The Lazarus Curse (Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mystery)

by Harris, Tessa

  Jeremiah Taylor lay in bed upstairs, resting after his ordeal. He had not sustained any new physical injuries—Thomas had made sure of that—but mentally he was in a poor way. He remained in a state of high anxiety, despite the fact that he had downed a dose of laudanum. Fearing the return of his erstwhile master, he had begged not to be left alone, so Helen had been tasked to sit with him until the Christmas meal had been eaten.

  Thomas waited until Mistress Finesilver was out of the room to discuss Jeremiah’s predicament. She had made no secret of the fact that she disapproved of the slave’s presence in the household, and, it seemed, had betrayed him to his former master. How else would Dalrymple have known that he had given him refuge? He knew he would have to deal with her betrayal soon enough, but for the moment he was forced to rely on her service. Discretion was paramount.

  Dr. Carruthers banged his knife handle on the table. “You showed the varlets!” he cried approvingly, referring to the previous day’s escapade.

  “Indeed,” replied Thomas. “But my only fear is that next time they will succeed.”

  “You are thinking of moving the runaway?”

  Thomas nodded. “The only question is where. I do not believe he is safe in London. We need to find him somewhere well away from here.”

  “And I’ll wager I know where that place might be,” ventured Dr. Carruthers, smiling to himself. “I am sure he will be most welcome.”

  Dressed in his green brocade jacket and knitted silk breeches, the estate manager walked into the drawing room with a confident air. Sir Theodisius eyed him with great interest, following him as he bowed to Lydia, with all the self-assurance of a master.

  The young earl greeted Nicholas Lupton as if he were his long-lost father. Running to him with outstretched arms, he hugged his legs, nearly knocking him off balance.

  “Sir! Please mind yourself!” scolded Eliza, who had been tasked to keep the young earl under control. Lydia darted him a disapproving look, surprised by her son’s outburst of affection.

  Yet the smile did not leave Lupton’s lips. “And a happy Christmas to you, too, young sir!” he cried, rubbing his hands over the child’s mop of curls in a familiar manner.

  “Sir Theodisius and Lady Pettigrew, may I present to you Mr. Nicholas Lupton, Boughton’s estate manager,” said Lydia, her smile once more restored.

  Lupton gave a deep bow. “I am most honored,” he said, a wide grin planted firmly on his face.

  Lady Pettigrew flapped her fan girlishly, while Sir Theodisius fixed him with a quizzical glare.

  “Surely not one of the Yorkshire Luptons?” he asked.

  Lupton paused for a moment, as if caught unawares. “I do not believe so, sir,” he answered circumspectly.

  “Ah! Of course not!” he exclaimed, changing the subject. “It seems your services are in demand, sir,” he said, watching the young earl sidle up once more.

  “Can we play, Mr. Lupton? Can we play?” Richard was tugging at his frockcoat.

  “Richard, behave yourself, or Eliza will have to take you upstairs,” Lydia scolded, raising her voice and immediately hating herself for doing so. The child’s bottom lip began to tremble.

  Lupton threw back his blond head and laughed. “ ’Tis no matter, your ladyship,” he told her, holding out his hand to Richard. “I should be honored to play with my young master!” He bent low to address the child. “What’ll it be, sir? Charades? Hunt the slipper?”

  A state of high excitement pervaded the room for the next hour or so, as Mr. Lupton took on the role of master of ceremonies and suggested games and diversions to amuse and involve both young and those not so young. He even showed himself to be an excellent musician, when he sat at the fortepiano and played a medley of seasonal songs.

  Outside, night was closing in and Hannah entered the drawing room to close the blinds and mend the fire.

  “Is there anything you need, your ladyship?” she asked her mistress.

  Lydia was aware that the question was a leading one. It was the custom on Christmas Day for the servants to enjoy their own feast once all their other duties had been performed. They would gather ’round the large table to eat their roast joints and a goose and even a pheasant or two. There would be sweetmeats, too. And some of them would definitely wake up with sore heads the next morning. She would join them a little later.

