The Lazarus Curse (23 page)

A
t the country seat of Draycott House, the men were gathered at the far end of Sir Montagu Malthus’s bedchamber. There were three of them, two physicians and a surgeon, and they huddled like vultures eyeing a dying animal. Sir Montagu had taken to his bed on Christmas Day when the pain in his leg had become too much to bear. His knee, calf, and foot were now hideously swollen and the skin on his leg had turned an ugly speckled brown.

Like all good physicians, Doctors Brotherton and Biglow had tried to alleviate their patient’s discomfort by adding to it. Leeches had been applied in clusters to suck out the excess fluid. They had even endeavored to bleed his offending leg, although this had proved a dangerous undertaking, as Sir Montagu kept lashing out at whoever tried to make an incision.

There was, they had concluded, no other course of action but to call upon expert advice. Mr. Percival Parker, a surgeon of good repute, had been drafted in from Oxford. He had examined the patient and agreed with the physicians that Sir Montagu was suffering from a popliteal aneurysm in his left leg. It was so large, he observed, that it was distending two hamstrings. If the condition did not kill him outright, he told them, Sir Montagu could spend the rest of his days in crazed agony. There seemed little choice. Amputation was the preferred course, but a highly risky one nonetheless. It was this decision the men were discussing in such reverent tones when Lydia was shown into Sir Montagu’s chamber.

The blinds had been half drawn, so that the room was in shadow. Shapes were blurred; the men of medicine in the corner were silhouettes. In the semidarkness sounds were magnified—the creak of the floorboards as she made her way toward the bed, the ticking of the mantel clock marking time, the rasping of Sir Montagu’s breath.

The patient’s pain was being kept at bay with regular doses of laudanum and it therefore took him a while to realize Lydia’s presence. She sat down at his bedside and, for a moment, studied his furrowed forehead, dotted with drops of sweat. Agony was written on his face as clearly as if it had been in ink.

This was the man, she reflected, who was depriving her of her happiness; keeping her and her beloved Thomas apart. His death might even lead the Court of Chancery to reconsider the conditions of the wardship placed on Richard which meant they could never marry. Yet seeing him like this, so fragile and sick, her heart felt heavy. He had been such a good friend and ally to both her father and her mother; the man they had entrusted to be her brother’s godfather, and, after her own father’s death, her own self-appointed unofficial guardian. He had watched her grow from a baby into a young woman. He had seen her trials and tribulations and even added to them, yet still she felt a strange closeness to him, as if he were her own flesh and blood.

“Sir Montagu, ’tis I. ’Tis Lydia,” she said softly, scooping up his hand in hers. It was icy cold to the touch.

Slowly he stretched open his eyes from beneath hooded lids and looked up at the ceiling.

“I am here, sir,” said Lydia.

Turning his head a little he focused on her face with a filmy stare. It was a while before he recognized her, but when he did, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“My dear, how good of you to come,” he croaked. He raised a hand slowly and pointed at the huddle of men in the corner of his room. “I have had to endure their poking and prodding too long.”

On hearing their patient’s words, the physicians looked toward the bed and all gave odd, stilted bows to Lydia. She acknowledged them awkwardly with a tilt of her head and her thoughts flashed to Thomas. How different he was from these men in this profession that fawned and prevaricated and acted according to a patient’s purse. Full of their own self-importance, they seemed to do more harm than good to those most in need of help.

Sir Montagu raised his hand once more and beckoned with a hooked finger. Lydia leaned closer. “They want to cut off my leg,” he told her. She felt the blood drain from her face.

“To amputate?” she murmured. The unexpected news churned up her stomach. She was fully aware of the implications.

Sir Montagu gave a little nod. “They may as well string me up from a tree and leave me to die,” he said, his voice suddenly gathering strength. “You hear that?” he shouted contemptuously to the men.

The physicians turned in unison to see their patient flapping a hand at them in a derisory manner. “Look at them!” he cried. “Bunch of quacks and mountebanks. They’ll not be having my leg. Not even after I’m dead and gone,” he scowled.

Lydia shot the men a discomfited look. “I am sure they are only trying to do what is best for you, sir,” she told him gently, even though she knew he was unlikely to survive surgery.

Hearing the timbre of resignation in her voice, Sir Montagu grabbed hold of her arm suddenly.

