The Lazarus Curse (30 page)

“But there is no accursed Lazarus potion,” he said. “Why is this so precious?”

Welton’s lips twitched out a smile. “Oh, but there is a Lazarus formula, Dr. Silkstone. The
Solanum nigrum,
the same plant that the obeah-man uses to poison, can also be used for good. It may not raise the dead, but it can make a patient appear dead so that they feel no pain, and are unaware of their suffering for a short period of time.”

Suddenly it was as if Welton had lit a candle in the darkness. “So you would use the herb in surgery,” said Thomas. “For amputations, lithotomies, and the like?”

Welton nodded and picked up the notebook. “Indeed, Silkstone. There is, in here, the basic formula for a strong sedative that causes insentience. It can be used to alleviate so much dread and fear and suffering in a patient. It will assist surgeons and reduce the risk of hemorrhage.”

Thomas could not hide his delight at this possible breakthrough. “But this is, indeed, wonderful news, sir. So you are conducting experiments here?” He lifted his head and looked about the room once more. Welton rose from the table and walked over to one of the plant pots on a shelf near the window.

“The branched calalue?” asked Thomas.

Welton nodded. “It has similar properties to the mandrake root,” he said, fingering the leaves. Thomas recalled that mandrake was used in Pliny’s days as a relaxant, a piece of the root being given to the patient to chew before undergoing surgery. “Only I have found it to be much more effective. I have already used it on animals. I dosed a cat, cut it open, stitched it up, and within a day or two it was catching mice again!”

Thomas had noticed a cat dozing by the fire when he first entered. He switched his gaze to it and Welton acknowledged him. “The very same,” he said.

For once Thomas found it difficult to process the information he had just gleaned. That such encouraging breakthroughs could come out of such tragedy was a rare occurrence in his experience. He found himself both saddened and yet delighted by such an outcome.

Welton returned to the table. “So now you know, Silkstone,” he said, seating himself once more.

Thomas nodded and studied the doctor thoughtfully for a moment. It was only then that it occurred to him he had sentenced himself to living a lie. He was Dr. Frederick Welton, the brave doctor and explorer who had died in the service of his country. If he ever resurrected himself he would be vilified by the establishment. Any work he published would have to be under an alias, or through another collaborator. He had sacrificed his own career and reputation for a greater cause. Yet he was now free to pursue his own research. In some ways, mused Thomas, he had broken his bonds.

“You can be sure your secret is safe with me, sir,” he said, looking Welton in the eye. “I shall not say a word, but I do look forward to the day when I can use the formula to anaesthetize my own patients before I operate on them.”

Welton nodded. “So do I, Silkstone. So do I.”

The three men drained the bottle between them as the afternoon light faded. It was the clatter of hooves that alerted them to the arrival of the ladies.

“My wife and daughter have been visiting,” Welton said as he went to open the door. Turning to look out of the window, Thomas saw the two women whom he had last seen wearing widows’ weeds stepping down from the carriage.

“My dears, we have a visitor,” Welton called to them as he stood in the doorway.

Thomas watched them both look up and make their way over to the laboratory. As they came closer he could see their expressions tense, unsure as to who might be waiting for them.

“A visitor?” he heard Henrietta say to her father. He knew that her subterfuge would make her wary of him. He wondered at her cunning.

As soon as the two women saw Thomas, the anxious look on their faces tightened even further. Unsure as to how their deceit would be received, they remained guarded until Welton spoke.

“Henrietta said you would come. Did you not?” he cried, a wide smile on his face. He watched his daughter walk toward Thomas.

“I did indeed, Papa,” she said, her gaze fixed on the young doctor.

The features that Thomas had last seen bleached by grief now seemed to be more colorful and softer. Mindful, however, that she had, indeed, suffered bereavement, Thomas bowed and smiled gently at her.

“Your father has told me the whole story, Mistress Perrick. Your husband was, indeed, a brave man.”

Acknowledging his words with a slight nod, she allowed herself a smile. “And you are a most tenacious one, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied. “Our confidence in your powers of deduction was not misplaced.”

Thomas thought of Perrick’s letters, the satchel in the river, the corpse tethered to the pier, Welton’s portrait, the painting of West Wycombe; they were all clues designed to bring him to this very laboratory; all clues that led him to this new truth. Yet still he remained puzzled.

