Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
The Dead Shall Not Rest (20 page)
Another ten minutes of mayhem passed before the constables finally came to break up the crowd with sticks. The unfortunates scattered down side streets, disappearing back into their hovels just as soon as they had come, like an army of ants. Only Charles, Mad Sam, his wife and babe and Grandmother Tooley were left on the market steps.
“We should charge you with breach of the peace,” said one of the constables, adding to Charles: “But we will not, just as long as you, sir, leave the neighborhood straight away, before you cause any more trouble.”
The giant nodded. “I will go, sir,” he replied with all the artless guile of a child. He had not wanted to cause such chaos. He had only wanted to find Emily, but there was one other thing he had to know before he returned to Cockspur Street.
“Is that really my hair?” he asked Mad Sam.
The hawker grinned. “Why, you wouldn’t be doubting me now?”
“Then how did you come by it?”
“Yes, how did you come by it?” came a voice from below. Both men looked down to see Emily standing indignantly at the foot of the steps. Charles’s face broke into a broad smile and he strode down to greet her. Enfolding her in his arms, he held her tightly.
“Oh, dear Emily,” he whispered. “I came to find you,” he told her, grasping both her arms. He looked at her intently, his eyes moist with tears. “You are to return to Cockspur Street, on the count’s orders,” he said.
She smiled and held his hand close to her cheek. “Then I shall go back with you.” She nodded. “But first, I need the answer to your question. How did he come to possess locks of your hair?” she cried, pointing a finger at her wayward father.
Mad Sam’s face broke into another broad grin. “Why, my dear daughter, I borrowed them from that tin of yours, of course,” he told her unashamedly, adding: “A man’s got to earn a living any ways he can.”
Charles shook his head sadly. “So this man is your father?”
Emily nodded. “It pains me to say so.”
The giant’s look was pitiful. “It seems that everyone wants to profit from my misfortune,” he told her.
“Not everyone,” she replied, kissing his hand sweetly. “Come, let’s return.”
Instead of allowing himself to be guided by her hand, however, Charles remained on the spot. “What is it?” asked Emily, puzzled.
A troubled look settled on his face. “ ’Tis that doctor.”
“The one you saw before at Earls Court?”
“Yes. He wants to cut me up when I die.” His voice cracked as he spoke.
Emily looked at her father, then at Charles. “Do not fear,” she soothed. “I will not let him do that. You will be safe back with the count.” And patting the giant tenderly on the arm, she led him away by the hand.
By first light Jacob Lovelock had saddled the stable’s fittest mount and headed off on the long journey to London. The sun had not yet risen over the Chiltern Hills, and the dawn was gray and chill. It had not rained for a few days now and the ground was dry, making the journey less treacherous underfoot. His progress toward the capital had been good. Stopping at Beaconsfield he had changed his horse, downed a pint of small beer, and bought a pie, which he ate in the saddle. By one o’clock he had entered the city by Newgate and was in Piccadilly less than a half hour later.
Mistress Finesilver answered the door to him with a look of surprise. “I am come with a message for Dr. Silkstone, ma’am,” he said, black smuts marking his pitted face. “I have ridden hard from Boughton Hall.”
The housekeeper arched an eyebrow. “I can see you have come from far,” she said, staring at Lovelock’s dust-covered jacket, “but Dr. Silkstone is indisposed.” Her master was asleep, and she knew he needed all the rest he could muster. She told the messenger to come back on the morrow and was just about to close the door on her visitor when Dr. Carruthers happened to be walking by.
“Who goes there?” he asked.
Mistress Finesilver raised her eyes heavenward in annoyance. “ ’Tis a messenger from Boughton Hall for Dr. Silkstone, sir, but I have told him he is not available,” she replied curtly.
The old anatomist stopped by the open door, sniffing the stale air of the street. “I am sure that Dr. Silkstone is always disposed to receive a message from Lady Lydia, if that is the case,” he said playfully.
