They emerge onto a small terrace. The spring sunshine lies at bay, between the shadows cast by the house. Then it’s down a flight of steps and into a small privy garden trimmed to within an inch of its life.
And there they are, standing beside a sundial set on a stone plinth: a tall aquiline man in a black gown and starched ruff, and a willowy fair-haired youth who looks as though he hasn’t slept for weeks. Nicholas is reminded of his first day at petty schooclass="underline" standing bewildered and not a little terrified before a master in just the same sort of gown, who’d addressed him in incomprehensible Latin. Looking at the mop-haired, willowy figure of Samuel Wylde, he feels a sudden deep sympathy for the boy.
It’s a moment before he realizes that Samuel and Arcampora are not the only two figures in this tableau. Two men in leather doublets and woollen slops lounge at a discreet distance, like seconds at a duel. Or perhaps bodyguards.
But what most surprises Nicholas is the sudden change in Isabel Wylde. One instant she is the inscrutable guardian, and the next, adoring stepmother. She presses the crucifix at her throat deep into the flesh, so that when she takes her fingers away, there’s a red wheal left imprinted in the white ceruse. Almost fawning, she picks up the hem of her gown and curtseys deeply to Samuel.
‘My dearest, most gentle sir: will you give audience to these two visitors? Here is your grandmother – and here an emissary from your father.’
She must think he’s royalty, says Nicholas to himself. Yet Samuel looks like the survivor of a catastrophe who can’t quite believe he’s alive. His eyes dart between Mercy Havington and himself, unsure if he should acknowledge them or run for his life. The slender fingers work themselves like starfish clinging to a rock in a torrent.
‘You look tired, Samuel,’ observes Mercy Havington. ‘Have you been sleeping properly?’
Arcampora answers for his patient – in a strong accent, Nicholas notes.
‘He is a diligent boy, madam. He will not give up his studies, even to sleep. I must go into his chamber to tell him: no more candle!’
‘And are you as diligent with your prayers?’ asks Lady Havington.
Again Arcampora answers. ‘He is most exact, in all his devotions.’
‘And the paroxysms, Samuel?’ asks his grandmother in a voice laden with compassion. ‘Do they abate?’
‘Is too soon to say,’ says Arcampora. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us before he is cured.’
It seems the boy has decided his visitors pose no threat. He turns his pallid face to his grandmother and admits sheepishly, ‘I have had a few fits, madam. But I am trying.’
Nicholas makes his play. ‘Perhaps I could speak to you alone, Signor Arcampora.’
‘You wish to speak to Arcampora?’ the Professor says, as though surprised by a mild impertinence.
‘To get a proper account for Samuel’s father – so that I understand what I’m telling him.’
‘Is most complex,’ says Arcampora loftily. He lifts his chin as he speaks, the little black-and-silver blade of beard stabbing at Nicholas as if to warn him not to come closer. ‘But Arcampora will explain in simple terms. You have knowledge of physic?’
‘No, I fear not,’ says Nicholas. It’s not much of a lie, he thinks. ‘But Sir Joshua would very much like to hear about Samuel’s progress, if that’s possible.’
‘Is possible, I suppose. Though you will not understand most of what Arcampora tells you.’
‘I’ll try,’ says Nicholas, gesturing for Arcampora to join him in a stroll around the privy garden – adults’ talk, man-to-man.
‘This malady, it is very difficult to treat,’ confides Arcampora as they walk. ‘Many famous men of physic, they try.’ His hands wave dismissively. ‘They do not succeed. Do you know why?’
‘No. Please, do tell me.’
‘Only Arcampora has the knowledge!’
‘How fortunate for you,’ says Nicholas admiringly, ‘and for Samuel.’ He thinks, you could be president of the College of Physicians with that sort of attitude.
‘The ignorant say this disease is the result of possession.’
‘Possession?’ says Nicholas fearfully, trying hard to sound the most ignorant of country green-pates.
‘Possession by demons,’ explains the Professor. ‘But Arcampora does not believe this. This is tale of old wives.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘In the boy’s case, the demons are already within,’ asserts Arcampora, pressing his fingers against his temple for clarification. The blade of his nose dares Nicholas to disagree.
I’ve got you, Nicholas thinks. Possession. Demons. You’re just another Parson Olicott or sideman Perrot. You’ve read a few medical books that you barely understood, slept through a few lectures. At Basle you probably told your professors about your theory and they – quite sensibly – decided you were beyond instructing and threw you out. Now you’re peddling your stupid ideas to anyone gullible enough to pay you.
But then Arcampora surprises him.
‘The demons I speak of are agitated human thoughts,’ he proclaims. ‘The same thoughts that cause us the nightmare. I believe these occur in the ventricles of the brain. This agitation can pass swiftly from one ventricle to another, via the corpus callosum.’
Nicholas tries to look suitably mystified.
‘This disturbance can pool in the thalamus,’ Arcampora continues, tapping the top of his head vigorously to suggest some place deep inside. ‘When the thalamus is full, the disturbance overflows into the brainstem, and thus into the nerves.’ He pronounces it nerv-es.
‘Nerv-es?’ repeats Nicholas, again trying his best to sound mule-headed. ‘I’ve never heard of a nerv-es.’
‘These are vessels which carry animated spirit from the brain to the limbs,’ Arcampora explains. ‘If this spirit is contaminated, the limbs become oppressed. This is the cause of paroxysm.’
Nicholas does not question this explanation, lest he betray a competence he’s not supposed to possess. But it’s as plausible as anything else he’s been taught. An awful memory seizes him. He recalls the moment he came face-to-face with the Bankside killer in the death cell, hearing a man no less armoured than Arcampora in his own self-belief telling him about discoveries built not upon books and lectures, but upon living flesh. If disturbed thoughts cause paroxysms, he thinks, why aren’t I having one now? He forces the image from his mind. ‘And how do you subdue these agitated thoughts?’ he asks Arcampora. ‘How do you stop the paroxysms?’
‘We must discipline the mind,’ Arcampora replies, clenching a fist for dramatic effect. ‘Make it strong. Ordered. Samael is weak. We must make him robusto!’
‘But can you cure him?’ Nicholas asks disingenuously, trying not to smile at Arcampora’s pronunciation: Samael instead of Samuel.
‘I must cure him! He is no ordinary boy. Very special. The rarest flower must always be saved from the blight, yes?’
‘Special?’ asks Nicholas. ‘In what way is he special?’
For an instant the conviction in Arcampora’s deep-set eyes falters. It’s as if he’s committed a serious indiscretion. ‘Special to his papa, of course.’
‘Of course,’ says Nicholas, nodding wisely. ‘It all makes perfect sense. Thank you.’
They walk on, Arcampora expostulating, Nicholas nodding in the appropriate places and asking the occasional inane question.