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

  Her composure restored, she entered Mistress Carfax’s bedroom. Phibbah was wrestling with a bundle of foul-smelling sheets. Remaining by the door, she surveyed the scene: Mistress Carfax covered in an eiderdown, barely able to move, the bowl of rancid liquid, Phibbah flustered and incompetent.

  “Where is Patience?” she asked suddenly, making the girl jump.

  Wheeling ’round toward the door, Phibbah, the bundled sheets now under one arm, registered surprise at Venus’s presence. She sketched a curtsy. “Patience downstairs, missa,” she replied quickly. “She sent me to clear up sick.”

  Venus nodded, seemingly satisfied with the girl’s answer, but her gaze began to wander. Her eyes roamed the room, first to the fireplace, then to the dressing table, then to the floor. Phibbah, thinking she could resume her duties, took a few steps toward the door.

  “Not so fast,” said Venus, raising her hand coolly.

  Phibbah frowned. Her mouth opened in silent protest, but she knew better than to question Venus.

  “Where is it?” asked the housekeeper, keeping her voice low so as not to wake her mistress.

  Phibbah shook her head. “Please?” She blinked nervously.

  “Where is the obeah bag?” Venus’s voice was as calm as a summer’s day. “It has to be in here somewhere.” Her eyes remained darting high and low. She glided over to the fireplace, where a sickly blaze spluttered. She ran her hand under the mantelshelf. With the poker she jabbed under the fire hood and up the chimney breast.

  “It is in this room. I know it.”

  Phibbah’s eyes betrayed her as they darted involuntarily to the lintel. Venus followed them and sashayed over to the door.

  “No!” screamed Phibbah, but it was too late.

  Venus reached up and felt the coarse fabric of the lumpy bag. Pulling it down, she fixed Phibbah with a knowing stare and held it triumphantly aloft.

  The girl was squirming, like a maggot on a fishhook. She kept throwing glances over to the bed to see if her mistress stirred. Thankfully Cordelia Carfax seemed oblivious to the drama that was playing out in her bedroom.

  “Please, Venus,” begged Phibbah. “Give it to me.” The girl lurched forward, trying to snatch the bag, but Venus, who was considerably taller, simply extended her arm and held it high above her head, out of her reach.

  “So, what have we here?” Venus asked softly, when she had assured herself that the girl would not try and retrieve the bag. Loosening the drawstring, she delved inside. First she pulled out the ball of hair, followed by the pig’s tail, then the nail clippings and the kersey band. The grave dirt was sticking to her own hands. Suddenly she lifted them, cupping them, her palms held upward. She shook her head as she looked up at Phibbah, then, in a sharp, lurching movement, grabbed the girl’s right hand to inspect it. Grasping her thumb, she noted that the nail was exceptionally long, then scowling, she flung down the hand with such force that she almost broke the girl’s wrist.

  “You are very foolish,” she chided her. “Why you want her dead?” She jerked a look over to the bed.

  The slave’s eyes glistened with reproach as she rubbed her injured hand. She began to snivel. “She kill my baby. She try to kill me.”

  A strange smile floated across Venus’s cut lips. “You stupid girl,” she told her softly. Her tone would have been the same had she been complimenting Phibbah on her stitching or her cleaning. It was steady, unhurried, patronizing. She shot her a quick look of disdain before drawing tight the strings around the bag’s mouth. Then, cupping it in her hand, she flung it onto the fire and it flared into a cone of flame.

  Phibbah screamed and ran toward the grate, but the hessian of the bag was well ablaze. She shot back at the bed, as if expecting to see her mistress writhing in agony as the imprint of her soul went up in flames. But there was no sound other than the hissing and fizzing of the bag as it was consumed by the fire in the hearth.

  In the refuge of his own laboratory, Thomas sat staring into the dying embers of the fire. He was pondering on Sir Joseph Banks’s disclosure about the purpose behind the mission to Jamaica. There was something that troubled him deeply about their last meeting, something that told him the great man was still holding back. He was convinced that somewhere in this tangle of secrecy and intrigue lay vital clues as to who may have killed the young artist.

