Read The Dead Shall Not Rest Online
Authors: Tessa Harris
The Dead Shall Not Rest (32 page)
Emily’s eyes welled up at the memory of him. “Did you know he was going to die, Gran?”
The old woman shrugged. “We are all going to die,” she answered, lifting the baby and returning him to the filthy floor.
Emily knelt down. “But did you not foresee that it would be so soon?” Her voice was plaintive.
“I could not foresee it, no,” replied her grandmother, her response oddly reticent.
Emily cocked her head to one side. Something was amiss. She sensed it as surely as she sensed the smell of the hot mutton. “How did you know he was coming?” she asked. “Who told you about the giant?”
Her mother swung ’round, waving the carving knife in her hand. “You would question your grandmother’s prophecies?” she scolded. “She is told by a higher power.” Her eyes shot heavenward and she crossed her bony chest.
A higher power. Her mother’s words resonated in her head as her mind took her back to Charles’s last night on this earth. She recalled looking down on the crowd in the street below, Count Boruwlaski at her side. The men had gathered to protect him, brave and true. They saw to it that no knife man would plunge his scalpel into her Charles. There was great sadness, but there was joy, too; joy that her father, her drunken, ne’er-do-well father, had sprung to his fellow countryman’s defense. And the count had known his name.
Emily scrambled suddenly to her feet. “Did the higher power tell you about a dwarf, too, Gran?”
The old woman’s expression hardened. Her brow furrowed, turning the ridges on her face into deep ravines. A shocked silence sliced through the air as surely as the carving knife through the meat.
“I don’t know what you can mean!” cried her outraged mother. “How dare you speak to your grandmother so?”
But the old woman did not shriek in indignation. She did not protest her powers. Her granddaughter was far too shrewd for that, she knew. There was no point in trying to hide her deception. “We have eaten well thanks to the dwarf,” she said calmly.
Emily felt anger twisting her guts deep inside her. “And what did you do in return?”
Grandmother Tooley pulled the shawl tighter ’round her head, trying to take refuge in its warmth. “We did no harm.” She darted a look at her daughter, as if asking for support.
“Your da was drinking all our money, so when the dwarf came and offered—”
Emily broke in. It all made sense now. “So Count Boruwlaski asked Gran to spread the word about the Amazing Irish Giant so that the crowds would come and pay their half crowns?”
Her mother’s gaunt face hardened defensively and she rebuked her daughter. “Your brother cried all day and all night through hunger. There was no milk in my breasts. Now, thanks to the little man, I could go to the cook shop and buy meat. Real meat!” She pointed at her son. “He has food in his belly and is content.”
“And did my father know of this?”
A sneer crossed her mother’s thin lips. “He’s in his cups most of the time. What need was there for him to know? No harm’s been done.”
“No harm,” echoed Emily. “But I trusted you,” she said, shaking her head and looking at her grandmother, who seemed to shrink once more before her eyes. “You lied to me.”
The old woman shifted in her chair and pinned her granddaughter with a knowing look. “A great hunger makes liars of us all,” she said sagely.
Emily returned her gaze. How could she hate her? She knew what she said was true. Grandmother Tooley was no soothsayer, no prophetess, but her pearls of wisdom were worth more than a half leg of mutton. She could not be angry with her, or her mother. It was Count Boruwlaski who had betrayed her trust.
Back at Hollen Street Thomas found Dr. Carruthers seated in his study.
“Ah, Silkstone, young fellow. Welcome home. I was beginning to think you’d left us for good,” greeted the old surgeon.
“I was beginning to feel that I had,” he replied, smiling and dropping into a chair opposite his mentor.
“Still, the giant is buried at sea?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” At least one thing had gone according to plan, Thomas told himself. “But I am afraid that Carrington, the student I told you about, is dead.”
The old surgeon arched a brow. “How so?”
“He fell from his horse and down a cliff.”
“That was careless,” said Carruthers dryly.
“He was trying to escape from the constables. I had just accused him of conspiring in Signor Cappelli’s murder.”
“Ah. I see. And did he?”
“I believe so, but I still have no clue as to who carried out the act itself.”
“So you have discounted that scoundrel Hunter?”
“Carrington was trying to implicate him. He bore him a grudge.”
