Shadow of the Raven (13 page)

S
ir Theodisius Pettigrew lugged his weary hulk to the front steps of Boughton Hall. Glancing up at the mansion's façade, he could see all the drapes were drawn, the house dogs were nowhere in view, and the whole place was seemingly enveloped by a quiet despair, as if the hall had closed in on itself. He supposed it would have been Howard's difficult duty to inform the staff of their mistress's death. The butler, he imagined, would have gathered them downstairs, fighting back his own sadness as he imparted his grim news. And with the news, all hope of ever returning to the way of life that had been before had ebbed away, and now this terrible melancholy had descended upon the residence.

The coroner, his face careworn and deathly pale, was relieved to be greeted by Howard. He had feared that so stalwart a member of the staff might have been dispatched, such had been his loyalty to Lydia. But no, the old butler was still there.

“Sir Theodisius.” He bowed stiffly. “You visit us at a terrible time, sir,” he ventured.

Sir Theodisius, taken aback by the butler's forthright manner, paused for a moment, considering his words. “A terrible time, indeed,” he acknowledged. “Yes, Howard. Her ladyship was loved by all who knew her.” He handed a waiting maid his hat and coat.

“I am afraid Sir Montagu is in the village, sir. A meeting—” Howard began.

“Yes, yes,” snapped the coroner with a knowing nod. “I am glad of it. It means I can speak freely with you.”

The bemused butler made a stiff, jerking motion, then looked about him, hoping that Sir Theodisius's remark had not been overheard by the maid.

“Please, sir, the drawing room,” he said, gesturing ahead.

The coroner followed, lumbering through the open door into the room, which was so familiar to him yet seemed oddly empty. He recalled his last visit to this very place at Christmas, only a few weeks before. Young Richard had joined them and they had played games of hunt the slipper and blindman's buff. There had been so much joy and laughter, and he had rarely seen Lydia so happy. The recollection of it sent such an ache through his chest that he thought his heart would break.

“She is gone,” he said, shaking his head, as the butler shut the door behind them.

Howard, normally so cool and reserved, found it hard to hold himself in check. “Oh, sir, we are all so deeply sorry for your loss. On behalf of all the staff, may I offer my sincere sympathies.”

Sir Theodisius shook his head. “'Tis not just my loss, Howard. A loss to Boughton and to Brandwick and, indeed, to her beloved son.” He frowned. “The young earl, has he been informed?”

Howard cleared his throat. “His lordship remains at Sir Montagu's residence, I believe, sir.”

The coroner sighed deeply. “No doubt he will travel here to attend the funeral.” He threw the remark out as if it were a given or an aside, but Howard seized on it.

“But the funeral has already taken place, sir,” he blurted.

Sir Theodisius froze. “What?”

“Yesterday, sir. They buried her ladyship in the family vault yesterday afternoon.”

The coroner's expression turned from one of resigned sadness to one of consternation. “But that cannot be!” he boomed. His pale face suddenly reddened, and he plodded angrily across the room to stare out the window.

Howard, struggling to compose himself, gave a flustered shrug. “The staff were not even allowed to attend the service, sir.”

The coroner shook his head in disbelief and remained silent for a moment, until he asked, “What has become of the world?” As if in answer to his rhetorical question, at that very moment Sir Montagu Malthus's carriage swept up Boughton's drive. Within seconds it had clattered to a halt by the front steps.

At the sight, Sir Theodisius turned. “You had better leave me now, Howard,” he instructed the butler. He hoped at least some of his many questions were about to be answered by the very orchestrator of these calamitous events. The urgent need to confront the situation was obviously mutual. As soon as he was over the threshold, Sir Montagu wasted no time in challenging his visitor.

“How bad news travels fast,” he cried, powering into the drawing room in a flurry of self-importance. He slapped his gloves into the palm of his hand.

Sir Theodisius, waiting by the mantelpiece, was in an equally confrontational mood. “When did you intend to tell me, Malthus?” he bellowed.

The lawyer shrugged off his cloak into Howard's waiting hands. “Leave us,” he told the butler, then, pointing at the settee, invited Sir Theodisius to sit.

“I prefer to stand,” he replied, even though his legs ached under his own weight.

Sir Montagu was indifferent. “As you wish.”

