The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  Jean-Paul stood watching, transfixed by the scarlet ribbon that coiled on the floor below. The men rose.

  “Sirs,” pleaded Dubois. “What should I do?”

  “You have done enough,” said one.

  The carter let out a strange gurgling sound, shuddered a little, then relaxed.

  The barber’s bottom lip jutted out. “Pour l’amour de Dieu! But you cannot leave me. I beg you!”

  The other man remained unmoved. “We can give you a good price for the body,” he said. The barber’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Someone will call later tonight.” And with that they left the shop and Monsieur Dubois alone with his bloodied hands, his silent son, and the still-warm corpse of the carter.

  Chapter 12

  That evening Charles Byrne slumped into an armchair with such force that it groaned under his weight. Emily had been making the room ready for the party’s return, lighting the fire and plumping cushions. She turned to see the giant close his tired eyes.

  “You are exhausted,” said the count, handing him a glass of gin.

  “Aye,” he replied wearily. “Rich folks seem to stare h-harder than poor ones.”

  “But they pay well for the privilege,” countered the little man cheerfully. “You made nearly twenty guineas today.”

  Charles Byrne nodded and took a swig of his gin, but just as he did so, he began to cough. In his ensuing struggle for breath, he let go of the glass tumbler, sending it smashing to the floor. The count hurried over to him as the ghost reached for the kerchief the count had given him earlier and held it to his mouth. His shoulders heaved up and down in great waves as he gasped and spluttered.

  Emily looked on anxiously, feeling helpless.

  “Shall I fetch her ladyship?” she asked, but just as she did so, Lydia, alerted by the coughing, rushed into the room.

  “Call for Dr. Silkstone,” she instructed.

  The butler, the liveryman, and the footman were all summoned to help Charles Byrne upstairs to bed. He was able to walk slowly, but needed support and had to crawl on all fours up the stairs. They laid him down gently, and Lydia told Emily to fetch some water and a sponge.

  “Today was obviously too taxing for you, Mr. Byrne,” said Lydia.

  Charles frowned. “I am tired, your ladyship,” he acknowledged.

  Emily returned carrying a pitcher just as Mistress Goodbody announced Thomas’s arrival.

  “Sponge Mr. Byrne’s forehead,” instructed Lydia as she left the room.

  The young servant set down the ewer and poured water into it. She then soaked the sponge, wrung it out, and placed it softly on the giant’s forehead, dabbing the beads of sweat off his brow. Her touch was tender and brought a smile to his face. Their eyes met and she returned his smile.

  “Thank you,” he said, staying her hand in his. He held it for a moment, then, much to Emily’s shock, kissed it lightly. She shocked herself even more by not withdrawing from his grasp immediately, allowing her hand to linger in his for a little while longer.

  A few minutes later Thomas had given his patient some soothing linctus for his cough and a draft to help him sleep.

  “He must rest tomorrow,” he told Lydia afterward in the drawing room.

  “Of course,” she replied, pouring Thomas a glass of sack from a decanter. “I shall see Mr. Marchant in the meantime.”

  “The lawyer?” he said quickly, recalling their ill-tempered exchange at Spring Gardens. “Then I shall come with you.”

  “That is kind, but I think not.”

  Thomas felt himself tense. He feared she would say as much. Jealousy was an emotion that he had never experienced before he met Lydia, and he disliked himself for giving way to it, but he felt an overwhelming need to protect her. She had experienced so much harm and hurt over the past few months. The last thing he wanted for her was to be the victim of yet more deception and cruelty at the hands of another unscrupulous braggart.

  “That man cannot be trusted,” he blurted.

  Lydia simply smiled at him and brushed his arm lightly. “I do believe you are jealous.”

  Her observation piqued him, but he told himself to remain calm. “My dearest, do not forget what happened with another lawyer we both knew.” He realized it was a cruel blow to deal. Her husband had been murdered by his own attorney, James Lavington, but as soon as Thomas had uttered the words he regretted them.

