The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  “Lady Lydia Farrell is here for Dr. Silkstone, sirs,” she said, her hands smoothing her skirts.

  “Well, well.” Dr. Carruthers chuckled. “Let us hope you can sort affairs out between you, young fellow.”

  Thomas flushed. “Show her ladyship into the study, if you please,” he instructed.

  He found Lydia waiting there, pacing the room and looking every bit as fragile as she had the first time they had met, two years before. He saw no profit in standing on ceremony, and as soon as Mistress Finesilver was out of sight he rushed forward to embrace her, but instead of returning his warmth, she turned her head away. Thomas let his arms fall to his sides.

  “Lydia, my love, what is it?” he pleaded. “Tell me, please, and we can put it right.”

  Still distancing herself from him, she shook her head. “I wish it were that simple,” she replied, avoiding his direct gaze.

  Thomas paused. “It’s Marchant, isn’t it? He’s ensnared you? He has wealth and a title,” he blurted. “I am a colonist and a humble anatomist, not fit to join the ranks of English nobility.”

  Lydia swung ’round. “How can you be so hurtful?” she cried. Color rose to her cheeks. “You dare suggest such a thing? How can you think so little of me?”

  Thomas immediately regretted his outburst. He knew it was fueled by jealousy, but he could see no other reason for her irrational behavior. Emotional chaos was descending onto his ordered world again and he needed to grasp hold of logical explanations to escape being consumed by doubt and suspicion. Once again he walked toward her, arms outstretched, but once again she rebuffed him.

  “I have come here to tell you something, Thomas,” she said. Her tone was unfaltering; well-rehearsed, he guessed.

  He grasped both her hands, and this time, she did not flinch. “Tell me anything, but please just put me out of this darkness. Not knowing what ails you is killing me.”

  She took a deep breath to compose herself. “I am breaking off our betrothal,” she said, pulling her hands away. Thomas stared at her aghast. She caught his gaze for a split second. There was a look in her eyes he had not seen before. Was it embarrassment? Or was it guilt? Whatever it was, she did not wear it well, he thought, and she turned and made for the door.

  “But, Lydia . . .” He grabbed her arm as she reached for the handle.

  “There is no more to be said, Dr. Silkstone,” she said with a cold finality, looking down at the arm he held so firmly. “Your housekeeper can show me out.”

  Chapter 20

  Emily threw open the shutters, letting bright light flood into Charles Byrne’s bedchamber. The giant stirred, his wiggling feet, like great sides of bacon, hanging out from the bottom of the bed. She giggled softly at the sight of them and watched as he raised his tousled black head above the covers and squinted against the sunlight.

  “Good morning,” she greeted him cheerfully. “The count told me I was to wake you so you would not be late for your visit this morning.”

  For a moment Emily’s words were lost in the fog of his sleep, until he remembered with a shudder. “The surgeon?”

  “Yes. You are to be washed and shaved and wearing your best clothes by ten o’clock sharp.” She knew she was sounding more like a wife than a maid, but the newfound familiarity between them delighted her.

  “I hate his s-sort,” he growled, still under the covers. “Prod and p-poke. That’s all they do. I’d like a guinea for every time I’ve been measured by one.”

  “They’re not all like that,” countered Emily, pouring hot water into the ewer. “Dr. Silkstone is a good man.”

  “Aye. He’s the only one I trust, to be sure. The rest of them are a bunch of cutthroats,” he grumbled.

  Slowly lifting himself off the pillows, the giant sat on the edge of the bed. Even so, the exertion made him cough. Emily handed him a glass of water, boiled and cooled on Dr. Silkstone’s instructions, that was always kept by his bedside. He drank it and it eased him.

  “Thank you.” He managed a smile.

  “I shall leave you now to ready yourself,” she said, turning, but he took hold of her hand.

  “Will you help me?” he asked, looking down at her with sad eyes. Even when seated he was still taller than she.

  Emily flushed. “Sir, I am not sure that is allowed.”

  “But there is no valet who can dress me here, and I needs look my best,” he pleaded.

