by Tessa Harris
“I call for a respite,” he cried.
A look of shock darted across Marchant’s hitherto smug face, while Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.
“I am not convinced by the arguments for or against the defendant, and I order that he return to the court at the end of the month, by which time I trust I will be better satisfied as to his innocence or guilt,” said the judge, bringing down his gavel.
Thomas rose to signal to the Tuscan, showing him his support, and then turned to find the count. As he did so, however, he caught sight of a burly man in the public gallery who was making his way out of the courtroom. It was the prizefighter, Crouch.
The count approached Thomas. “We could not have hoped for more in the circumstances.” He smiled, but the young anatomist did not reply. His eyes were following Crouch as he reached the exit.
“Forgive me, Count. I must go,” he said, brushing past the little man and hurrying out of the courtroom, his gaze fixed on Crouch as he pushed his way through the crowd and out onto the street.
A carriage was waiting for the prizefighter outside and he climbed in hurriedly and was off in a flash, heading north, out of the city. Thomas was only a few paces behind, but he was not quick enough to stop the coach. His horse was tethered in stables at the rear of the court. Nevertheless, he managed to mount and set off on the same road shortly afterward. Riding almost at a trot, he wove his way around handcarts and wagons, until at last, along High Holborn, he saw Crouch’s carriage.
He followed it at a steady pace for another twenty minutes up Oxford Street. It was as he suspected. He needed to prove his theory that not one man, but two, were instrumental in the brutal killing of Carlo Cappelli. Up until now he had no proof to link the prizefighter with Dr. Hunter. Convinced that all that was about to change, he rounded the bend and Earls Court came into view. As Thomas suspected, the drawbridge was down and in drove the carriage, carrying the villain. Crouch was the murderer. Marie Dubois had given him free access to Cappelli’s room. He had suffocated the young castrato, there was little doubt in Thomas’s mind, and John Hunter had worked on the warm corpse with such cold precision with his scalpel and tweezers to satisfy his morbidly insatiable curiosity. The brute was about to impart to his master the day’s proceedings in court. No doubt Hunter would be deeply disturbed by the fact that Moreno had not been found guilty—for the time being, at least. Thomas knew that this brief respite would mean the Scotsman would only redouble his efforts to see that the Tuscan was taken to the rope at the end of the month. Satisfied of the link between Crouch and Hunter, Thomas turned his horse and headed for home. Now he would need to find hard evidence—evidence he was sure lay within the walls of the anatomist’s macabre fortress. He was convinced that Cappelli’s larynx was being stored in a preserving jar, somewhere in Hunter’s laboratory, but he had no idea how he would gain access to the premises in order to prove his hunch without being detected. It was then that he thought of Carrington, the young student who was so keen to assist him and who had, for a while, been concerned about his master’s mental state. While he only worked for Hunter in his laboratory very occasionally, he nonetheless had access to his specimens. On the morrow Thomas resolved to go to St. George’s and enlist the young man’s help.
Chapter 35
The light was starting to fade as Thomas made his way back to Hollen Street. Even so, he decided to call in on the count and Charles. He had not seen his patient for almost a week now and he wondered how he was faring. The groom took his horse and he was just climbing the steps to the front door when he caught sight from the corner of his eye of someone staring at him. He turned to see the dark figure of Howison, leaning brazenly on a tree trunk, simply watching him. Thomas felt slightly unnerved, but did not acknowledge the servant.
Inside, he found the giant by the window in the upstairs drawing room, gazing down onto the street below. He was in a melancholy mood, clutching a glass of gin in his enormous hand. Boruwlaski sat nearby.
“What is Hunter’s man doing there?” asked Thomas.
“He follows Charles everywhere,” said the count, handing the doctor a brandy. “You know that madman wants to dissect him.”
Thomas felt he could not feign ignorance. “I had heard,” he said, turning to the giant. “But he cannot without your permission, Charles. And you have friends who will see to it that your wishes are carried out.” His voice trailed off. There was no longer any point in denying that he would die sooner rather than later.
