The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  They took the dogcart down to the waterside and arrived just as a fiery sun began to set behind the haze. Thomas helped Lydia climb down and saw to it that she covered her mouth with her shawl. He watched her as she picked her way through the reeds over to the shore, rustling as she went. She paused to gaze out over the water.

  “We had happy times in this place,” she told him, her voice muffled. “My brother and I used to picnic on these shores when we were children. There was a boat here, once. We used to row to the other side.” Thomas joined her and put his arm around her. “It used to be moored up by the jetty,” she went on, pointing over to the rickety landing stage.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “To the boat?”

  He put his face close to hers. “To everything.” He was looking at the dilapidated fishing lodge, with its moldy thatch.

  She shrugged. “Papa died and Edward wasn’t ready for the responsibility.”

  He slipped his hand in hers and together they began to walk toward the lodge, skirting the water’s edge.

  “Where did they find Lady Thorndike?” she asked as they approached the jetty.

  “Just here,” said Thomas, stopping suddenly. He dropped his gaze and began scanning the ground. The sand at the lip of the lake was dry and pitted with gravel and larger pebbles. Lydia looked down, too, but walked on ahead slightly. Thomas noticed she left small footprints in her wake. Now he began scanning more intently. There could still be signs of activity on the shore. There had been no rain for two weeks. Somewhere, in among this patchwork of reeds and water flags, there must be tracks, impressions, or some other clue.

  They remained looking intently around the rim of the lake for several minutes, but found nothing. Thomas’s back started to ache again and he straightened himself. As he did so, he looked to the opposite shore. A handsome house stood squarely on the other side, its roof swathed in the fog.

  “Who lives there?” he asked Lydia.

  “Mr. Lawson,” she replied, her eyes meeting his.

  The same thought darted across both their minds, but they said nothing and turned to go back to the hall.

  Chapter 27

  “’Tis a terrible state of affairs, Dr. Silkstone, and ’tis growing worse by the day.” Dr. Felix Fairweather was not a man prone to exaggeration. He was inclined to arrogance and pomposity, like most of the other medical men Thomas had encountered in England, but a scaremonger he was not.

  The country physician was sitting in the drawing room at Boughton Hall drinking tea. He had requested an urgent meeting to discuss the awful situation in Brandwick and the surrounding villages. The fog was claiming more lives each day. True, it had lifted a little over the past week, but the sulfurous stench remained. It was still not safe to venture outside without protection for any length of time.

  “I have seen a dozen of my patients die this week alone, Dr. Silkstone,” said Fairweather, looking unusually vulnerable. “They are running out of room in the graveyard at St. Swithin’s.”

  Lydia intervened. “But what can we do, doctor? As long as the fog remains, people will die.” There was a note of hopelessness in her voice.

  Thomas had been listening intently to the doctor’s description of his patients’ symptoms, but had said very little. Instead he had been looking out of the window, surveying the miserable, murky vista beyond. The sky remained pregnant, loaded with gray flakes; the hills deadened by the fog. Finally he spoke.

  “From what you say, sir, it seems that the young and the old are most affected. The fog obviously attacks the respiratory system and those who are already weak are the most vulnerable. Is this so?”

  The doctor nodded. “I would say that was a fair summary, yes.”

  Thomas turned to face them. “If that is the case, then perhaps we could put those most at risk in a place of safety.”

  Both the older doctor and Lydia looked puzzled. “I am not sure I follow you, sir,” said Fairweather.

  The young anatomist lifted his hand in thought. “What if we could isolate them in a place where the fog could not reach?”

  Fairweather contemplated the proposition. “That would obviously be ideal, but surely no such place exists in this area.”

  “Yes, it does!” interrupted Lydia. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I know of such a place.” Both men switched their gaze on her. “The caves at West Wycombe,” she said emphatically.

  “You mean the Hellfire Caves?” queried Thomas, turning the thought over in his head.

