The Lazarus Curse (Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mystery) Read online

  Thomas felt the nausea rise from his stomach as he read the last few lines of the page. A man’s life, whether he was black or white, seemed to count for naught in this godforsaken colony, he told himself. He would force himself to read more of this sickening litany in the hope it may throw up some answers to the many questions he had. But for the moment he must concentrate on the work in hand. Earlier that evening he recalled how he had taken a wrench and prized off the lid of another crate; it had contained several small birds. He thought of the Weltons’ parlor and of the doctor’s own collections of exotica. How strange, he mused, that such beautiful creatures could be born out of such an evil place. The more he read of it, the more terrifying it seemed to become.

  Chapter 30

  Sir Theodisius stood warming his great frame by a roaring fire, the tails of his frockcoat raised so that his rump was exposed to the heat to maximum effect. Poor Dr. Carruthers, seated in a nearby armchair, felt himself eclipsed and hardly benefitted at all from the blaze.

  “Ah, Thomas, dear chap!” said the Oxford coroner as the doctor walked into the room.

  “How good it is to see you again, sir,” Thomas said. In all the chaos and confusion of the previous few days he had forgotten a prior engagement with him while he was in London. He extended his hand. Sir Theodisius tugged at it heartily.

  “Carruthers, here, tells me that you have encountered a spot of unpleasantness lately with a Negro.”

  Thomas arched a brow at the understatement. “You could say that, sir,” he replied.

  “And yet you find time to administer to animals now!” continued Sir Theodisius.

  Thomas knew that he must be alluding to his treatment of Cordelia Carfax’s dog, but he was puzzled as to how the coroner knew. His query must have shown in his face.

  “I called in on Carfax on my way here. Wondered if he was up for another game of golf. It really is quite addictive,” he reported cheerfully. “Said he best stay with his wife, who had taken to her bed with a most cruel fit of the gripes.”

  “Mistress Carfax is ill?” replied Thomas.

  Sir Theodisius continued: “Rolling ’round like a loose barrel, she is, so when I told him you were my next port of call, he asked me to send for you.”

  Thomas frowned. His thoughts immediately turned to the plight of Cordelia Carfax’s wretched dog that had been so maliciously blinded.

  “Her condition sounds serious,” he said. “I shall go to her immediately.”

  Sir Theodisius seemed a little taken aback. “But what of our luncheon?” he protested.

  “Regrettably it will have to wait,” Thomas told him, with an urgency that would brook no argument. Grabbing his medical case, he headed for the door.

  The coroner, feeling a little aggrieved, had been hoping to enjoy a chop and some porter with Thomas at the very least. But as if he could read his guest’s mind, Dr. Carruthers stepped into the breach.

  “Not to worry, Sir Theodisius,” he piped up. He lifted his head and sniffed the air. The smell of baking had wafted in on the current as Thomas opened the door. “I suspect Mistress Finesilver has just taken a venison pie from the oven,” he said. “You will join me for luncheon, sir?”

  Thomas arrived at the Carfax mansion less than an hour later. He had no evidence. He was simply following his instinct, but he had the direst suspicion that Cordelia Carfax could have been poisoned by one of her slaves.

  As his carriage drew up, he saw Roberts hammering a notice onto the wooden gatepost outside the house. Alighting by the railings, he peered at the poster. It read Runaway slave, answers to the name of Cato. Tall, broad, collared and branded S. C. Ten-guinea reward. Any information within.

  Thomas immediately thought of the young man lying injured in his own home. He did not recognize him as one of the household slaves. This runaway, this Cato, was just another among the many who came to England and took advantage of the law to make a break for freedom. The newspapers and coffeehouses of London were full of such notices.

  Mason the butler led Thomas into a large bedchamber on the second floor. Cordelia Carfax lay in bed, groaning, while her anxious husband sat at her side. As soon as he saw Thomas he heaved himself up from his chair.