  Lydia’s expression changed instantly. She looked deeply hurt, and the young doctor rose and walked over to the sofa where she sat.

  “I am sorry,” he said, putting his arms around her, but she pulled away. Undeterred, he protested: “My love, I am merely warning you that the man has designs on you. It was patently obvious the way he looked at you.”

  Lydia shook her head. “That is precisely why he will do all in his power to help us,” she replied. “I know what I am doing.”

  There was an awkward silence as they both realized that those were the first cross words that had passed between them. Thomas returned to his seat.

  “Tomorrow evening should be enjoyable,” he ventured, trying to lighten the mood.

  “The concert?”

  “Yes. It was kind of the count to invite us.” He was going out of his way to be civil.

  “I am looking forward to it,” she replied, her voice softening.

  “So am I,” said Thomas, and, compelled to touch her, he rose once more and took her hand to kiss it tenderly.

  “I will always love you, Lydia,” he said, any resentment he had felt toward her quickly melting away.

  She clasped his hand and placed her cheek on it, closing her eyes. “I do hope so,” she whispered.

  In his laboratory not two miles away, Dr. John Hunter was working late into the night, as he so often did. On his dissecting table lay one of the hessian sacks that Howison had acquired two nights before. It had been deposited in the cold store. He went over to the door to check that it was locked before returning to the table to inspect the contents. Loosening the drawstring, he pulled down the hessian to reveal the face of a young man in his prime.

  Despite the sickly-sweet stench of death that emanated, he smiled to himself. The body had been well dressed for the grave, he thought to himself. Spices and herbs had been used, marjoram and musk and pulverized lemon, but of his grave-clothes and personal effects there was no trace. The sack ’em up men had been careful to strip him bare for fear of being tried for theft and therefore liable to swing.

  His relatives would, no doubt, be praying that this man’s soul would now be in heaven with the angels, but John Hunter knew differently. He had proof that this young cove had not led a blameless and pure life. His facial expression might have appeared calm, but it belied a darker side. Had he lain with a child virgin in the vain hope he might be cured? Had he infected his own wife, and if so, did his children now bear the scars of his licentious legacy?

  He did not judge. So many came to him, even of his own kind, knowing the consequences of a moment of lust in a back alley or a stolen burst of pleasure in Covent Garden or Haymarket. Even prelates were prone to stray now and again. Man was a slave to his loins, no matter the consequences.

  He was just about to resume his task when a sudden noise distracted him. He heard a clunk, the sound of something falling in a cupboard perhaps, or a sudden breeze from the high, half-opened window rattling a box. He looked about him. No one was there. His own nerves were getting the better of him.

  With a scalpel he cut through the hessian, working his way down to the groin area. There was the telltale scabby rash on the torso, the copper-colored blotches on the skin, and, yes, there were the genitals, the penis now shriveled and limp. Despite its sad appearance, it spoke volumes to him. He picked up a magnifying glass and peered at the flaccid organ. A look of delight swept across his face at the sight of it: a pus-filled volcanic crater the size of a half crown, a magnificent chancre—the indisputable sign of venereal infection.

  It was a disease that had blighted manki
nd even before Columbus’s sailors brought it back from the natives of Hispaniola, he told himself. A plague sent by the Almighty as a curse on all profligates and their innocent offspring. It treated its prey without mercy, corroding the flesh, the bones, the vital organs. Worse still, it affected the mind, driving men demented and leaving their offspring a legacy of torment. It left thousands, no, millions, of men—and women—dead in its path. But he, John Hunter, would find a cure. There would be no more need to treat the disease with mercury, which poisoned the blood. No more need for the slow harbinger of death to gnaw away at the body. One day men would bless his name and women would sing his praises. He would be hailed as the healer of the scourge, the savior of mankind. But before that he needed to study the disease in depth. He needed to monitor its progress, notate every stage. He needed in-depth knowledge of every facet of its grotesque existence. And to do that, there was only one option.