“I see. Then perhaps you need to go back to Dr. Hunter and ask more questions, young fellow.”
Thomas knew Carruthers was right. He would pay another visit to the anatomist first thing tomorrow to inform him of Carrington’s death and to find out if he could suggest a possible motive for Cappelli’s murder. He would also need to analyze the contents of the sample jar. Before that, however, he needed his bed. It had been a very long time since he had enjoyed eight decent hours of sleep. He resolved to return his medical bag to his laboratory instead of taking it up to his room.
Carrying a lighted candle, he opened the door. That same familiar sharp smell of preserving fluid greeted him. It evoked cleanliness and order and it made him smile. He had just deposited his bag on the workbench and was turning to leave when he heard a noise coming somewhere from the far corner of the room.
“Who’s there?” he called. No reply. With his candle aloft he took three or four steps farther into the laboratory. He saw his table, his books, and his phials ranged just as he had left them. All seemed in order. His instrument box, too, lay untouched. Using his free hand, he flipped open the lid. A blade glinted in the candle glow and he grabbed it quickly. There was the noise again, a slight, scratching sound.
“Come out,” he called, tension rising as he clutched the knife to strike.
It was then that he heard a squeak, a small, pathetic note, and he realized his mistake. It was Franklin, his rat, scuttling about in his cage. In his absence he had forgotten all about his furry white companion. He hoped Mistress Finesilver had not neglected him while he was away.
By the light of his candle Thomas could see he had scraps and water in his bowls, but the peevish housekeeper was no lover of rodents and had not changed his bedding for days. The familiar smell of ammonia stung his eyes. He opened the cage door and Franklin came up to him, his long whiskers twitching wildly at Thomas’s familiar scent.
“Hello, boy.” He smiled, holding out his palm. The rat approached and walked straight onto his hand. Thomas lifted him out of the cage and lowered him gently into his pocket. “Poor old boy. You shall stay with me tonight.”
Wearily he climbed the stairs and opened the door to his room. It had been almost a week since he had slept in his own bed. Holding his candle aloft, he looked around the place that was so familiar and comforting to him. He guided the beam of light over his books, his papers, his brushes and creams and powders on his dressing table. All was just as he had left it. It reminded him of Signor Cappelli’s room. He thought of his gentleman’s cabinet, how elaborate it was, with its pomades and its pastilles and the alum block.
Reaching into his frock-coat pocket he retrieved Franklin and set him down on the dressing table. As he expected, the creature scurried from object to object sniffing, bringing a smile to Thomas’s face. But when he came to the alum block his pink tongue suddenly appeared and he began to lick it. Thomas watched him for a moment. Was it the potassium in the block he craved? He had heard that animals with certain mineral deficiencies often sought them out in nature, so that cats with kidney problems might lick coal for its carbon. Could Franklin be doing something similar? He was just about to pick him up when he stopped dead in his tracks. An alum block, for shaving. He recalled the alum block in Cappelli’s room. What would a castrato, without any body hair at all, want with an alum block? He had often recommended alum himself to treat canker sores, but that was in powder form. In a block, the alum was mixed with potassium and rubbed over the wet, freshly shaved face. The substance acted as an astringent to prevent bleeding from small shaving cuts.
His memory flashed to the gaping wound in the young man’s throat and the lack of blood around the lip of the incision. “Franklin!” he cried, picking up the rat and dropping him back in his pocket. “Why did I not see this before?”
Taking the lantern he dashed downstairs and into his laboratory. He needed to find the phial of bloodied water he had taken from the pitcher in Cappelli’s room. There it was, on the shelf, just as he had left it. Carefully he uncorked the ampule and dipped a litmus paper into the cloudy solution. In a few seconds he had the result he had suspected. The paper had reddened, denoting the presence of potassium alum in the water. Whoever had sliced the castrato’s throat so meticulously and precisely could probably also give a gentleman a very good shave.