  “They have not been used for twenty years, but surely ’tis an idea worth exploring?” insisted Lydia.

  Dr. Fairweather remained a little confused. “So you would transport the sick and the vulnerable to the Hellfire Caves until the fog lifts?” he asked Lydia incredulously.

  Thomas fixed him with a stern look. To the country doctor they were still associated with the debauchery and wild gatherings of the Hellfire Club that were often held there when Sir Francis Dashwood was alive. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Fairweather became flustered. “Well no, but I . . . ’tis a great undertaking, Dr. Silkstone.”

  “But what alternative is there?” asked Lydia. “As you said, more and more people are dying each day. Can we just sit back and do nothing?”

  Fairweather shrugged. “No. No, I suppose we cannot,” he replied.

  Thomas nodded. “That is settled, then. Her ladyship will contact Sir John and, if he agrees, we will inspect the caves for suitability.”

  “And then what?” The country doctor was clearly uneasy.

  “Then we make arrangements to transport the sick to the caves. I will need a list of all your patients who are to be moved.”

  What was proposed was a monumental task; to organize and execute what was effectively an evacuation and the establishment of a field hospital was no mean feat. Thomas had heard of it being done in wartime, most recently after the Battle of Trenton on the Delaware, but this, this was unheard of. He felt his stomach knot at the enormity of the task.

  “Can you let me have your list by tomorrow, sir?” he said to Fairweather.

  The doctor sighed. “Very well,” he replied, almost sullenly. He drained his teacup and rose. Then, bowing to Lydia, he said, “I wish you good fortune in your endeavors, your ladyship.” Thomas detected a distinct note of skepticism in his voice.

  Lydia was about to ring for Howard to show Dr. Fairweather to the door when Thomas recalled another weighty matter that needed to be discussed. Somehow, word was out that Lady Thorndike had been murdered and tongues were already wagging in the village. Some people thought she had just deserts, going out into the fog unescorted. What did she expect? Did she not know there were thieves and vagabonds abroad who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you? Others were more specific. That knife-grinder with the red scarf around his head looked shifty, they said. He had been stirring up trouble among the village men. Where was he? Had anyone seen him since the body was found? So the gossip circulated and the fog became not just responsible for killing the vulnerable with its poison, but contributing to the murder of anyone foolish enough to venture out in it, too.

  “One more thing, sir,” said Thomas, as he escorted the doctor to the door. “Lady Thorndike.” He whispered her name while Lydia remained seated.

  Fairweather bowed his head reverentially. “Ah yes, shocking affair.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he acknowledged. “Did her ladyship have any enemies that you know of?”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “A strange question, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied.

  “You were her physician, were you not? I just thought . . .”

  “I was indeed her physician,” replied Fairweather, lowering his voice, so that Lydia could not hear. “And I must tell you”—he leaned closer, conspiratorially—“it would be difficult to find any friends other than of the male sex.”

  Thomas took his meaning. “I thought as much.” He nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”

  It had been
four weeks since she lost her husband and Susannah Kidd was, at last, feeling a little stronger. She no longer sat for hours in her chair by the empty hearth remembering and regretting. Her appetite was slowly returning and she had even ventured into Brandwick to buy what few provisions she could. Lady Lydia had assured her that there was no danger she would lose the cottage and her skills as a seamstress were still in demand.

  Even though the sun had not yet set, the light was so poor that she needed to sew by the light of a candle. That evening she was sitting working on yet another shroud when she heard a tap on the window. Startled, she looked up. Standing there, his nut-brown face pressed against the glass, was the knife-grinder. Quickly she rose, quivering with the shock of seeing her unexpected visitor, and hurried over to the door and opened it.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she scolded, her palm pressed flat on her chest. “Gave me a real fright, you did.”

  The traveler smiled a beguiling smile, showing his white teeth. Under his arm he carried his bindle. “Forgive me, pretty lady,” he said, tilting his head. Then, looking beyond her, into the cottage, he asked, “Is your husband in?”

