The Lazarus Curse (22 page)

T
he day after Christmas Day Thomas kept his appointment to check on Mistress Carfax’s progress. He was gladdened to see that she was sitting up in bed, her copper hair covered by a large cap, drinking thin gruel. She did not smile when she saw him enter the room.

“I hope your pain has lessened, madam,” said Thomas, setting down his case.

“I am feeling stronger,” she acknowledged. She slipped him an odd look, as if testing him. “Do you know what caused my upset, Dr. Silkstone?” she asked.

Thomas reached for his case, turning his head away from hers. He did not want to betray himself with a look. “I daresay something you ate, Mistress Carfax,” he replied.

“Or drank?”

Away from her stare, he rolled his eyes. It was clear she suspected one of the slaves had been poisoning her.

“Perhaps,” he replied, twitching his lips into a smile. “But you seem to be well on the road to recovery, and that is what matters.”

Venus knocked and entered as Thomas set down another bottle of the antidote on the dressing table. From the look of his patient, the remedy seemed to be working well.

“I have brought more physic,” he told Mistress Carfax. “You will need to take it for at least another week,” he instructed.

“Very well,” she replied, nodding her head. “Venus will show you out.”

The housekeeper led Thomas across the landing, but just as he was passing the staircase that led to the attic, he heard a terrible moaning sound. He stopped dead.

“Phibbah?” he asked knowingly.

Venus took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

“I shall see her,” he said.

Venus shook her head. “No, sir. The missa say . . .”

Thomas fixed her with a stare. “Your mistress need not know,” he replied and he began to climb the stairs, the moans growing louder with each tread.

In the garret room Thomas found the slave lying listless on a pallet on the rush-strewn floor, a filthy blanket covering her.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked Venus, feeling the girl’s pulse.

“She took bad last night, sir,” replied the housekeeper, standing at his side.

At the sound of Thomas’s voice, Phibbah’s lids opened slowly, as if acknowledging his presence. “Are you in pain?” he asked gently.

Her cracked lips mouthed a feeble reply. “Yes.”

Thomas rose to face Venus. “She has vomited?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And she has belly cramps?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must keep her warm. Another blanket, perhaps,” suggested Thomas. “And see that she has small beer to drink.”

Venus curtsied. “I shall do as you say, sir,” she replied.

Thomas was puzzled. The girl’s symptoms were consistent with Mistress Carfax’s. It occurred to him, as he studied her pained face, that perhaps poison was not to blame for these mysterious bouts of illness. After all, she was the one he suspected of dosing her mistress with the deadly weed. Perhaps his diagnosis had been misguided, Thomas thought to himself. Perhaps there was some sort of ague, unknown to him, that was affecting the women. He found himself confused.

“Inform me if her condition worsens,” he instructed Venus as he picked up his case. Just as he did so, he saw the corner of a piece of printed paper peeping out from under the sick girl’s pallet. He wondered why one who could not read might be secreting it. Snatching a look ’round, he saw Venus was distracted. Quickly he swept it up and dropped it into his bag.

“Remember, call me if she grows worse,” he told Venus as he brushed past her and out of the room. He doubted very much that she would.

As soon as she was sure Thomas had left the building, Venus returned to the garret to find Phibbah bleating faintly and lying doubled up on her side. Calmly she walked over to the girl and knelt down beside her. Looking into her face, she could see that her time was near. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes sunken. She touched her hand. It was as cold as the frosted windowpane. No extra blanket had been forthcoming. No water had wetted her lips.

“I no die?” Phibbah’s voice was as brittle as a cane stalk.

Venus stroked her forehead, as a mother would her drowsy child’s, then said: “She knows.”

For a moment Phibbah’s moans were silent. “Who?” she asked, aware of the answer full well.

“The missa knows you tried to kill her,” she said softly, lifting her hand and inspecting the slave’s long thumbnail. “You are very foolish, child.”

Phibbah let out a feeble cry. “What she say?”

