The Devil's Breath (27 page)

There were only six other patients left in the caves, so they had all been moved into the banqueting chamber. The others had been returned to their homes, their breathing much improved by their time resting. Three of them had lost their fight. The ones who remained were nearly all elderly and showed few signs of recovery. Lydia feared for them. That is why, later that afternoon, she was so pleased to see the Reverend Lightfoot arrive unannounced.

It was one of the nurses who notified her of his presence as she sat reading by Richard’s side. She looked up to see him standing there, smiling benignly.

“Reverend Lightfoot. How kind of you to call,” she greeted him.

He bowed his silvery head. “It is my duty to offer words of comfort to the sick and old, Lady Lydia, and I am sure many of them here would welcome such solace.” He lifted the prayer book that he held in his hand.

“I am sure they would,” she agreed. She guided him over to the three remaining women, who lay limply on their mattresses. At his arrival two of them eased themselves up and were happy to listen to the vicar read prayers to them. Meanwhile Lydia returned to Richard’s bedside. Eliza had been watching him for the past five minutes and reported that he had not stirred.

“You look tired,” Lydia told her. “Why not take your rest?”

Eliza nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and holding a lamp went to lie down in the far corner of the chamber. Lydia remained with Richard until, half an hour later, she saw the clergyman close his prayer book and bid the elderly women farewell. She rose as he approached her.

“I am sure your visit was appreciated, sir,” she told him, smiling.

“I hope so,” he replied. “Widow Buttery does not seem long for this world.”

Lydia nodded. The old woman was weakening by the day.

“And how is this young man faring?” The reverend switched his attention to Richard as he lay sleeping. He moved closer and stood leaning on his cane.

Lydia looked at her son’s curls on his pillow and the bow of his lips. Color had returned to them at long last. She smiled. “He is improving, thank you, sir.”

The Reverend Lightfoot smiled, too, as he studied the sleeping child. “He is so like his mother,” he said.

The words jolted Lydia. She shot a look of surprise at the vicar. “His mother?” she repeated.

The vicar raised his gaze. “Yes, your ladyship. Your son is the image of you.”

Lydia felt a cold shiver run down her spine. For a second tension hung in the air, then she spoke. “I am sorry, sir,” she conceded. “You have found me out. I would have told you, when I felt the time was right.”

Reverend Lightfoot smiled. “I know that. But there was no need to hide the boy’s true identity from me.” He wore an expression of mild hurt that made Lydia feel guilty.

“I was not ready to reveal the truth. He has only been with me for four days.” She knew her excuse sounded pathetic, but it was true.

The vicar patted her lightly on her arm in a rare show of emotion. “The Lord knows what is in your heart, my dear Lady Lydia.” But instead of soothing her, his words had the opposite effect. Perhaps it was the way his mouth curled in a slight sneer at the corner, or the cold sharpness of his look that pricked her conscience. Either way, as he bade her farewell and walked back into the light after the darkness of the caves, Lydia was left with an inexplicable feeling of apprehension.

T
he formidable gates of Newgate prison loomed large. The last time Thomas had been through them was to visit Signor Moreno, the Tuscan castrato, who stood wrongly accused of murder. He was finally acquitted and Thomas could only hope he would enjoy similar justice. In the meantime he was not sure if it was a blessing or a curse to know exactly what lay ahead of him.

The familiar stench soon assailed his nostrils and for the first time in weeks he found himself almost craving the smell of sulfur instead of this gut-churning reek. He was marched inside and his charge given over to a man with a familiar face. His topcoat was flung on the table.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the physician from the Colonies,” sneered the head jailer. Thomas’s heart sank when he saw it was the same ugly brute, with the cruel mouth, who had shown so little compassion to Signor Moreno. The man rose from his desk and paced around Thomas as he stood chained and helpless. “Friend to sodomites, if I remember rightly!” he sneered, looking his latest inmate up and down. “And I see you’ve even brought something to keep you warm.” He picked up the coat and rifled through the pockets. Thomas held his breath. A second later the jailer brought out the folded sheet of paper that Dr. Carruthers had managed to secrete in the coat. Thomas bit his tongue as the jailer examined it.

