The Dead Shall Not Rest (25 page)
Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
Chapter 38
C
harles Byrne sat forlornly in a chair by the window, looking out onto the square and, more precisely, onto Dr. Hunter’s man below, still propped up against a tree as he had been for so many days now. At the giant’s side was a bottle of gin and on his lap was a small sketchbook. In his large hand he wielded a pencil with great difficulty, his thumb and forefinger struggling to grip the delicate drawing instrument.
harles Byrne sat forlornly in a chair by the window, looking out onto the square and, more precisely, onto Dr. Hunter’s man below, still propped up against a tree as he had been for so many days now. At the giant’s side was a bottle of gin and on his lap was a small sketchbook. In his large hand he wielded a pencil with great difficulty, his thumb and forefinger struggling to grip the delicate drawing instrument.
He looked up when Emily entered the room. On the count’s instructions, Mistress Goodbody had been much more lenient toward the girl. If the giant wished her company, then that was perfectly acceptable, her master had said. Charles’s health was fast fading and his melancholy mood needed to be lifted if possible. The arrival of the new giant meant that his own audience had dwindled, and he had even been forced to move premises and reduce his admission fee.
“You are drawing, Charles,” said Emily, delight and surprise mingling in her voice. She peered ’round his shoulder. “What is it?” But she frowned as soon as she could make out the image.
“ ’Tis my coffin,” he replied taciturnly.
“But, Charles,” she chided him, “you must not think of death.”
He shook his large, sleek head and sighed. “ ’Twill be knocking at my door soon,” he said. “And when it does, I don’t want that devil, Hunter, to have my body.”
Emily’s expression was tinged with sadness. She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “You know we will not let that happen.”
He nodded. “That is why I am making plans.” His voice was suddenly more purposeful as he looked at his sketch pad. “I am to be buried at sea,” he told her. “My coffin is to be of lead. It must be taken to the mouth of the Thames and sunk so that no one, not Hunter nor any of those baying dogs that call themselves surgeons, can get their filthy hands on my corpse.”
Emily regarded Charles, teary-eyed. “ ’Tis a good plan. Have you told Dr. Silkstone and the count?”
“They will know soon enough,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “My time is near, Emily.”
Somewhere from within the deep labyrinth of Lydia’s mind, light began to filter. It was almost imperceptible at first; the blackness changed to dark blue. Still there was nothing. No sight, no sound, but an altered state, then slowly, very slowly, the brightness began to creep, its probing fingers searching for any rocky ledges, any fragments of being it could find to cling on to.
The colors gradually changed from blue to green to yellow, until finally she could see shapes. They were blurred at first, their outlines melding into the background, but soon they became confident in their own forms, defined and sharp and real.
Now she entered her own personal reality. She could see herself in a small, unfamiliar room. Her husband was with her. She was anxious, crying, but she did not know why. He gave her a gill of brandy. She sipped it and her throat burned, but he urged her to drink more, tilting her head back with his hands. She drank, and as she did so, she became less aware of her body, her legs seeming almost weightless. She felt him unfastening her clothes, loosening her stays, but she let him, because she was becoming powerless, senseless.
He carried her into another room. She felt the cold on her bare arms and smelled a harsh, metallic smell in her nostrils. There was an old man and, behind him, a fat woman. The old man, his hair tawny and flecked with gray, said something in a strange accent before Michael laid her on the table. The woman placed a black veil over her face so that the colors left her, obscured by the dark mesh. Now she saw only shapes. She was frightened and she called out for her husband, but he had gone.
The fat woman forced some black, foul-tasting liquid down her throat that made her head spin. She heard her own cries grow feebler as rough hands pulled up her petticoat, exposing her lower abdomen. She wanted to lash out and to sit up, but they had strapped her down, fastening leather thongs with metal buckles that cut into her skin around her wrists and ankles if she tried to move.
She saw the man come to her with cupped hands. He put them over her lower belly as if searching for something; a sound, a movement, then after a few moments he made a mark with ink. She let out a faint cry, but try as she might, she could not move.
“ ’Twill all be over soon,” said a voice. “Just a wee prick.”
And still he came toward her with a long, hollow needle clasped in his hands. She saw it hover over her and she saw him plunge it down, piercing the mound of her rounding belly.
“Lydia! Oh, my dearest Lydia!” Sir Theodisius detected movement. He saw her eyelids flicker and her lips part and the look of horror on her face. He grasped her hand in his. “Lydia. Lydia. ’Tis your Uncle Theo,” he soothed.
Heaving himself up from his chair as fast as his corpulent frame would allow, he shambled over to the door and called down the hallway to anyone who would listen. “She wakes. Her ladyship wakes!”
