The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  “We have a classic case of suffocation here, Dr. Carruthers,” he announced.

  “So the poor devil was suffocated before he was sliced up,” mused the old surgeon.

  “Thankfully, it would seem so,” replied Thomas. “So now we begin in earnest.” He stood upright, stretching his tired back muscles before hunching over the corpse once more, a pair of forceps and a sharp knife in his hand.

  “Tell me what you see,” instructed the old surgeon.

  Thomas took a deep breath. Now he was entering a realm that was familiar to him. Like a watchmaker, he knew what to expect to find in the internal workings of the human body. He understood the mechanisms of each organ, each shaft of bone and each cushion of muscle and its correlation to adjacent parts. He had come to comprehend the relationship between elements that made a hole and of corresponding functions and purposes. Yet how strange it was to be confronted with a clock case when most of its inner machineries had been removed.

  “I am looking at the neck. About six inches in length from the mandible to the clavicle,” he said.

  “A long one,” commented Carruthers.

  “I see an incision has been made at the front of the neck just below the thyroid cartilage.”

  “Incision, you say?” repeated Carruthers. “Do not murderers usually slash, or cut or gash?”

  Thomas paused and nodded slowly. “That is my experience, sir, but that is why this case is so unusual.” He peered at the deep, gaping wound. The skin had been cut away in a neat and deliberate square as if it were surgical gauze. The tissues around the opening were swollen and a thin, brownish fluid had crusted around the edge, yet the cut was smooth. The blade used, he surmised, was sharp, clean, and concise.

  “Go, go on,” urged Carruthers.

  Thomas delved deep into the wound and probed it using a scalpel.

  “Well?” The old doctor was growing impatient.

  “I need to be sure,” Thomas told him, lighting a candle. “Can you hold this for me, sir? I need to be sure that my eyes are not playing tricks.”

  The old doctor began to move toward the table and Thomas took his hand before folding his fingers around the candle-holder.

  “If you stay there, then I will be able to confirm what I suspect,” the young anatomist told him.

  Now that the area was illuminated, Thomas could see much more clearly. There was the muscular tube of the pharynx, extending from the base of the skull to its junction with the esophagus next to the ring of the cricoid cartilage. There, too, was the tip of the oropharynx, but of the larynx, which would normally lie in front of the lowest part of the pharynx, there was nothing. Between the pharynx and the level of the sixth cervical vertebra was just a dark void.

  “It is as I thought, sir,” said Thomas, snuffing out the candle with his finger and thumb. “The killer has cut out the larynx and with it the vocal cords.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” said Dr. Carruthers, shaking his head. “He would have to be mad.”

  “Or a genius,” added Thomas under his breath as he began recovering the cadaver. It would remain in the laboratory overnight until the coroner’s men came for it at first light.

  The sun had disappeared behind dark clouds once again and the report for the coroner needed to be written. By now the stench of the corpse was too bad to remain in the laboratory, so Thomas suggested that he and Dr. Carruthers finish their discussion in the house. It would be up to Franklin, Thomas’s white rat that lived in a cage in the corner of the room, to keep guard over the body until first light.

  The young doctor was just locking the outer door to the laboratory when he heard footsteps on the gravel pathway.

  “Who goes there?” asked the blind doctor.

  “ ’Tis Count Boruwlaski,” replied Thomas, watching the little man bluster toward them.

  “Count, what is the matter?” he asked, seeing the troubled look on the visitor’s face.

  “Ah, Dr. Silkstone, Dr. Silkstone. It is Signor Moreno,” he cried, trying to catch his breath.

  “What ails him?” frowned Thomas.

  The dwarf shook his head and gulped. “They have arrested him for murder.”

  Chapter 18

  Sir Peregrine Crisp sat behind his lofty desk and frowned over the pince-nez perched on the end of his ample nose. Before him were Thomas and the count, whose short legs dangled helplessly from his chair.

  “But, sir, you have yet to see my report,” pleaded the young anatomist.