Venus studied the girl as beads of sweat studded her brow, then tilted her head as if she were about to sing a lullaby to a sick child.

“She say I got to kill you.”

T
he carriage was returning Thomas home via White Hall, running parallel with the Thames. Blowing on the windowpane, the doctor’s hot breath melted a large patch of crystals big enough for him to view the river in all its chaotic splendor. For more than two weeks the Thames had held ships, both large and small, in its frozen grip. Not a brigantine nor a barque, not a lighter nor a launch had been able to dock or set sail. Marooned like beached whales, wherries and square riggers alike remained imprisoned, unable to move in or out of port.

The
Elizabeth
would still be there, he told himself, probably laden with new cargo, but still held captive. Like his own investigation into Matthew Bartlett’s murder, time had frozen around it. If that was so, then perhaps some clues remained on board, too. It occurred to him that the dead artist’s belongings might still be in his cabin, unless his family, if indeed he had any, had claimed them.

Leaning out of his carriage window, he instructed the driver to go over Westminster Bridge and to deliver him to Hope Wharf. As far as his eye could see, hundreds of masts stood like trees, some tall, some like broken stumps. The northerly wind was whistling downriver, jangling rigging ropes, playing them as if they were the strings of a giant’s harp. The music was strange and haunting.

The weather did, however, offer some advantages. A new route had opened up to the few sailors that were retained. Now as well as being able to cross from shore to shore over the many ships that moored cheek by jowl across the river, they could maneuver their way over the river’s glassy surface. Sometimes they skated. Others built sledges that slid over the ice to transport small quantities of goods. Enterprising merchants had set up stalls to serve the new prisoners; hot gingerbread and roasted chestnuts were always popular. Such distractions helped dispel the frustration that the harsh weather brought in its wake.

Thomas surveyed the scene for a few moments, watching men crawl up the masts like insects. Others scrubbed the decks, but on the quayside there was less activity. The watermen were idle, their small craft held in the jaws of the ice. Ships were full of cargo—bales of wool, kegs of beer, casks of wine—ready and loaded for their voyages to far-off climes, but prevented from leaving by the coldest winter in living memory.

It was as he hoped. The
Elizabeth
was one such ship. He boarded her and found Captain McCoy poring over his charts in his cabin.

“Ah, Silkstone, you bring news?” he said, walking forward with his hand extended. “I heard that a body was found. It is . . .” The captain’s tongue cleaved to his mouth.

“It has been identified as Mr. Bartlett,” replied Thomas with a nod.

“Och! ’Tis a shocking business,” said the captain, shaking his head. “Who would do such a thing?”

Thomas sighed deeply. “That is what I am here to try and find out, Captain McCoy.”

“So you are working for the Admiralty?” he asked, gesturing to a chair and seating himself at his desk.

Thomas looked puzzled. “The Admiralty? Why should that be?”

McCoy flapped his hands. “Two officers were here a couple of days ago. They said that the expedition was their business and claimed jurisdiction.” The captain seemed resigned. “I didn’t argue.”

Thomas leaned forward as he recalled Sir Joseph’s warning to him to stay out of any investigation. “What did they want?” he asked.

“They came for Mr. Bartlett’s personal effects,” replied the captain.

Thomas bit his lip. They had beaten him to it. “And you gave them to them?”

McCoy let out a laugh. “That was the thing, Dr. Silkstone. There was nothing to give.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the lad had was a small chest and it was empty.”

“Empty?”

“Aye. There was nothing in it at all,” replied the captain, both bushy brows raised. “No letters from home, no comb, not even a change of clothes.”

T
homas sat at his desk in his laboratory. The notes made at his last postmortem were before him, splayed across the surface like giant playing cards. He had reread them at least a dozen times and each time they raised more questions than they answered.

The household had long since retired, and the embers of his fire were dying down. Outside in the street, an occasional carriage swished by and the odd dog barked. Franklin the rat, always more energetic at night, had been let out of his cage and scuttled around the room.