  He strode over to his desk and pulled out from a drawer a folio containing several of Matthew Bartlett’s sketches and began leafing through them until he came to the drawing of the branched calalue. He walked over to the wall and tacked the sketch onto a wooden board that hung there. Taking a few paces back, he studied it. The tropical herb, with its long-stemmed, egg-shaped leaves, and small white flowers, looked innocuous enough, yet, in all probability, it would possess the same properties as its European relative, the deadly nightshade. It was beautiful, but lethal if taken in sufficient quantities. Yet Dr. Welton, from what he could glean from Sir Joseph, also had faith in its narcotic powers.

  Glancing over to the bookshelf, he resolved to discover exactly what was known of the plant’s power. He strode over to consult one of the many tomes, seeking out an ancient volume belonging to Dr. Carruthers that listed all known herbs and their properties. He soon found it and, blowing the grime from its cover, he leafed through its well-worn pages. He quickly came to the page with the heading Solanum nigrum. Yet, instead of answering his questions, the entry in the pharmacopeia only served to disturb him. With mounting unease he read: Also known as Pretty Morel, an herb sacred to Hekate, one of the Titans, who holds the keys to the Underworld. Often associated with lunar magick or works related to death, and in witchcraft.

  Thomas slammed the book shut, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. “Witchcraft,” he murmured, his thoughts darting back to one of John Perrick’s letters that had mentioned what he called a “kind of witchcraft.” What was it called, he asked himself. Obeah. Yes, that was it. Obeah, a form of religion practiced by the Negroes.

  Rushing over to his desk, he rifled through his drawers once more and pulled out the sheaf of Perrick’s letters from a leather wallet. There remained only two or three that he had not read. He scanned one of them quickly, then another, until he came to the fourth page. Moving over to a lamp, his eyes widened as he read Perrick’s words. There are those whom slaves hold in high regard called obeah-men. They practice witchcraft or sorcery using narcotic potions, made with the juice of a herb (Calalue or species of Solanum). The ingestion of such potions will induce a trance or profound sleep that can last for several hours, depending on its strength. The guileful spectators are thus convinced that these priests possess the power to resurrect the dead.

  Thomas was trying to digest the significance of what he had just read when he heard the door open and a voice call his name.

  “Thomas! Are you there?”

  It was Dr. Carruthers. He waved his stick through the doorway to gauge its width before he came over the threshold.

  Thomas leapt to his feet. He had completely forgotten the time and had been due to read the day’s news from The Gazeteer and New Daily Advertiser to his mentor.

  “Forgive me, sir. I was distracted,” he said, Perrick’s letter rustling in his hand.

  “So you have been reading the notes and letters again,” Dr. Carruthers said with a chuckle. “I am sure they are much more interesting than the usual obituaries.” The fact that Thomas did not reply to this good-humored observation spoke volumes. “You have found something, dear boy?” he pressed.

  Thomas looked grave. “Indeed I have, sir,” he said solemnly.

  “And you will share it with me.” It was a statement rather than a question from Carruthers as he perched himself on a stool.

  Thomas raked his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. “I believe I have uncovered the real reason behind the expedition to Jamaica, sir,” he began.

  The old anatomist raised an eyebrow. “Have you, by Jove?”

  Walking over to his mentor, still
clutching Perrick’s letters, Thomas sat by him. “I have, sir, and it is a sinister one.”

  Carruthers leaned close to Thomas. “You have my undivided attention.”

  “As you know, Sir Joseph told me that the aim of the expedition was to investigate a plant with great medicinal properties.”

  “The branched calalue,” butted in Carruthers. “An atropine, related to belladonna.”

  “Indeed,” said Thomas. “I was told that Dr. Welton was investigating its narcotic properties. Yet according to what I have just read in Dr. Perrick’s letter, African slaves consider it to have magical properties, too.”

  “Magical?” repeated the old anatomist.

