The Devil's Breath (23 page)

As the vicar spoke, the girl’s anxiety seemed to lessen. Her features appeared to relax. She even managed to smile weakly at Thomas when she raised her eyes. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he whispered. “These people want to help you.”

The words of the Lord’s Prayer drifted up into the twilight air. As one the people were wishing the girl and her brother well, just as only a few minutes before they had wished them dead. The vicar concluded: “And deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. For ever and ever.”

“Amen,” they all said in unison.

The Reverend Lightfoot then descended the steps to where the children sat, the girl quite still, but the boy still drooling and flopping around. Making the sign of the cross with his hand, he cried: “Demons, I cast you out in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

The tide of time stood still for a moment, as if the seconds were parting to allow the devil to leave. Then, at last, the girl eased herself up from the step and holding out her own arms and hands in front of her, seemed to wonder at them. She appeared to grow in stature, like a butterfly gently emerging from its chrysalis. She wiggled and cocked her head and the crowd began to murmur, until finally she spoke.

Lifting her arms high into the air she cried, “Praise the Lord!” and the crowd erupted into loud cheers.

“A miracle!” they shrieked. “God is good! The devil is gone!” Women hugged their children. Husbands embraced their wives. Tears of joy and relief flowed freely. It did not seem to matter that the fog still lingered. It was almost forgotten amid the rejoicing.

Thomas surveyed the extraordinary scene and wondered at man’s mercurial nature—one moment a frenzied beast, the next a compliant angel. He descended the steps to where the Reverend Lightfoot was being thanked by his grateful parishioners. So many hands reached out to touch him. “Bless you, vicar!” they said.

Joseph Makepeace came forward and hugged his daughter. His eyes were full of tears. Others came to lift his son. Together they made their way back slowly to the cart. This time the children sat upright. It was a sight that gladdened the heart of the whole community and they waved to them as they drove off, heading for their cottage at the far end of the village.

The crowd began to disperse. Many of the women returned to the apothecary shop at the appointed hour to collect their free bottles of physick before wending their ways homeward, giving thanks that their own children were not possessed. Most of the men, however, repaired to the Three Tuns across the way. Over their tankards of tepid ale they, too, would give thanks, although they were a little less certain as to why they should be so thankful. The fog still remained, but perhaps now that they put their trust in the Lord, and the devil had departed from Joseph Makepeace’s offspring, fewer people would be taken to the grave.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the Three Tuns, across the square from where the extraordinary exorcism had taken place that very evening, Sir Montagu Malthus was hatching a plan. He had invited the recently bereaved Sir Henry Thorndike and his old friend Sir John Dashwood-King to dine. They feasted on grouse and pickled cabbage—there was none fresh—and downed several bottles of claret between them. The mood was lively and affable, despite the prevailing gloom caused by the fog. Sir Henry bemoaned the fact that his laborers were dying in their droves and Sir John complained that he would be forced to sell his wheat abroad for a better price. Sir Montagu’s complaint was of a more personal nature.

“Tell me, is it true you have found the heir to Boughton?” asked Sir Henry, pitching forward over the Stilton cheese.

The lawyer’s lips curled. “How word travels fast,” he said, taking another sip of port.

“Farrell kept that one quiet, by Jove!” chuckled Sir John. “And you are sure he’s not a bastard?”

Sir Montagu nodded. “For my purposes, gentlemen, the circumstances of his conception suffice.” He sat back in his chair and fingered the stem of his glass, clearly unwilling to divulge any more than he saw fit.

“So your worries are over?” chimed in Sir Henry.

“The boy is now a ward of court. His welfare and position are secured,” Sir Montagu replied, smugly.

Sir John threw back his head, laughing loudly. “You are a wily old bird, Montagu.”

“Indeed, but I need to be sure that the colonist is well and truly out of the picture.”

Sir Henry winked. “Ah, yes. He is set on marrying Lydia. I have seen them together. They make a pretty pair.”

Sir Montagu took another sip of port and nodded. “Oh yes, he wants to marry her. But the wardship means I have scuppered his plans for the time being. But if I know our tenacious American, he will find a way ’round the problem.”

Sir John smirked. “But if I know you, my friend, you will not be so easily put off.”

