Free The Devil's Breath by Tessa Harris Page B

before they had. He could hear shouted commands in the distance and a child calling out. There was the clanking of metal on metal and the scraping of chairs being dragged along stone flags.
    From behind the closed door, they could hear a man’s voice. It was raised in frustration or annoyance rather than anger. A few seconds later the door was flung open by the man Thomas assumed was the workhouse master.
    “Lady Lydia Farrell, I believe?” He addressed her with a curious regard in his eye, as if he recognized her from somewhere.
    “Yes,” she replied. Any previous strength in her voice seemed to have deserted her at the sight of the thickset man with his wide neck and large head.
    “Come in, pray,” he beckoned.
    Thomas and Lydia followed him into the room that, with only one small window, was dingy yet pleasingly cool. The flighty woman remained outside.
    Lydia sat on a chair in front of a large desk. Thomas sat behind her. Both of them regarded the master like children about to be chastised. A great book lay open on the desk, its leaves edged in red.
    “So, Lady Lydia,” began the master brusquely, his wig perched precariously on top of his head. “You are looking for your son.”
    “Yes, sir, I am,” replied Lydia breathlessly. “Mistress Pargiter, the nurse, said that she sent him here.” Her hands were shaking with anticipation. “Just over three years ago,” she added.
    The master nodded and hooked his spectacles over his ears. Consulting the great book, he pointed to an entry. “Yes, on June 10, 1781,” he replied.
    Lydia leant forward. “Then he is here!” she exclaimed. In her excitement she reached for Thomas’s hand, but the master looked grave and shook his head.
    “I am afraid not, your ladyship,” he said, removing his spectacles.
    Lydia’s mouth trembled. “What? Then where is he? Please . . .”
    The master lifted his great shovel of a hand up in the air and Lydia bit her lip.
    “He was here, your ladyship, but he left almost two years ago.”
    “Then where did he go?” A note of panic entered her voice and Thomas squeezed her hand.
    Again the master consulted the ledger. “A gentleman by the name of Mr. Francis Crick took him.”
    Lydia looked askance. “Francis,” she repeated incredulously. It was a few weeks short of two years ago that her cousin had been hanged.
    “He said he was his uncle.” The master peered at Lydia over his spectacles. “He bore a remarkable resemblance to you, your ladyship,” he observed.
    “Indeed,” snapped Thomas, annoyed by the master’s tone of familiarity. “Did he leave a forwarding address?”
    The master peered at the ledger. “Boughton Hall.”
    Lydia’s slight shoulders slumped in disbelief.
    “But he is not at Boughton. So where is he?” she wailed. “Where is my son?” The revelation was too much for her and she began to sob, reaching for her handkerchief from her bag. Thomas put a comforting arm around her.
    “Thank you for your time, sir. But, as you can see, her ladyship is deeply upset. We must go.”
    The young doctor felt nausea rising in his own gullet. This was a terrible outcome to their visit. It rendered their whole journey futile and, worse still, it meant they would have to begin all over again in their search for Lydia’s lost son. For the time being, however, the most urgent need was to return to the Black Bear as soon as possible. Helping Lydia up, he guided her to the door, but just before the master showed him out, he recalled the stranger who, according to Mistress Pargiter, was on a similar mission.
    “Sir, one more thing,” said Thomas, pausing at the door. “Has someone else, a clerk perhaps, made inquiries regarding her ladyship’s son, too?”
    The master raised an eyebrow. For a moment he was caught off guard, but then he let out a hollow laugh.
    “Why no, sir. Whatever gave you that notion?”
    Thomas flashed a look at Lydia. He hoped she would not protest. Thankfully she did not. The young