The Lazarus Curse (15 page)

T
he following day Thomas told himself would have to be devoted to working hard on the specimens. Forcing all thought of Matthew Bartlett’s murder aside, he rose before dawn and concentrated his energies within his laboratory. The schedule he had set himself was slipping fast away. Since breakfast he had turned his attention to the snakes—there were four different species—and had ranged a number of large glass jars before him. The air turned sharp with preserving fluid as he poured at least two pints into each container, depending on the size of the specimen. By four o’clock, however, he found he had completely run out of the liquid.

He set off to visit the apothecary a few streets away to order some more and was almost at the end of Hollen Street when, in a pool of light cast by a streetlamp, he saw flakes of snow wafting overhead. Two chairmen stood by their sedan waiting for a fare, stamping their feet to keep warm. A carriage decamped its passengers and rumbled off into the distance. Three gentlemen on foot braced themselves against the northerly wind as they passed him. Their footfalls, crumping in the snow, had just receded when he heard the noise: a low moan, followed by a whimper. He stopped still and craned his head. There it was again. An injured dog, perhaps? Or a babe born of a street girl and left to die? He looked ’round. Something caught his eye on the steps that led to a basement nearby. He turned and squinted into the darkness. To his horror he could make out a hand, clawing at the street railings like a giant crab. Scooping up his cape and tucking it under his arm, he bent low. And there, in the blackness, he could see a man’s face racked with pain.

Darting up, Thomas looked down the street once more toward the chairmen at their stand. Cupping his hands around his mouth he called out to them as loud as he could. “Over here. I need help!”

The men whirled ’round, saw Thomas’s frantic waves, and hurried over.

Bending low once more, the doctor scrambled halfway down the basement steps to tend to the man. He could see he was barely conscious. Throwing off his cape, he was wrapping it around the patient to protect him from the cold just as the chairmen arrived.

“What goes on, sir?” called one of the men, frowning into the gloom.

“A man lies badly injured,” replied Thomas, mopping a bleeding brow with his kerchief. “These wounds need treating straightaway. Help me, will you?”

The two men swapped shocked looks. This was way beyond their normal duties. Thomas read their faces.

“I will pay you double the fare,” he snapped. “Just help me get him into the chair, will you?”

The injured man was broad and tall and did not come easily. With great difficulty the chairmen hauled him up out of the basement and onto the poorly lit walkway, where Thomas could at least discern his features to assess his injuries. But as soon as the men saw his face, both of them balked.

“A Negro!” cried one.

Ignoring their consternation, Thomas pulled away the folds of the cape to inspect the man’s head as blood gushed from a wound. Wrapping his muffler around the skull, he managed to stem some of the flow, but he knew there was no time to waste. The Negro’s eyes were now closed and his voice was stilled. He had lost consciousness.

“Hurry, men!” he shouted.

With little regard for their passenger, the chairmen bundled him into the sedan and within two minutes they were carrying the injured Negro through the front door at Hollen Street. Helen, answering the door, had screamed at the sight of the bloodied passenger, but soon the chairmen were laying him down on the chaise longue in the small downstairs drawing room as Thomas directed.

Dr. Carruthers pricked up his ears and came to the doorway.

“What goes on?”

Thomas, putting coins into the callused palms of the chairmen, explained:

“A young Negro man has been viciously assaulted, sir. I found him with a severe head wound not two hundred yards away in the street.”

Hearing the commotion, Mistress Finesilver also appeared at the doorway. The chairmen pushed past her, leaving muddy footprints in their wake.

“And what do you think you are doing, gentlemen?” she railed, hands on hips, as she surveyed the chaos in the small drawing room. A blue, bloodstained coat lay on the floor.

“I found a badly injured man in the street, mistress,” explained Thomas, placing a cushion with the utmost care under his patient’s head. “We could not take him upstairs.”

“All this to-do!” she clucked, hurrying over to the stranger who lay unconscious on the good furniture. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw a cushion on the chaise longue spotted with blood. She snatched it away.

“Mind you take off his boots,” she huffed as she drew closer to inspect the man’s face. It was only then that she realized the identity of this unexpected houseguest and her hands flew up in shock. “A blackamoor!” she shrieked.

Thomas had anticipated her reaction, but refused to be drawn by it. “This man is my patient, Mistress Finesilver,” he countered, “and will be here for at least the next few days. It would be most appreciated if you could fetch me warm water and my medical case.”

The housekeeper’s mouth opened to deliver a rejoinder, but closed again when she thought better of it. Instead her face set into a grimace, as if she had just sniffed a jug of sour milk in the pantry.