“Do not let them cut off my leg. They must not,” he begged.

Lydia felt pity well up inside her as she regarded Sir Montagu. For the first time in her life she could see that he was afraid. The light of terror shone in his eyes as clear as day. She looked down at her hand. He was squeezing her fingers so hard that she had to stifle a cry of pain before she tried to pull them free.

“There has to be another way,” he said, releasing her from his grasp.

Lydia took a deep breath as she studied his pained expression. The clock on the mantel struck three. “I believe there may be,” she said, quietly at first, so that Sir Montagu told her to speak up.

“What did you say, child?”

“There may be another way,” she repeated, only louder. It can be the only way, she told herself.

T
he following day, early, Thomas found himself outside Granville Sharp’s residence in Fulham. He wished to relay in person what Jeremiah Taylor had told him about his attacker. Perhaps, even more importantly, he would tell him how the slave’s testimony might prove invaluable in tracking down the suppliers of Negro corpses used for Hubert Izzard’s famed dissections. Thomas feared he had, quite by fortune, uncovered a heinous racket that murdered Negro slaves to order. To his certain knowledge, Hubert Izzard had dissected at least six such corpses over the last three months. His were not the first suspicions aroused. When a justice of the peace had thought to inquire why so many Negroes had died in London, Izzard had replied it was simply down to the cold. “Their bodies are not used to our freezing winters,” he had said, and the justice was satisfied. No further questions were asked.

Convinced that the answer to so many of these pressing queries could be found at the Crown Inn, Thomas was about to enlist the help of Mr. Sharp, who had offered his assistance when he heard of Jeremiah Taylor’s plight. He recalled his words: he felt it his duty to protect those who, in a foreign land, could not help themselves.

The reformer, his head buried in some lofty tome, looked up at the sound of the knock and the creaking door and welcomed Thomas warmly into his study.

“I heard of your recent intruder, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, his eyes bright as new pins. Word had spread quickly of Dalrymple’s attempt to recapture his slave.

“News travels fast,” replied Thomas, settling himself on a chair.

“Bad news even faster,” came the response. Sharp paused and stroked his long chin as if he had a beard. “So you wish me to act for your Jeremiah Taylor?”

Thomas nodded. “I would be most grateful. I fear that this Mr. Dalrymple will try anything, fair means or foul, to re-enslave the young man.”

Sharp nodded sagely. “Have no fear, Dr. Silkstone. The time is ripe to question the law, and, indeed, to clarify it.”

Thomas smiled. “I have great faith in you, sir,” he said, adding: “but first I would like you to help me with another grave matter that seems to be affecting the Negro slaves of London.”

Sharp leaned forward, his long fingers tented. “What is that, pray?”

Thomas looked deeply troubled as he told Sharp his suspicions about the number of dissections of Negroes Hubert Izzard was undertaking; he spoke of their state of preservation and of Jeremiah Taylor’s testimony.

“So you fear that Izzard’s Negroes are not all dying of natural causes?” asked Sharp finally. He tilted his thin face sympathetically, but his expression was slightly pained.

Thomas nodded and eagerly awaited a reply. When it came it was not altogether positive.

“This is most interesting and I do not doubt what you say is true, Dr. Silkstone, but we need proof,” Sharp told him. “And besides, a judge will hardly believe the word of a Negro against a white man.”

Thomas smiled wryly. “I am aware of that, and that is the reason for my visit, Mr. Sharp,” he replied. “I wish you to accompany me to the place where I believe we will find proof that somehow these slaves are being lured to their deaths.” He reached into his pocket and flourished the small handbill, retrieved from under Phibbah’s pallet, in the air.

“These are being distributed by Quakers at an inn frequented by Negroes,” he said, pressing the bill into Sharp’s hand.

Scanning it, the campaigner nodded. “I have seen such a pamphlet before.”

Thomas thought of the runaway Cato. “It is my suspicion,” he said, “that at least one slave, but possibly up to a dozen, have been lured to this place and promised their freedom, never to be seen again.”

Sharp’s eyes widened. “And you think they are murdered to furnish this anatomist with corpses?”

“That is my belief, sir, but I hope to be proved wrong.”

Sharp looked troubled and stroked his long chin once more. “ ’Tis dangerous ground, Silkstone, not to be trodden alone.”

Thomas’s face lit up. “Then I may count on your assistance, sir?”

