The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  Chapter 23

  Emily’s head whipped ’round at the sound of footsteps. It was shortly before midday and she was tending the fire in the dining room. She was not expecting anyone. Charles Byrne stood nervously at the doorway, like a child waiting to be punished. He was to leave shortly for the cane shop for another day of public exhibition and was dressed smartly. “May we t-talk?” he said, wringing his hands.

  Emily rocked back on her heels and stood up. “Of course, sir.” She nodded warily and gave a little curtsy.

  The giant walked forward slowly. His expression was serious and Emily could not hide her apprehension as he approached. If he were to lash out as he did before when she cut him accidentally, then he could kill her with one blow. Her body was stiff with anxiety.

  Seeing the look of trepidation on her face, Charles smiled at her. “Please, do not be afeared. I’ll not harm you, that I won’t.” He stretched out his huge hand, his fingers spreading to grasp hers, but she avoided his touch. “I want you to know what made me act like a m-madman. Please, Emily.” He said her name gently and slowly, as if he were learning it, saying it for the first time. “Emily,” he repeated.

  Now she allowed a smile to flicker across her lips. He moved closer and then knelt down so that his face was level with hers. He was looking at her in the eye; their faces were so close they could feel each other’s warm breath.

  “When the razor cut me . . . ,” he began.

  “ ’Twas an accident, sir,” exclaimed Emily, pulling away. He took her hand and pulled her back toward him gently.

  “I know that. For sure I know that, but when I saw the blood, it reminded me of my da.”

  Emily frowned. “How so?”

  Charles took a deep breath. “You know that he was scragged for a murder he did not commit?” She knew the talk, that the giant wanted a royal pardon for his father. She nodded.

  “ ’Twas worse. They took him down and delivered him to be c-cut up.” His eyes suddenly filled with angry tears. “The surgeons took their knives to him.”

  Emily’s hands flew up to her mouth to stifle a horrified gasp. She had seen the Corporation of Surgeons process with a body through the streets from Tyburn, like crows ’round carrion, ready to pick over the bones.

  “ ’Tis a terrible fate,” she whispered.

  “Aye. Then they denied him a Christian burial, so now he lingers in purgatory. God rest his soul.” Charles crossed himself.

  “So he cannot go to heaven?”

  “They took him. . . . They took his remains t-to the s-slaughterhouse,” he choked out.

  Emily lifted her forefinger to his cheek and lightly but deliberately wiped away a tear. He took her hand as she did so and kissed her soft palm, sending a thrill through every sinew of her body.

  “Now do you understand?”

  She searched his sorrowful face. “I do,” she whispered. She put her arms around his neck and his black head nestled into her shoulder and, eyes closed, they held each other tight.

  It was this tender scene that greeted Mistress Goodbody as she walked past the half-open door.

  “Emily, enough!” cried the housekeeper. The maid immediately broke free from Charles’s embrace. “Again I find you! Be gone downstairs!”

  Emily fled, not daring to look at her mistress, leaving Charles to face the housekeeper’s wrath once more.

  “This cannot continue, Mr. Byrne,” she warned him.

  Remaining on his knees, like some religious supplicant, the giant looked humble. “I am sorry, Mistress Goodbody. ’Twill not happen again.”

  “I will see that it does not,” retorted the housekeeper, her face set hard below her large cap. “Bless me, I will,” she said to emphasize her point before shutting the door behind her.

  Thomas Silkstone sat at his desk in his laboratory and rubbed his gritty eyes. The light was fading and he had been reading over the notes he had made during the postmortem on the young castrato. He was hoping he might find a spark of information that he had previously overlooked. Perhaps, he told himself, it might ignite a new line of enquiry; shed light on a certain aspect of the gruesome affair; illuminate a motive. He thought, too, of the count’s remarks; the idea that there were two murderers working in conjunction had taken root in his mind and was now flourishing. The more he considered it, the more plausible he found it: one a brute, the other a craftsman. But there were no witnesses. Surely if two men had entered the hostelry they were more likely to have been seen. He resolved to return to the hotel to question Mr. Smee.

