The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  The girl answered nervously. “Moi, sir? Non, sir. I see nussing.”

  Smee shooed her away with his plump hand. “Get on with you, girl. We have a hotel to run,” he chided.

  “Of course.” Thomas nodded. “And I have calls to make, so I will leave you to your business, Mr. Smee.”

  “Much obliged to you, sir,” replied the little man, dabbing his forehead once more.

  Thomas did, indeed, have calls to make. His next stop was Newgate Prison.

  The turnkey led Thomas down the windowless corridor to Moreno’s cell. Although a terrible stench still hung in the stagnant air, this part of the prison was a considerable improvement on the other godless area he had seen the day before. At least here he hoped Moreno would be able to regain his strength, if not his full health.

  He found his patient just as he had left him, lying supine on his pallet, eyes closed. A flagon of small beer lay on the stone floor, together with a loaf of bread, touched only by the shiny black weevils that were feasting on it.

  “Signor Moreno,” greeted Thomas gently.

  The Tuscan opened his eyes. The swelling on the left side of his face, Thomas noted, had gone down considerably. His elegant features were better defined.

  “How fare you today?”

  His patient eased himself up on his right arm, wincing as he did so. “My body is a little better, I thank you, sir.”

  “But your mind?” Thomas studied the pain-racked face that once must have been so handsome and knew that it was not only Moreno’s physical injuries that would have to heal before he was well again.

  From his bag he took out a pad of gauze and a bottle of arnica and knelt down to dab the bruising on his patient’s cheek.

  “Do you bring news, Dr. Silkstone?” Moreno asked meekly.

  Thomas paused for a moment. “I have been talking with Mr. Smee,” he said.

  “The hotelier?”

  “Yes.” Thomas felt uneasy, but he decided he must confront the castrato. “He says he saw you leaving Signor Cappelli’s room at two o’clock that morning.”

  Instantly, Thomas saw Moreno’s body tense. For a moment he was silent, then he swallowed hard. “So that is why I am here,” he whispered, staring blankly at the opposite wall of his cell.

  The young doctor nodded. “But I do not believe you did commit the crime.”

  The Tuscan switched his gaze and fixed it on Thomas. “I swear to God I did not.”

  “So Signor Cappelli was alive when you last left him?”

  Tears now welled up in the Tuscan’s eyes, as if remembering the final encounter with his friend was too much to bear, and he began to sob, clutching his ribs as he did so. Thomas tried to still his heaving body.

  “Signor, please. Calm yourself,” he urged.

  After a few moments, the sobs subsided and the young doctor thought that perhaps now would be the right time to divulge that the postmortem had revealed more than the cause of the young castrato’s death. He had discovered evidence of recent sexual activity. Perhaps now he should tell him he had uncovered his secret.

  “I know, Signor Moreno.”

  The Tuscan looked up at him, uncertain.

  “I know that you and Carlo Cappelli were lovers.”

  Moreno closed his eyes momentarily. Thomas was not sure if he was relieved or anxious, but his swollen lips mouthed, “You are right.”

  Thomas sat on the edge of the pallet. “Do you want to unburden yourself, Signor Moreno? I am not here to judge you.”

  “But I am a sodomite. They can still hang me,” he muttered.

  Thomas knew what he said to be true, although he also knew that many a molly house would be closed down were it not for the patronage of the nobility and politicians. “If we can find the real murderer, there will be no need to incriminate you,” he ventured. “Surely you do not want the brute who killed Signor Cappelli to go unpunished?”

  “No, but . . .”

  Thomas sensed the Tuscan was hiding something. “What do you know?” he urged. Silence. “You will hang, Signor Moreno. If you know the killer . . .”

  “He made me swear. . . .”

  “Who made you? Who?”

  Moreno caught his breath. “The man who attacked me.”

  Thomas bent down to look his patient straight in the eye. “Tell me the truth, I beg of you, or it’ll be the rope.”

