The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  The hours hung heavily at Boughton Hall. Thomas took it in turns to watch over Lydia with Sir Theodisius and his wife, and either Eliza or Hannah Lovelock was always in attendance, too. Parson Lightfoot also called, offering his well-worn platitudes to anyone who would listen. Yet there was no alteration in the patient’s condition, not a flicker of an eyelid nor a change in the light rhythm of her breathing.

  Thomas had spent the time both resting and reflecting. His bruised body was now repairing, but his mental state was still in turmoil. He must have reread Lydia’s letter a dozen times, and the only conclusion that he could draw was that she must have seen someone in the audience at the concert that night who had resurrected a long-buried memory that so disturbed and horrified her as to make her suicidal.

  Thankfully word had spread that Lady Lydia had suffered a terrible accident. This had, in part, been put about by the servants as they went to market in Brandwick. Whether or not they believed their own rumormongering was another matter, thought Thomas, but their loyalty to their mistress appeared steadfast.

  Three days had passed, three days and three very long nights since Lydia had fallen into her coma, and there was no way of telling how long she would remain in this state. He knew he could not stay by her side indefinitely, even though he wished to. He had duties and obligations to fulfill, not least to Signor Moreno and to Charles Byrne. With this in mind he had sent for a nurse from London, a good woman he knew personally, who could be trusted to be diligent in her care of Lydia. She would be able to monitor her pulse, turn her to prevent sores, wash her, and moisten her lips with water.

  On the morning of the fourth day Sir Montagu Malthus arrived unannounced from Banbury. He swept into Lydia’s bedchamber to find Thomas seated in a chair by the bed. He was staring at the locket she had asked young Will to give to him as a token of her love before they parted for the winter and which he always kept with him.

  “Ah, Dr. Silkstone. I heard you were here,” he greeted Thomas haughtily.

  The young doctor leapt to his feet. “Sir Montagu, how good of you to come,” he replied, although he did not mean it.

  “A terrible accident, I believe?” he said, looking at Lydia, lying senseless on the bed.

  “It appears so,” replied Thomas, not wishing to elucidate.

  “That cursed laurel water?”

  Thomas nodded. “The vapor from it, sir.”

  He frowned. “I should’ve made certain there was no more of it on the estate.” He added pointedly: “It needs a man to take charge.”

  Thomas felt himself flush with anger. “I believe her ladyship is capable of running her own affairs,” he replied hastily.

  Sir Montagu’s brows knitted together. “You think so, do you?” He smirked, looking the doctor straight in the eye. His face was so close Thomas could smell his rancid breath. “Then who shall inherit the estate if there is no heir?”

  Thomas remained looking straight ahead as Sir Montagu circled him. “Surely that is for Lady Lydia to decide, sir,” he replied.

  The man let out a disdainful laugh. “And you are hoping that she chooses you,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Thomas.

  The young doctor clenched his fists at his sides. Anger was welling up inside him, yet he knew he must keep it in check. “I do not feel it is seemly to talk of such matters, sir, while her ladyship lies in a coma.”

  His words registered almost immediately with the lawyer. “You are right, Silkstone,” he acknowledged. “It is a discussion for another time perhaps. But be assured, as long as I draw breath, Lady Lydia Farrell will not be marrying an upstart from the Colonies.” He spat out these last few words with a tone of utter derision in his voice.

  Thomas was thankful when Howard knocked on the door, interrupting Sir Montagu’s tirade. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but I have an urgent message for Dr. Silkstone.” He handed over a letter to Thomas.

  “It seems I am needed back in London immediately,” he said, looking at Sir Montagu. “A nurse will be arriving later today to keep watch over her ladyship.”

  Malthus’s head jerked in acknowledgment. “Then we shall have to continue our conversation at a later date, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied acerbically. Thomas nodded, even though he dared not think about the future.

