The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  The undertaker shook his head and laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, resuming his carpentry.

  “Forty, then.”

  No response.

  “Fifty?” A note of desperation sounded in Hunter’s voice.

  Pertwee stopped hammering. “Come now, Dr. Hunter. I’ve been offered one hundred already.” He smiled, his small eyes opening wider with excitement.

  Hunter shook his head. “Och! You drive a hard bargain. A hundred, you say.” He paused for a moment, then said rashly: “I’ll double it.”

  Pertwee looked satisfied. “I want to see the note first, mind,” he stipulated.

  “I shall return very soon,” said Hunter purposefully. Secretly he wondered how on earth he could lay his hands on such funds at such short notice.

  Thomas found Lydia lying in her bed, but awake. She had not yet snuffed out her candle, despite the late hour.

  “How are you feeling, my love?” he asked.

  “I would feel better if I knew you could forgive me,” she said.

  He suddenly remembered his shock in the carriage after her revelation had left him speechless. They had then been confronted by the crowd in Cockspur Street. He had not told her his feelings. He had not offered her the comfort she so desperately craved. Walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge, he put an arm around her shoulders. In his duty to care for Charles, he had neglected her, and she needed him every bit as much as the giant.

  “There is absolutely nothing to forgive. You did nothing wrong, my dearest Lydia. You are the victim in all of this. Hunter is the one with blood on his hands.” He hesitated. “And now, if he has his way, he will soon be having even more.”

  “How is dear Mr. Byrne?” she asked forlornly.

  Thomas sighed deeply. “He has taken a turn for the worse, I fear. The count has sent for the priest.”

  “I must go to him,” she said softly. “To say good-bye.”

  Thomas did not try to dissuade her. He knew it could be her last chance.

  Father Finnan arrived just as dawn was breaking. He stepped over the few stalwart guardians who were sleeping in the street. Huddled in blankets and shawls that Mistress Goodbody had managed to find, there were about six of them who remained throughout the night. But they seemed oblivious to the priest’s presence as he picked his way over their slumbering bodies and into the lodgings. Only one man was watching, propped up against a tree, his hat slouched over his face. As soon as he saw the cleric he left.

  Mistress Goodbody, who had herself endured a near-sleepless night, showed the priest up to Charles’s bedchamber, where Thomas was keeping his vigil. The others had joined him a few moments before: the count, Carrington, Emily, and, of course, Lydia, who sat in a chair close by the giant’s bed.

  From out of his small case, the wigless priest took out his Bible and prayer book, his holy water and a phial of sacred oil. Thomas watched him in silence, contemplating how the cleric’s actions and his sacred objects reminded him so very much of himself and his own instruments. He watched him don his purple surplice, just as he himself would put on his surgical apron, and then approach Charles as he wheezed and struggled to hold on to each breath.

  All was now set for the performance of the last rites. Anointing the giant’s forehead with sanctified oils, the priest recited a prayer in Latin and made the sign of the cross. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned. From Charles’s swollen lips came a feeble “Amen.” It was the first word he had spoken for several hours. It was also his last.

  As they all lowered their heads in a final prayer, Emily stepped forward and held the giant’s hand. She prayed for the repose of not only his soul, but his body, too.

  The end, when it came about two hours later, was over in an instant. Charles had slept since the priest’s departure, but he opened his eyes very briefly to see Emily at his side.

  “I am here,” she said softly, and he smiled before coughing and turning his head so that she did not see the crimson thread of blood that spilled onto the pillow.

  Chapter 43

  In the opinion of the undertaker, Dr. Hunter was obviously not quick enough to return with his bank note. Time was money. The anatomist had decided the most likely person to give him a loan was his associate Pidcock, who kept a menagerie off the Strand and who usually provided him with animal carcasses. Pidcock hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed to a transaction. By the time the anatomist arrived back with the two-hundred-pound note, however, there had been other approaches. Several, in fact. Naturally, because of such demand, the price for the undertaker’s duplicity had risen. It was now five hundred pounds.

