Chapter 47
T
hat night the angels came, or so the villagers said. They hammered on the door of the vicarage. “The Lord is coming! He has sent his messengers!” they cried.
The Reverend Lightfoot shook the sleep from his silver head and rose. Opening the sash, he looked down at the gathering from his window. The people were pointing up above, and when he, too, lifted his gaze, he saw the miracle. There were colors in the western sky. From out of the blackness came a light so bright that it could have been the halo of a whole host of angels. Within the light shone a myriad of hues, opalescent green and lilac, then gold fading above to almost white. To the left and right was a greenish yellow glow. Lifting his eyes even higher he beheld an open fan of pastel pink, reaching almost as far as the zenith. The whole vision was framed by the deepest cobalt blue.
He watched transfixed as the panorama developed to its full splendor before him. An enormous sense of joy and amazement welled up inside him until he thought his heart would burst at the wonder of the Lord. The display only lasted a few more seconds, until the brighter hues gave way and began to fade. A few seconds more and they were gone, leaving only blackness once more.
Below on the vicarage lawn, many villagers were on their knees. Others held their arms outstretched, as if begging to be taken up by the angels. The Reverend Lightfoot wiped a tear from his cheek. “Brethren,” he called down. “Tonight we have been truly blessed. Tonight we have seen the wonder of God in all His glory.”
“Amen!” exclaimed Ned Perkins and the others echoed him.
The vicar surveyed his congregation. There were around three dozen souls; men and women, some holding babes in their arms. By the light of their flickering torches he could see those same familiar faces who had packed the church to hear him preach last week and who had crowded round the market square to watch him cast out demons. All were poor; all were wanting a promise of a better life in the next world, if not in this. They were looking to him for guidance.
Reaching his hands out toward them, he stilled their murmuring. “Tonight, brothers and sisters, we have been given a sign,” he told them. “We must go away and repent of our sins, for the hour is at hand!” His voice grew in strength with every phrase. “The other week we witnessed the great dragon thrown down from the sky, the ancient serpent who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world, and now, tonight, we have seen God’s angels. Remember the words of St. Peter: that there will be those who come in the last days with scoffing, following their own sinful desires. They will say: ‘Where is the promise of His coming? For ever since the fathers fell asleep, all things are continuing as they were from the beginning of creation. ’ But we know, brothers and sisters. We know, for the angels have told us. Prepare yourselves, for the hour is at hand!”
“Amen!” they shouted as one. Some of them crossed themselves in the Catholic way and others bowed their heads, or lifted them up to the heavens. There were shouts of “Alleluia! The Lord is great!” as they began to move down the drive and out of the vicarage gates.
The Reverend Lightfoot smiled as he watched them go. Despite his exhortations to watchfulness, he had no doubt that they would all go back to their beds and truckles and palliasses and sleep soundly. They would leave their repenting until the morrow. After all it was easier to atone after a good night’s sleep.
Before he retired once more to his own bed, he glanced over in the direction of Boughton Hall, hidden amid a cluster of dark trees, and thought of Lady Lydia Farrell. Ensconced in the bowels of the earth at West Wycombe, she would not have seen the skies above her head. If she had, that doctor friend of hers would have explained it away with his science, no doubt, just as he had the meteor. He would have offered her his logic and reason, expounding his theories of light and space and magnetic forces. But he, the Reverend George Lightfoot, knew better. He knew it was time for her ladyship to face up to her past. For the hour was at hand. Yes, it was time for Lady Lydia Farrell to repent of her most grievous sin.
Thomas slept fitfully that night. The man parading up and down outside the prison walls had not stopped his incessant diatribe much before ten o’clock and then the noise of the other prisoners farther down the corridor had become even more evident. All night long they had shouted and moaned. Sometimes there was a scream, sometimes a sob or a wail, a low drone or mumble, but never the silence that he so craved. He was relieved to see the first shaft of light, albeit a measly one, lance through the window slit into his cell, and even more relieved to hear footsteps approaching a few moments later. There was Dowd’s cough and there was his face at the grille.
Thomas stood to greet him. “Good morning, Mr. Dowd,” he called through the bars. But there was no reply, as expected. Instead the stocky youth looked troubled. He watched him trim his lantern in silence.
“What is it?” asked Thomas. “Something is wrong.”
The young jailer looked up, sighed deeply, and made his way over to the cell. “ ’Tis my wife, sir,” he said, shaking his head.
“What has happened?” asked Thomas, his hands gripping the bars.
