The Lazarus Curse (27 page)

T
he preliminary hearing of
Dalrymple versus Silkstone
was scheduled to be heard before the local magistrate at nine o’clock in the morning. Thomas had been given little time to prepare for the case, but had put his trust in Granville Sharp, whom he knew to be as good an ally as any man could have. Traveling as Sir Theodisius’s manservant, Jeremiah Taylor had arrived back in London from Boughton Hall the previous day and had been offered accommodation at Sharp’s Fulham residence.

The hearing was held in a small, cramped room that afforded little space between the players of the drama and served only to intensify the enmity between the two sides in the case. Sir Theodisius found the conditions particularly constricting, his cumbersome frame having to support itself on two wooden chairs.

The magistrate, a Mr. Burrill, was curmudgeonly and suffered, Thomas suspected, from asthma. He wheezed between each sentence and the stuffiness of the room seemed to compound his breathing problems. He sat behind a desk at the top end of the room, flanked by tables at which the two opponents were seated. By them sat their own counsel.

A clerk read the charge. Thomas was accused of stealing Jeremiah Taylor, the property of Josiah Dalrymple, and forcibly imprisoning him. The judge was told that on the afternoon of December 22, Taylor had gone missing from the residence of Mr. Samuel Carfax, where Dalrymple was visiting on business. Acting on information received, the slave was later found at 34 Hollen Street, the home of Dr. Thomas Silkstone, “a citizen of the United States of America,” the clerk helpfully pointed out. The Negro had been severely beaten. When asked to hand over Jeremiah, however, Dr. Silkstone had refused and challenged Mr. Dalrymple to fight him for the slave in court. Josiah Dalrymple’s lawyer was a dishevelled young man who went by the name of Fitzroy. His experience was obviously very limited, as he told the magistrate, with the misplaced smugness that came with the arrogance of his youth, that it was a straightforward case that could be dealt with swiftly.

“I would remind you, or perhaps in your situation tell you, for the first time, Mr. Fitzroy, that there is no such thing as a straightforward case,” wheezed Mr. Burrill.

Duly admonished, the young man sat down. Dalrymple glowered at him. He wore the angry expression of a man who realized, perhaps too late, that his barrister should not have persuaded him to accept this underling in order to save his services for the courtroom proper.

“So, Dr. Silkstone.” Mr. Burrill turned to Thomas, who now stood. “I see you have a most learned friend.” He nodded to Sharp, who returned the greeting. “What have you to say for yourself?”

The young doctor, although he could feel his guts churning inside, looked outwardly calm. Dressed in his smartest fustian coat and wearing, uncustomarily for him, a wig, he summoned all his composure, just as he would before performing surgery.

“Your honor, I am afraid the picture of events that has been painted is entirely spurious. The truth of the matter is I came across Jeremiah badly injured in the street. Had I left him there he would most surely have died in a few hours. As a doctor the Hippocratic oath binds me to care for the sick, so I did my duty and took him into my house. It soon emerged, however, that my patient was a slave from the branding on his chest and the collar around his neck.”

Thomas paused for effect, allowing his gaze to roam ’round the stuffy room, giving Mr. Burrill a moment to ponder his words. He resumed: “Once he was conscious, he expressed a desire to escape his slave bonds. As I understand the law in England, sir, slavery is not permitted, as established in the case of James Somersett.” He glanced to his right, deferring to Sharp, who sat listening intently. “I therefore believed myself acting in accordance with the laws of this fine land. I neither stole, nor kidnapped Jeremiah. He was free to leave my house at any time, but he chose not to return to captivity.”

Mr. Burrill raised both brows, so that his wig lifted, too. “You would make a good lawyer as well as an anatomist, Dr. Silkstone,” he complimented. He coughed into a kerchief, then proceeded. “So you would wish to call character witnesses, I believe ?”

Thomas nodded. “I wish that Jeremiah Taylor give you his version of events first, sir.”

“You may proceed,” nodded the magistrate.

Jeremiah Taylor, looking fine in a dark green coat loaned by Granville Sharp and a high stock, stood up to speak. His nerves were plain for all to see. His hands shook and his voice was faltering when he confirmed his name. In answer to the magistrate’s questions, he told him he had belonged to Mr. Dalrymple for ten years and lived on his sugar plantation near Kingston. Sometimes his master beat him, or withheld his meals.

