The Lazarus Curse (12 page)

L
ydia 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.”

O
vernight 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.

“The water in the Thames is near freezing at the moment,” he said, prodding the victim’s hands once more. “Putrefaction has begun, but is not very advanced.” Again he peered at the fingertips. “The epidermis is still intact, and so are the nails.”

Thomas knew that if the body had been in the water some considerable time, the outer layer of skin would have peeled off like a glove.

“So we are talking hours, not days,” surmised the old doctor.

“Correct.”

The torso, Thomas knew, was bloated, but not to any great extent, which added weight to his theory that it had not been long in the water. Nor were there many abrasions on the skin, apart from the odd bruise, which could easily have been caused by the body being buffeted, postmortem, against the pier.

“Now I shall begin the examination proper,” he announced, his tone becoming more formal. “The head has been severed cleanly. I would say a saw or a cleaver has been used to cut through the second and third cervical vertebrae and . . .” He broke off suddenly.

“What is it?” Carruthers jerked forward.

“It would seem, from the angle of the severance, that the victim was lying on his back when he was decapitated. But . . .”

“Yes?”

“But I would surmise that he was already dead at the time,” said Thomas, inspecting the severed spinal column.

“The lungs will reveal more,” remarked Carruthers, excitedly.

As he worked Thomas gave a running commentary to the old doctor who sat, head to one side, listening to every incision, every squelch, every slurp of the man’s innards, even recognizing some of the sounds as if they were musical notes. Within the next ten minutes, Thomas had cut through the sternum and was studying the victim’s lungs. They were empty of the soapy fluid normally associated with a drowning.

“It is clear to me, sir,” he said, peering at the dark brown pillows of tissue, “that this man was well and truly dead when he was tied to the pier.”

Carruthers nodded. “Thank the Lord for that!” he muttered.

“And, judging by the bloating of the stomach, dead for a good while.” Thomas was peering over the corpse’s internal organs, reading them as if they were runes to be used in divinations.

“But wait,” he said, suddenly.

“What is it?”

“This is interesting,” he said, reaching for his magnifying glass.

“What?” Carruthers could not bear such suspense.

“There are some adhesions to the pleural walls, especially in the upper lobe,” Thomas told him.

“Cut them open,” came the excited command.

Thomas did so to expose a brownish parenchyma. On the surface and in the interior of the pulmonary tissue were small white hard masses, most the size of a peppercorn.

“Interesting,” he mused, inspecting the granules. “There seem to be a good deal of calcified tubercles.”

“So he was afflicted with phthisis?”

“It seems so, and in quite an advanced state,” replied Thomas. “But there’s more.” Thomas was slicing through the bronchioles that led from the lungs to the trachea. Examining them closely, he could see the inside walls of the airways were swollen and inflamed. “I’d say this poor chap had a hard time breathing, sir,” he said at last.

“So, cause of death?”

Thomas cocked his head to one side. “This was not enough to kill him.” He clicked his tongue in frustration. “I cannot be conclusive, sir.”

“A blow to the head, perhaps!” suggested Carruthers. “That would do for the poor blighter!”

The truth of the matter was that any postmortem conducted on a headless corpse would, by its very nature, be incomplete.

“So, we do not have a cause of death,” said Thomas dejectedly, stitching up a flap of skin to the torso once more.

“But the real mystery remains,” pointed out Carruthers. Thomas looked at him bemused. “The chap’s identity,” he added after a moment. “What of his clothes?”

Thomas had laid them in a pile on the nearby work surface. Rinsing his hands in a bowl of water, he walked over to them and first inspected the breeches. They were made of worsted and the stockings were silk. He wore no shoes.

“And a jacket?” asked the old anatomist.

Thomas shook his head. “No jacket. Just a shirt of good Egyptian cotton,” he said, feeling its texture between his forefinger and thumb. “I’d say he was a gentleman,” he mused, still casting a keen eye over the stained shirt. Reaching for his magnifying glass, he peered at the material.

After a short pause, Carruthers could wait no more. “You have found something?” he snapped like an excited terrier.

Thomas leaned away from the workbench and straightened his aching back. “I am afraid I have,” replied Thomas. “Our victim’s shirt was monogrammed. The shirt bears the initials M. B.”

Carruthers’s forehead dipped into a frown. “Ah!” was all he managed to say at first.

“It is as I feared,” murmured Thomas. “Matthew Bartlett; but as to what killed him, how he died . . . I am at a loss.”

Hearing the frustration in his protégé’s voice, the old anatomist shrugged. “ ’Tis not your place to conjecture, young fellow,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Ours is not to uncover how or why or by whose hand poor wretches die, just what killed them.”

“And that I have failed to do!” Thomas protested. He sucked on his pipe as he stared at the headless body. “I can only conclude that he must have died from an injury to the head or a disease of the brain.”

Slowly he unfolded a length of winding sheet and began swathing the victim’s body, ready for identification. A proper burial would follow. The corpse had given up many of its secrets, but how Matthew Bartlett, if indeed it was the young artist, had died, remained a mystery.