The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  Inside the cell, Susannah Kidd sat with her face to the wall. Her legs were doubled over so that she had lost all feeling in them. She had cried so much in the night that she had spent all her tears, too. Now she just waited in the darkness and the stinking filth that had gathered. She waited and she listened.

  The hours were marked by the tolling of St. Swithin’s bell and shortly after noon a shout rose up from somewhere nearby.

  “They’re here!” called a man’s voice.

  There were more shouts. Doors opened and slammed. Feet clattered on cobbles. Words were exchanged. There was a feeling of anticipation in the fetid air. The prison cart was rolling into Brandwick. Two constables came from Oxford, rough men in leather jerkins bearing the court’s crest.

  Constable Harker unlocked the cell and hauled Susannah Kidd out. The other two manhandled her onto the wagon, tethering her to the side, like some animal being taken to market. She kept her head bowed and her eyes downcast as the crowd hurled abuse at her. Harboring a fugitive was a serious offense. There’d be no escaping the noose, they said, shaking their fists at her.

  The urchins and apprentice boys followed the wagon through the village as far as the main road to Oxford. The rest of the throng had tired much sooner. Most of them were happy to watch the wagon trundle off into the distance. The people’s justice had been done.

  Thomas spent a restless night at the Black Horse before catching the coach to London in the early morning. The fog had been patchy for much of the journey, sometimes thick, sometimes lifting enough to show a blue sky above it. In London, however, it resumed its grip. It mingled with the smoke from the hundreds of kilns and forges and bakers’ ovens and thickened into a soup of smog. The stinking air was dry and hot, too; if anything a degree or so warmer than Oxford. Sounds were strangely muffled. Men shouted not to each other, but blindly into the strange void to warn others of their coming. Even the cabs were traveling with their lamps lit.

  Thomas hailed one from where the coach set him down to take him to Hollen Street. Soon he was outside his home ringing the bellpull. Mistress Finesilver answered. Her already pinched face tightened with a look of surprise when she saw it was Thomas. She peered beyond him, out onto the foggy street, holding her apron up to her mouth.

  “You’d best come in quick, doctor,” she muttered.

  Thomas eagerly obliged. “I came as soon as I could,” he panted. The acrid smell of the fog was cleaving to his nostrils and palate.

  “And why should that be, sir? We wasn’t expecting you for another month.” She took his topcoat and hat, then cocked her head as if waiting for an explanation.

  Thomas frowned. “Dr. Carruthers . . . he is ill?”

  “ ’Tis news to me,” she replied, obviously bemused by the question. “This fog’s a devil, but he’s not been out in it. Not like me, I can tell you. ’Tis no easy matter trying to find your way to the butcher’s or the baker’s in this.” She chuntered on, but as she spoke Thomas noticed the study door was half open.

  “Who’s there?” came a familiar voice.

  Thomas bounded past Mistress Finesilver, who was still in full flow, and found his mentor seated in his usual chair. He appeared to be in good health.

  “Sir, but you are well!” Thomas blurted with relief and he rushed over to the old doctor and took him by the hand.

  “Thomas, my dear young fellow!” he exclaimed in delight. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  Kneeling beside him, Thomas looked at his mentor’s face. His complexion was slightly ruddy, but in this heat it was only natural, Thomas told himself. Apart from this observation, he looked perfectly well. “I was told you were gravely ill, sir.”

  “Tosh!” the old doctor shot back. “Who blabbed such nonsense?”

  Thomas withdrew the note from his pocket. “I have the message here. ’Tis from Sir Peregrine Crisp.” In his mind’s eye Thomas pictured the tall, imposing figure of the Westminster coroner.

  Dr. Carruthers turned his bewigged head. “But you know I haven’t had dealings with that old codger for at least ten years. Not since I lanced a boil on his arse!”

  Thomas shook his head. “Then why . . .?” He broke off. A thought occurred to him. Someone wanted him out of the way. Someone had wanted him to leave Boughton. “No matter,” he said cheerfully. “I am just glad to find you in good health.”