He seated himself on the opposite settee and leaned back, as if wishing to make the point that he was the master of Boughton now and at ease in these surroundings.

The coroner took a deep breath. “She was as a daughter to me.” His lips trembled as he spoke; then, suddenly remembering he was addressing Lydia's real father, he held his tongue. He did not wish Malthus to glean that he knew his secret.

Sir Montagu nodded but showed no emotion. “I know how much Lydia meant to you, Pettigrew.”

The coroner lumbered forward, shaking his head. “Then why did you bury her without letting me say good-bye?” His eyes were welling up with tears again, but the lawyer appeared unmoved.

“The madness,” he began. “It had ravaged her beauty.” He was looking into the distance, as if picturing Lydia in his mind's eye. “You would not have recognized her.”

His pious response only provoked the coroner. “Madness! You know as well as I do Lydia was mad only on your say-so, Malthus.”

Sir Montagu shook his head. “Not so, Pettigrew,” he countered. “It was your friend Dr. Silkstone who sanctioned her committal to Bedlam.” His voice was soured with contempt.

The color now flooded into Sir Theodisius's cheeks as his ire rose. “You forged his name. You had access to all of Lydia's papers. 'Twould not have been hard to find one of his letters to her and to copy his signature. No, you are the one to blame for her death!” His plump finger jabbed at the air and a fleck of spittle from his mouth arced through the space between the two men and landed on the lawyer's cheek.

For a moment Sir Montagu remained silent; then, in a pointed gesture, he took his kerchief from his pocket, flicked it out, and wiped the saliva from his face. “I can see you are not your usual, rational self, old friend,” he said in a manner so relaxed that it inflamed Sir Theodisius even more.

Charging toward the window, the coroner gazed out over the front driveway again, toying with the idea of bringing the whole sorry meeting to an unsatisfactory end and storming out. He was therefore taken off guard by Sir Montagu's offer.

“I am, however, prepared to grant you entry into the vault.”

The coroner switched 'round as fast as his great frame would allow.

“You would let me see her?”

The lawyer drummed his fingers on the top of the settee. “Not exactly.”

Sir Theodisius scowled. “Do not play games with me, Malthus!” he warned.

Sir Montagu's hooded eyes fixed downward for a moment as he gave the matter some thought. “The coffin is sealed, but you could say a few words. Lay flowers, perhaps.” It was as if he were negotiating land rights with a tenant.

Sir Theodisius shot him a scornful look. “That is the very least you can allow me, sir,” he replied.

The lawyer snorted. “And what else am I expected to offer, pray?”

Sir Theodisius lifted his head quickly so that his jowls flapped. He looked Malthus in the eye. “You must allow Dr. Silkstone to accompany me.”

Sir Montagu let out a derisory laugh. “The American parvenu? He is the last person I would allow into the vault!”

Not for the first time in the heated altercation the coroner raised his voice. “May I remind you, sir, that that American parvenu is the man who saved your life, although I am sure he very much regrets it now!” His outburst shocked even him. He held the lawyer's gaze, desperately wanting to swallow the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, but not wishing to do so for fear he would look weak.

Sir Montagu, too, remained staring at his adversary, as if waiting for him to blink first. When his response came, it was as cold and unyielding as granite.

“Over my dead body,” he said.

“
I
am so truly sorry, dear fellow.” Sir Theodisius sat with Thomas at a table set for dinner in the private dining room at the Three Tuns. Both had already confessed to each other that neither had the stomach for a meal. Between them on the table lay an indifferent bottle of claret. It was almost empty, but not even alcohol could help numb their mutual pain, it seemed.

“You must not blame yourself. You did your best,” continued the coroner.

Thomas fingered the stem of his glass, contemplating the events of the afternoon. Sir Theodisius had related to him how he had entered the gloomy sepulchre and placed a posy of spring flowers, primroses and celandines, onto Lydia's sarcophagus. Under the hawklike gaze of Sir Montagu, he had said a silent prayer and had bidden her farewell.

“I wish I could have seen her sweet face again,” said Sir Theodisius, exhaling a deep sigh. “Just one last time.”

The thought snagged in Thomas's mind, like silk on a thorn. He pictured Lydia lying peacefully in her coffin, all the pain gone from her face.

“You asked to see her but were denied?”