  The Tuscan eased himself up slowly, putting much of his weight on Thomas, until he sat upright. “It was after the concert. We went back to the hotel. Carlo went up to his room and I stayed behind a while. That was when I saw him.”

  “Who?”

  “The same brute,” he replied, pointing to his bruised face. “He was talking with the maid. She was smiling at him.”

  “Marie, the French girl?”

  He nodded. “I did not see him again until . . .”

  “When did you see him again?” urged Thomas.

  “When they threw me in that stinking cell. I recognized him immediately and he knew I did. He saw it in my eyes, and that’s when he and his friend started to beat me. They said if I talked they would expose me as a sodomite, and then the big one . . . He . . .”

  Thomas held up his hand. He did not need the Tuscan to relive his horrific ordeal.

  “And you think this man may have had something to do with the murder?” asked Thomas.

  “I do.”

  “How so?” entreated Thomas.

  Tears rose in the Tuscan’s eyes. “Because he said, ‘Your boy will sing no more.’ ”

  The doctor put a comforting hand on his patient’s shoulder as the tears rolled down his cheeks once more. His revelation was not proof, but it was a start. “Then I must go now and see that he is not released. The coroner needs to speak with him. What was he arrested for?” asked the doctor.

  Moreno shook his bare head. “I do not know.”

  Thomas handed his patient a small bottle of physick. “A draft for the pain,” he said. He knew there was no time to waste, so he quickly packed his bag. “Fear not, we will have you out of here soon,” he reassured Moreno before looking through the grille in the cell door to call for a turnkey. But he did not need to. One was standing outside, jangling his keys. Thomas heard one turn in the lock and stood back as the door opened. Yet instead of the jailer come to let him out, he was confronted by the sight of Rupert Marchant, accompanied by a clerk.

  “Well, well,” said the lawyer. “If it isn’t our friend from the Colonies.”

  Thomas bowed low, hiding the look of disdain on his face. “Mr. Marchant. What a surprise.”

  “Likewise. Dr. Silkstone, isn’t it?” came the contemptuous reply.

  There was an awkward pause. “I have been attending to Signor Moreno’s wounds,” Thomas explained.

  “Wounds?” he queried disingenuously. “Oh dear, have his fellow inmates been unkind?”

  Thomas tensed, but bit his tongue. “I am afraid so, but I have given him something to ease the pain.”

  “Ah, good,” replied Marchant. “Then he will feel strong enough to hear the formal charge I am about to put to him.”

  Thomas was bewildered.

  “I am the prosecuting attorney in this case, Dr. Silkstone,” the lawyer explained. “And I am about to charge Signor Moreno with murder.”

  The young doctor tried unsuccessfully to hide his shock. He replied politely: “Then I best leave you to your task,” and bowed once more. Another turnkey was waiting to escort him from the jail, but Thomas was not yet ready to leave.

  “Take me to the other wing,” he ordered.

  They walked out across the great expanse of courtyard that divided the richer prisoners from the poorer wretches. To Thomas’s relief it was empty. He had no wish to run the gamut of inmates, even if most of them were too sick or too starved to hit out. Once again he was led into the bowels of the stinking building and endured the insults and gobs of spittle that rained out of the grilles on his way until he reached the cell where Signor Moreno had been impr
isoned. But of the other two inmates there was no sign.

  “Where have these men gone?” asked Thomas of the turnkey, who was also looking bewildered.

  “They were here not an hour ago,” he replied, scratching his lice-ridden head.

  “I let them out,” said the head jailer, sidling up to them. He was an ugly man with a cruel mouth. “They was only in for stealing a shawl from a stiff down Spitalfields way, and this gent came with all the right papers and said they was to be let go.”

  “A gentleman, you say?” repeated Thomas, not wholly familiar with rough speech.

  “A clerk of the court, sir,” replied the jailer, adding: “Good riddance to them, I say. Caused nothing but trouble in ’ere.”

