The Lazarus Curse (26 page)

P
hibbah did not know if she was alive or dead. All she sensed was confusion and fear. A strange fog had settled in her head, dulling all her senses. There had been no vision, no dream, no encounter with her ancestors as she had imagined in death. There was no color, no music. Only darkness and silence. Then it occurred to her. What if she was dead and had been buried? Buried alongside the white people in the graveyard where she had collected her grave dirt. Sealed in their coffins and watched over by the women with wings, there was no escape for them. Perhaps she was now trapped, too.

A terror took hold of her guts and churned them about at the very thought. A pounding thumped inside her head, setting her teeth on edge. And now the fog was lifting. The blackness shifted and shapes began to appear in her head. At first she did not dare open her eyes. She was terrified that all she would see would be the blackness of the earth, that she would be lying entombed. She shivered. It was cold, as cold as the grave. Yet upon her forehead she could feel pricks of sweat. There was the coarseness of the hessian against her skin, too. She inhaled. The air was sharp, but not earthy. It whiffed of something strange and pungent like the missa’s smelling salts. Trying to fill her lungs, she felt them tighten, as if an iron brace had been clamped around her ribs. She sniffed the air and thought she caught the scent of blood, a faint note of it that underlay everything else. It left a sickly taste in her gullet that unnerved her.

As the fog dispersed it drifted from her ears. Sounds were no longer muffled, but clear—strange creaks, as if from timber. From somewhere nearby came a sudden clank, followed by footsteps, then voices.

The noises made her stir. One by one she began trying to move her fingers, trying to coax her sluggish blood back to life. But she could not. Next she tried twitching her toes, but they refused her bidding. She tried to gulp down another lungful of air, but found that her chest still resisted her, as if there were hard, flat stones pressing down on her breasts. She was alive, yet she could barely move.

Slowly, fearfully, she tried raising her lids, as if they were windows opening onto a day that promised either death or deliverance. They unlatched themselves and she blinked. There was daylight, a checkered pattern that imprinted itself on wooden boards through a large pane up high. Light, not earth. She willed her drunken eyes to still in their sockets. Through a blurry haze she could make out rows of wooden benches. Perhaps she was on board a ship. Perhaps Cato had come and rescued her from her sickbed and she was bound for Africa. The sounds she had heard were the familiar creak of the mast and the feet of sailors on the upper decks as they made the vessel ready to cast off and set sail. That was what the obeah-man had tried to tell her. He had said she would know in her heart what path she should take and now she was on her way. That was it! They would leave the freezing, gray waters of England and make for the clear warm seas that washed the white beaches of Africa and all the stories she had heard and all the dreams she had dreamed would be real.

Phibbah’s heart leapt at the very thought of it and she felt a great surge of joy pulse through her body, making her try and lift her head for the first time. But she could not. Instead she heard a voice, followed by another, oddly familiar, and then she felt a great tug across her torso that robbed her of her breath, followed by a stab of pain. A sharp cry escaped from her lips and she tried to bring her arms up, but they would not move. She tried lifting her legs, but they refused to obey.

Gasping for breath, she gulped the metallic air that now flooded her nostrils and mouth and terror seized her. She began trying to lash out. But she could not. There was a hurricane in the back of her throat that came rushing forth in a deafening torrent before another stab of pain silenced her.

They waited, all four of them, in the obeah-man’s room for the rest of the night. The old man had given Thomas a phial that, he swore, contained the antidote for the poison. According to the old man, if its entire contents were poured into Phibbah’s mouth, she would, within the hour, come alive again. Thomas recalled Sir Joseph Banks’s account of the potion. He had shown faith in it and now so must he, despite his misgivings.

Time had hung slow and heavy and had given Thomas space to reflect. He mused on the small glass bottle he cradled in his hands. The amber liquid held therein looked so innocuous, yet it was so powerful. Could it be that Matthew Bartlett was murdered for its formula when this ugly old toad of a man knew it all along? Surely Cordelia Carfax’s hand was not behind the brutal killing of the artist, too? The more he thought about it, the more disturbed he became and the more convinced he was that he was no nearer to finding out who killed Matthew Bartlett, or, for that matter, why.

