The Lazarus Curse (Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mystery) Page 3

  The expressions of horror that his disfigured face prompted were the same, too, but he took no pleasure in frightening the young and vulnerable.

  “You want?” he asked her, lifting up the bottle of rum from the table. There were two cups next to it. He filled one and pushed it toward her but she shook her head.

  “Have na fear,” he said in a hoarse whisper. If he had been able to smile, he would have done so, but he could not, relying on his red-rimmed eye to reassure the girl. He guessed she was no more than fourteen full suns old and she was as nervous as a bride. They always were, those who sought him out. He downed his rum in one.

  “You come for obeah?” he asked, his eye resting on the collar around her neck that bore her slave name, Phibbah.

  Still unable to bring herself to look at the man’s face, the girl nodded. “Yes,” she replied, twisting her shawl between her fingers.

  “Who has wronged you, child? Your massa?”

  “My missa,” she hissed, a look of contempt tugging the corners of her mouth.

  She shifted on her chair and straightened her back. As she did so, a silver scar above her right breast glinted like a fish in the candlelight. He could make out the letters of a white man’s brand: S. C.

  “What she do? She hurt you?” They always did, he thought to himself. In England most Africans were no longer slaves in name, but many were treated as if they were still in shackles.

  Slowly the girl turned, as if steeling herself to look at him. Her eyes lifted to meet his. “She kill my child.”

  The obeah-man nodded sagely, as if he already knew what pained her. “She beat it out your womb?”

  The girl’s gaze was steady now and he saw her eyes were weeping like juice from fresh-cut cane. “She was mad at me and threw a jug and I fell down de stairs.” Her breath juddered into a sob. “That night I was taken bad and de baby came away.”

  The obeah-man paused a moment. It was a story he had heard before. “It was your massa’s child?”

  She nodded, feeling the blood rushing to her face. The obeah-man understood. Not a month went by without he had a visit from a girl with a similar sad tale to tell. They all overcame their revulsion of him as their stories unfolded.

  He tapped the table with his wizened hand. “You got money?” His tone seemed to bring her back from her dark place.

  “Yes. Yes,” she replied. Delving into her apron pocket, she brought out two sixpences she had stolen, together with the drawstring bag.

  The obeah-man swooped on the coins like an eagle and scooped them across the table and into a drawer. Satisfied he could do business with the girl, he poured rum into the other glass. This time she did not refuse it, but drank it in one gulp. Leaning back in his chair he watched her cough and splutter for a moment before eyeing the bag. It was made of sacking and was the width of a man’s foot. He lifted a gnarled finger and pointed at it.

  “Your obeah?”

  She stretched the neck of the bag and put her hand inside. First she brought out a small square of paper and unfolded it to reveal three or four fingernail clippings. The obeah-man inspected them, lightly touching the half-moon fragments with his own grubby stumps.

  “Good,” he said. But it was the next object that seemed to lift his wizened face. From the bag the girl pulled out a length of kersey, a coarse woollen band of cloth stained dark brown with blood. Slowly she pushed it across the table and the obeah-man gave her a knowing look as he opened out the folds.

  “You have done well,” he nodded.

  The girl turned her head away, unable to look at the bloodied rag.

  The man folded the linen, but laid his hand upon it.

  “So, you want it quick or slow?” he asked. His words were rasping, as if his mouth were full of ashes, but he spoke with all the confidence of a priest.

  She, however, was unable to answer. Her voice had deserted her, choked by her tears. Her hands flew up to her face and her shoulders heaved in sobs.

  The obeah-man drew the cloth closer and nodded. “Either way,” he told her, “your missa be dead afore winter is out.”

