Chapter 12
L
ydia breathed in the scent of aromatic thymes and pungent sages. The delights of the potager were relatively new to her. She loved spending time in the kitchen garden, surrounded by the sweet-smelling herbs and the colors of the fruits and vegetables. The head gardener, Amos Kidd, had given her a great enthusiasm for gardening and she now found herself taking delight in the exquisite symmetry of his planting, in the manner in which he positioned arrangements of shrubs and trees to enhance their neighbors’ hues and shapes and in the way that patterns could be created with plants just as tapestries with stitches. Kidd kept the garden well stocked with all manner of herbs from bergamot to bay, each having a specific purpose. For its antiseptic qualities there was woad, and to flavor beer there was costmary. The roots of elecampane were good for treating bronchial complaints and cinnamon was an excellent purgative.
The vegetable garden was no less exciting, with orange and cream squashes and cardoons planted by asparagus peas and white carrots. Against the ancient wall grew espaliered fruit trees; apples, plums, and pears. There were raspberry canes and gooseberry bushes; rows of strawberries that had yielded two crops that summer and sturdy rhubarb stems.
The kitchen garden had become her pleasure and now, since Edward’s death, it was also a place of refuge. She could breathe in the heady scents of autumn roses and watch the bees gathering pollen from the dahlias and forget about what dreadful things had passed and what dreadful things might still yet happen.
It was strange, however, that she found herself, at such a time as this, thinking about food. Sir Theodisius and Dr. Silkstone would soon be arriving to carry out the most gruesome of tasks and yet she felt it her duty to be hospitable toward them. Afterward she would offer them dinner. She knew how Sir Theodisius loved his food.
In her hand she held a pannier she had taken from the storeroom, which was already heavy with the sweetest carrots and the plumpest apples she could find for her guests. She had just filled her basket to the brim and was heading back toward the house when she came across Hannah, cutting stems of white lilies and crying the tears of a woman in mourning for her child. The sight touched Lydia deeply and she was almost moved to put her arms around her maid to comfort her. Death had united them in their grief. It was no respecter of rank or privilege and now that Edward was dead, Lydia felt a special bond existed between them.
“They say the pain will lessen,” she said softly, standing behind her maid. The scent from the lilies was almost overpowering. Hannah turned around, her eyes red and watery.
“I fear not, mistress,” she sobbed. “I fear not,” and she buried her head spontaneously in Lydia’s shoulder.
The track that wound its way from the main road up to Boughton Hall meandered around copses and over a reed-fringed river. Thomas, who had never visited an English country house before, delighted in the scenery that he had viewed so many times in the paintings of Gainsborough and Kneller. He had held the delicate poplars and the romantic bridges to be fanciful inventions of the artists, but now he saw them to be true depictions. After the claustrophobic buildings and the stench of London, this was surely paradise, he told himself.
Sir Theodisius said very little on the hour-long journey from Oxford. He had opened a hamper shortly after they had left St. Clements and proceeded to consume a venison pie, half a dozen quails’ eggs, and a dish of jellied eels.
Shortly after midday the carriage rounded the bend and up ahead, the spire of a chapel pierced the cloudless sky like a sharp needle through blue silk. As they approached it Thomas could see the honey-colored building, partly clad in ivy, was surrounded by a well-tended graveyard. The sight of it jolted him back to reality as he remembered the reason for his visit to Boughton Hall. He saw, too, that one of the graves in the corner of the churchyard was freshly dug. Tufts of grass were just beginning to appear on the unsightly brown mound that signified another recent death. White lilies were laid upon it and a simple wooden cross stood at its head.
“One of the servant’s children,” said Sir Theodisius, but volunteered nothing further. Thomas simply nodded as the carriage now progressed up the gravel drive, past chestnut trees and laurel bushes.
The captain and Lady Lydia stood on the steps of Boughton Hall, waiting to greet their guests. It was apparent to Thomas, just by looking at his demeanor, that Michael Farrell was a military man. It was also clear to Thomas that he had served in some hot climate. His skin was of a darker hue than normal, probably due to overexposure of the epidermis to sunlight, noted the young doctor. His stance was upright and slightly arrogant, too, he thought. He towered over Lydia at his side. She looked even more fragile than he remembered. She allowed a smile to flicker across her lips as Thomas greeted her, supposedly for the first time as far as the coroner was concerned.