  “We can take care of ourselves for the next hour or so,” she replied.

  Just as Hannah was about to take her leave, however, the front doorbell was rung loudly and insistently. Lydia, her face flushed by wine and the heat of the room, shot a glance first at Lupton, then at Sir Theodisius.

  “Who on earth could that be?” she asked, frowning, as the bell continued to ring.

  Lupton, still seated at the fortepiano, shrugged and smiled. “Wassailers from the village most like, m’lady,” he replied nonchalantly. “The maid will see to them,” he added, glancing at Hannah.

  The party settled back into its rhythm once more until less than a minute later, an anxious-looking Hannah reappeared at the doorway.

  “Begging pardon, your ladyship,” she began. “But there is a messenger needs to speak with you urgent.”

  The color drained instantly from Lydia’s cheeks. Nodding her head, she took a deep breath, as if steeling herself to receive bad news.

  “I will come,” she said.

  Lupton made to follow her, but she lifted her hand. “Please, Mr. Lupton. I shall go alone.”

  Standing in the hallway was a rider, his face purple with the cold, his arms hugging his body.

  “Get this man a hot drink,” Lydia instructed Hannah as soon as she saw the horseman shivering by the fireplace. “Well? You have a message?”

  The messenger bent double in a bow and when he rose she could see his stubble was flecked white with frost. No one would brave riding through the biting cold on Christmas Day unless their news was of the utmost importance.

  “You are Lady Lydia Farrell?”

  “I am,” replied Lydia, her back held straight as a die.

  “I am come from Banbury, from Draycott House,” said the messenger.

  Draycott was the home of Sir Montagu Malthus, a family friend, a formidable lawyer, and godfather to Lydia’s late brother. It was he who had made young Richard a ward of court, with the condition that Lydia and Thomas never marry.

  “Sir Montagu!” she cried. “What is wrong?”

  “I am sent by Mr. Fothergill,” began the messenger, his voice rasping. Lydia recalled the stooped little clerk, who had made her sign the legal documents presented by the court. “I am to tell you that Sir Montagu has taken gravely ill, your ladyship. You are to expect the worst.”

  Chapter 41

  The day after Christmas Day Thomas kept his appointment to check on Mistress Carfax’s progress. He was gladdened to see that she was sitting up in bed, her copper hair covered by a large cap, drinking thin gruel. She did not smile when she saw him enter the room.

  “I hope your pain has lessened, madam,” said Thomas, setting down his case.

  “I am feeling stronger,” she acknowledged. She slipped him an odd look, as if testing him. “Do you know what caused my upset, Dr. Silkstone?” she asked.

  Thomas reached for his case, turning his head away from hers. He did not want to betray himself with a look. “I daresay something you ate, Mistress Carfax,” he replied.

  “Or drank?”

  Away from her stare, he rolled his eyes. It was clear she suspected one of the slaves had been poisoning her.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, twitching his lips into a smile. “But you seem to be well on the road to recovery, and that is what matters.”

  Venus knocked and entered as Thomas set down another bottle of the antidote on the dressing table. From the look of his patient, the remedy seemed to be working well.

  “I have brought more physic,” he told Mistress Carfax. “You will need to take it for at least another week,” he instructed.

  “Ve
ry well,” she replied, nodding her head. “Venus will show you out.”

  The housekeeper led Thomas across the landing, but just as he was passing the staircase that led to the attic, he heard a terrible moaning sound. He stopped dead.

  “Phibbah?” he asked knowingly.

  Venus took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

  “I shall see her,” he said.

  Venus shook her head. “No, sir. The missa say . . .”

  Thomas fixed her with a stare. “Your mistress need not know,” he replied and he began to climb the stairs, the moans growing louder with each tread.

  In the garret room Thomas found the slave lying listless on a pallet on the rush-strewn floor, a filthy blanket covering her.

