The Burying Ground (16 page)

He repeated the prescribed measures for all three of the Johnsons, opening their veins and removing various quantities of blood, and advised barley water, gruel, or beef tea. He was certain the woman would recover, and reasonably sure that the girl would, as well, but he was very worried about the condition of the boy. His abdominal pain appeared to be excruciating.

Luke opened his case and fingered the small bottle of pure opium extract that he always carried. He wondered about giving just a small dose. Just enough to take the edge off the pain Caleb was feeling, and to help calm the bowel, but the boy was already delirious and opium might well speed him into insensibility. Luke debated for a moment, but then shoved the bottle back into his bag. Caleb would have to battle the pain on his own while his body fought the disease. Luke knew, however, that he would have to be honest about the boy's chances of recovery.

“It's the typhoid fever that has everyone else down,” he said to Mrs. Johnson. “I'm afraid your son has a very serious case of it.”

The woman's shoulders sagged. “I was counting on him. My husband died two years ago, and then I had Mother to look after. The boy's been a great comfort.”

And the only one bringing any money into the house
, Luke guessed. This family would be in dire straits indeed if he died.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I've done what I can. I'm afraid the rest is up to him. He's young and we can only hope that he has the strength to fight it off. I'll come back this evening and let a little more blood. That may help.”

The next few patients he saw seemed to be recovering, although one or two of them were still in danger of lapsing into the muttering delirium that signalled dire complications. He doggedly worked his way around the village, his buoyant mood gone. He became all too aware of how tired he was, and how helpless he felt when there was nothing more he could do than hand out the same old bromides of bleeding and calomel.

When he arrived back at Christie's, a small boy was waiting anxiously by the door.

“Mrs. Johnson sent me. She said to tell you to come quick.”

Luke followed him down the street. When they arrived at the Johnson's cottage, he turned to the boy. “Don't go far. I may need you to take another message.”

“I live just there.” He pointed to the cottage next door. “I'll wait in case you need me.”

Caleb Johnson was no longer muttering or fighting with his blankets. He was lying perfectly still, his breathing laboured. As soon as Luke entered the Johnsons' parlour, he knew that the final stages of the disease had been reached, and much sooner than expected. The boy must have been sick for far longer than the mother had reported. Or perhaps he had hidden it as long as he could.

Luke exited the cottage and whistled for the neighbour boy.

“Can you take a message back to Dr. Christie's for me?” he asked, handing over a coin. “Ring at the front door, and when the housekeeper answers tell her that I might be quite some time here. Tell her to let Dr. Christie know. Have you got that?”

The boy nodded.

“You may have to ring a number of times before she answers, but don't give up until she opens the door.”

He nodded again and disappeared down the street.

Returning to the cottage, Luke shooed Mrs. Johnson and her daughter back to their beds. “Get what sleep you can,” he said. “You both need it. I'll sit with him. I'll call you if anything changes.”

He settled down on a chair at the parlour table. It could be a long night, he knew. The dying went when they were ready and it was surprising how often they clung to life long after one would have expected their bodies to finally give up. There was little hope of any other outcome in this case. All the portents were there — the distended abdomen, the unremitting fever, the lapse into unconsciousness.

His mind went back to the conversation with Caleb and his instruction that soon the boy's demons would be laid to rest by marriage. It seemed foolish advice in retrospect. He should have told the boy not to worry about it, to do whatever he felt necessary to set his adolescent nature to rest. Who would it harm? Certainly not Caleb, as it turned out.

And then, with a start, he realized that he could apply much the same advice to himself. For all he knew he could be the one lying on a deathbed tomorrow, or next week, or in a month. He could have been infected with typhoid at any time during his rounds of the last weeks. If not typhoid, then something else that could jump from patient to doctor — cholera, dysentery, consumption. It had been consumption that killed Ben. Was it even now lurking in Luke's own body, ready to burst out of hiding and carry him away in gushes of bloody sputum and running sweat?

He had sat by Ben's side, too. It had been during the last part of his second year of school when he finally admitted to himself that Ben was consumptive. He had noted the persistent cough, of course, and the hectic red flush that formed on Ben's thin face, but then, during the particularly damp winter of that year, Ben began throwing the quilts from the bed at night and would often sit bolt upright, sweating profusely and complaining of something gnawing away in his chest. His eyes grew brighter even as his body grew thinner.