“Very well,” she conceded and flounced out.

“His condition sounds serious,” remarked Dr. Carruthers gravely.

“It is. He has lost consciousness,” replied Thomas, peering at the man’s head wound. “He is fortunate to have survived.”

Thomas, squinting into the deep cut, touched the cranium lightly, pressing gently in search of cracks and bumps. The injuries were concentrated around the crown and left eye. The swelling and contusions around the latter were such that he feared for the man’s sight. The injuries, he believed, had been inflicted by a blunt instrument. It seemed to him that he had been struck at least twice about the face and head.

There was worse to come. Loosening the young man’s shirt at the neck, Thomas was shocked to see a silver collar, as if he were an animal. He had heard it was fashionable in some households where slaves were employed and now he knew it to be true.

Taking out his magnifying glass from his case that Mistress Finesilver had just grudgingly delivered, he peered more closely. It was as he thought. There were other, older marks around his wrists, too. They had been made not during this latest attack but, he suspected, sustained after manacles had cut into his flesh.

Gently examining the rest of the young man’s body, Thomas could see it bore all the telltale signs of maltreatment. Apart from the bruises from the most recent attack, there were several scars. He ran his fingers over the lumpy tissue around the wrists. There was more around the ankles, too. The skin of his torso was stretched tight as a drum over ribs that looked so sharp he thought they would pierce through from the inside like needles. It was as if he were staring at a patchwork of abuse; a tapestry of torture and deprivation stitched on the body of a human being. It sickened him and he sighed deeply.

Straightening himself once more, he took a step back. Still gazing at his patient, he said, “This man is a slave.”

Dr. Carruthers nodded sagely. “A runaway most like. Beaten by his master, I’ll wager.”

“We should call the constables,” said Thomas firmly. He was surprised when his suggestion was met with derisory laughter.

“He is a slave, young fellow. He is tantamount to mere property under the law. He’ll find no protection there!” came Carruthers’s reply.

Thomas wondered at his mentor’s cynicism. “Surely there is some recourse to the law?” he pressed, covering the young man with a blanket.

Dr. Carruthers thought for a moment. “There was a case, a few years ago, where a slave, by the name of Jonathan Strong, was cruelly beaten by his master. He was left for dead and cared for by a courageous clerk and his brother, a surgeon, but then seized back by his master two years later.”

“What happened?”

“The master, a brute by all accounts, thinking he still owned the poor wretch, sold him back into slavery, to another rogue. But the clerk took the case to court and won the slave his freedom.”

Thomas looked grave. “But I thought slavery was illegal under English law.”

The old anatomist huffed. “Merchants from the Colonies are allowed to bring their slaves here and no one bats an eyelid,” he chided, wagging his finger. He shook his head and said with a tone of resignation, “Surely you know that law and practice are two very different things, young fellow.”

Thomas was forced to agree.

After stitching the slave’s wound with catgut, Thomas applied sap from the aloe vera plant to the swollen areas of the face. The tissues surrounding the left eye were so distended they reminded him of a bruised plum. He knew the strange aloe gel contained healing properties and was glad to put it to the test to see if it could relieve the inflammation and swelling. The rest of the night he would spend propped up with pillows in a chair at his patient’s side. The young man was still unconscious and, very worryingly, had developed a fever.

For the next two days, Thomas set aside his cataloguing in the laboratory to make the wounded slave his priority. He tasked Helen to sit beside him for some of the time, while he returned to the laboratory to obtain more gel from the aloe plants or to make up some formula that Dr. Welton had recommended in his notes. Mixing aloe juice with coconut milk was, apparently, a well-known physic among the Maroons, known to bring down fevers, as well as being an excellent restorative. The regular application of the gel appeared to be working well on the head wound and the young man’s fever seemed to be subsiding.

In the meantime, when it was his turn to sit at the slave’s bedside, Thomas would read Dr. Welton’s notes. He glanced through the various papers he had at his disposal, convinced that somewhere in those scant jottings and observations lay a clue as to why Bartlett was murdered. Picking up a random sheet written in Welton’s hand his eyes were drawn to an account of a warning that had been issued to the expedition, by a seasoned plantation owner. It was the story of how the Maroons could be every bit as brutal as their erstwhile masters.

Thomas felt the nausea rise from his stomach as he read the last few lines of the page. A man’s life, whether he was black or white, seemed to count for naught in this godforsaken colony, he told himself. He would force himself to read more of this sickening litany in the hope it may throw up some answers to the many questions he had. But for the moment he must concentrate on the work in hand. Earlier that evening he recalled how he had taken a wrench and prized off the lid of another crate; it had contained several small birds. He thought of the Weltons’ parlor and of the doctor’s own collections of exotica. How strange, he mused, that such beautiful creatures could be born out of such an evil place. The more he read of it, the more terrifying it seemed to become.

