by Tessa Harris
“Were there any markings on the jar?”
“No, sir. Nothing, but it is possible to prove it belonged to the castrato, yes?”
Thomas nodded slowly. It would be possible to identify it from its unique physical characteristics. He sighed deeply. “Yes. Yes, I can,” he replied. “I must confront Hunter.” His expression was grave.
Carrington frowned. “Will you not tell the coroner first, sir, so that he can call the constables?”
“This jar,” said Thomas abruptly, “it was not labeled, you say?”
“No, sir. The larynx did not seem to have been prepared in any way—just dropped into the preserving fluid, as if in haste.”
Thomas nodded. “ ’Tis a serious business to accuse a man, and particularly one of such standing, of being complicit in a murder, Mr. Carrington, but it is becoming apparent that Dr. Hunter has many questions to answer. I have seen a convicted criminal enter his premises, and now this . . .” His voice trailed off.
The student nodded. “It would be the right and proper thing to do to go to Sir Peregrine. Hunter is clearly a danger to himself and others. The infection has turned his mind, as well as his body.” Thomas detected a note of frustration in Carrington’s voice.
“You have no love for your master, do you, Carrington?”
The young man looked uncomfortable. “I have no love for a murderer,” he replied.
Nor had Thomas, and he feared that unless he acted quickly, young Cappelli would not be the only victim. Dr. Hunter had another, altogether bigger prize in his sights.
Charles was as pleased as he could be with the evening’s transactions. O’Shea had vouched for the loyalty of his friends, and it would be their job to keep watch over his sealed coffin. He would remain under their charge until such time as a wagon would transport it to Margate in Kent. The mad Irishman and his friends would accompany it. From there it would be lifted onto a barge and taken out to sea to be sunk into the depths of the English Channel, where no thieving anatomist could reach it. For their pains the guardians would be paid a handsome five pounds each. And to prove he could pay them the money, Charles had flourished his seven-hundred-pound note before their very eyes. It was a fine plan, thought the giant as he walked out into the night air and headed back to the comfort of his bed.
It had begun to rain quite heavily and, as he rounded the corner into Cockspur Street, his eyes half-closed against the stinging drops, he did not see the three gin-soaked scoundrels lying in wait for him in the shadows. They had been drinking in the Cock Tavern, as they did most nights, and spotted his bank note. They were never known to miss such an opportunity. One hit him on the head with a pickax handle and as he went reeling from the blow, another pulled him down to the ground while the other felt inside his coat.
“Here it is,” cried the villain with the nimble fingers, waving the precious piece of paper in the air.
The other men stopped kicking the giant then, although one of them did boot him once more in the head, just for luck, and the thin trickle of blood from above his eye mingled with the rainwater and joined the general filth that ran down the street.
Dr. Carruthers delivered the longed-for news. It was a late hour, but Thomas made preparations to be on the road to Boughton at first light. The message from Sir Theodisius said only that Lydia was awake. It was a blessing, indeed, but the Oxfordshire coroner had neglected to give any further details. Thomas did not know what to expect. Inhalation of cyanide vapors could lead to a whole multitude of complications including vertigo, a weak pulse, and even short-term memory loss.
He was about to retire to snatch a few precious hours of sleep when there was a furious knocking on the door downstairs. He hurried to answer it, not wishing to alarm Mistress Finesilver. Standing breathless on the doorstep he recognized the house boy from Cockspur Street.
“Sir, I am come from the count. He says Mr. Byrne is hurt and needs your help right away,” he panted.
Thomas grabbed his coat and his medical bag, which was already packed in the hallway, and followed the servant to a waiting carriage. Arriving at Cockspur Street a few minutes later, he was greeted by Boruwlaski, worry etched all over his small face.
“What has happened? The boy said Charles was hurt,” said Thomas, rushing into the hallway.
“He was beaten senseless by a bunch of hoodlums,” replied the count, leading the way upstairs. “They stole all his money.”
