Shadow of the Raven (19 page)

T
he thought had come to Thomas just as he was about to retire to his bed at the Jolly Trooper in Oxford that night. The room was stuffy and he had poured himself some small beer from a jug on the nearby nightstand. As he looked out the window onto a starless night, his mind returned to Abe Diggott. He thought of the whites of the man's eyes, fretted with red veins, of the strange bluish hue of his skin, and of his hands unable to grasp a cup, let alone fire a gun. He knew there had to be some reason why this malevolent gin was affecting him so badly, why his symptoms were so much worse than anyone else's in the village. True, he drank as much, if not more, than any other man, but for the spirit to have such a dramatic effect there had to be something more, by Thomas's reckoning. He drained his cup, and that's when it hit him. He suddenly remembered the earthenware flagon that he had seen at the old man's side in the Diggotts' cottage. The gin was stored in the vessel for days on end. What was more, it was glazed inside. It occurred to him that perhaps the spirit might have reacted with an ingredient in the coating. He remembered, too, Adam's words about his father's reliance on gin: “Drinks the stuff like mother's milk, he does.”

If he could prove that this poisoned liquid had rendered Abe Diggott incapable of the most straightforward of actions, let alone firing a pistol, then a court might be persuaded of his innocence. To test his theory, however, he needed to obtain the flagon itself. He would have to return to Brandwick straightaway.

 

Zeb Godson could not be sure what woke him that morning in his makeshift shelter in Raven's Wood. Was it the sound of wood cracking and spitting above the usual dawn chorus of birds, or perhaps the strange smell like roasted meat that wafted up his nostrils? Either way, as soon as his eyes had steadied themselves after his deep sleep and as soon as he had planted his feet on the rush mat by his leaf-stuffed mattress, he decided something was amiss. His head ached so badly from the gin the night before, it felt as if it had been cleaved by an ax. The act of rising caused him to grab his temples and press them hard with his knuckles to ease the pain. But it was not until he had stamped on his boots and pulled on his hat before venturing out of his hovel that he knew exactly what was wrong.

The charcoal burner had spent the previous day stacking wood in the nearby kiln. He'd laid the first layer of seasoned timbers in an open cartwheel shape to allow the air to enter at the base. That way there'd be a good first burn. Next he'd begun placing cut logs around the circumference of the kiln, before spiraling them inward, leaving a hole in the middle for a stack where the smoke could escape. It was then that he gathered together the tinder and stuffed it down the central hole. This was the secret to a good, strong fire, a dry charge that would burst into flame as soon as it was lit, as if with one smoldering look from a wanton woman. By the time he'd stuffed the stack, the light was fading, so he'd decided to finish laying down the rest of the logs on the morrow. He'd killed a pheasant for the pot, roasted it on a spit, then spent the rest of the evening downing Geech's gin in Mad Maggie's cottage before somehow managing to return to his shelter for the night.

Now, as he stood stretching his aching limbs at the entrance of his humble abode, the rays of the rising sun lanced through the leafless trees onto the forest floor, forcing him to blink. He blinked again, only this time not to fend off the piercing light, but to satisfy himself that his eyes were not deceiving him. From out of the half-made kiln in the clearing, smoke was dancing like feathers in the gentle breeze. Black smoke.

“No!” he shouted out loud. His lone cry sent roosting crows to flight.

His first thought was that the sun's rays must have been so powerful that they'd set the tinder alight. He rushed over to the kiln. Flames! The logs were well alight. How could this be? He'd lose the whole batch; all his hard work was going up in smoke, literally. He reached for his beater and, leaning over the rim of the kiln, started flaying the flames as if they were hissing serpents rising and trying to bite him. But it was no use. The smoke filled his lungs and the flames leapt at him, forcing him to retreat. He grabbed a flagon of small beer he'd left by the kiln and downed it quickly, as if to douse the burning of his own lungs.

