The Lazarus Curse

by Tessa Harris

  Taking out his kerchief, Carfax dabbed his face. “ ’Tis true I must avoid scandal, my dear,” he acknowledged.

  “Scandal? Ha!” she cried. “So that is what my death would have meant to you: a scandal to harm your chances of buying a seat in Parliament!” Her arms flew out in a gesture of exasperation. A lavender bag had been left to scent her pillows and she picked it up and hurled it at her husband. “Get out of my sight,” she screamed. The well-aimed bag hit his cheek and he flinched.

  Rising slowly, his shoulders drooping, Carfax turned toward the door, but his wife’s insults still followed him.

  “Go to your mulatto whore! Go to her and find comfort between her thighs!” she yelled. “ ’Twould not surprise me if ’twas she who put the girl up to poisoning me so she could have you all to herself!” she screamed. The exertion of the outburst took its toll, and she collapsed back onto her pillows, surrendering herself to a flood of tears.

  Thomas and Sharp reconvened later that day before their foray to the Crown. They were about to enter an alien place, peopled by foreigners from the other side of the world, some of whom worshipped fantastical gods. As white men, they had no right to be there. Yet they would enter as friends, with good intentions. Thomas hoped their intrusion would not be misconstrued.

  Their carriage dropped them at the neck of the narrow alleyway that led to the inn. Scores of pairs of eyes were trained on the anatomist and his companion as they ducked down through the low door and into the candle glow of the tavern.

  It took only a few seconds for silence to descend on the throng once they realized there were strangers—white strangers—in their midst. The banter hushed, the fiddle player stilled his fingers, and even the parrot stopped squawking for a moment.

  Thomas scanned the room, but after a second or two, the tavern hum began to rise once more as customers resumed their talk and picked up their tankards. Feeling as self-conscious as a schoolboy, the young doctor flattened his mouth into a smile and followed Sharp to the bar.

  Reaching into his pocket, Thomas pulled out the handbill and placed it on the counter. The Negro with a front tooth of gold stood at the pump, eyeing them suspiciously.

  “Good evening,” Thomas began. “We were hoping we might speak with some of your patrons about this.” He pointed at the piece of paper.

  Goldtooth glanced at the pamphlet and grimaced. “I see’d it,” he replied, a look of slight reproach settling on his face. “The white Quaker men give them out.”

  Thomas had not intended to alarm. “We mean no harm. We would very much like to talk to someone who is interested in the cause.”

  Goldtooth suddenly let out a mocking laugh. His metallic incisor glinted in the candlelight. “You talk of abolition, sir?” He was chuckling as he plonked a tankard on the bar.

  Sharp frowned. “My friend has said something amusing?”

  Goldtooth leaned forward on the counter, as if about to impart a confidence. “Slavery will only be abolished the day all men’s skins are the same color, sir,” he said. And with that he threw his head back and broke into a hearty laugh.

  For a moment Thomas felt foolish. He was white, comfortable. He answered to no one except his Maker. What did he know of the Negro’s yoke? He had left his homeland of his own free will in pursuit of scientific knowledge, but these people here, these downtrodden pedlars and hawkers, these former soldiers and former slaves, had never been given choices. Their lot had been predestined. Acknowledging his naïveté with a nod of his head and a sigh, he said: “You are right. We cannot begin to understand what it is like to spend your life in chains. But we can still enjoy a tankard of ale.” Thomas put a shilling on the counter.

  Still Goldtooth remained unimpressed. He moved to a shelf behind him and gathered another clutch of pot handles between his fingers. “My advice to you, sirs,” he drawled, pulling at the pump once more, “is to go home and sit by your big fire and eat your big dinner. We can look out for our own kind.”

  Thomas arched a brow and persisted. “From what I’ve heard many of your kind are dying in this cold. Am I right?”

  The Negro shrugged. “The English winter always claims black lives,” he replied, his eyes swiveling to the low door behind him. And with that, he turned his back on the men and made busy with a barrel.