A few weeks later, after a violent bout of coughing that left him shaky and breathless, Ben was no longer able to hide the blood on the handkerchief he held against his mouth.

“I'm not long for this world,” he said then. “You know, you seemed like a miracle when you walked into my shop. Forgive me, Luke, but I knew this time was coming and I didn't want to die alone.”

There was a reprieve the following summer, and in spite of what Luke knew of the disease, he harboured a hope that Ben might recover yet. But as winter once again unleashed its cold fury on the city, the disease returned with a vengeance.

Ben began to walk with a hunched-over gait, as if his spine no longer had strength to support him, and all the time the cough grew worse. Instead of lovingly dusting books and straightening shelves, Ben spent his days by the stove, wrapped in a blanket, rising only to look after a customer's needs. Luke took over as much of the work as he could, but by then he was in his first year of walking the wards, putting in long days of physically and mentally demanding work, constantly challenged by the surgeons to make a diagnosis, suggest a treatment, offer a cure. Nights were spent tending Ben, and Luke grew tired beyond belief.

He became so alarmed that he prevailed upon one of the surgeons at Montreal General to attend. Professor Brown was a brusque, impatient man who intimidated even the other doctors, but Luke knew from watching him that he was the best physician available. Even his expertise wasn't enough, however.

“This man is dying,” he said after a cursory look at Ben. “A first-year student could have told you that. Honestly, Lewis, even you should have been able to figure it out.”

“I did,” Luke replied. “I just didn't want to believe it.”

He paid Brown's hefty fee from the till and thanked him for coming.

“I'll expect to see you in the wards tomorrow, regardless,” Brown said as he left.

Luke nodded, but he had no intention of leaving Ben's side. He sat with him by the stove, surrounded by his beloved books, until a final, violent hemorrhage ended it two days later.

Luke searched through Ben's personal effects, but he could find no mention of family, no relative he could contact, no one who should be notified. He had left enough money to provide for burial and a small stone, but little more.

Luke had many months of school left, and debated how he was going to complete them. He couldn't work in the hospital every day and keep the shop open as well. In the end, he contacted several of the booksellers along St. Vincent Street and sold Ben's entire stock to the highest bidder. It broke his heart, but it provided enough money, just, to allow him to complete his degree.

It had been hard after that, as hard as when he'd first arrived in Montreal. He rented another small closet of a room and tried to concentrate on his studies, but he longed for the companionship of a shared meal and the comfort of a shared bed. Hardest of all was that he could confide his grief to no one.

He would have stayed with Ben forever. But Ben was gone. And in the unlikely event that he ever found someone who could take Ben's place, he doubted that such an intimate arrangement would ever again be possible. He had resolved to return to the Huron, but his brother's farm was so remote that in the four years he had been there, Luke had seldom met anyone but neighbours. And on the rare occasions when a stranger wandered their way, the entire community knew about it the next day. There was no such thing as a secret along the Huron tract. If he went back, it would be to a solitary life.

He found that he was no longer so ready to accept this, and yet his alternatives were few in number. He wished, not for the first time, that he had his father's faith in an afterlife to guide him, that there would, indeed, be a reward in heaven if he resisted temptation in this life. But he had no such faith. Thaddeus had taken comfort in the Lord, but he had had the luxury of a shared lifetime with a beloved wife to help sustain it.

Luke knew that some men married anyway, not only to satisfy propriety and deflect suspicion, but, he suspected, for the simple comfort of having a home and companion, no matter how odd the circumstances might be. Perry's father was looking for a wife for his second son, or so Perry said, and he seemed resigned to the fact that sooner or later he would have to agree. Luke himself couldn't imagine it. He had met plenty of women whom he admired, but none who stirred him. Lavinia Van Hansel was pretty enough, in a fragile china-doll way. Cherub Ebenezer was the most stunning human being he had ever seen. The Irish girl in Kingston, Mary, had been a courageous and high-spirited girl who would have taken him in a heartbeat had he given her any hope at all. He appreciated their beauty as one might prize a finely carved statue or an exquisitely painted picture, but he did not want to possess them. How could he enter into a marriage with any woman when it would be nothing but a half-hearted fraud?

There was always Perry, he supposed, who made no secret of his interest. Perry, or someone from the taverns he frequented. But Luke found the prospect of canvassing the taprooms in search of a stranger profoundly distasteful. That wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Ben. But Ben was gone.

