The Dead Shall Not Rest (19 page)
Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
Chapter 29
O
n the fourth day of her self-imposed exile, Lady Lydia Farrell called for her maid Eliza.
n the fourth day of her self-imposed exile, Lady Lydia Farrell called for her maid Eliza.
“I wish you to see that this is delivered to Dr. Silkstone in London,” she instructed, handing over a letter.
Eliza curtsied and studied her mistress’s face. She had not seen her for three days now and she noted that her cheeks were pale and sunken, so that her doleful eyes were even more prominent. There was something in her manner, too, that appeared odd. She would not raise her gaze, but kept it either firmly on the floor or toward the window, even though the blinds were still down.
“Would you like a tray, m’lady?” asked Eliza.
“No,” she replied abruptly, then softening her tone, she added: “Thank you, Eliza. But I would ask that the dogcart be made ready.”
Eliza smiled. “Yes, m’lady. ’Tis a lovely morning.”
Lydia did not return her servant’s smile and was not the slightest bit interested in the weather. Her silence dampened Eliza’s enthusiasm.
“Have it ready by eleven,” she instructed.
“Yes, m’lady.” Eliza curtsied and left to inform the rest of the concerned household of their mistress’s plans for the day. No doubt everyone would be delighted that her ladyship was in better spirits.
“That is good news,” said Mistress Claddingbowl, rolling out a batch of pastry. “Perhaps I could even tempt her with one of my pies.”
“All in good time,” replied Howard, taking the letter from Eliza’s hands. “Whatever is in this letter, Lady Lydia will be able to tell the doctor in person, tomorrow,” he said, waving it around before putting it his pocket for safekeeping. “I am sure he will come straight away.”
Mistress Finesilver’s knocks at his door woke Thomas from what had been a deeply disturbed night’s sleep. Every turn, every movement he made, no matter how slight, had been accompanied by a stab of pain. The housekeeper entered at Thomas’s bidding to find her master lying bloodied and bruised on the bed, still fully dressed. At the sight of him, her hands flew up to her face.
“What has become of you, Dr. Silkstone?” she cried.
Thomas tried to raise his head, but the exertion was too much for him. “I was set upon last night,” he replied, sounding as if his mouth were full of pebbles. “I am hurt, but I will live.”
Mistress Finesilver’s maternal instincts, which usually lay well-hidden, now came into play and she sprang into action, pouring water and bathing Thomas’s battered face. “But we must get you out of these clothes, sir,” she exclaimed, looking at his blood-caked waistcoat with horror. “Ruth, Ruth,” she called for the maid.
The notion of being undressed by two fussing women did not appeal to Thomas in the slightest, but he had not the energy to argue. Together they eased him into an upright position on the bed, slipped off his topcoat with great difficulty, and then tackled his waistcoat and shirt.
“Bring me a looking glass,” he instructed so that he could inspect his own injuries. There was severe discoloration to his torso, especially below his rib cage, but the blood had flowed from only minor lacerations. Running his fingers along each shaft of rib, the ones he feared might have been cracked seemed to be smooth to the touch. He was heartily thankful that although his discomfort was great, a good application of arnica to bring out the bruising was probably all the treatment that was required. That, together with two or three days’ rest.
Within the half hour Dr. Carruthers was at his protégé’s side, displaying great concern for his welfare.
“But, young fellow, do you have any broken bones? A fever, what about a fever? A headache?” The blind anatomist seemed to have abandoned all professional decorum in his anxiety for the doctor.
If he had been able to, Thomas would have smiled. As it was, he was prevented from doing so by the stiffness of his mandible and its associated muscles. He said simply: “ ’Tis merely bruising, sir.”
Dr. Carruthers felt for the edge of the bed before seating himself upon it. “I’d like to get my hands on the blaggard that did this to you, young fellow.”
“There were two of them,” retorted Thomas.
“Did you see their faces?”
The doctor recalled the incident in his mind’s eye; how he was walking along the ill-lit street when he saw the men approach.
