Authors: Tessa Harris

The Dead Shall Not Rest (2 page)

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest

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Chapter 2

T
he annual spring fair at Boughton, in the county of Oxfordshire, was in full swing and it did not take long for the crowd to swallow the little man. At first they must have taken him for a child. Measuring barely three feet tall, he was the height of a six-year-old, but this was no grubby urchin out on a thieving mission. Abandoning his usual dapper French-cut redingote, Count Josef Boruwlaski sported a drab dung-colored frockcoat to blend in with the unwashed horde and headed, virtually unremarked, into the bowels of the throng.

Each April, beginning on the first Thursday of the month, the fair was held on the estate, near the village of Brandwick, and had been for the last three hundred years. The world and his wife rubbed shoulders with each other as all manner of entertainments, contests, and sports were laid on for the general delectation of the public. There were soothsayers, who would give you good fortune if you crossed their palms with silver and curse you if you did not, and mountebanks who sold miracle cures for a variety of agues and malignant effluvia that, most often, did more harm than good. There were prizefighters and wire walkers, fire-eaters and ropedancers, jugglers and acrobats. There were pigs that could fire a cannon and horses as small as dogs. There was a man who could lick his nose with his tongue like a cow and a hermaphrodite with both breasts and male genitalia clearly visible under its breeches. But as blasé to such spectacles as the good people of Brandwick had become over the years, even they were intrigued by what was billed to appear on a raised dais at the far edge of the fairground.

As the drum rolled in the shadowy twilight, the gypsy violins and tabors fell silent, the dancing troupe was stilled, and the costermongers and quacks stopped hawking. The servant girls in their Sunday best hushed their swains, and even the painted women shut their scarlet lips as the showman’s voice rose hard and loud above the throng. All were drawn toward a makeshift stage that was flanked by two flaming torches.

“Come and see the tallest man in the world,” he cried, dressed in yellow pantaloons and wearing a curly-brimmed green hat. His face was set in a wide, almost demonic grin. “He is not six foot, not seven foot, but eight foot high,” he called into the chill air.

All eyes now focused on the stage. They did not notice the little man edging his way toward the front. Weaving past starched skirts and coarse smocks, he huffed and puffed. Buttons and brocade scratched his cheeks and boots bludgeoned his toes, but he remained steadfast in his purpose.

Now and again he would jab his elbow into a man’s buttock or tug at a lady’s skirt so that he could pass. One woman screamed when she looked down, believing him to be a cutpurse, but he managed to duck under a bridge of thighs and scurried off too quickly to be caught.

A few seconds later he reached the edge of the stage, out of breath and with his graying hair quite disheveled, but, he told himself, the excellent view was well worth the discomfort.

The drum roll grew louder and the excited murmurings from the crowd receded to a hush.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for,” called the showman, his eyes wild with excitement. “I give you, all the way from the Emerald Isle, the truly amazing Irish Giant.” He flung his arm toward the tall drapes that hung behind him from taut ropes at the back of the stage as the drum thundered. Nothing happened.

Some apprentice boys had clambered up on hay bales stacked by the stage for a better view and, emboldened by strong liquor, began to heckle.

“Where is he, then?” one called.

“Buggered off back to Ireland,” shouted another.

The showman smiled nervously and repeated himself, only this time even louder, making another sweeping gesture with his arm. “The truly amazing Giant Byrne.”

Still nothing, and a rotten cabbage landed on the stage. “Get on with it,” called a gruff voice, and the crowd started to murmur. The showman began to move backward, his face still set in a wide grin, when suddenly the drapes were drawn apart and a figure appeared in the amber glow of the torchlight.

A collective gasp of amazement rose as all eight feet of Charles Byrne, the Amazing Irish Giant, lumbered forward, causing the flimsy stage to creak and groan under his weight. He was, indeed, like a storybook ogre, with flowing black hair and arms as fat as ham hocks. Around his massive shoulders was draped a cloak, which dropped to the floor to reveal his naked torso and tight breeches. But his expression was vacant rather than vicious, and he looked more bewildered than belligerent.

Nevertheless, the showman’s expression changed instantly from one of nervous anticipation to exalted relief. “Such a giant as never was before seen on these shores,” he shouted out, barely able to contain himself, as the audience cheered and whooped.

