The Lazarus Curse (Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mystery)

by Harris, Tessa

  “I will start with an apology,” Welton began, dispensing the claret. “I am sorry you had to be dragged into all this wretched business, but you were our only hope. And now you are here, we must make huge demands of you as a fellow scientist and, I believe, as a man of great humanity.” He slid a full glass toward Thomas.

  “I am most eager to be enlightened,” he replied, anxious to be guided through this mystery that was about to be laid before him.

  “Like you, Dr. Silkstone, I was summoned to see Sir Joseph Banks at the Royal Society.” Welton was staring at the red liquid in the glass, like some Gypsy peers into a crystal ball. “He told me my mission was highly sensitive and was at the behest of some well-connected military personnel, although he did not mention any names.”

  Thomas arched a brow. Already his suspicions were aroused.

  Welton continued: “I was to go to Jamaica and seek out the ingredients for a potion that could, it was said, raise the dead.” Welton’s lips curled into a sneer. “Naturally I was skeptical. I thought it ridiculous, impossible. But Sir Joseph insisted that there were reports that the slaves’ magic men had knowledge of a plant that had this power. He told me the expedition was an opportunity for me to crown my career. It would be,” he said, momentarily searching for the phrase, “ ‘a very prestigious feather in my cap.’ ” He fingered the stem of his wine glass as he recalled what happened next. “I accepted the task and details were discussed, but it was soon after that I began to see what troubled waters lay before me.”

  “How so?” asked Thomas.

  Welton darted a look at Matthew Bartlett, as if he were about to embark on the telling of a revelation that would be new to him, too. He lowered his voice, like a man who suspects someone might be lurking in the shadows, listening to his account.

  “I was visited late at night by two gentlemen saying they were agents of His Majesty’s government. They wore Admiralty uniforms. They told me that the juice from the herb I was to seek out could be put to excellent use. It would provide, they said, the answer to the plantation revolts in the West Indies. If I could find out the formula for this obeah potion, then all slaves could be treated with it and kept under control.” Welton shook his head. “You see, when the victim is supposedly resurrected, then their mind is said to be altered, so that they obey all commands.”

  Thomas was listening fascinated to what Welton was telling him. It was just as he suspected. “They would diminish the slaves’ powers of thought, so that they would do their masters’ bidding without question,” he said, nodding his head.

  Welton gulped his wine, as if to give himself more courage. “But there is more, Silkstone. These agents also told me the formula could be used against Britain’s enemies, too. Captured soldiers would be made to drink this cursed potion and die, only to reawaken as slaves of their enemy. The French, they said, would be begging for mercy.”

  Thomas also sipped his wine, but anxiety soured it on his tongue. There were some Englishmen who would like to dose his fellow Americans, too.

  “How did you respond?”

  Welton looked resigned, his mouth drooping at the corners. “What could I say? I was being made privy to the realm’s secrets. If I betrayed them at this stage, then I could be accused of treason and locked in the Tower! I was in too deep to refuse.”

  “Did you go to Sir Joseph?”

  Welton shook his head. “He was not aware, I am convinced of it. These agents made me swear not to tell a living soul of the purpose of our mission, apart from . . .”

  Thomas tensed. “Yes?”

  “Hubert Izzard.”

  “I see,” said Thomas, nodding. “He was to accompany you on the trip?”

  “Yes, and he was to share in the secret.”

  “So what did you do next?”

  “I agonized. That night was my Gethsemane. I knew of Izzard’s reputation from his time in the West Indies; I knew of his sheer ruthlessness and cruelty. And I knew that he would jump at the chance to aggrandize his own worth. I had been trapped and I had to find a way out.”

  “So you hatched this elaborate plan?”

  Welton shunted his glass over to Bartlett, so that he could recharge it.

  “Yes. I managed to persuade Sir Joseph that Izzard was the wrong man for the job. I said his health was poor and I could not run the risk of taking him on the expedition.”

  “And you proposed your son-in-law in his stead?”