  Chapter 34

  To the morbidly fascinated and the sexually adventurous who sat in the public gallery of the Old Bailey that day, Signor Leonardo Moreno, the famous foreign castrato, was so much more than a curiosity. True, they had paid their half crowns to see midgets and giants and brothers joined at the hips and women with beards, but this was an altogether better class of monstrosity. Not only did he not possess any testicles, he was a murderer, too, and one who had taken obvious pleasure in executing the most macabre of acts on his victim.

  This Tuscan so-called “gentleman” bore himself admirably, they observed, as he lined up with the seven other felons charged with various offences at the same session. They had heard he was a sodomite, that he and the young man he killed so brutally were lovers. But how could a man with no balls perform? How could he wap a man, woman, or beast, for that matter? So much to see and so many tantalizing questions! What an exciting day in court it would be, they all said.

  The count had brought his friend a fine silk coat to wear, and his powdered wig covered the last few remaining scabs and bruises on his forehead from his earlier beatings. Yet he still looked a shadow of his former self to Boruwlaski. He seemed to have shrunk, both in weight and height.

  Thomas was shocked at the change in his appearance, too. True, the last time he saw him, the Tuscan had been in a dire state, but prior to his imprisonment he had been proud and handsome with an enigmatic air about him. His incarceration had robbed him of much of his exotic glamor. Now he simply looked drained and resigned to his fate.

  Thomas had only arrived at the Old Bailey just in time. He had taken the coach from Oxford the previous morning, but torrential rain had forced him to stop at Windsor for a few hours before he could continue onward to London. He was tired from his journey and still suffering from being flung around mercilessly in a springless coach. Nevertheless, he was eager to do his duty and speak about his postmortem findings on Signor Cappelli’s body as and when he was called.

  The court rose for Judge William Ferrers, a stern-looking man who would clearly not suffer fools gladly. The jurors sat near the lawyers’ semicircular table, twelve of them, all together, followed by the prosecutor. Thomas shot a look of disgust at Rupert Marchant as, exuding his usual air of arrogance, he took to the courtroom floor to begin the day’s business. He studied his gait, his sleek manner, his slack mouth. He was as slippery as a dish of eels, thought Thomas. How could such a man be considered worthy of Lydia? Then again, he mused, had not Lydia insisted on seeing him by herself in relation to the giant’s affairs? Could it be that he was the cause of her flight from London? Was it he she saw at the concert that night?

  One by one the other defendants appeared before Judge Ferrers: a horse thief, a highwayman, and a young moon-cursor, no more than twelve years old. There were two women, as well, both charged with theft, although they both pleaded their bellies and their cases were referred to a female jury. Justice was swift. Most of the defendants were in the dock for no more than ten minutes, and in all of their cases the judge ruled they were guilty.

  Finally, toward an hour later, Moreno took to the stand. A large glass mirror had been positioned to reflect daylight onto the accused, and at that moment a ray of bright sunlight struck it, illuminating the Tuscan’s anxious face, forcing him to shield his eyes. There were murmurings in the gallery. Was this a signal of divine displeasure? A sign that the wicked would find no hiding place in the house of the Lord?

  “I understand you are a foreigner, Signor Moreno,” said the judge slowly, enunciating his words to avoid any confusion. “Can you understand the court proceedings?”

  The accused looked a little uncertain, but nodded. “Yes, Your Honor,” he repl
ied. The charge was put to Moreno in English and he pleaded not guilty.

  “The court calls Count Josef Boruwlaski,” cried the clerk.

  There was a shuffling near the lawyers’ table and in two or three seconds, the count emerged to an eruption of laughter from the public gallery.

  “Order, order,” cried Judge Ferrers, bringing down his gavel hard.

  With difficulty the little man, dressed in a smart red coat and breeches, climbed into the witness box, but there was more laughter when his head could not be seen. Becoming increasingly irritated, the judge called for a stool for the count and warned that if there were any more outbursts he would clear the public gallery.

  “Count Boruwlaski, how long have you known the defendant?” asked Marchant once order was restored.

  “For almost forty years, sir,” replied the count. “We met at the court of the Empress Maria Theresa and came across each other many times in our travels.”

  The prosecutor nodded. “And you were aware that Signor Moreno was what is known as a musico, or better described as a castrato?”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the gallery.