S
ir Theodisius stood warming his great frame by a roaring fire, the tails of his frockcoat raised so that his rump was exposed to the heat to maximum effect. Poor Dr. Carruthers, seated in a nearby armchair, felt himself eclipsed and hardly benefitted at all from the blaze.

“Ah, Thomas, dear chap!” said the Oxford coroner as the doctor walked into the room.

“How good it is to see you again, sir,” Thomas said. In all the chaos and confusion of the previous few days he had forgotten a prior engagement with him while he was in London. He extended his hand. Sir Theodisius tugged at it heartily.

“Carruthers, here, tells me that you have encountered a spot of unpleasantness lately with a Negro.”

Thomas arched a brow at the understatement. “You could say that, sir,” he replied.

“And yet you find time to administer to animals now!” continued Sir Theodisius.

Thomas knew that he must be alluding to his treatment of Cordelia Carfax’s dog, but he was puzzled as to how the coroner knew. His query must have shown in his face.

“I called in on Carfax on my way here. Wondered if he was up for another game of golf. It really is quite addictive,” he reported cheerfully. “Said he best stay with his wife, who had taken to her bed with a most cruel fit of the gripes.”

“Mistress Carfax is ill?” replied Thomas.

Sir Theodisius continued: “Rolling ’round like a loose barrel, she is, so when I told him you were my next port of call, he asked me to send for you.”

Thomas frowned. His thoughts immediately turned to the plight of Cordelia Carfax’s wretched dog that had been so maliciously blinded.

“Her condition sounds serious,” he said. “I shall go to her immediately.”

Sir Theodisius seemed a little taken aback. “But what of our luncheon?” he protested.

“Regrettably it will have to wait,” Thomas told him, with an urgency that would brook no argument. Grabbing his medical case, he headed for the door.

The coroner, feeling a little aggrieved, had been hoping to enjoy a chop and some porter with Thomas at the very least. But as if he could read his guest’s mind, Dr. Carruthers stepped into the breach.

“Not to worry, Sir Theodisius,” he piped up. He lifted his head and sniffed the air. The smell of baking had wafted in on the current as Thomas opened the door. “I suspect Mistress Finesilver has just taken a venison pie from the oven,” he said. “You will join me for luncheon, sir?”

Thomas arrived at the Carfax mansion less than an hour later. He had no evidence. He was simply following his instinct, but he had the direst suspicion that Cordelia Carfax could have been poisoned by one of her slaves.

As his carriage drew up, he saw Roberts hammering a notice onto the wooden gatepost outside the house. Alighting by the railings, he peered at the poster. It read
Runaway slave, answers to the name of Cato. Tall, broad, collared and branded S. C. Ten-guinea reward. Any information within.

Thomas immediately thought of the young man lying injured in his own home. He did not recognize him as one of the household slaves. This runaway, this Cato, was just another among the many who came to England and took advantage of the law to make a break for freedom. The newspapers and coffeehouses of London were full of such notices.

Mason the butler led Thomas into a large bedchamber on the second floor. Cordelia Carfax lay in bed, groaning, while her anxious husband sat at her side. As soon as he saw Thomas he heaved himself up from his chair.

“Ah, Silkstone! I am glad you are here,” he cried, beckoning him over.

Approaching the bed, Thomas could see that Mistress Carfax looked listless and her copper hair was plastered across her forehead with sweat. The small dog that had been in such distress earlier lay sleeping on the counterpane. Phibbah, the slave girl, the one who had been so distraught the other night, busied herself with a bowl near a table.

“How long has your wife been like this?” asked Thomas, turning his face away from the bed, out of the woman’s earshot.

Carfax deliberated. “She was seized with violent gripes and vomits last night after dinner,” he said in a low voice.

“And I can see that her fever is somewhat hectic,” said Thomas.

For a moment he studied the woman’s face. Her cheeks were as pale as milk.

Addressing her directly Thomas leaned closer and said, “I am sorry to see you unwell, Mistress Carfax.”

The woman turned her head and eyed the young doctor. Even in her suffering, it was clear that she regarded him with disdain.

“What is he doing here, Samuel?” she snapped at her husband.

Carfax smiled awkwardly. “Dr. Silkstone wishes to help you, my dearest,” he replied, bending low.

“Is there anything that your wife ate last night that might not have agreed with her?” asked Thomas.

Pausing to recall, Carfax said there was not. “Stewed carp, breast of pheasant,” he replied.