“But why did you not tell me directly and be done with all this secrecy?” he asked.

Welton gave a slight shrug. “With John’s death, I was forced to rethink my plans. He was vital in my scheme and I knew it would be hard to find someone to replace him. I had no idea whom we could trust. If we had told Sir Joseph of our proposals it would have placed him in an impossible position.”

The situation was becoming clearer to Thomas. “So you put me to the test?”

Welton paused for a second, unsure as to whether the anatomist’s tone was one of approbation. “I knew of your repute; of your intelligence and understanding: of your compassion, too. I feared the recent enmity between our two countries might also color your judgment, but in the end I was sure you would understand.” He paused, watching anxiously for Thomas’s reaction. “Perhaps I have been too presumptuous.” A sense of doubt had crept into the learned man’s words.

Thomas did little to dispel it. He remained silent. He had been exploited. His own professional reputation had been put in jeopardy and yet he could not escape the sense that he was honored to be chosen. A stranger was entrusting him with a momentous secret because he knew of his reputation not only as an outstanding anatomist and surgeon, but also as a man of good character and sound judgment, a man of integrity. He nodded and a smile finally spread across his face.

“I am glad I proved worthy of your trust, sir,” he replied.

For the second time in as many days Sir Montagu Malthus summoned Dr. Felix Fairweather to his chamber. On this occasion they were not alone. Sir Montagu’s clerk, Gilbert Fothergill, was skulking at the desk by the window where his master was seated and, to the physician’s surprise, fully dressed.

“But sir, you look much restored,” remarked Fairweather with a smile.

Sir Montagu, who had not so much as looked up when the physician had been announced by the butler, merely shook his head. His eyes remained fixed on a document.

“No thanks to you,” he muttered.

Fairweather darted Fothergill a nervous glance. He did not wish to be humiliated in front of a clerk.

“You wished to see me, sir,” he said, endeavoring to sound assured.

“Indeed,” came the reply. “I have a job for you.”

Unable to disguise his relief, Fairweather allowed his features to gather into a smile. It was, however, premature.

“Come closer,” Sir Montagu beckoned. His tone sounded ominous and his hooked fingers drummed impatiently.

With his heart working its way up to his mouth, Fairweather did as he was bid. He approached and followed the lawyer’s finger to the document that was on his desk.

“Sign here, will you?” Sir Montagu commanded.

Frowning, the physician peered at the paper, then taking out a pair of spectacles from his pocket, he read the text. After a moment or two he straightened himself and snatched his glasses from his nose. Looking at Sir Montagu with an expression of complete horror, he protested: “But sir, this is . . .” His voice became lost in his own sense of outrage.

“I know what it is, Fairweather. Now sign it.”

Fothergill stepped forward with a pen.

“Sign it,” insisted Sir Montagu, through clenched teeth, “or I shall see to it that you never practice medicine again.”

S
ir Montagu arrived unannounced at Boughton Hall with all his usual rich man’s bluster. And, as usual, the household was sent into a flurry.

Lydia, checking her hair in a mirror held by Eliza, was fretful.

“Is his lordship clean? What is he wearing?” She feared that Richard might be scrabbling about in the garden dirt or up a tree, although since Mr. Lupton’s departure, he had remained relatively subdued. No one had seen hide or hair of the estate manager and Lydia was none too pleased about his sudden disappearance.

“His lordship is in his day clothes, but looks quite respectable,” answered the maid, trying to remain calm. She knew how these impromptu visits from Sir Montagu had put her mistress so ill at ease on a number of previous occasions.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia walked to the front doors that were flung wide open in order to greet her guest. Her studied smile turned to a look of shock, however, when she saw that Sir Montagu was accompanied not just by Dr. Fairweather, but also by her errant estate manager, Nicholas Lupton.

“Sir, you honor us with your presence,” she said, greeting Sir Montagu as he reached the top of the front steps. She wanted to say that he was not expected until later on in the week when Thomas would be there. She wanted to ask him what on earth Dr. Fairweather and Nicholas Lupton were doing in his company, but her good manners dictated otherwise.

“And of course you know Dr. Fairweather and Mr. Lupton, my dear,” he said, flapping his long arm toward the two men who now stood beside him.