  Such an unhelpful reception came as no great surprise to either Thomas or Sharp, but undeterred, they took up their tankards and toasted each other. Rounding away from the bar, Thomas held his pot up to his lips. “He knows something,” he whispered.

  Sharp nodded. “You are talking to someone who understands these people, Dr. Silkstone,” came the wry reply. “We need to know what goes on behind that door.”

  Not wishing to remain a moment longer than they had to in this foreign place of black faces and broken lives, Thomas and Sharp drank quickly and walked out into the night once more.

  The cold hit them both in the face as surely as if it were a fist. Underfoot the cobbles were glassed over with frozen rainwater. They trod carefully along the alley, passed broken kegs and piles of rotting rubbish. Sharp, a good deal older than Thomas, struggled with the uneven ground and put out his arm to steady himself now and again.

  Turning a corner, they saw the faint glow of a candle spreading from a low window. Both men swapped glances and, without uttering a word, moved closer. They peered inside. It took them both a while before they could make out the strange shapes of the snakes hanging from the rafters, the bunches of herbs, the skulls on the shelves.

  “Obeah,” whispered Thomas. “It is their magic,” he said, recalling the dark world evoked in one of Dr. Perrick’s letters to his wife.

  Remaining transfixed at the window, they saw something or someone stir. In the shadows they caught a glimpse of an old man, hobbling across the room, a staff in his hand.

  “The obeah-man. A priest,” said Thomas.

  They watched him pull a bottle from the shelf with his gnarled hand and pour its contents into a glass phial.

  “Some sort of narcotic?” whispered Sharp, hardly able to believe his eyes.

  “Perhaps,” replied Thomas.

  They watched the old man as he carefully wiped the lip of the bottle and slid it across the table.

  “There is someone else with him,” whispered Sharp.

  From out of the shadows a hand appeared to take the phial. It belonged to a woman. At that moment, they heard footsteps approaching. Sharp signaled to Thomas to leave the alleyway via a different route. They hurried on, not daring to look behind them, until they reached the main street.

  Feeling safer under the glow of a streetlamp, Sharp paused to catch his breath. “What have we uncovered?” he panted.

  Thomas shook his head. “All I know, sir, is that the answer lies in that bottle,” he replied.

  The letter was waiting on the salver on the hall table on Thomas’s return from the inn. He recognized Lydia’s handwriting immediately and smiled. Her weekly missives always brought him great joy. The latest one had arrived on Christmas Eve, so he was a little puzzled as to why she should put her quill to paper again so soon. Even so, the prospect of reading her news gladdened him.

  Dr. Carruthers had long retired to bed as Thomas, a candle held aloft, made his way up the stairs to his room. Inside it was cold. The fire had been left to dwindle, but he would be able to read by the light of its glow. He opened his case and reached for a scalpel to slice the seal. Immediately he was struck by the brevity of the letter—a few paragraphs in her hurried hand. The address was Draycott House, Sir Montagu Malthus’s residence. It was dated three days previously.

  With mounting concern he read:

  My Dearest Thomas,

  I write to tell you that Sir Montagu is ill. He suffers from a terrible swelling and his surgeon has recommended the amputation of his left leg. You, my love, of all people know how dangerous such an operation could prove, and so I am imploring you to come and attend him with a view to examining him and prescribing an alternative t
reatment. He is willing to undergo such an examination at your hands and hopes any enmity between you can be set aside.

  I understand that this places a huge burden on your shoulders, but I would ask you, for my sake, to look favorably upon my request. Sir Montagu grows worse by the day, so your earliest attendance, should you choose to accept the task, would be most appreciated.

  I shall return to Boughton Hall tomorrow and will await there for your reply.

  Your ever-loving

  Lydia

  The irony of Lydia’s request was not lost on Thomas. She was asking him to treat a man whose death might open the way for their marriage; a man who loathed and despised him and who had gone to great lengths to ensure that his happiness was unattainable. But there was no question as to whether or not he would accede to Lydia’s plea. He was a physician and surgeon first and foremost, a disciple of Hippocrates and a healer of the sick. It was his sacred duty to impart his wisdom freely, irrespective of race, creed, color, whether a patient be free or a slave, whether he be friend or, as in Sir Montagu’s case, a sworn foe.

