The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  She found Thomas waiting for her in the hallway and together they walked outside where Lovelock was ready with the carriage. The sun was still blocked out by the veil of fog that hung over the hills and valleys. The fields were now all brown and the carcasses of dead sheep were dotted around. The grain had withered on the stalks and the fruit on the bough.

  Lydia frowned. “When will this cloud lift?” she asked, not expecting a reply. “It has been almost seven weeks now.”

  “We need the wind to change direction,” replied Thomas. “We need an easterly to blow the fog clear of Europe and out over the Atlantic.”

  Half an hour later they arrived at the mouth of the caves. The Reverend Lightfoot was already waiting for them. Cordial greetings were exchanged and after each of them had been given their own lantern, Thomas led the party—Lydia and the vicar, together with two servants—into the rocky passageway. The air was cool but fresh, and they all found themselves eager to fill their lungs.

  “Watch your step now,” advised Thomas. “There is an outcrop here.” The vicar was carrying his cane as usual, which was of great service to him, but he failed to duck quickly in time and scraped his head on the rock. He let out a stifled cry.

  “I hope you are not hurt, sir?” asked Lydia, rushing to his side.

  He managed a dazed smile. “Oh no, indeed. Just a bump,” he replied, rubbing his temple, but Lydia could see his skin had been grazed. His forehead was flecked with blood. “It is indeed narrow in parts,” he remarked, rubbing his forehead. “What if, God forbid, there was a rockfall? There must be another way out in such an event?” There was a note of anxiety in his question.

  “There is an escape route,” Thomas replied. “Just beyond the river, on the farther shore. There are steps that lead up to the surface there.”

  The Reverend Lightfoot looked satisfied with the answer. “That is good to know,” he said.

  They continued to pick their way along the passage, stepping over puddles and loose boulders, until they came to the first chamber. Several oil lamps burned brightly in recesses in the rock, green moss springing up in the pools of light they cast. Wooden screens had been erected across two of the recesses to afford a degree of privacy and a narrow set of shelves contained various medicaments and potions for use by the nurses.

  Around the walls, ranged on two neat rows of mattresses, lay a dozen women and children. Most were propped up on pillows or sacks to help their breathing. They were all swathed in thick blankets. A baby was crying in its mother’s arms. An old woman in the middle of a coughing spasm struggled for breath. In the corner a plump nurse was administering physick to a young girl. The constant sound of wheezing and sniffling, punctuated by rasping coughs, filled the chamber.

  The clergyman surveyed the scene. “These poor souls must take great comfort from your care, your ladyship,” he told Lydia. “How long do they stay?”

  “Until their coughs are sufficiently diminished, sir,” she replied. She did not tell him that only three women and a boy had been discharged so far, even though she knew they should have remained. The truth was that there was not enough space to take all those in need of a refuge from the fog. Only when there was a death could another patient be admitted.

  They progressed to the farthest chamber, crossing the water in the rowing boat.

  “As you see, sir, there is a constant supply of fresh water,” Thomas pointed out, as the boatman rowed them to the opposite bank.

  From there it was just a few more yards to the final chamber, the Inner Temple. The visitor seemed equally impressed with the space that accommodated the men and boys. Here the hacking coughs of the patients reverberated around the smaller space. Another nurse was rubbing an unguent into a man’s chest.

  “Oil of camphor,” explained Lydia. “The vapors soothe the airways.”

  An elderly man lay groaning in a far corner and a young boy rose from his own palliasse and went over to comfort him. Thomas recognized him immediately by his carrot-colored hair. He smiled at the sight of Will Lovelock, looking much stronger than before.

  “You are to be commended, your ladyship,” said the Reverend Lightfoot.

  Lydia acknowledged his praise. “It has not been an easy task, but it has certainly saved lives, sir.”

