The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  “Maybe,” replied Lovelock.

  “Unwell, or in danger, or both?” pressed Thomas.

  Lovelock shrugged. “She’s not been herself since she came back from London. She shut herself in her room and then Sir Montagu came to talk to her of making a marriage and now she hasn’t eaten for days. We are all concerned, sir.”

  Thomas began to sigh deeply, but was quickly reminded of his bruised ribs when he tried to do so. He should have guessed that Sir Montagu would soon be wanting to make a match for her. “Has Dr. Fairweather been called?” he asked.

  Lovelock shook his head. “Eliza asked her if she would see him and she said no. We are worried, Dr. Silkstone, worried that she may do something terrible. She is in such a bad state.”

  Thomas closed his eyes momentarily. The servants were putting him in a difficult position. They had no idea that he and Lydia had been betrothed and that she had ended their engagement. They had no idea that he had been told that he must never see her again and yet he was the obvious person for them to turn to when they sensed their mistress was in grave danger. Their loyalty was unquestionable, albeit somewhat unorthodox.

  “And there’s this,” said Lovelock, flourishing the list of suitors that Eliza had smuggled to him before he set off. “We thought you should see this.”

  Thomas scanned the list of highborn men thought worthy or desirable by Sir Montagu, but one name toward the bottom of the list rankled more than any other. It was the Right Honorable Rupert Marchant.

  “Your mistress would be touched by your concern, as I am,” he said finally. “As you can see, I am somewhat incapacitated at the moment,” he lifted a bruised hand, “but from your tone, I feel I am needed sooner rather than later.”

  Lovelock nodded. “You are the only person who can help her ladyship, sir. We are sure of that,” he pleaded.

  “I must stress that I go only as a physician,” said Thomas, “but go I will and right away.”

  The groom breathed a sigh of relief and his face burst into a smile. “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he said and he left the room to wait for the doctor to make ready for his long, and no doubt painful, journey to Boughton.

  In a tavern just off Fleet Street, Dr. Hunter sat in his usual dingy corner, cradling a tankard of ale. This was where he did many of his dealings. His associates appreciated the anonymous surroundings, where they could blend in with the rest of the rogues and whores and general detritus of a city. It was his custom to keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the door so that he could see all the comings and goings.

  A persistent fly was buzzing around his head and he kept trying to waft it away with a rolled-up newssheet. He had just been reading a report about an incident in St. Giles where the presence of the Irish Giant had caused a small riot. As he continued to battle with the fly, he saw Howison enter the inn and signaled him over. “It must be able to smell death on me,” he said, still waving away the fly, as the servant sat down. “I have a job for you,” he continued. “The giant.”

  Howison grinned, exposing a bottom row of rotting teeth. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

  “I want him, but he is not cooperating.”

  The fly landed on the table and started to sip some spilled ale. Seizing the opportunity, Hunter took an empty tankard, upturned it, and slammed it down, imprisoning the insect.

  “You’re to follow him everywhere. Watch his every move. Make him squirm. He is dying. There is no doubt of that, but we may have to devise a way of hastening his exit”—he broke off to lift the tankard slightly, so that, sensing freedom, the fly crawled to the edge of its prison and poked its head out—“so that I can get to work on him at once.” He banged the tankard down suddenly, decapitating the fly.

  Howison nodded. “I understand, sir.”

  Lydia drove the cart up to the pavilion just before noon. It was a sunny spring day. The trees were covered in a bright green haze of buds, and the fields were a subtle patchwork of soil and shoots. She was glad that she took in her last view of Boughton on such a day. This was how she wanted to remember it, bathed in warm sunshine. She walked over to the simple wooden cross on the ridge that marked her husband’s grave. She had thought to have him reinterred in the family vault, but had not been able to face the thought of disturbing him again. Laying a posy of violets and celandine on the grassy mound, she said a short prayer before turning to enter the pavilion itself.