  “Ah, Silkstone! I am glad you are here,” he cried, beckoning him over.

  Approaching the bed, Thomas could see that Mistress Carfax looked listless and her copper hair was plastered across her forehead with sweat. The small dog that had been in such distress earlier lay sleeping on the counterpane. Phibbah, the slave girl, the one who had been so distraught the other night, busied herself with a bowl near a table.

  “How long has your wife been like this?” asked Thomas, turning his face away from the bed, out of the woman’s earshot.

  Carfax deliberated. “She was seized with violent gripes and vomits last night after dinner,” he said in a low voice.

  “And I can see that her fever is somewhat hectic,” said Thomas.

  For a moment he studied the woman’s face. Her cheeks were as pale as milk.

  Addressing her directly Thomas leaned closer and said, “I am sorry to see you unwell, Mistress Carfax.”

  The woman turned her head and eyed the young doctor. Even in her suffering, it was clear that she regarded him with disdain.

  “What is he doing here, Samuel?” she snapped at her husband.

  Carfax smiled awkwardly. “Dr. Silkstone wishes to help you, my dearest,” he replied, bending low.

  “Is there anything that your wife ate last night that might not have agreed with her?” asked Thomas.

  Pausing to recall, Carfax said there was not. “Stewed carp, breast of pheasant,” he replied.

  “May I examine your wife’s abdomen, sir?” Thomas asked innocently, but the plantation owner looked at him aghast, as if he had asked if he could make love to her.

  “I should think not, sir!” he shot back. “It is clear my wife is sick and it is your place to ease her distress.”

  Thomas had, of course, encountered such reactions before. He was not entirely surprised by such ignorance.

  Carfax held Thomas’s gaze. “Well?” he said, impatiently. “What is wrong with her, man?”

  The doctor squared up to him. “Without an examination I cannot be entirely sure, Mr. Carfax,” he began. He had no intention of sharing his suspicions with him at the present time. “At the moment her life is not in danger,” continued Thomas. “I prescribe plenty of boiled water with a little sugar in it to restore her strength. I will call again tomorrow to check on her progress.”

  At the news Carfax seemed disappointed that nothing more could be done for his wife. His shoulders visibly drooped.

  “Very well, Dr. Silkstone,” he said curtly, adding: “Venus will show you out.”

  Fino, seeing Carfax turn to leave, jumped off the bed and also headed for the door, pawing at it. It was then, as he eyed the dog, that Thomas noticed it: a small clod of what appeared to be soil on the floorboards. At first he dismissed it as mud carried in on outdoors boots, but then he lifted his gaze. A small object, he could not make out what, had been placed above the door lintel. He thought it strange, but said nothing. In a household such as this, he knew it wise to keep one’s own counsel.

  Once more Venus appeared at the door to escort Thomas out. She seemed even more aloof than before, as if her mind were far away. Downstairs, he paused on the front threshold and glanced over at the gatepost where the notice flapped in the wind.

  “I see a household slave has run away,” he said. He was thinking out loud rather than questioning Venus, but his words clearly galled her and she fixed him with a fiery glare.

  “There are plenty of free Negroes begging on the streets of London, who would gladly give up their freedom for a meal or a coat, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied. “The slaves here may be in bondage but at least they have a roof over their heads.”

  Thomas had not anticipated a response, let alone one so spirited.

  “And you, Venus,” he fired back.
“Are you free to leave this household if you please?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but words failed her. Instead her expression betrayed a mixture of anger and regret that seemed to be tugging at her mind and staying her tongue. She simply gestured to the front steps and the drive, where the carriage awaited.

  That night Thomas retrieved John Perrick’s letters from a folder in the laboratory and went to read them by the slave’s bedside. There was something that had been bothering him all day: the soil on the floor in Cordelia Carfax’s chamber. Searching through the copious sheets, he had eventually found what he was looking for: the doctor’s account of the sinister beliefs of the slaves.

