The Devil's Breath (16 page)

T
he country residence of Sir Montagu Malthus lay three miles south of Banbury. Built around forty years before, Draycott House was a fine example of early Georgian architecture and had been home to the landowner and lawyer for almost all that time. It had served him and his household well over the years, although had he known that his wife, who had died a decade before, would be without issue, he might have chosen somewhere a little more intimate.

He very often found himself rattling around in rooms that should have been filled with warmth and laughter, or strolling in the grounds without another soul in sight. Now and again he was enveloped by a desperate loneliness. So many of his friends had passed on; Richard Crick, then dear Felicity two years ago. He was himself in his dotage and was beginning to feel the lack of progeny most cruelly. Lydia Farrell was the nearest he had to a family and it pained him to see her making the same mess of her young life that her brother, his godson Edward, had before her. That was why he had sent his notary on a quest.

It had been so remarkably fortuitous, he told himself. One might even say a sign. He had been sitting at Lydia’s bedside as she lay as still as a statue in the depths of unconsciousness a few weeks before. Her attempt to take her own life had, thankfully, backfired, and so there she was in her bed at Boughton, in a coffin of her own making; not dead, but then not quite alive. She would go for hours without a single movement or a word passing her beautiful lips and then suddenly, one afternoon, she began to mumble. Her eyes remained closed, but her mind was obviously active. At first she made odd croaking sounds, but they soon grew louder. It was then that her parched lips formed intelligible sounds and her face screwed itself up in terror. “No! No!” she had cried. “My baby!”

Leaning forward, Sir Montagu had stilled her flailing arms. “Hush, my dear. All is well,” he soothed. A few seconds later her breathing had steadied and she appeared to fall, once more, into a deep slumber. But the seed had been sown. “A baby,” he repeated softly. He recalled he had been helping Lydia go through her late husband’s papers shortly after his death. There had been boxes and folders and cases full of ledgers and receipts and bills. Lydia’s grief had been so great that her mind was not fully on the task in hand. That was why he had said nothing when he had come across some invoices from a wet nurse in Hungerford for the upkeep of a child by the name of Richard Farrell.

Putting together this written evidence and Lydia’s own, albeit involuntary, outburst, he had begun making inquiries the previous month. Could it really be that Boughton had a legitimate heir after all? His own visit prior to her ridiculous suicide attempt had shown her to be unwilling to remarry a suitable peer and produce children. He suspected that she was still besotted with that upstart from the Colonies. But now, no matter. He had received word from the notary, a reliable man, if a little slow in some respects, that his mission had been accomplished. The child was in his custody and would be arriving at Draycott House later on that day.

Such news had certainly put a spring in Sir Montagu’s step. He had ordered the principal guest room to be made ready. Pastries and sweetmeats were to be baked and even a pony and trap to be put at the young man’s disposal. Yes, it would be wonderful to have some young blood coursing ’round Draycott for the time being. Until, that is, Lydia acceded to his demands.

The body of Lady Julia Thorndike lay on the marble slab in the game larder ready to be examined. A sickly sweet smell wafted around the corpse and Thomas lit a pipe to mask it as he worked. He had already divested her and covered her in a thin white sheet. Now he rolled up the sides to inspect her feet and hands. Taking her cold fingers, he turned them over so that he could see her palms. They were wrinkled, like parchment. The skin on her feet, too, was creased. Dozens of deep furrows lined the soles and between her toes. She had been in the water for at least two days, he told himself.

Next he pressed down on her chest once more, keeping his eyes on her mouth. Just as before, no liquid dribbled from her lips. If she had drowned, then foam would have appeared. He had seen it so many times before. If victims were alive when they went into the water, as Agnes Appleton had been, then their lungs and, indeed, their whole respiratory passage would be filled with foam—the result of a great churning motion that occurs within the chest cavity when water mixes with mucus before the victim is starved of oxygen. Thomas saw for himself there was none here. He did not even have to use his scalpel to determine that Lady Thorndike had almost certainly not drowned.

Thomas drew heavily on his pipe and straightened his aching back. He knew he did not have long to examine the body. Sir Henry did not even know that he was conducting a postmortem and would be engaging an undertaker within the next few hours. He looked at Lady Thorndike’s hands once more and in particular her fingernails. They were completely clean. No struggle was indicated. There were no deposits of gravel or mud from the pond bottom. He would have to start from the top: the head.

