The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  “Smee’s?” repeated Thomas. “Does this have something to do with your reluctance to accompany me this afternoon?”

  Carrington nodded. “I’ve seen Crouch there, too.” He paused, adding the French girl.

  Thomas nodded, recalling the feeling of the hoodlum’s boot in his ribs after he, too, had seen him at the hotel with Marie Dubois. “And you would testify to this in court?”

  Carrington’s expression was set hard. “As if my life depended on it. I know that he and that butcher are in league, sir,” he said, his voice tinged with loathing. “I would do anything to see them put behind bars, or better still, swinging from the end of a rope.”

  Thomas frowned. It was strange for him to see such hatred in a person’s eyes. But it was there, burning as intensely as the coals in the grate. The onus was now on him to go and confront the object of that hatred before Hunter could commit any more crimes and prevent him from sticking his knife into Charles’s cadaver. He felt weighed down by the responsibility of his task. He needed sleep, he told himself. He would feel better after a good night’s rest, but before he left for his own home, there was one more thing he had to do.

  Lydia sat up in bed as soon as she heard the door open. She looked anxious and held out both arms to Thomas.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she gasped.

  He said nothing at first, but simply held her. “I have neglected you,” he told her, stroking one of her soft, thin arms. “How do you feel, my love?”

  “Better for seeing you,” she replied, but her voice was tinged with sadness.

  “Are you sure you are strong enough for the journey tomorrow?” He started to feel for her pulse. It remained weak.

  She nodded. “I must go and say good-bye. I brought Charles to London. If I hadn’t . . .” Her voice dissolved.

  Thomas shook his head. “You must not blame yourself for everything bad that has happened,” he told her, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Charles suffered from the white death. He would have died whether here or in Ireland.”

  “I still feel . . . ,” she began, but stopped herself in midsentence. “But you will be with me, and that will make me stronger,” she said, looking up at him with a childlike innocence. A pang of guilt now stabbed his own conscience.

  “I will follow on,” he told her. “I will join you in Margate, but first I have some unfinished business.”

  Lydia’s face dropped and she sat back on her pillows. “Hunter?”

  Thomas nodded. “I have to confront him about the castrato’s death.”

  “Then your mission is a vital one.” There was a look of resolve on her face.

  “Giles Carrington and Emily will accompany you. Carrington is a medical student and will be able to attend to you if necessary.” It was reassuring for Thomas to know that if Lydia’s health should relapse, then the student would be able to treat her. “I will be following on horseback, right behind you,” he explained.

  Lydia smiled. She seemed satisfied with arrangements. He only hoped her faith in his plans was not misplaced. So far everything had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Charles’s coffin was heavily guarded in a secret location and would soon be out of reach to all in Neptune’s kingdom, but he could not help but think that Hunter would not give up so easily. The doctor imagined him plotting and planning with Howison, Crouch, and any other shady villain in his pay. His prey remained within his grasp and the scent of blood was still in his nostrils. There was yet a chance that he would make a move, but before he could do that, Thomas needed to uncover the truth about what really happened the night of the murder.

  Meanwhile, in Earls Court, a frustrated Dr. Hunter had summoned the undertaker.

  “Where is my giant, Pertwee?” he stormed. His clenched fist thudded on the table, causing the mortician to flinch. Pertwee knew this old Scot was hard to please and had a short fuse, but he had never seen him so angry before.

  “I have a plan, dear Doctor, that will deliver the goods in the next twenty-four hours,” he said assuredly, but Hunter was not impressed.

  “Och! Do not patronize me, Pertwee. I am not your ‘dear’ Doctor. I am dear to no one, save my wife and children. I have paid you money and I want my goods,” he thundered. His face was now red and sweat had broken out on his temples. He became unsteady on his feet and slumped into a nearby chair.

  “Sir, but you are unwell,” said Pertwee, rushing forward.

  “I will be in a better humor when I have got what I’ve paid for,” he told the undertaker, breathing hard.

  “I am glad of it, sir,” said Pertwee.

