The Lazarus Curse

by Tessa Harris

  On this particular morning, however, it was the old waterman’s misfortune, for he never did like it when he came across one, to find a cadaver. This one, however, had not been washed up on the shore, but had been tied, most securely, to the wooden pier at which his boat was moored. What was more, it was without a head.

  At first glance the old man thought it a dead animal; a sheep, perhaps. Then, as he drew closer, he realized the dirty white he could see was not wool, but a shirt. As he realized what his eyes were beholding, he turned and retched. Then sheer panic took hold. Clambering back up the steps as fast as his old legs could carry him, he began waving his arms in the air and hollering. When he had attracted the attention of a fellow waterman, he pointed down to the river where the receding tide was revealing more of the gruesome flotsam by the minute.

  The other waterman fetched the watchman, who called the customs man. The customs man, unsure of himself, called an officer who informed the Admiralty, who said it was a civilian matter. So the justice of the peace was informed and he, in turn, told the Westminster coroner, Sir Stephen Gandy. Although new in post, following in the illustrious footsteps of Sir Peregrine Crisp, who had died suddenly a few weeks ago, Sir Stephen knew exactly what to do.

  “There has been a body found over at Hope Wharf,” he told his clerk, handing him a letter. “Please see to it that Dr. Thomas Silkstone receives this,” he said. “The deceased will be dispatched to him shortly.”

  From his upstairs room Thomas surveyed the scene as he dressed. The window frame rattled as a gust of wind blew down the street. He looked up at the sky. It was tinged with a pink glow. There would be snow soon, he knew it. Walking over to his desk, he decided to take advantage of the first rays of winter light to write a letter.

  34 Hollen Street

  Westminster

  London

  December 4

  My Dearest Lydia,

  It brought me such happiness to read your letter and to hear that you and Richard are doing well. It is almost three months since I was at Boughton and I can imagine the young earl has grown in both stature and health. I am only sorry that I cannot be there to see him and share with you the joy that he brings.

  My love, I write in testing times. As you know I have been tasked by Sir Joseph Banks to catalogue the specimens brought back from an ill-fated expedition to Jamaica that left its leaders dead from disease. My work has, however, been severely disrupted. The journal of the expedition’s leader, a Dr. Welton, was to be my primary guide in the cataloguing of almost two hundred specimens of flora and fauna. It was in the care of the last remaining expedition member. He went ashore as soon as his ship arrived in port at London but has not been seen or heard of since. His satchel was subsequently found empty in the Thames.

  Just what lies behind these mysterious events can only be left to conjecture at the moment. I worry, however, that there is a link between the artist’s disappearance and the contents of the expedition leader’s journal. My fear is that this volume could contain knowledge so powerful that unscrupulous men would kill for it.

  He reread his words, hardly believing himself the gravity of what he had just written. He had no intention of sending the letter to Lydia. She would go out of her mind with worry if she thought he was involved in anything so sinister. He grabbed the letter and screwed it up into a tight ball, venting his own anger on the piece of paper, before tossing it onto his desk.

  His dressing complete, he headed downstairs where, as usual, breakfast awaited him in the dining room. Dr. Carruthers was already enjoying a plate of bacon and coddled eggs, a napkin tucked under his chin to catch any spills.

  “So what did you glean from your visit to the docks yesterday, young fellow?” quizzed the old anatomist as soon as Thomas sat down.

  “Very little, I fear,” replied Thomas, sipping from a dish of tea. “And that is exactly what someone intended.”

  The old anatomist chuckled. “Come, come! You’re saying this is all part of some conspiracy?”

  Thomas put down his tea and gazed into the dish. “I can think of no other explanation,” he replied. “Even Sir Joseph seems reluctant to act and is keen that I should not interfere. I have even seen words to that effect on the customs documents.”

  Carruthers’s head jerked up. “That is most troubling,” he agreed.

  Just as the doctor was about to reach for a slice of comforting toast, Helen entered the room with a letter on a silver salver. It bore the familiar seal of the Westminster coroner.

  “This just came for you, sir,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

  “What news, young fellow?” asked Carruthers, eagerly.

