The Devil's Breath (15 page)

I
n the early hours of the next morning the deadly fog rolled into London. It came from the north and curled east up the Thames, so that by seven o’clock not a brig nor a barque could move from the wharfs. The temperature dropped like a stone and all sound was muffled by the pillow of poison that pressed down on the city.

As soon as Thomas woke he knew it had come. He did not need to look out of the window. He could smell it on the air; the dry, clawing stench that was so familiar and so deadly. Dressing hurriedly, he went to wake Lydia.

“ ’Tis here. The fog is here,” he told her, as she rubbed her sleepy eyes. Walking over to the shutters, he pulled them open to reveal the slate gray mist clinging to the panes. “We need to return to Boughton.”

She sat up in bed, her hair tamed by a ribbon. “But Richard! What about Richard?” she protested.

“We cannot continue our search in the fog, my love,” he told her, sitting down beside her on the bed. “All London will be paralyzed. We could be stuck here for days, if not weeks, if we do not head back today.”

A look of despair scudded across her face. She knew what Thomas said was right, but she still clung to the hope that Richard was alive and close by. “Promise me we will return as soon as we can,” she pressed him.

Thomas met her glare. “I give you my word,” he said, pulling her toward him.

She nuzzled her head in his shoulder. “I know I am needed on the estate.”

Thomas stroked her hair. In such a time of need, her place, he agreed, was at Boughton.

Their carriage made slow progress to Snows Hill, where the regular coach left for Oxford. The fog was not as dense as it had been at Boughton. Nevertheless, the poor visibility made traveling hazardous. When they arrived, however, the porter told them the carrier company was canceling the service until the fog had lifted. By a stroke of good fortune their carriage driver heard of their plight and offered to undertake the journey to Oxford himself. So they set off. In a small and cramped vehicle designed for the streets of London that groaned on its axles over every rut in the road, they headed north through the spreading fog.

Before their departure, Thomas had written a letter to the chimney sweep mentioned in Agnes’s last letter and left it in the care of Dr. Carruthers. As soon as the fog allowed men to go about their normal business, his mentor would facilitate its delivery. Just what the sweep’s reaction would be was anyone’s guess, but Thomas hoped that he would be able to return to the capital very soon to negotiate with Mr. Faulks in person. That was, of course, if he was not too late already. They were still no closer to fathoming the identity of this mysterious clerk who preempted their every move. Always seemingly one step ahead of them, he may well have already approached the sweep.

Thomas looked across at Lydia as her body swayed with the movement of the carriage. She smiled weakly at him. Her skin was pale and her eyes red-rimmed from both the stinging mist and from crying. Now that the fog had hit London, returning to Boughton was the best course of action, he told himself, even though what they might find on their arrival still filled him with dread. In all probability the cloud still lingered and there may well be many more struck down, their lungs burning from the sulfur. Yes, the sooner he could get back to the estate, he assured himself, the better it would be for everyone concerned.

The carriage clattered into Oxford in the early evening. All the way along the road from London the air had been murky but it had only slowed their journey a little. Thomas had never been happier to see the pepper pot dome on the top of Christ Church College. The fog that had previously obscured the haze had been greatly dispersed during their absence.

They spent a reasonable night at The Black Horse and set off for Boughton the next morning in relatively good spirits. The cloud had lifted to the rounded tops of the hills to reveal that everywhere the once-green leaves on the trees were now scorched and withered. The pastureland, too, was brown and parched. They took in the harrowing scene in silence until Lydia spotted something strange.

“What are those men doing?” she said, pointing out of the carriage window. Thomas leaned over to see. A human chain, spaced a few yards apart, was walking in a line from the top of one of the hills. The men’s eyes were cast to the ground as they progressed down the slope toward the lane.

“They seem to be looking for something,” remarked Thomas. He pushed down the carriage window. The same sulfurous stench still lingered, but it was not as strong.

He signaled to the men as they approached. One of them walked over to the carriage.

“What goes on here?” asked Thomas.

