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Authors: Tessa Harris

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Chapter 24
L
ydia’s unexpected arrival at Boughton Hall sent the household into a flurry. Her ladyship was not expected back from London for at least a month, and Mistress Firebrace, the housekeeper, had ordered the shutters in all the main reception rooms to be closed and dust sheets to be laid over the furniture. In fact, the first anyone knew of their mistress’s return was when Will, the stable lad, came running into the kitchen with the news that her carriage had just driven through the main gates.
Mistress Claddingbowl went wailing into the larder, complaining that she had let provisions run low, and Howard the butler sent Hannah Lovelock and the other maids off ’round the house to pull up the downstairs blinds.
The servants only managed to assemble on the front steps of the hall, as was customary on her ladyship’s homecoming, as her carriage swept ’round the circular drive and came to a halt. The diminutive Lydia alighted, looking even more fragile than when she had left. Her face was pale and drawn and she did not even manage to smile at the servants as she usually did.
“Welcome home, your ladyship,” greeted Howard as she passed him on the steps.
“Thank you, Howard. I will go straight to my room,” was all she replied as she headed inside and up the sweeping staircase.
Howard shot the housekeeper a worried look. He had not seen his mistress so forlorn since her sick and elderly mother had passed away almost six months ago. Prior to that had been the death of her husband and, of course, the murder of James Lavington and the subsequent execution of her cousin Francis. The whole sorry episode had taken its toll on her, yet, with Dr. Silkstone’s help, she seemed to have recovered well. Her spirits had been once more restored and the air of gloom and depression that had hung over Boughton Hall for the past few months had apparently been lifted.
The arrival of her father’s old friend Count Boruwlaski had been a welcome relief for her, and her help for the Irish giant had given her a whole new focus, or so he had thought. Her sojourn in London was to be a welcome diversion and a chance to catch up with old acquaintances. With the count and Dr. Silkstone to take care of her, she would be in safe hands, or so he had imagined.
Now he believed otherwise. Some terrible fate must have befallen her in London, he told himself. He watched from the steps as Eliza, her ladyship’s maid, supervised the unloading of the numerous cases and boxes. He would question her closely. Perhaps she could shed light on what was causing his mistress such evident pain. In the meantime he would do all he could to see that she was comfortable, in body if not in spirit.
 
In the fading light of his laboratory, Thomas took up his quill with more anxiety than he had ever held a surgeon’s knife and began to write....
My Dearest Lydia,
As I write, I imagine you reading this at Boughton Hall, perched on the window seat in the morning room or even in the gardens, looking out over the view. I expect the spring flowers will be blooming now and the air will be fresh and sweet. I can see your face, the curve of your neck, your chestnut hair worn high, then falling in curls. I will always carry your gentle beauty with me.
The reality is, however, that our last meeting was a painful one. I know you have your reasons for wanting me out of your life, but I need you to know that whatever your trials and problems, we can face them together. I beg you, let me share in your burden so that we can shoulder it as one and overcome any difficulties. I know there is something that troubles you deeply and is eating away at your soul. Let me be the one to heal you.
For me, being without you is like a body trying to function without its heart. All my senses are numbed. I have no feeling. Without you by my side, my life holds no meaning.
Forgive my outpourings of emotion, but I needed you to know that whatever has happened, or whatever I have said or done to alienate myself from you, I hope you will remember me fondly as a healer and as a devoted lover.
I am now, and always will be, your loving and faithful servant, Thomas
As he held the sealing stick to the lighted candle, blobs of wax, like red droplets of blood, fell onto the folded letter. If Lydia was in any danger, he hoped to God she would tell him.
 
