The Lazarus Curse Page 9

  Watching the pair, Lydia, although still fearful, permitted herself to smile. It was wonderful to see her son who, only a few weeks ago was so close to death, enjoying himself as a child should.

  Faster and faster Richard went, as Lupton pirouetted on the ice like a ballet dancer. Keeping the rope taut, he let it out even farther until there was at least twenty feet between himself and the sledge, but still he continued to steer it ’round like a boat caught in a whirlpool. It eddied for a few more seconds until, seemingly exhausted, the estate manager jerked on the tether to slow it down. Lydia could tell from the way he lurched drunkenly on the ice that he had made himself giddy. The rope in his hand slackened. Richard called out.

  “More!” he yelled. “More!”

  Lupton’s head was bowed and his body began to pitch and sway like a sea-weary sailor before dropping to his knees on the ice.

  “Mr. Lupton!” exclaimed Lydia.

  Richard stood up on the sledge and stepped gingerly onto the ice.

  “Are you ill, sir?” he asked, skidding toward the estate manager.

  “No, Richard!” yelled Lydia. “Get back onto the sledge!”

  The little boy jerked his head toward his mother. As he did so he lost his footing and went crashing onto the ice. Lydia screamed, but Lupton shook his head quickly, as if dispelling sleep, and heaving his frame up from the frozen surface, reached out for the boy.

  “Here, Richard. Give me your hand.” His voice was calm and reassuring and in no time the child was back seated on the sledge and calling for another ride.

  Lupton looked over to Lydia and saw her gesturing for them to make for the shore. They obeyed. “You’ve had quite enough excitement for one day,” she told her son as soon as he came within earshot. Richard’s face was flushed. The cold and the excitement had combined to turn his complexion bright red. Mr. Lupton’s face was also ruddy with his exertions. The child reluctantly disembarked from the sledge and scrambled onto the shore once more, followed by his playmate.

  Lydia breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  “Can we do that again, Mamma? Can we? Please?” Richard pleaded, his large eyes looking up at his mother’s face.

  Lydia and Lupton exchanged glances.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “But now, we must return to the warm. You must both be frozen.”

  Chapter 17

  Thomas found himself once more in the grand, wood-paneled room at Somerset House, where only a few days ago he accepted his most prestigious assignment. His ebullient mood had now ebbed and was turning to frustration and anxiety. Sir Joseph clearly shared his concern.

  “I have heard nothing, Silkstone,” he said, rising from his desk and walking over to his globe. He spun it wistfully.

  “It is most unlike Mr. Bartlett,” he mused. “So there is no news on this so-called official?”

  “Extensive inquiries have been made, sir,” replied Thomas, relaying information he had received from Captain McCoy. “It seems the man was an imposter.”

  Silence filled the cavernous space as the young doctor waited for a reply to an unasked question that hung precariously in their midst. Thomas was hoping that Sir Joseph would lift the veil on a situation that seemed to be beyond his own limited briefing. It was not forthcoming, so he pressed on.

  “Were you aware, sir, that Dr. Welton’s journal was on Mr. Bartlett’s person?”

  Sir Joseph looked up from the globe. He did not seem shocked.

  “I feared as much.”

  “Presumably he took it for safekeeping, sir,” replied Thomas. He had come to the nub of the matter; he could tell as much from Sir Joseph’s expression as mounting concern gathered on his features. It was obvious to Thomas that he was aware of the significance of the notebook above and beyond what he had thus far revealed.

  “The journal was in a leather satchel that he kept about him at all times,” added Thomas, watching for a reaction. It came swiftly and decisively. With a face that had paled by the minute, Sir Joseph Banks paced over to his desk and tugged at the top drawer.

  “A leather satchel like this?” he asked, shunting a package wrapped in brown paper across the desk. The reek of river water rose from it.

  Thomas felt his hands begin to tremble as he gingerly opened the folds of the sodden parcel. Inside there was a kid leather satchel. The crest of the Royal Society was emblazoned on the front. He felt his stomach lurch.

  Sir Joseph knuckled the desk.