  The coroner shook his bewigged head. “I have yet to convene a jury, Dr. Silkstone, but in the meantime do we want a madman we suspect of brutally slaying another to roam around our streets?”

  Thomas was quiet for a moment. He knew he must not let his temper get the better of him. “On what evidence was Signor Moreno arrested, sir?”

  The coroner huffed. “I have a witness,” he replied assuredly.

  Thomas was intrigued. Glancing at the count he said: “To the murder?”

  The coroner threw up his hands in a show of exasperation. “Not exactly, but the proprietor saw the Tuscan leaving the boy’s room in the early hours of the morning.” Thomas and the count exchanged glances. “Does that satisfy you gentlemen?”

  It clearly did not. “With respect, sir, that does not prove anything,” ventured Thomas. He thought of the count’s elegant friend in his stylish high-cut coat and his powdered coif and wondered how he would fare in amongst the rabble in Newgate Prison.

  “That is why you will give me evidence in your report, Dr. Silkstone,” replied the coroner through clenched teeth.

  “And what motive would Signor Moreno have?” Now the count entered the fray to defend his friend.

  Sir Peregrine sighed, signifying he was growing tired of this persistent questioning. “Jealousy, of course. He had lost his own voice and simply could not bear the adulation accorded to his protégé. I saw the boy perform, too, you know. All London was talking about him.”

  It was true that all the newssheets had proclaimed that a vocal genius was in their midst. Thomas was privately forced to concede that such a motive might have been possible, but certainly not probable.

  “And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” said the coroner, pointedly reaching for a heavy tome from a pile in front of him, “I have work to do, as I believe so have you, Dr. Silkstone.” A cloud of dust billowed up from the desk.

  “You will have my report first thing tomorrow morning, sir,” said Thomas, bowing formally before he and the count took their unhappy leave.

  Dr. William Hunter’s house in Jermyn Street was a very grand affair, as befitted his status as physician to the queen. His erstwhile neighbors included the Duke of Marlborough and Sir Isaac Newton, and he was in no doubt that history would dictate that his own name should be spoken in the same breath as such men of stature in years to come.

  When it came to his dining table, however, all pretensions to grandeur seemed to dissipate. Regular guests never expected more than two courses at dinner and, what was more, only one glass of wine was ever served.

  On this particular evening, in the company of his brother John and Rupert Marchant, William did not need more than one glass of his regular claret to put him in a lively mood. His guest of honor was Sir Oliver De Vere, the lately appointed chief surgeon at St. George’s Hospital, stepping into the shoes of the recently departed Sir Tobias Charlesworth.

  “I propose a toast, gentlemen,” said William, raising his glass to the sharp-eyed man who sat opposite him. “To Sir Oliver and to St. George’s. May they both prosper.”

  All present raised their glasses to the surgeon, who acknowledged the toast with a measured nod of his stylish head. He had a reputation for being a traditionalist and upholding the ways of Galen. “I hope I shall continue to see that St. George’s carries on its excellent work,” he replied, pointedly looking at John. William’s attentions also turned to his brother, who returned a sullen glare.

  “So, John, I hear you are embroiled
in yet more controversy,” he chided.

  His sibling looked thoughtful. He had no real love for his elder brother, thinking him more involved in pomp and show than in true study. He resented, too, the many years he had spent in his shadow, doing his bidding in his laboratory without any recognition for his invaluable work.

  “Och, if you mean my submission to the Royal Society on my observations on fossil bones, then it has sparked debate, yes.”

  “Come, sir. Surely ‘debate’ is too mild a word. I have heard you may be asked to amend the paper or withdraw it,” goaded Marchant.

  “You are playing with fire again, brother, are you not?” warned William.

  John shrugged. “Was not Galileo persecuted for his remarkable discoveries? Did not our own Newton fight the repeated attacks of a papist king on our universities?”

  William nodded. “So you see yourself on some great scientific crusade, do you, brother?”