Lydia’s voice wavered. “Yes, I do . . . I . . .”

Sir Montagu cut her short.

“You always make me feel most welcome, my dear,” he replied, sweeping his way past her into the entrance hall.

Lydia cast a disapproving look at Lupton, whose mouth remained set in a strange sort of sneer, and accompanied the mismatched party through the hallway and into the drawing room.

Fairweather and Lupton settled themselves on chairs behind the sofa where Sir Montagu spread his tall frame. Lydia sat on a sofa opposite him and asked Howard to bring tea. But Sir Montagu shook his head.

“I would prefer it if we were not disturbed, my dear,” he told her in front of the butler.

Lydia’s smile shriveled. “As you wish, sir,” she replied and she waved Howard out of the room.

“I shall come to the point quickly,” Sir Montagu began as soon as the door was shut. “You are acquainted with Mr. Lupton here?”

Lydia frowned. “Of course I am, sir. He departed from my employ only last week and took off without so much as a farewell.” Her anger had resurfaced.

“Calm yourself, my dear,” said the lawyer, switching his gaze to Dr. Fairweather, seated to his right. “You see. There is distinct agitation there,” he mumbled, only his pitch was sufficiently loud so that Lydia could hear his words.

“Sir, I . . .” She opened her mouth to protest, but Sir Montagu’s large palm presented itself to her.

“Please listen to what I am about to say,” he told her, adopting the tone of a tutor.

“You see, my dear, Mr. Lupton was actually in my employ, too.”

Lydia felt her jaw drop in amazement. She looked askance first at Sir Montagu, then at Lupton, who sat impassively to his left.

“I’m afraid I don’t . . .” Her words remained stuck in her mouth, yet she managed to direct her glower at the former estate manager.

“Mr. Lupton’s full title is the Right Honorable Nicholas Henry Pierpoint Lupton, the second son of the fourth Earl of Farley.”

Lydia felt her breath judder inside her chest.

Sir Montagu continued: “I sent him both to spy on you and to seduce you.” His delivery was unembellished, doing nothing to disguise his utterly brazen motives. “You see, my dear, I know it all. I know that Silkstone broke his court order by coming here and that you lay with him again, going against Chancery’s express orders. And you know what that means.” His tone had suddenly become threatening and he glared at her.

Lydia’s eyes widened and she shot up from her seat. “No!” she shouted at Lupton. She marched over to him and in a fit of rage slapped her erstwhile estate manager on the cheek. “How dare you?!” she cried. “I treated you well. You wormed your way into my son’s affections and this is how I am repaid?” She flew over to the window and looked out, her fists clenched, leaving Lupton to rub his reddened cheek.

“You see, Fairweather,” said Sir Montagu. “Another demonstration of her irascibility.”

Lydia pivoted. “What is this? What are you saying? What are you trying to do?” Her anger had turned to tears. Her eyes were watery and her cheeks flushed. Suddenly she hurried over to Sir Montagu and sat by his side.

Taking his hand in hers she said, “Do you not remember what you told me when you were ill, when you thought you were going to die?” She smiled through her tears, willing him to divulge the secret they shared. “Surely we can tell everyone now, can we not?”

Sir Montagu looked at her, his great brows meeting in a frown.

“What are you saying, dear Lydia?”

“Tell them,” she urged him. “Tell them what you told me, please!” She tugged at his hand, but he pulled it away from her. “Tell them I am your daughter, sir!” she cried.

“There we have it. She is mad, Fairweather! Hysterical!” exclaimed Sir Montagu, pointing at Lydia, kneeling at his feet. “You have seen it with your own eyes. This is precisely the kind of madness I was telling you about. The poor child is not only violent, she is also deluded.”

Fairweather, remaining solemn throughout the exchange, now nodded.

“I see your fears, sir,” he said slowly. “A case of hysteria, I would say, brought on by a voracious sexual appetite.”

Lydia’s head shot from one man to the other. “What?” she gasped. “What are you saying?”

“What Dr. Fairweather is saying, my dear, is that you are mentally unstable.”

Lydia shot to her feet. “You have no right . . . you cannot . . . I . . .” Her anguish was tying her tongue so that her words were held captive.

“I am afraid we have no choice,” said Sir Montagu, rising from his seat. The other men did likewise.