  “That is so, a decision I now regret,” he said, sipping more wine. “But I knew I could trust John. Bartlett here,” he said, throwing the young artist a nod, “had worked for me before and I knew I could rely on him, too.”

  “So you set sail, embarked on the expedition, then what happened, sir?” asked Thomas.

  Welton shook his head reflectively. “We saw hell, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied. “We sought out these demented obeah-men with the knowledge of this plant and we watched them ritually poison their victims. Women and children were murdered in front of our eyes and then supposedly resurrected before a huge crowd. When they reawakened, usually the next day, their whole demeanor was changed. They looked blank. They had lost the power of speech. They could only obey.”

  Thomas’s eyes were wide with amazement. “So what the agents said was true. This potion did have the power they said it did?”

  Again, Welton shook his head wearily. “Like most religions, obeah worked on the principle of coercion, Dr. Silkstone. Its creed was intimidation and its mantra obedience. The obeah priests whipped up mass hysteria. Their victims were not really dead, but their internal organs were slowed, so that it seemed they were. There was no magic antidote that woke them. It was the effect of the original poison wearing off that damaged the brain.”

  Thomas nodded. “Honey and vinegar,” he mumbled.

  “What?” said Welton.

  “I analyzed a phial of liquid that an obeah-man was passing off as an antidote in a tavern in London. I found it to be simply honey and vinegar, sir,” Thomas replied.

  Welton’s eyes suddenly sharpened and he smiled. “So now we even have proof that this whole expedition was based on a lie.” He patted Thomas’s arm as a sign of his gratitude.

  “But how did you fake your own death?” pressed the young doctor. “What about the return journey?”

  Welton smiled at Matthew Bartlett. “That was the easy part. My late son-in-law was able to pronounce me dead in Kingston and make all the arrangements for my burial. White men die in their hundreds out there. My death meant just another grave to dig. I laid low for a week or so, changed my identity, then boarded a ship for England. John sadly did not. He died, as you may be aware, the day the Elizabeth was due to return to London, ironically from the yellow fever.”

  Thomas switched his gaze to the young artist. “And Mr. Bartlett’s murder? I assume the customs officer was a stooge?”

  Welton’s shoulders lifted as he exhaled through his nose. “Yes. And the satchel in the Thames was obviously a decoy. The body, too.”

  “Whose body was it?” Thomas interrupted.

  “It is easy to obtain a corpse, Silkstone, when your associates are anatomists, as you surely know. He was an unfortunate, whose body ended up on the dissecting table.”

  “And you wanted it to be discovered?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “And you knew I would be called upon to conduct a postmortem ?”

  “Right again.” Welton gave a smug smile. “You are the only anatomist with the appropriate skills in the Westminster jurisdiction.”

  “But what about your notes? This mysterious journal that was supposed to contain the formula?” Thomas’s look flitted from one man to the other and back.

  Welton leaned back in his chair and, plunging his hand into his coat pocket, he brought out a leather-bound notebook. “I think you refer to this, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, putting the volume on the table and stroking it lovingly. “I call it The Book of Lazarus. I keep it with me at all times.”

  T
homas stared at it. It looked like so many other notebooks he had bought himself for a crown at stationers’ shops in London and Oxford, and yet John Perrick had died for this one. He touched it lightly, half expecting something to happen, he knew not what. He shook his head and frowned.

  “But there is no accursed Lazarus potion,” he said. “Why is this so precious?”

  Welton’s lips twitched out a smile. “Oh, but there is a Lazarus formula, Dr. Silkstone. The Solanum nigrum, the same plant that the obeah-man uses to poison, can also be used for good. It may not raise the dead, but it can make a patient appear dead so that they feel no pain, and are unaware of their suffering for a short period of time.”

  Suddenly it was as if Welton had lit a candle in the darkness. “So you would use the herb in surgery,” said Thomas. “For amputations, lithotomies, and the like?”

