The Lazarus Curse Page 18

  She saw him nudge the ruffian, who pulled out the chair next to him, and she sat down, smoothing her skirts self-consciously.

  “Leave us, Rake,” he barked at the pock-marked man, who duly obliged.

  With her, the gentleman’s tone was soft. He lifted his lips into a smile. “So you know where my slave is, do you, mistress?”

  The housekeeper nodded and slid a coquettish look toward her inquisitor. “That I do, sir, if he wears a midnight blue coat with silver brocade.”

  Dalrymple smirked and leaned back in his chair.

  “That sounds like Jeremiah,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully as he pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek so that his face bulged for a moment. The sight of it made the housekeeper feel even more uncomfortable. He leaned forward quickly.

  “So where might this black knave be?”

  Mistress Finesilver caught a whiff of rum on his breath as he came closer and drew back a little. “He is at my master’s house, sir,” she replied, still holding her cards close to her chest.

  A look of exasperation scudded across the gentleman’s smooth face. “Do we really need to play games, mistress? You are obviously a woman of some accomplishments.”

  Mistress Finesilver was not used to such flattery. Young Dr. Silkstone sometimes complimented her on her cooking, but by and large she felt her efforts went unappreciated.

  “ ’Tis not right that I should be asked to wait on him hand and foot while he lies in his sickbed.”

  “So the slave is unwell?”

  “Beaten up he was. Not that I know aught about it. But he will soon be well enough to walk and that’s why I came. He needs to be back with his master.”

  “How very right you are, Mistress . . .”

  She felt easier in his company now. This gentleman would be a man of his word, she told herself.

  “Mistress Finesilver, sir,” she volunteered.

  “And the house?” he pressed.

  “In Hollen Street. Number thirty-four,” she told him, adding: “The home of Doctors Carruthers and Silkstone.”

  “Silkstone, eh?” he echoed, as if the name were familiar to him. “I am most grateful to you, Mistress Finesilver.”

  “And is now the time for you to show that gratitude, sir?” she asked, suddenly feeling emboldened. “Your advertisement said that you are offering a reward of ten guineas.”

  “Of course,” said the gentleman, delving into his pocket and bringing out his purse. He shook it and five coins rolled out and spun on the table. She watched them dizzy around and drop, as if mesmerized by them, before she shot him a puzzled look when she realized how many guineas there were.

  “This is but half,” she said indignantly. She could not hide the contempt in her voice.

  “And the rest when he is captured, dear lady,” assured the gentleman.

  Mistress Finesilver tried to stifle the sigh she felt bursting in her chest. Her new hat would have to wait a little while longer.

  “When I have my slave firmly back in chains, mistress, then you shall have your money. And not before.”

  Chapter 35

  The ax cut hard and clean and Richard let out a squeal of delight as the sturdy log was severed from its trunk with a dead thud. Nicholas Lupton, his face red from exertion and his eyes streaming with the cold, wiped away tears with the back of his gloved hand. The child flapped his arms, dancing around the fallen oak branch. Lupton’s gaze followed him and he chuckled.

  “Come, help me lift this onto the sleigh,” he instructed.

  Since the excursion onto the frozen lake two weeks ago, the boy had been Lupton’s regular companion. Despite, or perhaps because of, another heavy fall of snow, the young earl had insisted on accompanying the estate manager on his rounds. Naturally this had caused problems. In some places the drifts came up to the child’s head and he took cold very quickly, so Lovelock, the groom, and the ploughman had rigged up a contraption that enabled the sleigh to be dragged along behind a horse. Snuggled beneath a cover of fox fur, the boy had relished being a passenger in his very own winter carriage and was frequently heard laughing as the sleigh rounded a corner or bridged a bump on the track.

