The Lazarus Curse

by Tessa Harris

  “What will happen?” she implored him. “What will happen to the magic?”

  The obeah-man tilted his head thoughtfully and drew the scattered teeth toward him with his gnarled hand. Cupping them in his fist, he shook them once more, before throwing them onto the table. For a moment he was silent, studying the pattern they made, reading them as a scholar reads a book.

  Phibbah looked on, too afraid to breathe. She felt the magic in the room, as if she were being wrapped in its great black cloak. Her eyes were wide in wonder and awe.

  Finally the obeah-man said to her, “You have the power.”

  She swallowed hard, but dared not blink lest the magic disappear. “I have the power?” she repeated, a tremble snagging on her voice. “I no understand.”

  The old man lifted his hand up to his chest and palmed it to his heart. “The obeah is still with you. It come from inside,” he replied.

  Still Phibbah frowned. “Inside?” she echoed.

  The obeah-man shook his head and lifted his half-eaten lips into a shapeless smile. “Your freedom comes from in here.” Again he touched his heart.

  “Freedom,” she repeated. It was a word she hardly ever heard; a concept she could barely even dream of. Her mind suddenly flashed back to Cato, the night before he had gone missing, when his eyes were wild with excitement and he had spoken of the white men, the good white men, with their pamphlets and their talk of freedom. She caught her breath and held her thoughts for a moment before sharing them.

  “The white men outside,” she began, raising her hand and motioning behind her. “Why are they . . . ?”

  The obeah-man cut her short, slicing through her words with a wag of his finger.

  “The white men mean well,” he told her. “They promise freedom, but they cannot deliver it.”

  Phibbah gathered her thoughts that lay scattered like the teeth before her on the table. Is that what had happened to Cato? Had the white men promised him freedom? She recalled how he talked of seeing his homeland that night; how his words had left his mouth like music. But then a shadow suddenly loomed across her vision. Where was he now? She imagined him on a ship bound for Africa, but when she searched the obeah-man’s face, she knew that she was wrong. Any dreams that Cato had nourished had been fleeting. He had been cresting a wave that had broken and dissipated so far away from the shore. She suddenly realized he had been betrayed.

  The obeah-man remained holding her gaze. “You know what you must do,” he told her. He punched his chest lightly with his fist. “You know in here,” he said. And as he spoke, a flapping, whirling sound suddenly filled her ears and she saw feathers like snowflakes drift in front of her eyes. A loud gasp escaped from her throat as she looked up and saw a single white dove rise from behind the obeah-man and fly up to one of the rafters above her head.

  A weight seemed to be lifted from her shoulders and a sudden surge of confidence washed over her. A way ahead opened up to her. She nodded to the old man. “I know,” she said.

  Chapter 39

  Thomas found Jeremiah lolling in a high-backed chair, beside the glowing embers of a small fire. A blanket was draped across his knees and it was clear he had been dozing before the creak of the opening door had aroused him. He sat bolt upright, as if he had been caught doing something he should not have been.

  “ ’Tis I. Dr. Silkstone,” Thomas reassured the slave as he advanced toward him in the half light. Both the young man’s eyes were now open and there was a fear in them that the doctor wished he could ease. No balm could soothe away the years of mistreatment, that much he knew. “ ’Tis good to see you sitting up,” he remarked.

  Jeremiah nodded. “I grow stronger, sir,” he replied. He managed to form the words well and did not wince with pain as he spoke, noted Thomas.

  The doctor was about to take his patient’s pulse when there came a loud knock at the door, followed by a violent tugging of the doorbell. Both men shot an anxious glance at each other, but Thomas tried to make light of the sudden intrusion.

  “Revelers, or mummers!” he suggested. “ ’Tis Christmas Eve,” he added, heading for the door.

  Standing on the landing, looking directly over the bannisters, he saw Mistress Finesilver open the front door to two men; one uncouth and burly as a baboon, while the other, in his plum-colored coat, appeared to be a gentleman. Thomas did not like the look of them. There was something in their manner. Something was wrong. Yet instead of asking the men how she could help them and the purpose of their visit, Mistress Finesilver mumbled a few words, then simply stood aside. The men brushed past her and headed up the stairs.

  Thomas rushed down to meet them on the first floor landing. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked breathlessly. He could see them more clearly now and from the look on their faces, they had not come on a social visit. The ruffian, his face pitted as orange peel, sneered at him and pulled back his coat to reveal a leather cosh hanging at his belt. Squaring up to Thomas, he stuck out his belly and put his hands on his hips.

  “I’ll handle this, Rake,” came the gentleman’s voice. It was calm, but authoritative. He set foot on the landing and faced Thomas.

  Events were moving quickly. The blood began pounding in the young doctor’s ears. He needed his wits about him. Strangers were trespassing into his home and he suspected Jeremiah was the reason. The runaway was in danger.

  “Who are you to come barging into my house like this, sir?” Thomas cried.

