The Devil's Breath (12 page)

T
he Reverend George Lightfoot sat at his desk at the vicarage, his face as worn as a well-rubbed penny. His eyes were fixed on a shoddy copy of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane on the wall. In the little-known Renaissance painting, Jesus was on his knees, praying on the night before his Passion. Around him were his sleeping disciples, the ones who promised faithfully to keep awake in their master’s hour of need.

The vicar sighed deeply and his thoughts turned to his own agony. Watching his wife cough and splutter through the night, he had witnessed her fever rising and her mind wandering. Yet he had kept awake. He had kept awake and he had prayed. He had prayed harder than he had ever prayed in his life that she would be saved. He had asked the Lord to take him in her stead. She was the truly good person; the one who never wavered in her faith; the one who was always there for others. Not him. He was weak and ineffectual. Worthless without her. But to no avail. She had been taken. And now, without her by his side, his own agony was only just beginning.

It had been less than a week since his wife’s passing, but the trauma had aged her husband by a decade. Gone was the spring in his step; the litheness of his movements. He had always walked out with a cane, but that was only an affectation. Now, drained of energy, he almost felt that he really did need it to steady his shaky steps.

There had been no time for proper mourning. He had been kept busy by the steady influx of bodies. There had been four burials on Thursday and four more on Friday. That meant that eight widows had to be comforted and upwards of twenty children were left fatherless. The parish had to be informed and the bereaved cared for in practical as well as spiritual ways. Before this would have been Margaret’s domain. She was so well-grounded. Her determination to act had been the reason for the fateful visit to Lady Thorndike that led to her death. She only had thoughts for others and paid the ultimate sacrifice for her selflessness.

Suddenly he was reminded of Amos Kidd’s widow. He had only spoken a few words to her at yesterday’s funeral. He dare not engage with her more. She was so young. So beautiful. He recalled her head on his shoulder in her cottage. Her musky scent, tinged with roses; her rhythmic sobs; the thrill that ran through his body at her touch. It was a sensation that was new to him. His heart beat faster at the recollection of the moment, but he quickly shook his head. He would banish her from his mind.

A blank sheet of paper lay on his desk. He needed to write his Sunday sermon, but the words did not come. Usually he found it so easy to trot out helpful platitudes; to philosophize and eulogize; to castigate and berate. But now life was changed. Now he knew how the people of Egypt felt as the Angel of Death passed over their land or the vicar of Eyam when the plague had visited upon his community just over a century before. The villagers of Brandwick and beyond felt besieged, trapped in a prison not of their own making and only the Lord Himself knew when he would raise his hand and lift this cruel cloud.

He glanced at another sheet of paper on his desk. On it were written the names of the dead men. He scanned the list. They were all good and honest. Jed Burrows and Gil Herbert drank too much on market days. Seth Kipps was a gambler and none of them was averse to poaching the odd pheasant or rabbit for the pot when times were hard. But they were family men. All they did was toil in the fields only to be struck down by this murderous fog. He seized the paper and crumpled it roughly into a ball, hurling it into the corner of the room. He then clenched his fist and hit the desk. There was no justice in their deaths.

The maid knocked on the door, but did not wait for a reply. “I heard a noise, sir. Can I help you?”

The vicar looked up from his desk. His hands were shaking. “No. No, thank you,” he said slowly, as if the girl had woken him from a bad dream.

Once she had gone, he allowed himself to sink back into the morass of despair. It sickened him when he thought of Lady Thorndike. What a contemptible woman she was. Margaret had told him about her refusal to help the sick and bereaved and now this—her disgraceful behavior with Dr. Silkstone. Poor Sir Henry had been most distressed by the incident, but not surprised. He had of course berated the young doctor. “That bastard colonist!” he had called him as they sat and drank sack afterward. But he knew, deep down, that his wife constantly played him for a fool. He had said as much on a number of occasions. “She’s a temptress, vicar,” he confided once. A temptress.

Fingering his Bible unthinkingly, he recalled the look of disgust on Dr. Silkstone’s face. The grotesque smears of bright red lipstick on his cheek looked so like blood. He remembered darting him a disapproving look. In reality, however, he knew very well who would have been to blame for the compromising position in which the young colonist had found himself. If that was the case, then he was sure Dr. Silkstone would be feeling utterly wretched. He would be worried sick for his reputation.

