The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  As he drew nearer, he observed that these mounds, too, were particular in their nature. One pile, about the height of two men, consisted of cinders, ashes, and other emptyings from dust-holes and bins, while another by its side was made up of fine dark powder. There were several young boys, again with large sieves, who were working their way through the bulging mound, as if panning for gold. They discarded the chunks and lumps they found and their sievings fell onto another pile. This, he assumed, was refined soot which, he had heard, was much in demand by farmers who would use it to preserve wheat and turnips.

  By the mound stood a stocky man in a ragged black coat.

  “Mr. Faulks?” called the notary.

  The man turned. He seemed to have met with an accident and one eye was covered with an oyster shell through which he had threaded a string that secured it around his head. The notary had been told that this was his distinguishing mark.

  “I go by that name, sir,” replied the man in a surly fashion.

  “Then I am hoping you can help me,” replied the notary, a little out of breath. “I am looking for a young boy. I believe he is apprenticed to you.” He nodded in the direction of the nearest pile. He could see now that there were about three or four boys emptying sacks of soot, but one of them was much smaller than the rest. He struggled more than the others as they stumbled up the slope, each with a burden on their backs. His right arm seemed to dangle helplessly at his side.

  “Got into trouble, eh?” he growled. “I’ll flail the . . .”

  “No,” interrupted the notary. “No, there is no trouble,” he soothed. “The boy I seek goes by the name of Richard Farrell, although you may know him as Richard Crick.”

  Faulks nodded, narrowing the one eye that could be seen.

  “Young Crick, yes, that’s him,” he said, pointing to the small child. “Him with the arm. I should never have taken him on, but his keeper, a pretty lass, persuaded me, if you get my drift.” He laughed and nudged the notary, who remained unimpressed. “Anyway, he can get up the flues all right, he’s that skinny, but he’s slow. Too slow.”

  The notary allowed a smile to flutter across his face. “Then might you consider letting him go?”

  Faulks snorted. “You’d have to make it worth me while.”

  The little man nodded. “I would be very happy to,” he replied.

  Back at Hollen Street Lydia was waiting for Thomas in the drawing room, staring out of the window. She was already wearing her hat. On hearing footsteps she turned and smiled. She seemed in good spirits and he took advantage of the fact that they were alone. Slipping his arms around her waist, he kissed her lips.

  “I am so very nervous,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he replied. He felt strangely unsettled, too, but he did not let on. “Whatever the outcome, I’ll always be here for you,” he said softly. He was sounding a note of caution. He knew her hopes of finding Richard were high, but he acknowledged the child was only one of thousands of orphans in the city. The chances of him even being alive were very slim, let alone recovering him in good health.

  They set off for the Seymour Street address just as soon as they were able. Eliza accompanied her mistress. For once Thomas was glad to swap the country air of Oxfordshire for the city stench of London. Even though the heat was still too much for most, it was preferable to the noxious miasma and he was glad to see the sun again after almost two weeks of thick fog at Boughton.

  Traveling west, the streets became wider and cleaner and soon the carriage stopped outside the neat town house from where Agnes Appleton had sent her last letter to her sister. Lydia craned her neck from the inside of the carriage to look at the tall facade. A faint smile skidded across her features at the thought of her son living in this district. Francis had done well to rescue him from the workhouse and place him here, she told herself. Had he done it for love of her, or because he wanted to use Richard as a sort of bargaining tool to win her hand? She would never know.

  Thomas alighted first and went to pull the bell. The door was answered by a cheerful freckled maid. The young doctor bowed.

  “Good day, Miss,” he began. “I am making inquiries about a gentleman who I believe used to lodge here. His name was the Right Honorable Francis Crick.”

  Any vestige of a smile quickly disappeared from the girl’s face.

  “The mistress says she don’t want no trouble,” she snapped. “I am to tell any others who come calling about the boy to go away.” And with that, she began to close the door.

  It was immediately clear to Thomas that once again they were following in the footsteps of someone else who was searching for the Crick heir. He knew he had to act quickly.

