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Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Chapter 20
E
mily threw open the shutters, letting bright light flood into Charles Byrne’s bedchamber. The giant stirred, his wiggling feet, like great sides of bacon, hanging out from the bottom of the bed. She giggled softly at the sight of them and watched as he raised his tousled black head above the covers and squinted against the sunlight.
“Good morning,” she greeted him cheerfully. “The count told me I was to wake you so you would not be late for your visit this morning.”
For a moment Emily’s words were lost in the fog of his sleep, until he remembered with a shudder. “The surgeon?”
“Yes. You are to be washed and shaved and wearing your best clothes by ten o’clock sharp.” She knew she was sounding more like a wife than a maid, but the newfound familiarity between them delighted her.
“I hate his s-sort,” he growled, still under the covers. “Prod and p-poke. That’s all they do. I’d like a guinea for every time I’ve been measured by one.”
“They’re not all like that,” countered Emily, pouring hot water into the ewer. “Dr. Silkstone is a good man.”
“Aye. He’s the only one I trust, to be sure. The rest of them are a bunch of cutthroats,” he grumbled.
Slowly lifting himself off the pillows, the giant sat on the edge of the bed. Even so, the exertion made him cough. Emily handed him a glass of water, boiled and cooled on Dr. Silkstone’s instructions, that was always kept by his bedside. He drank it and it eased him.
“Thank you.” He managed a smile.
“I shall leave you now to ready yourself,” she said, turning, but he took hold of her hand.
“Will you help me?” he asked, looking down at her with sad eyes. Even when seated he was still taller than she.
Emily flushed. “Sir, I am not sure that is allowed.”
“But there is no valet who can dress me here, and I needs look my best,” he pleaded.
“Very well,” she conceded. “But I can’t stay long, mind, or Mistress Goodbody will come looking for me.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Let’s start with your hair, shall we? It needs a trim.”
The giant rose and, still in his nightshirt, sat in front of his dressing table, his stubbly face reflected in the mirror. Finding scissors in a nearby drawer, Emily first combed his long black hair, taking care not to pull it. In silence she trimmed the ends by two or three inches, watched in the glass by Charles, the oval framing them both like a portrait. His thick locks fell to the floor, a gathering carpet of black, until Emily gave the hair a final comb.
“To your liking, sir?”
“Yes,” said Charles. He smiled at her in the mirror.
“And now for the shave,” she told him. Taking a folded white napkin that she had brought with her, Emily shook it out and tied it ’round his neck like a bib.
“I ain’t never done this before.” She giggled, lathering the shaving paste with a badger-hair brush. “But I see’d my dad do it lots.”
Gently and carefully, she applied the white foamy lather to the giant’s face in small circular motions. Charles luxuriated in the sensation. Her touch was as light as gossamer. Every stroke was a caress that thrilled him to the very bone. The paste was scented, too: a sweet smell that reminded him of lemons and wildflowers.
In the mirror he watched her work diligently until she became aware of his stare. She turned and caught sight of them together.
“We make a fine pair,” he said, still gazing into the looking glass.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Emily coyly. She picked up the razor from the dressing table and dipped it in the water to warm the blade. “Now hold still, if you please.”
She did not feel comfortable handling the blade, but she began steadily enough at the left cheekbone and worked her way down in short, hesitant strokes. Next she moved to the right side and began with the same staccato scrapes, but applying just the right amount of pressure to the blade. When she arrived at the jawline, however, her grasp slipped a little. Her hand was growing tired, but she resumed the shave until two or three seconds later they both noticed a drop of blood budding like a red rose from a small nick on the bone.
“Oh dear,” she whispered, leaning over to wipe the dark droplet with the corner of the napkin, but Charles stayed her hand. His expression had suddenly altered. His eyes widened and a look of fear was etched across his face.
“I am cut,” he muttered. “I am cut,” he repeated, only louder.
“I’m so sorry,” said Emily. “But ’tis only a small nick.”
“I cannot be cut,” he cried, ripping the napkin from around his neck and springing up, knocking over the washstand as he did so.
“I must not be cut,” he repeated. “Never! Never!”
With a wide sweep of his arms he sent everything flying from the dressing table; the pitcher, a brush, and a pot of powders went crashing to the floor as Emily watched in shock.
Outside on the landing, Mistress Goodbody was passing and heard the furor. Putting her ear to the door she listened to Charles’s rantings and Emily repeating over and over again that she was sorry.
The housekeeper flung open the door. “What is the meaning of this?” she exclaimed. There were broken shards of china on the floor and pools of water.
Emily hung her head in shame. Charles, lather still covering his chin, was standing on the opposite side of the room. His breathing was labored and what could be seen of his skin above the shaving foam reddened. In the commotion he had torn his nightshirt and his bare chest was plain to see.
“Well, Emily?”