  The gentleman’s chin jutted out, as if he felt he had every right to be there. “My name is Josiah Dalrymple and I am here to take back what is rightfully mine,” he barked.

  Thomas would not be bullied. “You are trespassing, sir, and I would have you leave my house before I call the constables.”

  The gentleman fixed him with a stare so close, his breath wreathed the young doctor’s face.

  “Constables, eh? ’Tis you who should be arrested for stealing another man’s property!” he cried.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. He had guessed as much. “Property? And what might that be?” he asked mockingly, trying to play for time.

  “You have my slave, sir, and I am come to take him back.” The intruder was intent. Shoving Thomas aside with his shoulder, he pushed past him and into Jeremiah’s room. His henchman followed suit.

  “You cannot go in there!” protested Thomas, leaping up the stairs after them. But it was too late. The door was wrenched open and the men burst in. At first sight it appeared the room was empty. The bed was made and, much to Thomas’s surprise, the chair had been vacated. It was the whimpering that gave the slave away. He was huddled in the corner, his arms crossed over his head. “No, massa. Please, no,” he whined.

  Thomas rushed to his side to protect him. Standing in front of Jeremiah, shielding him from his master, he squared up to the men.

  “You have no business here. Get out, will you!” he cried, pointing to the door. But his words fell on deaf ears. Dalrymple signaled to Rake to fetch Jeremiah and he lunged toward the terrified man, hooking his arm around the slave’s.

  “No!” cried Thomas, trying to shove the ruffian away, but Rake landed him a punch to the jaw, sending him flying across the room and onto the bed.

  Jeremiah was hauled up and Rake produced a thick chain. His hands reached up to the slave’s throat, probing for the collar.

  “You’ll not find it,” yelled Thomas, heaving himself up from the bed. “It has been removed.” He had taken a pair of surgical pliers to the heinous band when the young man was still unconscious.

  Rake dragged Jeremiah out onto the landing, howling like a dog. At the top of the stairs they paused for a moment.

  “Hurry, man!” ordered Dalrymple.

  Rake kicked the slave in the ribs and started to drag him down the stairs. Thomas, still recovering from the punch, ran after him onto the landing and grabbed hold of the thug by the shoulder, but he was just swatted away. The slave half scrambled, half fell down the flights of stairs, until he, Rake, and fi
nally Dalrymple reached the hallway. Mistress Finesilver had been watching and waiting anxiously all the while at the bottom. She had been joined by Dr. Carruthers, who wondered at the commotion.

  “Will someone tell me what is going on?” he bellowed, trying to make himself heard above the general furor. The front door had remained open, so the slavers’ getaway would be easy.

  “Stop them, for god’s sake!” shrieked Thomas as he headed down the stairs, but Mistress Finesilver remained impassive.

  The disturbance was so great that it could be heard on the street and the night watchman had been alerted by anxious neighbors.

  “What be the meaning of this?” he yelled, holding his lantern aloft on the front steps.

  Thomas seized the initiative. “These men entered my property in order to rob me and kidnap my manservant, sir,” he explained breathlessly. He pointed to Dalrymple and Rake.

  The watchman narrowed his eyes. He was not the sharpest of men, but he could smell a rat. He saw Jeremiah, bandaged and crouching by the door, and he saw Rake with his cosh. It was his duty to help a man protect his own home and Dr. Silkstone and Dr. Carruthers were known to him as decent, upright gentlemen. It was clear that the two men before him were scoundrels who had entered the property uninvited.

  “I suggest you scarper afore the constables come,” the night watchman told them in no uncertain terms.

  Dalrymple snarled like a wounded hound. He turned to Thomas. “You have my slave, sir, and I will get him back.”

  Thomas was not intimidated. “You come like a thief in the night, sir,” he replied. “If you want your slave back you’ll have to fight for him in court.”

  “Oh, I will!” hissed Dalrymple, and with that he and his lackey climbed into their waiting carriage and sped off into the night. Thomas slammed the door behind him, then tilted his head back and leaned his body against it like a buttress. He knew the fight for Jeremiah’s freedom would not be easy.

  Chapter 40

  For the first time in six years Lady Lydia Farrell was enjoying Christmas Day. Richard was with her and his excitement was infectious. She had risen early and when he opened his eyes she had been there to wish him joy. Kissing him on the forehead, she had felt herself surely the most fortunate woman in the world. To think that last Christmas she could only have the vaguest of hopes that he might still be alive, let alone be able to hold him and hear him call her “Mamma.”

  After breakfast they attended a service at St. Swithin’s. The new vicar, the Reverend Unsworth, had given a passable sermon, even though Richard was not the only one who found it on the dull side. Sir Theodisius, newly back from his London sojourn, had joined them in their pew, together with Lady Pettigrew. The coroner had proceeded, in a most irreverent way, to distract Richard with tricks he learned during his days in the Royal Navy using lengths of string.