  Lancet in hand, he pierced the chancre with the needle and drew off the yellow fluid. He held it up to the candlelight. Liquid gold, he told himself, holding within it so many secrets and so many answers to mankind’s problems.

  Carefully laying the pus-laden lancet down on his table so that none of the precious cargo escaped, he unbuckled his belt and took down his breeches. He felt the beads of sweat on his brow start to run down his face, but he must not shy away from his task. He had to go through with this, he told himself, for the sake of humanity. He shuddered, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, puncturing first his foreskin, then the head of his penis, before passing out in a dead faint on the floor.

  Chapter 13

  Lydia’s carriage swept through Lincoln’s Inn Archway and deposited her in New Square. The sky was heavy with gray clouds. She felt apprehensive, a feeling that was compounded by the fact that she appeared to be the only woman within the huge courtyard.

  As she alighted the first rain began to fall, sending the lawyers in their black gowns scudding hither and thither like crows after a pistol shot. She wished now that she had accepted Thomas’s offer to accompany her.

  Standing at the bottom of a small flight of steps, she read the gold lettering on a wooden tablet: THE RT. HON. RUPERT MARCHANT. A somber-looking clerk answered the door and asked if she was expected. She was then led through to a room lined from floor to ceiling with hefty tomes. Not only that, but the floor, too, was covered with leather-bound volumes of all shapes and sizes, and seated at a desk in amongst them sat the elegantly dressed figure of Rupert Marchant. His wig was perfectly coiffed and the scent of sandalwood enveloped him. He rose as soon as he saw Lydia and walked over to greet her, bowing low and kissing her gloved hand.

  “My dear Lady Lydia, it is so kind of you to grace me with your presence.” He gestured to a seat.

  She did not like his pretentious manner, but smiled and sat down. “It is good of you to see me, Mr. Marchant.”

  “I always have time for a charming lady,” he replied, catching her eye. She felt the color rise in her cheeks and wished that Thomas was sitting beside her. But she would not allow herself to be distracted from her mission.

  “As you know, I am here on behalf of Mr. Byrne,” she began.

  “Ah, yes, the famous Irish Giant,” he said almost mockingly, sitting back in his chair and clasping his manicured hands on his lap. “I hear there is even talk of a pantomime in his honor at the Haymarket.”

  Lydia had heard the rumor, too, but continued undeterred. “His father, sir, was executed last year for the murder of a young woman in a village near Derry. He died protesting his innocence.”

  Marchant let out a dismissive laugh and threw his hands in the air. “Don’t they all? I wish I had a guinea for every felon who told me he was not guilty.”

  Lydia felt indignant at his insult but, ignoring the slight, she placed a small leather satchel on the desk. “The real perpetrator of the crime has been arrested and convicted. You will find all the documentation here, sir,” she told him in a very businesslike fashion that wiped the smirk from his face.

  He leaned forward and opened the satchel, taking the documents out and scanning them briefly. His face hardened.

  “And you wish a posthumous royal pardon for this”—he looked at one of the documents—“Patrick Byrne.” His voice dripped with contempt.

  Lydia nodded. “I do, indeed, sir.”

  He paused and looked at her. His gaze was intense, and if his aim was to make Lydia feel uncomfortable, he certainly succeeded.

  “My services do not come cheap,” he snapped eventually.

  “Mr. Byrne will be able to pay you, sir.”

  “There will be a petition at the King’s Bench. It will need to be brought by the right people, of course. There is the paperwork, the court fees . . .”

  He was now gazing down at his desk, mentally calculating the monetary gain that he could make on the pages of some imaginary ledger, thought Lydia.

  “I am sure, sir, that I can attract much support for the cause,” she told him, her back stiffening in anger.

  He looked at her with an unsettling glint in his eye. “Your giant is an Irish peasant, your ladyship.”

  Lydia bristled at his harsh words. “If that is how you see him, then I shall need to find another lawyer who is more sympathetic,” she retorted, rising to leave.

