Shadow of the Raven (15 page)

A
rmed with a hastily written autopsy report on Jeffrey Turgoose that merely threw up more questions than it answered, Thomas rode through the gates of Boughton Hall once more. Sir Theodisius had managed to pave the way, insisting that Thomas be allowed to deliver his postmortem document in person, and Lupton had fallen for the ruse.

Will Lovelock, the groom, hurried out to take his horse, but the boy's efficient manner soon dissolved into a melancholy look.

“Oh, sir . . . ,” he began.

Thomas touched him on the shoulder. “I know,” he replied, as he handed him the reins. “We must all be brave. Her ladyship would not wish to see tears,” he said, forcing a smile.

Delving into his pocket, Thomas pulled out a penny and placed it in Will's palm. The boy looked up, bemused. “I have an errand for you. Tell your father I must meet him at the chapel. He is to be there at noon with the cart and a shovel and pickax. You understand?”

“Very well, sir,” came the puzzled reply.

By this time Howard had emerged from the hall and stood on the front steps. He did little to disguise his sorrow in front of Thomas.

“Dr. Silkstone, on behalf of the staff, please accept our condolences.”

“Thank you, Howard,” Thomas told him.

The butler nodded and led the doctor into Lupton's study. No signs of mourning were on show and the steward's manner seemed bullish rather than subdued.

“Silkstone!” he greeted him churlishly. “I am sure you know you are here under sufferance after your appalling behavior at the meeting. Perhaps now we can get to the bottom of this Turgoose murder. You have completed your famous report?”

Thomas knew Lydia had meant something to the steward. He had seen Lupton's manner with her and supposed he had designs on her. Yet today he appeared oddly bombastic. The doctor felt his stomach knot. He had gained access to the hall under false pretenses. His report was by no means complete until he had heard from Professor Hascher about the caliber of the pistol that he believed to be the murder weapon.

“I have made a preliminary one,” he said, lifting up the leather folder he carried. He was just about to lay it on Lupton's desk when the steward's hand flew up.

“I fear you have wasted your time, Silkstone,” he said, eyeing Thomas smugly.

The doctor's brow creased. “How so, sir?”

Lupton seemed even more confident than usual. He picked up a pencil and began twirling it between his fingers. “I'm sure you know we have one of Turgoose's murderers in custody and the other will be captured soon.”

Thomas thought of sickly Abe Diggott languishing in Oxford Jail and of his son, a fugitive, no doubt somewhere in Raven's Wood.

“I am aware there has been an arrest, but you will need proof to secure a conviction and—”

Again the steward broke him off. He shook his head, still smiling.

“You see, Silkstone, I already have proof.”

A look of puzzlement etched itself on Thomas's face. “Oh?”

Lupton nodded. “A flintlock pistol, along with the chainman's pocket watch, was found in Diggott's cottage.”

The news came as a shock to Thomas. The shot that killed Jeffrey Turgoose most definitely came from such a weapon— most probably Sir Theodisius's—although Lupton and his men could not have known it. He tried to recover himself with a well-aimed jibe. “How very convenient,” came the response.

Such a reaction wiped the smile from the steward's face.

“You are right, Silkstone.” He nodded. “It should be very easy to see the culprits' necks broken.” At that moment he snapped the pencil he had been toying with in two and threw the halves down on the desk. His complacent smile switched to a stare, bald and unflinching, and he reached for the servants' bell.

Thomas realized any further discourse was futile. He knew he should leave, but he wanted the last word.

“You have made your position very clear, sir,” he told Lupton. “In the absence of proof, supposition suffices,” he said, placing his report carefully and deliberately on the desk.

The steward opened his mouth to reply, but before any words came forth, Howard replied to his summons.

“Dr. Silkstone is ready to leave now, Howard,” announced Lupton.

Thomas threw the steward a sour look, then walked toward the door. He thanked the butler as he handed him his hat and left by the front entrance.

Descending the steps, Thomas glanced around for his horse. Will must have taken it for water, he supposed. As he searched about, however, he saw another horse being ridden toward the stables nearby. At a distance the rider seemed familiar, a young man with lank hair, but it was his leg that led Thomas to place him. It was the stable lad from the Three Tuns. The youth did not notice Thomas but rode straight into the yard. His presence was puzzling and the doctor was just contemplating it when, as arranged, Will Lovelock brought his mare to him.