Nurse Pring was in the next room, taking a well-earned nap, but on hearing the cries she rushed to Lydia’s side. She found her patient in an agitated state, her head rolling from side to side on her pillow, her face set in a frown, and her thin voice calling out through parched lips.
Dipping a sponge in water, the nurse let droplets fall onto her mouth. Lydia licked her lips. “More,” she croaked.
“We need to call for Dr. Fairweather, sir,” Nurse Pring told Sir Theodisius, who duly obeyed the implicit order.
In the meantime, Lydia had opened her eyes fully. Her expression was less pained, but she still looked apprehensive.
“Who are you?” she enquired of Nurse Pring.
“I am your nurse, your ladyship. You have been very unwell, but please God, you will soon be restored,” she said, smiling.
Lydia’s eyes darted ’round the room. “Where is this place?”
“Why, ’tis your home. Boughton Hall, my lady.”
“Boughton Hall,” she repeated, as if the name were unfamiliar to her.
“And what day is it?”
“Why, it is a Tuesday and you have been in a deep sleep for these past ten days,” replied the nurse.
At that moment Sir Theodisius returned to the room, a wide grin stretching his fat cheeks. “I have summoned Dr. Fairweather,” he said, walking toward the bed once more.
“Thank you, sir,” said Nurse Pring, measuring out a draft that Thomas had left for Lydia when, or if, she awoke.
“And I have sent word to Dr. Silkstone. I am sure he will be here just as soon as he can, my dear,” he said to Lydia, easing himself once more into his bedside chair. But Lydia did not return his smile. She simply looked blankly at him.
“Dr. Silkstone? Who is Dr. Silkstone?” she said.
Chapter 39
F
olded carefully inside the pocket of Charles Byrne’s topcoat was a very special piece of paper. It was white and measured half the size of an average pocket kerchief, but it bore the moniker of the Bank of England. It was worth more than seven hundred pounds.
olded carefully inside the pocket of Charles Byrne’s topcoat was a very special piece of paper. It was white and measured half the size of an average pocket kerchief, but it bore the moniker of the Bank of England. It was worth more than seven hundred pounds.
That evening, when all was quiet and the count was dining with his society friends, the giant took a carriage and headed toward Haymarket. He did not feel strong. He had endured several bouts of coughing that day and he knew his condition was worsening. He had given up all hope of the lawyer, Marchant, being able to obtain a posthumous pardon for his father, so he had grudgingly paid him the money he owed him. His hope, although admittedly a slim one, was that His Majesty King George would keep to his word and take up the matter with his Minister of Justice.
At around nine o’clock he arrived at the Cock Tavern. Naturally when he walked in, the drinkers and the hussies all stopped what they were about to stare at him. Even the fiddle player fell silent. He was used to such behavior, and while it always made him feel uncomfortable, he knew straight away where he was heading.
Mad Sam O’Shea sat in a corner with four or five other men, all of them jug-bitten. There were women with them, too, sitting on their laps or seats nearby. One had her bubbies out. They were laughing and carousing, but when Charles caught the other Irishman’s eye, the merriment melted away.
“Be gone, now, I say,” cried the wayward hawker to a trollop who had draped herself ’round his shoulders. The other women followed suit. Tugging at his topcoat in a businesslike manner, O’Shea gestured to the settle next to him that had been occupied by two of the doxies.
“Charles, my dear friend, I got your message, sure I did.” He smiled.
The giant was surprised to be received in such a familiar way, but he returned the smile to his fellow countryman. He sat down on the settle, stretching his mighty legs out in front of him.
“You need my help, is that so?” asked Mad Sam, his eyes as bright as gemstones. Emily had sent word to her father that Charles was in need of a great favor, but that he would make it worth his while.
“I am not sure if Emily told you, s-sir, but I am not long for this world.”
Mad Sam shrugged and crossed himself. “None of us are, Lord bless us,” he slurred.
Charles continued: “There are those surgeons that would c-cut up my body when I am dead, sir, and put it on p-public show, like some common criminal. They would deny me entry into heaven, sir, so they would.”
“I have heard the talk, Giant. You are a wanted man, ’tis true.” He nodded sympathetically. “So tell me, what do you propose?”
Thomas was at work in his study, assiduously going through his notes on Carlo Cappelli’s postmortem, as Franklin scurried about in the corner. He wondered how Carrington was faring, if he had managed to gain access to Hunter’s secret store. Then, as if someone were reading his thoughts, Mistress Finesilver appeared at the door and announced there was a young gentleman to see him. It was Giles Carrington. He walked in looking nervous and worried, fingering the brim of his tricorn hat as he sat down.
“You have news?” asked Thomas eagerly.
“I am afraid I do, sir,” came the reply. “I went into the storeroom and I found it was full of more samples; human samples.”
