The Dead Shall Not Rest (8 page)

Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online

Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
11.12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Thomas stifled a smile.
“Have no care for him, Mama. He is just an ignorant ogre,” chimed in her son. He, too, was dressed à la mode, bewigged and carrying a cane.
“He is but of lowly birth, my dear,” comforted Lady Pettigrew, “and ignorant of good manners.”
Lydia felt she could not stand idly by and see the giant’s character attacked in such a way. “I can assure you, Mr. Byrne had no intention to offend you, your ladyship. He is from Ireland, where fashions are different,” she said, eagerly jumping to his defense.
At these words, Rupert Marchant gave Lydia a curious look. “So you are familiar with this Goliath, my lady?” he sneered.
Thomas did not like his tone. “Her ladyship was instrumental in bringing Mr. Byrne to London, sir. She hopes to help him obtain a posthumous royal pardon for his father.”
“Indeed so,” chimed in Sir Theodisius, trying to lighten the ill-tempered exchange. “I suggested you might be able to offer your services in drawing up a petition, Marchant.”
The lawyer paused, as if considering the suggestion, his eyes playing on Lydia’s face as he did so. “That does sound an interesting proposition,” he said slowly. “I am sure I could be of great assistance to her ladyship. Here is my card.”
His manner made Thomas bridle, yet Lydia smiled graciously.
“That is most kind, sir,” she replied, taking the card in her gloved hand.
“I look forward to receiving you in my chambers very shortly,” concluded Marchant, bowing his head.
 
