The Dead Shall Not Rest (27 page)
Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
“In God’s name! Charles,” muttered Thomas. “Take us ’round the back entrance,” he shouted.
Lovelock turned the horses at speed and they entered the mews via a gate at the rear of the property.
“What is it, Thomas?” asked Lydia, anxiously.
“I fear that word has spread about Mr. Byrne.”
“So they are the anatomists’ men?”
“Yes. They are waiting for him to die.”
He helped Lydia out of the carriage, and together they made their way into the house. Leaving her in the capable hands of Mistress Goodbody, Thomas made his way upstairs, where he found Charles sitting in a chair by the window, the count and Emily at his side, watching the commotion in the street below.
“What is going on?” panted Thomas, rushing over. He gazed in disgust at the men below. They were shouting, jabbing fists triumphantly in the air, but he could not make out their words. “Vultures,” he snarled.
“Vultures?” repeated the count. “No. No,” he said, waving his small hand. “Tell Dr. Silkstone, Emily.”
The maidservant, who had been looking down on the crowd below, turned and, much to Thomas’s surprise, smiled. “They are not vultures, sir,” she said. “ ’Tis my father and his band of Irishmen.”
Puzzled, Thomas surveyed the mob once more. Flaming torches illuminated faces that looked up eagerly out of the gloom. “Look, there he is.” Emily pointed. “There is my da.” O’Shea stood at the head of the crowd, his eyes wild with excitement.
“Mad Sam.” The count chuckled. “And there is the crookbacked boy who was with Charles before, when he showed himself at fairs,” he cried, pointing into the mob.
For a split second Emily was taken aback. She did not know that the count knew of her father, but she was nevertheless proud of him and his band of men. “They are here to guard Charles against Dr. Hunter and anyone else who would take him.” She beamed.
Relieved, Thomas nodded. “You have loyal friends,” he said, turning back to Charles, who was looking pale after his exertions. Yet he wore a strangely serene look on his face.
“They’ll look after me well, Dr. Silkstone,” he wheezed. “They’ve promised me that.” But just as he spoke these words, he began to cough again, as if the very effort of speech was too much for him, and this time he could not hide the blood in his kerchief.
Thomas shepherded the giant back into his bed. His pulse was now weak and his breathing labored. He was running a fever, too, and his black hair was plastered to his head with sweat. His whole body juddered every time he coughed, and his face contorted in pain. Thomas feared the worst and gave him more laudanum to dull his suffering. The count and Emily joined him at the bedside.
“I fear the time draws near,” said the little man, reaching up and touching the giant’s hand. “We must put the plans in place.”
“Plans?” asked Thomas.
Emily stepped forward. “Mr. Byrne asked to be buried at sea.”
Thomas nodded. “So that Hunter cannot get his hands on him?”
“Exactly,” replied the count. “I have engaged an undertaker who has made a coffin for him. When the time comes, we will lay him in it and arrange for it to be taken to Margate, where it will be lowered into the sea.”
“My father and his friends will keep watch over him all the time,” said Emily, moving closer to the bed. Her eyes were glassy. “Hunter’ll not have him, Dr. Silkstone. We have made our promise.”
As the night wore on, they watched as Charles began to toss and turn more violently. Delirium took hold. He began to cry out, and his arms flailed, as if he was fighting off some unseen foe. Emily sponged his forehead with vinegar, but still he writhed and shouted.
The count paced the room anxiously, his little arms locked together behind his back, deep in thought, feeling helpless. Finally he said: “Those men out there are guarding Charles’s body, but I shall help protect his soul. I shall send for a priest.”
Thomas acknowledged the gesture. “Yes, I think it is time,” he conceded.
It was just before midnight when Mistress Goodbody entered the room. “There is a young man downstairs to see you, Dr. Silkstone,” she said.
“Did he give his name?” asked Thomas.
“ ’Tis Mr. Carrington, sir,” she replied. “Shall I tell him to go away?”