“Not exactly, sir,” replied Lovelock awkwardly. “ ’Tis a message that
concerns
her ladyship, though, sir.”
concerns
her ladyship, though, sir.”
Dr. Carruthers tilted his head and puckered his mouth. “In that case, please come in. Dr. Silkstone met with an accident last night, but I am sure he is keen to hear any news about her ladyship,” he told him, adding: “I only hope it is not bad.”
Mistress Finesilver grudgingly led Lovelock up the stairs to Thomas’s room and knocked on the door. Thomas bade her enter and assured her that he was well enough to receive a visitor, although he was shocked to see the head groom.
“Bring this man some food and ale, and water to wash,” he told a surly Mistress Finesilver. “What is it, Jacob?” he asked anxiously as soon as they were alone.
“I am come with the knowledge of Mr. Howard, sir, but without the permission of her ladyship,” he said, nervously fingering his dusty hat.
Thomas, who was now sitting up in bed with a cold compress at his cheek to relieve the swelling, frowned and bade Lovelock sit on a chair.
“Is Lady Lydia unwell, or in danger?” he asked, looking intently at the groom.
“Maybe,” replied Lovelock.
“Unwell, or in danger, or both?” pressed Thomas.
Lovelock shrugged. “She’s not been herself since she came back from London. She shut herself in her room and then Sir Montagu came to talk to her of making a marriage and now she hasn’t eaten for days. We are all concerned, sir.”
Thomas began to sigh deeply, but was quickly reminded of his bruised ribs when he tried to do so. He should have guessed that Sir Montagu would soon be wanting to make a match for her. “Has Dr. Fairweather been called?” he asked.
Lovelock shook his head. “Eliza asked her if she would see him and she said no. We are worried, Dr. Silkstone, worried that she may do something terrible. She is in such a bad state.”
Thomas closed his eyes momentarily. The servants were putting him in a difficult position. They had no idea that he and Lydia had been betrothed and that she had ended their engagement. They had no idea that he had been told that he must never see her again and yet he was the obvious person for them to turn to when they sensed their mistress was in grave danger. Their loyalty was unquestionable, albeit somewhat unorthodox.
“And there’s this,” said Lovelock, flourishing the list of suitors that Eliza had smuggled to him before he set off. “We thought you should see this.”
Thomas scanned the list of highborn men thought worthy or desirable by Sir Montagu, but one name toward the bottom of the list rankled more than any other. It was the Right Honorable Rupert Marchant.
“Your mistress would be touched by your concern, as I am,” he said finally. “As you can see, I am somewhat incapacitated at the moment,” he lifted a bruised hand, “but from your tone, I feel I am needed sooner rather than later.”
Lovelock nodded. “You are the only person who can help her ladyship, sir. We are sure of that,” he pleaded.
“I must stress that I go only as a physician,” said Thomas, “but go I will and right away.”
The groom breathed a sigh of relief and his face burst into a smile. “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he said and he left the room to wait for the doctor to make ready for his long, and no doubt painful, journey to Boughton.
In a tavern just off Fleet Street, Dr. Hunter sat in his usual dingy corner, cradling a tankard of ale. This was where he did many of his dealings. His associates appreciated the anonymous surroundings, where they could blend in with the rest of the rogues and whores and general detritus of a city. It was his custom to keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the door so that he could see all the comings and goings.
A persistent fly was buzzing around his head and he kept trying to waft it away with a rolled-up newssheet. He had just been reading a report about an incident in St. Giles where the presence of the Irish Giant had caused a small riot. As he continued to battle with the fly, he saw Howison enter the inn and signaled him over. “It must be able to smell death on me,” he said, still waving away the fly, as the servant sat down. “I have a job for you,” he continued. “The giant.”
Howison grinned, exposing a bottom row of rotting teeth. “Yes, sir,” he replied.
“I want him, but he is not cooperating.”
The fly landed on the table and started to sip some spilled ale. Seizing the opportunity, Hunter took an empty tankard, upturned it, and slammed it down, imprisoning the insect.