Luke had rebuffed Perry, shoved him away, and yet when he let himself think about Perry as a person and not as a threat, Luke realized that he quite liked the man. He was amusing. Charming company. He could never take Ben's place, of course, but Luke was tired of being lonely and fed up with feeling sorry for himself.

And Perry was a Biddulph. Dr. Christie had encouraged Luke to foster friendships with the well-heeled. He could scarcely object if he started spending time with Perry. But without the cocoon of an out-of-the-way bookshop, he would have to be very careful. After all, he lived in someone else's house, with his father a regular visitor. Yorkville was a very small village. And he had the reputation of Dr. Christie's practice to uphold. No hint must ever reach the ears of his patients in Yorkville. Or of Dr. Christie. Or, most importantly, of Thaddeus.

It could never be like it was with Ben, but maybe it would be better than being alone.

As he continued to talk himself into giving Perry a chance, Luke's head drooped lower, until sometime later — he could tell it was later by the position of the moon in the sky — he awoke with a start. Caleb had shifted his position and gasped. Blinking, Luke went to him, hoping against hope that this was a sign that he was fighting off the infection. Even as he reached the boy's side, he knew it was a forlorn hope, and when he examined his patient, he found that the boy's breathing was shallower than it had been earlier in the evening. It wouldn't be long now.

He made his way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Johnson was sleeping on the daybed. He gently shook her awake.

“I think you should come now,” he said.

Her face crumpled, but she rose and followed him to the parlour, where she knelt beside her son and held his hand. They watched for another ten minutes, and then it was over.

It began to rain the next morning, at first just a few drops here and there as the dry air soaked up most of the moisture before it could reach the ground, but early in the afternoon it turned into a steady drizzle that built into a downpour as the day wore on.

“Most welcome,” Thaddeus remarked at the supper table that evening, when Christie grumbled about making rounds in such damp weather. “The farmers have been frantic. This may be enough to save their crops. It would be grand if it rained like this for a couple of days and filled up all the wells. I've seen people taking water from the millponds, even though they're covered in green muck.”

“I think we'd see a lot less illness if the air was washed clean,” Luke remarked.

“In my opinion, Toronto's sewer is the problem,” Christie said. “They should stop the carters from drawing right at the mouth. Or at least make them wait until there's an offshore breeze so the vapours don't contaminate their loads. On the other hand, I suppose I'd barely have a practice at all if it weren't for these periodic epidemics. Not that our patients will be in any great hurry to pay.” He gloomily stabbed at the fish fillet that Mrs. Dunphy had served them.

“Speaking of which,” Luke said, “the Johnson boy didn't make it. He died last night.”

Christie's face softened. “Yes, I got the message that you were sitting with him. Poor Mrs. Johnson has the worst luck, hasn't she? First her husband, then the old lady, now her son. She'll have a tough go without him.”

“She didn't call us in soon enough. She hesitated over it because she owes you too much money already.”

“Really?” Christie shook his head. “Now that's just foolishness. I've told her before that I won't press her. She can pay when and if she's able.”

“Too much pride, I expect. She was embarrassed by it.”

“Now you see, that's why we need a better class of clientele.”

“Why?” Thaddeus said. “So you can make more money from them?”

“Yes. I can charge the rich ones more and the poor ones less.” Christie glared at Luke. “Now you see, that's why I want you to cultivate this Biddulph chap. To help the Mrs. Johnsons of the world.”

“Oh,” Luke said, “I didn't understand before.” He smiled. “I'll certainly do my best to chivvy him along.”

“Honestly,” Christie grumbled, picking a small bone from his fish, “You didn't think it was for my own benefit, did you? They can send all the toffs to the hangman for all I care, as long as I get to relieve them of a little cash along the way.”

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God,” Thaddeus observed.

“That's a point you really should make more often,” Christie said. “It would make my job easier.”

Luke was still smiling, although when he realized that his father was watching him, he ducked his head and appeared to be entirely absorbed by his fillet.

Thaddeus was puzzled by Luke's willingness to fall in with Christie's agenda. They agreed that the Van Hansels must be avoided, yet it was at the Van Hansels that Luke had made this Biddulph fellow's acquaintance. Perhaps the connection wasn't terribly close, but they certainly travelled in the same circles. How could Luke see one without seeing the other? He'd have to ask him about it later, when Christie wasn't around.