  Lydia had registered her initial concern, fretting that Richard’s arm was still delicate, or that his vulnerable chest might become weaker still in the freezing cold. Such objections were, however, quickly overcome. Mr. Lupton, ever jovial and energetic, joined in with his young master’s enthusiasm. The suggestion to foray into the woods for the yule log that Christmas Eve had come from him. It was a long-held tradition in the region that each household should burn a special log in the hearth on the eve before Christmas Day. Some said it would ensure the luck of the house from one year to the next, others that it offered protection against witchcraft. Whatever the reason for such a custom, the suggestion was met with unbridled glee from the boy. Lydia had no choice but to agree.

  Once the log was secure and his young passenger was tucked safely on the sleigh, Lupton mounted his horse and they set off back to the hall. It was a twenty-minute journey and he took it upon himself to teach Richard the words and tune to another, very appropriate, carol.

  “The holly and the ivy,” he began, and the boy followed suit, learning quickly, so that by the time the horse and sleigh came to a halt in front of the house, the two of them were singing in unison.

  Lydia had been watching for them at the drawing room window and ventured onto the steps to greet them.

  “Mamma, we have the yule log,” yelled Richard breathlessly, scrambling off the sleigh and pointing at the large slice of oak branch. Jacob Lovelock and his son Will appeared to carry the log inside.

  “It is very fine,” remarked Lydia as the child ran up to her.

  Lupton was smiling at Lydia as he approached up the steps. It was the smile of an equal and it unsettled her a little. “Shall the men put the log on the fire now,” he asked, adding a moment later than he should have, “your ladyship?”

  Nodding, she lifted the corners of her mouth in a careful smile. Her eyes must not stay on his face a moment longer than was seemly, she told herself.

  Switching her attention to Richard, she said: “Come, you must get warm.” She then took him by the hand and led him toward the door.

  Boots and coats were soon jettisoned and Lupton was asked to join mother and son a few minutes later in the drawing room around the hearth. The large fire basket was laid with kindling and the yule log was placed ceremoniously at its centre.

  For the past week the household had been in a flurry of activity. Every room, even in the servants’ quarters, was decorated with holly and ivy. Swathes of dark green leaves were festooned across the mantelpiece and blood-red berries blazed out from arrangements on tables and sills. There were more candles than usual, too, ranged high and low on every available surface.

  “Would you do us the honor, Mr. Lupton?” asked Lydia, holding out a box containing a shard from last year’s log. She had preserved it according to custom. Striking a flint, the estate manager lit a spill and held it to the burned wood. The flame licked at it until it took hold and Richard let out a whoop of excitement as the blazing shard was laid upon the log. Lupton performed his duty with great merriment, even reciting a ditty before he lit the kindling.

  “With last year’s brand, I spark the new block, and ask that sweet luck may light our way,” he declared.

  As he said the words, he shot Lydia a look so joyful and so full of hope that her heart leapt in her chest. She felt herself wanting to take his hands and dance around the room with him. Had they been alone, she may well have been that rash. As it was, Richard was the one to reach up and clasp her waist, demanding to hug her. She bent low and took his hands in hers.

  “Hot chocolate!” she cried. “Let us have hot chocolate.”

  Her suggestion was greeted with mirthful cheers and, without thinking, Lupton reached out and pulled the bell cord by the fireplace. The sudden tinkling cut through the laughter like a knife. Both Lyd
ia and Lupton froze in the moment as they realized what he had done.

  “Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. “I forgot myself.”

  Embarrassed, Lydia smiled and looked away from the hearth. Her face was tingling and she brushed her hand against her own cheek, feeling the heat rise from her skin. She was not sure whether it was the fire’s glow or her own discomfiture that caused her to blush.

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Lupton,” she replied, turning her attention to Richard. She fussed about the boy, exaggerating her gestures in a show of enforced mirth, which only served to fuel the unease. The awkwardness persisted, so that when Hannah appeared, she could sense a certain tension hanging in the air.

  Lydia let out a little laugh. “Three cups of hot chocolate, if you please,” she blurted as soon as she saw the maid. Hannah curtsied and was heading for the door, when, remembering some previously forgotten question, she turned.

