Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
The Dead Shall Not Rest (14 page)
“Ninety-nine inches. I make that eight feet and three inches,” he announced, almost triumphantly, as if he had just reached the summit of a mountain. “You must be one of the tallest men in the world, Mr. Byrne.”
Hunter walked over to his desk drawer and reached for a wallet. Opening it, he took out some coins. “Here’s ten guineas, Mr. Byrne. Thank you for your time. Our meeting has been most informative.”
“Thank you. I am most obliged to you, sir.” Charles smiled, pocketing the money. He donned his topcoat once more and he and the count filed out of the room. As Thomas began to follow them, however, Hunter caught hold of his arm. The smile that had been on his lips only seconds before was nowhere to be seen.
“You know, do ye not?” His eyes were steely gray and piercing.
Thomas looked down at his arm. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You know the giant is dying.”
Thomas felt his guts knot. “We are all dying, sir,” he replied, holding the anatomist’s cold stare. From the corner of his eye he could see Charles and Boruwlaski heading back through the laboratory.
“I give him a year at the most.”
“Let go of my arm, if you please,” Thomas insisted.
The anatomist relaxed his hold, then patted Thomas’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, but there was no mistaking his meaning. “Forgive me. I am a little
intense
at times,” he said, adding: “But the giant will be mine, Dr. Silkstone. I
will
have him.”
intense
at times,” he said, adding: “But the giant will be mine, Dr. Silkstone. I
will
have him.”
Chapter 22
T
he rabble in Newgate Prison had not been kind to Signor Moreno. He had been in custody only three days and yet the count had been told on good authority that his topcoat had been stolen and his face bruised and bloodied, and he had not eaten since the night before the murder of which he was now accused.
he rabble in Newgate Prison had not been kind to Signor Moreno. He had been in custody only three days and yet the count had been told on good authority that his topcoat had been stolen and his face bruised and bloodied, and he had not eaten since the night before the murder of which he was now accused.
The stench of ammonia made Thomas’s eyes sting as he and the count accompanied a turnkey down the sunless passage. Decay and pestilence lurked in every nook and crevice. Water dripped down cold walls and cockroaches scurried about over filthy flagstones. The flaming torches on the walls provided what little light there was, but most of the time there was hardly any. From railings to the left and right of them spindly, dirt-encrusted arms reached out. Young and old were penned together, those in their youth at the mercy of ruffian rogues and brutish felons well-rehearsed in the ways of villainy.
One toothless old man pulled at the count’s wig, but the jailer coshed his hand and sent him yelping back into the corner of the cell, like a wounded cur. There were curses and insults hurled and cruel laughter, too, at the sight of Boruwlaski. “Dance, dwarf, dance,” they shouted before spitting at the little man.
Finally they reached Moreno’s cell. He was lying on the bare stone flags, his shirt and breeches torn and bloodied. Manacles clenched both ankles and were fastened to the floor. There were two other men sharing the same damp, stinking space. They, too, were all chained fast, but their faces were hard and their expressions threatening. One looked as though he might have been a prizefighter, thought Thomas. His nose had been so badly broken, it veered to the right. The other, younger man was angular and sly.
“Wait here,” instructed the turnkey as he entered the cell and quickly locked the grille behind him. “You, Moreno,” he called, prodding the Tuscan’s shoulder with his boot. He groaned and opened one eye. Thomas saw that the other eye was swollen so much that it was closed tight and purple as a plum.
“You are to be moved. These gents here have come to help you,” said the jailer gruffly, as if talking to a wayward child.
Moreno lifted his head and tried to focus on the count, who stood anxiously on the other side of the bars. “Leonardo,” he called. “ ’Tis Josef. Josef Boruwlaski.”
Slowly the prisoner managed to sit up. From his languid, deliberate movements and the involuntary winces of pain he made, Thomas suspected that at least one of his ribs was broken. Finally he heaved himself up, clutching onto the slimy outcrops of rock on the walls. The turnkey unlocked his chains and pulled him by the arm.
“Am I free?” Moreno asked pitifully.
“No,” replied the count. “But we can make you much more comfortable.” The little man had paid the head jailer twelve guineas for easement of irons and to transfer his friend to a single cell on an upper floor where there was at least ventilation from a window. A pallet and a blanket would be provided for his bed, together with a piss-pot, and he would be fed two meals a day.
Slowly they walked up the steps toward the lighter ground floor. Thomas held Moreno as they went, the latter’s arm around the doctor’s shoulders so that he could support a good deal of his weight.
