Chapter 19
Thomas’s quill hovered over the parchment. He was finding it much harder than usual to commit his thoughts in ink. His single candle cast a long shadow across the blank sheet as he sat at his desk in the study. Mistress Finesilver had urged him to come to dinner, but he had eschewed her braised pheasant and asked her to prepare a plate of cold cuts. Now even that lay untouched on a table in the corner. The taste of decomposing human flesh was trapped in the back of his throat, and the stench of it still lingered in his nostrils and on his skin and hair.
His report on the postmortem of the young singer was proving difficult to write. He kept thinking about Signor Moreno’s reaction to the death of his protégé. He was sure those were not the anguished tears of a murderer, and yet now the Tuscan was languishing in Newgate, relying on his report to either release or condemn him.
All emotions must be swept aside. All hunches, all intuitions, all feelings must count as naught and be consigned to the realms of the fanciful, he told himself. Logicality must reign supreme. Fact was his master and he would be guided solely by what he had seen, not by what he felt. His quill started to scratch the parchment. He began with general observations: how the viscosity of the pool of blood suggested that the murder had been committed at least two hours before the body was discovered. How the corpse had been arranged, how pillows had been plumped behind its head, how the waters of the basin were already bloodied.
Next he moved on to his clinical observations. How the discoloration around the mouth, together with the lacerated inner lips and the chipped incisor, indicated suffocation. During the postmortem he had also discovered the victim’s nose had been broken, indicating great force had been used. One of the castrato’s pillows, he had noted, bore teeth marks. He suggested the young man had been asleep when the pillow had been held over his face for at least two minutes. Such an exercise, he observed, would require great strength. Cappelli would have struggled. He may have been asleep when he was attacked, but the body’s involuntary responses would have reacted violently. He would have kicked and thrashed, of that there could be no doubt.
The victim was dead before any incision was made into the neck, he wrote. Hopefully, he thought, the young man would have been spared the terror of knowing what unspeakable horror was to befall him.
The incision was made from right to left, then down two inches and across and up, forming a square. He paused, picturing the assault in his mind. Right to left? Could it be the murderer was left-handed? To get a purchase, the victim must have been held from behind. Surely the downward angle of the cut was relevant. He mused on the possibility for a few seconds, but chose not to include it in the report.
He went on: A sharp, possibly surgical instrument was used to achieve this precision. The larynx, containing the vocal cords, was then removed in its entirety. The wound was then left open, but an astringent was applied to stem the flow of blood.
In summary, the person or persons who carried out the surgical procedure on the victim had a detailed anatomical knowledge and were skilled in the art of either butchery or surgery, Thomas concluded. He hoped his words would be enough to convince Sir Peregrine that he had arrested the wrong man.
Glancing at the timepiece on the wall, he was surprised to see it was past nine o’clock. He rubbed his tired eyes and rose from the desk. Dr. Carruthers would be in want of his company.
“There you are, young fellow,” cried the old anatomist when he heard Thomas enter the drawing room. “So, you have finished your postmortem report?”
“Indeed, sir. A most disturbing case.”
“Tut, tut. I detect emotion in that statement,” he rebuked.
Thomas nodded as he collapsed into a chair. “You are right. I should have said ‘a most interesting case.’ ”
Throughout his tutelage Thomas had always been taught to distance himself from the corpses he worked upon. To allow any emotional attachment or empathy was strictly forbidden in the discipline of anatomy. Perhaps that was why, he told himself, deprived of any professional emotion, he felt so passionately about Lydia. Outside his work, his father, Dr. Carruthers, and Franklin, of course, she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. He recalled her expression the last time he had seen her and how she had rebuffed him. He wished he could understand why. If she had been suffering some form of ailment or injury, he could have dealt with it, but when it came to affairs of the heart, he was a complete and utter novice.
“Pour yourself a brandy and sit down,” the old doctor told him. “Tomorrow is another day. Your head will be clearer in the morning.”
Thomas walked over to the sideboard and helped himself to a large glassful in silence, any words of conversation choked by the maelstrom in his mind. Then, as if Dr. Carruthers could read his thoughts, the old man asked, “So, how is the lovely Lady Lydia?”
Thomas never ceased to be amazed by his mentor’s perception, his ability to read his mind without the capacity to even observe his facial expressions.
“I am afraid I do not know,” he sighed. “She has forbidden me to see her.”
“Dear, oh dear,” replied Carruthers, shaking his elderly head. “That will never do. How have you offended her?”
“I wish I knew. I don’t even know if she is angry with me, or with someone else, but she is deeply troubled, that much I do know.”
At that moment Mistress Finesilver entered the room in a fluster.
“Lady Lydia Farrell is here for Dr. Silkstone, sirs,” she said, her hands smoothing her skirts.
“Well, well.” Dr. Carruthers chuckled. “Let us hope you can sort affairs out between you, young fellow.”
Thomas flushed. “Show her ladyship into the study, if you please,” he instructed.
He found Lydia waiting there, pacing the room and looking every bit as fragile as she had the first time they had met, two years before. He saw no profit in standing on ceremony, and as soon as Mistress Finesilver was out of sight he rushed forward to embrace her, but instead of returning his warmth, she turned her head away. Thomas let his arms fall to his sides.
“Lydia, my love, what is it?” he pleaded. “Tell me, please, and we can put it right.”
Still distancing herself from him, she shook her head. “I wish it were that simple,” she replied, avoiding his direct gaze.
Thomas paused. “It’s Marchant, isn’t it? He’s ensnared you? He has wealth and a title,” he blurted. “I am a colonist and a humble anatomist, not fit to join the ranks of English nobility.”
Lydia swung ’round. “How can you be so hurtful?” she cried. Color rose to her cheeks. “You dare suggest such a thing? How can you think so little of me?”
Thomas immediately regretted his outburst. He knew it was fueled by jealousy, but he could see no other reason for her irrational behavior. Emotional chaos was descending onto his ordered world again and he needed to grasp hold of logical explanations to escape being consumed by doubt and suspicion. Once again he walked toward her, arms outstretched, but once again she rebuffed him.
“I have come here to tell you something, Thomas,” she said. Her tone was unfaltering; well-rehearsed, he guessed.
He grasped both her hands, and this time, she did not flinch. “Tell me anything, but please just put me out of this darkness. Not knowing what ails you is killing me.”
She took a deep breath to compose herself. “I am breaking off our betrothal,” she said, pulling her hands away. Thomas stared at her aghast. She caught his gaze for a split second. There was a look in her eyes he had not seen before. Was it embarrassment? Or was it guilt? Whatever it was, she did not wear it well, he thought, and she turned and made for the door.
“But, Lydia . . .” He grabbed her arm as she reached for the handle.
“There is no more to be said, Dr. Silkstone,” she said with a cold finality, looking down at the arm he held so firmly. “Your housekeeper can show me out.”