  Back went Hunter to Pidcock. There was more procrastination. What guarantees of repayment would he have and, more importantly, what assurances could he give him, knowing his old friend as he did, that his entrails would not end up in a glass jar for all to see? Those delicate matters dealt with, the menagerie keeper went ahead and lent Hunter the money.

  Now all was in place. Howison had brought word that the priest had visited Cockspur Street. All he could do was sit and wait for news from the undertaker. There might only be hours left before the giant was in his grasp.

  Mad Sam O’Shea heaved himself up from the roadway outside Cockspur Street where he had spent the previous night. He was cold and stiff and his head felt as if it had been kicked around by apprentice boys like a pig’s bladder. Grabbing hold of the railings, he tried to remember where he was and why he was there. Four or five of his friends were still lying in the gutter. The morning traffic was beginning and there was cursing and cussing from occasional drivers as they zigzagged their carts through the bodies that still lay motionless on the edge of the road.

  As the haze of strong liquor wore off, he recalled the night before. He remembered they had word that the giant, their fellow countryman, was in trouble. The knife men were after him. He was wounded and sick and he needed their protection. So he had gathered together a bunch of brave Irish lads and marched to his rescue. “To Cockspur Street!” he had roared. On the way they had stopped off at the Lamb and Flag for a few tipples. After all, they knew they would be in need of fortification afore any fight. Then they bought a couple of flagons of gin to sustain them through the dark hours. But the night had been long and chill, and one by one they had fallen, like brave warriors on a battlefield.

  Now what of the giant, he asked himself. Had Hunter come in the night? Surely not. They would have known. One of them would have woken, to be sure. He took his easement in the street, then knocked on the front door. An indignant Mistress Goodbody answered it. “No hawkers,” she said, looking at the dirty wastrel who now stood before her.

  “We are here to help the giant,” he pleaded as she began to shut the door in his face.

  “The giant?” she repeated, putting her head around the door once more. Recognizing the shawls she had lent the men, she relented. “Yes, of course.”

  “Me and my men was guarding the place last night, so we were. Remember?”

  The housekeeper raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Indeed I do now,” she conceded. “But you are to come ’round the back. We can’t have the likes of you using the front door.”

  The Irishman did as she bade and waited belowstairs to see whether or not Dr. Silkstone and the count would receive him. They said they would, much to Mistress Goodbody’s surprise, and Mad Sam O’Shea entered a drawing room for the first time in his life.

  “Mr. O’Shea,” greeted Boruwlaski. “Please, have a seat,” he said, even though he knew Mistress Goodbody would be displeased by the thought of such a dirty rump on her pristine furniture.

  The Irishman was taken aback by the count’s size and his jaw fell open in surprise. The little man merely brushed off his reaction. “So, you are, or rather were, a friend of Charles?”

  O’Shea looked shocked. “He is gone?”

  Thomas nodded. “Just an hour ago. He passed peacefully.”

  The Irishman cross
ed himself. “May his soul rest in peace.”

  “It is his body we are more concerned with at the moment,” interjected the count.

  “Indeed it is, to be sure, sir,” replied O’Shea. “And that is why I am here.”

  “It is?” Thomas was perplexed.

  “We made this deal, see,” began the Irishman, turning toward Thomas. “Me and the lads are to guard him until we find a barge at Margate, then we shall take him and throw his coffin in the sea.”

  “And you agreed all this with Mr. Byrne?” pressed the count.

  “Word of honor,” he replied, crossing himself once more. “As God should strike me down if I be tellin’ a lie. ’Tis not safe here, so we keep watch over his coffin in a room at an inn, or some such place, and then take it to the coast. He gave us a fiver each.”

  Thomas shot a look at Boruwlaski. “What say you, Count?”

  The little man nodded his head. “It makes sense to me. We can send a messenger on to arrange for a barge, then a cart can carry the coffin to the coast.”

