The Lazarus Curse (13 page)

T
homas had been asked to wait in the small anteroom outside the new Westminster coroner’s office. He had decided to deliver his postmortem report to Sir Stephen Gandy in person in the hope that he might introduce himself. The fact that the clerk had asked him to wait was, he considered, a hopeful sign.

The hearth was empty and Thomas shivered as he sat, watching his own breath waft gently about him. He told himself that his shaking was purely due to the cold, but in reality, he knew that his nerves were getting the better of him.

After what seemed to him an age, he was summoned into the office. This time there was a fire in the grate and the room, although only slightly warmer than the antechamber, was of a bearable temperature. Sir Stephen sat at his desk and rose to shake the young anatomist’s hand. He was a man in his later years, gray-wigged and with the sort of gravitas one might expect of one in such an important role. Looking into his eyes, Thomas saw the whites were yellow. It was obvious to him that he might have a liver condition. He wondered if he was aware of it.

Seating himself once more, the coroner elbowed his desk and glanced down at the bound sheets of Thomas’s autopsy report.

“I thank you for undertaking this task,” he said, fingering the papers. His voice was deep and his delivery studied, but his manner was easygoing.

“I am glad to be of service, sir,” replied Thomas. His shivers, or nerves, he could not decide which they were, had all but subsided until Sir Stephen’s smile dissolved to be replaced by a frown. The coroner suddenly became very grave.

Turning the pages of the report, he ventured: “I do not doubt your professional ability, or your accuracy and observation, Dr. Silkstone.”

Thomas sensed there would soon be a caveat. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

The coroner continued: “You make some interesting points. The head, for example, possibly removed when the victim was on his back, you say. And the lungs . . .” He looked up at Thomas. “Phthisis.”

“An advanced state,” said Thomas, nodding.

“So are we dealing with a murder or no, Silkstone?” he asked, a strand of frustration creeping into his voice.

Thomas shook his head. “Obviously someone tied the corpse to the pier, sir.”

As soon as he had said this, he could tell the coroner thought him impertinent. He shot back: “And why would a murderer do that, Dr. Silkstone?” His voice took on an imperious tone.

It was a question that had kept Thomas awake the previous night. Why did this man’s murderer not simply throw the corpse into the Thames and let the tide carry it downriver to be washed up at Wapping or Deptford, miles away from where the heinous act was committed?

“I cannot say, sir,” he replied meekly. He wanted to add that he was an anatomist, not a mind reader. Henry Fielding and his cronies were the men who set out to solve crimes of this nature, and although he found himself increasingly drawn into this murky arena of criminal deduction, he did not feel comfortable in its glare.

Sir Stephen picked up a pencil and leaned back in his chair. “And would I also be going too far if I were to ask you if you had any idea as to this poor man’s identity?”

This time Thomas was able to give an affirmative reply. “I have an idea, sir, although it is subject to confirmation.”

“Oh?”

“I believe the victim was a Matthew Bartlett, a botanical artist, recently returned from the expedition to Jamaica, sponsored by the Royal Society.”

Sir Stephen arched a brow. “Do you indeed?” he said, leaning forward, as if his interest had suddenly been piqued even more. “And what makes you think that?”

“His shirt, sir. It was monogrammed with the initials M. B.”

“Yes,” the coroner drawled. “I noted that in your report, but is there anyone from the Royal Society who might be able to help you with the identification,” he asked, adding, “despite the fact that there is no head?”

Thomas nodded. “Mr. Bartlett was known to Sir Joseph Banks.”

Sir Stephen slammed the pencil down on his desk. “Well, there you have it!” he exclaimed. “A well-connected headless corpse!” He smirked at his own tasteless joke, then continued: “I shall write to Sir Joseph myself and ask him if he is willing to identify the body. I would not wish to release it for burial until we have some idea of who it is we are burying.” He gave a neat smile. “You agree, Dr. Silkstone?”

Nodding slowly, Thomas eyed the coroner. The truth was that the postmortem had thrown up more questions about Matthew Bartlett and the Jamaican expedition than answers. If he was murdered, then the motive might have been the theft of Dr. Welton’s journal. What could have been in it that was worth a man’s life? The conundrums kept surfacing in his mind, whirling around on currents of doubt before being dragged down again into a quagmire of perplexity and confusion. It was high time, he told himself, that Sir Joseph Banks revealed to him the full picture. He would have it out with him as soon as he could.

“Of course, sir,” he replied.

Word came the next day. Thomas was working in the laboratory. He had returned the corpse to its wooden box and dragged it outside in the courtyard where the freezing air ensured the process of putrefaction would be retarded. Before him, on his workbench, sat a mature aloe vera plant in a pot, its tubular flowers in full bloom. He had identified it both from Dr. Carruthers’s knowledge and Mr. Bartlett’s excellent sketches, which depicted the detail of the spiky plant with such consummate skill and accuracy.