  The party returned the way they had come. The Reverend Lightfoot had seemed a little nervous about entering the caves at first, inquiring as he did about procedures in the event of a rockfall. Thomas suspected that he suffered from some sort of phobia when confined in an enclosed space. He had read of such conditions before. Yet as they made their way toward the light at the end of the tunnel, he appeared much more relaxed.

  The reverend extended his hand to Thomas. “A most enlightening tour, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.

  “I am glad you found it of interest, sir,” replied Thomas.

  Lydia, too, received great praise. “The Lord will surely reward you for your good works, your ladyship,” he told her. Perhaps he might even hold a service when he next visited, he suggested. She agreed it would lift spirits and they all parted on amicable terms.

  The clergyman returned to his dogcart and Thomas and Lydia watched him drive off.

  “You have worked wonders here,” Thomas told Lydia.

  She smiled. “It is good to be of use to others.”

  He knew that her service to the sick helped her forget her own pain and longing for her missing son, as well as alleviate his own burden. As well as caring for the sick, he had other work to do. Two murders had been committed and, at the moment, it seemed he was the only person in authority anxious to discover the perpetrator.

  Chapter 35

  The Reverend Lightfoot knelt in silent prayer in front of the altar at St. Swithin’s. Hands clasped, he stared at the plain wooden cross and contemplated the nature of suffering. How simple an object it was, this cruciform shape. In the Roman Church a plaster statue of Christ would be nailed to it. His face would be contorted in agony. There would be marks from the pricking of thorns around his head and blood where the nails entered his hands and feet. It would be visceral and real. Supplicants could almost put their hand in his side. But this unadorned cross seemed so far removed from humanity. It transcended all suffering and agony. Just as God seemed to. What did he care for the injustices endured by mere mortals? Why should he care? Perhaps, just perhaps there was no God. The voice of Satan filled his head again. He kept hearing it at times like these; when he was alone with his grief.

  He bowed his head in prayer, trying to block out the nagging whispers, and from out of the blackness came his beloved Margaret. His heart was aching with the loneliness of loss. He saw her face: serene and sublimely beautiful. She was surely in a better place now, free from the petty machinations of being a country vicar’s wife. How she had borne her own suffering with so much fortitude. Their first child had died at two days, their second at two weeks, their third had been stillborn, and their fourth lived but six months. That had been twenty years ago and after that they had slept in separate rooms. They had never come together as man and wife again; yet they had still loved each other with an intensity that rose above any base physical need. She turned her own suffering into something positive: helping the sick and needy of the parish. Her charity was boundless. That was how she had died, in the service of others, trying to organize assistance for those who had lost their loved ones to the fog. He must not be deflected from carrying on what she began. He knew it was what she would have wanted. It would break her heart if she knew that he was losing his faith.

  Along with the doubt there came temptation. It had reared its lascivious head. He had loved Margaret, truly and deeply. But a man has needs and now that she was no longer by his side, the urge to give way to his own passions and desires was growing. An image darted into his mind. He banished it quickly, fixing his eyes again on the cross.

  “Be gone!” he mouthed. He returned to his prayers to a God who seemed to have deserted him.

  The townspeople were
greatly afeared after the appearance of the meteor. Many believed Judgment Day was upon them and wished to repent of their sins.

  “Oh Lord, bless all those sick and weak I have seen today and all those who care for them,” intoned the minister, his hands clasped in front of the altar. “Keep them safe in the knowledge of Your love. Through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  For a few more moments his head remained bowed in contemplation until, in the darkness behind him, he heard slow footsteps coming up the aisle. At first he imagined they were Margaret’s. She would come up behind him and place her hands on his shoulders. He would breathe in her lavender smell and feel her touch. Only now it would be cold from the grave. He shivered and turned to see, coming out of the gloom, Susannah Kidd. Quickly he rose to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

  The widow was shocked by his tone. The corners of her plump mouth drooped. “I am come for comfort and guidance, sir,” she replied. The rims of her large eyes were red.

  He softened his tone. “I am sorry. You took me by surprise.”