  Thomas broke the seal and studied the contents of the letter. A strange tingling sensation prickled his spine. He looked up.

  “I am to conduct a postmortem for the new coroner, sir,” he replied.

  The old doctor raised a brow. “Anyone interesting?”

  Thomas had often been called upon to conduct autopsies for Sir Peregrine Crisp when he was the Westminster coroner. Sir Stephen Gandy, although he had never met Thomas, obviously wished to continue the professional relationship.

  “It seems the dead man was murdered,” answered Thomas in a voice that was flat with shock.

  “A murder, eh?” replied Carruthers enthusiastically, dabbing the bacon grease from his chin with his napkin before recovering his sensibilities. He suddenly realized why Thomas’s reaction was so muted. “Not . . . ?”

  The doctor took a deep breath. “I do not know the victim’s identity, sir,” he began. “Only that his body was recovered bound to a pier in the Thames,” adding, “without its head.”

  Dr. Carruthers groaned at the thought. “Someone did not mean their victim to be identified,” he said.

  Scanning the letter once more, Thomas could only agree. Equally disturbing was the fact that the body was found near the very steps where he had disembarked only yesterday in his search for Matthew Bartlett. He never relished the prospect of conducting a postmortem on a murder victim. He could only pray that this macabre discovery would prove totally unrelated to his quest for the missing artist.

  Chapter 22

  Lydia went to meet with Nicholas Lupton at the stables as agreed. The morning was crisp and a sharp frost had laced the fields and hedges. There had been a sudden thaw and much of the snow had melted, although the temperature had plummeted again overnight. Nevertheless Lydia was eager to ride. The estate manager had come to her with an idea to drain twenty acres of bog land near Plover’s Lake and she had jumped at the chance of fresh air and exercise.

  Jacob Lovelock, the head groom, saddled up Lydia’s favorite mare, Sheba, and helped her mount. It felt odd being back in the saddle. Three years had passed since she had last ridden and she was as nervous as she had been on her first hunt. But Sheba was a good, placid horse that could be trusted to deliver her safely back. All would be well, she told herself.

  “Set fair, m’lady?” asked Lovelock as he finished adjusting Lydia’s stirrups.

  Lydia nodded. “Thank you, yes,” she replied, taking the reins.

  The groom patted the horse’s neck as the mare nodded her head and clattered her hooves on the cobbles waiting for the off.

  “She’ll give you no trouble, m’lady,” he reassured her.

  As the clock struck ten, Lupton rode into the stable courtyard.

  “Good morning, your ladyship,” he greeted her. “What a fine mount you have.”

  Lovelock shot him a disapproving look as he let go of the mare’s reins. He did not like this new estate manager. “Far too cocky for his own good,” he had told his wife, Hannah.

  Lydia merely smiled. “So, to Plover’s Lake,” she said awkwardly. She could feel the groom’s glower as he silently censured the outing. She nudged her horse and tugged gently on the rein, heading it toward the track that skirted the lake. Lupton drew alongside and together they rode out of the courtyard and into the lane.

  The talk was of the bog and
how it could be drained. Digging ditches at strategic points would lead off surface water into the lake and within a year, Lupton told her, the area could be tilled and turnips sown.

  Lydia listened as they rode, asking questions at what she thought were appropriate points. Yet, in truth, she had little interest in dikes and gullies or any other form of engineering that seemed to so enthuse her estate manager. She was simply enjoying being outside and the sense of freedom that came with it. It was wonderful to see the beech woods and the hedgerows dotted with red berries and to hear the crows caw, to see nature in its winter rawness and feel the wind on her face.

  Suddenly she flicked her crop on Sheba’s flank.

  “Come on, girl,” she urged.

  The mare quickly responded, breaking into a canter. The lane ahead was clear and the ground wet.

  “Your ladyship!” exclaimed Lupton, taken by surprise. He followed suit, making up the distance between them and cantering alongside her. They rode at a fast pace for at least three minutes until the lane dipped between trees and a gate loomed before them a few yards ahead.

