Chapter 22
A
s Thomas gazed through the thick fog of returning consciousness, he became vaguely aware of strangely familiar objects around him. In the half light rows of books came into murky focus before retreating into a blur once more. Ill-defined shapes, a table, or perhaps a chair, emerged from the shadows. The smell, too, that met his nostrils was recognizable to him, yet he did not know why. Now he could hear voices at the boundary of his vision. He turned his head in their direction, but felt pain sear into his brain like a red-hot spear.
“Lie still, Dr. Silkstone,” came a soft voice. Someone was bending over him. He squinted against the daylight that burned into his eyes.
“Lady L ... ?” His throat felt scorched.
Lydia was indeed there. “Professor Hascher,” she called. Thomas now recognized the outline of the wiry-haired anatomist. He held a cup of water to his lips and Thomas felt the cool liquid trickle down his throat and soothe his parched gullet.
Shapes now became better defined. Colors returned. Sounds and smells began to make sense once more. “What happened?” he asked faintly.
Professor Hascher answered. “You were attacked opposite the White Horse. You suffered a blow to the jaw and head. You have cracked three ribs and have a gash on your leg, but you’ll survive.”
Thomas tried to acknowledge that he had heard the prognosis with a nod, but the pain returned once more. He stifled a cry.
“The night watchmen brought you here because zey took you for dead and wanted to make a shilling or two out of your corpse,” the professor told him.
“You must rest, Dr. Silkstone,” said Lydia softly. She held a damp cloth in her hand and dabbed his forehead gently.
Thomas focused on her face. She was wearing that same anxious expression as when she had first come to his laboratory, but her very presence was as soothing as any balm or unguent could be.
“What ... ?”
Lydia put her finger to his lips and he felt a tingling sensation run through his body. “You must not talk, Dr. Silkstone, only listen.” She sat down on a chair next to the table and took a deep breath. He felt its moist sweetness against his face as she bent low over him.
“This is all my doing, Dr. Silkstone,” she sighed, shaking her head. Thomas opened his mouth to protest. “Please,” she urged. “Let me say what I have to.” She stilled the hand he had raised and he felt her cool skin against his. “I came to you seeking your help because I knew that you were the best in your field and you willingly agreed to help me find out how Edward died.” She bit her lips, fighting back tears. “I prayed that it would all be very straightforward; that you would confirm that my brother died from natural causes and that he could rest in peace. But it was not to be. It would seem that someone is afraid you will be able to find out the cause of his death, which, God forbid, may well be far from natural. It will be murder.” She took a deep breath once more. “I have made you risk your own life, Dr. Silkstone, and for that I can only apologize.” She gripped Thomas’s hand tighter. “You must not give evidence at the inquest.”
Thomas felt one of her tears fall on his cheek. He wished he had possessed the strength to rise up and comfort her, but all that he was capable of was to summon what little energy he could muster and lay his other hand on top of hers, reciprocating a moment of forbidden intimacy.
She studied his long surgeon’s hands as if she had never seen fingers before; as if they were something new and wonderful and as she did so, Thomas allowed himself to gaze on her face. It was Professor Hascher’s voice that broke the moment in two like the snap of a bone when it is amputated.
“Ze inquest will start within ze hour, your ladyship,” he reminded her, moving closer to where Thomas lay.
Lydia’s hand withdrew instantly from Thomas’s touch. “Yes. Thank you. I must go,” she replied awkwardly, not sure whether or not the professor had witnessed her indiscretion. She rose quickly. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Dr. Silkstone,” she said formally.
“Thank you,” croaked Thomas weakly. They were all the words his swollen mouth and tongue could form.
Chapter 23
T
he inquest into the death of The Right Honorable The Earl Crick, late of Boughton Hall in the county of Oxfordshire, opened at Oxford Coroner’s Court on November 16 in the year of our Lord 1780.
