The Lazarus Curse (20 page)

T
he operating theatre at the Brewer Street School of Anatomy was packed full of students, all eager to see Mr. Hubert Izzard perform an autopsy. Banked in rows that looked down upon a dissecting table at the centre, they were given an excellent view of the spectacle about to unfold before their eyes. Since Thomas’s unpleasant encounter with the surgeon, Izzard’s fame had spread. He was the anatomist who could provide his pupils not just with arms or legs, not just with moldy, putrefied corpses, but with whole, entire, newly dead cadavers, their flesh so fresh it was barely cold to the touch. What was more, their supply seemed regular; not one a month, which by any standards would have been considered excellent, but one a week. No one queried this frequency. Nor the fact that all the dead were Negroes. No one, that is, except Thomas.

Sitting anonymously, surrounded by men only a few years younger than he, he blended in well with the audience that now waited in hushed awe as Hubert Izzard held his scalpel poised over another young Negro.

“A fine Coromantee,” he pronounced.

Thomas felt his heart miss a beat. Were those not the exact words used by Jeremiah’s mystery woman? The man who beat him with a golf club was, he said, big and tall and with a flat nose. Any doubt that Thomas may have held dissipated. He watched the anatomist make the first cut and bile rose in his throat. He was not only looking at a man implicated in Matthew Bartlett’s murder, but also, it seemed, in the commissioning of slaves’ corpses to order.

In a theatrical style, and wearing a flamboyant yellow frockcoat, Izzard incised with panache. He flourished his knife as if it were a conductor’s baton and seemed to take a macabre delight in his work, cutting off digits and distributing them among his stunned audience. No respect was shown for the dead and indeed, it appeared to Thomas, very little deference to the anatomist’s profession, reducing it to that of a showman or a mountebank.

As he watched this gruesome sideshow, he was reminded of Dr. Carruthers’s experiences in the sugar islands all those years ago. Although he never said much, Thomas assumed they involved the ill treatment of slaves. He knew from both Dr. Carruthers and from Dr. Perrick’s letters that many physicians condoned the barbarous trade, meeting ships at port after the gruelling Middle Passage and selecting the fittest slaves to work in the cane fields. Many of the Africans would be half-dead after the privations of the voyage; the same number would have died already. Some surgeons were even known to conduct experiments on hapless Negroes, with no thought for their suffering, in the name of medicine.

At the end of his macabre charade, Izzard took a bow and his grateful students applauded him. As his assistants disposed of the corpse and the theatre gradually emptied, Thomas stayed behind. He watched until the surgeon had sloughed his hands of the bloody detritus of a dissection, the water in the large bowl turning red, before he stepped down from the rows of seats.

“Mr. Izzard,” he called.

The surgeon looked up smiling, expecting to be accosted by an intense student eager to heap adulation on him. Instead the sight of Thomas wiped the grin from his face.

“Silkstone,” he grunted, drying his hands on a cloth. “It is gratifying that you think I can teach you more.”

Thomas nodded and smiled. “Yes, and I am hoping you can enlighten me even further, sir,” he began.

Izzard puffed out his chest, allowing himself to be flattered. “I will do what I can to help you,” he replied, flinging the wet towel on the table.

The beadle was scooping up the corpse’s entrails into a bucket a few feet away.

“Perhaps we could go somewhere private,” suggested Thomas.

“My office?” Izzard flapped a still-damp hand toward a door on the other side of the operating theatre.

The room was large and low-ceilinged and formed part of the building’s attic. Its walls were lined with display cases crammed full of exotic specimens: the skeletons of small mammals, reptiles, and shells.

Thomas surveyed them from his seat, letting his gaze travel around the shelves. “You have some impressive souvenirs, sir,” he began. “That conch shell is from Jamaica, if I’m not mistaken. You spent time on the island, I believe, sir.”

Izzard looked at him quizzically. “How did you know I was there, Silkstone?” he asked.

“Dr. Carruthers sends his regards,” Thomas said, with a wry smile.

Izzard subconsciously stroked his flattened nose and, unsure of the young doctor’s motive, grunted. “That was a while ago now,” he conceded, his gaze scanning his collection.

“You obviously look back at your sojourn with fondness,” said Thomas.

A self-satisfied grin planted itself on Izzard’s face. He leaned back in his chair. “Indeed I do, Dr. Silkstone.”

