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Authors: Tessa Harris
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escapes the coroner’s notice!” he replied with a smile, then, easing back his sleeve, he revealed a bandage of gauze with a large yellow stain at its centre just above his wrist. “Some sort of bite, I believe. Getting worse, too.” He groaned a little as he pulled down his cuff.
Sir Theodisius sucked in his flaccid cheeks and clicked his tongue. “You have seen a physician?”
Carfax shook his head. He had been back in England less than a week and the demands of business had taken priority over his own health.
“Can you recommend one? ’Tis too trifling a matter for Izzard, yet I fear a quack who thinks a good bleeding is a cure-all.”
The coroner’s jowls wobbled as he nodded and thought of Thomas Silkstone, a physician and surgeon whose dislike of venesection was as well known as his distaste for pomposity and show.
“Indeed, I can recommend a most excellent chap,” he said, before helping himself to another sausage roll.
Chapter 11
T he foreshore leading to the Legal Quays was so packed with people and handcarts that the carriage was obliged to drop Thomas a quarter of a mile away in Thames Street. Clutching his case tightly to his side, he battled through the melee. He knew he was headed in the right direction. Up above him in the distance he could see the masts of the ships, rising skyward like the great giant pine trees of his homeland. On either side were workshops and warehouses. Men hammered rims on barrels, or forged iron chains, the clatter of their heavy hammers barely audible above the din of the street. Others barged past him, crates or sacks on their shoulders, their heads angled with the weight of their burdens.
Sir Joseph had impressed upon Thomas the need to oversee the unloading of the cargo. The quays in the Pool of London were a notorious hunting ground for gangs of thieves who roamed the shore looking for opportunities to steal. He’d heard of the Scuffle-Hunters and the River Pirates and did not want to trifle with them. Just what they would make of the Elizabeth ’s cargo was open to conjecture, but he did not want to give them the chance to lay their grubby hands on the priceless consignment that could be worth more to medicine than any amount of French brandy and fine cheese.
Finally he reached the quayside. Rarely had he beheld such a scene of mayhem. It was as if the Thames had brought in on its tide the flotsam and jetsam of humanity and deposited it on the shore. Merchants mingled with fishwives and costermongers, and sun-beaten sailors rubbed shoulders with porters, their eyes wild from months away at sea. A hapless preacher, perched on an upturned crate, struggled to be heard above the curses and oaths below. Whores hawked for business alongside gingerbread sellers, while in among them cutpurses and pickpockets plied their trade largely unchallenged.
Beyond the chaos Thomas’s eyes were drawn to the vast masts that rose from the river. Flags flapped like leaves in the gathering gusts and the ropes that hung from them reminded him of giant vines. Somewhere in that tangle of wood and rope and spars and ladders lay the Elizabeth.
He craned his neck above the crowd and spied the Customs House a few yards up ahead. Sir Joseph Banks had already sent a letter to take to the chief customs officer, explaining the nature of the Elizabeth ’s cargo. There should be no duty to pay. The tide waiter, taken on board at Gravesend, would be able to confirm that.
The imposing building itself was also teeming with people, mainly merchants and captains, anxious to register their cargo. There seemed to be no orderly queue and Thomas found himself being buffeted by elbows and his toes trodden upon by eager feet. At the far end of a large hall, four men sat behind desks on a raised dais. He guessed they were the officials and he, too, joined the fracas, edging his way slowly, and not without considerable discomfort, to the front.
The officer to whom he eventually delivered the
Sir Theodisius sucked in his flaccid cheeks and clicked his tongue. “You have seen a physician?”
Carfax shook his head. He had been back in England less than a week and the demands of business had taken priority over his own health.
“Can you recommend one? ’Tis too trifling a matter for Izzard, yet I fear a quack who thinks a good bleeding is a cure-all.”
The coroner’s jowls wobbled as he nodded and thought of Thomas Silkstone, a physician and surgeon whose dislike of venesection was as well known as his distaste for pomposity and show.
“Indeed, I can recommend a most excellent chap,” he said, before helping himself to another sausage roll.
Chapter 11
T he foreshore leading to the Legal Quays was so packed with people and handcarts that the carriage was obliged to drop Thomas a quarter of a mile away in Thames Street. Clutching his case tightly to his side, he battled through the melee. He knew he was headed in the right direction. Up above him in the distance he could see the masts of the ships, rising skyward like the great giant pine trees of his homeland. On either side were workshops and warehouses. Men hammered rims on barrels, or forged iron chains, the clatter of their heavy hammers barely audible above the din of the street. Others barged past him, crates or sacks on their shoulders, their heads angled with the weight of their burdens.
Sir Joseph had impressed upon Thomas the need to oversee the unloading of the cargo. The quays in the Pool of London were a notorious hunting ground for gangs of thieves who roamed the shore looking for opportunities to steal. He’d heard of the Scuffle-Hunters and the River Pirates and did not want to trifle with them. Just what they would make of the Elizabeth ’s cargo was open to conjecture, but he did not want to give them the chance to lay their grubby hands on the priceless consignment that could be worth more to medicine than any amount of French brandy and fine cheese.
Finally he reached the quayside. Rarely had he beheld such a scene of mayhem. It was as if the Thames had brought in on its tide the flotsam and jetsam of humanity and deposited it on the shore. Merchants mingled with fishwives and costermongers, and sun-beaten sailors rubbed shoulders with porters, their eyes wild from months away at sea. A hapless preacher, perched on an upturned crate, struggled to be heard above the curses and oaths below. Whores hawked for business alongside gingerbread sellers, while in among them cutpurses and pickpockets plied their trade largely unchallenged.
Beyond the chaos Thomas’s eyes were drawn to the vast masts that rose from the river. Flags flapped like leaves in the gathering gusts and the ropes that hung from them reminded him of giant vines. Somewhere in that tangle of wood and rope and spars and ladders lay the Elizabeth.
He craned his neck above the crowd and spied the Customs House a few yards up ahead. Sir Joseph Banks had already sent a letter to take to the chief customs officer, explaining the nature of the Elizabeth ’s cargo. There should be no duty to pay. The tide waiter, taken on board at Gravesend, would be able to confirm that.
The imposing building itself was also teeming with people, mainly merchants and captains, anxious to register their cargo. There seemed to be no orderly queue and Thomas found himself being buffeted by elbows and his toes trodden upon by eager feet. At the far end of a large hall, four men sat behind desks on a raised dais. He guessed they were the officials and he, too, joined the fracas, edging his way slowly, and not without considerable discomfort, to the front.
The officer to whom he eventually delivered the
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