Physicians and priests were in an oddly similar position of trust, he thought to himself. The stories they were told in confidence, the confessions made at moments of anxiety and vulnerability, the secrets they had to keep—they all weighed heavily on their shoulders. The sorrows and woes of others made up the cross their respective callings had to bear. Yet whereas Dr. Silkstone put his faith in science, he had to put his trust in the Lord. He thumbed through the leaves of the Old Testament and opened it at the Book of Job. Yes, Job, he told himself; the man whose righteousness was tested by Satan; the man who lost his livestock, his home, his children, and yet did not reproach the Lord. He read the passage about the fire that fell from the sky. It killed his sheep. He read about the mighty wind that caused houses to collapse. The words gave him a new confidence and he felt a surge of energy. God was testing him and testing his people. And he took up his pen and began to write the first words of his sermon: “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

 

Even if Thomas had been minded not to tell Lydia of Lady Thorndike’s attempt to seduce him, she would have sensed something was terribly wrong. The evening before he had stormed into the drawing room with a face like thunder, poured himself a brandy and paced up and down. Within a few seconds, however, he was relating the afternoon’s events with a fury that Lydia had not seen before. She listened sympathetically, knowing that the fault lay with Lady Thorndike.

“You must not blame yourself for this, Thomas,” she had soothed, walking over to him as he stood in front of the mantelpiece. She stretched out her hand to lay it on his shoulder, but he turned away.

“But I do blame myself, Lydia. How could I have been so blind? I should have seen. I should have known.”

“You know now,” she countered softly. “You have learned your lesson. No harm has been done.”

Thomas, on the other hand, could not be so sure.

 

The following morning, when Thomas awoke and looked out of his bedroom window, he could see as far as the rose garden for the first time in ten days. The fog had lifted sufficiently for him to make out the blurred colors of the flowers, although not the individual blooms. Looking up at the leaden sky he could also see the sun rising behind the fog. The trees were stirring slightly, too. There was a whisper of a breeze blowing from the west. He suddenly felt that perhaps the cloud was dispersing, or moving; perhaps there was just an inkling of a return to normality; to the rhythm of the seasons and the natural order.

Quickly he dressed, hurried downstairs, and ventured outside. But he returned almost immediately. The sulfur was still in the air, lurking in the mist. It remained unsafe to be outdoors for any length of time. A plan. That was what was needed, he told himself; a logical way of tackling the problems that presented themselves. First and foremost the men’s lungs needed to be protected; their mouths and noses needed covering. Next, their skin. It must not be exposed. Gloves should be worn. Sturdy boots, too. And wide-brimmed hats to shield the eyes and mouth should more rain fall. The men must work in shifts. Prolonged exertion in the foggy atmosphere seemed to exacerbate breathing difficulties.

In the study he found Lydia and told her his thoughts. She listened earnestly. She would have to find the money for new hats and gloves, she pointed out, but she could see that in the long term, such financial outlay would be well worth it. They had just begun some calculations when Howard knocked on the door.

“Mr. Lawson wishes to speak with you, your ladyship,” he informed his mistress.

“Show him in,” replied Lydia, seated at the desk.

Thomas had encountered the steward only once or twice before and had taken an instant dislike to him. There was something about his manner that irritated him. Perhaps it was the way he almost swaggered into a room, or the way he smiled at Lydia. Either way, it seemed to Thomas that he was a little too cocksure.

The steward acknowledged Thomas but spoke directly with Lydia. On this occasion, however, he seemed unusually tense. “Your ladyship, I am come about the men,” he began.

“What is the trouble, Mr. Lawson?” asked Lydia, gesturing to the chair. She saw the steward glance at Thomas. “You may speak freely in front of Dr. Silkstone,” she added.

“They are growing restless,” he began. “There’s a troublemaker, a stranger, who is stirring discontent.”

Lydia looked disconcerted. “In what way?”

“They want more money to work in the fields. We’ve lost four good men and at least a dozen more are struck down and they are afraid, your ladyship.”

“And they have every right to be,” interjected Thomas. “The more they are exposed to this fog, the greater the chances of them being poisoned.”

Lydia shook her head. “Dead men can’t spend money,” she said wryly.

Lawson looked puzzled. “I do not follow, my lady.”

Lydia smiled and pointed to the paper in front of her. “What good would more money be if the fog strikes them first?” She did not wait for a reply. “Dr. Silkstone and I have drawn up a set of proposals to help protect them.” She slid the paper across the desk so that Lawson could read it.

The steward scanned it. “ ’Tis a list,” he said dismissively.

“A list of clothing that, if worn, should reduce the chances of the men contracting the fog sickness,” reposted Lydia forcefully.

Now Thomas stepped in. “The fog contains poisonous particles that are damaging their lungs. If they wear scarves over their mouths the effects of the gas should be reduced. Add to this a reduction in the time a man is allowed to work outside, and you should see fewer being affected.”

