The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  Thomas and Boruwlaski found Monsieur Dubois, a lean-looking man in his later years with weasel eyes and a prominent chin, concluding a transaction with a customer. “Au revoir, Monsieur Haydn,” he said to the distinguished-looking gentleman who had just been shaved.

  The count looked at the man. “Ah, Herr Haydn,” he greeted him familiarly, his little arms outstretched. The famous composer was an old acquaintance. “I trust you are well.”

  Haydn would regularly patronize Dubois’s establishment during his stays in London. He bent down low to greet Boruwlaski. “It is good to see you, Count,” he said in a heavy, guttural accent.

  “May I present Dr. Thomas Silkstone?” said the little man.

  Thomas bowed politely. Haydn’s reputation as being popular with the female sex was known to him and he was, indeed, striking, although not conventionally handsome, thought Thomas, with his pitted complexion and strong features. What his physician’s eye did note, however, was an inflammation and swelling around his nose. At first sight Thomas’s instinct told him he could be suffering from severe nasal polyps. He said nothing and switched his gaze quickly from the composer’s nose to his eyes when he smiled at him.

  “Vot a pleasure,” said Haydn as Dubois helped him on with his coat, but he was clearly in a hurry. He made toward the door that the barber held open, but walking out of the shop he called back: “We must dine togezer soon.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the count called after him.

  Boruwlaski, Thomas, and Dubois all watched the composer hail a sedan before returning to the business in hand. The barber’s eyes momentarily emerged from under their sagging lids. “I am at your service, sir.”

  “Dubois, this is my good friend Dr. Silkstone. I have told him that you give the best shave in all London,” announced the little man.

  The barber’s lips twitched. “Then we must see that we live up to your recommendation, sir.” He turned and clapped his hands together loudly twice in the direction of a door at the back of the salon. “Jean-Paul,” he called.

  A heavy-framed youth appeared with dark, simian features and the same jutting chin possessed by Dubois, only this one sprouted scant black whiskers. If this is Dubois’s son, thought Thomas, it’s a wonder that the barber has not dispatched that unsightly growth.

  The barber gestured to Boruwlaski. “The count,” he said, and without further instruction the boy, who Thomas estimated was no more than sixteen or seventeen, lifted the little man up as if he were a sack of eider feathers and deposited him effortlessly on the pile of silk cushions the barber had arranged on a high chair.

  “That will be all,” the barber told his son, who, without ceremony of any kind, returned to the door from whence he had come.

  Now that his task had been facilitated, Dubois proceeded to wrap a scented napkin around the count’s tiny throat as Thomas watched from a seat nearby.

  Silence was not a natural state for Boruwlaski, and as soon as his mouth was free again he began to jabber once more. “Herr Haydn is in London to work on his librettos with Anne Hunter,” he said, recalling their recent encounter as Monsieur Dubois lathered his tiny face with scented soap. “He is giving a series of concerts this week,” he informed Thomas.

  “Anne Hunter, you say?” queried the young doctor.

  “Indeed,” replied the count. “She is John Hunter’s wife and, I am told, Herr Haydn’s muse.” Thomas detected a certain tone in the count’s voice that implied their relationship went beyond the professional.

  “They are a strangely matched couple, the Hunters,” remarked the little man as Dubois prepared his blade. “But happy in each other’s company,” he added reassuringly.

  There was a slight lull in conversation as Dubois began his work. Thomas watched him with a strange fascination. Here was a man, he thought, who took his art very seriously, stroking the count’s face with light sweeps of his razor; his hands, both of which, Thomas noted with interest, he used with equal alacrity, were steady and confident. The look of concentration on his face carried the same focus as that of Thomas’s fellow surgeons. And why should it not, Thomas asked himself. After all, one careless slip of the blade and a man could be dead. The barber’s face remained earnest throughout until at last, after a few moments, he flourished the blade away from the count’s slightly nervous-looking face.

  “Bravo,” said the little man, feeling relieved to have emerged without a nick.