Meanwhile, over at the dais, the count had also spotted an old acquaintance.
“It cannot be,” he cried, unable to contain his excitement as a handsome figure stood in front of him. “Leonardo Moreno, my dear, dear friend.”
Tall, heavily built, yet elegant, the man, in his later years, bent down to embrace the count. “
Amico!
It is good to see you. You haven’t changed a jot,” he greeted him in his native Tuscan tongue.
“No. I have grown neither outward nor upward!” The count laughed. The men had met at least forty years before at the Holy Roman Emperor’s Court in Vienna and had remained firm friends, often coming across each other as they both toured Europe.
In those early days Moreno was in his prime as a soprano singer, famed for the exquisite tenor of his voice and the refinements of his style. His trills, roulades, and cadenzas were unrivaled among all his peers.
“So what brings you to London?” quizzed the count.
“I want to introduce the great cities of Europe to my protégé, Carlo Cappelli.”
“So you are no longer singing?” asked the little man.
Moreno shook his head slowly. “I gave that up a while ago, my friend. No, now I am keen for Carlo to assume my mantle. He has exceptional talent.” He paused for a moment. “In fact, he is performing a new libretto by Haydn the day after tomorrow at the Hanover Square Rooms. Would you do me the honor of being my guest?” He handed his friend his card. “I shall see that you are given a good seat. Please invite your own guests, too.”
Boruwlaski studied the card with gold-embossed lettering. “I would not miss such an occasion for the world.” He smiled.
Chapter 11
T
he sign that hung drunkenly on the door told all and sundry that Monsieur Dubois’s salon
pour les messieurs
was closed for the day. Those more discerning clients, however, knew otherwise. Each Tuesday and Wednesday evening, the oil lamps in the back room of the barber’s shop—and there were necessarily many of them—burned late into the night. Monsieur Dubois, the gentlemen’s groomer and purveyor of pomades, wielded his blade in a far more exacting role. For on those two nights each week he was also a surgeon. Or so he fancied.
There were those of good means who would visit him regularly for bloodletting. Relieved of a few ounces, they would leave his premises either with a spring in their step or feeling rather light-headed, but they always returned for more. Just as some men would play cards or place wagers on cocks, so did a few hold out their arms for a spot of recreational venesection. It cleared their heads, sharpened their wits, and made them better between the sheets, they told him. But there was so much more to his talent. While clysters and tooth pulling were his bread and
beurre,
his many and varied chirurgical skills were also applied to corrupted tonsils, unsightly moles, and ingrowing toenails. He had even attempted an amputation once, although the outcome of that was less than satisfactory. However, all surgeons had their mishaps, he comforted himself, and yet because he could not frame a piece of parchment on his wall, he was denied the kudos and respect, let alone the income, that was due to him.
Tonight, however, was his chance to prove beyond all doubt that he was worthy to join the ranks of the real surgeons, the ones who had cast off his fraternity with such disdain almost forty years ago at the start of his career.
The patient, a carter by trade, had arrived not half an hour ago. Monsieur Dubois guessed he was roughly the same age as himself, but his wife and child had died a decade before. His complaint, he said, had been troubling him for more than two years and was worsening each day, so that now the pain was excruciating. A salty pearl was growing inside the oyster of his bladder. Its crusted spikes pressed like spurs on its lining, making the passing of a few bloodied drops of urine as eye-wateringly painful as pokes from Satan’s pitchfork.
This carter was not, however, a man of means, and his continuing agony had meant that work was becoming increasingly difficult for him.
“Ça ne fait de rien,”
Monsieur Dubois had told him. “No matter. I will remove the stone and not charge you.” This would be his proof. If he could perform such an operation and his patient defied the odds and lived, then surely he would be welcomed into the surgeons’ ranks with open arms.
Pain was written on the carter’s face as plainly as if it were ink on parchment. Pain and apprehension. After all, this could be one of his last moments. As he sat nervously on a chair, the heel of his hand pressed hard against his lower abdomen in a vain effort to quell the sharp stabs, Dubois offered him a stoop of ale mixed with laudanum. He drank long and hard, so that by the time the two gentlemen entered the room he was barely conscious.
They arrived at the appointed hour. Jean-Paul opened the door to them and was quickly joined by his father, wearing a large apron with a capacious pocket at the front.
“Gentlemen, I am honored,” Dubois addressed them, bowing low.
They followed him into the back room where the oil lamps were now lit. Ideally he would have operated in the daylight, near his window, but he would have to make do.
The carter was now asleep and Jean-Paul had deposited him unceremoniously face up on the long table in the center of the room. His buttocks rested on folded towels so that they were higher than his head. Dubois had removed the man’s wig to expose a haze of white stubble over his crown, and his breeches lay folded on a nearby chair. A soft gag had been inserted in his mouth, so that if he awoke and cried out, the noise would be muffled.
“S’il vous plaît,”
said the barber, pointing to two chairs, one on either side of the table. The gentlemen seated themselves as if they were at the theater or about to play a game of cards.
From out of his apron pocket Dubois produced two strips of linen and motioned to his son to approach the table. Pushing both the carter’s legs up brusquely so that his knees were bent, the boy then grasped both the patient’s ankles in his great hands and thrust them back to meet his wrists.
The carter let out a befuddled yelp. “
Doucement.
Take care, Jean-Paul,” chastised his father. He glanced at his silent audience and said apologetically: “He does not know his own strength.” They remained expressionless.
Next he secured the ankles to the wrists with the linen strips. “The knees, Jean-Paul. Hold them apart,” instructed the barber.
Now he took his place on the stool at the end of the table. The carter’s perineum was presenting itself to him. He clasped his hands in silent prayer: “Oh Lord, guide my hands to do thy will,” he intoned. At times like these he was so grateful to be ambidextrous.
From out of his pocket he produced a long, hollow tube and dipped it in oil from a vessel on a small table at his side. The first beads of sweat oozed onto his forehead as he inserted the lubricated catheter up the urethra. The carter winced.
“Hold him still.” Jean-Paul clasped the knees tighter.
Now, with the tip of the tube, he probed for the stone with his right hand. Delving into his pocket with his left he found his scalpel. Had they seen him shake? It was now or never. He must work fast. He took a deep breath and cut the perineum, straight and clean. No sudden jerk from the carter. Good. Next he probed the incision with his forefinger. It felt warm and sticky. And there was the catheter above. Now a cut into the bladder. This time a wince and a stifled cry. At least the man was still alive. With his other hand he plunged into his pocket once more for a grooved rod; this he inserted into the bladder to capture the stone. It was there, craggy and malevolent, but it did not wish to budge. He moved the gorget inside with a circular motion. The stone seemed fixed. It would not drop into the groove. He prayed. “Oh, God, roll away this stone as you did at the tomb of your Son.” But it refused to dislodge itself.
The carter tried to sit up. Jean-Paul knocked him back down with a blow to his jaw. The two gentlemen flinched, but said nothing. Dubois retracted the gorget, but there was no stone. He inserted it again, twisted it, jiggled it, retracted it once more. Still empty. Now came the blood, a trickle at first that soon turned into a stream. He reached for a towel and pressed it against the wound. He rose to check on the carter. His pulse was faint. He took the gag out of his mouth. His breathing was shallow. He rushed to the wound once more; the white towel now turned crimson. Sutures. He must stitch the wound. He jabbed the threaded needle in and out, but still the blood came, until it was impossible to see what he was doing. He floundered, his hands flapping in the bright, thickening blood.
Jean-Paul stood watching, transfixed by the scarlet ribbon that coiled on the floor below. The men rose.
“Sirs,” pleaded Dubois. “What should I do?”
“You have done enough,” said one.
The carter let out a strange gurgling sound, shuddered a little, then relaxed.
The barber’s bottom lip jutted out. “
Pour l’amour de Dieu!
But you cannot leave me. I beg you!”
The other man remained unmoved. “We can give you a good price for the body,” he said. The barber’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Someone will call later tonight.” And with that they left the shop and Monsieur Dubois alone with his bloodied hands, his silent son, and the still-warm corpse of the carter.
Chapter 12
T
hat evening Charles Byrne slumped into an armchair with such force that it groaned under his weight. Emily had been making the room ready for the party’s return, lighting the fire and plumping cushions. She turned to see the giant close his tired eyes.
“You are exhausted,” said the count, handing him a glass of gin.
“Aye,” he replied wearily. “Rich folks seem to stare h-harder than poor ones.”
“But they pay well for the privilege,” countered the little man cheerfully. “You made nearly twenty guineas today.”
Charles Byrne nodded and took a swig of his gin, but just as he did so, he began to cough. In his ensuing struggle for breath, he let go of the glass tumbler, sending it smashing to the floor. The count hurried over to him as the ghost reached for the kerchief the count had given him earlier and held it to his mouth. His shoulders heaved up and down in great waves as he gasped and spluttered.
Emily looked on anxiously, feeling helpless.
“Shall I fetch her ladyship?” she asked, but just as she did so, Lydia, alerted by the coughing, rushed into the room.
“Call for Dr. Silkstone,” she instructed.
The butler, the liveryman, and the footman were all summoned to help Charles Byrne upstairs to bed. He was able to walk slowly, but needed support and had to crawl on all fours up the stairs. They laid him down gently, and Lydia told Emily to fetch some water and a sponge.
“Today was obviously too taxing for you, Mr. Byrne,” said Lydia.
Charles frowned. “I am tired, your ladyship,” he acknowledged.
Emily returned carrying a pitcher just as Mistress Goodbody announced Thomas’s arrival.
“Sponge Mr. Byrne’s forehead,” instructed Lydia as she left the room.
The young servant set down the ewer and poured water into it. She then soaked the sponge, wrung it out, and placed it softly on the giant’s forehead, dabbing the beads of sweat off his brow. Her touch was tender and brought a smile to his face. Their eyes met and she returned his smile.
“Thank you,” he said, staying her hand in his. He held it for a moment, then, much to Emily’s shock, kissed it lightly. She shocked herself even more by not withdrawing from his grasp immediately, allowing her hand to linger in his for a little while longer.
 
