The Devil's Breath (19 page)

T
he following day Thomas rode into Brandwick, headed toward the vicarage on the other side of the town. He intended to see the Reverend Lightfoot to take him the few remaining bottles of milky physick to distribute to any of his parishioners who may have need of it. There was hardly anyone abroad. Many of the shops were shut and the market square was empty, save for a few elderly men huddled in a corner. A gaggle of ragged children ran up to him, holding their hands out for money or food, or both. Thomas noted several had coughs. An old woman chewed her gums as she sagged on the front step of her cottage. A few laborers sat on low walls talking, or crouched in doorways. A dog lolled by the water trough and half a dozen tethered horses swished away the troublesome flies with their tails.

Down the broad main street Thomas rode until he reached the outskirts of the town and the church of St. Swithin’s. The doors were shut, but he could hear a man’s voice inside. Grabbing the large handle, he slowly and carefully turned it and the door creaked open. So this is where the people of Brandwick are, he thought to himself. Row upon row, pew upon pew, was full of people. But this was not a Sunday, nor a Holy Day, but an ordinary Saturday in August, a time when most men would be in the fields gathering in the harvest. Instead they were to be found in their parish church. It did not surprise him. They were all growing increasingly fearful, and last night’s meteor was, for many, the final portent. As far as the common man was concerned, it seemed Judgment Day was imminent, but there was still just enough time to make amends.

Despite his best efforts, the creaking of the church door alerted a number of people to his arrival and many turned their heads to look at the latecomer in their midst. So, too, did the Reverend Lightfoot, ensconced in his pulpit. He had just exhorted the congregation to pray for those afflicted by the fog, but he did not lower his own head and spied Thomas immediately.

Straightening himself and lifting his arms in a gesture of exhortation, the reverend addressed the young doctor directly.

“Brethren,” he announced. “Even men of science, with their complicated theories and highfalutin explanations, are turning to the Lord. They are seeing the signs and believing. Witness Dr. Thomas Silkstone.” He pointed to the door.

All eyes turned to the back of the church, where the young anatomist stood, rather bemused.

“I see fear written on his face,” continued the vicar, looking at Thomas directly. Then, shifting his glare to his wider audience, he went on. “I see fear written on many of your faces. But I tell you fear is for sinners. Last night the heavens were illuminated by a strange and mysterious sight, reminding us of God’s infinite power and majesty. It is written in the scriptures that he commands ‘even the winds and the water’ and, I tell you, those who are righteous have nothing to fear. For we have seen the power of the Lord firsthand and know that we will bask in its glory.”

Some of the women in the congregation gasped. A man shouted “Alleluia,” and some others answered him with “Amen.” The worshippers were enthralled by the vicar’s words. Even the crying babes on their mothers’ laps remained calm.

“So I say to you,” he exhorted them. “We may be living through difficult times; the devil himself may be spewing out his foul breath across the land, but the Lord will protect us if we have faith. Believe in Him and the saving grace of his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and he will deliver us from this evil.”

A great calm and sense of well-being had descended on the people. They had flocked to the church in fear of their lives, certain that the Day of Judgment was upon them. Yet this clergyman had allayed their fears. If they did but believe in Jesus Christ and his healing love, then they would be safe. No poisonous fog could suffocate them. No meteors could touch them. Their salvation lay in the pages of the Bible and in prayer. If they put their trust in the Lord, all would be well.

 

Thomas was glad to leave the church. Reverend Lightfoot had embarrassed him, intentionally or not. He was skirting the crowd, heading toward Mr. Peabody’s shop—he had run out of turmeric for his physick and intended to purchase some—when a voice called him back. He turned to see the vicar standing behind him, looking solemn. It was clear to him that the Reverend Lightfoot’s devotion to his duties was taking its toll. Thomas noted how exhausted the churchman looked. His skin was sallow and drawn over bones that had been previously been hidden under fleshy cheeks. “Forgive my forthrightness in church, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.

Thomas was momentarily taken off guard. “There is no need to apologize, sir,” he told him.

“I am glad you feel that way.” He paused and it was clear to Thomas that there was something more he wanted to say. “I have heard that you are taking the sick to the caves at West Wycombe.”