Entering her darkened bedchamber, Lydia Farrell felt safe for the first time in days. The curtains were drawn but bars of light still broke through. She traced her hand over familiar objects: her dressing table, her washstand, her looking glass. She glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her own eyes stared back at her from behind a mask, colorless and expressionless, almost unrecognizable. Would even Thomas know her? She hardly knew herself. How different she was now. Life had dealt her so many cruel blows in the last year, and just when she saw happiness on the horizon with Thomas, the past had come back to haunt her. She had been another person when it had happened: young, gullible, guileless, and so very much in love. She would have done anything Captain Michael Farrell told her to do for fear of risking a life without him: walk through fire, throw herself off a cliff, submit herself to a stranger. Even if it meant harming another, she allowed it. She trusted him implicitly and never imagined that he would put her through such an ordeal. Could she have run away? It was a question that tortured her so often. In the event, she’d let it happen so that they could remain together, forever, she thought. Even if it meant murder.
Chapter 25
R
obert Smee was a busy man. “My word, I have an establishment to run, sir,” he said when Thomas asked for a word in private.
“Sir, a man lies in prison, falsely accused. All I ask is five minutes of your time,” Thomas urged.
Tut-tutting, Smee led the doctor into a dingy room lined with ledgers, piled high with boxes, and festooned with cobwebs. A half-eaten pie lay on the desk.
“I need to ask you, sir, about the murder of Signor Cappelli.”
The little man bridled and took out his kerchief to wipe away the beads of sweat on his forehead. “I already told the coroner all I know.”
“I would very much appreciate it if you could tell me, too,” said Thomas.
“And why would I do that?” he huffed.
Thomas looked at the decaying pie and picked up the platter on which it sat. “Because, sir, I have reason to believe that you have rats in your guests’ rooms, and you would not want such a story to be spread about town,” he replied.
Mr. Smee’s eyes bulged out of his fat face. “My word, sir! That would not be good for business.”
“Indeed not, so . . .” agreed Thomas.
“What do you want to know, sir?” The hotelier motioned to a chair and Thomas sat down.
“Did you see anyone or hear anything unusual on the night of the murder?”
“I told the coroner. The only person I saw coming out of the young man’s room was the foreign gentleman.”
Thomas looked confused. “You are sure it was Signor Moreno?”
“Most sure,” said the little man, wiping the back of his neck with his kerchief. “He is, well, a most striking gentleman, if I may say so.” Thomas had to agree.
“And do you know what time this was?”
“I was just about to lock up. It was two o’clock, sir, just as I heard the watchman call the hour.” He was unequivocal in his recollection. “I was coming ’round the corner when I heard the latch on the young man’s door, and I stopped. It can sometimes be a little awkward if I meets guests in the corridor at night, sir, you understand.”
Thomas nodded. Discretion was an important quality for an hotelier to possess. “And I sees him, the gentleman, pop his head out of the door, look right and left, then quickly go to his own room. Shifty, he was.” He puckered his mouth. “How could he do a thing like that, then cry like a babe over it when ’tis discovered? He’s a great actor, my word, he is. Would’ve given Mr. Garrick a run for his money.”
“And then what happened?”
“I locked up as usual, hung the keys on the hook, and went to bed. ’Tis a sorry tale, my word, it is.”
“And who else was staying that night?”
The little man shook his round head so that his wig slipped forward a little. “I am ashamed to say that the two gentlemen were my only guests, sir.”
“I see,” said Thomas.
“Times is hard, sir, and my business, well . . . You won’t spread word about the rats, sir?”
“I will not, Mr. Smee,” he replied. “As long as you do not leave moldy victuals around to attract the vermin.”
“No, sir, you are right. Marie, Marie,” he called. A flustered servant girl with a long strand of coal-black hair spilling out from under her cap came running. Thomas recognized her from his previous visit. She had been deeply distressed by the gruesome discovery of the young castrato. “You are not to leave old food lying around, you hear,” he scolded. She curtsied and took hold of the offending plate.
“Wait,” said Thomas as she turned to leave. “Did you see or hear anything unusual on the night of the murder, Marie?” Her eyes widened, and like a frightened rabbit, she froze.
Mr. Smee stepped in. “She is French. Her English is not good,” he explained.
The girl answered nervously. “
Moi,
sir?
Non,
sir. I see nussing.”
Smee shooed her away with his plump hand. “Get on with you, girl. We have a hotel to run,” he chided.
“Of course.” Thomas nodded. “And I have calls to make, so I will leave you to your business, Mr. Smee.”
“Much obliged to you, sir,” replied the little man, dabbing his forehead once more.
Thomas did, indeed, have calls to make. His next stop was Newgate Prison.
 
