The Devlin Diary (25 page)

Montagu nods. “I have the confidence of Lord Arlington and the king.”

“What about Clifford?”

“Sir Thomas? He will be brought around.”

The ambassador sets down his glass and looks sourly at Montagu. “Exactly how much is required for His Majesty—and for the others?” he adds with a scowl.

Montagu sips his wine and allows himself a moment of sheer indulgent pleasure. Wine-induced warmth spreads through his limbs, calm clarity descends upon his mind. How much? How much, indeed? As he studies de Croissy’s face, the figure rises up, and up, and up.

28 November 1672

T
HE TWO PHILOSOPHERS
watch from a lofty vantage point on the Fleet Bridge as workers dig a trench in the muddy riverbank. “So the third of these filters is to be constructed here?” Robert Hooke asks. It sounds more like a criticism than a question.

Ravenscroft nods, biting back his own sharp retort:
As I have already explained more than once.
He has been in the company of the city surveyor all morning, leading him on a tour of the Fleet Ditch building sites, and Mr. Hooke’s abrupt manner has vexed him from the first. Some people do not know how to observe the rules of decorum adhered to by men of a certain standing. Hooke makes inquiry after inquiry, most of which appear to have no other purpose than finding fault and disparaging Ravenscroft’s project.

Ravenscroft’s encounter with the king still lives in his mind as a sort of fantastic dream in which His Majesty stands as tall as a colossus. The king studied Ravenscroft’s designs and told him that no other scheme for London had ever pleased him so mightily; on his return in 1660, Charles Stuart said, he could smell the stench of the city two miles off. The philosopher knew then that his life had not been for naught. Everything he had studied, every trial he had made, every pre
vious invention, all had been in preparation for this. The Fleet Ditch project requires money, men, and materials on a scale he has never before imagined, but the king’s endorsement and signature are all that is needed to procure everything necessary. Already the lumberyards are cutting and delivering timber and the crews are engaged. There is only one hitch: Mr. Wren and Mr. Hooke must evaluate the project and report their findings to the king.

“The first is just below the Holborn bridge, the next after Fleet Lane. By the time the river reaches the last filter, it will be cleansed of all but the smallest debris: purified all the way from here to Blackfriars.”

A bitter gust of wind whips at their coats, transforming their cravats into lace-trimmed sails. Ravenscroft’s nemesis makes no reply but continues to look down at the men on the riverbank, his blue, watery eyes inscrutable, his ungenerous lips pressed together so tightly that a knife blade couldn’t pry them apart. Hooke is an unprepossessing man, stooped-back and short of stature, with skin the color of congealed porridge except for a patch across his nose and cheeks, where a lacy web of capillaries imparts a perpetual ruddiness that’s exacerbated by the cold air. In spite of his humble appearance, however, the man has no deficiency of pride. The way he clasps his hands behind his back and turns his face up to the sky, eyes squinting and head angling this way and that, one would think he stood before an audience who waited rapturously for his erudite revelations; or that he believes that by studying the ominous, low-lying clouds he will be able to determine exactly what will materialize: rain, sleet, or snow. “This is an absurd time of year to begin a building project,” he announces.

“The king desires that it be completed with all haste.” Ravenscroft cannot help but add, “He expressed some disappointment that the canal project has not yet succeeded—”

“The small difficulties we encountered will be easily overcome when we commence next spring, in a season of agreeable weather, as is sensible.”

“Have you suspended all of your building projects, Mr. Hooke?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then I see no reason to suspend this one.”

Hooke’s pale eyes spark with anger. He turns away and paces along the bridge, every few steps peering down into the river. He marches back to Ravenscroft and looks at him levelly. “It won’t work,” he announces. “I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on a more cockamamie scheme, and I am prepared to tell the king exactly that.”

He should have realized that Hooke’s conceit would never allow anyone to succeed where he had failed. “If you had perused the drawings, sir,” Ravenscroft snaps, unable to resist the sarcasm creeping into his address, “you would better understand the mechanics of the plan. It is simple, elegant, and effective, as His Majesty understood at once.”

“It goes without saying that the king is the greatest of all men; but there is one thing that he is not, Mr. Ravenscroft, and that is an architect. I have looked at your diagrams, and I tell you that your plan will not work. The structures have not the strength necessary to withstand a flood. Once the winter rains start in earnest, I fear it will be overpowered.”