“That is so.”

The vicar nodded. “Then I wondered if I might pay a visit?”

Thomas’s mind flashed to the faces in church, to the people lapping up the vicar’s words like hungry cats would cream. He would bring spiritual solace to the sick and dying, as surely as his own medicaments brought them physical relief. “You would be most welcome,” he told him.

“Excellent,” replied the vicar, ordering his features into a reassuring smile before adding, “You and I are alike in so many ways, Dr. Silkstone.”

The young doctor paused. “How so, sir?”

The vicar’s nostrils flared and he gestured at Thomas with his wiry hand. “You are a physician of the body; I of the soul,” he said with a shrug. Thomas let the remark pass.

“W
hat ails the boy?” Sir Montagu Malthus looked slightly disdainfully at the small child lost in the billowing white pillows on the bed below him. His broad black shoulders were hunched over so that he looked even more like a crow eyeing carrion.

The nursemaid answered him matter-of-factly. “He has the fog sickness, sir, like so many.” She was a plain, no-nonsense woman with a frizz of ginger hair, whom he had hired to take care of the boy. Yet he had not anticipated this.

Young Richard Farrell lay half awake, half asleep. His dark-brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and his skin was the bluish gray of marble. Now and again he raised his ruffled head to cough. He had his mother’s delicate features—the same nose, the long lashes, mused Sir Montagu. A weak child, but handsome nonetheless. His early years had certainly left their mark on his physique. Regular hot meals and cold baths were surely required to toughen him up.

The nursemaid held a spoon of sugared water to the child’s lips and dripped it into his mouth. Half opening his white lids, the boy fixed his gaze on her for a moment. His pink tongue appeared and lapped at the liquid like a cat’s, but then his head turned and lolled to one side.

Sir Montagu’s lips curled and he sighed. “As much as I loathe the thought, we might need to call a physician to bleed the child, might we not?”

Smoothing the coverlet, the nursemaid nodded. “A good bleeding might purge him of the fever,” she said thoughtfully.

The lawyer looked annoyed. This was not what he had bargained on. He should never have let the child roam in the grounds while the fog lingered. He should have kept him indoors. That was his mistake. Still berating himself, he was about to leave the room when he spotted Fothergill hovering in the corridor outside. He found his manner most annoying, but he was nevertheless efficient and had done well in tracking down the boy.

“What is it, man? Have you the papers?” he snapped.

The notary sprang forward. Under his arm he carried a large scroll and in his hand a leather wallet. “They are all here, sir,” he said. “They merely await your signature.”

Sir Montagu raised his arm like a great wing and motioned to the notary to follow him downstairs to his study. “And a messenger is to take them to Chancery?”

Fothergill scampered after his master as he walked quickly down the stairs. “He is waiting as we speak, sir.”

“Good,” said Sir Montagu, flying into his study and seating himself behind his desk.

Fothergill laid the rolled parchment out in front of him and held it flat on either end with paperweights. Sir Montagu dipped the nib of his quill into the inkpot. “Your signature here, sir, if you will,” said Fothergill, pointing to a blank under the script. “And again, here,” to another, smaller piece of parchment. Sir Montagu obliged and Fothergill blotted the writing.

“ ’Tis done,” concluded the master, with a satisfied grin. “Now all we can do is wait.”

Fothergill scooped up the papers from the desk. “I am afraid, sir, the court is notoriously slow, especially in the case of wardships.”

Sir Montagu was all too well aware that what his clerk said was true. His hand fluttered in the air. Then he thought of the child upstairs, weak and listless in his bed. What if his condition worsened? There was many a man on his own estate who had dropped dead in the fields from the fog sickness. Yet he still liked to think that his own standing among his profession carried a good deal of weight. His peers would no doubt hurry through the application. Time, he acknowledged, was not on his side. He only hoped the permission he sought would be granted before it was too late.

 

From Brandwick Thomas rode back toward Boughton Hall. There were calls he needed to make on the estate. Thankfully those in most need, Mother Blackwell and Will Lovelock to name but two, had been transported to the caves and their conditions were, according to Lydia, much improving.

He reached Amos Kidd’s cottage shortly after noon and found Susannah stitching at the window. She rose to open the door as soon as she saw him tether his horse.

