The crowd roared their approval and the dogs began to bark in the excitement. Torches were lit even though it was only the early afternoon, and those few who had horses swung up into their saddles.
From a good distance the Reverend Lightfoot watched the proceedings. The Lord had revealed to him Joshua Pike’s whereabouts. A look of disgust distorted his features as he recalled the knife-grinder’s rough hands on Susannah Kidd’s body. There had been no question in his mind. He had acted in the best interests of the villagers. They were feeling threatened. They were the ones who could not sleep soundly in their beds at night. And if the law of the land appeared powerless, then they had every right to rise up and dispense their own form of justice.
He watched them from the saddle of his mare as they came toward him, past St. Swithin’s on the road to Boughton. They were three abreast, with Ned Perkins at the front; a column of men as eager for blood as the baying hounds they mustered.
“You joining us, reverend?” asked Perkins as the men passed the church.
“Most certainly,” he replied with a slight bow of his silver head. “I will bring up the rear.”
And so the angry mob marched on, out of Brandwick toward Boughton, to Susannah Kidd’s cottage. Their voices were raised, excited. Now and again a shout went up. The names of Joseph Makepeace’s children were invoked, as if their death had turned them into saints. But the name of Joshua Pike was spat out like snake venom above the barking of the hounds.
Susannah Kidd was in her garden, scattering corn for the few chickens that remained. She heard the slathering dogs first, followed by shouts, then the sound of a hundred boots tramping along the track. Panic seized hold of her and, dropping her bowl of corn, she fled toward the cottage.
“They’re coming,” she screamed. “They’re coming.”
Like a shot, Joshua Pike ran out and over to his mule that had been grazing in the orchard at the rear. He hurled the saddle onto its back and began fastening the straps. Meanwhile Susannah walked to the front gate as the men drew level. She tried to compose herself, but she could not hide the fact that she was trembling.
“Where is he?” barked Ned Perkins. The men behind were jostling him; jabbing their pitchforks in the air. His voice was almost drowned out by their growls.
“Who?” was all she could ask weakly.
But the men would not wait. The first few jumped over the fence, then another simply hacked at it with an ax, clearing the way for all the rest to spill into the garden.
Susannah screamed. Her hands flew up to her face and she ran after the invading mob as it trampled over Amos Kidd’s precious roses and flooded into the back orchard. The men arrived just in time to see Joshua Pike heave himself onto his mule and spur it into a trot.
“After him!” cried Ned Perkins. Some of the younger ones began running through the orchard toward the woodland where the fugitive was headed. Those with snarling hounds unleashed them and set them on his trail, bounding furiously through the long grass. But Abel Cross simply stood still. Cocking his musket he steadied his own arm, aimed, and fired. A shot ripped through the air and the knife-grinder jerked backward, as if pulled by an invisible rope. But his mule, terrified by the loud noise, trotted even faster. The young man slumped forward for a moment, then righted himself. In an instant he had reached the canopy of leaves at the edge of the wood and, in another, the flash of his red bandana had disappeared altogether.
Susannah was left distraught in the garden as the men surged forward toward the woodland’s edge. Her sobs came in great waves, overwhelming her slender body. Dropping to the ground, she pummeled the dirt with her fists and let out a fearful wail.
The Reverend Lightfoot studied her from a few yards away. He watched the tears roll down her cheeks and saw the look of utter despair etched on her features. This was her agony as surely as if the soldiers at Calvary had driven nails through her hands and feet. The corners of his mouth curled into a smirk. Susannah Kidd’s demons had finally been banished. Even if Joshua Pike was not torn limb from limb by the baying hounds, even if he did escape, he had been shot. His death could be quick or it could be slow: either way it would be agonizing. But as for Mistress Kidd, he had other plans, and they involved a short spell in prison followed by a dance at the end of a very long rope.
Less than a mile away, Thomas’s carriage had turned out of the estate and onto the main Oxford road. He would spend the night at the Black Horse before taking the coach to London at first light. The fog was still lying low over hills and treetops, but it no longer deadened sound as it had before. The dry crack of a gun’s report could be heard quite clearly. The noise sent the crows, huddling on low branches, scattering across the sky like musket shot. It also made the horses drawing Thomas’s carriage jolt suddenly. He put his head out of the window.
