The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  They walked on past various contraptions and strange-looking devices that Thomas had never before encountered, until they came to a small door.

  “You’ll have to duck right down,” Hunter instructed the giant as he opened it. “This is where I examine my patients.”

  Charles glanced anxiously at the count and Thomas and, as if anticipating the next question, Hunter said: “I would appreciate some time with Mr. Byrne alone.”

  Boruwlaski paused. “Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Byrne?” he asked.

  The giant nodded slowly, but anxiety was written all over his face.

  “Please, take a turn around my grounds, gentlemen. I am sure you will find plenty to interest you. I will call you when we are done,” insisted the anatomist, his facial muscles flexing into a brief smile.

  Bowing, Thomas and the count departed reluctantly, leaving Charles standing in the room with the anatomist, the top of his head cocked to one side so as not to touch the ceiling.

  Charles Byrne surveyed the room with mistrustful eyes. An assortment of small animals that were unfamiliar to him, some with striped tails and even one that carried its babe in a sort of pouch, stood lifelike on shelves in various poses.

  “You collect d-dead things, sir,” he ventured nervously.

  Hunter peered at him over a pair of spectacles, but ignored the observation.

  “Where I c-come from we string up vermin,” he continued.

  “So do we,” replied Hunter, adding under his breath, “of the human variety, too.” He gestured to a large table. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable seated.”

  The giant obliged, the table creaking under his weight. He shivered and felt his chest tighten as his lungs went into a sudden spasm, forcing out a loud cough. Now the anatomist, too, was seated and poised with a pencil in his hand. He watched with interest as Charles’s shoulders heaved for a few seconds, but offered no assistance.

  “How long have you had the cough, Mr. Byrne?”

  “A few months, sir,” he replied, wiping the sputum from his chin with his kerchief. It was colorless, and for that he was grateful.

  “Do you ever cough up blood?”

  “No, sir,” he lied.

  “How is your health in general?”

  “I’m as fit as the next man, sir.”

  Hunter threw down his pencil onto his desk, almost disdainfully. “Come, come, Mr. Byrne. Your height and weight put huge strains on your skeleton. You must suffer from aches and pains.”

  The giant nodded. “That I do, sir, but I cannot complain.”

  “Then you will not mind if I examine you?” The doctor was smiling now.

  “If that is your wish, sir.”

  “It most certainly is. You may divest yourself over there,” said Hunter, gesturing to a three-paneled screen painted with exotic birds.

  Charles Byrne lumbered over to the screen, which barely came up to his waist. First he took off his topcoat and then his cravat and waistcoat before beginning to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.

  “May I keep my breeches on, sir?” he asked, anxious to preserve what little dignity he had left.

  “Och, very well,” replied the anatomist reluctantly. It was his patient’s upper torso, and in particular his lungs, that interested him most, so he conceded.

  Thomas and Count Boruwlaski were now free to roam around the grounds as they wished. Nearby they could hear the crowing of cocks and other sundry fowl and decided to head for the barnyard.

  “I would be happier if I had stayed with Mr. Byrne,” said Thomas.

  “Hunter will not hurt him,” countered the little man. “Remember he is an old acquaintance; an odd one, true, but he means no harm.”

  All is well as long as the harm he does remains confined to his own personage, thought Thomas. He nodded to the count. “You are right. The man’s genius renders him rather eccentric, but his work is for the good of us all.”

  The two of them walked on toward the barnyard, both savoring the country air after the relentless assault of the capital on the senses.

  “I envy Lady Lydia’s return to Boughton,” said the count. “The air is so much fresher there and the countryside so pleasing.”

  “Yes,” agreed Thomas thoughtfully.

  The little man raised his gaze. “Do I detect a note of melancholy?”

  The doctor stopped and turned to face him. Abandoning all formality he said: “How long does she intend to remain at Boughton?”