  “Please tell your mistress I am sorry to have troubled her,” Thomas said, smiling. “We mean no harm,” he insisted. Then, turning toward the carriage, he gestured to Lydia. “We are merely seeking a young woman by the name of Agnes Appleton, who was nursemaid to a small boy.”

  At the mention of Agnes’s name, the maid’s scowl softened and her eyes widened. Her gaze set on Thomas. “Agnes?” she repeated.

  Just then, however, a harsh voice called from within the house.

  “Who’s there, Maddie?”

  The maid became flustered. “No one,” she retorted. “A hawker, ma’am,” and she began to close the door once more. But just before it shut completely, she stuck her freckled face over the threshold. “Meet me at the Oxford Chapel tonight. Ten o’clock,” she whispered. And with those words she retreated and banged the door shut.

  Back in the carriage Thomas related the exchange with the maid. “She knows something,” he told Lydia and Eliza. “We are to meet this evening.”

  “What did she say?” pressed an eager Lydia.

  “Very little,” replied Thomas. “She had been told to stay silent. What I do know is that, yet again, someone has been here before us and paid for silence.”

  “But what of the maid, sir?” urged Eliza.

  Thomas nodded. “ ’Tis clear to me that she knew Agnes. She will be forthcoming, of that I am sure.”

  Lydia took a deep breath and squeezed Eliza’s hand. “So perhaps we can finally start to make progress?” she said excitedly.

  “Perhaps,” replied Thomas. He did not like to tell her he had a nagging suspicion that what the maid had to relate would not be good news.

  The carriage turned down Whitehall and followed the river for a few hundred yards, past Westminster Bridge. Thomas was staring out of the window, looking at the ferries ply their trade across the Thames, when he spotted a small crowd gathered on a landing stage. At first he thought they were merely passengers queuing for a ferry at Whitehall Stairs, but then he noticed some women seemed agitated. Several people were leaning over, looking into a ferry that had just moored up, and a man was shouting and waving his arms excitedly.

  Thomas leaned out of the carriage and called for the driver to pull up.

  “What is it?” asked Lydia.

  “Over there,” said Thomas, pointing to the group. “They may need a physician.”

  As soon as the carriage came to a halt, he jumped out and hurried along the boardwalk over to where the small crowd was gathered. A dozen or so people were clustered around a ferryman. In his arms lay a young woman. Her body was limp. She was fully clothed and dripping wet and there was green weed in her long, dark hair. It was clear she had just been pulled from the water. A thin trickle of foam seeped from her mouth. Thomas ordered the ferryman to lay her down on the jetty and he felt her neck for a pulse. There was nothing. He pressed on her chest and more foam appeared from her mouth, but it was immediately evident to Thomas she had been dead some hours.

  “Does anyone know who she is?” he asked, looking up and into the crowd. No one answered. Instead, they began to disperse with eyes lowered. She was just another girl; a servant or maybe even a harlot from her low-cut bodice. There was at least one most nights, found washed up on the stinking shoreline the next day.

  In his conc
ern for the drowned woman, Thomas had forgotten about Lydia and Eliza. He looked up to see them both approaching. Scrambling to his feet once more, he waved Lydia back, but she lifted her skirts and picked her way toward him. The crowd was thinning as she drew closer and she caught a glimpse of the dead girl’s face. She grimaced and turned her head away almost immediately. Eliza had been following just a few paces behind. She, too, saw the girl, lying prostrate on the boardwalk, her dark hair pulled back off her forehead by the weight of water. Only she did not grimace and turn away. She stared at her in horror before letting out a terrible wail.

  “No!” she screamed, and she flung herself forward. Cradling the girl’s head in her hands she cried: “Agnes! No!”

  Chapter 22

  The Oxford Chapel in de Vere Street was but a five-minute walk from Seymour Street. Shortly before the appointed hour of ten o’clock a carriage carrying Thomas, Lydia, and Eliza drew up outside the church. All three of them remained inside, watching and waiting for the maid, too tense to talk. Now and again a deep sob took hold of Eliza at the memory of her dead sister and she shook like a rag poppet. Lydia placed a comforting arm around her, although she, too, was fighting back her own tears. It had been agreed not to reveal the news of Agnes’s death to the maid, Maddie, until she had divulged the information she deemed so important.