  Chapter 4

  Thomas felt a mounting sense of excitement as his carriage swept into the great courtyard at Somerset House. It was an emotion that he rarely experienced. By nature he was a calm and reasoned man, not prone to mood swings. He liked to think that he handled the blows that life dealt him in a logical and ordered way and that if fortune smiled on him, he would be equally sanguine. Indeed, it seemed that after several months of hardship, providence might be a little more inclined to favor him. The Great Fogg that had covered the eastern half of the country over the summer had loosened its grip. The foul air had, however, been replaced by icy blasts that could prove almost as deadly to the poor and those of a weak constitution. His mentor, Dr. William Carruthers, had returned to rude health after a nasty bout of bronchitis brought on by the noxious haze, and then there was Lydia. Despite their enforced separation, they remained in touch.

  Lady Lydia Farrell wrote to him twice a week, detailing her routine with her newfound young son. The child had been rescued from a terrible fate and found to have a crippled arm. Yet, under Thomas’s supervision, his muscles had strengthened and now seemed fully restored. At Boughton Hall, the Cricks’ country seat in Oxfordshire, each day brought a new discovery or achievement: “Richard tied a bow today” or “Richard went riding,” Lydia would write. Her mother’s pride was evident in every phrase. There were words for him, of course. She told him she loved him and missed him and her sweetness buoyed his spirits, but they were poor compensation for her absence. By making Lydia’s son a ward of court, the law had forbidden their longed-for marriage on the grounds that Thomas, as an American citizen, was a foreign enemy. His countrymen had triumphed in the revolutionary war, and hostilities had long ceased, but, until the Treaty of Paris was ratified, he would technically remain so.

  Never one to wallow in his own misfortune, however, Thomas Silkstone had thrown himself into his work, teaching anatomy to eager students and operating on patients for whom surgery was the very last resort. All the while, however, he had been anticipating a call, a summons that would give his career a new impetus and his intellect a new challenge. That call had come the day before yesterday from the lips of one of the most revered living scientists and adventurers, Sir Joseph Banks.

  The great man, who had accompanied Captain Cook on his famous voyages to the Pacific Ocean, was now president of the Royal Society. The aim of the august body was to push the limits of scientific knowledge and last year they had funded an expedition to the West Indies. Its aim was to collect flora and fauna and to catalogue it. There would undoubtedly be some specimens that would have medicinal uses. Tragically, the expedition’s leader, Dr. Frederick Welton, had been struck down by yellow fever and died two days before his ship, the Elizabeth, set sail for England. The expedition’s second in command, Dr. John Perrick, had succumbed the following day. Of the original scientific team of three, only the botanical artist, Matthew Bartlett, remained alive.

  In the absence of any senior scientists to continue the team’s important work, the Royal Society needed to enlist the expertise of someone knowledgeable and reliable, someone who would work diligently and without conceit, someone committed and well-respected. There were many who put their names forward: after all, the work carried with it a generous fee, not to mention the prestige and a possible membership, subject to the usual terms, of the Royal Society itself. It was Sir Joseph himself who put forward Thomas’s name. And that is how the young American anatomist, surgeon, physician, and pioneer in the field of science came to be alighting from a rather grand carriage, helped down by a liveried footman and escorted by a clerk, into the inner sanctum of the Royal Society.

  The room, vast and wood paneled, smelled of linseed oil. On its walls hung portraits of the great and the good, members of the Royal Society both alive and dead. Newton, Herschel, Pepys, and Sloane glared down at the young American from their gilded fra
mes. Thomas noted there was no likeness of Benjamin Franklin, who had demonstrated the electrical nature of lightning using a kite and key some thirty years before. Perhaps, he considered, the Society felt it impolitic, at this delicate time before the ratification of the Treaty of Paris, to include a portrait of a former enemy.

  Sir Joseph sat alone behind a large desk. He rose when Thomas was ushered in. Tall, trim, and wigless, he exuded an air of calm authority. He held out a hand. Thomas shook it. The two men looked each other in the eye. The handshake was firm.

  “I have heard good reports about you, Silkstone,” said Sir Joseph, motioning Thomas to a chair. “Sir Tobias Charlesworth and Sir Peregrine Crisp both spoke highly of you. God rest their souls.”

