The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  All afternoon they worked hard in the heat, measuring, pounding, and blending. Thomas had found that the milk in his original formula was souring too soon and had to be substituted with powdered chalk mixed with a little water. He also made up some new remedies he had come across in journals in Boughton’s library. Sage juice and honey were supposedly efficacious when the patient spat blood, while syrup of horehound was recommended for an inveterate cough.

  Mr. Peabody had also ordered a large quantity of Peruvian bark that, according to him, worked wonders for a dry cough when taken within twenty-four hours of the first spasm. An amount the size of a peppercorn was to be chewed only as long as the spittle remained bitter, then spat out. Thomas questioned its efficacy, but the need to give some sort of hope to his patients was so great that, as long as no harm was done, Thomas felt anything was worth trying.

  It was approaching six o’clock. The light, such as it was in the fog, was fading fast when Thomas realized he needed more elixir of vitriol for mixing. He put down his pestle and went to seek out a new bottle from the shelf in the shop. Glancing out of the window that looked onto the street he saw a small crowd beginning to gather in the market square. At first he thought the people were merely eager to be the first in line for the opening of the dispensary at seven o’clock, but when he saw the Reverend Lightfoot mount the steps of the market cross, he realized he was mistaken.

  Moving closer to the window for a better view, he could see the vicar more clearly. He was wearing a surplice and around his neck a large cross and chain of gold. A small table had been placed on the steps by his side and on it was a tall candle and an open copy of the Bible.

  More and more people gathered ’round, until the number had swelled to at least a hundred. There was a strange air of expectancy about them. They did not appear angry or aggressive as he had seen them earlier, but rather nervous and excited, as if waiting for something or somebody.

  Thomas remained transfixed at the window until, a few seconds later, a cart drawn by a pony pulled up alongside the gathering. The driver jumped down and proceeded to demount the side of the vehicle to reveal two people, lying prone.

  Half a dozen men came to the driver’s aid and carried the passengers—Thomas could now see they were a young girl and a boy a little older—onto the steps. Both were dressed in loose shifts. The girl was crying and she began to kick out, while the boy flailed his arms in the air like a windmill. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth and his chin was wet with spittle.

  A collective murmur rippled through the crowd as they watched the men seat the children on the steps. The girl tried to rise, but she was held down by a burly man on either side, pressing on both her shoulders. The boy seemed more compliant. His head drooped down, but odd staccato noises flew from his mouth from time to time.

  Hearing the commotion outside, Mr. Peabody joined Thomas at the window. He dabbed his furrowed brow with his kerchief. “What is going on?”

  “I cannot be sure, but I fear for the safety of those children,” replied Thomas, still looking intently at the scene.

  From out of the crowd came a man with a flaming torch. He walked up the steps, lit the candle, and withdrew. An odd silence descended on the throng. It was then that the Reverend Lightfoot lifted his arms and spoke.

  “Beloved in God,” he began. “We are here today to pray for these two wretched souls who their father fears are bringing the devil into our midst.”

  The vicar then laid both his hands on the girl’s head. She jerked, trying to free herself, but he persisted, intoning a prayer as he did so. He did the same to the boy, then clasped his hands together. In a loud voice he exhorted his congregation: “Let us sing together the hymn ‘Come Sinners to the Gospel Feast.’ ”

  While the congregation raised their voices in song, Thomas ventured out of the shop and walked across the street to get a better view. He saw the driver of the cart clearly now. It was the gravedigger Joseph Makepeace. His wife had died of the fog sickness the week before and he had buried her, just as he had buried dozens before her. Haggard and hunched, he stood on the market steps by his children, whom the doctor recognized from his visit to their dying mother. Both of them suffered from serious conditions; the girl from the falling sickness and the boy from some form of St. Vitus’ dance, which rendered him incapable of speech or coordinated movement.

  The hymn was coming to its climax, building up in tone and volume, when suddenly the girl began to writhe. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs stiffened, so that the men who had been holding her jumped back in shock. Some of the women in the crowd screamed.

