The Dead Shall Not Rest (31 page)
Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
Chapter 49
T
he journey back to London was spent in sober reflection. Naturally the constables had questions about Carrington’s death. Witnesses said that the horse had thrown him and that he had rolled over the cliff edge, plunging sixty feet to the beach below. Their accounts were accepted and his body transported for burial.
he journey back to London was spent in sober reflection. Naturally the constables had questions about Carrington’s death. Witnesses said that the horse had thrown him and that he had rolled over the cliff edge, plunging sixty feet to the beach below. Their accounts were accepted and his body transported for burial.
Lydia was still in shock from the assault and had accepted a draft from Thomas. Much of her journey was spent asleep. The only person who could take comfort from the trip to Margate was Emily, believing that her beloved giant’s wishes had been fulfilled.
Count Boruwlaski was waiting for them on their return to Cockspur Street. Once Thomas had settled Lydia in her room and said farewell to O’Shea and his gang, who had escorted their carriage, he joined the little man in the drawing room. He seemed delighted to see them return safely from their sad mission and relieved that Charles’s dying wish had been granted.
“I was most concerned that Hunter’s men, or some such other villains, would get their hands on him,” he told Thomas over a brandy.
“Indeed we all were,” agreed Thomas. “There was one very unfortunate incident, however,” Thomas began. He told him how Carrington had hidden the jar with the castrato’s larynx in Hunter’s storeroom.
“Naturally, after that, I assumed he had murdered Signor Cappelli, but he denied it, saying he only wanted to implicate Hunter in the murder.”
“And you believed him?” asked the little man.
Thomas paused for a moment. “Yes, I did. I do not believe he would have denied it. He seemed almost proud of his hatred toward Hunter and would have admitted the act if it were true.”
“And meanwhile Moreno remains in Newgate Prison.” Boruwlaski looked grave.
“You have visited him?”
“Yes. He grows weaker and thinner each day.”
“And we have less than two weeks to find the real killer,” said Thomas to himself as much as to the count.
Mr. Smee broke out into a sweat the moment he saw Thomas standing in the hallway. “Dr. Silkstone,” he greeted him nervously. “What a surprise! My word, it is.”
“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” said Thomas graciously.
“Why, not at all.” The little man giggled. “May we fetch you some refreshment?” Thomas would have enjoyed nothing more than a tankard of cool ale, but he could not allow himself to be distracted. He wanted to revisit the scene of Cappelli’s murder. Sir Peregrine had given him no time at all in which to investigate the area properly. There could have been clues, vital ones, on the rug, in the drawers, under the bed, that held the key to the murderer. And he had a hunch.
“No, thank you,” he replied. He wanted to see if he was right.
“I trust the giant gentleman was delivered safely to his grave,” said Smee in a reverent tone.
Thomas nodded. “Yes. May he rest in peace,” he said, adding quickly: “But I am here on another matter, I am afraid, Mr. Smee.”
The little man tensed visibly and brought out his large kerchief from his pocket.
“What sort of matter, pray tell, sir?”
“I have been tasked to see that there are no vermin on your premises,” Thomas told him, managing to keep a solemn face.
Smee blushed, recalling the embarrassing episode of the victuals in a downstairs room. “I run a respectable establishment here, my word, I do, sir,” he blurted indignantly.
“I know that your standards have improved much since my previous remarks, Mr. Smee, but nonetheless I need to satisfy His Majesty’s minister in charge of public health,” replied Thomas, inventing the grand title on the spot.
His words, nevertheless, had the desired effect. Smee swallowed hard. “Then by all means, feel free to inspect all the rooms, sir. I will do anything I can to assist. My word, I will.” He mopped his shiny brow as he pictured being hauled in front of King George himself and admonished.
Thomas was businesslike. “Then I shall start with your kitchen,” he said. The little man bowed and led the young doctor down a narrow flight of stairs to the kitchen and scullery. A fat woman sat mixing dough in a large bowl while a young boy peeled potatoes nearby. The stone flags were covered in discarded peelings and the occasional crust, and a dog lay chewing intently on a bone.
“The floor needs sweeping regularly if rats are to be discouraged, Mr. Smee,” he said, shaking his head. He took out a notebook from his bag and, using a pencil, wrote a few words.
“My word, indeed it does,” tutted the little man; then addressing the fat woman he chided: “You heard the good doctor, Cook.”
The tour next progressed upstairs. Thomas was shown into the room where Moreno stayed. He gave it a cursory inspection. “You have let this room since the murder?” he asked.
Smee shook his head. “No sir. Murders are not good for business. My word, they are not.” Thomas felt a twinge of guilt at leading this sad little man a merry dance, but he would be kind. “It is in order?”
“Yes, Mr. Smee,” he said, again taking out his book and making notes. The proprietor craned his neck in a vain attempt to see what was being written.
Thomas looked up. “Shall we move on?”
Smee nodded and once again led the way along the narrow landing, but instead of stopping outside the room where the murder had been committed he walked on, heading for the stairs.
“Mr. Smee,” called Thomas. “We have not seen this room.”
The little man turned. A bead of sweat was running down his nose. “Forgive me, Dr. Silkstone, but no one has been in that room since . . .”
“Since Signor Cappelli’s death?” said Thomas obligingly. It was just as he had hoped, and suspected, although he kept his glee in check.
“Marie could not bring herself to enter and clean, and no one wants to sleep in a bed where a man has had his throat slit,” bemoaned the little man. “The door’s been locked these past two weeks.”