  “Please explain, sir, for those members of the jury who are not familiar with the term what exactly this means, Count,” asked the judge.

  The little man looked slightly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “A castrato is a man who is castrated as a child so his voice does not deepen in adulthood. Instead he may become a soprano or a mezzo soprano,” informed the court.

  “And Signor Moreno was one of the most famous in Europe?” questioned Marchant, pacing backward and forward, his fingers clutching his black robe.

  “Indeed.” The little man nodded. “He had la voce di un angelo —the voice of an angel—and would reduce many a crowned head to tears,” he reflected.

  “Indeed, but his singing days were over, I understand,” pressed Marchant. The count nodded. “And a younger musico, shall we say, was superseding Signor Moreno, which naturally made him jealous.”

  The count frowned and Moreno bristled, gripping the stand. Boruwlaski fumbled for a reply, adding to his friend’s anxiety, and before he refuted the allegation, the Tuscan protested out loud. Shaking a fist at Marchant he cried: “That is untrue. He was my protégé. I loved Carlo.”

  Thomas closed his eyes in shock. Moreno may as well have just placed the noose around his own neck. Marchant smiled and seized the opportunity like a lion on its prey. “You loved him, Signor Moreno?” he quizzed, an eyebrow raised in a cynical arch.

  The courtroom erupted and Thomas leapt to his feet in a moment of frustration, looking toward the terrified Tuscan, who now realized, too late, that he had spoken out of turn and to his great discredit.

  “Order! Order!” called the judge once more.

  The prosecutor walked toward the table and picked up a bundle of letters. He held them up to the court. “These billets-doux, gentlemen of the jury, are proof, sickening proof, that the relationship between Leonardo Moreno and Carlo Cappelli was anything but brotherly. It was sexual and depraved in its nature.”

  Now the spectators began to bay. Thomas looked at their faces; their features were changing, brows knitting together, teeth clenching and baring. They were turning ugly.

  “Did you know of this, Count Boruwlaski? Were you privy to this behavior?” pressed Marchant, suddenly turning on the little man. “Indeed, perhaps you were tempted to indulge in such an accursed abomination yourself?”

  Even the judge was outraged at this unwarranted slur. “Out of order, Mr. Marchant. May I remind you that this gentleman is a character witness, not the accused?” he reprimanded.

  Marchant acknowledged his misdemeanor with a bow. “Forgive me, Your Honor. I was merely trying to familiarize the court with the devious and twisted nature of homosexual relationships. But I digress. Tell us more about Signor Moreno’s good character.”

  The count tugged at his waistcoat as if he had just emerged from a fracas and began once more. “Over the years, Signor Moreno has traveled widely and has never been the cause of any scandal or gossip,” he began. “His conversation has always been witty and affable and his bearing impeccable. Indeed, I believe he was a favorite with the Duke of Saxony.”

  Marchant interrupted. “Note the use of the past tense, gentlemen,” he said to the jury, then to the count: “Pray continue.”

  Clearly affronted, Boruwlaski nevertheless complied. “Signor Moreno performed on the duke’s request at many concerts and in several operas. Indeed, the great Mozart even wrote an aria specifically for his unique voice,” said the little man.

  “But is it not true that about five years ago, Signor Moreno’s voice began to falter and he could no longer sing that particular piece?”

  The count nodded. “That is so, sir.”

  “In fact, Signor Moreno’s voice deteriorated to such an extent that he had to give up singing altogether two years ago.”

  “Where is all this leading us, Mr. Marchant?” queried Judge Ferrers, becoming impatient.

  “It demonstrates my argument, sir, that advancing years had robbed Signor Moreno of his extraordinary voice, that he chose his protégé to service his own sexual appetites, and when his protégé began to enjoy the adulation that had once been accorded him, he decided enough was enough and he cut short his life in the most brutal way.”

  “Conjecture, Mr. Marchant,” said the weary judge, holding up his hand to halt the lawyer’s diatribe.

  Marchant conceded with another bow and dismissed the count, who waddled down from the witness stand in a most vexed state. The dwarf glanced over at his friend, whose appearance seemed even more fragile than before.

