The Lazarus Curse (11 page)

T
he sound of the key scraping in the lock left Phibbah a prisoner once more. As she sat in the corner of the attic room, a single candle her only comfort, the wind whistled in through the rotting casement. She hugged herself tight, rubbing her own arms to stop her blood from freezing. Again she found herself isolated from the rest of the slaves for a minor misdemeanor. She had been tardy to take out the slops and this was her punishment, yet another evening alone with the cockroaches and her own brooding thoughts.

Now and again a gale of laughter would tear through the house and rise up the narrow stairway. The Carfaxes were entertaining some of their slaver friends, feasting and quaffing while her own belly was sunken and empty. There would be suckling pig and roast goose and fancy sweetmeats and tarts filled with frangipane. There would be French wine and brandy and rum, while all she had eaten all day was a crust of bread and some dripping.

She crossed her arms over her chest in an embrace, letting her fingers feel the strange landscape of her back. The shafts of her ribs and the scabs made by the lash rose like long ridges beneath her scarred skin. She could not wait any longer. She must not. Now was the right time. Sliding over to the far end of the room, she prized up a loose floorboard and delved deep. Groping around in the space below for a few seconds, she smiled to herself as she retrieved the small bag—her obeah bag.

The rest of the slaves were downstairs in the scullery, but Mr. Roberts had ordered her to stay in the freezing attic. Although he had locked her in, Patience had slipped the key under the door. Slowly and carefully she opened it and, with the candle in one hand and the bag in the other, she began her silent descent down the service stairs to Mistress Carfax’s bedchamber.

Samuel Carfax was in fine fettle. His face was reddened by rum and his tongue loosened by it. Although his arm was still bandaged, the discomfort he had experienced had almost completely disappeared. Besides, any pain that he had suffered was more than compensated for by the regaling of his extraordinary tale. The telling of it made excellent dinner party conversation, although some of the ladies present found it a little vulgar.

Mistress Cotter, wife of the slaver Benjamin Cotter, pulled a disapproving face as Carfax described how Dr. Silkstone had grabbed the head of the grub with his pincers. Mistress Dalrymple had also tut-tutted when he related how the pus had seeped from a crater in his arm. His wife noticed her guest push away her dish of figs in disgust.

“Perhaps, Mr. Carfax, you should leave this conversation for your port and cigars,” she upbraided her husband, in an effort to save her own face as much as his. She turned to her female guests. “The weather is so inclement at the moment ’twill kill more than insects, I fear.”

Hearing her hostess’s comment, Mistress Cotter chimed in. “ ’Tis killing our slaves, more’s the pity. We lost one last week and another the week before to distemper. Not to mention one in childbirth.”

Carfax nodded. “We had a boy die of fever only a couple of days ago, too. ’Tis a costly business. I’ll leave them in Jamaica next time I come to London.” He fingered his tumbler, then emptied his glass of rum.

Dalrymple let out a snort. “ ’Tis strange how they die in their dozens in Jamaica and yet here when they drop we notice them,” he observed wryly, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

Cotter took up from where his host left off. “Could it be that life is cheaper in the Colonies?” he asked.

“A slave’s life is cheap anywhere,” Dalrymple cut in. “It is we planters who pay the price for their laziness and incompetence.”

Carfax sat back in his chair. “I’ve always found that if you treat your slaves well, you will earn their loyalty,” he said, thoughtfully fingering a spoon. “You beat a dog and it may turn on you one day and bite you. But treat it well, feed it regularly, and it will learn to respect you.”

His wife darted him a scornful look, then, turning to her female guests, she fixed her face in a wide grin. “My husband is far too soft at heart,” she told them.

Upstairs, Phibbah had entered Cordelia Carfax’s chamber. The embers of the fire cast a warm glow about the room as she padded over to the dressing table. The scent of musk and roses hung in the air, but did little to diffuse the smell of damp. Searching among the cologne bottles and the combs, she spied an ivory-backed hairbrush. Seizing it gleefully she clawed her fingers through the bristles so that a ball of loose copper hairs came away. They felt fine in her hand, like spun silk. She sniffed at the hair: apple and cloves, Mistress Carfax’s pomade. It was a smell that filled her with fear and dread and loathing and she stuffed the clump in her bag. Now it was complete. Her obeah bag held all that was required: the grave dirt, the pig’s tail, the blood of her unborn child, nail clippings: and the hair of the victim.

She began to make her way over to the door but froze halfway. What was that noise? Ragged breathing? A snort? Panic rose in her chest and she held her breath. There it was again. That strange noise. She turned and the light of her candle fell onto the counterpane of the bed. There, asleep on a pile of cushions, was Fino. Her fear juddered out of her with a sigh of relief, but she had to remain quiet. She must not wake the dog else he would bark and alert his mistress.

Continuing on her way to the door, she stopped and picked up a footstool from the hearth rug. She set it down in the doorway and stood on it. Reaching full-stretch, she placed the obeah bag on top of the lintel, then, stepping down from the stool, she walked a few paces back. The sack was not visible. It would remain hidden. It would begin to work its magic as soon as her vile and wicked mistress, her tormentor and the murderer of her child, walked into the room. There would be no escaping its spell. She would be cursed, doomed to die an agonizing death. And as she closed the door behind her, the words of the obeah-man rang in Phibbah’s ears:
Your missa be dead afore winter is out.

T
he following morning dawned dull as lime wash over London and the chill on the air grew even sharper. The old waterman stood by the quay, licked his finger, and held it aloft. The wind had changed direction. It was a northerly and that could mean snow. As long as the river did not freeze over as it had done two or three years back, he would manage. If it did, he would be done for. Why take a ferry when you can walk across the frozen ice from bank to bank? There would be no custom. He would starve.