“Everything all right?” he inquired of his driver.
“Sounded like a fowler’s musket, sir,” came the reply.
Satisfied with this explanation, Thomas settled himself back down, staring out of the window once more. The thought of the next few days filled him with dread. He did not know how he would find his dear Dr. Carruthers. The message had said his condition was serious. What if he arrived too late? There was so much he had left unsaid. He sighed deeply. The only hope he did carry with him was that in his own laboratory he could analyze the samples in his bag. At least surrounded by his own paraphernalia he might finally draw closer to finding the murderer, or murderers, stalking Brandwick.
Chapter 42
T
he men spread out, worming their way ’round trees and bracken. The hounds had the mule’s scent and followed it eagerly. There was blood, too. Luke Kipps spotted a splash of it on a boulder. But they soon came to the river and the trail went cold. The dogs circled helplessly, yelping and whining. They were losing the light, too. The dense tree cover made it hard enough to see, but now tracks were difficult to follow.
“No matter, men,” called out Ned Perkins. “He’s shot. He’ll not get far. We’ll be back at first light.”
So they wended their way back toward the cottage and to Susannah Kidd. They found her sitting quietly on a bench in the orchard with the Reverend Lightfoot at her side. She seemed calmer, almost resigned to her fate. She did not protest when Walter Harker came forward and told her that she was under arrest. She simply looked up and, in a bewildered state, offered her hands to him, so that he could bind her wrists. Then some other men led her from the bench and lifted her into the saddle of the Reverend Lightfoot’s mare.
The long procession wound its course down the lane and into Brandwick once more. The mob no longer shouted and waved their weapons. Their thirst for blood seemed to have been quenched thanks to Abel Cross. They slapped him playfully on the back, or shook his hand. He was the hero of the hour. They talked excitedly among themselves, spoke of the blood on the stone that Luke Kipps had spotted, spoke of the brave way they had hacked down the fence and trodden across the garden. Most of them wore expressions of contentment on their faces, as if they had just finished gathering in a good harvest. Some of them gloated. Now and again one would shove Susannah Kidd in the back with a pitchfork handle. Others spat at her from time to time. “Whore!” one shouted. “Traitor!” called another.
Constable Harker allowed such behavior. It was only right that the men should be able to vent their spleen, letting off a little steam after all their efforts to bring justice to Brandwick, when the magistrates in Oxford had clearly failed.
The vicar followed on at the back of the throng. As he watched the young woman ahead of him, her hands shackled, her shoulders slumped forward, her head bowed, he could not help but think there was something almost biblical about the scene. In the fading light there sat Eve. There sat Rahab and Mary Magdalene. There sat all the evil, vile and sluttish women in the world and they were vanquished. In his own small way he had scored a victory for righteousness and it gladdened his heart.
As they entered the village, the women came out of their cottages, some clutching their children. They had not vented their rage in the chase and when they saw Susannah Kidd, they shook their fists at her. Raising their voices, they taunted her with more shouts of “Whore!” and “Harlot!” Some threw rotten tomatoes or plums at her. One of them hit her on the shoulder and it left a round crimson stain like a gunshot wound.
The procession halted outside the lock-up, to one side of the market hall. Constable Harker unhitched the large key from his belt and opened the low door into a space of no more than four feet square.
The mare carrying Mistress Kidd was brought forward and she was shoved and jostled down to the ground. She stumbled and the constable helped her to her feet, then led her to the cell. Teary-eyed she looked at him for a moment, then ducked her head into the space. The door clanked shut and, as Harker locked it with his great key, a cheer went up from the assembled throng.
The only opening in the lock-up was a small grille. A few men and women jostled to catch a glimpse of the accused woman as she sat huddled in the semidarkness. There were more insults and gobs of spittle, but when all the commotion finally died down, the Reverend Lightfoot chose his moment. As soon as the square fell silent once more and the good residents of Brandwick took to their beds knowing they would sleep much more soundly that night, the vicar approached the lock-up. Standing up against the door, he put his face to the grille, so that his nose wedged between the bars. He sniffed. Oddly enough the young woman still smelled of roses, only now the enticing scent was mixed with sweat. And what was that he could detect? He sniffed once more. Could it be fear?