“I am sorry we meet again under such circumstances, Farrell,” said Sir Theodisius as he was escorted into the captain’s study. The two met regularly at society functions and, as a stranger, Thomas felt a little uneasy.
The Irishman led them into the sunless room. The drapes were drawn, Thomas assumed, as a sign of mourning, and there was the all too familiar smell of damp in the air. Decay was visible on every surface as clearly as if it were a threadbare tapestry hanging on the wall.
Farrell sat down at his desk and motioned to two chairs. “I cannot pretend the last few days have been easy, gentlemen. It was bad enough losing my brother-in-law, but these rumors—” He broke off, then suddenly rallied. “But that is why you are here, Dr. Silkstone, I believe—to find out once and for all what killed Lord Crick.” The captain smiled graciously, but Thomas could tell that it was an empty gesture.
“That is why I have empaneled a jury,” interjected Sir Theodisius, suddenly exercising his authority.
“Quite so,” acknowledged Farrell. He clasped his hands together and put his elbows down firmly on the desk.
There was a slightly awkward pause and Thomas decided to step in. “I believe I am not the first to attempt a postmortem,” he ventured. The captain was clearly riled and he shifted on his chair.
“There have been two before you, Dr. Silkstone, and both were afeared that the corpse was too far gone for examination and that there was a risk of disease should it not be disposed of quickly.” There was contempt in his voice that did not endear him to Thomas. “Nevertheless, I am confident that both will testify that nothing more suspicious than natural causes ended Lord Crick’s life.”
At that moment there was a knock at the door and Howard entered. “Mr. Peabody is here to see you, sir,” he told his master.
The captain nodded.
“Show him in.”
“Mr. Peabody was my late brother-in-law’s apothecary. I thought he might be able to throw light on what was in his medicine that was so disagreeable to him,” explained Farrell.
Thomas was relieved. Perhaps Captain Farrell was not going to be as obstructive as he had previously thought. Mr. Peabody was a stocky little man whose thick black eyebrows joined together in the middle of his forehead. He shuffled nervously into the room with the air of a condemned felon.
“Perhaps you could tell Dr. Silkstone what was in the phial that you gave to Lord Crick,” Farrell asked after initial pleasantries were over. The framing of his question did nothing to alleviate Mr. Peabody’s apprehension.
The nervous apothecary delved into his topcoat pocket and produced a crumpled piece of parchment. “I took the liberty of noting down the ingredients, sir,” he said, handing the list to the young doctor. The script was spiky but Thomas was able to decipher it quite easily. He read out loud: “Rhubarb, jalap, spirits of lavender, nutmeg water, and syrup of saffron.” Thomas looked shocked. “This is indeed an explosive mixture,” he said.
“Explosive?” echoed Farrell, perplexed.
Thomas looked up and frowned. “This is a purgative,” he said. “And a strong one at that.”
Mr. Peabody shot a nervous glance at the captain. “You may speak plainly,” Farrell told the apothecary, whose hirsute brow had knitted itself into a frown.
The little man lowered his gaze and his voice. “His lordship had the pox, sir,” he said quickly, spitting the words out as if they were poisonous.
Thomas and Sir Theodisius nodded simultaneously, as if they had half expected as much.
“My brother-in-law lay with a bunter when he was fourteen at Eton and paid the price in more ways than one,” added the captain.
Mr. Peabody blushed. “That will be all now,” said Farrell, dismissing the apothecary, who wasted no time in bobbing a bow and taking his leave.
Thomas noted a self-righteous expression had settled on the captain’s face. Here was proof, if proof were needed, that the late earl was a dissolute who was in poor health.
“In what ways did Lord Crick’s illness manifest itself?” asked Sir Theodisius.
Farrell paused, looking out of the window while framing his thoughts. “Sweats, leg cramps, palpitations. He was not in good health,” he said after a few moments.
“So, you think there is a possibility he died of natural causes?” asked Sir Theodisius.
Farrell looked at the coroner, surprised. “There is every possibility,” he replied abruptly.