“Their faces were hidden,” he said, but then he remembered that he had seen a scarf slip slightly. Although it was pulled up again swiftly, he distinctly recalled the face now: the scar and the broken nose.
“The prizefighter,” he muttered to himself as much as to Dr. Carruthers.
“Prizefighter,” repeated the blind anatomist. “Prizefighter, you say.” He stroked his chin in contemplation. “The only man I know of who answers to that description is no prizefighter at all, but a common criminal; a sack ’em up man.”
Thomas managed to heave himself up on his elbows, his eyes opened as wide as his bruises permitted. “Go on, Doctor,” he urged.
“Name’s Ben Crouch. He has a sidekick called Jack Hartnett. No corpse in London is safe from those two. There’s many a dissecting table that would remain empty without their evil trade.”
Despite his discomfort, Thomas was now fitting the pieces of the puzzle together. His mind flashed back to the squalor of the jail. “They were the men in Newgate with Signor Moreno, too. They have something to do with the murder of the castrato. I just know it.”
Carruthers nodded. “Maybe, but someone will have put them up to it. Those sort of scoundrels only do their despicable deeds to order.”
Thomas looked at his blind mentor, whose unseeing eyes were as always closed, but in the ensuing silence their thoughts seemed to make themselves known to each other without words. At the exact same moment they both spoke the exact same name: “John Hunter.”
Charles Byrne awoke with a start, cold and stiff on the slab of a mortsafe in the graveyard of St. Giles-in-the-Fields. He had just suffered a nightmare. In his dream he was on Dr. Hunter’s dissecting table, tied down and unable to move. The doctor approached him, a glinting scalpel held aloft in his hand, like some pagan priest about to make a sacrifice. As he brought down the knife, Charles sat up, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest and the noise of it filling his ears. He looked around, shaking the fog of sleep from his large head. He was surrounded by gravestones, some worn, some new, some grand, some simple, some moss-covered as if growing out of the very ground itself. All were in higgledy-piggedly rows, layer upon layer of corpses consigned by plague and disease and time to their earthy resting place. What had brought him to this unsettling site he now tried to recall. He shivered as he cast his mind back to Dr. Hunter’s underground cave where he had seen strange things, evil things; men’s body parts preserved in jars and phials, instead of being where they should be, wrapped in shrouds and given decent burials in consecrated ground. What monster would deny a man a burial, he asked himself.
The last thing he remembered was wandering through the streets at a late hour. He had asked Howison to drop him off in St. Giles, where Emily’s family lived. Emily. Now he recalled. He was looking for Emily, but it was dark and only the devil and his sort were out at that time of night, so he had lain on a tombstone and rested.
Now, in the cold light of day, surrounded by the memorials and trappings of death, fear began to take hold. He sensed he was being watched. He turned to see that he was, indeed, being gazed upon in awe by a curious urchin. As soon as he saw Charles’s face, the child let out a loud scream. “A giant! A giant!” he cried and leapt up from the long grass where he had been crouching and ran off through the graveyard toward the gates.
Charles rose, aware that the boy’s cries would alert the whole neighborhood. He followed quickly, past the charnel house, toward the gates. He knew his very presence in the streets would cause mayhem. He knew, too, that word would spread quickly and that, hopefully, wherever Emily was, she would hear of his arrival and come to greet him. She would look after him; she would keep him safe from Dr. Hunter and his evil plan. She would see to it that he did not end up like his father, as a piece of meat to be cut and sliced on a dissecting table, then dragged to the slaughterhouse.
He lumbered over the green tussocks of the graveyard to the gates and turned down an alley. At the end of it he could see people and carts plying along what seemed like a busy thoroughfare, so he turned off down another deserted side street. Sheltering in a doorway at the end of the lane, he spied a square where a crowd of twenty, maybe thirty people was gathered. They were listening to a man who was standing on some steps in front of a building, shouting, not in an angry way, but so that he might be heard by all. A crying baby held by a woman next to him also vied for the crowd’s attention and next to her, seated on the steps, was an old crone. The man held something dark in his hand. Charles could not make out what it was. It appeared as though he was selling his wares.
