“Thank you for coming, sir,” she said. She was close to him now and could see the rims of his eyes were red. There was a vulnerability about him that stirred something inside her. He acknowledged her words with a nod, but still did not look at her directly. As she watched him wrap his scarf around his neck once more she felt compelled to ask him whether his wife’s ending had been as shocking as her husband’s. “Were you there?” she asked suddenly, the words gushing out uncontrollably. “Did you see?”
His silver head jerked up, as if surprised by her question, wondering at her forthrightness. She sensed his unease. “Forgive me, sir. I did not mean . . .”
“No one has asked me that,” he replied thoughtfully. He fumbled with his scarf, then, for the first time, he looked her directly in the eye. “Yes. Yes, I was there. I saw her pain; the fear on her face.” His voice cracked as he recalled the scene.
Susannah saw his own pain reemerge at the very thought of his wife’s death, as if she had put her hand in an open wound. His eyes became glazed. She felt her own tears well up again, too, followed by an overwhelming urge to reach out to someone who shared her sorrow. Stepping forward, she laid her head on the vicar’s chest and began to sob. Instead of a comforting arm, however, she felt the Reverend Lightfoot’s body stiffen awkwardly. He stepped back quickly as if he had just been landed a body blow. She pulled back, too, wiping her tears away with her hands. “I’m sorry. I . . .”
The vicar looked at her oddly; almost with suspicion. “We must find comfort in the Lord.” His tone was verging on a reprimand.
She lifted her head. “Yes, of course,” she replied. “Forgive me, sir,” she repeated, adding, “I have no one else to turn to.”
He nodded awkwardly and managed a flat smile, but his eyes remained cold. Picking up his hat and his cane from the table, he moved toward the door.
“Good day to you, Mistress Kidd,” he said. He walked out into the fog, leaving Susannah alone with her sadness and her memories once more.
Chapter 16
T
he body of Amos Kidd, draped in a sheet, lay on a marble slab in the game larder. He shared the cold, solid space with three brace of pheasant and a hare that had been shot before the fog. Not even the poachers were venturing out now. If they did, they did not need to waste their snares or their shot; the corpses of dead animals were littering the fields.
Thomas had promised that after his work was done, he would deliver the body for burial in the estate’s chapel grounds the following day. He had asked for lamps to be lit all around. This, together with the low temperature of the room, made his working conditions favorable. Yet there was a terrible irony in his surroundings. He did not feel comfortable performing a postmortem in a place that was traditionally the butcher’s domain. The cleaver and the saw that hung above his head were grim reminders of the fact. The metallic tang of blood was added to the sulfur in the air, and the sawdust on the floor was crawling with maggots.
Folding back the sheet, he studied Kidd’s face. It was calm. All the muscles were relaxed. It was a far cry from the contortions that his coughing had caused. Yet the burns were still evident around his eyes, nose, and mouth. The acid had eaten away at the skin, puckering it into low ridges and furrowing it into deep pits. Scabs had formed like snow-capped peaks on this new mountain landscape and pus had oozed in rivulets toward his chin. If the sulfur had done this to the epidermis, then no wonder ingestion into the trachea and lungs caused a hemorrhage, thought Thomas.
He looked at his instruments laid out neatly on a cloth beside the body and took a deep breath. Like a priest, he intoned a few words. They were not prayers; just a simple mantra to reaffirm his purpose and to remind himself that he was dealing with a human body that deserved to be accorded dignity in death. He was steady now; composed and ready to begin.
Bending low, he held Amos Kidd’s head in both hands and lifted up the chin, so that the neck was easily accessible. His long fingers took hold of the knife. He did not grasp the hilt, but held it lightly and, like an artist with his brush, he skimmed the canvas of the skin with a single decisive stroke that left a fine line of crimson in its wake. Next came a larger blade and more force was applied until the flesh fell away on either side of the incision to reveal the trachea.
Slicing through the muscular tube at the top half of the neck, Thomas could see that the acid had been at work here, too. It had bubbled and boiled and blistered and corroded away whole areas of soft tissue. And the further he ventured into the tangle of the respiratory system, the greater the carnage he could see. Worst of all was the damage done to the bronchi. The tracks and lanes and roads of this landscape, housed in the thoracic cavity, were almost unrecognizable. The gas had mixed with the moisture in the lungs, producing an acid that had washed away vessels and tubules and veins, as if some great tidal wave had inundated them, destroying everything in its path.