“That you may,” acceded Sharp, with a gracious nod of his head. “And what is the name of this inn?” he added.

“The Crown, off the Strand,” replied Thomas. “I think that is where we must begin our investigations.”

When Samuel Carfax called in to see his wife that morning he found her sitting up in bed, her frizz of copper hair peeping out from a freshly laundered cap. She appeared much restored after her ordeal. Patience sat darning by her side. Fino was lying on the counterpane, yet still the air was heavy with ill-concealed acrimony.

“It is good to see you looking so much better, my sweet,” he told her, pecking her lightly on the cheek.

At first she made no reply. Her eyes followed him as he drew up a chair at her bedside. When he settled himself a sneer tugged at her lips.

“I know you do not mean that,” she smirked.

Patience shot a shocked expression at her master. He countered it with a command. “Leave us,” he ordered the slave, and she scurried out of the room, quick as a mouse.

Carfax leaned close to her. The whites of her eyes, he noticed, were still yellowish in hue. “What did you mean by that, my dear?” he said, smiling, although his teeth were clenched.

“You know very well, Samuel. My death would not have suited your plans. That is the only reason you wanted me alive.” Her voice was measured, as if she was giving a household order.

At the sound of her wounding words the plantation owner leaned back and withdrew his head into his neck, like a turtle. “You are not yourself, my dear,” he murmured.

“Oh, but I am,” countered his wife. The dog, sensing her angry tone, rose from the bed and jumped to the floor. “Your plans to buy a rotten borough would have been set back if ’twas found your wife had been murdered. Your so-called friends would avoid you, cross to the other side of the street when they saw you. There would be a stop on all your meetings and dinners and rounds of golf. All the machinations that are necessary for your plans would have ground to a halt.” Flecks of spit were hurled from her mouth, landing on her husband.

Taking out his kerchief, Carfax dabbed his face. “ ’Tis true I must avoid scandal, my dear,” he acknowledged.

“Scandal? Ha!” she cried. “So that is what my death would have meant to you: a scandal to harm your chances of buying a seat in Parliament!” Her arms flew out in a gesture of exasperation. A lavender bag had been left to scent her pillows and she picked it up and hurled it at her husband. “Get out of my sight,” she screamed. The well-aimed bag hit his cheek and he flinched.

Rising slowly, his shoulders drooping, Carfax turned toward the door, but his wife’s insults still followed him.

“Go to your mulatto whore! Go to her and find comfort between her thighs!” she yelled. “ ’Twould not surprise me if ’twas she who put the girl up to poisoning me so she could have you all to herself!” she screamed. The exertion of the outburst took its toll, and she collapsed back onto her pillows, surrendering herself to a flood of tears.

Thomas and Sharp reconvened later that day before their foray to the Crown. They were about to enter an alien place, peopled by foreigners from the other side of the world, some of whom worshipped fantastical gods. As white men, they had no right to be there. Yet they would enter as friends, with good intentions. Thomas hoped their intrusion would not be misconstrued.

Their carriage dropped them at the neck of the narrow alleyway that led to the inn. Scores of pairs of eyes were trained on the anatomist and his companion as they ducked down through the low door and into the candle glow of the tavern.

It took only a few seconds for silence to descend on the throng once they realized there were strangers—white strangers—in their midst. The banter hushed, the fiddle player stilled his fingers, and even the parrot stopped squawking for a moment.

Thomas scanned the room, but after a second or two, the tavern hum began to rise once more as customers resumed their talk and picked up their tankards. Feeling as self-conscious as a schoolboy, the young doctor flattened his mouth into a smile and followed Sharp to the bar.

Reaching into his pocket, Thomas pulled out the handbill and placed it on the counter. The Negro with a front tooth of gold stood at the pump, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Good evening,” Thomas began. “We were hoping we might speak with some of your patrons about this.” He pointed at the piece of paper.

Goldtooth glanced at the pamphlet and grimaced. “I see’d it,” he replied, a look of slight reproach settling on his face. “The white Quaker men give them out.”

Thomas had not intended to alarm. “We mean no harm. We would very much like to talk to someone who is interested in the cause.”

Goldtooth suddenly let out a mocking laugh. His metallic incisor glinted in the candlelight. “You talk of abolition, sir?” He was chuckling as he plonked a tankard on the bar.

