tumble about, rumbling like a drum. He pulled one out, held it to the light, and judged it passable. There followed another and another until his basket was almost full. Once again he plunged his hand in, this time much deeper, so that his hips hung over the neck of the barrel and his toes were on their tips. It was then that he heard it: a foreign, clanking sound against the iron frame of the cask. He felt once more. There it was again, an alien presence among the overripe mush of fruit at the bottom. His enquiring hands explored even deeper, probing to the very floor of the barrel, then, fanning his fingers out, he felt something hard and cold and angular. It was most definitely not an apple.
Chapter 27
J
eers and catcalls rang out in the courtroom as Captain Michael Farrell took the stand to give evidence at the inquest of his late, and not much lamented, brother-in-law. The rabble had already made up their minds, casting him as the villain of the piece, branding him a murderer before a verdict on the cause of death had even been reached.
Yet as Sir Theodisius once more called for “order,” Michael Farrell’s disarming smile was having more effect in quieting the common horde than any blows of the coroner’s gavel. He wore the expression of a gentleman on a Sunday picnic, such was the ease and nonchalance of his demeanor, and he was dressed to match his mood. A lavender-colored topcoat, cream silk breeches, and a pink brocade waistcoat gave him an air of fashionable sophistication that was quite out of place in a courtroom. Yet he seemed not in the least bit concerned that his appearance caused Sir Theodisius to raise an eyebrow.
The catcalls had soon turned to wolf whistles as the gallery mocked the captain en masse, but not a hair on Farrell’s immaculately groomed and powdered wig turned. He simply surveyed his audience and curled his mouth in a curiously wry smile.
Under examination Sir Theodisius asked the captain to describe exactly what had happened on that fateful day and Farrell had obliged, speaking calmly and clearly. He neither refused to answer any question that was put to him nor failed to elucidate when the coroner deemed it necessary.
“In what state did you find Lord Crick?”
“He was moaning and flailing about.”
“Did you try to help in any way?”
“I feared there was nothing I could do. My brother-in-law was clearly in terrible distress, so I immediately sent for Dr. Fairweather.”
“Did you have any idea what might have caused this terrible spasm?”
“I cannot be certain, sir, but my brother-in-law was not a well man. His blood was a mass of mercury and corruption and his intellects were very much affected,” replied the captain.
“Are you saying Lord Crick was mad, Captain Farrell?” pressed Sir Theodisius.
“I am saying, sir, that at first I thought his distemper was down to the pox. I had no inkling that it might have been the contents of his physick bottle that did for him. That is why I asked Hannah to clear up afterward. Had I known there were any suspicions surrounding the medication, I would naturally have seen to it that the bottle be salvaged.”
The coroner nodded sympathetically. The captain’s evidence seemed perfectly logical. “I see,” said Sir Theodisius and noted something down on a sheaf of paper before him. “And pray tell me, have you any idea what happened to this bottle?”
Farrell shook his head. “I thought nothing of it, sir. I do not know what became of it. I believe Mistress Lovelock is the one you must ask, sir.”
“I do not need you to tell me my job,” countered Sir Theodisius, clearly irritated by what he regarded as the captain’s impertinence. He stroked his flaccid jowls for a moment. “One more thing, Captain Farrell. Can you tell me why you ordered the destruction of the still in which the laurel water was made?”
Shouts went up from the gallery. “Yes, you scoundrel. Tell us,” they called, shaking fists and biting their thumbs at him.
The Irishman paused for a moment, smiled disarmingly, and said: “Why sir, yes. As soon as my dear wife,” he motioned to Lydia, who sat close by, “told me of the upsetting rumors circulating among the servants that her brother may have taken poison in his medicine, she told me she wanted nothing to do with the retort.”
There was a murmuring in the gallery. Lydia looked uncomfortable.
“So, it was
she
who asked you to destroy it?” pressed Sir Theodisius.
The captain nodded. “Indeed, yes, sir. I tried to persuade her that it would not be a good idea, but the very sight of it so vexed her that I thought it best to obey her wishes.” He looked pointedly at Lydia, as if reaffirming his devotion to her.