At eleven o’clock precisely, Sir Theodisius Pettigrew walked into the courtroom and was more than a little surprised by the scene that greeted him. Where usually only a few grim-faced relatives sat to hear of the last moments of their departed loved one replayed in distressing detail, there now stood and jostled and elbowed scores of noisy, restless, and decidedly malodorous members of the general public. Indeed the tableau that met Sir Theodisius was more akin to the gallery from a variety theater than a court of law; more like a vicious caricature from the pencil of Mr. Hogarth than a solemn and sober occasion. Painted trollops vied for space with black-toothed ruffians. They called out to each other. Some whistled shrilly to attract attention. Others shouted obscenities and swore oaths if they felt they were being crushed in the melee.
As soon as the clerk announced the coroner’s arrival, the fracas died down. Even the common throng, it seemed, knew when respect should be shown at an inquest.
“Looks more like a hanging trial,” commented Sir Theodisius to his clerk as he settled his corpulent frame into its seat. Under his voluminous black gown he had smuggled in a small case. It contained neither papers nor textbooks that might help him fathom this most complicated of fiscal procedures, but two chicken legs and a venison pie to see him through the morning until the adjournment for luncheon at one o’clock.
Below on pews sat the more normal breed of attendee: nervous witnesses and pale-faced relatives. A short distance away sat the jury, twelve men of good character and, it was trusted, sound judgment. Sir Theodisius perched his spectacles on the edge of his nose and surveyed them all imperiously. Captain Michael Farrell, confident to the point of arrogance, thought Sir Theodisius, sat next to his pretty young wife, dressed in light blue with a matching hat. Next to her was her addlebrained mother, who, to the coroner’s great surprise, sported a necklace made of dried daisies. To Farrell’s right James Lavington, wincing now and again in pain, stretched out his right leg in front of him as he perched uneasily on the edge of his seat. Next to him sat Francis Crick, fresh-faced and earnest. Behind the family and close friends sat the servants, all dressed in their Sunday best, looking as solemn as if they were at a funeral.
“Order,” called Sir Theodisius before slamming down his gavel to produce absolute silence. He glanced down at the list of witnesses who were to give evidence. He was acutely aware that this would not be a straightforward inquest. Not only had Lord Crick been well known in the community—particularly among a certain sector of the community, he noted, looking at the paphians and doxies in the gallery—but his death, at the tender age of twenty-one, remained, to date, shrouded in mystery.
After he had dispensed with the usual formalities, Sir Theodisius nodded to the clerk to call the first witness, Mr. Archibald Peabody.
The apothecary from Brandwick shuffled nervously up to the stand and swore on the Bible that his testimony would be truthful.
“Tell me, Mr. Peabody, why did Lord Crick require an apothecary? Was he not in good health?” It was the question that Mr. Peabody was dreading. He looked at Lady Lydia sitting in the front row, as fragile as a flower, and he knew what he was about to say would be deeply offensive.
“His lordship suffered from a very”—the apothecary hesitated, searching for a gentler word to describe the young man’s plight—“a very personal illness,” he blurted.
At these words several women in the gallery dissolved into raucous laughter until Sir Theodisius brought down his gavel once more. He glanced at Lady Lydia, who remained stone-faced.
“And this illness was of a sexual nature?” probed Sir Theodisius.
“Yes, sir,” came the mumbled reply.
There followed more questions as to what treatment was given for this most intimate of afflictions and what ingredients were used in any palliatives.
“In your opinion, Mr. Peabody, was Lord Crick in reasonable health?” asked Sir Theodisius.
The nervous little man took a deep breath once more. “He did not take care of his body, sir,” he replied.
“So, is it possible that he may well have died from natural causes?”
Again Peabody paused. “It is possible, but unlikely,” he replied.
Next to take the witness box was Dr. Elijah Siddall, the physician whom Farrell had called upon to conduct a postmortem on his brother-in-law.
“The corpse was a health hazard,” said the doctor under scrutiny. “No surgeon in his right mind would have examined it.” He stiffened with indignation.