The giant turned. “I want to d-die at home, in Ireland, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas felt awkward. He dealt with death on a daily basis, yet it was always hard for him to make plans with one who was still living. “The count and I will do everything to assist you,” he replied, looking at Boruwlaski for reassurance.
“I do not trust that doctor,” said Charles, dragging his weary body over to a chair. Thomas noticed that even walking was becoming a struggle for him now. “H-Hunter by name and hunter by nature,” he mused, easing himself down.
“But his man dared not follow you to the palace,” chimed in the count, settling himself opposite Thomas.
“What’s this?” asked the doctor, intrigued.
“The king and queen asked to see Charles at Kew Palace. They were most impressed!” The little man beamed.
Thomas smiled. “That is indeed good news!” he said, and Charles suddenly lifted his head.
“Even better, my friend,” continued the count, hardly able to contain himself, “the king says that he will look into the case of Charles’s father. He will personally deal with it!”
“I am delighted for you,” said Thomas, turning to Charles, but while the giant managed a smile, it was a weak one, and he winced with pain.
Noting this, the count changed the subject. “Tell me, Thomas, what happened today, after court?” he enquired.
The young doctor told him that Crouch’s trail had led him to Hunter’s laboratory, as he had suspected. “Hunter is up to something. I’m convinced he had a hand in young Cappelli’s murder,” he said.
Boruwlaski looked quite shocked. “Surely not?” he exclaimed. “I have known him for a while now. He is a genius, ahead of his time, yes, and he sails close to the wind when he consorts with grave robbers, but a murderer? I cannot believe it!”
Charles raised his large head. “I can, to be sure,” he said. “The way he looked at me with those c-cold eyes of his. The way he has set that filthy dog on my tail.” He motioned to Howison at the window. “I s-say he would do anything for a c-corpse.”
Thomas nodded. “It seems we are all agreed that Dr. Hunter has scant regard for the law when he deals with the dead, but whether he would commit murder is another matter.” He recalled the pus-filled syringe that Carrington had shown him. Was the self-administered syphilitic poison turning Hunter’s mental faculties as it did with so many of its victims? He feared as much, and a shiver ran down his spine. “I shall find out, gentlemen,” he declared, rising from his seat.
“You are not leaving us so soon?” asked Boruwlaski, surprised by the doctor’s intention. Thomas was, however, mindful of the late hour and unwilling to risk the lawless streets once more. He also knew he must rise early the following day.
“I am afraid I must,” he replied. “I shall go to St. George’s first thing tomorrow to make enquiries.”
“But you have not told us about your visit to Boughton Hall. How is her ladyship? Well, I trust?” enquired the count innocently.
Thomas’s face dropped. He could not bear the thought of having to explain what a nightmare the past week had been and how the ordeal continued. He looked solemn. “I am afraid to say Lady Lydia is unwell.”
Boruwlaski frowned. “I am sorry to hear that” he said, but, detecting the young doctor’s unease, he did not press him any further. “Let us hope she is soon restored.”
Thomas nodded, forcing his features into a half smile. “Let us hope,” he echoed.
Yet another candle had
almost burned to its wick in Lady Lydia Farrell’s bedchamber. Sir Theodisius Pettigrew had lost count of the number he had seen flare and splutter in a pool of hot tallow. Either he or Nurse Pring had always lit another before the light was extinguished, of course, but each taper marked the passage of yet more time without the merest flicker of hope.
Three days had now passed since Dr. Silkstone had left Boughton; seven since Lydia had fallen into this state of deep slumber. The hour was late and the coroner, too, felt like sleeping. For the last few days he had only dozed in fits and starts, waking every two or three hours. Nurse Pring kept vigil at night, but his own presence not only reassured her during the long, dark hours, but made him feel a little better, too. His own sense of helplessness was slightly assuaged knowing that should Lydia awake, then his would be the first face she would see, and not some stranger’s.