The coroner gave out an audible sigh. “I see, Captain Farrell. That will be all.”
The Irishman walked back to his seat with the air of a man who was quietly confident. He sat down once more next to Lydia and gave her a smile. It was not returned.
“This court calls Hannah Lovelock,” announced the clerk. The servant had not been expecting another appearance in the witness stand. She rose, but seemed unsteady on her feet. Jacob helped her walk the few paces to the box.
Sir Theodisius noted her pained demeanor. It was clear to him that the whole hearing had been an ordeal for the poor woman and he apologized for recalling her. “However,” he continued, “I feel it is imperative to ask you what became of the bottle of physick after Lord Crick’s body was removed from the room.”
Hannah’s bowed head now lifted and her gaze met the coroner’s. “It broke, sir,” she said, her voice cracking. “I was in such a state that, when I went to put it in the cupboard, I dropped it and it shattered on the floor.” With these words she broke down, sobbing silently, her shoulders heaving rhythmically, and Sir Theodisius felt he had no choice but to let her step down. The clerk escorted her back to her seat against a backdrop of shouts and jeers from the gallery, whose sympathies lay fairly and squarely with the poor maid who was so fearful of her master.
Sir Theodisius looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly noon and high time, he felt, to draw proceedings to an end, not least because his empty stomach was making a tumultuous protest. As coroner it was his duty to decide how the deceased had died, not to occasion blame. He had strong suspicions that the young braggart had been poisoned, but in the absence of hard evidence, it was difficult to be categorical. As to the possible perpetrator of any crime that may or may not have been committed, it was neither his duty nor his wish to point the finger unless he had very strong grounds to do so. He would go away and consider his verdict over a jowl of salmon and a brace of stewed carp. Such sustenance, he told himself, would undoubtedly sharpen his wits.
Thus, Sir Theodisius was just about to adjourn for luncheon when the clerk approached, looking very agitated, with a note in his hand. Taking the piece of parchment, the coroner unfurled it and saw it contained a painstakingly written message, executed in an ill-educated hand. Its author was one Eliza Appleton, Lady Lydia’s maidservant. She was requesting to be called to give evidence. She had, she wrote, “a burning memory of something said before his lordship’s passing.”
The coroner had little choice. Intrigued, he summoned the young woman to take the stand. All eyes immediately focused on the voluptuous maid, who looked uncharacteristically demure. There was no sign of her cleavage and her pert breasts were covered by a dark shawl. She wore no rouge, and her hair was tucked under a neat lace cap.
“Your name,” instructed the clerk.
“Eliza Agnes Appleton,” came the soft reply. “I be Lady Lydia’s maid.”
“And what is it that you wish to tell this inquest, pray?” Sir Theodisius was gentle with her, aware that she was frightened and intimidated.
The young girl straightened her back and cleared her throat. “ ’Tis something I ’eard, sir,” she replied.
“Well?” coaxed the coroner.
“ ’Twas on the morning, sir, before ’is lordship ... before ’e ...” Unable to bring herself to say the words, her voice trailed.
“On the morning of Lord Crick’s death, yes, girl,” urged Sir Theodisius, whose patience was wearing thin.
“Lady Lydia told me to fetch ’er shawl, which she ’ad left at the breakfast table,” began the maid. “So I went down to get it and I sees Lord Crick and the captain in the breakfast room.” She paused and turned toward the coroner, as if shying away from Farrell’s gaze.
“Well?” urged the coroner once more.
“Then I sees the master is going out.” She paused once more.
“And ...” Sir Theodisius cajoled.
“And the captain says to him: ‘Do not forget the apothecary is coming ... we would hate you to forget your medication.’ ”
With these last words a wave of indignation swept across the courtroom, followed by the swell of a murmur.
Once more the coroner had to call for order. It was not his job to apportion blame, he told himself, but so many fingers of suspicion were pointing at the same person that he would be failing in his duty if he ignored them. He had reached his verdict a while back and would direct the jury accordingly. He felt no compulsion to wait for Dr. Silkstone and his high-falutin tests. The evidence was overwhelming: “unlawful killing” would be the outcome and the perpetrator of that killing was plain for all to see.
