Chapter 41
Once again Thomas found himself in the presence of the dead in the game larder. He never relished his task when a life had been taken cruelly and by another’s hand, but when that life was a child’s, it was doubly hard. Not only that, but two children lay side by side on the cold marble slab. The nature of their injuries was so repellent that he had to force his own anger down as it welled up inside him.
First he looked at the boy. His large, wide forehead and low set eyes had presented the perfect target to the murderer. It appeared his injuries had been caused by his father’s own shovel that Thomas had retrieved from the cottage. Strands of hair clung to the congealed blood on the blade. The spade, he mused, had been brought down with enormous force in a single blow to the frontal lobe.
Lifting the child’s unruly fringe, Thomas inspected the wound. The depression in the boy’s skull was at least half an inch deep, but it was not the contusion that arrested his attention. He reached for his magnifying glass and peered at the small flakes caught in the victim’s hairline. At first he took them for the familiar particles of sulfur in the air, but when he examined them more closely, he could see they were not. Carefully he retrieved a fragment and dropped it into a phial.
Next he turned his attention to the girl. He guessed she was about twelve years of age. She looked so much younger in death than she had on the steps of the market cross. Gone was the strain in her features; the taut skin across her cheekbones had relaxed and the ridge above her nose caused by frowning was smooth. He noted several bruises on her body, but it was hardly surprising that she bore the marks of her uncontrollable fit in the marketplace. There were contusions around her wrists where she had been restrained and on her knees where she had slipped up the steps. There was bruising around her neck, too, which puzzled him. It was clearly she who had borne the brunt of the killer’s wrath. She had been struck not once but at least three times on the head and torso. Her brown hair was matted and made darker by the blood and her chemise soaked around her chest and left shoulder.
Thomas took a comb and teased partings around the head wounds to inspect them more closely. He knew what he was looking for. And there they were. Through the lens of his magnifying glass, in among the egg cases of head lice, he spied larger dots of foreign material. Again he plucked three or four such fragments out of the hair with tweezers and dropped them into a separate phial. Could it be that these small particles linked all four killings?
“Most interesting,” he said to himself, lowering another piece of potential evidence into a glass tube. If only he had the facilities of a laboratory nearby. As it was, he would have to wait until a return journey to London to identify the source of these odd and various samples. And with the fog still lingering, he had no idea when that would be.
He was contemplating making a trip to Oxford. Perhaps he could ask his old friend Professor Hans Hascher, who had been so helpful in the past in the quest to prove Michael Farrell’s innocence, if he could work in his laboratory? Before he had given the idea more thought, however, there came a knock on the door. He glanced at the table. The bodies of the dead children were a most distressing sight.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Will Lovelock, sir,” came the reply through the door.
Thomas wiped the blood from his hands. “Yes, Will,” he said, opening the door only narrowly so that the boy could not see inside the room.
“Her ladyship says that the vicar is here and she requests that you come now,” he panted, the speech memorized by heart.
Returning to the young lord’s bedroom a few minutes later Thomas found the Reverend Lightfoot talking with Lydia. After the morning’s traumatic events he had not expected to see the vicar. He was sitting by the boy’s bedside reading a passage from the Bible to him, the story of Abraham and his son Isaac. Thomas had assumed he would be busy dealing with Joseph Makepeace and the rest of the shocked community, offering words of comfort after the horror of the double murder, but no, here he was imparting an Old Testament story to a young child as if it were a bedtime fairytale.
“I heard about the children,” said Lydia, rising to greet Thomas.
“Most shocking,” chimed in the clergyman.
“Indeed,” replied Thomas, then turning to Lydia he said, “I am afraid that yet again I am obliged to turn your game larder into a mortuary, your ladyship.”
Lydia frowned as she digested the full implication of what Thomas had just related. “So be it,” she said.