  “Good, now go get me my giant,” cried Hunter, watching the undertaker leave while trying to still his shaking body.

  Chapter 45

  Once they had passed the boundary stone, the motley crew of mourners was seized by the need for refreshment. Perhaps it was because they were now out of the City of London’s authority and on the road to Kent that they felt safer, mused Mad Sam O’Shea. Or was it simply that they had been up at the crack of dawn, heaving the monstrous casket onto the cart and lugging it for a good few miles already? Either way, the refreshments at the Thomas a Becket beckoned. The watering hole of many a good pilgrim over the years, it would certainly provide well-deserved respite for him and his men this morning, he told himself.

  The bizarre cortege pulled up outside the inn. O’Shea and Crookback were in the front seats while the other men—there were four of them—sat on what were by now foul-smelling cabbages and rhubarb that covered the coffin on the wagon. They all climbed down, and two remained to guard their precious cargo while the others piled into the hostelry.

  A few moments later a carriage pulled up. Lovelock was driving with young Will at his side.

  “What are they doing?” asked Lydia anxiously, looking out of the window, seeing the cart with its odd load. “Surely they should not have stopped?”

  Carrington shook his head. “These Irishmen are a law unto themselves,” he said reprovingly.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady,” interjected Emily. “But my father will take good care of Mr. Byrne. I know he will.”

  Lydia nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course he will,” she replied. “Let us take this opportunity to take refreshment, too, shall we?” she suggested.

  Thomas felt a great nausea in the pit of his stomach as he rode out to Earls Court. He loathed and detested Hunter for what he had done to Lydia and, no doubt, other women in her situation, yet did not relish his task. It was a terrible thing to accuse a man of murder when all he had was hearsay evidence and no witnesses to the actual act itself.

  Howison was at the gate. He recognized Thomas and sneered. “Welcome, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, his weather-beaten face stretched into a broad grin. The doctor did not return the greeting. All he could recall was that menacing face as he leaned against a tree in Cockspur Street, day and night, shadowing poor Charles.

  “I am come to see Dr. Hunter,” he told him.

  He was led past the neat row of small skulls, through the great hall lined with pickled animals from moles to monkeys and into the laboratory, where he found Hunter leaning over some vast tome and making notes, spectacles hooked over his nose. The anatomist looked up when he heard Thomas approach.

  “Ah, Dr. Silkstone, what a pleasant surprise,” he greeted him, removing his glasses. Thomas was surprised at his affability, and more than a little suspicious. Here was a man whose most cherished ambition, nay, obsession, had been thwarted, despite weeks of careful planning. The giant had slipped out of his grasp and his body would be halfway to the coast by now, and yet the anatomist seemed almost cheerful. Thomas was about to shatter his mood.

  “I am come on a most serious matter, Dr. Hunter,” he told him.

  “Then you better sit down, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, gesturing to a chair.

  “It concerns the murder of the young castrato, Signor Carlo Cappelli.”

  Hunter nodded. “I have read of the case. A most unpleasant murder, by all
accounts.”

  “Indeed so, sir. I was tasked to carry out a postmortem on his body,” said Thomas.

  The anatomist leaned forward gleefully. “Och! How fortunate you were. Fascinating, I shouldn’t wonder. I have always wanted to dissect a castrato, as you know.” His expression was one of delight, and Thomas recalled the night of the concert and his interest in Cappelli’s physiology then. He went on: “As their body grows, their lack of testosterone means their epiphyses do not harden in the normal manner, you know. That is why they are often so tall and with unusually long ribs. Did you note that, Silkstone?”

  Thomas was taken aback by this enthusiastic reaction to his original question. “I was trying to ascertain how Signor Cappelli died, sir, not studying the physiology of a castrato.”

  Hunter reflected for a moment. “Pity, that,” he lamented. “A wasted opportunity. But what about the vocal cords? Were they small? ’Tis the extraordinary power of their lungs forcing air through those tiny cords that makes their voices so high, you know. I’d love to get my hands on such a larynx.”