“By the way,” Thaddeus said, “I'll be spending the night at the Keeper's Lodge again. I offered to take another watch so Morgan can get some sleep.”

“Have there been any more incidents?” Christie asked, as he shoved his plate aside and plucked a newspaper from the pile at the end of the table. “I must admit we've been so busy I'd forgotten about your puzzle.”

“No, no more. But I don't know if that's because they haven't tried, or because Morgan's been so vigilant. Have you heard anything from your colleague at the hospital? I didn't ask before because I knew you were so busy.”

“Haven't heard a word. Mind you, they've been just as busy in the city, so I expect he hasn't had a spare moment to deal with it. No other clues on your end?”

“Not really,” Thaddeus admitted. “I'm working on a theory that there will be no attempt made during a full moon or in the days immediately before or following it, and that the same would hold for a new moon. But I'm not very confident in the prediction.”

“I see,” Christie said, nodding. “Not during a full moon because there's too much light, and not during a new moon because there's too little. Is that your reasoning?”

“Yes. But if the rain stops tonight and the moon breaks through the cloud, conditions could be ideal for another attempt.”

“Well, I don't know if it's pertinent to your situation or not, but I ran across an interesting item in the paper this morning.” Christie rooted through the mound of newspapers that had accumulated at the end of the dining table until he located the issue he was looking for. He handed a copy of the
Toronto Patriot
across the table to Thaddeus. “Page three, I believe. Peculiar discovery at St. James. Found by one of the construction crews.”

Thaddeus scanned the item, then began to read aloud:

The sexton at St. James-the-Lesser Cemetery made the alarming discovery of a double-occupied coffin this week, through the circumstance of the construction currently being undertaken at St. James Cathedral. Masons were in the process of extending a footing for the new chancel when they found an unmarked gravesite.

St. James Cathedral was destroyed in a devastating fire two years ago, but its attendant cemetery was closed in 1844 due to the unfortunate circumstance of it having become filled to capacity. The bodies interred there were transferred to the cemetery of St. James-the-Lesser on Parliament Street. Evidently, not all of the graves were moved at this time, however, as labourers report having found several anonymous graves as a result of their construction efforts.

In the process of the reinterment of the latest find, the sexton at St. James-the-Lesser discovered a recently disturbed grave in an isolated section of the cemetery. He reports that the coffin had been pried open, revealing the strange condition of it having provided a last resting place for not one individual as is customary, but for two.

Thaddeus stopped for a moment and glanced at Luke, who was listening intently, then resumed reading:

The gruesome discovery recalls an incident in 1847, during the dreadful Irish emigration of that year, when a cart overturned, spilling out a coffin, and revealing that there were two bodies inside. An enquiry was called into the management of the Toronto fever hospital and the carters involved in the transfer of fever victims at the time, however the subsequent investigation failed to reveal the culprits involved.

It is not known if the two events are connected, or the reasons for the recent disturbance of the coffin at St. James-the-Lesser.

Thaddeus already knew the culprits who had been involved: Phillip Van Hansel — “Hands” — and his extensive network of underworld cronies.

“Do you think the two are connected?” Christie asked.

“I don't know,” Thaddeus said. “But whenever I run across a coincidence like this, I sit up and take notice. There's really no way to tell unless we keep our eyes open.” He saw no reason to confide his knowledge of the matter to Christie. The fewer people who knew about his connection with Hands, the better. He glanced at the top of the newspaper. “This item is from four days ago, but even so I think I'll go to St. James-the-Lesser tomorrow and ask if the sexton has any more information. In any event, I thought I should let you know where I'll be tonight, just so you don't wake up in alarm when you find me missing in the middle of the night.”

Luke laughed. “No one ever knows where you are. Nobody worries about it anymore.”

“I suppose that's true. But still …” He was a little taken aback. It was true that, in the past, he had often deviated from his round of appointments in order to pursue a line of inquiry, and he supposed that no one would find it surprising if he did it again, but he liked to think that someone might be concerned if his absence became too prolonged.

“Thank you for apprising me of your whereabouts, Mr. Lewis,” Christie said with mock solemnity. “I should have been sick with worry otherwise. Oh — and should another grave be disturbed tonight, would you please come and get me? I'd really love to see the body.”

“I can only hope that it will be at four o'clock in the morning then.”

Mrs. Dunphy brought in the dessert before Christie could respond with an appropriate retort.