 
Michael Farrell came late to the marital bed that night. Lavington had accompanied him and Lydia in the carriage from Oxford and an icy silence had pervaded. When they arrived back at Boughton Hall, the captain asked Lavington to join him for a drink in his study and it was shortly before midnight that he climbed into bed. Lydia had not been able to sleep. She lay on her side, with her back to her husband, her pillow wet with tears. She smelled Farrell’s brandy breath and tensed. He reached out his hand and began to stroke her chestnut curls on the pillow. The moment he did so, she felt she could contain her anger no longer. She bolted upright.
“How could you?” she asked incredulously. “How could you perjure yourself in court?” She looked at him with eyes full of rage. Her expression shocked even her husband for a moment.
“My dearest, I thought you might want to help me. If I had admitted that I ordered the still to be destroyed, I would have looked even guiltier than I do already,” he whispered in his soft Irish brogue.
“But you lied and you used me to protect yourself,” she told him through clenched teeth. Trying to disarm her with charm, he took hold of her hand, but she brushed him away and began to sob once more.
Farrell did not enjoy seeing his wife cry, but it was something she had been doing with relentless regularity over the past few days. He knew that what he had done was morally reprehensible, but his instinct to survive had taken over in the courtroom. Nevertheless he felt chastened by her tears.
“I did not do it, Lydia,” he said softly in the darkness. She could barely hear his words above her sobs, but she stopped crying and turned to face him.
“What did you say?”
“I did not kill Edward,” he told her. “You do believe me, do you not?”
There was a note of pleading in his voice.
She looked at him and saw the creases in his brow had grown deeper over the past few days. His face was at last showing the strain, but still doubt clouded her mind.
“I cannot be sure, Michael,” she said. “I really do not know.”
The next thing Lydia knew was that Farrell had risen from the bed and was donning his dressing robe.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I cannot share my bed with a woman who thinks I am a murderer.”
She swallowed hard and turned toward him, but she was glad she could not see his face clearly in the darkness, nor he hers. That way he could not detect her tears. She did not try and stop him as he walked out of the room. As soon as the door was shut she slumped back on her pillows. Perhaps she was being too harsh on him. He had a temper and more than once she had been on the receiving end of it, but Edward’s murderer was cold and calculating. Whoever was responsible had harbored such deep hatred for her brother that they had thought long and hard about his death and the manner of it. The notion chilled her to the very bone and no matter how closely she wrapped the coverlet around her body it was no substitute for her husband’s warmth.
Chapter 28
L
ike a strange exotic fruit waiting to be sliced, the Earl Crick’s heart floated in a large glass jar. Suspended in a syrup-colored liquid, it would soon be cut open and its contents revealed. There were those who might have wagered it would be black inside, because of the evil doings of its owner, but Dr. Thomas Silkstone had no such misgivings. All he could hope for would be that this once garrulous, now silent heart would reveal to him the secrets of its master’s death.
Lifting the jar, he held the specimen up to the light from the window to examine it more closely. Outwardly it looked quite normal: the size of a clenched fist and with no unusual discoloration or contusions. Carefully he opened the lid and, delving into the jar, slid his hand under the bulbous organ, easing it out gently. He laid it on the cool marble slab before him and pondered for a moment. He was about to enter the red pavilion of the heart, drawing back the vermilion curtains of tissue to reveal this man’s inner room; the sanctum where, some believed, his thoughts and emotions reposed. Now, more than ever before, he felt like an intruder, but he needed to find out the truth.
The scalpel sliced through the pericardium as easily as a knife through a ripe peach. The heart divided into two perfect halves. Thomas strained his eyes, inspecting the organ. Reaching for a magnifying glass, he peered at the septum that separates the two sides of the heart, before inspecting each of the four chambers in detail. He could see nothing untoward. It was only when his examination moved to the ventricles and then to the atria that he noticed anything out of the ordinary. The aorta, which carried fresh blood to the heart, seemed to be constricted. It was considerably smaller than he would expect in a healthy adult male.