“You've told your father?” asked Thomas in a low voice as the boy steadied his mount.

Will looked around shiftily. “He'll be waiting for you, sir,” he replied.

The youth handed him the reins and Thomas eased himself into the saddle.

“One more thing,” he said, looking down on Will. “There was a young man, just rode into the yard. Did you see him?”

Will nodded. “Aaron Coutt from the Three Tuns, you mean? He comes here quite regular.” He shrugged. “I don't know his business.”

Thomas looked toward the stableyard. “I believe I may,” he said in a low voice, to himself rather than anyone else. He thanked the boy and urged his horse back down the tree-lined drive once more.

A few minutes later he was approaching the estate chapel, its spire as sharp as a needle against the pale blue of the spring sky. He looked about, making sure there were no prying eyes upon him, and rode to the side of the building. He found Jacob Lovelock to be true to his word. Will's father, the head groom, had parked his cart behind the chapel and out of view from the main drive. Thomas tethered his horse and joined him at the front door.

“I need to know if it is her ladyship who is buried in the vault,” Thomas told the groom, who came armed with his tools.

“There is doubt, sir?” Jacob asked, his pock-marked face registering shock.

“We can only hope,” came the doctor's reply.

Together the two men entered the holy gloom of the chapel. The familiar smell of damp assailed their nostrils. The wooden rood screen and the fine hatchments were there, just as Thomas remembered them. He felt his stomach lurch as he remembered, too, his last encounter in this dark and melancholy place, when he performed an autopsy on the decomposing corpse of Lydia's brother. Now he prayed that it would not be Lydia herself who was lying in the family vault beside Lord Edward.

Thomas led the way to the flight of shallow stairs that descended to the door of the vault. Lovelock followed close behind, carrying the shovel and pickax he always kept on the cart. The doctor had lit a lantern, and holding it aloft, he quietly lifted the latch. The door creaked open on stiff hinges. The sound jangled both men's nerves before they ducked below the lintel and entered the eerie space.

It was all coming back to Thomas with disquieting clarity: the sudden drop in temperature and the familiar sickly sweet note of decomposing flesh that wafted vaguely on the stagnant air. Lovelock lit the wall sconce at the foot of the stairs, illuminating the eight coffins that lined the facing wall, and awaited instructions.

Thomas paused for a moment, mesmerized by the shadows that wavered in a macabre dance against the plaster walls. He had to clear his mind of all extraneous thought and focus on the task in hand. He lifted his gaze to the large stone shelf. The elaborate coffins of the fifth and sixth earls had been joined by another, much plainer, casket. It was smaller, too. Without a word, he glanced at Lovelock. The head groom knew what was required of him. Retrieving the coffin from the shelf was out of the question on this occasion, so Lovelock dragged a wooden box that contained candles and positioned it to enable him to climb up. From his vantage point he could get a good purchase on the coffin lid. With no elaborate locks or fastenings to fool would-be grave robbers, the lid was loosened without much difficulty, but Lovelock did not remove it. He left that dubious honor to Thomas.

Jumping down from the shelf, Lovelock handed Thomas the lantern with an apologetic look. He did not envy the task the doctor was about to undertake. Thomas took the lamp with a trembling hand, knowing that this would be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. He had never felt more alone than he did at that moment. How he wished that Dr. Carruthers or Sir Theodisius or Professor Hascher could be there at his side. The nausea rose in his stomach as he mounted the crate and set down the lantern. No longer secure, the lid was now at a slight angle to the coffin and already the stench of decay was escaping into the vault. There was no time for sentimentality. No time for the self-indulgence of mourning. Thomas closed his eyes for a second and willed himself to be strong; then, opening them, he seized the lid and slid it down toward the narrow end so he could have a better view of the cadaver's face. A noxious gas rose into the air, a deathly perfume so familiar yet so abhorrent to him. He knew he would have to force himself to look. He collected his wits. His focus would be crucial. He had no desire to linger. Mentally he counted down. Three, two, one.

“Oh my God!” he muttered, clamping his kerchief to his mouth.

“Sir!” exclaimed Lovelock anxiously.

Thomas turned, retching as he did so.

“Sir!” cried Lovelock once more, rushing to Thomas's aid, but he waved him away.

Gulping for breath, his shoulders heaving up and down, Thomas shook his head. “ 'Tis worse than I feared,” he gasped.