  Shocked by such a reaction to his questioning, Thomas decided to plunge in. “But I believe you have, sir,” he blurted.

  Hunter stiffened and looked puzzled. “What did ya say?”

  Thomas took a deep breath and repeated himself. “I believe that Signor Cappelli’s larynx is in a preserving jar in a store cupboard in this very room, sir,” he said unequivocally.

  The anatomist paused for a moment, his gnarled fingers stroking his chin in thought. “And I assume Giles Carrington told you this,” he said finally.

  Thomas felt the blood pounding through his ears. “Yes sir, he did.”

  “Then let us see if he is right,” said Hunter, calmly reaching down to his desk drawer and bringing out a key. Lighting a lantern, he walked over to the door in the wall and unlocked it. Opening the grille wide, so that Thomas could see everything, he revealed his store of human organs, all floating weightlessly like exotic fruits in brandy.

  The young doctor could not hide his amazement. There was row upon row of jars and ampules, each neatly labeled and each bearing the name of the organ within, together with its previous owner’s.

  “So, this is my collection of human body parts, Dr. Silkstone,” he said proudly, walking into the storeroom. “Each organ is here for a reason, a purpose. You see this one,” he said, pointing to a cylinder containing what appeared to Thomas to be a section of a small intestine with a hole in it. “ ’Tis a duelist’s jejunum. That is the bullet hole, right through the middle. And this, this is the Marquis of Rockingham’s heart,” he announced proudly. “He gave me permission to have it afore he died.”

  “So you keep these for study, sir?” asked Thomas.

  Hunter nodded. “For study and for posterity,” he replied. “One day, not in my lifetime, but maybe in the next century, or the one after that, men might be able to learn from these samples. It might help them in the curation of so many diseases that blight mankind.”

  Thomas was stunned by such a momentous revelation. Here was a man ahead of his time, he thought; a true disciple of science and imagination. He felt almost humbled by such breadth of vision and momentarily forgot the purpose of his visit, his eyes playing on the endless possibilities of future discoveries encapsulated within the jars before him.

  Forcing himself to be pulled back into the moment, he remembered his purpose. “Sir, are Signor Cappelli’s vocal cords here?” he asked earnestly.

  Hunter shook his head. “If they are, Dr. Silkstone, I have not put them there.”

  Together they scanned the shelves. It was Thomas who spotted the jar first, slightly hidden by another vessel.

  “Could these be they?” he asked, taking the jar off the shelf.

  “I have not seen those before,” replied Hunter, “and I do not have any other such specimens.” It was clear to Thomas that he was telling the truth.

  “So someone else must have put them there?”

  The anatomist nodded and the men exchanged knowing looks. In an instant Thomas knew. “Why would Giles Carrington want to have you arrested for murder?”

  Hunter walked out of the storeroom and Thomas followed. “ ’Tis a long story,” said the old anatomist, easing himself onto the chair once more. “His father died under my knife. He was a wealthy banker and he suffered an aneurysm in his leg. I operated on it, but it was before I had perfected my technique and he died a few days later.”

  “I see,” said Thomas quietly, trying to digest the implications of such a revelation.

  “I thought no more of it. Och, my patients die every day, but then last year, the lad came to me, telling me he was the son of this man and he wanted to be a great surgeon. I thought it a noble ideal and I felt obliged to him as well. I had, after all, deprived him of his father, albeit unintentionally.”

  “So you took him under your wing, and all the time he was plotting your downfall,” said Thomas.

  Hunter nodded. “It certainly seems that way, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied. “But you will have to ask him yourself. Could it be that Giles Carrington is your murderer, Dr. Silkstone?” he asked calmly.

  It was only then that the horror of the situation struck Thomas. “But he is with Lydia,” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering the giant’s funeral procession eastward to Kent.

  “Then you must go to her at once, Dr. Silkstone, afore he murders anyone else!” cried Hunter, a hand held aloft melodramatically.

