Chapter 50
A
man’s grave, though silent, can speak volumes in death. As Thomas stood by the newly dug pit on top of the hill by the pavilion at Boughton, he paused in silent reflection by the simple wooden cross. Even if the place had been marked with an elaborate mausoleum or a mortsafe, there was no escaping what had happened. Men may consider the earthly trappings of death to be of the highest importance and yet, in reality, they are only of interest to those left behind, thought Thomas.
The rain had begun to fall steadily and it stung his eyes and gouged small rivulets in the bare mound of earth. From his vantage point behind the pavilion, Thomas could see the chapel clearly. Lovelock had broken the news to him of the wedding and he had received it with horrified indignation. His first thought was governed by passion. He would burst into Boughton and rescue Lydia from Lavington’s clutches. But then a physician’s logic took over and he realized that, in order to prove that Lavington was, indeed, responsible for Farrell’s death, he needed to conduct a postmortem. He knew it would be hard seeing Lydia enter the chapel, but her fate now lay in his hands.
At precisely a quarter to ten James Lavington arrived, accompanied by the curate and Rafferty. Thomas felt tense. Looking through a spyglass, he could see the lawyer clearly as he dismounted from the curricle and limped into the chapel.
A few minutes later Lydia arrived, escorted by Eliza and Mistress Claddingbowl. No ribbons or flowers bedecked the phaeton and, as he looked through the spyglass he could see Lydia was in no mood to celebrate. Her face was pale and her demeanor nervous. She was looking about her as she alighted from the carriage. Was she looking for him?
“Not long now,” Thomas told her under his breath.
Waiting until the chapel door was shut, he walked a little farther down the slope and gave the signal for Kidd, Sir Theodisius, and Hannah to set off in the dogcart up the slippery hill. Less than five minutes later they had reached the brow.
The soil was so damp that it was easily worked. Lovelock and Kidd dug quickly, so that in a few minutes they had brought the simple pine coffin to the surface. Thomas gave the order to prize off the lid and the men took crowbars and opened it up.
The jailer had done his work well, thought Thomas. The captain’s face, although beginning to discolor, was better preserved than if nature’s decaying processes had been allowed to work unimpeded.
The corpse was dressed in a white silk shirt and satin breeches, as if about to go to a wedding. The tragic irony of the sight struck Thomas and the thought of Lydia going to her own wedding still in widow’s weeds spurred him on. Unlike the postmortem he carried out on the young earl, where he worked literally and metaphorically in the dark, this time he knew exactly what he was hoping to find.
As Sir Theodisius held a kerchief to his face and Lovelock and Amos kept guard, with Hannah looking out over the chapel, Thomas reached into the coffin and unfastened the collar around Captain Farrell’s neck. As he did so two flies flew out from the dead man’s nose. The marks of the cord were still visible, but more importantly, so was the deeper wound at the front of the neck. It was this that interested Thomas. It was this, he surmised, that held the key to the Irishman’s death.
At the base of the epiglottis appeared to be a puncture wound, about the size of a farthing. Some instrument had clearly been applied to the captain’s throat and pressed down with great force, blocking off air into the lungs and piercing the flesh as it did so. The wound could not possibly have been self-inflicted. Wiping his hands on a cloth, Thomas called Sir Theodisius over.
“You wanted proof, sir, that Captain Farrell did not hang himself? Well, here it is,” he said, pointing to the neck wound.
With his kerchief clamped to his mouth and nose, the coroner peered gingerly into the coffin. He saw for himself the circular patch on the neck.
“And what, pray, would have caused this?” he asked.
“Something small, but to which great pressure could be applied,” replied Thomas reflectively.
“A thumb, perhaps,” suggested the coroner.
Thomas shook his head. “That would not have pierced the skin.” His gaze had dropped to the ground, where the men’s shovels and pickaxes lay. Seeing the shafts of the tools, he was suddenly reminded.
“A walking stick!” he said deliberately, as if a light had suddenly illuminated his thinking. “I’ll wager my life it was Lavington’s walking stick that did this.”