From his drawer Thomas took out a clean sheet of paper and, dipping his quill into his inkpot, he began to write:

He set down his quill and walked over to his bookshelf. Scanning the many volumes, his eye settled on the current almanac. He took it off the shelf and leafed through it until he came to the lunar calculations for the month of December. The headless body had been tied to the pier during a spring tide, when the full moon was approximately aligned with the sun and the earth, causing greater ebbs and flows than usual. Perhaps, thought Thomas, it was the murderer’s intention that the corpse be discovered sooner rather than later.

Seating himself once more, he reread his notes. He studied his second point once more, then searched for Sir Stephen Gandy’s initial letter, commissioning him to carry out the postmortem.
The corpse was tied to the pier.
But with what? A length of rope, a chain? Such evidence was surely crucial to any investigation.

At that moment, he suddenly became aware of a noise behind him. He turned to see Franklin on the bookshelf above his head, scuttling over the tops of various volumes, and was reminded how, after Lydia’s husband had been found hanged in his cell, the rat’s instincts had pointed him to the murderer. He resolved to return to Sir Stephen’s office first thing tomorrow and find out what happened to the ligature, whatever its nature or origin, that had secured the headless corpse to the pier. It may prove vital in his investigation.

Sir Stephen Gandy had agreed to see Thomas at short notice. The coroner was standing by the hearth, holding his hands to the fire, when he entered. He turned and acknowledged the doctor’s presence, somewhat grudgingly, it seemed.

“So, Silkstone, you have more to tell me, I hope, about how this Mr. Bartlett came to be found in such an unfortunate state in the Thames?” His manner, thought Thomas, seemed rather brusque and glib, as he paced to and fro in front of the fire, his hands now clasped behind his back. He did not invite Thomas to sit.

“Actually, it is my intention to ask a question of you, sir.”

“Oh?” The coroner arched a brow.

Thomas cleared his throat. “You mentioned that the victim was tied to a pier when he was found, but you did not say how.”

“What of it?” The coroner’s mood grew sourer by the second.

“I wondered if I may see it, sir, if it is still available, whatever it was.”

“And you think this will help track down the perpetrator of this crime?”

“It may or it may not. ’Tis hard to say without having seen it.”

Sir Stephen’s lips pursed into a grimace. “Very well, Silkstone. If you think ’twill help.” Ringing a bell on his desk, he summoned his clerk, then instructed him to fetch all documents relating to the murder of Matthew Bartlett.

“I am a busy man, Silkstone,” he muttered as he strode over to his desk and sat down.

Thomas gave a stilted bow. “I appreciate your time, sir,” he said, as the clerk returned with a leather wallet and laid it before the coroner. Opening it, Sir Stephen pulled out a long cloth strap and held it up. “This is what secured the corpse, although how it proves anything is beyond me,” he snapped.

Thomas smiled as he was handed the item. Clutching it in his fist, he knew instantly that this new piece of evidence could prove key in his search for Matthew Bartlett’s killer. His heart was pounding fast, but he willed himself to remain calm in front of the coroner.

“I am most obliged to you, sir,” said Thomas, placing the strap in his medical case. “I am sure it will be of use,” he added, before making a low bow and taking his leave.

Back at Hollen Street, Thomas found Dr. Carruthers cradling a brandy in the study.

“Ah! You are in a hurry to tell me something, young fellow,” said the old anatomist, having listened to the pace at which Thomas had walked through the hallway and into the room.

Thomas, slightly breathless with both exertion and excitement, acknowledged that he was, indeed, in a hurry.

Opening his case, he took out the cloth strap and placed it in the old man’s free hand.

“What have we here?” asked his mentor, placing his brandy glass on the side table so that he could concentrate on what had just been placed in his palm.

His first reaction was one of disgust. “The stink tells me it has been in water. The Thames most like.”

Thomas smiled, but resisted the urge to reveal any more as he watched the old man run his gnarled old fingers along the ligature. When he came to an end, he felt its frayed edges and discovered telltale holes had been made in the cloth.

