The Lazarus Curse

by Tessa Harris

  Sir Joseph’s shoulders slumped and his head shook in disbelief. “But that cannot be,” he said breathlessly.

  “I am afraid so, sir. There is no miraculous formula, no herb that can bring men back to life from death and subjugate their wills, no Lazarus plant.”

  Thomas saw Sir Joseph’s color drain from his face as he hit the rail of the balustrade in anger. “Then this has all been a waste, of time, of money and”—he drew a deep breath—“of life. The mission was cursed from the very outset.”

  Thomas had to agree. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news.”

  Sir Joseph lifted his gaze and looked him in the eye. “You have done a great service, Silkstone. You questioned. That is what all men of science do. They must question and they must experiment until they have an answer.” He turned to look out over the river.

  “But sometimes that answer is not what we wanted to hear, sir,” added Thomas.

  “How true,” came the forlorn reply.

  Aware that Sir Joseph needed time to recover from his revelations, Thomas backed away.

  “If I can be of further assistance, sir . . .” he said.

  Sir Joseph was still reeling. “What? No, Silkstone. That will be all.”

  Thomas’s departure was acknowledged with a nod. It was clear that the great man had much on his mind, not least how he was going to explain to the members of the Royal Society that their most recent expedition was founded on a false premise. They had allowed themselves to fall victim to the propaganda of obeah and shown themselves to be gullible in the extreme. They were men of great learning and intellect, yet, just like Phibbah the hapless slave girl, they had fallen under the spell of a destructive myth.

  When Thomas arrived home he heard laughter coming from the dining room. There he found Sir Theodisius Pettigrew tucking into one of Mistress Finesilver’s famous venison pies. Dr. Carruthers was with him, his face almost the color of the claret he was imbibing.

  “Sir Theodisius. How good to see you, sir!” greeted Thomas, walking over to the coroner wearing a wide smile. He had last had contact with him at the court hearing, but had been unable to hear all his news from Oxfordshire. “You will have much to relate, I am sure,” he said, seating himself at the table.

  The coroner wiped his chin with his napkin. “Veritably I do!” he replied, “but first and foremost I am a messenger for Lady Lydia.” He delved into his pocket and brought out a letter. “Her ladyship was most anxious that I give this to you in person,” he said. The way he winked led him to believe the missive contained good news.

  Using a table knife to break the seal, Thomas begged to be excused while he read the letter at the table. He smiled as he saw the familiar script and he scanned the single sheet quickly.

  “Her ladyship says that Sir Montagu is much better in himself, growing stronger every day, and he has asked her to host a dinner at Boughton in my honor!” he said, unable to hide his excitement.

  “That is most excellent news!” said Dr. Carruthers, clapping his hands.

  Thomas’s head bobbed low once more to read a few more words, then rose again. “It seems she believes he may be going to give his blessing to our union!”

  In truth Thomas was reading between the lines of Lydia’s letter. What she had in fact written was that Sir Montagu had told her a secret that, she believed, “could be used to our advantage,” as she put it.

  “Then let us a drink a toast to you and her ladyship,” declared Dr. Carruthers.

  Thomas charged all their glasses with claret.

  “May both of you enjoy the happiness you truly deserve together,” cried Sir Theodisius. “To Dr. Thomas Silkstone and Lady Lydia Farrell. Here’s hoping you both prosper.”

  Glasses clinked and wine was drunk, and order was soon restored at the table. Mistress Finesilver entered with a large slice of pie and some boiled potatoes that she had kept warm for Thomas. She set down the plate before him with a self-conscious twitch of her lips.

  “I am most grateful to you, Mistress Finesilver,” he told her with a smile. He reached for the salt cellar. “So what other news do you have for us, sir?” he asked the coroner, seasoning his pie.

  Sir Theodisius leaned forward conspiratorially. “Upon my word, I have plenty,” he began. “It concerns that estate manager chap, Lupton.”

  Thomas set down the cellar with a thud.

  “I take it you did not approve of him, young fellow,” remarked Dr. Carruthers with a wry smile.

  Thomas was rapidly losing his appetite. “I found his manner very”—he sought the appropriate word—“impertinent,” he said finally.

  “Pah!” exclaimed Carruthers. “We shall make an Englishman of you yet!”

  “Pray continue,” Thomas urged.

  Sir Theodisius emptied his mouth, let out a faint belch, and began again. “I recognized the name and quizzed him when I met him. But he said he had no knowledge of the branch of the family I had in mind.”

  “And which branch was that?” interrupted Carruthers.

  The coroner slapped his palms on the table. “Only the Earls of Farley.”

  Thomas pushed his plate away from him. “I knew it,” he growled between his teeth. “I knew there was something about him that could not be trusted.”

