The Lazarus Curse (8 page)

T
he Carfax mansion was a fine brick-built villa with a grand portico in Chelsea. It was a fashionable area where the houses overlooked the river. Yet it was not this aspect that caught Thomas’s attention, but the crest on the gates as they swung open for his carriage. The image of a Negro man in chains was emblazoned at its centre. This Mr. Carfax was obviously very proud that his fortune was built on the suffering of others, mused Thomas.

As the carriage pulled up outside, a liveried footman let down the steps and the doctor soon found himself standing in a grand hallway. Mason the butler greeted him formally.

“The master is in his study, Dr. Silkstone,” he informed him, bowing. “Please follow me.”

Thomas was slightly bemused. Carfax was obviously not so ill as to take to his bed. He began to follow the butler, but as he did so, he heard the rustle of silk. A lady, Mistress Carfax, he presumed, was making her way down the stairs. Dressed for dinner in a blue gown, her beady eyes latched on to him.

“You are the physician?” she asked haughtily, negotiating the final steps. She was closely followed by her dog, which descended behind her in a sort of controlled fall.

Thomas bowed his head. “Dr. Thomas Silkstone at your service, m’lady.”

She looked at him squarely, although her eyes narrowed slightly. “My husband claims he is in great pain,” she sneered, emphasizing the word “claims.” Turning ’round, she picked up her dog from one of the steps and tucked him under her arm. “Personally, I do not think men know the meaning of the word.”

Thomas hoped she did not see his wry smile as he proceeded toward the study behind the butler. Samuel Carfax was sitting at an awkward angle in a high-backed chair behind a desk. Despite the coolness of the room he wore no jacket, but a thick blanket had been wrapped around his torso, leaving his shirt sleeves exposed. He was clutching his right arm and grimacing.

“Ah, Silkstone!” he cried even before Mason had time to announce him.

Thomas bowed and moved toward his patient. “Mr. Carfax, sir, I see you are in pain.”

Carfax nodded and, as Thomas approached, rolled up his sleeve to reveal the soiled bandage. “An insect bite of some sort, I think,” he ventured.

Carefully Thomas began unwinding the dressing to reveal a clean hole the size of a farthing. He called for more light and Mason, who had been hovering in the background, obliged with an oil lamp, enabling a closer inspection.

Taking out his magnifying glass from his bag, Thomas peered at the wound, and noted it was surrounded by swollen and taut tissue. A yellow-colored fluid spilled over the rim of the crater, oozing like a lava flow down the arm. Perhaps this is not a bite, but an abscess, thought Thomas. He was about to reach for a scalpel from his bag so he could enlarge the opening and drain off some of the pus, when he thought he saw something move in the crater. He peered into the hole once more and there it was again. A movement. No, more than a movement. A creature! To his horror Thomas saw two pincers emerge from the hole followed by a stubby gray head.

Carfax, who had been watching Thomas’s investigations, let out a cry. “God’s wounds!” he exclaimed. “What the deuce is that?”

Armed with the knowledge that his patient had recently arrived from the West Indies, the doctor’s reaction was not as dramatic. “I think you may have inadvertently carried a passenger with you from Jamaica, sir,” said Thomas.

Both men now looked at the hole, Carfax gawping openmouthed as more of the gray tube emerged, flexing black claws on the top of its head.

“Get that devil out of me!” cried the patient as the creature retreated from view.

Thomas steadied his arm and eyed the decanter on the desk. “A rum for Mr. Carfax, if you please,” he instructed Mason.

Taking a pair of forceps from his case, Thomas’s hand hovered over the beast’s lair. He did not have to wait long before it reemerged and this time the young doctor was prepared. He lunged at it with his forceps and pinched its head. Wriggling and writhing it surfaced from the hole: a grub, covered in tiny hooks that scrambled to keep hold of their moist den.

As his patient wisely gulped down his rum, Thomas fought the vile creature and won. After a few seconds he held its slain carcass up to the candlelight to inspect it.

“Sir, allow me to introduce to you a
Dermatobia hominis,
” he said triumphantly.

Carfax’s eyes opened wide. “What the . . . ?”

“Also known as the larva of the botfly,” continued Thomas, dropping the offending grub into a glass tube for posterity. Dr. Carruthers already had one in his collection. “The fly must have bitten you and laid its eggs in the wound,” he explained, adding: “They usually bite cattle, I believe.”

Carfax let out a muted laugh. “In my line of business it pays to be thick-skinned, Dr. Silkstone!” he joked.

Thomas secured the dressing. “You deal in sugar, sir, if I am not mistaken?” he said.

His patient eyed him and arched a brow. “You are well-informed, sir.”

Thomas nodded. “In my line of business it pays to know the background of my patients,” he countered.

Mistress Carfax entered the room just as Thomas was closing his medical case. Looking up, her husband beckoned her over with his healthy arm.

