The Lazarus Curse (10 page)

F
ive days had passed since Matthew Bartlett was last seen disembarking from the
Elizabeth
in the company of a customs officer. Unable to wait for more news of him, Thomas had begun the laborious work of single-handedly unpacking and listing the scores of specimens from the expedition. He had left the smaller crates containing the more delicate creatures, the insects and reptiles and small mammals, unopened, concentrating instead on the remaining plants. His progress was such that he had catalogued almost half of those herbs to be included in Sir Joseph’s famous herbarium. The great man had donated it to the British Museum after the
Endeavour
’s return from Australia and new additions were always made with each expedition.

Thomas had commissioned a carpenter to make him a large wooden cabinet that held drawers, divided into sixty-four small compartments, to hold preserved leaf specimens. He had been working his way methodically through the ship’s manifest and had succeeded in ticking off all of the plants listed, apart, that is, from the final herb on the list: the branched calalue. He searched for a sketch of it among Bartlett’s papers. It was there all right, with its smooth-margined leaves and pinkish white flowers, but among the samples he could find no corresponding herb. He recalled Captain McCoy’s words: how difficult it had been to keep plants alive on board ship given the terrible conditions. The specimen must have died and been discarded. It was lost and there was an end to it.

In the absence of Dr. Welton’s journal, Mr. Bartlett’s excellent drawings were proving invaluable. Thomas was also deeply indebted to Dr. Carruthers. His knowledge of the Caribbean islands and their flora was most useful.

“Aloe vera, if I’m not mistaken,” he had said, sniffing one of the plants on which Thomas was working. He had sliced its stem and the smell had wafted into the air. “Very useful, with most excellent healing properties,” added the old anatomist.

For his own part, Thomas had never ventured into tropical climes before. His experience of humidity and tropical rainfall, of deadly insects and poisonous frogs, was confined to his reading of Captain Cook’s journals from the
Endeavour
and of Dr. Grainger’s tracts on diseases of the West Indies. His own encounters with spiders as big as dinner plates and snakes as long as a large intestine were limited to those in the jars that surrounded him. His understanding of the very creatures and samples of flora that he had been tasked to catalogue was necessarily narrow because he had not seen them in their natural environment. Bereft of Dr. Welton’s journal, organizing and contextualizing these exotic treasures, was, indeed, a tall order. Mr. Bartlett’s sketches, with their detailed captions, were most helpful, but they were no substitute for his presence. Try as he might, however, Thomas was unable to put the artist’s disappearance behind him.

On that fifth morning in the laboratory, Dr. Carruthers could stand the tension no longer. He sat on his usual stool, alert and ready to give his opinion to Thomas irrespective of whether or not it was requested. The young doctor was preparing to examine a leaf under his microscope and had laid his specimen flat on a glass slide.

In the corner of the room, Franklin, the white rat, named in honor of the great American polymath and kept as the young anatomist’s companion, pawed at his cage.

“He wants to be let out,” remarked the old anatomist, tilting his head to one side toward the scratching. “He is anxious.”

Thomas looked up and walked over to the rat’s cage, opened the latch, and allowed Franklin to roam free.

“That is what you should be doing, young fellow,” said Carruthers.

Thomas returned to his workbench. “Sir?”

The old anatomist let out a short laugh. “I do not need eyes to see that you are not happy in your work. I can sense it. You should be out and about, sniffing around like that rat of yours. Making a nuisance of yourself.”

Thomas sighed. “But Sir Joseph . . .” he protested.

“Tish tosh!” exclaimed Carruthers. “When has the voice of authority ever stopped you from seeking out the truth?” He waved his stick in the air. “You know as well as I do, Thomas, there is something fishy behind this young man’s disappearance and you’ll not rest until you find out what it is.”

Putting down the slide, Thomas nodded. “You are right, as usual, sir,” he acknowledged. “I cannot work efficiently while Mr. Bartlett remains missing. I shall pay a visit to the Customs House myself.”

It was late afternoon by the time Thomas’s carriage arrived in Thames Street, outside the Customs House. Inside, the long room was still hectic, but not as crowded as it had been on the morning of his first visit. It did not take long for him to find an official who would listen to his inquiry.

A bespectacled clerk sat surrounded by scrolls of paper. His manner was brusque.

“Ye . . . e . . . s,” he drawled over his lenses.

“I wish to speak to someone regarding the cargo of the
Elizabeth,
” Thomas began. “She is berthed in a sufferance wharf.”

At his words, however, the clerk raised his hand. “I know exactly where she is berthed, Hope Wharf,” he snapped, and his stubby fingers hovered over the scrolls which, to the untrained eye, seemed to be arranged in no particular order. Yet within a second or two he was unrolling the appropriate document and scanning it. “The
Elizabeth.
She . . .” he began, but then stopped abruptly. “Ah!”

“There is a problem?” asked Thomas anxiously.

The clerk looked up, pulling his spectacles down the bridge of his nose. “I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas felt himself tense. He craned his neck to look at the document and saw, written in red across the
Elizabeth
’s entry, the Latin words
Graviora manent.

Thomas eyed the official, who returned his gaze apprehensively. “Heavier things remain?” he mouthed. “What heavier things?”

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.

T
he 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 addressed 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.