  “ ’Tis true he seemed to have ideas above his station,” agreed Sir Theodisius.

  Dr. Carruthers shook his head. “But what, in the name of Zeus, was he doing at Boughton, working as an estate manager?”

  Sir Theodisius nodded and slapped the table once more. “That is precisely what I wanted to know,” he said. “So I made discreet inquiries.”

  “And?” asked Thomas.

  “ ’Twas not hard to find that he himself is the Right Honorable Nicholas Lupton.”

  Thomas flew up from the table. “He has designs on Lydia!” he cried, throwing his napkin down in disgust.

  Sir Theodisius nodded, but laid his hand gently on Thomas’s arm, encouraging him to be seated once more.

  “I am afraid, Thomas, that you are absolutely right. Lupton’s father is an associate of Sir Montagu Malthus, and I bet the old devil was trying to make a match with her ladyship.”

  Thomas’s anger could not be assuaged. Rising from the table, he excused himself. “I must go and see this Lupton and have it out with him once and for all,” he told his friends in a rare show of anger.

  “Not so fast!” cried Sir Theodisius, his hand rising in the air. “It would pay you to hear the rest of my tale.”

  Thomas, about to open the door, turned. “There is more?”

  “If you were to leave for Boughton now, you would not find Lupton there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The coroner shook his head. “He has left, taken all his belongings, and disappeared without a word.”

  Thomas frowned. “And he did not inform her ladyship?”

  “ ’Twould seem not.”

  Pausing on the threshold for a moment, as if weighing up his options, Thomas suddenly turned.

  “What will you do, young fellow?” asked Dr. Carruthers.

  “There is only one thing to do,” he replied, with the certainty of a man whose future happiness teetered on a cliff edge. “I must go to Lady Lydia right away.”

  Chapter 56

  “You wished to see me, sir?” Dr. Fairweather bowed low in front of Sir Montagu, who sat in a chair by the window, his bandaged leg stretched in front of him, supported on a footstool. The physician was surprised to find him out of bed and looking so robust. Mr. Parker, the surgeon, had been the only medical man Sir Montagu had permitted to examine him since the operation. Fairweather had no idea why.

  The lawyer remained staring out of the window, not even turning to acknowledge his physician’s presence. Instead the latter stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, now and again throwing a glance out over the gardens that were bathed in warm sunshine.

  “Sir?” he said finally, angling his body into a position that he hoped migh
t be within Sir Montagu’s eye line.

  After a few more awkward seconds the lawyer did turn to look at him.

  “Is that you, Fairweather?” he asked, his head cocked to one side.

  At first the physician feared his patient had perhaps taken too much laudanum.

  “It is, sir,” he replied.

  Sir Montagu nodded. “I had trouble recognizing you, you see.”

  Fairweather frowned. There is something seriously amiss, he told himself.

  He edged forward. “Perhaps if I come closer, sir?” he ventured.

  Sir Montagu’s eyes narrowed. “No, even that is no better, Fairweather,” he said.

  “Sir?” The doctor remained puzzled.

  His patient shook his head. “You see, even if you were under my very nose, you would still have as much respect from me as I do for that ant.” He pointed to an insect on the windowsill and promptly reached out and squashed it with his thumb. “Yes, that is how much respect I have for you, Fairweather, after your behavior the other day.”

  The physician’s head juddered, as if he was trying to shake away a bad dream. “But . . . but sir!” he bleated. “I . . . I . . . do not understand.”

  Sir Montagu shook his head. “From your manner I can tell you do, Fairweather. You are flustered. You are faltering, just as you did when you thought I would die on the operating table.”

  The physician dropped his gaze and bowed his head as if reliving the moment he abandoned all his years of training and nearly swooned at the sight of so much blood.

  “I let myself down,” he acknowledged quietly.

  “You did, indeed, and some would say your reputation is at stake.”

  Fairweather’s head shot up. He looked at Sir Montagu, whose piercing gaze was digging into his mind just as surely as if it were a surgeon’s probe. He took a step nearer his tormentor.

  “You would not . . . please, sir. You would not tell . . .”

  Sir Montagu shrugged his great shoulders. He had the demeanor of a crow about to feast on carrion. “That is up to you, dear Fairweather. Entirely up to you.”

  Chapter 57

  The golden dome of St. Lawrence’s Church loomed up above the coach as it trundled into West Wycombe. Seeing the magnificent structure on top of the ridge brought the recent past flooding back to Thomas. The village did not hold happy memories for him. Nevertheless it was a convenient staging post for his journey to Boughton. That night he would stay at the George and Dragon before resuming his trip the following day.