  But his mentor detected the falsity of his words. They did not ring true. “What is it now, young fellow?” he asked.

  “Sir?”

  Dr. Carruthers shook his head and lifted a finger to his right eye. “I may be blind, but I see with my other senses, remember? I know that something is troubling you.”

  Thomas paused for a moment, not knowing where to begin.

  “I’ll tell you what. Let us eat, then you can fill me in on everything over dinner,” suggested the old anatomist.

  The young doctor smiled. “What an excellent idea.”

  Mistress Finesilver was still most put out by Thomas’s unannounced arrival. All that she could offer for dinner was a cold pie and potatoes, which she served with a dash of sullenness.

  As they finished off a stale loaf with their claret, Thomas told Dr. Carruthers about the severity of the fog at Brandwick that had taken so many souls and how the recent murders had added to the sense of fear among the population.

  “The general opinion is that the murderer is a traveler, a knife-grinder by the name of Joshua Pike. But I’m not so certain. ’Tis always easier to find fault with a stranger than with those close to you.”

  The old doctor nodded sagely. “How right you are,” he said. “But if I know you, you will have been dispensing your physick and trying to solve the murders at the same time. Am I right, young fellow?”

  This time Thomas’s laugh was genuine. “I try my hardest, sir.”

  “And I’ll wager you’ve brought some samples back for testing in the laboratory, so you can uncover this killer.”

  “Right again.”

  “I am rarely wrong,” the old anatomist chuckled.

  They withdrew from the dining room to finish their port in the study, as they always did. Casting his eye over the familiar furniture and objects, the young doctor noted that Mistress Finesilver’s usually satisfactory standards seemed to have slipped in his absence. Given the severity of the fog, he accepted that a certain amount of dust on the mantelpiece and sills was inevitable, but it appeared on every surface. There were cobwebs, too, in many a corner.

  Yet it was Dr. Carruthers’s appearance that shocked him most. Normally immaculate, egg yolk stains were on his waistcoat. Nor had his shoes been polished and their buckles were dull and tarnished. It seemed that Mistress Finesilver had not been taking care of him with proper respect, thought Thomas.

  Both men settled themselves in their usual chairs. A fire was not necessary, given the heat. Thomas’s eyes drifted to a pile of newspapers that teetered precariously in the corner.

  Remembering their custom he asked, “Would you like me to read the newssheet to you, sir?”

  The old doctor let out a short laugh. “Ah, you’ve spotted the pile. I would not allow Mistress Finesilver to throw them out. I was hoping you would read them to me on your return.”

  Thomas smiled. “I shall make a start this very evening, sir.”

  Walking over to the newssheets, he withdrew a copy from near the bottom. A great cloud of dust billowed up and a large spider scuttled across the floor. He looked at the date. August 20, two weeks ago.

  Settling himself down in his chair opposite his mentor, he began to turn the pages. For the past month the fog had understandably dominated the news pages, and the meteor had caused great consternation wherever it was seen, but elsewhere life went on. The Montgolfier brothers had amazed crowds in France with their first public demonstration of what they called a hot air balloon, and at home the Flax and Cotton Bill was passed in the House of Lords.

  Thomas picked out a few choice articles that he thought would be of int
erest, such as the court ruling that made slavery illegal in Massachusetts, until he finally came to Dr. Carruthers’s favorite section: the obituaries.

  “So who’s lately kicked the bucket?” inquired the old doctor enthusiastically.

  Thomas scanned the columns. Given honorable mentions were a former provost of Eton College, a retired military commander, and a bishop who had died aged eighty-seven. He looked up from the newssheet and saw the old doctor’s head was beginning to droop. He began reading again, but almost as soon as he did, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

  “Good God!” he cried.

  “What is it?” The old anatomist suddenly perked up in his chair.

  For a moment Thomas said nothing. Then, looking up he said incredulously: “Sir Peregrine Crisp is dead.”

  “No! You are sure? When?”

  Thomas focused on the print. “On August 18. He died suddenly at home, it says here.”

  Both men stopped still for a moment, taking in this information. Thomas thought of the last time he had communicated with the coroner after the suicide of Agnes Appleton.