Finally the night watchman called seven o’clock. It was still dark, but it was imperative that Thomas, Sharp, and Venus reach the anatomy school as soon as it opened if they were to save Phibbah.

The streets of London were waking to another cold day as the coach made its way to Brewer Street. They arrived just in time to find the night porter unlocking the door of the anatomy school for the beadle. Thomas accosted him.

“Sir, my name is Dr. Silkstone and this is my associate, Mr. Sharp. We would speak with Mr. Izzard on a most urgent matter. May we come in?”

The beadle, hunched and advancing in years, glanced beyond them to Venus, who waited in silence behind. He eyed both men suspiciously.

“A physician, you say?”

“Yes, and a fellow anatomist.”

The beadle sighed heavily. “Very well,” he conceded, gesturing the three of them inside. “Up the stairs,” he told them. “Mr. Izzard will be in before eight o’clock.”

It was a relief to hear that the anatomist had not yet arrived. It was so cold that Phibbah’s body would no doubt have been stored upstairs overnight in readiness for the morning lecture. They waited on the landing so that the beadle could open the appropriate door for them. Choosing a key from his belt, he inserted it in the lock and pushed. The door opened onto the lecture theatre and there, to everyone’s surprise, was Hubert Izzard. Seated on the front row, he cut a solitary figure, his head in his hands. He glanced up at the sound of footsteps, then shuddered as he took a deep breath.

“Sir, you are early. These gentlemen asked to wait for you,” the beadle called across the room, shuffling toward the anatomist.

The old man’s remarks seemed not to register. As Thomas drew nearer he could see there was a strange expression on Izzard’s face, a wild, haunted look. His eyes were wide but unseeing and his lips were loose and pale. What was more, his skin was deathly white against the dried red blood on his yellow jacket.

Thomas glanced over to the dissecting table in the centre of the floor. There was a body on it, covered with blood-stained sacking. A sticky puddle of blood had congealed on the floor. A look of horror crossed Thomas’s face and his eyes met with Izzard’s.

From near the table came a cry. Venus had just thrown back the cover.

“Phibbah!” she gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

Granville Sharp had rushed over to her. Now he turned away to retch.

“She was alive, was she not?” said Thomas, drawing beside Izzard.

He returned his gaze and nodded slowly. “She asked . . .”

Thomas broke in. “You mean Cordelia Carfax?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “She asked me to cut the body in front of her. I had no intention of doing so. I wanted to save the girl for my students. But she said she admired my skill and wanted to watch.” His eyes began to fill with tears. “I told her it was no sight for a lady.”

“So you refused?”

“Of course, but she insisted and when I declined, she took the scalpel from me and made the first cut herself.”

A terrible sound flew from Venus’s mouth and she tugged at her hair.

“Tell me what happened.” Thomas remained outwardly calm, despite a knot tightening in his stomach.

“She plunged the blade into the heart and the girl’s eyes shot open.” Izzard’s body began to shake. “I begged her to stop. I tried to take the knife from her but she kept stabbing her, screaming all the time, until the girl was dead.” His trembling turned to sobs and he dropped his head into his hands once more. “Oh god, Silkstone!” he wailed.

Granville Sharp could not hide his revulsion. “We must find this woman, immediately,” he said, his face drained white. “Where is she now?”

Izzard shook his head. “You need look no further,” he said, his voice juddering. “She is over there.” He pointed to the far row of the lecture theatre, to what looked like a crumpled heap of rags. It was only when Thomas moved closer that he could see a syrupy pool of blood on the floor. But it was only when he was nearer still that he saw the familiar face of Cordelia Carfax, as she lay on her back, sprawled across a bench, a long blade embedded in her own heart. He shot a questioning look back at Izzard, whose watery eyes were now fixed on him.

“I tried to stop her,” he muttered, shaking his head. “She killed herself.”

S
ir Stephen Gandy had wasted little time in requesting a postmortem on Cordelia Carfax. Thomas had no choice but to agree, so once again, he was faced with the prospect of performing an autopsy on someone he had known in life.

In the laboratory, Dr. Carruthers stationed himself by his side, as much for moral support as for professional input. There was important work to be done. Had Cordelia Carfax turned the knife on herself after killing Phibbah, as Izzard testified, or had he, her lover, stabbed her himself? A man’s life hung, almost literally, in the balance. The gallows awaited Hubert Izzard if he had murdered Cordelia Carfax and on Thomas’s shoulders lay the burden of proof.