The artist had even made a note underneath the drawing. It read:
Spent time in the hothouse where the resident physician employs native medicine to ease certain agues. He tells me aloe vera has many medicinal uses when applied as an unguent to rashes or wounds or when drunk to relieve a fever. In this respect it is particularly efficacious.

Thomas sighed deeply. For such tidbits of information he was most grateful. They gave a tantalizing glimpse into what wonders Dr. Welton and his expedition must have uncovered, but in the absence of an authoritative medical contribution, his task was proving well-nigh impossible.

He did have access to Dr. Perrick’s notes and observations, but they seemed to lack the detailed knowledge he felt necessary to record the specimens for posterity. Judging by the age of Perrick’s wife, he believed he was a young man, perhaps only just received into the medical profession. He would, no doubt, have been content to allow his much respected father-in-law to shoulder the burden of recording the expedition’s findings in his journal.

Thomas had just made a cut in the aloe plant’s leaf to extract some of its curious sap when Mistress Finesilver brought him a message. It was from Sir Joseph Banks. He had received Sir Stephen’s letter and consented to inspect the body and would welcome an opportunity to talk with him at his earliest convenience. Thomas began to clear away his instruments. The healing properties of the aloe vera plant would have to wait to be examined. Instead he grabbed his hat and coat and left the laboratory to make the necessary arrangements.

T
he memorial service for Dr. Frederick Erasmus Welton, Fellow of the Royal Society, member of the Company of Surgeons, and respected physician, together with his assistant and son-in-law, Dr. John Perrick, was held at St. James’s Church, Piccadilly. For a man of such eminence in his profession as Dr. Welton, Thomas was surprised to see so few people paying their respects. There were only around a dozen mourners aside from his close family members. There were no representatives from any of the major hospitals, no one from St. George’s, or St. Bartholomew’s or St. Thomas’s. And from the Royal Society only Sir Joseph Banks was present.

Was Dr. Welton not liked in his professional circles? Had he done something to offend the medical establishment? Thomas glanced over to where Sir Joseph stood in a pew at the front of the congregation and remembered his words to him. “Play your cards right, Silkstone, and you will go far.” Had Dr. Welton, by his words or by his deeds, offended those who could make or mar careers at a stroke of their pens, or a word from their tongues ?

The service was a short, simple affair. Of course there were no coffins. Both men had been interred in the graveyard in Kingston. It was doubtful whether either widow would ever get to lay flowers on their respective husbands’ graves, but a memorial stone in St. James’s churchyard was planned.

There was little pomp and circumstance. Thomas had the impression that this was at the request of the two women. They sat in the front pew, both their faces obscured by black veils, united in their grief. He wondered if they thought it strange or insulting, or both, that Matthew Bartlett, as the only surviving member of the ill-fated expedition and a close colleague of the two doctors, had not made an appearance at the service. Of course they had no idea that he had gone missing, let alone been brutally murdered. He hoped it would remain that way for as long as possible to spare them the undoubted torment such news would bring. He had made plans for later that afternoon, arranging to meet with Sir Joseph at Somerset House. The headless corpse had been transported there and deposited in a well-ventilated stable. As soon as it had been identified it would be buried without delay.

The service over and the congregation dismissed, Thomas walked slowly down the aisle and out into the cold. Despite the chill, widows Welton and Perrick stood side by side, thanking well-wishers for their condolences. When it was Thomas’s turn to give his sympathies, however, Mistress Perrick stepped aside, seemingly with her mother’s approval.

“Dr. Silkstone,” she said, the tone of her voice much lower than before. “I have something for you,” she said in a half whisper. She delved into a black reticule she was carrying and brought out a bundle of what appeared to be letters.

“There is still no sign of my father’s notebook?” she asked.

Thomas shook his head.

“Do you really believe it has been mislaid, Dr. Silkstone?”

It was not a question that Thomas had anticipated. He formed his lips into a smile and shrugged.

“It is missing, Mistress Perrick. Somewhere between Jamaica and London it has gone astray.”

A gust of wind caught her veil and lifted it off her face for a moment. She looked serene and completely in command of her emotions. “That is why I thought these may help you, Dr. Silkstone,” she said, holding the papers out to him. “My husband sent them from Jamaica.”

Thomas shot her a puzzled look as she placed them in his grasp. Quickly he scanned the closely written text. After a moment, he glanced up. “These are personal letters,” he said.

She nodded. “But they also contain important information, Dr. Silkstone. You will find formulae for native physic in there; all sorts of intelligence that may be of value to you as a man of science.” She remained calm and rational as she spoke.

Thomas shuffled the sheets and regarded her with a look of admiration. “I am most grateful to you, Mistress Perrick,” he said. “These could prove an invaluable guide in my work.”

It was only then that he detected her eyes moistening a little. “If that is so, then I am content, Dr. Silkstone,” she told him, adding: “I do not want my husband to have died in vain.”

