The Lazarus Curse Page 7

  “Thank you, Captain,” he said. “I am sure you are right.”

  McCoy slapped the desk as he rose, as if trying to draw a line under the slight hitch.

  “I expect you would like to inspect the cargo, Dr. Silkstone,” he said as he began fastening the buttons on his jacket. It seemed rather too big for him after his voyage.

  Thomas nodded. “Naturally I must take receipt of Dr. Welton’s papers, too. I need them before I can start to catalogue the specimens.”

  The captain stopped by the low cabin door. “I have possession of most of them. They are in my chest.”

  “Most of them?” queried Thomas.

  Still hovering on the threshold, the captain nodded. “All except for Dr. Welton’s private journal. That is in the safekeeping of Mr. Bartlett. He was most insistent that he should take charge of it. He told me he swore on his own life, as the doctor lay dying, that he would see it was delivered into Sir Joseph’s hands himself, so you’ve no need to worry on that score, either,” added McCoy.

  Thomas’s concern was aroused. He wished he could have as much confidence in this Mr. Bartlett as his superiors seemed to.

  “So the journal is on his person?” Thomas tried to hide the disquiet he was feeling.

  “Aye. In his satchel. Carries it with him everywhere,” came the captain’s reassurance.

  Thomas remained concerned, although he tried to mask his feelings with a smile and allowed the captain the last word.

  “He’ll be here soon, or with Sir Joseph. Either way, Dr. Silkstone, Mr. Bartlett is a most dependable young man.”

  Chapter 13

  Cordelia Carfax’s small eyes followed her husband as he flopped into a chair by the fire. His normally ruddy face was rendered even ruddier by a day spent in the biting wind on the golf course. She could tell by his expression that all was not well and she suspected it was not his game that had put him in a sour humor.

  “Your arm is worse?” she inquired tersely as Cato, looking resplendent in a fine lace ruff and scarlet waistcoat, removed his master’s boots.

  Her husband nodded. “The devil it is!” His reply was unequivocal, but he turned his face away from her, signifying he did not wish to dwell on his discomfort. She clicked her tongue and sat down opposite him, smoothing her skirts as she did so, ready to receive the dog that waited eagerly at her feet.

  “You will call a physician?”

  Carfax propped his right arm on a cushion. “I will have to,” he replied with a resigned sigh.

  His wife rolled her eyes. “We all need a physician in this English winter,” she countered peevishly. She held out her thin hands toward the fire. “It escapes me why this visit could not have waited until spring,” she added, her thin lips curling in a sneer.

  Carfax, who normally parried such jibes with avuncular ease, was in no mood for an argument. “You did not have to come with me, my dear,” he countered, knowing that the prospect of new gowns was too much for her to resist. “You were aware my business was pressing.”

  Cato, meanwhile, had poured his master a glass of rum and now presented it to him on a tray. Despite the fact that the slave bent down low, the effort of reaching for it clearly pained Carfax and he was forced to take it in his left hand.

  Ignoring her husband’s obvious distress, Cordelia Carfax continued: “The slaves are falling like flies in this cold.” The dog was now on her lap and she was stroking him.

  Carfax shrugged his broad shoulders. “Still fewer than those lost on the estates in as many days, I’ll wager.” He smirked, knowing the number insignificant compared with that on the sugar plantations, where slaves died daily, due to illness or brutality or both.

  His wife’s back stiffened. “You know as well as I do, Samuel, that domestics live longer as a rule.”

  Her husband sipped his rum thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should give them warmer clothing while they are here?” he ventured.

  Cordelia Carfax blinked and looked askance. “You would waste our money on such trifles?” The very thought of kitting out her slaves in warmer clothing to suit the English climate was clearly an anathema to her.

  Carfax gulped down the rest of his rum. “ ’Tis up to you, my dear, but can we afford to let them die of cold? A trained one can fetch upward of twenty-five pounds, but you won’t find many for sale in London.”

  His wife nodded, as if acknowledging the notion that it was better to return to Jamaica with slaves that were already accustomed to the tropical climate and a planter’s strict regimens.

