The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  The steward scanned it. “ ’Tis a list,” he said dismissively.

  “A list of clothing that, if worn, should reduce the chances of the men contracting the fog sickness,” reposted Lydia forcefully.

  Now Thomas stepped in. “The fog contains poisonous particles that are damaging their lungs. If they wear scarves over their mouths the effects of the gas should be reduced. Add to this a reduction in the time a man is allowed to work outside, and you should see fewer being affected.”

  Lawson was silent for a moment, as if digesting all he had just heard.

  “So do you think that will help allay the men’s fears?” pressed Lydia. “We will send to Oxford for enough new clothes and boots for everyone if we have to.”

  “It may certainly prove worth it, your ladyship,” he said finally, nodding his head approvingly.

  “Good,” said Lydia, clasping her hands together. “The men must know we have their welfare at heart.”

  Chapter 19

  Feeling distinctly ill at ease, the notary picked his way along Bedford Lane toward the Piazza in Covent Garden. Keeping his sweaty palm firmly on his purse, he threaded through an unsavory assortment of actors and musicians toward the Rose and Crown. In his lawyer’s garb he looked completely out of place among the painted Paphians and colorful minstrels who frequented the great Italianate square. This was where he had been informed by the old crone in St. Giles that he would find Agnes Appleton. Such information had naturally raised a great concern. If she worked as a serving wench—for what else could she do in a tavern? —then where was the boy? Did she take him with her? Perhaps he, too, worked at the inn, collecting tankards or sweeping the floor. Now, however, making his way past obvious bordellos and other such places of ill repute, another, more sickening thought occurred to him. He banished the very notion of it from his mind and quickened his step.

  Presently he came to the tavern, just off the main Piazza. The windows were low and grimy and he could not see inside. Just as he was about to dip down to negotiate the door, however, something, or more precisely someone, was jettisoned outside. Cussing and swearing, the inebriate picked himself up out of the open sewer and skulked off down the street. Such an incident confirmed his grave misgivings, but he feared there was worse to come.

  It took a while for his eyes to adjust to these new surroundings after the brilliant sunlight, but it took longer still for him to fully comprehend the squalor that surrounded him. Women in various states of undress were sprawling and draping themselves over virtually every male in the tavern. Some were straddling knees. Some were whispering. Some were kissing, but they all, without exception, stopped whatever libidinous act that occupied them to look at this strange little man in black who invaded their territory.

  Now that his eyes were accustomed to the light, he did not like what he saw. He soon gleaned from the lewd demeanor of the woman halfway upstairs leading a man by the crotch that this was no ordinary inn, and that upstairs the hospitality offered was of a sexual nature.

  The notary tried to compose himself and marched to the bar. The bawd greeted him with a wry smile, as if she knew his sort only too well: respectable on the outside and as rotten as a worm-eaten apple on the in.

  “What can we do for you, sir?”

  The little man’s chin jutted out in a show of superciliousness. “I am in search of a young woman,” he began.

  The bawd, a fat woman with a long scar on her cheek, chortled. “Then you’ve come to the right place!”

  The notary became annoyed. “A particular young woman, by the name of Agnes Appleton.”

  An eyebrow lifted and the bawd nodded. “Agnes!” she called. A moment later a girl emerged from a back room. She was, the notary estimated, in her early twenties, with a pleasant, open face and a comely figure. “Customer for you,” the woman said.

  The little man gave an indignant wiggle and his mouth pursed up. “I am not a customer. I merely wish to speak with Miss Appleton.”

  “That’s what all your sort say, with respect,” cackled the bawd, jerking her head toward the back. “Go in there,” she said, then added: “She’ll charge, mind, even if ’tis only a talk you want.” She emphasized the word “talk” as if it was a euphemism for a sexual act.

  Clearly unnerved by the situation, the notary followed the girl into the dingy back room. There was some sort of chaise longue up against a wall that was covered in a soiled sheet. The girl sat at one end and, seeing there were no other chairs in the room, the notary seated himself, as far away as possible, at the other. He cleared his throat.

