The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  Mistress Firebrace gasped at the insinuation that Lady Lydia might take her own life. “Enough. Go to your room,” she ordered the maid. “Such insolence will not be tolerated.” Her eyes darted to each and every one of the staff seated at the table by way of warning as Eliza walked out of the kitchen, defeated but unbowed.

  Thomas picked his way along Dean Street that evening, heading for Smee’s Hotel. He wanted to question the servant girl, Marie, more closely, convinced that she was hiding something. When he arrived there were four or five customers seated at tables in the barroom, most of them huddled around a struggling fire. Business did not seem to be booming for poor Mr. Smee, thought Thomas.

  The girl was behind the bar. She recognized Thomas instantly and froze.

  “A pint of ale,” he ordered, cheerfully. “Marie, isn’t it?”

  She did not return his smile. “Per’aps,” she replied, busying herself with the tankards.

  Thomas settled himself on a stool by the counter. “You remember me, don’t you?” he said.

  She would not look him in the eye, but set the foaming pot of ale on the bar.

  “Tuppence,” she mumbled.

  “I’ll give you four, if you help me.”

  “I am working, sir. I cannot ’elp no one.” There was an agitated spark in her voice.

  Another man came up to the bar requiring service. Marie tended to him eagerly as Thomas watched her, but he saw that her hands were shaking. She was afraid. Of whom? Of Smee? He doubted it, but he did not have long to wait for the answer.

  “I need to talk to you, Marie, about the murder,” he said softly as soon as the man returned to his seat. “I believe you know something.”

  “I do not know anysing,” she said, a strand of her black hair falling down from beneath her cap.

  “But you were the one who found the body,” insisted Thomas.

  “Look, I don’t know nussing. S’il vous plaît, monsieur.”

  “An innocent man will be hanged, Marie, and I believe you know the truth.”

  For the first time the girl looked the doctor in the eye. “Please. Just leave me alone. Je vous en pris,” she pleaded.

  “This man causing you trouble?” came a gruff voice from behind. Thomas turned to see a ruffian towering over him as he sat. He stood up, drawing himself to the same height, and looked into the man’s face. There was the same scarred cheek with the same battered nose that he had seen with Signor Moreno at Newgate Prison. He suddenly felt sick at the sight of him, knowing what he had done to the castrato. He also knew he should not be trifled with.

  “I was just about to leave,” said Thomas, still unsure as to whether or not he had been recognized by the brute. He turned and left by the front entrance, his heart racing. He wanted to break into a run, but knew he must not, so he began at a steady pace, retracing his steps along Dean Street.

  Over in the corner of the room, away from the fire, and swathed in a sheath of scent that fended off the sickly-sweet smell of spilled ale and gritty tobacco smoke sat Francois Dubois. Unbeknownst to his daughter, he had been watching her. He did not like what he saw. There was a lull at the bar and Marie came to collect tankards left on one or two of the tables. She saw the lone man huddled in the corner, but did not recognize him from the back. Walking up to him, she asked: “What will it be, sir?” Dubois turned and she gasped. “Papa!”

  “Oui, c’est moi,” he said warmly.

  “I did not expect you,” she smiled nervously.

  “No, I am sure you did not, ma petite,” he replied, stroking his long, clean-shaven chin.

  Marie looked at her father, wondering how long he had been spying on her with his weasel eyes that gave away so little. He spoke in his native tongue. “You are a fine young woman, Marie, so like your dear mother, God rest her soul. You have that ruffian under your thumb.”

  “Oui, Papa,” she bleated.

  Her father took her hand in his and began to stroke it lightly. “I know his sort, Marie, but you must humor him, for my sake. Tu comprends?” His hand suddenly grabbed her wrist.

  There was an awkward pause as Marie looked about her, hoping Mr. Smee had not witnessed the episode. Thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen. “I must go, Papa,” she said quickly, but her father lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it softly.

  “Not so fast,” he told her. His voice was still measured. “That gentleman at the bar talking with you.” Marie’s olive skin flushed. “I believe he is a surgeon. He wasn’t asking about the murder, was he?” he asked.