  “A waterman handed it in this morning, hoping for a reward,” he said. He sat down, his elbows on the desk, and tented his long fingers, brushing his lips as he thought. Finally he said, “This journal, do you have any idea of its contents?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I only know that it was to act as my guide, sir,” he replied. “Surely it would be of no consequence to anyone else.”

  Sir Joseph shot back, “That is where you are mistaken, Silkstone.”

  Questions flooded into Thomas’s mind, but he held his tongue. He could tell from Sir Joseph’s expression that he was struggling to keep a secret from him, weighing up in his own mind whether he should divulge the truth. Doubt hovered in the air until, after an agonizing moment, the great man brought down his hands on the desk without revealing anything.

  “This is a worrying development, Dr. Silkstone,” he admitted. His tone was measured, as if he were trying to deny the gravity of the discovery in the Thames. “The cutpurses at the docks would not think twice about robbing a man for a few coins,” he concluded. “But a journal would be worthless to them. ’Tis probably bobbing on the Thames tide as we speak.”

  Thomas did not follow his master’s logic. He knew that a common thief would not have tossed the satchel into the river, but would have tried to sell it. He held Sir Joseph’s gaze for a moment, as if willing him to act, but he merely stared down at the floor, leaving Thomas with the impression that he was not prepared to divulge any more information. Then, without warning, the great man looked up and slapped the desk.

  “I thank you for your help, Silkstone, but now you must leave the matter of Mr. Bartlett with me.” He rose and changed his tone. “Instead you must concentrate your considerable expertise on cataloguing all those specimens, eh?”

  Walking from behind his desk, he offered Thomas his hand and patted him on the arm. There was a finality in his tone; their conversation was at an end.

  “Of course, sir,” replied Thomas with an uneasy bow. Sir Joseph’s abruptness troubled him and he left the meeting, at which he had sought reassurance, deeply disturbed. Not only was he now more fearful for Matthew Bartlett’s safety, he was left wondering what knowledge contained in Dr. Welton’s journal was so momentous that a man may have been kidnapped, or even killed, for it.

  The pale sun was low in the sky when they arrived back at Boughton Hall. Lupton had taught Richard the chorus of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on the return journey and the boy was in high spirits, giving a hearty solo rendition before they reached the steps at the front of the house. Helping Lydia and her son down from the cart, the estate manager was in an equally buoyant mood.

  “Thank you for your company today, my lady,” he told her, taking her hand and kissing it.

  Lydia smiled. “No. It is I who must thank you, Mr. Lupton. My son has obviously enjoyed himself enormously.”

  “And you?” he shot back, somewhat impertinently, Lydia thought.

  She paused for a moment, unsure as to how to react. “Yes,” she said, nodding finally. “Very much.”

  The estate manager beamed once more. “I am glad,” he replied, before turning to the young earl and lifting him down from the cart. “And I’ll wager you’ve had a fine time, sir!” he cried.

  Richard nodded his tousled head. “Can we do it again tomorrow, Mamma? Can we?” he exclaimed.

  Lydia glanced quickly at Lupton. “We shall see, my sweet,” she replied. “We shall see.” And with that she put her hand on Richard’s shoulder and turned to see Howard waiting to greet them at
the top of the house steps.

  Later that day, when Nurse Pring took Richard to his bed, Lydia found herself at her writing desk once more. She had resumed her letter to Thomas, but still the words did not flow easily. Buoyed by the morning’s outing in the snow, she felt lighthearted and cheerful. And yet she did not want her letter to give the impression that she was experiencing happiness without him, less still that the source of her mirth was the new estate manager about whom he knew nothing.