The giant was lying on his bed, fully clothed, but barely conscious. Blood stained his waistcoat and breeches. Emily sat by his head, sponging a wound. She moved away as Thomas approached. Opening his bag, he took out a bottle of tincture of iodine and began dabbing the cut on Charles’s forehead. It was not as deep as he had first feared and did not, in his opinion, require stitches.
Thomas administered laudanum for the giant’s pain and told Emily to apply arnica to his bruises. “If his condition worsens, then you must call for Dr. Carruthers, who will know what to do,” he instructed the maid. “I am needed elsewhere, but I intend to be back as soon as I can,” he told her, secretly praying that Lydia would be in a fit enough state to return with him to London.
Chapter 40
Time was not on Thomas’s side. He was yet to confront Dr. Hunter. Signor Moreno languished in jail; Charles’s injuries, although not life-threatening, could worsen his chronic condition; and Lydia, although conscious, would need many days, if not weeks, to recover from breathing in the toxic cyanide vapors. Sleep was out of the question that night. Instead he went straight from the giant’s bedside to stables in Fleet Street, hired a good mount, and rode out of London as dawn was breaking over the city.
Before ten o’clock he had a fresh horse, and he finally arrived at Boughton shortly after three that afternoon. Sir Theodisius, alerted to his arrival a few moments before, was in the hall to greet him, a relieved look on his round face.
“Oh, Dr. Silkstone, how glad I am to see you,” he cried.
Thomas was equally glad to be at Boughton and to see that the coroner was in an ebullient mood.
“How fares Lady Lydia?” he asked anxiously.
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” said Sir Theodisius, pointing the way up toward the bedchamber.
Thomas nodded and bounded up the stairs. The exhaustion from riding since dawn disappeared as he made his way to the room. To his delight, he found Lydia sitting up in bed, finishing off a bowl of broth held by Nurse Pring. As soon as she saw the young doctor, the nurse rose and curtsied.
“Dr. Silkstone!” Looks of surprise and delight mingled on her face, but on her patient’s there was nothing. Lydia looked at Thomas and registered no emotion, no flicker of recognition.
“Your ladyship, ’tis Dr. Silkstone, come to see how you fare,” the nurse said gently.
The color had returned to normal in Lydia’s cheeks and her eyes were bright, but Thomas could see that her breathing was labored.
“Thank you, Nurse Pring. I shall examine her ladyship now,” he said, and the nurse left the room, leaving Thomas alone with his patient. His instinct was to rush toward her, sweep her up in his arms, and hold her tightly. He had feared that this moment might never come and had rehearsed it in his own mind so many times. But now that it had arrived, that they were together, alone, there seemed to be a strange distance between them. He sat on the bed. He wanted to take her hand in his and kiss it, but he did not. The enigmatic look in her eyes prevented him from doing so.
“Lydia. Your ladyship, ’tis I, Dr. Silkstone. Thomas,” he said softly.
“Thomas,” she echoed, tilting her head slightly as she studied his face. “Thomas,” she repeated, only this time with more conviction in her voice.
“Yes,” he said gently. He laid his hand flat on the bed coverlet, but still did not dare to touch her. He knew that cyanide poisoning could sometimes cause temporary amnesia in its victims. He feared he might find her in a confused state, but this was worse than he had imagined.
“You have been very il
l, my lady. You have been asleep for almost two weeks. I am here to take care of you. To see that you recover,” he told her. “May I examine you?”
Again she looked at him strangely, as if her mind was in another place, trying to recall faces, names, places. “Yes,” she replied.
Gently he took her wrist and tried to find her pulse. He saw her take a deep breath and close her eyes for a moment, as if his touch thrilled her, and when she opened them again after two or three seconds, she looked at him again.
“Thomas,” she said, only this time, there was meaning in her voice. “Thomas,” she repeated, smiling. She put her hand on his on the coverlet and he felt a surge of joy.