The man pushed his hat to the back of his head and scratched his forehead with his thumb. “We’re searching for a missing person, sir,” he replied.

Now Lydia leaned out of the window and, obviously recognizing her, the man quickly uncovered his head. “Your ladyship,” he said gruffly.

“Who is missing?” she asked.

The man frowned. “ ’Tis Lady Thorndike, ma’am,” he replied.

A shocked look registered on Lydia’s face. “How long has she been missing?”

“Three days now,” he replied. “She said she were going for a walk and no one has seen her since.”

“We will do all we can to help,” Lydia told him. “I will speak with Sir Henry.”

The man bowed and Thomas gave the signal to the driver to move off.

“Lady Thorndike has spent a night away from her own bed before,” she told Thomas knowingly, “but three days without a word . . . Poor Sir Henry must be sick with worry.”

“Will you organize a search party at Boughton?”

She nodded. “Just as soon as I can.”

There was more bad news waiting for Thomas and Lydia on their return. Despite the fog lifting slightly, more and more men, women, and children were falling sick. Gabriel Lawson updated them on events in the study.

“I’ve lost two more workers since you left, your ladyship,” he reported. His sunburned face seemed much paler now that it had not seen the sun for almost three weeks, noted Thomas. “They say their families are being hit, too. Tim Blackwell has lost both of his babes. The grave diggers are burying them so quick that the vicar can’t keep up with them.”

Thomas intervened. “And the scarves? They are wearing them?”

Lawson eyed the doctor with unveiled hostility and addressed his reply to his mistress. “They wear them and they are faring better than those who don’t on the Thorndike estate—there’s half a dozen dead there—but ’tis the young and the old who seem to be worst off.”

Thomas thought of Will Lovelock and his asthma. Thankfully he had been spared, but it was inevitable that those with a weakness would be most affected.

“And what of morale generally?” Lydia tried to be more positive in her tone.

Lawson sighed. “The men are not happy, your ladyship. I cannot lie. The troublemaker returned, stirring things up.”

“What do you mean?”

Lawson darted a glance at Thomas. “They want more money to work the fields in the fog,” he told her.

Lydia nodded. “I understand,” she replied. “But ’tis not possible. Not with our income down.”

“This troublemaker. He is not from the estate?” interrupted Thomas.

Again Lawson addressed his reply to Lydia. “He is a traveler, my lady. A knife-grinder. His name is Joshua Pike, and he has been calling the men to action, telling them they should demand higher wages.”

“And he has been trespassing on my land?” She suddenly went on the offensive.

“He has, but I told him in no uncertain terms to leave,” replied Lawson.

Lydia sighed deeply and looked at Thomas. “I see,” she said. “If he returns we shall have to call the constables to deal with the matter.”

Lawson nodded. “Yes, your ladyship,” he said. He rose to leave, but Lydia stopped him.

“There is another pressing matter, Mr. Lawson,” she told him. He frowned. “I am sure you have heard that Lady Thorndike is missing.”

At the mention of the name, Thomas noticed Lawson’s eyes shot to the floor. “I had heard,” he replied.

“We need to organize a search party on the estate,” Lydia instructed him. “We must spare at least half a dozen men for the task. They should walk the footpaths, looking for any clues as to her whereabouts.”

Lawson nodded his unruly head. “I will see to it right away,” he told her. He glanced at Thomas in a vain attempt at deference.

“Keep us informed, Mr. Lawson. That will be all,” she said, dismissing the steward.

As soon as he had left the room Thomas walked over to Lydia and put his hands on her shoulders. “He knows something about Lady Thorndike’s disappearance.”

Without turning ’round Lydia reached for one of his hands and clasped it to her chest. “We shall see,” she said. “All I can do is show willing for the sake of poor Sir Henry.”

The men worked in four teams of two, each taking a specific area of the estate. Ned Perkins was in charge of the search in Boughton’s southeast corner. They had been combing the footpaths for a little over an hour and had found nothing. Visibility was poor, but not so poor that they could not see the hedgerows and the ditches on either side of the uneven tracks. With their staves they prodded gorse bushes and hawthorns, but to no avail.

