The Lazarus Curse (29 page)

T
he golden dome of St. Lawrence’s Church loomed up above the coach as it trundled into West Wycombe. Seeing the magnificent structure on top of the ridge brought the recent past flooding back to Thomas. The village did not hold happy memories for him. Nevertheless it was a convenient staging post for his journey to Boughton. That night he would stay at the George and Dragon before resuming his trip the following day.

Leaving his bags at the inn, he decided to seek out the Weltons’ house. He walked down the main street of the village on his way to he knew not where. All he could remember of the cottage in the painting was that it was probably Tudor, with its obvious beams and pitched roof. There were pink rambling roses around the door, too, although at this time of year they would not be evident. A stiff northerly wind funnelled itself down the main street, setting the shop signs creaking. He held on to his hat.

All he knew for certain was that the cottage would be to the west of the village because the golden ball could be seen on the ridge behind it. That was how he took his bearings and that is how he found himself leaving the ribbon of higgledy-piggledy houses and in open countryside.

Walking past the wall of West Wycombe Park, toward the church, it was the first house he came to; the painting had done it justice. It was quaint with its exposed beams, but not particularly handsome, and the garden, deprived of its summer roses, looked rather forlorn and bedraggled.

Up the front path he strode, rehearsing his address to the widows Welton and Perrick as he went. He would tell them he was passing by chance, which was almost true, that he wished to see how they fared, which, too, was true. Only after such pleasantries had been exchanged and he had, hopefully, been invited inside, would he be able to ask the myriad of questions that still plagued him.

He seized the knocker and rapped three times. No reply. He tried again a few seconds later. Still silence from within. He looked about him. There were no signs of life; no milk pails or muddy boots, no dogs barking, no chickens; no baskets; none of the ordinary, everyday signs of life associated with a village dwelling.

He decided to venture further. Skirting ’round the front of the house, he found himself in a large, unkempt garden, the damp grass brushing his ankles. A few paces away there was another small building. Once a barn or perhaps a stable, it seemed to have been altered so that it now had the appearance of a single-storeyed dwelling with a high pitched roof and large windows that were at odds with its original design. Peering inside, he was shocked to see a young man hunched over a microscope, and drawing on a sketchpad.

Cupping his hands against the glare, he saw the whole space had been turned into some kind of laboratory. There was a retort, several flasks and beakers, and shelves containing various jars that one might see in an apothecary’s. Another shelf, opposite a large window, was occupied by dozens of pots containing green plants. He told himself he must have the wrong house. This could not possibly be where Mistresses Welton and Perrick were staying. He had made a mistake. He had resolved to return to the inn immediately when suddenly a voice came from behind.

“May I help you, sir?”

Thomas pivoted ’round to see a gentleman. His head was wigless, showing his thinning white hair, and the lines of his tanned face betrayed his advanced years. His eyes were an intense blue, and he had about him an odd familiarity that Thomas could not quite place.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said, taken completely off guard. “I did not think there was anyone about. I . . .”

It was then, when his tongue was on the cusp of a word and his mind on an apology, that the memory returned to him, the striking portrait above the Weltons’ mantelpiece. Could it be that he was staring at none other than Dr. Frederick Welton? Had he not succumbed to the yellow fever after all? Thomas’s expression must have betrayed the fact that he knew the man’s identity, yet Welton seemed unfazed. Instead, as the doctor floundered in a mire of embarrassment and bewilderment, the elderly man threw him a lifeline.

“Dr. Silkstone, is it not?” he asked.

Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise. “How . . . ?”

“My daughter, Henrietta, told me that you might pay a visit,” he said, smiling. “I am delighted to meet you, sir,” he added, holding out his hand.

Thomas, still reeling from the shock of discovering him alive, shook Dr. Welton’s hand, almost expecting to wake from a dream as he did so.

“I have heard much about you, Silkstone,” he said, opening the low door to the laboratory. “Please, I bid you come in.”

