Shadow of the Raven (23 page)

U
nder cover of darkness that night, Thomas rode to Boughton Hall. Tethering his horse by a wall that had fallen into disrepair, he climbed over it and skirted the lawns, arriving undetected at the drawing room window. Through the pane he could see Nicholas Lupton, sitting by the roaring fire, surrounded by the elegant splendor to which he had no right. Seeing him thus, a brandy in his hand, enjoying the accompaniments that his usurpation brought, stirred Thomas into action. Grasping the handles of the French doors, he flung them open.

Hearing the intrusion, Lupton leapt to his feet. Craning his neck into the gloom he called out, “Who goes there?”

Seeing Thomas stepping out of the shadows, Lupton lunged for the bell by the fireplace.

“I would advise you to hear me out, sir, if you value your own position,” Thomas told him, hastening toward him.

Lupton arched a brow and regarded Thomas with a sentient look, as if he feared what he would say next. “What is your meaning, Silkstone?”

“My meaning, sir, is very plain,” said Thomas. “Unless you want me to inform Sir Montagu that you are in league with local smugglers and are taking a cut of their profits to line your own pockets, I suggest you tell me the truth about Lady Lydia.”

The color rose in Lupton's cheeks and he opened his mouth to let out another laugh, only this time it was tinged with nervousness, not the customary derision. “You have been digging in the dirt again, I fear. 'Tis your word against mine, and Sir Montagu would never believe you over me.” He spat out his words so that spittle flecked his lips.

Thomas refused to be fazed. “You forget Sir Montagu is a lawyer used to dealing in evidence.”

“And where is yours?” Lupton jabbed an aggressive finger in the air.

“It is lodged with a third party, as it happens, which is under instruction to hand it over to the relevant authorities if I have not returned by midnight,” replied Thomas. On his way to Boughton, he had stopped off at Mr. Peabody's apothecary shop in the High Street and delivered a sealed parcel into his hands for safekeeping. In it were the samples of the tea and tobacco Thomas had collected from the woods, which could be used in evidence against the smugglers and connect them to the surveyor's murder and to Coutt's.

Lupton's shoulders rose in anger. “You are lying, Silkstone!” he boomed.

Thomas knew he was taking a dangerous gamble, but he managed to keep his nerve. “You are the one who will be clapped in chains if Sir Montagu ever finds out that his trusted steward is playing him for a fool.”

Lupton flashed a look of horror at Thomas. “What are you saying, man?” he protested indignantly.

The doctor laid bare his thoughts. “It is my supposition that Turgoose and Charlton inadvertently stumbled across, or came close to, the old ruins, the place where the smugglers store their loot—the very smugglers who give you a cut of their ill-gotten gains.” His eyes flared as he accused Lupton. He was about to turn the tables and play the steward at his own game. “The Raven, Lupton. I am sure the name means something to you.”

“I know of him,” replied Lupton after a moment. “He is a highwayman and a common thief.”

“Who also goes by the name of Seth Talland, does he not?”

Lupton's neck suddenly jerked back into his shoulders. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Silkstone!” he remonstrated loudly—a little too loudly, as far as Thomas was concerned.

“The Raven and Seth Talland are one and the same, are they not?” the doctor persisted. It had come to him as he was interrogating Geech earlier that evening. He recalled the well-dressed man at the bar, talking to the innkeeper a few days back, and the gesture he had made, stroking his earlobe. Talland had made the exact same movement on the witness stand. “You were double-dealing, were you not? Not content with protection money from Geech, you were turning a profit from smuggled goods yourself. The prizefighter disguised himself so he could act as your go-between, and when Geech tried to shortchange your man, the stable lad paid with his life.”

“You cannot prove it!” blurted Lupton.

Thomas nodded. “I'll admit it would've been hard had I not been able to trace the murder weapon.”

“What?” The steward's brows dipped.

Thomas nodded. “You see, the pistol that killed Jeffrey Turgoose also killed Aaron Coutt.” Professor Hascher had been able to measure the caliber of the shot that killed the stable lad. It was exactly the same as the one that felled the surveyor.

Lupton snorted. “But this is ludicrous.”

Thomas felt relieved to be stepping on solid ground. “It is fact, sir, and can be proven. The pistol belongs to Sir Theodisius Pettigrew and is the same one that was planted in the Diggotts' dwelling. I cannot prove that Talland killed Mr. Turgoose yet, but I am working on it.”