“She has the fog sickness, sir, and was taken bad in the night.” He looked at the doctor through the grille. “She’s very sick.”
Thomas stood for a moment in shocked silence. He had thought to offer his phial of physick to his young jailer to alleviate his own cough, even though he knew it was not a symptom of the fog sickness. Now, however, this turn of fate offered up a much more fortuitous opportunity for him. With the help of his formula, he could take advantage of the jailer’s wife’s misfortune and turn it into a gain for them all.
The turnkey unlocked Thomas’s cell. “What can I do, sir? Is there a cure?” he asked forlornly.
Without a word, Thomas reached for his coat and delved into his inside pocket. Now was the time to play his trump card.
“This physick would greatly ease your wife,” he said, holding up the glass bottle before Dowd’s watery eyes. The dark syrupy liquid was worth more than its weight in gold and the young jailer reached up to touch the glass. Thomas, however, pulled it back. He did not like to play games in such a cruel way, but he knew that he was holding a very precious bargaining tool. “I will give this to you gladly, Mr. Dowd, but there is, in effect, a noose around my neck.”
The turnkey’s hand dropped and he took a step back. “But my wife may die, sir.”
“And so might I,” countered Thomas. He knew he was treading on thin ice. One blow to the chin from this stocky young man could easily knock him unconscious, but he had to trust his instincts. In one quick movement, he leaped to the slit in the wall and squeezed through it the hand that held the phial. “I can drop it and let it smash on the stones below, Mr. Dowd, or I can give it to you and your wife will live.”
The jailer looked terrified. “No,” he pleaded.
“Do we have a deal, Mr. Dowd?” Thomas persisted. “This bottle in exchange for my freedom?”
“But sir. I cannot. My master . . .”
“I will leave you manacled and you can tell your master I hit you over the head with my tankard,” Thomas told him. “You will have the physick and your master will be none the wiser. What say you?”
Dowd gulped, raised his eyes heavenward, then nodded. “ ’Tis a deal, sir,” he replied.
Chapter 48
O
n the morning of her third day spent in the caves, Lydia ventured out. Standing at the entrance in the early morning light, she strained her eyes to survey the valley. To the west she saw the red sun low in the sky. It was still thinly veiled by the strange haze but there was a definite lifting of the fog. She sniffed at the air. The acrid smell lingered, but had lessened.
Taking a few steps forward she felt something by her foot. She looked down. A rabbit lay dead on its back, its legs stiff in the air and its mouth red with blood. She let out a startled cry. It was a stark reminder that the danger remained.
Looking directly south, toward London, her thoughts turned to Thomas. She had heard no word. She prayed that Sir Theodisius had managed to warn him before he had been arrested and carted off to some godforsaken prison. Feeling isolated and anxious, she was just about to head back into the gloom of the caves when she heard the plod of horses’ hooves. Turning quickly, she saw a cart trundling up the hillside, a cloud of dust in its wake. It was Jacob Lovelock, bringing provisions from Broughton.
“Jacob! What news?” she called, hurrying down the track toward him.
The groom pulled up the horses close by. His pock-marked face was cratered with chalk and he looked grim.
“Tell me, Jacob. What has happened?”
He tied the reins and jumped down from the driver’s seat. “There’s a lot that’s happened while you been away, your ladyship,” he said, whipping off his hat.
Lydia frowned. “Go on.”
“Susannah Kidd.”
Lydia felt the breath ebb away from her. “Not dead?”
Lovelock shook his head. “In Oxford Prison.”
“Why?”
“She was hiding the knife-grinder in her cottage, so they went to get them both.”
“Who? Who went?” she pressed.
“Men from the village. Upwards of sixty, they say. They shot the knife-grinder and took Mistress Kidd.”
Lydia shook her head in disbelief. “They shot Joshua Pike? But there was no trial, no proof that he was a murderer!”
Lovelock eyed his mistress with a look of resignation. “These are strange times, your ladyship. Men are acting like wild animals.” He lifted his head and she could tell that there was more to relate.
“You are holding something back, Jacob. What is it? Have you heard from Dr. Silkstone?”
Lovelock shuffled his feet in the powdery dirt. “There is word from London, your ladyship.”
Lydia thought of Sir Theodisius and his mission to warn Thomas. She guessed from the look on Lovelock’s face he had not been in time to save him. She braced herself for bad news. “Well?”
“Dr. Silkstone is in Newgate.”
“On what charge?”
Lovelock had no choice but to tell his mistress bluntly. “For the murder of Lady Thorndike.”
