The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  “I cannot remember why, Thomas.” She shook her head and withdrew her hand from his. “If only I could remember why,” she cried through clenched teeth. Thomas felt her frustration.

  “Something happened,” he said slowly, recalling the night of the concert.

  “What do you mean?” She frowned.

  “You saw someone, or someone said something to you that changed you. You were so agitated. You returned to Cockspur Street and then the next day you came and told me you wished to end our betrothal.”

  She turned and looked unseeing out of the window. “The concert. The concert with the young castrato,” she said slowly.

  “Yes. Yes. That’s right!” In his excitement Thomas took both her hands in his. They had just begun the steep descent of White Hill from Holtspur Heath. There was dense woodland on either side and the leaves were already out, creating thick green canopies on either side. But before Lydia could say any more, there was a loud cry and a horseman came thundering past the carriage window. A second later Lovelock was pulling up the horses and they came to an abrupt halt, almost throwing the passengers onto the other side of the carriage.

  “What is it?” asked Lydia nervously.

  Thomas put his head out of the carriage window. The horseman wore a black mask and was pointing a pistol at Lovelock, and when he saw Thomas, he turned the barrel on him.

  “So, who have we here?” sneered the man.

  “I am a surgeon and a physician, sir,” replied Thomas.

  The highwayman pulled on the reins to make his horse backtrack to give him a better view inside the carriage. Lydia put her head down, not wishing to meet his leering gaze, but it was too late. He had seen her.

  “Well, well, and this is your patient, I presume.” His manner was snide and cocksure. “A fair one, and that’s for sure. Let’s be havin’ you, then.” He leaned over and opened the carriage door. “Out you come. Both of you,” he barked.

  Thomas resisted. “Can you not see this lady is sick?” he cried. But the highwayman simply cocked his pistol and pointed it at the doctor’s head.

  “Get out or I’ll blow your brains out,” he ordered.

  “No! No, please!” screamed Lydia, tugging on Thomas’s coat as he rose.

  “ ’Twill be all right,” he told her.

  “And you,” shouted the thug to Lydia.

  “Leave her, will you. She is sick, I tell you,” shouted Thomas. Once again, he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

  “She looks well enough to me.” He smirked, watching Lydia cautiously make her way out of the carriage, clinging on to the door to steady herself. His eyes alighted on a jeweled clasp that Lydia wore on the front of her bodice. “And that looks good to me, too,” he said, lurching forward and ripping off the ornament in one fell swoop.

  Lydia screamed and hid her face in Thomas’s shoulder. He knew there was no point in fighting back. Every week some poor unfortunate traveler ended up dead at the hands of a highwayman. Instead, he comforted her. She was now crying almost uncontrollably. He feared for her breathing. He could hear her gasping for breath in between sobs.

  “You’ve got what you wanted, now go,” cried Thomas. But the highwayman started to laugh.

  “That’s rich, that!” He was doubling over, clutching his sides mockingly, but then he stopped suddenly, dismounted, and walked over to Thomas. Grabbing him by the throat, he hissed menacingly: “I haven’t even started.”

  Thomas swallowed hard, feeling the man’s grip tighten, but then it suddenly loosened as the sound of hooves approached.

  “Constables!” cried Will Lovelock.

  Two men on horseback were galloping down the hill toward them. The highwayman ran to his horse, mounted, and rode off, firing a single shot in the air as he did so. Thomas rushed to comfort Lydia, who was now shaking and struggling to breathe.

  The constables pulled up their horses. “The lady is not hurt, sir?” one asked.

  “No, but in shock,” replied Thomas, helping Lydia toward the carriage.

  “We needs be after ’im,” shouted the other and they jabbed their horses’ sides and were off in hot pursuit of the highwayman, leaving Thomas, Lydia, Lovelock, and Will to compose themselves.

  They settled Lydia back in the carriage and covered her with blankets to keep her warm. She was still shaking violently and looked dazed, but Thomas thought it best to continue their journey. From out of his bag he took smelling salts and tried to revive her. They eased her stupor a little, but it was a while before her condition stabilized and Thomas gave the order to move on.