Resting his pipe on a nearby stone shelf, he began to feel the skull. His fingers raked through the still-damp hair to the temples, then the crown, but he could feel nothing untoward. It was only when he lifted up the cranium and examined the smooth curve of the occipital lobe that he began to suspect. Quickly he turned Lady Thorndike over onto her face to take a closer look. Using a comb to part her thick red hair, he could see a deep livid bruise, almost as long as a man’s hand, covering the lower half of the cranium. Reaching for a pair of scissors from his bag, he cut away the hair near the scalp, then taking his magnifying glass he studied it more carefully. The contusion was, indeed, long, and there was a small cut of less than an inch. Nevertheless the area was swollen, with a great bulge of fluid protesting underneath.

There was something more, too. He peered at the wound more closely. There were two or three flakes of organic material dotted in the hair. Reaching for his tweezers, he teased them out, one by one, dropping them into a phial. Holding the glass tube up to the light, he examined the contents closely. They were leaves of some kind and definitely not duckweed from the pond. He sniffed at them. There was no perfume. Two days in the water had put paid to any scent they may once have had.

His own back was already aching and he stepped away from the table to straighten his spine for a moment. The movement made the candle by the corpse flicker and as it did, the shaft of light caught something reflective. Thomas reached for his magnifier and, leaning over, inspected the wound once more. And there it was: a tiny flake of shiny material embedded deep in the tissue. Grasping his tweezers he plucked it out and held it to a flame. A piece of glass? A shard of mirror? He dropped the fragment into another phial and stood away from the slab. Picking up his pipe, he sucked on it once more. Lady Thorndike had, he concluded, been hit on the head with a blunt object from behind, causing a swelling of the brain. She had, most definitely and irrefutably, been murdered.

 

Thomas told Lydia the disturbing news as she sat in the study, going over the accounts.

“Lady Thorndike did not drown.”

“Then what . . . ?”

“She was hit on the head from behind before she either fell or was dragged into the water.”

Lydia put down her pen. “Murder?”

“I need to return to the lake to look for the weapon that was used,” he told her, turning for the door.

She stood up suddenly. “No, wait,” she said. “Let me come with you.”

Thomas shook his head. “The fog still lingers, my love. It is not safe to be outdoors for long.” But she set her gaze on him, and he could tell from her determined expression she would not take no for an answer.

They took the dogcart down to the waterside and arrived just as a fiery sun began to set behind the haze. Thomas helped Lydia climb down and saw to it that she covered her mouth with her shawl. He watched her as she picked her way through the reeds over to the shore, rustling as she went. She paused to gaze out over the water.

“We had happy times in this place,” she told him, her voice muffled. “My brother and I used to picnic on these shores when we were children. There was a boat here, once. We used to row to the other side.” Thomas joined her and put his arm around her. “It used to be moored up by the jetty,” she went on, pointing over to the rickety landing stage.

“What happened?” he asked.

“To the boat?”

He put his face close to hers. “To everything.” He was looking at the dilapidated fishing lodge, with its moldy thatch.

She shrugged. “Papa died and Edward wasn’t ready for the responsibility.”

He slipped his hand in hers and together they began to walk toward the lodge, skirting the water’s edge.

“Where did they find Lady Thorndike?” she asked as they approached the jetty.

“Just here,” said Thomas, stopping suddenly. He dropped his gaze and began scanning the ground. The sand at the lip of the lake was dry and pitted with gravel and larger pebbles. Lydia looked down, too, but walked on ahead slightly. Thomas noticed she left small footprints in her wake. Now he began scanning more intently. There could still be signs of activity on the shore. There had been no rain for two weeks. Somewhere, in among this patchwork of reeds and water flags, there must be tracks, impressions, or some other clue.

They remained looking intently around the rim of the lake for several minutes, but found nothing. Thomas’s back started to ache again and he straightened himself. As he did so, he looked to the opposite shore. A handsome house stood squarely on the other side, its roof swathed in the fog.

“Who lives there?” he asked Lydia.

“Mr. Lawson,” she replied, her eyes meeting his.

The same thought darted across both their minds, but they said nothing and turned to go back to the hall.

“’T
is a terrible state of affairs, Dr. Silkstone, and ’tis growing worse by the day.” Dr. Felix Fairweather was not a man prone to exaggeration. He was inclined to arrogance and pomposity, like most of the other medical men Thomas had encountered in England, but a scaremonger he was not.

