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Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Chapter 31
O
n the morning of her carefully planned death, Lady Lydia Farrell rose to the chimes of St. Swithin’s church bells as they called the faithful to Sunday worship. The sound traveled across the fields from Brandwick and filled her with a sweet sadness. Would God forgive her for what she was about to do? Parsons and priests would say no, that she was about to take a life that was not hers to take. She had neither the strength nor the theological intellect to argue with them. All she knew was that the only way out of her indescribable torment was to end her own life in this world and pray that the Lord would look favorably on her sins in the next.
The stone jar sat on the top of her chest of drawers. A large tumbler was next to it, waiting to receive its liquid at the appointed hour. Lydia traced the cork and the neck of the jar with her slender fingers, then held up the empty glass to the light before setting it down again carefully. Next she took out her prayer book from a drawer. She was just about to open it when there was a knock on her door. She knew it would be Eliza, as it had been at the same time every day for the past week.
“Ma’am,” the maid called through the door. “I have left you a tray. Is there anything else I can get you?” Her mistress had not touched the cook’s offerings over the past few days, yet Eliza persisted in bringing the food in a vain hope that her ladyship’s spirits might be restored, if only slightly.
“No thank you, Eliza,” Lydia called. The maid sighed and turned to go back to the kitchen, but just as she did so, the door opened slightly. Lydia stood on the threshold, her face thin and wan.
“Thank you, Eliza,” she said, gazing intently at the girl. “You have been a good servant.”
Eliza appeared puzzled, but curtsied. “I hope I shall remain so, your ladyship,” she replied, walking forward toward Lydia, but the door was shut in her face again and the maid went back to the kitchen, even more concerned than before.
Returning to her prayer book, Lydia opened it at a psalm she had already marked. She sat down at the window and read:
There is no health in my flesh because of thy displeasure; neither is there any rest in my bones, by reason of my sin. For my wickednesses are gone over my head; and are like a sore burden, too heavy for me to bear. My wounds stink and are corrupt through my own foolishness. I am brought into so great trouble and misery; that I go mourning all the day long.
Such words brought her comfort in her hour of need. Her Maker was the only person she could turn to. Even Thomas, her true love, would never understand what she had done. He would reproach her, blame her, and despise her if he ever discovered what happened. She would take her secret with her to the grave. That way only one man would know the truth, and even if he did, out of his own malicious, twisted spite, tell Thomas all, then she would not be alive to feel the righteous recriminations that would follow.
Surely the next life would be better than this? She would be free from the burden of guilt that she had been carrying ’round with her for the past five years. Surely God in his goodness would not judge her too harshly. Turning to the prayer book once more, she read the final verse of the psalm:
Forsake me not, O Lord my God; be not thou far from me. Haste thee to help me; O Lord God of my salvation.
 
Thomas had wakened Lovelock before first light, unable to sleep because of his pain and his fears for Lydia. His anxiety had grown and multiplied like so many bacteria on a corpse.
“We cannot wait any longer. We must leave,” he had told the groom, rousing him from his bed.
By six o’clock they were on the road again, and by ten Thomas finally spotted the spire of the chapel at Boughton. The bells of St. Swithin’s were tolling the half hour as he dismounted and dragged himself, exhausted, up the steps of the hall.
Will had warned the household of his arrival, and Howard and Mistress Firebrace were there to greet him.
“Her ladyship remains in her room, sir,” said the butler, obviously relieved to see the doctor.
“I shall go to her immediately,” replied Thomas, clutching his medical bag.
All thoughts of his pain were banished as he strode up the stairs followed by the butler, the housekeeper, and Eliza, but as soon as he reached the landing he stopped dead in his tracks and doubled over.
“Get back, for God’s sake, get back,” he screamed, reaching for his kerchief and tying it over his nose and mouth. Running toward Lydia’s room, he found it locked, so he stood back, took a deep breath, and then shouldered the door with all his strength until it flew open.
Lydia was lying prostrate on the floor, her skin as pink as rose petals. Thomas felt for a pulse but could find none. He looked around. On the dresser he saw the stone jug on its side, its contents spilled onto the rug below. The poisonous vapor was already in the air. Lydia’s sleeve was soaked, too. He tore it off and flung it to the floor.
Howard appeared at the door, a scarf held over his face. “Help me get her out of here,” Thomas cried, lifting Lydia under her head and arms. The butler tied the scarf behind his head and took his mistress’s feet. They carried her to the landing and laid her down. Thomas shut the door as quickly as he could.