  Leaving his bags at the inn, he decided to seek out the Weltons’ house. He walked down the main street of the village on his way to he knew not where. All he could remember of the cottage in the painting was that it was probably Tudor, with its obvious beams and pitched roof. There were pink rambling roses around the door, too, although at this time of year they would not be evident. A stiff northerly wind funnelled itself down the main street, setting the shop signs creaking. He held on to his hat.

  All he knew for certain was that the cottage would be to the west of the village because the golden ball could be seen on the ridge behind it. That was how he took his bearings and that is how he found himself leaving the ribbon of higgledy-piggledy houses and in open countryside.

  Walking past the wall of West Wycombe Park, toward the church, it was the first house he came to; the painting had done it justice. It was quaint with its exposed beams, but not particularly handsome, and the garden, deprived of its summer roses, looked rather forlorn and bedraggled.

  Up the front path he strode, rehearsing his address to the widows Welton and Perrick as he went. He would tell them he was passing by chance, which was almost true, that he wished to see how they fared, which, too, was true. Only after such pleasantries had been exchanged and he had, hopefully, been invited inside, would he be able to ask the myriad of questions that still plagued him.

  He seized the knocker and rapped three times. No reply. He tried again a few seconds later. Still silence from within. He looked about him. There were no signs of life; no milk pails or muddy boots, no dogs barking, no chickens; no baskets; none of the ordinary, everyday signs of life associated with a village dwelling.

  He decided to venture further. Skirting ’round the front of the house, he found himself in a large, unkempt garden, the damp grass brushing his ankles. A few paces away there was another small building. Once a barn or perhaps a stable, it seemed to have been altered so that it now had the appearance of a single-storeyed dwelling with a high pitched roof and large windows that were at odds with its original design. Peering inside, he was shocked to see a young man hunched over a microscope, and drawing on a sketchpad.

  Cupping his hands against the glare, he saw the whole space had been turned into some kind of laboratory. There was a retort, several flasks and beakers, and shelves containing various jars that one might see in an apothecary’s. Another shelf, opposite a large window, was occupied by dozens of pots containing green plants. He told himself he must have the wrong house. This could not possibly be where Mistresses Welton and Perrick were staying. He had made a mistake. He had resolved to return to the inn immediately when suddenly a voice came from behind.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Thomas pivoted ’round to see a gentleman. His head was wigless, showing his thinning white hair, and the lines of his tanned face betrayed his advanced years. His eyes were an intense blue, and he had about him an odd familiarity that Thomas could not quite place.

  “Forgive me, sir,” he said, taken completely off guard. “I did not think there was anyone about. I . . .”

  It was then, when his tongue was on the cusp of a word and his mind on an apology, that the memory returned to him, the striking portrait above the Weltons’ mantelpiece. Could it be that he was staring at none other than Dr. Frederick Welton? Had he not succumbed to the yellow fever after all? Thomas’s expression must have betrayed the fact that he knew the man’s identity, yet Welton seemed unfazed. Instead, as the doctor floundered in a mire of embarrassment and bewilderment, the elderly man threw him a lifeline.

  “Dr. Silkstone, is it not?” he asked.

  Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise. “How . . . ?”

  “My daughter, Henrietta, told me that you might pay a visit,” he said, smiling. “I am delighted to meet you, sir,” he added, holding out his hand.

  Thomas, still reeling from the shock of discovering him alive, shook Dr. Welton’s hand, almost expecting to wake from a dream as he did so.

  “I have heard much about you, Silkstone,” he said, opening the low door to the laboratory. “Please, I bid you come in.”

  Inside, the room was much bigger than Thomas’s first impression. The ceiling was high and there were skylights on either side of the roof’s pitch that allowed light to flood in. At one end of the room was a large range, where a fire roared in an oven, and in its centre a rectangular table. In the corner was the young man Thomas had seen through the window. Looking up from his work, he scrambled from his chair with the clamor of a child caught stealing.

  Welton raised a hand. “Calm yourself, Matthew. This is Dr. Silkstone,” he said. The young man, his face serious and his dark brows joined across his forehead, gave a shallow bow.

  Thomas looked bewildered. “Matthew Bartlett?”

  “The very same,” replied Welton.

  “But . . . ?” Thomas shook his head in disbelief. “So your deaths were a charade?” he said, not knowing whether to be angry or relieved. “And what of Dr. Perrick?”

  Welton bit his lip. “Tragically my son-in-law did fall victim to the yellow fever,” he replied. “But if you will allow me to explain. . .” He offered Thomas a chair.

  “Yes,” said Thomas, his mind so full of questions that he had to will himself to remain silent. “There is much I would like to know.”

  Matthew Bartlett joined them as they sat at the table. He brought with him three glasses and a bottle of wine, which Welton poured out.

  “I wi
ll 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.”