When the cries had settled down to a murmur, the showman leaned forward. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Let me take you back through the mists of time. A time when this man’s ancestors roamed the land. The dark days.” He motioned to the giant, who began to stride purposefully from one side of the stage to the other as directed. To gasps of alarm, he then stopped to look out over the audience, shielding his eyes from the torchlight in an exaggerated pantomime gesture.

The showman continued his patter as the giant hunched his shoulders menacingly and obligingly mimed gestures to match the speech. “These evil ogres strode over the hills and dales, terrorizing our towns and villages. They slew the menfolk. They carried off our women and used them for their own gratification. They even ate our babes.”

There were more squeals from the female members of the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, this giant, this Goliath that stands before you here today, is their descendant,” cried the showman, delighting at the ensuing alarums of amazement. “Yet be not afraid, for this colossus is made of altogether gentler stuff.” The showman looked at the giant, who was still grimacing. “Gentler stuff,” he repeated, and the giant duly forced a smile. “Yet he still has the strength of a hundred men, as you will now see with your own eyes.”

The showman danced over to a large object on the center of the stage that was covered with a crimson cloth. Bending low, he removed it with a flourish to reveal a ship’s anchor.

“This anchor, ladies and gentlemen, comes from the thirty-ton lugger, the
Phoenix,
that was shipwrecked off the shores of Cornwall last year. It weighs half a ton, and Giant Byrne will now lift it and raise it above his head in a show of his extreme power.”

There was another sharp intake of breath from the crowd as the drum rolled and the giant, his enormous chest muscles gleaming in the torchlight, proceeded to put a leather halter around his neck. The halter was attached to a short, thick chain at the end of which was the anchor. Crouching down, with his head low, but never taking his eyes from the audience, the giant took a deep breath and began to rise slowly. As he straightened his torso, the chains began to move, too, like metal snakes uncoiling. And finally, as his legs began to straighten, so did the anchor begin to shift. It came slowly at first. Beads of sweat started to appear on the giant’s brow and some began to doubt, but then the movement hastened as he steadily lifted his arms above his head. Straining every fiber in his being, he straightened his back until, at last, the anchor left the ground and was clearly suspended from the halter around his neck.

The crowd erupted into loud applause. “Bravo, bravo,” they called. The showman grinned and gestured to the giant to take a bow. Looking bewildered by all the noise, he simply nodded and let the anchor drop slowly down onto the stage. Ignoring the crowd’s adulation, he then turned toward the drapes and would have disappeared again from view had the showman not lunged after him. He took him by the arm and pulled him back to face his admiring audience once more.

“Bow again, you dolt,” he said through clenched teeth, his face still holding a grin. “Bow.”

The giant did bow, from the waist this time. But there was no satisfied smile, only a pained look. As a crookbacked youth passed around a hat to collect a few paltry coins, the showman led him off the stage through the drapes and down wooden steps to a tent that was pitched nearby.

The crowd now dispersed as quickly as it had formed, tempted by the many other delights of the fair, leaving the little man at the front of the stage. For the past ten minutes he had been pinioned to the wooden fascia board, having to force his head back to watch the show that played out above him. His neck was now exceedingly stiff, but he was glad that he had witnessed the spectacle firsthand.

Lady Lydia Farrell was also glad to have seen the show. Her carriage was parked on a ridge above the natural amphitheater of the fairground. She remembered visiting the fair as a small child and still loved the sights and sounds of it, albeit from a distance these days. Her father had always been happy to allow the didicoys and dancing troupes to park their wagons on the edge of the Boughton estate for the duration of the fair, and she was glad to continue the tradition.

On this particular occasion she observed proceedings through a pair of opera glasses from the comfort of her carriage. Her view had not been completely satisfactory, but it had sufficed for her purposes. It would not have been seemly for her to mix among the vulgar people, especially as she had been widowed only a few months before. Nor did she wish to be seen in her carriage, so she wore a hooded cape that she pulled down low, covering the top half of her face.

As the crowd dwindled she watched her envoy approach.

“So, Count,” said Lydia as the little man was helped into her carriage. “What do you think?”

“I think there is much to discuss, your ladyship,” he replied. Lydia nodded. They would talk about what they had just seen over dinner at Boughton Hall and then decide whether or not to proceed with their course of action the following day.