“I agree with Dr. Siddall,” concurred Mr. Jeremy Walton when it was his turn to take the stand. “Lord Crick’s body was badly decomposed and required immediate burial.”
“I should now like to call upon our third medical witness,” announced Sir Theodisius. “Dr. Thomas Silkstone.”
There was a hushed silence as the court waited for Thomas, followed by a ripple of murmurings when he failed to appear. “Dr. Thomas Silkstone,” repeated the clerk.
Lydia looked agitated. She turned in her seat. “Did you not tell the clerk?” she asked her husband. Farrell shrugged dismissively.
“Rafferty cannot have delivered my message about your doctor friend’s unfortunate disposition,” he replied.
“Dr. Silkstone,” boomed the clerk once more. When no reply was forthcoming Sir Theodisius scowled and the drone of the rabble rose like the sound of flies around excrement. “Then we must move on,” he said, bringing down his gavel to restore order in the court. “Call the next witness.”
Chapter 24
“Z
is is utter madness,” scolded Professor Hascher, helping his patient up from the dissecting table.
Thomas winced and clenched his teeth to try and stifle a reflexive cry. His bruised abdominal muscles were straining with the effort of sitting upright.
“You are correct,” he replied, gasping for breath. “But you know as well as I do, Professor, that if there is mention of that rat poison in court, everyone, including Sir Theodisius, will jump to the wrong conclusion.”
For a moment Thomas held his head in his hands as lights danced before his eyes and the room oscillated around him. So many times he had treated men with head injuries and wondered at their pain. Now that he knew what it felt like he could share in their misery with an intense empathy.
After a few moments he lowered his stockinged foot to the floor. Slowly, by degrees, he increased the pressure he applied to it and felt the fire travel up from his ankle to his knee joint, as surely as if someone had put a match to the bone.
“Drink zis,” said the professor, handing him a glass of schnapps. Thomas took it with a smile and a shaking hand. He downed it in one and felt its effects almost immediately.
“ ’Tis good physick,” he said, easing himself up on his knuckles.
“The court calls Hannah Lovelock,” announced the clerk. All eyes now turned on the slight woman in a drab brown shawl and battered bonnet who was being helped to stand by her husband. She looked drawn and unsteady on her feet as she made her way to the front of the court.
In a hushed voice she gave her name and swore her oath, all the time looking at her husband in one of the pews, as if drawing strength from his very presence.
“You have clearly been through a terrible ordeal, Mistress Lovelock,” soothed Sir Theodisius. “But the court understands that you were present when Lord Crick took his physick and therefore your testimony could prove vital.”
Hannah nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord,” she replied softly, wringing her hands self-consciously.
“Tell us, then, what happened on that morning. In your own time.”
Hannah took a deep breath to compose herself and began. “ ’Twas when his lordship had just come back from riding. He came up to his room. I were tidying. I saw the bottle of physick on the mantelpiece, but it weren’t opened, so I says to his lordship: ‘Your medicine is here, master.’ And he says, ‘Yes, Hannah, I shall take it now.’ ” The maid’s face suddenly puckered into a grimace as she recalled the event. “Them were the last words he said,” she blurted to Sir Theodisius.
“Calm yourself, Mistress Lovelock. We know this is very difficult for you, but you must not upset yourself,” the coroner told her as she dabbed her eyes. There was a note of irascibility in his tone and it was clear he was beginning to lose his patience. “Can you tell the court what happened next?” he urged.
No sooner had the murmurings in the gallery died down, however, than there was more commotion at the main entrance. Sir Theodisius leaned to one side to see if he could determine its cause and slammed down his gavel once more. But the source of the disturbance soon became apparent as Thomas, propped up on a crutch and with a bandage around his head, staggered to a seat near the front of the courtroom. His face was the color of pumice stone and it was clear that every step pained him.
“Dr. Silkstone,” cried the coroner, more out of surprise than by way of reprimand. “You are late.”
Thomas, who had managed to seat himself with the greatest of difficulty, was now forced to rise once more to address Sir Theodisius.
