The Lazarus Curse (18 page)

Thomas leapt to his feet. He had completely forgotten the time and had been due to read the day’s news from
The Gazeteer and New Daily Advertiser
to his mentor.

“Forgive me, sir. I was distracted,” he said, Perrick’s letter rustling in his hand.

“So you have been reading the notes and letters again,” Dr. Carruthers said with a chuckle. “I am sure they are much more interesting than the usual obituaries.” The fact that Thomas did not reply to this good-humored observation spoke volumes. “You have found something, dear boy?” he pressed.

Thomas looked grave. “Indeed I have, sir,” he said solemnly.

“And you will share it with me.” It was a statement rather than a question from Carruthers as he perched himself on a stool.

Thomas raked his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. “I believe I have uncovered the real reason behind the expedition to Jamaica, sir,” he began.

The old anatomist raised an eyebrow. “Have you, by Jove?”

Walking over to his mentor, still clutching Perrick’s letters, Thomas sat by him. “I have, sir, and it is a sinister one.”

Carruthers leaned close to Thomas. “You have my undivided attention.”

“As you know, Sir Joseph told me that the aim of the expedition was to investigate a plant with great medicinal properties.”

“The branched calalue,” butted in Carruthers. “An atropine, related to belladonna.”

“Indeed,” said Thomas. “I was told that Dr. Welton was investigating its narcotic properties. Yet according to what I have just read in Dr. Perrick’s letter, African slaves consider it to have magical properties, too.”

“Magical?” repeated the old anatomist.

“Their priests mix its juice with other herbs and when it is drunk during an elaborate ritual the victim dies shortly after—or so it seems. The following day, the dead body is brought before the crowd once more and, after more ritual and another dose of potion, he rises.”

“Extraordinary,” remarked Carruthers.

Thomas shook his head. “But there is more, sir. According to Dr. Perrick, not only does this seemingly give the power over life and death to the priest, or obeah-man, as he is called, but the victim never fully recovers. He becomes incapable of his own thoughts. He is rendered completely compliant to the will of the priest, or whoever gives him orders.”

Thomas allowed his words to hang in the air for a moment, so that Carruthers could fully understand their implication.

The old anatomist was unusually silent at first, as he considered what he had just learned. “And such a power could be put to wider use,” he said finally.

Thomas nodded. “There you have it, sir.” He thought of the customs man, leading Matthew Bartlett away from the
Elizabeth.
“There might be those who are anxious to exploit this potion, or physic, call it what you will.”

Carruthers shook his head in disbelief. What he had just been told was quite momentous. “Slaves would never again revolt against their masters,” he ventured.

“Nor prisoners of war rebel against their captors,” added Thomas.

“Whole armies could be recruited.”

“And would never mutiny.”

Both men were silent for the next few moments, pondering on the enormity of what they had just considered. The possibilities of such a powerful potion were limitless.

Dr. Carruthers broke the silence. “You believe Matthew Bartlett might have been killed for this formula? You think it was written in Welton’s journal?”

Thomas thought of unscrupulous traders and even government agents who might use the formula to their advantage. “There are many who would wish to get their hands on it,” he replied.

The old anatomist sighed deeply. “Do you think that Mr. Bartlett would have known of the journal’s significance when he slipped it into his satchel?”

Thomas nodded. “I fear so,” he said, adding: “And I believe someone else did, too.”

Carruthers cocked his head, noting the timbre of his protégé’s voice. He sensed he had an idea. “You have someone in mind?”

“The last time I was with Sir Joseph, he inadvertently mentioned a rift,” replied Thomas, shuffling his papers.

“A rift? Between whom? Welton and Perrick? Welton and himself?” asked Carruthers brusquely.

“Or perhaps someone else?” replied Thomas, opening the wallet and returning the letters to it.

The thought had taken root in his head. Perhaps this rift, this disagreement, this dispute, could be at the heart of the matter. Perhaps whoever had cause to quarrel with Dr. Welton may have found cause to murder Matthew Bartlett for the journal and gain control over this powerful potion. It seemed a feasible hypothesis. The question was, who?

I
t was Mistress Finesilver’s custom to go to market on alternate weekdays and, it being the Wednesday before Christmas Day, she thought it the perfect opportunity to execute her plan. Accordingly, as soon as Helen had cleared the breakfast dishes from the doctors’ table, she made ready.

The maid, stacking the plates at the sink, studied her mistress as she eased her chapped hands into her gloves. Jane Finesilver was always a nervy woman, yet that morning she seemed particularly on edge, shifting all about her and clucking.

