The Anatomist's Apprentice

by Tessa Harris

  “Yes, my lady,” soothed the servant. “All will be well.”

  With the help of Eliza they managed to put the old woman to bed. She struggled a little before lapsing into a strange state, neither awake nor asleep. Thomas took her pulse. It raced like a hunted fox’s. “Has she been like this before?” asked Thomas of Lydia as she sat by her mother’s bedside.

  “Yes. Maybe half a dozen times.”

  “How long does the madness last?”

  “Three or four hours, sometimes more.” Lydia looked at the dowager as she lay staring at the ceiling, as if watching something up above, an unseen drama playing out only for her eyes. “What is it? What ails her?” She folded her mother’s cold hands under the linen sheets.

  Thomas looked at her and saw the same forlorn expression and the brown doelike eyes that had first appealed to him all those months ago. “I cannot say,” he answered.

  What he did not admit to Lydia, however, was that he had a very good idea.

  Chapter 53

  The library at Boughton Hall was not a large room, yet judicious planning meant that as many volumes could be packed into its four walls as in many another grander library. Lined from floor to ceiling with shelves that were filled with scores of musty tomes covered in the dust of neglect, the library was probably the least visited room in the house. Nevertheless Lydia’s father, the fifth earl, had by all accounts been a man of some erudition and had collected many volumes fitting for a man of his position.

  Scanning the long-untouched shelves Thomas observed the volumes that seemed to be the staple diet of every English gentleman’s library. There were the complete works of all the ancient philosophers, from Homer to Herodotus, together with the more contemporary volumes from those as diverse as Sir Thomas More and Thomas Hobbes. Moreover there were treatises from John Locke, the physician and philosopher oft quoted by his fellow countrymen in their struggle for independence.

  The young doctor was even pleasantly surprised to find such fine works as Dr. Lorenz Heister’s A General System of Surgery, together with William Hunter’s acclaimed The Anatomy of the Gravid Uterus. They gave him hope that he might find just what he was looking for. Sure enough, after twenty minutes or so, a book by the great Robert Hooke, whose work he greatly admired, leapt out from the shelves of obscure periodicals and journals on forestry and the preservation of game. In its yellowing leaves, Thomas discovered all he needed to know.

  Later that day Thomas sat behind the large desk at one end of the library as a bewildered Mistress Claddingbowl approached. On the desk sat a pannier, the sort used by Lydia and her mother to collect fruit and flowers from the kitchen garden. By the pannier was a large book, opened at a page of illustrations of various types of fungi.

  The cook curtsied nervously. “Good day, Mistress Claddingbowl,” greeted Thomas.

  “Good day, sir,” she replied, twisting her apron as if it were the dough she had left behind to prove in the kitchen.

  “Take a seat,” instructed the doctor, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the desk. She did so, at the same time eyeing the basket.

  “Are you familiar with these fungi, Mistress Claddingbowl?” asked Thomas. Before he came into the library, he had revisited the spot where Lady Crick had begun to hallucinate and had dropped the pannier. Carefully he had retrieved all the spilled mushrooms and fungi that had fallen. They now sat in the basket, a motley assortment of musty-smelling specimens. “These, here,” said Thomas, pointing to the four or five plump, sandy-colored mushrooms in the basket.

  The cook shook her head. “No, sir. I ain’t never seen them before,” she replied confidently. “Never.”

  She seemed so sure that Thomas felt there was no point in pressing her further. “Do you want me to cook them, sir?” she asked innocently. “I could fry them in a nice bit of butter and—”

  Thomas smiled. “Thank you. No, Mistress Claddingbowl. These are the very mushrooms that I fear have led to Lady Crick’s condition.”

  A horrified look darted across the cook’s flaccid face. “Oh no, sir. I ain’t never seen those sort before, but ...” She trailed off.

  “Yes?” urged Thomas.

  “But I did see that,” she said, pointing to a fungus with greenish yellow gills.

  Thomas looked at her uneasily. “You are sure?”