  “Very well,” she conceded. “But I can’t stay long, mind, or Mistress Goodbody will come looking for me.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Let’s start with your hair, shall we? It needs a trim.”

  The giant rose and, still in his nightshirt, sat in front of his dressing table, his stubbly face reflected in the mirror. Finding scissors in a nearby drawer, Emily first combed his long black hair, taking care not to pull it. In silence she trimmed the ends by two or three inches, watched in the glass by Charles, the oval framing them both like a portrait. His thick locks fell to the floor, a gathering carpet of black, until Emily gave the hair a final comb.

  “To your liking, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. He smiled at her in the mirror.

  “And now for the shave,” she told him. Taking a folded white napkin that she had brought with her, Emily shook it out and tied it ’round his neck like a bib.

  “I ain’t never done this before.” She giggled, lathering the shaving paste with a badger-hair brush. “But I see’d my dad do it lots.”

  Gently and carefully, she applied the white foamy lather to the giant’s face in small circular motions. Charles luxuriated in the sensation. Her touch was as light as gossamer. Every stroke was a caress that thrilled him to the very bone. The paste was scented, too: a sweet smell that reminded him of lemons and wildflowers.

  In the mirror he watched her work diligently until she became aware of his stare. She turned and caught sight of them together.

  “We make a fine pair,” he said, still gazing into the looking glass.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Emily coyly. She picked up the razor from the dressing table and dipped it in the water to warm the blade. “Now hold still, if you please.”

  She did not feel comfortable handling the blade, but she began steadily enough at the left cheekbone and worked her way down in short, hesitant strokes. Next she moved to the right side and began with the same staccato scrapes, but applying just the right amount of pressure to the blade. When she arrived at the jawline, however, her grasp slipped a little. Her hand was growing tired, but she resumed the shave until two or three seconds later they both noticed a drop of blood budding like a red rose from a small nick on the bone.

  “Oh dear,” she whispered, leaning over to wipe the dark droplet with the corner of the napkin, but Charles stayed her hand. His expression had suddenly altered. His eyes widened and a look of fear was etched across his face.

  “I am cut,” he muttered. “I am cut,” he repeated, only louder.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Emily. “But ’tis only a small nick.”

  “I cannot be cut,” he cried, ripping the napkin from around his neck and springing up, knocking over the washstand as he did so.

  “I must not be cut,” he repeated. “Never! Never!”

  With a wide sweep of his arms he sent everything flying from the dressing table; the pitcher, a brush, and a pot of powders went crashing to the floor as Emily watched in shock.

  Outside on the landing, Mistress Goodbody was passing and heard the furor. Putting her ear to the door she listened to Charles’s rantings and Emily repeating over and over again that she was sorry.

  The housekeeper flung open the door. “What is the meaning of this?” she exclaimed. There were broken shards of china on the floor and pools of water.

  Emily hung her head in shame. Charles, lather still covering his chin, was standing on the opposite side of the room. His breathing was labored and what could be seen of his skin above the shaving foam reddened. In the commotion he had torn his nightshirt a
nd his bare chest was plain to see.

  “Well, Emily?”

  “I was only trying to help Mr. Byrne, mistress. I—”

  “I asked her to help me shave,” interrupted Charles. “ ’Twas no fault of hers. She is not to blame, Mistress Goodbody.”

  The housekeeper flashed a look at the floor and the broken china and the bedclothes in disarray. “I will send someone else to clean up this mess, bless me, I will,” she said, shaking her head. To Emily she ordered: “You better get downstairs, my girl. I will speak to you later.”

  By now Emily was in tears and she brushed past her mistress as quickly as she could, leaving Charles to face the housekeeper’s disapproving gaze.

  “I am s-sorry,” stuttered Charles. “I will p-pay for the damage and tell the count what happened.”

  “So I am not to discipline the girl?”

  “Please, no,” exclaimed Charles, obviously upset by the very idea. “Emily did nothing wrong. Believe me, ’twas all my doing.”

  “Very well,” said the housekeeper slowly. “If that is your wish, Mr. Byrne. . . .”