“You’re to follow him everywhere. Watch his every move. Make him squirm. He is dying. There is no doubt of that, but we may have to devise a way of hastening his exit”—he broke off to lift the tankard slightly, so that, sensing freedom, the fly crawled to the edge of its prison and poked its head out—“so that I can get to work on him at once.” He banged the tankard down suddenly, decapitating the fly.
Howison nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Lydia drove the cart up to the pavilion just before noon. It was a sunny spring day. The trees were covered in a bright green haze of buds, and the fields were a subtle patchwork of soil and shoots. She was glad that she took in her last view of Boughton on such a day. This was how she wanted to remember it, bathed in warm sunshine. She walked over to the simple wooden cross on the ridge that marked her husband’s grave. She had thought to have him reinterred in the family vault, but had not been able to face the thought of disturbing him again. Laying a posy of violets and celandine on the grassy mound, she said a short prayer before turning to enter the pavilion itself.
The once-white planks were now a dull, weather-stained gray. A pane of glass was cracked. An aura of neglect and decay surrounded it. It had been more than a year now since her last visit to this place. She remembered she had been shocked at its condition and had vowed to ask Amos Kidd, the gardener, to clean and repair the fabric of the building. Yet events had overtaken her and still nothing had been done, but at least it served her purpose.
The door creaked open. A large spider dropped down on a thread in front of her eyes. She swept it away with her hand and surveyed the space. More floorboards had been chewed by vermin, which had left more droppings in their wake. She walked to the far side, treading warily. Her eyes scanned the corner, and a smile flickered across her lips when she saw it. It was still where she had left it more than a year ago. The stone jar, about the size of a pitcher, with its narrow neck plugged by a cork, remained untouched. She bent down and picked it up. It still contained liquid, admittedly not as much as before. Francis had drained a gill or two off to take to Thomas for his scientific tests, but enough was left for her purpose. She did not bother to remove the stopper to remind herself of the familiar, nauseating smell. She would reserve that doubtful pleasure for nearer the appointed time.
Returning to the door, she took one last look around the room before climbing back onto the dogcart, the stone jar sitting securely at her side. She hid it under a shawl she had brought with her for that very purpose. No one would know. No one would suspect—until it was too late.
Chapter 30
T
homas knew there was no time to lose. Experience told him that Jacob Lovelock was not a man prone to exaggeration, and his concern for his mistress was very acute. Despite protestations from Dr. Carruthers and, surprisingly, from Mistress Finesilver, the young doctor slowly and painfully managed to mount a horse and, together with the head groom, he set off from London at around four o’clock that afternoon.
homas knew there was no time to lose. Experience told him that Jacob Lovelock was not a man prone to exaggeration, and his concern for his mistress was very acute. Despite protestations from Dr. Carruthers and, surprisingly, from Mistress Finesilver, the young doctor slowly and painfully managed to mount a horse and, together with the head groom, he set off from London at around four o’clock that afternoon.
“We still have five hours of daylight,” he said. “We can make it up to Beaconsfield before dark and stay the night at an inn.”
Thomas’s injuries still caused him great discomfort. His horse’s every stride sent a jab of pain searing through his ribs. He was thankful that he had brought a phial of laudanum with him. After a couple of swigs of the bitter liquid had taken hold, his agony subsided and he was even able to urge his mount to gallop for some of the way. When the pain returned, even more violently than before, he would remind himself of his purpose. Lydia needed him, and for her he would endure his very own Calvary if it meant her own happiness and well-being could be restored.