“I was only trying to help Mr. Byrne, mistress. I—”
“I asked her to help me shave,” interrupted Charles. “ ’Twas no fault of hers. She is not to blame, Mistress Goodbody.”
The housekeeper flashed a look at the floor and the broken china and the bedclothes in disarray. “I will send someone else to clean up this mess, bless me, I will,” she said, shaking her head. To Emily she ordered: “You better get downstairs, my girl. I will speak to you later.”
By now Emily was in tears and she brushed past her mistress as quickly as she could, leaving Charles to face the housekeeper’s disapproving gaze.
“I am s-sorry,” stuttered Charles. “I will p-pay for the damage and tell the count what happened.”
“So I am not to discipline the girl?”
“Please, no,” exclaimed Charles, obviously upset by the very idea. “Emily did nothing wrong. Believe me, ’twas all my doing.”
“Very well,” said the housekeeper slowly. “If that is your wish, Mr. Byrne. . . .”
“That it is,” he assured her and she left the giant alone, standing by his bed, trying hard to hold back the tears.
 
Thomas arrived at the count’s Cockspur Street lodgings shortly after nine o’clock, as agreed. He had slept fitfully, his mind a battlefield after Lydia’s unexpected outburst. On his way there he had delivered his postmortem report to Sir Peregrine Crisp.
“I am convinced Signor Moreno is not the murderer,” he had told the coroner.
“I will be the judge of that,” came the terse reply.
As his carriage pulled up outside the house, he looked up at the window in the vain hope that he might see Lydia’s face. He did not, but he was determined not to give in. He would find out, sooner or later, what lay behind her decision to call off their betrothal. She owed him that much, at least, he told himself as he pulled the bell cord.
Mistress Goodbody answered the door. “I will tell the count you are here, Dr. Silkstone,” she said, ushering him upstairs to the drawing room.
“Is her ladyship in?” he asked her, unable to curtail his curiosity.
The housekeeper turned to him, looking perplexed. “Lady Lydia left for Boughton Hall first thing this morning, sir.”
Thomas’s expression betrayed his disappointment, although he tried to show a brave face. “Of course she did.” He nodded. “Her ladyship did tell me, but it slipped my mind.”
Left to wait alone in the drawing room, he felt a wave of betrayal sweep over him. Shock shot through every nerve in his body and he suddenly felt nauseous. This was not the behavior of the woman he had come to know and love. Without warning she had made herself a stranger to him.
“My dear Dr. Silkstone, is anything wrong?” The count stood next to Thomas, staring up at his pale face. “You look most distressed.”
The little man’s concerned greeting shook Thomas out of his own malaise. Behind, towering over him, making him look like a child’s poppet, stood Charles, seeming every inch a gentleman in fine new clothes made especially for him by the count’s own tailor.
“I am a little tired,” conceded Thomas. “I had to deliver the postmortem report to Sir Peregrine first thing this morning.”
“Ah, yes.” The count nodded. “And what, pray, did you conclude?”
Thomas did not feel it proper to divulge the contents of his report. He said simply: “My findings will, I am sure, lift all suspicion from Signor Moreno.”
Chapter 21
T
he journey to Dr. Hunter’s country retreat, about an hour’s drive away from Covent Garden, in Earls Court, was a tense one. The count was haunted by the unfortunate predicament of his Tuscan friend in Newgate Prison, while Charles was in a morose mood, staring out of the carriage window. Thomas’s thoughts were also elsewhere. With Lydia. She would be on the Bath road by now, maybe heading out of Slough, or maybe even as far as Aylesbury. Was she feeling as utterly dejected as he was? She had broken off their engagement and yet it seemed that she only did so out of a sense of duty, not because she wanted to. Something else was driving her, he told himself. There was some terrible compulsion behind her actions, and he had to discover what it was before the gnawing suspicions ate away his very soul.
After about half an hour, the bustling streets where hawkers vied for space with cattle drovers and their herds gave way to a more rural landscape. Soon four-story houses were replaced by thatched cottages. Thomas noted that the air was sweeter, too. Instead of the stench of decay and preserving fluid that hung over his laboratory, and the smell of piss and horse dung that pervaded many a London street, he detected hay and grass on the wind. He breathed in deeply and began to redirect his melancholy thoughts into more positive ones.
The young doctor had heard much talk about Dr. Hunter’s new premises. His famous collections of species, from tapeworms and terrapins to fungi and fetuses, had grown far too big for his Leicester Fields home, so he had purchased this large plot in the country.
As the carriage progressed into the grounds, through high, spiked gates, a sense of unease settled upon Thomas. Spring-guns were mounted on the crenellated walls, presumably to discourage trespassers. They passed a fishpond bordered not by dancing dolphins or mermaids, as was the fashion, but by a neat row of small animal skulls. On the lawns, strange birds the height of small men roamed, their necks as long as their legs, while in the pastures beyond Thomas swore he could see bison graze, just as they did in his homeland.