“Then you are wasting your time,” the steward mocked. He reached for the glass of brandy he had discarded earlier and took a gulp.

“You know I can make life very awkward for you, Lupton.” Thomas was determined not to leave empty-handed.

“So what do you propose?” Lupton took another gulp.

“A deal,” replied the doctor. “If I drop my investigations into Aaron Coutt's murder, you will tell me the truth about Lady Lydia.” He paused, his eyes boring into Lupton's. “She is alive, is she not?”

In the firelight glow, Thomas could see the steward's neck shrink back into his shoulders. His nerve had been rattled and his ensuing silence condemned him. Thomas knew he had him, just as surely as if he were a worm wriggling on a hook. He stared at him for a moment, watching him writhe, before offering a way out.

“So,” he said, his voice tinged with victory. “You will tell me where Lady Lydia is being held.” This time his words came in the form of an order rather than a question.

Lupton, whose gaze had fallen to the floor, now lifted his head and shook it as if in a daze. “I cannot tell you,” he replied, his head lolling from side to side.

Thomas set his jaw. “So you are prepared to be exposed to Sir Montagu?”

Again Lupton's head swayed. “I cannot tell you because I do not know,” he snapped. “Sir Montagu refused to tell me. He said the secret would be safer that way.” He looked at Thomas in the same manner that a deeply religious man might react if asked to recant his long-held convictions. The anatomist found himself believing him.

“But she is alive?” asked Thomas, trying to coax Lupton with a softer tone. At first the steward remained sullen, but the doctor persisted. “The body in the crypt is that of Miss Annalise Kent, is it not?” He craned his neck to try to latch onto Lupton's eyes. “She became so distraught after Lady Lydia's departure from Bedlam that she was given the means to take her own life by a clerk in the pay of Sir Montagu, who then seized the opportunity to announce her ladyship's death.”

The steward threw a grudging look at Thomas, but remained silent.

“But Lady Lydia is not dead, is she?” The anatomist's patience was wearing thin. “Is she?” He raised his voice.

“If I tell you, will you stop meddling in affairs that do not concern you, Silkstone?”

Thomas regarded Lupton for a moment. He had the upper hand and, although he did not relish it, he knew only a fool would throw it away.

“I shall tell Sir Montagu nothing of your little ruse, as long as you tell me if Lydia is really dead.”

Lupton drew breath; then slowly, as if realizing his defeat, he began to shake his head. “No, she is not,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?” pressed Thomas.

Lupton bit his lip, as if trying to stop his mouth from forming the words, but their power overcame him. “Lady Lydia is not dead,” he repeated reluctantly.

It was all that Thomas needed to hear for the moment. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, like a man filling his lungs with fresh air for the first time in days. It was the confirmation he had so craved, the news that he had been so desperately seeking.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his stifled breath fleeing from his lungs as he spoke. “I am most grateful.”

T
he sound of his horse's hooves thundered in his ears as Thomas rode directly to Draycott House the following morning. He felt the blood course through his veins and a surge of energy, or anger—he was not sure which—wash over him. Not only was Lydia alive; he knew where she was. Draycott House. Of course. Franklin, his white rat, had sown the seed in his brain when he had rushed back to his cage after he'd been disturbed, but events in Brandwick had sidetracked Thomas's time and energies. How stupid, how blind he had been. Convinced she had been shut away in some private institution, he had ignored the most obvious location for her incarceration. At least he could be thankful that she was no longer in that hellhole they called a hospital. A memory of her emaciated frame draped in that terrible restraining garment flashed into his mind. He saw her tear-stained face, her shorn head, and heard her pleas to be rescued. He had felt so impotent at the time. He had been totally powerless, but it was clear from the look of anguish on Lydia's face that she no longer trusted him. Her view of him had been skewed by Sir Montagu's lies. She was convinced that Thomas was responsible for her awful fate, and her faith in him had not merely waned; it had completely disappeared. Somehow he needed to rebuild her trust in him, but first he had to find her.

Riding across country, he made good time. The ground was still damp after heavy rain, but the roads were passable. The journey by coach from Boughton to Draycott would normally take two hours in such conditions. Thomas had done it in under an hour. He had ridden his horse hard and arrived at the steps of the house spattered with mud and damp with sweat. Inside he was still seething. He had been played for a fool by Sir Montagu Malthus yet again. Striding up to the door, he did not even bother to pull the cord, but walked straight into the hallway.