  “How long has she been like this?” he asked Venus, feeling the girl’s pulse.

  “She took bad last night, sir,” replied the housekeeper, standing at his side.

  At the sound of Thomas’s voice, Phibbah’s lids opened slowly, as if acknowledging his presence. “Are you in pain?” he asked gently.

  Her cracked lips mouthed a feeble reply. “Yes.”

  Thomas rose to face Venus. “She has vomited?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And she has belly cramps?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must keep her warm. Another blanket, perhaps,” suggested Thomas. “And see that she has small beer to drink.”

  Venus curtsied. “I shall do as you say, sir,” she replied.

  Thomas was puzzled. The girl’s symptoms were consistent with Mistress Carfax’s. It occurred to him, as he studied her pained face, that perhaps poison was not to blame for these mysterious bouts of illness. After all, she was the one he suspected of dosing her mistress with the deadly weed. Perhaps his diagnosis had been misguided, Thomas thought to himself. Perhaps there was some sort of ague, unknown to him, that was affecting the women. He found himself confused.

  “Inform me if her condition worsens,” he instructed Venus as he picked up his case. Just as he did so, he saw the corner of a piece of printed paper peeping out from under the sick girl’s pallet. He wondered why one who could not read might be secreting it. Snatching a look ’round, he saw Venus was distracted. Quickly he swept it up and dropped it into his bag.

  “Remember, call me if she grows worse,” he told Venus as he brushed past her and out of the room. He doubted very much that she would.

  As soon as she was sure Thomas had left the building, Venus returned to the garret to find Phibbah bleating faintly and lying doubled up on her side. Calmly she walked over to the girl and knelt down beside her. Looking into her face, she could see that her time was near. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes sunken. She touched her hand. It was as cold as the frosted windowpane. No extra blanket had been forthcoming. No water had wetted her lips.

  “I no die?” Phibbah’s voice was as brittle as a cane stalk.

  Venus stroked her forehead, as a mother would her drowsy child’s, then said: “She knows.”

  For a moment Phibbah’s moans were silent. “Who?” she asked, aware of the answer full well.

  “The missa knows you tried to kill her,” she said softly, lifting her hand and inspecting the slave’s long thumbnail. “You are very foolish, child.”

  Phibbah let out a feeble cry. “What she say?”

  Venus studied the girl as beads of sweat studded her brow, then tilted her head as if she were about to sing a lullaby to a sick child.

  “She say I got to kill you.”

  Chapter 42

  The carriage was returning Thomas home via White Hall, running parallel with the Thames. Blowing on the windowpane, the doctor’s hot breath melted a large patch of crystals big enough for him to view the river in all its chaotic splendor. For more than two weeks the Thames had held ships, both large and small, in its frozen grip. Not a brigantine nor a barque, not a lighter nor a launch had been able to dock or set sail. Marooned like beached whales, wherries and square riggers alike remained imprisoned, unable to move in or out of port.

  The Elizabeth would still be there, he told himself, probably laden with new cargo, but still held captive. Like his own investigation into Matthew Bartlett’s murder, time had frozen around it. If that was so, then perhaps some clues remained on board, too. It occurred to him that the dead artist’s belongings might still be in his cabin, unless his family, if indeed he had any, had claimed them.

  Leaning out of his carriage window, he instructed the driver to go over Westminster Bridge and to deliver him to Hope Wharf. As far as his eye could see, hundreds of masts stood like trees, some tall, some like broken stumps. The northerly wind was whistling downriver, jangling rigging ropes, playing them as if they were the strings of a giant’s harp. The music was strange and haunting.

  The weather did, however, offer some advantages. A new route had opened up to the few sailors that were retained. Now as well as being able to cross from shore to shore over the many ships that moored cheek by jowl across the river, they could maneuver their way over the river’s glassy surface. Sometimes they skated. Others built sledges that slid over the ice to transport small quantities of goods. Enterprising merchants had set up stalls to serve the new prisoners; hot gingerbread and roasted chestnuts were always popular. Such distractions helped dispel the frustration that the harsh weather brought in its wake.