  “And we will go with it to see that no harm comes to our beloved countryman,” added O’Shea.

  “And where do you propose to hide the body in the meantime?” enquired the count.

  “Somewhere safe, where we can trust the landlord,” replied the Irishman.

  Thomas thought for a moment. “I know the very place,” he said.

  Downstairs, Giles Carrington was tucking into a hearty breakfast in the morning room. He looked up when he heard Thomas. The doctor had not slept for almost forty-eight hours and he was looking, and feeling, exhausted.

  “Ah, Carrington,” he said. “I am glad you are here. We have work to do.”

  The student rose from the table and bowed. “I am glad you think I can be of service, sir.”

  Thomas looked grave. “We must all rally ’round now, for Mr. Byrne’s sake,” he said.

  Carrington nodded. “He is a great loss, sir.”

  “Indeed. He will be sorely missed,” answered Thomas. “But now we have promises to keep. Will you come with me?”

  The young student looked confused. “But I thought we needed to stay here to guard the body until the undertaker came, sir?”

  Thomas smiled. “Mr. Byrne will be safe in the hands of his fellow Irishmen,” he told him, walking to the window. He pulled open the shutters to reveal the ragtag crowd, whose numbers had now swelled to about a dozen, waiting outside in the street. “There are more at the rear entrance, too,” he said.

  “Mr. Byrne will, indeed, be safe.” Carrington smiled.

  Together they walked out onto the street and hailed a carriage. On the way Thomas revealed the plans about the giant’s sea burial that had been made without his prior knowledge. They were not to his liking, but they were what had been agreed to by Charles.

  “The coffin is to stay here overnight until plans are made to take it to Margate,” explained Thomas as they came to Smee’s Hotel.

  “Here?” Carrington suddenly looked uneasy when the carriage stopped outside.

  “Yes,” replied Thomas. “The landlord owes me a favor. I can trust him not to let me down for fear of jeopardizing his business.”

  The young student appeared to grow more agitated. “I have just remembered an appointment,” he said. “I am needed at St. George’s.”

  Thomas thought his behavior very odd. “But you will return?” he said, knowing that he would need the young man’s help in the execution of the plan to bury the giant at sea.

  He nodded. “Indeed I will. I shall return to Cockspur Street later on today,” he promised, and with that he hurried off in the direction of Hyde Park and disappeared from view.

  In an upper room, Mr. Smee was watching the carriage that had just drawn up outside his establishment. The two gentlemen who alighted looked of a proper sort, he told himself. They would not cause trouble. They would be good for his business. He was just about to go downstairs and welcome them himself—Marie was prone to Gallic surliness and could not be trusted—when he saw the face of one of them and recognized it. It was that doctor from the Colonies who asked so many questions about the murder. And the other gentleman with him; he had seen him before, too, but he could not quite place him. Perhaps he had seen him in the bar, talking to Marie. Oh, but he could not be dawdling. He had a business to run, but what could this gentleman, this doctor who had so upbraided him about the cleanliness of his hostelry, want now?

  “Ah, Mr. Smee,” Thomas greeted the innkeeper, who appeared, flustered, at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Dr. Silkstone,” he said, bowing low.

  “Good day, Mr. Smee,” replied Thomas.

  “How may I help you, sir? Do you require a room?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Smee was taken aback. He thought this doctor might wish to pry further; ask more questions; bother Marie again.

  “I have a proposition for you. One that will require discretion and propriety on your behalf, sir,” Thomas told him.

  The landlord straightened himself and puffed out his chest. “Then you have come to the right place, sir,” he replied. “I run a very respectable establishment, as you know.”

  Chapter 44

  Mr. Pertwee delivered the coffin to Cockspur Street later on that day. Because of its size, it was decided to bring the giant’s body down from his bedchamber rather than try to maneuver the huge casket upstairs.