After only a few seconds, Carruthers nodded. “No mystery about this, young fellow. ’Tis a tourniquet strap.”

Thomas retrieved it and inspected the length of cloth once more. “I believe it is, for use with a screw tourniquet, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, inspecting the holes in the cloth where a buckle would have been attached. He pictured how, before an amputation, the belt was pulled tight around the limb above the wound, with the screw over the main artery. He had used one many times himself, turning the screw to compress the artery and, in so doing, aiming to deaden the main nerves, thus helping to numb the pain.

“Now will you tell me what this is all about?” asked Carruthers, with an air of impatience.

Thomas, still holding the tourniquet tight between his two hands, looked up.

“It reaffirms my theory that Mr. Bartlett was not murdered by a bunch of cutthroats but by a man of medicine, a surgeon or an anatomist most like. The decapitation itself, and now this. If I’m not very much mistaken, I’ll wager this tourniquet came from Hubert Izzard’s anatomy school.”

Carruthers shook his head. “I would not give you long odds on that one, young fellow.”

Thomas watched his mentor’s expression. It had suddenly become very grave. He knew him well enough to realize when something was troubling him; the way his forehead puckered and his mouth drooped.

“What is it, sir?” asked Thomas, drawing up a small chair to sit beside his mentor.

Carruthers thought for a moment, as if framing a painful memory in his mind’s eye.

“Sir?” pressed Thomas.

The old man turned his head toward his protégé. “I have not been totally honest with you, young fellow,” he began.

His words jerked Thomas upright. He had never heard such an admission from his mentor before. He knew him to be straight as a die. He frowned. “Not honest?”

Carruthers smiled and shook his head. “I have never lied to you, but perhaps I should have told you the whole truth about Izzard before.”

Thomas shot back. “I suspect that man’s hand in all of this, sir, but if you have any evidence . . .”

Carruthers raised a finger. “What testimony I shall give you is only regarding the man’s character,” he insisted. “I did not tell you before, because I did not want his vile past to color your own judgment. You must be impartial in your search for the truth. You, of all people, young fellow, know that.”

Thomas knew Carruthers to be right. The evidence, in all things, must speak for itself. Whatever his mentor was about to say must corroborate, not convict. “That I do, sir,” he replied.

The old anatomist took a deep breath and reached for his half full glass of brandy. “My story,” he said, “is of how Izzard’s nose was broken.”

“You have known him long?”

Carruthers nodded slowly. “His father was the surgeon who employed me in Jamaica.”

“I see,” nodded Thomas, suddenly understanding his mentor’s reticence on the subject. “So how did he break his nose?” he urged, unsure as to where the trail might lead.

Carruthers’s shoulders heaved in a great sigh. “He was but sixteen when he was found raping a slave woman by her husband. In his rage, the man punched the braggart in the face. The Negro was sentenced to death, and Izzard watched him as he was strung up with a hook through his ribs.” The old anatomist gulped back his brandy. “It took three days for the wretch to die, and during that time Izzard taunted him till he drew his last breath. I shall never forget the man’s piteous cries.”

Thomas remained silent for a moment, his head bowed, picturing the scene.

“You understand why I did not tell you before?” asked Carruthers.

“I do, sir,” nodded Thomas. “I would break his nose a second time,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Such was his contempt for the slaves, even when he was barely a man,” continued Carruthers. “His father was little better, praising his son’s actions.”

“And that is when you resigned?”

The old anatomist nodded. “I could not stand the barbarity of it. I left for England the following week.”

“And after all these years, Izzard still shows his contempt for Negroes,” mused Thomas. “So you believe he is having them killed to order, sir?”

Thomas’s gaze switched back to his mentor. A single tear was running down Carruthers’s cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “I think not, young fellow,” he said, shaking his head.

Thomas thought of Izzard as a young man, taunting the dying Negro. It was the behavior of a bully, but perhaps not of a killer. “Because he is too much of a coward?” he ventured.

“Precisely,” came the reply. “I do not believe he is a murderer, but he may well be doing business with someone who is.”