The lawyer’s head bobbed. “Indeed, gentlemen, but I will need both of you to support me in my endeavors.”

Sir John shrugged, remembering his encounter with Thomas at his home. “He’s pleasant enough, but he is a parvenu. You can count on me.”

“And you, Sir Henry?” asked Sir Montagu, turning to his old friend. He found him rubbing his left arm and wincing. The lawyer fixed him with a piercing gaze. “I can see you are unwell, my friend,” he remarked.

“This accursed pain has returned,” he replied. His lips matched the color of the grapes on the table.

“Then you must get some rest. I have heard it is the best remedy for such ills.”

The old man nodded compliantly. “Yes.”

“But I still need your assistance. Would it help if I told you that with Dr. Silkstone safely removed from the picture, Lady Lydia Farrell will be in need of a suitable husband?”

Suddenly Sir Henry’s pain seemed to be forgotten and an expression of interest settled on his jaded face. “If you put it that way . . .” he began, leaning forward.

Sir Montagu nodded. “Just as long as I can count on you both when it comes to the trial.”

“Trial? What trial?” echoed Sir John. The two guests looked at each other quizzically, then turned their gaze on Sir Montagu for an explanation.

He obliged immediately. “It really is quite simple. There have been two murders in Brandwick and, by judicious manipulation, Dr. Thomas Silkstone can be implicated in both.”

Sir John frowned. “How so?” he queried.

“The detail is of no importance. Let’s just say I have friends in the right places and leave it at that, shall we, gentlemen?”

So it was agreed that Sir Montagu Malthus would do all in his considerable power to have Dr. Thomas Silkstone arrested for a double murder. If all went well he would swing for his alleged crimes and Lady Lydia Farrell would be free to marry a more suitable husband and keep blue blood running through the veins of the Crick line.

“Then ’tis settled,” squawked Sir Montagu. And with these words he brought down his palm on the dining table, as if concluding a deal or ending a court session. “We shall bid farewell to Dr. Silkstone once and for all.”

T
he Reverend Lightfoot could not sleep that night. He still felt elated after the triumphant exorcism. The joy he had experienced as he cast out the demons from those wretched children was truly extraordinary. It was as if, for a moment, some mysterious hand had touched his very soul and empowered him. If he had ever wavered—and he was ashamed to say he had—then this miraculous revelation had set him once more on the true path to salvation. He paced up and down the aisle in his church, raising his arms now and again in praise. The Lord had imbued him with the most wonderful gift. Perhaps, he told himself, he should make more use of it.

He was contemplating how he might help other benighted believers. Surely there were many who needed help to overcome their inconsolable fears? Wandering restlessly up and down the aisle once more that evening he stopped in front of a painting in one of the side chapels. It was of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Naked and unashamed they were portrayed with the serpent, coiled ’round an apple tree. Suddenly he was reminded of Susannah Kidd. He recalled her lascivious lips, the curve of her breasts, her lustrous hair. He remembered how he had seen her picking apples in the orchard earlier that day. And that apple pie! How apt. Was she not sent to tempt men? Had not all his own reason deserted him in her presence? His heart had beaten so fast that he thought it would burst and when she touched him it was as if his whole body turned to molten rock. Must she not be possessed by Beelzebub, too, to have such an electrifying effect on him?

Turning to the picture once more, seeing Adam and Eve on the edge, about to fall into the abyss of sin, he made up his mind. This was a sign. Hurrying out of the church, he went to the stable and saddled up his mare. The moon was still veiled by the fog, but his trusty horse knew the roads well and soon he had reached the Kidds’ cottage.

Tethering his mount at the gate, he walked softly down the path. He was in luck. A lamp was burning in the bedroom. Mistress Kidd would be shocked to see him at such a late hour, but he would reassure her that he only meant to purge her of her sins. He would tell her that he knew the devil had a hold over her and that he could help her. She had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge. She had told him as much when she came to see him in a vexed state the other day. If she would only submit to his will, then he could cast out her demons and she would be free to live a good and pure life once more. All her anxieties would be banished, all her sins forgiven. The secret that was troubling her would be a distant memory. And when Judgment Day came, for surely it was imminent, then she would be able to meet her Maker with a clear conscience and a wholesome heart.