  She was wearing a woolen shawl that she drew tightly across her chest. “I need to talk to someone, reverend.” Her voice was quivering.

  A memory flashed across his mind of how she had turned to him before in her cottage. He recalled her scent: a whiff of roses that spilled from between her breasts. A stab of pleasure shot through his body. “What is it that troubles you?” He looked at her suspiciously, but motioned to a pew. She was not welcome. Could she not see that? She settled herself, keeping her head bowed, until she was ready to speak.

  “I am afraid, sir,” she began. She was so close to him that he could smell her breath. He dared not look into her eyes.

  “All God-fearing Christians are, Mistress Kidd,” he replied stiffly. “These are strange times, so we must repent and put our trust in the Lord.”

  She nodded and pulled at her shawl so that he could see the outline of her breasts underneath. “It is about trust that I need to talk, sir,” she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, and when her lips parted they reminded him of a blooming rose. For a second he pictured what it might be like to put his lips on hers, to feel their warmth and their sweet moisture.

  “Go on.”

  “If you love someone and you trust them, but you hear they have done bad things, really bad things, what path should you take? What does the Bible say?”

  Narrowing his eyes, he studied her for a moment. She was talking in riddles; keeping a secret. What did she know, this Eve who sat before him? She had knowledge and that, in a woman with her attributes, was a dangerous thing. She was hiding something that troubled her deeply. He had seen the signs so many times before: the clammy hands, the licking of the lips, the eyes that looked everywhere apart from at him. Between her forefinger and thumb she twisted a piece of lace on her cuff.

  After a few seconds he said, “You should pray, Mistress Kidd. Pray and the Lord will speak to you in your heart. It is written in Psalms: ‘And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, Lord, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.’ ”

  There was a look of disappointment on her face. She had come in the hope of more. “So if I ask God what to do, he will tell me?” He found her childlike simplicity quite touching, but he knew it was all a mask.

  “Yes, Mistress Kidd. And do it soon, for the day is approaching fast when all secrets will be uncovered. A light will be shone into the darkest recesses of your soul and all evil will be uncovered.” He was almost glaring at her now. His rhetoric was making her anxious, all right. Those sensuous hands of hers, as delicate as the silk thread she sewed, were trembling. Would she open up to him? There was definitely fear in her eyes. Did she know something about the murders? “Might it help you to confess your sins?” he asked.

  Now she looked shocked, like a frightened rabbit. Her head jerked up, sending a strand of long blond hair tumbling down to the top of her shoulder. He had said too much, but he had given her food for thought. Slowly she nodded her head.

  “I will think on it, sir,” she replied, her voice quivering. “Thank you for your guidance.”

  She rose, curtsied, and walked to the door with a wavering step, as if she bore a heavy burden. Even in her sorrow he found her exquisitely beautiful.

  Chapter 36

  Arider brought word to Boughton first thing the following morning. Sir Montagu Malthus was coming that very day. He planned to arrive shortly after noon. Lydia and Thomas were already dressed and about to leave for the caves, so changed their plans accordingly. Lydia had to notify Mistress Firebrace, who notified Mistress Claddingbowl, and the whole household was sent into a frenzy of activity.

  “What can he want?” asked Thomas when Lydia was satisfied that all had been made ready. They were waiting the arrival in the drawing room.

  “You know very well,” replied Lydia abruptly, opening her fan. “He wants me to marry. He has probably found me a perfect suitor.”

  Thomas knew what she said was true. He sat down opposite her. “And what will you say?”

  She paused and looked up at him, resting her fan on her knee. Her shoulders heaved in a deep sigh. “I shall tell him that I shall marry when I am ready, to a man of my own choosing,” she said, before fanning herself once more.

  It was as Thomas had feared. She did not have the courage to stand up to Sir Montagu. Her words cut him like a knife. “But you would not tell him that you have already made your choice?”