  Now it was Thomas’s turn to feel the barber’s blade. His face lathered with a pleasantly scented soap, the young doctor concentrated on his own image in the large looking glass before him. With an almost hypnotic fascination he watched Dubois, razor in hand, execute his strokes with consummate skill. From out of the corner of his eye he could see the count was watching the process with equal fascination. He also noted, from his mirror view, that another man, an artisan from his attire, had entered the shop quietly and had walked directly into the back room.

  Thankfully for Charles Byrne, the ladies and gentlemen who attended him on his first day exhibiting himself in the cane shop in Spring Gardens were not as lewd as the common throng, who could ill afford to pay a day’s wages to view him.

  Dressed in an elegant cutaway coat and knee breeches made in the choicest materials and wearing a fine tricorn, the giant’s demeanor and appearance did not look out of place in these altogether more genteel surroundings. The count had seen to it that his waxy complexion and his lips were lightly rouged to mask his pallor, and he wore an elegant wig.

  When the doors opened at noon sharp there was already a sizeable, but orderly queue waiting in a high state of eager anticipation. Charles Byrne stood in the main reception area on a slightly raised dais, but there was a chair for his own comfort should the weight on his legs become too much to bear. The count had instructed him to smile as much as he could and dribble as little as possible. He provided him with a large lace kerchief to assist him should his spittle become a hindrance.

  The count himself had chosen to be in attendance at least on the first day to offer assistance, should some be required, and to field any abusive visitors, although he was sure good manners would prevail. And, of course, there was the added attraction of seeing the tallest man in the world standing beside one of the smallest men in the world at no extra charge. Who could resist such a memorable tableau?

  Thomas and Lydia were also present. After Thomas’s prognosis, the doctor was keen to see that his patient was not taxed too much.

  From the sidelines they watched as the great, the good, and the downright curious filed past the increasingly famous giant, gawping and gasping at the sight. Thomas found the whole scene very distasteful and so was glad to see a familiar face in the crowd.

  “Sir Theodisius,” he called out. He and Lydia had been anticipating a visit from the Oxfordshire coroner during the week.

  The portly gentleman waved a chubby hand above the melee and made his way toward the pair.

  “Dr. Silkstone, Lady Lydia,” he greeted them cheerfully. “What a show, eh?”

  “You came alone, sir?” asked Lydia.

  Sir Theodisius turned to face the crowd. “No. No. Lady Pettigrew is in there somewhere, with my sister and her son. He’s the lawyer I spoke of. I will introduce him to you.” He gestured to his wife and her companions, who were making their way toward him.

  “Lady Lydia Farrell, Dr. Thomas Silkstone, I would like you to meet my sister Lady Marchant and the Right Honorable Mr. Rupert Marchant.” He smiled as mother and son arrived. “Of course you know my wife.”

  Lady Marchant looked considerably older than her brother, but she had tried to compensate for the fact that her lined face gave her age away by painting it. Her skin, thought Thomas, had been liberally layered with white lead powder. Had she been his patient he would have advised against the use of such a cosmetic, which he believed to be toxic. Her elaborate wig was piled high with silk peacocks and ribbons.

  She was fanning herself in an agitated fashion. “That giant is
most disagreeable,” she huffed, ignoring Thomas and Lydia. “He asked me why I should want to put birds in my hair.”

  Thomas stifled a smile.

  “Have no care for him, Mama. He is just an ignorant ogre,” chimed in her son. He, too, was dressed à la mode, bewigged and carrying a cane.

  “He is but of lowly birth, my dear,” comforted Lady Pettigrew, “and ignorant of good manners.”

  Lydia felt she could not stand idly by and see the giant’s character attacked in such a way. “I can assure you, Mr. Byrne had no intention to offend you, your ladyship. He is from Ireland, where fashions are different,” she said, eagerly jumping to his defense.

  At these words, Rupert Marchant gave Lydia a curious look. “So you are familiar with this Goliath, my lady?” he sneered.

  Thomas did not like his tone. “Her ladyship was instrumental in bringing Mr. Byrne to London, sir. She hopes to help him obtain a posthumous royal pardon for his father.”