During the hours of daylight, when the house was awake, his vigil was less of a burden. Downstairs he would hear the natural domestic rhythms of the hall: the maids’ shoes on the marble tiles, the sound of doors being shut or opened. Outside there would be the occasional shouts from the gardener or the groom, the barking of dogs and the calling of doves. His own dear Hetty would take her turn at Lydia’s bedside, too, and the servants would look in every hour to see if anything was needed. But nothing was.
Not even food had offered him comfort. Mistress Claddingbowl had tried to tempt him with her tarts and pies and roasted joints, but, strangely enough, none of her victuals held any appeal. The coroner’s usually voracious appetite had deserted him, along with his good humor.
And what would his old friend the fifth earl make of all this, he asked himself. He was glad Richard had been spared the sight of his beautiful daughter thus indisposed. He had known before his death that he was not leaving his beloved Boughton in safe hands. He despaired of his only son Edward’s wastrel ways and had confided as much on his deathbed. But Lydia, his dear, sweet Lydia, with her angelic looks and her gentle disposition; she was the light of his life, and now that light was dim and flickering and could expire at any moment.
Sir Theodisius wiped a tear away from his flaccid cheek. He and his beloved wife had not been blessed with their own children, and Lydia had always held a special place in their affections. They had watched her grow into a fine young woman. They had fretted, along with her mother, the dowager, when she married the ne’er-do-well Farrell, and mourned with her when he and Lady Felicity were taken from them. The young woman had suffered so much over the past twelve months, but just as it seemed that she had finally found happiness with Dr. Silkstone, this terrible accident had occurred.
Not in all his threescore years and ten had he observed two people so in love. He had seen their stolen kisses when they thought no one was looking and he was sure that both had marriage in their sights, although nothing had been said. With this in mind, however, he had taken it upon himself, in loco parentis, to make some enquiries of his nephew, who lived in Philadelphia. He knew that this was Dr. Silkstone’s hometown, so he had written to ask if anything could be ascertained regarding his parentage. The reply had arrived only two days ago. He had read it to himself in Lydia’s bedchamber, then out loud again, so that if, by some strange happenstance, she might be able to hear his voice, then she could listen to its contents.
Sir Theodisius’s nephew, a wealthy merchant, spoke very highly of the Silkstone family. Dr. Thomas Silkstone Senior was, indeed, the very pillar of the community, counting among his patients several politicians, including George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. As Presbyterians, originally from Yorkshire, they also owned estates in New Jersey and Maryland and did many charitable works, establishing a school and a hospital for the relief of the sick poor.
“Your Dr. Silkstone may not be titled, my dear, but he comes from an excellent family,” assured Sir Theodisius, patting the coverlet on Lydia’s bed as if she could hear him. Sir Montagu would find it very hard to raise objections to such a union, if it was ever proposed, when, or if, Lydia ever regained consciousness, he told himself. The thought of this beautiful young woman trapped indefinitely in a silent prison was suddenly too much for him to bear and he began to weep freely this time, his flabby jowls wobbling with every sob.
Chapter 36
Thomas took a coach out to St. George’s Hospital, on Hyde Park Corner, first thing the next morning. The air was no longer as fresh as the institution’s founding fathers would have wished it, and the once-quiet countryside was being swallowed up by the city’s voracious appetite so that traffic and noise swirled around the building day and night.
Climbing three shallow steps, Thomas entered via a narrow blue door and found himself in a large, stone-flagged hallway. The place was bustling with physicians and surgeons as well as patients in various states of distress. He gave his name to a porter who sat at a desk behind a wooden screen.
“Dr. Thomas Silkstone to see Mr. Giles Carrington,” he said.
A young man standing nearby looked up and regarded Thomas with a strange expression.
“I will send word to Mr. Carrington,” said the porter. “Please wait here, sir.”
Thomas did as he was bidden, pacing up and down past the dispensary and other offices that led off the reception area, but he was suddenly aware that he was becoming the object of some curiosity. Huddles of young men were gathering nearby, looking at him, whispering and smiling. Giles Carrington arrived not a moment too soon for Thomas’s comfort.
