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Authors: Tessa Harris

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Chapter 43
T
homas slept fitfully that night. The pieces of the puzzle that only twenty-four hours ago were beginning to fit so neatly into place were now falling apart. The results of his tests on the
digitalis purpurea,
Hannah’s disappearance, and now the discovery of this woman’s body all felt so wrong. It was as if an experiment he had conducted and noted dozens of times before had yielded a completely different and contradictory result when he had repeated it one last time.
He thought of Captain Farrell, too, alone in his cell. Just a few hours before, freedom had seemed within his reach, but it was dangling perilously on the end of a fragile thread and that thread had now broken.
At first light when he reached the prison gates he surmised that the jailers would run such a harsh regime and wake the prisoners at dawn, if only to prolong their interminable agony of incarceration.
He found the jailer sitting at his table with his mouth wide open, dabbing a troublesome tooth with a grubby gin-soaked cloth. When he saw the young doctor, he took his fingers out of his mouth and eyed him suspiciously.
“You’re an early bird,” he greeted him warily, then under his foul-smelling breath he jibed: “Come to see the worm.”
Thomas heard him, but chose to ignore his cheap aside. “Is the captain awake?”
“Slept like a baby all night, he ’as,” said the jailer, peering through the grille. “More than I ’ave,” he moaned, clutching a grubby hand to his jaw. Thomas peered through the grille, as well. He could see the Irishman was lying under his coarse blanket on the wooden platform that served as a bed. He could not see his head, only a mound of coverlet and straw, which, he assumed, had escaped from his torn palliasse.
The jailer opened wide the cell door, allowing Thomas to enter, the smell of urine and filth assailing his nostrils. As soon as the door was shut behind him, Thomas went over to the bed. It surprised him that the Irishman had not stirred when the key had clanked in the lock.
“Captain Farrell,” called Thomas, standing over the crumpled heap, softly at first, then louder. “Captain Farrell.”
Receiving no response, Thomas lightly prodded the blanket, but his fingers felt only straw below. Shocked, he pulled back the cover. Farrell was gone. A mound of hay brought from the spoil corner lay in his stead.
“Guard, guard,” he cried, rushing to the door. The jailer came swiftly. “The captain—he’s gone,” called Thomas. But the look of shock on the young doctor’s face was as nothing compared with the fingerprint of horror that had suddenly stamped itself upon the jailer. Thomas followed the man’s terrified eyes to where they had rested, pupils dilated, the hairs on the back of his neck erect, then he, too, was suddenly gripped by the chilling sight—the sight of a hanged man.
Gently they cut him down. Thomas sliced through the cord as the jailer took the weight of the body, then together they carried him over to the wooden pallet. Thomas felt for a pulse. There was none and the precariousness of his own mortality flashed before him, as it had never done before. As he lay on the reeking palliasse, Captain Michael Farrell looked dignified in a place that dignity had long deserted. His eyes were shut. They had been shut when he first saw him hanging. His facial muscles were not contorted in any way, but relaxed. There was a peaceful beauty in the death that made Thomas believe for a moment that perhaps he was only sleeping.
He had seen many a man hanged, sometimes several at one go. If the drop was short they would often writhe in agony for up to an hour. Sometimes relatives would rush forward to pull on their legs to end their loved one’s suffering. Michael Farrell could have been accorded no such mercy and yet, thought Thomas, his face was not contorted in any way. He was tall and his body had only dropped six inches from the ceiling and yet his lips were not bitten, as most men’s are when they are gasping for breath, nor was his tongue protruding, as in some grotesque gargoyle’s grimace.
The captain may have wanted to die, but even so, his body would have put up a fight against his mind. There were certain involuntary reactions, which always occurred—the emptying of the bowels, for example—but this had not happened in this case. Such thoughts, however, the thoughts of a surgeon, had to be put aside for the moment. He had a more pressing task to which it was his grim duty to attend.
 
Eliza answered the door. “My mistress is dressing, sir,” she told Thomas.
“I am afraid that I have some grave news which I must impart right away,” he told the maid. She could tell from his expression that something terrible had indeed happened and she did not argue. Instead, she ran upstairs and Thomas heard her knock urgently on her ladyship’s door. There were muffled calls and shouted questions. He heard Lavington’s voice, too, upbraiding Eliza for disturbing her mistress.