“You are afraid, Mistress Kidd?” Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he could see her crumpled on the floor, her knees clasped to her breasts.
Without looking up she said, “ ’Twas what you wanted.” Her voice was as brittle as a cut reed.
“I want you to repent, as any man of God would,” he replied, looking down on her cowering in the cell.
Suddenly she lifted her gaze and hissed at him. “I have done nothing wrong.”
Her response seemed to disappoint the vicar. He let out a bemused laugh and said, “Then let God be your judge.”
Surprised that after all he had tried to teach her she still could not see the error of her ways, he backed away from the bars. “So be it,” he told her. He would leave her fate to the Almighty, he told himself. In the meantime he had work to do. There was one other woman who needed to be taught a lesson before the Day of Judgment dawned.
Chapter 43
A
small crowd of street urchins and apprentice boys had been milling around the lock-up since the early hours. They were lobbing rotten eggs and dog shit through the grille and shouting taunts. No one stopped them. In fact now and again a passing woman would add her voice to the jeers and insults.
Inside the cell, Susannah Kidd sat with her face to the wall. Her legs were doubled over so that she had lost all feeling in them. She had cried so much in the night that she had spent all her tears, too. Now she just waited in the darkness and the stinking filth that had gathered. She waited and she listened.
The hours were marked by the tolling of St. Swithin’s bell and shortly after noon a shout rose up from somewhere nearby.
“They’re here!” called a man’s voice.
There were more shouts. Doors opened and slammed. Feet clattered on cobbles. Words were exchanged. There was a feeling of anticipation in the fetid air. The prison cart was rolling into Brandwick. Two constables came from Oxford, rough men in leather jerkins bearing the court’s crest.
Constable Harker unlocked the cell and hauled Susannah Kidd out. The other two manhandled her onto the wagon, tethering her to the side, like some animal being taken to market. She kept her head bowed and her eyes downcast as the crowd hurled abuse at her. Harboring a fugitive was a serious offense. There’d be no escaping the noose, they said, shaking their fists at her.
The urchins and apprentice boys followed the wagon through the village as far as the main road to Oxford. The rest of the throng had tired much sooner. Most of them were happy to watch the wagon trundle off into the distance. The people’s justice had been done.
Thomas spent a restless night at the Black Horse before catching the coach to London in the early morning. The fog had been patchy for much of the journey, sometimes thick, sometimes lifting enough to show a blue sky above it. In London, however, it resumed its grip. It mingled with the smoke from the hundreds of kilns and forges and bakers’ ovens and thickened into a soup of smog. The stinking air was dry and hot, too; if anything a degree or so warmer than Oxford. Sounds were strangely muffled. Men shouted not to each other, but blindly into the strange void to warn others of their coming. Even the cabs were traveling with their lamps lit.
Thomas hailed one from where the coach set him down to take him to Hollen Street. Soon he was outside his home ringing the bellpull. Mistress Finesilver answered. Her already pinched face tightened with a look of surprise when she saw it was Thomas. She peered beyond him, out onto the foggy street, holding her apron up to her mouth.
“You’d best come in quick, doctor,” she muttered.
Thomas eagerly obliged. “I came as soon as I could,” he panted. The acrid smell of the fog was cleaving to his nostrils and palate.
“And why should that be, sir? We wasn’t expecting you for another month.” She took his topcoat and hat, then cocked her head as if waiting for an explanation.
Thomas frowned. “Dr. Carruthers . . . he is ill?”
“ ’Tis news to me,” she replied, obviously bemused by the question. “This fog’s a devil, but he’s not been out in it. Not like me, I can tell you. ’Tis no easy matter trying to find your way to the butcher’s or the baker’s in this.” She chuntered on, but as she spoke Thomas noticed the study door was half open.
“Who’s there?” came a familiar voice.
Thomas bounded past Mistress Finesilver, who was still in full flow, and found his mentor seated in his usual chair. He appeared to be in good health.
“Sir, but you are well!” Thomas blurted with relief and he rushed over to the old doctor and took him by the hand.
“Thomas, my dear young fellow!” he exclaimed in delight. “What a wonderful surprise!”