  In the corner, Franklin, his rat, was scratching about in his cage. Seeing him reminded Thomas of the barrow full of squealing mammals at Hunter’s laboratory and of the anatomist’s chilling words. “The giant will be mine,” he had warned. He remembered his eyes, too, cold and ruthless, and he suddenly shivered. Charles would be horrified at the very notion of being dissected. He must never know of Hunter’s designs on his corpse.

  So lost in his own thoughts was Thomas that he did not hear Dr. Carruthers shuffle into the room until he was standing close by.

  “Ah, young fellow, how goes it?” he asked jovially.

  Thomas smiled and turned to see his elderly master, dressed for dinner.

  “You will be joining me tonight?”

  Thomas had not dined with the old man since before the night Lydia had announced she was breaking off their betrothal. His appetite had completely deserted him, but he knew that in order for his brain to function, let alone his body, he needed to take some nourishment, even if it was only a little.

  “I will come with you now, sir,” he replied, standing up and tidying his papers.

  Thomas took Carruthers’s arm and walked with him to the dining room. Unbeknownst to him, Mistress Finesilver had been instructed to serve his favorite dishes, boiled plovers’ eggs and stewed carp. But even her finest offerings went barely touched. Conversation at the table was also difficult, despite the old anatomist’s best efforts.

  Finally, after trying to engage his protégé all evening, Carruthers could take Thomas’s taciturn replies no longer. “I am not sure what passed between you and Lady Lydia the other night, but whatever it was, it has put you in a sour humor, young fellow,” he said, pointing an accusatory fork in Thomas’s direction.

  The young doctor nodded. “I am aware that I am not my usual self,” he acknowledged.

  “Your usual self?” mocked Carruthers. “You are like a bear with a sore head.”

  Thomas felt obliged to give some form of explanation, while not revealing the full truth about the nature of his relationship with Lydia. “Her ladyship has left for Boughton and I am not sure when, or indeed if, she is to return.”

  “I thought as much.” Carruthers nodded sagely. “So what do you plan to do about it?”

  Thomas frowned. “I plan nothing, sir. She has told me in no uncertain terms that she no longer wishes to see me.”

  The old doctor let out a laugh. “Pah!” he cried, pushing his empty plate away from him. “You, one of the best anatomists in all London, nay, the world, are prepared to do as you are told by a young woman who is clearly unhappy?”

  Once again, his master’s intuition was correct. He must have sensed Lydia’s troubled disposition on the night she visited the house.

  “I have never known you to settle for the obvious, Thomas. Have you learned nothing from me? You may be an excellent surgeon, but of the heart you have very little experience. Look under the surface. Probe deeper, young fellow. Only then will you find the truth.”

  Thomas toyed with the stem of his wineglass. It remained full of claret. “You are right,” he conceded. “But I cannot go to Boughton. An innocent man is behind bars for a murder he did not commit, the real killer or killers are still at large, and the giant needs my protection.”

  “So much weight on such young shoulders!” said Carruthers, wiping his chin with his napkin. “Then you must apply your surgeon’s skills to more romantic affairs.”

  Thomas lo
oked puzzled. “I am not sure I follow, sir.”

  The old man chuckled. “You may be good at wielding a scalpel, but try wielding your quill for something other than a postmortem report.”

  Thomas remained uncertain.

  “Zounds! Write to her, young fellow. Tell her how you feel in a letter. Then you can be as logical in your arguments as you like.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said slowly. The idea of making a reasoned argument greatly appealed to him. “You are right, sir.”

  “Logical, but tender, mind,” warned Carruthers, raising a stern finger. “That way you have a much better chance of winning her back.”

  His old master was rarely wrong, thought Thomas. Even so, he knew this letter would require more of him than any postmortem report he had ever written.