“It is certainly an avenue I shall explore,” said Thomas.
The captain was becoming increasingly tetchy. “You can explore all you like, but you still will not find anything. His corpse is too far gone,” he growled.
Sir Theodisius interjected. “Dr. Silkstone is an anatomist with new procedures and techniques that could prove helpful,” he explained patiently.
Farrell nodded, but Thomas detected a scornful look in his eyes. “Let us hope that they will,” he said.
Dipping his plump fingers with difficulty into a slim leather pouch, Sir Theodisius produced the exhumation orders. “I will need a signature from you, Captain,” he said, pushing the parchment across the desk. Farrell scanned the papers, then, taking a quill from the inkstand, he signed them with a flourish.
“There, gentlemen,” he said, blotting the ink. “Now you can proceed,” adding contemptuously, “for what it’s worth.”
Chapter 13
T
he grim procession wound its way toward the chapel with Captain Farrell at its head. Next followed Sir Theodisius, then Thomas carrying his large black bag. Lovelock and Kidd brought up the rear, one with a crowbar slung over his shoulder, the other with a pickax.
Lydia could not bring herself to accompany them. She chose to simply watch their progress toward the place where her brother lay and where he was about to be so rudely disturbed from his immortal slumber. She could only pray that this young doctor from the Colonies, who seemed so courteous and so confident, would return with some answers.
The door of the chapel groaned as Farrell opened it. Inside it was dark and for a moment Thomas could see very little until his eyes adjusted. The smell of damp hung heavy in the air. The captain fumbled for a candle from a box near the porch, lit it from a flame that burned in the vestibule, then led the way down the aisle.
Thomas marveled at the chapel. It was like one of the many grand churches he had attended in London—usually on the occasion of funerals—but in miniature. There was a wooden rood screen, a pulpit, a sombre effigy of a knight, and on the walls were displayed fine hatchments, topped by the Crick family crest, the likes of which he had never seen before he set foot in England. An Englishman’s God was much grander than a New Englander’s, he thought to himself.
After a few paces the captain stopped by a flight of shallow steps that led down to a door. “Be careful down here, gentlemen,” he warned as he lit a torch. Handing it to Thomas, he unlocked the door. Eight more steps led down into a room.
The first thing that struck Thomas was the sudden change in temperature from cool to almost cold. This was encouraging, he told himself. At least decomposition should have been slowed down after burial. He held the torch aloft in the darkness. As the beam of light penetrated farther, he could see they were in a vault no more than one hundred feet square. The walls appeared to be lime washed and the ceiling was rounded. He bumped his head. Even at its highest point, he could not stand upright.
“I should have warned you,” said the captain, ducking ahead. Thomas had never been in a vault before and he did not much care for the claustrophobic sensation it gave him. Nor did he like the smell of damp, but he knew it was infinitely preferable to the stench of rotting flesh, which he would shortly encounter.
There was another torch at the foot of the stairs and Farrell lit it, casting more welcome light into the eerie space. Thomas could now see seven coffins lined against the facing wall. Five were placed on the floor and had obviously been there many years. The woodwork was badly decayed and the lead linings were exposed. Above was a large stone shelf upon which rested two much newer coffins. One was adorned with silver furnishings.
“The fifth earl, Edward’s father,” explained Farrell. “He died four years ago.” He then held the torch aloft over what was obviously the newest coffin of them all. “But this is the one that interests you, gentlemen,” he said.
Thomas motioned to Lovelock and Kidd. “The candles, if you please,” he said. From out of bags tied to their belts, the men produced several tapers and began arranging them on the shelves. Thomas had thought the young lord’s body would be in such an advanced state of decomposition that it could not withstand removal to the chapel itself where the light would have been better. Instead he had ordered as many candles as possible. As the men lit them one by one the light grew stronger until Thomas could see into the farthest corners of the vault.
“How picturesque,” commented the captain glibly as Lovelock lit the last of the tapers.
“They serve their purpose,” whispered Sir Theodisius disapprovingly.
For a moment they stood in a reverent silence, aware that they were in the presence of death, before Sir Theodisius spontaneously put his hands together.