  Thomas did not appreciate being mocked so cruelly, but he knew the anatomist was right, and the sick feeling in his stomach that had seized him before now gave way to rising panic. He had to catch up with the funeral cortege, and quickly.

  John Hunter watched the young doctor race to his waiting horse and gallop off down his drive. He smiled to himself. In his eagerness to save his beloved Lydia from the clutches of a suspected murderer, he would surely be distracted. It would make Pertwee’s mission so much easier. The giant would soon be his.

  Chapter 46

  Despite numerous stops along the way, the bizarre funeral procession made good progress. They arrived at their appointed inn shortly before nightfall. Lovelock had gone on ahead previously and arranged for Charles’s casket to be stored overnight in the tavern’s barn.

  Lydia, Carrington, and Emily had followed on behind, driven by Will, ensuring O’Shea and his crew did not become too distracted by the pleasures of hostelries along the route. The road was being well used. There were parties of pilgrims heading for Canterbury and cartloads of fruit coming to the city from the orchards of Kent. Lydia had intended to keep a weather eye open, but she was still tired from her ordeal and left it to Carrington to watch for any suspicious signs. There was still a danger of them being followed, and the newssheets carried several warnings about the unscrupulous nature of those who would seek to anatomize their precious cargo. Lydia shivered. She, too, had experienced firsthand Hunter’s ruthlessness and knew that he never gave up easily, although with each mile away from London, she told herself, the risk lessened.

  The inn was adequate in its provisions and Emily was on hand to see to her needs. Over dinner in an upper room Carrington spoke to Lydia of his work at St. George’s Hospital. He seemed a pleasant enough young man to her, if a little intense at times. It was only when the talk turned to the pursuit of the giant’s corpse and the name of Hunter passed his lips that his expression altered. Lydia noticed that he shifted uncomfortably on his chair and that he diverted his eyes away from her face.

  “That man is evil,” he said through clenched teeth. Lydia did not contradict him. She believed, from her own experience, that what he said was true, but she could see that there was some deeper substance to his hatred of the anatomist.

  “He has wronged you, Mr. Carrington?” she asked.

  He looked at her straight. “He murdered my father,” he hissed.

  Startled, Lydia leaned back from the table. “That is a grave accusation, sir. How so?” she asked, wide-eyed.r />
  “He operated on his leg. My father suffered an aneurysm, a large swelling that threatened to kill him. He was in agony and most of the surgeons he saw recommended amputation.” Carrington touched the blade of the knife that rested on the table before them. “But my father would do anything to avoid losing his leg, so when he heard of John Hunter and his newfangled operation to tie off the artery, he asked to be his patient.”

  “But the operation failed?” suggested Lydia.

  Carrington nodded. “He died in unspeakable anguish a week later.” The student’s eyes filled with tears at the recollection.

  Lydia felt his pain. She recalled her own agony at the hands of Dr. Hunter. “I am sorry for your loss,” she murmured, placing her hand over his on the table in a spontaneous gesture of empathy.

  Instantly he lifted his gaze, and she realized what she had done was inappropriate. “Forgive me, Mr. Carrington,” she said, withdrawing her hand quickly, as if she had just touched hot embers. “I am tired. I must abed,” she told him, rising from the table. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  Downstairs the Irishmen and Crookback sipped their tepid ale and reminisced with tales of the giant Byrne around a roaring fire. While not all their recollections were accurate, blurred as they were by liquor, they were all fond.

  “I recall the time he gave me locks of his hair to sell, and when a cripple held on to his legs he could walk again,” said Mad Sam O’Shea, looking deep into the embers of the fire.

  “And I recall he patted me on the ’ead,” chirped up one of the younger members of the group. They raised their cups to that memory, too.

  Crookback had his stories, as well. “There was a time the showman would give us no supper and Charles, God rest his soul, stood up to him and picked him from the ground. Lifted him clean three feet in the air,” he recalled. “ ‘Give us our bread,’ he growled at him, and sure enough we shared not a loaf but a leg of mutton an hour later!”