“But is it her ladyship, sir?” asked Lovelock, raking his fingers frantically through his hair.

Thomas looked at him with wild eyes, his expression one of anguish. He had lost count of the number of corpses he had examined during his career. Despite their various states of decomposition, he had always remained calm and collected and professional. These bodies were mere vessels that had housed a being, a soul, a spirit, call it what you would. But this cadaver was altogether different. It lay in a plain white shroud that had lifted slightly as the torso filled with gas. But it was the corpse's face, purplish blue and blistered, like a squashed plum, that he found so very disturbing. The dull hair, short and cropped, gave no clue as to the cadaver's identity or even its sex. He tried to blink away the vision of the eyes that bulged out of their sockets and the tongue so swollen that it had protruded from the mouth. The blowflies had already begun feasting and appeared at every orifice. He shook his head, but still the sight remained of a ghastly apparition that was not of this world.

“I cannot be sure,” he cried. “I cannot be sure.”

“What shall we do, sir?” By now Lovelock was also suffering from the effects of the poisonous air and held his neckerchief to his mouth.

Thomas, all color drained from his face, looked at him with glazed eyes. “I will have to examine it more thoroughly,” he replied.

He turned to face the coffin once more, but as he did so, the sound of a latch dropping reverberated in the chapel above.

“What was that?” Lovelock asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Someone is up there,” said Thomas. He suddenly remembered he had left the door to the vault steps open to allow the light from above to penetrate the depths. He pressed his finger to his lips.

Footsteps fell on the flagstones overhead. They seemed to be coming nearer. Thomas's ears were filled with the sound of his own heartbeat, so that he could no longer hear clearly. He and Lovelock had no choice but to simply wait in the reeking vault, their breaths becoming shorter and shallower with every passing moment, until finally the groom could bear it no more.

“I need air, sir,” he whispered, staggering against a stone pillar.

Thomas nodded. Whoever had entered the chapel must have left it by now, he guessed. Several minutes had passed. He watched as Lovelock zigzagged toward the half-open door and put his head 'round it, gulping like a fish in the fresher air. So relieved was he to emerge into the stairwell that it took him a few seconds to blink away the gloom of the crypt. When he did he noticed a deep shadow on the steps. Looking up he saw a large figure glowering down at him from the threshold of the chapel door.

“Well, well. A sack-'em-up man, eh?” It was one of the new guards Lupton had hired. “Thought you could steal the newest resident, did ya?”

Lovelock leapt upright. “No! No! I—”

“Save your breath for Mr. Lupton,” he barked. “Now, shut the door on that stink and come with me!” In his hand he carried a cudgel and he raised it threateningly as he spoke. Lovelock turned and retreated back down the steps to the door, which had remained ajar. He glimpsed inside and saw Thomas, who gave him a silent nod and closed the door from the inside. Lovelock did not hear the latch fall. At least he was safe in the knowledge that Dr. Silkstone could escape from the suffocating chamber, as he began to climb the stairs toward the waiting guard.

Meanwhile Thomas opened the door very slightly so that a chink of light from the stairwell illuminated the reeking space of the vault. He reached for his pipe and lit it with one of the candle flames. The smoke masked the putrid stench but made it no easier to breathe. He waited for what seemed an age before opening the door more fully. It creaked in protest. Emerging into the half-light of the stairwell, he breathed deeply, then inclined his head, listening for any sounds. He knew it would be only a few minutes before more men came to inspect what they thought Lovelock had been about. His opening was small and he realized he must take the chance or risk apprehension. Any proper examination of the corpse would have to wait, though he was relieved at being unable to delve once more into the coffin. It was not that he was repulsed by the rotting flesh or the bloated features. He had, after all, seen worse in the form of Lord Crick, who had been dead almost a sennight when he took his knife to him. No, it was more that if the body was Lydia's, God forbid, this was not how he wished to remember her. He feared that if he were to prove that this putrefying corpse was once his beloved, then he would find it hard to think of her without picturing her eyes straining in their sockets or the maggots emerging from her nostrils. He would be the first to acknowledge that he of all people should not be so afflicted by such an irrational dread, yet he worried that he might be unable to shake off an image that had been seared onto his brain. He dispelled the thought, leaving it in the blackness of the vault as he headed out, abandoning the corpse to nature once more.