“So much so that you wanted to return there, I believe?” asked Thomas.

Izzard bridled at the suggestion. His head jerked up and he fixed Thomas with a glower. “What is this about, Silkstone? Why are you here?”

The doctor cut to the chase. “I am here, sir, because I have some questions about the Royal Society’s recent expedition to the island.”

Izzard puckered his mouth. “What of it?”

“I believe you were originally selected to accompany Dr. Welton, but that he objected to you joining him. May I ask you on what grounds?”

The surgeon’s features suddenly gathered themselves into a scowl.

“Who told you that?” he snapped. Thomas remained silent, allowing Izzard to simmer. “I am not sure what you are insinuating, Silkstone, but I do not like your tone.”

Thomas knew it would be difficult to tease out information from this arrogant man without confronting him directly. He decided to tread more warily.

“I did not mean to offend, sir, but the expedition’s last remaining member has been found murdered, and I am sure you understand that questions must be asked of all those with any connection to the venture.”

Izzard eyed Thomas for a moment. “And you have taken it upon yourself to ask them?” Thomas felt his tone was patronizing.

“I feel it my duty, sir,” he replied. “I am cataloguing the collections and am therefore deeply involved in the whole affair.”

“The murder is the talk of the clubs and salons, Silkstone,” Izzard conceded. “If it gets out that ’twas I who was originally nominated to go, there will be even more, and of a slanderous nature.”

“So you will answer my questions?”

Izzard shook his head and his lips flickered into a smile, but his eyes remained cold. “Come, come, Silkstone. We are men of science. Let us speak frankly. Perhaps it is you who can tell me what you know?”

Thomas sensed that a trap was being laid. He would be cautious. “I know that there seems to have been a disagreement between you and Dr. Welton over the nature of your mission.”

Izzard cleared his throat and arched his brow. “You have been speaking with Sir Joseph?”

Thomas nodded. “I have, sir.”

“Then you know that our brief was to bring back the formula for a most potent physic that appeared to give its administrator the power over life and death.” He gave a wry smile. “There were certain admirals and generals in whose hands such a weapon could prove most advantageous.”

“And you objected to this?” Thomas did not understand where Izzard was taking him.

The tall man slapped the desk. “Good god, no, Silkstone! I am a patriot. Not a traitor. I could understand that if word got out of this there would be some lily-livered Whigs who might object. John Wilkes would have a rant and protest that such a potion could enslave all our enemies. Well, in my book, sir, that would be an excellent thing.” His face was reddening with excitement. “To me, you Americans will always be disobedient colonists, sir,” he cried, adding: “And I’d like nothing more than to see George Washington in chains!” His eyes widened at the prospect.

Ignoring the jibes, Thomas remained confused. “So why, if you backed the mission whole-heartedly, did Dr. Welton replace you?” he pressed.

“Petty jealousy? A clash of personalities? Your guess, Silkstone, is as good as mine. All I know is that my chances of membership in the Royal Society have greatly diminished and that I’ve lost a fortune in fees.” He coughed out the words in exasperation.

That, thought Thomas, would explain why the anatomist had embarked on another route to his own aggrandizement; building up his reputation among both peers and students and being rewarded with packed audiences who paid handsomely for the privilege of watching him perform dissections.

“So you attract students with a plentiful supply of the most magnificent corpses to make ends meet.” Thomas’s suggestion clearly rankled.

For a moment Izzard seemed wounded. “Good god, Silkstone, they’re Negroes!” he barked.

Thomas nodded and, thinking of the damning words of Dr. Carruthers, held his nerve. “Yes, and judging from your behavior, you regard them as barely human,” he said.

Izzard shot back. “How else is mankind to progress unless we push the boundaries of medicine?”

“I agree,” conceded Thomas, then leaning forward, he added: “But do you not find it strange that when men are paid handsomely to rob graves for scarce corpses, there is suddenly such a copious supply of dead Negroes?”

Izzard slammed his fist down on the desk. “God’s wounds, Silkstone. You sound like one of those benighted Quakers, intent on abolishing the trade. These Africans are goods, commodities to be used and traded and, yes, experimented upon, if you will. That’s how I see them and I am most certainly not alone in my views.”

“But Dr. Welton did not agree with your stance?” asked Thomas, wondering if the men’s personalities were at the root of the quarrel.

“Welton was a sentimental fool. He thought Negro lives were worth saving!” thundered Izzard.