“Oh, my love,” he said, leaning forward and putting both arms around her. He felt tears welling up in his eyes.
“I remember,” she said. “Yes, yes, I do.”
Wiping away a tear, he studied her face once more. Even though she could remember his features, he suspected the fog of the coma still shrouded many of her memories. There would be questions from her and the answers would be painful, but for the time being he rejoiced in her emergence back into reality.
“I am here to help you get well,” he told her. “Tell me how you feel?”
“I am a little short of breath,” she replied. “And a little giddy.”
“You have been out of bed?”
“Nurse Pring bade me walk to the window to see if I could. I was unsteady on my feet.”
“ ’Tis to be expected,” said Thomas as he resumed feeling for her pulse. When he did feel the beat, it was weak, as he suspected it would be.
“Thomas,” she said. “Tell me what happened? They said it was an accident, that I breathed in poisonous vapors, but I do not understand how.” She paused thoughtfully. “I do not believe they are telling me the whole truth.”
Thomas felt his own heart miss a beat. Her memory was worse affected than he feared, yet her faculties and her perception remained sharp. He took a deep breath and held her hand. “There is so much to tell you, my love, but it should wait until you are stronger.”
She frowned. “But why should you keep anything from me?” she asked. “Is my past so terrible? Have I done something so dreadful that I must be shielded from it?” Her voice was becoming agitated, and with it, her breathing came in shorter, sharper pants.
Thomas knew he needed to calm her. “I will tell you the truth, I promise, just as soon as you are feeling a little better. But now you must rest.”
He made her lay her head back on her pillows and her breathing eased. “You have to trust me, my Lydia,” he said, gently stroking her forehead. Her eyes closed. “I will not let anyone hurt you ever again,” he told her. “You are safe now.”
Back in London, Emily was also doing her best to reassure Charles Byrne that his wounds would soon heal and that all would be well. She had been at his side all night and was with him when he woke around noon. He had cried out in pain when he tried to sit up, and she had given him laudanum from the phial Dr. Silkstone had left. It seemed to ease him and he slept some more until late afternoon.
“I am a dead man,” he groaned as she tried to make him drink a little chicken broth later that evening. “I have lost everything.”
Emily’s eyes played on his head and face. The skin was black and purple, like a pulped plum. “How could they do this to you?” she lamented.
“They took my money. They took it all,” reflected the giant mournfully. “Now I’ll never get back home.”
“Do not give up all hope, Charles,” she soothed, trying to coax another spoonful of broth through his swollen lips. “Do not forget the king can still grant your da a pardon.” She tried to sound cheerful, but in reality, she knew there was little hope left. She had seen from an upper window that not only Howison waited for him outside. Hunter’s surly lackey had been joined by more men now, envoys of other anatomists eager to get their scalpels into such a prize. For all she knew, they could even have beaten up her beloved to hasten his death. They scented blood in their nostrils. Soon they would come in for the kill. She knew that Charles had asked her father and his friends to keep watch over his remains and sink his coffin into the sea once he was gone, safe from the surgeons’ knives, but she feared strong liquor might mean they did not keep to their word.
She put the half-empty bowl of soup down when she saw he would drink no more. “You need to rest now,” she told him.
“Emily,” he said, as he watched her smooth his coverlet.
“Yes, Charles,” she replied, looking at him with a gentle smile.
He held out his huge hand and took hers, enveloping it as petals close around a bud. She gazed down, and the sight of it brought tears to her eyes. “Whatever h-happens to me,” he said, fixed intently on her, “I want you to know that I love you.”
She smiled tenderly. “Here, I have something for you,” she said, delving into her apron pocket and taking out a lock of her own hair, tied with a white ribbon. “I kept some of yours, so ’tis only fair that you should have some of mine.”
The giant’s enormous fingers closed ’round the lock and he held it to his lips to kiss it before holding it to his breast.