The air, although still reeking, was a little fresher here, and the turnkey showed the men into a cell through a door with a rusty grille in it. Although the room was small and the window high, it was infinitely preferable to the airless hole below, thought Thomas. He led the Tuscan to his pallet and laid him down gently. Opening his medical bag, he btought out iodine and gauze and cleaned the wounds on his face.
“Who beat you?” asked Thomas softly.
“The men,” Moreno replied weakly.
“Which men? The other prisoners?”
“Yes,” he whispered, both eyes still closed.
“Why did they treat you so cruelly?” asked the count.
Thomas was now examining the Tuscan’s torso. It was as he thought. At least two ribs had been cracked like the broken wooden staves of a wrecked ship. The accompanying bruising told him he had been kicked mercilessly. He took out a long length of bandage.
“I need to examine your back,” he said. “I need to turn you on your side.”
Thomas summoned all his strength so that the turn would be swift and clean, so as not to drag muscle and bone unnecessarily, but as soon as the Tuscan was laid on his side, a horrible truth revealed itself to Thomas and he froze as he realized what had happened. A crimson stain blotted the seat of Moreno’s breeches. Now the count’s eyes opened wide in horror, as he, too, realized the heinous crime that had been committed against his friend. He turned away, retching.
Thomas had never dealt with such an abomination before, but he knew his first duty was to remove any shame his patient might feel.
“Signor Moreno,” he said softly. “Who”—he searched for a word—“violated you, sir? Who did this to you?”
The Tuscan’s shoulders began to heave in small sobs, and gently, Thomas eased him onto his back once more. Tears were falling from Moreno’s blackened cheeks. The count poured beer into a small cup and stood by his friend’s head, lifting it gently so that he could take small sips. After a few moments, the castrato appeared more composed.
“The other prisoners, they did this,” he said. He closed his one good eye as if reliving the whole ghastly incident.
“Why would they do such a thing?” asked Thomas.
“They could tell, you see.” His voice was as thin as tissue.
Thomas and the count looked at each other, puzzled. “Tell what?” asked the doctor.
“They could tell from my dress and my voice and my manners, sir, that I am not like other men.”
The count clenched his fists and beat against the cell wall. “Animals,” he wailed, his face flushed with anger.
“You will be safe now,” comforted Thomas. “I will see to your wounds and then you must rest.” He motioned to the count to bid Moreno good-bye for the time being.
“I shall leave you now, my friend, but I will be back tomorrow. We know you did not murder the boy, and we shall have you out of here in no time.” The count laid a sympathetic hand on Moreno’s shoulder and the castrato managed a weak smile. Thomas only hoped the little man’s words, although spoken from the heart, would prove to be true.
Both men were in a somber mood on their journey back from Newgate, distracted as they were by thoughts of the Tuscan castrato’s unutterable humiliation, even though they did not speak of it between themselves.
Thomas broke the silence. “I do not believe that Signor Moreno murdered the boy.”
“Of course he did not,” replied the count indignantly. “But how do we prove it?”
“Whoever killed Cappelli used brute force to smother him. His facial injuries prove it. I do not believe your friend is that strong.”
The count raised his eyes heavenward. “You know that judges never take note of your science.”
Thomas sighed. He acknowledged Boruwlaski’s words to be true. Even Sir Theodisius had reached his verdict in Captain Farrell’s case without having heard the scientific proof of his innocence.
“You are saying that the boy was smothered by a huge monster who then set about removing his voice with all the delicacy of a Parisian pastry chef,” huffed the little man, with a flourish of his hand. He turned his back on Thomas in anger.
The doctor paused for a moment, digesting what his companion had just said. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have a point. What if, he asked himself, there were actually two murderers? One who committed the actual suffocation, then a second who carried out the removal of the larynx. One with the brute force, the other with consummate skill. It would make perfect sense, he told himself, but he said nothing. For the time being at least, it would remain simply a theory. He would need much more evidence to turn it into proof.
The count, still in high dudgeon, remained leaning forward on the edge of his seat looking out of the window, his chin resting on the open ledge.
It was a Monday morning and the carriage was traveling toward Hyde Park Corner. A noisy crowd was just dispersing from the hangings at Tyburn. The tippling houses were spilling out their contents onto the street, men so drunk they could barely stand. There were swells, too, now climbing into their carriages after having enjoyed the best seats from which to watch what they called the “entertainment.”
Thomas could see the unfortunate criminals, hanging like rag dolls in the wind. He counted three of them: two men and a woman.
A loud cheer went up from the crowd as the hangman and his men cut one of the bodies down and placed it unceremoniously into a waiting tumbrel. The sides were demounted to show the good denizens of London that justice had, indeed, been done. It was then driven off slowly, followed by the city marshal in full ceremonial attire on a gleaming white charger, much to the excitement of the throng.