  The light was almost gone, but the glow of the street lamps illuminated the church steps where three beggars huddled in the Doric porch. A young couple strolled past, followed by an older man with a limp. A landau rattled along and off toward Oxford Street. The clock struck ten, but the thoroughfare was deserted.

  “She’s not coming,” said Lydia.

  Thomas remained calm. “She will come,” he told her. “We must be patient.”

  A stray mongrel trotted into view, cocked its leg on the corner of a pillar, and went on its way. It was then that Thomas spotted a rustling in the bushes next to the church. A slight figure, its head bent, emerged from the shadows and mounted the steps.

  “There she is,” he said softly. “I shall go first, then signal to you both.”

  Gently, and without wishing to draw attention to his presence, he opened the carriage door and made his way up the steps of the church. He could see the young woman clearly now as she stood in the weak pool of light cast by a lantern in the porch. She wore a brown hooded cape that half covered her face, casting her freckled nose in shadow. She stood her ground as Thomas approached.

  “Good evening, miss,” said Thomas, touching his tricorn respectfully.

  The maid gave a short curtsy. “Sir,” she replied.

  “There is something you wish to tell me about Agnes Appleton?”

  She looked about her in a circumspect manner. “First I need to know why you want to find her.”

  Thomas understood the maid’s wish to protect Agnes from any unwanted attentions. “That is simple,” he replied. “I have here Agnes’s sister and the mother of the boy in her charge. They are both anxious to know what has become of them.” He spun ’round and gave the signal for Lydia and Eliza to approach. The girl also turned to see the coachman helping the two women alight from the carriage.

  At the sight of the lady and her maid, Maddie’s eyes narrowed as she studied them both closely, her eyes darting from Eliza to Lydia. “She spoke of her sister,” she said softly, her look set on Eliza. “There is much likeness, sir,” she added, shaking her head.

  “So you knew Agnes?” Thomas knew he had to tread carefully with his questions. She was risking her own livelihood by meeting them.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the maid, watching mistress and maid mount the steps toward them. As they drew level, he could see the girl was scrutinizing their faces closely.

  “You have Agnes’s mouth,” she said, addressing Eliza. But it was to Lydia that she directed her most forthright remarks. “The likeness!” she exclaimed as she studied her.

  “Likeness to whom?” intervened Thomas.

  “To Master Richard, of course,” replied the maid. “The same eyes, the same hair . . .”

  At her words Lydia could control her emotions no longer. She rushed forward and grasped the maid’s hands. “Do you know where he is? Please tell me.”

  Thomas put his arms about Lydia’s shoulders and gently drew her away from the girl, who was shocked and overwhelmed by her reaction.

  “Her ladyship has not seen her son for six years,” Thomas explained.

  Maddie composed herself. “I was told Mr. Crick was a widower and that Master Rich and his nursemaid, that were Agnes, would be staying with us for a while. All I know is Agnes was a good friend to me, sir, and when my mistress turned her and the boy out the house, it were a bad day.”

  “How long ago was that?” pressed Thomas.

  The maid lifted a finger to her freckled face in thought. “More than a year ago, sir. That’s why I was fair taken by surprise when she came the other day.”

  Thomas and Lydia shot glances at each other. “You saw Agnes recently?” asked the doctor.

  “Why yes, sir. Came to the house. In a right state she were. Looked all wan, she did.”

  “Do you know why? Was my son with her?” Lydia was growing more agitated.

  The maid shook her head. “No, madam,” she replied, delving into the folds of her cape. “But she did leave me this.” In her small hand she clutched a folded piece of paper. “Agnes asked me to see that Master Richard got it.” She held the letter on the palm of her hand for a moment, tantalizingly close to Lydia. Thomas was afraid she might snatch it, but she did not. Under the boy’s name, he could make out an address.