The damage was worse than he feared. Stitching up the great flap of skin to re-cover the chest, Thomas felt a terrible sense of dread. It appeared that both Kidd and Mistress Lightfoot had suffered particularly badly because they had been caught in a rain shower of acid. Yet every man, woman, and child in the area had been exposed to the sulfur particles in the air over the past few days, not to mention the livestock. The cumulative effect of such elements could be just as damaging as the rain. The longer the poisonous cloud remained overhead, the more likely it was that many more would die.
Thomas washed at the pump in the yard. He did not wish Lydia to see his bloodied hands and arms. His back ached from bending over the slab and he felt drained. All he wanted to do was rest, but he soon discovered it was not to be. Howard was waiting with a message for him as soon as he walked into the hallway.
“This was delivered not ten minutes ago, sir. The boy said it was urgent.”
Thomas was reading the note when Lydia emerged from the sewing room.
“What is it?” She frowned.
“It is from Fetcham Manor,” replied Thomas. “It says Lady Thorndike is ill and needs my immediate attention.”
Lydia’s back stiffened. “That woman does not deserve anyone’s attention,” she said sharply. Thomas secretly shared her cynicism, but knew it was his duty to attend her. “Why did she not call upon Dr. Fairweather?”
Thomas shared her suspicions, but he felt it was only fair to grant her request for a visit.
“You know I have to go,” he told her.
She nodded and shaped her mouth into a smile. “I do, and that is one of the reasons I love you,” she said.
Thomas decided to ride to Fetcham Manor. Even in the fog he estimated it would only take him twenty minutes at the most. The cloud was still hanging low and his visibility remained severely limited. All he could see as he rode along the lane toward Brandwick were the limp-leaved trees that stood eerily by the roadside and the blackened verges. He kept a steady pace and arrived at the grand mansion shortly, passing not a soul on his way.
The young doctor’s arrival was obviously eagerly awaited and he was shown straight up to Lady Thorndike’s bedchamber by her maid. He found his patient lying in bed, but her eyes were open. Her hair was loose on her pillow, red locks coiling like tendrils, and her lips were painted the same cherry red as he remembered on their first encounter. It was a relief to him to find that she was not coughing.
“Go now,” she ordered her maid, waving her hand dismissively.
The girl curtsied and closed the door behind her, leaving Thomas standing at the bedside.
“I believe you feel unwell, your ladyship,” he began, retrieving her note from his pocket and laying it on the bedside table. “What seems to ail you?”
She studied him for a moment; her eyes moving languidly up and down his body. “I have a terrible heaviness in my chest,” she replied, laying her palm flat against the slope of her bosoms.
Thomas frowned. “Are you able to sit up?”
“With your help I could.” She held out her hand.
Thomas clasped it, noting it felt warm and dry, not cold and clammy like Mistress Lightfoot’s or Amos Kidd’s. Gently, putting his other arm around her back, he eased her up. The exertion did not make her cough. This was a good sign, he thought. He felt her pulse. It was strong and steady. At the same time he could also feel her gaze on him, like a hungry bird on a worm. It made him feel uncomfortable.
“Have you been out in this fog, your ladyship?” he inquired, opening his bag and bringing out his listening tube.
She let out a short, sharp laugh. “I have not, Dr. Silkstone. No one in their right mind ventures out in this weather,” she snorted. She was wearing a thin chemise, laced at the neck, and as soon as she saw Thomas approach with his listening tube she began untying the ribbon.
“That will not be necessary, your ladyship,” said Thomas firmly, suddenly realizing the situation was becoming awkward. He had dealt with such harridans before, but they were usually much older and, he ventured, uglier. She had already loosened the ribbons and pulled down the shoulders of her nightgown, exposing the top half of her breasts, by the time he was ready to examine her. There was no attempt whatsoever on her part to hide her desire.
“Come, Dr. Silkstone. I need a thorough examination,” she pouted.