  “Their priests mix its juice with other herbs and when it is drunk during an elaborate ritual the victim dies shortly after—or so it seems. The following day, the dead body is brought before the crowd once more and, after more ritual and another dose of potion, he rises.”

  “Extraordinary,” remarked Carruthers.

  Thomas shook his head. “But there is more, sir. According to Dr. Perrick, not only does this seemingly give the power over life and death to the priest, or obeah-man, as he is called, but the victim never fully recovers. He becomes incapable of his own thoughts. He is rendered completely compliant to the will of the priest, or whoever gives him orders.”

  Thomas allowed his words to hang in the air for a moment, so that Carruthers could fully understand their implication.

  The old anatomist was unusually silent at first, as he considered what he had just learned. “And such a power could be put to wider use,” he said finally.

  Thomas nodded. “There you have it, sir.” He thought of the customs man, leading Matthew Bartlett away from the Elizabeth. “There might be those who are anxious to exploit this potion, or physic, call it what you will.”

  Carruthers shook his head in disbelief. What he had just been told was quite momentous. “Slaves would never again revolt against their masters,” he ventured.

  “Nor prisoners of war rebel against their captors,” added Thomas.

  “Whole armies could be recruited.”

  “And would never mutiny.”

  Both men were silent for the next few moments, pondering on the enormity of what they had just considered. The possibilities of such a powerful potion were limitless.

  Dr. Carruthers broke the silence. “You believe Matthew Bartlett might have been killed for this formula? You think it was written in Welton’s journal?”

  Thomas thought of unscrupulous traders and even government agents who might use the formula to their advantage. “There are many who would wish to get their hands on it,” he replied.

  The old anatomist sighed deeply. “Do you think that Mr. Bartlett would have known of the journal’s significance when he slipped it into his satchel?”

  Thomas nodded. “I fear so,” he said, adding: “And I believe someone else did, too.”

  Carruthers cocked his head, noting the timbre of his protégé’s voice. He sensed he had an idea. “You have someone in mind?”

  “The last time I was with Sir Joseph, he inadvertently mentioned a rift,” replied Thomas, shuffling his papers.

  “A rift? Between whom? Welton and Perrick? Welton and himself?” asked Carruthers brusquely.

  “Or perhaps someone else?” replied Thomas, opening the wallet and returning the letters to it.

  The thought had taken root in his head. Perhaps this rift, this disagreement, this dispute, could be at the heart of the matter. Perhaps whoever had cause to quarrel with Dr. Welton may have found cause to murder Matthew Bartlett for the journal and gain control over this powerful potion. It seemed a feasible hypothesis. The question was, who?

  Chapter 34

  It was Mistress Finesilver’s custom to go to market on alternate weekdays and, it being the Wednesday before Christmas Day, she thought it the perfect opportunity to execute her plan. Accordingly, as soon as Helen had cleared the breakfast dishes from the doctors’ table, she made ready.

  The maid, stacking the plates at the sink, studied her mistress as she eased her chapped hands into her gloves. Jane Finesilver was always a nervy woman, yet that morning she seemed particularly on edge, shifting all about her and clucking.

  “What are you staring at, girl?” she asked tetchily. Of course she knew very well. The maid was wondering why her mistress was wearing her blue cape with the fur trim that usually only came out for Sunday worship. “A woman of my standing has to look her best at all times,” she snapped, as if arguing with some unseen challenger.

  Helen said nothing but averted her gaze and returned to the eggy plates. Knowing her mistress as she did, there would be accusations of insolence or tardiness, or both, if she did not carry on with her duties efficiently.

  “And besides,” the housekeeper continued, “my other cape is growing shabby.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “And on what those two gentlemen pay me, it’ll be a good few years before I can afford another one.”

  Mistress Finesilver was clearly in no mood to brook arguments, or questions. At the end of her peevish speech, she gave an odd sort of grunt to show that she had said her piece, before picking up a pannier from the table.