“What are you staring at, girl?” she asked tetchily. Of course she knew very well. The maid was wondering why her mistress was wearing her blue cape with the fur trim that usually only came out for Sunday worship. “A woman of my standing has to look her best at all times,” she snapped, as if arguing with some unseen challenger.

Helen said nothing but averted her gaze and returned to the eggy plates. Knowing her mistress as she did, there would be accusations of insolence or tardiness, or both, if she did not carry on with her duties efficiently.

“And besides,” the housekeeper continued, “my other cape is growing shabby.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “And on what those two gentlemen pay me, it’ll be a good few years before I can afford another one.”

Mistress Finesilver was clearly in no mood to brook arguments, or questions. At the end of her peevish speech, she gave an odd sort of grunt to show that she had said her piece, before picking up a pannier from the table.

“I may be a little longer than usual. I have many things to buy for the festivities,” she told Helen. She paused for a second on the kitchen steps, as if mentally ticking off an imaginary list of tasks. “You can see to the goose while I’m gone. Pluck, dress, and stuff it,” she added, glancing at the forlorn carcass hanging near the back door. Happy that the servant would be usefully engaged for the next two hours at least, she flounced up the remainder of the steps and out of the house.

Helen stayed at the sink for the next ten minutes, keen to dabble her hands in the water warmed by the copper. It was not until she turned ’round that she saw that the provisions list was still on the kitchen table. Wiping her damp hands on her apron, she peered at it, written in Mistress Finesilver’s spidery hand. How annoyed would her mistress be when she discovered she had left her list? Helen could not read herself, but she did not have to. Even she could see that there were only five items written on the paper.

Out on the main street the snow did not seem to have dissuaded people from going about their daily business. A carriage clattered along the cobbles, the horses’ shoed hooves swishing over the slushy roads. Errand boys skittered about, clutching packages tight to their bodies. A tailor and his assistant carried a bolt of cloth into a nearby house. All was normal. Life went on. And yet Jane Finesilver felt so different, as if all this was about to change. A seed of doubt sowed itself in her stomach. She paused and took out of her small purse a piece of paper on which was written an address: the George Coffee House in Chancery Lane.

She had come to the decision the previous night. The house was silent. The doctors and Helen were abed. The fire in the study was all but ashes and she was just making her final rounds, checking bolts and shutters, when her candle had illuminated a small leaflet of some sort that had been left on the table in the study. Her curiosity aroused, she walked over to it, bent down, and squinted at it. She read it once, then again, then rocked back with wide eyes and a sharp intake of breath. Pausing to consider what she had just gleaned from the flyer, she looked at it again, even more intently, as if memorizing its words. In her own room, a few minutes later, it was this memory that she committed to paper in the form of an address. And it was to this address that she now proceeded.

Sometimes her pace was assured, hurried even. At other times, she slowed, mulling over the consequences of her actions. She loitered outside a milliner’s on the Strand and pictured herself wearing a new bonnet at Easter. She paid more attention to what fashionable women were wearing, even though admittedly not many had braved the elements that morning. The gold straw picture hat with blue silk and lace trim took her fancy. A large, handwritten card beside it drew attention to the fact that this was what the Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, would be wearing in the spring (she did not think to question how a London milliner would know), and blue was a popular color. How drab and dull she felt. She may have been widowed a good twenty years ago, but she still had womanly wants and needs. New fripperies, a fashionable titfer, surely this was not too much to ask for a woman of her station?

Taking a deep breath, she turned up Chancery Lane, looking out for the sign of the coffeehouse overhead. The narrow street was crowded with men in black, the lawyers and barristers who habituated this part of London, like nesting rooks. Some huddled in doorways out of the wind, others moved quickly, purposefully, their heads down and bodies bent.

A few more paces and the George loomed in front of her. She stopped abruptly outside the door and a man who had been walking behind her mistakenly barged into her left arm.

“Watch what you’re doing!” he barked.

She jolted forward, her nerve momentarily rattled, but taking a deep breath, she composed herself and focused on the door once more.

Inside it was dark, but warm. The smoke from dozens of pipes filled the air, catching her throat, and the sickly smell of ale stung her nostrils. This was a man’s world. It was no place for a woman like her. She felt men’s eyes boring into her, like worms into an apple, as she walked toward the bar. They leered at her, jeered, made lewd remarks as she ran their gauntlet toward the bartender. Could they not see that she was a respectable woman? Did she not look clean and tidy? Was it not obvious that she was not of the streets? Perhaps her blue cape with its fur trim made her appear shabby. The thought of a reward strengthened her resolve.