  There was a brief pause as both men acknowledged that Thomas’s supporters had been taken in untimely ways.

  “I am most grateful for their confidence in me, sir,” replied the young doctor. He was feeling slightly less anxious, but nonetheless he remained on edge. As Thomas sat down, Sir Joseph walked over to a window where a large globe stood on a stand. He spun it playfully.

  “The world is a vast place, Silkstone,” he mused. “And it is growing with every expedition on which we embark.”

  “Thanks to men such as yourself, sir,” replied Thomas quickly, only to cringe immediately at his own sycophancy.

  Sir Joseph brushed his remark aside with a smile. “I have been fortunate,” he said, gazing out of the window and onto the River Thames. “There are many who have sacrificed their lives in the pursuit of knowledge. Good men. Men of great intellect and determination,” he said. He switched his gaze to Thomas. “Men such as yourself, Silkstone.”

  The young doctor shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with such praise, but before he could reply, Sir Joseph continued. “I’ll be plain with you. There were those in the Society who were a little reluctant to employ an American in the light of recent”—he searched for an appropriate word—“er . . . circumstances. However, I don’t hold with such stuff and nonsense. Knowledge needs to be shared. It has no borders or boundaries; no politics or prejudice. And we need the best men. That is why I have decided”—he paused briefly to correct himself—“the Royal Society has decided, to ask you, Dr. Silkstone, to take charge of cataloguing the manifest of the West Indies expedition.”

  Thomas had, unconsciously, been holding his breath as he listened to Sir Joseph. Now he breathed deeply with relief and his face broke into a smile.

  “You honor me, sir.”

  “It was not easy, mind.” Sir Joseph wagged his finger. “The applicants were falling over themselves for the post. But I believe you show such promise.” He nodded his head, as if to reassure himself as much as Thomas that he had made the right decision, before he went on. “There are many great discoveries to be made,” he said. “The expedition’s collections will no doubt contain treasures beyond compare; new flora, new fauna, new cures, new treatments.”

  Thomas pictured the array of exotic specimens in his mind’s eye as the Elizabeth breasted the waves on her homeward voyage, a sort of Noah’s Ark of all the weird and wonderful creations that the Lord had bestowed upon the islands of the Caribbean Sea. It would be his task to classify them all, from the tiniest seed to the tallest tree fern, from the humblest insect to the most magnificent reptile. He was well aware that Sir Joseph and the late botanist Daniel Solander had invented a new method of plant classification while on the Endeavour expedition with Captain Cook. The learning curve would not merely be steep, but strewn with many unexpected hazards. There would be unavoidable errors, misidentifications, and false dawns. His face betrayed his anxiety at the enormity of the venture.

  “I see you have doubts, Dr. Silkstone,” remarked Sir Joseph, settling back behind his desk.

  “I . . .” Thomas found himself fumbling awkwardly. “I am sure your trust in me will not be misplaced, sir.”

  Sir Joseph’s dark brows dipped slightly. “Your humility is a good thing. I cannot abide arrogance in a man, but you are right to feel burdened by the weight we are placing on your shoulders.”

  Thomas frowned. He anticipated there was more.

  Sir Joseph’s lips curled into a smile. “Have no fear, Silkstone. I have arranged assistance.”

  A look of puzzlement slid across Thomas’s face.

  “Mr. Bartlett will be helping you,” continued the great man. “He is the excellent botanical artist who accompanied the expedition. I trained him personally in the new method of classification. He will be invaluable to you.”

  Thomas nodded. “I am most grateful to you, sir.”

  “It is Mr. Bartlett who is deserving of your gratitude,” came the reply. “He has endured great torments in the name of science. In the last dispatch I had from Dr. Welton before he died, he informed me they spent an uncomfortable few days in the company of the Maroons.”

  Thomas was unfamiliar with the term. He frowned.