  She closed her fan and glared at Thomas. “You do not know what he is like. He is cold and cruel and vindictive. He hated Michael and he hates you.” She stood up and walked ’round to Thomas’s side. Touching his shoulder she said, “I just need a little more time. Please.”

  He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Of course. I am sorry. You English do not like to be rushed. I must remember that.” He regretted the sarcasm in his tone, but said no more. Patience was the virtue that Lydia required of him and he would display it, for the time being at least.

  A few minutes later the carriage bearing Sir Montagu Malthus pulled up in front of Boughton Hall. Lydia stood on the steps to greet her guest. The fog still clung to the hills and treetops, but the sun was discernible as a fierce red globe behind it. The lawyer swooped down from the carriage and began to mount the steps. Fothergill followed closely behind, carrying a leather satchel and a large scroll under his arm.

  “Sir, what an unexpected pleasure.” Lydia welcomed him as he came level with her.

  Sir Montagu’s thick brows knitted as he took her hand and pecked it with his lips. “I am afraid you will not find what I have to say pleasant, my dear Lydia,” he warned ominously.

  The smile that she had managed to gather to greet her brother’s guardian suddenly deserted her and she found herself momentarily lost for words.

  “You must be tired after your journey. Please.” She gestured him into the hall. “We shall see to your luggage.”

  The lawyer stopped in his tracks. “I have none, my dear. I do not intend to stay. We have taken rooms at the inn at Brandwick.”

  Lydia looked puzzled. “So be it,” she replied. “But I am sure you would like some tea.”

  She led the way to the drawing room and Sir Montagu and Fothergill followed. Thomas was already standing by the mantelpiece. He bowed stiffly when the men entered.

  “You know Dr. Silkstone, Sir Montagu,” she said politely.

  The lawyer eyed Thomas suspiciously and did not even feign a smile. “Indeed I do,” he sneered.

  Lydia bade her guests sit in an atmosphere that was far from congenial. Fothergill perched himself on a stool behind his master, laying the large scroll down on the floor while she went to pull the rope to call for tea. Just as she did so, however, Sir Montagu lifted his large hand.

  “I would prefer if we talked alone, my dear,” he announced. “What I have to say is of a very personal nature.”

  Thomas shot a glance at Lydia. Would she really le
t this man dictate to her what she did in her own home? He willed her to be strong. She took her hand away from the bellpull.

  “I count Dr. Silkstone not only as my physician, but as a confidant, Sir Montagu,” she began. “Whatever you say to me, you can say it freely in front of him.”

  The lawyer’s lips curled in a smirk. “So you have some newfound courage?” he jibed. “ ’Twill be interesting to see how brave you feel when I put to you my proposition.”

  Lydia took a deep breath. “And what might that be, sir?”

  Sir Montagu snapped his fingers. Fothergill picked up the scroll from the floor and the two men moved over to the table near the window. “I suggest you come and see this, my dear.” He beckoned to her.

  Lydia walked slowly, composing herself as she went. She had no intention of betraying the utter dread she felt. Thomas followed closely behind until they were both level with the table and could see the large scroll laid out before them. Fothergill, his pince-nez now hooked safely over his nose, had smoothed out the parchment and weighed it down at either end. At the bottom was a large, red wax seal. Thomas pored over it and recognized the insignia. It was something he had come across three or four months earlier when he was asked to testify in a case involving a young ward. It was the seal of the Court of Chancery. His forehead buckled into a frown.

  Sir Montagu leered at Lydia. “I see Dr. Silkstone understands the gravity of this document, my dear, but do you?”

  Lydia stared blankly at the parchment and the closely written script. There were so many letters, so many words, all written in Latin. They meant little to her and a rising sense of panic caught hold as she scanned the scroll for something familiar, something she could understand. That something came near the end of the document. She saw the name, written in this bold, confident hand, and she shuddered. “Richard Michael Farrell,” she mouthed. Her head shot up. “What does this mean?”