“I offer you and the court my sincere apologies, sir,” he said against a background of murmurings. “But I met with an accident.”
“That we can all see,” replied Sir Theodisius sarcastically. “I trust we can look forward to hearing your expert evidence later in the proceedings?”
“Indeed, sir,” replied Thomas, longing to return to the comfort of his seat.
“Very well,” said the coroner and he dismissed Thomas with a nod of the head before turning his attention once more to the anxious maidservant, who had been waiting patiently in the witness stand. “Now, where were we? Pray continue, Mistress Lovelock.”
Taking another deep breath Hannah went on: “He took the bottle and pulled the cork out.” Her voice trembled as she delved into the deep recesses of her memory, recalling how her master drank down the medicine in one, then walked over to the bed. “He looked a bit strange,” she remembered.
“In what way?” interrupted Sir Theodisius, who had begun taking notes.
Hannah paused for a moment. “His face changed color. It were yellowy. I said to him: ‘Sir, what ails you?’ Then he suddenly put his hand up to his chest and began panting like a dog. Then I saw his eyes ...”
“What about his eyes?” asked the coroner, setting down his quill.
“I will never forget them. Bulging, they were, as if they were going to leap out at me. They was yellow, too,” she cried.
There were stifled screams from some of the women in the gallery as Hannah continued to relive her experience. Sir Theodisius’s gavel slammed down once more. “Go on, Mistress Lovelock.”
Aware now that she had her audience completely enthralled, the servant continued: “And his mouth ... it were covered in white, white ...” She sought a word to describe the horror she had seen. “Like froth, it was.” Another communal alarum emitted from the gallery. “Then he just dropped to the floor, like a stone, and began rolling around like a rat on the captain’s poison and he held his belly—”
“Hold,” called Sir Theodisius, lifting his large hand and frowning. Hannah looked at him perplexed and stopped mid-sentence. “What did you just say?”
Hannah paused. “I said he held his belly and—”
Sir Theodisius shook his head. “Before that. You mentioned poison.”
Hannah’s expression immediately changed. She looked at her eager audience, as if she were acting out some dramatic role. “Captain Farrell makes his own rat poison for the hall and the farm,” she said almost conspiratorially.
At this revelation the gallery gasped in unison once more. These men and women were neither learned in their letters, nor their numbers, mused Thomas, looking up at the pack of baying wolves. On the abacus of suspicion and calumny they found it all too easy to add two and two together and make five. He glanced over to Lydia. There had been no chance to tell her of the findings of his tests on the poison. He watched her reaction to Hannah’s outpourings. She closed her eyes, hoping, perhaps, that this was all a nightmare. Thomas longed to go and comfort her; to tell her that her husband’s poison had not killed her brother.
Captain Farrell, meanwhile, remained impassive, but Thomas saw the look that James Lavington darted at his friend. It was clear to him that he also doubted the wisdom of the Irishman’s actions. Hannah’s words could be the sparks that ignited the smoldering kindling.
“Order. Order!” cried Sir Theodisius. He waited until the noise had died down, then turned to Hannah, who seemed almost elated by her own revelation.
“Tell us what happened next,” continued Sir Theodisius.
“I screamed, of course. I ain’t never seen such a terrible thing. I screamed until Lady Lydia comes running in and sees her brother lying and waving and crying like an animal caught in a trap,” said the servant. She was now flailing her arms around graphically demonstrating the agonal death throes of her young master.
“What did her ladyship do?” asked Sir Theodisius.
Hannah’s eyes widened as she relived the moment. “She rushed over to her poor brother and tried to calm him, but his body were shaking and jerking like a thing possessed. I thought the very devil was in him,” she exclaimed. Her voice was rising to a crescendo like some soprano delivering a dramatic aria.
Another collective intake of breath from the gallery echoed on the taut air.
“What happened next, Mistress Lovelock?” coaxed Sir Theodisius, every bit as fascinated as the rabble.