Chapter 3

“G
od’s truth, but it cannot be!” Thomas Silkstone stared incredulously at the
Daily Gazetteer
. He was sitting by a spluttering fire in the study of his London home, which he shared with his mentor and friend, Dr. William Carruthers.

“What is it, young fellow?” asked the old man, who sat opposite him, cradling a brandy in his arthritic hands. It was the custom every evening, after dinner, for the young anatomist to read out the latest obituaries. Dr. Carruthers may have lost his sight a few years back, but his wit and intellect remained razor sharp.

“Sir Tobias Charlesworth is dead.”

“Charlesworth, from St. George’s?”

“Yes.” The young doctor ran an agitated hand through his hair in a state of bewilderment. “I was speaking with him only last week. He asked me if I would look at some specimens he had recently acquired.”

Dr. Carruthers looked shocked. “When? How?”

“On Tuesday. It does not say how,” replied Thomas, frowning.

“He was a fine surgeon,” reflected the old man. “And a good card player!”

Thomas sighed. Such a loss. He had the utmost respect for Sir Tobias, who had always shown him the greatest of courtesies when others did not because he came from the Colonies. As the chief surgeon at St. George’s Hospital he had also kept a firm grasp on the professional conduct of other surgeons and physicians. Thomas knew them to be a pompous, priggish band of men, more concerned with their reputations than the welfare of their patients. They closed their eyes to the squalor around them in the hospital wards and their minds to any advances in surgery.

“Yes, he will be sorely missed,” he said.

“I pity the poor devil who takes his place,” reflected Dr. Carruthers. “Those surgeons would sooner be at each other’s throats than their patients’.”

Thomas knew what he said to be true. There was so much infighting for power and reputation at the hospital that he was glad not to be part of it.

“Gunning, Keate, and Walker: I’d sooner show my neck to a hangman than trust it to any of those mealy-mouthed sycophants,” chuntered his mentor.

“The funeral is tomorrow, sir,” said Thomas, ignoring the old doctor’s ranting.

“What? Oh, yes, funeral, you say?” he replied, suddenly aware that he was letting his temper get the better of him. “Then we must go and pay our respects.”

It seemed as if the entire London medical fraternity was gathered at St. James’s Church in Jermyn Street to pay tribute to Sir Tobias. From the chief physician to the king down to the lowliest apprentice at St. George’s, they bowed their heads in remembrance of a respected colossus among their ranks. Hymns were sung, psalms read, and eulogies delivered in an air of reverence and gratitude for a life lived in the service of medicine.

Afterward, when they emerged from the gloom of the church into the sunlight of a spring day, Thomas found himself shepherding Dr. Carruthers between old acquaintances eager to see their friend, who so rarely ventured out in public these days. They greeted him fondly, patted him on the back, and inquired after his health, seemingly oblivious to the earnest-looking young man standing self-consciously by his side.

“Well, if it isn’t Carruthers!”

“Carruthers, my dear fellow!”

“How are you faring, dear chap?”

“Terrible shame about Charlesworth.”

The chorus of genial salutations and commiserations went on for some time, making Thomas feel slightly awkward. Even though this was his sixth year in this great city, he remained very much an outsider. He was still dismissed among his profession as simply “that colonist.” Ever since his evidence at the trial of Lydia’s husband, Captain Michael Farrell, had catapulted him to fame in the newssheets, his peers had regarded him with suspicion. “A self-publicist,” they said. “Too clever for his own good! An upstart, a parvenu!”

Added to this the British Prime Minister, Lord North, had just resigned over the war with America, making his position even more awkward among those, and there were many in his circle, who would rather cut off their own limbs than give his homeland its independence. All he could do was look solemn and nod until, after what seemed like an age, he became aware of someone standing close behind him.

“Is it Dr. Silkstone?” came an unfamiliar voice.

Thomas turned to see a young man, in his early twenties, he guessed, with a pleasing smile and a confident manner.

“Yes, I am he,” he said, relieved that at last someone was acknowledging his presence.

“I am a great admirer of your work, sir,” said the young man, bowing politely.

Thomas was flattered. “Thank you, Mr. . . .”

“Giles Carrington is my name. I am a student at St. George’s.”

