The Dead Shall Not Rest (5 page)
Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
“Of course not all of us with,” he paused, searching for the right word, “with unusual physical assets are treated well,” he said, his demeanor suddenly changing.
Thomas and Sir Theodisius nodded sympathetically in unison. Boruwlaski looked over the table at Charles Byrne, who had been downing wine for much of the evening. Thomas noted the giant’s complexion was rather pallid and now and again he coughed, but he remained sitting impassively as the count turned his attentions to his predicament.
Boruwlaski continued: “I had been staying with her ladyship for a few days and was aware of his reputation: The tallest man in all Christendom, they said. His reputation clearly went before him, but having also been aware that gentlemen with such attributes can be ill-treated, I decided to find out for myself if I could be of assistance.”
The count suddenly became even more serious. “I knew that he would be at the fair at Boughton. Lady Lydia was most obliging in this matter and, being a woman of great compassion herself, offered to assist me in helping Mr. Byrne, should it be required.”
Thomas nodded. It was so like Lydia to involve herself in a good cause if she felt an injustice was being committed.
The little man went on: “We encountered a few problems, but managed to persuade the showman to let Mr. Byrne go freely.”
“You are to be congratulated, Count,” said Thomas.
“Hear, hear!” echoed Sir Theodisius through a mouthful of cheese.
“Ah, but that is only the beginning, gentlemen,” said the count, his little finger jabbing the air.
“The beginning?” echoed Thomas.
The dwarf, who was seated on silk cushions on his chair, leaned forward over the table. “There are certain goals that Mr. Byrne wishes to achieve.”
Thomas looked at the giant, who remained hunched over his plate. He seemed a little worse the wear for drink, but he glanced up at the mention of his name.
“Will you tell them, or shall I, Mr. Byrne?” asked the count gently.
The giant nodded slowly and lifted his gaze to meet the company’s. His eyes moved languidly from face to face before he took a deep breath. “My da was h-hanged last year,” he said. His words were slurred and Thomas was not sure if his congenital condition or the strong liquor was responsible, but his statement still came as a shock. He darted a glance at Sir Theodisius. There was more. The giant went on: “S-strung him up, they did. Said he killed a girl. Only he n-never. He were innocent.”
There was a stunned silence before the coroner, thinking out loud, said, “There’s many a man goes to the gallows protesting his innocence, Mr. Byrne.”
“Aye, but there were proof he didn’t do it,” retorted the giant, this time raising his voice and losing all trace of his stammer.
The count intervened to calm the situation. “A boy confessed and has been convicted of the crime,” he explained.
Sir Theodisius showed uncustomary humility. “I see.” He nodded, wiping his mouth on a napkin.
“ ’Tis why I want a royal pardon, to clear my da’s name,” boomed the giant indignantly.
“We all understand,” said the count, patting Charles Byrne’s large hand, which had been brought down to bear in a fist on the table. “And I am sure that these gentlemen will assist if they can.”
Thomas smiled sympathetically.
This man is a victim,
he thought. He had seen so many of his kind, vulnerable and wronged, during his years of practice and he would certainly volunteer his support.
This man is a victim,
he thought. He had seen so many of his kind, vulnerable and wronged, during his years of practice and he would certainly volunteer his support.
Sir Theodisius, however, was less understanding. “A royal pardon costs money,” he barked.
Unfazed, the count nodded. “Mr. Byrne shall stay at my lodgings in Cockspur Street and will have money when he exhibits himself in front of London’s
polite
society.” He smiled. “He shall show himself in Spring Gardens.”
polite
society.” He smiled. “He shall show himself in Spring Gardens.”
Thomas was familiar with what occurred in the public rooms in this fashionable area and found the goings-on thoroughly distasteful. Dukes, duchesses, and even royalty would pay their pennies to gawp at boys with unsightly skin conditions and children born with congenital deformities.