  “You are Agnes Appleton?” She was fresh-faced, with only a trace of rouge on her smooth cheeks. He could see that she had a good set of teeth in her head, too.

  “Who wants to know, sir?” she replied warily.

  The little man took a deep breath. He was relieved at having found her, but troubled that there was no sign of the child. “It is not you I seek,” he told her candidly. “I am looking for a boy whom I believe was in your charge.”

  At this the girl’s expression changed. Her features tightened and she sucked in her cheeks.

  “Where is he?” asked the notary, an anxious chord in his voice.

  “I know of no boy,” she mumbled, her eyes wandering aimlessly around the room.

  The notary studied her in her awkwardness for a moment. He realized he would have to approach this cross-examination from another angle. Delving into his bag, he brought out a piece of paper on which was written her former address.

  “I have been to St. Giles,” he said. “I know he was with you there.”

  Agnes seemed flustered. “What’s he done? He’s a good boy.” Her pretty brow crumpled into a frown.

  So many riddles, so many questions, and still no answers. The notary rolled his eyes. “I am sent to discover the whereabouts of Richard Farrell,” he told her forthrightly. “Who you are, or what you do, are of no consequence to me. I know that Francis Crick gave you charge over the boy, so I am here to take him back to where he rightfully belongs.”

  The girl’s head began to shake. “The boy’s name was not Farrell, sir, but Crick. Richard Crick. He were Mr. Francis’s son.”

  The little man looked perplexed. He paused for a moment then realized that Francis Crick had not told his accomplice the whole truth. She had no idea that the boy in her charge was the son of Captain Michael and Lady Lydia Farrell. And why should he? For all she knew, the child was the result of an indiscretion on Crick’s part. It was, indeed, better that way for all concerned.

  “It matters not. All I need to know is where he is now,” he persisted in an irritable tone.

  The girl looked at him and sighed deeply, her ample bosom rising and falling with the effort. It was then that her eyes misted up and her mouth quivered. From her manner the notary gleaned that the boy was no longer with her.

  He lowered his face to meet her gaze. “He is not dead?” There was a hint of panic in his words. She shook her head in a way that told him the child was still alive, but not in good health, or worse. “You must tell me where he is, for his sake,” he urged.

  Agnes looked at him with doleful eyes. “He is in a terrible place,” she said slowly. “And ’tis all my doing.”

  “Where is he?” The notary found himself wanting to shake this sniveling wench, but he resisted the urge. “Where is he?” he repeated with growing impatience.

  Again she took a deep breath, as if trying to find some inner strength. “He is apprenticed to a chimney sweep,” she blurted, not daring to look up.

  The notary’s jaw parted in shock. “What?” He could not hide his disbelief.

  Now the girl’s head dropped low and she hid her face in her hands in shame. “The money was all gone, sir. I had no choice,” she cried. Her shoulders began to rise and fall in gentle sobs.

  “So you sold him?”

  “He were apprenticed,” she cried through her fingers.

  Exasperated the notary rose and began to pace the win
dowless room. “He is six years old!” he exclaimed. His mind flashed to an image of a pipe boy wedged up a chimney, barely able to breathe, scraping the soot off flues.

  The girl clamped her hands over her ears, as if to block out his harsh words. “Do you think I wanted to? I loved that boy like he was my own. I couldn’t keep him. We had nothing to eat. Nothing,” she screamed. “You don’t know what it’s like. Mr. Francis left us no money. We see’d him in jail and he said he would make it good for the boy, but there was nothing.”

  The notary paused as he recalled the landlady with her spotlessly clean house in Seymour Street and the sideways look she had given the ginger jar that surely concealed her ill-gotten gains.

  “We were in a good place and we had plenty to eat until . . . until they h-hanged him.” Agnes stumbled over her words. “We had to leave. The landlady said she didn’t want no scandal. Made us go. That’s when we went to St. Giles. The rats kept us awake at night and Master Rich would cry himself to sleep with hunger. That’s why I decided I’d give him up.”