“Let us pray,” he said softly. Thomas lowered his head, as did Kidd and Lovelock. Farrell looked slightly bemused, but nonetheless followed suit.
“Lord, forgive us for disturbing the body of thy servant Edward Crick, and grant us that we might find the truth as to how he came to you so suddenly and in his prime. Through Christ our Lord, amen.”
“Amen,” answered everyone in unison.
There was another respectful pause before Farrell motioned to the men. Each threaded a rope around the casket handles on either side and pulled gently until they could get a good purchase on the coffin. They then proceeded to slide their shoulders under it, taking the strain. Groaning under its considerable weight, they were able to lower it, albeit fairly rapidly, to the brick floor.
Thomas knew what he was about to witness would not be pleasant, but he had learned to control his reactions. Sir Theodisius took out his pocket handkerchief and nervously wiped his forehead. The coroner braced himself as Thomas looked at Farrell to give the order. The captain said simply: “Proceed,” and Lovelock and Kidd began prizing off the coffin lid. After a few jabbings with the crowbars it was loosened, and with one final push the men managed to lever it off entirely so that it fell clattering to the floor.
No one was prepared for what happened next. In the very same instant a cloud of black flies rose like a plume of smoke into the air, resembling a scene out of a biblical plague. They filled the vault with their buzzing and scattered, crashing into their unsuspecting victims in their droves. Sir Theodisius let out a cry as he tried to fend off the insects. There was worse to come. Behind the flies rose unseen vapors of choking gas. The men groaned and Lovelock retched. Farrell dashed up the steps and opened the door, taking deep gulps of fresh air. Most of the flies flew out immediately. Sir Theodisius, Lovelock, and Kidd followed swiftly.
Thomas grimaced and wafted the last of the flies away with a kerchief he had pulled out of his pocket. He was willing his senses to overcome this vile assault, but it was hard. He held the square of cloth to his mouth and made his way back up the steps, shutting the door behind him.
“Now do you believe that he’s too far gone?” asked the captain, still struggling for breath.
Thomas, too, was finding it hard to breathe. “ ’Twould be better for all if I worked alone,” he ventured.
Farrell looked at him in disbelief. “You mean to tell me that you plan to go back to that ... that hellhole?” he cried.
Sir Theodisius had collapsed onto a pew but was regaining his composure. “Surely you jest, Dr. Silkstone.”
“I am here to do a job, gentlemen,” Thomas replied. He would have loved to have turned tail and run a mile from that stinking vault, but it would be a complete dereliction of his duty. “I must go back,” he told them, “but I will go alone.”
By now the foul stench had begun to creep up the stairs and into the main body of the chapel. Farrell shrugged his shoulders, as if abdicating any responsibility for Thomas’s actions. Sir Theodisius merely looked relieved. The coroner nodded, waving his own white handkerchief as if in a gesture of surrender, before holding it over his mouth. Farrell, who had moved even closer to the door by this time, beckoned Sir Theodisius toward him. “He is all yours,” he said ruefully to Thomas, as he and the coroner made their way out of the chapel.
Lovelock and Kidd, meanwhile, were also endeavoring to keep their distance. They had shuffled over to the vestry, as far as they could go from the opened door. Thomas looked at their pitiful faces that were so full of disgust. They silently begged dismissal and the young doctor was pleased to oblige. “Wait outside until I call you,” he instructed.
Relieved, they simply rushed with irreverent haste to the portal and out into the chill air of late autumn. They slammed the door shut behind them, leaving Thomas alone in the eerie twilight of the chapel with only the low drone of flies and a reeking corpse for company. He knew he would have to work quickly. There was no time for prevarication, even though he felt physically sick. He simply had to go back down into the vault.
Holding the kerchief over his mouth he descended the steps once more. The candles still burned brightly and he decided it was high time to bring out his secret weapon—one that had been revealed to him by Dr. Carruthers. He fumbled in his pocket and retrieved his clay pipe. He had packed it with tobacco earlier that morning and, moving over to the candle, simply lit it with a taper. Holding the bowl, he sucked on the stem to produce large puffs of smoke that helped to dissipate the cloying stench that hung in the air.