“My dear, you’ll never believe it! Dr. Silkstone has found the problem! A most disgusting larva had taken up residence in my arm.” He spoke almost gleefully.

It was clear to Thomas that he would be asked to show the sour-faced woman the offending grub, but before Carfax could make the request there came a terrible sound like a banshee wail that rent through the house and reverberated down the stairs. It hung in the air, quavering for a few more seconds before it gave way to a lower wail.

“Good god!” exclaimed Carfax. He seemed agitated; then, turning to his wife, he scolded, “Can you not keep them under control, wife?”

Mistress Carfax’s normally pale skin had reddened at the noise. Thomas could tell from her furious expression that she knew instantly its source. This was clearly not the first time she had heard the bloodcurdling scream or the cries that followed. He watched the woman ball her fists.

“Those wretches,” she hissed though clenched teeth.

“Best get Roberts on them,” suggested Carfax, flexing his injured arm. “He’ll deal with them.”

His wife shook her head. “I will take care of this myself,” she cried, by now incandescent with rage. She barged into the hallway and turned down along a back passage before taking to the service stairs, her dog in hot pursuit. Such was her fury that she almost ran up the two flights to the males’ attic room from whence the cries were emanating.

There she found Phibbah, her hands outstretched toward Ebele. Venus was struggling to pull her away from the boy, who lay perfectly still on the mattress. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably, flailing her arms, dragging herself toward him.

Mistress Carfax swept into the room like a tropical storm. Even Phibbah’s sobs were drowned for a moment. Venus had let go her grip and the young girl was kneeling over the child once more, rocking backward and forward, touching his head, pulling at his hands. He remained still as stone.

Mistress Carfax took a deep breath. “What is the meaning of this?” she barked. Her hot breath billowed into the cold air.

Venus’s full lips trembled as she curtsied. “Sambo is dead, missa,” she told her. She pointed to the boy lying below, his eyes closed, as if he were asleep.

Her mistress darted a cursory glance in the boy’s direction. “I can see that,” she replied coldly. “But this noise! This screaming! I will not have it, you hear!” She had turned to Phibbah and cuffed the side of her head.

“Get Roberts to deal with her,” she instructed Venus. The housekeeper’s body tensed as if braced against the storm of harsh words that came from her mistress’s mouth.

“Tell him to put her in the bridle. That’ll quiet her crying.”

At these words, Phibbah’s eyes widened with terror.

“No, missa. No, please!” she pleaded, shuffling on her knees toward Mistress Carfax. She pawed at the hem of her gown, just like the small dog that sniffed at the corpse as his mistress ranted. This time a heavier blow was dealt to the top of her head, as if the girl were a troublesome fly to be swatted. “And another twenty lashes,” she snarled, as Phibbah collapsed sobbing at her feet.

Venus remained expressionless and nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied without enthusiasm. Her voice was carefully neutral.

“And see he is”—she pointed at the child—“disposed of.”

With these words, she turned and called Fino, who by now was licking the child’s face. She tucked the dog under her arm and headed out of the room. Before she could reach the narrow stairs, however, Thomas appeared, blocking her exit.

Fearing his professional skills might be needed, he had followed the woman up the service stairs.

“Do you need my assistance, madam?” he asked her.

Mistress Carfax, her anger still not fully abated, shook her head and tried to make light of the situation. “ ’Tis nothing.” She let out a self-conscious laugh and patted the dog in her arms. “A Negro boy is dead. He took a chill. ’Tis all.”

Thomas edged forward on the small landing. “Then I shall certify the death,” he said, looking toward the open door of the attic room.

Mistress Carfax’s back stiffened. “Is that really necessary, Dr. Silkstone? He was only a . . .” She broke off as she read Thomas’s disapproving expression.

“A slave, ma’am?” He finished her sentence for her.

There was little room to maneuver on the cramped landing and only a few inches separated them. The woman’s breaths came in short, sharp pants. She nodded and stuck out her chin defiantly, stiff-faced, as if her cheeks and lips had been starched. “Yes,” she said finally. “A slave.”

Thomas leaned closer to her and lowered his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes were as cold and unseeing as those of the fish in his laboratory. Flattening his lips in a smile, he began to shake his head. “The law may be ambiguous as to whether a slave is an animal or a human, but I would be failing in my duty as a physician if I did not examine the child.” He let his words linger on the air until the woman blinked and agreed with a sullen nod.

“Very well, Dr. Silkstone,” she muttered, letting Thomas pass into the room.

He walked in to find Venus comforting Phibbah, trying to still her sobs. Her long thin arms were wrapped ’round the girl, whose head was nestled on her shoulder.

“I am a physician,” he told her, walking toward the boy. As Venus nodded, Phibbah pulled away. She eyed Thomas suspiciously as he knelt down, took the child’s emaciated wrist, and felt for his pulse. There was none. Lifting his lids, Thomas looked at the boy’s pupils. They were fully dilated. He was satisfied that his short life had ebbed away.