At that moment the count burst into the chamber, unaware of the scene of tender intimacy that he had just interrupted.
“I have great news,” he cried excitedly. He climbed up onto a chair by the giant’s bedside, clutching a sheet of parchment. “ ’Tis from His Majesty’s court. They have granted your father a posthumous pardon, Charles!” Forgetting the extent of the giant’s injuries, he leaned over and planted a kiss on his friend’s cheek in the continental manner. Despite his discomfort, Charles managed a smile. Even Emily abandoned all decorum in front of the count.
“I’m so happy for you,” she cried, squeezing Charles’s hand.
The little man was so caught up in the moment that he jumped down from the chair and started dancing a jig, flourishing the parchment in his tiny hand. “A pardon, a pardon, a very royal pardon,” he sang, making Emily laugh. Even Charles began to chuckle, but his exertions caused him to cough, making his bruised ribs doubly painful.
“We must leave you now. You must rest,” said the little man, bringing his moment of madness to a sudden halt. “I am sorry.”
Emily sketched a curtsy and left the room, but the giant beckoned his small friend over to him. Turning his large black head, he whispered into the little man’s ear: “Thank you, Count. At least now I can die a happy man.”
Chapter 41
Memories, mused Thomas, are what make us what we are. Without them we cannot be ourselves. They shape our characters and our actions. All that we do and all that we are comes from our own experiences and the recollection of them. Stored deep within the secret labyrinths of the brain, they could be selected and recalled at will, like books in the Ancient Library of Alexandria. He was watching Lydia as she slept opposite him in the carriage on the journey to London and he knew that she was still not herself. Until she recalled all that had gone before, until she could once again open those books of memories, she could not move on with her life.
He did not know how long her memory loss would last. He had heard of cases where the patient never recovered from the amnesia. He took comfort in the fact that hers was only a partial loss of recollection at the moment. She had recalled Sir Theodisius and snatched fragments of her childhood, like playing with her brother, although she had not remembered that he was dead. Naturally she had been devastated when Thomas had told her, but then the realization had triggered other memories, too, and she spoke of her cousin Francis and of her late husband. Thomas feared that such a torrent of terrible memories might push her into a deep depression, and he had reluctantly sedated her.
He had carried her into the carriage while she slept and her head rested on his shoulder. She was well covered with a blanket and a shawl, although the spring weather was fine and warm. Now and again, her breathing came in short gasps, but Thomas had seen such symptoms before and kn
ew that they should pass in a few days.
Lovelock was at the reins, with Will as footman. The ground was dry and hard, so that they were making good progress when Thomas saw the milepost for Beaconsfield. They were now more than forty miles into the journey, and Lydia began to stir. She rubbed her eyes, opened them, and to Thomas’s delight, smiled when she saw his face.
“Where are we?” she asked, sitting up and straightening her back.
“Near Beaconsfield. Another three hours and we should be in London,” he told her.
She seemed satisfied with his answer and turned to look out of the carriage window.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
After a moment she turned to look at him. “Very strange,” she replied. “In myself I feel weak and tired, but I also feel”—she paused, searching for the right word—“empty.”
“Because you cannot remember?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Although I do remember more now.”
“Go on,” Thomas urged.
“I remember Michael and what happened, and Mama. I seem to be able to recall things that happened a long time ago, and yet . . .”
“And yet you cannot remember what happened just before you were poisoned.”
“Is that what usually happens?”
Thomas nodded. “Your long-term memory does not seem to have been so badly affected. But your short-term memory will return. Have no fear,” Thomas assured her.
She smiled and slipped her hand in his. “I remember us,” she said. “I remember how very much in love we were.”
“And are,” he said, kissing her hand.
She held his gaze. “Can you love someone who tried to take their own life?”
Thomas froze. She was staring at him with trusting eyes. Did she really recall what happened or was she testing him?
“You were not well and I was not with you,” he replied. “You would not let me help you, but I am here now.”