“No choice but to do what?” pleaded Lydia, suddenly finding her voice.

“You have broken the terms of the court order by seeing Silkstone and your mental faculties are most gravely impaired. I have no choice but to have you committed for your own safety and that of your son,” he told her.

Her breath snagged in her throat. “Richard!” she said, then, when it dawned on her what the lawyer was saying, she repeated it in a scream: “Ri . . . chard!”

Lupton and Fairweather stepped forward and, grasping her firmly by both arms, Sir Montagu read out an official document to her. She did not hear his words as they buffeted the air with their cruel insinuations. She was struggling and crying out and when Howard came to see the cause of the commotion, he found her being dragged toward the door.

“Sir, please tell me what is going on?” he cried to Sir Montagu.

The lawyer brandished the legal document and placed it in Howard’s hands.

“You can tell Dr. Silkstone, when he comes to call, that we have taken her ladyship away for her own good.”

Howard looked horrified. “But sir . . .” he protested. “Where, sir? Where are you taking her ladyship?” But his pleas went unanswered as his voice was drowned out by Lydia’s screams that splintered through the hall and out into the open air.

The coach for Oxford left at first light. Thomas had spent an enjoyable evening in the company of Dr. Welton and his family. The veil of secrecy that had lain over the whole expedition had been lifted and Thomas had heard tales of the remarkable creatures encountered and the extraordinary adventures the men had experienced. Dr. Welton had even given him a sheaf of his own notes detailing various specimens to assist Thomas in his cataloguing.

Even though it was still winter, the countryside, as Thomas looked out of the coach window, seemed to be waking from its long sleep. The snow on the hilltops had entirely disappeared and in the poplar trees that lined the riverbank, the birds were nesting.

Leaving the coach at Oxford, Thomas hired a carriage to take him out to Boughton. It was late afternoon before he finally saw the needle of the chapel and allowed himself to feel he was at journey’s end. The carriage set him down in front of the house as usual and Will Lovelock sprang from nowhere to help with the baggage.

“Will! Good to see you!” Thomas greeted him. The boy managed a weak smile but no more.

Striding up the steps, two at a time, Thomas half expected the doors to be thrown open at any moment. Howard answered his ring.

“Dr. Silkstone,” said the butler. His face betrayed his surprise.

“Is all well, Howard? Where is her ladyship?” Thomas walked in, taking his gloves off as he spoke, glancing at each of the doors that led from the hallway, anticipating one to open suddenly. He pivoted on his heel. “And the young master, where is he, Howard?”

The butler’s expression checked Thomas’s exuberance.

“Oh sir, I cannot begin to tell you . . .”

“What has happened? Where are they? Tell me, man, for god’s sake.” He was growing more anxious and impatient with each passing second.

Howard set his face, drained of all its color, to meet Thomas’s square on.

“Sir Montagu was here yesterday, sir.”

Thomas looked puzzled. He was not due until later in the week. “Go on.”

“He came with Mr. Lupton and Dr. Fairweather.”

At the mention of Lupton’s name Thomas’s expression changed from anxiety to rage. “I knew he was Malthus’s lackey!” he cried. “What did they do? Where have they taken her?”

“Sir Montagu brought with him papers,” said Howard, trying to remain composed.

“What sort of papers?”

“These sort, sir,” said Eliza, emerging from a doorway. She had been watching the exchange through the half-closed door and hurried out to hand Thomas a scroll of parchment. He could tell from her eyes that she had been crying.

“They said she was mad, sir,” she blurted. “They have taken her away, and the young master, too.” The maid began to sob again and Howard motioned her to leave.

“What does she mean, Howard? Where have they taken her?”

Howard, himself fighting back the tears, cleared his throat. “Sir Montagu took his lordship back with him to Draycott House, but her ladyship . . .”

“Well? What have they done with her, for god’s sake?” Thomas could not suppress his impatience. Suddenly he felt the air, full of recriminations and doubt, stifle his breath and close in on him.

The butler steeled himself to deliver the rest of his news, as if it was too awful for him to speak. His mouth opened, but no words came forth.

“Where?” urged Thomas once more, grabbing hold of the butler’s arm.

“Oh, sir,” he wailed, unable to rein in his anguish any longer. “They have taken her to Bedlam.”