“What’s the meaning of this, Silkstone?” the lawyer called angrily, fastening the belt on his robe as he limped down the stairs.
“Is Lady Lydia coming?”
“What business is it of yours, sir?”
“What I have to say concerns her deeply.”
Lavington could tell by Thomas’s tone that there was, indeed, some disturbing news to impart.
“You’d better go in,” said the lawyer, motioning to the drawing room. “Her ladyship will be down shortly.”
Eliza scurried in front of them into the room, which was in darkness. She went to draw back the heavy drapes, but fumbled among the folds, as if looking for something.
“What’s the matter with you, girl?” barked Lavington.
“Sorry, sir, I ...” she began and then, as if she had found a solution to her problem, she stopped and gripped a side of one of the curtains, pulling it back so that the watery morning light flooded the room.
Thomas did not sit, but paced the floor, trying to frame his words. He had lost count of the number of times he had had to break the news to a relative, a husband or wife, a mother or a son. It was never easy, but this time would be by far the worst.
“Good God, man. You’re acting like a caged animal,” accused Lavington. Thomas ignored him until, after what seemed an age, Lydia finally appeared at the doorway.
“What is it, Dr. Silkstone? What has happened? Have they found Hannah?” she asked nervously.
“Your ladyship, please.” Thomas motioned to the chaise longue. He was afraid she might swoon when he told her the news.
“There is no easy way of putting this,” he said.
Lydia looked at him with her doelike eyes. She seemed more fragile than ever to Thomas, waiting for his words.
“I am afraid your husband ... Captain Farrell is dead.”
“What are you saying, man?” cried Lavington, rushing forward.
For a moment Lydia was silent, as if her brain were processing the dreaded message it had just received, then she let out a muffled cry.
“No. No!” she screamed, leaping up and whirling around. Lavington took hold of her by the arms. She tried to fend him off.
“Lydia. Lydia. Calm yourself. For God’s sake,” shouted the lawyer, gripping her tightly and shaking her.
Thomas could see the onset of hysteria, but he did not like the way Lavington was handling Lydia. He feared he might hurt her.
Quickly delving into his bag, he brought out a phial of smelling salts and wafted them under her nose. They took effect almost instantly, jolting her back to reality. Lavington lessened his grip and the young woman’s tears began to flow.
“How? How?” she sobbed as Lavington eased her back onto the chaise longue.
Thomas shot a glance at the lawyer. He had agonized over whether to reveal the whole truth to Lydia, but had decided that perhaps it was for the best. “I ... I found him hanging in his cell this morning, your ladyship,” he told her.
She looked up at him incredulously. “What? You mean ... you mean he took his own ... ?”
Her voice trailed off wanly, but before Thomas could answer, Lavington intervened.
“I am afraid it does not surprise me in the least,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“What are you saying, Mr. Lavington?” asked Thomas.
The lawyer sighed deeply and sat himself down beside the distraught Lydia.
“You remember what he said? You told me yourself.”
A look of shock darted across Lydia’s face as she remembered her husband’s words on one of her last visits. In a moment of indiscretion she must have divulged them to Lavington.
“If you ever lost faith in him ... ?”
Lydia shot a glance at Thomas. They both knew that what Lavington was saying was true. The lawyer reached out his hand to take hers, but she withdrew instantly. “He could not face life without your trust. We all knew that.”
Thomas watched Lydia’s reaction to Lavington’s cruel words. The lawyer may as well have pierced her flesh with a stiletto and then twisted it inside her, but he felt powerless to intervene.
Lydia looked away. “No. No. Tell me this is not true,” she screamed, doubling over and sobbing uncontrollably. The lawyer put a comforting arm around Lydia’s back as it heaved violently up and down, then looked up at Thomas. “Give her something to calm her, will you?” he said coldly. “I must away to court. The judge needs to be informed.”
As soon as Lavington had limped out of the room Thomas took his place on the chaise longue next to Lydia. He put a tentative arm around her. He was not sure how she would react. She did not prize herself away, as he feared she might, but rather sat up and allowed her face to nestle into his shoulder.
“Lydia,” said Thomas softly as she continued to weep. “Lydia. Please, do not blame yourself.” He would never forgive Lavington for showing such insensitivity. “I have to tell you something. Please listen to me.”