Thomas’s third meeting with Sir Joseph Banks was in great contrast to his first and second. Instead of the stately wood-paneled room, presided over by the great and the good of the scientific establishment, the men found themselves in a stable off the main courtyard of Somerset House. With their kerchiefs clamped over their mouths, they were staring at the sheet covering a corpse as it lay on a trestle table. A groom was in attendance.

Sir Joseph had already identified the soiled clothes as belonging to Matthew Bartlett. Now he was preparing himself to identify the body. He nodded to signify to the servant that he was ready and the cloth was pulled away to reveal the putrefying headless cadaver of a young man. Forcing himself to look at the grotesque sight, he turned away after no more than two seconds and the groom re-covered the corpse. Without a word he left the stable. Thomas followed immediately, filling his lungs with fresh air.

For a few moments Sir Joseph was silent, trying to compose himself, until finally he turned to Thomas.

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “I am afraid I believe the body could be that of Matthew Bartlett.”

Thomas felt a shiver course down his own spine. Until the last moment he had clung to the hope that this young man was a poor, unfortunate stranger who had fallen in with bad company, or been killed by a jealous rival in love.

The wind whipped ’round both men as they stood in the stableyard.

“May we talk, sir?” he asked

Sir Joseph fixed him with a solemn gaze. “I think we had better.”

Thomas was led into Somerset House through a back entrance and shown into a smaller, more intimate room. Sir Joseph gestured him to sit in a chair by the hearth where a fire burned. It seemed to the doctor as though he had entered an inner sanctum, a private room where only the most trusted of Sir Joseph’s associates were allowed to enter. He felt privileged.

Standing by the fireplace, Sir Joseph clasped his hands as if in prayer and stared into the fire, trying to frame his words, as if he were about to convey something quite momentous.

“I have not been entirely forthcoming with you, Dr. Silkstone,” he began.

Thomas’s first thought was that this was an understatement, but at least that problem would, hopefully, be rectified.

Sir Joseph continued: “I have not told you the real purpose behind Dr. Welton’s mission on this expedition.”

Thomas pressed his hands nervously onto his thighs and took a deep breath.
Now the truth will out,
he told himself.

“You have heard of the branched calalue plant?”

Thomas thought for a moment. He recalled one of Mr. Bartlett’s sketches. For some reason, it was the only plant on the manifest that had been missing. He had been surprised to discover from the caption underneath that it was a species of
Solanum,
of the nightshade genus.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“It was proposed that the expedition should, how shall I put it, explore the plant’s potential.” Sir Joseph put great emphasis on the last word, almost as if it were a euphemism.

Thomas frowned. “Potential?” he queried.

Sir Joseph looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “There were . . . There are . . . ,” he corrected himself, “great expectations of this plant.”

“And Dr. Welton was to lead the party?” asked Thomas.

Sir Joseph’s features tightened. “He was reluctant to agree to the commission.”

“May I ask why?”

The great man’s gaze veered away. “There are other interested parties,” he told him in a low voice, as if he were afraid someone might overhear their conversation. Then, returning his regard to Thomas, he said, “Welton was aware of the plant’s possibilities and wanted to put it to better use.”

“What might that have been?” urged Thomas.

Shaking his head, Sir Joseph gazed into the fire once more. “He could see it had promise and that is how the rift occurred.”

“Rift, sir?” Thomas was taken aback at such candor.

Suddenly Sir Joseph realized he had revealed more than he intended. “I cannot say more, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied, adding: “I have said too much already and everything I have told you has been in complete confidence.”

Thomas sensed that the door was closing once more. He had to strike before it was shut in his face again. “But what of Mr. Bartlett’s murder, sir? And the missing journal? Are they connected with what you have just told me?”

The great man’s features sharpened. “It is not your business, Dr. Silkstone. The Royal Society has employed you to catalogue the expedition’s specimens, no more and no less. Please carry on with your work and leave any deeper investigations to others.”

Sensing their discussion had drawn to an abrupt and wholly unsatisfactory close, Thomas rose. As he did so, Sir Joseph seemed to relent a little. He clicked his tongue. “If I tell you more, Silkstone, there are those who will accuse you of spying for your country, given our recent past.” His mouth was pursed, as if he had just said something that was distasteful to him.

“I understand, sir,” he assured Sir Joseph with a bow. He did not say he had no intention of complying with his wishes. His personal respect for Sir Joseph remained undiminished, but if the truth were to surface in this murky affair, he knew he would have to take personal control.

Making for the door, Sir Joseph following him, Thomas turned.

“One more thing, sir,” he said, stopping in his tracks.

“Yes?”

“Did Matthew Bartlett have a frequent cough?”

Sir Joseph paused for a moment. “No,” he said. “No, he did not. Why do you ask?”

Thomas shook his head, thinking of the dead man’s badly damaged lungs. Forced to respond quickly he said, “Merely that I found a small tumor in the bronchioles, but it was obviously not big enough to cause irritation,” he replied nonchalantly. Fortunately, Sir Joseph did not press him further.