  He held her close in the carriage, stroking her hair, but her tears still fell. “You are safe now, my love,” he comforted her.

  Lovelock made good progress through Beaconsfield and on beyond Windsor until they reached Newgate. The landscape was now more familiar to him. Trees gave way to tall buildings, and the smell of dung and filth wafted into the carriage. It was growing late, and darkness was closing in. Lydia had not spoken since they had moved off again, sleeping for most of the journey, but now that they were in the city and the rhythm of the carriage changed, stopping and starting to allow flocks of sheep or carts to pass, she awoke and sat up.

  “My brooch,” she whispered, suddenly feeling her dress. Thomas thought of the garnet and enamel clasp that the highwayman had ripped so cruelly from her bodice.

  “The constables will retrieve it for you,” Thomas assured her, but she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him.

  “No, you don’t understand,” she said, looking intently at him. “The brooch, it made me remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “When I had the long sleep, I had a dream. Only it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, a memory that I had tried so hard to forget. When the man touched me and pulled at me, then I remembered.” She shuddered and turned to Thomas. “You must promise me that what I am about to tell you will be our secret.”

  The young doctor looked at her earnestly. Her expression was pained and frightened. “I swear, on my life.”

  “I pray to God you will not think less of me, but I understand if you do.” Her voice was cracking with emotion.

  “There is nothing in the world that you could do that would make me love you less,” Thomas cried, taking both her hands in his. “You are the kindest, noblest, and most dutiful person I have ever met.”

  “If that were only so,” she muttered, her head dropping in shame. “I was young and foolish. I didn’t understand—” She broke off.

  “Whatever has happened, whatever you have done, your burden will feel less if you share it with one who loves you beyond all else,” he told her, pulling her toward him again.

  “I remember now why I tried to kill myself, and I wish I had succeeded,” she sobbed.

  “You must not speak so, my love,” scolded Thomas.

  “I am a wicked woman.”

  “How could you do anything wicked? Tell me what it is that so distresses you.”

  Once more she took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for her confession, and then began: “You know we eloped, Michael and I?”

  That much Thomas knew. He nodded.

  She went on: “We lived in Bath, as man and wife. I loved him so much, but I knew that Mama would never consent to our union unless Michael renounced any claim to the Boughton estate. After about six months I feared I was with child—I had been feeling unwell for some time—and I told him so. He changed toward me. He said we could not have a child out of wedlock. I knew he was right, but I thought perhaps he would marry me and we could survive on my modest income. I thought that all would be well.” There was a note of pleading in her voice. She went on, “About a week later, he said we were to go on a journey, to London. I thought perhaps he had arranged a marriage service there. How wrong I was.” The tears returned, flowing freely. “He took me to a house, I cannot recall where, and he started to ply me with brandy, which I did not want. T
hen he led me through into a room.” She paused once more. “I cannot speak of it, Thomas. I cannot speak of the horror. They lifted me onto a table.”

  “They?” Thomas interrupted.

  “This other man, he fastened me down. I tried to cry out, Thomas, but I couldn’t move. He had a needle. A hollow needle,” she sobbed. “And he did it. He did it! He plunged it into me and poured in some poison to kill the child in my womb.” She hid her face in his shoulder, her whole body convulsed with sobs.

  “And you saw that man again?”

  She nodded, her head still buried in his coat.

  “He was the one you saw at the concert, and you remembered.” He paused. “John Hunter.”

  Thomas felt the tears well up in his own eyes. The enormity and the gravity of what he had just heard left him numb. He recalled the fetuses he had delivered before their time; at five months there was hair on the head, there were nails on toes and fingertips; at six months a babe could cry and suckle and kick. Eyelids could open, fists could punch, the grip was strong. In his mind’s eye he pictured the inside of the uterus, dark and red and safe, a mother’s crimson cushion protecting the unborn. The child was curled, with knees flexed and its head on its chest, soothed by the distant rhythm of its maternal heartbeat. All was peaceful and secure until . . .