  The girl swallowed hard and dared not look her father in the eye. “Oui,” she muttered.

  “Comment?” urged Dubois, cupping his hand around his ear, even though he had heard her reply perfectly clearly the first time.

  “Oui,” reiterated his daughter, only louder this time.

  “And you told him nothing?” He tightened his grip, but the smile remained on his lips.

  “Rien de tout, Papa. Nothing.” She was growing tearful and more agitated by the second, like a fish dancing on the end of an angler’s hook.

  “Bon,” he said, finally letting go of his daughter’s hand. “Make sure it stays that way. Your life could depend upon it, ma cherie, and I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”

  Thomas had made good progress down Dean Street and had just reached the junction with St. Anne’s Court when he heard footsteps close behind him. He spun ’round instinctively to see two men in the shadows heading toward him, but he did not have time to escape. In less than a second they were upon him, dragging him into the alley. Over their faces they wore scarves that covered their noses and mouths. Only their eyes flashed at him in the darkness. One rained punches onto his face while the other kicked him in the ribs. Their grunts of exertion mingled with his cries for help, which soon turned to pleas for them to stop.

  When they eventually did, after what seemed an age, Thomas was left bloodied and dazed. The sharp, stabbing pain in his side told him that at least one of his ribs might be broken, and the trickle of blood that flowed from above his left eye was evidence he had suffered either a superficial cut just above his brow or a more serious wound to his head. He managed to ease himself into a sitting position and felt his arms and hands, then his legs. On first examination he seemed in one piece. Then he felt his pockets. His purse was still there. At least he would have enough money to pay for a ride home.

  He staggered into the main street, blood still gushing from his head, and with great difficulty held out his battered arm in the hope of hailing a carriage. One passed almost immediately, but it did not stop. It was already occupied. In the darkness he did not see that at the reins was Dr. Hunter’s nut-skinned servant. He was transporting Charles Byrne to see his master at his Earls Court country retreat.

  Chapter 28

  The rows of skulls around the pond and the gaping crocodile jaws over the door pediment seemed even more terrifying to Charles Byrne as the carriage drew up outside Hunter’s house in the moonlight. Holding a lantern aloft, Howison led the way down the path to the laboratory and past the anatomist’s collection of strange and exotic specimens to the small room where Charles had been examined before.

  Hunter was at his desk. He rose when he saw the giant. “Och, Mr. Byrne. Come in, come in. Sit ye down.” He pointed to the table once more before sitting down himself and leaning back in his chair.

  “You have caused quite a stir, Mr. Byrne.” His manner was affable, but Charles remained anxious, darting glances here and there as if looking out for some new monstrosity on display. He coughed, too, although Hunter suspected that this was a nervous affectation rather than a symptom of phthisis.

  “And you look well, sir,” he said, adding, “given the circumstances.”

  Charles’s black head swiveled ’round. “I am as well as a man in my condition can be, sir.”

  Hunter’s eyes opened wide. “And in what sort of condition might that be?” he asked disingenuously.

  “I think you know,
sir, that I am not well and I was told that you have a c-cure. That is why I am here.” His face was earnest. “ ’Tis in the hope you can h-heal me.”

  Hunter’s mouth flickered in a faint smile. He rose from his desk and walked over to a shelf upon which lay a large log.

  “You see this?” he said, retrieving it and laying it down on his desk. “This comes from a horse chestnut tree, probably about one hundred and fifty years old.”

  Charles looked puzzled as Hunter turned the wood sideways to reveal a hollow interior. “Inside there is nothing, Mr. Byrne. Nothing. The wood has been eaten away by a parasite.”

  “I do not follow you, sir.”

  “This fine chestnut went into decline and within a few months withered and died. Outwardly its ailment was indiscernible, but inside . . . That tree is you, Mr. Byrne.”

  “You mean . . .” Charles’s brows knitted themselves into a frown.