Sir Theodisius frowned. “I was told in no uncertain terms that I could not.” The coroner's voice was most indignant as he relived the slight. “Malthus told me that her ladyship could not be viewed.”

“Can you remember his exact words?”

Sir Theodisius's neck stiffened, lifting the folds of his chin away from his stock pin. “To my dying day, sir,” he replied, looking into the distance, preparing to recite verbatim. “He said, ‘The madness has ravaged her features so much that you will be hard-pressed to recognize her.' ”

Thomas's eyes widened.

“I am so sorry. I did not want you to hear . . .” The coroner was shaking his head, thinking he had grievously offended the young doctor's sensibilities, but he soon realized he was mistaken.

Thomas shifted in his seat and grabbed the edge of the table eagerly with both hands, pulling himself forward toward his friend. “So we only have Sir Montagu's word for it that Lydia is dead!” It was as if a candle had suddenly been lit in his darkness.

The coroner looked flummoxed, then, after a moment's reflection, shook his head. “There was no postmortem,” he said slowly.

“Not at Bethlem, and as Oxford coroner, this area falls under your jurisdiction,” Thomas pointed out.

Sir Theodisius's brow furrowed. “Surely not even Malthus would stoop that low?”

“I do not believe we can underestimate Sir Montagu,” replied Thomas, his face suddenly glowing, not with the wine but with renewed hope.

Sir Theodisius remained puzzled. “So you are saying that perhaps Lydia was not in the coffin I put flowers on?”

“Perhaps not!”

“But then, who?”

“Who knows if it is occupied?” suggested Thomas. “It may be empty.”

“You think Sir Montagu is playing games?”

“ 'Twould not be the first time.” Thomas recalled the lawyer's secret, how he had told Lydia that he was her father, although Sir Theodisius had no notion of the claim at the time.

The coroner cocked his head and gazed at Thomas with glistening eyes. “Are you sure you are not clinging to a thin hope, young man?” he asked benignly. “Lydia's death has come as such a tragic blow to—”

Thomas managed a tight smile. “Of course I cannot be sure that I am not clutching at straws,” he replied, casting around him at the laid table and the fine glasses, as if he might find something tangible to back up his latest hypothesis. “But 'tis better than having no hope at all,” he said finally.

Sir Theodisius lifted the bottle of claret and angled the neck over Thomas's glass, but the doctor laid his hand over the rim. Rebuffed, the coroner poured himself another glass, slurped a mouthful, and thoughtfully licked his lips. “So you think the coffin at Boughton may contain someone else?”

“Mayhap.” Thomas's heart was beating as fast as a bird's in flight, but he was trying to remain outwardly calm. He could not be sure that he was not deluding himself, but the more he dwelt on it, the more his hope bloomed. In the gloomy fug of the dining room, the men's eyes met. There was another avenue of inquiry Thomas wished to explore, but for the moment, he would play his cards close to his chest.

“Shall I make discreet inquiries?” asked Sir Theodisius. “The vicar perhaps?”

“That would be most helpful,” replied Thomas. “I, on the other hand, will make my way back to London.”

The coroner's head jerked back in surprise. “London?”

“There is a line of investigation I need to pursue there, as well,” Thomas told him. He needed to follow his instinct. He needed to return to Bedlam. The seed of doubt over Lydia's death had taken root. He rose quickly from the table. “It is not yet dark. I can be on the road shortly to make the most of the light.”

Sir Theodisius seemed taken aback. “But what about Turgoose's murder?” he barked. “I heard they have a man in custody at Oxford and another is on the run.”

This was the first Thomas had heard of an arrest.

“Who are they?”

“An old coppicer and his son, apparently.”

Thomas thought immediately of the Diggotts, the elderly man as fragile as a stick; his son, furtive and suspicious of authority; and the young boy, cruelly whipped for arson. “There is evidence?”

The coroner nodded. “Apparently so, although I know not what.”

“A trial has been set?”

Sir Theodisius shook his head. “Next week, sometime, so I am told. You will be required to deliver your postmortem findings.”

Thomas, his hand now on the door handle, took a deep breath. “Have no fear,” he said reassuringly. “I shall return in good time, and if the old man is innocent, then he shall be saved the noose.” And with these words he opened the door and was gone, leaving the coroner alone with his claret and his quiet contemplation of the day's events.