Surprised, Makepeace obeyed. The ‘cure’ tasted of sweet, strong wine, nutmeg and other spices. The moment was bittersweet too. Helen had doubted Makepeace’s intentions and abilities at first, but now that they were safely arrived she seemed determined to mother her.
‘Carry this.’ A small muslin bag was placed in Makepeace’s hand. ‘Keep it close to your face, to purify the air you breathe and keep yourself safe.’ The bag rustled when Makepeace pinched it, and when she held it up to her nose, she could smell dried flowers. ‘This city is full of foul airs – no wonder everyone is falling sick!’
Quater Voys turned out to be a great, crowded crossroads, thronged with a lot of the market-day visitors. Makepeace found the chandler’s shop, with its hanging yellow-white candles, and entered. A little old woman with a bitter mouth was sweeping the floor.
‘I’m looking for Master Benjamin Quick, the doctor,’ Makepeace said quickly. ‘Is he still living here?’
‘Just about,’ said the old woman with a sour little grimace. ‘But not for long, I fancy. If you hurry, you might just catch him. Up in the attic room.’
Makepeace hurried up a creaking flight of stairs, and then scaled a ladder to the attic. Wide-eyed children watched her silently as she climbed.
The attic was dusty and dark, with a low, slanting roof, and one tiny window to let in the light. For a moment she thought it was unoccupied. She saw a travelling chest and a few books tied into a bundle with cord, next to a grimy, unkempt flock bed. Her first feeling was relief. The doctor could not have left yet. He would hardly depart without his belongings.
Then she realized that some of the rucks and rumples in the bed linen were not cloth. One beaky fold was actually a pale face, so bloodless that it was almost greyish. Long hands were just visible, gripping the blanket. There were faint, purplish blotches on his cheeks and hands.
At the same time the smell hit her. It was a stink of disease and fouled clothing. Was he dead? No, there was a slight tremor in his hands, an awkward bob of his Adam’s apple.
‘Master Benjamin Quick?’ whispered Makepeace.
‘Who is there?’ His voice was very faint, but slightly irritable. ‘Is my soup . . . ready yet? Will it reach me before I meet the Author of my Being?’
‘I am sorry,’ said Makepeace.
‘Sorry’ was a weak word for her emotions. It was all she could do to swallow down her pity and disappointment. Everything Makepeace had braved to reach Oxford had been in vain. The man before her was dying. His fingernails were blue as a drowned man’s, and the sockets around his eyes were hollowed and dark. She was sorry for him, sorry for herself, sorry for James.
‘You’re not the chandler’s girl,’ said Quick, frowning and turning his dim eyes to peer in her direction.
‘No,’ said Makepeace sadly. ‘My name is Makepeace Lightfoot.’
‘You have my sympathy,’ said the doctor faintly. He squinted. ‘Are you some sort of Puritan? What do you want with me?’
‘I came to ask you to help a patient.’
‘Patients . . . have proven bad for my health.’ The doctor coughed again.
‘Is there nothing that can be done for you?’ asked Makepeace, still scavenging for scraps of hope.
‘We should . . . call a doctor,’ mumbled Quick, deadpan, then gave a faint, breathless chuckle. ‘Ah, no, we have one. It is . . . camp fever. I have seen enough cases . . . I know . . . nothing to be done.’ His gaze slid off her blearily, and then he looked confused and frightened. ‘Where are you? Are you gone?’
Makepeace was still lurking near the hatchway. Her little bag of dried flowers suddenly seemed a pitiful defence against the foul airs of the attic. She did not know how easily the fever might jump from one person to another. Furthermore, she had been given a bath barely two nights before, so her pores might still be open to every disease.
Yet she could not bear to leave the doctor to die alone. She drew closer, until the doctor’s wandering gaze fixed upon her, and she saw a hint of relief in his hollowed face.
‘I am still here.’ Makepeace stooped to pick up a wooden box by the side of his bed. ‘Is this your medical box? Is there nothing I can give you?’