  Boruwlaski was taken aback by the young surgeon’s reaction. “I am not privy to her plans,” he replied. “I know that she has seen to it that the lawyer works on behalf of Mr. Byrne to secure the royal pardon. She has asked me to oversee those affairs, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he shrugged his tiny shoulders before he added: “I think you will miss her ladyship.”

  The count was a wily judge of character and no stranger to affairs of the heart himself, but although he was well-meaning, he had no comprehension of the emotional torment Thomas was feeling. He simply smiled, masking his pain.

  “Perhaps,” he replied vaguely. His answer, however, was not heeded by the count, whose attention was already focused elsewhere. Thomas turned to follow the object of his morbid fascination.

  “What goes on there?” Boruwlaski asked as both men watched a swarthy laborer wheel a barrow laden with wicker baskets down a ramp and into a tunnel behind the villa. High-pitched squeals and squawks emitted from the hampers. The man, with dark, matted hair under his large-brimmed hat, scowled at them momentarily before disappearing through a passage down below.

  “Laboratory animals. Rats and mice,” said Thomas, suddenly reminding himself of Franklin. He knew these rodents would not be so fortunate as to escape their unpleasant fates.

  They looked uneasily at one another, as if reading each other’s thoughts.

  “We should return for Mr. Byrne,” said Thomas.

  The count nodded and they both started to make their way back to where they had left the giant in Hunter’s care. Knocking on the laboratory door, the two men entered to find the anatomist measuring the giant’s thighs.

  “Och, Dr. Silkstone, what perfect timing. I need a willing assistant to hold the tape at one end for the final, but most important measurement. Would you oblige?” His tone was almost amiable.

  Thomas smiled reassuringly at Charles, who, wearing his shirt once more, seemed happy enough to comply with the anatomist’s request. Thomas uncoiled the tape, which was marked off in inch sections, and held it to the floor as Hunter mounted a stool and reached to the top of the giant’s head.

  “Ninety-nine inches. I make that eight feet and three inches,” he announced, almost triumphantly, as if he had just reached the summit of a mountain. “You must be one of the tallest men in the world, Mr. Byrne.”

  Hunter walked over to his desk drawer and reached for a wallet. Opening it, he took out some coins. “Here’s ten guineas, Mr. Byrne. Thank you for your time. Our meeting has been most informative.”

  “Thank you. I am most obliged to you, sir.” Charles smiled, pocketing the money. He donned his topcoat once more and he and the count filed out of the room. As Thomas began to follow them, however, Hunter caught hold of his arm. The smile that had been on his lips only seconds before was nowhere to be seen.

  “You know, do ye not?” His eyes were steely gray and piercing.

  Thomas looked down at his arm. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “You know the giant is dying.”

  Thomas felt his guts knot. “We are all dying, sir,” he replied, holding the anatomist’s cold stare. From the corner of his eye he could see Charles and Boruwlaski heading back through the laboratory.

  “I give him a year at the most.”

  “Let go of my arm, if you please,” Thomas insisted.

  The anatomist relaxed his hold, then patted Thomas’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, but there was no mistaking his meaning. “Forgive me. I am a little intense at times,” he said, adding: “But
the giant will be mine, Dr. Silkstone. I will have him.”

  Chapter 22

  The rabble in Newgate Prison had not been kind to Signor Moreno. He had been in custody only three days and yet the count had been told on good authority that his topcoat had been stolen and his face bruised and bloodied, and he had not eaten since the night before the murder of which he was now accused.

  The stench of ammonia made Thomas’s eyes sting as he and the count accompanied a turnkey down the sunless passage. Decay and pestilence lurked in every nook and crevice. Water dripped down cold walls and cockroaches scurried about over filthy flagstones. The flaming torches on the walls provided what little light there was, but most of the time there was hardly any. From railings to the left and right of them spindly, dirt-encrusted arms reached out. Young and old were penned together, those in their youth at the mercy of ruffian rogues and brutish felons well-rehearsed in the ways of villainy.

