The Lazarus Curse

by Tessa Harris

As the clerk pushed his glasses back up his nose, Thomas noticed it was suddenly shiny with perspiration. “It is obviously a matter for a higher authority,” he said, his tone hardening.

  “Then I would speak to a higher authority,” said Thomas, trying to suppress his rising anger.

  The clerk raised his voice. “That is not possible, sir,” he said, snapping his fingers. Two uniformed officers were quickly at his side. “I would ask you to leave now, sir,” he barked.

  The doctor shifted his look to the two officers standing nearby. He did not wish to cause a scene. At least he had uncovered some information about Mr. Bartlett’s disappearance. At least now he knew that someone very influential wanted no further investigation to be undertaken by unauthorized persons. And that included himself.

  “Very well,” he said, outwardly conceding defeat. “I thank you for your time. Good day to you, sirs.” Raising his hat to the clerk and the officers, he walked out of the Customs House. Now he was even more determined to find out what had really happened to Matthew Bartlett and the precious journal.

  The wherry fought against an icy wind that blew up the river. The waterman tied up the boat at the King’s Stairs and Thomas alighted within sight of the Elizabeth, her prow looming over all the other smaller craft at the wharf. The quayside was busy, but with the encroaching darkness, stalls were closing, warehouse doors were being pulled to, and shutters were coming down, just as they would have done five days ago.

  Deciding to retrace Matthew Bartlett’s reported journey with the customs official, Thomas began with a cheerful old waterman who was stationed at the pier by the Elizabeth. Pushing back his hat, the old man scratched his forehead with his thumb in thought.

  “I see’d him, as I recall,” he croaked at the sight of Thomas’s sixpence. “He was with a customs man, carrying a box.”

  “A box, you say?” It was the first time Thomas had heard mention of any box.

  “Aye. A small crate.” But that was all he could say. “I ain’t see’d where they went, sir,” he replied meekly when pressed.

  Thomas walked on. The shadows were already so long, and his mind so agitated, that he did not see a woman standing at the corner until she shouted at him.

  “ ’Evening, my dear,” she called as she rearranged her bodice. A sailor moved away, still lacing his breeches.

  Normally he would have ignored her and she may have either cursed him or blown him a kiss, but on this occasion he stopped in his tracks and doubled back. She was a pretty enough wench, somewhere twixt a girl and a fully grown woman.

  “You up for it?” she said with a giggle, giving a provocative shimmy as she spoke.

  Thomas smiled benignly at her and walked a few steps closer.

  “My, but you’re a handsome one,” she remarked with a wink as the streetlamp lighted his features. “Just sixpence to you, my pretty.”

  Drawing up beside her, he smelled the strong liquor on her breath. “Are you here at the same time every day, miss?” he asked.

  No one ever called her miss these days; baggage, bunter, slag, whore, or jade, but never miss. Her world-weary eyes opened wide with glee.

  “That I am, dearie, regular as clockwork. That’s why the cullies have named me Constance.” She winked at him. “If you come regular you can call me Connie!” She nudged him, but despite his smile, he knew he was about to dash her hopes of frequent custom.

  “On Monday last, about this time of day, did you see a young man carrying a box walk this way with a customs officer?”

  The girl’s red lips drooped at the realization he was not a punter, then, after a moment, she said, “Come to think of it, I did, but they seemed to have other things on their minds.”

  “Were they arguing? Did there seem to be a problem?” persisted Thomas.

  The woman shook her head. “No. Didn’t say a word,” she reflected, adjusting her corset.

  “Did you see where they went?”

  She threw him a saucy smile. “Off that way.” With her right hand she pointed toward the lanterns of the main thoroughfare, beyond a line of dilapidated warehouses. She upturned the palm of the same hand and winked at Thomas once more.

  “Worth a sixpence?” she asked. He gave her a shilling.

  Returning to Hollen Street later that afternoon, Thomas found Dr. Carruthers dozing by a sickly fire in the study, a spool of saliva dribbling from the corner of his open mouth. He woke with a start.

  “Thomas? Is that you?” he rasped.