The country physician was sitting in the drawing room at Boughton Hall drinking tea. He had requested an urgent meeting to discuss the awful situation in Brandwick and the surrounding villages. The fog was claiming more lives each day. True, it had lifted a little over the past week, but the sulfurous stench remained. It was still not safe to venture outside without protection for any length of time.

“I have seen a dozen of my patients die this week alone, Dr. Silkstone,” said Fairweather, looking unusually vulnerable. “They are running out of room in the graveyard at St. Swithin’s.”

Lydia intervened. “But what can we do, doctor? As long as the fog remains, people will die.” There was a note of hopelessness in her voice.

Thomas had been listening intently to the doctor’s description of his patients’ symptoms, but had said very little. Instead he had been looking out of the window, surveying the miserable, murky vista beyond. The sky remained pregnant, loaded with gray flakes; the hills deadened by the fog. Finally he spoke.

“From what you say, sir, it seems that the young and the old are most affected. The fog obviously attacks the respiratory system and those who are already weak are the most vulnerable. Is this so?”

The doctor nodded. “I would say that was a fair summary, yes.”

Thomas turned to face them. “If that is the case, then perhaps we could put those most at risk in a place of safety.”

Both the older doctor and Lydia looked puzzled. “I am not sure I follow you, sir,” said Fairweather.

The young anatomist lifted his hand in thought. “What if we could isolate them in a place where the fog could not reach?”

Fairweather contemplated the proposition. “That would obviously be ideal, but surely no such place exists in this area.”

“Yes, it does!” interrupted Lydia. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I know of such a place.” Both men switched their gaze on her. “The caves at West Wycombe,” she said emphatically.

“You mean the Hellfire Caves?” queried Thomas, turning the thought over in his head.

“They have not been used for twenty years, but surely ’tis an idea worth exploring?” insisted Lydia.

Dr. Fairweather remained a little confused. “So you would transport the sick and the vulnerable to the Hellfire Caves until the fog lifts?” he asked Lydia incredulously.

Thomas fixed him with a stern look. To the country doctor they were still associated with the debauchery and wild gatherings of the Hellfire Club that were often held there when Sir Francis Dashwood was alive. “Do you have a better idea?”

Fairweather became flustered. “Well no, but I . . . ’tis a great undertaking, Dr. Silkstone.”

“But what alternative is there?” asked Lydia. “As you said, more and more people are dying each day. Can we just sit back and do nothing?”

Fairweather shrugged. “No. No, I suppose we cannot,” he replied.

Thomas nodded. “That is settled, then. Her ladyship will contact Sir John and, if he agrees, we will inspect the caves for suitability.”

“And then what?” The country doctor was clearly uneasy.

“Then we make arrangements to transport the sick to the caves. I will need a list of all your patients who are to be moved.”

What was proposed was a monumental task; to organize and execute what was effectively an evacuation and the establishment of a field hospital was no mean feat. Thomas had heard of it being done in wartime, most recently after the Battle of Trenton on the Delaware, but this, this was unheard of. He felt his stomach knot at the enormity of the task.

“Can you let me have your list by tomorrow, sir?” he said to Fairweather.

The doctor sighed. “Very well,” he replied, almost sullenly. He drained his teacup and rose. Then, bowing to Lydia, he said, “I wish you good fortune in your endeavors, your ladyship.” Thomas detected a distinct note of skepticism in his voice.

Lydia was about to ring for Howard to show Dr. Fairweather to the door when Thomas recalled another weighty matter that needed to be discussed. Somehow, word was out that Lady Thorndike had been murdered and tongues were already wagging in the village. Some people thought she had just deserts, going out into the fog unescorted. What did she expect? Did she not know there were thieves and vagabonds abroad who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you? Others were more specific. That knife-grinder with the red scarf around his head looked shifty, they said. He had been stirring up trouble among the village men. Where was he? Had anyone seen him since the body was found? So the gossip circulated and the fog became not just responsible for killing the vulnerable with its poison, but contributing to the murder of anyone foolish enough to venture out in it, too.

“One more thing, sir,” said Thomas, as he escorted the doctor to the door. “Lady Thorndike.” He whispered her name while Lydia remained seated.

Fairweather bowed his head reverentially. “Ah yes, shocking affair.”

“Yes, indeed,” he acknowledged. “Did her ladyship have any enemies that you know of?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “A strange question, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied.