  Afterward, Sir Theodisius and his wife accompanied Lydia and Richard back to Boughton Hall to enjoy the festivities. Snow still covered the landscape, but there had not been a fresh fall for almost a week, so that roads and tracks were less difficult to negotiate. Mr. Lupton had ordered a party of men to clear the drive and they had banked the snow high on either side, making it passable to traffic.

  Mistress Claddingbowl’s sterling efforts in the kitchen paid off. Richard had eaten heartily and Sir Theodisius pronounced her roast turkey the most tender he had ever tasted. The coroner’s enthusiasm was, no doubt, fuelled by the excellent wines that Howard had chosen to accompany the many courses. He had been eager to wash down as many mouthfuls as he could with a good vintage.

  It was toward the end of the meal, after plum pudding, when Sir Theodisius was wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin, that Lydia noticed that his gaiety was giving way to reflection. She sensed he was becoming a little morose.

  “I would like to propose a toast,” he said suddenly, his face ruddy with wine.

  Lady Pettigrew, sitting opposite him, fussed. “Oh, really, Sir Theo. Any excuse!” she scolded.

  The coroner had already taken it upon himself to propose a toast to both Lydia and Richard, so the former was a little puzzled. She shot a quizzical look at Lady Pettigrew, who was watching her portly husband disapprovingly.

  Unable to lift himself up from his chair without the greatest of difficulty, Sir Theodisius merely called for his glass to be charged with white burgundy and raised it. “Let us drink to the man who should be here,” he said, giving a nod to the empty seat at the head of the table. “Let us hope that he will one day take his rightful place.” His eyes suddenly moistened and his words slurred. “Let us drink to Dr. Thomas Silkstone, as fine an anatomist, and as devoted a husband and father as one could wish for,” he said finally.

  Embarrassed and not a little shocked by Sir Theodisius’s sudden outburst, Lydia raised her own glass. “To Dr. Silkstone,” she mouthed. The coroner’s words had reminded her of a nagging pain that she was trying to ignore. The toast simply brought back the sense of longing that she was working so hard to dispel. They soon retired to the drawing room where a huge fire blazed and at its centre was the yule log.

  “A very fine specimen!” quipped Sir Theodisius, pointing to the log ablaze in the grate.

  Lydia settled herself on a sofa. Richard climbed up to be at her side and she put her arm around him. “Indeed,” she replied. “Richard helped choose it.” She squeezed him to her.

  “With Mr. Lupton,” Richard piped up.

  “Ah, Lupton. Your new estate manager, I believe,” said Sir Theodisius to Lydia, easing himself gently down onto the sofa opposite.

  At the mention of his name, Richard suddenly became very animated. Tugging at Lydia’s sleeve, he said, “Mamma, can Mr. Lupton come and play with us this afternoon?”

  Lydia shot an uneasy look across the room at her guests.

  “Mr. Lupton is a favorite companion of Richard’s,” she explained.

  “So I see!” replied Sir Theodisius, slapping his ample thigh. “And what sort of mischief do you get up to, sir?” he asked the young earl with a wink.

  The child paused. “We have been playing in the snow. Mr. Lupton built me a sleigh.”

  Sir Theodisius leaned back, rocking with laughter. “Well, well. There’s a novelty,” he said. “He sounds like a good egg, this Mr. Lupton.”

  “He is not an egg, sir. He is a gentleman,” countered Richard seriously, making the coroner guffaw even louder.

  Lydia, however, remained uneasy. “Surely you would like to show our guests your drawings, my sweet?” she asked, although her tone was more of a direction than a question.

  “But what about some games!?” interjected the coroner.

  “Games?” asked Richard excitedly.

  Sir Theodisius waved his fat hands in the air. “Blind man’s buff or hunt the slipper?” he suggested.

  Lydia slipped a sideways glance at Richard. She knew he would never have heard of such games, but their exotic names made them fanciful and full of promise. The boy jumped down from the sofa and grabbed her hand.

  “Please, can Mr. Lupton join in, Mamma? Please?”

  An awkward smile pursed Lydia’s lips. “It is most unusual, dear . . .”

  Sir Theodisius came to her rescue. “Oh, let the man come! ’Tis Christmas!” chuckled the coroner.

  Lydia nodded. After all, she would be entertaining the servants in the ballroom later on that day. Social convention might frown on an estate manager being invited into the higher echelons, but hers was hardly a conventional family. She glanced at Lady Pettigrew for approval and was given it with a sly nod of her head.

  “Please, Mamma!” pleaded Richard, jumping up and down.

  “Very well, then. We shall ask Howard to send word down to Plover’s Lake,” she said. “We shall invite Mr. Lupton to join us.”

  Christmas dinner at Hollen Street was a subdued affair. The goose was fatty, the beef tough as boot leather, and the claret decidedly acidic.

  “Tastes more like vinegar,” commented
Dr. Carruthers, his tongue flapping disapprovingly inside his mouth. Thomas did not disagree and shot a look at Mistress Finesilver, whose face had been equally sour since the previous evening.

  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.