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

  The taller man stepped forward a pace, whipping off his hat despite the cold, to reveal a gray wig. His face was angular and the chill had rendered his complexion as mottled as a map, all red blotches and blue veins.

  “Dr. Silkstone?” he asked, giving a shallow bow.

  “I am he,” acknowledged Thomas.

  “We should like to speak with you on a matter of great import,” he began. His demeanor was intense, almost grave, but not threatening.

  The doctor gestured the strangers inside. “The study, please,” he said, ushering them toward the door. “I am afraid there is no fire in our drawing room.”

  Thomas introduced Dr. Carruthers, who had been dozing by the hearth, and bade them sit.

  “What is it that I can do for you gentlemen?” he asked, seating himself opposite them.

  Again, the taller man spoke. “Let me introduce ourselves, sir. This is Mr. Clarkson and I am Granville Sharp.”

  “Sharp?” repeated the old anatomist.

  The man shot a glance at Dr. Carruthers. “I am known to you, sir?”

  Carruthers chuckled and shifted in his chair excitedly. “Your reputation as a champion of the oppressed precedes you, sir, and I am most honored to welcome you into my home.” Turning to Thomas he explained: “This, young fellow, is the gentleman who sponsored the case of the slave I was telling you about.”

  “Jonathan Strong?” queried Thomas.

  “The very same!” exclaimed Carruthers excitedly.

  Thomas smiled broadly. “Then you are indeed most welcome, sirs,” he reiterated. “But how can we help you?”

  Sharp nodded and leaned forward in his seat, as if he were about to impart a secret. “We are but a small group of men that finds slavery in all its forms to be against the law of both god and nature. We are therefore committed to work for its abolition.”

  Thomas nodded sympathetically. “An admirable ideal, gentlemen,” he said. “And one that has my full support.” Yet there was a slight catch in his voice. “How does this concern me?”

  Sharp’s brows knitted into a frown. “Forgive me if you believe we are intruding into your affairs, sir,” he began. “But we have reason to believe that you have recently given quarter to a”—he fumbled for the appropriate word—“stranger.”

  Thomas suddenly tensed as he wondered how they knew he was harboring a runaway slave. He felt his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry.

  Seeing the young doctor’s reaction, Sharp responded by raising his hands. “It is true, sir. I confess we have been surveying your movements.”

  “My movements?” queried Thomas, growing increasingly alarmed.

  The younger man intervened. “There is an inn, sir, the Crown, where Negroes gather. Our Quaker friends distribute pamphlets there and try to help them. That is how we heard, sir, of your charity, at the Carfax household.”

  “We only followed you to affirm our purpose,” Sharp tried to assure him.

  “And what might this purpose be, sir?” asked Thomas, warily.

  The older man, after taking a deep breath, continued. “If you have shown charity to an injured stranger, sir, then we commend you, but I am afraid we also come to warn you.”

  Thomas cocked his head. “To warn me?” he repeated. “Against what, pray?”

  Sharp and Clarkson exchanged nervous glances.

  “It is not our way to disguise the truth, Dr. Silkstone. We believe in speaking plainly,” the latter pointed out.

  Thomas nodded. “That is a quality I much appreciate,” he replied.

  Clarkson pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his small nose. “We are here,” he continued, “because we have heard of your reputation for good works, sir; and believe that you champion the poor and the vulnerable.”

  The doctor gave a flat smile. “I do what I can.”

  Sharp took up the running. “We also believe, Dr. Silkstone, that you are caring for a slave who has run away by the name of Jeremiah Taylor.”

  “And if I am, sir?”

  Sharp took a deep breath. “If you are, sir, I am afraid you must know that it is not an end to the matter.”

  In his fireside chair Dr. Carruthers grunted. “I feared as much,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Thomas shot a look at his mentor. What was it he had said? He had known he was taking a risk by caring for a slave. He knew he had to accept any consequences.

  “Gentlemen, I am a surgeon and a physician. If I care for a man it is because it is my duty to do so, regardless of whether he is free or a slave, white or black,” he told them.