“So that is how you justify dissecting such perfect corpses?”

Izzard narrowed his eyes and leaned closer toward Thomas. “My sin, if I have one, Silkstone, is one of omission.”

Thomas nodded in agreement. “You do not bother to ask how your specimens have died. You just take delivery of them.” He did little to hide the contempt he felt.

Izzard bobbed his head. “Precisely.”

“And you see nothing wrong in that?”

“Come, come, Silkstone. Name me a white man charged with the murder of a Negro!”

His challenge was greeted with silence. Thomas knew that a slave’s life was of little consequence to him except in monetary terms. He could not give him an answer—he knew there had been no such prosecutions—and his silence brought their interview to an end.

Rising from his desk, Izzard told him: “If that is all, then I would ask that you leave my office, now, Silkstone. As it is I have said too much, especially to you as a former enemy of the Crown.”

Thomas could see that he had touched a raw nerve, but he had barely begun his questioning. Yet he had little choice but to do as he was bidden.

“As you wish, sir,” he conceded.

As he headed for the door, Thomas turned. “Am I right in thinking you know Samuel Carfax?”

Izzard frowned. “Yes. What of it?”

“And his wife, Cordelia?”

Thomas saw the anatomist’s face twitch and redden. After a moment he said, “I am acquainted with Mistress Carfax and her husband, socially, but I do not see that it is any of your business.”

Thomas remained calm. “I was hoping we gentlemen might all be able to play a round of golf sometime soon,” he said. “I have it on good authority that you are most proficient at wielding a club, sir.”

Izzard’s eyes widened, but he kept his own counsel. He did not wish to incriminate himself, so instead he managed to nod his head. There was no need for Thomas to stay any longer.

S
ilently Phibbah slipped out of the house unseen. It was not difficult. The white servants were either helping Mistress Bradshaw prepare the Christmas feast or adding fresh-cut branches of holly to the displays of greenery. There was a general liveliness and gaiety in the household. Perhaps it was because the mistress lay in her sickbed, still stricken and unable to control and shout and order. Although she was no longer dosing her, the missa remained held in the poison’s sway. Even Mr. Roberts was mellow that evening. He had broken open a cask of ale in the cellar and was helping himself when he thought no one was looking.

There were rumors among the servants, of course. There always were. Belowstairs was a melting pot of gossip and insinuation, seasoned with liberal helpings of disloyalty. That American doctor had looked grave, they said. He had shaken his head. Someone even mentioned poison. Someone even mentioned obeah. But Mr. Carfax had instructed Mason to proceed with the dinner as usual. Everything had to run smoothly, even if, under the surface, a storm was brewing.

Out on the street, the darkness wrapped around Phibbah like a quilt. It protected her from being recognized, or called to question. Once more her shawl was her disguise as she teetered on borrowed pattens through the slushy streets.

“Nine o’clock on Christmas Eve!” called the watchman as the church bells struck.

The main streets were almost deserted. All the shopkeepers had long put up their shutters. There were bands of apprentices who’d been let out for the evening. Some linked arms and sang songs as they meandered drunkenly along. Phibbah avoided their sort, walking in the shadows, even though the mud on the road sucked at her feet.

Moments later she found herself once more at the Crown. Through the fog of smoke from dozens of pipes, she saw a few heads turn when she walked in. At least she was among her own kind now. They would not spit at her as she passed. She could lift her gaze and look them in the eye without fear of being whipped for effrontery.

There was the man with the brightly colored bird again and the man with the ship on his head. A smile found its way onto Phibbah’s lips, but there was something amiss. There was no music. Not much laughter. There was a low hum of conversation, but many of the patrons were clustered around two white men, who sat on settles. She had never seen white men at the inn before. How did they get here? Who let them in? Now she found herself feeling affronted. What right did these whites have to enter the black man’s domain? She drew closer for a better look. Her Negro brothers seemed to be listening intently as the older man, the cheeks of his thin face sucked in, spoke to them. Now and again he raised his finger and pointed at a leaflet he held in his spindly hand. His companion, much younger than he and with hair as red as rusting iron, was nodding enthusiastically. They did not appear to be threatening, but talked in soft, low voices.

Phibbah turned to Goldtooth. He had been eyeing her reaction to the white men from behind the bar. As she pulled the shawl away from her head, he recognized her instantly and beckoned her toward the low door. A shudder of remembered horror ran through her body as, once more, she was shown into the room where the obeah-man held sway.