Inside, the room was much bigger than Thomas’s first impression. The ceiling was high and there were skylights on either side of the roof’s pitch that allowed light to flood in. At one end of the room was a large range, where a fire roared in an oven, and in its centre a rectangular table. In the corner was the young man Thomas had seen through the window. Looking up from his work, he scrambled from his chair with the clamor of a child caught stealing.

Welton raised a hand. “Calm yourself, Matthew. This is Dr. Silkstone,” he said. The young man, his face serious and his dark brows joined across his forehead, gave a shallow bow.

Thomas looked bewildered. “Matthew Bartlett?”

“The very same,” replied Welton.

“But . . . ?” Thomas shook his head in disbelief. “So your deaths were a charade?” he said, not knowing whether to be angry or relieved. “And what of Dr. Perrick?”

Welton bit his lip. “Tragically my son-in-law did fall victim to the yellow fever,” he replied. “But if you will allow me to explain . . .” He offered Thomas a chair.

“Yes,” said Thomas, his mind so full of questions that he had to will himself to remain silent. “There is much I would like to know.”

Matthew Bartlett joined them as they sat at the table. He brought with him three glasses and a bottle of wine, which Welton poured out.

“I will start with an apology,” Welton began, dispensing the claret. “I am sorry you had to be dragged into all this wretched business, but you were our only hope. And now you are here, we must make huge demands of you as a fellow scientist and, I believe, as a man of great humanity.” He slid a full glass toward Thomas.

“I am most eager to be enlightened,” he replied, anxious to be guided through this mystery that was about to be laid before him.

“Like you, Dr. Silkstone, I was summoned to see Sir Joseph Banks at the Royal Society.” Welton was staring at the red liquid in the glass, like some Gypsy peers into a crystal ball. “He told me my mission was highly sensitive and was at the behest of some well-connected military personnel, although he did not mention any names.”

Thomas arched a brow. Already his suspicions were aroused.

Welton continued: “I was to go to Jamaica and seek out the ingredients for a potion that could, it was said, raise the dead.” Welton’s lips curled into a sneer. “Naturally I was skeptical. I thought it ridiculous, impossible. But Sir Joseph insisted that there were reports that the slaves’ magic men had knowledge of a plant that had this power. He told me the expedition was an opportunity for me to crown my career. It would be,” he said, momentarily searching for the phrase, “ ‘a very prestigious feather in my cap.’ ” He fingered the stem of his wine glass as he recalled what happened next. “I accepted the task and details were discussed, but it was soon after that I began to see what troubled waters lay before me.”

“How so?” asked Thomas.

Welton darted a look at Matthew Bartlett, as if he were about to embark on the telling of a revelation that would be new to him, too. He lowered his voice, like a man who suspects someone might be lurking in the shadows, listening to his account.

“I was visited late at night by two gentlemen saying they were agents of His Majesty’s government. They wore Admiralty uniforms. They told me that the juice from the herb I was to seek out could be put to excellent use. It would provide, they said, the answer to the plantation revolts in the West Indies. If I could find out the formula for this obeah potion, then all slaves could be treated with it and kept under control.” Welton shook his head. “You see, when the victim is supposedly resurrected, then their mind is said to be altered, so that they obey all commands.”

Thomas was listening fascinated to what Welton was telling him. It was just as he suspected. “They would diminish the slaves’ powers of thought, so that they would do their masters’ bidding without question,” he said, nodding his head.

Welton gulped his wine, as if to give himself more courage. “But there is more, Silkstone. These agents also told me the formula could be used against Britain’s enemies, too. Captured soldiers would be made to drink this cursed potion and die, only to reawaken as slaves of their enemy. The French, they said, would be begging for mercy.”

Thomas also sipped his wine, but anxiety soured it on his tongue. There were some Englishmen who would like to dose his fellow Americans, too.

“How did you respond?”

Welton looked resigned, his mouth drooping at the corners. “What could I say? I was being made privy to the realm’s secrets. If I betrayed them at this stage, then I could be accused of treason and locked in the Tower! I was in too deep to refuse.”

“Did you go to Sir Joseph?”

Welton shook his head. “He was not aware, I am convinced of it. These agents made me swear not to tell a living soul of the purpose of our mission, apart from . . .”