At these words Lydia raised her head from his shoulder and faced him with tear-stained cheeks. Just as there had been no easy way to break the news of Captain Farrell’s death, there was no easy way of imparting his deepest fears. “I do not think your husband took his own life.” Her glassy eyes gazed questioningly into his.
“What are you saying?”
Thomas looked at Lydia. She seemed so delicate, he did not know if she would stand the shock of what he was about to say, but say it he must. He took a deep breath and said: “I have reason to believe the captain was murdered.”
Chapter 44
“I
am afraid that is out of the question, Dr. Silkstone.” Sir Theodisius pushed away the remnants of a veal pie. He was so irked by the young doctor’s insistent request for a postmortem that he had suddenly lost his appetite.
“But, sir, I beg you, for the sake of justice,” pleaded Thomas.
The coroner brought his fist down hard on the desk so that the knife that rested on his pewter plate jumped and clattered as it landed.
“In France justice dictates that suicides are dragged, facedown, through the streets on a hurdle, then strung up by the feet and their goods confiscated, sir,” he roared. His flaccid face had reddened with anger, but then, as if realizing that his temper was getting the better of him, his tone became measured.
“I am satisfied that Captain Farrell took his own life. He had every reason to do so and unless I see proof to the contrary, that is my final say on the matter.”
Thomas had wanted to at least have the opportunity to provide the coroner with that proof and did not see the logicality of his argument, but he could also see he was getting nowhere.
“I am sorry to have troubled you, sir,” he said, fingering the brim of his tricorn forlornly. He turned to go, but then swung ’round quickly, as if he had had an afterthought.
“I would ask just one thing of you, sir,” he said excitedly.
“Yes?” retorted Sir Theodisius, obviously irritated.
“I understand that in this country it is still common practice to bury a suicide at a crossroads with a stake through its heart.”
The coroner shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable that an upstart colonist should look down upon centuries-old English ways. He nodded: “Aye, that is true.”
“And that a suicide cannot be buried in consecrated ground?” Another nod from the coroner.
“Then,” continued Thomas, “may I make a request on behalf of Captain Farrell’s widow that his body be returned to Boughton Hall and buried on the estate?”
Sir Theodisius sat back in his chair, his large frame bulging over the sides. He thought for a moment of Lydia and the pain she must be suffering. It was within his remit to alleviate some of that suffering by exercising his discretionary powers. He looked Thomas in the eye.
“For the sake of Lady Lydia, I shall permit this.”
Thomas smiled. “You are a compassionate man, sir,” he said and, with that, he turned and left to make his way to the prison to see to the appropriate arrangements.
 
The same black-toothed jailer sat in his chair, still nursing his throbbing jaw. He stiffened as soon as he saw Thomas.
“I am here to prepare the corpse,” explained the doctor, lifting his black bag slightly. “Can you let me attend to Captain Farrell’s body?”
He could see clearly through the grille. The Irishman remained in the cell, where he had been laid, but he was hidden under a large piece of hessian.
“I can’t let you do that, sir,” said the jailer, rising slowly to his feet.
“What do you mean? I am here to prepare the body for burial,” protested Thomas indignantly.
“ ’Tis orders, Doctor. I am not allowed to let anyone see the body,” replied the jailler.
“Whose orders?” snapped Thomas.
“Mr. Lavington’s.”
The young doctor nodded. He should have expected as much. As his attorney, Lavington had a right to claim jurisdiction over access to Farrell’s body. Now he would never be able to examine the captain’s neck properly to see if it was as he suspected and that it remained unbroken. The silken cord that he had found around his neck seemed too delicate to have withstood a struggle or a sudden jolt. A sense of powerlessness suddenly enveloped him.
“I shall go and speak with Mr. Lavington,” he told the jailer.
“No need to go anywhere, Dr. Silkstone,” came a voice from the stairs. Thomas turned to see Lavington limp into view. “I am here.”
“I am glad of it, sir,” said Thomas. “I have been told by Sir Theodisius that I am not allowed to conduct a postmortem on the body.”
Lavington frowned. “Indeed you are not, sir. Lady Lydia has expressly said she does not want her late husband filleted like a side of beef.”