“Go on,” urged Thomas.
“It is as we feared, sir,” said Carrington, looking grave. “There was a jar containing a larynx.”
“Were there any markings on the jar?”
“No, sir. Nothing, but it is possible to prove it belonged to the castrato, yes?”
Thomas nodded slowly. It would be possible to identify it from its unique physical characteristics. He sighed deeply. “Yes. Yes, I can,” he replied. “I must confront Hunter.” His expression was grave.
Carrington frowned. “Will you not tell the coroner first, sir, so that he can call the constables?”
“This jar,” said Thomas abruptly, “it was not labeled, you say?”
“No, sir. The larynx did not seem to have been prepared in any way—just dropped into the preserving fluid, as if in haste.”
Thomas nodded. “ ’Tis a serious business to accuse a man, and particularly one of such standing, of being complicit in a murder, Mr. Carrington, but it is becoming apparent that Dr. Hunter has many questions to answer. I have seen a convicted criminal enter his premises, and now this . . .” His voice trailed off.
The student nodded. “It would be the right and proper thing to do to go to Sir Peregrine. Hunter is clearly a danger to himself and others. The infection has turned his mind, as well as his body.” Thomas detected a note of frustration in Carrington’s voice.
“You have no love for your master, do you, Carrington?”
The young man looked uncomfortable. “I have no love for a murderer,” he replied.
Nor had Thomas, and he feared that unless he acted quickly, young Cappelli would not be the only victim. Dr. Hunter had another, altogether bigger prize in his sights.
Charles was as pleased as he could be with the evening’s transactions. O’Shea had vouched for the loyalty of his friends, and it would be their job to keep watch over his sealed coffin. He would remain under their charge until such time as a wagon would transport it to Margate in Kent. The mad Irishman and his friends would accompany it. From there it would be lifted onto a barge and taken out to sea to be sunk into the depths of the English Channel, where no thieving anatomist could reach it. For their pains the guardians would be paid a handsome five pounds each. And to prove he could pay them the money, Charles had flourished his seven-hundred-pound note before their very eyes. It was a fine plan, thought the giant as he walked out into the night air and headed back to the comfort of his bed.
It had begun to rain quite heavily and, as he rounded the corner into Cockspur Street, his eyes half-closed against the stinging drops, he did not see the three gin-soaked scoundrels lying in wait for him in the shadows. They had been drinking in the Cock Tavern, as they did most nights, and spotted his bank note. They were never known to miss such an opportunity. One hit him on the head with a pickax handle and as he went reeling from the blow, another pulled him down to the ground while the other felt inside his coat.
“Here it is,” cried the villain with the nimble fingers, waving the precious piece of paper in the air.
The other men stopped kicking the giant then, although one of them did boot him once more in the head, just for luck, and the thin trickle of blood from above his eye mingled with the rainwater and joined the general filth that ran down the street.
Dr. Carruthers delivered the longed-for news. It was a late hour, but Thomas made preparations to be on the road to Boughton at first light. The message from Sir Theodisius said only that Lydia was awake. It was a blessing, indeed, but the Oxfordshire coroner had neglected to give any further details. Thomas did not know what to expect. Inhalation of cyanide vapors could lead to a whole multitude of complications including vertigo, a weak pulse, and even short-term memory loss.
He was about to retire to snatch a few precious hours of sleep when there was a furious knocking on the door downstairs. He hurried to answer it, not wishing to alarm Mistress Finesilver. Standing breathless on the doorstep he recognized the house boy from Cockspur Street.
“Sir, I am come from the count. He says Mr. Byrne is hurt and needs your help right away,” he panted.
Thomas grabbed his coat and his medical bag, which was already packed in the hallway, and followed the servant to a waiting carriage. Arriving at Cockspur Street a few minutes later, he was greeted by Boruwlaski, worry etched all over his small face.
“What has happened? The boy said Charles was hurt,” said Thomas, rushing into the hallway.
“He was beaten senseless by a bunch of hoodlums,” replied the count, leading the way upstairs. “They stole all his money.”
The giant was lying on his bed, fully clothed, but barely conscious. Blood stained his waistcoat and breeches. Emily sat by his head, sponging a wound. She moved away as Thomas approached. Opening his bag, he took out a bottle of tincture of iodine and began dabbing the cut on Charles’s forehead. It was not as deep as he had first feared and did not, in his opinion, require stitches.
Thomas administered laudanum for the giant’s pain and told Emily to apply arnica to his bruises. “If his condition worsens, then you must call for Dr. Carruthers, who will know what to do,” he instructed the maid. “I am needed elsewhere, but I intend to be back as soon as I can,” he told her, secretly praying that Lydia would be in a fit enough state to return with him to London.
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