Next he delved into his bag and brought out the sample jar and the glass phial that held the long black hair. Using his tweezers he teased the strand out and held it up to the candle. It was straight and he guessed it was at least twenty inches long. It must belong to Marie, but it did not incriminate her. After all, she would have made Cappelli’s bed. He put it to one side. The contents of the jar would be much more interesting. He lit a lantern, then emptied out the dust onto a large piece of parchment. Small fragments, their identities were too tiny to discern with the naked eye, presented themselves to him. There would be particles of dead skin, silk threads, cotton fibers, splinters of untreated wood, dead insects and . . . What was this? Another hair. Another black hair. Only this one was short. It measured no more than four inches in length. Thomas reached for a glass slide and placed the strand onto it. Moving the lantern next to his microscope, he looked through it. He could see the flat, overlapping tiles of the shaft clearly. He reached for the other strand of hair and placed it carefully on the same slide. They looked identical, until he came to the ends. Gently pulling at the longer strand, like a thread of cotton, he examined the cortex. He could see it had fallen out at the club-shaped root and the end was split longitudinally three ways. When he looked at the other strand, however, it was clear that it had been cut at one end with scissors. It was clean and sharp, not simply broken off at a weak point from the length. The horny cells from both strands appeared almost identical in nearly every respect apart from the fact that the shorter one had been sliced neatly at the end. The thought suddenly occurred to him. It was from a different head.
Returning to the pile of dust once more, he used the tweezers to search for any more hair. And yes. What was this? Another one. Very short and coarser than the others. Gently he lifted it onto another slide and examined it under the microscope. This one was also dark, but its physiological makeup was entirely different. The cortex had a much wider circumference. A whisker, perhaps?
Thomas rubbed his tired eyes and looked at the samples again. He had once read that a person lost up to one hundred head hairs a day. Could these two hold the key to a murder?
Chapter 50
A
rmed with what could be new, crucial evidence, Thomas rode out to Earls Court the following morning to question Dr. Hunter further. He arrived at the premises to find the drawbridge up, but just as he was about to ring the great bell for attention a cart pulled up. It was carrying crates of livestock, squawking chickens and ducks, and there was one containing a mangy mongrel. It regarded him dolefully. He knew its fate and it sickened him.
rmed with what could be new, crucial evidence, Thomas rode out to Earls Court the following morning to question Dr. Hunter further. He arrived at the premises to find the drawbridge up, but just as he was about to ring the great bell for attention a cart pulled up. It was carrying crates of livestock, squawking chickens and ducks, and there was one containing a mangy mongrel. It regarded him dolefully. He knew its fate and it sickened him.
When the drawbridge was lowered and the cart passed through, Thomas followed on behind and took the path, unchallenged, to the underground laboratory. Holding his ear to the door, he could hear movement inside. He knocked and waited. There was no reply, so he opened it and entered. A sickly, cloying smell hung in the still air. He glanced over at the copper in the corner. The doors were open. Something had been recently boiled.
Down at the far end of the room, shrouded in the shadows, he saw Hunter busying himself, walking to and fro and chuntering, seemingly to himself.
“Dr. Hunter,” Thomas called.
The anatomist stopped dead and peered ahead of him, shielding his eyes against the sunlight splaying out from the open door.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“Dr. Silkstone. I need to talk with you.”
There was a short pause. Thomas could see him fumbling for a moment in the shadows as he moved closer toward him.
“Stay there, Dr. Silkstone. I shall be with you shortly,” he barked.
Thomas wondered what hapless specimen had fallen prey to his eager scalpel now. He ventured a little farther into the laboratory.
“I bring news, sir,” began Thomas as the old anatomist started to walk toward him, wiping his hands on a cloth. He seemed a little out of breath.
“I was not expecting visitors, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, drawing up alongside the doctor. “I have much work to do.”
Thomas saw the spatters of dried blood on his shirt and felt duly chastised. “Forgive me, but what I have to tell you is of great importance.”
“Well?”
“First of all, I regret to say that Giles Carrington is dead.” To Thomas’s surprise Hunter’s expression did not change. He had expected to see some flicker of shock on the anatomist’s face, but there was nothing, not even a question, so Thomas elucidated. “He died while trying to evade arrest. He confessed to planting the larynx in your storeroom.”
“And second?”
Thomas noticed Hunter was wiping his hands with irrational fervor now.
“And second, I have found traces of potassium alum around the wound of the castrato. I believe whoever carried out the removal of the larynx could well have a connection with the barber’s trade.”
For the first time during the course of the conversation Hunter seemed to digest the information that Thomas had just relayed. “Then I’m sure you and Sir Peregrine will be able to track the culprit down and prove his guilt with your new methods, Dr. Silkstone,” he said. “But I am afraid I really must get on. Please show yourself out.” His lips lifted in a stilted smile and he turned quickly, heading back toward the gloom of the far corners of his laboratory.
Thomas, however, was not satisfied. There were so many questions he needed to ask him. He began walking quickly behind the anatomist. “Sir, please,” he called, now in the farthest corner of the room where the light was at its weakest.
Realizing he was being followed, Hunter turned again quickly. “Be gone, sir,” he snapped. “Go away.” But it was too late. His eyes now adjusted to the murky gloom, Thomas could see what Hunter did not want him, or anyone else, to see. Hanging from a long rope suspended from the ceiling was a skeleton: a human skeleton measuring more than eight feet tall.
Thomas gasped in horror. Eyes wide, he stared at the grotesque image before him as the grim reality of what he could see dawned on him. “No!” he cried. “But . . .”
Hunter smiled nervously. “You and your cronies must admit defeat, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.
“Then what was in the coffin?” asked Thomas, his head still reeling from the shock.
“Paving stones. The undertaker swapped the coffin when those Irish buffoons rested for the night.”
Thomas steadied himself on a nearby table. “How could you have known? We planned it all so carefully,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Hunter let out a mocking laugh. “Och! ’Tis simple. You were betrayed, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas eyed him incredulously. “Betrayed? By whom?”
“By me, my dear Thomas,” came a familiar voice from out of the shadows.
Count Josef Boruwlaski stood looking up at the young doctor, his tiny face set in a characteristic smile.
“You! How could you?” cried Thomas.
“Och! I am sure the count found it rather easy,” interjected Hunter. “I asked him some years ago if he would donate his body to me on his death. For some strange reason he declined, but he offered me a much more interesting proposition.”
Thomas looked at the little man askance. “So you betrayed Charles Byrne to save your own skin?”
The count shrugged. “This way only my portrait and not my skeleton will be hung in Dr. Hunter’s collection for all to see.”
Every nerve ending in Thomas’s body tingled with shock. Such unimaginable betrayal left him feeling sick, and his eyes began to fill with tears. He looked over to Charles’s skeleton as it dangled helplessly in the air, like a criminal on the end of a rope. Just as his father had been wrongly executed and his body dissected, so, too, was his son being cruelly humiliated in death.
It was then that Thomas recalled the count’s efforts to help Charles gain a posthumous pardon for his father. He turned to Boruwlaski. “And what of the pardon? The lawyer?”
The little man shook his head. “There was never any pardon, Thomas. Marchant was working for us.” He paused, his squat finger pointing in the air. “But, of course, Charles did ask King George in person for one. So one never knows.”
Thomas slumped into a nearby chair, his head in his hands, as if the past few months had all been a dream to him and now he was waking to a nightmare. He looked up, his eyes playing on the skeleton once more. He could see the steel pins at each joint where Hunter had pieced the limbs together after butchering the corpse. The bones were yellowed, too. Thomas could tell they had been bleached in a hurry, so desperate was Hunter to land his prey.
“How could you? How could you?” he muttered, not expecting and not hearing a reply.
Now in death, as in life, Charles Byrne would be an object of morbid curiosity: a freak of nature, a monstrous mutation. Deprived of a decent burial, his only legacy was to remain as an exhibit for all eternity, denied even the right for his own bones to return to dust without the intrusion of the knife and the boiling vat.
“I trust you will say nothing of what you have seen here,” said Hunter.
Thomas regarded him with disdain. “So that you are not besieged by others of your kind who would steal the bones? Or because decent people would mob you?”
The anatomist nodded. “Both,” he replied curtly.
“I will say nothing,” sneered Thomas. “But not to protect you, or you, Count. I will say nothing to protect those who loved and cared for Mr. Byrne.” He thought of Lydia and Emily and how such betrayal would be too much for them both to bear.
Slowly he rose and took one last, lingering look at Charles’s skeleton. “Rest in peace, my friend,” he whispered, and he turned and walked away, his own heart breaking with every step.
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