Read The Anatomist's Apprentice Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
The Anatomist's Apprentice (17 page)
Chapter 29
J
ames Lavington felt himself harden in anticipation of Eliza’s arrival. He lay on her iron bed and thought of her creamy thighs and voluptuous breasts and grew urgent and excited. She was late, but he could guess why, and when she finally did arrive, a few minutes later, she was crying. He put his arm around her shoulders as they heaved with emotion.
ames Lavington felt himself harden in anticipation of Eliza’s arrival. He lay on her iron bed and thought of her creamy thighs and voluptuous breasts and grew urgent and excited. She was late, but he could guess why, and when she finally did arrive, a few minutes later, she was crying. He put his arm around her shoulders as they heaved with emotion.
“Come, sit down,” he urged her gently, leading her to the bed. Her pretty plump cheeks were puckered and red, like a shriveled plum, and he thought she looked quite ugly when she cried. Nonetheless, he forbore.
“She said I was disloyal,” sobbed the maid, looking at Lavington for some reassuring refutation.
“That is unfair,” replied Lavington, easing off Eliza’s cap and watching her black hair tumble onto her shoulders. He began stroking her tresses, but the girl pulled away suddenly.
“You said she would thank me for it.” Her tone suddenly became recriminating and Lavington was taken aback by the outburst. Of course he knew that Lydia would be enraged by her maid’s revelation in court.
“You were only doing your duty to your mistress,” he insisted.
“I didn’t want to say it,” she countered like a petulant child. She was beginning to irritate Lavington. “I said I’d pay you for it,” he replied churlishly.
The maid ignored his protest and continued: “I’m just glad that that little shit is dead and good luck to ’im that did it.” She rose in anger and stormed over to the other end of the room. “ ’E didn’t deserve to live. Not after what ’e did to Beccy.” She stopped suddenly as if she had realized she had said something she should not, as if the lock on Pandora’s box had come unfastened and a terrible secret had slipped out.
“Tell me, Eliza,” said Lavington gently. “Tell me what your master did to Rebecca.” He patted the bed cover and she slowly walked back toward the bed and sat down beside him. Her shoulders heaved as a great sigh came out, as if she knew she would have to divulge a most hideous taboo.
“ ’E had ’er, just like ’e ’ad me and all the other servant girls that ’ave worked in this ’ouse,” she blurted, “whether we wanted it or not.”
It came as no revelation to Lavington that Crick had bedded Eliza, but what surprised even him was that he had violated one so young.
“But Rebecca was ... ?”
“A child. Twelve years old. But ’twas worse. She found out she was ...”
Her voice trailed off and Lavington could tell the rest. He nodded. It was all beginning to make sense now.
“So, her death was no accident.”
“She could not bear the shame,” said Eliza, staring ahead of her with unseeing eyes.
Lavington rose and walked to the window that looked out over the courtyard and to the Lovelocks’ accommodation. He suddenly remembered seeing Crick, on the morning of his death, coming out of the door. It was not the first time, either. He had seen him once before, only a few days prior to Rebecca’s death. He had thought nothing of it at the time. Edward had once told him it was a master’s right to have his servants, whether willing or not, whether male or female. He said it “made good sport” and Lavington had laughed and downed another brandy. Now, perhaps, that “sport” had turned into something far more dangerous and sinister.
He turned and saw Eliza prostrate on the bed, facedown, weeping into the coarse blanket. She looked meek and vulnerable. Her disclosures would be vital in finding Lord Crick’s killer and that could only be to his advantage. She would tell him more in due course, he knew, but in the meantime, he felt himself harden again and this time he would not be refused.
“Did you deal with the maid?” Michael Farrell’s tone was brusque. He had just returned from a long ride, “to clear his head” so he said, but the fresh air and exercise had obviously done nothing to lift his mood.
Lydia knelt beside him as he sat in his chair and took off his riding boots. “I reprimanded her,” she replied in a conciliatory tone, but Farrell withdrew his foot straightaway.
“You reprimanded her?” he repeated incredulously. “I want that whore out of this house by tomorrow.”
Lydia’s heart sank. She had feared that her actions would not be sufficiently harsh to please her husband.
“But Eliza has been with me for five years, Michael. ’Tis not right that I should dismiss her without notice.”
Farrell looked exasperated. His Irish charm was ebbing away fast. His skin was gray and there were bags under his green eyes that once twinkled so brightly. “She virtually accused me of murdering your brother,” he cried, loosening his cravat and flinging it on the floor.