Sharp frowned. “My friend has said something amusing?”

Goldtooth leaned forward on the counter, as if about to impart a confidence. “Slavery will only be abolished the day all men’s skins are the same color, sir,” he said. And with that he threw his head back and broke into a hearty laugh.

For a moment Thomas felt foolish. He was white, comfortable. He answered to no one except his Maker. What did he know of the Negro’s yoke? He had left his homeland of his own free will in pursuit of scientific knowledge, but these people here, these downtrodden pedlars and hawkers, these former soldiers and former slaves, had never been given choices. Their lot had been predestined. Acknowledging his naïveté with a nod of his head and a sigh, he said: “You are right. We cannot begin to understand what it is like to spend your life in chains. But we can still enjoy a tankard of ale.” Thomas put a shilling on the counter.

Still Goldtooth remained unimpressed. He moved to a shelf behind him and gathered another clutch of pot handles between his fingers. “My advice to you, sirs,” he drawled, pulling at the pump once more, “is to go home and sit by your big fire and eat your big dinner. We can look out for our own kind.”

Thomas arched a brow and persisted. “From what I’ve heard many of your kind are dying in this cold. Am I right?”

The Negro shrugged. “The English winter always claims black lives,” he replied, his eyes swiveling to the low door behind him. And with that, he turned his back on the men and made busy with a barrel.

Such an unhelpful reception came as no great surprise to either Thomas or Sharp, but undeterred, they took up their tankards and toasted each other. Rounding away from the bar, Thomas held his pot up to his lips. “He knows something,” he whispered.

Sharp nodded. “You are talking to someone who understands these people, Dr. Silkstone,” came the wry reply. “We need to know what goes on behind that door.”

Not wishing to remain a moment longer than they had to in this foreign place of black faces and broken lives, Thomas and Sharp drank quickly and walked out into the night once more.

The cold hit them both in the face as surely as if it were a fist. Underfoot the cobbles were glassed over with frozen rainwater. They trod carefully along the alley, passed broken kegs and piles of rotting rubbish. Sharp, a good deal older than Thomas, struggled with the uneven ground and put out his arm to steady himself now and again.

Turning a corner, they saw the faint glow of a candle spreading from a low window. Both men swapped glances and, without uttering a word, moved closer. They peered inside. It took them both a while before they could make out the strange shapes of the snakes hanging from the rafters, the bunches of herbs, the skulls on the shelves.

“Obeah,” whispered Thomas. “It is their magic,” he said, recalling the dark world evoked in one of Dr. Perrick’s letters to his wife.

Remaining transfixed at the window, they saw something or someone stir. In the shadows they caught a glimpse of an old man, hobbling across the room, a staff in his hand.

“The obeah-man. A priest,” said Thomas.

They watched him pull a bottle from the shelf with his gnarled hand and pour its contents into a glass phial.

“Some sort of narcotic?” whispered Sharp, hardly able to believe his eyes.

“Perhaps,” replied Thomas.

They watched the old man as he carefully wiped the lip of the bottle and slid it across the table.

“There is someone else with him,” whispered Sharp.

From out of the shadows a hand appeared to take the phial. It belonged to a woman. At that moment, they heard footsteps approaching. Sharp signaled to Thomas to leave the alleyway via a different route. They hurried on, not daring to look behind them, until they reached the main street.

Feeling safer under the glow of a streetlamp, Sharp paused to catch his breath. “What have we uncovered?” he panted.

Thomas shook his head. “All I know, sir, is that the answer lies in that bottle,” he replied.

The letter was waiting on the salver on the hall table on Thomas’s return from the inn. He recognized Lydia’s handwriting immediately and smiled. Her weekly missives always brought him great joy. The latest one had arrived on Christmas Eve, so he was a little puzzled as to why she should put her quill to paper again so soon. Even so, the prospect of reading her news gladdened him.

Dr. Carruthers had long retired to bed as Thomas, a candle held aloft, made his way up the stairs to his room. Inside it was cold. The fire had been left to dwindle, but he would be able to read by the light of its glow. He opened his case and reached for a scalpel to slice the seal. Immediately he was struck by the brevity of the letter—a few paragraphs in her hurried hand. The address was Draycott House, Sir Montagu Malthus’s residence. It was dated three days previously.

With mounting concern he read: