Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
The Dead Shall Not Rest (24 page)
Chapter 36
T
homas took a coach out to St. George’s Hospital, on Hyde Park Corner, first thing the next morning. The air was no longer as fresh as the institution’s founding fathers would have wished it, and the once-quiet countryside was being swallowed up by the city’s voracious appetite so that traffic and noise swirled around the building day and night.
homas took a coach out to St. George’s Hospital, on Hyde Park Corner, first thing the next morning. The air was no longer as fresh as the institution’s founding fathers would have wished it, and the once-quiet countryside was being swallowed up by the city’s voracious appetite so that traffic and noise swirled around the building day and night.
Climbing three shallow steps, Thomas entered via a narrow blue door and found himself in a large, stone-flagged hallway. The place was bustling with physicians and surgeons as well as patients in various states of distress. He gave his name to a porter who sat at a desk behind a wooden screen.
“Dr. Thomas Silkstone to see Mr. Giles Carrington,” he said.
A young man standing nearby looked up and regarded Thomas with a strange expression.
“I will send word to Mr. Carrington,” said the porter. “Please wait here, sir.”
Thomas did as he was bidden, pacing up and down past the dispensary and other offices that led off the reception area, but he was suddenly aware that he was becoming the object of some curiosity. Huddles of young men were gathering nearby, looking at him, whispering and smiling. Giles Carrington arrived not a moment too soon for Thomas’s comfort.
“Mr. Carrington,” he greeted the young student courteously. “I am come to see you on a most urgent matter. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
Carrington looked puzzled. “Yes, indeed, Dr. Silkstone,” he said. “We can walk in the grounds. We will not be overheard,” he assured him, leading Thomas outside to a flower garden.
Thomas began earnestly. “I am speaking to you in the utmost confidence,” he said. “It concerns the murder of Signor Carlo Cappelli.”
“The castrato?” replied Carrington. “I have read about the case in the newssheets. The case is the talk of taverns and dinner tables throughout the capital.”
Thomas nodded and took a deep breath. “I carried out a postmortem on his body and found that his larynx had been surgically removed, with great skill.”
“Yes, I read that, too,” replied Carrington, looking serious. “A terrible affair, but they have charged a fellow countryman, yes?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes, but I believe the man is innocent.” He went on: “I also believe that the murder was the work of two men; one to smother the victim and the other to carry out the surgery.”
Carrington stopped walking, contemplating the hypothesis. He turned to face the doctor. “And you think Dr. Hunter may be responsible?”
Thomas was slightly taken aback by the student’s forthrightness, but he welcomed it. “In light of what you told me about him, I wondered if the disease might be turning his mind.”
Carrington closed his eyes. “I feared something like this might happen,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned closer to Thomas. “He has a secret store.”
“A secret store?” echoed Thomas, frowning.
“’Tis where he keeps all his special specimens. He will not let me see it and he keeps it under lock and key. I’ll wager that is where you will find this poor unfortunate’s larynx and many more body parts besides.”
The young student spoke with a confidence that shocked Thomas. “So you believe that your master is capable of such an act?”
Carrington looked Thomas straight in the eye. “I fear so, sir.”
The doctor nodded. “Then we must find a way of entering this store and searching it to try to obtain evidence. How can this be done?”
Carrington thought for a moment, then said: “I will be working at the laboratory tomorrow. I know where he keeps the key. I shall look for the larynx, and that will be our proof.” There was a note of excitement in his voice that unsettled Thomas. He feared that such enthusiasm for the task would be the young man’s undoing. If Hunter were to find that his pupil had betrayed him, God alone knew what he might do.
“Be careful, Mr. Carrington,” he warned. “Dr. Hunter is clearly unstable.”
The student nodded. “Have no fear, Dr. Silkstone. I am up to the task,” he said gravely, any trace of his boyish enthusiasm now dissipated.
Just as they were about to bid each other farewell as they walked back toward the gateway, Thomas saw another young student smile at him on the path and remembered the curious looks of the others as he waited in the hallway earlier.
“Mr. Carrington, I have noticed that some students are regarding me very oddly here. Do you know why that might be?” he asked.
Carrington let out a spontaneous laugh. “Why, yes, sir. All of London’s anatomists know that you are the Irish Giant’s physician and that you are the man to beat to dissect him when he dies!”
Thomas looked askance. “In God’s name!” he exclaimed. “You jest?!”
The student shook his head. “Why, no, sir. Dr. Hunter is not the only one with designs on the giant. His brother, William, is another who would love to get his hands on the carcass, to name but one.”
A sense of repulsion suddenly filled Thomas. Members of his profession were, at times, no better than a pack of baying wolves or conniving vultures intent on scavenging, with scant regard for human dignity. He would personally see to it that they would all be disappointed in their quest to dissect Charles Byrne.
Arriving back in Hollen Street before noon, Thomas went immediately to his laboratory. Franklin, his pet rat, was gnawing away at the bars of his iron cage and he opened the door and let him roam freely. Walking over to his desk, he picked up the sheaf of notes he had made on Carlo Cappelli’s postmortem. Somewhere, he told himself, within those pages, lay some vital clue as to the murderer. For the moment, however, he had to trust in the investigations of a guileless but enthusiastic youth, and he felt most uncomfortable with it.
Was Dr. Hunter really capable of such a gruesome crime, he asked himself. He had already proved himself to be totally irrational in his behavior toward Charles. Setting his man on him to shadow the giant day and night was a cruel and heinous act. He was playing games of the mind, taunting him, just as a childish bully would in a schoolroom.
The dividing line between genius and madness was a thin one, he knew, but could such a man turn from a committed anatomist to a scheming murderer? He was inclined to think not, but then he was reminded of the vile syringe that Carrington had discovered. Who in his right mind would infect himself willingly with such a scourge? The answer was, surely, no one in his
right
mind.
right
mind.
He was reminded, too, of the episode involving Mr. Haydn that was reported by Carrington. That he should ever countenance manhandling a close acquaintance against his will in order to perform a potentially life-threatening surgery would also be inconceivable to any sane man.
Thomas sat down at his desk and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of despair, and his thoughts turned to his beloved Lydia. Since his return from Boughton four days ago, he had heard nothing. He would go back as soon as he was able, but he needed news from Carrington before he could leave London, even it was only for a few meager days, to be by Lydia’s side.
His beloved had now been in a coma for seven days, and he knew that with each passing day, hope of her full recovery faded. Yet he refused to give up. He watched Franklin shuffle across his desk, nudging papers and sniffing the air, oblivious to the fact that his master’s world was so chaotic and traumatic. A copy of the
Morning Herald
lay on his desk. Mistress Finesilver must have put it there while he was at St. George’s. Feeling in need of a diversion, Thomas opened the newspaper and scanned it. In amongst news of the war in his homeland and the domestic squabbles of Whigs and Tories, he came across several advertisements that vied for the attention of Londoners. In Piccadilly, a Mr. Katterfelto offered punters the chance to see insects in all manner of liquids through his greatly improved solar microscope, and in Spring Gardens, a few doors away from where Charles was exhibiting his mighty physiognomy, spectators could be treated to an extraordinary mind reader. Mr. Breslaw declared he could command a fresh egg to dance on a stick by itself to the accompaniment of a violin and mandolin. Such weird and wonderful claims managed to bring a smile to Thomas’s lips. But a little farther down, his attention was caught by a much larger advertisement. Another giant, by the name of Patrick Cotter O’Brien, was coming to town. He was, according to the newspaper, a direct descendant of Brian Boru, the ancient king of Ireland. To view this unique spectacle, the esteemed public need only pay one shilling. Worse still, it was claimed he was a full four inches taller than Charles Byrne.
Morning Herald
lay on his desk. Mistress Finesilver must have put it there while he was at St. George’s. Feeling in need of a diversion, Thomas opened the newspaper and scanned it. In amongst news of the war in his homeland and the domestic squabbles of Whigs and Tories, he came across several advertisements that vied for the attention of Londoners. In Piccadilly, a Mr. Katterfelto offered punters the chance to see insects in all manner of liquids through his greatly improved solar microscope, and in Spring Gardens, a few doors away from where Charles was exhibiting his mighty physiognomy, spectators could be treated to an extraordinary mind reader. Mr. Breslaw declared he could command a fresh egg to dance on a stick by itself to the accompaniment of a violin and mandolin. Such weird and wonderful claims managed to bring a smile to Thomas’s lips. But a little farther down, his attention was caught by a much larger advertisement. Another giant, by the name of Patrick Cotter O’Brien, was coming to town. He was, according to the newspaper, a direct descendant of Brian Boru, the ancient king of Ireland. To view this unique spectacle, the esteemed public need only pay one shilling. Worse still, it was claimed he was a full four inches taller than Charles Byrne.
