The Devil's Breath (18 page)

Thomas crept into Lydia’s bedchamber, as he did most nights, to find her staring out of the window. She seemed transfixed by the storm, watching the intermittent forks of lightning zigzag across the black sky, illuminating the ground below. The claps of thunder were so loud the glass in the leaded panes rattled. He padded across the floor and put his arms around her waist. She settled her hands on his. Still gazing out she asked, “Could it be that the Day of Judgment is coming?” Her voice was calm.

Thomas shook his head. “No, of course not. ’Tis just a bad storm. It will pass and the world shall remain.”

Lydia did not seem entirely reassured. “But the people are afraid,” she replied. “Eliza says they are praying in the streets and some have even asked the Reverend Lightfoot to perform exorcisms. They think the devil is in our midst.”

Outside the hail began pelting from the sky. Stones the size of musket shot hit the window hard and covered the ground within seconds. And still the thunder crashed overhead, only now it came every few seconds.

Lydia lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “At least if the world does end,” she whispered, “we shall die together.”

Not a mile away, in Amos Kidd’s cottage, another young woman was being kept awake by the violent storm. She tossed and turned in her bed for a while, then rose to stand at the window and watch the lightning tear across the heavens. A few seconds later, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Are you afeared?” a man’s voice asked behind her.

She did not turn, but remained facing the window. “No,” she replied softly. “ ’Tis a wonderful show. Maybe ’tis like the firework displays in London I heard of.”

The man sidled over to where she stood and, resting his chin on her shoulder, put his arms around her waist. She tensed and let out a short stab of sound, a convulsion of pleasure, not pain, before relaxing into his embrace. She knew that she would not be spending the rest of the night alone.

I
t was the middle of the day, but the flaming torches cast eerie shadows on the walls. Lydia shivered and pulled her shawl around her; Thomas shot her a reassuring smile. They were standing just inside the magnificent Gothic entrance to West Wycombe Caves. Ahead of them lay a brick-lined tunnel leading to the caverns themselves, but all they could see was total darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling and lay in puddles every few feet. A drop landed on Thomas’s face and he wiped it away.

Sir John Dashwood-King chuckled. “Sadly we can’t simply replace any slates when this roof leaks,” he joked. Taking a torch down from the wall sconce he turned to both Thomas and Lydia. “Are we ready for a tour?” His deep voice bounced off the rock.

Both of them nodded, although it was clear to Thomas that Lydia was a little nervous. No doubt her opinion was swayed by the tall tales of debauched masques and devil worship in Sir Francis Dashwood’s day. There were even stories of a ghost. Thomas had long been familiar with the caves’ reputation. Mr. Franklin had loved the whimsical nature of the subterranean labyrinth. His compatriot had still not replied to his letter. Nevertheless he was sure he would approve of the proposals to turn the caves into a refuge for the sick.

“We are indeed ready, sir,” said Thomas. The three of them, accompanied by two servants who also carried flaming torches, began to walk slowly along the passageway.

The temperature was a little cooler than outside, but not uncomfortably so, and the air was undoubtedly fresher. For the first time in days Thomas found himself breathing deeply. The smell of damp suddenly became as sweet as new-mown hay. Lydia, too, inhaled deeply and with each breath her steps became less hesitant.

Within a few seconds they passed a small cave stacked with picks and hammers and crowbars and found themselves at the entrance to the first chamber. Oil lamps hung from hooks drilled into the rock and wax candles were stuck into some of the recesses on the walls. It was a small space, but Lydia saw its potential.

“We could store water and supplies here,” she said to Thomas.

They carried on for a few yards down a straight passageway until the path forked. “This is the maze,” said Sir John, leading the way. “Woe betide anyone who finds themselves in here without a light! Stay close now.”

They all ducked down below a jagged outcrop and then straightened themselves on the other side. The passageway was much narrower here, and Lydia’s skirts brushed against the rock, but it was nonetheless passable. There were fewer puddles, too. The corridor soon opened out into a huge chamber. As wide as a good-sized ballroom and higher than three men, its floor was level and smooth. A large hook hung from the ceiling from which a lamp could be suspended.

“This was called the Banqueting Hall,” said Sir John, making a grand gesture with his arm. “I am assuming this is where you could put a good many patients.”

Lydia turned full circle, looking at the cave from every angle. It was more or less circular in shape, about forty feet in diameter she guessed, and there were four niches in the rock where items could be stored or small cubicles created for privacy.