  Dr. Carruthers spoke first. “Then who . . . ?” He was as startled and confused as Thomas.

  The moment he knew the coroner had not sent the message that brought him to London, Thomas had already determined to pay him a visit to get to the bottom of the mystery. But this new revelation put a much more sinister complexion on matters. He wondered if it was to do with one of Sir Montagu Malthus’s schemes. He rose and walked over to the mantelpiece.

  “My presence was obviously not welcome at Boughton,” he said gravely.

  Dr. Carruthers nodded, stroking his chin. “It seems to me that you should return as soon as you can, young fellow.”

  He knew his mentor was right. “I will,” he replied. “Just as soon as I have identified the specimens that might reveal the identity of the Brandwick murderer.”

  “Then I best leave you to it,” replied Dr. Carruthers, rubbing his stiff legs before rising slowly from his chair.

  Thomas appreciated the solitude. There were books he needed to consult, experiments to conduct, and, of course, there was Franklin. It had always worried him leaving the care of his rat to Mistress Finesilver. If she had not been diligent in her duties regarding Dr. Carruthers, then poor Franklin would surely be very low down on her list of priorities.

  Walking across the familiar courtyard and down the steps, Thomas arrived at the laboratory. Grasping the door handle he sniffed the air and frowned. As soon as he walked inside the stench of sulfur hit him. He gagged and reached in his pocket for a kerchief. Holding it to his mouth, he rushed into the room. The window had been left drawn down and a shaft of light from a street lamp above illuminated the coils of smog as they drifted in through the open casement. Hurrying over to it, he pushed up the sash, then rushed over to Franklin’s cage. It was as he feared. The rat lay on its back, four legs in the air, gassed by the poisonous air. Unlatching the door, Thomas put his hand in the cage and reached for him, expecting the rat to be stiff and cold. But no, his body was still warm and then he saw him twitch.

  Thomas carried the rodent across the room. Opening the door he took him out into the fresher air of the corridor. The rodent was struggling now, his legs flailing around, trying to right himself. Thomas helped him and he sat, stunned, for a moment, whiskers twitching. Next his sides heaved, fast as fury, in and out, in and out.

  “That’s right, boy. Breathe deep,” Thomas told him. But the flurry of activity was short-lived and the rat collapsed after a few seconds. His pink eyes remained open but his breathing became labored and all energy seemed to ebb away.

  Thomas stroked his back. If Franklin were a human, he asked himself, what would he do? He thought of the caves at West Wycombe, then glanced at the cellar door opposite. Taking a lamp from a nearby shelf, he opened the door and carefully negotiated the steps. It was much cooler below and the smell of damp pervaded the air, but it was infinitely preferable to the sulfur in his laboratory. In among the trunks full of old papers, the cobweb-festooned carboys of acid, and the kegs of ale, Thomas spied an empty wooden crate in the corner. This would be Franklin’s home for the next few hours. He laid him down on a piece of rag. A dish on the floor had been used to catch rainwater as it dripped steadily from a leak above. He soaked the corner of the rag in water, then gently opened Franklin’s jaws to let in a few drops to moisten his mouth.

  “There you go, boy,” he whispered, and he shut the lid of the crate and, taking the lamp with him, made his way back up the steps. He paused outside the laboratory door, but decided against opening it. He needed to allow the gas to dissipate and the larger sulfur particles to settle before he reentered the room. Besides, the hour was late and he was tired. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would confine himself to testing the samples that could hold the key to the Brandwick murders and to finding a more effective treatment for the fog sickness. Franklin would be his first patient.

  Chapter 44

  Lydia had risen early the next morning to supervise Eliza’s packing. They were to spend at least four days in the caves at West Wycombe and she wanted to be sure that she took everything for Richard’s care and comfort. Mistress Claddingbowl had also packed a hamper for them. She was, she had told her ladyship, especially pleased that the young master was so taken with her strawberry jam and had given him his very own jar.