  Chapter 24

  Lydia’s unexpected arrival at Boughton Hall sent the household into a flurry. Her ladyship was not expected back from London for at least a month, and Mistress Firebrace, the housekeeper, had ordered the shutters in all the main reception rooms to be closed and dust sheets to be laid over the furniture. In fact, the first anyone knew of their mistress’s return was when Will, the stable lad, came running into the kitchen with the news that her carriage had just driven through the main gates.

  Mistress Claddingbowl went wailing into the larder, complaining that she had let provisions run low, and Howard the butler sent Hannah Lovelock and the other maids off ’round the house to pull up the downstairs blinds.

  The servants only managed to assemble on the front steps of the hall, as was customary on her ladyship’s homecoming, as her carriage swept ’round the circular drive and came to a halt. The diminutive Lydia alighted, looking even more fragile than when she had left. Her face was pale and drawn and she did not even manage to smile at the servants as she usually did.

  “Welcome home, your ladyship,” greeted Howard as she passed him on the steps.

  “Thank you, Howard. I will go straight to my room,” was all she replied as she headed inside and up the sweeping staircase.

  Howard shot the housekeeper a worried look. He had not seen his mistress so forlorn since her sick and elderly mother had passed away almost six months ago. Prior to that had been the death of her husband and, of course, the murder of James Lavington and the subsequent execution of her cousin Francis. The whole sorry episode had taken its toll on her, yet, with Dr. Silkstone’s help, she seemed to have recovered well. Her spirits had been once more restored and the air of gloom and depression that had hung over Boughton Hall for the past few months had apparently been lifted.

  The arrival of her father’s old friend Count Boruwlaski had been a welcome relief for her, and her help for the Irish giant had given her a whole new focus, or so he had thought. Her sojourn in London was to be a welcome diversion and a chance to catch up with old acquaintances. With the count and Dr. Silkstone to take care of her, she would be in safe hands, or so he had imagined.

  Now he believed otherwise. Some terrible fate must have befallen her in London, he told himself. He watched from the steps as Eliza, her ladyship’s maid, supervised the unloading of the numerous cases and boxes. He would question her closely. Perhaps she could shed light on what was causing his mistress such evident pain. In the meantime he would do all he could to see that she was comfortable, in body if not in spirit.

  In the fading light of his laboratory, Thomas took up his quill with more anxiety than he had ever held a surgeon’s knife and began to write....

  My Dearest Lydia,

  As I write, I imagine you reading this at Boughton Hall, perched on the window seat in the morning room or even in the gardens, looking out over the view. I expect the spring flowers will be blooming now and the air will be fresh and sweet. I can see your face, the curve of your neck, your chestnut hair worn high, then falling in curls. I will always carry your gentle beauty with me.

  The reality is, however, that our last meeting was a painful one. I know you have your reasons for wanting me out of your life, but I need you to know that whatever your trials and problems, we can face them together. I beg you, let me share in your burden so that we can shoulder it as one and overcome any difficulties. I know there is something that troubles you deeply and is eating away at your soul. Let me be the one to heal you.

  For me, being without you is like a body trying to function without its heart. All my senses are numbed. I have no feeling. Without you by my side, my life holds no meaning.

  Forgive my outpourings of emotion, but I needed you to know that whatever has happened, or whatever I have said or done to alienate myself from you, I hope you will remember me fondly as a healer and as a devoted lover.

  I am now, and always will be, your loving and faithful servant, Thomas

  As he held the sealing stick to the lighted candle, blobs of wax, like red droplets of blood, fell onto the folded letter. If Lydia was in any danger, he hoped to God she would tell him.