  “I mean, sir, that you have consumption, as I am sure you know, and that the disease is eating away at you from within. At a generous estimate, I’d say you have no more than six months to live.”

  Charles sat impassively. “I know that the cough and the fever and the tiredness might kill me in time, sir, but you have a cure. Yes?” His eyes were wide with childish anticipation.

  Hunter let out a cruel laugh. “Och, I have something much better than a cure, Mr. Byrne,” said the Scot, patting the giant on the arm. Again Charles frowned, searching for meaning in the anatomist’s words. “I can offer you immortality.”

  Trapped in a prison of her own making, Lady Lydia Farrell wrote the fifth and final draft of a letter from the confinement of her darkened bedchamber.

  My Beloved Thomas,

  As God is my witness, I truly never wanted to write this letter, nor did I wish you to receive it. You are the only person who has shown true devotion and compassion toward me during the past difficult year, and my behavior toward you in London was deplorable. I want you to know, however, that you were entirely blameless and in no way caused my petulant reaction to a chance encounter with someone from my past. This person was the instrument of my torture many years ago and I still bear the scars, both mental and physical, he inflicted. As long as he is alive, I cannot bear to live with myself.

  Your last letter confirmed to me that I am taking the only course of action available to me. I cannot live with you, and Sir Montagu will put every obstacle in the way of our union. His visit earlier this week was to urge me to find a “suitable” husband so that I could produce an heir and save Boughton for future generations of my line. The thought of being sentenced, once more, to years of unhappiness and a loveless marriage bed is unbearable. While Sir Montagu cannot stop us legally, he will do everything he possibly can to thwart our marriage.

  I have loved you from the moment I set eyes on you in your rooms in London, and always will. One day we will be together, forever, but it cannot be in this world, my beloved.

  I shall always be with you.

  Your ever-loving Lydia

  Just before Hannah and Jacob were about to snuff out their candle for the night, there came a tapping on their door. Jacob rose, took the candle and, still in his nightgown, went to see who called at this late hour. It was Howard, wearing a pained expression on his face.

  “Lovelock, I need a word.” There was an awkward pause, as the head groom processed his words. “May I come in?”

  The last time Howard had called on them it was to offer his condolences for the death of Rebecca, the daughter who had drowned two years before. He looked awkward and rubbed his hands together.

  “May I?” he said, glancing at one of the simple chairs.

  “Yes, sir.” Jacob nodded.

  “I am come on a very”—Howard searched for the right word—“delicate matter.”

  “Oh?”

  “Her ladyship.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Jacob.

  “I know I may have appeared harsh to Eliza this evening, but I do share her concerns.”

  Hannah, who had been listening at the door, now entered the room. “Oh, sir,” she blurted. “We are so worried, too, but what can we do?”

  Howard’s eyes were now more adjusted to the dark. The anxious faces of the husband and wife stared back at him from the gloom. He perched on the wooden chair, his small hands with their manicured nails splayed on his knees.

  “Ordinarily I would not dream of interfering in her ladyship’s affairs, of course, but I feel that in the absence of anyone else, I would be doing her a great disservice if I took no action at all to ease her current plight.” The butler’s glance darted back and forth from each of them, looking for some acknowledgment or sympathy.

  Hannah was the first to offer her support. “Indeed, sir. But what can we do?”

  Howard leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, toward Jacob. “Lovelock, can I trust you with an important mission?”

  Jacob took a great gulp of air. “Anything for her ladyship,” he replied.

  “Good. Then I want you to ride to London at first light and ask Dr. Silkstone to make his way here with the greatest of haste. Say we are concerned for her ladyship’s well-being, both in mind and body. He is sure to answer our plea.”

  Jacob nodded and Hannah clasped her husband’s hand. “If any man can do that, Jacob Lovelock is your man, sir,” she assured her master.