The Reverend Lightfoot, on the other hand, remained practical. “So while the bodies are in your custody, Dr. Silkstone, I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to call on Lady Lydia,” he said, closing the Bible. “My time is not my own these days. One never knows when one will be called upon.” There was a certain smugness about the vicar that did not endear him to Thomas. He tapped his cane sharply on the floorboards, like an officious court clerk, as if his every second was precious.
Richard was sitting upright in bed. It was clear to the doctor that his fever was gone, though he knew he might relapse at any moment. Indeed, Thomas himself had been asked by many an anxious mother to baptize her sickly newborn if it was thought it was not more than a few hours for this world. He had always willingly obliged. Offering those few grains of comfort was a sweetener to the bitter pill so often swallowed in such circumstances. However, it seemed young Richard was mercifully growing stronger by the hour.
The vicar opened his satchel and began unpacking the small flasks of sacred oil and water required for the baptism. Taking advantage of the distraction, Lydia moved closer to Thomas. “He does not know,” she whispered cryptically, looking at Richard. Thomas understood. Lydia wished to keep her son’s identity a secret, at least for the time being.
A moment later Reverend Lightfoot wheeled about, his surplice ’round his neck. “And you are to be the godfather?” he asked, looking directly at Thomas.
“That is my honor,” replied Thomas, masking his surprise.
“I explained to the Reverend Lightfoot that Richard is the son of friends of mine in Oxford. The fog sickness claimed them both, so I have taken him into my care.” Lydia spoke in a strange, slightly exaggerated tone that told Thomas he was not to question or contradict her any further.
He nodded. “Indeed.” He could understand why she did not feel ready to announce to the whole world that she had a son. It would take time for them both to adjust to their new relationship.
“Then let us proceed,” announced the vicar, handing both Thomas and Lydia lighted candles.
Richard remained slightly bemused by the proceedings, his dark curls resting on the pillow. His skin was still sallow, but his amber eyes were full of life and they followed Lydia around the room wherever she went. During the baptism he only moved when the reverend poured a little holy water over his head to signify spiritual cleansing. His small body jerked up, but his mother held his hand and soothed him. Shortly afterward he was pronounced free from original sin and both Lydia and Thomas rendered a hearty “Amen.”
Candles were blown out and young Richard was patted and caressed. Lydia was beaming and Thomas could not remember when he had seen her so full of joy.
“He is a fine young man,” remarked the vicar, packing away his flasks and candles. “And yet . . .” He broke off.
“And yet?” queried Thomas.
“There seems to be something wrong with his arm.” He turned away from the bed as he said this, so the boy could not hear.
Thomas looked uneasy, but thought quickly. “An accident, I believe. A fall from a pony.”
Turning ’round, the vicar looked at the boy. “So he is a cripple?”
The sudden change of tone shocked the doctor and he shot back, “That is a harsh word, sir.”
The Reverend Lightfoot, however, seemed unfazed. “Come, come, Dr. Silkstone. In our line of work we deal with such infirmities all the time. There is no need to be precious about them.” Then to Lydia he added, “I am sure he has come to a good home and that you will look after him well.”
She nodded. “That is why we are going to spend a few days in the caves. Richard will be able to regain his strength there.”
The vicar arched his brow. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I have heard that many are returning fully restored after a week or so there.” Reaching for his hat and his cane, he walked over to the door, but paused at the threshold. “Oh, and when you have examined the bodies of those dead children, will you let me know what you find, Dr. Silkstone? I would be most grateful. I will show myself out.” And with that he bid both of them a good day.
Left alone once more, Thomas went over to Lydia.
“I know I did wrong, but I could not face having to tell the reverend the truth just now,” she said, shaking her head.
“He will understand when you do decide to. The idea is still strange to you,” he told her softly.
From out of the corner of his eye he could see Richard was watching them. “So, young man, you are looking so much better,” said Thomas, smiling. He settled himself on the bed and was just beginning to talk to his new godson, when a tap on the door interrupted the conversation.
“Come in,” called Lydia.
Howard stood stiffly on the threshold, looking a little uncomfortable. “I am sorry, your ladyship, but there is a messenger downstairs for Dr. Silkstone.” Turning to Thomas he added, “He says he has been tasked to deliver his message into your hands, sir.”