“And that is why you ran away?” asked Mr. Burrill.

Jeremiah locked eyes with Thomas, then shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Then why, pray?”

The slave tensed. His forehead suddenly glistened. “Because I heard something I was not supposed to, sir,” came the reply.

The magistrate leaned forward. “And what might that have been?”

Jeremiah proceeded to tell Burrill how he had been locked in the boot room and how a man and woman had entered and spoken in low voices about dead Negroes, and that he hadn’t understood what they were talking about but was afraid.

“What happened next?” pressed the magistrate.

“A boot fell off a shelf and then they saw me, and the man, he beat me with a big stick, but I escaped, sir. I ran and I ran, even though my head hurt and there was a lot of blood.”

“And where did you run?”

Jeremiah turned and fixed his eye on Thomas. “I wanted to find Dr. Silkstone.”

The doctor was taken aback. This was the first time Jeremiah had mentioned that he knew of him prior to the attack and had been purposely seeking him out. Up until now Thomas had believed it was by sheer good fortune that he had found the injured slave.

“Why Dr. Silkstone, pray?”

“Because I heard he help sick slaves.”

The magistrate leaned back in his seat. “Is this true, Dr. Silkstone?”

Thomas stood. “I attended the sugar planter Mr. Samuel Carfax at his home and found that one of his slaves, a child, had died without receiving any medical attention. I therefore offered my services free of charge should any more slaves fall sick, sir.”

The magistrate arched a brow. “How very noble of you,” he wheezed. He turned back to Jeremiah Taylor. “And you were treated by Dr. Silkstone?”

The slave nodded. “He save my life, sir, but when my master came looking for me, I did not want to go back with him. I want to be free man, sir.”

“It is not your choice,” mumbled Dalrymple under his breath.

Mr. Burrill coughed once more. “That is all,” he told Jeremiah. “Do you have any other witnesses who can testify to your good character, Dr. Silkstone?”

Unsure of himself, Thomas looked questioningly at Granville Sharp, who nodded.

“I believe so, sir,” he replied.

“Well then, where are they?” asked the magistrate, his head swiveling around the small room. “I can see no one else.” Dalrymple snorted at the jibe, but as he did so, a second clerk appeared in the doorway. Standing behind him was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman. It was Sir Joseph Banks.

The great man held his audience under his spell. He spoke eloquently of Thomas’s many talents. He was, he said, a man of judgment and reason, who would never knowingly flout the laws of England, despite being an American citizen. He told Mr. Burrill how Thomas had been appointed to the prestigious position of keeper of the collections following the Jamaican expedition, and how his professionalism in all matters was unimpeachable.

Obviously honored that the president of the Royal Society should grace the hearing, Mr. Burrill had no choice but to dismiss the case against Thomas, even though he was already minded to do so before Sir Joseph’s appearance. Dalrymple’s charges, he opined, were ludicrous and would not stand up in a higher court. Somersett’s case set the precedent for any English court to abide by the wishes of a slave to remain a free man while he stayed in this country.

Addressing Dalrymple, who had sat with a face like thunder throughout, the magistrate directed: “I order, sir, that you manumit Jeremiah Taylor and make a deposition to that effect.”

Mr. Burrill then brought the proceedings to a close, walking out of the stuffy room, wheezing and puffing as he did so, desperate for a breath of fresh air.

The rest of the courtroom followed. Once outside, Thomas thanked Sir Joseph, Mr. Sharp, and Jeremiah most profusely.

“I am very much obliged to you all,” he said.

“Nonsense,” replied Sir Joseph. “The charges were a complete fabrication.”

“So both of you are free men,” remarked Sharp, lifting the corner of his mouth in a rare show of mirth. Turning to Jeremiah, he said, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to draw up that deposition and give it to your former owner.”

The party broke up. Sharp took Jeremiah with him back to Fulham and Thomas was about to hail a carriage to Hollen Street, when Sir Joseph indicated he wanted a word. Thomas suspected the nature of the conversation and he braced himself for a chastisement.

“Matthew Bartlett,” said Sir Joseph, drawing up beside the doctor.

“Sir?” replied Thomas disingenuously.

“Come, come, Silkstone,” he said, as they continued to walk down the lane toward the main thoroughfare. “My spies tell me you have been rooting, despite my strict instructions to leave the matter to me.”