  Bending over the basket, she sniffed it, just as a dog would, then pulling herself upright she declared: “Withered roses. I’d know that smell anywhere, sir. Lady Crick asked me to cook some for his lordship’s breakfast one morning.”

  “Can you recall when that was?” Thomas pressed her.

  The cook sat back in her seat. “A week or so before he died, sir. I remember it because later that day he was taken real bad with the sickness and I wondered if it was the mushrooms what ailed him.”

  As soon as the fat cook had waddled out of the library, obviously feeling pleased about her revelations, Thomas began to turn the pages of the large book. Soon he came to a page headed “fungi found in woodlands.” The intricate illustration showed a pale cap with black streaks radiating outward. The caption confirmed his suspicions. It read: “Yellowish green cap. Found in beech woods in the autumn months.” Thomas looked in the pannier once more. There was no doubt about it. This fungus was an amanita phalloides, commonly called the death cap—the most poisonous fungus known to man.

  Chapter 54

  “What have you gleaned?” asked Lydia over dinner that evening. She noticed that Thomas seemed preoccupied, playing with the food on his plate and unwilling to engage in conversation. It was not until the servants had cleared away that he felt free to unburden himself.

  As they sat by the fire in the drawing room Thomas made known his innermost thoughts. “I believe I know how your brother died,” he said slowly.

  Lydia was silent for a moment, shocked by this sudden revelation. “You have discovered the murderer?”

  He shook his head. “Edward was not murdered,” he told her plainly.

  Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Thomas looked at her directly. “His death was an accident,” he said.

  “An accident?” repeated Lydia incredulously. “How so?”

  All evening Thomas had been wondering how to couch his revelation in a way that did not apportion blame. It would not be easy. “I believe your brother ate some deadly mushrooms, given him in error.”

  Lydia looked at him in stunned silence. Thomas could almost see her mind at work, then, in her shock, she mouthed the word: “Mama.”

  Thomas nodded. “I am afraid she mistook a death cap for an edible mushroom and Edward breakfasted on it.”

  Lydia thought for a moment. “ ’Tis true. He was very nauseous and pale and suffered cruelly with the cramps, but that was a full fortnight before he died.”

  Thomas nodded. What he had ascertained that afternoon in the library was that the poison of the death cap took effect up to two days after ingestion, causing vomiting and diarrhea, a terrible thirst, and a haggard appearance in its victims.

  “Afterward, a recovery seems to take place and the victim grows in strength,” he explained.

  “Yes,” agreed Lydia. “Edward seemed fully restored.”

  “But the death cap is a great deceiver and although your brother may have felt well, his liver and other organs would have been damaged beyond repair.

  “It can be another ten days before the victim is suddenly struck down again to die in unspeakable agony,” said Thomas with a convincing finality.

  Lydia was silent for a while. “My mother must know nothing of this,” she said emphatically.

  Thomas nodded, but he also knew he must now reveal Lady Crick’s mystery ailment. “I have also discovered the reason for her strange behavior,” he said. Delving into his pocket he brought out a small mushroom and held it up to the light. “I believe this is the cause of her hallucinations. I saw her pick them in the woods.”

  Lydia’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Thomas saw that t
he simple truth was as difficult for her to grasp as it had been for him to discover.

  “I cannot find words,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “You do not have to,” said Thomas comfortingly. He held out his hand and she took it, but said nothing. Both of them knew that silence was the price they had to pay.

  Thomas went to Lydia’s room not as a physician but as a lover that night. Not a word was spoken as Lydia pulled back the sheets and he slid into bed beside her. At first they simply held each other, luxuriating in each other’s arms; then, unable to hold back any longer, Thomas began to kiss her chestnut hair before he found her willing lips.

  “I have waited so long for this moment,” he whispered. This time he could see no sadness in her eyes, as he had so often before. “I want to make you happy.”

  “We shall be happy, my love,” she replied, cupping his face in her small hands. Her gesture was one of such sweet tenderness that he felt his heart would break with joy. He kissed her lips once more and again and again and with each kiss their mutual desire became more urgent.