“What’s this scribble?” he asked, a look of disdain on his face.

The young doctor thought it best to tell the truth in the hope that it might appeal to the jailer’s better nature, if he had one.

“ ’Tis the formula for a physick to help ease the fog sickness,” he told him.

For a moment the brute appeared quite shocked. He fixed Thomas with a stare. Perhaps there was an ounce of compassion in that pitiless exterior. But no. Suddenly he threw back his head in a gale of mocking laughter.

“So you would save all London from the great fog, would ye?” he cried, banging the desk with his flattened palm. Then, taking the paper, he held it level with Thomas’s face and began to tear it, first lengthways, then widthways.

“No!” blurted the doctor, lurching forward. But the jailer continued his cruel stunt until the paper was left in shreds. He tossed the pieces up in the air so they fluttered to the ground like snowflakes.

Jutting his head forward, so that Thomas could smell his stinking breath, he scowled at him. “If I were you, I’d concentrate on saving yourself, Dr. Silkstone.” He glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk. “The charge is murder, I see,” he said. Sucking in deeply through his clenched teeth, he added: “At least your stay will be a short one, before your appointment with the gallows.”

From the corridor behind him Thomas heard footsteps echo and a stocky young man with a flattened nose appeared. “Mr. Dowd here will take care of you, Dr. Silkstone,” the head jailer sneered.

Thomas felt the shove of a fist in the small of his back and he moved on down the dingy passageway. It was every bit as gruesome as he remembered. To his left and right were cells each holding six or more inmates, all manacled by chains. Forced to run the gamut of the other prisoners, he was grabbed and pinched by ragged arms that reached out through bars as he passed. Some were covered in dirt, others in sores. There were shouts and jeers and pleas until, after what seemed an age, he finally arrived at his cell.

Thankfully he was alone. At least whoever was behind his false arrest had shown the decency to see to that. As for any other privileges, they were few and far between. The cell was a tiny room, barely six foot by six foot, just big enough to take a palliasse and a pail for his slops. There was a small slit for a window high up in the outside wall, so that at least he could tell if it was night or day. He was grateful for such small mercies.

His jailer said little. He seemed diffident, almost uncomfortable, with his new prisoner. And he had a cough, too. Not a loose, persistent one, like those who were afflicted by the fog, but an occasional, chafing one. Once inside the cell he told Thomas to lift his wrists so that his irons could be unlocked. Their eyes met as the young man fumbled with the small key.

“Thank you. Mr. Dowd, is it not?” said Thomas, massaging his bruised hands.

“Sir,” he acknowledged, looking directly at him. A connection had been made. The doctor could now make progress. The young man had been carrying the coat and, instead of flinging it on the floor, he set it down carefully on the filthy mattress. Another good sign, Thomas noted.

The clank of the cell door and the turn of the key meant that left in solitude, he could begin to think. He picked up the coat and checked the pockets. They were empty; of course they were. The head jailer’s probing fingers would not miss a trick. But just as he was about to toss the garment down once more, he felt something lumpy in the lining; a hard object that was quite long and thin. He inspected the split seam. He fumbled for a second or two, then drew out something so precious that he wanted to shout out for joy when he finally held it in his hand. Dr. Carruthers, in his infinite wisdom, had managed to slip into the tear in his lining something far more useful than a file for the prison bars or a pick for the lock. He recalled the bargain he had made more than a year previously with Captain Farrell’s jailer, who was suffering from the toothache. On that occasion not only did he extract the man’s tooth, but also a promise from him to preserve the captain’s corpse in gin. He had used his medical skills to achieve his own aims and he would, no doubt, do the same again. Thanks to his mentor, Thomas had managed to smuggle into Newgate Prison a bottle containing the new formula that could save countless lives. He kissed the glass and placed it carefully back into the inside pocket of his coat. Soon it would be called upon to save his own life as well.