  Entering her darkened bedchamber, Lydia Farrell felt safe for the first time in days. The curtains were drawn but bars of light still broke through. She traced her hand over familiar objects: her dressing table, her washstand, her looking glass. She glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her own eyes stared back at her from behind a mask, colorless and expressionless, almost unrecognizable. Would even Thomas know her? She hardly knew herself. How different she was now. Life had dealt her so many cruel blows in the last year, and just when she saw happiness on the horizon with Thomas, the past had come back to haunt her. She had been another person when it had happened: young, gullible, guileless, and so very much in love. She would have done anything Captain Michael Farrell told her to do for fear of risking a life without him: walk through fire, throw herself off a cliff, submit herself to a stranger. Even if it meant harming another, she allowed it. She trusted him implicitly and never imagined that he would put her through such an ordeal. Could she have run away? It was a question that tortured her so often. In the event, she’d let it happen so that they could remain together, forever, she thought. Even if it meant murder.

  Chapter 25

  Robert Smee was a busy man. “My word, I have an establishment to run, sir,” he said when Thomas asked for a word in private.

  “Sir, a man lies in prison, falsely accused. All I ask is five minutes of your time,” Thomas urged.

  Tut-tutting, Smee led the doctor into a dingy room lined with ledgers, piled high with boxes, and festooned with cobwebs. A half-eaten pie lay on the desk.

  “I need to ask you, sir, about the murder of Signor Cappelli.”

  The little man bridled and took out his kerchief to wipe away the beads of sweat on his forehead. “I already told the coroner all I know.”

  “I would very much appreciate it if you could tell me, too,” said Thomas.

  “And why would I do that?” he huffed.

  Thomas looked at the decaying pie and picked up the platter on which it sat. “Because, sir, I have reason to believe that you have rats in your guests’ rooms, and you would not want such a story to be spread about town,” he replied.

  Mr. Smee’s eyes bulged out of his fat face. “My word, sir! That would not be good for business.”

  “Indeed not, so . . .” agreed Thomas.

  “What do you want to know, sir?” The hotelier motioned to a chair and Thomas sat down.

  “Did you see anyone or hear anything unusual on the night of the murder?”

  “I told the coroner. The only person I saw coming out of the young man’s room was the foreign gentleman.”

  Thomas looked confused. “You are sure it was Signor Moreno?”

  “Most sure,” said the little man, wiping the back of his neck with his kerchief. “He is, well, a most striking gentleman, if I may say so.” Thomas had to agree.

  “And do you know what time this was?”

  “I was just about to lock up. It was two o’clock, sir, just as I heard the watchman call the hour.” He was unequivocal in his recollection. “I was coming ’round t
he corner when I heard the latch on the young man’s door, and I stopped. It can sometimes be a little awkward if I meets guests in the corridor at night, sir, you understand.”

  Thomas nodded. Discretion was an important quality for an hotelier to possess. “And I sees him, the gentleman, pop his head out of the door, look right and left, then quickly go to his own room. Shifty, he was.” He puckered his mouth. “How could he do a thing like that, then cry like a babe over it when ’tis discovered? He’s a great actor, my word, he is. Would’ve given Mr. Garrick a run for his money.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I locked up as usual, hung the keys on the hook, and went to bed. ’Tis a sorry tale, my word, it is.”

  “And who else was staying that night?”

  The little man shook his round head so that his wig slipped forward a little. “I am ashamed to say that the two gentlemen were my only guests, sir.”

  “I see,” said Thomas.

  “Times is hard, sir, and my business, well . . . You won’t spread word about the rats, sir?”

  “I will not, Mr. Smee,” he replied. “As long as you do not leave moldy victuals around to attract the vermin.”

  “No, sir, you are right. Marie, Marie,” he called. A flustered servant girl with a long strand of coal-black hair spilling out from under her cap came running. Thomas recognized her from his previous visit. She had been deeply distressed by the gruesome discovery of the young castrato. “You are not to leave old food lying around, you hear,” he scolded. She curtsied and took hold of the offending plate.

  “Wait,” said Thomas as she turned to leave. “Did you see or hear anything unusual on the night of the murder, Marie?” Her eyes widened, and like a frightened rabbit, she froze.

  Mr. Smee stepped in. “She is French. Her English is not good,” he explained.