“Bring me blankets, sheets, anything to seal off this door,” he called down the stairs to the anxious servants who waited below. By now some of them were beginning to choke or experience shortness of breath.
“Open all the windows, and then leave the house. Leave now,” he called between coughs. He himself was choking, gasping for air. He threw a blanket up against the bedchamber door and lifted up Lydia in his arms, not knowing if she was alive or dead. All he knew was that he had to get her away from the deadly smell of cyanide before he could hope to save her.
Rushing downstairs with Lydia over his shoulder, he took her into the drawing room and laid her motionless on the sofa. The pink bloom of her skin told him that the poison had taken hold, invading her respiratory system, paralyzing her thoracic muscles. She was icy to the touch. Again he tried her pulse. Again he could not find one. Putting his ear to her breast he listened for her heartbeat. It was there, like a faint tapping on a drum, but that was all he needed to hear. He knelt down and parted her lips, opening her mouth with his deft fingers before taking a deep breath and placing his own lips on hers.
Howard and Mistress Firebrace watched anxiously from the doorway. When the housekeeper saw what Thomas was doing, she stifled a cry and looked away. The doctor took another gulp of air and once again blew into Lydia’s mouth. This time her body shuddered. Thomas repeated the procedure and Lydia stirred again. Now her breaths came in short, sharp pants. Her back arched and finally her eyes opened wide with terror. She turned her head toward Thomas, still struggling for air.
“Lydia, Lydia. You’re safe,” he told her, trying to steady her shuddering body, clasping her face in his hands. But she could not answer. Her cold hands reached for her throat. Her tongue protruded and a strangled cry came forth, but still she could not breathe. Her body lurched upward in one last gasp of desperation before she fell back down again, her eyes closed.
The doctor felt for her pulse. It was barely discernible. Holding her face in his hands, he slapped her cheek lightly, looking for a response; there was none. She was now unconscious again, or worse still, thought Thomas, she might even have fallen into a coma.
Chapter 32
W
ith the count’s encouragement, Charles returned to the cane shop as before. He smiled as instructed and was courteous enough if anyone spoke to him. His companion remained at his side throughout the day, exchanging pleasantries and generally charming the spectators, helping them feel that their half crown was well spent.
It was toward two o’clock, when Charles was feeling at a low ebb, that he spotted an unwelcome face in the queue. Bending almost double, he whispered in the count’s ear: “That man.” The dwarf followed Charles’s gaze. He knew instantly who he meant. “He is Hunter’s man.”
The count recognized the swarthy features and rough gait of the servant as he drew closer. “What can he want again?” he asked, puzzled.
Howison merely stared at the giant. Neither a word nor a gesture was forthcoming. He paused for three or four seconds, letting his gaze begin at Charles’s feet and travel upward to his head. He then moved on.
“How strange,” commented the little man.
“I like him not.” Charles scowled.
“Smile, dear friend, smile,” urged the count when he saw the giant’s brows knit in a frown. “These good people would much rather see a happy giant than a sad one!”
Charles tried to oblige his ally, but found it increasingly difficult and was glad when the last spectator of the day left. He walked toward the door with the count, but when he looked out of the window, much to his consternation, he saw Howison standing watching him, propped up against a tree on the opposite side of the street.
The giant cursed and shot back from the window.
“What is it, my friend?” asked the count.
“Hunter’s servant. He be here again.”
The count peered through the window. “I cannot see him.”
The giant peered cautiously, too. This time there was no one by the tree. “I swear he was there not a second ago,” he said, shaking his head.
The little man smiled. “You are tired, my friend. Let us go home.” He reached up and patted the giant on his thigh. It had been a long day for them both.
 
Thomas was sitting by Lydia’s bedside, watching her for any signs of consciousness. There were none. They had moved her into another bedchamber and opened the windows so that she breathed nothing but the purest air. They had covered her in the lightest sheets so that even the effort of inhaling and exhaling should have been made easier, but still there was no response.
Coma. It was a word that Thomas feared, but he believed Lydia had now fallen into one. The great Hippocrates had first coined the phrase. It meant “state of sleep.” It sounded so benign, but Thomas knew it was anything but. It was the condition of the body just before death. The cold, harsh truth was that Lydia was in a deep, deep sleep from which she might never awake. He had seen patients in such a situation as this before. Through his studies with Dr. Carruthers he had learned that there are different levels of consciousness. Normally the mind was alert, sharp, and quick to respond to various external stimuli, but when the brain became progressively less responsive it reached, at the lowest level of function, the state of coma. Like a watch that was wound up and working normally, the brain ticked along until some terrible trauma occurred and then the watch slowed down and almost stopped.