As they approached the house, a newly built villa of brick, Thomas could make out a crocodile’s head, its jaws agape, projecting over the main entrance. Four stone lions guarded the front door.
The count obviously shared his wonderment. “What manner of place is this?” he muttered.
But there was no wonder in Charles’s eyes, only deep anxiety. “I do not like it,” he confided.
Thomas was inclined to share his feelings. Even as a scientist himself, he found the use of specimens as architectural decoration distasteful, verging on the grotesque. There was an eerie sense that nature in all its glory was being in some way perverted and mutated into something frightening and unnatural. He had even heard talk in the coffeehouses that droves of human monsters could be found roaming the grounds, only to be anatomized on their deaths. Of course he did not believe the rumor, but he could understand how it had spread, and since Carrington had told him of the anatomist’s self-mutilation in the cause of science, he could almost believe it.
“Come; the sooner you are examined, the sooner we can leave this ungodly place,” urged Thomas, helping the giant down the carriage steps.
No sooner had he said these words, however, than an almighty roar shook the very ground on which they were standing.
“What in God’s name was that?” cried the count, clutching his chest in fright.
“That, gentlemen, was a lion,” came a voice behind them. John Hunter was smiling broadly, obviously amused by their reaction to the noise. “He is one of several beasts—tigers and leopards, too—which I keep in my underground dens. But there’s no need to fear. They are quite secure.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” said Thomas, sighing with relief.
The anatomist, wigless and wearing a shabby topcoat, was pleasant enough in his greeting, but he reserved his most effusive welcome for Charles.
“By Jesu, what a specimen,” he cried, tilting his head backward to take in the full extent of the giant’s size.
“Dr. Hunter, this is Mr. Charles Byrne,” introduced the count, clearly finding the anatomist’s address verging on the offensive.
“Forgive me, Mr. Byrne, but, och! ’Tis not every day I meet a giant.”
The three visitors followed Hunter along the path that snaked behind the villa toward a long wing that housed his laboratory. As they walked, they passed a large pen. Inside, what sounded like dogs began barking loudly as they heard the party approaching. The surrounding fence was high, but there were cutouts in the wooden panels for observation.
Curious, Thomas peered through one. “Surely those cannot be wolves?” he said out loud.
Hunter stopped in his tracks. “Wolves, jackals, and dogs,” he concurred in a matter-of-fact way. “I have penned them all together to see what manner of hybrids might come out of them.”
“And have they?” asked an incredulous count.
The Scotsman shrugged. “A jackal bitch gave me nine vulpine monsters.”
Thomas glanced at Charles, who was now even paler than usual. His green eyes darted here and there, doubtless wondering what new horror would be revealed next.
“What have we done, bringing him to such a place?” whispered Thomas to the count as Hunter opened the door to his laboratory. Inside there were more curiosities, all manner of strange, large insects from foreign shores pinned flat to boards. Small creatures, too, like bats and voles were suspended in fluid in great jars on shelves.
Thomas saw the familiar figure of Giles Carrington sitting by a workbench, hunched over some specimens. The young student rose and bowed, regarding the visitors awkwardly.
“Mr. Carrington,” Thomas acknowledged him.
“The lad helps me with my preparations from time to time,” Hunter explained. By him on the workbench were three dead doves, their pure white plumage stained red with blood at the breasts. Thomas stopped to look at them.
“My latest discovery,” said the anatomist, pointing to the carcasses. “Birds breathe partly through their wing bones. The air sacs in the cavities communicate with those in the lungs.”
“Fascinating,” said Thomas, marveling at the man’s enquiring mind while at the same time being troubled by his ghoulish imagination.
As Hunter began to move on, Carrington darted a knowing look at Thomas before seating himself again at his workbench and picking up a brush once more. It was then that something registered with Thomas. He recalled his postmortem report, or rather an omission from his report. Carrington, he noted, was holding the brush in his left hand.
They walked on past various contraptions and strange-looking devices that Thomas had never before encountered, until they came to a small door.
“You’ll have to duck right down,” Hunter instructed the giant as he opened it. “This is where I examine my patients.”
Charles glanced anxiously at the count and Thomas and, as if anticipating the next question, Hunter said: “I would appreciate some time with Mr. Byrne alone.”
Boruwlaski paused. “Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Byrne?” he asked.
The giant nodded slowly, but anxiety was written all over his face.
“Please, take a turn around my grounds, gentlemen. I am sure you will find plenty to interest you. I will call you when we are done,” insisted the anatomist, his facial muscles flexing into a brief smile.
Bowing, Thomas and the count departed reluctantly, leaving Charles standing in the room with the anatomist, the top of his head cocked to one side so as not to touch the ceiling.