Sir Joseph’s words made Thomas wonder just how much the great man knew of his activities regarding the artist’s murder. Nevertheless he did not anticipate what next came.

“All my inquiries have drawn a blank,” he told Thomas, pausing to study his reaction. His voice barely hid a plea. “Have you fared any better?”

Thomas suppressed a smile. “I will revisit my postmortem notes, sir, to see if there is anything I might have missed.”

Sir Joseph nodded. “You are a good man, Silkstone,” he said. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we?”

The young Earl Crick was decidedly bored. For the past two days Eliza had sought diversions for him, from playing with his tin soldiers to drawing. Lydia had even tried, unsuccessfully, to teach him to play draughts, but all he really wanted to do was frolic outside with Mr. Lupton.

“When will he be back, Mamma?” he would ask at every opportunity.

Lydia only wished she knew. All that she had been told by Mistress Fox, who was admittedly not the most reliable of sources, was that her master had taken off most suddenly. Standing by her study window, she looked out over the lawn. The snow was all but gone. The wind had changed direction and the mercury was rising. There were daffodil shoots in the shrubbery and the mere thought of spring brought a smile to her face.

What was more, she had heard word that the Treaty of Paris had been ratified by the Congress of the Confederation in Maryland. This meant that America and Britain were no longer at war. Thomas could no longer be termed an enemy of England. Another obstacle to their union had been lifted. She thought of him on his last visit. She had been deliberately distant with him, shielding herself from her inevitable despair at the prospect of the ban on their union never being lifted. He had not given up hope. She could tell that from his gestures, the way he had declared his love for her though she had pretended not to hear. She loathed herself for such seeming callousness, yet she felt she was acting in both their best interests.

Perhaps now, however, was the right time for her to pen her letter to him. Sir Montagu was making remarkable progress and had sent her word of his quickly improving condition only that morning. The news had lifted her spirits and given her fresh hope.

Turning to her desk, she picked up his letter and read it for the second, or was it the third time?
My condition is transformed,
he wrote. He had even, he reported, put pressure on the offending leg and managed a few steps. In fact, such was the rate of his recovery, that he had issued an invitation. It would, he told her, give him the greatest of pleasure if he might join her for what he described as
a celebratory dinner in honor of that most skilled and revered of surgeons, Dr. Thomas Silkstone.
She read the line again. They were words that she never thought to read from the pen of the man who had hitherto done everything in his power to vilify Thomas.

Why such a change of heart? Why would the man who was preventing their marriage make such a grand gesture unless it was designed to engender a reconciliation? It had to be, she convinced herself. He wanted a rapprochement. When everyone else had failed him in his hour of need, Thomas had saved his life. Thomas was his saviour. He had proved himself not only a superlative surgeon but a fitting consort, too. After years of hostility toward her beloved, Sir Montagu Malthus had relented.

She settled herself at her desk and dipped her pen into the inkpot. This would not be an easy letter to write. There would be several drafts, of that she was certain, but she needed to make a start. She was not entirely sure how she would couch her momentous news. Perhaps it was best to start with Sir Montagu’s invitation and her suspicion that he may well, in the very near future, quash his objections to their union. Only after relating such conjecture would she be able to deliver her reasoning that explained the underlying cause for such a volte-face; the news that had come like a bolt from the heavens to her. Sir Montagu had told her when he thought he was dying, when he thought he only had a matter of hours to live. The fact that he survived surgery changed nothing. What he had told her could never be untold. What he had told her changed everything, forever.

N
aturally Thomas felt relief that Dalrymple had been forced to drop all charges against him. Yet the case was just one link in a chain that made him feel ensnared. The past few days had been lost to him in a whirlwind of tragedy and acrimony that left in their wake a deep disquiet. Matthew Bartlett’s murder remained unresolved and the distance between himself and Lydia had widened, not only physically but emotionally, too.

Seeking solace in his laboratory, he surveyed the unopened crates and the barrels of specimens that remained untouched. No doubt they all contained treasures; fantastical insects and reptiles, miraculous plants that could cure any manner of ills, vicious fish with teeth as sharp as razors. Yet he found he had little appetite for the knowledge contained in the vessels. He had accepted Sir Joseph’s commission with relish. This was his chance to discover, to explore, to shine. That was before he had uncovered the world that was home to these most exotic collections, before he had devoted even a few seconds of his thoughts to the barbarity of slavery. He felt guilty and he felt wretched.