“This is very serviceable, Sir John,” she declared. She proceeded to bring a tape measure and a notebook and pencil from out of a small bag she was carrying.

“Could you hold the other end please, Dr. Silkstone?” she asked in a businesslike manner.

Thomas obliged and was soon calling out to Lydia various measurements, so that after a few minutes she pronounced her conveyance done. “If we allow each mattress five feet of space across, we will be able to accommodate at least ten people in here, five on either side,” she told Sir John.

“You are most efficient, Lady Lydia,” he replied. “Let me show you what else there is to offer.”

He led the way through an arch of rock and into another narrow corridor which broadened out after a few yards into a curious recess. A few feet farther on they came to what was known as the miner’s cave, where more tools and wooden scaffolding poles were stored. After another minute or so of picking their way over a bed of fine scree, they could hear the sound of running water and turned to find their path intersected by a large pool, fed by a stream.

“The River Styx,” announced Sir John proudly.

Thomas’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “The divide between this world and the underworld according to Greek mythology,” he said, surveying the water.

“Where the souls of the dead are ferried across the river by the boatman, Charon,” continued Lydia, pointing to the ornate rowing boat that was moored at the side of the shallow bank.

“Indeed,” nodded Sir John. “But I am sure you will not be ferrying any dead patients across it, your ladyship!” He tried to make light of the analogy, but the thought made Lydia uneasy nonetheless.

They stepped onto a small jetty and the servants assisted them as they lowered themselves into the boat and began the short crossing to the other side. Lydia trailed her hand in the clear water. She could see the bottom and estimated it was only knee deep. Nevertheless, it was icy cold.

“Where does the source rise?” asked Thomas as the boatman progressed into the center of the river.

“About a mile away. Underground,” replied Sir John.

“So it is fit to drink?” asked Lydia.

The baronet beamed. “Yes, you have a plentiful supply of fresh water.”

They were now three hundred feet beneath the church with its golden orb on top of the hill. Above them were thousands of tons of chalk. The boatmen moored up and they alighted on the other side. The deeper they went, the lower the temperature fell. Lydia tucked her hands into her shawl and stepped out onto terra firma once more. They had crossed the River Styx.

Moving ever deeper into the caves, they skirted a large boulder that lay on the path. “Never fear,” said Sir John lightheartedly, “that fell more than a year ago.” Lydia shot Thomas a glance. Rock falls were not something with which she wanted to contend.

“Are there any other ways out of the caves, Sir John? In case of an emergency?” she asked.

The baronet nodded. “Yes, the miners hacked some crude steps over there,” he said, pointing his torch to a small recess to their right. “It’s a steep climb, but it brings one out near the church.” Lydia made a mental note of the place, but prayed she would never have to use it.

Walking on a little farther they finally reached the Inner Temple, a large round chamber that marked the end of the cave system. Lydia looked about her.

“This is where the notorious Hellfire Club held some of its meetings,” declared Sir John.

Thomas’s father had heard firsthand of the club’s antics from Mr. Franklin himself; how the ladies wore masks so as to remain anonymous and were required to have “a lively disposition.”

“I believe it will serve our purpose well,” he replied, looking at Lydia. She had already brought out her tape measure and notebook again. While this chamber was not as big as the other, its shape meant that better use could be made of its space.

“I think a further eight patients might be accommodated here,” she announced a few moments later after taking more measurements.

“I am only sorry it cannot be more,” lamented Sir John.

Thomas thought of the dozens of sick both he and Dr. Fairweather had seen over the course of the last month. The labyrinth of tunnels and chambers offered the only hope of helping the most vulnerable. At least now he hoped a few more lives could be saved.

Thomas had never seen Lydia so animated. On the return journey she talked of organizing wagons to carry mattresses and bedding. The source of clean water was a real blessing, she said, but food would present a problem. She was throwing all her efforts into the project as if she were trying to block out all else. She had not mentioned the search for her son since she had put forward the idea of evacuating the sick and vulnerable. He knew the plan was helping her put her worries aside until she had heard back from Dr. Carruthers about his continued efforts in London.

She did not have to wait much longer. When they arrived back at Boughton in the early evening, Howard handed her a letter on a tray. She stared at it, then seized it with trembling hands.

“Will you read it for me?” she asked Thomas, offering him the piece of paper.

He took it from her and broke the seal. Opening it he recognized the writing of a secretary Dr. Carruthers often engaged for the dictation of his letters and papers. He took a deep breath and read aloud:

Even before he had finished reading, Lydia had dissolved into tears. Thomas put his arms around her, but she jerked away angrily. “Who is this man who would deprive me of my son?” she cried.