A flustered butler appeared. “Sir, can I help you?”

Ignoring the man, Thomas stormed in and looked about the entrance hall. There was a door on either side of the staircase. He stormed up to the first and opened it. The room was empty. He slammed the door shut. He tried the second.

“Sir!” pleaded the butler.

“Where is she? Where is Lady Lydia?” Thomas shouted angrily, flinging open the second door. “Lydia! Lydia!” he called.

Suddenly a voice boomed from the half landing. “Really, Dr. Silkstone, have your manners deserted you?”

Thomas looked up to see Sir Montagu glowering down at him, his broad black shoulders hunched over the banisters.

“I'd heard colonists were unsophisticated, but this sort of behavior will not be countenanced.”

Thomas marched to the foot of the stairs. “I know she is here, Malthus. Let me see her!” he demanded.

The lawyer seemed unconcerned. He floated down the stairs without a sign that he had undergone surgery barely three months previously. Following closely behind was Gilbert Fothergill. “And what if her ladyship does not wish to see you?” Sir Montagu asked. His voice was tinged with a smugness that infuriated Thomas.

“Of course she wishes to see me. I have come to release her from this . . . this prison.” Thomas lifted his arms in a wide sweep.

Now standing on the bottom step, so that he remained gazing down on Thomas, Sir Montagu shot him a disingenuous look. “A prison? Such harsh words, Silkstone. On the contrary, it is I who saved her ladyship from Bethlem and brought her here. You were happy to leave her there, were you not?”

Thomas scowled. “What do you mean? You were the one who committed her there in the first place.”

At his words, Sir Montagu suddenly snapped his fingers and Fothergill emerged from his shadow to give him a piece of parchment. He raised one of his thick brows. “I think you'll find your signature is on the committal papers, Silkstone,” he said, flapping the document in front of Thomas's face. “I have a copy here.”

Unable to contain himself any longer, the anatomist snatched at the paper and tore it first lengthways, then across, before flinging the pieces to the ground. Up until now he had nurtured a vague hope that Lydia had not been shown his signature; that she might still have harbored a doubt as to his complicity. Now he feared otherwise. “You know this is a lie!”

Sir Montagu merely smiled. “Her ladyship has seen it and knows it to be yours.”

“You planned this all along, didn't you?” His voice trailed off wanly as he realized he had been well and truly entrapped.

Sir Montagu shook his head. “And all those letters she sent you, but they were returned unopened. How could you be so heartless?”

“She wrote to me?” Such a revelation was the final straw.

Enraged, Thomas flew at the lawyer, but his clerk stepped in the way, and the butler, sensing the possibility of trouble, had already called two lackeys.

“If I were you, I would return to London, Silkstone,” said Sir Montagu between clenched teeth. “Her ladyship has seen you for what you truly are. You were only ever interested in her fortune, and now that it is no longer within your reach, you can find yourself another rich heiress.”

Thomas balled his fists and felt his pulse race even faster. He was used to hearing slurs on his character from Malthus, but this latest barrage was beyond the pale. That the lawyer should have turned Lydia against him with his false accusations and elaborate hoaxes went further than he had ever envisaged. He wanted to barge past Malthus and search through the upstairs rooms, where he was convinced she was imprisoned.

“Lydia! Lydia!” he shouted, lunging forward.

It was no use. The two lackeys appeared from nowhere and hooked their arms under his, pulling him away. However, just as they released him from their grasp, the main door opened, and into the hallway ran the young earl, followed by an anxious Nurse Pring.

“No, Master!” she shouted after her charge, but it was too late.

“Richard!” cried Thomas, his voice a mix of surprise and exultation.

Seeing the anatomist, the child stopped in his tracks. His face was flushed pink and his curls were disheveled. The light blue satin of his breeches was caked in mud at the knees. The boy wiped his streaming nose with the back of his sleeve and looked at Thomas. There was a flicker of recognition.

The doctor, forced to compose himself, managed a gentle smile. “You remember me, do you not, sir? 'Tis Dr. Silkstone. I am a friend of your mamma's.”

The boy frowned, then nodded thoughtfully. “You made my arm better,” he said.