Thomas refused to allow himself to be flustered. Leaning forward, he put the cone of his device to her chest to listen to her breathing. It was then that he felt her take his hand and cup it around her right breast. The listening tube clattered to the floor. Shocked, Thomas looked at her for a split second. It was then that she lunged at him, hooking her arm around his neck and finding his mouth. He grasped her hand as her lips planted themselves on his and prized it from his neck, but she resisted and brought her other arm up and clamped it around his head. At that moment the door was flung open and Sir Henry, accompanied by the Reverend Lightfoot, appeared on the threshold. They had evidently heard the horn clatter to the floor.
“Good God, Silkstone! What do you think you are doing?” boomed the horrified lord, advancing from the doorway.
At the sound of her husband’s voice, Lady Thorndike released her grip. “No, leave me. No!” she cried, like some violated heroine in a novel.
Thomas straightened himself and was left stunned at the bedside, his face covered in great smears of lipstick. Sir Henry marched over to the young doctor.
“What is the meaning of this, sir? I’ve a good mind to call the constables,” he panted.
Lady Thorndike intervened. She rearranged her chemise to cover her chest once more. “No, Henry, that will not be necessary. Just get him out of my sight,” she ordered.
Thomas, still reeling from the shock of the incident, reached for his bag. He walked toward the door, watched by the stony-faced vicar and Sir Henry. But before he reached the threshold, he paused to face his accusers.
“I can assure you, sir, the only ailment that plagues your wife is an excessive sexual appetite,” he told Sir Henry. And with an indignant tug of his waistcoat he took his leave.
Once out into the fog again, he mounted his horse and started off at a furious gallop down the drive. He was angry, both with Lady Thorndike and himself, for not reading the situation sooner. How could he have allowed himself to walk into such an obvious trap? He should have known better. If word of this ever got out his reputation, and with it his career, would be in tatters.
Chapter 17
G
abriel Lawson recognized the man with the red bandana from two days before in the marketplace. Now he was standing by the foreman, Ned Perkins, looking a little too confident for his liking. The man’s eyes were jet black and he had an air of insolence; a direct gaze and a square-set jaw told him he would be trouble. He and Perkins had approached him in the tithe barn as he was checking on feedstuffs. There was no one else in sight.
“We wondered if we might have a word with you, sir,” Perkins began diffidently enough. He had the weathered face of a man who lived on and for the land.
Lawson eyed his companion suspiciously. “And who might this be?” he replied brusquely, knowing full well.
The man bowed low. Too low, Lawson felt.
“My name is Joshua Pike, sir, and I speak on behalf of farm workers and tenants.”
The steward raised his brow. The young man’s insolence surprised him so much that, for once, he was momentarily lost for words, so Pike continued. “This fog is killing many men in the fields, sir, so I plead for those who are left standing.”
The knife-grinder waited for a reaction from the steward, but when it came, it was not the one he had anticipated. Lawson simply threw his head back and roared with laughter. “You?” He pointed mockingly. “A spokesman? On whose authority, pray tell?”
Perkins shifted uneasily from one leg to the other, his head bowed, but Pike simply smirked. “Many of your men have asked me, sir,” he replied.
Lawson looked beyond the young troublemaker, shading his eyes in an exaggerated gesture, as if scanning the horizon. “Many of my men, you say,” he sneered. “ ’Tis strange I can only see one.” Ned Perkins fingered his hat nervously. “Is this true, Perkins?” barked the steward. “Can you no longer speak for yourselves? Do you need this . . . this”—he sneered at Pike contemptuously—“this troublemaker to speak for you?”
The foreman lowered his eyes. “Some of us got to thinkin’ . . .” Lawson shook his head. “You are not paid to think, Perkins. You are paid to work and this fog means there’s more work to be done than usual.” He turned his back on them, but the young man silently urged the foreman to press ahead, gesturing the older man to follow his master.
“S-sir,” Perkins stuttered nervously.
Lawson turned and sighed theatrically. “Tell this scoundrel to go away and we will forget about this incident.” He flapped his hand scornfully at Pike.
“And what if I don’t go away, Mr. Lawson?” asked the young man impudently.
The steward stiffened. “Then I shall call the other men, the ones who know who pays their wages, and they’ll run you out of the shire!” he shouted, the color rising in his face. He stepped toward Pike and only a few inches now separated them.