Thomas followed her as she stormed across the room toward the window. “He is alive, my love. Surely that is cause to rejoice?”

She turned and scowled at him. “I will only rejoice when I can hold Richard in my arms, Thomas.”

Realizing he had sounded glib, the young anatomist moved toward her and this time she did not push him away. “As soon as we are able, we shall return to London and track this man down. He must have left some clue as to his identity,” he told her, holding her tightly.

She gazed up at him. “I will not give up, Thomas,” she said. “I will never give up until my son is here, with me, where he belongs.”

A
s the days wore on and the fog still lingered, it became apparent to Thomas that this was no extreme weather phenomenon affecting the eastern and southern counties of England. Its influence was much more lingering and malevolent. A malignant fear had taken hold. People were adjusting their daily routines and rhythms of their lives lived under its baleful shadow. Some were terrified, others accepting; all were troubled.

Many of the children had developed nagging coughs; many of the old had taken to their beds. Any woman with child feared for her unborn babe. Sheep in the fields developed sores under their wool and were hemorrhaging and dying where they lay, their carcasses picked over by red kites and crows.

For his part Thomas had been working with Mr. Peabody, Brandwick’s apothecary, making up batches of formula to distribute among the many sick. He could not see them all, of course. But he managed to visit upward of a dozen dwellings each day and in every home the story was the same: at least one family member would be suffering from the fog sickness.

In their relationships toward each other Thomas also noted very different reactions among people. Some saw the fog as a trial sent from God. They regarded it as an opportunity to reach out to others and help those afflicted. They reacted with random acts of kindness, giving away what little spare food they had to the families who had been left fatherless or fetching water for widows too weak to walk themselves. Not surprisingly the Reverend Lightfoot, his own wife a victim, had taken it upon himself to visit all those who were suffering, dispensing words of comfort. Lydia, too, had sprung into action in a practical way, organizing the evacuation of the sick and vulnerable to West Wycombe.

Last week she had overseen the transport of eighteen patients to the caves, including six children, each with their own warm bedding. Will Lovelock was among them. He had grown even weaker after the fire in the stable and was considered in real need of rest in the clean air. So now Lydia was spending much of her time supervising the two nurses who were engaged to look after the patients. Some days she would work for up to six hours in what she called “the hospital” before Lovelock brought her home in the evening. Thomas made regular visits there, too, but he also tended to the sick of the wider parish.

Yet there were those, he noticed, who turned in on themselves. Some of the men on the estate refused to harvest what little food remained in the fields and orchards. One was even found stealing from Boughton’s dairy the other day, caught red-handed with a sack full of cheese and butter. Those who ventured to sell their produce at market offered less food for sale and prices began to rise rapidly. Men started to mutter. The weavers at nearby Cholsey banded together to protest at the price of flour. There was even talk of some surrounding a merchant’s house and forcing him to sell his wheat and oats at the old price.

Even the legal system seemed to have ground to a halt. Thomas had notified Sir Theodisius of his findings regarding the death of Gabriel Lawson immediately. Joshua Pike seemed the most likely suspect, but the coroner had responded saying no constables were available to search for him. The suspect seemed to have gone to ground. The same was true in Lady Thorndike’s case. The word was that Joshua Pike was responsible for both deaths. Rumors were rife. A killer was abroad, so now doors were shut not just against the fog, but bolted against a murderer, too.

As he sat in the library that evening, waiting for Lydia to dress for dinner, Thomas became overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness. As a man of science, he knew there would be some logical explanation for this nauseating cloud; there had to be. The longer the fog lingered, the more convinced he was of his theory that the poisonous gas was emanating from a volcano, although he knew not where. It could be from the south, from the mighty Vesuvius that devastated Pompeii in Roman times, or from the north, from his own homeland even. It was possible the prevailing northwesterly winds had blown the ash cloud across to England. He just did not know.

He wondered if Mr. Franklin, in Paris, had also witnessed the choking fog. It may have spread across Europe, or even across the Atlantic Ocean to America and Canada. Perhaps even his own dear father was suffering in its grip. Very few ships could sail in or out of London, so it was much harder to hear word.

Whatever the source, wherever the source, it seemed that mere mortals could do nothing to stop the fog’s relenting and increasingly powerful presence. There had been thunderstorms almost daily for the past ten days. These had brought with them more poisonous rain, although thankfully the sulfur content, according to his measurements, had been diluted by a factor of ten. This meant the rainwater was rendered far less harmful to humans, although still undrinkable and nonetheless damaging to crops.