  Thomas surveyed the scene for a few moments, watching men crawl up the masts like insects. Others scrubbed the decks, but on the quayside there was less activity. The watermen were idle, their small craft held in the jaws of the ice. Ships were full of cargo—bales of wool, kegs of beer, casks of wine—ready and loaded for their voyages to far-off climes, but prevented from leaving by the coldest winter in living memory.

  It was as he hoped. The Elizabeth was one such ship. He boarded her and found Captain McCoy poring over his charts in his cabin.

  “Ah, Silkstone, you bring news?” he said, walking forward with his hand extended. “I heard that a body was found. It is . . .” The captain’s tongue cleaved to his mouth.

  “It has been identified as Mr. Bartlett,” replied Thomas with a nod.

  “Och! ’Tis a shocking business,” said the captain, shaking his head. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Thomas sighed deeply. “That is what I am here to try and find out, Captain McCoy.”

  “So you are working for the Admiralty?” he asked, gesturing to a chair and seating himself at his desk.

  Thomas looked puzzled. “The Admiralty? Why should that be?”

  McCoy flapped his hands. “Two officers were here a couple of days ago. They said that the expedition was their business and claimed jurisdiction.” The captain seemed resigned. “I didn’t argue.”

  Thomas leaned forward as he recalled Sir Joseph’s warning to him to stay out of any investigation. “What did they want?” he asked.

  “They came for Mr. Bartlett’s personal effects,” replied the captain.

  Thomas bit his lip. They had beaten him to it. “And you gave them to them?”

  McCoy let out a laugh. “That was the thing, Dr. Silkstone. There was nothing to give.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the lad had was a small chest and it was empty.”

  “Empty?”

  “Aye. There was nothing in it at all,” replied the captain, both bushy brows raised. “No letters from home, no comb, not even a change of clothes.”

  Chapter 43

  Thomas sat at his desk in his laboratory. The notes made at his last postmortem were before him, splayed across the surface like giant playing cards. He had reread them at least a dozen times and each time they raised more questions than they answered.

  The household had long since retired, and the embers of his fire were dying down. Outside in the street, an occasional carriage swished by and the odd dog barked. Franklin the rat, always more energetic at night, had been let out of his cage and scuttled around the room.

  From his drawer Thomas took out a
clean sheet of paper and, dipping his quill into his inkpot, he began to write:

  The Principles of Investigating a Crime

  at Its Place of Discovery

  A corpse should always, if possible and practical, be left in situ until relevant authorities arrive. It should not be touched or interfered with in any way.

  All articles surrounding the corpse or found nearby are to be collected and used as possible evidence in the solving of the crime. These may include any type of material left at the scene, or the result of contact between two surfaces, such as shoes and the soil, or fibers on garments.

  The circumstances in which the corpse was discovered must be ascertained. These factors include the weather, the hour of the day, whether light or dark . . .

  Thomas paused, then resumed writing....

  whether, in the case of a corpse discovered in a

  dock, river or in the sea, if the tide was high or

  low on that occasion.

  He set down his quill and walked over to his bookshelf. Scanning the many volumes, his eye settled on the current almanac. He took it off the shelf and leafed through it until he came to the lunar calculations for the month of December. The headless body had been tied to the pier during a spring tide, when the full moon was approximately aligned with the sun and the earth, causing greater ebbs and flows than usual. Perhaps, thought Thomas, it was the murderer’s intention that the corpse be discovered sooner rather than later.

  Seating himself once more, he reread his notes. He studied his second point once more, then searched for Sir Stephen Gandy’s initial letter, commissioning him to carry out the postmortem. The corpse was tied to the pier. But with what? A length of rope, a chain? Such evidence was surely crucial to any investigation.