  Looking out of her bedroom window, Lydia could see there was no change in the weather. The sky remained gray and flat and the sun was a poppy-red disc behind the haze. Richard had coughed a good deal in the night, although he seemed well enough in himself. Yet the tang of sulfur still hung in the air and she knew a spell in the caves could only do him good.

  She kissed her son gently on the forehead. “We are going to a place where the air is fresher, so that you can breathe more easily,” she explained.

  Mistress Firebrace had found some of the late Lord Edward’s boyhood clothes stashed away in a trunk in the attic. There were two frockcoats and two pairs of breeches that seemed to match young Richard’s size, although they were still on the large side.

  Lydia helped him into them. The breeches were loose at the waist and she had to secure a sash around them to stop them falling down, but until Mistress Kidd could make him another pair, she told herself, they would have to suffice. Next came the shirt. The child slipped his arm through the first sleeve, but allowed Lydia to take his withered limb and ease it gently into the other.

  “Does your arm hurt you, my sweet?” she asked.

  The boy shook his curly head. At least she could take comfort that it did not pain him. Even so, the exertion of lifting his arm triggered his cough once more. She let him rest for a moment or two, then slipped his feet into the shoes that Sir Montagu had provided for him.

  The frockcoat was blue, edged in white brocade. She pictured her brother wearing it all those years ago. Of course it was far too big for Richard, hanging limply from his shoulders. Nevertheless it would protect him against the chill in the caves. She guided him over to the cheval mirror. He seemed strangely startled at his own reflection, as if he had never seen himself before. His cheeks had colored a little and the corners of his mouth turned up in a faint smile. It was as much as he had managed over the past two days, and Lydia hugged him. He had only spoken a few words to her.

  She, on the other hand, had spent hours talking to him, trying to make up for six lost years. She told him about his father and the Crick family and how he would grow to love Boughton, which would one day belong to him. She told him how he would be a custodian of the house and the land and that he would learn to call flowers and trees by their names. He would be able to recognize birds by their song and breeds of sheep by their wool. And when he was stronger, and this cursed fog had lifted, they would go riding into Brandwick on market day or down to Plover’s Lake to fish.

  “You look so fine, my dearest,” she said, gazing at them both reflected in the mirror, and she kissed him once more.
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  Eliza knocked and entered. “The trunk is packed, your ladyship,” she said.

  Glancing across at Richard the maid smiled. “What a handsome young man, your ladyship,” she said, almost wistfully. Realizing she had spoken out of turn, she grimaced, but Lydia returned her smile.

  “Thank you, Eliza,” she replied. “Yes, he is very handsome.”

  Jacob Lovelock had the carriage ready for noon, but just as they were coming down the steps of the hall another vehicle turned up the drive at speed. The horses drawing it were at a trot and it clattered to a halt right by them. Lydia instantly recognized the crest on the carriage door as the liveryman opened it.

  “Sir Theodisius!” she cried. “What brings you here?”

  The portly Oxford coroner heaved himself out onto the driveway, but barely managed to return her smile. “My dear, I am come on urgent business,” he told her earnestly. “Where is Dr. Silkstone?”

  Lydia frowned. “In London, sir,” she replied. “He received a message that Dr. Carruthers was gravely ill and he went to his side.”

  The coroner mopped his ruddy face with his kerchief. “I feared I would be too late,” he puffed.

  “Too late for what, pray?”

  He shook his head and his flabby jowls wobbled. “Young Silkstone has walked into a trap. Dr. Carruthers is not ill to my knowledge and this is all an elaborate ruse to, how can I put it, dispense with the doctor.”

  “Dispense with? Ruse? You talk in riddles, sir.” Lydia was growing increasingly impatient with the coroner. “Please tell me what is going on?”

  Sir Theodisius’s broad shoulders heaved in a great sigh. “Malthus is behind it,” he said.

  “Sir Montagu? Behind what?”

  The coroner shook his head. “ ’Tis clear, my dear, that you and Dr. Silkstone have deep feelings for each other, and ’twould seem that your late brother’s guardian is not content to keep Dr. Silkstone out of your marriage bed. He wants him out of your life, too.”