The same damp, earthy smell assailed her nostrils and from out of the shadows she felt the strange creatures fix their dead stares on her; the snake, the monkey’s head, the puffer fish. The chickens still scratched and clucked in the corner and the old man still sat at a table in the centre of the room, all of them conspirators in this macabre theatre.

This time the obeah-man’s head was not bowed, as if he had no need to hide his hideousness from her any longer. In the candlelight his twisted features still repulsed her, still made the nausea rise in her throat, but her terror had cooled. Her fear no longer boiled inside her; now it was only simmering.

The old man peeled back his lips in a sort of greeting, but Phibbah did not return a smile. Instead she forced herself to look at him squarely. But just as the breath was filling her lungs to speak, the obeah-man butted in first.

“Your missa not dead yet,” he told her. His words were framed not as a question, but as fact.

Phibbah froze. It was as if he had reached into her mind and plucked at her thoughts. He let out a cackle, a sound like one of the hens, and brought a clenched hand up to the table. Shaking his fist, he made a rattling noise, then opened his fingers to send several jagged teeth tumbling like dice across the wooden surface.

“They tell me what happen.” His voice was hoarse and his breath rasped in his chest.

Phibbah considered the teeth for a moment; creamy white, some sharp as daggers, others plump like pillows. Were they animal or human? She was not sure.

“You know the obeah bag was burned?”

The old man nodded his grisly head. “I know,” he replied with the calm self-assurance of a seer.

Phibbah suddenly jolted forward, as if some unseen force had grabbed her and pulled her toward the old man. Resting her small breasts on the table, she fixed him with terrified eyes and her mouth contorted into a fearful scowl.

“What will happen?” she implored him. “What will happen to the magic?”

The obeah-man tilted his head thoughtfully and drew the scattered teeth toward him with his gnarled hand. Cupping them in his fist, he shook them once more, before throwing them onto the table. For a moment he was silent, studying the pattern they made, reading them as a scholar reads a book.

Phibbah looked on, too afraid to breathe. She felt the magic in the room, as if she were being wrapped in its great black cloak. Her eyes were wide in wonder and awe.

Finally the obeah-man said to her, “You have the power.”

She swallowed hard, but dared not blink lest the magic disappear. “I have the power?” she repeated, a tremble snagging on her voice. “I no understand.”

The old man lifted his hand up to his chest and palmed it to his heart. “The obeah is still with you. It come from inside,” he replied.

Still Phibbah frowned. “Inside?” she echoed.

The obeah-man shook his head and lifted his half-eaten lips into a shapeless smile. “Your freedom comes from in here.” Again he touched his heart.

“Freedom,” she repeated. It was a word she hardly ever heard; a concept she could barely even dream of. Her mind suddenly flashed back to Cato, the night before he had gone missing, when his eyes were wild with excitement and he had spoken of the white men, the good white men, with their pamphlets and their talk of freedom. She caught her breath and held her thoughts for a moment before sharing them.

“The white men outside,” she began, raising her hand and motioning behind her. “Why are they . . . ?”

The obeah-man cut her short, slicing through her words with a wag of his finger.

“The white men mean well,” he told her. “They promise freedom, but they cannot deliver it.”

Phibbah gathered her thoughts that lay scattered like the teeth before her on the table. Is that what had happened to Cato? Had the white men promised him freedom? She recalled how he talked of seeing his homeland that night; how his words had left his mouth like music. But then a shadow suddenly loomed across her vision. Where was he now? She imagined him on a ship bound for Africa, but when she searched the obeah-man’s face, she knew that she was wrong. Any dreams that Cato had nourished had been fleeting. He had been cresting a wave that had broken and dissipated so far away from the shore. She suddenly realized he had been betrayed.

The obeah-man remained holding her gaze. “You know what you must do,” he told her. He punched his chest lightly with his fist. “You know in here,” he said. And as he spoke, a flapping, whirling sound suddenly filled her ears and she saw feathers like snowflakes drift in front of her eyes. A loud gasp escaped from her throat as she looked up and saw a single white dove rise from behind the obeah-man and fly up to one of the rafters above her head.

A weight seemed to be lifted from her shoulders and a sudden surge of confidence washed over her. A way ahead opened up to her. She nodded to the old man. “I know,” she said.