A few minutes later Thomas had given his patient some soothing linctus for his cough and a draft to help him sleep.
“He must rest tomorrow,” he told Lydia afterward in the drawing room.
“Of course,” she replied, pouring Thomas a glass of sack from a decanter. “I shall see Mr. Marchant in the meantime.”
“The lawyer?” he said quickly, recalling their ill-tempered exchange at Spring Gardens. “Then I shall come with you.”
“That is kind, but I think not.”
Thomas felt himself tense. He feared she would say as much. Jealousy was an emotion that he had never experienced before he met Lydia, and he disliked himself for giving way to it, but he felt an overwhelming need to protect her. She had experienced so much harm and hurt over the past few months. The last thing he wanted for her was to be the victim of yet more deception and cruelty at the hands of another unscrupulous braggart.
“That man cannot be trusted,” he blurted.
Lydia simply smiled at him and brushed his arm lightly. “I do believe you are jealous.”
Her observation piqued him, but he told himself to remain calm. “My dearest, do not forget what happened with another lawyer we both knew.” He realized it was a cruel blow to deal. Her husband had been murdered by his own attorney, James Lavington, but as soon as Thomas had uttered the words he regretted them.
Lydia’s expression changed instantly. She looked deeply hurt, and the young doctor rose and walked over to the sofa where she sat.
“I am sorry,” he said, putting his arms around her, but she pulled away. Undeterred, he protested: “My love, I am merely warning you that the man has designs on you. It was patently obvious the way he looked at you.”
Lydia shook her head. “That is precisely why he will do all in his power to help us,” she replied. “I know what I am doing.”
There was an awkward silence as they both realized that those were the first cross words that had passed between them. Thomas returned to his seat.
“Tomorrow evening should be enjoyable,” he ventured, trying to lighten the mood.
“The concert?”
“Yes. It was kind of the count to invite us.” He was going out of his way to be civil.
“I am looking forward to it,” she replied, her voice softening.
“So am I,” said Thomas, and, compelled to touch her, he rose once more and took her hand to kiss it tenderly.
“I will always love you, Lydia,” he said, any resentment he had felt toward her quickly melting away.
She clasped his hand and placed her cheek on it, closing her eyes. “I do hope so,” she whispered.
 