  The bespectacled man nodded sympathetically. “We do understand that, sir, and we admire your compassion,” he began.

  Thomas detected a caveat. “But?”

  Sharp resumed his warning. “But we are here to tell you that the slave’s master will want him back,” he said in a way that needled the doctor.

  Thomas felt the anger swelling in his chest and he broke in suddenly. “Then the slave’s master will have to deal with me first,” he replied.

  Clarkson’s features tightened. “That is what we fear, Dr. Silkstone. By protecting the slave you are putting yourself at risk.”

  Thomas nodded. “I am aware of that, gentlemen,” he replied, suppressing his mounting sense of outrage. “But that man upstairs was left for dead. If I had not found him, he would be buried by now. What right does one man, whoever he is, have to own another?”

  At these words, Dr. Carruthers clapped his hands together. “Bravo, young fellow!” he exclaimed.

  Sharp wore the wearied look of a seasoned campaigner. “Your sentiments are, indeed, admirable, sir, but the slave’s master is looking for him. There are posters, leaflets . . . There is even a reward.” He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a handbill offering ten guineas for the safe return of a slave known as Jeremiah.

  Thomas studied the leaflet. It described the runaway as almost six feet tall and wearing a dark blue coat. It matched the description of the young Negro upstairs. He flung the paper down on a nearby table in disgust.

  “If his master comes calling I shall deny all knowledge of this person, gentlemen,” he said.

  Sharp gave a wry smile. “I admire your principled stand, Dr. Silkstone. I am thankful that all Englishmen are born free, but those who are merely brought here from the Colonies deserve our protection, too, and I am afraid they do not get it. That is why we are trying to spread the word among them in taverns and coffeehouses and the like.”

  “And you do a marvelous job!” interjected Dr. Carruthers.

  Sharp shrugged. “Thank you, sir. That may be so, but what I am saying, Dr. Silkstone, is if you should need to fight this case in the courts, then please feel free to contact me.” With these words he rose, walked over to Thomas, and held out his calling card.

  Thomas rose, too, and took it. “Thank you, Mr. Sharp,” he said, looking first at the card, then at his guest. He knew he would be a valuable ally if, or when, the young slave’s master came calling.

  Chapter 32

  White snow was falling on the white man’s land. It was a sign, as if a sign were needed, thought Cato, that this was a place where he did not belong. His Coromantee name was Cudjoe. He had been born on a ship bound for Jamaica, but his mother had died shortly after his birth and his father had committed suicide, jumping overboard at the first opportunity rather than submit to the whip. At first he had been gifted to a white mistress who was kind to him, but as he grew, he seemed to lose the charm he had held and other, younger boys, slipped into his buckled shoes. He had worked in the Carfax household for fifteen years and now he had run away. It was not a decision he had taken lightly. Yes, there had been the odd beating at the hands of Mr. Roberts, the occasional withdrawal of food, but in general, his treatment, certainly compared with that of his fellows on the sugar plantations that he’d heard and seen, was bearable.

  No, the reason he had slipped out of the back door of his master’s house one night with the intention of
never returning was because he had a plan. Under cover of darkness he had made his way to the Crown Inn. A new life, a free life in Africa awaited him. That is what was promised them on the pieces of paper handed out at the inn. Tonight he would be freed from bondage and liberated, forever.

  The African brother with the gold tooth ushered him into a back room where the obeah-man sat on his mat, a goatskin draped around his bony shoulders. The room was dimly lit and all manner of strange creatures leered out at them from shelves: a squirrel monkey, its teeth bared, and a small crocodile, its jaws agape. A strange scent lingered on the smoky air and made Cato feel a little light-headed, as if he had drunk a quart of rum.

  It was only when he was seated cross-legged on the floor that he saw the obeah-man’s face, like half-eaten offal chewed by hungry dogs. A sound ushered from the old man’s mouth that made him cock his head closer so as to understand what he was saying. He felt as nervous as a fledgling waiting on a window ledge before it took the first leap into flight. He leaned forward, eagerly anticipating the old man’s instructions.