Hearing a noise coming from the corner of the room, he saw Franklin, scrabbling at his latch, frantically trying to open his cage. His efforts brought a smile to Thomas’s face. He strode over and opened the door so that the creature bolted out and scuttled across the workbench. As he did so he began to lick the neck of a bottle that had been standing there, untouched and unnoticed for the past few days. On the night of the deaths of Phibbah and Cordelia Carfax, Thomas had returned home late. He never had the chance to give Phibbah the antidote from the obeah-man and the bottle remained corked and neglected. He had deposited the miraculous medicine unthinkingly on the work surface. There it had remained, but Franklin, in his exuberance, had sniffed it out and now managed to knock it over, dislodging the cork and spilling thick amber liquid across the bench.

“No!” cried Thomas, rushing over to right the fallen bottle. Only half its contents remained and Franklin was lapping up the rest. Fearing it might harm him, Thomas swept the rat away and locked him back in his cage.

“What goes on here?” asked Dr. Carruthers, tapping his way into the laboratory and hearing the commotion.

Thomas, mindful that he had not yet analyzed the bottle’s contents, had grabbed a spoon and was desperately trying to rescue some of the spilled liquid.

“Franklin,” he explained. “He has upset a bottle of physic.”

Nostrils flared, the old anatomist paused for a moment and sniffed. “I detect honey,” he declared, moving toward the workbench.

Thomas frowned. “Honey? But this is the antidote for the
Solanum nigrum
. This is the physic that can restore and revive,” he insisted. “This is the Lazarus potion that Dr. Welton talked about.” He had fully intended to examine it before, but had been distracted by events.

Dr. Carruthers, sensing his protégé’s prickly mood, came up with a suggestion. “Now is surely as good a time as any to analyze it, young fellow.”

Thomas, the sticky bottle in his hand, concurred. “I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to sound abrupt. You are right. I shall set to work on it immediately.”

Setting a flask on the table, he poured out a small quantity of preserving fluid and an equal amount of the liquid into it. A little golden globule formed almost immediately, while the rest of the solution turned slightly milky.

“Well?” asked Dr. Carruthers impatiently.

“You are right, sir,” said Thomas. “There is honey in this mixture, but that is not the sole ingredient.”

“The litmus test?”

“Yes,” replied Thomas, reaching for a solution of litmus from the shelf. Dipping a strip of filter paper into the liquid, he transferred it to the physic. The answer took only seconds to emerge. The blue strip turned red.

“So we have some sort of acid,” said Thomas, inspecting the paper.

“Acid, you say?” mused Dr. Carruthers. “Let me have another sniff.”

Thomas passed over the flask and the old anatomist wafted it under his nose.

“Vinegar!” he cried. “Test for vinegar.”

Thomas sniffed the solution again. Yes, he could also detect a hint of what could be vinegar.

This time he fetched pearl ash from a jar and added the fine white crystals to a flask containing water. Waiting until the powder had settled, he poured in a small quantity of the physic. The reaction was immediate and dramatic. The solution bubbled then rose foaming over the sides of the flask.

Hearing the fizzing sound, Dr. Carruthers clapped his hands. “There you have it!” he exclaimed.

Thomas shook his head. “Honey and vinegar,” he muttered. “This miraculous medicine that can raise the dead is nothing but honey and vinegar.” Stunned, unable to laugh or cry, he fell back on a stool. The Royal Society had been duped. Men had died in the pursuit of this potion and yet it was all a sham. The quest to bring back the formula to restore life after death was based on nothing but superstition, lies, and manipulation. There was no medical foundation for the antidote, for this Lazarus potion, at all.

“Come, come!” Dr. Carruthers slapped Thomas on the back. “At least you can now prove that all this obeah is just stuff and nonsense.”

The young doctor looked at his mentor. “You are right. I must notify Sir Joseph as soon as possible,” he said. He should have felt relief that he had so easily disproved the existence of an all-powerful potion that could take life away and give it back, bending the mind in the process. Of course more tests would be needed to show that the formula was nothing but a ruse, a terrible deceit in order to hold an enslaved people in awe of a few powerful priests, but the initial evidence seemed irrefutable and the deception so simple, that he blamed himself in part for allowing himself to be hoodwinked. His healthy skepticism seemed to have deserted him and everyone else associated with this project. So much so, that they had even murdered for it.