  “We will see that it is delivered safely to Master Richard,” Thomas assured her. He held out his hand slowly to receive the letter.

  For a second the maid paused, shook her head, and withdrew the letter back into the folds of her cape. “Agnes said I was only to give it to him if something bad happened to her.”

  Thomas stiffened, but his expression gave him away. The maid’s eyes darted to Lydia’s, then Eliza’s.

  “She’s in trouble, isn’t she?” The color was draining away from her dappled cheeks as she spoke.

  Thomas nodded. “I am afraid so.”

  “Dead?”

  Although none of them replied immediately, Eliza’s tears that suddenly welled up and broke forth, spoke volumes.

  The maid shook her head. “Did she . . .?”

  “They pulled her body from the river this morning,” answered Thomas.

  Raising her eyes heavenward, the girl sighed deeply and retrieved the letter. “I was afraid she might do something like that,” she murmured, handing Thomas the missive. “Maybe this will tell you why.”

  As soon as she saw her son’s name written on the paper, Lydia’s hands had flown to her face. “He’s alive,” she had exclaimed. “He must be!” But her joy was tempered when next she read the address: Care of Mr. Benjamin Faulks, Chimney Sweep, Bermondsey.

  The letter remained unopened on Lydia’s lap on the journey back to Hollen Street. She stared at it as if it were some talisman that was mesmerizing her. It was not until they were all seated around the table in the dining room that Thomas handed her the paper knife to break the seal.

  With a trembling hand, Lydia took the knife, but could not bring herself to slice through the red wax. She fumbled for a moment, then dropped the knife, sending it clattering on the table. Thomas retrieved it and, without ceremony, slit the seal and unfolded the paper to reveal a page of script written in a light hand. He cleared his throat and began to read out loud:

  My dear Richard,

  If this letter ever reeches you, I will be long gon. I know that I did a terrible thing giving you over to Mr. Faulks, but God gave me no choice. We had no food, nowhere to live and so, at least, I thort you might stand a better chance.

  Your father, God rest his soul, had promised to give us enough money to live off before he died. But there was none and so I was forced to give you away. I am hoping you can fi
nd it in your hart to forgiv me and that you grow to be a helthy and hapy young man.

  Always remember me as your loving nurs.

  Agnes.

  Thomas looked up to see tears rolling down Eliza’s cheeks. Her mistress put a comforting arm around her, even though she, too, was close to breaking down.

  Lydia gazed expressionless into the distance. “He is a pipe boy,” she said softly. “She sold him to a sweep.”

  Thomas looked up at her. “He is alive,” he cried. “Richard is alive.” At least for the time being, he thought to himself. So many pipe boys only lasted a few months. If they did not die stuck up a chimney, a fatal respiratory disease or testicular cancer would finish many of them off. Either those ills or a beating from their cruel task masters nearly always cut short their young lives. Master Richard’s chances of survival were now severely curtailed in light of Agnes’s letter. But he could not let his fears show. He also knew Lydia would have to be convinced that this was good news. He forced a smile, and she responded.

  “Yes, he is alive,” she conceded. “We must thank God for that.”

  Thomas obtained special permission from the Westminster coroner, Sir Peregrine Crisp, to handle Agnes Appleton’s corpse. Normally a postmortem would not be deemed necessary in such a case. Londoners were as used to seeing bodies dragged out of the Thames as they were teeth in a barber’s shop. But Thomas had promised Eliza that her sister would receive a decent burial and would not be consigned to a pauper’s grave or, worse still, buried at a crossroads, the fate accorded to most suicides.

  As she lay on the marble dissecting slab in his laboratory, he recalled how she had appeared on the landing stage by the stairs. There had been fine foam around her lips and when he had pressed her chest, more had appeared. He knew that if Agnes had been alive when she entered the river, water would have entered her air passages, along with inspired air. It would have been mixed with mucus and churned in the windpipe, like soap produces froth in a copper. He pressed her chest once again. More foam trickled out. There was no doubt she had been alive when she hit the water.