  The girl dropped down and began to convulse on the steps, foul words issuing from her mouth. Flecks of foam appeared at her lips and her limbs twitched uncontrollably. Her father rushed forward.

  “See, she is cursed!” he cried, pointing at the child as her body juddered beneath him. “The devil is in her. He has brought the fog on us all!”

  Dozens of voices now joined in the fray. Thomas could not hear what they said, but the tension in the air was mounting. He looked at some of the faces. Eyes were narrowing, teeth were flashing. Like a pack of wild dogs, the people were working themselves up into a frenzy. From somewhere in the crowd he heard a taunt of “witch.”

  “Burn her!” called another.

  He had seen enough. He elbowed his way through the throng and bounded up the steps. The girl’s body was still juddering wildly and her head kept hitting the stone steps below. Throwing off his topcoat, he folded it into a cushion. The crowd surged forward; some people jeered. They were enjoying the spectacle. They did not want the foreign physician to spoil it.

  “Stay where you are!” shouted Thomas, waving his arm at the baying congregation.

  Meanwhile, the Reverend Lightfoot’s expression had changed from one of serenity to fear. He had unleashed a fury that he could not control. “Get back!” he called. “Get back in the name of the Lord!” When he held a large wooden cross aloft, the crowd quieted a little.

  Bending low, Thomas could see that the girl’s tongue had rolled back and she was in danger of choking. Quickly he tilted up her chin. A few seconds later her body relaxed and her eyes closed. She lay unconscious on the steps and the multitude fell silent.

  Thomas straightened himself. His face was scratched from where the girl’s nails had scraped his skin in her frenzy and his shirt was torn. He surveyed the audience as he caught his breath. Some of the faces were familiar. There was Noah Kipps and his brother Luke, their fists raised. And there was Ann Banks, who had buried her husband last month, her features contorted with hatred. They had turned into monsters just as surely as leaves turn in autumn.

  “This girl is not possessed by the devil. She is sick,” he told them. His voice was raised but he did not have to shout. Calm had been restored, at least for the time being.

  “We are living in 1783. We no longer call women witches and burn them at the stake!” His words hung in the air for a moment, then fell like gentle rain.

  The crowd murmured. They seemed less agitated. Nevertheless, the clergyman remained determined. He stepped forward and whispered to Thomas, “I will cast out the children’s demons, Dr. Silkstone,” and turned his face away from the expectant crowd.

  Thomas looked into the reverend’s eyes and saw the deep conviction there. He accepted that this was what the crowd expected of him and that to disappoint them could unleash yet more anger. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Very well,” he conceded, “but please take heed.”

  The vicar nodded. “I do the Lord’s work,” he assured him, and he turned to the crowd with his arms outstretched. “Let us pray.”

  On the steps below, Thomas could see the young girl was waking. He bent down and stroked her head. Her left cheek was badly bruised from her fall and her knuckles were bleeding. “All will be well,” he whispered, as the Reverend Lightfoot began intoning a prayer over her and her brother once more.

  As the vicar spoke, the girl
’s anxiety seemed to lessen. Her features appeared to relax. She even managed to smile weakly at Thomas when she raised her eyes. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he whispered. “These people want to help you.”

  The words of the Lord’s Prayer drifted up into the twilight air. As one the people were wishing the girl and her brother well, just as only a few minutes before they had wished them dead. The vicar concluded: “And deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. For ever and ever.”

  “Amen,” they all said in unison.

  The Reverend Lightfoot then descended the steps to where the children sat, the girl quite still, but the boy still drooling and flopping around. Making the sign of the cross with his hand, he cried: “Demons, I cast you out in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

  The tide of time stood still for a moment, as if the seconds were parting to allow the devil to leave. Then, at last, the girl eased herself up from the step and holding out her own arms and hands in front of her, seemed to wonder at them. She appeared to grow in stature, like a butterfly gently emerging from its chrysalis. She wiggled and cocked her head and the crowd began to murmur, until finally she spoke.