A large cart was parked nearby, so, getting down on all fours, he crawled over to it. Then he crouched between it and the wall to gain a better view and to put himself within earshot of the hawker.
“Come on now. Don’t be shy of Mad Sam,” he called. “Work your own miracles with this hair from the amazing Irish Giant. Guaranteed to cure all your ills, as foretold by Grandmother Tooley. Only tuppence a lock.”
Wives, young girls, and men on crutches came forward, some with limps, others with sores; some with coughs, others with toothache; all clamoring for a lock. The woman with the baby took their pennies, while the man put the strands of hair, held together by small lengths of ribbon, into their eager hands.
“Hold the hair where it ails and you’ll be rid of your troubles,” he shouted above the general fracas.
From behind the cart Charles looked on in shock. Who was this man? Where did he get his hair, if indeed it was his hair? Why would he say that it could work miracles? There were so many questions he wanted to ask and so much indignation that he felt, that he decided to abandon the cover of the cart and confront the hawker. Straightening himself to his full height, he strode toward him.
The first woman to notice him let out a scream.
“The giant!” she cried.
“The giant!” many echoed.
The crowd around Mad Sam parted. Some fled; others remained transfixed, compelled to watch the giant’s reaction to the hawker.
Grandmother Tooley could not contain her wonderment and seemed to enter into some sort of trance. “The tall man,” she screeched, pointing her gnarled finger at the giant. “The tall man from across the water, as I foretold.”
Seeing Charles approach, instead of fleeing like many of his customers, Mad Sam stood his ground and smiled. “Well, well, ladies and gents, if it isn’t the miracle worker himself,” he cried, gesturing to Charles. “What an honor it is to meet you, sir, and a fellow Irishman, too.” He beamed.
Those who had scurried off and hidden behind barrels and carts and crates now peered from behind them, anxious to see the next act of the drama play out in front of them.
Charles scowled at the hawker, who seemed totally unfazed. “Why look so sad, Giant? Your powers are helping all these good people.”
There was a tense silence as Charles surveyed the faces that now cowered below him. Silence. The woman with the screaming baby looked at Mad Sam. The child had managed to get hold of a lock of the giant’s hair and was now sucking it, peacefully and without a noise.
“The babe. He’s stopped crying,” she said to her husband. “He’s stopped crying!”
Mad Sam’s eyes opened wide with delight as he looked at the peaceful child. “ ’Tis a miracle. The giant has wrought another miracle!” he exclaimed.
A collective cheer went up from the crowd, and now more people than ever rushed forward toward Charles, wanting to touch him. He soon became surrounded by hordes of citizens, tugging at his breeches and prodding at his legs.
Mad Sam climbed up to the top of the steps and held out his hand to Charles. “Here,” he called and the giant strode up to join him, but the crowd followed him, pushing and shoving, so that some of the children and the cripples fell or were crushed in the melee. Word spread quickly in the back streets and alleyways of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, like a contagion. The cry went up: “The Irish Giant. The giant is here!” It soon reached Emily, who had been tasked with sweeping the floor at home. She ran to the window and looked down below to see a stream of people flowing toward the market square.
Hurrying downstairs, she joined the feverish throng and was carried along on their tide. Soon she saw Charles, standing at the top of the steps, his large head and broad shoulders towering above the baying crowds; bodies pressed against each other, trying to surge forward, as they so often did for a hanging. Their cries and shouts were deafening, but these were no jeers for injustices done. They called for Charles to look upon them as Christ would himself have laid his hands upon the poor and the sick, or simply to touch them.
Emily called his name, but her voice was lost in the cacophony of pleas and beseechings that came from all those milling around her. “Charles,” she cried again, but to no avail.
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