“Then you will be mourning the loss of your master,” said Thomas.

“Indeed, we all are,” he agreed.

“I was speaking with him only the other day. He seemed well enough then. His death must have come as a great shock,” ventured Thomas.

Carrington looked grave. “Yes. He was struck down with a sudden apoplexy and was dead when they found him in his office.”

“Terrible shame.”

“Yes. Dr. Hunter says ’twill be hard to find a man who cares more for the hospital,” replied the young man.

“Dr. Hunter,” repeated Thomas.

Carrington shrugged. “Forgive me. Dr. John Hunter is my mentor.”

Thomas had heard of this Dr. Hunter. His antics were the talk of the coffeehouses and cockpits. It was said that he would pickle anything that moved and dissect anything that died. It was said he kept strange and exotic animals that roamed around in his gardens. It was said that he carried out all sorts of experiments on these creatures. There was even a rumor he had grafted a human tooth onto a cock’s comb and slit open a dog’s belly while it was alive. If he carried out such abominations on animals, then perhaps he would do such a thing to humans, too!

“I am told his methods are slightly,” he searched for a diplomatic term, “unorthodox,” he said.

Carrington laughed. “You could say that, I suppose, sir.”

Just then, the object of their conversation appeared in person, although had they not been introduced. Thomas would have taken the surgeon for an artisan or a shopkeeper. Instead of sporting a wig, customary for a man of his years, Dr. John Hunter wore his tawny-colored hair in a ponytail, and a stubbly beard sprouted from his chin. His topcoat was stained and frayed around the cuffs and his manner was bluff and discourteous.

“Stop ya prattlin’, Carrington. There’s work to be done,” he barked, ignoring Thomas altogether. To the young doctor’s ear, he did not sound like a gentleman at all, and his accent was thick and unfamiliar.

Carrington looked sheepish. “I must go, Dr. Silkstone, but it was good to meet you.”

Realizing he was interrupting a conversation the anatomist turned to Thomas.

“Silkstone, eh? Yes, I’ve heard of you,” he growled in a low burr before walking off again, his student following obediently behind.

“John Hunter. There’s a rare one,” chortled Carruthers. Thomas and his mentor were talking over dinner later that evening after returning to their home in Hollen Street. They had been a little later than planned, and pinch-faced Mistress Finesilver, both their housekeeper and cook, and a woman neither liked to trifle with, had burned the venison pie.

“Now, there are two brothers who could not be less alike, or close. William and he are as chalk and cheese,” continued the old doctor.

Of course Thomas knew of both the Hunter brothers. The elder, William, lived in a very grand house nearby and had attended at the births of several of the royal children. But of John he knew less, and the many rumors he had heard were all scurrilous.

“How so?” pressed Thomas, his appetite whetted by his mentor’s enigmatic choice of words rather than the burnt offering on the plate before him.

“John is a maverick,” mused Carruthers. “But a brilliant one, nevertheless. It has taken time for his light to shine.” He chuckled again. “He told me once that when no one turned up for a lecture he dragged a skeleton into the room, seated it, and addressed his talk to him!”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “But now, I trust, he attracts a good-sized audience.”

Carruthers gulped his claret and tilted his head to one side in thought. “He has his followers, Athenians around their Socrates. But I wouldn’t recommend you adopt
all
of his methods, young fellow. By Jove, I would not.”

Thomas was bemused. “Why is that, sir?”

The old doctor huffed. “Let’s just say he strays onto the wrong side of the law on occasions. There’s nothing he won’t do for a good corpse.”

Thomas nodded knowingly. He could tell by Hunter’s very appearance and manner that he would feel more at home in a spit-and-sawdust tavern than a genteel London salon. He was about to say as much when a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. Mistress Finesilver stood on the threshold looking even more out of sorts than usual. He wondered why she seemed so agitated. Had he not given her the nightly dose of laudanum she so enjoyed?

“Begging pardon, sirs, but a messenger has just brought this letter from Boughton Hall. He said it was urgent.”

Thomas nodded and took the folded paper from the housekeeper.

“Urgent, eh?” queried the old doctor, wiping his chin with his napkin.

“Yes,” replied Thomas. “It seems Lady Lydia needs me as soon as I am able to be there.”

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest

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