  Robert Smee followed, perspiration dripping from his brow. He comported himself in his usual nervous manner and his testimony was almost identical to the version of events he had told Thomas. “He looked shifty, sir; my word, he did, turning this way and that, to see if anyone was around.”

  Next a cry went up from the clerk: “The court calls Marie Dubois.”

  Dubois, thought Thomas. Could she be related to the barber? He studied her as she walked to the stand; her hair and skin were dark, just like her father’s would have been in his prime.

  The timorous girl made a reluctant witness. On the verge of tears for most of her testimony, she kept her face to the floor and mumbled her words so that Justice Ferrers had to ask her to repeat herself on numerous occasions. “I ’eard noises in se gentleman’s room.”

  “What sort of noises?” asked the judge.

  “First I ’eard talking, sen I ’eard shouting.” The girl shot a glance at Marchant. “Sen I ’eard a cry.”

  “A cry?”

  The prosecutor intervened. “What sort of cry, Mademoiselle Dubois? A cry of pleasure or of pain?” He turned smugly to face the gallery as a ripple of laughter pulsed through the onlookers.

  “Of pain, monsieur,” she replied.

  “What time was this?” asked the judge.

  “After two o’clock.”

  There were murmurings of disapproval throughout the courtroom, and the reluctant servant was allowed to step down from the stand, her work done.

  Finally Thomas was called as an expert witness. He did not relish the position. This was the second time he had found himself in a witness box instead of his dissecting rooms. Outcomes in court seemed to him to be based more on conjecture and hearsay than on solid evidence.

  “Tell us what conclusions you came to in your postmortem report, Dr. Silkstone,” ordered Judge Ferrers.

  Thomas knew his evidence needed to be clear and comprehensive. His language would not be technical and he would lay out his findings and conclusions as clearly as possible. “I believe the pressure marks and injuries around the victim’s mouth and face show that he was first suffocated, probably with a pillow in his sleep, and that afterward his larynx . . .”

  The judge interrupted. “Larynx?” he repeated.

  Thomas realized his mistake. “His voice box,” he
continued, “was removed surgically by a person who knew precisely what they were about,” he told the court.

  The judge reflected. “So a surgeon or anatomist?” asked the judge.

  Thomas nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. Certainly someone well versed in the ways of human anatomy.”

  At this point Rupert Marchant leapt to his feet. “Sir, if I may?” he asked the judge.

  “You may cross-examine the witness,” came the reply.

  “So you are saying that someone suffocated Signor Cappelli, obviously using brute force, then performed an operation on him?” asked the lawyer. There was a note of derision in his voice.

  Thomas would not be bullied. “I venture, sir, that two assailants were at work; one to suffocate, the other to operate.”

  At this assertion, the public gallery erupted once more until Mr. Justice Ferrers brought down his gavel and called “order.”

  “An interesting hypothesis, Dr. Silkstone,” remarked the judge. “Have you any other facts with which to support this assertion?”

  Thomas felt uneasy. “I am afraid I do not at this moment in time, sir,” he replied, glancing across at Moreno, whose hopeful expression collapsed as he spoke. “But there are certain lines of enquiry, sir, that I believe need to be followed.”

  The judge shook his head. “Please confine yourself to your dissecting rooms, Dr. Silkstone. The coroner and I will decide the rest. That will be all.”

  Thomas felt duly humbled, but his humility soon turned to anger, especially when he caught Marchant’s victorious sneer as he left the witness stand. His disputations carried little weight with the entrenched legal profession. It seemed to him that they were as set in their ways as those of his own, blind to new ideas and new ways of thinking.

  Moreno’s case was the final one of the day. Soon the jurymen would huddle together to give their verdict before delivering it to the judge. They would seal the fate of a man in only a few short seconds of whisperings and suppositions, thought Thomas.

  There was a hushed silence as the court waited for the judge’s direction, so it came as a shock to everyone, not least to Thomas, that Mr. Justice Ferrers chose another course of action, and a rare one, instead.