  “That it is,” he assured her and she left the giant alone, standing by his bed, trying hard to hold back the tears.

  Thomas arrived at the count’s Cockspur Street lodgings shortly after nine o’clock, as agreed. He had slept fitfully, his mind a battlefield after Lydia’s unexpected outburst. On his way there he had delivered his postmortem report to Sir Peregrine Crisp.

  “I am convinced Signor Moreno is not the murderer,” he had told the coroner.

  “I will be the judge of that,” came the terse reply.

  As his carriage pulled up outside the house, he looked up at the window in the vain hope that he might see Lydia’s face. He did not, but he was determined not to give in. He would find out, sooner or later, what lay behind her decision to call off their betrothal. She owed him that much, at least, he told himself as he pulled the bell cord.

  Mistress Goodbody answered the door. “I will tell the count you are here, Dr. Silkstone,” she said, ushering him upstairs to the drawing room.

  “Is her ladyship in?” he asked her, unable to curtail his curiosity.

  The housekeeper turned to him, looking perplexed. “Lady Lydia left for Boughton Hall first thing this morning, sir.”

  Thomas’s expression betrayed his disappointment, although he tried to show a brave face. “Of course she did.” He nodded. “Her ladyship did tell me, but it slipped my mind.”

  Left to wait alone in the drawing room, he felt a wave of betrayal sweep over him. Shock shot through every nerve in his body and he suddenly felt nauseous. This was not the behavior of the woman he had come to know and love. Without warning she had made herself a stranger to him.

  “My dear Dr. Silkstone, is anything wrong?” The count stood next to Thomas, staring up at his pale face. “You look most distressed.”

  The little man’s concerned greeting shook Thomas out of his own malaise. Behind, towering over him, making him look like a child’s poppet, stood Charles, seeming every inch a gentleman in fine new clothes made especially for him by the count’s own tailor.

  “I am a little tired,” conceded Thomas. “I had to deliver the postmortem report to Sir Peregrine first thing this morning.”

  “Ah, yes.” The count nodded. “And what, pray, did you conclude?”

  Thomas did not feel it proper to divulge the contents of his report. He said simply: “My findings will, I am sure, lift all suspicion from Signor Moreno.”

  Chapter 21

  The journey to Dr. Hunter’s country retreat, about an hour’s drive away from Covent Garden, in Earls Court, was a tense one. The count was haunted by the unfortunate predicament of his Tuscan friend in Newgate Prison, while Charles was in a morose mood, staring out of the carriage window. Thomas’s thoughts were also elsewhere. With Lydia. She would be on the Bath road by now, maybe heading out of Slough, or maybe even as far as Aylesbury. Was she feeling as utterly dejected as he was? She had broken off their engagement and yet it seemed that she only did so out of a sense of duty, not because she wanted to. Something else was driving her, he told himself. There was some terrible compulsion behind her actions, and he had to discover what it was before the gnawing suspicions ate away his very soul.

  After about half an hour, the bustling streets where hawkers vied for space with cattle drovers and their herds gave way to a more rural landscape. Soon four-story houses were replaced by thatched cottages. Thomas noted that the air was sweeter, too. Instead of the stench of decay and preserving fluid that hung over his laboratory, and the smell of piss and horse dung that pervaded many a London street, he detected hay and grass on the wind. He breathed in deeply and began to redirect his melancholy thoughts into more positive ones.

  The young doctor had heard much talk about Dr. Hunter’s new premises. His famous collections of species, from tapeworms and terrapins to fungi and fetuses, had grown far too big for his Leicester Fields home, so he had purchased this large plot in the country.

  As the carriage progressed into the grounds, through high, spiked gates, a sense of unease settled upon Thomas. Spring-guns were mounted on the crenellated walls, presumably to discourage trespassers. They passed a fishpond bordered not by dancing dolphins or mermaids, as was the fashion, but by a neat row of small animal skulls. On the lawns, strange birds the height of small men roamed, their necks as long as their legs, while in the pastures beyond Thomas swore he could see bison graze, just as they did in his homeland.