  One toothless old man pulled at the count’s wig, but the jailer coshed his hand and sent him yelping back into the corner of the cell, like a wounded cur. There were curses and insults hurled and cruel laughter, too, at the sight of Boruwlaski. “Dance, dwarf, dance,” they shouted before spitting at the little man.

  Finally they reached Moreno’s cell. He was lying on the bare stone flags, his shirt and breeches torn and bloodied. Manacles clenched both ankles and were fastened to the floor. There were two other men sharing the same damp, stinking space. They, too, were all chained fast, but their faces were hard and their expressions threatening. One looked as though he might have been a prizefighter, thought Thomas. His nose had been so badly broken, it veered to the right. The other, younger man was angular and sly.

  “Wait here,” instructed the turnkey as he entered the cell and quickly locked the grille behind him. “You, Moreno,” he called, prodding the Tuscan’s shoulder with his boot. He groaned and opened one eye. Thomas saw that the other eye was swollen so much that it was closed tight and purple as a plum.

  “You are to be moved. These gents here have come to help you,” said the jailer gruffly, as if talking to a wayward child.

  Moreno lifted his head and tried to focus on the count, who stood anxiously on the other side of the bars. “Leonardo,” he called. “ ’Tis Josef. Josef Boruwlaski.”

  Slowly the prisoner managed to sit up. From his languid, deliberate movements and the involuntary winces of pain he made, Thomas suspected that at least one of his ribs was broken. Finally he heaved himself up, clutching onto the slimy outcrops of rock on the walls. The turnkey unlocked his chains and pulled him by the arm.

  “Am I free?” Moreno asked pitifully.

  “No,” replied the count. “But we can make you much more comfortable.” The little man had paid the head jailer twelve guineas for easement of irons and to transfer his friend to a single cell on an upper floor where there was at least ventilation from a window. A pallet and a blanket would be provided for his bed, together with a piss-pot, and he would be fed two meals a day.

  Slowly they walked up the steps toward the lighter ground floor. Thomas held Moreno as they went, the latter’s arm around the doctor’s shoulders so that he could support a good deal of his weight.

  The air, although still reeking, was a little fresher here, and the turnkey showed the men into a cell through a door with a rusty grille in it. Although the room was small and the window high, it was infinitely preferable to the airless hole below, thought Thomas. He led the Tuscan to his pallet and laid him down gently. Opening his medical bag, he btought out iodine and gauze and cleaned the wounds on his face.

  “Who beat you?” asked Thomas softly.

  “The men,” Moreno replied weakly.

  “Which men? The other prisoners?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, both eyes still closed.

  “Why did they treat you so cruelly?” asked the count.

  Thomas was now examining the Tuscan’s torso. It was as he thought. At least two ribs had been cracked like the broken wooden staves of a wrecked ship. The accompanying bruising told him he had been kicked mercilessly. He took out a long length of bandage.

  “I need to examine your back,” he said. “I need to turn you on your side.”

  Thomas summoned all his strength so that the turn would be swift and clean, so as not to drag muscle and bone unnecessarily, but as soon as the Tuscan was laid on his side, a horrible truth revealed itself to Thomas and he froze as he realized what had happened. A crimson stain blotted the seat of Moreno’s breeches. Now the count’s eyes opened wide in horror, as he, too, realized the heinous crime that had been committed against his friend. He turned away, retching.

  Thomas had never dealt with such an abomination before, but he knew his first duty was to remove any shame his patient might feel.

  “Signor Moreno,” he said softly. “Who”—he searched for a word—“violated you, sir? Who did this to you?”

  The Tuscan’s shoulders began to heave in small sobs, and gently, Thomas eased him onto his back once more. Tears were falling from Moreno’s blackened cheeks. The count poured beer into a small cup and stood by his friend’s head, lifting it gently so that he could take small sips. After a few moments, the castrato appeared more composed.

  “The other prisoners, they did this,” he said. He closed his one good eye as if reliving the whole ghastly incident.

  “Why would they do such a thing?” asked Thomas.

  “They could tell, you see.” His voice was as thin as tissue.