“She was only repeating what she’d heard,” appealed Lydia, but her words made her husband even angrier.
“So, you would defend a servant against your husband, now, would you?” He leapt up and went over to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy.
“Of course not, but you make such ...”
“Such what?” He swung ’round, a glass in his hand.
“Such thoughtless comments sometimes. People who do not know you can ... can misconstrue them,” said Lydia, choosing her words carefully.
His wife’s words enraged Farrell. He raised his voice. “You had no business to go against my wishes. Am I not the master of the house now?”
“You are indeed,” Lydia acceded reluctantly, even though it was she who actually inherited the estate, as Edward had died without issue.
“Then you are just as bad as that whore of a servant of yours. You have been as disloyal as she has and I’ve a good mind to send you away, too.”
In fact his rantings were so loud that they carried down the stairs and could be heard in the kitchen below. The assembled servants listened to him cursing and railing at his distressed young wife. Such was the distraction, both upstairs and down, that no one heard the horses’ hooves thunder along the driveway of Boughton Hall, or the clatter of the wheels of a carriage. Nor did anyone see the procession draw up in front of the main door or hear the riders’ crunching dismount on the gravel underfoot.
As it was, the loud banging of the knocker was the first the Irishman, or anyone else in the house, knew that four constables and a reeve had arrived to arrest him for the murder of Edward Crick. Naturally he protested his innocence. Naturally he was reluctant to go with them. Naturally he resisted the chains they put about his wrists. But as Lydia watched the procession leave for Oxford, she was sure of only one thing: that she no longer knew the man she once loved.
Chapter 30
W
ill Lovelock held the blue bottle in his hand for a moment. With its long neck, stopped by a cork, and its smooth shoulders, it would be, he told himself, by far the best piece in his collection.
ill Lovelock held the blue bottle in his hand for a moment. With its long neck, stopped by a cork, and its smooth shoulders, it would be, he told himself, by far the best piece in his collection.
A shaft of sunlight beamed through a hole in the barn roof and he lifted it toward the light to study it more carefully. He noticed there was a small amount of clear liquid left in the bottom. It looked like water, but he decided he would sniff it and see. A strange, pungent odor emanated from inside. It was a smell that seemed strangely familiar to him and yet he could not place it. He was tempted to taste it. He put his finger on top of the neck and was about to tip it up, when he suddenly remembered the fate of the master. Had he not drunk something that disagreed with him? The agonizing cries still rang in Will’s ears and collided with his own mother’s screams. She had been unable to sleep for days after. Recalling the whole ghastly episode, he was about to push the cork back when he suddenly decided that one drop would do no harm. He tipped up the bottle once more and allowed a little of the liquid to coat his forefinger. Surprised to find it thick and syrupy and obviously not water, he lifted his finger to his tongue and licked it.
It tasted quite pleasing, moderately sweet, but there was a bitter back taste to it that made him shiver. He pushed the cork back into the neck and placed the bottle carefully on the rafter to admire it, next to a brass button, a locket, and a hairpin.
It had all begun last summer, when he had come across a silver spoon on the path in the vegetable garden. He knew he should have taken it back to Mistress Claddingbowl in the kitchen, but it was bent and covered in soil and good for nothing. So, he put it in his pocket when he was sure no one was looking. This very act of secrecy, of subterfuge, gave him a feeling of independence that excited him. But what to do with this newfound booty? He had to find somewhere to conceal his treasure.
He had climbed up on top of the bales in the hay barn and put it on the rafter in the corner out of sight. He often spent time up there, among the hay, where the color of his own hair blended in so well with the straw that if he lay flat, no one could see him. Sometimes he would hear his mother or Mistress Claddingbowl calling for him, but he made it a rule never to move until his father started to shout his name gruffly. That usually brought him out of hiding, but he was careful to cover his tracks. He would climb down from the bales and then slip through a small hole in the back of the barn, so that he would always appear to have been somewhere else.
No one ever suspected that he had a hideaway. It was his secret. Had his mother known, she would have forbidden his forays into the barn for many reasons, not least because the hay made his hands itch. Nor would she have approved of his collection. The week after his first discovery, when he was in the stable yard, he spied a shoe buckle made of brass on the cobbles. A horse had trodden on it and it was misshapen, so it was of no use and it joined the spoon. Within a month the collection included a toothpick, a broken piece of porcelain, and a jam jar.