  A knock at the door broke the moment. “My lady. My lady,” came an anxious voice. It was Eliza. “Lady Crick is unwell,” she called.

  Lydia covered herself instinctively and rose from the bed. “I shall come,” she said.

  Eliza had been charged with keeping watch over the old woman during the night. It was now just past midnight.

  Thomas rose, too, and pulled Lydia toward him for one more kiss before the facade was put firmly in place once more in front of the servants.

  “I shall come shortly,” he told her.

  Moments later he arrived to find the old woman retching into a bowl.

  “How long has this been going on?” he asked Eliza.

  “About twenty minutes, sir,” came the reply. “This be the second bowl.”

  Thomas glanced down at a pail beside the bed. It was half full of cream-colored vomit that reeked of acid. Now the dowager was retching up green bile, voiding her stomach of all its contents.

  Eliza stood by the dowager, dabbing her clammy forehead with a damp cloth, while Lydia simply looked on in dismay. She had tried to hold her mother’s hand, but the old woman was so agitated and confused that she had repulsed her.

  “Mama, ’tis Lydia,” she cried wanly. But there was no recognition in the agonized look that was returned.

  “Are the mushrooms the cause of this?” asked Lydia.

  “ ’Tis difficult to say,” replied Thomas, taking the dowager’s pulse. “If they are, their effects should wear off in a few hours and she should be restored by tomorrow.” He gave Lydia a reassuring smile.

  But Lady Crick’s agonies continued into the night. She became doubled with the cramps and her bowels emptied themselves in a continuous stream, so that Eliza had to bring towels to cover the mattress. The stench became almost unbearable and all the casements had to be opened wide.

  When Thomas examined the dowager’s abdomen he found it completely rigid. Défense musculaire, he believed the French called it. He could have bounced a farthing off it. The slightest pressure from his hand caused the old woman to let out a cry, raising her skeletal hand in a forlorn effort to ward him off.

  As the night wore on, Thomas grew increasingly concerned about her condition until, just before three o’clock, there was a sudden change in the old woman’s demeanor. Color began to return to her ashen cheeks and her fever seemed to subside. Her labored breathing became softer, easier, and the eyelids that had been clenched tight in agony now opened, fluttered gently, and then closed in a sublime rest.

  Lydia, who had been sitting anxiously outside at Thomas’s request, entered the room when she heard the noise had died down. She feared the worst, but Thomas reassured her.

  “The pain seems to have eased. We must let her sleep now,” he urged.

  “I will stay here with her.”

  “But you need to rest.”

  “I cannot,” she replied. “I will call you if she wakes.”

  Knowing it was useless to try and persuade Lydia to take to her bed, Thomas nodded and smiled. He found himself utterly exhausted and was grateful for the promise of rest.

  Chapter 55

  As the young doctor had predicted, Lady Crick was indeed over the worst. In fact, later on the following day, she was sitting up in bed taking broth and on the third day she ventured to walk around the room, albeit on Lydia’s arm.

  “Your mother makes excellent progress,” noted Thomas as he and Lydia watched the old lady walk around her bed unaided two days later.

  Lydia smiled. “Yes. She talks of going out into the garden tomorrow.”

  “That is good news,” said Thomas, but Lydia could tell there was a certain distance in his voice.

  “What is it, Thomas?” she asked.

  She was aware from his pained expression that he had bad news to impart. “Your mother’s recovery means I have no reason to stay here at Boughton Hall,” he told her. “I’m afraid I must return to London.”

  Lydia looked at him with large, sad eyes. “I dread that day,” she said softly.

  “You know I do, too, but there is no other way,” countered Thomas. “You have your mother and I have my work. For the time being we cannot be together. But perhaps later... .” His voice trailed off.

  “I pray God it will be so,” replied Lydia.

  For the remaining few nights Thomas shared Lydia’s bed, creeping into her room at night, then leaving with the first rays. For the first time in his life he felt truly happy, but they both knew it was a happiness that needed to be interrupted, for a short while at least.