The turnkey led Thomas down the windowless corridor to Moreno’s cell. Although a terrible stench still hung in the stagnant air, this part of the prison was a considerable improvement on the other godless area he had seen the day before. At least here he hoped Moreno would be able to regain his strength, if not his full health.
He found his patient just as he had left him, lying supine on his pallet, eyes closed. A flagon of small beer lay on the stone floor, together with a loaf of bread, touched only by the shiny black weevils that were feasting on it.
“Signor Moreno,” greeted Thomas gently.
The Tuscan opened his eyes. The swelling on the left side of his face, Thomas noted, had gone down considerably. His elegant features were better defined.
“How fare you today?”
His patient eased himself up on his right arm, wincing as he did so. “My body is a little better, I thank you, sir.”
“But your mind?” Thomas studied the pain-racked face that once must have been so handsome and knew that it was not only Moreno’s physical injuries that would have to heal before he was well again.
From his bag he took out a pad of gauze and a bottle of arnica and knelt down to dab the bruising on his patient’s cheek.
“Do you bring news, Dr. Silkstone?” Moreno asked meekly.
Thomas paused for a moment. “I have been talking with Mr. Smee,” he said.
“The hotelier?”
“Yes.” Thomas felt uneasy, but he decided he must confront the castrato. “He says he saw you leaving Signor Cappelli’s room at two o’clock that morning.”
Instantly, Thomas saw Moreno’s body tense. For a moment he was silent, then he swallowed hard. “So that is why I am here,” he whispered, staring blankly at the opposite wall of his cell.
The young doctor nodded. “But I do not believe you did commit the crime.”
The Tuscan switched his gaze and fixed it on Thomas. “I swear to God I did not.”
“So Signor Cappelli was alive when you last left him?”
Tears now welled up in the Tuscan’s eyes, as if remembering the final encounter with his friend was too much to bear, and he began to sob, clutching his ribs as he did so. Thomas tried to still his heaving body.
“Signor, please. Calm yourself,” he urged.
After a few moments, the sobs subsided and the young doctor thought that perhaps now would be the right time to divulge that the postmortem had revealed more than the cause of the young castrato’s death. He had discovered evidence of recent sexual activity. Perhaps now he should tell him he had uncovered his secret.
“I know, Signor Moreno.”
The Tuscan looked up at him, uncertain.
“I know that you and Carlo Cappelli were lovers.”
Moreno closed his eyes momentarily. Thomas was not sure if he was relieved or anxious, but his swollen lips mouthed, “You are right.”
Thomas sat on the edge of the pallet. “Do you want to unburden yourself, Signor Moreno? I am not here to judge you.”
“But I am a sodomite. They can still hang me,” he muttered.
Thomas knew what he said to be true, although he also knew that many a molly house would be closed down were it not for the patronage of the nobility and politicians. “If we can find the real murderer, there will be no need to incriminate you,” he ventured. “Surely you do not want the brute who killed Signor Cappelli to go unpunished?”
“No, but . . .”
Thomas sensed the Tuscan was hiding something. “What do you know?” he urged. Silence. “You will hang, Signor Moreno. If you know the killer . . .”
“He made me swear. . . .”
“Who made you? Who?”
Moreno caught his breath. “The man who attacked me.”
Thomas bent down to look his patient straight in the eye. “Tell me the truth, I beg of you, or it’ll be the rope.”
The Tuscan eased himself up slowly, putting much of his weight on Thomas, until he sat upright. “It was after the concert. We went back to the hotel. Carlo went up to his room and I stayed behind a while. That was when I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The same brute,” he replied, pointing to his bruised face. “He was talking with the maid. She was smiling at him.”
“Marie, the French girl?”
He nodded. “I did not see him again until . . .”
“When did you see him again?” urged Thomas.
“When they threw me in that stinking cell. I recognized him immediately and he knew I did. He saw it in my eyes, and that’s when he and his friend started to beat me. They said if I talked they would expose me as a sodomite, and then the big one . . . He . . .”
Thomas held up his hand. He did not need the Tuscan to relive his horrific ordeal.
“And you think this man may have had something to do with the murder?” asked Thomas.
“I do.”
“How so?” entreated Thomas.
Tears rose in the Tuscan’s eyes. “Because he said, ‘Your boy will sing no more.’ ”
The doctor put a comforting hand on his patient’s shoulder as the tears rolled down his cheeks once more. His revelation was not proof, but it was a start. “Then I must go now and see that he is not released. The coroner needs to speak with him. What was he arrested for?” asked the doctor.
Moreno shook his bare head. “I do not know.”
Thomas handed his patient a small bottle of physick. “A draft for the pain,” he said. He knew there was no time to waste, so he quickly packed his bag. “Fear not, we will have you out of here soon,” he reassured Moreno before looking through the grille in the cell door to call for a turnkey. But he did not need to. One was standing outside, jangling his keys. Thomas heard one turn in the lock and stood back as the door opened. Yet instead of the jailer come to let him out, he was confronted by the sight of Rupert Marchant, accompanied by a clerk.
“Well, well,” said the lawyer. “If it isn’t our friend from the Colonies.”
Thomas bowed low, hiding the look of disdain on his face. “Mr. Marchant. What a surprise.”
“Likewise. Dr. Silkstone, isn’t it?” came the contemptuous reply.
There was an awkward pause. “I have been attending to Signor Moreno’s wounds,” Thomas explained.
“Wounds?” he queried disingenuously. “Oh dear, have his fellow inmates been unkind?”
Thomas tensed, but bit his tongue. “I am afraid so, but I have given him something to ease the pain.”
“Ah, good,” replied Marchant. “Then he will feel strong enough to hear the formal charge I am about to put to him.”
Thomas was bewildered.
“I am the prosecuting attorney in this case, Dr. Silkstone,” the lawyer explained. “And I am about to charge Signor Moreno with murder.”
The young doctor tried unsuccessfully to hide his shock. He replied politely: “Then I best leave you to your task,” and bowed once more. Another turnkey was waiting to escort him from the jail, but Thomas was not yet ready to leave.
“Take me to the other wing,” he ordered.
They walked out across the great expanse of courtyard that divided the richer prisoners from the poorer wretches. To Thomas’s relief it was empty. He had no wish to run the gamut of inmates, even if most of them were too sick or too starved to hit out. Once again he was led into the bowels of the stinking building and endured the insults and gobs of spittle that rained out of the grilles on his way until he reached the cell where Signor Moreno had been imprisoned. But of the other two inmates there was no sign.
“Where have these men gone?” asked Thomas of the turnkey, who was also looking bewildered.
“They were here not an hour ago,” he replied, scratching his lice-ridden head.
“I let them out,” said the head jailer, sidling up to them. He was an ugly man with a cruel mouth. “They was only in for stealing a shawl from a stiff down Spitalfields way, and this gent came with all the right papers and said they was to be let go.”
“A gentleman, you say?” repeated Thomas, not wholly familiar with rough speech.
“A clerk of the court, sir,” replied the jailer, adding: “Good riddance to them, I say. Caused nothing but trouble in ’ere.”

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