Try as he might, however, the anatomist found it almost impossible to look on the corpse without recalling the look on Phibbah’s face when he had found her dead earlier that morning. Her eyes, still open, almost bulged from their sockets, and horror had etched itself on her features.

Standing over Cordelia Carfax’s naked torso, he was only glad that Dr. Carruthers could not see his hand tremble as he examined the knife wound. The blade remained in her chest—often a sign of a self-inflicted wound, he noted. It had entered between the third and fourth ribs, two inches to the left of the sternum at an acute angle upward from the subcostal region. Again, this was, in his understanding, another indicator of suicide. He shared his thoughts with his mentor from time to time, and received reassuring nods and grunts. There was only one fatal wound, he observed, which had been made when her chest was already exposed and not via her garment. This was often a feature of suicides, in his experience. They would often expose the proposed area of their self-inflicted wound.

“So was her heart black?” queried Carruthers, lifting his stick and tapping it on the stone flags. It was as if he had sensed the tension in the air and sought to break it with a quip.

Thomas allowed himself to smile. “Many would be surprised that it was not,” he replied.

“And you have checked the hands?” asked the old anatomist.

Thomas had. They were bloodied, but bore no defensive wounds, as might be expected in the case of an attack.

“I believe she took her own life, sir,” Thomas concluded, straightening his aching back.

Dr. Carruthers nodded. “From what you have said, I concur.”

“And Hubert Izzard is in the clear,” replied Thomas. For the time being at least, he thought.

The drapes were drawn at the Carfax mansion, and casements shut, despite the turn in the weather. Even from the outside it seemed that the whole house was in mourning. Inside, it was the same story.

Thomas was shown into a hallway devoid of furniture. Gone were the grand paintings, and the marble busts had been covered with white sheets. Only Fino the dog seemed eager to greet him in the hallway with a frantic barking, thinking perhaps his mistress had returned.

He found Samuel Carfax in his study, staring out of the window onto the gardens. His normally jocular aura had dissipated to be replaced by a look of despair. His habitually ruddy complexion was pale and under his eyes were great bags. His large head seemed to have sunk even further between his shoulders. For a moment after Thomas was announced he did not move, as if trying to determine in his own mind how he should address him. Eventually he turned and looked at the doctor blankly.

“She’s gone,” he said. It was as if Carfax was thinking aloud rather than addressing his visitor. “She has left me.”

Thomas thought of Cordelia Carfax’s corpse now lying in the mortuary, bloated and darkening, awaiting the grisly fate reserved for those who took their own lives. She would be accorded the same fate as all her slaves. There would be no headstone for her, either, no marks made in stone to testify to a life well lived, no carved prayers or kind words from a loving husband, no women with wings to watch over her.

“My condolences, sir,” said Thomas, his voice subdued. That was the reason for his visit. He had delivered his postmortem report to Sir Stephen’s office and knew it would not be easy for Samuel Carfax to face the truth. His wife had led a double life. Not only had she been conducting an affair with one of his acquaintances, she had secretly trafficked the corpses of at least half a dozen slaves, selling them for a tidy profit to her lover. Some of them had even been murdered to order, but her last crime, the vicious stabbing of Phibbah, was the most horrific of all. Nevertheless their marriage had been a long, if not a happy, one and his wife’s suicide would have compounded his intense distress. “You will miss Mistress Carfax greatly,” he added, immediately realizing he sounded glib.

Carfax’s reaction to his words came swiftly. He shrugged his great shoulders and shook his head, glowering at Thomas in disbelief. “I speak of Venus, Silkstone. Venus is gone.”

Thomas could not hide his shock. He was lost for words and when they did come into his mind, he thought it best to remain silent. He would only allow Samuel Carfax to explain himself if he so wished. In his hand Thomas noticed the estate owner was holding something like a small coin. He turned it ’round and ’round, flipping it between his fingers, studying it now and again.