Chapter 37
L
ike an artist surrounded by all the paraphernalia of his craft, Giles Carrington sat at a table in Dr. Hunter’s laboratory, encircled by all the tools of anatomical preservation. There were pipes and pipettes, brass wires and bristles, and there were reeds and syringes for the delicate task of injecting blood vessels, highlighting them in different colors to expose their diverse routes around the specimen.
ike an artist surrounded by all the paraphernalia of his craft, Giles Carrington sat at a table in Dr. Hunter’s laboratory, encircled by all the tools of anatomical preservation. There were pipes and pipettes, brass wires and bristles, and there were reeds and syringes for the delicate task of injecting blood vessels, highlighting them in different colors to expose their diverse routes around the specimen.
His master had given him the job of preparing a coil of human intestine that sat like a sleeping snake in front of him. He did not know how the specimen had been obtained, but he could guess. Nevertheless, he did not question. He simply injected the vessels with warm water to flush out the blood and dispel any air. Into the open end of the coil he inserted a pipe and held it securely with pins before reaching for his syringe and injecting the wax he had colored earlier. Vermilion, blue verditer, and king’s yellow were hues on his artist’s palette.
With the utmost care and precision, on the depression of his syringe, miraculous pathways would appear before him in color, routes taken by blood and bile not visible to the naked eye. Lacy lanes of blues and reds would dart hither and thither, reaching to the farthest edges of the tissue—the wonder of the human body played out before his very eyes.
He was sitting back admiring his artistry when he heard the door latch click and in walked Dr. Hunter. His shoulders were hunched and he looked to be in a sour mood, as usual, before a sudden twinge of pain seemed to stop him in his tracks and he doubled over, steadying himself on a nearby chair. Carrington had seen this happen before. He wondered if it was the burning of the pox.
Righting himself, Hunter walked toward his pupil and stopped to hook a pair of spectacles onto his nose. He peered at the specimen over Carrington’s shoulder.
“Did ya not use rhinoceros hair?” he snarled, prodding the intestine.
“Goose quill, sir,” replied Carrington nervously.
“Sloppy work, young man. Sloppy. Ya’ll need to do better than that,” he remarked before moving toward a cupboard. Opening the door, he paused, selected a flint glass jar containing a lizard with a double tail, then exited the room without another word.
Carrington watched him go, loathing the old man with every fiber of his being. Nothing was ever good enough for him. No wonder he was so hated at St. George’s, with his brusque manner and crude tongue. Now was his chance. Reaching down to the drawer in the desk, he took out a key and went to the door in the wall. Opening it with ease, he was immediately hit by the stench of rancid fluids. Recovering himself, he adjusted his eyes to the darkness. Inside, ranged on two shelves, were at least a twoscore of sample jars. There were organs: bulbous hearts, livers, kidneys, and spongy brains that floated serenely in yellow preserving fluid. There were digits, too, disembodied fingers and toes. He had seen Hunter enter this secret lair before, carrying glass flasks and cylinders, but he had no idea as to the extent of the collection.
He moved closer, leaving the door slightly ajar so that a shard of light illuminated the shelves. There were more organs, eyes and even teeth, but what really distinguished this array of samples from the others was the labeling. In large, clear script each jar carried not only a number and a Latin name, it carried the name of a human, too. There was the brain of Daniel Solander, a coiled length of artery from Sir Tobias Charlesworth, and the heart of the Marquis of Rockingham. Like some great Papist reliquary, John Hunter had taken it upon himself to preserve the organs and body parts of the great and the noble in his own private shrine. Whether or not the deceased or their loved ones had given permission for such unorthodox practices, Carrington could not tell. All he knew was that if the constables were to find a jar containing the larynx of the young Carlo Cappelli, then this crazed surgeon would not only be an anatomist to the dead, but a murderer of the living.
He scanned the shelves once more to find the perfect place, then reached ahead of him. And now there it was. Not so clearly visible as to attract immediate attention and half-hidden by a jar. It was not injected with colored dyes like the other samples, suggesting haste. Nor was it labeled with a name. That would have been far too incriminating. Yet, it was the only larynx, as far as he could see, in the collection, and someone of Dr. Silkstone’s forensic ability would be able to say, with scientific certainty, that the parts had once belonged to the young castrato because of their unique characteristics.
Now all that remained was to show Dr. Silkstone this remarkable and damning discovery and Dr. John Hunter, the maverick anatomist, the enemy of St. George’s, and the scourge of the establishment, would be charged with murder. In all probability, his body would be dissected by that august body of men, the Corporation of Surgeons. They would relish every slice of the scalpel, every probe of their forceps. How very ironic. How very fitting, he thought to himself, as he locked the door behind him and returned the key to the drawer.
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