Next he carefully cut across the pulmonary artery. Again it was much smaller than he anticipated. If, as appeared likely, the earl had been poisoned, then this poison seemed to have had an effect on his circulatory system. What was it that Hannah had said at the inquest? Lord Crick had put his hand up to his chest and begun panting like a dog. It made perfect sense. The young man was clutching his chest because he was experiencing cardiac arrest. No wonder his eyes bulged from their sockets and his breathing became difficult. He was suffering from a constriction of the heart, which affected his oxygen supply. If Thomas could ascertain which poisons might have such an effect on the heart, he could then test for traces of the toxin in the young lord’s remains.
Thomas had felt a huge sense of relief to be back in his rooms in London. The courthouse had been an alien environment, hostile and ignorant, but here, surrounded by his beloved books and his precious specimen jars full of gleaming membranes and delicate tissues, he felt as at ease as a fetus in the womb.
Franklin was pleased to see him, too. Mistress Finesilver had locked him in his cage while Thomas was away and the rodent had sat on his haunches and stretched upward as soon as he saw his master. The young doctor had allowed the animal to roam freely around the laboratory all day, talking to him now and again, playfully asking his opinion from time to time.
“We have work to do, Franklin,” smiled Thomas as the rodent climbed onto his desk. “Much work,” and with that he went over to his bookshelves and started studying the spines. His long surgeon’s fingers stroked the leather-bound volumes thoughtfully, passing over such seminal works as Hooke’s
Micrographia
and countless volumes of
Nature
until they came across a volume of
Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society,
something he had often consulted on Dr. Carruthers’s recommendation. Next to it was a thick tome entitled
The Poisonous Properties of Botanics in the British Isles.
Thomas took them both out of their shelf and staggered under their collective weight as he walked over to his desk. He was just about to open the first book when a knock came at his door.
“Thomas, will you dine with us tonight?” It was Dr. Carruthers. The men had barely spoken since the New Englander had returned from Oxford the day before, and the young doctor felt obliged to eat with his mentor.
“I am looking forward to it, sir,” he replied.
“I’ll wager you missed Mistress Finesilver’s pies in Oxford,” chuckled the old doctor. Remembering the paltry fare he had been offered at the White Horse, Thomas had to agree.
Over a hearty slice of game pie, Thomas told Dr. Carruthers of the revelations at the inquest and how Captain Farrell had not fared well in the various testimonies.
“And did he do it?” asked Dr. Carruthers with his usual candor. Thomas’s ensuing silence spoke volumes. “Ah, there is great doubt in your mind,” said the old physician.
“I need to base my conclusions on facts, sir, and at the moment these are sadly lacking,” replied Thomas.
“But only you can do that, Dr. Silkstone,” countered Carruthers. “ ’Tis a weighty duty on your shoulders.”
Thomas was all too aware that his experiments on the dead man’s organs were the only real hope of providing the key to Lord Crick’s mysterious death. An image of Lydia’s beautiful face suddenly darted through his consciousness. “Aye, sir, but it is a duty I must see through,” he replied.
Dr. Carruthers sensed that his protégé was in a black mood. “But where is my newspaper?” he suddenly said cheerfully, trying to lift Thomas’s spirits.
The young doctor glanced over at the writing desk. Mistress Finesilver had laid the copy of
The Daily Advertiser
on the salver as usual and Thomas settled himself into a chair opposite the old doctor to read aloud.
There were the regular tedious proceedings in Parliament and a report on the growing schism between the Anglican Church and Nonconformists. Aside from this, Dr. Carruthers only knew one of the worthies in the Obituaries column and did not rate him very highly. It was only when Thomas turned the final page that his attention was captured. The headline was small, but it sufficed. It read: “Verdict of Unlawful Killing: Young Lord Was Poisoned.” The account that followed gave a summary version of proceedings in three paragraphs, but it was enough for Thomas. Sir Theodisius had judged that young Edward Crick had been deliberately poisoned, without waiting for the results of Thomas’s findings. The ugly word that had hovered on the lips of every gossip in Oxfordshire for the past few weeks could now be proclaimed out loud and that word was “murder.”

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