“Good day, sir!” she called to the burly man behind the bar. Opening her bag once more, she brought out the piece of paper, unfolded it, and, holding it at arm’s length, where her focus was best, she read what was written. “I am looking for a gentleman who has lost his slave,” she told him.

The barman leered at her. He did not take her seriously.

“Have you, my word?” he mocked.

Unfazed, she continued. “I believe I will find him here,” she said firmly, without appreciating his tone.

The barman flipped a cloth over his shoulder and lowered his elbow onto the counter, leaning forward confidentially. “Then you are in luck,” he told her in a half whisper.

“I am?” replied Mistress Finesilver, half shocked, half relieved.

The man straightened himself. “You’ll find Mr. Dalrymple over there,” he said, pointing a fat finger into one of the dark recesses of the inn, on the other side of a roaring fire. “A gentleman with a red jacket.”

Feeling a little more at ease, Mistress Finesilver jutted out her chin and pointed herself in the direction of the barman’s gesture. It was easy to spot a man in a red jacket in among all the black. It was more plum-colored than red, she thought to herself, but she was relieved to find that its wearer had the appearance of a real gentleman, who obviously took great care with his dress. He sat in a corner, talking business with a rougher sort of man, he seemed to her, whose face was as pitted as a peach stone.

Mistress Finesilver cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, giving a shallow curtsy. “Are you looking for a slave that has run away?”

Dalrymple looked up from his conversation and frowned.

“Who wishes to know?”

The housekeeper felt suddenly very exposed, as if telling this stranger her name would be the same as opening her cape to him and showing him her bodice. She crossed her hands in front of her stomacher.

“I have information, sir,” she told him. “About a slave.”

Dalrymple inclined his head. “You do, eh?” he said, lifting a brow. “Then perhaps you would care to take a seat.”

She saw him nudge the ruffian, who pulled out the chair next to him, and she sat down, smoothing her skirts self-consciously.

“Leave us, Rake,” he barked at the pock-marked man, who duly obliged.

With her, the gentleman’s tone was soft. He lifted his lips into a smile. “So you know where my slave is, do you, mistress?”

The housekeeper nodded and slid a coquettish look toward her inquisitor. “That I do, sir, if he wears a midnight blue coat with silver brocade.”

Dalrymple smirked and leaned back in his chair.

“That sounds like Jeremiah,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully as he pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek so that his face bulged for a moment. The sight of it made the housekeeper feel even more uncomfortable. He leaned forward quickly.

“So where might this black knave be?”

Mistress Finesilver caught a whiff of rum on his breath as he came closer and drew back a little. “He is at my master’s house, sir,” she replied, still holding her cards close to her chest.

A look of exasperation scudded across the gentleman’s smooth face. “Do we really need to play games, mistress? You are obviously a woman of some accomplishments.”

Mistress Finesilver was not used to such flattery. Young Dr. Silkstone sometimes complimented her on her cooking, but by and large she felt her efforts went unappreciated.

“ ’Tis not right that I should be asked to wait on him hand and foot while he lies in his sickbed.”

“So the slave is unwell?”

“Beaten up he was. Not that I know aught about it. But he will soon be well enough to walk and that’s why I came. He needs to be back with his master.”

“How very right you are, Mistress . . .”

She felt easier in his company now. This gentleman would be a man of his word, she told herself.

“Mistress Finesilver, sir,” she volunteered.

“And the house?” he pressed.

“In Hollen Street. Number thirty-four,” she told him, adding: “The home of Doctors Carruthers and Silkstone.”

“Silkstone, eh?” he echoed, as if the name were familiar to him. “I am most grateful to you, Mistress Finesilver.”

“And is now the time for you to show that gratitude, sir?” she asked, suddenly feeling emboldened. “Your advertisement said that you are offering a reward of ten guineas.”

“Of course,” said the gentleman, delving into his pocket and bringing out his purse. He shook it and five coins rolled out and spun on the table. She watched them dizzy around and drop, as if mesmerized by them, before she shot him a puzzled look when she realized how many guineas there were.

“This is but half,” she said indignantly. She could not hide the contempt in her voice.

“And the rest when he is captured, dear lady,” assured the gentleman.

Mistress Finesilver tried to stifle the sigh she felt bursting in her chest. Her new hat would have to wait a little while longer.

“When I have my slave firmly back in chains, mistress, then you shall have your money. And not before.”