So this is why Lydia called for me,
thought Thomas. She wanted him to examine the giant to ensure he was well enough to embark on showing himself to the public. “Perhaps you would allow me to see that you are in a fit enough state of health for such an undertaking, Mr. Byrne,” he said.
So this is why Lydia called for me,
thought Thomas. She wanted him to examine the giant to ensure he was well enough to embark on showing himself to the public. “Perhaps you would allow me to see that you are in a fit enough state of health for such an undertaking, Mr. Byrne,” he said.
The giant did not reply, but simply glanced nervously at the count. “I am sure that would be helpful. Thank you, Dr. Silkstone,” acknowledged the count courteously.
Sir Theodisius, however, had other things on his mind. Helping himself to another spoonful of ripe Stilton, he said: “Pardons are never easy to come by. But I have a nephew at Lincoln’s Inn, my sister’s boy. He’s an ambitious fellow, and sharp, too. I can ask him to look into the case.”
The count’s face broke into a broad smile. “You are most generous with your time and expertise, gentlemen,” he said. “We are most grateful, are we not, Mr. Byrne?” He looked at the giant, who was still glaring across the table.
“Y-yes,” he stammered reluctantly before a bout of coughing stopped short any further gratitude he may have wished to express.
Later that night, when all the guests and servants were in bed and the house dogs were asleep, Lydia came to Thomas. He breathed in her sweet scent once more and thrilled at the touch of her skin as she settled beside him naked under the coverlet. The months of absence had only heightened their mutual desire. So lost did they become in each other that only the light of the breaking dawn brought them back to their earthly senses.
“I must go to my room now before we are found,” whispered Lydia, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Thomas’s body. He took her hand as she rose naked from the bed and pulled her to face him so that he could catch one last glimpse of her milk-white beauty before it disappeared under her nightgown.
“We cannot be married a moment too soon,” he told her gently. She smiled, freeing her long chestnut hair, which had become caught down her back from under her dressing robe. “I love you, too,” was all she said in response. Thomas had hoped for more. He wanted to hear her say that she could not wait to be his wife, but he let the moment pass and watched in silence as she closed the door behind her just as the first rays of sun hit the bedchamber floor.
Chapter 6
D
r. John Hunter stared death in the face every day and embraced it. He stored it in jars on his shelves and he displayed it in glass cases in his laboratory. He distilled its essence and put it in phials and he plunged it in a spirit of wine mixed with acid to preserve it. In his sinewy hands, which bore the scars of so many little nicks from scalpels and knives during dissection and surgery, he held a jar containing a fetus. One of his patients had miscarried and he had spared her the agony of burying her five-month-old, womb-dead son. Instead he would be preserved for posterity and join all the others in his army of unborn, suspended for all time in yellowed embalming fluid, their mysteries waiting to be unlocked.
r. John Hunter stared death in the face every day and embraced it. He stored it in jars on his shelves and he displayed it in glass cases in his laboratory. He distilled its essence and put it in phials and he plunged it in a spirit of wine mixed with acid to preserve it. In his sinewy hands, which bore the scars of so many little nicks from scalpels and knives during dissection and surgery, he held a jar containing a fetus. One of his patients had miscarried and he had spared her the agony of burying her five-month-old, womb-dead son. Instead he would be preserved for posterity and join all the others in his army of unborn, suspended for all time in yellowed embalming fluid, their mysteries waiting to be unlocked.
One day, not in his lifetime, perhaps not in the next century, but maybe in the next millennium, man might be able to reach the unreachable, fathom the unfathomable, control nature itself. In his own small way, he liked to think he was laying the foundations for those who would follow. Those specimens in the jars were the building bricks of knowledge. He hoped men would thank him one day, speak his name in a hushed reverence. But he had no time for pomp and priggishness.
He did not care for his profession, or rather those at the top of it. Their backbiting and infighting bored him, and their irksome rantings frustrated him to the point of exhaustion. Too lazy to give lectures, too full of their own self-importance to impart their knowledge to students, they were only interested in their titles and their stipends. “We all have vermin that live on us,” he would say.