Wide-eyed, Sir Theodisius nodded. “ ’Tis proof enough.”
Just then, a cry went up from Hannah, who had been keeping watch over the chapel. “They’re coming out,” she called hoarsely.
Knowing there was no time to lose, Lovelock and Kidd quickly replaced the coffin lid. “Take Sir Theodisius to the chapel in the cart,” Thomas directed.
“But what of you, sir?” asked Amos. Thomas did not reply. He was already scrambling down the muddy bank, heading for the chapel. Halfway down, he slipped on the wet grass and tumbled a few feet, but he soon righted himself and continued charging down the steep incline.
In the distance he could see Lydia and Lavington, now man and wife, walking slowly toward the wedding carriage. He could not yet make out Lydia’s face, but he knew there would be no smiles of joy on her lips. He saw her climbing up dolefully onto the carriage, followed by Lavington, who pulled the wretched side of his body up awkwardly to sit on the driver’s seat.
All Thomas could hear now was the blood pounding through his ears as he ran the last few yards toward the wedding party. “Stop,” he called out. “Stop!”
All eyes turned to see his mud-spattered figure racing toward them.
“Thomas,” cried Lydia, rising in her seat, but she was firmly pushed back by her new husband.
“Another guest for our wedding breakfast,” called Lavington as the doctor drew level with the carriage.
“There will be no wedding breakfast, Lavington,” panted Thomas. “You are under arrest.”
The lawyer snorted. “On whose authority?”
“On mine,” called Sir Theodisius as the dogcart pulled up.
Lavington looked contemptuous. “This has to be a sick jest,” he said disdainfully.
“No joke, sir,” warned Sir Theodisius. “I would ask you to accompany me to Oxford.”
“On what charge?” chided Lavington.
“On that of the murder of Captain Michael Farrell.”
Lydia, still seated on the phaeton, let out an involuntary cry.
Lavington suddenly changed his tone. “And you have proof of this?”
“A postmortem has just been conducted on Captain Farrell’s body,” replied Sir Theodisius.
Lavington paused for a moment, mulling over the implications. “No doubt that was performed by our man of medicine here,” he said, sneering at Thomas.
Lydia turned to Lavington once more, her eyes wide in horror. “You killed Michael?”
At first he looked shocked that she could even contemplate such a thing, but then his expression of dismay gave way to an almost demonic smile. “Just as he killed me on the day he did this to me,” he said, touching his disfigured face.
Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”
Lavington’s tone suddenly became agitated. “He did this to me,” he reiterated, pointing to his cheek and then his limp arm. Suddenly he stood up, as if addressing some imaginary rally or a meeting.
“Come down, sir,” urged Sir Theodisius.
But Lavington ignored him and instead began to call out to his stunned audience. “ ’Twas in India. It was Farrell’s watch, but he took too much liquor that night. Almost senseless, he was. I knew if the senior officers found him, he would be court-martialed, so I tried to get him to his quarters. We were walking back under cover of darkness when he suddenly stopped by the ammunition shed. I saw him take out a cheroot and strike a match, then toss it over his shoulder. I shouted and pushed him out of the way before the first explosion. I took the full force of the blast from a barrel of gunpowder. Farrell was injured, but only slightly. He must suddenly have come to his senses, for he pulled me out of the burning rubble, my skin hanging off my bones. They awarded him a medal for his paltry efforts and me, well, I was rewarded with this.” He lifted up his limp hand and turned to Lydia. “So, you see, my dearest, your beloved husband owed me. He felt obliged to me. That is why I came to live on the estate, his poor crippled friend to whom he gave charity, in return for silence.”
Lydia looked at him askance.
“He owed me and now I have collected my debt,” he said calmly.
“So, you would treat his widow as a repayment?” cried Thomas, incensed by Lavington’s revelations. The doctor lurched forward, tugging at Lavington’s sound leg, but with the full force of his body he kicked Thomas to the ground. Lydia screamed and Lavington turned, pushing her off the phaeton with a single blow, so that she, too, landed on the sodden earth, causing the horse to rear up.