  “Have no fear, sir,” calmed the doctor, laying a hand on his mentor’s shoulder.

  Seeing the state of the fire Thomas took charge of the poker and began jabbing the dying embers.

  “Shall you read me today’s newspaper?” Carruthers asked him.

  “I most certainly will,” replied Thomas, settling himself by the fire opposite. It had been his custom ever since the old anatomist had lost his sight.

  “I’ll wager you’ll be looking for a report on the Jamaica expedition,” ventured Carruthers, as Thomas perused the newssheet. William Carruthers may have been well into his eighth decade, but he was still as sharp as the scalpel he used to wield with such precision.

  “It made the front page,” Thomas replied, scanning the report. “The deaths have been announced of Dr. Frederick Welton and Dr. John Perrick, who were engaged by the Royal Society on a scientific expedition to Jamaica. Both succumbed to the yellow fever and died before returning home.”

  “No mention of Mr. Bartlett!” barked Dr. Carruthers, almost indignantly. Thomas looked up. The tone of the article sounded very official. He could imagine Sir Joseph Banks dictating the statement to an official reporter in his lofty office. He was wise to make no mention of the missing artist. A whiff of scandal would damage the Royal Society.

  “Poor old Welton. He was a good man,” mumbled Carruthers.

  “What about Perrick? Do you know anything of him, sir?” asked Thomas reflectively.

  The old anatomist thought for a moment. “Welton’s son-in-law, I believe,” he declared. “Rather after my time. Why do you ask?”

  Thomas, who had only just sat down, rose once more. “Because I am going to pay my respects to their widows,” he said emphatically. “Perhaps they can help me shed light on Mr. Bartlett’s whereabouts.”

  Carruthers shrugged and nodded as he contemplated the proposition.

  “Good luck,” he shouted as he heard the study door shut.

  Chapter 19

  The Welton household was in mourning not just for its head, but also for a second member, Dr. John Perrick. Both he and Dr. Welton had lived under the same roof, Perrick having married Welton’s only child, Henrietta, two years previously.

  The townhouse was a short walk away and Thomas was greeted courteously enough. Shown upstairs into the drawing room, he was asked to wait until the maid had inquired whether her mistress would receive him.

  Left alone, Thomas marvelled at a collection of fabulous exotic birds in glass cases. Perched on branches, some had their beaks open as in mid-song, others posed with their heads cocked. They were so lifelike he could imagine them taking flight at the slightest sound.

  There were several paintings, too. A particularly striking portrait, Thomas assumed of Dr. Welton, took pride of place over the mantelshelf. In it the late doctor stood tall and regal and his hands rested on a globe. His eyes were a striking blue that lent him an intensity of gaze, and his expression was sage, yet benign.

  Nearby another painting caught Thomas’s eye. The familiar golden dome of the church at West Wycombe leapt out at him from a small gilded frame. Memories of the fateful day in the caves, and up St. Lawrence’s tower that looked over the village, came flooding back and he wondered what significance, if any, the landmark held for the family. He was musing on the picture when he heard the door creak open. Turning ’round, he saw two women enter, one in her later years, the other much younger. Both were dressed soberly in black.

  “Dr. Silkstone,” the older one addresse
d him.

  “Mistress Welton,” he replied, bowing low.

  “This is my daughter, Mistress Perrick,” she said, gesturing to the younger woman at her side. Thomas gave another bow.

  “Madam, I am come to offer my condolences,” said Thomas, as Mistress Welton pointed at the sofa. She and her daughter sat opposite.

  “We thank you, sir,” said the older woman, her face bleached of all color by her intense grief. “My husband would be most heartened to know that his work is now in your hands.”

  Thomas felt a little awkward. “Although I only knew your husband by reputation, Sir Joseph Banks spoke most highly of him.” Looking at the young widow, he corrected himself: “Of both of them,” he said reverentially. “They will both be sorely missed,” he added.

  The women nodded their heads simultaneously. A respectful pause followed before Thomas resumed his mission.

  “As you know, I have been tasked by the Royal Society to record and catalogue all the expedition’s collections,” he told them.