  “I only speak of what I find, and my work has led me to believe that fossil decay requires many thousands of centuries.”

  “And what of Archbishop Ussher’s hypothesis that the moment of creation occurred on October 3, 4004 B.C. at nine o’clock in the morning?” asked Marchant.

  “ ’Tis the common and decent Christian belief, yet my brother challenges it,” interjected William, growing redder in the face.

  John shook his head. “Gentlemen, the facts speak for themselves. A single deluge, such as described in Genesis, could not possibly account for the vast fossil strata that have built up on landmasses. I have seen the evidence with my own eyes and I know that the sea has made incursions onto the land not once, but hundreds of times since creation.”

  William sucked in his florid cheeks. “ ’Tis dangerous talk.”

  John shook his head. “These are dangerous times,” he replied. “Indeed, revolutionary times. The Colonies, Ireland, France; they are all breaking away from the past, the old ways, and looking to new futures. That is what we must strive for—a new world, based on science, not superstition, and I make no apology for that.”

  “A high ambition,” said Marchant, his fingers playing on the stem of his claret glass.

  Leaning forward, John became even more intent. “At this moment, all I can do is catalogue life in all its wonderful variety, but one day I firmly believe that man will possess the power of God in a living world.” His companions looked at each other aghast. “One day we shall all worship at the temple of science,” he cried.

  “Enough, brother! I will not have blasphemy in my house,” countered William, banging his hand on the table and rattling the cutlery and plates.

  There was an awkward pause among the guests until their host composed himself. He filled their glasses in an uncustomary show of generosity. “Forgive our sibling squabbles.” He smiled at Marchant and Sir Oliver, knowing that a change of subject was required to lighten the mood. “So, speaking of high ideals, have either of you seen this Irish Giant yet?” he inquired jovially.

  “As a matter of fact, he engaged my services only this afternoon,” said Marchant. “He wants a posthumous royal pardon for his father, no less.” His voice was tinged with contempt.

  William nearly choked on his claret. “Ha! Now, there’s a lofty ambition if ever I heard of one.” .

  “I had a mind to turn him down, of course, but he came with Lydia Farrell, and who am I to refuse such a fair damsel?” Marchant sneered.

  John sat back in his chair, his agitation seemingly subsided. “Ah yes, the fair Lady Lydia. I saw her only the other night at a concert.”

  “She is indeed fair, and now a widow,” said the lawyer, grinning.

  “So while you have your sights on her,” said William to Marchant, “I’m sure you have yours on the giant,” he suggested, turning to John.

  “You are right, brother,” came the reply. “He would make an excellent addition to my collection.” He paused, stroking his wiry whiskers. “And that is why I have arranged to see him tomorrow.”

  “You waste no time, sir,” noted Sir Oliver, an eyebrow arched.

  “ ’Tis not mine to waste,” retorted John. “He has tuberculosis and will be dead soon enough.”

  “And you would get your scalpel into this colossus?”

  “Indeed so.”

  “Then let me propose a toast to both your ambitions, sirs,” suggested William, urging his guests to charge their glasses once more. “Let us drink to Beauty and the Beast.”

  All four men raised their glasses. “To Beauty and the Beast,” they cried.

  Chapter 19

  Thomas’s quill hovered over the parchment. He was finding it much harder than usual to commit his thoughts in ink. His single candle cast a long shadow across the blank sheet as he sat at his desk in the study. Mistress Finesilver had urged him to come to dinner, but he had eschewed her braised pheasant and asked her to prepare a plate of cold cuts. Now even that lay untouched on a table in the corner. The taste of decomposing human flesh was trapped in the back of his throat, and the stench of it still lingered in his nostrils and on his skin and hair.

  His report on the postmortem of the young singer was proving difficult to write. He kept thinking about Signor Moreno’s reaction to the death of his protégé. He was sure those were not the anguished tears of a murderer, and yet now the Tuscan was languishing in Newgate, relying on his report to either release or condemn him.