  The carriage rounded Whitcomb Street and came to an abrupt halt. Thomas put his head out. They had stopped far short of the count’s lodgings.

  “What is it, Lovelock?” he called.

  “Up ahead, sir,” said the groom, pointing to the street that was blocked by a sea of people, some carrying torches aloft.

  “In God’s name! Charles,” muttered Thomas. “Take us ’round the back entrance,” he shouted.

  Lovelock turned the horses at speed and they entered the mews via a gate at the rear of the property.

  “What is it, Thomas?” asked Lydia, anxiously.

  “I fear that word has spread about Mr. Byrne.”

  “So they are the anatomists’ men?”

  “Yes. They are waiting for him to die.”

  He helped Lydia out of the carriage, and together they made their way into the house. Leaving her in the capable hands of Mistress Goodbody, Thomas made his way upstairs, where he found Charles sitting in a chair by the window, the count and Emily at his side, watching the commotion in the street below.

  “What is going on?” panted Thomas, rushing over. He gazed in disgust at the men below. They were shouting, jabbing fists triumphantly in the air, but he could not make out their words. “Vultures,” he snarled.

  “Vultures?” repeated the count. “No. No,” he said, waving his small hand. “Tell Dr. Silkstone, Emily.”

  The maidservant, who had been looking down on the crowd below, turned and, much to Thomas’s surprise, smiled. “They are not vultures, sir,” she said. “ ’Tis my father and his band of Irishmen.”

  Puzzled, Thomas surveyed the mob once more. Flaming torches illuminated faces that looked up eagerly out of the gloom. “Look, there he is.” Emily pointed. “There is my da.” O’Shea stood at the head of the crowd, his eyes wild with excitement.

  “Mad Sam.” The count chuckled. “And there is the crookbacked boy who was with Charles before, when he showed himself at fairs,” he cried, pointing into the mob.

  For a split second Emily was taken aback. She did not know that the count knew of her father, but she was nevertheless proud of him and his band of men. “They are here to guard Charles against Dr. Hunter and anyone else who would take him.” She beamed.

  Relieved, Thomas nodded. “You have loyal friends,” he said, turning back to Charles, who was looking pale after his exertions. Yet he wore a strangely serene look on his face.

  “They’ll look after me well, Dr. Silkstone,” he wheezed. “They’ve promised me that.” But just as he spoke these words, he began to cough again, as if the very effort of speech was too much for him, and this time he could not hide the blood in his kerchief.

  Thomas shepherded the giant back into his bed. His pulse was now weak and his breathing labored. He was running a fever, too, and his black hair was plastered to his head with sweat. His whole body juddered every time he coughed, and his face contorted in pain. Thomas feared the worst and gave him more laudanum to dull his suffering. The count and Emily joined him at the bedside.

  “I fear the time draws near,” said the little man, reaching up and touching the giant’s hand. “We must put the plans in place.”

  “Plans?” asked Thomas.

  Emily stepped forward. “Mr. Byrne asked to be buried at sea.”

  Thomas nodded. “So that Hunter cannot get his hands on him?”

  “Exactly,” replied the count. “I have engaged an undertaker who has made a coffin for him. When the time comes, we will lay him in it and arrange for it to be taken to Margate, where it will be lowered into the sea.”

  “My father and his friends will keep watch over him all the time,” said Emily, moving closer to the bed. Her eyes were glassy. “Hunter’ll not have him, Dr. Silkstone. We have made our promise.”

  As the night wore on, they watched as Charles began to toss and turn more violently. Delirium took hold. He began to cry out, and his arms flailed, as if he was fighting off some unseen foe. Emily sponged his forehead with vinegar, but still he writhed and shouted.

  The count paced the room anxiously, his little arms locked together behind his back, deep in thought, feeling helpless. Finally he said: “Those men out there are guarding Charles’s body, but I shall help protect his soul. I shall send for a priest.”

  Thomas acknowledged the gesture. “Yes, I think it is time,” he conceded.