What little color there was in Lydia’s cheeks ebbed away. “I do not understand. On what grounds?” she asked, not really expecting a reply. But Lovelock had an answer for her.
“They say there was a note from Lady Thorndike to arrange a meeting.”
Lydia shook her head, then remembered. A note did, indeed, exist. It was a perfectly legitimate invitation to Fetcham Manor, issued by Lady Thorndike in her own hand, that had now been skewed as evidence against Thomas. Sir Henry must have delivered it up to the relevant authority before he relented. It was a cruel and deceitful move that she would not have believed him capable of had he acted on his own.
“Sir Montagu is behind this,” she said angrily. “He would do anything, anything, to keep us apart!”
Lovelock stood awkwardly. His head was bowed, looking at the cracked ground, waiting for his mistress to compose herself. Lydia breathed deeply and drew herself up. There was no question in her mind. She knew what she had to do.
“You can begin unloading,” she told him. When he had completed the task in hand she would tell him of her plans. She would require him to return later on in the day with the coach. She would go to London herself.
Making his escape had proved far from straightforward for Thomas. Dowd had cooperated fully, allowing himself to be manacled so that it appeared as though Thomas had attacked him and fled. It was finding the way out of Newgate’s tangle of tunnels that had proved such a challenge. Once he had negotiated those, there was the small matter of the guard on the gate. He had bluffed his way out, saying he had been to visit a gentleman prisoner suffering from jail fever, and had been allowed to leave.
The tang of sulfur had never smelled so sweet as he rode out of London. Stopping off at Hollen Street, he had managed to assure Dr. Carruthers he was well and to retrieve his medical bag. In an act of great foresight the old anatomist had even written out from memory the formula for the physick. Fortified with breakfast and armed with his physician’s case, Thomas made good progress. After a brief stop at Amersham, he was riding into Brandwick just after three o’clock in the afternoon. His first stop was Mr. Peabody’s shop.
“My goodness, Dr. Silkstone!” exclaimed the apothecary at the sight of the young anatomist.
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Mr. Peabody,” Thomas countered.
The little man approached him, looking flustered. “I am most glad to see you, sir,” he said. “But I’d heard word that you were in prison.”
“How bad news travels fast,” retorted Thomas. “I am a fugitive, Mr. Peabody, but I am also on a mission. Perhaps you could make this up?” From his pocket he brought out the formula for the new physick. “This should be much more efficacious than the original. It should greatly alleviate the symptoms,” he told him, handing him the folded sheet of paper. “We need to get to work.”
Mr. Peabody nodded and straightaway started assembling his apparatus, while Thomas scanned the shelves of jars and bottles for the appropriate ingredients. There was the belladonna—a goodly amount, although more would be needed shortly—and there was the turmeric. But it was while Thomas was searching for a flagon of oil of vitriol that something caught his eye. It was a blue-and-white porcelain jar labeled “Vinegar of the Four Thieves.” He retrieved it from the shelf, lifted the lid, and sniffed at the mixture of dried herbs inside. It smelled very pleasant; refreshingly pleasant. He detected lavender and a hint of rosemary, perhaps. And there was definitely mint. He recalled having heard of the concoction before. There was a story to its origin; a tale of how four thieves in France robbed and stole from the dead during an outbreak of plague, yet were not infected themselves. This vinegar had been their secret weapon against disease.
“I see you have this, Mr. Peabody,” he said, holding up the jar.
The apothecary looked up. “Yes, ’tis best used by steeping the dried leaves in vinegar, although some swear by the herbs alone as a pomade.”
Thomas sniffed again. There was a strange bitter back smell that was vaguely familiar to him, but that he could not put a name to. He was just about to ask Mr. Peabody for a full list of ingredients when Dr. Fairweather charged into the shop, a worried expression on his face. It quickly changed to one of surprise when he saw Thomas.
“Silkstone! What on earth . . . ?”
“My presence seems to be having an extraordinary effect on people,” said Thomas wryly.
The country physician could not hide his shock, or his relief. “I am so glad you are come, sir,” he said. There was a breathless anxiety in his voice. “Sir Henry has suffered a seizure and I fear he is not long for this world. He has been calling for you.”
Thomas looked puzzled. Why should the man who was instrumental in putting him behind bars wish to see him? For all the old knight knew, he was still languishing in Newgate awaiting trial.
“I am here for digitalis to ease his chest pain, Mr. Peabody.” Fairweather handed the apothecary a prescription. “Do not wait for me, Silkstone. Sir Henry may not have much time.”