There was only one whom he might rate since the days of old Carruthers, the stalwart whom he had met when he first came to London from Scotland all those years ago, and that was his student, Thomas Silkstone, who, like himself, was an outsider. Up until their first meeting at Charlesworth’s funeral he had only known of him by reputation. He had made quite a name for himself at Farrell’s trial, ruffled a few feathers among the old guard. He was every bit as good-looking as they said he was, as well. Too handsome for his own good, he mused. Too easily distracted by women? Perhaps. Next time they met he would engage him properly. He always welcomed a good debate and all too often at St. George’s had to brook fools. Yes, Silkstone was one to watch, but for now he had work to do, and he worked alone.
When he looked at his jars his thoughts were concentrated on his purpose. When he gazed on a worm-riddled codfish, a decayed molar, a two-headed fetus, or a six-fingered hand, he would contemplate the wonders of nature and medicine and see beyond to a world without disease and deformity. And when he dared to look even further into such a future, he also foresaw a world where those with the ability to control such demons would wield great power. They would not be men of medicine, whose true purpose was to relieve pain and to cure, but men like those who now conspired against him; men who put their own personal gain before that of mankind’s suffering and well-being. He thought of them, gathered even now somewhere, whispering against him, and he pitied them, just as he pitied himself.
Reaching down, he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a key. In the half light of a lamp that cast eerie shadows, he walked over to a door in the wall and unlocked it. Stepping inside a small alcove, he held his lamp aloft to inspect the shelves. There they were, his very special preparations; priceless beyond imagination, but only in the right hands. And there, taking pride of place on the middle shelf, right in his eyeline, was his latest specimen: the beautifully preserved heart of Sir Tobias Charlesworth.
It was Mrs. Adam, his housekeeper, who brought him back to reality when she knocked on the laboratory door.
“There is a Lady Charlesworth here to see you, sir,” she called. She knew better than to open the door for fear of walking in on a scene that might scar her mentally for years to come.
Hunter frowned and glanced back at the heart floating serenely in the jar. What would the widow of a surgeon at St. George’s want with him? She could not know, she must not know about her husband’s heart. As luck would have it, he had been with Charlesworth when the fatal attack came on. He recalled how he had just risen from his desk to show him the door when the surgeon, a man who enjoyed his port, was suddenly overcome by a great seizure. He had put his hand to his chest and gasped for air before falling like a stone to the floor.
“Show her into the drawing room,” he instructed. His laboratory was no place for a lady. Hurriedly he secured the door to his secret stash, then washed his hands with particular zeal, as if sloughing off some decidedly unpleasant substance.
Hunter found Sir Tobias Charlesworth’s widow waiting for him a few minutes later. She wore a simple dress of dark gray and a veil that covered her hair and face as befitted a woman of her rank who had lost her husband only the week before.
“Lady Charlesworth, good day to you,” greeted Hunter, although such courtesies sounded strange, even to him, in his rough Scottish guttural.
The woman, in her middle years, was dignified in her mourning. She lifted back her veil to reveal eyes that were red from crying.
“My condolences once again,” he said.
She allowed a flicker of a smile to settle momentarily on her lips. “You have been most kind, Dr. Hunter. Everyone has, and I know that no more could have been done to save my husband. I am so thankful that you happened to be with him at the time.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said the doctor. It was one of the useful platitudes he wheeled out on occasions such as these.
“I am so thankful for all your assistance. You were most diligent in making the arrangements afterward. I was in such a state, I do not know what I would have done without your help,” she told him, dabbing a tear from the corner of her eye.
The doctor felt a little uncomfortable talking about such matters, but his expression remained sympathetic and his manner self-deprecating. “Och! I am a practical man,” he said, waving his hand nonchalantly.
“You did more than your duty asked of you, calling the undertaker yourself, liaising with him,” insisted the widow. “And, of course,” she added, “seeing to it that my husband was spared the knife.”