  The once-white planks were now a dull, weather-stained gray. A pane of glass was cracked. An aura of neglect and decay surrounded it. It had been more than a year now since her last visit to this place. She remembered she had been shocked at its condition and had vowed to ask Amos Kidd, the gardener, to clean and repair the fabric of the building. Yet events had overtaken her and still nothing had been done, but at least it served her purpose.

  The door creaked open. A large spider dropped down on a thread in front of her eyes. She swept it away with her hand and surveyed the space. More floorboards had been chewed by vermin, which had left more droppings in their wake. She walked to the far side, treading warily. Her eyes scanned the corner, and a smile flickered across her lips when she saw it. It was still where she had left it more than a year ago. The stone jar, about the size of a pitcher, with its narrow neck plugged by a cork, remained untouched. She bent down and picked it up. It still contained liquid, admittedly not as much as before. Francis had drained a gill or two off to take to Thomas for his scientific tests, but enough was left for her purpose. She did not bother to remove the stopper to remind herself of the familiar, nauseating smell. She would reserve that doubtful pleasure for nearer the appointed time.

  Returning to the door, she took one last look around the room before climbing back onto the dogcart, the stone jar sitting securely at her side. She hid it under a shawl she had brought with her for that very purpose. No one would know. No one would suspect—until it was too late.

  Chapter 30

  Thomas knew there was no time to lose. Experience told him that Jacob Lovelock was not a man prone to exaggeration, and his concern for his mistress was very acute. Despite protestations from Dr. Carruthers and, surprisingly, from Mistress Finesilver, the young doctor slowly and painfully managed to mount a horse and, together with the head groom, he set off from London at around four o’clock that afternoon.

  “We still have five hours of daylight,” he said. “We can make it up to Beaconsfield before dark and stay the night at an inn.”

  Thomas’s injuries still caused him great discomfort. His horse’s every stride sent a jab of pain searing through his ribs. He was thankful that he had brought a phial of laudanum with him. After a couple of swigs of the bitter liquid had taken hold, his agony subsided and he was even able to urge his mount to gallop for some of the way. When the pain returned, even more violently than before, he would remind himself of his purpose. Lydia needed him, and for her he would endure his very own Calvary if it meant her own happiness and well-being could be restored.

  That night, as he lay in his bed at the Saracens Head at Beaconsfield, a thousand red-hot pokers thrusting into his rib cage and back, he imagined that this was what was hell must be like. He closed his eyes and saw a raging pit of fire, and in the center, where the flames burned white, he saw Lydia’s anguished face calling to him. It reminded him of that same look when he had broken it to her that her husband was dead. He recalled the day in Oxford when he had seen Captain Farrell hanging from the ceiling in the stinking jail. His expression had been calm, his eyes and lips closed as if asleep, and yet the crooked angle of his head as it swung from the silken curtain cord would remain with him forever. He was only glad she was spared the sight, but he knew the memory of that day still haunted her. That day. That date. It was April 30. Exactly a year tomorrow. It would be the first anniversary of Lydia’s husband’s death. The sudden realization of it made him shudder. Was this the reason for her obvious distress? Was this why she had shut herself away in belated mourning? Had some delayed reaction seized her me
ntal faculties in a cruel vise? He could not arrive at Boughton too soon.

  Safely returned to his lodgings in Cockspur Street, Charles Byrne’s spirits were much restored. Knowing that Emily had been reemployed made him feel more confident. She was his rock, while all around lay a sea of torment and turmoil, and yet the Scotsman’s words still haunted him.

  “We were worried about you,” said the count, handing his friend a glass of gin.

  The giant took it, swigged it back, then held out the glass for more. Boruwlaski obliged. “I saw Dr. Hunter,” Charles said, gazing into the fire.

  The little man nodded. “Ah, really? And why was that?”

  “He asked to see me.” Charles took another gulp of gin. “I thought he wanted to help me, to cure my ills.”

  “And . . . ,” urged the count, filling the glass once more.

  The giant’s eyes moistened and his jaw was set tight to stop his lips from trembling. When he finally spoke his voice was taut with emotion. “He told me that I will die soon and that when I am g-gone”—he broke off suddenly to take a deep breath—“when I am gone he wants to cut me up and put me in his museum of death.” He drained another glass.