‘Tried . . . everything to stop the epidemic.’ It was not clear whether the doctor had even heard her. ‘Killed the cats and dogs, ordered the beer boiled longer, visited the sick . . .’ His eyes came to rest on a pile of pieces of paper, and he gave a small cough of a laugh. Even from a distance Makepeace could see that they were like the tickets given to the whitebaker: promissory notes from the King. ‘I was . . . paid well for it all. I die a rich man. Rich in promises, anyway.’
This long speech seemed to have unravelled him, and he coughed for a while, his entire frame shaking. His gaze settled on Makepeace again, and he blinked, as if he were having trouble seeing her.
‘Who are you?’ he asked dustily. ‘Why are you here?’
Makepeace swallowed. She did not want to torment a dying man with questions, but there were other lives in the balance.
‘You saved a man who said he was haunted. You took the ghost out of him. How did you do it?’
‘What? I . . .’ The doctor made slight gestures with his hands, as if turning a screw on something invisible. ‘A device . . . hard to explain.’
‘Doctor.’ Makepeace leaned forward, and willed her voice to pierce the fog of his fever. ‘I am trying to save my brother. He has five ghosts in his head, and if they are not taken out he will lose his mind. Please – where is the device? Is it here? Could someone else use it?’
‘No . . . it needs a skilled hand . . .’ Quick stretched out a hand towards a pile of his belongings near his bed. For a moment she thought he was pointing out the device, but then she realized that he was vainly reaching for a small, battered bible. She picked it up and placed it on his chest so that he could curl his hands around it. ‘Why do you ask me this now? I shall soon be . . . a ghost . . . myself.’ Every word clearly cost him effort. ‘My research . . . so many hopes and plans.’ He looked at the pile of tickets again. ‘At the end . . . nothing but empty promises.’ The hands gripping the bible shook, and she realized that he was terrified.
A ghost. An idea struck Makepeace, and it chilled her as if the sun had gone in.
‘Could you have saved my brother?’ she blurted out. ‘If you were well, could you have done it?’
‘What?’ Quick’s gaze fogged with confusion.
Makepeace swallowed, mustering her courage, and staring into the snake eyes of her own plan. The very idea of it made her feel sick, but James’s life was at stake, possibly even his soul.
‘I can save you if you promise to save him,’ she said.
Quick stared at her, and made a faint, wispy sound in his throat.
‘When you die, I can catch your spirit before it floats away,’ said Makepeace, her heart beating faster. ‘I can keep you in this world. You would haunt me. You would go where I go, and be my passenger, but you would still see and feel and think, through me. I could even let you use your skills through me sometimes.’
‘Monstrous . . . impossible . . .’ Quick looked alarmed by her now, but there was also a tiny, agonized gleam of hope.
‘It is possible!’ insisted Makepeace. ‘I have done it before!’
‘You are . . . already haunted?’ The doctor’s brow creased with suspicion, doubt and superstitious fear.
‘The other ghost is a brute, but an honest one,’ Makepeace explained hastily, wishing she had not mentioned her other lodger. ‘He is my friend.’ She felt miserable and cruel, but she persisted. ‘Could you save my brother? Will you save him?’ She was not even sure whether she wanted to hear a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.
‘Are you devil-sent?’ Quick’s voice was almost inaudible.
‘I am sent by desperation!’ Makepeace’s nerves were fraying at last, worn thin by fear and lost sleep. ‘Do you think I want you in my head for the rest of my life? Do you think I offer this lightly?’
Th
ere was a long pause. Now the doctor’s breathing and eyelid flickers were so slight that several times Makepeace thought that they had stopped altogether.
‘God help me,’ whispered the dying man. For a moment Makepeace thought this was a ‘no’, but then she met his eye and she realized that it was a ‘yes’. ‘God forgive me for this! Save me . . . and I will save your brother.’
And God help me too, thought Makepeace, as she took his hand. His breathing was growing fainter, and his eyes seemed to look through her.
‘When the time comes, do not be frightened,’ she said very softly. ‘Find me, move towards my face. I will let you in . . . but you must approach gently, like a guest. If you rage and rend, Bear will tear you to pieces.’
There was a long silence, during which second after second fell away into the unforgiving past. The moment where life became death was so quiet, so still, that most people would have missed it. Makepeace did not, though, because she was a Fellmotte. She saw the tiny, shadowy wisp of vapour seep from the doctor’s mouth into the air, and begin twitching in smoky distress.