As he sat, keeping vigil over Lydia, Howard entered the room.
“How fares her ladyship, Dr. Silkstone?” he asked anxiously. He knew he spoke out of turn, but he felt he could talk to Thomas.
“She is stable now,” he replied.
“And she will live, sir?” He sought a reassurance that could not be given.
“We can but pray, Howard.”
The butler then took out of his pocket the letter that Lydia had written the previous day.
“Sir, you must see this,” he said, handing it to Thomas.
The doctor looked at him, puzzled.
“Her ladyship gave it to me yesterday to give to you, sir.”
“Thank you, Howard,” he said, opening the seal with a scalpel from his bag. “You may go.”
Perhaps here lay the answer to the nagging questions that were now plaguing him. His first and only thoughts had been for Lydia’s health. He had needed to stabilize her condition. He knew how she had arrived in this comatose state, but not why. The harsh reality of the situation appeared that she had tried to take her own life. He remembered the overturned stone jar full of laurel water and the glass next to it. It was the same laurel water containing cyanide that needed to be drunk in large quantities to kill a human. He had already proved that in Farrell’s court case. To him it seemed that she had been about to pour the poisonous liquid from the jar into the glass, but before she could drink it, the noxious vapors had overcome her. They were much more deadly than the poison itself. Did Lydia mean to take her own life, and if so, why? The young anatomist began to read the letter, and as he did so, a terrible feeling of bewildered despair began to engulf him. He had guessed that Sir Montagu was pressuring her to find a suitable match, but with whom was this “chance encounter” and “the instrument of my (her) torture for many years”? Thomas’s stomach lurched as he read the words “and I still bear the scars, both mental and physical, he inflicted.” Who on earth was this beast? Why had she not spoken of him before? They were to be married, yet she purposely withheld this terrible secret from him. He gazed at her as she lay there, deep in her own consciousness. Even in this comatose state, she was still so very beautiful. “Why, Lydia? Why did you not tell me?” he whispered.
He read the letter a second time. Whoever this monster was, she had seen him in London. This “chance encounter,” as she called it, had triggered her violent response, thought Thomas. He cast his mind back to the night of the concert. It was there that she must have seen this man. He remembered Lady Marchant and Giles Carrington. The only other person he could recall seeing was Dr. Hunter. He had no liking for the man. He was rough and rude, no matter how skilled he was in his art. Yet despite his ill-educated manner, the Scot struck him, in relation to the fairer sex at least, to be a man who would never dishonor a lady of rank. No, whoever this evil fiend was, his actions had driven his beloved Lydia to attempt suicide. That she had failed was by sheer luck, not judgment. And even now it was by no means certain that she would not succeed in her ultimate purpose. He had to discover the truth, no matter how awful, and he prayed to God that he would be able to hear it from Lydia’s own lips.
He looked toward the open windows and shivered. The drapes rustled in the cooling chill as night began to fall. Since his arrival at Boughton Hall, all his injuries, his bruised and battered ribs and his cut face, had been dissipated by his anxiety for Lydia. Now that he knew there was no more he could do to ease her suffering, his own pain seemed to return. He felt it gnawing into his abdomen like a dull ache, punctuated by stabs of pain every time he moved. It was growing dark and he craved sleep. It was approaching nine o’clock when downstairs Thomas heard voices. A few seconds later Sir Theodisius Pettigrew blustered in, his face red and agitated.
“Oh my Lord, Silkstone, what has befallen her?” he wailed, looking at the changed young woman who lay before him.
Thomas did not know how to frame his reply. He could not bring himself to tell the coroner about the letter; that Lydia had wanted to kill herself. He could not say that. He would not say that. “There was a terrible accident. Her ladyship was trying to dispose of some laurel water she found and mistakenly inhaled a large quantity of it,” he told him.
“Laurel water?” The coroner looked askance. The very mention of the poison triggered memories of the inquest and trial of Captain Farrell.
“The very same.” Thomas nodded, reading Sir Theodisius’s thoughts. “But she did not drink it. The vapors have done this. They can be more harmful than the poison itself,” he explained.
The corpulent coroner eased himself onto the edge of the bed. “How long will it be until she is restored?”
Thomas wished he knew. “I cannot say, sir. A day, a week, a month, a year . . .” His wan voice trailed off before he could bring himself to say “never.”
The color in Sir Theodisius’s face now drained away. “So what can we do, Dr. Silkstone?” he asked, his expression pleading with the young anatomist for some shred of hope.
Thomas could give none. “All we can do is wait,” he replied.

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