When they came to a fork in the path, Ned Perkins stopped. A short lane led up to the steward’s lodgings.

“You and me shall take Plover’s Lake,” he said, pointing to Adam Smith, a scrawny youth. “The rest of you go on to the threshing barn and we’ll catch you up.”

So the men parted ways and Perkins and Smith started off on the five-minute walk to the lake. The path soon became uneven, but was still passable, and it was not long before they were standing on the reed-fringed bank. The stretch of water was long and thin, narrowing to just a few feet in the middle, and curving on the eastern shore. Lord Crick had built a small fishing lodge there, with a jetty jutting out over the water, although it had not been used since his death. Without sunlight, and no wind, the lake looked like a flat piece of slate bedded in among the withered irises and bulrushes. Two geese bolted out of the reeds and cackled off into the fog. A moorhen lay dead in its unkempt nest.

Ned Perkins cupped his grubby hands around his mouth and shouted. “Helloooo! Hellooo!” His rough voice, like the crack of a flintlock, sent another two geese scudding to the far shore. On the other side of the water he could see Adam Smith, using his staff like a scythe, swishing through the head-high weeds. They would soon meet up at the fishing lodge as planned. He could see it clearly now; a strangely ornate thatched building, sitting on the water’s edge. He remembered when it used to be filled with the late lord’s friends from London during the trout season. Now, however, it looked oddly forlorn, its roof greened over and melding in with the surrounding reeds that were encroaching upon it, inch by inch.

He scanned the shoreline. There was nothing there. He would call to Smith and tell him not to bother to beat a path all the way ’round to the lodge. He was just about to signal to him to return the way he had come when he saw something in the shallows by the jetty. Could it be a sack floating? No, it was plum-colored, voluminous. His mouth went dry as he edged closer. It was then that he saw the red hair swirling on the surface, the long tresses of a woman, and he knew he had found Lady Thorndike.

T
homas arrived on the scene in under an hour. Perkins and Smith had dragged the body from the water and the younger man had run to call help. The doctor rode over to the lake on horseback after instructing Lovelock to bring a covered cart. He also sent word to Sir Theodisius, the Oxford coroner, who needed to be informed of the death. Lydia was given the unenviable task of telling Sir Henry.

Perkins sat a few feet away from the corpse on the bank, looking out onto the lake. The foreman looked as gray as the flat water.

“You have done well,” Thomas reassured him.

The doctor could tell immediately that the woman in the plum-colored dress was indeed Lady Thorndike. She was lying face up. He recognized her striking features; those high cheekbones and the dimple at the center of her chin. Only now her rouged lips were blue and her skin as white as alabaster. Tiny nuggets of gravel pitted her nose and forehead and duckweed flecked her hair. Already the flies were buzzing around her.

Thomas’s mind flashed back to the face of Agnes Appleton. She had shared a similar fate in London only two days before. He recalled how a thin line of foam had laced her lips, but on Lady Thorndike’s face there was nothing, save for a fly that had landed on her cheek. Bending low he placed his palms on her chest and pressed hard. Nothing. No liquid spurted out from her mouth. Thomas tried again, but with the same result. He straightened himself.

“Where exactly did you find her?” he asked Perkins.

The foreman pointed to the spot, just by the jetty. “There, sir,” he said.

Thomas walked over to inspect the area more closely. One or two of the timbers on the jetty were rotting away. Some had splintered and cracked. It certainly did not look safe enough to stand on.

“Her ladyship must have slipped and fallen off,” ventured Perkins, cocking his head toward the lake.

Thomas did not reply. He was too preoccupied. Up until last month the sun had been so hot that much of the water had evaporated, leaving the level considerably lower than usual. He could tell from the exposed algae coating the gravel like green slime that the lake was only half full. There were signs on the piers of the jetty, too, where weed clung tenaciously to the wood way above the water line.