  By candlelight in his new patient’s room he read: There is a strange force that seizes some of the Negroes here called Obeah. It is practiced like a religion and the priest, for want of a better word, is apt to lay curses by collecting certain items, such as cats’ paws, hair, teeth, and grave dirt, all relative to this kind of witchcraft, and placing them in a bag near the intended victim.

  Thomas looked up from the text and rubbed his eyes. He thought of the mysterious object above the door lintel. He did not need to see into it to guess what it contained. What’s more, he would wager a great deal as to the person who had placed it there.

  He returned to Perrick’s letters. Now only a few remained unread. Dated just three days before the young doctor was reported to have taken ill, Thomas began reading one. After greetings to his wife and his excitement at the thought of the return voyage, Perrick went on to relate more scientific information. Halfway down the second sheet he wrote: There is a plant, known as Maroon Weed, that is a rank poison known to the slaves for being able to dispatch intended victims either slowly or quickly. I spoke with another physician, whose Negro woman had intended to kill him with it. He was seized with violent gripings, vomited profusely, and was subjected to fevers and even convulsions. Realizing himself to be the victim of a poison, he sought help from another man of medicine, who prescribed the kernels of nhandiroba to be infused in wine and drunk frequently. This cured him in time.

  Looking up from the script into the darkness of his room, it struck him as soundly as if he had been dealt a blow across his cheek. Suddenly he knew exactly what ailed Cordelia Carfax, and it was what he feared. Seized with bellyache, feverish and vomiting, she had ingested something poisonous and it was most certainly neither stewed carp nor pheasant.

  Thomas read on. Another acquaintance told me that some slaves administer poison to their masters by putting powder under their thumbnail, so putting their thumb upon the cup or bowl they pass to their victim, they cunningly convey the poison; wherefore, any Negro with a long thumbnail is to be distrusted.

  It was then that it struck him. He pictured Phibbah, the slave girl, holding Cordelia Carfax’s bowl of vomit in both hands, and he recalled most vividly the length of the nail on her right thumb.

  Chapter 31

  First light found Thomas in his laboratory. He had identified some leaves from a plant Mr. Bartlett captioned Fevillea cordifolia, apparently a popular herbal remedy among the Negroes. Also known as antidote cocoon, a small amount, according to Dr. Perrick, opened up the body and produced an appetite, whereas a large dose induced both stools and vomit. Infused with wine, the ground seeds of the plant could be given as an antidote to various poisons. So he had pounded the kernels and steeped them in wine for two hours, before straining the liquid.

  As he worked, he battled with his own conscience. There was no question in his mind that Mistress Carfax was being poisoned, in all probability by one of the household slaves, the same one, perhaps, who tried to blind the dog. Yet if he informed Carfax of his suspicions, there would be no chance of justice for the accused. He simply hoped that this formula worked quickly and that Cordelia Carfax would be fully restored in a day or two. He poured the reddish liquid into a bottle and braved the snow once more.

  If, as he suspected, Mistress Carfax was being poisoned by Phibbah, then the girl must not be allowed anywhere near her mistress. Yet if he told Carfax, she would be beaten to within an inch of her life and, most probably, hanged for attempted murder. He found himself torn between natural justice and his duty. He only hoped that the matron had not worsened overnight.

  Cordelia Carfax remained weak and feverish but her abdominal pains seemed to have lessened and she had held down a cup of sweetened water. Heartened to find his patient in less pain, Thomas offered Venus the bottle of physic and instructed it be given at regular intervals until she was better.

  The slave girl, Phibbah, was, once again, in the room, mending the fire. He moved closer to her, just to make sure that his memory was not playing tricks on him. He saw her place the poker back in the stand and focused his attention on her hand. He had not been imagining her thumbnail. It was inordinately long compared with her other nails. He resolved to speak with Venus.

  As soon as Phibbah left the room, he turned to the housekeeper. “I think it best that you take sole charge of your mistress’s care,” he told her.