Relieved, Thomas rushed forward. “Yes. You remember! I am here to see your mamma again.” Bending low, he held out his hand, but the child looked at it suspiciously and then at his nursemaid, before ignoring the gesture.

“You have made my mamma very sad, sir,” he said, fixing Thomas with an intense glare. “You must leave this house.”

Thomas felt the pain of the young earl's wounding words tighten his chest. “What? No. I am your mamma's friend!” He forced his features into a broad smile to appear less threatening. But the child turned and hid his face in his nursemaid's skirts.

The boy's performance delighted Sir Montagu. He had witnessed the scene from the study doorway and was smirking. “Out of the mouths of babes, Silkstone,” he said, unable to disguise the glee in his voice.

Thomas was silent for a moment as he felt the weight of humiliation and defeat press down on him. All he could hear was the blood pumping through his ears as his heart beat faster and faster.

Finally he said, “I will not give up, Malthus. 'Tis not in my nature.” He turned and headed for the door. The butler held it open for him, but before he crossed the threshold he rounded on his heel and shouted at the top of his voice: “Lydia, I will not give up!” He did not know if she heard him, but in light of his crushing defeat, it eased his burden a little to think that maybe, just maybe, she had heard his voice and knew that all was not lost.

As he left the hallway, however, he became aware of Sir Montagu's voice behind him. “Save your breath and your strength for Brandwick, Silkstone,” he called. “The villagers will almost certainly have need of your services.”

 

Meanwhile, in her bedchamber upstairs, Lady Lydia Farrell had flown to her door and was pulling at the handle. It was locked. She banged on it, but no one came in answer to her calls. She had been seated looking out of her window onto the drive when, to her shock, she had seen a horse gallop up to the front entrance. It took only a second for her to realize the identity of the rider. Her heart had fluttered just as it always used to at the sight, when Thomas paid a visit to Boughton Hall. Now, however, everything had changed. The sight of him set her mind in a flurry. His betrayal had been total and utter. The one man whom she believed she could trust in the world had turned out to be a Judas. By his own hand he had committed her to Bedlam. Sir Montagu had only been following his advice, and when he had seen for himself the terrible conditions in which she had been held, he had ordered her immediate release.

Thomas, on the other hand, had allowed her to wallow in the depravity of the asylum. She saw to her astonishment how he conversed with Cameron, how he distanced himself as if she were a stranger. He had abandoned her to her terrible fate, and for that she could never forgive him. Although her head told her that it would be best to cut him out of her life and not to waste another tear on him, at the sight of him she suddenly felt compelled to confront him. She had wheeled 'round and made for the door. She wanted to tell him in person how he may as well have taken his scalpel to her chest and cut out her heart while it still beat. Had he ever truly loved her, or was his insinuation into her life and her affections simply his way of reaching her fortune? Now that Sir Montagu, or rather her father, had explained everything to her, it was as if the scales had been lifted from her eyes. It all made perfect sense. How could she have been so naïve and foolish as to think that a lowly anatomist, and a foreigner to wit, could have declared his undying love for her with his lips and not had his heart set on her fortune? Had she learned nothing from her experience? Captain Michael Farrell had been cut from the same cloth: sophisticated, debonair, and yet always with an eye to the main chance. How had she not seen past Thomas's caring, gentlemanly façade? A wolf in sheep's clothing—that was how her father had described him. How grateful she was that after all these years, Sir Montagu had finally revealed himself to her. He had, he told her, always had her best interests at heart. At last here was a man she could trust. A man whose word was his bond. Here was her own flesh and blood.

Now was her chance to confront her tormentor. Now was the chance to hear the truth from his own lips. She could ask him, in person, why he had betrayed her.

“Let me out,” she called. Again, only louder: “Let me out.” She twisted the handle once more. She pulled at it. She pushed it. No one came. She put her ear to the door. She could hear voices; then, suddenly, she heard Thomas call her name. She rattled the door handle again in vain.

Hurrying back to the window, she saw his horse tethered and a groom in attendance. Downstairs raised voices drifted upstairs, and a moment later she saw Thomas remount his mare. Something compelled her to knock at her window to attract his attention. She rapped loudly on the pane.

“Thomas!” she called. But he did not look up. Instead, she watched him retrieve something from his pocket—she could not make out what—and cradle it in his palm. After a moment's reflection, he returned the object and set off back down the drive once more at a gallop.