  The anger that had welled up inside the notary a moment ago now subsided a little. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself once more. Self-control was always more effective with troublesome clients and it was what was required now, he told himself.

  “You have obviously been through a difficult time,” he observed, trying to remain dispassionate. “But where might this chimney sweep be?”

  The girl’s entire face had turned the color of her lightly rouged cheeks. She blinked and a single tear rolled down. “In Bermondsey,” she said. “His name is Mr. Faulks.”

  “Very well,” said the notary, rising from the chaise longue. He took out his purse and dropped a few coins onto the small table at her side. “Your pieces of silver,” he added, though he doubted she would understand the allusion.

  She looked up at him with eyes that did not hide her stricken conscience. “If you find him,” she said in a trembling voice, “if you find him, tell him I am sorry.”

  The notary grimaced as she started to sob once more. He turned his back on her and began to walk out, but before he had reached the door he heard the sound of the coins clattering to the floor. In her grief and her shame she had swept them off the table.

  Lady Thorndike did not take luncheon that day. Nor did she avail herself for dinner. She had left the house around noon, telling her maid she intended to go for a walk. She said that the mist was lifting and that she was sick of being indoors. Her maid had thought it most peculiar to go out on foot in the fog, but did not dare question her mistress’s decision.

  When her ladyship did not return to her bedchamber that evening, the maid had informed Sir Henry. He had not seemed unduly worried. There had been a row. Perhaps not a proper row; a row needs at least two protagonists. It was always one-sided with Julia, he mused. She had told him she could no longer stand being cooped up inside and was to meet with her lover, and that was an end to it. Just who this braggart was and where she went were none of his business. Accustomed to her infidelities, he went to bed and slept soundly.

  Chapter 20

  The following morning, as Thomas had hoped, the fog had lifted even more, although a mist, and the stench, still persisted. There were reports that all was clear just south of Oxford, so Lovelock made the carriage ready. Eliza had packed all the necessary baggage for a short sojourn in London and was to accompany her mistress. Lydia had told Thomas of Agnes’s employment and their search would begin at her last known address in Seymour Street.

  Dr. Carruthers could hardly contain his excitement when, twelve hours later, Thomas, Lydia, and Eliza arrived at Hollen Street. Their visit was unannounced and Mistress Finesilver was most vexed. It was after nine o’clock and, with no prior warning of the visit, nothing had been put in place. The housekeeper complained that she would have to make up beds that had not been slept in for at least two years and that, through no fault of her own, the mattresses would not be aired. Worse still, she only had a pie and some broth to offer her guests.

  Nevertheless, despite the odd acerbic comment from Mistress Finesilver, they were able to enjoy a passable dinner. Afterward, while Lydia retired upstairs to bed, Thomas remained in the drawing room with his mentor. He filled pipes for both of them and they sat in chairs on either side of an empty hearth.

  The old anatomist had heard reports of the great cloud in the newssheets and was fully aware of the havoc it was spreading. “So, I’m assuming you found a way of analyzing the nature of this fog,” said Dr. Carruthers, fingering the bowl of his pipe.

  “Indeed,” replied Thomas, adding wryly: “I was taught well.”

  “And?”

  “And it contains sulfur, both in acid form and in particles.”

  Carruthers drew on his pipe. “Interesting,” he said slowly. “But you do not know the source?”

  “No, sir, I do not, but I have a theory.” The idea had come to Thomas when he was in the library at Boughton, thumbing through the many volumes he had consulted in his search for a precedent for the noxious fog. He had uncovered an engraving of the destruction of Pompeii in Ancient Roman times and he recalled a similar story from his youth. He explained: “My father told me about a volcano north of my homeland that unleashed a cloud of poisonous gas. It killed many hundreds of native people in the area.”

  Dr. Carruthers exhaled and a cloud of smoke billowed from his mouth. “So you think a volcanic eruption has caused this calamity?”