  “Indeed so,” chimed in Sir Theodisius, trying to lighten the ill-tempered exchange. “I suggested you might be able to offer your services in drawing up a petition, Marchant.”

  The lawyer paused, as if considering the suggestion, his eyes playing on Lydia’s face as he did so. “That does sound an interesting proposition,” he said slowly. “I am sure I could be of great assistance to her ladyship. Here is my card.”

  His manner made Thomas bridle, yet Lydia smiled graciously.

  “That is most kind, sir,” she replied, taking the card in her gloved hand.

  “I look forward to receiving you in my chambers very shortly,” concluded Marchant, bowing his head.

  Meanwhile, over at the dais, the count had also spotted an old acquaintance.

  “It cannot be,” he cried, unable to contain his excitement as a handsome figure stood in front of him. “Leonardo Moreno, my dear, dear friend.”

  Tall, heavily built, yet elegant, the man, in his later years, bent down to embrace the count. “Amico! It is good to see you. You haven’t changed a jot,” he greeted him in his native Tuscan tongue.

  “No. I have grown neither outward nor upward!” The count laughed. The men had met at least forty years before at the Holy Roman Emperor’s Court in Vienna and had remained firm friends, often coming across each other as they both toured Europe.

  In those early days Moreno was in his prime as a soprano singer, famed for the exquisite tenor of his voice and the refinements of his style. His trills, roulades, and cadenzas were unrivaled among all his peers.

  “So what brings you to London?” quizzed the count.

  “I want to introduce the great cities of Europe to my protégé, Carlo Cappelli.”

  “So you are no longer singing?” asked the little man.

  Moreno shook his head slowly. “I gave that up a while ago, my friend. No, now I am keen for Carlo to assume my mantle. He has exceptional talent.” He paused for a moment. “In fact, he is performing a new libretto by Haydn the day after tomorrow at the Hanover Square Rooms. Would you do me the honor of being my guest?” He handed his friend his card. “I shall see that you are given a good seat. Please invite your own guests, too.”

  Boruwlaski studied the card with gold-embossed lettering. “I would not miss such an occasion for the world.” He smiled.

  Chapter 11

  The sign that hung drunkenly on the door told all and sundry that Monsieur Dubois’s salon pour les messieurs was closed for the day. Those more discerning clients, however, knew otherwise. Each Tuesday and Wednesday evening, the oil lamps in the back room of the barber’s shop—and there were necessarily many of them—burned late into the night. Monsieur Dubois, the gentlemen’s groomer and purveyor of pomades, wielded his blade in a far more exacting role. For on those two nights each week he was also a surgeon. Or so he fancied.

  There were those of good means who would visit him regularly for bloodletting. Relieved of a few ounces, they would leave his premises either with a spring in their step or feeling rather light-headed, but they always returned for more. Just as some men would play cards or place wagers on cocks, so did a few hold out their arms for a spot of recreational venesection. It cleared their heads, sharpened their wits, and made them better between the sheets, they told him. But there was so much more to his talent. While clysters and tooth pulling were his bread and beurre, his many and varied chirurgical skills were also applied to corrupted tonsils, unsightly moles, and ingrowing toenails. He had even attempted an amputation once, although the outcome of that was less than satisfactory. However, all surgeons had their mishaps, he comforted himself, and yet because he could not frame a piece of parchment on his wall, he was denied the kudos and respect, let alone the income, that was due to him.

  Tonight, however, was his chance to prove beyond all doubt that he was worthy to join the ranks of the real surgeons, the ones who had cast off his fraternity with such disdain almost forty years ago at the start of his career.

  The patient, a carter by trade, had arrived not half an hour ago. Monsieur Dubois guessed he was roughly the same age as himself, but his wife and child had died a decade before. His complaint, he said, had been troubling him for more than two years and was worsening each day, so that now the pain was excruciating. A salty pearl was growing inside the oyster of his bladder. Its crusted spikes pressed like spurs on its lining, making the passing of a few bloodied drops of urine as eye-wateringly painful as pokes from Satan’s pitchfork.

  This carter was not, however, a man of means, and his continuing agony had meant that work was becoming increasingly difficult for him.