  The dwarf paused for a moment, as if in shock, then put a hand on the giant’s arm and filled his glass once more. “But, dear friend, you are not dying.”

  Charles looked down at him. “I am. I know I am,” he said, nodding. “This cough. The tiredness. I have the white death and I know my days are numbered.” The count knew it to be true, too, but he had always tried to ignore his friend’s obvious symptoms. After a few moments, Charles continued: “ ’Tis not the dying that worries me.” His features were set hard in a scowl. “ ’Tis being butchered afterward, like meat on a slab, like they did to my da.”

  Boruwlaski let out a sigh and tilted his tiny head. “That is Dr. Hunter for you. He collects things. You do not have to consent to this. It is your body. Do not concern yourself about it,” he said, trying to make light of the giant’s fears, but his seeming indifference only agitated Charles.

  “That man would deny me my place in heaven, sir,” he cried, suddenly trying to stand up. He failed, and slumped down again into his chair. The count could see he had touched a raw nerve.

  “Even if you do die soon, my friend, which you will not, I can assure you that your body will remain in safe hands,” soothed the count. “I will see to it personally.”

  His assurances seemed to calm Charles, and a smile flickered across his flaccid lips. “Thank you, Count,” he said. “You are a true friend.”

  The little man returned his smile. “So, you are the talk of the newssheets,” he said, lightening the mood of conversation. “This is what you are about when I am not at your side.” He waved a copy of a newssheet before smoothing it to read an excerpt from an article. “A parson has expressed concern that a number of his parishioners claim they have been cured of various ills by Mr. Charles Byrne, the amazing Irish Giant, currently resident in London. You have wrought miracles!”

  “I am no miracle worker. ’Tis a load of shite.” Charles spat out his words contemptuously.

  “But do you not see?” Boruwlaski could hardly contain himself with excitement. “We could charge even more, and still people will flock to see you.”

  “ ’Tis true I need the money,” conceded Charles.

  “Indeed you do, my friend,” replied the count, his expression suddenly altering to one of concern.

  “You have heard more from the lawyer?” asked the giant warily.

  The count nodded. “He says he is progressing, but that he needs more time to get the papers in order. And,” he opened his hands in a gesture of resignation, “more time means more money to lawyers.”

  “Very well. I will return to the cane shop, but as soon as I make enough money to pay this lawyer for a pardon, I go back home,” he said, adding ruefully, “afore ’tis too late.”

  Chapter 31

  On the morning of her carefully planned death, Lady Lydia Farrell rose to the chimes of St. Swithin’s church bells as they called the faithful to Sunday worship. The sound traveled across the fields from Brandwick and filled her with a sweet sadness. Would God forgive her for what she was about to do? Parsons and priests would say no, that she was about to take a life that was not hers to take. She had neither the strength nor the theological intellect to argue with them. All she knew was that the only way out of her indescribable torment was to end her own life in this world and pray that the Lord would look favorably on her sins in the next.

  The stone jar sat on the top of her chest of drawers. A large tumbler was next to it, waiting to receive its liquid at the appointed hour. Lydia traced the cork and the neck of the jar with her slender fingers, then held up the empty glass to the light before setting it down again carefully. Next she took out her prayer book from a drawer. She was just about to open it when there was a knock on her door. She knew it would be Eliza, as it had been at the same time every day for the past week.

  “Ma’am,” the maid called through the door. “I have left you a tray. Is there anything else I can get you?” Her mistress had not touched the cook’s offerings over the past few days, yet Eliza persisted in bringing the food in a vain hope that her ladyship’s spirits might be restored, if only slightly.

  “No thank you, Eliza,” Lydia called. The maid sighed and turned to go back to the kitchen, but just as she did so, the door opened slightly. Lydia stood on the threshold, her face thin and wan.

  “Thank you, Eliza,” she said, gazing intently at the girl. “You have been a good servant.”