  Venus’s flawless complexion suddenly wrinkled. “Sir?”

  She would not make this any easier for him, he could see that. “It is important that she be given the correct dose of the physic and I believe you are best able to do that,” Thomas told her earnestly. He was looking at her intently, watching for a flicker of understanding, before he added: “You are more capable than Phibbah. Do you understand?”

  Venus nodded, but in such a way that Thomas remained unsure as to whether she had taken his meaning.

  She returned an odd, inscrutable look. “I understand, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied.

  It was early afternoon when the carriage dropped Thomas back in Hollen Street, but already the shadows were lengthening and the northerly wind blew stiffly down the narrow street. He turned to ascend the front steps of his house. As he did so, however, he happened to glance up and saw two gentlemen, dressed in sombre clothes, standing on the opposite side of the street looking at him. As their eyes met, one of them stepped backward into the shelter of a wall. The other quickly followed. Thomas faltered for a second. Should he ignore them and go into his house or should he cross the street and address them? He decided on the former course of action. His unpleasant encounters with hooligans and cutpurses in this great city had taught him to look out for his own safety on the streets. He would not tempt fate again.

  Striding upstairs, he went immediately to check on his patient. Between them, he and Helen had managed to stretcher the injured Negro, still unconscious, into the second floor guest room, much to Mistress Finesilver’s displeasure. The temperature in the room was only a little more agreeable than the landing. The blinds had been left up all day and a fearful draft blew through a gap in the ill-fitting window. Helen had lit a fire in the grate, but it had not been properly tended. Thomas suspected that Mistress Finesilver had instructed the maid to enter the room only on her orders, and, judging by her sour manner toward their guest, that would not be often.

  Edging closer to the bed Thomas heard his patient breathing, the air rattling in his chest. He checked his pulse. It was remarkably strong, and the fever seemed to have disappeared, giving him cause to believe he may recover consciousness. He did not have to wait long. His ministering seemed to have alerted the young man who, just as soon as Thomas had turned to open his case, suddenly let out a low groan.

  Whirling ’round the doctor saw his patient’s unharmed eyelid slowly open. It swiveled in its socket, taking in its new surroundings. Then, after a few moments, the young man’s mouth tightened, not in a smile but in a look of fear. Bending low, Thomas quickly tried to reassure him.

  “Do not worry,” he soothed. “You have been badly hurt, but I am a surgeon. My name is Dr. Silkstone.”

  Thomas saw the young man push his legs away from him, as if to ease the act of sighing, which came next in a long and painful breath.

  “Doc-tor Silk-stone,” repeated the young man. He spoke as if each syllable st
abbed his tongue like a dagger, but Thomas also detected a glimmer of recognition; as if his name was already known to him.

  The doctor drew up a chair and carefully unwound the bandage that swathed the slave’s head wound. Reaching for a candle, he inspected it closely. It was deep, but it seemed to be scabbing over. He would let the yellow crust continue to develop. There was a school of thought that propounded that scabs should not be allowed to form and should be knocked off. However, he was of the opinion that scabbing was a necessary part of the healing process to be encouraged.

  “You are doing well,” he told his patient. But he had wasted his breath. The young man’s eyes were again closed. He had lost consciousness once more.

  Returning down the stairs, Thomas heard the bell ring and arrived in the hallway in time to see Mistress Finesilver open the door, an arctic blast flooding inside as she did so.

  Two men stood on the front step; both were equally tall, but the older one had a concave face and a large nose, whereas the other was younger and generally more rounded. They each wore heavy dark coats with expressions on their faces that were every bit as funereal.

  “May I help you gentlemen?” asked Thomas before Mistress Finesilver could launch into her usual tirade. Dr. Silkstone should not be disturbed after the hour of eight o’clock unless their business was of an extremely urgent nature, she would say, although she never couched her meaning so delicately.