  Welton nodded and picked up the notebook. “Indeed, Silkstone. There is, in here, the basic formula for a strong sedative that causes insentience. It can be used to alleviate so much dread and fear and suffering in a patient. It will assist surgeons and reduce the risk of hemorrhage.”

  Thomas could not hide his delight at this possible breakthrough. “But this is, indeed, wonderful news, sir. So you are conducting experiments here?” He lifted his head and looked about the room once more. Welton rose from the table and walked over to one of the plant pots on a shelf near the window.

  “The branched calalue?” asked Thomas.

  Welton nodded. “It has similar properties to the mandrake root,” he said, fingering the leaves. Thomas recalled that mandrake was used in Pliny’s days as a relaxant, a piece of the root being given to the patient to chew before undergoing surgery. “Only I have found it to be much more effective. I have already used it on animals. I dosed a cat, cut it open, stitched it up, and within a day or two it was catching mice again!”

  Thomas had noticed a cat dozing by the fire when he first entered. He switched his gaze to it and Welton acknowledged him. “The very same,” he said.

  For once Thomas found it difficult to process the information he had just gleaned. That such encouraging breakthroughs could come out of such tragedy was a rare occurrence in his experience. He found himself both saddened and yet delighted by such an outcome.

  Welton returned to the table. “So now you know, Silkstone,” he said, seating himself once more.

  Thomas nodded and studied the doctor thoughtfully for a moment. It was only then that it occurred to him he had sentenced himself to living a lie. He was Dr. Frederick Welton, the brave doctor and explorer who had died in the service of his country. If he ever resurrected himself he would be vilified by the establishment. Any work he published would have to be under an alias, or through another collaborator. He had sacrificed his own career and reputation for a greater cause. Yet he was now free to pursue his own research. In some ways, mused Thomas, he had broken his bonds.

  “You can be sure your secret is safe with me, sir,” he said, looking Welton in the eye. “I shall not say a word, but I do look forward to the day when I can use the formula to anaesthetize my own patients before I operate on them.”

  Welton nodded. “So do I, Silkstone. So do I.”

  The three men drained the bottle between them as the afternoon light faded. It was the clatter of hooves that alerted them to the arrival of the ladies.

  “My wife and daughter have been visiting,” Welton said as he went to open the door. Turning to look out of the window, Thomas saw the two women whom he had last seen wearing widows’ weeds stepping down from the carriage.

  “My dears, we have a visitor,” Welton called to them as he stood in the doorway.

  Thomas watched them both look up and make their way over to the laboratory. As they came closer he could see their expressions tense, unsure as to who might be waiting for them.

  “A visitor?” he heard Henrietta say to her father. He knew that her subterfuge would make her wary of him. He wondered at her cunning.

  As soon as the two women saw Thomas, the anxious look on their faces tightened even further. Unsure as to how their deceit would be received, they remained guarded until Welton spoke.

  “Henrietta said you would come. Did you not?” he cried, a wide smile on his face. He watched his daughter walk toward Thomas.

  “I did indeed, Papa,” she said, her gaze fixed on the young doctor.

  The features that Thomas had last seen bleached by grief now seemed to be more colorful and softer. Mindful, however, that she had, indeed, suffered bereavement, Thomas bowed and smiled gently at her.

  “Your father has told me the whole story, Mistress Perrick. Your husband was, indeed, a brave man.”

  Acknowledging his words with a slight nod, she allowed herself a smile. “And you are a most tenacious one, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied. “Our confidence in your powers of deduction was not misplaced.”

  Thomas thought of Perrick’s letters, the satchel in the river, the corpse tethered to the pier, Welton’s portrait, the painting of West Wycombe; they were all clues designed to bring him to this very laboratory; all clues that led him to this new truth. Yet still he remained puzzled.

  “But why did you not tell me directly and be done with all this secrecy?” he asked.

  Welton gave a slight shrug. “With John’s death, I was forced to rethink my plans. He was vital in my scheme and I knew it would be hard to find someone to replace him. I had no idea whom we could trust. If we had told Sir Joseph of our proposals it would have placed him in an impossible position.”