In his laboratory not two miles away, Dr. John Hunter was working late into the night, as he so often did. On his dissecting table lay one of the hessian sacks that Howison had acquired two nights before. It had been deposited in the cold store. He went over to the door to check that it was locked before returning to the table to inspect the contents. Loosening the drawstring, he pulled down the hessian to reveal the face of a young man in his prime.
Despite the sickly-sweet stench of death that emanated, he smiled to himself. The body had been well dressed for the grave, he thought to himself. Spices and herbs had been used, marjoram and musk and pulverized lemon, but of his grave-clothes and personal effects there was no trace. The sack ’em up men had been careful to strip him bare for fear of being tried for theft and therefore liable to swing.
His relatives would, no doubt, be praying that this man’s soul would now be in heaven with the angels, but John Hunter knew differently. He had proof that this young cove had not led a blameless and pure life. His facial expression might have appeared calm, but it belied a darker side. Had he lain with a child virgin in the vain hope he might be cured? Had he infected his own wife, and if so, did his children now bear the scars of his licentious legacy?
He did not judge. So many came to him, even of his own kind, knowing the consequences of a moment of lust in a back alley or a stolen burst of pleasure in Covent Garden or Haymarket. Even prelates were prone to stray now and again. Man was a slave to his loins, no matter the consequences.
He was just about to resume his task when a sudden noise distracted him. He heard a clunk, the sound of something falling in a cupboard perhaps, or a sudden breeze from the high, half-opened window rattling a box. He looked about him. No one was there. His own nerves were getting the better of him.
With a scalpel he cut through the hessian, working his way down to the groin area. There was the telltale scabby rash on the torso, the copper-colored blotches on the skin, and, yes, there were the genitals, the penis now shriveled and limp. Despite its sad appearance, it spoke volumes to him. He picked up a magnifying glass and peered at the flaccid organ. A look of delight swept across his face at the sight of it: a pus-filled volcanic crater the size of a half crown, a magnificent chancre—the indisputable sign of venereal infection.
It was a disease that had blighted mankind even before Columbus’s sailors brought it back from the natives of Hispaniola, he told himself. A plague sent by the Almighty as a curse on all profligates and their innocent offspring. It treated its prey without mercy, corroding the flesh, the bones, the vital organs. Worse still, it affected the mind, driving men demented and leaving their offspring a legacy of torment. It left thousands, no, millions, of men—and women—dead in its path. But he, John Hunter, would find a cure. There would be no more need to treat the disease with mercury, which poisoned the blood. No more need for the slow harbinger of death to gnaw away at the body. One day men would bless his name and women would sing his praises. He would be hailed as the healer of the scourge, the savior of mankind. But before that he needed to study the disease in depth. He needed to monitor its progress, notate every stage. He needed in-depth knowledge of every facet of its grotesque existence. And to do that, there was only one option.
Lancet in hand, he pierced the chancre with the needle and drew off the yellow fluid. He held it up to the candlelight. Liquid gold, he told himself, holding within it so many secrets and so many answers to mankind’s problems.
Carefully laying the pus-laden lancet down on his table so that none of the precious cargo escaped, he unbuckled his belt and took down his breeches. He felt the beads of sweat on his brow start to run down his face, but he must not shy away from his task. He had to go through with this, he told himself, for the sake of humanity. He shuddered, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, puncturing first his foreskin, then the head of his penis, before passing out in a dead faint on the floor.

Other books

Only the Heart by Brian Caswell and David Chiem
After the Interview by Laurent, Coco
Megan and Mischief by Kelly McKain
San Francisco Noir by Peter Maravelis
Red Rain: A Novel by R. L. Stine
Gone From Me by Channing, Kate