  Chapter 26

  Sir Montagu Malthus descended on Boughton Hall like a great black raven, sending the household into a flurry for the second time in a week. Now the remaining dust sheets were dispatched and shutters thrown wide open, restoring natural light to the house. Mistress Claddingbowl brought out a plum cake and baked a batch of biscuits, and fresh flowers from the gardens were arranged in the hallway.

  Lydia had not been told the purpose of the visit by her late brother’s godfather. The widowed lawyer rarely made a purely social call from his home near Banbury. His brief letter warned of a “pressing matter” that needed her urgent attention. She had a terrible suspicion as to what that might be.

  Nonetheless, the news of Sir Montagu’s imminent arrival had shaken Lydia from the torpor she had experienced since her return from London. She had simply drifted from room to room, running her fingers over mantelpieces and bookshelves, eating nothing and saying little.

  “So, Lydia,” Sir Montagu began, settling himself down on the sofa opposite her. “It must be difficult for you here alone.” His hawkish eyes were glancing around the room, hovering over paintings and pieces of porcelain. He placed particular weight on the word “alone.”

  She poured tea and handed him a cup. “I manage well enough, sir. I have engaged an estate manager to deal with affairs and I carry on tending to domestic duties as before.”

  “How long is it now?” His head was tilting sensitively.

  “Eleven months, three weeks, and four days.” She suspected the timing of his visit did not simply happen to almost coincide with the first anniversary of her husband’s murder.

  “Yes. I thought so. Almost a year, my dear. And you have been so brave, what with Lavington and Crick and then your dear mama.” His hooded eyes fixed on her.

  “It has not been easy,” she conceded, sipping her tea.

  “Indeed, no, but I would put it to you that perhaps it is time to look to the future.”

  Now he was cutting to the chase, thought Lydia. “Oh, but I do think of the future, sir. I have plans for the estate.”

  He nodded his head and waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, my dear. I am sure you have, but I am talking about the distant future. You are, after all, the last of the Crick line.”

  Of course Lydia was painfully aware of the fact. She folded her hands on her lap. In the awkward silence that ensued she could hear the mantel clock ticking away the seconds. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Have you considered who will inherit the estate from you?”

  She looked blankly at him as he reached inside his black satchel. He did not wait for a reply. “Can you imagine all this falling into decay, or worse still, being sold?” There was a note of terrible foreboding in his voice.

  “Indeed not, sir.” Lydia shook her head obligingly.

  “That is why I have taken the liberty of drawing up a list of suitable candidates for you,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Candidates?” echoed Lydia.

  “Suitable husbands, my dear.” His emphasis was on the word “suitable.”

  Without saying a word she took the list that he passed over to her and scanned the names: the Earl of Wedmore, the Lord Belmont, Sir Humphrey Lupton—all eligible peers of the realm, all of the right lineage. One was widowed, the others were bachelors, but bachelors for good reason; either old, ugly or, in one case, insane. Most of them would do anything to lay their hands on Boughton Hall and its large estate, albeit they both were in need of some attention. She looked again. There was the Right Honorable Rupert Marchant, too. She thought of his smug lawyer’s face, sneering at her lecherously. She knew of all of these would-be suitors, but her thoughts were of Thomas. Sir Montagu would, of course, disapprove of her union with a colonist and a commoner to boot. The doctor was her inferior in every way, in his eyes, but she was not strong enough to start a fight.

  “It is a kind thought and I will consider the gentlemen, sir,” she told him, smiling politely.

  Sir Montagu’s brows, which had knitted themselves together as she studied the list, now parted.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Perhaps you will permit me to arrange some introductions?”

  He was being too hasty, thought Lydia. “In due course, sir,” she replied. “It is still a little too soon.”

  Sir Montagu nodded and drained his teacup. “Just remember, dear Lydia, that an heir, preferably a male, of course, is essential to the future of Boughton, and it would be most desirable to have one sooner rather than later.”

  Again she smiled politely at him. After Edward’s death he no longer had any official authority, but she knew that he was the man her late father had tasked with her well-being and he still held sway over her. She would play along with his conniving and interfering ways for as long as she needed to, and he would return to his country seat happy in the knowledge that his old friend’s daughter would comply with his requests and that the future of the beloved estate would be secure, as her father would have wished. The right blood would course through her progeny’s veins and Boughton would be saved for posterity. She was not prepared, however, for what came next.