  With a lantern held aloft, John Hunter led Charles Byrne outside to the entrance of his underground laboratory. Down five stone steps they went until they came to a door, which Hunter opened with a large key that hung from a belt around his waist. Once inside, there was a wall-mounted sconce, which the doctor lit so that Charles could see the room beyond more clearly. It was large and high-ceilinged and contained all manner of strange contraptions: long glass tubes and wheels and pulleys. A huge bricked-up cauldron with iron doors and a chimney vent above it took up one whole corner. Hunter led Charles past these strange contrivances and apparatus to a grille across the entrance to what seemed to be a small chamber carved out of the rock. It reminded him of the paintings of sacred grottos he had seen, where the Blessed Virgin herself had appeared to those of great faith. Inside he could make out more shelves that stored even more jars and flasks.

  Hunter held the lantern aloft once more so that Charles could get a better view. He leaned down to look inside the glass containers. Each was labeled and each seemed to contain the disembodied remains of a human body part or organ: a bloated black liver, a row of yellowed teeth, the spongy hemisphere of a brain.

  Charles looked at them suspiciously, not comprehending what he was seeing until, that is, the rays from Hunter’s lantern picked out a solitary finger, long and delicate, floating upright in a jar. A human finger. The giant let out a gasp of revulsion when he realized what he was beholding.

  “Come, come now, Mr. Byrne. Why so squeamish? You have seen my other specimens; my fetuses, my exotic creatures.” Hunter smiled, seeing Charles’s troubled expression. “Their owners were all dead when I deprived them of their parts.”

  The giant’s eyes opened wide as his fear mounted. “Sir, I do not like this place,” he said. “I would ask that we leave.”

  “Och, leave? But I wanted to show you how I can make you live forever, Mr. Byrne.” There was a time, not so long ago, when he had conducted experiments to freeze animals—dormice, fish, and toads—in the hope that they could be brought back to life when thawed. He had dreamed that one day men would give up the last ten years of their lives to a kind of frozen oblivion and be resurrected every one hundred years. Now that his efforts had proved futile, he had decided to try another tack. He picked up one of the jars from a rack on a shelf. Inside, the deep red cushion of a solitary human heart was suspended in preserving fluid.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  What little color there was in Charles’s face drained away. “ ’Tis a heart, sir, and a human one at that. Can we go now?”

  Hunter shook his head. “Not just any human heart, Mr. Byrne
. This extraordinary organ once beat in the chest of our prime minister, the Marquis of Rockingham.”

  Suddenly the giant turned away and retched, his large shoulders heaving in a great convulsion. “I would leave now, sir,” he cried as he barged past Hunter and headed back into the cavernous room, crashing into any obstacles that lay in his path. The anatomist hurriedly put back his jar on the shelf, locked the grille once more, and followed Charles into the eerie shadows, fearing the havoc he might wreak as he lurched through the darkness. Soon he could hear the door rattling.

  “I am coming, Mr. Byrne,” shouted Hunter, rushing toward the entrance.

  “Let me out of here. Let me out!” cried the giant, shaking the lock.

  “Calm yourself, sir!”

  “I’ll not be cut. I’ll not be cut,” shouted Charles as Hunter opened the door, allowing him to bound back up the steps, where Howison waited with the carriage. Without hesitating, the giant opened the door himself.

  “Take him back to London,” ordered the anatomist.

  “I’ll not be cut, you hear me?” called Charles out of the carriage window as he headed off back toward the city, cussing and cursing in his native Irish tongue.

  “Och! I hear you,” shouted Hunter, adding under his breath, “But you’ll have no say in the matter, Mr. Byrne. You’ll be long gone, like all the others.”

  Chapter 29

  On the fourth day of her self-imposed exile, Lady Lydia Farrell called for her maid Eliza.

  “I wish you to see that this is delivered to Dr. Silkstone in London,” she instructed, handing over a letter.

  Eliza curtsied and studied her mistress’s face. She had not seen her for three days now and she noted that her cheeks were pale and sunken, so that her doleful eyes were even more prominent. There was something in her manner, too, that appeared odd. She would not raise her gaze, but kept it either firmly on the floor or toward the window, even though the blinds were still down.