His tread was light. He did not want to frighten her. Drawing closer he could see the shutters were only half closed. A few paces more and he would be able to see into the room. His mouth went dry and his heart hammered as he drew level with the window. Now the bed came into view. It was empty. There was a sound; water being poured. She would wash herself before taking to the sheets. He could not see her, but he imagined her passing the cool, damp cloth around her neck and between her breasts.

Footsteps. His heart leapt as she emerged from behind the shutters. She was wearing leather stays over her shift and a petticoat and her golden hair was loose over her shoulders. Reaching for a brush on her table, she began running it through her hair with long, firm strokes. His breath came in short pants, now. There was no doubt about it, the devil possessed her. No ordinary woman could have this much power over a man.

He watched her stand and reach around the back of her waist to the laces of her stays. But wait. What was that? More footsteps. There was someone with her. He craned his neck and suddenly saw a man’s hands, brown and rough, reach for the laces and begin to loosen them. He saw Susannah close her eyes and her lips curl in a delicious smile, as if pleasure was rippling through her body. Now there was a voice, deep and low. The half-closed shutter obscured his view. She let out a short laugh at something, then gave out a sensuous moan as the man began kissing her neck. The vicar’s gaze darted to the rough hands once more. They were sun-tanned hands, hardworking hands that bore many scars on them. It was then he realized: They belonged to the knife-grinder.

 

The hour was late when Thomas finally arrived back at Boughton Hall. He had stayed much later than he intended at Mr. Peabody’s dispensary, ensuring that everyone who needed physick was able to take some away with them. His throat was gritty with dust from the road and he felt exhausted.

The house was silent as he made his way up the stairs to Lydia’s bedroom. On his return journey from Brandwick his thoughts had turned to her and how easily she had taken on the mantle of motherhood. He recalled the look of love on her face as she stared down at Richard. There was something of the Madonna in her manner; a serenity that surely only came with complete fulfillment. He thought, too, of Sir Montagu and how he had enlisted the law to keep them apart. She had had no choice but to agree to the terms of the wardship. And for his part, how could he have refused to allow Lydia custody of her only son? It would have been morally reprehensible. Not only that, but she would have ended up hating him for forcing her into such a decision. He did not doubt for one second that she still loved him, but now he would have to share her love.

Slowly he opened her bedroom door. The room was warm and silent and completely dark. Normally Lydia did not snuff out her bedside candle until he was safely beside her. He edged his way in, reaching out for familiar furniture to guide his path toward the bed. His eyes grew gradually accustomed to the darkness as he approached it and he felt the covers. They remained smooth and the pillows cold and crisp. The bed was empty.

Standing for a moment in the darkness, he thought. Then he realized. Making his way out of Lydia’s chamber, he walked along the corridor to the nearest guest room. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, he opened the door. And there they were; mother and son in bed together. Both slept peacefully, with Lydia’s arm cradling Richard in its crook.

For a few moments he watched them, listening to their breathing: hers steady and familiar, his shallow and erratic. A pang of sadness shot through him. Had he lost his beloved? Suddenly he felt compelled to kiss her and he walked forward and bowed low, brushing her forehead with his lips. Her eyes opened immediately and she smiled.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she replied, closing her eyes once more.

Moving away from the bed he breathed a sigh of relief. He believed her. Silently he made his way to his own room by the light of a lamp that still burned in the corridor. He resolved to tell Lydia that he understood that she and her newfound son needed time together on their own. He would also tell her that when she felt ready, he wanted to be as a father to Richard, if she would allow it.

Once in his own room he flung off his coat, almost disdainfully, as if wanting to slough off the unsettling feeling left by the evening’s strange events. He noticed the lining was torn at the seam as a consequence of his exertions. He would ask Mistress Kidd to mend it in due course. He walked over to the pitcher and ewer. Splashing his face with tepid water, he felt a stinging sensation and remembered the scratches on his cheek. He recalled the baying crowd by the market cross. Someone had cried out “witch.” Someone—it may even have been Ned Perkins, humble, docile, Ned Perkins—called for the girl to be burned. Young and old alike had put their faith in such a superstitious ritual. The witch trials of Salem may have been held in a far off land, he told himself, but the sentiments and superstitions were as true today in Brandwick as they had been almost one hundred years ago in his homeland.