Kneeling beside him, Thomas looked at his mentor’s face. His complexion was slightly ruddy, but in this heat it was only natural, Thomas told himself. Apart from this observation, he looked perfectly well. “I was told you were gravely ill, sir.”
“Tosh!” the old doctor shot back. “Who blabbed such nonsense?”
Thomas withdrew the note from his pocket. “I have the message here. ’Tis from Sir Peregrine Crisp.” In his mind’s eye Thomas pictured the tall, imposing figure of the Westminster coroner.
Dr. Carruthers turned his bewigged head. “But you know I haven’t had dealings with that old codger for at least ten years. Not since I lanced a boil on his arse!”
Thomas shook his head. “Then why . . .?” He broke off. A thought occurred to him. Someone wanted him out of the way. Someone had wanted him to leave Boughton. “No matter,” he said cheerfully. “I am just glad to find you in good health.”
But his mentor detected the falsity of his words. They did not ring true. “What is it now, young fellow?” he asked.
“Sir?”
Dr. Carruthers shook his head and lifted a finger to his right eye. “I may be blind, but I see with my other senses, remember? I know that something is troubling you.”
Thomas paused for a moment, not knowing where to begin.
“I’ll tell you what. Let us eat, then you can fill me in on everything over dinner,” suggested the old anatomist.
The young doctor smiled. “What an excellent idea.”
Mistress Finesilver was still most put out by Thomas’s unannounced arrival. All that she could offer for dinner was a cold pie and potatoes, which she served with a dash of sullenness.
As they finished off a stale loaf with their claret, Thomas told Dr. Carruthers about the severity of the fog at Brandwick that had taken so many souls and how the recent murders had added to the sense of fear among the population.
“The general opinion is that the murderer is a traveler, a knife-grinder by the name of Joshua Pike. But I’m not so certain. ’Tis always easier to find fault with a stranger than with those close to you.”
The old doctor nodded sagely. “How right you are,” he said. “But if I know you, you will have been dispensing your physick and trying to solve the murders at the same time. Am I right, young fellow?”
This time Thomas’s laugh was genuine. “I try my hardest, sir.”
“And I’ll wager you’ve brought some samples back for testing in the laboratory, so you can uncover this killer.”
“Right again.”
“I am rarely wrong,” the old anatomist chuckled.
They withdrew from the dining room to finish their port in the study, as they always did. Casting his eye over the familiar furniture and objects, the young doctor noted that Mistress Finesilver’s usually satisfactory standards seemed to have slipped in his absence. Given the severity of the fog, he accepted that a certain amount of dust on the mantelpiece and sills was inevitable, but it appeared on every surface. There were cobwebs, too, in many a corner.
Yet it was Dr. Carruthers’s appearance that shocked him most. Normally immaculate, egg yolk stains were on his waistcoat. Nor had his shoes been polished and their buckles were dull and tarnished. It seemed that Mistress Finesilver had not been taking care of him with proper respect, thought Thomas.
Both men settled themselves in their usual chairs. A fire was not necessary, given the heat. Thomas’s eyes drifted to a pile of newspapers that teetered precariously in the corner.
Remembering their custom he asked, “Would you like me to read the newssheet to you, sir?”
The old doctor let out a short laugh. “Ah, you’ve spotted the pile. I would not allow Mistress Finesilver to throw them out. I was hoping you would read them to me on your return.”
Thomas smiled. “I shall make a start this very evening, sir.”
Walking over to the newssheets, he withdrew a copy from near the bottom. A great cloud of dust billowed up and a large spider scuttled across the floor. He looked at the date. August 20, two weeks ago.
Settling himself down in his chair opposite his mentor, he began to turn the pages. For the past month the fog had understandably dominated the news pages, and the meteor had caused great consternation wherever it was seen, but elsewhere life went on. The Montgolfier brothers had amazed crowds in France with their first public demonstration of what they called a hot air balloon, and at home the Flax and Cotton Bill was passed in the House of Lords.
Thomas picked out a few choice articles that he thought would be of interest, such as the court ruling that made slavery illegal in Massachusetts, until he finally came to Dr. Carruthers’s favorite section: the obituaries.
“So who’s lately kicked the bucket?” inquired the old doctor enthusiastically.