Lawson was silent for a moment, as if digesting all he had just heard.

“So do you think that will help allay the men’s fears?” pressed Lydia. “We will send to Oxford for enough new clothes and boots for everyone if we have to.”

“It may certainly prove worth it, your ladyship,” he said finally, nodding his head approvingly.

“Good,” said Lydia, clasping her hands together. “The men must know we have their welfare at heart.”

F
eeling distinctly ill at ease, the notary picked his way along Bedford Lane toward the Piazza in Covent Garden. Keeping his sweaty palm firmly on his purse, he threaded through an unsavory assortment of actors and musicians toward the Rose and Crown. In his lawyer’s garb he looked completely out of place among the painted Paphians and colorful minstrels who frequented the great Italianate square. This was where he had been informed by the old crone in St. Giles that he would find Agnes Appleton. Such information had naturally raised a great concern. If she worked as a serving wench—for what else could she do in a tavern? —then where was the boy? Did she take him with her? Perhaps he, too, worked at the inn, collecting tankards or sweeping the floor. Now, however, making his way past obvious bordellos and other such places of ill repute, another, more sickening thought occurred to him. He banished the very notion of it from his mind and quickened his step.

Presently he came to the tavern, just off the main Piazza. The windows were low and grimy and he could not see inside. Just as he was about to dip down to negotiate the door, however, something, or more precisely someone, was jettisoned outside. Cussing and swearing, the inebriate picked himself up out of the open sewer and skulked off down the street. Such an incident confirmed his grave misgivings, but he feared there was worse to come.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to these new surroundings after the brilliant sunlight, but it took longer still for him to fully comprehend the squalor that surrounded him. Women in various states of undress were sprawling and draping themselves over virtually every male in the tavern. Some were straddling knees. Some were whispering. Some were kissing, but they all, without exception, stopped whatever libidinous act that occupied them to look at this strange little man in black who invaded their territory.

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the light, he did not like what he saw. He soon gleaned from the lewd demeanor of the woman halfway upstairs leading a man by the crotch that this was no ordinary inn, and that upstairs the hospitality offered was of a sexual nature.

The notary tried to compose himself and marched to the bar. The bawd greeted him with a wry smile, as if she knew his sort only too well: respectable on the outside and as rotten as a worm-eaten apple on the in.

“What can we do for you, sir?”

The little man’s chin jutted out in a show of superciliousness. “I am in search of a young woman,” he began.

The bawd, a fat woman with a long scar on her cheek, chortled. “Then you’ve come to the right place!”

The notary became annoyed. “A particular young woman, by the name of Agnes Appleton.”

An eyebrow lifted and the bawd nodded. “Agnes!” she called. A moment later a girl emerged from a back room. She was, the notary estimated, in her early twenties, with a pleasant, open face and a comely figure. “Customer for you,” the woman said.

The little man gave an indignant wiggle and his mouth pursed up. “I am not a customer. I merely wish to speak with Miss Appleton.”

“That’s what all your sort say, with respect,” cackled the bawd, jerking her head toward the back. “Go in there,” she said, then added: “She’ll charge, mind, even if ’tis only a
talk
you want.” She emphasized the word “talk” as if it was a euphemism for a sexual act.

Clearly unnerved by the situation, the notary followed the girl into the dingy back room. There was some sort of chaise longue up against a wall that was covered in a soiled sheet. The girl sat at one end and, seeing there were no other chairs in the room, the notary seated himself, as far away as possible, at the other. He cleared his throat.

“You are Agnes Appleton?” She was fresh-faced, with only a trace of rouge on her smooth cheeks. He could see that she had a good set of teeth in her head, too.

“Who wants to know, sir?” she replied warily.

The little man took a deep breath. He was relieved at having found her, but troubled that there was no sign of the child. “It is not you I seek,” he told her candidly. “I am looking for a boy whom I believe was in your charge.”

At this the girl’s expression changed. Her features tightened and she sucked in her cheeks.

“Where is he?” asked the notary, an anxious chord in his voice.

“I know of no boy,” she mumbled, her eyes wandering aimlessly around the room.

The notary studied her in her awkwardness for a moment. He realized he would have to approach this cross-examination from another angle. Delving into his bag, he brought out a piece of paper on which was written her former address.

“I have been to St. Giles,” he said. “I know he was with you there.”

Agnes seemed flustered. “What’s he done? He’s a good boy.” Her pretty brow crumpled into a frown.