It looked very much like the Infiltrator spirit that had crept out of Lord Fellmotte. Perhaps all souls looked the same when they were naked, stripped of flesh and blood, finery or buckskin.
Makepeace was suddenly terribly afraid. But she had come so far, so very far, and already dared so much. She leaned forward, fighting her urge to recoil from the foul airs of the sickbed, and brought her face close to the thrashing ghost.
She drew in a deep, shivering breath, and felt the doctor’s spirit slide coldly in through her nose and mouth, and into her throat.
CHAPTER 23
There was a terrible rushing cacophony inside Makepeace’s head, like clouds at war.
Something banged sharply against the back of her head. Makepace was staring up at the rafters, where spider-webs hung thick with dust. She had fallen backwards, she realized. There was a tightness across her chest that left her gasping for air.
God! she could hear the doctor yelling, his voice impossibly distant and yet tingling with closeness. God in Heaven! What Hell is this?
At the same time there came the bass rumble of Bear’s growl, confused and menacing.
‘Both of you!’ Makepeace whispered, struggling for breath. ‘Calm down! There is room for everyone!’ She sincerely hoped that this was true.
There is a Thing in here! screamed the doctor. It is not even human! A wild animal!
‘I told you as much!’
When you said ‘brute’, I thought you meant a brutish man! declared Quick. An uncouth oaf!
‘No – an animal! A bear!’
I can see that now!
Makepeace struggled to sit up. She did not look towards the doctor’s corpse. Things were quite confusing enough already with his thin voice echoing in her head. Her head reeled, and it was all she could do not to throw up.
She clutched at her head. At the same time she reached for
Bear in her mind, and imagined running her fingers through thick, dark fur. He quietened a bit, but there was still a lurching, dangerous storminess to him. Bear did not trust the doctor, she could tell. Bear did not like his soul’s smell.
Makepeace was startled back into her senses by creaking footsteps down below.
‘Young woman, what are you yelling about?’ It was the old woman down in the chandler’s shop. ‘What is happening up there?’
Not a word about my death! hissed the doctor urgently. Or that old cat will kick you out and steal everything down to my shirt. She’d have done so already if she wasn’t afraid I’d cough on her. The doctor sounded a lot more coherent, now that he was free of his fever-ridden body.
‘Sorry!’ Makepeace called down. ‘I was upset . . . the doctor was talking about hellfire . . .’
Oh, thank you so much. That will do wonders for my enduring reputation. You could not come up with another story?
Well, never mind. You must go through my pockets, and take everything you find. My books too – and my tools and purse are hidden under the mattress.
‘If I walk out with my arms full, I’ll be hanged for theft!’ hissed
Ah, the cranial elevator. It is in a thin black pouch inside my box of surgical tools. I shall need my books, too, if I am to be of use to your brother. And there are some things that I would not wish to leave behind – my good gloves, my boots, my pipe . . .
‘I’ll take the tools, your purse and a few of the books,’ Makepeace said quickly, ‘but none of your clothes. If I die of your sickness, then both our ghosts will be left without a house. And forgive me, but I don’t smoke a pipe.’
Nauseous, she slid a hand under the mattress, trying not to notice the way the doctor’s arm lolled as she did so. Her fingers found hard corners, and she pulled out a slender wooden box and a leather-bound notebook, and hid them in her skirt pocket. His purse had only a few scant coins, but she took it anyway. The books she tucked under one arm, so that they were concealed by her cloak. As an afterthought she took the paper tickets as well. They might prove to be empty promises, but paper itself was valuable.
As Makepeace descended again, past the silent children and the chandler’s wife, she was sure she must look guilty. The sour-faced woman gave her a searching look.
‘Still alive, is he?’ she asked with slight disdain.
‘Sinking, I think,’ said Makepeace.
‘You don’t look too good yourself.’ The woman narrowed her eyes, suspicious, and withdrew a step. ‘Sodden with sweat, you are, and a feverish look too. You can keep your distance, and get yourself out of my house!’
Grateful for the chance, Makepeace obeyed and hurried out into the daylight.