  Thomas nodded. “At present that is my inclination.”

  “But how can you test this theory?”

  The exact same question had been puzzling Thomas for the past few days, but the answer had come to him as their carriage passed along Craven Street. It was there, in a modest town house, that his father’s dear friend Benjamin Franklin had resided while in London. Now living in Paris, where he was America’s first ambassador, Thomas knew that weather conditions were one of his many scientific interests. After all, he had produced treatises on meteorology and ocean currents. He drew heavily on his own pipe. “I shall write to Mr. Franklin,” he said.

  “Your compatriot?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Thomas. “He is bound to have some view on the matter.”

  No one noticed Agnes Appleton slip out of the bawd house that evening. There were too many customers downstairs to see her leaving by the back entrance, heading out into the balmy June night. The bell of St. Martin’s tolled ten o’clock. She did not look back.

  The air was full of raucous laughter and fiddle music trilling from the taverns. The audience was spilling out of the theater in Drury Lane, where they had just seen a performance by Mr. Garrick.

  She pulled her shawl over her head. She was not looking for custom. Instead, her eyes firmly fixed on the gutter, she made her way along the Strand and down Whitehall. A dray cart veered toward her and the driver cursed her for being in the way. A sedan chair swerved to avoid her. Someone tipped a bowl of greasy water onto the street. It narrowly missed her feet. She began to cry, but she kept on going. Up ahead she could hear drunken men; sailors singing snatches of shanties. They meandered along the path, shouting at her and making lewd gestures. She did not look up, but kept her head down. Not long now. She would soon be there, she told herself.

  Minutes later she had reached Westminster Bridge. Looking over the parapet she saw the moon reflected like a great silver coin in the choppy water. A cooling breeze blew along the river and made her shiver. A few passengers waited on the stairs below. A half-dozen ferry boats were crisscrossing the Thames, struggling against the turning tide. The rushing water lapped around the piers.

  From somewhere in the blackness a man’s voice called out. A bell struck the hour; she was not sure which. She did not care. A moment later a woman screamed. Then there came a heavy splash and the chill waters of the river closed over the girl’s head.

  Chapter 21

  The notary had spent a second night in London. His task was not proving as straightforward as he might
have hoped and now he found himself having to venture farther into the realms of unspeakable poverty and deprivation to which he was certainly unaccustomed. He had visited Faulks’s premises and been told he would find the proprietor and his boys at the dust yard toward the river. Rather than wait for him to return, he decided it was best not to prevaricate. He was fully aware that there could be an unpleasant scene and he wanted to see his business over and done with. The sooner he did, the sooner he could return to Oxfordshire.

  The first odd thing he noticed just before he reached the yard was the sight of gulls circling overhead. But these voracious birds were not after fish, as the notary soon discovered. They were attracted by catches of a much less romantic variety—of animal entrails and kitchen scrapings. They dived, picked, and soared overhead, clutching their prizes in their beaks, screeching gleefully as they did so. He was glad that he had invested in a fresh nosegay that morning and he held it under his nose and breathed in deeply.

  Piles of discarded rubbish shaped the landscape of the yard with hillocks and cones. As far as he could guess, it was an area of about two hundred feet wide and half as long and opened onto the Thames beyond. Flanking one side of the yard were a dozen or so upturned dustcarts.

  Women and girls crawled like ants on two or three of the mounds. Some of them sat holding sieves as large as the top of a small loo table, and were catching huge shovelfuls from a feeder. Others simply raked the rubbish with their bare hands. Some of them sang as they worked, their voices drowning the constant drone of the flies on the heaps.

  On the other side of the yard were more mounds. These were different in nature; gray and black and smooth. Even though there was hardly any breeze, as he approached fine ashes floated like snowflakes in the air. As he sniffed at his nosegay, he watched half a dozen men and boys emptying sacks onto the piles. They reminded him of black beetles on a dung heap. Gingerly, he picked his way over to them, zigzagging between potholes and pools of stagnant water.