  “A great honor,” interjected Mistress Perrick. Her voice was refined but self-assured in tone. She was probably of a similar age to himself, Thomas estimated.

  “Indeed, yes,” replied Thomas. “But a challenging one, made all the more difficult by the fact that Dr. Welton’s journal seems to have been mislaid.” He did not wish to alarm the ladies with the truth.

  As it was Mistress Welton seemed sufficiently perturbed. “Mislaid? But my husband was always most meticulous with his writings. He will have entrusted them to someone when he knew”—she broke off, biting her lip—“when he knew he was dying.”

  Mistress Perrick put a comforting hand on her mother’s lap. “I am sure they will be recovered soon, Mamma,” she soothed. Then, switching her gaze to Thomas, she adopted a sterner tone. “We thank you for your visit, Dr. Silkstone, and wish you well with your work, but as you can see, we are in mourning.” She pulled the servant’s bell. “We shall see you at the memorial service, perhaps?”

  Thomas recalled the invitation had arrived the day before.

  “Indeed you shall,” he said, rising. He understood that he was being dismissed, albeit in a courteous way.

  “I am most grateful for your good wishes, ladies. My sympathies once more,” he said, as the maid appeared to show him to the door. He left feeling none the wiser.

  Chapter 20

  The sound of the key scraping in the lock left Phibbah a prisoner once more. As she sat in the corner of the attic room, a single candle her only comfort, the wind whistled in through the rotting casement. She hugged herself tight, rubbing her own arms to stop her blood from freezing. Again she found herself isolated from the rest of the slaves for a minor misdemeanor. She had been tardy to take out the slops and this was her punishment, yet another evening alone with the cockroaches and her own brooding thoughts.

  Now and again a gale of laughter would tear through the house and rise up the narrow stairway. The Carfaxes were entertaining some of their slaver friends, feasting and quaffing while her own belly was sunken and empty. There would be suckling pig and roast goose and fancy sweetmeats and tarts filled with frangipane. There would be French wine and brandy and rum, while all she had eaten all day was a crust of bread and some dripping.

  She crossed her arms over her chest in an embrace, letting her fingers feel the strange landscape of her back. The shafts of her ribs and the scabs made by the lash rose like long ridges beneath her scarred skin. She could not wait any longer. She must not. Now was the right time. Sliding over to the far end of the room, she prized up a loose floorboard and delved deep. Groping around in the space below for a few seconds, she smiled to herself as she retrieved the small bag—her obeah bag.

  The rest of the slaves were downstairs in the scullery, but Mr. Roberts had ordered her to stay in the freezing attic. Although he had locked her in, Patience had slipped the key under the door. Slowly and carefully she opened it and, with the candle in one hand and the bag in the other, she began her silent descent down the service stairs to Mistress Carfax’s bedchamber.

  Samuel Carfax was in fine fettle. His face was reddened by rum and his tongue loosened by it. Although his arm was still bandaged, the discomfort he had experienced had almost completely disappeared. Besides, any pain that he had suffered was more than compensated for by the regaling of his extraordinary tale. The telling of it made excellent dinner party conversation, although some of the ladies present found it a little vulgar.

  Mistress Cotter, wife of the slaver Benjamin Cotter, pulled a disapproving face as Carfax described how Dr. Silkstone had grabbed the head of the grub with his pincers. Mistress Dalrymple had also tut-tutted when he related how the pus had seeped from a crater in his arm. His wife noticed her guest push away her dish of figs in disgust.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Carfax, you should leave this conversation for your port and cigars,” she upbraided her husband, in an effort to save her own face as much as his. She turned to her female guests. “The weather is so inclement at the moment ’twill kill more than insects, I fear.”

  Hearing her hostess’s comment, Mistress Cotter chimed in. “ ’Tis killing our slaves, more’s the pity. We lost one last week and another the week before to distemper. Not to mention one in childbirth.”

  Carfax nodded. “We had a boy die of fever only a couple of days ago, too. ’Tis a costly business. I’ll leave them in Jamaica next time I come to London.” He fingered his tumbler, then emptied his glass of rum.