 
Charles Byrne surveyed the room with mistrustful eyes. An assortment of small animals that were unfamiliar to him, some with striped tails and even one that carried its babe in a sort of pouch, stood lifelike on shelves in various poses.
“You collect d-dead things, sir,” he ventured nervously.
Hunter peered at him over a pair of spectacles, but ignored the observation.
“Where I c-come from we string up vermin,” he continued.
“So do we,” replied Hunter, adding under his breath, “of the human variety, too.” He gestured to a large table. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable seated.”
The giant obliged, the table creaking under his weight. He shivered and felt his chest tighten as his lungs went into a sudden spasm, forcing out a loud cough. Now the anatomist, too, was seated and poised with a pencil in his hand. He watched with interest as Charles’s shoulders heaved for a few seconds, but offered no assistance.
“How long have you had the cough, Mr. Byrne?”
“A few months, sir,” he replied, wiping the sputum from his chin with his kerchief. It was colorless, and for that he was grateful.
“Do you ever cough up blood?”
“No, sir,” he lied.
“How is your health in general?”
“I’m as fit as the next man, sir.”
Hunter threw down his pencil onto his desk, almost disdainfully. “Come, come, Mr. Byrne. Your height and weight put huge strains on your skeleton. You must suffer from aches and pains.”
The giant nodded. “That I do, sir, but I cannot complain.”
“Then you will not mind if I examine you?” The doctor was smiling now.
“If that is your wish, sir.”
“It most certainly is. You may divest yourself over there,” said Hunter, gesturing to a three-paneled screen painted with exotic birds.
Charles Byrne lumbered over to the screen, which barely came up to his waist. First he took off his topcoat and then his cravat and waistcoat before beginning to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.
“May I keep my breeches on, sir?” he asked, anxious to preserve what little dignity he had left.
“Och, very well,” replied the anatomist reluctantly. It was his patient’s upper torso, and in particular his lungs, that interested him most, so he conceded.
 
Thomas and Count Boruwlaski were now free to roam around the grounds as they wished. Nearby they could hear the crowing of cocks and other sundry fowl and decided to head for the barnyard.
“I would be happier if I had stayed with Mr. Byrne,” said Thomas.
“Hunter will not hurt him,” countered the little man. “Remember he is an old acquaintance; an odd one, true, but he means no harm.”
All is well as long as the harm he does remains confined to his own personage,
thought Thomas. He nodded to the count. “You are right. The man’s genius renders him rather eccentric, but his work is for the good of us all.”
The two of them walked on toward the barnyard, both savoring the country air after the relentless assault of the capital on the senses.
“I envy Lady Lydia’s return to Boughton,” said the count. “The air is so much fresher there and the countryside so pleasing.”
“Yes,” agreed Thomas thoughtfully.
The little man raised his gaze. “Do I detect a note of melancholy?”
The doctor stopped and turned to face him. Abandoning all formality he said: “How long does she intend to remain at Boughton?”
Boruwlaski was taken aback by the young surgeon’s reaction. “I am not privy to her plans,” he replied. “I know that she has seen to it that the lawyer works on behalf of Mr. Byrne to secure the royal pardon. She has asked me to oversee those affairs, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he shrugged his tiny shoulders before he added: “I think you will miss her ladyship.”
The count was a wily judge of character and no stranger to affairs of the heart himself, but although he was well-meaning, he had no comprehension of the emotional torment Thomas was feeling. He simply smiled, masking his pain.
“Perhaps,” he replied vaguely. His answer, however, was not heeded by the count, whose attention was already focused elsewhere. Thomas turned to follow the object of his morbid fascination.
“What goes on there?” Boruwlaski asked as both men watched a swarthy laborer wheel a barrow laden with wicker baskets down a ramp and into a tunnel behind the villa. High-pitched squeals and squawks emitted from the hampers. The man, with dark, matted hair under his large-brimmed hat, scowled at them momentarily before disappearing through a passage down below.
“Laboratory animals. Rats and mice,” said Thomas, suddenly reminding himself of Franklin. He knew these rodents would not be so fortunate as to escape their unpleasant fates.
They looked uneasily at one another, as if reading each other’s thoughts.
“We should return for Mr. Byrne,” said Thomas.
The count nodded and they both started to make their way back to where they had left the giant in Hunter’s care. Knocking on the laboratory door, the two men entered to find the anatomist measuring the giant’s thighs.
“Och, Dr. Silkstone, what perfect timing. I need a willing assistant to hold the tape at one end for the final, but most important measurement. Would you oblige?” His tone was almost amiable.
Thomas smiled reassuringly at Charles, who, wearing his shirt once more, seemed happy enough to comply with the anatomist’s request. Thomas uncoiled the tape, which was marked off in inch sections, and held it to the floor as Hunter mounted a stool and reached to the top of the giant’s head.

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