I suppose there is no chance of hearty tot of rum? suggested the doctor as Makepeace hurried along through the streets. I think I could make use of one.
‘An innocent young maid like me?’ Makepeace whispered sarcastically.
I can recommend its fortifying virtues on medical grounds. O Almighty have mercy, this is intolerable! You walk without symmetry – this jolting – do you need to lollop so? I am seasick! And your posture is dreadful, I can feel every kink in your spine . . .
‘If you talk too much,’ Makepeace murmured, ‘you will wear yourself out.’ Bear certainly seemed to tire after too much exertion, and she found herself hoping that the doctor was the same.
She reached her lodgings, where Peg was happy to leave ‘Judith’ in charge of the belongings for a while. Makepeace was relieved to find herself alone, or as alone as she could be. She sank down on to the bed, her head full of clamour.
The doctor was shouting again, with a mixture of panic and imperiousness in his tone.
You there! What are you doing! Come back here – I’m talking to you!
‘There is no point shouting at him!’ Makepeace muttered through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll just anger and confuse him more! He cannot understand you. He’s a bear!’
I’m not a perfect simpleton! retorted the doctor. Of course I am not wasting words on the bear! I am talking to the other!
Makepeace wobbled, and put out a hand to support herself as the doctor’s words sank in.
‘What?’ she whispered. ‘What other?’
There is another spirit in here. A third human spirit, as well as you and I. Are you saying that you did not know?
‘Are you certain?’ hissed Makepeace.
As sure as I can be of anything in this maelstrom! Someone was there just now – fled from me – slithered away and hid – would not answer me. But she is still there somewhere.’
‘She? ’ croaked Makepeace.
Yes. It was a woman, I am sure of it. A smoky, maimed thing. Savage, frightened.
Makepeace covered her mouth with both her hands and heard herself make a small, lost noise. Her mind filled with a nightmare image that she had tried so hard to forget. A savage, swooping thing with an all too familiar face, that had clawed and clawed to get into her mind, even as she tore it apart . . .
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Mother.
Makepeace had tried not to think about her for years. Now memory came for her, dragging a smoky train of shadow, sorrow, guilt and bewilderment.
Makepeace had hoped against hope that the whole episode had just been a nightmare. Deep down she had always feared that she really had shredded Mother’s ghost. But it had never occurred to her that the spirit might have succeeded in invading her mind.
Perhaps it had. Perhaps all this while Mother’s mauled spirit had been lurking in the dark corners of Makepeace’s head, and . . . doing what? Gnawing away at the soft parts of her mind like a worm in the wood? Hating her, and waiting for a chance for vengeance?
‘Where is she?’ asked Makepeace in panic. ‘What is she doing? What does she look like?’
I do not know! exclaimed the doctor. It was but a glimpse, and I saw her with my mind, not my eyes. She is gone now, I do not know where.
Makepeace was finding it hard to breathe. She pressed her hands against the side of her head and tried to concentrate. Her chest had tightened with fear, but also an agonizing yearning. A foolish, desolate part of her felt that a crazed and vengeful Mother was better than no Mother at all.
Perhaps Makepeace had been given a second chance to make her peace with Mother. Even if Mother was a thing of terror now, perhaps Makepeace could soothe and calm her, the way she had soothed and calmed Bear.
What is wrong with you? demanded the doctor.
‘I may know who she is,’ Makepeace admitted.
Who, then? he asked. A friend? An enemy?
‘I do not know which she is now.’ Makepeace’s words tumbled out. ‘She was my . . . my mother, but we parted badly and . . . death sometimes changes people.’
If the she-ghost really was Mother, however, she had lain quiet for three years. She did not seem to have set about eating Makepeace’s brain ‘like the meat of an egg’. Was it possible – just possible – that Mother’s ghost did not mean her harm, after all?
Makepeace recalled the sudden, well-timed pinch to her arm, which had woken her in the stable. It had allowed her to overhear her host’s treachery, and possibly stop Bear eating the horses. She remembered her most recent dream – sitting on the unseen woman’s lap, and watching her scratch out an ‘M’. It was the only letter Mother had ever learned to write. ‘M’ for ‘Margaret’.
A Skinful of Shadows Page 19
