The Lazarus Curse (17 page)

W
hen Phibbah came to check on Cordelia Carfax the following morning, she found her mistress had worsened. As she opened the shutters, the thinnest shard of light appeared to pierce the woman’s brain as if it were a spear. Even the sound of Phibbah’s tread on the wooden floorboards sent her reeling. A low moan rumbled from her lips and her hands clutched her head.

The slave girl hurried over to the tangle of sheets and blankets and looked at her mistress more closely. She sniffed the acidic tang, then saw the vomit staining the white linen. Instinctively she curled her lip in disgust and her mistress caught her expression as she turned onto her back. She seemed too weak even to upbraid her. Her hair was stuck to her skull, and her skin was the color of porridge. From the filmy dampness on her forehead, Phibbah knew that Mistress Carfax was in the grip of some terrible ague.

Hearing his wife’s moans, Samuel Carfax strode into the bedroom to find the girl standing by the bed, looking anxious and wringing her hands.

“What is the meaning of this?” he yelled, raising his voice above the din.

Phibbah spun on her heel. “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, her face now contorted with worry. “The missa is taken real bad.”

Carfax paced over to the bed, his expression one of annoyance rather than concern. How she needed to be always the centre of attention! Her senseless moans ranked her alongside the hysterical female slaves in his mind. He would have no truck with them and yet.... Leaning forward, he saw his wife’s head moving from left to right and glimpsed her milk-white face before it was eclipsed by a pillow. She did not look well at all. Quite the opposite. He reached for her hand.

“My dearest,” he whispered, bending low. “ ’Tis I. ’Tis Samuel. Can you hear me?”

She grunted in reply. It was a sound that bubbled from her throat. He caught a whiff of the rancid smell on her breath, saw the stained sheets, and he, too, curled his lip in disgust.

Straightening himself, he saw Phibbah cowering on the other side of the bed. “Get this cleaned up, will you?” he shouted, grabbing hold of a sheet and tugging at it disdainfully.

“I shall call Silkstone again, my dear. He will see you right,” he told his wife. There was pity in his words, but not in his eyes. He shot a glance at Phibbah. “Did I not tell you to change the sheets?” he yelled.

The slave jumped to his command and sprang forward toward the bed. Just as she did so, her mistress began convulsing once more. Lifting her head off the pillow, her eyes wide, she called out then retched. A stream of blackish vomit shot from her mouth, cascading over the bed linen and over the floor. Phibbah rushed to her mistress with a bowl, but it was too late. Her head sank back onto the pillows and her eyes closed.

Carfax and the slave exchanged glances once more. There was a strange glint in the master’s eye that Phibbah could not read. He glowered at her for a moment, before storming out of the room and onto the landing. He was about to descend the stairs when he saw Venus through the half-open door to his own bedchamber. She was casting her critical eye over the room, seeing that it had been cleaned thoroughly, as she always did. Surfaces needed to be clear, sills free of mildew, linen smooth. On hearing footsteps, she turned to see her master. He blustered in and slammed the door behind him. His anger was palpable, and at the sight of him the features on Venus’s normally serene face tensed a little.

“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed at her. His fists were balled at his sides. His eyes sharpened on her, yet she remained calm; her expression was impassive. Such indifference riled him. Her insolence lay barely concealed. There was derision in her manner; he detected the scorn of a woman who knew she could command him with her own body, the curve of her breasts, the silkiness of her thighs.

She curtsied. “I do not know what you mean, sir,” she replied, looking at him squarely.

Her wanton impudence only served to inflame his passion. “You know damn well, you whore!” he growled, bringing his hand back and slapping her hard on the cheek as if he were swatting a mosquito. She reeled with the force, taking two steps back, but she did not fall. Nor did she rub her coffee-colored cheek even though it burned as brightly as if a brand had seared it. Instead she looked at him, but remained silent.

Carfax shocked himself with the ferocity of his attack. For a moment he stood still, catching his breath, until he turned and pointed. “Your mistress lies ill next door, spewing her guts out, and I know ’tis your doing.”

Venus shook her head and her usual composure began to crack. A look of incomprehension scudded across her face. “I no understand, sir,” she replied.