The fire had a good hold, hungrily feeding off the energy the logs gave it. He guessed it must have been burning at least an hour. But there was something else, too, a trunk toward the center of the kiln, near the stack. He had not put it there. It was too large. It would not burn well, and yet the flames seemed to relish it, caressing it with long tongues. The familiar cracks of the wood were punctuated by an odd sound, like the spitting of a hog roasting. He watched transfixed as now and again the fire flared around this large log, as if fat had been poured into the blaze. Soon, however, his puzzlement and fascination turned to anger. Someone must have started the fire deliberately. Hal Thornley sprang to mind. Perhaps he'd acquired a taste for making fire and not learned his lesson in the pillory. Or mayhap it was someone with a grudge. He wondered who might wish him ill. The new master at Boughton. Yes, that was it. He wanted to enclose the woods, and this was his way of telling Zeb that he and his sort were no longer welcome. Next his men would come to tear down his home. But if this firing of his kiln was meant to frighten him, well, the new lord would have to think again. He'd stay rooted to this woodland like the very trees that he lived among. No Act of Parliament could rob him of a way of life that had been his father's and his father's before him.

A small explosion suddenly jolted him back to the moment. In reality it was more a loud pop, but it made him curious. He shielded his eyes and braved the smoke. It seemed the end of the trunk had detonated itself and exploded into hundreds of pieces. But what was that? Strange. He peered closer. Something burned red hot. Metal? Surely not? He could wait no longer. He took a pail and headed for the nearby stream. Filling his bucket, he returned and splashed its contents over the trunk. He repeated it a second and a third time as the wood hissed in protest at the water and finally acquiesced.

For a moment the smoke defeated him once more, but it soon dissipated, and taking a long-handled rake, he reached across the rim of the kiln. Leaning over at full stretch he prodded the trunk with the end of his rake. It did not feel like wood; it was soft. He prodded again, bringing the rake down on something hard that gave out a hollow clank. It was metal. Then it struck him. His eyes ran down the length of the trunk to the tip of a bar that glowed red in the heat, returning thrice more, out of a compulsion, a need to be sure, and with each sweep of his eyes, his body tensed more. A sense of panic rose from inside his chest and struggled out of his throat in a strange half cry.

The flames had all but gone now, but the heat remained intense. Still he could not venture nearer to investigate, but in truth he did not need to. The horror had already dawned on him. He was not looking at a charred, oversized hunk of wood that had somehow strayed into his charcoal kiln, and whoever had set the blaze had done so not to intimidate him, or to spite him. No, the person or persons who had torched his half-laid batch of wood had done so with the sole intention of incinerating a human corpse.

T
hat same day at the Jolly Trooper, shortly after noon, Thomas was making ready to leave for Brandwick. He needed to retrieve the earthenware flagon from the Diggotts' cottage in order to prove his theory, which would, if all went to plan, save the old man's life. He was therefore not prepared for an urgent message he received from the coroner's office. A breathless courier handed it to him as he was about to leave the inn. He recognized Sir Theodisius's hand immediately. The note read:

Once again Thomas found himself in the company of Professor Hascher in the small mortuary, and once again the tang of death was in the air. Only this time there was another element added to the stench.

Thomas sniffed the fetid air. “Burn?”

Professor Hascher, leading him toward the dissecting table, nodded.
“Ja.”

“Where was the body found?”

“In—how you say?—a kiln. A charcoal burner found it.”

Thomas thought immediately of Zeb Godson and his hovel in Raven's Wood.

Hascher nodded. “Ze body vas half-incinerated,” he said, pulling back the sheet to reveal the ghastly, blackened corpse.

It was a sight that even Thomas found shocking. The victim had been reduced to little more than a blackened shell on the left side of his body, while his skull had been shattered in the blaze, ridding the brain of what little protection it had from the flames. The face was charred beyond all recognition. A greasy residue covered what remained of the flesh, while both arms were oddly contorted, the hands clawed and the thighs raised. The cadaver was bent in a posture of agony that told of tormenting flames.

“The pugilistic stance,” muttered Thomas, holding his lantern aloft and casting its meager light over the corpse. It appeared as if in a defensive position, with its elbows and knees flexed and its hands clenched in fists. “The muscles stiffen and shorten in high temperatures.”

Hascher shot him a horrified look, and the younger anatomist read his expression. “It can occur even if the person is dead before the fire,” he explained, adding: “Let us hope that this is such an instance.”

Hanging his coat on a nearby peg, Thomas opened his medical case and took out his apron.

“Has the body been identified?” he asked.

The professor looked blankly. “I do not know.”