  “Runaway slaves,” explained Sir Joseph. “At one point the expedition members feared for their lives; however, by some means they managed to befriend the natives and, I believe, became privy to some of their cures. The Maroons even assisted them in their collection. As a result almost two hundred specimens were gathered.” He was nodding enthusiastically as he spoke. “Welton instructed Bartlett in how they should be drawn and which parts were to be depicted. He knew it was imperative to capture the plants’ forms while they were still fresh, so Bartlett made brief outline drawings, coloring specific areas so they could be finished later.” Sir Joseph’s long fingers held an imaginary paintbrush which he flourished in the air.

  Thomas recalled the botanical drawings of Sydney Parkinson from the Endeavour. He had fallen prey to the bloody flux on the return voyage, but his superbly detailed sketches were as brilliant in their execution as Leonardo’s anatomical images. He managed a nervous smile across the desk.

  “Then, sir, I accept your gracious commission,” Thomas replied.

  Sir Joseph leaned forward, slapping the palms of both his hands on the desk. “I know you will not disappoint, Silkstone.”

  Thomas gave an elegant nod. “And when does the Elizabeth arrive?”

  “She was spotted five days ago off The Lizard, so by the latest accounts she should be here on tomorrow’s afternoon tide.”

  The young doctor had not expected such an early arrival. There was so much to do to prepare to take delivery of the hundreds of specimens. But as if Sir Joseph had read his mind he interjected, “I have arranged for the storage of the items at kew, so that you can work on them in batches in your own premises.”

  Thomas felt immense relief. “I am most grateful, sir,” he replied as Sir Joseph rose.

  “I know you are the man for the job, Silkstone,” he said, extending his hand. “I have great faith in you. Play your cards right and you will go far.”

  Thomas smiled, broadly this time, as he shook the great man’s hand. “I will not disappoint, Sir Joseph.”

  Chapter 5

  Mistress Cordelia Carfax shivered and gathered her silk shawl about her shoulders. The fire was lit but the heat that emanated did little to warm the air of her fashionable London drawing room. She could not decide which she loathed more: the languid Jamaican humidity or the insidious English cold. A small short-haired dog lay sprawled in front of the hearth, toasting its back. As soon as she reached for the bell, the animal sprang up and leapt onto her knee in a single bound, looking into her face with large brown eyes. She smiled. It was not something she did often. Whereas most women of her age bore the marks of expression at the corner of their lids, her temples were perfectly smooth. It was the space between her eyes that was furrowed with two parallel frown lines so deep that they were clearly planted by hatred and contempt. These lines creased a skin that was almost unnaturally pale. It was certainly very white for a woman who had spent the last thirty years of her life on a sugar plantation ten miles inland from Kingston. It was not that she painted her face with lead, as was the fashion, but th
at she steadfastly refused to allow the sun to touch her face, a slave shading her with a parasol every time she ventured outdoors.

  Any shows of affection Mistress Carfax did display were usually reserved for her pedigree pug. In the absence of children, the dog was a substitute. She patted the creature’s head lovingly.

  “Hello, Fino, my dear, sweet Fino.”

  Phibbah, who came rushing to answer the bell, received no such welcome. Her sullen-faced mistress pointed to the fire as it blazed brightly.

  “More coal. More logs. Anything!” she ordered. “I shall freeze to death before this winter’s out!”

  Phibbah bobbed a curtsy and, looking slightly bemused, hurried over to the grate. Picking up the poker, she prodded the embers. They flared for a moment, then settled back into their steady blaze.

  “More coal!” cried Mistress Carfax, only this time louder. The dog, sensing its mistress’s anger, jumped off her lap and sat at her feet.

  The slave reached for the fire tongs and, opening them wide, grasped a large lump of coal from the scuttle. Quickly she dropped it onto the flames, followed by another black nugget and another. All the time she was being watched by her mistress, who was drumming her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair. The flames were now leaping higher and the room grew brighter with the intense white light, but still Mistress Carfax was not content.