  She took a deep breath and steeled herself to utter the dreaded words. “My husband is dead,” she told him.

  The knife-grinder’s smile disappeared. “The fog?” She nodded. “I am sorry for your loss.” Another nod was followed by an awkward silence. “So you are alone now?” he ventured.

  Susannah snorted in disbelief. “You’ve a cheek!” she cried and she began to shut the door in the knife-grinder’s face, but he thrust his boot over the threshold, blocking it.

  “I mean no harm,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “This fog is killing me, too. I’ve been sleeping in barns and ditches since it came. Please, will you let me in?” He forced a cough, slapped his chest, then smiled at her.

  For a moment she studied him. His days and nights out in this fog were taking their toll, she could tell that. His eyes were red and watery and his skin was much paler than before. Was she not a Christian woman? She would show him charity in these straitened times.

  “Very well,” she said, relenting. “You can sleep on the floor in here,” she told him, opening wide the door and letting him pass.

  “I’m beholden to you, mistress,” he said, adding: “I knew you had a heart of gold the moment I set eyes on you.”

  The boy was much smaller than he anticipated. He looked no more than four, even though Sir Montagu knew him to be six years of age. He stumbled down the carriage steps and had to be helped up by the notary. But he was thin, too. So painfully thin. And how like his mother he was. No mistaking there: the tousled brown curls; the large doe-like eyes. The late earl would have been proud to see his grandson. But what was wrong with his arm? It dangled limply at his side. Surely the child was not a cripple? Sir Montagu’s hooded eyes narrowed even more as he stood on the steps of Draycott House, preparing to meet the boy. Surely not a cripple? It had not been easy tracking down this feral child, first in Hungerford, then in the quagmire of London, but securing the future of Boughton would be worth it, although by the looks of things, the boy would need careful handling.

  Holding the notary’s hand, the child began to climb up to meet the black-garbed man who stood ahead of him on the steps. Sir Montagu eyed him intently, like a hawk would a mouse. The boy stopped, then shuffled awkwardly, still clutching the notary’s hand.

  Finally Sir Montagu spoke. “So, this is Boughton’s heir?”

  The notary wore a smug look. “Indeed, sir. This is Richard Farrell.”

  The lawyer bent down, bowing his head so that it seemed to shrink into his shoulders. He extended a bony hand. The child pulled back, obviously afraid, but the notary grabbed his scrawny shoulders.

  “This is Sir Montagu Malthus. You will be staying with him for a while,” he explained, pushing the boy forward.

  Again Sir Montagu proffered his hand. This time the child stretched out spindly fingers. His nails were black with grime, and he seemed unsure as to what he should do next. He did not take his hand, much to the lawyer’s amusement. “Ha,” he snorted. “He has no manners, Fothergill. We shall have to teach him some.”

  The notary chuckled. “Indeed, sir.”

  “Come,” said Sir Montagu, turning his great black frame toward the front entrance. “You must be hungry, young man. We shall eat and then we shall talk. There is so much you need to know.”

  Chapter 28

  Gabriel Lawson was a worried man. At first light he had ridden out to the farthest acreages and was returning his horse to the stables. What he had seen had not been pretty. The few crops that had not been scorched by the rain or poisoned by the fog were languishing in the fields with no one to harvest them. He had lost three more workers that week and six more had been taken ill, despite following the American doctor’s orders. To add to his woes, the men who could work were afraid to. They were reluctant to leave their homes and those who would were surly in their manner. They were easy prey for Joshua Pike and his brand of politics.

  Thankfully since he had warned him off the estate a few days ago there had been no sign of the troublemaker. Perhaps he had gone to ground, but somehow he doubted it. He pictured his sullen face, the set of his jaw. There was a contempt for authority in his manner that made him think that he had not seen the last of Joshua Pike.