  “I do not detect any enthusiasm from you, my dear,” said Sir Montagu, placing his cup and saucer on a side table.

  Lydia apologized. “I am a little tired, sir, that is all,” she replied meekly.

  “Come, come. I can tell that none of these suitors appeal.” His candor surprised her.

  “As I said, Sir Montagu, it is just a little too soon to consider marrying again.” She was polite but firm. Yet he persisted, fixing his gaze on her with a new determination.

  “There is, of course, one name that is missing from that list, my dear.” His tone suddenly became more intimate.

  Lydia frowned. Did he know about her affair with Thomas? She swallowed hard. “And who might that be?” she enquired nonchalantly, trying to hide her fear of detection.

  “My own.” If Sir Montagu saw the momentary look of horror that darted across Lydia’s face, he chose not to show it. “We would make the perfect match,” he continued. “I am from an excellent line, as you know.”

  A feeling of nausea rose in Lydia’s gullet. The very thought of this man, at least forty years her senior and a friend of her late father’s, begetting a child with her was repulsive. She looked at his clawlike hands and imagined his cold grasp on her skin and she shuddered.

  “You are most thoughtful,” was all she could manage in reply.

  He bent his head slightly to one side. The fleshy hoods of skin that hung from his brow seemed to retract slightly, showing more of his old man’s eyes than usual. “So you will consider my offer?”

  Lydia nodded. “I will, sir,” she replied softly, all the while knowing that neither he nor anyone else had any idea that in all probability she had been rendered unable to bear children. In all likelihood there would be no heir. Ever.

  Charles Byrne slumped into the chair and slipped off his shoes. His feet ached. It had been another hard afternoon in the cane shop. Every day more and more came to see him, each paying their half crown to gasp and gawp and point and stare. Touching was not permitted, although many tried.

  The count poured him a large gin and handed it to him. “You are doing well, my friend. You have nearly f
ifty pounds.”

  “Fifty?” he repeated with derision. “That lawyer wants two hundred from me.”

  The count knew it to be true from the papers he had seen. This royal pardon would come neither cheaply nor quickly, but he remained ebullient. “But all of London adores you. Look what it says in the newssheet,” he cried excitedly, prodding the print with a podgy forefinger.

  Charles’s weary look reminded his friend that he could not read. “Listen to this, then,” exclaimed Boruwlaski. “The Morning Herald says that you are ‘beyond what is set forth in ancient or modern history.’ ” The little man lifted his shoulders gleefully. “It goes on: ‘In short, the sight is more than the mind can conceive, the tongue express, or the pencil delineate, and stands without parallel in this or any other country.’ What say you to that, Charles?”

  The giant actually said very little and appeared distinctly indifferent to such plaudits. He took a large gulp of gin.

  “I say I could eat a horse,” came the dry reply.

  Boruwlaski mused that such a feat was very probable, when a stony-faced Mistress Goodbody entered the room.

  “Is there anything you require before dinner, gentlemen?” she asked, shooting a disdainful glance at the giant’s stockinged feet. “Slippers, perhaps, Mr. Byrne?”

  The giant eyed her suspiciously. “Emily. Where is Emily?”

  The housekeeper shifted uncomfortably. “Emily is not here.”

  “Then where is she, pray?” intervened Boruwlaski.

  “She has left the household.”

  “Left?” repeated Charles Byrne, pulling himself forward in the chair.

  “And can you tell us why?” asked the count.

  Again the housekeeper looked uneasy. “I dismissed her, sir.”

  Charles heaved himself up now, towering over the woman, scowling at her.

  “On what grounds?” continued Boruwlaski.

  Mistress Goodbody flashed a reproachful look at the giant. “She had ideas above her station.”

  The count remained calm but asked coolly: “Am I not master in my own house, Mistress Goodbody?”