  Eliza appeared puzzled, but curtsied. “I hope I shall remain so, your ladyship,” she replied, walking forward toward Lydia, but the door was shut in her face again and the maid went back to the kitchen, even more concerned than before.

  Returning to her prayer book, Lydia opened it at a psalm she had already marked. She sat down at the window and read: There is no health in my flesh because of thy displeasure; neither is there any rest in my bones, by reason of my sin. For my wickednesses are gone over my head; and are like a sore burden, too heavy for me to bear. My wounds stink and are corrupt through my own foolishness. I am brought into so great trouble and misery; that I go mourning all the day long. Such words brought her comfort in her hour of need. Her Maker was the only person she could turn to. Even Thomas, her true love, would never understand what she had done. He would reproach her, blame her, and despise her if he ever discovered what happened. She would take her secret with her to the grave. That way only one man would know the truth, and even if he did, out of his own malicious, twisted spite, tell Thomas all, then she would not be alive to feel the righteous recriminations that would follow.

  Surely the next life would be better than this? She would be free from the burden of guilt that she had been carrying ’round with her for the past five years. Surely God in his goodness would not judge her too harshly. Turning to the prayer book once more, she read the final verse of the psalm: Forsake me not, O Lord my God; be not thou far from me. Haste thee to help me; O Lord God of my salvation.

  Thomas had wakened Lovelock before first light, unable to sleep because of his pain and his fears for Lydia. His anxiety had grown and multiplied like so many bacteria on a corpse.

  “We cannot wait any longer. We must leave,” he had told the groom, rousing him from his bed.

  By six o’clock they were on the road again, and by ten Thomas finally spotted the spire of the chapel at Boughton. The bells of St. Swithin’s were tolling the half hour as he dismounted and dragged himself, exhausted, up the steps of the hall.

  Will had warned the household of his arrival, and Howard and Mistress Firebrace were there to greet him.

  “Her ladyship remains in her room, sir,” said the butler, obviously relieved to see the doctor.

  “I shall go to her immediately,” replied Thomas, clutching his medical bag.

  All thoughts of his pain were banished as he strode up the stairs followed
by the butler, the housekeeper, and Eliza, but as soon as he reached the landing he stopped dead in his tracks and doubled over.

  “Get back, for God’s sake, get back,” he screamed, reaching for his kerchief and tying it over his nose and mouth. Running toward Lydia’s room, he found it locked, so he stood back, took a deep breath, and then shouldered the door with all his strength until it flew open.

  Lydia was lying prostrate on the floor, her skin as pink as rose petals. Thomas felt for a pulse but could find none. He looked around. On the dresser he saw the stone jug on its side, its contents spilled onto the rug below. The poisonous vapor was already in the air. Lydia’s sleeve was soaked, too. He tore it off and flung it to the floor.

  Howard appeared at the door, a scarf held over his face. “Help me get her out of here,” Thomas cried, lifting Lydia under her head and arms. The butler tied the scarf behind his head and took his mistress’s feet. They carried her to the landing and laid her down. Thomas shut the door as quickly as he could.

  “Bring me blankets, sheets, anything to seal off this door,” he called down the stairs to the anxious servants who waited below. By now some of them were beginning to choke or experience shortness of breath.

  “Open all the windows, and then leave the house. Leave now,” he called between coughs. He himself was choking, gasping for air. He threw a blanket up against the bedchamber door and lifted up Lydia in his arms, not knowing if she was alive or dead. All he knew was that he had to get her away from the deadly smell of cyanide before he could hope to save her.

  Rushing downstairs with Lydia over his shoulder, he took her into the drawing room and laid her motionless on the sofa. The pink bloom of her skin told him that the poison had taken hold, invading her respiratory system, paralyzing her thoracic muscles. She was icy to the touch. Again he tried her pulse. Again he could not find one. Putting his ear to her breast he listened for her heartbeat. It was there, like a faint tapping on a drum, but that was all he needed to hear. He knelt down and parted her lips, opening her mouth with his deft fingers before taking a deep breath and placing his own lips on hers.