  On the morning of October 11, 1781, Thomas made ready to leave Boughton Hall for what he envisaged would be the next few months, or at least until the spring had thawed out treacherous roads and banished icy puddles.

  He hated protracted farewells, so he had decided to leave early so as not to prolong the sadness of his departure. He kissed Lydia on her forehead as she slept and it was only young Will who was on hand to see him leave Boughton Hall for what he assumed was a very long time.

  “We shall miss you, sir,” said the youngster, helping Thomas into the saddle of a chestnut mare.

  “And I you, Will,” replied the doctor, “but I shall return as soon as I am able.” And with that he pulled on the reins and began the journey to Oxford to catch a coach.

  As he rode down the drive on that chill autumn morning, Thomas felt a great sense of sadness and of loss. The thought of not seeing Lydia for another four or five months was difficult to bear. They would write, but cold parchment was no substitute for the touch of her hand or the warmth of her smile.

  He had just rounded the great sweeping drive, lined by the golden-leaved chestnuts and deep green laurels, when something made him glance up toward the pavilion where Captain Michael Farrell lay buried. Perhaps an inner voice was telling him to bid the captain a final farewell, but as he looked up toward the brow of the hill, to his surprise, he saw a figure standing, looking out at the vista.

  As he drew nearer he could make out that it was a woman. Straining his eyes, he suddenly realized it was Lady Crick. Urging his horse to canter up the steep incline, he soon arrived at the pavilion. A ghostly blanket of early morning mist shrouded the valley below.

  Hearing the sound of hooves behind her, the old woman, dressed in a crimson shawl and a lace cap, turned and smiled calmly when she saw the young doctor.

  “You are leaving us, Dr. Silkstone,” she said. It seemed to be an observation rather than a question.

  “Regrettably I must,” said Thomas. “But it is good to see you so restored before I go.”

  The dowager let out a strange laugh. “Do not be fooled, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied enigmatically.

  Thomas frowned, uncertain as to what she meant by these cryptic words. “I am afraid I do not follow.”

  Lady Crick turned to look at him. Her face seemed oddly contorted and Thomas noted her skin had a strange yell
owish hue. “It was a year ago last week that my son died,” she said.

  Thomas nodded. “Yes, Lady Lydia told me.”

  “And by this time next week I will have joined him,” she added.

  Thomas was uncertain as to how he should respond to this curious statement. “How so, my lady?” he asked, thinking that perhaps the full effects of the hallucinogenic mushrooms had not worn off.

  Now, as she looked at him directly, the New Englander noted the old woman’s pupils were fully dilated and her countenance strangely altered. “I picked two death caps the day you followed me into the woods, Dr. Silkstone,” she smiled.

  Thomas gazed at the aged widow in silent amazement, trying to comprehend the enormity of her statement. She studied his face as he computed her words and watched as the horror spread across his features.

  “Yes, Dr. Silkstone. I will die within the next few days.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I have failed.”

  “In what way?” Thomas needed to make sense of the momentous news he had just received.

  The dowager raised her head to take in the vista of the rolling hills that stretched before them in a patchwork of earthy colors.

  “Edward was not fit to have all this,” she began. “You saw the sort of women who kept him company. His dear father would have turned in his grave to see how his only son behaved.”

  “So, you killed him to let Captain Farrell inherit the estate?” asked Thomas. But the dowager simply smiled and shrugged her narrow shoulders.

  “Good God, no. The Irishman was a wastrel, too. Not much better than Edward. He stole my Lydia’s heart and repaid her with his gambling and womanizing.”

  Thomas thought for a moment, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. It suddenly dawned on him what the old dowager had planned from the beginning. He stared at her in disbelief, unable to find any words to express his utter shock. The woman who stood before him mockingly had played the part of a senile old widow to a fault, gaining sympathy from all who encountered her. Yet all the time she was watching and waiting, manipulating events in the cruelest and most vile ways. She had planned her own son’s death with all the cunning and guile of the devil himself.