Carfax strode toward her. She could smell his smell; leather and tobacco, but still she stood her ground.

“This is your sorcery. Your slave magic, is it not?” He lunged at her body and grabbed the top of her stomacher, pulling her close to him, so that she felt his spittle splatter her skin.

“No,” she gasped. “I know nothing.”

He looked at her for another moment, as if trying to search behind her eyes, delving into her mind. Another tug on her bodice brought her even closer to him. “If my wife dies, I shall see to it that you are hanged for her murder, you hear me?” His grip was like a vise that squeezed the breath out of her lungs and pulled her whole body toward him. Thrusting his mouth against hers, he began biting her lips, and when she parted them to cry out in pain, he bit her tongue, too, as if his hunger was driving him mad. His ferocity lasted only two or three seconds and he pulled away as quickly as he had lunged, his eyes suddenly wide with horror. Blood smeared Venus’s face. With his forefinger he traced the slash of scarlet that streaked her cheek from her mouth toward her left ear. His touch was suddenly tender and his grasp loosened.

“I cannot have a suspicious death around my neck if I am to stand for Parliament,” he said firmly. He eased his hold even more. “You understand?”

She nodded and he opened his clenched fist, letting her step backward. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she juddered slightly as she saw the blood from her bitten lip.

“I am glad you do,” he said, his tone suddenly softening. Straightening his waistcoat that had ridden up in his exertions, he nodded, as if he had just concluded a business transaction. “There must be no scandal,” he repeated to himself as much as to Venus and he made for the door.

As soon as she was sure that the master had returned downstairs to his study, Venus picked up the hand mirror from the chest of drawers and inspected her lips. There was a purple slit on the bottom, which was slightly swollen. Licking her handkerchief, she dabbed the wound gently, wiping away a smear of blood. No one must know of her humiliation. A canker, she would say if anyone drew attention to it. The English climate did not suit her skin.

Her composure restored, she entered Mistress Carfax’s bedroom. Phibbah was wrestling with a bundle of foul-smelling sheets. Remaining by the door, she surveyed the scene: Mistress Carfax covered in an eiderdown, barely able to move, the bowl of rancid liquid, Phibbah flustered and incompetent.

“Where is Patience?” she asked suddenly, making the girl jump.

Wheeling ’round toward the door, Phibbah, the bundled sheets now under one arm, registered surprise at Venus’s presence. She sketched a curtsy. “Patience downstairs, missa,” she replied quickly. “She sent me to clear up sick.”

Venus nodded, seemingly satisfied with the girl’s answer, but her gaze began to wander. Her eyes roamed the room, first to the fireplace, then to the dressing table, then to the floor. Phibbah, thinking she could resume her duties, took a few steps toward the door.

“Not so fast,” said Venus, raising her hand coolly.

Phibbah frowned. Her mouth opened in silent protest, but she knew better than to question Venus.

“Where is it?” asked the housekeeper, keeping her voice low so as not to wake her mistress.

Phibbah shook her head. “Please?” She blinked nervously.

“Where is the obeah bag?” Venus’s voice was as calm as a summer’s day. “It has to be in here somewhere.” Her eyes remained darting high and low. She glided over to the fireplace, where a sickly blaze spluttered. She ran her hand under the mantelshelf. With the poker she jabbed under the fire hood and up the chimney breast.

“It is in this room. I know it.”

Phibbah’s eyes betrayed her as they darted involuntarily to the lintel. Venus followed them and sashayed over to the door.

“No!” screamed Phibbah, but it was too late.

Venus reached up and felt the coarse fabric of the lumpy bag. Pulling it down, she fixed Phibbah with a knowing stare and held it triumphantly aloft.

The girl was squirming, like a maggot on a fishhook. She kept throwing glances over to the bed to see if her mistress stirred. Thankfully Cordelia Carfax seemed oblivious to the drama that was playing out in her bedroom.

“Please, Venus,” begged Phibbah. “Give it to me.” The girl lurched forward, trying to snatch the bag, but Venus, who was considerably taller, simply extended her arm and held it high above her head, out of her reach.