  “Begging pardon, your ladyship,” she began. “But Mistress Firebrace would be obliged to know if you be requiring a bough of mistletoe hanging in the hall?”

  Lupton and Lydia exchanged glances. It was as if they both pictured amorous lovers stealing a kiss under its green clusters. Every kiss beneath meant a pearly berry fresh plucked from its curved leaves.

  Lydia turned to the maid. “No, Hannah,” she said emphatically. “There will be no mistletoe this year.”

  Chapter 36

  Thomas found Jeremiah Taylor sitting up in bed that morning when he came to check on his dressings. Helen had already plumped his pillows and crumbs were all that remained on a plate on the bedside table. His patient even managed to curl one corner of his mouth into a smile.

  “You seem in better spirits today, Jeremiah,” remarked the doctor as he carefully unfurled the bandage about the slave’s head.

  The attempted smile soon vanished.

  “Sir, you know my name?”

  Thomas thought of Messrs. Sharp and Clarkson and the handbill advertising a reward for his capture.

  “It matters not,” he shrugged.

  Once more Thomas examined the area around the socket and saw that it was scabbing over well. The swelling seemed to have lessened and the eye was slightly open. “Your wound is making good progress,” he said after a moment.

  Yet the news did not seem to please the slave. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a small sigh. “Does that mean I will have to leave soon, Dr. Silkstone?” he asked. There was a note of resignation in his voice.

  Thomas stepped back to study his patient. He looked so vulnerable, lying on the bed, still too weak to walk. The visit from the two campaigners the previous evening had left an indelible impression on him. How easy it would be, he thought to himself, for Jeremiah’s owner to come bursting in and snatch him, dragging him off down the stairs and into a waiting carriage. What was even more outrageous in his mind was the thought that the law of the land would sanction such violence. In England a slave was mere chattel, a piece of property to be used and abused as the owner saw fit.

  “You are welcome here for as long as it takes to see you restored to your former self,” reiterated Thomas, patting Jeremiah gently on the shoulder.

  His patient looked up at him with a doleful expression. “And what then, sir? I go back to my massa? He will be looking for me.”

  Thomas frowned. “Surely you do not wish to return to the man who almost killed you?”

  The slave’s swollen face could make no show of emotion, but his voice became urgent. “My massa did not do this!” he said almost indignantly, pointing to his head.

  Thomas was puzzled. “Then who . . . ?”

  “I do not know who,” said Jeremiah.

  Thomas seated himself on the chair beside the bed. He realized he had broken his own rule; he should never assume anything. Anxious to know more, he asked, “Can you remember what happened?”

  The slave silently composed his thoughts, as if searching for memories inside the recesses of his battered brain. “My massa had business with Mr. Carfax.”

  “Samuel Carfax?” Thomas shot forward, frowning.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thomas did not comment further, but wondered if the connection was a coincidence. “Carry on,” he urged.

  “He sent me downstairs to wait for him in the kitchen. But a man, he was mean, he told me to wait in another place.” Thomas instantly thought of Roberts. “He locked me in a room and then a man and a woman come and they—” He broke off, his gaze lowering.

  “What happened?” pressed Thomas.

  “They talk.”

  “What did they say?”

  “She say he should not come, but he say they have business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “She say she will have another fine Coromantee for him soon.”

  “A slave?” Thomas struggled to understand what he was being told.

  “A fine one, she say.”

  “And then... ?”

  “Then he had her against the wall and a boot fell from the shelf and then they saw me.”

  “And it was then that he hit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “With what?”

  “A stick for golf?”

  Thomas’s eyes widened. “That would certainly explain the seriousness of your injury,” he said. “Can you describe the woman?”

  “It was dark. I no see well.”

  “The man?”

  “He big, tall, and . . .” The slave paused, reliving the moment he had seen his attacker in silhouette.

  “Yes?”