“Very well,” replied Thomas. “But you might at least allow me to prepare the captain’s body for burial.”
Lavington looked contemptuously at the young doctor. “Yes, I hear that Sir Theodisius has generously suggested that he be buried at Boughton.” Thomas knew the lawyer made a deliberate error to discredit him, refusing to acknowledge the fact that it was he who had interceded as regards the burial. “But your help will not be necessary, Dr. Silkstone. They are well used to dealing with the dead here,” he said, glancing toward the jailer. “It is in their hands,” he said finally, not brokering any discussion on the subject. With that he bid Thomas a good day and made his way back up the steps.
The young doctor felt humiliated. He looked at the jailer taking a swig of gin from the bottle on the table. One side of his stubble-covered face was noticeably bulging. His instinct as a surgeon was to offer to remove the offending tooth for the wretched man; his instinct as a man in search of the truth was to bargain.
“Do you want me to take it out?” he said, pointing to the man’s inflamed cheek.
At the very suggestion the jailer’s eyes lit up and his head nodded so vigorously that it made his tooth hurt even more.
Thomas smiled. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I remove your rotting tooth and in return you do a little something for me.”
“Anything, sir,” whimpered the man.
Thomas opened his black bag and took out a pair of pliers. He held them in front of the man’s terrified face, as if they were an instrument of torture rather than relief.
“First tell me who was the last person to see Captain Farrell alive.”
The jailer looked at Thomas shiftily. “Me, sir. It was me.”
Thomas thrust the pliers nearer to the man’s face. “I can take this tooth out quickly, or I can make you suffer. You choose,” he warned.
“He ... he gave me money not to tell,” he squealed.
“Who? Who gave you money?” Thomas lunged for the man’s head and stood behind him, holding it in a lock, the pliers poised to draw.
“Mr. Lavington, sir.”
The man’s garbled words merely confirmed Thomas’s suspicions.
“Good,” he said, relaxing his hold on the jailer’s head. “We shall proceed presently, just after you have agreed to one more thing.”
The helpless man grunted his assent. “You see that bottle of gin on the table,” said Thomas. “You will douse Captain Farrell’s body in it before wrapping it in sacking.”
Again a grunt from the man, followed by a loud cry as Thomas swiftly and with infinite dexterity extracted the rotting tooth by its root from the gum.
 
The great gargoyles of Merton College glowered down on Thomas as he made his way along the cobbled streets to Lydia’s lodgings. He needed to speak with her in private, so he planned to deliver a note via Eliza, requesting a secret assignation where he could tell her his fears.
Eliza did, indeed, answer the door, but before he opened his mouth, she pressed a wad of bank notes in his hand.
“Lady Lydia has asked me to pay you your fee and bid you farewell, Dr. Silkstone,” she said, not daring to look Thomas in the eye.
The young doctor stared in disbelief at the money in his hand. He had not undertaken this tortuous journey that had ended so tragically for financial gain. Feeling tainted he returned the notes to Eliza. “Please tell Lady Lydia I cannot accept her money for a task I have not completed,” he said and with those words he handed back the bills.
Upstairs Lydia looked out of the window. She saw Thomas below and, unaware of the altercation, was about to instruct Eliza to allow the doctor inside immediately when James Lavington entered the room.
“Dr. Silkstone is downstairs,” she told him, walking toward the door. “I must see him.” But as she passed him, Lavington took hold of her arm.
“I think not,” he said firmly.
She frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked, looking at her wrist, which remained in his grip.
Lavington smiled his twisted smile. “I’m afraid your doctor is no longer welcome here,” he told her.
“But I must ...” Lydia tried to break free of his grip, but he held on tight.
“You must agree it is not seemly for a new widow to see her lover on the day of her husband’s death.”
Lydia froze. “What are you talking about?”
Lavington shook his head. “There’s no denying it, my dear,” he smirked, then reaching into his coat pocket he brought out a button and held it up in front of Lydia’s face. “Eliza found this in your bed; from Dr. Silkstone’s waistcoat, I believe.”
Lydia felt her heart beating in her chest and the blood coursing through her veins. “No. It wasn’t like that. He ...”
Lavington reached out his index finger and pressed it against her lips. “Save your excuses, dear Lydia. I need no explanation, just your obedience.”

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