“So, what have we here?” Venus asked softly, when she had assured herself that the girl would not try and retrieve the bag. Loosening the drawstring, she delved inside. First she pulled out the ball of hair, followed by the pig’s tail, then the nail clippings and the kersey band. The grave dirt was sticking to her own hands. Suddenly she lifted them, cupping them, her palms held upward. She shook her head as she looked up at Phibbah, then, in a sharp, lurching movement, grabbed the girl’s right hand to inspect it. Grasping her thumb, she noted that the nail was exceptionally long, then scowling, she flung down the hand with such force that she almost broke the girl’s wrist.

“You are very foolish,” she chided her. “Why you want her dead?” She jerked a look over to the bed.

The slave’s eyes glistened with reproach as she rubbed her injured hand. She began to snivel. “She kill my baby. She try to kill me.”

A strange smile floated across Venus’s cut lips. “You stupid girl,” she told her softly. Her tone would have been the same had she been complimenting Phibbah on her stitching or her cleaning. It was steady, unhurried, patronizing. She shot her a quick look of disdain before drawing tight the strings around the bag’s mouth. Then, cupping it in her hand, she flung it onto the fire and it flared into a cone of flame.

Phibbah screamed and ran toward the grate, but the hessian of the bag was well ablaze. She shot back at the bed, as if expecting to see her mistress writhing in agony as the imprint of her soul went up in flames. But there was no sound other than the hissing and fizzing of the bag as it was consumed by the fire in the hearth.

In the refuge of his own laboratory, Thomas sat staring into the dying embers of the fire. He was pondering on Sir Joseph Banks’s disclosure about the purpose behind the mission to Jamaica. There was something that troubled him deeply about their last meeting, something that told him the great man was still holding back. He was convinced that somewhere in this tangle of secrecy and intrigue lay vital clues as to who may have killed the young artist.

He strode over to his desk and pulled out from a drawer a folio containing several of Matthew Bartlett’s sketches and began leafing through them until he came to the drawing of the branched calalue. He walked over to the wall and tacked the sketch onto a wooden board that hung there. Taking a few paces back, he studied it. The tropical herb, with its long-stemmed, egg-shaped leaves, and small white flowers, looked innocuous enough, yet, in all probability, it would possess the same properties as its European relative, the deadly nightshade. It was beautiful, but lethal if taken in sufficient quantities. Yet Dr. Welton, from what he could glean from Sir Joseph, also had faith in its narcotic powers.

Glancing over to the bookshelf, he resolved to discover exactly what was known of the plant’s power. He strode over to consult one of the many tomes, seeking out an ancient volume belonging to Dr. Carruthers that listed all known herbs and their properties. He soon found it and, blowing the grime from its cover, he leafed through its well-worn pages. He quickly came to the page with the heading
Solanum nigrum.
Yet, instead of answering his questions, the entry in the pharmacopeia only served to disturb him. With mounting unease he read:
Also known as Pretty Morel, an herb sacred to Hekate, one of the Titans, who holds the keys to the Underworld. Often associated with lunar magick or works related to death, and in witchcraft.

Thomas slammed the book shut, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. “Witchcraft,” he murmured, his thoughts darting back to one of John Perrick’s letters that had mentioned what he called a
“kind of witchcraft.”
What was it called, he asked himself. Obeah. Yes, that was it. Obeah, a form of religion practiced by the Negroes.

Rushing over to his desk, he rifled through his drawers once more and pulled out the sheaf of Perrick’s letters from a leather wallet. There remained only two or three that he had not read. He scanned one of them quickly, then another, until he came to the fourth page. Moving over to a lamp, his eyes widened as he read Perrick’s words.
There are those whom slaves hold in high regard called obeah-men. They practice witchcraft or sorcery using narcotic potions, made with the juice of a herb (Calalue or species of
Solanum
). The ingestion of such potions will induce a trance or profound sleep that can last for several hours, depending on its strength. The guileful spectators are thus convinced that these priests possess the power to resurrect the dead.

Thomas was trying to digest the significance of what he had just read when he heard the door open and a voice call his name.

“Thomas! Are you there?”

It was Dr. Carruthers. He waved his stick through the doorway to gauge its width before he came over the threshold.