  He began to pack his surgical instruments. From Lydia’s description the swelling might well be a popliteal aneurysm. There was an operation that he had seen performed with a degree of success by a surgeon of great skill. The only problem was that the surgeon was John Hunter, a man of undoubted genius, but whose obsessive nature made him ruthless in his pursuit of knowledge. Thomas had encountered him a few months ago in London and his cruel treatment of Charles Byrne, known as the Irish Giant, had left an indelible stain on his character in Thomas’s eyes. Hunter was a man he could not trust. He would have to tackle the perilous procedure on his own.

  As for the strange goings-on at the Crown Inn and his investigation into Matthew Bartlett’s murder, these most pressing matters would, regrettably, have to wait. Lydia’s request must take priority over everything else. He would make haste to Sir Montagu’s residence without further delay.

  Chapter 46

  By the time Mistress Finesilver inquired of Dr. Carruthers as to the whereabouts of Dr. Silkstone and “the slave,” as she insisted on calling Jeremiah Taylor, both of them were already on the road to Oxford.

  The old anatomist, halfway through a slice of toast and marmalade, wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “I am sure I am not privy to Dr. Silkstone’s movements,” he told her with a chuckle.

  Thomas had confided in his mentor early that morning. He knew that it was only a matter of time before Dalrymple would revisit them and try to take back his slave by force and, with Mistress Finesilver as his accomplice, he might well succeed.

  Pouring tea into the old anatomist’s dish, the housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. She’d sensed something was afoot when she had discovered the young doctor’s shaving brush and alum stick were missing. A quick foray into his clothes chest, together with the sight of the slave’s empty bed, confirmed her suspicions. The doctor and his black friend had taken flight. The dream of owning her blue hat with its gold lace trim had slipped away from her and she set the teapot down with such a force that Dr. Carruthers’s dish rattled on its saucer.

  The journey to Boughton took two days. Leaving Hollen Street before first light, they had been on the road for four hours before Thomas thought it safe to stop. He had hired a cab to take them out of London as far as Beaconsfield, from whence they had taken the coach to Oxford. Jeremiah was traveling as his manservant so as not to arouse suspicion. It had been agreed that he would be much safer at Boughton Hall than in London.

  Less than five miles north of the city the landscape had changed into a frozen wilderness. Snow carpeted the fields, rivers were glassy ribbons, and although the roads were passable with care, the icy ruts and gouges proved formidable obstacles from time to time.

  Jeremiah remained subdued, sleeping most of the way. Thomas had swathed him in blankets so that his head, in particular, had been cushioned against the buffets of the carriage as it rattled and swayed over the country roads. The thick leather curtains in the coach had provided scant protection from the cold, so Thomas’s face and feet were still numbed. Yet the sight of the chapel spire on the Boughton estate set his pulse racing and he managed a broad smile.

  “We are here, Jeremiah,” he announced. He glanced over to his patient, who opened his eyes at the sound of Thomas’s voice. Blinking away the fog of sleep, he sat up slowly. Thomas had cleared away a large circle of misted glass, so that Jeremiah could see the chapel up ahead.

  “In a few moments we shall be warm and safe, Jeremiah,” muttered Thomas, as much to himself as to his patient. “Warm and safe.” It was Will Lovelock, the young groom, who spotted the carriage first and alerted the rest of the household. Lydia, who had been on tenterhooks since sending Thomas the letter, rushed downstairs in time to see the carriage arrive.

  As soon as he saw Lydia standing on the steps waiting to greet him, any discomfort Thomas felt melted away. Ignoring the stiffness in his joints and the bruises he had sustained after his journey, he bounded up the steps and clasped her by both hands. Holding them tight for a few seconds, he gazed into her eyes for the first time in months. He found the look she returned reassuring.

  “But you must be frozen!” she exclaimed. “Come inside. There is hot soup waiting!”