“Carrington,” echoed Thomas, thoughtfully. “No, send him up, if you please.”
The student appeared at the doorway looking grave. “I heard the giant’s condition is worsening,” he said.
Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Bad news travels fast,” he remarked.
“All of London’s surgeons are in a flurry, Dr. Silkstone. They all want to dissect his corpse.”
“I know, and we must see to it that they do not have their way,” replied Thomas. “That would be against Mr. Byrne’s express wishes.”
Carrington glanced at the window. “Those men outside?” he said, motioning to the mob below.
“They are also here to protect Mr. Byrne,” explained Thomas. “Hunter will have to get past them if his plan is to succeed.”
“So the giant really is near the end?” queried Carrington.
Thomas sighed. “I am afraid so,” he replied, glancing over to the bed. The fever had broken, but Charles seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness. “All we can do is watch and wait.”
Chapter 42
I
n his laboratory at Earls Court, Dr. John Hunter was making his final preparations. Earlier in the evening, Howison had brought word of the giant’s condition. He was not expected to last through the night, and Hunter found himself relieved that he would not have to call upon his henchman to do anything more than watch and wait. Howison would, no doubt, have relished the opportunity to hasten the giant’s demise personally, but now there would be no call. Even so, everything needed to be in place.
n his laboratory at Earls Court, Dr. John Hunter was making his final preparations. Earlier in the evening, Howison had brought word of the giant’s condition. He was not expected to last through the night, and Hunter found himself relieved that he would not have to call upon his henchman to do anything more than watch and wait. Howison would, no doubt, have relished the opportunity to hasten the giant’s demise personally, but now there would be no call. Even so, everything needed to be in place.
The anatomist had spent the day sharpening his instruments. On his workbench he laid out his curved amputation knife, his saw, and his bone shears. There were buckets for the entrails and kidney dishes for the organs, if there was time to retrieve any, which he strongly doubted. Everything was neat and in order, arranged like the sacred paraphernalia of priesthood in preparation for a great sacrifice. Next he would lay kindling under his copper vat, which was already filled with water. He hoped to light the fire soon, but he had one more call to make.
Mr. Pertwee had been engaged as the undertaker. He had done business with him on many occasions. With his beady eyes and thin lips, he drove a hard bargain, and he would certainly want to make a meal of his latest commission.
Discretion, nay, secrecy was paramount. One of the newssheets had dubbed his fellow anatomists “Greenland harpooners” out to kill a gigantic whale. How William Cruikshank and Matthew Baillie at the Great Windmill Street anatomy school would love to get their bloody hands on the corpse of the colossus. Or John Sheldon in Great Queen Street. He’d lived with the embalmed naked body of a beautiful woman in a glass case in his bedroom for the last ten years. The Irish Giant would have been a fitting companion for her. But despite Byrne’s constant rebuffs—he still did not understand why—Goliath’s corpse would soon be his. Of that he was sure.
Under cover of darkness, he drove himself to Mr. Pertwee’s funeral parlor. He had known the undertaker for three years now and done deals with him more than once. Working with Crouch and Hartnett, he always had an eye to the main chance and never shied away from a good business proposal.
The anatomist found the undertaker hard at work on the giant’s coffin.
“Ah, Dr. Hunter. I’ve been expecting you,” said the wily man, a hammer in his sinewy hand. He was putting the finishing touches to the casket’s handles.
“So this is it,” said Hunter admiringly. “A fine piece of craftsmanship,” he observed, running his hand along the smooth grain of the lid.
“That it is,” agreed Pertwee, standing back to consider his own work. “But plain, mind. I could’ve made so much money if I’d but made an extra niche to hide one of your fellow knife men in there, I can tell you.”
Hunter had heard the rumor that one of his number planned to hide himself inside the giant’s box so as to be ready for the sack ’em up men when they came to collect their quarry at the witching hour. His plan, however, was much simpler.