Now, one year on, Will’s eclectic array of eccentric collectables amounted to more than forty pieces occupying two rafters in the corner of the hay barn. Among the buttons and the broken clay pipes were two unlikely specimens—the flat stones he had found in his sister’s apron pockets when they pulled her out of the lake. No one had seen him remove them, but he kept them as a memory of her. They were probably the last things she touched on this earth and they made him feel closer to her. He had removed them from under his bed as soon as he could and now they took pride of place on the beams. Rebecca had been the only one who knew about his secret stash. She had come upon it by mistake when she was looking for him one day, but she had promised not to tell and she remained true to her word.
This latest acquisition, this magnificent cobalt bottle, that now stood so handsomely on the rafter, surpassed them all in beauty. He allowed himself to gaze at its elegance. He did not know how or why it had ended up in the apple barrel, but he was delighted that he had found it. Had his mother set eyes on it, she would have laid claim to it herself as a receptacle for her salves and febrifuges; she must not see it and it would be his to keep forever.
He settled back on a bale and smiled. There was little fear he would be called upon to complete more duties. Ever since Captain Farrell had been taken away two days ago, the big house had been in turmoil. Hardly anyone had called for him and no one seemed to care where he was. Since Rebecca’s death, his mother had seemed in another world. Now and again she would weep for no apparent reason, but otherwise she seemed to walk around in a daze, as if her mind was somewhere far removed from Boughton Hall. He knew his secret would be safe for a little while longer at least.
Chapter 31
S
ince his return to London, Thomas had been in emotional turmoil. Had he suffered an ache, or a minor infection of some kind, it would have been simple to treat. A dose of feverfew or a dab of iodine would have eased his discomfort—he had not time for bloodletting—but this, this stirring deep down in his very soul was untreatable.
ince his return to London, Thomas had been in emotional turmoil. Had he suffered an ache, or a minor infection of some kind, it would have been simple to treat. A dose of feverfew or a dab of iodine would have eased his discomfort—he had not time for bloodletting—but this, this stirring deep down in his very soul was untreatable.
Poets speak of the heart as the organ from which love emanates, thought Thomas, but this sensation that he now experienced was affecting his whole body. He had lost his appetite. His pulse raced at the very thought of her and he was unable to concentrate. Sleep now escaped him and he felt agitated and anxious. He longed for the sight of her, the scent of her, her touch, her voice. Just as Mistress Finesilver craved the laudanum he supplied, so, too, did he crave Lydia. She was the only balm that could soothe his ills and she was forbidden.
As he walked wearily up to his room, knowing that he would be unable to sleep once more, there came a loud rapping at the front door. Mistress Finesilver, dressed in her nightgown, emerged to answer it, but Thomas, fearful of cutpurses at this time of night, told her he would see to it.
A troubled Francis Crick stood on the threshold. “Dr. Silkstone, something terrible has happened,” he panted.
Thomas said nothing, but quickly ushered his visitor in, not wishing to alarm Mistress Finesilver. He showed him into the drawing room and bade him sit down.
“You look like death, man,” he said, handing him a hastily poured brandy. The young man’s complexion was white and his hands were shaking as he tried to steady the glass.
“Captain Farrell has been arrested,” he blurted. “They’ve charged him with murder.”
At first light Thomas hired a horse and galloped as far as the George and Dragon at West Wycombe. There, without bothering to refresh himself, he changed his mount and rode on, not stopping until he reached Boughton Hall. It was late afternoon when he arrived and the sound of hooves on stone alerted young Will up in his hideaway. Seeing Dr. Silkstone, he jumped down from the bales and hurried to take his horse in the yard.
“Ah, Will. There’s a good lad,” Thomas greeted, giving the young boy the reins of his mount. Will smiled. The doctor was the only one who ever showed him any kindness.
“She’s ridden hard, sir,” he remarked, seeing the flecks of white foam on the mare’s fetlocks and hindquarters.
“We both have,” smiled Thomas, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Can I get you something, sir?”
“You look after the horse,” replied Thomas. “I’ll take care of myself,” and with that he pressed a farthing into Will’s hand.
The boy’s freckled face broke into a broad smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Thomas entered the house via one of the back entrances. No one saw him as he made his way through an ill-lit corridor that led out onto the hallway. He walked toward the drawing room. The door was closed and he put his ear to it. He could hear movement inside. Light footsteps paced up and down on the wooden floor. He had just raised his hand to knock when he heard a voice—a man’s voice.