As Lovelock ran to Lydia’s aid, Thomas grabbed hold of the rail of the phaeton and pulled himself up onto the back just as the horse set off at full gallop.
“In God’s name, stop,” shouted Thomas, trying to grab hold of the reins. But, like a man possessed, Lavington kept lashing the whip so that the horse was in a frenzy and went careering along the track, throwing up mud and stones in the phaeton’s wake.
“You’ll get us both killed,” pleaded Thomas, wrestling with Lavington, but he was just pushed back each time with greater force. He knew he would have to take drastic action and was just about to deliver a heavy punch to the madman’s jaw when the phaeton suddenly veered sharply to the left. Both men looked ahead to see the wooden bridge over the lake ahead.
The heavy rains had swelled the waters so that they lapped over the planks. Seeing this, the horse suddenly took even more fright. It pulled up short and then reared, sending both Thomas and Lavington falling.
Thomas landed with a thud on the bank, but when he recovered his composure, Lavington was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly he heard a sharp cry and ran to the edge of the lake. Lavington was in the water, fighting for breath, his sound arm waving in the air.
Grabbing a fallen branch, Thomas edged out onto the bridge and, lying on his belly, proffered the stick to Lavington. “Take hold,” he shouted above the sound of the torrent. Flailing in the black waters, Lavington managed to reach the branch and grasp it as Thomas pulled it closer to the bank. He hauled an exhausted Lavington up through the reeds, coughing and spluttering. Putting an arm around him, Thomas sat him upright, supporting him, so that he could breathe more easily.
“Take deep breaths, now,” he told him, suddenly adopting the role of rescuer and carer. But instead of submitting, Lavington, once he had regained his composure, punched Thomas in the face with such force that he was sent flying backward. He then started to run off toward the woods.
Thomas leapt up and followed. He knew with his crippled leg Lavington could not go far. He caught up with him seconds later by the bridge, grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him ’round, and delivered a blow to his face, knocking him backward. Bending over him, Thomas felt in no mood to be charitable.
“So, you killed Farrell. Did you kill Crick, too?” he cried, pitting his voice against the nearby waterfall.
Lavington looked at him with scorn. “Well, did you?” screamed Thomas angrily, bringing his foot down hard on Lavington’s hand. He cried out in pain.
“No. No, I did not kill him.”
Thomas found himself believing him and, taking a deep breath, offered his own hand to help Lavington up. But instead of accepting the offer, the lawyer took hold of Thomas’s hand and jerked it, pulling him forward and wrong-footing him, so that he fell to the ground near the bank once more. This time Lavington fell on top of him like a mad dog, pounding him with the fist of his sound hand. Thomas managed to prize him off and Lavington rolled over, perilously close to the lakeside.
“Give yourself up, Lavington,” shouted Thomas. “This is hopeless.”
“Not to one who has already lost all hope, it isn’t,” he replied almost gleefully. He heaved himself up and began running again, this time toward the bridge, the weight of his soaked clothes dragging him down. The rain was heavier now, too, slicing through the air like needles, whipping the waters into an even greater frenzy.
“Come back,” called Thomas, as he watched Lavington drag himself out over the bridge as the waters lapped over it. “Come back, you fool.”
But his words fell on deaf ears and Lavington struggled on until suddenly he heard a terrible creaking sound. Thomas heard it, too. “The bridge!” he cried. Lavington turned to see the planks suddenly give way under the weight of the floodwater. Frantically he tried to grab hold of the rail, but he lost his grip. His arm shot out, trying to regain his balance, but he could not and he fell, his body disappearing into the murky depths. Thomas rushed to the bridge, but the waters had gathered apace and had now covered most of it, so that only a few posts remained visible like jagged teeth.
A few seconds later, as Thomas watched helplessly on the bank, he saw Lavington’s black cloak float to the surface not far from where the bridge had collapsed. Racing toward it, he lay down on the bank and, using a long branch, hooked the material toward him. It came easily, without its owner. Puzzled, Thomas looked up just in time to see Lavington struggling out of the lake on the opposite shore.