Settling himself on his palliasse, his folded coat under his head, he decided to go through events. He needed to make sense of what was happening to him, to piece together this awful puzzle. He began by recalling his first days at Boughton Hall. He cast his mind back to the garden party at West Wycombe Park. So much had happened—so many had died—since that fateful day in June when he had first encountered Lady Thorndike that it seemed not mere weeks but years ago.

It was then that he heard footsteps along the passageway. They were slow and heavy and accompanied by shorter, lighter ones. A cough. They were coming nearer. He sat upright. They stopped outside his door. The key twisted; the bolt clattered and in walked Dowd, followed by a very welcome visitor.

“Sir Theodisius!” cried Thomas, grabbing the Oxford coroner by the arm. He would have hugged him had it been thought seemly to do so. As it was, they shook each other’s hands for several seconds. “I am so very glad to see you, sir,” he said, finally pulling himself away from his visitor.

The young jailer obligingly brought a chair for Sir Theodisius and it creaked under his weight as he eased himself down. He was flushed and his forehead was damp with sweat. “My only regret is that I did not arrive here sooner to spare you this,” he huffed, gesturing with outstretched arms to the squalid surroundings.

“But you have news?” Thomas leaned forward on the edge of his low palliasse.

“Indeed I do,” replied the coroner, dabbing his brow. “Sir Montagu Malthus is behind your arrest.”

Thomas leaned back. “I knew it,” he snapped. “So Lady Lydia has explained about the wardship and the conditions the court has imposed at his instigation?”

The coroner shook his head. “What wardship?”

In all the mayhem of the last few days, Sir Theodisius had not been informed that Lydia had a lost son who had been found and was now at Boughton. So Thomas had to relate the whole sorry saga of how Sir Montagu had tracked down the boy and now held him almost to ransom. By forbidding their marriage, Thomas and Lydia were the ones who were being forced to pay the heaviest price.

“I see,” said Sir Theodisius finally. “So, not content that you two can never marry, he wants you disposed of at the gallows.”

Thomas nodded. “Yes. He wants me dead,” he said with a chilling decisiveness. There was a pause as both men pondered the thought. “But how did you know I was here?” he asked.

Sir Theodisius eyed him earnestly. “Sir Henry.”

Thomas frowned. “How did he . . . ?”

“He was in on Sir Montagu’s plan. There was a note.”

“A note?”

It took Thomas a mere second to follow. Somehow the cuckold had managed to obtain the crumpled message that Lady Thorndike had written, asking Thomas to call on her. It did not matter that it was as a physician answering a patient’s urgent request that he visited Fetcham Manor, the note was incriminating.

Sir Theodisius leaned forward. “Sir Henry is not happy with Sir Montagu’s scheme. He is a good man,” he told Thomas, nodding his head. “I only wish I could say the same for my nephew.”

Thomas thought of the warrant signed by Rupert Marchant. “Yes, it would seem that his new promotion has gone to his head,” he said with a wry smile.

The coroner looked sheepishly at his friend. It was clear to both men that the lawyer-turned-magistrate bore a grudge against Thomas and was only too willing to be complicit in his downfall.

There was an awkward pause until Thomas asked, “So, you have your own scheme to free me from this hellhole?” There was a hollow ring to his enthusiasm.

To his great surprise, Sir Theodisius nodded. He stretched out his stubby fingers toward a small satchel and opened it, retrieving a sheaf of papers. “These should do the trick,” he told Thomas, shuffling the sheets.

“And they are . . . ?”

“Papers to sanction your release. I am hoping the office of coroner carries some sway down here.” There was something rather vague in his manner that did not reassure Thomas. But in his parlous state, the doctor had little choice but to go along with the option. He watched the corpulent coroner haul himself up from the chair and put his face up to the grille in the cell door.

“Jailer! Jailer!” he barked. Dowd came quickly. “I wish to see your master. Jump to it!”