A few relatives or friends had gathered around the one remaining man. Some were tugging at his legs to shorten his suffering. Another seemed to be lying on the scaffold under a dead man.
“What is that man doing?” asked the count incredulously.
“I believe he is trying to catch drops of the dead man’s sweat,” said Thomas. “They say it cures scrofula.” Boruwlaski looked puzzled. “A type of tuberculosis,” explained the doctor, suddenly reminded of the giant’s affliction.
“Poor wretches,” muttered the little man, his eyes still fixed on the grotesque scene. It was then that he saw a ruffian in a wide-brimmed hat climb onto the scaffold. He looked strangely familiar to him. There was something about his demeanor that struck a chord.
“You see that man, there on the scaffold?” The count pointed ahead.
“Yes,” said Thomas, leaning forward even farther.
“Do you not recognize him?”
The young doctor studied the stained topcoat, the large hat, and the swarthy complexion.
“Indeed I do,” he said as he watched him produce a knife from its sheath and sever the rope so that the hanged woman fell down into another’s waiting arms like a bundle of crumpled rags. “Indeed I do.”
Chapter 23
E
mily’s head whipped ’round at the sound of footsteps. It was shortly before midday and she was tending the fire in the dining room. She was not expecting anyone. Charles Byrne stood nervously at the doorway, like a child waiting to be punished. He was to leave shortly for the cane shop for another day of public exhibition and was dressed smartly. “May we t-talk?” he said, wringing his hands.
mily’s head whipped ’round at the sound of footsteps. It was shortly before midday and she was tending the fire in the dining room. She was not expecting anyone. Charles Byrne stood nervously at the doorway, like a child waiting to be punished. He was to leave shortly for the cane shop for another day of public exhibition and was dressed smartly. “May we t-talk?” he said, wringing his hands.
Emily rocked back on her heels and stood up. “Of course, sir.” She nodded warily and gave a little curtsy.
The giant walked forward slowly. His expression was serious and Emily could not hide her apprehension as he approached. If he were to lash out as he did before when she cut him accidentally, then he could kill her with one blow. Her body was stiff with anxiety.
Seeing the look of trepidation on her face, Charles smiled at her. “Please, do not be afeared. I’ll not harm you, that I won’t.” He stretched out his huge hand, his fingers spreading to grasp hers, but she avoided his touch. “I want you to know what made me act like a m-madman. Please, Emily.” He said her name gently and slowly, as if he were learning it, saying it for the first time. “Emily,” he repeated.
Now she allowed a smile to flicker across her lips. He moved closer and then knelt down so that his face was level with hers. He was looking at her in the eye; their faces were so close they could feel each other’s warm breath.
“When the razor cut me . . . ,” he began.
“ ’Twas an accident, sir,” exclaimed Emily, pulling away. He took her hand and pulled her back toward him gently.
“I know that. For sure I know that, but when I saw the blood, it reminded me of my da.”
Emily frowned. “How so?”
Charles took a deep breath. “You know that he was scragged for a murder he did not commit?” She knew the talk, that the giant wanted a royal pardon for his father. She nodded.
“ ’Twas worse. They took him down and delivered him to be c-cut up.” His eyes suddenly filled with angry tears. “The surgeons took their knives to him.”
Emily’s hands flew up to her mouth to stifle a horrified gasp. She had seen the Corporation of Surgeons process with a body through the streets from Tyburn, like crows ’round carrion, ready to pick over the bones.
“ ’Tis a terrible fate,” she whispered.
“Aye. Then they denied him a Christian burial, so now he lingers in purgatory. God rest his soul.” Charles crossed himself.
“So he cannot go to heaven?”
“They took him. . . . They took his remains t-to the s-slaughterhouse,” he choked out.
Emily lifted her forefinger to his cheek and lightly but deliberately wiped away a tear. He took her hand as she did so and kissed her soft palm, sending a thrill through every sinew of her body.
“Now do you understand?”
She searched his sorrowful face. “I do,” she whispered. She put her arms around his neck and his black head nestled into her shoulder and, eyes closed, they held each other tight.
It was this tender scene that greeted Mistress Goodbody as she walked past the half-open door.
“Emily, enough!” cried the housekeeper. The maid immediately broke free from Charles’s embrace. “Again I find you! Be gone downstairs!”
Emily fled, not daring to look at her mistress, leaving Charles to face the housekeeper’s wrath once more.
“This cannot continue, Mr. Byrne,” she warned him.
Remaining on his knees, like some religious supplicant, the giant looked humble. “I am sorry, Mistress Goodbody. ’Twill not happen again.”
