Read The Anatomist's Apprentice Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
The Anatomist's Apprentice (4 page)
Chapter 4
V
ery few people mourned Lord Edward Crick. He was interred in the family vault in the estate chapel the following day, watched only by his mother, sister, and his brother-in-law; his cousin Francis Crick, an anatomy student in London; and James Lavington, a neighbor and friend of the captain’s. His legal guardian, Sir Montagu Malthus, was suffering a severe attack of the gout and was unable to attend.
ery few people mourned Lord Edward Crick. He was interred in the family vault in the estate chapel the following day, watched only by his mother, sister, and his brother-in-law; his cousin Francis Crick, an anatomy student in London; and James Lavington, a neighbor and friend of the captain’s. His legal guardian, Sir Montagu Malthus, was suffering a severe attack of the gout and was unable to attend.
How different it had been when they were children. She remembered playing with her brother in the woods, skimming stones on Plover’s Lake and, on warm summer evenings, taking bottles of lemonade up to the ridge that looked down on the house. Sometimes they would be joined by Francis and all three of them would roll down the slope, falling down from dizziness as soon as they tried to stand up at the bottom. She remembered, too, the heartache when her father sent Edward to Eton. He was thirteen. On his return home after the first term she no longer knew him. He was so changed that he would not even stroll with her in the gardens, caring more for his card games with his newfound friends than for either her or the estate he would one day inherit.
The insipid October sun offered little comfort as the small procession entered the musty chapel. Lady Crick thought it was an ordinary Sunday and wore a bright bonnet trimmed with roses. Lydia placed her mother’s ice-cold arm around her own and choked back acrid tears as the vicar read from the gospel.
Captain Farrell thought it right that he should deliver the eulogy. If she had felt stronger, Lydia might have insisted that Francis, who had been closer to Edward, address the congregation, but instead her husband, the man who loathed her brother perhaps more than any other in life, now sang his praises in death. He found himself having to dig deep to find good things to say about his brother-in-law and even Lydia was forced to admit to herself that Edward Crick had not been a likeable young man.
“Those who knew Edward, as I did, will remember him as a private person.” Lydia knew what her husband would say next: that her brother may not have been very forthcoming, but that he was quietly dedicated to the estate, even though its burden had been placed on him at such a young age. He worked, he told his meagre audience, quietly behind the scenes to ensure that all ran smoothly. She could not force herself to listen to the clichés that were as empty as most of the pews in the chapel. Instead she let her eyes roam around the porticoes and columns, lifting her gaze to the ceiling. She settled on a face carved in stone and framed by large oak leaves at the top of a pillar to the left of the altar. Its mouth was drawn tight and its eyes were bulging and immediately she saw Edward’s anguished face once more. Was he listening to her husband’s lies? She prayed to God that this final ordeal would soon be over.
Afterward they gathered in the drawing room in an uneasy atmosphere that was thick with nagging suspicions and thinly veiled recriminations. Farrell smiled calmly through it all, making small talk and frowning sympathetically now and again when someone invoked Edward’s name, until, that is, a grotesquely disfigured gentleman limped over to him from the other side of the room.
“You play the part of the bereaved brother-in-law well,” remarked James Lavington when he finally had Farrell to himself in a corner. He had known the Irishman since their days in India. It was there that the accident had happened, leaving him partly paralyzed down one side of his body and his face horribly disfigured. A prosthetic nose of ivory had replaced his own, which had been blown away. The captain allowed himself a fleeting smile.
“What I do, I do for her,” he told him in his soft Irish brogue. He looked over toward Lydia, who was talking to Francis. “It has hit her hard.”
Lavington nodded and gulped back a sherry. He and Farrell were of the same ilk. The only difference between them was now the captain had the means to sustain his lifestyle and Lavington, disabled as he was, did not.
“You’re a fortunate man, Farrell,” he said, looking at Lydia in profile as she talked earnestly with Francis. The Irishman nodded.
Francis was roughly the same age as his beautiful cousin and as a boy even nurtured dreams of marrying her when he was old enough, but she had chosen otherwise. His features were smooth, almost feminine. People said they looked alike and although they both always denied it, Lydia liked to think it drew them closer.
“Your husband delivered a good eulogy,” said Francis, being unusually formal. Lydia knew that what he really meant to say was that the captain concealed his relief at Edward’s death well.
“Yes,” she replied, but it suddenly struck her that if he could lie that well in church before a congregation, maybe he could lie to her, too. She hesitated, wondering whether or not to reveal her fear. She decided she must.
“You have heard the rumors?”
Francis feigned ignorance. “Rumors?” he repeated.
Lydia sometimes wished he were not so polite and proper. “Francis, I must be truthful with you. ’Twas bad enough losing Edward, but now all this scandal—”
Francis nodded, making Lydia break off. “I must admit I have heard talk.”
“What are they saying?”
He took a deep breath, but in the end there was no tactful way of putting it. “They say that Edward was poisoned.”
Lydia knew that was only the half of it. “And do they say by whom?”
Francis bit his lip, as if apologizing for the accusations of others. He did not have to speak Farrell’s name. It was written in his eyes.