Thomas scanned the columns. Given honorable mentions were a former provost of Eton College, a retired military commander, and a bishop who had died aged eighty-seven. He looked up from the newssheet and saw the old doctor’s head was beginning to droop. He began reading again, but almost as soon as he did, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“Good God!” he cried.
“What is it?” The old anatomist suddenly perked up in his chair.
For a moment Thomas said nothing. Then, looking up he said incredulously: “Sir Peregrine Crisp is dead.”
“No! You are sure? When?”
Thomas focused on the print. “On August 18. He died suddenly at home, it says here.”
Both men stopped still for a moment, taking in this information. Thomas thought of the last time he had communicated with the coroner after the suicide of Agnes Appleton.
Dr. Carruthers spoke first. “Then who . . . ?” He was as startled and confused as Thomas.
The moment he knew the coroner had not sent the message that brought him to London, Thomas had already determined to pay him a visit to get to the bottom of the mystery. But this new revelation put a much more sinister complexion on matters. He wondered if it was to do with one of Sir Montagu Malthus’s schemes. He rose and walked over to the mantelpiece.
“My presence was obviously not welcome at Boughton,” he said gravely.
Dr. Carruthers nodded, stroking his chin. “It seems to me that you should return as soon as you can, young fellow.”
He knew his mentor was right. “I will,” he replied. “Just as soon as I have identified the specimens that might reveal the identity of the Brandwick murderer.”
“Then I best leave you to it,” replied Dr. Carruthers, rubbing his stiff legs before rising slowly from his chair.
Thomas appreciated the solitude. There were books he needed to consult, experiments to conduct, and, of course, there was Franklin. It had always worried him leaving the care of his rat to Mistress Finesilver. If she had not been diligent in her duties regarding Dr. Carruthers, then poor Franklin would surely be very low down on her list of priorities.
Walking across the familiar courtyard and down the steps, Thomas arrived at the laboratory. Grasping the door handle he sniffed the air and frowned. As soon as he walked inside the stench of sulfur hit him. He gagged and reached in his pocket for a kerchief. Holding it to his mouth, he rushed into the room. The window had been left drawn down and a shaft of light from a street lamp above illuminated the coils of smog as they drifted in through the open casement. Hurrying over to it, he pushed up the sash, then rushed over to Franklin’s cage. It was as he feared. The rat lay on its back, four legs in the air, gassed by the poisonous air. Unlatching the door, Thomas put his hand in the cage and reached for him, expecting the rat to be stiff and cold. But no, his body was still warm and then he saw him twitch.
Thomas carried the rodent across the room. Opening the door he took him out into the fresher air of the corridor. The rodent was struggling now, his legs flailing around, trying to right himself. Thomas helped him and he sat, stunned, for a moment, whiskers twitching. Next his sides heaved, fast as fury, in and out, in and out.
“That’s right, boy. Breathe deep,” Thomas told him. But the flurry of activity was short-lived and the rat collapsed after a few seconds. His pink eyes remained open but his breathing became labored and all energy seemed to ebb away.
Thomas stroked his back. If Franklin were a human, he asked himself, what would he do? He thought of the caves at West Wycombe, then glanced at the cellar door opposite. Taking a lamp from a nearby shelf, he opened the door and carefully negotiated the steps. It was much cooler below and the smell of damp pervaded the air, but it was infinitely preferable to the sulfur in his laboratory. In among the trunks full of old papers, the cobweb-festooned carboys of acid, and the kegs of ale, Thomas spied an empty wooden crate in the corner. This would be Franklin’s home for the next few hours. He laid him down on a piece of rag. A dish on the floor had been used to catch rainwater as it dripped steadily from a leak above. He soaked the corner of the rag in water, then gently opened Franklin’s jaws to let in a few drops to moisten his mouth.
“There you go, boy,” he whispered, and he shut the lid of the crate and, taking the lamp with him, made his way back up the steps. He paused outside the laboratory door, but decided against opening it. He needed to allow the gas to dissipate and the larger sulfur particles to settle before he reentered the room. Besides, the hour was late and he was tired. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would confine himself to testing the samples that could hold the key to the Brandwick murders and to finding a more effective treatment for the fog sickness. Franklin would be his first patient.