  “You want be free?” he asked.

  Cato nodded.

  “Then drink this.” He lifted a skull that sat by him; it looked like a human skull, and it was full of liquid.

  “Then what?” he asked, almost breathless in anticipation.

  “Then you sleep and when you wake . . .” The obeah-man’s voice trailed off, taking Cato with him to a land of languor and plenty.

  “I shall be free?”

  The old man’s tone suddenly sharpened. “You will be on a ship bound for Africa and when you wake you will be a free man.”

  Questions flew into Cato’s mind like starlings swirling in winter twilight.

  “A free man,” he echoed. He reached for the skull, but the obeah-man swatted his hand as if he were a troublesome fly. The slave knew why and he delved into the pocket of his breeches. Pulling out a shiny sixpence, he laid it in front of him. He had found it in the master’s pocket when his topcoat was put out for the laundry earlier in the month and kept it safe, knowing it might mean his salvation one day. Today was that day.

  “ ’Tis all I could find,” he said apologetically.

  The old man took it, laid it in his palm that quivered like a leaf, and with the other hand lifted it to the side of his mouth where a few blackened teeth remained. Biting into it, he seemed satisfied, and gave a reassuring nod before pushing the skull into the centre of the ring.

  “Drink tonight and tomorrow freedom,” he said, slamming down his palm on his thigh.

  He began to chant. Through toothless gums his words were hard to follow, but Cato repeated what he said, then, tilting his head back, drank from the skull. The liquid inside tasted bitter and he shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the flavor that lingered on his tongue. After a few moments, however, it did not taste so bad after all; quite pleasant in fact. He asked for more and the obeah-man obliged.

  In fact, Cato drank so much that when the old man told him to rise and drink the contents of a phial that he was offered, he did that, too. He even whirled himself ’round and ’round at his bidding, spinning wildly until he collapsed to the ground, clutching his belly. Within the hour, he was still.

  Chapter 33

  When Phibbah came to check on Cordelia Carfax the following morning, she found her mistress had worsened. As she opened the shutters, the thinnest shard of light appeared to pierce the woman’s brain as if it were a spear. Even the sound of Phibbah’s tread on the wooden floorboards sent her reeling. A low moan rumbled from her lips and her hands clutched her head.

  The slave girl hurried over to the tangle of sheets and blankets and looked at her mistress more closely. She sniffed the acidic tang, then saw the vomit staining the white linen. Instinctively she curled her lip in disgust and her mistress caught her expression as she turned onto her back. She seemed too weak even to upbraid her. Her hair was stuck to her skull, and her skin was the color of porridge. From the filmy dampness on her forehead, Phibbah knew that Mistress Carfax was in the grip of some terrible ague.

  Hearing his wife’s moans, Samuel Carfax strode into the bedroom to find the girl standing by the bed, looking anxious and wringing her hands.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he yelled, raising his voice above the din.

  Phibbah spun on her heel. “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, her face now contorted with worry. “The missa is taken real bad.”

  Carfax paced over to the bed, his expression one of annoyance rather than concern. How she needed to be always the centre of attention! Her senseless moans ranked her alongside the hysterical female slaves in his mind. He would have no truck with them and yet.... Leaning forward, he saw his wife’s head moving from left to right and glimpsed her milk-white face before it was eclipsed by a pillow. She did not look well at all. Quite the opposite. He reached for her hand.

  “My dearest,” he whispered, bending low. “ ’Tis I. ’Tis Samuel. Can you hear me?”

  She grunted in reply. It was a sound that bubbled from her throat. He caught a whiff of the rancid smell on her breath, saw the stained sheets, and he, too, curled his lip in disgust.

  Straightening himself, he saw Phibbah cowering on the other side of the bed. “Get this cleaned up, will you?” he shouted, grabbing hold of a sheet and tugging at it disdainfully.

  “I shall call Silkstone again, my dear. He will see you right,” he told his wife. There was pity in his words, but not in his eyes. He shot a glance at Phibbah. “Did I not tell you to change the sheets?” he yelled.