He was contemplating the dire prospect, chuntering to himself, as he negotiated the weed-slimed stairs down to his boat. The familiar stench assailed his nostrils as he plunged down toward the water. There had been a spring tide, much higher than usual. Risk of flooding, they said. But the risk had passed. Now the tide was well into its turn and was leaving a foul stink in its wake. It would go out much farther, exposing larger expanses of the shoreline than usual, so the mud larks were making ready. Stationing themselves on the quayside, they would swoop down just as soon as it was safe to do so, in search of filthy carrion. Scrabbling through the stinking river silt they would look for discarded treasures—clay pipes, bottles, or lumps of coal. They were young ones mainly—all ragged and dirt-coated themselves. Most mornings at least one of them would make a grisly find—a body washed up on the stony beach. Wapping was the worst, or best, place to find a hapless whore who’d thrown herself off Westminster Bridge or a down-on-his-luck gambler who’d lost everything. The currents often carried them there, depositing them near Execution Dock. Then the mud larks would rifle through the corpse’s pockets, rob it of any trinkets, sometimes steal boots—shoes usually floated off. The carrion picked over, the scavengers would then leave it once more to the mercy of the river.

On this particular morning, however, it was the old waterman’s misfortune, for he never did like it when he came across one, to find a cadaver. This one, however, had not been washed up on the shore, but had been tied, most securely, to the wooden pier at which his boat was moored. What was more, it was without a head.

At first glance the old man thought it a dead animal; a sheep, perhaps. Then, as he drew closer, he realized the dirty white he could see was not wool, but a shirt. As he realized what his eyes were beholding, he turned and retched. Then sheer panic took hold. Clambering back up the steps as fast as his old legs could carry him, he began waving his arms in the air and hollering. When he had attracted the attention of a fellow waterman, he pointed down to the river where the receding tide was revealing more of the gruesome flotsam by the minute.

The other waterman fetched the watchman, who called the customs man. The customs man, unsure of himself, called an officer who informed the Admiralty, who said it was a civilian matter. So the justice of the peace was informed and he, in turn, told the Westminster coroner, Sir Stephen Gandy. Although new in post, following in the illustrious footsteps of Sir Peregrine Crisp, who had died suddenly a few weeks ago, Sir Stephen knew exactly what to do.

“There has been a body found over at Hope Wharf,” he told his clerk, handing him a letter. “Please see to it that Dr. Thomas Silkstone receives this,” he said. “The deceased will be dispatched to him shortly.”

From his upstairs room Thomas surveyed the scene as he dressed. The window frame rattled as a gust of wind blew down the street. He looked up at the sky. It was tinged with a pink glow. There would be snow soon, he knew it. Walking over to his desk, he decided to take advantage of the first rays of winter light to write a letter.

He reread his words, hardly believing himself the gravity of what he had just written. He had no intention of sending the letter to Lydia. She would go out of her mind with worry if she thought he was involved in anything so sinister. He grabbed the letter and screwed it up into a tight ball, venting his own anger on the piece of paper, before tossing it onto his desk.

His dressing complete, he headed downstairs where, as usual, breakfast awaited him in the dining room. Dr. Carruthers was already enjoying a plate of bacon and coddled eggs, a napkin tucked under his chin to catch any spills.

“So what did you glean from your visit to the docks yesterday, young fellow?” quizzed the old anatomist as soon as Thomas sat down.

“Very little, I fear,” replied Thomas, sipping from a dish of tea. “And that is exactly what someone intended.”

The old anatomist chuckled. “Come, come! You’re saying this is all part of some conspiracy?”

Thomas put down his tea and gazed into the dish. “I can think of no other explanation,” he replied. “Even Sir Joseph seems reluctant to act and is keen that I should not interfere. I have even seen words to that effect on the customs documents.”

Carruthers’s head jerked up. “That is most troubling,” he agreed.

Just as the doctor was about to reach for a slice of comforting toast, Helen entered the room with a letter on a silver salver. It bore the familiar seal of the Westminster coroner.

“This just came for you, sir,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

“What news, young fellow?” asked Carruthers, eagerly.

Thomas broke the seal and studied the contents of the letter. A strange tingling sensation prickled his spine. He looked up.

“I am to conduct a postmortem for the new coroner, sir,” he replied.

The old doctor raised a brow. “Anyone interesting?”

Thomas had often been called upon to conduct autopsies for Sir Peregrine Crisp when he was the Westminster coroner. Sir Stephen Gandy, although he had never met Thomas, obviously wished to continue the professional relationship.

“It seems the dead man was murdered,” answered Thomas in a voice that was flat with shock.

“A murder, eh?” replied Carruthers enthusiastically, dabbing the bacon grease from his chin with his napkin before recovering his sensibilities. He suddenly realized why Thomas’s reaction was so muted. “Not . . . ?”

The doctor took a deep breath. “I do not know the victim’s identity, sir,” he began. “Only that his body was recovered bound to a pier in the Thames,” adding, “without its head.”

Dr. Carruthers groaned at the thought. “Someone did not mean their victim to be identified,” he said.

Scanning the letter once more, Thomas could only agree. Equally disturbing was the fact that the body was found near the very steps where he had disembarked only yesterday in his search for Matthew Bartlett. He never relished the prospect of conducting a postmortem on a murder victim. He could only pray that this macabre discovery would prove totally unrelated to his quest for the missing artist.