Lydia felt the anger that had been so unfamiliar to her before surge through her veins once more. Seeing her distress, Francis put his hand on her shoulder.
“Please, dear Lydia. They are just cruel rumors.”
“You call them rumors, but what if ...” Lydia stopped short of saying what she truly felt, but went on: “The fact is Edward is dead and we know not how nor why.” Hannah the maid, who was handing around a tray of savories that nobody wanted, looked startled and Lydia tried to regain her composure. Her back stiffened. Francis sought to ease her obvious pain. “The results of the postmortem will reveal all,” he ventured.
Lydia frowned. “But there lies the problem,” she confided. “There was no postmortem.”
Francis looked bemused. “But Farrell told me a surgeon and a physician were here yesterday to perform one.”
Lydia felt panic suddenly take hold. “Michael did not tell you? They said Edward’s body was too badly decomposed. They said they could not perform one.”
Francis swallowed hard and looked at Lydia. “A misunderstanding,” he replied quickly, not daring to look her in the eye. But it was too late and both of them understood the gravity of the situation.
Later that night, when Farrell came to her in bed, he put his arm around her waist and drew her close to him. His body was cool and she felt his breath against her warm neck. He stroked her long chestnut hair tenderly, breathing in its lemon scent, before sliding his hand up her smooth thigh, taking her nightgown with it. She felt him hard and hot between her thighs, but she did not respond. Instead she feigned sleep.
Chapter 5
T
he old man was sitting in a chair near the open window, listening to the din below. “Must be a hanging,” he said knowingly. Thomas always marveled at how, despite being only relatively recently deprived of his sight, Dr. Carruthers’s perceptions had been sharpened to compensate for the loss of his most precious sense. “Who is it?”
he old man was sitting in a chair near the open window, listening to the din below. “Must be a hanging,” he said knowingly. Thomas always marveled at how, despite being only relatively recently deprived of his sight, Dr. Carruthers’s perceptions had been sharpened to compensate for the loss of his most precious sense. “Who is it?”
Thomas had turned his face toward his master, so that he could be heard better above the passing furor outside. “There are three of them, I understand, sir. One is a sheep stealer and the other two are said to have killed a lawyer.”
Dr. Carruthers chuckled. “A lawyer, eh? Then surely they did the world a service.” His rounded shoulders, hunched from years of poring over dissecting tables, lifted slightly then sank down again into the winged chair. “You’re not watching it, then, boy?”
Thomas did not have the stomach for such a show. He could drain a man’s carotid artery once he was dead without a second thought, but watching the life drain away from someone still alive was a different matter. “I think not. I have too much work to be getting on with,” he said, taking his leave and heading off for the laboratory.
He did indeed have work. He had just taken delivery of a stillborn child from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The specimen was still wrapped in swaddling cloths and had arrived in a wooden box. Thomas took the tiny bundle out and laid it, still covered, on the marble slab. He paused before his fingers gently began unwrapping the frayed kersey bands. He had lost count of the number of fetuses he had preserved in formaldehyde, but he never found it any easier. He tried not to think of each specimen as a life lost, as a mother’s child gone forever, as a soul trapped in eternal limbo. He brushed such morbid thoughts aside, but they always came back to him each time he unclenched tiny fingers or touched tiny toes.
Anxious to get to work quickly, he had just reached for a bottle of preserving fluid from high up on the shelf when there was a knock at the door.
“Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas was surprised to hear Mistress Finesilver. He had assumed that she had gone along to witness the hangings. He let out a spontaneous groan, then immediately regretted it, hoping it had not penetrated through the door.
“Yes, Mistress Finesilver,” he said, not bothering to get down from the stepladder. He watched the door open and saw the housekeeper standing at the threshold, but instead of her usual pinched, self-righteous expression, she wore a wry smile.
“There is a Lady Lydia Farrell to see you, Dr. Silkstone,” she informed the young doctor. As he could see no one, he assumed that this “lady” must be one of Dr. Carruthers’s old trouts—the sort who felt they required a compress if they had so much as a twinge in their little finger. He was minded to tell Mistress Finesilver to ask Lady Lydia to make an appointment at a more appropriate time, when the housekeeper elucidated, “Her ladyship says she is here on the recommendation of her cousin, who has attended your lectures.”
Thomas paused for a moment. Either Lady Lydia had a cousin who was about forty years her junior, as none of his students was over twenty-five, or, more logically her ladyship was actually quite young herself.
“Show her in, if you please,” he instructed.
Lady Lydia was indeed young. He put her at no more than in her mid-twenties, although it was difficult to see her face properly as her head was swamped by a large bonnet, and her slight frame was concealed by a velvet cape. For some reason Thomas found himself feeling slightly awkward.
“I am honored that one of my students should think so highly of me,” he said, hating himself immediately for sounding so crass. “Please come in.” He gestured to the young woman.
The housekeeper was about to follow, but was put very firmly in her place by a stern look. “I am sure Lady Lydia would prefer her consultation in private,” he told her. Mistress Finesilver bit her thin lips and conceded defeat, flouncing out of the laboratory on the pretense of having to attend to one of her pies.