  The situation was becoming clearer to Thomas. “So you put me to the test?”

  Welton paused for a second, unsure as to whether the anatomist’s tone was one of approbation. “I knew of your repute; of your intelligence and understanding: of your compassion, too. I feared the recent enmity between our two countries might also color your judgment, but in the end I was sure you would understand.” He paused, watching anxiously for Thomas’s reaction. “Perhaps I have been too presumptuous.” A sense of doubt had crept into the learned man’s words.

  Thomas did little to dispel it. He remained silent. He had been exploited. His own professional reputation had been put in jeopardy and yet he could not escape the sense that he was honored to be chosen. A stranger was entrusting him with a momentous secret because he knew of his reputation not only as an outstanding anatomist and surgeon, but also as a man of good character and sound judgment, a man of integrity. He nodded and a smile finally spread across his face.

  “I am glad I proved worthy of your trust, sir,” he replied.

  For the second time in as many days Sir Montagu Malthus summoned Dr. Felix Fairweather to his chamber. On this occasion they were not alone. Sir Montagu’s clerk, Gilbert Fothergill, was skulking at the desk by the window where his master was seated and, to the physician’s surprise, fully dressed.

  “But sir, you look much restored,” remarked Fairweather with a smile.

  Sir Montagu, who had not so much as looked up when the physician had been announced by the butler, merely shook his head. His eyes remained fixed on a document.

  “No thanks to you,” he muttered.

  Fairweather darted Fothergill a nervous glance. He did not wish to be humiliated in front of a clerk.

  “You wished to see me, sir,” he said, endeavoring to sound assured.

  “Indeed,” came the reply. “I have a job for you.”

  Unable to disguise his relief, Fairweather allowed his features to gather into a smile. It was, however, premature.

  “Come closer,” Sir Montagu beckoned. His tone sounded ominous and his hooked fingers drummed impatiently.

  With his heart working its way up to his mouth, Fairweather did as he was bid. He approached and followed the lawyer’s finger to the document that was on his desk.

  “Sign here, will you?” Sir Montagu commanded.

  Frowning, the physician peered at the paper, then taking out a pair of spectacles from his pocket, he read the text. After
a moment or two he straightened himself and snatched his glasses from his nose. Looking at Sir Montagu with an expression of complete horror, he protested: “But sir, this is . . .” His voice became lost in his own sense of outrage.

  “I know what it is, Fairweather. Now sign it.”

  Fothergill stepped forward with a pen.

  “Sign it,” insisted Sir Montagu, through clenched teeth, “or I shall see to it that you never practice medicine again.”

  Chapter 58

  Sir Montagu arrived unannounced at Boughton Hall with all his usual rich man’s bluster. And, as usual, the household was sent into a flurry.

  Lydia, checking her hair in a mirror held by Eliza, was fretful.

  “Is his lordship clean? What is he wearing?” She feared that Richard might be scrabbling about in the garden dirt or up a tree, although since Mr. Lupton’s departure, he had remained relatively subdued. No one had seen hide or hair of the estate manager and Lydia was none too pleased about his sudden disappearance.

  “His lordship is in his day clothes, but looks quite respectable,” answered the maid, trying to remain calm. She knew how these impromptu visits from Sir Montagu had put her mistress so ill at ease on a number of previous occasions.

  Taking a deep breath, Lydia walked to the front doors that were flung wide open in order to greet her guest. Her studied smile turned to a look of shock, however, when she saw that Sir Montagu was accompanied not just by Dr. Fairweather, but also by her errant estate manager, Nicholas Lupton.

  “Sir, you honor us with your presence,” she said, greeting Sir Montagu as he reached the top of the front steps. She wanted to say that he was not expected until later on in the week when Thomas would be there. She wanted to ask him what on earth Dr. Fairweather and Nicholas Lupton were doing in his company, but her good manners dictated otherwise.

  “And of course you know Dr. Fairweather and Mr. Lupton, my dear,” he said, flapping his long arm toward the two men who now stood beside him.