  “Ça ne fait de rien,” Monsieur Dubois had told him. “No matter. I will remove the stone and not charge you.” This would be his proof. If he could perform such an operation and his patient defied the odds and lived, then surely he would be welcomed into the surgeons’ ranks with open arms.

  Pain was written on the carter’s face as plainly as if it were ink on parchment. Pain and apprehension. After all, this could be one of his last moments. As he sat nervously on a chair, the heel of his hand pressed hard against his lower abdomen in a vain effort to quell the sharp stabs, Dubois offered him a stoop of ale mixed with laudanum. He drank long and hard, so that by the time the two gentlemen entered the room he was barely conscious.

  They arrived at the appointed hour. Jean-Paul opened the door to them and was quickly joined by his father, wearing a large apron with a capacious pocket at the front.

  “Gentlemen, I am honored,” Dubois addressed them, bowing low.

  They followed him into the back room where the oil lamps were now lit. Ideally he would have operated in the daylight, near his window, but he would have to make do.

  The carter was now asleep and Jean-Paul had deposited him unceremoniously face up on the long table in the center of the room. His buttocks rested on folded towels so that they were higher than his head. Dubois had removed the man’s wig to expose a haze of white stubble over his crown, and his breeches lay folded on a nearby chair. A soft gag had been inserted in his mouth, so that if he awoke and cried out, the noise would be muffled.

  “S’il vous plaît,” said the barber, pointing to two chairs, one on either side of the table. The gentlemen seated themselves as if they were at the theater or about to play a game of cards.

  From out of his apron pocket Dubois produced two strips of linen and motioned to his son to approach the table. Pushing both the carter’s legs up brusquely so that his knees were bent, the boy then grasped both the patient’s ankles in his great hands and thrust them back to meet his wrists.

  The carter let out a befuddled yelp. “Doucement. Take care, Jean-Paul,” chastised his father. He glanced at his silent audience and said apologetically: “He does not know his own strength.” They remained expressionless.

  Next he secured the ankles to the wrists with the linen strips. “The knees, Jean-Paul. Hold them apart,” instructed the barber.

  Now he took his place on the stool at the end of the table. The c
arter’s perineum was presenting itself to him. He clasped his hands in silent prayer: “Oh Lord, guide my hands to do thy will,” he intoned. At times like these he was so grateful to be ambidextrous.

  From out of his pocket he produced a long, hollow tube and dipped it in oil from a vessel on a small table at his side. The first beads of sweat oozed onto his forehead as he inserted the lubricated catheter up the urethra. The carter winced.

  “Hold him still.” Jean-Paul clasped the knees tighter.

  Now, with the tip of the tube, he probed for the stone with his right hand. Delving into his pocket with his left he found his scalpel. Had they seen him shake? It was now or never. He must work fast. He took a deep breath and cut the perineum, straight and clean. No sudden jerk from the carter. Good. Next he probed the incision with his forefinger. It felt warm and sticky. And there was the catheter above. Now a cut into the bladder. This time a wince and a stifled cry. At least the man was still alive. With his other hand he plunged into his pocket once more for a grooved rod; this he inserted into the bladder to capture the stone. It was there, craggy and malevolent, but it did not wish to budge. He moved the gorget inside with a circular motion. The stone seemed fixed. It would not drop into the groove. He prayed. “Oh, God, roll away this stone as you did at the tomb of your Son.” But it refused to dislodge itself.

  The carter tried to sit up. Jean-Paul knocked him back down with a blow to his jaw. The two gentlemen flinched, but said nothing. Dubois retracted the gorget, but there was no stone. He inserted it again, twisted it, jiggled it, retracted it once more. Still empty. Now came the blood, a trickle at first that soon turned into a stream. He reached for a towel and pressed it against the wound. He rose to check on the carter. His pulse was faint. He took the gag out of his mouth. His breathing was shallow. He rushed to the wound once more; the white towel now turned crimson. Sutures. He must stitch the wound. He jabbed the threaded needle in and out, but still the blood came, until it was impossible to see what he was doing. He floundered, his hands flapping in the bright, thickening blood.