  As they approached the house, a newly built villa of brick, Thomas could make out a crocodile’s head, its jaws agape, projecting over the main entrance. Four stone lions guarded the front door.

  The count obviously shared his wonderment. “What manner of place is this?” he muttered.

  But there was no wonder in Charles’s eyes, only deep anxiety. “I do not like it,” he confided.

  Thomas was inclined to share his feelings. Even as a scientist himself, he found the use of specimens as architectural decoration distasteful, verging on the grotesque. There was an eerie sense that nature in all its glory was being in some way perverted and mutated into something frightening and unnatural. He had even heard talk in the coffeehouses that droves of human monsters could be found roaming the grounds, only to be anatomized on their deaths. Of course he did not believe the rumor, but he could understand how it had spread, and since Carrington had told him of the anatomist’s self-mutilation in the cause of science, he could almost believe it.

  “Come; the sooner you are examined, the sooner we can leave this ungodly place,” urged Thomas, helping the giant down the carriage steps.

  No sooner had he said these words, however, than an almighty roar shook the very ground on which they were standing.

  “What in God’s name was that?” cried the count, clutching his chest in fright.

  “That, gentlemen, was a lion,” came a voice behind them. John Hunter was smiling broadly, obviously amused by their reaction to the noise. “He is one of several beasts—tigers and leopards, too—which I keep in my underground dens. But there’s no need to fear. They are quite secure.”

  “I am glad to hear it, sir,” said Thomas, sighing with relief.

  The anatomist, wigless and wearing a shabby topcoat, was pleasant enough in his greeting, but he reserved his most effusive welcome for Charles.

  “By Jesu, what a specimen,” he cried, tilting his head backward to take in the full extent of the giant’s size.

  “Dr. Hunter, this is Mr. Charles Byrne,” introduced the count, clearly finding the anatomist’s address verging on the offensive.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Byrne, but, och! ’Tis not every day I meet a giant.”

  The three visitors followed Hunter along the path that snaked behind the villa toward a long wing that housed his laboratory. As they walked, they passed a large pen. Inside, what sounded like dogs began barking loudly as they heard the party approaching. The surrounding fence was high, but there w
ere cutouts in the wooden panels for observation.

  Curious, Thomas peered through one. “Surely those cannot be wolves?” he said out loud.

  Hunter stopped in his tracks. “Wolves, jackals, and dogs,” he concurred in a matter-of-fact way. “I have penned them all together to see what manner of hybrids might come out of them.”

  “And have they?” asked an incredulous count.

  The Scotsman shrugged. “A jackal bitch gave me nine vulpine monsters.”

  Thomas glanced at Charles, who was now even paler than usual. His green eyes darted here and there, doubtless wondering what new horror would be revealed next.

  “What have we done, bringing him to such a place?” whispered Thomas to the count as Hunter opened the door to his laboratory. Inside there were more curiosities, all manner of strange, large insects from foreign shores pinned flat to boards. Small creatures, too, like bats and voles were suspended in fluid in great jars on shelves.

  Thomas saw the familiar figure of Giles Carrington sitting by a workbench, hunched over some specimens. The young student rose and bowed, regarding the visitors awkwardly.

  “Mr. Carrington,” Thomas acknowledged him.

  “The lad helps me with my preparations from time to time,” Hunter explained. By him on the workbench were three dead doves, their pure white plumage stained red with blood at the breasts. Thomas stopped to look at them.

  “My latest discovery,” said the anatomist, pointing to the carcasses. “Birds breathe partly through their wing bones. The air sacs in the cavities communicate with those in the lungs.”

  “Fascinating,” said Thomas, marveling at the man’s enquiring mind while at the same time being troubled by his ghoulish imagination.

  As Hunter began to move on, Carrington darted a knowing look at Thomas before seating himself again at his workbench and picking up a brush once more. It was then that something registered with Thomas. He recalled his postmortem report, or rather an omission from his report. Carrington, he noted, was holding the brush in his left hand.