“No matter,” said Thomas as he set to work.

Starting with a cursory examination, he could be sure the corpse was male, even though the hair had been scorched and what was left of the skin was blackened. It was while he was looking more closely at the lower torso, however, that his heart missed a beat. From his case he retrieved a small hammer and with it tapped what at first glance appeared to be a shinbone. On closer inspection, however, Thomas knew he was mistaken.

“Vhat is it?” asked Hascher, as Thomas tapped again.

“'Tis metal,” answered the anatomist, staring at a twisted and buckled iron leg. He straightened his back. “I know this man,” he said, his voice flat with shock. He thought of lank-haired Aaron Coutt leaping around like a hare on his makeshift limb. “He was the stable lad at the inn at Brandwick.”

“So vhat vas he doing in ze voods?”

Thomas had a good idea but said nothing.

“And zis . . .” The professor remained transfixed by the corpse. “An accident?”

Thomas refused to commit himself until he had probed further, although a theory was beginning to take shape. The old ruins and the secret stash of smuggled goods he had uncovered came to mind. Now that he knew the hapless youth's identity, there was little doubt in his mind that he was dealing with a murder rather than an accident. Recalling the isolated woodland glade where illicit goods were traded, he thought it was very likely that the stable lad had met his untimely end at another's hand. However, as Dr. Carruthers frequently reminded him, as an anatomist, his was to discover not the why, but the how. Thomas narrowed his eyes in thought and focused on the task in hand. “The corpse is only partly incinerated,” he observed. “If it had been completely burned, then only fragments of bone and the metal would remain.” He bent down low, his magnifying glass in hand. “A human body burns rather like a tree trunk, you see, Professor. First the outer layers of the skin fry, then peel off, until, shortly afterward, the thicker underlayer of skin shrinks and splits. It is then that the yellow, subcutaneous fat starts to ooze out. ”

“And zis fat makes good fuel,
ja?
” asked Hascher.

“Only if it has sufficient material nearby to act as a wick,” replied Thomas, plunging a scalpel into the blackened tissue.

“Like a candle?”

“Indeed. The youth's clothes absorbed the fat and drew the flames toward it.”

The professor watched Thomas examine the corpse in silence for a moment before he asked: “So you are saying ze burning process vas interrupted?”

Thomas looked up. “I'm saying it was never properly begun. This was a halfhearted botched affair to dispose of a corpse. It takes approximately seven hours for a body to sustain its own fire. This was only alight for half—” Suddenly he broke off. His attention had been diverted by something on the dead man's chest.

“The gorget, if you please,” Thomas said, holding out his hand.

Professor Hascher quickly obliged, selecting the probe from the array of instruments on an adjoining table.

“You have found somezing more?”

Thomas was holding his breath, concentrating on an area of chest near the heart. As he pierced the charred skin, there was a sound like rustling leaves. “Tweezers!” he called, and within a few seconds of probing he had retrieved the object of his curiosity from within the thoracic cavity. He held up a small spherical ball to the lantern's light.

“A shot!” cried the professor, his eyes opening wide in surprise.

“That is what killed Aaron Coutt,” said Thomas emphatically. “He was, most definitely, murdered.”

Hascher's finger suddenly flew into the air. “Could it be . . .”

The thought occurred to both men at the same time.

“. . . the same pistol that killed Turgoose?” Thomas finished his colleague's sentence. “As far as I know it remained at Boughton Hall after it was found in Abe Diggott's cottage.”

“So . . . ,” began Hascher. “Another weapon is surely responsible ?”

“Or,” said Thomas thoughtfully, “the same weapon in the hands of Lupton's men.”

There was a pause as both anatomists contemplated the implications of the discovery, until suddenly the professor's finger darted in the air again as if he had just remembered something.

“What is it, professor?” asked Thomas.

“Abe Diggott, ze man charged viz ze surveyor's murder?”

“Yes. What of him?”

Hascher lifted his clenched fist up to his forehead as if reprimanding himself. “It slipped my mind,” he said apologetically.

“What, Professor? You have forgotten something?”

Hascher nodded. “Ze old man's date of trial is set.”

“Yes?”

The Saxon eyed Thomas apologetically. “It is ze day after tomorrow.”