“Dr. Silkstone,” she greeted him. She managed a smile, but it was clear to Thomas that she had been crying. Her lashes were wet with tears and her eyes red and puffy.

“I am come to see how you are faring, Mistress Kidd,” he told her.

She let out a little sigh. “As well as any widow, sir,” she replied.

He nodded understandingly. He had seen so many young women in her predicament in the past few weeks. “I am also come to warn you to keep your door locked.”

“Against the fog, sir, or against the murderer?”

“Or murderers,” replied Thomas.

Her eyes widened. “You’d best come in, sir,” she said.

Thomas walked into the small, low-ceilinged room. A feeble fire spluttered in the grate. On the table was a pile of sewing; sheets and pillowcases from the hall that needed repairing. Susannah motioned him to a chair by the hearth and he sat.

“You talk of Lady Thorndike, sir? Surely there has not been another murder?” she asked, settling herself down in a chair opposite.

Thomas looked grave. “I am afraid so. Mr. Lawson.”

She frowned. “How, sir?”

“A blow to the head,” volunteered Thomas. “Then the murderer set fire to the stables.”

“Set fire?” she repeated uneasily. “The stables were on fire? When was this?”

Thomas paused to recollect. “Last Thursday. In the morning. Why, Mistress Kidd? Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

She turned to gaze at her own fire as it flickered weakly. She had only just started to lay the grate again; heat water, cook proper meals. Now that she was no longer alone she took more care. He could see her mind working, but she remained silent.

“They are looking for a traveler, a knife-grinder by the name of Joshua Pike.”

Her face suddenly tightened and the color deserted her cheeks. She switched her gaze downward.

“Did you see something, Mistress Kidd?”

She remained staring at the floor. “No. No. Nothing.”

“Lady Lydia is offering a ten-guinea reward for any information that will lead to his capture. There are posters up in Brandwick and beyond.”

“And why would this Joshua Pike want to kill Mr. Lawson?” There was a tone of indignation in her voice, and she flashed an angry look at Thomas.

“They say he was making trouble among the workers and had threatened him.”

The fog seems to have both blinded and deafened any potential witnesses, thought Thomas as Susannah’s pent-up anger simmered a little longer. After a moment’s reflection she forced an insipid smile. Whatever she had decided in her own mind, she was not about to share her thoughts with him. Instead she simply said: “I shall take care, sir.”

He changed the subject. “And how is your health?”

She closed her eyes momentarily. “My head aches, sir, same as everyone’s ’round here. Sickness, too. But, mercifully, no cough.”

“That is good news,” said Thomas, reaching into his bag. “But let me give you this.” He handed her a dark-brown glass bottle. “It contains physick. If you begin to cough, take two or three gulps and it should ease your breathing.”

She reached out her hand, her seamstress’s thimble still on her finger. He saw she was shaking.

“You must get lonely out here,” he said.

She shrugged. “Sometimes,” she replied, shifting nervously in her chair.

“But you are receiving visitors?” He worried about her isolation.

“The Reverend Lightfoot came the other day.”

“Ah, yes, the Reverend Lightfoot.” Thomas nodded. “He is working all the hours that God gives him.” He pictured the vicar rushing from parishioner to parishioner in his dogcart, comforting the bereaved and burying their dead. His eyes were constantly streaming from the fog, his large nose running, yet he exuded a reassuring calm, despite his own personal tragedy.

Susannah gathered a smile. “He is a good man,” she said.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Thomas.

She looked at him with doleful eyes and bobbed her head. Thomas wished her well and rose to leave.

“And remember, do not open your door to any strangers.”

She nodded. “I will remember,” she said. She watched the young doctor mount his horse and ride off down the track.

 

In the bedroom Joshua Pike had been listening. He walked back into the main room wearing an anxious expression. He seemed both troubled and vulnerable. “I swear I didn’t kill no one,” he told her. “I’m no murderer.”

For a moment she stood still, just looking at him, studying his features: the dark eyes, the nut-brown skin, his strong jaw, and the mouth that, when it widened, opened into the most beguiling smile she had ever seen in a man.

“I know you are not,” she told him, walking toward him with her arms outstretched.