Thomas tensed. “Yes?”

“Hubert Izzard.”

“I see,” said Thomas, nodding. “He was to accompany you on the trip?”

“Yes, and he was to share in the secret.”

“So what did you do next?”

“I agonized. That night was my Gethsemane. I knew of Izzard’s reputation from his time in the West Indies; I knew of his sheer ruthlessness and cruelty. And I knew that he would jump at the chance to aggrandize his own worth. I had been trapped and I had to find a way out.”

“So you hatched this elaborate plan?”

Welton shunted his glass over to Bartlett, so that he could recharge it.

“Yes. I managed to persuade Sir Joseph that Izzard was the wrong man for the job. I said his health was poor and I could not run the risk of taking him on the expedition.”

“And you proposed your son-in-law in his stead?”

“That is so, a decision I now regret,” he said, sipping more wine. “But I knew I could trust John. Bartlett here,” he said, throwing the young artist a nod, “had worked for me before and I knew I could rely on him, too.”

“So you set sail, embarked on the expedition, then what happened, sir?” asked Thomas.

Welton shook his head reflectively. “We saw hell, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied. “We sought out these demented obeah-men with the knowledge of this plant and we watched them ritually poison their victims. Women and children were murdered in front of our eyes and then supposedly resurrected before a huge crowd. When they reawakened, usually the next day, their whole demeanor was changed. They looked blank. They had lost the power of speech. They could only obey.”

Thomas’s eyes were wide with amazement. “So what the agents said was true. This potion did have the power they said it did?”

Again, Welton shook his head wearily. “Like most religions, obeah worked on the principle of coercion, Dr. Silkstone. Its creed was intimidation and its mantra obedience. The obeah priests whipped up mass hysteria. Their victims were not really dead, but their internal organs were slowed, so that it
seemed
they were. There was no magic antidote that woke them. It was the effect of the original poison wearing off that damaged the brain.”

Thomas nodded. “Honey and vinegar,” he mumbled.

“What?” said Welton.

“I analyzed a phial of liquid that an obeah-man was passing off as an antidote in a tavern in London. I found it to be simply honey and vinegar, sir,” Thomas replied.

Welton’s eyes suddenly sharpened and he smiled. “So now we even have proof that this whole expedition was based on a lie.” He patted Thomas’s arm as a sign of his gratitude.

“But how did you fake your own death?” pressed the young doctor. “What about the return journey?”

Welton smiled at Matthew Bartlett. “That was the easy part. My late son-in-law was able to pronounce me dead in Kingston and make all the arrangements for my burial. White men die in their hundreds out there. My death meant just another grave to dig. I laid low for a week or so, changed my identity, then boarded a ship for England. John sadly did not. He died, as you may be aware, the day the
Elizabeth
was due to return to London, ironically from the yellow fever.”

Thomas switched his gaze to the young artist. “And Mr. Bartlett’s murder? I assume the customs officer was a stooge?”

Welton’s shoulders lifted as he exhaled through his nose. “Yes. And the satchel in the Thames was obviously a decoy. The body, too.”

“Whose body was it?” Thomas interrupted.

“It is easy to obtain a corpse, Silkstone, when your associates are anatomists, as you surely know. He was an unfortunate, whose body ended up on the dissecting table.”

“And you wanted it to be discovered?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“And you knew I would be called upon to conduct a postmortem ?”

“Right again.” Welton gave a smug smile. “You are the only anatomist with the appropriate skills in the Westminster jurisdiction.”

“But what about your notes? This mysterious journal that was supposed to contain the formula?” Thomas’s look flitted from one man to the other and back.

Welton leaned back in his chair and, plunging his hand into his coat pocket, he brought out a leather-bound notebook. “I think you refer to this, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, putting the volume on the table and stroking it lovingly. “I call it The Book of Lazarus. I keep it with me at all times.”

Thomas stared at it. It looked like so many other notebooks he had bought himself for a crown at stationers’ shops in London and Oxford, and yet John Perrick had died for this one. He touched it lightly, half expecting something to happen, he knew not what. He shook his head and frowned.