“You were her physician, were you not? I just thought . . .”

“I was indeed her physician,” replied Fairweather, lowering his voice, so that Lydia could not hear. “And I must tell you”—he leaned closer, conspiratorially—“it would be difficult to find any friends other than of the male sex.”

Thomas took his meaning. “I thought as much.” He nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”

 

It had been four weeks since she lost her husband and Susannah Kidd was, at last, feeling a little stronger. She no longer sat for hours in her chair by the empty hearth remembering and regretting. Her appetite was slowly returning and she had even ventured into Brandwick to buy what few provisions she could. Lady Lydia had assured her that there was no danger she would lose the cottage and her skills as a seamstress were still in demand.

Even though the sun had not yet set, the light was so poor that she needed to sew by the light of a candle. That evening she was sitting working on yet another shroud when she heard a tap on the window. Startled, she looked up. Standing there, his nut-brown face pressed against the glass, was the knife-grinder. Quickly she rose, quivering with the shock of seeing her unexpected visitor, and hurried over to the door and opened it.

“What do you think you are doing?” she scolded, her palm pressed flat on her chest. “Gave me a real fright, you did.”

The traveler smiled a beguiling smile, showing his white teeth. Under his arm he carried his bindle. “Forgive me, pretty lady,” he said, tilting his head. Then, looking beyond her, into the cottage, he asked, “Is your husband in?”

She took a deep breath and steeled herself to utter the dreaded words. “My husband is dead,” she told him.

The knife-grinder’s smile disappeared. “The fog?” She nodded. “I am sorry for your loss.” Another nod was followed by an awkward silence. “So you are alone now?” he ventured.

Susannah snorted in disbelief. “You’ve a cheek!” she cried and she began to shut the door in the knife-grinder’s face, but he thrust his boot over the threshold, blocking it.

“I mean no harm,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “This fog is killing me, too. I’ve been sleeping in barns and ditches since it came. Please, will you let me in?” He forced a cough, slapped his chest, then smiled at her.

For a moment she studied him. His days and nights out in this fog were taking their toll, she could tell that. His eyes were red and watery and his skin was much paler than before. Was she not a Christian woman? She would show him charity in these straitened times.

“Very well,” she said, relenting. “You can sleep on the floor in here,” she told him, opening wide the door and letting him pass.

“I’m beholden to you, mistress,” he said, adding: “I knew you had a heart of gold the moment I set eyes on you.”

 

The boy was much smaller than he anticipated. He looked no more than four, even though Sir Montagu knew him to be six years of age. He stumbled down the carriage steps and had to be helped up by the notary. But he was thin, too. So painfully thin. And how like his mother he was. No mistaking there: the tousled brown curls; the large doe-like eyes. The late earl would have been proud to see his grandson. But what was wrong with his arm? It dangled limply at his side. Surely the child was not a cripple? Sir Montagu’s hooded eyes narrowed even more as he stood on the steps of Draycott House, preparing to meet the boy. Surely not a cripple? It had not been easy tracking down this feral child, first in Hungerford, then in the quagmire of London, but securing the future of Boughton would be worth it, although by the looks of things, the boy would need careful handling.

Holding the notary’s hand, the child began to climb up to meet the black-garbed man who stood ahead of him on the steps. Sir Montagu eyed him intently, like a hawk would a mouse. The boy stopped, then shuffled awkwardly, still clutching the notary’s hand.

Finally Sir Montagu spoke. “So, this is Boughton’s heir?”

The notary wore a smug look. “Indeed, sir. This is Richard Farrell.”

The lawyer bent down, bowing his head so that it seemed to shrink into his shoulders. He extended a bony hand. The child pulled back, obviously afraid, but the notary grabbed his scrawny shoulders.

“This is Sir Montagu Malthus. You will be staying with him for a while,” he explained, pushing the boy forward.

Again Sir Montagu proffered his hand. This time the child stretched out spindly fingers. His nails were black with grime, and he seemed unsure as to what he should do next. He did not take his hand, much to the lawyer’s amusement. “Ha,” he snorted. “He has no manners, Fothergill. We shall have to teach him some.”

The notary chuckled. “Indeed, sir.”

“Come,” said Sir Montagu, turning his great black frame toward the front entrance. “You must be hungry, young man. We shall eat and then we shall talk. There is so much you need to know.”