Thomas corked the bottle containing the remainder of the potion and put it high on a shelf, out of harm’s way.

“Come, sir,” he said, slipping his arm into Carruthers’s. “I think we have discovered enough for one day.”

That evening after dinner both doctors retired, as usual, to the study. Mistress Finesilver was mending the fire. Since the episode with Jeremiah Taylor she had remained remarkably subdued. Not that she had confessed to her betrayal of the slave to his master, but she was aware that her loyalty was now doubted by both Dr. Carruthers and Thomas. Suspicion did not sit easily on either man’s shoulders and Thomas had wondered, once or twice, if he should confront her with the accusation that she had gone to Dalrymple, but he thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie, for the time being at least.

Mistress Finesilver was much changed, too, since the incident when Dalrymple burst into the house. Whereas before she had never been afraid to voice her normally negative opinions, she now held her tongue. Her responses to various questions were always muted and there was a general malaise that hung about her person like a bad smell. After she had dusted the hearth of coal splinters and moved away from the fire, she curtsied as usual.

Thomas managed a smile. “Thank you, Mistress Finesilver, that will be all.”

Instead of leaving the room, however, the housekeeper remained rooted to the spot. Her mouth worked awkwardly and Thomas realized something was wrong.

“Is there something bothering you, Mistress Finesilver?” he asked, settling himself down in front of the fire.

Her eyes were sliding all over the room and she was rubbing her hands, not to warm them, but to ease her own nerves.

“Yes sir, there is,” she replied, her voice resonating with uncustomary meekness.

Dr. Carruthers arched his brow. “Then please tell us, do,” he said.

The housekeeper took a deep breath. “ ’Twas me who betrayed the slave to his master, sirs,” she blurted. “There was a reward and the devil tempted me with a blue hat with a gold lace trim.” As she spoke, her lips began to quiver and the tears welled up in her small eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks.

Thomas was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. Watching the woman sniveling so wretchedly, he decided best to put her out of her misery.

“We know that it was you, Mistress Finesilver.”

Her head darted up. “You knew?” She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

“Who else but you, my dear lady?” replied Dr. Carruthers, his expression, for once, quite stony.

“And you said nothing?” she protested, almost indignant that she had been allowed to go unpunished.

“What good would that have done?” asked Thomas. “Besides, Mr. Taylor is now a free man, so the matter has ended well.”

“But I betrayed him, sir!” She stepped forward, her hands clasped, almost in supplication.

Thomas was bemused. “And so you ask for punishment?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “I ask to make amends, sir.” Delving into her apron pocket she pulled out a bag that jangled with coins. She held it up and once more her lips began to tremble. “These are my eight pieces of silver,” she croaked. “This is my reward for betraying the slave.” She handed the bag to Thomas.

Pouring out the coins onto his palm, he counted five guineas.

“You are giving these to us?” he asked.

Mistress Finesilver shook her head. “I wish them to be given to Jeremiah. Now that he’s free, he’ll have need of the money,” she said, her voice suddenly gaining strength. “Seeing how that poor blackamoor suffered, got me to thinking. ’Tis not right for one man to belong to another and to be so cruelly abused,” she said. She shrugged her shoulders, then added: “Besides, I would not have felt right wearing such a hat knowing the misery I have caused to both the slave and to you, Dr. Silkstone.”

Thomas returned the coins to the sack. “You have done a good thing, Mistress Finesilver,” he told her.

“Aye,” Dr. Carruthers concurred.

“I shall see that Jeremiah gets these monies and we’ll say no more about the matter,” he said, nodding his head emphatically.

The housekeeper curtsied once more, exhaling loudly. “I am most obliged to you, gentlemen,” she said, and she left the room, her step seeming considerably lighter than before.

Dr. Carruthers waited until he heard the door shut before he said, “Well, well. That was a turn up for the books, young fellow! Perhaps some good has come out of this ghastly business after all.”

Thomas paused before he replied. “Perhaps so,” he reflected with a note of hesitation in his voice. Until he had resolved the question of Matthew Bartlett’s murder, he could not consider the matter closed.