  “I may be a little longer than usual. I have many things to buy for the festivities,” she told Helen. She paused for a second on the kitchen steps, as if mentally ticking off an imaginary list of tasks. “You can see to the goose while I’m gone. Pluck, dress, and stuff it,” she added, glancing at the forlorn carcass hanging near the back door. Happy that the servant would be usefully engaged for the next two hours at least, she flounced up the remainder of the steps and out of the house.

  Helen stayed at the sink for the next ten minutes, keen to dabble her hands in the water warmed by the copper. It was not until she turned ’round that she saw that the provisions list was still on the kitchen table. Wiping her damp hands on her apron, she peered at it, written in Mistress Finesilver’s spidery hand. How annoyed would her mistress be when she discovered she had left her list? Helen could not read herself, but she did not have to. Even she could see that there were only five items written on the paper.

  Out on the main street the snow did not seem to have dissuaded people from going about their daily business. A carriage clattered along the cobbles, the horses’ shoed hooves swishing over the slushy roads. Errand boys skittered about, clutching packages tight to their bodies. A tailor and his assistant carried a bolt of cloth into a nearby house. All was normal. Life went on. And yet Jane Finesilver felt so different, as if all this was about to change. A seed of doubt sowed itself in her stomach. She paused and took out of her small purse a piece of paper on which was written an address: the George Coffee House in Chancery Lane.

  She had come to the decision the previous night. The house was silent. The doctors and Helen were abed. The fire in the study was all but ashes and she was just making her final rounds, checking bolts and shutters, when her candle had illuminated a small leaflet of some sort that had been left on the table in the study. Her curiosity aroused, she walked over to it, bent down, and squinted at it. She read it once, then again, then rocked back with wide eyes and a sharp intake of breath. Pausing to consider what she had just gleaned from the flyer, she looked at it again, even more intently, as if memorizing its words. In her own room, a few minutes later, it was this memory that she committed to paper in the form of an address. And it was to this address that she now proceeded.

  Sometimes her pace was assured, hurried even. At other times, she slowed, mulling over the consequences of her actions. She loitered outside a milliner’s on the Strand and pictured herself wearing a new bonnet at Easter. She paid more attention to what fashionable women were wearing, even though admittedly not many had braved the elements that morning. The gold straw picture hat with blue silk and lace trim took her fancy. A large, handwritten card beside it drew attention to the fact that this was what the Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, would be wearing in the spring (she did
not think to question how a London milliner would know), and blue was a popular color. How drab and dull she felt. She may have been widowed a good twenty years ago, but she still had womanly wants and needs. New fripperies, a fashionable titfer, surely this was not too much to ask for a woman of her station?

  Taking a deep breath, she turned up Chancery Lane, looking out for the sign of the coffeehouse overhead. The narrow street was crowded with men in black, the lawyers and barristers who habituated this part of London, like nesting rooks. Some huddled in doorways out of the wind, others moved quickly, purposefully, their heads down and bodies bent.

  A few more paces and the George loomed in front of her. She stopped abruptly outside the door and a man who had been walking behind her mistakenly barged into her left arm.

  “Watch what you’re doing!” he barked.

  She jolted forward, her nerve momentarily rattled, but taking a deep breath, she composed herself and focused on the door once more.

  Inside it was dark, but warm. The smoke from dozens of pipes filled the air, catching her throat, and the sickly smell of ale stung her nostrils. This was a man’s world. It was no place for a woman like her. She felt men’s eyes boring into her, like worms into an apple, as she walked toward the bar. They leered at her, jeered, made lewd remarks as she ran their gauntlet toward the bartender. Could they not see that she was a respectable woman? Did she not look clean and tidy? Was it not obvious that she was not of the streets? Perhaps her blue cape with its fur trim made her appear shabby. The thought of a reward strengthened her resolve.

  “Good day, sir!” she called to the burly man behind the bar. Opening her bag once more, she brought out the piece of paper, unfolded it, and, holding it at arm’s length, where her focus was best, she read what was written. “I am looking for a gentleman who has lost his slave,” she told him.

  The barman leered at her. He did not take her seriously.