  There was talk, too. He had heard the men when they gathered for their small beer in the threshing barn. One of them sowed the seed; perhaps the knife-grinder had killed Lady Thorndike. Perhaps he had seen her by the lake and tried to take advantage of her. And so the rumors had taken root. He did nothing to quell them. In fact he helped fan the flames. It diverted attention away from him. If anyone suspected that he and Lady Thorndike had been lovers, then the law would, no doubt, be upon him.

  He recalled, too, an incident on the evening that Julia had arranged to come to his house. She planned to arrive in secret. She said it would be an amusing diversion for her, so bored was she in the fog. When she was late, he went out to the path. It was then he noticed movement in the reeds. Someone was there. A man. But in the mist, he had not been able to make out any discernible features. He had called to him. He did not know if he had been heard, but within a few seconds the figure had disappeared down the track. After that he had thought little of it. But now, thinking on it again, perhaps he had seen the murderer. Could Joshua Pike have been the man he saw by the lake that evening? As much as he disliked him for his science and the hold he had over Lady Lydia, he would mention it to Dr. Silkstone the next time he saw him.

  Returning to the stableyard, he found Will Lovelock stoking the coals of the brazier. The boy hurried over to him to help him dismount. Lawson noted that Will was pale and that he tried to stifle his coughs as he held his horse by the bridle. Would the boy be next? the steward wondered. He had already been ill once and survived, but he was still vulnerable.

  “Take the saddle with you, then you can get on with your duties,” said Lawson, easing himself down from the horse. “I’ll take care of myself.”

  The boy nodded his carrot-colored head. “Yes, sir,” he replied, unbuckling the girth strap. He pulled the saddle off, but the exertion only made him cough even more, and he turned toward the tack room, struggling with the weight of his load.

  The yard was now deserted and Lawson patted his horse and looped the reins over her head.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, leading her into the stable and along to her stall at the farthest end of the block. Her hooves clattered along the cobbles and her tail swished at the flies that droned all around. She bellowed long and low through her nostrils. Another horse in a nearby stall let out a loud whinny, too. The sound masked the footsteps of someone approaching. Gabriel Lawson did not hear anything behind him until it was too late. A few seconds later, all was quiet once more.

  Susannah Kidd was busy draping her washing on the bushes and trees that surrounded her cottage. With no sun and barely any breeze, she
knew it was an almost futile task. The stench in the air would surely impregnate the shirts and smocks and her petticoat and shift. She sniffed. What was that? A new smell. More like ordinary smoke from a chimney or a bonfire. She shrugged. It mattered not. In the end smoke was smoke and grime was grime, and Amos’s clothes had needed to be washed before she sold them at market. As for her own undergarments, she had not washed them for so long that there were lice in the seams. She reached once more into her basket and began singing a lament as she hung her dead husband’s breeches on a branch.

  She was so engaged in her task that she did not hear the Reverend Lightfoot approach in his dogcart. He parked it at the front of the cottage and walked through the gate ’round to the back, where he stood for a moment.

  It had been three weeks since he had last seen her. He had tried to banish her from his thoughts, but he had failed. There was something he found almost mesmerizing in the way she moved. The fluidity of her actions, the sweep of her arms, the curve of her neck, and how she tilted her head slightly as she sang her sad song, all thrilled and disgusted him in equal measure.

  Her pannier emptied of laundry, she picked it up and turned ’round. It was then that she saw him, standing, watching. She let out a muffled little yelp—not a cry, just an odd sound that signified surprise.

  “Reverend Lightfoot!” she exclaimed. “I did not hear you.”

  The vicar tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “I did not mean to startle you, Mistress Kidd,” he said, walking toward her, his cane in his hand. “I was just passing and thought I would see how you fared.”

  She looked at him with her almond-shaped eyes. Wisps of blond hair had escaped from beneath her cap. Her complexion was smooth and glowing. “I am as well as I can be, sir,” she said, the pannier wedged on her hip.

  The last time he had seen her in his study, she had appeared strained and troubled. Now, however, she seemed more at ease. Her step was lighter; her demeanor less somber.