It was little wonder that ordinary townsfolk and villagers were praying for a sign. An evil presence was hovering over the land. The devil was clapping his hands to make thunder, breathing over the countryside to create this deadly fog. Where was God in all this mayhem, or had He created this catastrophe? There were stories of people filling market squares to pray. The Reverend Lightfoot’s congregation had grown so much that last Sunday some had to be turned away from St. Swithin’s.

The people craved a light to guide them through the darkness, something tangible, he told himself. It did not matter how distant it was, but the human spirit needed just a glimmer of hope. It was then that he remembered why he had come to the library. On his last visit to Brandwick, a few days before, he had spoken with the Clerk of the Market. The town official, a nervous, bespectacled man, had allowed him to inspect the ledger that recorded livestock prices on market days. Thomas had made a note of the accounts submitted most recently for Boughton’s ewes, but had not found the time to check them against the estate’s own records. Now that he knew Gabriel Lawson had been murdered, he decided to see if they tallied.

Opening the Boughton ledger, he immediately recognized the dead steward’s scrawling, unkempt hand that he had seen Lydia trying to decipher on many occasions. Next he produced his own notebook. He was not surprised by what he found. Boughton’s sheep had been fetching several shillings more per head than Lawson had recorded.

Lydia walked into the library a few moments later to find Thomas still at the desk. She was dressed in peacock blue for dinner, but even in the soft glow of the lamps her face was pale.

“I thought I would find you here,” she said. “Let us go to dine.” Thomas looked up and she knew in an instant that something was wrong. “You’ve found something?”

“Indeed I have,” he informed her. “It appears that Mr. Lawson was swindling you out of several pounds on market days.”

Lydia nodded her head knowingly. “I had feared as much,” she said. “He had a reputation for cards as well as women. I should’ve known better than to trust someone hired by my husband.” She stared at the ledger from across the desk for a moment. “You don’t think that this . . .”

“Could this have anything to do with his murder?” Thomas finished her question. “Perhaps, but we must keep an open mind.” He closed the ledger and rose. “But it can wait until tomorrow. I am more than ready to dine with a beautiful woman.” He offered her his arm and together they were about to walk to the dining room when there was an incredible flash outside that stopped both of them in their tracks.

“Lightning?” gasped Lydia.

Thomas hurried to the window to look out, his eyes widening at what he saw. “No. No, ’tis not lightning. ’Tis far more extraordinary,” he said, gazing in awe at the sky.

Lydia joined him as he opened the door to the terrace. Together they ventured out into the night that seemed not like night at all. Only a few seconds ago the sky had been completely black and so had the countryside below. Now everything was illuminated as if it were day. The hills, the fields, the trees, the gardens, all could be seen clearly. Standing on the terrace, they both raised their eyes to the heavens and there it was, streaking across the sky. A great ball of fire, trailing an enormous tail, was darting through the blackness from north to south. Its luster was equal to the sun, illuminating the whole horizon as it arced over the Chiltern hills.

From somewhere in the house there were shouts and cries. The staff flocked to the windows, or rushed outside to see what was happening.

“ ’Tis a sign,” shrieked Hannah Lovelock, falling to her knees. Others joined her. Some maids were in tears.

“God forgive us!” wailed another.

The spectacle lasted for a few minutes, transfixing all who saw it. Many clasped their hands to pray the fireball would not land on them. They did not deem their prayers answered until the golden orb disappeared below the horizon, plunging the countryside into darkness once again. For a moment or two there was silence as everyone tried to make sense of what they had just witnessed.

Thomas turned to see about a dozen members of the household, from Howard and Mistress Firebrace to the lowest of the scullery maids, gathered either on the terrace, on the steps, or in the gardens below. He addressed them calmly.

“All is well,” he said reassuringly. “It was a meteor; a flaming fragment of rock from the heavens. There is no need to fear.”

Lydia now took control. She beckoned to Howard. “Nature blessed us with a magnificent spectacle tonight,” she told him, “but now everyone must return to their duties.” The butler bowed and went to convey her wishes.

She turned to Thomas, frowning. “They think it was a sign,” she said. “A portent. They are afraid.”

He shook his head. “It was nothing more than a coincidence,” he said, trying to calm her nerves. “They should have no fear.” He could not tell her that he, too, was afraid, but that his fear had nothing to do with a flaming celestial missile.