“May I examine your wife’s abdomen, sir?” Thomas asked innocently, but the plantation owner looked at him aghast, as if he had asked if he could make love to her.

“I should think not, sir!” he shot back. “It is clear my wife is sick and it is your place to ease her distress.”

Thomas had, of course, encountered such reactions before. He was not entirely surprised by such ignorance.

Carfax held Thomas’s gaze. “Well?” he said, impatiently. “What is wrong with her, man?”

The doctor squared up to him. “Without an examination I cannot be entirely sure, Mr. Carfax,” he began. He had no intention of sharing his suspicions with him at the present time. “At the moment her life is not in danger,” continued Thomas. “I prescribe plenty of boiled water with a little sugar in it to restore her strength. I will call again tomorrow to check on her progress.”

At the news Carfax seemed disappointed that nothing more could be done for his wife. His shoulders visibly drooped.

“Very well, Dr. Silkstone,” he said curtly, adding: “Venus will show you out.”

Fino, seeing Carfax turn to leave, jumped off the bed and also headed for the door, pawing at it. It was then, as he eyed the dog, that Thomas noticed it: a small clod of what appeared to be soil on the floorboards. At first he dismissed it as mud carried in on outdoors boots, but then he lifted his gaze. A small object, he could not make out what, had been placed above the door lintel. He thought it strange, but said nothing. In a household such as this, he knew it wise to keep one’s own counsel.

Once more Venus appeared at the door to escort Thomas out. She seemed even more aloof than before, as if her mind were far away. Downstairs, he paused on the front threshold and glanced over at the gatepost where the notice flapped in the wind.

“I see a household slave has run away,” he said. He was thinking out loud rather than questioning Venus, but his words clearly galled her and she fixed him with a fiery glare.

“There are plenty of free Negroes begging on the streets of London, who would gladly give up their freedom for a meal or a coat, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied. “The slaves here may be in bondage but at least they have a roof over their heads.”

Thomas had not anticipated a response, let alone one so spirited.

“And you, Venus,” he fired back. “Are you free to leave this household if you please?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but words failed her. Instead her expression betrayed a mixture of anger and regret that seemed to be tugging at her mind and staying her tongue. She simply gestured to the front steps and the drive, where the carriage awaited.

That night Thomas retrieved John Perrick’s letters from a folder in the laboratory and went to read them by the slave’s bedside. There was something that had been bothering him all day: the soil on the floor in Cordelia Carfax’s chamber. Searching through the copious sheets, he had eventually found what he was looking for: the doctor’s account of the sinister beliefs of the slaves.

By candlelight in his new patient’s room he read:
There is a strange force that seizes some of the Negroes here called Obeah. It is practiced like a religion and the priest, for want of a better word, is apt to lay curses by collecting certain items, such as cats’ paws, hair, teeth, and grave dirt, all relative to this kind of witchcraft, and placing them in a bag near the intended victim.

Thomas looked up from the text and rubbed his eyes. He thought of the mysterious object above the door lintel. He did not need to see into it to guess what it contained. What’s more, he would wager a great deal as to the person who had placed it there.

He returned to Perrick’s letters. Now only a few remained unread. Dated just three days before the young doctor was reported to have taken ill, Thomas began reading one. After greetings to his wife and his excitement at the thought of the return voyage, Perrick went on to relate more scientific information. Halfway down the second sheet he wrote:
There is a plant, known as Maroon Weed, that is a rank poison known to the slaves for being able to dispatch intended victims either slowly or quickly. I spoke with another physician, whose Negro woman had intended to kill him with it. He was seized with violent gripings, vomited profusely, and was subjected to fevers and even convulsions. Realizing himself to be the victim of a poison, he sought help from another man of medicine, who prescribed the kernels of nhandiroba to be infused in wine and drunk frequently. This cured him in time.

Looking up from the script into the darkness of his room, it struck him as soundly as if he had been dealt a blow across his cheek. Suddenly he knew exactly what ailed Cordelia Carfax, and it was what he feared. Seized with bellyache, feverish and vomiting, she had ingested something poisonous and it was most certainly neither stewed carp nor pheasant.

Thomas read on.
Another acquaintance told me that some slaves administer poison to their masters by putting powder under their thumbnail, so putting their thumb upon the cup or bowl they pass to their victim, they cunningly convey the poison; wherefore, any Negro with a long thumbnail is to be distrusted.

It was then that it struck him. He pictured Phibbah, the slave girl, holding Cordelia Carfax’s bowl of vomit in both hands, and he recalled most vividly the length of the nail on her right thumb.