So many riddles, so many questions, and still no answers. The notary rolled his eyes. “I am sent to discover the whereabouts of Richard Farrell,” he told her forthrightly. “Who you are, or what you do, are of no consequence to me. I know that Francis Crick gave you charge over the boy, so I am here to take him back to where he rightfully belongs.”

The girl’s head began to shake. “The boy’s name was not Farrell, sir, but Crick. Richard Crick. He were Mr. Francis’s son.”

The little man looked perplexed. He paused for a moment then realized that Francis Crick had not told his accomplice the whole truth. She had no idea that the boy in her charge was the son of Captain Michael and Lady Lydia Farrell. And why should he? For all she knew, the child was the result of an indiscretion on Crick’s part. It was, indeed, better that way for all concerned.

“It matters not. All I need to know is where he is now,” he persisted in an irritable tone.

The girl looked at him and sighed deeply, her ample bosom rising and falling with the effort. It was then that her eyes misted up and her mouth quivered. From her manner the notary gleaned that the boy was no longer with her.

He lowered his face to meet her gaze. “He is not dead?” There was a hint of panic in his words. She shook her head in a way that told him the child was still alive, but not in good health, or worse. “You must tell me where he is, for his sake,” he urged.

Agnes looked at him with doleful eyes. “He is in a terrible place,” she said slowly. “And ’tis all my doing.”

“Where is he?” The notary found himself wanting to shake this sniveling wench, but he resisted the urge. “Where is he?” he repeated with growing impatience.

Again she took a deep breath, as if trying to find some inner strength. “He is apprenticed to a chimney sweep,” she blurted, not daring to look up.

The notary’s jaw parted in shock. “What?” He could not hide his disbelief.

Now the girl’s head dropped low and she hid her face in her hands in shame. “The money was all gone, sir. I had no choice,” she cried. Her shoulders began to rise and fall in gentle sobs.

“So you sold him?”

“He were apprenticed,” she cried through her fingers.

Exasperated the notary rose and began to pace the windowless room. “He is six years old!” he exclaimed. His mind flashed to an image of a pipe boy wedged up a chimney, barely able to breathe, scraping the soot off flues.

The girl clamped her hands over her ears, as if to block out his harsh words. “Do you think I wanted to? I loved that boy like he was my own. I couldn’t keep him. We had nothing to eat. Nothing,” she screamed. “You don’t know what it’s like. Mr. Francis left us no money. We see’d him in jail and he said he would make it good for the boy, but there was nothing.”

The notary paused as he recalled the landlady with her spotlessly clean house in Seymour Street and the sideways look she had given the ginger jar that surely concealed her ill-gotten gains.

“We were in a good place and we had plenty to eat until . . . until they h-hanged him.” Agnes stumbled over her words. “We had to leave. The landlady said she didn’t want no scandal. Made us go. That’s when we went to St. Giles. The rats kept us awake at night and Master Rich would cry himself to sleep with hunger. That’s why I decided I’d give him up.”

The anger that had welled up inside the notary a moment ago now subsided a little. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself once more. Self-control was always more effective with troublesome clients and it was what was required now, he told himself.

“You have obviously been through a difficult time,” he observed, trying to remain dispassionate. “But where might this chimney sweep be?”

The girl’s entire face had turned the color of her lightly rouged cheeks. She blinked and a single tear rolled down. “In Bermondsey,” she said. “His name is Mr. Faulks.”

“Very well,” said the notary, rising from the chaise longue. He took out his purse and dropped a few coins onto the small table at her side. “Your pieces of silver,” he added, though he doubted she would understand the allusion.

She looked up at him with eyes that did not hide her stricken conscience. “If you find him,” she said in a trembling voice, “if you find him, tell him I am sorry.”

The notary grimaced as she started to sob once more. He turned his back on her and began to walk out, but before he had reached the door he heard the sound of the coins clattering to the floor. In her grief and her shame she had swept them off the table.

 

Lady Thorndike did not take luncheon that day. Nor did she avail herself for dinner. She had left the house around noon, telling her maid she intended to go for a walk. She said that the mist was lifting and that she was sick of being indoors. Her maid had thought it most peculiar to go out on foot in the fog, but did not dare question her mistress’s decision.

When her ladyship did not return to her bedchamber that evening, the maid had informed Sir Henry. He had not seemed unduly worried. There had been a row. Perhaps not a proper row; a row needs at least two protagonists. It was always one-sided with Julia, he mused. She had told him she could no longer stand being cooped up inside and was to meet with her lover, and that was an end to it. Just who this braggart was and where she went were none of his business. Accustomed to her infidelities, he went to bed and slept soundly.