That night, as he lay in his bed at the Saracens Head at Beaconsfield, a thousand red-hot pokers thrusting into his rib cage and back, he imagined that this was what was hell must be like. He closed his eyes and saw a raging pit of fire, and in the center, where the flames burned white, he saw Lydia’s anguished face calling to him. It reminded him of that same look when he had broken it to her that her husband was dead. He recalled the day in Oxford when he had seen Captain Farrell hanging from the ceiling in the stinking jail. His expression had been calm, his eyes and lips closed as if asleep, and yet the crooked angle of his head as it swung from the silken curtain cord would remain with him forever. He was only glad she was spared the sight, but he knew the memory of that day still haunted her. That day. That date. It was April 30. Exactly a year tomorrow. It would be the first anniversary of Lydia’s husband’s death. The sudden realization of it made him shudder. Was this the reason for her obvious distress? Was this why she had shut herself away in belated mourning? Had some delayed reaction seized her mental faculties in a cruel vise? He could not arrive at Boughton too soon.
Safely returned to his lodgings in Cockspur Street, Charles Byrne’s spirits were much restored. Knowing that Emily had been reemployed made him feel more confident. She was his rock, while all around lay a sea of torment and turmoil, and yet the Scotsman’s words still haunted him.
“We were worried about you,” said the count, handing his friend a glass of gin.
The giant took it, swigged it back, then held out the glass for more. Boruwlaski obliged. “I saw Dr. Hunter,” Charles said, gazing into the fire.
The little man nodded. “Ah, really? And why was that?”
“He asked to see me.” Charles took another gulp of gin. “I thought he wanted to help me, to cure my ills.”
“And . . . ,” urged the count, filling the glass once more.
The giant’s eyes moistened and his jaw was set tight to stop his lips from trembling. When he finally spoke his voice was taut with emotion. “He told me that I will die soon and that when I am g-gone”—he broke off suddenly to take a deep breath—“when I am gone he wants to cut me up and put me in his museum of death.” He drained another glass.
The dwarf paused for a moment, as if in shock, then put a hand on the giant’s arm and filled his glass once more. “But, dear friend, you are not dying.”
Charles looked down at him. “I am. I know I am,” he said, nodding. “This cough. The tiredness. I have the white death and I know my days are numbered.” The count knew it to be true, too, but he had always tried to ignore his friend’s obvious symptoms. After a few moments, Charles continued: “ ’Tis not the dying that worries me.” His features were set hard in a scowl. “ ’Tis being butchered afterward, like meat on a slab, like they did to my da.”
Boruwlaski let out a sigh and tilted his tiny head. “That is Dr. Hunter for you. He collects things. You do not have to consent to this. It is your body. Do not concern yourself about it,” he said, trying to make light of the giant’s fears, but his seeming indifference only agitated Charles.
“That man would deny me my place in heaven, sir,” he cried, suddenly trying to stand up. He failed, and slumped down again into his chair. The count could see he had touched a raw nerve.
“Even if you do die soon, my friend, which you will not, I can assure you that your body will remain in safe hands,” soothed the count. “I will see to it personally.”
His assurances seemed to calm Charles, and a smile flickered across his flaccid lips. “Thank you, Count,” he said. “You are a true friend.”
The little man returned his smile. “So, you are the talk of the newssheets,” he said, lightening the mood of conversation. “This is what you are about when I am not at your side.” He waved a copy of a newssheet before smoothing it to read an excerpt from an article. “A parson has expressed concern that a number of his parishioners claim they have been cured of various ills by Mr. Charles Byrne, the amazing Irish Giant, currently resident in London. You have wrought miracles!”
“I am no miracle worker. ’Tis a load of shite.” Charles spat out his words contemptuously.
“But do you not see?” Boruwlaski could hardly contain himself with excitement. “We could charge even more, and still people will flock to see you.”
“ ’Tis true I need the money,” conceded Charles.
“Indeed you do, my friend,” replied the count, his expression suddenly altering to one of concern.
“You have heard more from the lawyer?” asked the giant warily.
The count nodded. “He says he is progressing, but that he needs more time to get the papers in order. And,” he opened his hands in a gesture of resignation, “more time means more money to lawyers.”
“Very well. I will return to the cane shop, but as soon as I make enough money to pay this lawyer for a pardon, I go back home,” he said, adding ruefully, “afore ’tis too late.”
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