“Can I help you, Dr. Silkstone?” came another voice from behind. Thomas jumped. It was Rafferty, the manservant. He was caught off-guard and felt awkward.
“I am come to see Lady Lydia, but I believe she has company.”
Rafferty looked at the young doctor imperiously. “I shall see if her ladyship is available to receive you,” he replied. He disappeared momentarily, then reemerged to open the door wide, gesturing inside.
Thomas was not prepared for the scene that greeted him. It was not the fact that James Lavington was in the room, nor that he was standing by Lydia. It was the air of intimacy that was almost palpable, as if in Captain Farrell’s absence the lawyer had quickly and easily filled the errant husband’s shoes.
“Dr. Silkstone,” Lydia greeted him warmly. “I am so pleased you are here.” He wondered if she really was, or if his appearance had thwarted a secret tryst.
Thomas gave a half bow and kissed Lydia’s outstretched hand. He acknowledged Lavington with a nod. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said. He was unsure how she would react to his unannounced arrival, but she was unfazed.
“You know Mr. Lavington, do you not?” said Lydia.
Thomas had seen him at the inquest in Oxford, but the two men had not been formally introduced. He could not help looking at his disfigurement and what an excellent job the prostheti-cian had made of the ivory nose.
Lavington, who was obviously acutely sensitive to even the most discreet of glances, turned his face the other way toward Lydia.
“I must go now, your ladyship,” he told her, taking her hand in an intimate gesture. “I shall call by tomorrow.”
Lydia smiled and nodded in a noiseless language that spoke volumes to Thomas. Lavington gave a polite bow and took his leave.
As soon as he had left the room, Lydia’s countenance became graver. “Francis must have told you,” she said, settling herself on a chair by the fireplace. “Please,” she said, gesturing Thomas to sit opposite her.
She looked pale and her eyes were red from crying. She seemed even more fragile than when he had first seen her, he thought. He felt an overwhelming urge to put his arms around her.
“You have ridden all this way. You must be exhausted, Dr. Silkstone.” She deliberately used his title, as if to distance herself from him. “I shall call for refreshment.”
She reached for the bell and rang it. “Bring Dr. Silkstone a pitcher of wine,” she ordered Rafferty.
“Yes, my lady,” replied the manservant rather warily.
“And Dr. Silkstone will be dining with us tonight, too,” she added.
“You are too kind,” said Thomas.
“It is the least I can do, seeing you have come all the way from London,” said Lydia, smiling.
Rafferty bowed and was just about to leave the room when his mistress called him back. “And Rafferty. See that the blue room is ready. Dr. Silkstone will be staying with us tonight.” The manservant raised an imperious eyebrow and Lydia noted his expression, but said nothing.
“I appreciate your generosity, my lady,” remarked Thomas, feeling a little awkward.
“As I said, it is the least I can do,” she repeated firmly.
He looked at her, seated a few feet away across the room, and it may as well have been a thousand miles that separated them. Lavington’s presence had unsettled him. There was an awkward silence, which Thomas broke.
“How was your husband when you saw him?” he enquired. Francis Crick had told him of Lydia’s visit to Oxford Prison, much against his own advice.
“How well can a man be when he shares a cell with cockroaches and the threat of death hangs over him?” she asked bitterly.
Thomas felt insensitive. “I am sorry. I did not mean ...”
Lydia looked at him and shook her head. “No. ’Tis I who should be sorry. You travel all this way to assist us and I snap at you like that. Forgive me, Dr. Silkstone.”
Her pain was as real and as obvious as if she, too, were caged in a stinking cell awaiting trial.
Rafferty returned carrying a tray. He set it down on a table by Thomas and poured a large glass of claret. Before the manservant was out of the room, Thomas took a large gulp.
Lydia watched him in the half light. His face was intelligent and earnest, although she had seen him smile, and she knew there was humor and warmth there, too, albeit hidden from her at that moment. A frond of long hair flopped forward across his face and he brushed it back with a firm hand. He looked disheveled and his breeches were covered in dust.
“I need your help, Dr. Silkstone,” she said. She paused. “But of course you knew that.”
Thomas looked up. “You can be assured that I will do everything in my power to establish who killed your brother,” he said earnestly. He omitted to say that he would endeavor to prove Captain Farrell’s innocence. It was an omission that did not go unremarked by Lydia, but she let it pass.
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