“Mr. Carrington,” he greeted the young student courteously. “I am come to see you on a most urgent matter. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
Carrington looked puzzled. “Yes, indeed, Dr. Silkstone,” he said. “We can walk in the grounds. We will not be overheard,” he assured him, leading Thomas outside to a flower garden.
Thomas began earnestly. “I am speaking to you in the utmost confidence,” he said. “It concerns the murder of Signor Carlo Cappelli.”
“The castrato?” replied Carrington. “I have read about the case in the newssheets. The case is the talk of taverns and dinner tables throughout the capital.”
Thomas nodded and took a deep breath. “I carried out a postmortem on his body and found that his larynx had been surgically removed, with great skill.”
“Yes, I read that, too,” replied Carrington, looking serious. “A terrible affair, but they have charged a fellow countryman, yes?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes, but I believe the man is innocent.” He went on: “I also believe that the murder was the work of two men; one to smother the victim and the other to carry out the surgery.”
Carrington stopped walking, contemplating the hypothesis. He turned to face the doctor. “And you think Dr. Hunter may be responsible?”
Thomas was slightly taken aback by the student’s forthrightness, but he welcomed it. “In light of what you told me about him, I wondered if the disease might be turning his mind.”
Carrington closed his eyes. “I feared something like this might happen,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned closer to Thomas. “He has a secret store.”
“A secret store?” echoed Thomas, frowning.
“’Tis where he keeps all his special specimens. He will not let me see it and he keeps it under lock and key. I’ll wager that is where you will find this poor unfortunate’s larynx and many more body parts besides.”
The young student spoke with a confidence that shocked Thomas. “So you believe that your master is capable of such an act?”
Carrington looked Thomas straight in the eye. “I fear so, sir.”
The doctor nodded. “Then we must find a way of entering this store and searching it to try to obtain evidence. How can this be done?”
Carrington thought for a moment, then said: “I will be working at the laboratory tomorrow. I know where he keeps the key. I shall look for the larynx, and that will be our proof.” There was a note of excitement in his voice that unsettled Thomas. He feared that such enthusiasm for the task would be
the young man’s undoing. If Hunter were to find that his pupil had betrayed him, God alone knew what he might do.
“Be careful, Mr. Carrington,” he warned. “Dr. Hunter is clearly unstable.”
The student nodded. “Have no fear, Dr. Silkstone. I am up to the task,” he said gravely, any trace of his boyish enthusiasm now dissipated.
Just as they were about to bid each other farewell as they walked back toward the gateway, Thomas saw another young student smile at him on the path and remembered the curious looks of the others as he waited in the hallway earlier.
“Mr. Carrington, I have noticed that some students are regarding me very oddly here. Do you know why that might be?” he asked.
Carrington let out a spontaneous laugh. “Why, yes, sir. All of London’s anatomists know that you are the Irish Giant’s physician and that you are the man to beat to dissect him when he dies!”
Thomas looked askance. “In God’s name!” he exclaimed. “You jest?!”
The student shook his head. “Why, no, sir. Dr. Hunter is not the only one with designs on the giant. His brother, William, is another who would love to get his hands on the carcass, to name but one.”
A sense of repulsion suddenly filled Thomas. Members of his profession were, at times, no better than a pack of baying wolves or conniving vultures intent on scavenging, with scant regard for human dignity. He would personally see to it that they would all be disappointed in their quest to dissect Charles Byrne.
Arriving back in Hollen Street before noon, Thomas went immediately to his laboratory. Franklin, his pet rat, was gnawing away at the bars of his iron cage and he opened the door and let him roam freely. Walking over to his desk, he picked up the sheaf of notes he had made on Carlo Cappelli’s postmortem. Somewhere, he told himself, within those pages, lay some vital clue as to the murderer. For the moment, however, he had to trust in the investigations of a guileless but enthusiastic youth, and he felt most uncomfortable with it.