Thaddeus shared a cup of tea with Morgan while Sally finished washing the supper dishes. The twins helped to dry them and put them back on the cupboard shelf. The tiny Spicer kitchen seemed very crowded with so many bodies in it, but Thaddeus found that he enjoyed the bustle around him. The twins no longer unnerved him as badly as when he first met them. They had grown used to him, too, he supposed. At any rate, they no longer stood and stared at him in silence.

Thaddeus looked at his friend. Morgan looked dreadful. His eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks hollow.

“He's been working all day in the rain,” Sally said. “He's about done in.”

“There's a burial tomorrow. I had to make sure everything would be ready,” Morgan said. “You can't leave it until the last moment.”

Thaddeus felt that he was really far too old to be sitting up all night, but he realized that Spicer was at the end of his tether and was glad that he had offered to take that night's watch.

As soon as the kitchen chores were finished, Sally directed the twins to say good night to Thaddeus.

“Good night, Mr. Lewis,” they chorused, and one of them smiled shyly at him.

Morgan stood to follow Sally out of the room. “If you'll excuse me for a few minutes, I'll just go and hear the children's prayers.”

Soon Thaddeus heard childish voices reciting familiar words:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

His Love to guard me through the night.

And wake me in the morning's light.

It was the first prayer his own children said, and one of the tasks he always looked forward to when he was at home was the hearing of prayers and the tucking in of children. He had been at home far too seldom, he realized now. Betsy had been left to raise the family and he had missed too many bedtimes.

“Do you really think something might happen tonight?” Morgan asked when he reappeared in the kitchen.

Thaddeus was no longer sure that it would. The rain had subsided to an intermittent drizzle, but the cloud bank that covered the moon had not dispersed and there was every likelihood of more rain to come.

“I don't know. It may be too dark. We'll see. But a grave was opened at St. James-the-Lesser a few days ago, and it may have something to do with what's been happening here. At the very least I think we should go and talk to the sexton.”

“St. James isn't that far. I'd have time to go in the morning.”

Sally bustled back downstairs and filled the teapot, then said goodnight to them and disappeared again. Yawning, Morgan rose to follow.

“Call me if you see anything,” he said.

“I might, if I can't handle it myself. Otherwise I'll leave you to your bed. You look like you need all the sleep you can get.”

Morgan nodded and stumbled after Sally. Thaddeus gave them a few minutes to settle themselves, then he doused the lamp. It would be easier to see the graveyard if his eyes were already accustomed to the darkness. He pulled the hard wooden chair closer to the window and settled in as well as he could for the long watch ahead.

He had expected to be uncomfortable in this position, but he found that he could still see through the window if he tipped the chair against the wall and rested his feet against the edge of the sink. Even this would have set his old bones creaking a few weeks ago, but there was no protest from his knee as he balanced his weight with it. He must be growing hardier with his return to the old travelling life, he thought. The extra activity was loosening him up, making him stronger.

Even as he thought it, he knew it was nonsense. He had been no less active at the hotel where there was a constant climbing of stairs and lugging of baggage. He had limped through his duties longing for an opportunity to sit down as soon as possible. Even the first weeks of riding the Yonge Street Circuit had made him, at times, acutely uncomfortable from the constant jarring ride over rutted roads.

The discomfort continued even when he returned to Christie's house and sank gratefully into his bed. Nothing had changed, he realized, until he visited Holy Ann's well. One drink of water from it and he began feeling better by the time he reached the next village. But that couldn't be. That would be a miracle, just like Holy Ann's admirers claimed. God was capable of many wondrous things, but Thaddeus's Methodist soul had difficulty believing that He would use so papal a thing as a holy well to accomplish them. Shrines and saints and splinters of the true cross were not acceptable to a reasoned faith.

More likely that it was a return to the challenge of saving souls that invigorated him, even though his efforts were being so poorly rewarded. Or perhaps it was the thrill of once again solving a perplexing mystery. Of being useful. He was willing to credit any of these agencies before he would start believing in the miracles of Holy Ann.

He was suddenly startled out of his absorption by a faint rattling at the door. Slowly he tilted the front legs of his chair back to the floor and lowered his feet, tensed to spring in case it was an intruder. He fixed his gaze on the door and held his breath to listen for a repetition of the sound he had heard. Nothing. It must have been the wind picking up, he decided, or the scratching of a small animal.