“Lady Crick came in to see her only son in his death throes. Thankfully she weren’t quite sure what was going on, her being not quite right.” The maid pointed to her own head in a gesture that Sir Theodisius found impertinent but which caused a titter around the gallery.
“And where was Captain Farrell at this time?” urged the coroner.
Hannah nodded. “He came in next, asked what all the fuss was about. Then he sees his lordship, fallen on the floor now.”
“And what did he do?” pressed Sir Theodisius.
“He watched.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Her ladyship was screaming to fetch Dr. Fairweather, but he just stood in the doorway as she rushed past him. He just watched until his lordship stopped moving in his sister’s arms.”
The reply was said almost without emotion, which made it all the more shocking. Lydia could see her husband tensing at Hannah’s words and she put her hand on his arm in a gesture that said the servant’s account was too harsh and there was nothing he could have done.
Throughout her testimony Hannah had not once looked at anyone in the family, but had addressed all her words to the gallery. She now told them how the young earl’s limp body had been lifted onto the bed and how Lady Lydia had sat by it, while Dr. Fairweather was summoned, even though it was clear it was too late.
“And what did you do next, Mistress Lovelock?” asked Sir Theodisius.
“Me, sir? I cleaned up like the captain said,” she replied in a matter-of-fact fashion, as if she had been asked to polish the silver or do the laundry.
“And in all of this obvious confusion, can I ask what happened to the bottle of physick?” quizzed Sir Theodisius.
Thomas leaned forward eagerly. Hannah looked at Sir Theodisius straight, as if he had just asked her a profoundly stupid question that was not worthy of a reply.
“Captain Farrell told me to clear everything up, so I washed it out and put it away,” she retorted, a vague note of contempt in her uneducated voice.
Thomas tried to hide his exasperation. In her ignorance Hannah had destroyed vital evidence. He looked at the maid for a moment, then his gaze crossed to Captain Farrell.
Sir Theodisius was quick to pick up on the point. “And you say Captain Farrell ordered you to clear everything away?”
It was the first time Thomas had seen the captain look uncomfortable.
“Why, yes, sir. I wiped the floor, took the bloodied cover off the bed, and rinsed out the physick bottle,” detailed the maid, as if she were reporting to the housekeeper.
Sir Theodisius sat back in his chair and sighed. He then shot a glance at Thomas, who seemed equally disheartened.
“This court will adjourn for lunch. We shall reconvene at three o’clock,” said the coroner, his voice perking up at the thought of a two-hour repast, and he brought down his gavel on a morning of high drama and heightened suspicion.
Thomas saw Lydia rise with Farrell. She turned and he caught her eye. He had to speak to her, but, as the hordes of people began to leave the courtroom, her husband quickly ushered her ahead of him and her blue hat disappeared into the crowd.
“Dr. Silkstone,” called a voice that rose above the general melee. The young New Englander turned to see Francis Crick standing behind him.
“My cousin told me of your misfortune. I trust your injuries are not too serious,” he enquired anxiously. He studied Thomas’s distended face with a physician’s eye, mentally noting the contusions and bruising.
Thomas thanked him for his concern, but was more interested in finding Lydia to tell her the results of the tests on the poison. He glanced over to the opened doorway just in time to see her blue hat once more. The crowd around the exit had dispersed and he dashed toward her as fast as his injured leg permitted.
“Lady Lydia,” he called, ducking and diving through the few stragglers who still filed out of the courtroom. She turned at the sound of her name, but so, too, did her husband, who saw the flustered look on Thomas’s swollen face as he approached.
“Come, Lydia,” he instructed, taking a firm hold of his wife’s arm. “We want nothing to do with that man.” And together they walked off down Turl Street and melted into the crowd.
Francis Crick finally caught up with Thomas as he stood looking vexed at the doorway, wincing in pain caused by his exertions.
“It is vital I talk to your cousin, in private,” he told Francis. There was despair in his voice, as if the morning’s events were conspiring against him. “Can you arrange it?”
Francis nodded. “Leave it to me, sir,” he said. “I will find a way.”