“The Fleet has not flooded in thirty years.”

“All the more reason to be concerned. Regardless of the king’s support, I remain the city surveyor, and the failure of this endeavor will reflect badly upon me.”

Ravenscroft is about to say that he is quite willing to accept responsibility for the failure of his own work, if it comes to that (which it won’t), when one of the workmen dashes up to them, pulling his wool cap from his head and making a quick, scraping bow.

“Sorry to intrude, sirs, but we’ve got a problem,” he says, pointing to the riverbank. The men have stopped digging and have gathered around what looks at this distance like a mound of muddy clothes. “A problem for the constable.”

“What is it?” Ravenscroft asks.

“A man’s body.”

“If you’re going to retch, do it over there, away from the corpse,” Strathern tells Hamish. His assistant reels away from the dissection table and takes two rapid strides to bend over a bucket on the operatory floor.

“Sorry,” Hamish says, keeping his head low and resting his hands on his knees until his heaving subsides. Finally he straightens and wipes his face and watering eyes with his cravat. He doesn’t look eager to return to the table. “How does one ever get accustomed to the odor?”

“Practice,” Edward replies. “Although this one’s a challenge, even for me.” By his estimate, the body is two weeks old. It’s waterlogged, bloated from the internal gasses released after death, and covered with the foul-smelling slime of the Fleet River. Only the clothes make it appear human. The stench is almost indescribable: rotting meat combined with the worst house of office imaginable. “The question is, what do we do first: clean him up, or remove his clothes?”

“I say we take him out back and hose him down.” Hamish edges a bit closer, keeping his wrinkled cravat held to his nose.

“Let us see what we can do here first.” Strathern takes up a sponge from the water pail at his feet, squeezes out the excess, and begins wiping the mud from the corpse’s eyes and cheeks. But before he’s cleaned the entire face, he stops and, without being fully conscious of doing so, utters an oath under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Hamish asks.

Strange how, even two weeks gone, swollen and sodden, human faces are still recognizable. Especially this face. The port-wine stain across Osborne’s brow is as vivid in death as it was in life. “I know this man,” Strathern says.

She left as soon as she was able, Hannah says upon entering the anatomy theatre anteroom, apologizing for her tardiness by explaining that it was not always easy to be excused from the mademoiselle’s company.

“I think she’s come to believe that having a physician in constant attendance adds to her mystique, rather like keeping an exotic pet,” she tells Edward with a wry smile. She bristles with energy, apparently invigorated by the winter weather. “You wrote you had found something intriguing, but you look so serious. Am I too late? Or—” A more disturbing thought occurs to her. “Are women not allowed inside the theatre?”

“I don’t know of any such rule, although I don’t believe there have
been any women here before. In any case, you’re quite welcome. Only myself and Dr. Hamish are here today, and at present he is washing up. You are not too late, but I must tell you that I did not reveal everything in my letter. Perhaps you would like to put on a coat before going inside? You may leave your cloak here.”

“Thank you.” She unties the cord at her throat with a graceful swiftness. He is struck by the agility of her hands, by the way she buttons up the light cotton coat he provides to cover her dress. He has seen those facile, delicate hands carve up a man’s leg; a contradiction that occupies his mind so completely he almost forgets to offer her his scented handkerchief as they walk into the theatre. She shakes her head—she’s an experienced physician, after all—then the stink of the corpse reaches her, as abruptly as if she’d been doused by a wave of water. Her step falters, and she reaches for his proffered linen square.

“Will you be all right?” he asks. She nods, and they approach the dissection table. He has placed a cloth across the dead man’s privy parts, something he would not have done for a male colleague. He isn’t sure if he made this gesture out of concern for Mrs. Devlin’s modesty or for his own, but feels deeply grateful for his precaution. Her gaze is drawn instantly to the cadaver’s chest, punctuated with stab wounds and the three strange markings inscribed in his skin: a trident shape, a backward S, a small circle. She turns her questioning eyes to Strathern.

“His name is Roger Osborne,” he answers. “Obviously he was murdered. His body was found in the Fleet Ditch this morning.”

“I don’t understand. You wrote that you had come across some point of anatomy that might be of interest.”