  Thomas hesitated to follow. “I am not alone,” he told her.

  Lydia’s brow furrowed. “Not alone?”

  Letting her grasp fall, Thomas returned to the carriage and, proffering his hand, led out a slightly bewildered Jeremiah Taylor. As he guided him up the hall steps, a look of alarm darted across Lydia’s face when she saw that the stranger’s head was swathed in a bandage. Thomas presented Jeremiah to her and the slave managed a shallow bow.

  “This, Lady Farrell, is Jeremiah, and we would ask you . . .” Thomas suddenly checked himself. “I would ask you that he stay here for a few days.”

  The confused look on Lydia’s face suddenly dissipated. “He is your valet, yes?”

  The doctor was supporting the young man, clasping him ’round his waist, as his legs bowed under his own meagre weight.

  Thomas teetered as the slave shifted awkwardly. “I will explain everything,” he told her, “just as soon as we are inside.”

  “Of course,” she replied and she turned quickly, leading her guests into the warmth of the entrance hall where a fire blazed in the grate.

  Howard the butler swiftly assessed the situation. A room had been prepared for Dr. Silkstone, but not for his manservant. Orders were given. Suitable accommodation was found in the servants’ quarters. Mistress Claddingbowl, the cook, was informed of the arrival and food was prepared. Within a few minutes the flurry of excitement had died down and calm had been restored to the hall.

  Lydia was forced to wait until Howard had poured Thomas a brandy and left the drawing room before she could start her interrogation. Planting herself next to him on the sofa where he sat warming himself, she began.

  “Tell me, what on earth is going on?” Her voice was brimming with curiosity as she clutched hold of his arm. “That blackamoor is no more your manservant than I am! Something is afoot and I have a right to know.”

  Thomas nodded. “Of course you do!” he protested. “It is just that we must be discreet.” He lowered his voice. “Jeremiah Taylor is a slave who was beaten to within an inch of his life. He managed to escape, but his master wants him back and has already tried to recapture him.”

  Lydia looked shocked at the prospect. “To recapture him by force? But surely the law of England does not permit that?”

  Thomas saw her concern. “The law has little regard for runaway slaves and their owners even less. They regard them as their property. There is scant regard for their welfare.”

  She nodded. “Then he is most welcome to stay here for as long as he chooses,” she replied. “We can find work for him when he is fully recovered. I shall inform Mr. Lupton.”

  “Mr. Lupton?” repeated Thomas.

  “The new e
state manager.”

  The doctor could not hide his surprise and his brow arched involuntarily. In her letters she had not mentioned she had replaced Gabriel Lawson. His death in the summer had left the post vacant. Thomas had thought that Lydia might have consulted with him before she had appointed someone to the position. She had always valued his opinion before. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps their enforced separation meant that the distance between them was growing.

  He nodded, yet at the same time detected a certain awkwardness in her manner, as if she were holding something back from him.

  “I am glad you have found a new man,” he told her. “He is proving efficient in his post?”

  “Yes. Most. Mr. Lupton has many ideas,” she replied coolly. Her mouth worked itself into a smile. She was careful not to be too gushing in her praise.

  News of Thomas’s arrival spread as quickly as spilled buttermilk across the estate at Boughton. The young groom had told the shepherd, who had told his father, who had told the miller, who had told the dairy maid, and so it went on. Dr. Silkstone was back, and he had brought a blackamoor with him.

  Sitting by the fire at Plover’s House later that evening Nicholas Lupton was eager to find out more.

  “So, Mistress Fox,” he began, addressing his housekeeper, “there are visitors at the hall, I believe.” He was filling his pipe at the time.

  Mistress Fox, always keen to pass on scraps of gossip as if they were bones to dogs, set down her master’s rum toddy with a gleam in her eye. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Dr. Silkstone has returned.”

  Lupton nodded. “The famous Dr. Silkstone, the American colonist once betrothed to Lady Lydia, if I am not mistaken.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone, as if he were standing at the village pump, dishing out scandal.