  A grain of guilt planted itself into her conscience. Just why, she did not know. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Richard, just before he turned to climb the stairs with Nurse Pring, had told her: “This has been the best day of my life.” His words washed over her in a great wave of joy and she had rushed forward and hugged him. Now, on reflection, as the candles cast a soft glow over her own script, she realized that her son’s happiness had been brought about by a man barely known to either of them. A virtual stranger had burst into their lives like a jester into a king’s court, and brought with him fun and laughter. There was an infectious vigor and cheerfulness in Lupton’s manner that clearly endeared him to Richard. He was a clown, a playfellow, and—dare she even think it—he was fast becoming like a father. It was a role she had reserved for Thomas. He was the man who should take her son sledging or riding or fishing. He was the one who should make him laugh, or comfort him if he grazed his knees or burned his fingers. But he was not there, nor would he be in the foreseeable future.

  Dipping her nib into the inkpot, she sighed deeply before starting another paragraph of her letter to Thomas. We have enjoyed a pleasant enough day, she wrote.

  Phibbah sat huddled in the attic room, her legs drawn up to her chest. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks but the bridle around her head meant that if she cried out the spike would pierce her tongue. The iron collar weighed heavily around her neck and the chain was so short that she could barely move away from the wall.

  Mr. Roberts had clamped the cage over her head last night, just after the beating. She had tried to bite him as he forced open her mouth to slip the plate between her teeth, but he only pushed it in harder, cutting her lips. Now the taste of blood and iron melded into one, seasoned with the salt of her tears. Unable to sleep for the pain and the cold, she had been plotting her revenge.

  She’d once heard Mr. Roberts tell Cook he always ate well after he’d given a good whipping. He said all that exercise whetted his appetite and the sight of the blood put him in mind of a thick, juicy sirloin. As it was, he was usually happy to settle for a large bowl of Mistress Bradshaw’s mutton stew with dumplings. Well, she hoped that he had supped heartily because soon he would be eating his last meal.

  Her blurry gaze slid along the cold floorboards to the far corner of the room, beyond her reach. There, hidden from view, pressed into a dark, dank crevice, was her obeah bag, a bag so powerful that not even Mr. Roberts with his callused hands and foul breath, or Missa Carfax with her small eyes and tongue as sharp as a bullwhip, could resist its magic. The nail clippings, the pig’s tail, the grave dirt, and the blood from her unborn child—all the special ingredients were there, new-charmed by the obeah-man. Together they were stronger than any chain or manacle. Soon she would put a curse on this house and so terrible would be its power that every white man and woman who entered it would fall on their knees and beg for death.

  She was thinking about the bag when the wedge of light that sliced under the door was suddenly darkened by a shadow. She heard footsteps. Patience, perhaps, bringing her some illicit scraps from the kitchen, or Venus come to check on her. Yes, it was Venus. She recognized the slow glide of her footsteps. But there was another footfall; heavy, masculine, and a voice she did not know. In the landing’s glow she saw the two shadows meet.

  “You have the boy?” said he.

  “Yes,” replied Venus.

  “They will come at midnight. See that he is ready.”

  They parted and the footsteps retreated once more, leaving Phibbah alone and confused in the dark.

  Chapter 18

  Five days had passed since Matthew Bartlett was last seen disembarking from the Elizabeth in the company of a customs officer. Unable to wait for more news of him, Thomas had begun the laborious work of single-handedly unpacking and listing the scores of specimens from the expedition. He had left the smaller crates containing the more delicate creatures, the insects and reptiles and small mammals, unopened, concentrating instead on the remaining plants. His progress was such that he had catalogued almost half of those herbs to be included in Sir Joseph’s famous herbarium. The great man had donated it to the British Museum after the Endeavour’s return from Australia and new additions were always made with each expedition.

  Thomas had commissioned a carpenter to make him a large wooden cabinet that held drawers, divided into sixty-four small compartments, to hold preserved leaf specimens. He had been working his way methodically through the ship’s manifest and had succeeded in ticking off all of the plants listed, apart, that is, from the final herb on the list: the branched calalue. He searched for a sketch of it among Bartlett’s papers. It was there all right, with its smooth-margined leaves and pinkish white flowers, but among the samples he could find no corresponding herb. He recalled Captain McCoy’s words: how difficult it had been to keep plants alive on board ship given the terrible conditions. The specimen must have died and been discarded. It was lost and there was an end to it.