Following the butler downstairs, Thomas saw the courier waiting in the hallway. The man’s coat and hat were covered in dust and he smelled of sweat and leather.
“Dr. Silkstone?”
“I am he.”
The messenger held out a rolled piece of parchment. “I am to give you this, sir, and await your reply.”
Thomas opened up the scroll. It read:
Dear Dr. Silkstone,
I am afraid to inform you that Dr. Carruthers is seriously ill. Please return to London as soon as possible. God’s speed.
Sir Peregrine Crisp,
Coroner
Westminster.
The doctor frowned. It was as if he had been dealt a swift blow in the guts. “Please tell Sir Peregrine that I will be on my way within the hour.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the courier, bowing low.
Thomas’s heart, that only five minutes ago had felt so much at ease, now ached. He thought of his mentor, obviously close to death. Could it be that he, too, had been struck down with the fog sickness? He had heard reports that all London was still in its grip.
As soon as he reappeared at the threshold of the bedroom, Lydia knew he was the bearer of bad news. “What is it?”
“ ’Tis Dr. Carruthers. I need to go to him.”
“He is sick?”
Thomas nodded. “I fear the worst. I need to leave this afternoon.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Take care, my love,” she said.
“Have no fear for me,” he retorted, kissing the top of her head. “ ’Tis Dr. Carruthers who needs our thoughts and prayers.”
Still with her arms around him, Lydia nodded. “I shall pray for you both.”
He pulled back so that he could look into her eyes. “And you must take care, too,” he told her. “Richard should be very much recovered when I return.”
Lydia smiled. “Yes, and the Reverend Lightfoot will see to it that no harm comes our way,” she assured him.
Thomas returned her smile, but her words reminded him that he was leaving her at a time when a vicious murderer, or murderers, were on the loose, seemingly killing at random. He felt he was deserting her and yet his mentor and the man who had been like a father to him for the past nine years was close to death.
Returning to the game larder, he covered the children’s corpses and entrusted Jacob Lovelock with the task of seeing that they were transported for burial. Then he packed his case, making sure that he took with him the four phials of material he had collected from around the wounds of all those murdered. At least in his own laboratory he would be able to carry out tests on them to ascertain their origin. He was convinced they held the key to whoever was behind these heinous acts. For the time being, however, his priorities lay with the man to whom he owed so much. He just hoped his arrival in London would not be too late.
Word had spread like wildfire across dry gorse brush. Joshua Pike was holed up at the Kidds’ cottage. He was the murderer. He was the fiend who had killed not only Lady Thorndike and Gabriel Lawson, but two children as they lay in their beds. He was a monster! The devil incarnate! He had caused nothing but trouble since the day he arrived in Brandwick, terrorizing the vicar’s wife and stirring resentment among the laborers in the fields. Justice had to be done, and if the law failed them they would take it into their own hands.
The men gathered by the market cross. They had armed themselves with whatever they could lay their hands on: pitchforks and rakes and shovels. The butcher carried his meat cleaver and the farrier his clincher. The master of the hunt gave permission for the hounds to join in the search. The constable, Walter Harker, came as well, carrying chains to restrain the quarry. Abel Cross, the fowler, had brought along his flintlock, too. It had a short range, but it could blow a hole in a man’s gut if it was fired close enough.
Ned Perkins took the lead. This time there was none of the reticence he had shown in his dealings with Gabriel Lawson. His jaw was set determinedly and his eyes were on fire. The fog sickness had taken both his sons that week. He had nothing more to lose. Barging through the men, he rushed up the steps of the market cross to address the crowd.
“Today, brothers, two children were slain as they slept. Two more have been murdered. And still the killer is at large. Yet the powers that be in Oxford are sitting on their fat backsides doing nothing. ’Tis time we acted, brothers.” He clenched his fist and punched the air. “ ’Tis time we meted out our own justice; time we hunted down Joshua Pike!”
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.