“The fever?” he asked, lifting his gaze and looking at Venus. She simply nodded.

Pulling back the coarse sheet, he looked at the boy’s torso. His ribs showed through his brown skin like the veins of a leaf. He was evidently malnourished, thought Thomas, so that his guard was already down before the fever struck.

Mistress Carfax returned to the room, without the dog, and walked over to Thomas, fixing cold eyes on the corpse.

“I shall write out a certificate,” Thomas told her, even though he knew the death would probably not be registered. The child’s body would, in all honesty, be dumped in an unmarked grave.

“Thank you, doctor,” she replied, not bothering to lift her gaze from the boy’s face. It was the first time she had displayed a modicum of civility.

Standing upright, Thomas waited until it was obvious Mistress Carfax was ready to return downstairs. On the landing he paused and faced her squarely as she lifted her skirts to descend.

“Mistress Carfax,” he began.

Surprised, she turned. “Yes?”

“Perhaps next time one of your slaves is seriously ill, you might think to call me,” he told her, adding: “I will not charge to see them.”

She digested his words as if they were bitter pills and nodded slowly before heading downstairs to join her husband.

Left alone in the attic room, the housekeeper and the slave stood motionless, staring at the dead child. The cruel taunts of the fever were nowhere to be seen on his face. In its place was a peace and a contentment that neither of them had seen while he was alive. Perhaps he had been reunited with his mother. Perhaps he was running wild and free in his homeland, thought Phibbah.

It was Venus who broke the silence. “Sleep well, child,” she whispered. She straightened her long neck and switched her gaze to the girl, slight and hunched, at her side. The look Venus gave Phibbah dragged her from her mourning and she shivered as if suddenly recalling the fate that awaited her downstairs. Both of them knew what had to happen next.

T
homas returned to the quay the following day to meet with Mr. Bartlett. As soon as Captain McCoy appeared, however, he did not need to be told that the young artist had not returned from the Customs House. He could read the captain’s sober expression as he met him on deck. The nonchalance he had shown before had all but disappeared to be replaced with apprehension.

“ ’Tis most out of character,” said McCoy, shaking his head.

“And you have checked with the Customs House?” pressed Thomas, clutching for any grain of information.

The captain, a man whose skin was chapped by the wind and burned by the sun, hesitated, then said, “They denied sending any official to board us, Dr. Silkstone.”

Thomas balked. “Then who . . . ?”

“I fear I have no idea,” replied McCoy, shaking his head.

The doctor thought for a moment. “And you say he had Dr. Welton’s journal about his person?”

“Aye. I believe so. In a large satchel.” Thomas’s insinuation suddenly seemed to register and the captain’s brows lifted. “Surely it could not be that anyone would wish to steal the doctor’s diary?” he asked.

Thomas felt a mounting sense of frustration. “If, as it seems, this customs official was an imposter, can you think of any other reason for Mr. Bartlett’s disappearance?”

The captain faltered and he shook his head, as if recalling a conversation.

“I remember Mr. Bartlett said that the information was of great value and for Sir Joseph’s eyes only,” he said.

Thomas could not hide his surprise. As the man charged with cataloguing the expedition’s specimens he felt entitled to be privy to all its findings. Sir Joseph had made no mention of any momentous discoveries, or indeed anything of material value. Unlike Captain Cook’s expedition, where the primary goal was to discover the transit of Venus, Sir Joseph had not spoken of any specific goal. As far as he had been briefed, the expedition was purely to gather specimens of potential medicinal interest. Thomas felt slightly aggrieved.

“Why should that be?” he asked curtly.

“I cannot say,” shrugged the captain. “ ’Tis all I know.”

“I will inquire if Mr. Bartlett has been in touch with Sir Joseph,” said Thomas finally.

“A good idea, Dr. Silkstone,” acknowledged McCoy. “In the meantime, you’d best take these.” He handed Thomas a sheaf of Matthew Bartlett’s sketches and several folios of Dr. Welton’s notes.

Thomas glanced through them. “These will be of great help,” he said.

And with that the two men bade each other a good day, neither, it seemed, any the wiser as to the whereabouts of the one man upon whose shoulders the success or failure of the Jamaican expedition now rested.

As soon as he climbed into the carriage that was to return him to Hollen Street, Thomas began to read Dr. Welton’s notes. Scrawled in a haphazard manner across several sheets of paper, they were secured by a thin ribbon. A cursory look told him they appeared quite perfunctory. They were notes and observations, rather than the detailed scientific reports that he was anticipating. He supposed the doctor had reserved his most important findings for his journal. And that, of course, he had yet to see.

This collection seemed to be arranged in no particular order, as if the pages had been thrown together without great care and in haste. Nevertheless from the very first line of the text, Thomas was drawn in.

Thomas looked up from the page and felt his own breath judder. He thought of the Carfaxes’ dead child slave, thousands of miles away from his native land. No one would be attending his grave.