That was music to Thomas’s ears, but he did not let his guard slip. “Dirty, unused rooms become palaces to rats, Mr. Smee,” he scolded. “I should not have to tell you that. Pray, let me enter.”
With a trembling hand, Smee turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The room smelled loamy and damp, with the ferrous hint of congealed blood that only an anatomist would recognize. Specks of dust danced like mad midges in the thin lines of light that forced their way through cracks in the shutters.
“Open the window,” instructed Thomas. Smee obliged.
The bed was just as it had been left, with the counterpane turned back to reveal a small patch of dried blood. There were clues here, lying in front of him. Of that he was certain. He wanted to inspect everything thoroughly, to take samples, swabs, but he knew he had no authority. He was chancing his luck as it was.
“Do you have a small brush?” he asked an anxious Mr. Smee.
The little man balked, as if requiring some explanation.
“If I am to check for rats, I need to sweep under the bed, sir,” explained Thomas, adding pointedly: “Droppings.”
Seemingly satisfied, Mr. Smee turned tail and headed downstairs, giving the young doctor valuable time. He examined the sheets more closely, looking for blood, for stains, for anything. And there was something. A long, black hair. He moved swiftly, opening his bag and taking out a pair of tweezers. Carefully, he lifted the hair and put it in a glass phial, which he returned to his bag.
Kneeling down he inspected the floor. The bloody footprints were still there, made by large, tapered feet—Moreno’s, he knew. But what was this? There were other outlines, broader, squatter, not made by shoes, but by boots perhaps. There were two such outlines, broken and faint, but distinguishable nevertheless. Someone else had mistakenly trodden in the viscous blood that was spilled on the rug. Another man other than Moreno, Smee, Sir Peregrine, and Thomas himself had been in the room since the murder.
Hearing Smee’s footsteps coming up the stairs, he switched his attention to under the bed.
“Here we are, sir,” said the tubby man, out of breath after climbing the stairs. He handed Thomas the brush and the doctor began to sweep the floor underneath the bed. As luck would have it, there was plenty to sweep. He had guessed it would be an area that was rarely cleaned, and he was right. By the time he had finished, he had two or three spoonfuls of dirt, which he carefully scooped up onto a piece of parchment and decanted into a glass jar. Although there was plenty for Thomas to analyze, he could not see any telltale rat droppings. But he would not give the landlord his verdict just yet.
Mr. Smee watched him anxiously. “I’ll have to scold that Marie. My word, I will, sir,” he wailed.
“Indeed you will, Mr. Smee,” replied Thomas, securing the lid of his glass jar and returning it to his bag. He suspected that the sullen girl would not take chastisement well. But that was not his concern. His work was done and he could not wait to return to his laboratory to analyze the contents of his jar, but he forced himself to remain professional.
“If I find anything untoward, I shall contact you immediately,” he told Mr. Smee, who was wringing his chubby hands. “But I am sure I shall not,” he added with a smile.
Emily climbed the sagging stairs up to the room in St. Giles with a heavy heart. Her ladyship had given her leave to spend a few hours with her family on her return from Margate. She was grateful to her. There was a strange emptiness inside her now that Charles was dead. She had only known him for a few weeks and loved him for even less, but his absence left a void that only time would fill.
How she hated this vile place: the dripping walls that closed ’round her, the smell of piss that choked her, the ceaseless voices, punctuated by cries when a woman was beaten or a child kicked. She had been lucky to escape the rookeries and she could not wait to return to Cockspur Street, but she needed to see her family first.
As she made her way through the maze of corridors up to the top landing, she noticed something odd. It was still dark and damp and the dogs still barked and the men still scowled, but there was something else. A delicious smell was wafting down the stairs. Hot food. Not the usual crusts or maggoty cheese. She sniffed once more. Meat. Real meat. Not offal. Not potatoes. Meat.
Not bothering to knock, she found her mother at the table. She was bending over a roasted joint. The woman looked up, surprised. She did not smile.
“I heard the giant died,” was all she said.
She was slicing the meat thickly, the bloody juices dribbling onto a tin plate. Her sharp knife made light work of the muscle. Emily suddenly thought of Charles. At least now he would be spared such an indignity. She nodded slowly, sniffing the steam that spooled from the joint. Her mouth began to salivate. She remembered she had not eaten all day.
“Is it mutton?” she asked.
“Yes,” came the terse reply.
“And Da is not back yet?”
“He’s back, all right, but he’s gone out drinking again.”
In the corner, seated in a chair, sat her grandmother. The baby sat placidly on her knee as she fed him small slices of meat. Emily had barely seen her brother when he was not bawling. Grandmother Tooley smiled broadly, showing her toothless gums. Her small, gray head was lost inside a thick woolen shawl that Emily had not seen before. How would she manage to chew this new-gotten meat, Emily asked herself.
“Gran,” she cried, rushing over to the old woman. “You look in good health.”
The old woman nodded. “That I am, child,” she croaked, but her voice was stronger than before. Emily blinked. She looked stronger, too. The life that seemed to be ebbing from her as she lay in her dirty cot seemed to have returned. The breathless urgency with which she warned her granddaughter that a tall man from across the water was coming was all but a distant memory, as faded as her complexion had been. Now there was color in the old woman’s cheeks and a keen look in her eyes. She held out a hand to her granddaughter. It no longer shook like an autumn leaf. It was steady and the grasp, when Emily took it, was firm.
“So, your giant has gone, child,” said the old woman.
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