Thomas needed little persuasion. Within a few minutes he had ridden to Fetcham Manor and was being ushered into Sir Henry Thorndike’s bedchamber. He found him lying in bed, weak but conscious. His leathery lids opened wide when he heard the young doctor’s urgent footsteps. His mouth parted and he made an odd sound, while one of his hands juddered upward.
“You must calm yourself, sir,” urged Thomas, seating himself at the bedside. “I understand you wanted to see me.”
The old man’s lips were the strange shade of purplish blue that Thomas had remarked so many times before when the heart was the seat of a patient’s dire condition.
“I did not want to die knowing I had sent an innocent man to the gallows,” he said, gasping for breath between phrases.
Thomas frowned. There were so many questions that needed answers. Sir Montagu was behind his false arrest, that much he knew. But how had Sir Henry become embroiled in the plot and, more to the point, why? Looking down on this fragile body as the life ebbed away from it, he doubted he would get any satisfaction. Interrogating the dying man would be futile and morally reprehensible, and yet his eyes were still open and there was an alertness in his manner that made Thomas believe he actually wanted to talk.
“Are you comfortable, sir?” he asked, bending low.
“I want you to know why . . .” He licked his dry lips. “I want you to know why I gave Malthus the note.” Thomas thought of the crumpled piece of paper at Lady Julia’s bedside and listened. “ ’Twas because he swore that if I helped him put you in jail”—a deep intake of breath—“I could have Lydia’s hand in marriage.”
The revelation sent a shock through Thomas’s body. He felt the tips of his fingers tingle. “I see,” were all the words he could muster for a while, as he thought about the prospect of Lydia marrying the kindly old gentleman she regarded more as a father than a potential husband.
Sir Henry lifted a gnarled hand again and Thomas lowered his head to hear more. “He offered me an heir, you see,” he croaked. “The boy.”
Thomas sat upright. “So your marriage would have united Boughton and Fetcham and secured the future of both.”
“But the more I thought about it, the more anxious I became,” the old man explained, his breath rasping as he talked.
Thomas knew he spoke the truth. That acute anxiety and stress had, in all probability, brought on this seizure.
“I could never have gone through with it,” he added, his head shaking on the pillow. Thomas held his hand in a gesture of comfort and forgiveness. At least he would die with a clear conscience. But there was more. Instead of resting after his admission, Sir Henry seemed to become more agitated. His lips began to move quickly and his tongue flashed between them now and again.
“You must rest, sir,” Thomas urged.
The old man’s brow crumpled. “She was a whore,” he mumbled.
Thomas put his ear nearer his lips.
“A whore!” he mumbled again, suddenly finding more strength.
Thomas studied his patient’s pained expression. The wrinkles on his face were like lines on a map. Each furrow was an emotion, a laugh or a frown. Without warning he grasped Thomas’s hand.
“She told me about the steward,” he croaked. “She taunted me.”
The doctor clasped the dying man’s hand. It was icy to the touch, but his eyes were fixed on him as if awaiting a response.
“So your wife was meeting Gabriel Lawson at the lake that day?”
Sir Henry nodded furiously. “Yes.” He lay back on his pillow. “And now they’re both rotting in hell!” He spat the words out so vehemently that he sowed a seed in Thomas’s mind. Was the old man making a confession? Had he murdered his wife and then her lover? Men had killed for much less. His watery stare was still clamped on the doctor’s face. Doubt hovered in the air, but he was a physician, not a confessor.
Still Sir Henry’s eyes blazed with a new intensity. “The vicar,” he rasped. “Lightfoot.”
Thomas felt the burden lift a little. The old man needed a clergyman to hear his confession, not a physician. If he were to admit to murder in his last hours, it should be to the reverend and not to him.
“I will fetch him,” he reassured him, lifting the hand that was still clutching his cuff. Yet the doubt remained.
At that moment Dr. Fairweather arrived with the physick. “How does he fare?”
Thomas said nothing at first until he had turned his back to the patient so that he could not hear. “His pulse is weak and his breathing erratic. He has asked to see the Reverend Lightfoot.”
Fairweather put down his case on a nearby table. “I have just seen him,” he replied. “He was heading out on the West Wycombe road. I called to him, but he did not answer. He seemed most preoccupied.”
Thomas frowned. “West Wycombe? He must be on his way to the caves. I am going there myself. I shall ask him to return here immediately.”
The older physician nodded, glancing over at the ailing nobleman. “Very good,” he replied, adding softly: “I do not think we have too much time.”