“I will see that it does not,” retorted the housekeeper, her face set hard below her large cap. “Bless me, I will,” she said to emphasize her point before shutting the door behind her.
Thomas Silkstone sat at his desk in his laboratory and rubbed his gritty eyes. The light was fading and he had been reading over the notes he had made during the postmortem on the young castrato. He was hoping he might find a spark of information that he had previously overlooked. Perhaps, he told himself, it might ignite a new line of enquiry; shed light on a certain aspect of the gruesome affair; illuminate a motive. He thought, too, of the count’s remarks; the idea that there were two murderers working in conjunction had taken root in his mind and was now flourishing. The more he considered it, the more plausible he found it: one a brute, the other a craftsman. But there were no witnesses. Surely if two men had entered the hostelry they were more likely to have been seen. He resolved to return to the hotel to question Mr. Smee.
In the corner, Franklin, his rat, was scratching about in his cage. Seeing him reminded Thomas of the barrow full of squealing mammals at Hunter’s laboratory and of the anatomist’s chilling words. “The giant will be mine,” he had warned. He remembered his eyes, too, cold and ruthless, and he suddenly shivered. Charles would be horrified at the very notion of being dissected. He must never know of Hunter’s designs on his corpse.
So lost in his own thoughts was Thomas that he did not hear Dr. Carruthers shuffle into the room until he was standing close by.
“Ah, young fellow, how goes it?” he asked jovially.
Thomas smiled and turned to see his elderly master, dressed for dinner.
“You will be joining me tonight?”
Thomas had not dined with the old man since before the night Lydia had announced she was breaking off their betrothal. His appetite had completely deserted him, but he knew that in order for his brain to function, let alone his body, he needed to take some nourishment, even if it was only a little.
“I will come with you now, sir,” he replied, standing up and tidying his papers.
Thomas took Carruthers’s arm and walked with him to the dining room. Unbeknownst to him, Mistress Finesilver had been instructed to serve his favorite dishes, boiled plovers’ eggs and stewed carp. But even her finest offerings went barely touched. Conversation at the table was also difficult, despite the old anatomist’s best efforts.
Finally, after trying to engage his protégé all evening, Carruthers could take Thomas’s taciturn replies no longer. “I am not sure what passed between you and Lady Lydia the other night, but whatever it was, it has put you in a sour humor, young fellow,” he said, pointing an accusatory fork in Thomas’s direction.
The young doctor nodded. “I am aware that I am not my usual self,” he acknowledged.
“Your usual self?” mocked Carruthers. “You are like a bear with a sore head.”
Thomas felt obliged to give some form of explanation, while not revealing the full truth about the nature of his relationship with Lydia. “Her ladyship has left for Boughton and I am not sure when, or indeed if, she is to return.”
“I thought as much.” Carruthers nodded sagely. “So what do you plan to do about it?”
Thomas frowned. “I plan nothing, sir. She has told me in no uncertain terms that she no longer wishes to see me.”
The old doctor let out a laugh. “Pah!” he cried, pushing his empty plate away from him. “You, one of the best anatomists in all London, nay, the world, are prepared to do as you are told by a young woman who is clearly unhappy?”
Once again, his master’s intuition was correct. He must have sensed Lydia’s troubled disposition on the night she visited the house.
“I have never known you to settle for the obvious, Thomas. Have you learned nothing from me? You may be an excellent surgeon, but of the heart you have very little experience. Look under the surface. Probe deeper, young fellow. Only then will you find the truth.”
Thomas toyed with the stem of his wineglass. It remained full of claret. “You are right,” he conceded. “But I cannot go to Boughton. An innocent man is behind bars for a murder he did not commit, the real killer or killers are still at large, and the giant needs my protection.”
“So much weight on such young shoulders!” said Carruthers, wiping his chin with his napkin. “Then you must apply your surgeon’s skills to more romantic affairs.”
Thomas looked puzzled. “I am not sure I follow, sir.”
The old man chuckled. “You may be good at wielding a scalpel, but try wielding your quill for something other than a postmortem report.”
Thomas remained uncertain.
“Zounds! Write to her, young fellow. Tell her how you feel in a letter. Then you can be as logical in your arguments as you like.”
“Yes,” Thomas said slowly. The idea of making a reasoned argument greatly appealed to him. “You are right, sir.”
“Logical, but tender, mind,” warned Carruthers, raising a stern finger. “That way you have a much better chance of winning her back.”
His old master was rarely wrong, thought Thomas. Even so, he knew this letter would require more of him than any postmortem report he had ever written.
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