  All emotions must be swept aside. All hunches, all intuitions, all feelings must count as naught and be consigned to the realms of the fanciful, he told himself. Logicality must reign supreme. Fact was his master and he would be guided solely by what he had seen, not by what he felt. His quill started to scratch the parchment. He began with general observations: how the viscosity of the pool of blood suggested that the murder had been committed at least two hours before the body was discovered. How the corpse had been arranged, how pillows had been plumped behind its head, how the waters of the basin were already bloodied.

  Next he moved on to his clinical observations. How the discoloration around the mouth, together with the lacerated inner lips and the chipped incisor, indicated suffocation. During the postmortem he had also discovered the victim’s nose had been broken, indicating great force had been used. One of the castrato’s pillows, he had noted, bore teeth marks. He suggested the young man had been asleep when the pillow had been held over his face for at least two minutes. Such an exercise, he observed, would require great strength. Cappelli would have struggled. He may have been asleep when he was attacked, but the body’s involuntary responses would have reacted violently. He would have kicked and thrashed, of that there could be no doubt.

  The victim was dead before any incision was made into the neck, he wrote. Hopefully, he thought, the young man would have been spared the terror of knowing what unspeakable horror was to befall him.

  The incision was made from right to left, then down two inches and across and up, forming a square. He paused, picturing the assault in his mind. Right to left? Could it be the murderer was left-handed? To get a purchase, the victim must have been held from behind. Surely the downward angle of the cut was relevant. He mused on the possibility for a few seconds, but chose not to include it in the report.

  He went on: A sharp, possibly surgical instrument was used to achieve this precision. The larynx, containing the vocal cords, was then removed in its entirety. The wound was then left open, but an astringent was applied to stem the flow of blood.

  In summary, the person or persons who carried out the surgical procedure on the victim had a detailed anatomical knowledge and were skilled in the art of either butchery or surgery, Thomas concluded. He hoped his words would be enough to convince Sir Peregrine that he had arrested the wrong man.

  Glancing at the timepiece on the wall, he was surprised to see it was past nine o’clock. He rubbed his tired eyes and rose from the desk. Dr. Carruthers would be in want of his company.

  “There you are, young fellow,” cried the old anatomist when h
e heard Thomas enter the drawing room. “So, you have finished your postmortem report?”

  “Indeed, sir. A most disturbing case.”

  “Tut, tut. I detect emotion in that statement,” he rebuked.

  Thomas nodded as he collapsed into a chair. “You are right. I should have said ‘a most interesting case.’ ”

  Throughout his tutelage Thomas had always been taught to distance himself from the corpses he worked upon. To allow any emotional attachment or empathy was strictly forbidden in the discipline of anatomy. Perhaps that was why, he told himself, deprived of any professional emotion, he felt so passionately about Lydia. Outside his work, his father, Dr. Carruthers, and Franklin, of course, she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. He recalled her expression the last time he had seen her and how she had rebuffed him. He wished he could understand why. If she had been suffering some form of ailment or injury, he could have dealt with it, but when it came to affairs of the heart, he was a complete and utter novice.

  “Pour yourself a brandy and sit down,” the old doctor told him. “Tomorrow is another day. Your head will be clearer in the morning.”

  Thomas walked over to the sideboard and helped himself to a large glassful in silence, any words of conversation choked by the maelstrom in his mind. Then, as if Dr. Carruthers could read his thoughts, the old man asked, “So, how is the lovely Lady Lydia?”

  Thomas never ceased to be amazed by his mentor’s perception, his ability to read his mind without the capacity to even observe his facial expressions.

  “I am afraid I do not know,” he sighed. “She has forbidden me to see her.”

  “Dear, oh dear,” replied Carruthers, shaking his elderly head. “That will never do. How have you offended her?”

  “I wish I knew. I don’t even know if she is angry with me, or with someone else, but she is deeply troubled, that much I do know.”

  At that moment Mistress Finesilver entered the room in a fluster.