  “His nose was squashed, like a fighter’s.”

  “A broken nose,” said Thomas incredulously. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir, I see’d him side on afore I ran out the door.”

  Thomas took a deep breath, marshalling his thoughts. He knew exactly where he needed to go next.

  Thomas arrived at the late Dr. Welton’s townhouse to find a carriage waiting in the snow-banked street. One footman was helping Mistress Welton inside, while another was assisting the driver to load boxes and chests. Mistress Perrick, dressed in a hooded woolen cloak, stood on the doorstep instructing her housekeeper. She turned when she heard footsteps.

  “Forgive me, Mistress Perrick,” Thomas greeted her, bowing and removing his tricorn. “I wondered if we might speak?”

  The young widow’s eyes shot sideways toward the waiting carriage.

  “This is a most inconvenient time, Dr. Silkstone,” she said. “My mother and I are about to leave town for a few days.”

  Thomas nodded sympathetically. “So I see, and I apologize for the intrusion, but I come on a matter of the utmost import.”

  She gave a barely discernible sigh and nodded.

  “Very well, but please be quick,” she said, leading him over the threshold. “So how can I be of assistance, sir?” she asked him curtly, as soon as they entered the upstairs drawing room.

  Her mien seemed completely changed from their previous encounters. Gone were the dark shadows of grief that circled her eyes and her complexion was blooming, even though she still wore her mourning clothes. She gave no invitation for Thomas to sit.

  “I have found your letters invaluable, Mistress Perrick,” Thomas began.

  She frowned. “Is that what you have come to tell me, sir? Could your thanks not have been committed to paper and sent to me?”

  Thomas felt chastised. He knew he had to be brief. He came to the point. “I have recently spoken with Sir Joseph Banks,” he continued. “He told me about some sort of rift during the planning stages of the expedition.”

  She shot an angry look at him. “Why should that concern you, Dr. Silkstone?”

  He had not wanted to, but Thomas knew he would have to break the news of Matthew Bartlett’s murder to her. “I am afraid, Mistress Perrick, that it concerns me because Mr. Bartlett has been found.”

  She pulled back. “Found? What do you mean, found?”

  Thomas looked g
rave. “I fear he was murdered.”

  “Murdered!” The word escaped her mouth in a cry. “No! Who . . . ? Why?” She paced across the room to the window and looked out at the waiting carriage.

  Thomas did not follow her. “I believe he was killed for your father’s journal,” he told her. “I am convinced it contains information that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. That is why it is important I know everything if I am to uncover those behind the murder,” he pleaded.

  Thomas could see the young widow’s shoulders rise as she took a deep breath, then slump before she turned from the window to face him.

  “Then I think you should know, Dr. Silkstone, that my husband was not originally chosen for the Jamaican expedition.”

  “No?” This was, indeed, a revelation to Thomas.

  “My father asked him just two months before he was due to sail.”

  “Why might that have been?”

  She took another deep breath and her whole body seemed to judder. “There was another doctor who had been nominated by the Royal Society to go with him, but my father was deeply unhappy; so much so that he refused to work with him.”

  Thomas’s expression registered surprise. “And do you know the name of this other doctor, madam?”

  She frowned and looked about her as if searching for inspiration. “I believe it was Blizzard or . . .”

  “Izzard?” suggested Thomas.

  “Izzard! You are right!” she said. She pivoted ’round, her eyes wide. “You know him, Dr. Silkstone?”

  Thomas was shocked. He had his suspicions concerning Izzard. He very much wanted to know how he obtained so many uncorrupted Negro corpses for dissection and had intended to probe him at some point. Now he would be asking him about Matthew Bartlett’s murder. Thomas’s mind flashed back to the operating theatre and the Negro woman’s corpse. The memory of his public humiliation by the surgeon when he forced him to make the first cut still rankled.

  “Indeed I do,” nodded Thomas. He did not elaborate. “Do you know why your father refused to work with Mr. Izzard?”