  The slave jumped to his command and sprang forward toward the bed. Just as she did so, her mistress began convulsing once more. Lifting her head off the pillow, her eyes wide, she called out then retched. A stream of blackish vomit shot from her mouth, cascading over the bed linen and over the floor. Phibbah rushed to her mistress with a bowl, but it was too late. Her head sank back onto the pillows and her eyes closed.

  Carfax and the slave exchanged glances once more. There was a strange glint in the master’s eye that Phibbah could not read. He glowered at her for a moment, before storming out of the room and onto the landing. He was about to descend the stairs when he saw Venus through the half-open door to his own bedchamber. She was casting her critical eye over the room, seeing that it had been cleaned thoroughly, as she always did. Surfaces needed to be clear, sills free of mildew, linen smooth. On hearing footsteps, she turned to see her master. He blustered in and slammed the door behind him. His anger was palpable, and at the sight of him the features on Venus’s normally serene face tensed a little.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he hissed at her. His fists were balled at his sides. His eyes sharpened on her, yet she remained calm; her expression was impassive. Such indifference riled him. Her insolence lay barely concealed. There was derision in her manner; he detected the scorn of a woman who knew she could command him with her own body, the curve of her breasts, the silkiness of her thighs.

  She curtsied. “I do not know what you mean, sir,” she replied, looking at him squarely.

  Her wanton impudence only served to inflame his passion. “You know damn well, you whore!” he growled, bringing his hand back and slapping her hard on the cheek as if he were swatting a mosquito. She reeled with the force, taking two steps back, but she did not fall. Nor did she rub her coffee-colored cheek even though it burned as brightly as if a brand had seared it. Instead she looked at him, but remained silent.

  Carfax shocked himself with the ferocity of his attack. For a moment he stood still, catching his breath, until he turned and pointed. “Your mistress lies ill next door, spewing her guts out, and I know ’tis your doing.”

  Venus shook her head and her usual composure began to crack. A look of incomprehension scudded across her face. “I no understand, sir,” she replied.

  Carfax strode toward her. She could smell his smell; leather and tobacco, but still she stood her ground.

  “This is your sorcery. Your slave magi
c, is it not?” He lunged at her body and grabbed the top of her stomacher, pulling her close to him, so that she felt his spittle splatter her skin.

  “No,” she gasped. “I know nothing.”

  He looked at her for another moment, as if trying to search behind her eyes, delving into her mind. Another tug on her bodice brought her even closer to him. “If my wife dies, I shall see to it that you are hanged for her murder, you hear me?” His grip was like a vise that squeezed the breath out of her lungs and pulled her whole body toward him. Thrusting his mouth against hers, he began biting her lips, and when she parted them to cry out in pain, he bit her tongue, too, as if his hunger was driving him mad. His ferocity lasted only two or three seconds and he pulled away as quickly as he had lunged, his eyes suddenly wide with horror. Blood smeared Venus’s face. With his forefinger he traced the slash of scarlet that streaked her cheek from her mouth toward her left ear. His touch was suddenly tender and his grasp loosened.

  “I cannot have a suspicious death around my neck if I am to stand for Parliament,” he said firmly. He eased his hold even more. “You understand?”

  She nodded and he opened his clenched fist, letting her step backward. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she juddered slightly as she saw the blood from her bitten lip.

  “I am glad you do,” he said, his tone suddenly softening. Straightening his waistcoat that had ridden up in his exertions, he nodded, as if he had just concluded a business transaction. “There must be no scandal,” he repeated to himself as much as to Venus and he made for the door.

  As soon as she was sure that the master had returned downstairs to his study, Venus picked up the hand mirror from the chest of drawers and inspected her lips. There was a purple slit on the bottom, which was slightly swollen. Licking her handkerchief, she dabbed the wound gently, wiping away a smear of blood. No one must know of her humiliation. A canker, she would say if anyone drew attention to it. The English climate did not suit her skin.