  Thomas and the count looked at each other, puzzled. “Tell what?” asked the doctor.

  “They could tell from my dress and my voice and my manners, sir, that I am not like other men.”

  The count clenched his fists and beat against the cell wall. “Animals,” he wailed, his face flushed with anger.

  “You will be safe now,” comforted Thomas. “I will see to your wounds and then you must rest.” He motioned to the count to bid Moreno good-bye for the time being.

  “I shall leave you now, my friend, but I will be back tomorrow. We know you did not murder the boy, and we shall have you out of here in no time.” The count laid a sympathetic hand on Moreno’s shoulder and the castrato managed a weak smile. Thomas only hoped the little man’s words, although spoken from the heart, would prove to be true.

  Both men were in a somber mood on their journey back from Newgate, distracted as they were by thoughts of the Tuscan castrato’s unutterable humiliation, even though they did not speak of it between themselves.

  Thomas broke the silence. “I do not believe that Signor Moreno murdered the boy.”

  “Of course he did not,” replied the count indignantly. “But how do we prove it?”

  “Whoever killed Cappelli used brute force to smother him. His facial injuries prove it. I do not believe your friend is that strong.”

  The count raised his eyes heavenward. “You know that judges never take note of your science.”

  Thomas sighed. He acknowledged Boruwlaski’s words to be true. Even Sir Theodisius had reached his verdict in Captain Farrell’s case without having heard the scientific proof of his innocence.

  “You are saying that the boy was smothered by a huge monster who then set about removing his voice with all the delicacy of a Parisian pastry chef,” huffed the little man, with a flourish of his hand. He turned his back on Thomas in anger.

  The doctor paused for a moment, digesting what his companion had just said. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have a point. What if, he asked himself, there were actually two murderers? One who committed the actual suffocation, then a second who carried out the removal of the larynx. One with the brute force, the other with consummate skill. It would make perfect sense, he told himself, but he said nothing. For the time being at least, it would remain simply a theory. He would need much more evidence to turn it into proof.

  The count, still in high dudgeon, remained leaning forward on the edge of his seat looking out of the window, his chin resting on
the open ledge.

  It was a Monday morning and the carriage was traveling toward Hyde Park Corner. A noisy crowd was just dispersing from the hangings at Tyburn. The tippling houses were spilling out their contents onto the street, men so drunk they could barely stand. There were swells, too, now climbing into their carriages after having enjoyed the best seats from which to watch what they called the “entertainment.”

  Thomas could see the unfortunate criminals, hanging like rag dolls in the wind. He counted three of them: two men and a woman.

  A loud cheer went up from the crowd as the hangman and his men cut one of the bodies down and placed it unceremoniously into a waiting tumbrel. The sides were demounted to show the good denizens of London that justice had, indeed, been done. It was then driven off slowly, followed by the city marshal in full ceremonial attire on a gleaming white charger, much to the excitement of the throng.

  A few relatives or friends had gathered around the one remaining man. Some were tugging at his legs to shorten his suffering. Another seemed to be lying on the scaffold under a dead man.

  “What is that man doing?” asked the count incredulously.

  “I believe he is trying to catch drops of the dead man’s sweat,” said Thomas. “They say it cures scrofula.” Boruwlaski looked puzzled. “A type of tuberculosis,” explained the doctor, suddenly reminded of the giant’s affliction.

  “Poor wretches,” muttered the little man, his eyes still fixed on the grotesque scene. It was then that he saw a ruffian in a wide-brimmed hat climb onto the scaffold. He looked strangely familiar to him. There was something about his demeanor that struck a chord.

  “You see that man, there on the scaffold?” The count pointed ahead.

  “Yes,” said Thomas, leaning forward even farther.

  “Do you not recognize him?”

  The young doctor studied the stained topcoat, the large hat, and the swarthy complexion.

  “Indeed I do,” he said as he watched him produce a knife from its sheath and sever the rope so that the hanged woman fell down into another’s waiting arms like a bundle of crumpled rags. “Indeed I do.”