  It was just before midnight when Mistress Goodbody entered the room. “There is a young man downstairs to see you, Dr. Silkstone,” she said.

  “Did he give his name?” asked Thomas.

  “ ’Tis Mr. Carrington, sir,” she replied. “Shall I tell him to go away?”

  “Carrington,” echoed Thomas, thoughtfully. “No, send him up, if you please.”

  The student appeared at the doorway looking grave. “I heard the giant’s condition is worsening,” he said.

  Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Bad news travels fast,” he remarked.

  “All of London’s surgeons are in a flurry, Dr. Silkstone. They all want to dissect his corpse.”

  “I know, and we must see to it that they do not have their way,” replied Thomas. “That would be against Mr. Byrne’s express wishes.”

  Carrington glanced at the window. “Those men outside?” he said, motioning to the mob below.

  “They are also here to protect Mr. Byrne,” explained Thomas. “Hunter will have to get past them if his plan is to succeed.”

  “So the giant really is near the end?” queried Carrington.

  Thomas sighed. “I am afraid so,” he replied, glancing over to the bed. The fever had broken, but Charles seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness. “All we can do is watch and wait.”

  Chapter 42

  In his laboratory at Earls Court, Dr. John Hunter was making his final preparations. Earlier in the evening, Howison had brought word of the giant’s condition. He was not expected to last through the night, and Hunter found himself relieved that he would not have to call upon his henchman to do anything more than watch and wait. Howison would, no doubt, have relished the opportunity to hasten the giant’s demise personally, but now there would be no call. Even so, everything needed to be in place.

  The anatomist had spent the day sharpening his instruments. On his workbench he laid out his curved amputation knife, his saw, and his bone shears. There were buckets for the entrails and kidney dishes for the organs, if there was time to retrieve any, which he strongly doubted. Everything was neat and in order, arranged like the sacred paraphernalia of priesthood in preparation for a great sacrifice. Next he would lay kindling under his copper vat, which was already filled with water. He hoped to light the fire soon, but he had one more call to make.<
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  Mr. Pertwee had been engaged as the undertaker. He had done business with him on many occasions. With his beady eyes and thin lips, he drove a hard bargain, and he would certainly want to make a meal of his latest commission.

  Discretion, nay, secrecy was paramount. One of the newssheets had dubbed his fellow anatomists “Greenland harpooners” out to kill a gigantic whale. How William Cruikshank and Matthew Baillie at the Great Windmill Street anatomy school would love to get their bloody hands on the corpse of the colossus. Or John Sheldon in Great Queen Street. He’d lived with the embalmed naked body of a beautiful woman in a glass case in his bedroom for the last ten years. The Irish Giant would have been a fitting companion for her. But despite Byrne’s constant rebuffs—he still did not understand why—Goliath’s corpse would soon be his. Of that he was sure.

  Under cover of darkness, he drove himself to Mr. Pertwee’s funeral parlor. He had known the undertaker for three years now and done deals with him more than once. Working with Crouch and Hartnett, he always had an eye to the main chance and never shied away from a good business proposal.

  The anatomist found the undertaker hard at work on the giant’s coffin.

  “Ah, Dr. Hunter. I’ve been expecting you,” said the wily man, a hammer in his sinewy hand. He was putting the finishing touches to the casket’s handles.

  “So this is it,” said Hunter admiringly. “A fine piece of craftsmanship,” he observed, running his hand along the smooth grain of the lid.

  “That it is,” agreed Pertwee, standing back to consider his own work. “But plain, mind. I could’ve made so much money if I’d but made an extra niche to hide one of your fellow knife men in there, I can tell you.”

  Hunter had heard the rumor that one of his number planned to hide himself inside the giant’s box so as to be ready for the sack ’em up men when they came to collect their quarry at the witching hour. His plan, however, was much simpler.

  “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Pertwee.”

  “I was wondering what was taking you so long, Dr. Hunter.”

  A man with ideas and an attitude above his lowly station, thought the anatomist, but he persevered. “I will give you thirty pounds if you bring the giant’s body to me.”