There was a difficult silence as Lady Lydia stepped inside and looked around the laboratory, letting her gaze settle on anything but Thomas. He, on the other hand, was fascinated by the young woman. He watched her expression change from one of curiosity to wide-eyed repulsion as she surveyed the flint glass jars that lined the walls. Chestnut curls peeped below her bonnet and long lashes fringed large eyes.
“May I take your cape?” asked Thomas. She looked at him as if he had just asked if he could remove her tonsils.
“I find it a little chilly in here,” she replied. It was the first time he had heard her speak and he thought her body might break with the effort.
Suddenly he remembered the stillborn. Of course she found it cold in the laboratory—any normal person would. He was accustomed to working with the windows open to keep down the temperature and to let out the stench of rotting flesh, but she was not. Like one of those exotic orchids Dr. Carruthers used to keep, she belonged in a glasshouse, in need of cosseting and cherishing. And what of the stillborn? What if she saw it? He backed up toward the dissecting table.
“I shall close the windows,” he assured her, surreptitiously pulling the sheet over the tiny child as he did so. But it was too late. Lady Lydia let out a gasp. Thomas was horrified. How could he have been so careless? Feeling embarrassed that he could so abuse a lady’s sensibilities he was rushing forward to apologize when he realized her horrified gaze was not directed at the babe, but at Franklin as he scurried about in the corner. Her gloved hand rose in fright as she pointed at the hapless rodent.
“A rat,” she shrieked.
Thomas was half relieved to hear that Franklin was responsible for her outburst. He quickly went over to him, picked him up by the scruff of the neck, and put him back in his cage, fastening the lock. “He always escapes,” he smiled, adding: “We keep him for experiments.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied by this explanation, and Thomas had to remind himself of what he was doing before she had interrupted him.
“The windows. Yes,” he said purposefully, but Lady Lydia shook her head.
“No, please,” she interjected as he walked toward the casement. “The smell.”
From out of a small drawstring bag, she pulled a white linen handkerchief and held it to her nose. Thomas felt mortified. Not only was the air heavy with the smell of putrefied flesh, but he smelled, too, of formaldehyde. He looked down and immediately removed his large, stained apron. “Perhaps we should walk in the garden,” he suggested. Lady Lydia nodded her head. “I should like that,” she replied and she rose slowly, still clutching her handkerchief to her pale face.
Outside there was a small but pleasant courtyard. Underfoot Mistress Finesilver had planted sweet thyme that fragranced the air whenever it was stepped upon. Clumps of faded lavender, too, lined the wall, giving off the last of its pungent perfume. Thomas brushed against it deliberately so that its fragrance might permeate his own tainted clothes. He motioned toward a stone bench nearby, but the young woman declined.
“So, your cousin attends my lectures? Might I know him?”
“His name is Francis Crick. He is only a first-year student at the Company of Surgeons, but he commended you to me because of your work in a certain field.”
Thomas raised a curious eyebrow. “And what might that be?” He covered many aspects in his lectures, although these usually focused on a different part of the anatomy or a different pathological system each week.
The young woman looked at him earnestly. “It is the study of poisons,” she said.
It was a strange enquiry, he thought, to come from the lips of such a beautiful woman. “I know something of the subject, yes,” he acknowledged. He had lectured on the topic only a few weeks ago, but that was before he had begun his in-depth studies into the lymphatic system and its reaction to poisons.
“May I ask why it concerns you?” He did not mean to sound patronizing. Lady Lydia became agitated, shifting her weight, such as it was, from one foot to the other.
“You may have heard of my husband, Captain Michael Farrell.”
Thomas turned the name over in his head. He was not familiar with it. He looked at the young woman once more as she waited patiently for some glimmer of recognition. It did not come.
“Forgive me, I ...” Thomas began apologetically.
“The talk has not reached London, then,” she interrupted approvingly. “If it had you would know the name.”
Thomas was beginning to feel rather foolish and at a loss. Aware that she was traveling down a dead end, the young woman changed course.
“What if I were to tell you that I am the sister of the Earl Crick?”
It was a name that was vaguely known to Thomas. He recalled that one of his students had asked to be excused a lecture to attend the funeral of his cousin called Crick.
“Indeed, I know the name,” he acknowledged, although in reality he was still floundering in ignorance. Without lifting her head, the young woman said softly, as if she wanted no one to hear, “He is dead.” Thomas felt awkward.
“I am sorry,” he said politely, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of sympathy. But it was clearly not sympathy the young woman wanted. She looked directly at him and her voice was no longer soft.
“People are talking, Dr. Silkstone.” Thomas was taken by surprise. “They say my brother was murdered and that it was my husband who murdered him.” She was indignant. “I must know if he did, Dr. Silkstone.” Thomas could see that her hands were clenched below the folds of her cape.
“Why should they suspect your husband, my lady?” he found himself asking.
She looked up, fighting back the anger. “They say he poisoned Edward for his inheritance.”
“And you are asking me to prove that your husband is innocent,” said Thomas. He did not wish to prolong her agony.
She looked at him with large, frightened eyes that were glassy with tears and said, “I believe you are the only man in England who can discover the truth.”
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