“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Pertwee.”
“I was wondering what was taking you so long, Dr. Hunter.”
A man with ideas and an attitude above his lowly station,
thought the anatomist, but he persevered. “I will give you thirty pounds if you bring the giant’s body to me.”
thought the anatomist, but he persevered. “I will give you thirty pounds if you bring the giant’s body to me.”
The undertaker shook his head and laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, resuming his carpentry.
“Forty, then.”
No response.
“Fifty?” A note of desperation sounded in Hunter’s voice.
Pertwee stopped hammering. “Come now, Dr. Hunter. I’ve been offered one hundred already.” He smiled, his small eyes opening wider with excitement.
Hunter shook his head. “Och! You drive a hard bargain. A hundred, you say.” He paused for a moment, then said rashly: “I’ll double it.”
Pertwee looked satisfied. “I want to see the note first, mind,” he stipulated.
“I shall return very soon,” said Hunter purposefully. Secretly he wondered how on earth he could lay his hands on such funds at such short notice.
Thomas found Lydia lying in her bed, but awake. She had not yet snuffed out her candle, despite the late hour.
“How are you feeling, my love?” he asked.
“I would feel better if I knew you could forgive me,” she said.
He suddenly remembered his shock in the carriage after her revelation had left him speechless. They had then been confronted by the crowd in Cockspur Street. He had not told her his feelings. He had not offered her the comfort she so desperately craved. Walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge, he put an arm around her shoulders. In his duty to care for Charles, he had neglected her, and she needed him every bit as much as the giant.
“There is absolutely nothing to forgive. You did nothing wrong, my dearest Lydia. You are the victim in all of this. Hunter is the one with blood on his hands.” He hesitated. “And now, if he has his way, he will soon be having even more.”
“How is dear Mr. Byrne?” she asked forlornly.
Thomas sighed deeply. “He has taken a turn for the worse, I fear. The count has sent for the priest.”
“I must go to him,” she said softly. “To say good-bye.”
Thomas did not try to dissuade her. He knew it could be her last chance.
Father Finnan arrived just as dawn was breaking. He stepped over the few stalwart guardians who were sleeping in the street. Huddled in blankets and shawls that Mistress Goodbody had managed to find, there were about six of them who remained throughout the night. But they seemed oblivious to the priest’s presence as he picked his way over their slumbering bodies and into the lodgings. Only one man was watching, propped up against a tree, his hat slouched over his face. As soon as he saw the cleric he left.
Mistress Goodbody, who had herself endured a near-sleepless night, showed the priest up to Charles’s bedchamber, where Thomas was keeping his vigil. The others had joined him a few moments before: the count, Carrington, Emily, and, of course, Lydia, who sat in a chair close by the giant’s bed.
From out of his small case, the wigless priest took out his Bible and prayer book, his holy water and a phial of sacred oil. Thomas watched him in silence, contemplating how the cleric’s actions and his sacred objects reminded him so very much of himself and his own instruments. He watched him don his purple surplice, just as he himself would put on his surgical apron, and then approach Charles as he wheezed and struggled to hold on to each breath.
All was now set for the performance of the last rites. Anointing the giant’s forehead with sanctified oils, the priest recited a prayer in Latin and made the sign of the cross.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,”
he intoned. From Charles’s swollen lips came a feeble “Amen.” It was the first word he had spoken for several hours. It was also his last.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,”
he intoned. From Charles’s swollen lips came a feeble “Amen.” It was the first word he had spoken for several hours. It was also his last.
As they all lowered their heads in a final prayer, Emily stepped forward and held the giant’s hand. She prayed for the repose of not only his soul, but his body, too.
The end, when it came about two hours later, was over in an instant. Charles had slept since the priest’s departure, but he opened his eyes very briefly to see Emily at his side.
“I am here,” she said softly, and he smiled before coughing and turning his head so that she did not see the crimson thread of blood that spilled onto the pillow.
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