  Lifting her arms high into the air she cried, “Praise the Lord!” and the crowd erupted into loud cheers.

  “A miracle!” they shrieked. “God is good! The devil is gone!” Women hugged their children. Husbands embraced their wives. Tears of joy and relief flowed freely. It did not seem to matter that the fog still lingered. It was almost forgotten amid the rejoicing.

  Thomas surveyed the extraordinary scene and wondered at man’s mercurial nature—one moment a frenzied beast, the next a compliant angel. He descended the steps to where the Reverend Lightfoot was being thanked by his grateful parishioners. So many hands reached out to touch him. “Bless you, vicar!” they said.

  Joseph Makepeace came forward and hugged his daughter. His eyes were full of tears. Others came to lift his son. Together they made their way back slowly to the cart. This time the children sat upright. It was a sight that gladdened the heart of the whole community and they waved to them as they drove off, heading for their cottage at the far end of the village.

  The crowd began to disperse. Many of the women returned to the apothecary shop at the appointed hour to collect their free bottles of physick before wending their ways homeward, giving thanks that their own children were not possessed. Most of the men, however, repaired to the Three Tuns across the way. Over their tankards of tepid ale they, too, would give thanks, although they were a little less certain as to why they should be so thankful. The fog still remained, but perhaps now that they put their trust in the Lord, and the devil had departed from Joseph Makepeace’s offspring, fewer people would be taken to the grave.

  Meanwhile, upstairs in the Three Tuns, across the square from where the extraordinary exorcism had taken place that very evening, Sir Montagu Malthus was hatching a plan. He had invited the recently bereaved Sir Henry Thorndike and his old friend Sir John Dashwood-King to dine. They feasted on grouse and pickled cabbage—there was none fresh—and downed several bottles of claret between them. The mood was lively and affable, despite the prevailing gloom caused by the fog. Sir Henry bemoaned the fact that his laborers were dying in their droves and Sir John complained that he would be forced to sell his wheat abroad for a better price. Sir Montagu’s complaint was of a more personal nature.

  “Tell me, is it true you have found the heir to Boughton?” asked Sir Henry, pitching forward over the Stilton cheese.

  The lawyer’s lips curled. “How word travels fast,” he said, taking another sip of port.

  “Farrell kept that one quiet, by Jove!” chuckled Sir John. “And you are sure he’s not a bastard?”

  Sir Montagu nodded. “For my purposes, gentlemen, the circumstances of his conception suffice.” He sat back in his chair and fingered the stem of his glass, clearly unwilling to divulge any more than he saw fit.

  “So your worries are over?” chimed in Sir Henry.

  “The boy is now a ward of court. His welfare and position are secured,” Sir Montagu replied, smugly.

  Sir John threw back his head, laughing loudly. “You are a wily old bird, Montagu.”

  “Indeed, but I need to be sure that the colonist is well and truly out of the picture.”

  Sir Henry winked. “Ah, yes. He is set on marrying Lydia. I have seen them together. They make a pretty pair.”

  Sir Montagu took another sip of port and nodded. “Oh yes, he wants to marry her. But the wardship means I have scuppered his plans for the time being. But if I know our tenacious American, he will find a way ’round the problem.”

  Sir John smirked. “But if I know you, my friend, you will not be so easily put off.”

  The lawyer’s head bobbed. “Indeed, gentlemen, but I will need both of you to support me in my endeavors.”

  Sir John shrugged, remembering his encounter with Thomas at his home. “He’s pleasant enough, but he is a parvenu. You can count on me.”

  “And you, Sir Henry?” asked Sir Montagu, turning to his old friend. He found him rubbing his left arm and wincing. The lawyer fixed him with a piercing gaze. “I can see you are unwell, my friend,” he remarked.

  “This accursed pain has returned,” he replied. His lips matched the color of the grapes on the table.

  “Then you must get some rest. I have heard it is the best remedy for such ills.”

  The old man nodded compliantly. “Yes.”