  “And we can always rely on the servants here,” added her husband, leaning his head against the back of his chair. The Carfaxes’ London household employed a skeleton staff of white servants to maintain the property in their master’s absence. There was Mason, the butler, Mistress Bradshaw, the cook, three housemaids, two footmen, and a gardener and general factotum, Mr. Roberts. Their housekeeper, Venus, always traveled with them, on the master’s insistence, together with half a dozen slaves from the Jamaican estate.

  Just then, one of the white maids by the name of Bateson entered carrying a kettle of hot water. She set it down on the table nearest her mistress, next to the open tea caddy. Mistress Carfax, however, seemed slightly agitated and craned her neck toward the door. “But where is Sambo?” she asked indignantly. She liked the boy to bring her the hot water for her afternoon tea.

  The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, madam, but he is very ill.”

  Her mistress sucked in her cheeks and took a deep breath. “What did I tell you, Samuel?” she said sharply. “The blacks are falling like flies! It is most inconvenient.”

  Carfax shot her an exasperated look and shifted in his chair but the movement obviously pained him. He winced and bit his lip. “Most inconvenient,” he replied unenthusiastically, as he reached into his waistcoat pocket.

  “What are you doing, Samuel?” she chided, as she watched him produce a small card and begin waving it in the air.

  “Bateson,” he called to the maid. His forehead shone with sweat in the fire’s glow.

  “Sir?”

  Handing her the card he said, “Tell Mason to send for this gentleman, will you?”

  The girl took the card and curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

  Clutching his arm, he tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a cry.

  “ ’Tis time I saw a physician,” he muttered.

  A number of small crates and barrels had been left piled high in the middle of the laboratory floor. Thomas was standing by them, a copy of the ship’s manifest in his hand, trying to make sense of their contents. Dr. Carruthers sat on a stool nearby. He tapped the floor with his stick impatiently.

  “Well?” he chuntered.

  Thomas knew the old anatomist was anxious that he open the crates. He, too, was keen to see what treasures they held, although he knew that without Dr. Welton’s papers they would mean little.

  Picking up a hammer, he prized the lattice off the lid of the first crate. There were no surprises. Inside it was fitted with shelves and the top layer held six plants in pots.

  “And?” pressed the old anatomist.

  Thomas sighed. “It is as I thought, sir,” he replied, obviously frustrated. “Pots containing green-leaved plants with red flowers. But what they are I cannot say.”

  One by one, he began unloading them and ranging them on a shelf opposite the high window that caught the direct sunlight.

  Dr. Carruthers sniffed the air. “Will you give me a leaf, young fellow?” he asked. Thomas handed him a pot.

  “Is it familiar to you, sir?” he asked, watching the old anatomist inhale the scent.

  He tilted his bewigged head in thought, as if trying to recall a place or a landscape where the plant might have grown. After a moment he nodded.

  “Hibiscus elatus, I think you’ll find,” he said, adding cheerfully, “Also known as Blue Mahoe. But the journal will tell us all.”

  Thomas smiled in admiration at his mentor’s knowledge, but had to agree. �
��The sooner Mr. Bartlett chooses to present himself with Dr. Welton’s journal, the better,” he muttered. A note of uncharacteristic annoyance had crept into his tone.

  He had returned to the crate and was just about to embark upon unloading the second tier of plants when he noticed that Helen, the housemaid, was standing at the threshold of the laboratory.

  “Dr. Silkstone, sir, a carriage has been sent for you to take you to the house of Mr. Samuel Carfax. He is unwell and requests that you attend him, sir,” she related, without pausing for breath.

  Carruthers arched a brow. “Samuel Carfax?” he repeated. “Does he not own estates in Jamaica?”

  Thomas thought for a moment. He recalled having read in The Gazeteer and New Daily Advertiser the previous evening that the plantation owner and his entourage had recently arrived in London for a short sojourn. “I do believe you are right, sir.”

  The old anatomist delivered an odd sort of snort from his nostrils that signified dislike, or disapproval, or both.

  “He’ll either have caught a good old English cold or brought some tropical ague with him from Jamaica, mark my words,” said Carruthers, raising an arthritic finger.