Hunter nodded sympathetically. His associate, a Mr. Pertwee, could always be relied upon in such situations where great delicacy and discretion were required. He was wondering where all these appreciative remarks were leading when Lady Charlesworth pulled a small box out of a drawstring bag and handed it to him.
“I hope you will accept this as a token of my appreciation,” she said. “This is for all you did for my husband in his last hours and afterward.”
The anatomist opened the box. It was a mourning ring: a plain gold band onto which was mounted a small glass receptacle containing a lock of Sir Tobias’s hair.
Hunter smiled graciously. “You are most kind.”
The woman shook her head. “You are a master of your profession, Dr. Hunter. No other physician would have handled matters more discreetly. ’Twas a real blessing you were with him when he was taken from us.”
John Hunter merely nodded sympathetically. “As I said, dear lady, the Lord works in mysterious ways.” He wondered if she would be so generous if she knew that he had so much more than a mere lock of her late husband’s hair in his possession.
The widow rose slowly. “Yes, my husband will be sorely missed,” she reflected. “But I am sure Sir Oliver will do an excellent job.”
“Sir Oliver?” repeated Hunter.
Lady Charlesworth looked at him quizzically. “Oh, I have spoken out of turn,” she upbraided herself. “There is to be a formal announcement tomorrow. Forgive me.”
The anatomist forced a smile. “Sir Oliver De Vere will make an excellent head of the surgical staff, your ladyship,” he said. “But in the meantime, I’ll not say a word,” he assured her.
He waited until Mrs. Adam had closed the front door behind Lady Charlesworth to venture out of his study. In the hallway he could hear music, pleasing fortepiano music accompanied by a sweet soprano tone. He did not recognize it as his wife’s. While her voice was perfectly agreeable, this one had a cadence and a quality he had not heard before. He moved nearer to the salon door as if drawn by some strange melodic power. Outside the room he listened for a moment until the last note sounded, and he was just about to open the door when he heard men’s voices join with his wife’s tinkling laughter.
Anne was so very different from him, he thought; sociable, witty, and accomplished in the arts. She would often hold gatherings, but she had not mentioned any visitors on that particular afternoon. Feeling indisposed to wait any longer, he put his head around the door. He saw his wife standing by the fortepiano while a gentleman was at the keys. Anne was pointing to something on the score, leaning over his shoulder with a familiar ease that did not please him. Franz Joseph Haydn had been a regular visitor for the last few days, working with Anne on some librettos. Women, he had heard, found this Austrian charming and warm and he attracted them like bees to a honeypot, despite his pockmarked face and enormous eagle’s nose. Hunter, on the other hand, did not care for him.
There were two other men in the room; from the color of their skin he guessed them to be southern Europeans. One was about his own age and the other much younger, barely a man.
“Ah, John dear,” greeted his wife warmly, holding out her arms. “We were just putting the finishing touches to the can-zonettas for the concert.”
Hunter did not return his wife’s conviviality. He looked beyond her to Haydn, who now rose from the keyboard and bowed stiffly.
“Sir,” he greeted him, a smile on his face. “Your wife’s poetry is an inspiration to us all.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Hunter replied grudgingly.
Ignoring her husband’s curmudgeonly manner, Anne took him by the arm and drew him into the room. “Let me introduce Signor Leonardo Moreno and his protégé Signor Carlo Cappelli from Tuscany. Did you hear him sing? Does he not have the voice of an angel?” There was a girlish enthusiasm in her tone as she tugged at her husband’s arm as if trying to cajole him into some sort of positive response.
Hunter eyed the two Tuscans carefully. They were both taller than average, and rather rotund, with their chests broad out of proportion to the rest of their bodies. Their fingers, too, he noted, were extraordinarily long. And that soprano voice he had just heard and could not quite fathom at first; now he could make sense of it, but to them he said nothing. Instead he simply turned to his wife.
“I look forward to hearing your libretto, my dear,” he said sullenly, darting a parting glance at Haydn. And he left the four of them to return to his work in the laboratory.
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