  Lydia tugged at Sheba’s reins and the horse slowed to a trot, as did Lupton’s mount. She was a little breathless, but smiling. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her normally pale skin was flushed pink by the cold.

  “Forgive me,” she panted, patting her horse. “I could not help myself.”

  Lupton smiled as he drew beside her. “Clearly you are an excellent horsewoman, your ladyship,” he told her.

  “I had not realized how much I missed riding,” she replied, lifting her gaze.

  “Then you must do it more often,” came the quick riposte.

  Once again she felt he was crossing over the dividing line between mistress and servant. Yet something told her that it was of no consequence.

  She nodded. “You are right, Mr. Lupton.”

  Leaning down from his mount, he opened the gate and Lydia urged her horse through, waiting for the estate manager on the other side. Beyond lay a wide expanse of open countryside that was folded into gentle hills. A flock of sheep grazed in a nearby hollow. She surveyed the scene and breathed deeply. Behind her she heard the latch of the gate click shut and turned to see Lupton nudging his horse toward her.

  Drawing alongside her, he smiled.

  “Is it not magnificent, Mr. Lupton?” she asked. She felt glad that she was not alone. Sharing the view gave her even more pleasure.

  “It is indeed most beautiful,” he replied. As he did so she turned to see that his eyes were not on the vista, but on her. Feeling the color rise in her neck, she urged her horse on, but it suddenly seemed to take fright. Rearing up, it gave out a loud whinny and shot off at a gallop, its ears flat to the wind.

  Lydia tugged at the reins, trying to pull up the mare, but she could not control her. Behind her she could hear Lupton’s shouts, then the thunder of hooves as he caught up with her. He had just drawn alongside when suddenly the horse’s head jerked and it came to an abrupt halt, bucking its hind legs as it did so. Lydia could no longer hold on. She was thrown and sent hurtling to the ground.

  “My lady!” cried Lupton, leaping off his horse and rushing to where Lydia lay, dazed and shaken. She had been flung onto a mossy hillock that was springy to the touch. It broke her fall as she landed on her left side. It took her only a few seconds to regain her composure. Propping herself up on her elbow, she shook her head. The mare stood close by, wreathed in the smoke of its own breath.

  “Are you hurt, my lady?” asked Lupton, anxiously dropping to his knees beside her on the grass.

  Lydia looked down at her own body, held out her arms, and felt her legs as if her limbs belonged to someone else. Her riding habit was caked in mud on her left side, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. “No, I am perhaps a little bruised, but mercifully nothing is broken,” she replied a moment later.

  “We best get you back to the hall,” he told her, giving her his hand so that she could stand upright. “You have had a terrible shock.”

  Straightening herself, she smoothed her habit and brushed off the wayward flecks of moss. Lupton retrieved her hat that had flown off as the horse galloped wildly.

  “Yes,” she replied. “A shock.”

  “You must ride my mount. I will lead yours. The mare cannot be trusted,” he said, taking control.

  It took a few moments to switch the saddles, so that Lydia could be comfortable on the journey back to the hall. Lupton helped her mount. She felt self-conscious as he cupped his hands for her to ease herself up onto his horse. His face was so close to hers that she smelled his sandalwood cologne.

  The return ride took little under an hour, with Lupton leading both horses. The journey was undertaken in almost complete silence, save for Lupton’s interjections about how worried he had been and how he hoped she was not in pain. Lydia herself just willed to be back home, seated in front of a roaring fire. She thanked him for his concern and expressed her gratitude for his solicitousness.

  The sun was already beginning to set by the time they eventually turned into the stableyard. Jacob Lovelock and his son, Will, were there to greet them. Both rushed forward when they saw that Lupton was on foot leading their mistress’s mount, as well as his own.

  “What happened, my lady?” asked Jacob, as Lydia pulled up the horse.

  “I cannot be sure,” she replied.

  “The horse bolted,” interrupted Lupton. “It threw her ladyship.”

  “Are you hurt, my lady?” Jacob was most concerned.