  Thomas nodded. “Either way I had best attend him without delay,” he replied.

  Chapter 14

  The Carfax mansion was a fine brick-built villa with a grand portico in Chelsea. It was a fashionable area where the houses overlooked the river. Yet it was not this aspect that caught Thomas’s attention, but the crest on the gates as they swung open for his carriage. The image of a Negro man in chains was emblazoned at its centre. This Mr. Carfax was obviously very proud that his fortune was built on the suffering of others, mused Thomas.

  As the carriage pulled up outside, a liveried footman let down the steps and the doctor soon found himself standing in a grand hallway. Mason the butler greeted him formally.

  “The master is in his study, Dr. Silkstone,” he informed him, bowing. “Please follow me.”

  Thomas was slightly bemused. Carfax was obviously not so ill as to take to his bed. He began to follow the butler, but as he did so, he heard the rustle of silk. A lady, Mistress Carfax, he presumed, was making her way down the stairs. Dressed for dinner in a blue gown, her beady eyes latched on to him.

  “You are the physician?” she asked haughtily, negotiating the final steps. She was closely followed by her dog, which descended behind her in a sort of controlled fall.

  Thomas bowed his head. “Dr. Thomas Silkstone at your service, m’lady.”

  She looked at him squarely, although her eyes narrowed slightly. “My husband claims he is in great pain,” she sneered, emphasizing the word “claims.” Turning ’round, she picked up her dog from one of the steps and tucked him under her arm. “Personally, I do not think men know the meaning of the word.”

  Thomas hoped she did not see his wry smile as he proceeded toward the study behind the butler. Samuel Carfax was sitting at an awkward angle in a high-backed chair behind a desk. Despite the coolness of the room he wore no jacket, but a thick blanket had been wrapped around his torso, leaving his shirt sleeves exposed. He was clutching his right arm and grimacing.

  “Ah, Silkstone!” he cried even before Mason had time to announce him.

  Thomas bowed and moved toward his patient. “Mr. Carfax, sir, I see you are in pain.”

  Carfax nodded and, as Thomas approached, rolled up his sleeve to reveal the soiled bandage. “An insect bite of some sort, I think,” he ventured.

  Carefully Thomas began unwinding the dressing to reveal a clean hole the size of a farthing. He called for more light and Mason, who had been hovering in the background, obliged with an oil lamp, enabling a closer inspection.

  Taking out his magnifying glass from his bag, Thomas peered at the wound, and noted it was surrounded by swollen and taut tissue. A yellow-colored fluid spilled over the rim of the crater, oozing like a lava flow down the arm. Perhaps this is not a bite, but an abscess, thought Thomas. He was about to reach for a scalpel from his bag so he could enlarge the opening and drain off some of the pus, when he thought he saw something move in the crater. He peered into the hole once more and there it was again. A movement. No, more than a movement. A creature! To his horror Thomas saw two pincers emerge from the hole followed by a stubby gray head.

  Carfax, who had been watching Thomas’s investigations, let out a cry. “God’s wounds!” he exclaimed. “What the deuce is that?”

  Armed with the knowledge that his patient had recently arrived from the West Indies, the doctor’s reaction was not as dramatic. “I think you may have inadvertently carried a passenger with you from Jamaica, sir,” said Thomas.

  Both men now looked at the hole, Carfax gawping openmouthed as more of the gray tube emerged, flexing black claws on the top of its head.

  “Get that devil out of me!” cried the patient as the creature retreated from view.

  Thomas steadied his arm and eyed the decanter on the desk. “A rum for Mr. Carfax, if you please,” he instructed Mason.

  Taking a pair of forceps from his case, Thomas’s hand hovered over the beast’s lair. He did not have to wait long before it reemerged and this time the young doctor was prepared. He lunged at it with his forceps and pinched its head. Wriggling and writhing it surfaced from the hole: a grub, covered in tiny hooks that scrambled to keep hold of their moist den.

  As his patient wisely gulped down his rum, Thomas fought the vile creature and won. After a few seconds he held its slain carcass up to the candlelight to inspect it.