“She said she wanted her freedom, you see, Silkstone,” he mumbled eventually, tossing the roundel disdainfully onto the desk. Thomas caught a glimpse of it as it scudded across the surface and landed nearer to him. It was a token against slavery, the sort that the Quakers distributed in the Crown Inn. He thought of Venus, tall and poised and proud, yet all the while hiding a hatred and contempt for both her master and mistress that had seared itself into her psyche as surely as the brand on Phibbah’s flesh. Her attitude had at first surprised him when he had spoken briefly to her about Cato’s disappearance. She seemed ambivalent to freedom; not content, yet not craving an escape.

“And you let her go?” asked Thomas gently.

Carfax snorted, as if he found Thomas’s question vaguely amusing.

“I have no longer the will to fight, Silkstone. I am a broken man. I have lost my wife, my reputation, and any ambitions I had for a career in politics.”

He picked up the roundel from the desk once more. Squinting at it, he read the inscription: “Am I not a woman and a sister?” and let out an odd laugh. “So she is now free and I have become a slave to my own folly. The irony of it, eh, Silkstone? The irony.”

Lydia took advantage of the spring thaw to drive the dogcart down to Plover’s Lake and to call in at Mr. Lupton’s residence. Most of the snow had melted, leaving green shoots in its wake. She had even seen some primroses in bloom in the hedgerows. Hearing the clatter of the cart, the housekeeper came out to greet her.

“Will you have Mr. Lupton come and see me today, Mistress Fox?” Lydia asked her, adding: “I am most anxious to speak with him.”

With the warmer weather, she wanted to revive the plans for draining the marsh land. The housekeeper, however, looked perplexed and began fidgeting, smoothing her apron with her plump fingers.

“What is it, Mistress Fox?” asked Lydia, seeing the woman’s disquiet.

She shook her head. “I am most anxious to see him too, m’lady,” she replied. “But he is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, m’lady. He took off early this morning, without so much as a by your leave. Didn’t touch his breakfast.” The woman twisted her apron.

“I am sure he will be back by nightfall,” Lydia said, smiling.

But her words did nothing to allay the housekeeper’s fears. “That’s the thing, you see, m’lady. It looks like he won’t be coming back.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia snapped.

“Taken all his things, he has. All his bags and his trunk have gone. A carrier called for them, m’lady.”

Lydia’s forehead was suddenly furrowed by a frown.

“I see,” she said slowly. “I am sure he will return presently,” she tried to reassure her. She gave the housekeeper a polite smile to disguise her own surprise, then with a flap of the reins she urged on her horse.

In Draycott House, Sir Montagu Malthus was also relishing the sunshine that had been so noticeable by its absence throughout the coldest winter he could remember. The warm rays streamed through his bedroom window and added to his already cheerful mood. Only four days had elapsed since the operation on his aneurysm, but his recovery was astounding his erstwhile surgeon.

“I have to confess I am most impressed by Dr. Silkstone’s ingenuity,” murmured Mr. Parker as he inspected the leg. The scar was approximately six inches long and from it protruded intermittent lengths of thread, yet already the flesh was knitting and there seemed no sign of infection.

“I fear it takes little to impress you, Parker,” sniffed Sir Montagu, easing himself up onto his elbows. “You’ll tell me next that Fairweather is a passable physician.”

The surgeon looked quite shocked. He was used to hearing physicians maligned by members of his own chirurgical profession, but not by patients and certainly not to his face. Personally he did not rate Fairweather, either. His knowledge was sketchy and his judgment was often, in his opinion, very poor. Nevertheless he felt compelled to spring to the defense of a fellow medical man. He cleared his throat.

“I believe he acted admirably during your surgery, sir,” he countered.

Sir Montagu let out a derisory laugh. “Admirably, you say?” he repeated. “I expect he told you that!”

Mr. Parker cocked his head to one side and was reluctantly forced to admit that, yes, he had heard the phrase from Fairweather’s own lips.

Sir Montagu, his hooded eyes returned to their piercing alertness, fixed the surgeon with an unnerving stare. “I may have been semiconscious when that American upstart, Silkstone, cut open my leg, but I was compos mentis enough to know that Fairweather went to pieces at the sight of this bloody limb.” He pointed to his leg as Parker bent low to re-cover the wound. “I fear that the country physician let himself down very badly during his foray into chirurgical practice,” he snarled, “and I do not intend to let him off lightly.”