The young troublemaker kept his ground. His expression did not change, but he wiped a fleck of Lawson’s spittle from his cheek. “Very well, sir. I shall leave for now, but as long as this fog hangs around, then so shall I.” He was smiling as he said this, but there was a note of menace in his voice.
His tone made the steward clench his fists, but he resisted the urge to hit out. “Be gone!” he cried.
Joshua Pike walked to his mule in an unhurried fashion, still wearing a smirk on his nut-brown face.
Ned Perkins, on the other hand, was left cowering in the corner of the barn. “I don’t want no trouble, Mr. Lawson,” he pleaded meekly. “He just came up to me in Brandwick and asked me to name my master.”
Lawson nodded. He knew Perkins to be a loyal worker who had farmed Boughton estate land for at least twenty-five years, and his father before him. Now his two sons lay in his home, fighting for their lives. “This fog is making it hard for all of us. Just remember that,” he told him. The foreman nodded contritely and planted his hat back on his matted head. “Now get back to work with you.”
The driver had questioned whether he really wanted to be taken to St. Giles. Not being
au fait
with this particular London district, however, the notary had taken his query as an impertinence. It was not until they were well into the journey east, and he could see the landscape of the streets changing, that he understood the man’s reluctance to take him to such a place. The pleasant boulevards and new brick terraces gave way to the ramshackle old town. Houses and shops of varying heights and sizes in divers states of decay were crammed next to each other like an old crone’s teeth.
The carriage pulled up outside a narrow entrance at the mouth of a courtyard. The notary smelled the air as he dismounted, then quickly sniffed his nosegay. He did not relish his task on such a day as this, or on any day for that matter. This area was altogether less agreeable. As well as the stink, there were the shouts of hawkers pacing the alleyways and of urchins ducking and diving through the throng. There were whores, too. Temptation and the clap at every corner. The streets were so constricted that most carriages could not pass and some of the top gables almost joined above his head, blocking out the sunlight.
Most disconcerting of all, he did not know where to begin his search. He was looking for a proverbial needle in a haystack. He headed up the thoroughfare, which quickly narrowed. Wet shirts and petticoats were festooned from rafters and over newel posts drying in the hot air. A cat that was making a meal of a bloodied dead pigeon on one of the treads hissed at him and fled with its prey in its mouth. All around he could hear children crying and women shouting. A man with a tame crow on his shoulder held out a hand for alms, while a stick-thin boy spat on the cobbles as he passed. This was no place for anyone, let alone a young nobleman, to be reared, the notary thought to himself.
There were no street names here, no numbers, either. Sometimes there weren’t even doors, just panels of wood that screened entrances. He was afraid he would never find Agnes Appleton and even more afraid for his life in a hellhole such as this. His courage was quickly deserting him. He had turned tail and was halfway down the steps when he heard a voice crackle behind him.
“You lookin’ for someone?”
He turned to see an old woman, as gnarled as one of the newel posts, sitting on the stairs on the landing above. She had obviously been watching him in his fruitless efforts. The notary allowed a smile to flicker across his lips. At last there was hope in a place that the Lord himself had abandoned many years ago, he told himself.
“Yes. I seek a woman and a boy.”
The crone huffed and held out a grimy hand. “Buy this and I’ll think on it.” Several strands of dark hair were gathered together and tied with a piece of twine. “Belonged to an Irish giant,” she croaked. “ ’Twill help you find what you seek.”
The notary balked, but decided not to protest too loudly for fear of attracting attention to himself.
“Here’s a farthing,” he said, throwing a coin into her lap and taking the hair.
The crone seemed satisfied. “Tell me more.”
“The woman’s name is Agnes Appleton and the boy has a withered arm.”
The old woman put her gnarled fingers to her forehead and puckered her face, as if experiencing some sort of vision. “A boy with a withered arm, you say? Yes. ’Tis coming back to me.”
The notary stooped low. “You recall them now?”
The crone opened her eyes and chuckled. “Mayhap, but Grandmother Tooley’ll need another farthing to help her,” she said, holding out her hand once more.
Another farthing duly crossed her palm. “Yes. Went to Covent Garden, she did. To the Rose and Crown. And the boy, too.”
“Why would she go there?” asked the notary in all innocence.
Grandmother Tooley let out a phlegmy cackle. “Why would anyone go there?”