  Emily had dressed the body. She had washed Charles in lavender water and combed his hair and seen to it that his shroud was neat. In his grasp he held the lock of her hair, tied with the white ribbon. “Good-bye, my love,” she whispered, stroking his hand for the last time.

  Thomas returned to assist the count in supervising the transfer of the coffin to Smee’s Hotel. The omnipresent figure of Howison had not been seen since yesterday. Neither man took it as a good sign. It merely signified that news of the giant’s death was out.

  It took eight of O’Shea’s strongest men to shoulder the casket out of the house as evening drew down and onto a waiting cart at the rear. On top of it they loaded crates of cabbages and rhubarb to disguise the real cargo. It was then driven to the inn, escorted by two Irishmen and Crookback in a cart at the front and two on horseback behind. Thomas and the count followed on.

  By now the light was fading and the strange cortege arrived at the hostelry at dusk. Smee was waiting at the back and guided the coffin inside. “Take care,” he called as a corner of the casket hit a door lintel. “Not that way! Oh, my word!”

  He showed them into a large room at the rear. He did not possess a table big enough to take the weight, so they laid the coffin on the floor and the men sat ’round it, as if it were some ancient altar.

  “Ale all ’round,” called O’Shea, wiping the sweat from his brow with his neck scarf.

  “Aye,” they all chorused, settling themselves down on the rush-strewn floor.

  “Let us drink to Charles Byrne. The tallest man that ever lived!” cried Crookback.

  Smee looked nervously at Thomas and the count. As if reading his troubled mind, Thomas assured him: “We will see to it that they settle their bills before they leave. Have no fear on that score.”

  Giles Carrington was waiting for Thomas when he arrived back at Cockspur Street with the count. He apologized for absenting himself so hastily earlier in the day. “I remembered I had to prepare some specimens for a lecture,” he ventured by way of an excuse.

  “ ’Tis no matter. Just as long as you are here now,” said Thomas, settling himself by the fire in the drawing room. He was tired and every bone in his body ached. He had been away from home and from Dr. Carruthers for four days now, and he longed for his own bed and, he dared say, Mistress Finesilver’s food.

  They had felt like the longest four days in his life, too. So much had happened. Lydia’s dreadful revelations and Charles’s death, coming as they did in such quick succession, had shocked him to his very core. But he could not allow himself the luxury of mourning. Not
yet. Not until Charles’s dying wishes were carried out and he was laid to rest far beyond the reach of John Hunter.

  “We have arranged for the coffin to travel on a barge out to sea. O’Shea and his men will escort it. Lady Lydia wishes to travel with it, too, and Emily will go with her as her maid,” Thomas told Carrington.

  “And the count and yourself, sir?” he asked.

  “I am afraid I will not be accompanying the cortege,” interrupted the little man. It was clear that he had taken the death of his friend, albeit expected, very badly. He sat, cradling a glass of brandy, in a very morose mood. “I have already said my farewell.”

  Thomas addressed Carrington. “You are to accompany Lady Lydia in my absence. I still have unfinished business to which I must attend.”

  “The murder case?”

  “Yes. I shall confront Hunter and see if he confesses.”

  “And if he does not?”

  “Unless he has a credible explanation for storing the larynx, I shall go to the coroner, who will have him arrested.”

  The young student nodded. “He is the murderer, of that there is no doubt. Him and that thug Crouch.”

  Thomas could not hide his surprise at this confident assertion. “You know more?” he said, leaning forward in his chair. This was the first he had heard of Carrington’s suspicion that Crouch was involved. If that was the case, then it confirmed his own theory that not one but two men were responsible for the gruesome murder.

  “I think Crouch killed the castrato as he slept, then Hunter moved in with his scalpel,” said the young man, displaying a confidence that surprised Thomas.

  “But what makes you think Crouch was involved? How do you know of him?”

  Carrington shrugged and his mouth curled. His expression was bitter. “I saw him at the laboratory once or twice. That twisted face of his! Then I saw him again at Smee’s.”