“Please forgive me. I was afraid you would not come if I told you the truth. And I am not ready to put my suspicions in writing.”

“What suspicions?”

“A week ago I performed the postmortem on Sir Henry Reynolds. His body suffered wounds very similar to these and had markings like these upon his chest.” Strathern plucks a sheet of paper from the unmanned escritoire and gives it to Hannah. She squints at the three symbols copied from Sir Henry’s body: a kind of trident shape, an X inside a square, and a cross. “As you see, they’re not precisely the same,
but they’re in the same location on the body.” He gingerly lifts one of Osborne’s hands. It’s as full and round as a glove filled with water—a glove with only three fingers. “Two of Osborne’s fingers have been cut off. Sir Henry was missing three.”

“Are you saying that the same person killed Sir Henry and this man?”

“Yes.”

“But Sir Henry’s killer was hanged at Tyburn only two days ago.”

“A man was hanged, but I don’t believe he murdered Sir Henry. I think the killer is still among us.”

“But why are you telling me this? What has it to do with me?”

“Mrs. Devlin, Sir Henry and Roger Osborne were acquainted with each other. As they were with your father. I know this to be true, as I saw them all together in Paris, only two summers ago.”

A wry flicker of incomprehension, almost like a smile, curls the corners of her mouth. “You think that the same man killed my father?”

“I believe it’s possible, yes.”

It takes a moment for his words to fully take hold. When they do, she begins breathing rapidly, obviously distressed. She presses the handkerchief to her face. “May we?” she asks, looking toward the door.

“Of course,” Edward replies, inwardly cursing himself for his insensitivity. “Please, let us leave here.” He helps Mrs. Devlin to a seat in the anteroom and sits down beside her. “I know this is difficult to discuss, but I need to discover, before I tell anyone of my suspicions, if your father was harmed in a similar manner.”

“I cannot say. His body was prepared for burial by the sexton of our church. I could not bring myself to do it.”

“I’m sorry, of course you couldn’t. But the sexton never mentioned anything unusual?”

“No, but then I never asked. The cause of his death was obvious—he’d been stabbed.”

“In the chest?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true he was killed in the area around Fleet Lane?”

“Yes. He had gone that evening to visit a patient, a charity case.
Apparently he was on his way home when he was attacked. He was found early the next morning by the watchman, who, with the constable, brought him home. They told us that my father had been robbed, but even after many inquiries we could find no one who witnessed the crime. More than that we were unable to discover.”

“Did your father ever tell you why he left court?”

“Not precisely, no. I believe he had a falling out with Lord Arlington.”

“Whose good graces are the only thing that stands between you and jail?”

She looks at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

“Sir Granville is possibly the worst physician of all time, but he is keenly attuned to the goings-on of the court. He hears things, and he usually”—Strathern allows himself a bemused smile—“repeats what he hears. Frankly, it isn’t so difficult to deduce. You’re a woman openly practicing physick.”

“An abomination, some say.”

“I am not one of them.” He leans closer. “Mrs. Devlin, I don’t believe your father’s murder was a random event. There is something more here than meets the eye. Something that may involve Lord Arlington.”

“How so?”

“He was also acquainted with each of these men.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“He was also in Paris.” He takes a breath. “Mrs. Devlin, perhaps you and I should come forward—” Edward knows instantly that he has said something wrong, for he can feel Hannah recoil.

“You want me to say that Lord Arlington had a hand in my father’s murder? I would be in jail before I had spoken two words.”

“I’m not asking you to implicate him in anything. Indeed, I do not know in what way he is involved, but I would ask you to come forward with me to reveal what we know.”

“What we know? I know nothing of this, nor do I especially want to, and it seems to me that you know very little indeed. This,” she says as she nods in the direction of the theatre, “could be a bizarre coincidence or the work of a madman. You have no proof that my father was
in any way connected. Besides, just who would we come forward to?”

Even before he says it, he suspects his answer is going to be incorrect, feeble, futile, but it’s the only answer he’s got. “The king?”

“I don’t believe that would do your cause much good.”

“You have so little confidence in him?”

Her silence is all the answer he needs. “Very well, then,” he says, frustrated. “But surely you want to find out who killed your father. By gathering what information we can, you have only to gain—”