  “But I still need your assistance. Would it help if I told you that with Dr. Silkstone safely removed from the picture, Lady Lydia Farrell will be in need of a suitable husband?”

  Suddenly Sir Henry’s pain seemed to be forgotten and an expression of interest settled on his jaded face. “If you put it that way . . .” he began, leaning forward.

  Sir Montagu nodded. “Just as long as I can count on you both when it comes to the trial.”

  “Trial? What trial?” echoed Sir John. The two guests looked at each other quizzically, then turned their gaze on Sir Montagu for an explanation.

  He obliged immediately. “It really is quite simple. There have been two murders in Brandwick and, by judicious manipulation, Dr. Thomas Silkstone can be implicated in both.”

  Sir John frowned. “How so?” he queried.

  “The detail is of no importance. Let’s just say I have friends in the right places and leave it at that, shall we, gentlemen?”

  So it was agreed that Sir Montagu Malthus would do all in his considerable power to have Dr. Thomas Silkstone arrested for a double murder. If all went well he would swing for his alleged crimes and Lady Lydia Farrell would be free to marry a more suitable husband and keep blue blood running through the veins of the Crick line.

  “Then ’tis settled,” squawked Sir Montagu. And with these words he brought down his palm on the dining table, as if concluding a deal or ending a court session. “We shall bid farewell to Dr. Silkstone once and for all.”

  Chapter 39

  The Reverend Lightfoot could not sleep that night. He still felt elated after the triumphant exorcism. The joy he had experienced as he cast out the demons from those wretched children was truly extraordinary. It was as if, for a moment, some mysterious hand had touched his very soul and empowered him. If he had ever wavered—and he was ashamed to say he had—then this miraculous revelation had set him once more on the true path to salvation. He paced up and down the aisle in his church, raising his arms now and again in praise. The Lord had imbued him with the most wonderful gift. Perhaps, he told himself, he should make more use of it.

  He was contemplating how he might help other benighted believers. Surely there were many who needed help to overcome their inconsolable fears? Wandering restlessly up and down the aisle once more that evening he stopped in front of a painting in one of the side chapels. It was of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Naked and unashamed they were portrayed with the serpent, coiled ’round an apple tree. Suddenly
he was reminded of Susannah Kidd. He recalled her lascivious lips, the curve of her breasts, her lustrous hair. He remembered how he had seen her picking apples in the orchard earlier that day. And that apple pie! How apt. Was she not sent to tempt men? Had not all his own reason deserted him in her presence? His heart had beaten so fast that he thought it would burst and when she touched him it was as if his whole body turned to molten rock. Must she not be possessed by Beelzebub, too, to have such an electrifying effect on him?

  Turning to the picture once more, seeing Adam and Eve on the edge, about to fall into the abyss of sin, he made up his mind. This was a sign. Hurrying out of the church, he went to the stable and saddled up his mare. The moon was still veiled by the fog, but his trusty horse knew the roads well and soon he had reached the Kidds’ cottage.

  Tethering his mount at the gate, he walked softly down the path. He was in luck. A lamp was burning in the bedroom. Mistress Kidd would be shocked to see him at such a late hour, but he would reassure her that he only meant to purge her of her sins. He would tell her that he knew the devil had a hold over her and that he could help her. She had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge. She had told him as much when she came to see him in a vexed state the other day. If she would only submit to his will, then he could cast out her demons and she would be free to live a good and pure life once more. All her anxieties would be banished, all her sins forgiven. The secret that was troubling her would be a distant memory. And when Judgment Day came, for surely it was imminent, then she would be able to meet her Maker with a clear conscience and a wholesome heart.

  His tread was light. He did not want to frighten her. Drawing closer he could see the shutters were only half closed. A few paces more and he would be able to see into the room. His mouth went dry and his heart hammered as he drew level with the window. Now the bed came into view. It was empty. There was a sound; water being poured. She would wash herself before taking to the sheets. He could not see her, but he imagined her passing the cool, damp cloth around her neck and between her breasts.