  Lydia shook her head. “Thankfully not,” she replied, as he eased her out of the saddle and down to the ground. “Mr. Lupton has been most diligent in his care of me.”

  Will was standing nearby, his face a meld of anxiety and cynicism.

  Seeing the stable lad’s expression, Lupton’s smile vanished. “Take the mare, will you?” he ordered, thrusting the reins into the boy’s hands. He fixed him with a scowl. “She’s a wild one,” he added.

  Lydia’s muscles had stiffened during the return journey and she found herself limping slightly. Her left leg caused her pain when she put pressure on her foot. Nevertheless she managed to walk inside, accompanied by Lupton, who fussed around her dramatically.

  Meanwhile Jacob and Will were left to unsaddle the horses. Flecks of foam dotted Sheba’s forelocks and withers. She had galloped hard, there was no mistake. As the groom unbridled her, Will unbuckled the saddle and pulled it off. She winced and jerked her head as a strap caught her spine. As he patted the mare to steady her, Will noticed a dark patch on her back. Standing on the mounting block he inspected the area where the saddle had lain and was shocked to see an open sore on her ridge.

  “Look at this,” he called to his father.

  Lovelock stood on tiptoe. Squinting at the circular wound, he saw it was raw; the blood still congealing ’round a large crater.

  Stepping back, he patted the mare’s forelock. “You’re no bucker,” he told her softly, then turning to Will he said, “A bur; that’s what did that. Someone put it there and I’ve a mind just who.”

  Chapter23

  Overnight the snow was blown south to London. It whirled around like feathers and fell two or three inches thick in some places. It made it more difficult for the coroner’s cart, laden with its grim cargo, to struggle through the streets. Nevertheless it pulled up outside 34 Hollen Street, as planned. A plain wooden box was deposited unceremoniously onto the flagstones in Thomas’s laboratory and its contents, wrapped in sackcloth, were dumped carelessly onto the dissecting table. Another parcel, containing the victim’s clothes, was flung nearby.

  Thomas had already lit the fire and scattered sweet-smelling herbs onto it, but nothing could mask the familiar smell, only this time it was mixed with river filth. The coffin bearers gagged and exited as soon as they could, leaving the young doctor and Dr. Carruthers to breathe the unsanitary air alone. Anticipating the sickening stench, the instruments were already prepared. The saw, the scalpel, and an assortment
of knives were all laid out and, as the natural light from the window was so dim, the lamps were lit. On a stand nearby sat two filled clay pipes.

  “God’s wounds, it stinks,” declared the old anatomist as soon as Thomas unwrapped the corpse.

  “But we are prepared, sir,” retorted the doctor, lighting a spill and holding the flame over the bowl of a pipe. Sucking it hard, he soon had smoke curling from it. “You have taught me all I know,” he smiled, handing over the pipe to his mentor as the smell of tobacco began to mask the stench of rotting corpse.

  Carruthers sucked hard on the stem. “So what have we?” he said finally, pointing toward the reeking body with his pipe.

  Thomas took a moment to examine the cadaver by eye. Even to one as experienced as he, it was a most unsavory sight, discolored and bloated.

  “A man,” he began, “without a head.”

  “Yes, yes. I know that,” came the impatient response. “Young, old? Middle-aged?”

  “In his early twenties, I’d say,” replied Thomas, assessing the muscle development. “But malnourished,” he added.

  “After a long voyage?” asked Carruthers.

  “It could be,” replied Thomas, knowing that men had been known to lose several stone in weight during a lengthy sea trip.

  Noting the overall condition of the body, one of the first things that struck him was the fact that the blood had pooled in certain areas. The skin was blackened where this had occurred and it seemed from the dark areas on the buttocks and calves that he had died lying down.

  “I am beginning to think that our victim was killed quite a few hours prior to his body being tied to the pier.”

  “Livor mortis?” asked Carruthers.

  “Yes.”

  “And how long had our friend been in the water?”

  Thomas looked at the headless torso—blanched, swollen, and wrinkled—but he knew the answer to his mentor’s question probably lay in the skin of the finger pads. He examined them first, then the palms, before inspecting the soles of the feet.