Thomas felt his guts tighten as, moments later, he heard more footsteps approaching. The cell door opened and in walked the head turnkey.

“You wished to see me, sir?” he sneered.

Sir Theodisius drew himself up to his full height but he was still at least two inches shorter than the brute. “Sir, I have papers sanctioning Dr. Silkstone’s release,” he said officiously, handing over the sheets.

The jailer eyed him suspiciously. “And you be?”

“Sir Theodisius Pettigrew, appointed by His Majesty King George as the coroner of Oxford,” he told him, his chest puffed out like a pouter pigeon’s.

The jailer appeared to study the documents closely for a few moments, then handed them back to the coroner. “They are in order, sir,” he said, a smile suddenly curling his lips.

“Then Dr. Silkstone can leave with me?” The coroner could not disguise his relief.

The jailer nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “if this was Oxford.”

“You would play games with me?” cried Sir Theodisius indignantly, his face reddening.

The smile had disappeared from the jailer’s face. He shot a look of disdain at Thomas. “The only place he is going is to the gallows,” he hissed. And he flung the document down to the floor and stamped on it before walking out of the cell, banging the door behind him.

Sir Theodisius slumped back in his chair and put his head in his hands. Thomas tried to comfort him. “Do not despair, sir. You did all you could.”

The coroner lifted his gaze. “But ’twas not enough. I shall just have to try a different tack.” His jowls wobbled as he spoke. “I shall return as soon as I have another plan.”

Thomas rose with the coroner and shook his hand. He was grateful for his efforts, but he knew he would have to rely on his own ingenuity if he was ever to leave the four prison walls a free man.

Dowd was summoned and opened the door. It took less than ten minutes to escort the coroner from the cells and to return to Thomas. This time he brought with him some bread, cheese, and small beer. The doctor eyed the food and drink gleefully, even though there was mold on the cheese. He had neither eaten nor drunk since early that morning. “Thank you, Mr. Dowd,” he said as the jailer set down the plate and cup beside him. He let out an odd bark as he did so. There it was again. That troublesome cough.

A flicker of a smile crossed the young man’s face. “No one’s ever thanked me before, sir.”

“Well, I am most heartily grateful,” replied Thomas. He needed to keep him on his side.

The jailer shuffled from foot to foot. “Tell you the truth, I ain’t locked up no gentleman afore,” he said. “ ’Tis no place for the likes of you, if I may say, sir.”

Thomas seized the chance. “And you?”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes. A young man like you can’t want to spend the rest of your life in a place like this. You must have family, a sweetheart . . . ?”

“I have a wife, sir.”

“A wife, eh?” Thomas was just about to pry a little deeper when he heard the clanging of a bell along the passage. It was the end of the day watch, when the guards changed.

“ ’Tis time I was finished for the night, sir,” said the young man, half apologetically.

Thomas nodded. “Off you go then, Mr. Dowd. I shall still be here in the morning when I hope we can continue our conversation.”

The stocky youth saw the humor in his captive’s remark. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He gave a shallow bow and backed out of the cell, locking the door behind him.

Left alone once more, Thomas ate the rest of his meager rations and drank the tepid small beer. He then lay down on his ticking and watched the light fade outside through the narrow slit in the wall. Beyond he could make out the sounds of the city, the clatter of carts on cobbles and the shouts of hawkers. But when the pulse had slowed down and the rhythms of the quotidian were being exchanged for the throb of the night, he heard another voice join the throng. It was low and possibly belonged to an older gentleman. From the clarity of his tone, he guessed he was not far away, probably just outside the prison gates. It was, he told himself, entirely possible that his soliloquy was aimed at the wretched souls inside Newgate. From the variance in the timbre, Thomas suspected he was pacing up and down outside the prison walls. His message was clear and unequivocal as he called loudly: “Repent, for the hour is at hand. The Day of Judgment is upon us. Prepare ye for the coming of the Lord.”