“She was facedown?” The gravel embedded in her face told him as much.

Perkins shivered at the recollection. “Yes, sir.”

“And how deep was the water, would you say?”

The foreman shrugged. “Less than six inches, sir.”

Thomas agreed that the lake at this point was, indeed, shallow. He had heard of grown men drowning in a few inches of water, but they had either been unconscious at the time or their faces had been held down until they could no longer breathe. There was, of course, another and, in his opinion, more likely alternative, but he would need to conduct a postmortem to prove that theory.

 

Arriving back at Boughton Hall an hour later Thomas found Lydia seated with Sir Henry in the drawing room. She sprang to her feet as soon as he walked in, relieved that he could share the burden of a husband’s grief. Sir Henry himself remained seated, his heart condition making it difficult for him to stand.

“Silkstone,” he said gruffly. Thomas recalled the last time he had seen him was after the unfortunate incident with his wife.

“Yes, sir,” he said, bowing. “Please accept my condolences.”

The old man huffed. “Told her maid she was going for a walk. She must’ve lost her way in the fog and fallen.” His dry lips trembled and Lydia reached out to him in a gesture of comfort.

Thomas nodded, managing to keep his features expressionless. If Sir Henry thought his wife had ventured out in the fog simply to go for a walk, then he was even more deluded than he had feared.

At that moment Howard appeared and announced the arrival of the Oxfordshire coroner. Sir Theodisius Pettigrew lumbered grim-faced into the drawing room and went straight over to Sir Henry, his flabby hand extended.

“My dear fellow, this is terrible news,” he lamented. “Terrible news. How did it happen?”

Sir Henry lifted his head slowly. “She told her maid she was going for a walk,” he repeated. “A walk, in this fog!” He was half laughing as he spoke. “She must have wandered by the lake and lost her footing.”

Sir Theodisius settled his large backside onto a chaise longue.

“A tragic accident,” he said.

“Indeed,” agreed Sir Henry, nodding his bewigged head, his eyes moistening as he spoke.

Switching ’round to Thomas, who had just joined him on the seat, the coroner whispered: “Has he formally identified her yet?” The young doctor shook his head. It was an unpleasant duty that needed to be performed and Sir Theodisius took the lead.

Lydia had thoughtfully ordered Lady Thorndike’s body to be laid on a bed in one of the guest rooms upstairs, so that when her husband saw her, it appeared she was merely sleeping. Her hair had been combed, her face washed, and her dress smoothed. Her white hands were clasped on her breast, as if in prayer.

Sir Henry heaved himself upstairs with difficulty and gazed on his wife’s face for the last time. “Yes, that is my Julia.” He nodded wistfully.

Sir Theodisius put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Very well,” he said. “You are free to make the funeral arrangements.”

Thomas, however, cleared his throat and caught the coroner’s eye. He needed a private word.

“I shall leave you alone for a few moments,” Sir Theodisius said to the new widower.

Joining Thomas by the door, the coroner pulled an irritated face. “What is it now, Silkstone?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you suspect her death wasn’t an accident.”

Thomas looked apologetic. “I cannot be certain, sir,” he replied.

The coroner sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. It was almost time for luncheon and his stomach was beginning to growl, putting him in an irritable mood. “So, you want to perform a postmortem?”

The young doctor nodded. “I am not convinced that her ladyship’s death was accidental.”

Sir Theodisius arched a brow. “The woman went for a walk, lost her way in this cursed fog, fell into the lake and drowned. End of story, Silkstone.”

From the look on the doctor’s face, however, the coroner could tell he remained unconvinced. “So, if she didn’t drown . . .” He stopped abruptly in mid sentence, suddenly reminded of Thomas’s habit of expounding scientific theories that were beyond the ken of most mortals. “Oh, very well. You have my permission to examine the corpse,” he said grudgingly. “But put it back as you found it, mind. I do not wish to upset Sir Henry any more than we have to.”