After a few moments of trying to envelope himself in a veil of tobacco smoke, he took off his topcoat and laid it on the nearby stone shelf. Opening his black bag, he found a large cloth and laid it, too, on the shelf before proceeding to select the instruments he felt he would need for the postmortem. He now approached the coffin. Even he had to steel himself to look inside. It was a gruesome sight. What only ten days ago had been a living, breathing human being was now reduced to a decaying mass of tissue and bone. Where there had once been a soul, a spirit, call it what you will, there were maggots consuming the man’s very essence.
Although his features were now barely discernable, there was no mistaking the hideously contorted mouth and the swollen tongue that protruded from it, denoting he had died in great agony. Reddish purge fluid had leaked from his nose and there were signs that creamy grave wax was beginning to form around his mouth. As one might expect, the skin was badly bruised in many areas but Thomas was not sure if its yellowish tint was attributable to natural decomposition or, alternatively, the result of massive liver or kidney failure.
The young anatomist had never worked on such a badly decomposed cadaver before and did not relish the prospect. Water. He remembered he would need water, but where might the nearest source be? It suddenly came to him there had been a font in the chapel. Ascending the stairs once more he walked over to the large stone receptacle near the altar. In the unusual circumstances, he decided he would be forgiven if he scooped a few jugfuls out in order to clean his instruments and his hands. He had just dipped his hands into the font when there was an almighty flapping of wings. Terrified, he looked up, only to see a bewildered pigeon teetering on the rafters. His heartbeats matched the rapid flapping, then slowed when he realized the bird had entered through a broken pane of glass. He was now ready to proceed.
Once more in the bowels of the chapel, he knelt down beside the coffin and stared at its grisly contents. As he started to examine the corpse, Dr. Carruthers’s words began to ring in his ears. “Keep an open mind,” he would say. Any number of factors could have combined to end this young man’s life and Thomas could not rule out any possibility or discount any suspicion without having thoroughly checked it out. So, despite the fact that he did not want the procedure to last a moment longer than it had to, he knew his examination would have to be thorough.
Thomas puffed on his pipe once more before reaching for his knife. With a steady hand he cut away the white linen shroud from the corpse’s torso to reveal graying, bloated flesh. His blade sliced through the epidermis swiftly and cleanly, letting the foul smelling gas that had built up inside the body cavity escape, as if he had just deflated a ball. For a moment he retched, then recovered his composure, puffing voraciously on the pipe. He did not have high hopes. He knew that bacteria would have fed on the contents of the intestines and would have started to digest the intestines themselves.
When he reached the stomach, however, he discovered that although it was much distended, not all of the tissue was in an advanced state of decomposition, thus enabling him to cut through the pyloric sphincter and remove a large portion of the lining. While his knife did its work, Thomas noticed the intestinal lymphatics, or lacteals, that resembled cream-colored skeins of wool were still intact. He was reminded of poor Mr. Smollett, lying on his dissecting table in London, and taking a scalpel, he carefully began to untangle the threadlike channels so that he could cut off a good length. It suddenly occurred to him that these might harbor vital evidence. Satisfied with a foot-long section, he put the lacteals in a jar of formaldehyde and the stomach tissue in another. He puffed once more on his pipe.
Next Thomas turned his attention to the chest cavity and examined the heart and lungs. He could not rule out the possibility that young Lord Crick had suffered a heart attack, or some form of lung disease, but neither showed any signs of anything untoward.
Undaunted, Thomas continued on his journey, focusing on the liver. There it crouched in the shadow of the belly, divided into two great lobes. Like a large brown-stained snail its smooth back nestled into the dome of the diaphragm, unwilling to yield up any of its secrets.
“I will have you,” muttered Thomas, slicing through the large internal ropes that once tethered the slain beast to its cavity. A man’s liver could be read like a private journal, divulging many of his secrets, and Thomas intended to peruse it in his own time.
It only remained to conduct the most unsavory part of the examination. The words of the apothecary returned to him as his eyes worked their way down to inspect the genital area. “Lord Crick had the pox,” he had said.
“Indeed he had,” muttered Thomas to himself as he looked at the chancre. He suddenly wondered if the young earl’s dalliances might have any bearing on his death.