  “Sir, allow me to introduce to you a Dermatobia hominis,” he said triumphantly.

  Carfax’s eyes opened wide. “What the . . . ?”

  “Also known as the larva of the botfly,” continued Thomas, dropping the offending grub into a glass tube for posterity. Dr. Carruthers already had one in his collection. “The fly must have bitten you and laid its eggs in the wound,” he explained, adding: “They usually bite cattle, I believe.”

  Carfax let out a muted laugh. “In my line of business it pays to be thick-skinned, Dr. Silkstone!” he joked.

  Thomas secured the dressing. “You deal in sugar, sir, if I am not mistaken?” he said.

  His patient eyed him and arched a brow. “You are well-informed, sir.”

  Thomas nodded. “In my line of business it pays to know the background of my patients,” he countered.

  Mistress Carfax entered the room just as Thomas was closing his medical case. Looking up, her husband beckoned her over with his healthy arm.

  “My dear, you’ll never believe it! Dr. Silkstone has found the problem! A most disgusting larva had taken up residence in my arm.” He spoke almost gleefully.

  It was clear to Thomas that he would be asked to show the sour-faced woman the offending grub, but before Carfax could make the request there came a terrible sound like a banshee wail that rent through the house and reverberated down the stairs. It hung in the air, quavering for a few more seconds before it gave way to a lower wail.

  “Good god!” exclaimed Carfax. He seemed agitated; then, turning to his wife, he scolded, “Can you not keep them under control, wife?”

  Mistress Carfax’s normally pale skin had reddened at the noise. Thomas could tell from her furious expression that she knew instantly its source. This was clearly not the first time she had heard the bloodcurdling scream or the cries that followed. He watched the woman ball her fists.

  “Those wretches,” she hissed though clenched teeth.

  “Best get Roberts on them,” suggested Carfax, flexing his injured arm. “He’ll deal with them.”

  His wife shook her head. “I will take care of this myself,” she cried, by now incandescent with rage. She barged into the hallway and turned down along a back passage before taking to the service stairs, her dog in hot pursuit. Such was her fury that she almost ran up the two flights to the males’ attic room from whence the cries were emanating.

  There she found Phibbah, her hands outstretched toward Ebele. Ve
nus was struggling to pull her away from the boy, who lay perfectly still on the mattress. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably, flailing her arms, dragging herself toward him.

  Mistress Carfax swept into the room like a tropical storm. Even Phibbah’s sobs were drowned for a moment. Venus had let go her grip and the young girl was kneeling over the child once more, rocking backward and forward, touching his head, pulling at his hands. He remained still as stone.

  Mistress Carfax took a deep breath. “What is the meaning of this?” she barked. Her hot breath billowed into the cold air.

  Venus’s full lips trembled as she curtsied. “Sambo is dead, missa,” she told her. She pointed to the boy lying below, his eyes closed, as if he were asleep.

  Her mistress darted a cursory glance in the boy’s direction. “I can see that,” she replied coldly. “But this noise! This screaming! I will not have it, you hear!” She had turned to Phibbah and cuffed the side of her head.

  “Get Roberts to deal with her,” she instructed Venus. The housekeeper’s body tensed as if braced against the storm of harsh words that came from her mistress’s mouth.

  “Tell him to put her in the bridle. That’ll quiet her crying.”

  At these words, Phibbah’s eyes widened with terror.

  “No, missa. No, please!” she pleaded, shuffling on her knees toward Mistress Carfax. She pawed at the hem of her gown, just like the small dog that sniffed at the corpse as his mistress ranted. This time a heavier blow was dealt to the top of her head, as if the girl were a troublesome fly to be swatted. “And another twenty lashes,” she snarled, as Phibbah collapsed sobbing at her feet.

  Venus remained expressionless and nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied without enthusiasm. Her voice was carefully neutral.

  “And see he is”—she pointed at the child—“disposed of.”

  With these words, she turned and called Fino, who by now was licking the child’s face. She tucked the dog under her arm and headed out of the room. Before she could reach the narrow stairs, however, Thomas appeared, blocking her exit.