  Dalrymple let out a snort. “ ’Tis strange how they die in their dozens in Jamaica and yet here when they drop we notice them,” he observed wryly, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

  Cotter took up from where his host left off. “Could it be that life is cheaper in the Colonies?” he asked.

  “A slave’s life is cheap anywhere,” Dalrymple cut in. “It is we planters who pay the price for their laziness and incompetence.”

  Carfax sat back in his chair. “I’ve always found that if you treat your slaves well, you will earn their loyalty,” he said, thoughtfully fingering a spoon. “You beat a dog and it may turn on you one day and bite you. But treat it well, feed it regularly, and it will learn to respect you.”

  His wife darted him a scornful look, then, turning to her female guests, she fixed her face in a wide grin. “My husband is far too soft at heart,” she told them.

  Upstairs, Phibbah had entered Cordelia Carfax’s chamber. The embers of the fire cast a warm glow about the room as she padded over to the dressing table. The scent of musk and roses hung in the air, but did little to diffuse the smell of damp. Searching among the cologne bottles and the combs, she spied an ivory-backed hairbrush. Seizing it gleefully she clawed her fingers through the bristles so that a ball of loose copper hairs came away. They felt fine in her hand, like spun silk. She sniffed at the hair: apple and cloves, Mistress Carfax’s pomade. It was a smell that filled her with fear and dread and loathing and she stuffed the clump in her bag. Now it was complete. Her obeah bag held all that was required: the grave dirt, the pig’s tail, the blood of her unborn child, nail clippings: and the hair of the victim.

  She began to make her way over to the door but froze halfway. What was that noise? Ragged breathing? A snort? Panic rose in her chest and she held her breath. There it was again. That strange noise. She turned and the light of her candle fell onto the counterpane of the bed. There, asleep on a pile of cushions, was Fino. Her fear juddered out of her with a sigh of relief, but she had to remain quiet. She must not wake the dog else he would bark and alert his mistress.

  Continuing on her way to the door, she stopped and picked up a footstool from the hearth rug. She set it down in the doorway and stood on it. Reaching full-stretch, she placed the obeah bag on top of the lintel, then, stepping down from the stool, she walked a few paces back. The sack was not visible. It would remain hidden. It would begin to work its magic as soon as her vile and wicked mistress, her tormentor and the murderer of her child, walked
into the room. There would be no escaping its spell. She would be cursed, doomed to die an agonizing death. And as she closed the door behind her, the words of the obeah-man rang in Phibbah’s ears: Your missa be dead afore winter is out.

  Chapter 21

  The following morning dawned dull as lime wash over London and the chill on the air grew even sharper. The old waterman stood by the quay, licked his finger, and held it aloft. The wind had changed direction. It was a northerly and that could mean snow. As long as the river did not freeze over as it had done two or three years back, he would manage. If it did, he would be done for. Why take a ferry when you can walk across the frozen ice from bank to bank? There would be no custom. He would starve.

  He was contemplating the dire prospect, chuntering to himself, as he negotiated the weed-slimed stairs down to his boat. The familiar stench assailed his nostrils as he plunged down toward the water. There had been a spring tide, much higher than usual. Risk of flooding, they said. But the risk had passed. Now the tide was well into its turn and was leaving a foul stink in its wake. It would go out much farther, exposing larger expanses of the shoreline than usual, so the mud larks were making ready. Stationing themselves on the quayside, they would swoop down just as soon as it was safe to do so, in search of filthy carrion. Scrabbling through the stinking river silt they would look for discarded treasures—clay pipes, bottles, or lumps of coal. They were young ones mainly—all ragged and dirt-coated themselves. Most mornings at least one of them would make a grisly find—a body washed up on the stony beach. Wapping was the worst, or best, place to find a hapless whore who’d thrown herself off Westminster Bridge or a down-on-his-luck gambler who’d lost everything. The currents often carried them there, depositing them near Execution Dock. Then the mud larks would rifle through the corpse’s pockets, rob it of any trinkets, sometimes steal boots—shoes usually floated off. The carrion picked over, the scavengers would then leave it once more to the mercy of the river.