  “Please, please, my lady.” Marchant rose, too. “Do not be so hasty, I pray you. Please.” He motioned to her to sit down. “I may be a lawyer, but on this occasion I speak plain. You will not find many who want to take up this man’s case.”

  Lydia frowned. “Why would that be?”

  “Your giant is Irish and the king, as you well know, has no love of his sort. God knows they have caused us enough troubles over the years.”

  Lydia paused for a moment. “But is not justice a right to be enjoyed equally by all of His Majesty’s subjects?”

  Marchant snorted. “Now you are sounding like a colonist!” he mocked.

  Lydia rose. “I see I had better take my business elsewhere.”

  Again Marchant relented. This time the sneer on his lips was nowhere to be seen. “I deal with realities, your ladyship.” His tone seemed to soften. “If you are to succeed in your task, you must know the obstacles you have to overcome. Please,” he said, motioning to the chair once more. She looked at him warily, but did as he bade.

  “Mr. Byrne will need to enlist the support of as many of high rank as he is able,” he told her earnestly.

  Lydia nodded. “Indeed,” she said, feeling that perhaps she was beginning to make some progress.

  “But such support can cost.”

  Lydia was unsure as to his meaning. “Are you saying, sir, that we will need to bribe officials?”

  He fell back in his chair, snorting once more. “Oh, oh, we do not use that word within these hallowed precincts,” he chided her. “All I am saying is that certain hospitality may need to be offered in return for the signatures of eminent supporters.”

  “Hospitality?” Lydia felt the color in her cheeks rise again.

  “Tokens of appreciation, favors . . .” His voice trailed off, but he held her gaze.

  “As I said, Mr. Byrne will pay you, and pay you and any,” she searched for an appropriate word, “associates handsomely. He is attracting many paying spectators.”

  “Indeed, and that is all to the good.” A smile flickered on his lips. “If these documents stand up to scrutiny,” he said, pointing to the satchel, “and there is enough support from those of high rank, then there is every possibility of success.”

  Lydia suddenly felt reassured. “So, you will act on behalf of Mr. Byrne?”

  “I shall draw up a contract, if it is your wish, my lady,” he said, leaning forward in an intimate manner.

  “Yes, yes, it is.” Lydia nodded, allowing herself to smile.

  “Then I shall make ready the necessary paperwork and we shall arrange to meet again next week so that Mr. Byrne can sign the relevant documents of engagement.”

  “T
hank you, Mr. Marchant,” she said, and she rose to leave the office. She only hoped she had just taken a decision that she would not come to regret.

  Chapter14

  Charles Byrne lay on his bed, thinking of home. Closing his eyes, he could see the sun shimmering on the glassy lough and the green-clad hills beyond. He could hear the gulls as they swooped and called over the water and he could smell the heather on the breeze and he wondered if he would ever return.

  A timid knock broke his rest. Emily put her head around the door.

  “Mistress Goodbody said I was to check on you, sir.” She walked toward the bed. “Can I fetch you some water, or food, perhaps? Cook has made some broth.”

  Charles opened his eyes to see her face, fresh and youthful, looking down on him. He saw tendrils of pale blond hair peeking out from underneath her cap and the cherry red of her full lips.

  “Will you sit with m-me?” he asked slowly.

  Emily was straightening the bedcovers and stopped still at his words. She dared not look at him.

  “Mistress Goodbody would scold me for that, sir. She would tell me I ought to be scrubbing or cleaning the brasses.”

  Charles Byrne’s gaze remained fixed on her face. “And what would you say, Emily?” He said her name slowly and deliberately.

  She allowed herself to look at him, his black hair spread out, his eyes tired and sad, and his skin so white that it was almost the same color as his pillow.

  “I would say I would, sir.”

  His face broke into a grin. “Then I would say I was a lucky man.”

  They smiled at each other, and their smiles dissolved any barrier there had been between them before. Charles raised himself on his elbows and Emily plumped up his pillows. “In that case,” he said, “I shall ask you to bring me a bowl of broth.”

  “Very good, sir,” she said, curtsying.

  He shook his head. “I am Charles.”