  In the absence of Dr. Welton’s journal, Mr. Bartlett’s excellent drawings were proving invaluable. Thomas was also deeply indebted to Dr. Carruthers. His knowledge of the Caribbean islands and their flora was most useful.

  “Aloe vera, if I’m not mistaken,” he had said, sniffing one of the plants on which Thomas was working. He had sliced its stem and the smell had wafted into the air. “Very useful, with most excellent healing properties,” added the old anatomist.

  For his own part, Thomas had never ventured into tropical climes before. His experience of humidity and tropical rainfall, of deadly insects and poisonous frogs, was confined to his reading of Captain Cook’s journals from the Endeavour and of Dr. Grainger’s tracts on diseases of the West Indies. His own encounters with spiders as big as dinner plates and snakes as long as a large intestine were limited to those in the jars that surrounded him. His understanding of the very creatures and samples of flora that he had been tasked to catalogue was necessarily narrow because he had not seen them in their natural environment. Bereft of Dr. Welton’s journal, organizing and contextualizing these exotic treasures, was, indeed, a tall order. Mr. Bartlett’s sketches, with their detailed captions, were most helpful, but they were no substitute for his presence. Try as he might, however, Thomas was unable to put the artist’s disappearance behind him.

  On that fifth morning in the laboratory, Dr. Carruthers could stand the tension no longer. He sat on his usual stool, alert and ready to give his opinion to Thomas irrespective of whether or not it was requested. The young doctor was preparing to examine a leaf under his microscope and had laid his specimen flat on a glass slide.

  In the corner of the room, Franklin, the white rat, named in honor of the great American polymath and kept as the young anatomist’s companion, pawed at his cage.

  “He wants to be let out,” remarked the old anatomist, tilting his head to one side toward the scratching. “He is anxious.”

  Thomas looked up and walked over to the rat’s cage, opened the latch, and allowed Franklin to roam free.

  “That is what you should be doing, young fellow,” said Carruthers.

  Thomas returned to his workbench. “Sir?”

  The old anatomist let out a short laugh. “I do not need eyes to see that you are not happy in your work. I can sense it. You should be out and about, sniffing around like that rat of yours. Making a nuisance of yourself.”

  Thomas sighed. “But Sir Joseph . . .” he protested.

  “Tish tosh!” exclaimed Carruthers. “When has the vo
ice of authority ever stopped you from seeking out the truth?” He waved his stick in the air. “You know as well as I do, Thomas, there is something fishy behind this young man’s disappearance and you’ll not rest until you find out what it is.”

  Putting down the slide, Thomas nodded. “You are right, as usual, sir,” he acknowledged. “I cannot work efficiently while Mr. Bartlett remains missing. I shall pay a visit to the Customs House myself.”

  It was late afternoon by the time Thomas’s carriage arrived in Thames Street, outside the Customs House. Inside, the long room was still hectic, but not as crowded as it had been on the morning of his first visit. It did not take long for him to find an official who would listen to his inquiry.

  A bespectacled clerk sat surrounded by scrolls of paper. His manner was brusque.

  “Ye . . . e . . . s,” he drawled over his lenses.

  “I wish to speak to someone regarding the cargo of the Elizabeth, ” Thomas began. “She is berthed in a sufferance wharf.”

  At his words, however, the clerk raised his hand. “I know exactly where she is berthed, Hope Wharf,” he snapped, and his stubby fingers hovered over the scrolls which, to the untrained eye, seemed to be arranged in no particular order. Yet within a second or two he was unrolling the appropriate document and scanning it. “The Elizabeth. She . . .” he began, but then stopped abruptly. “Ah!”

  “There is a problem?” asked Thomas anxiously.

  The clerk looked up, pulling his spectacles down the bridge of his nose. “I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

  “What do you mean?” Thomas felt himself tense. He craned his neck to look at the document and saw, written in red across the Elizabeth’s entry, the Latin words Graviora manent.

  Thomas eyed the official, who returned his gaze apprehensively. “Heavier things remain?” he mouthed. “What heavier things?”