by Tessa Harris
There was a general chorus of approval and another toast was drunk. “To the finest Irishman that ever lived,” they cried, their sentimentality growing with each pot of ale. And so the night went on.
Outside, across a small courtyard, in a barn not ten yards away, lay the object of their adulation and the subject of their numerous toasts. Charles Byrne’s body was safe. No one could enter the barn without first passing the back windows of the inn, where they all sat, keeping guard over the remains of their friend in their own very special way.
About ten miles to the west, Thomas had been forced to stop for the night in an inn at Gravesend. He was making good progress when his horse went lame and he had to walk the last five miles into the port. He reluctantly ate some bread and cheese, even though he had no appetite for it, and retired early so that he could leave at first light. With a good night’s rest and a fresh horse, he reckoned he could easily catch up with Lydia and the funeral cortege before they reached Margate, where Charles was to be consigned to the sea. He prayed the giant’s hapless friends would keep true to their word. Now that he knew Giles Carrington could not be trusted, the band of Irish reprobates was his only hope.
The next morning the sunlight seemed brighter than usual to the Irishmen. The clatter of horses’ hooves and the shouts of the pot boys and scullery maids were louder too. And how stiff they were! What sort of mattresses were these that they were as hard as wood? It was only a few moments after their waking that they realized they had, indeed, slept on wood. They had not taken to their beds that night, nor even dozed by Charles’s coffin as planned. The liquor had got the worst of them, and one by one they had fallen into a drunken stupor by the hearth.
As soon as he realized what had happened Mad Sam scrambled up and rushed out of the door, shouting.
“The giant. The giant!” he cried, hurtling toward the barn. His motley crew followed in hot pursuit, hollering and shouting as if the very world were coming to an end. But they need not have worried. The gigantic coffin was still there, resting peacefully on the flagstones. O’Shea ran a careful hand over the lid. It was all intact. The nails were as secure as the teeth in his head. He patted the box like a horse, then bent down and whispered: “Are you well in there, Charles, me old cara?” Satisfied that he had received a reply in the affirmative, Mad Sam nodded vigorously. “All’s well,” he told his men, and they breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Alerted to the commotion below as she dressed, Lydia told Emily to look out of the window. The maid watched anxiously as the men emerged from the barn, but her expression changed when she saw they were smiling.
“Mr. Byrne is safe,” she told her mistress.
“We must thank God for that,” replied Lydia. It was certainly no thanks to the Irishmen, she thought.
Chapter 47
Howison, Pertwee, Crouch, and Hartnett traveled through the night. They reached Castle Street just before dawn. John Hunter was there to receive them. Without ceremony they brushed away the few stinking cabbages that had covered the coffin during the journey from Kent and prized open the lid.
There it lay. The most sought-after corpse in London, nay, in England, and now it belonged to John Hunter. But they must make haste. It was turning. The other men gagged on the familiar stench. Besides, there was no time to gloat over those who so desperately wanted to get their knives into this precious flesh. It would soon be light and the news, once uncovered, would travel fast.
They hauled the carcass, wearing only its funeral shroud, onto a smaller wagon that waited, already harnessed to three water buffalo. Howison climbed on board.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” called Hunter to Pertwee, Crouch, and Hartnett as he cracked the whip. They did not wave back. They were too busy counting their money.
Westward they drove, to Earls Court, all the time looking over their shoulder. Were they being followed? What was that in the shadows? A horse? Who was the rider? Would they take word to others of his kind? Would they say “John Hunter is on the move! John Hunter has the giant! Ambush him! Steal the corpse!” But no. They reached their destination just as the sun was rising behind them and made sure the great drawbridge was lifted to make them secure.
Together they heaved the gigantic corpse off the wagon and put it ignominiously into a handcart, trundling it with great difficulty along the path and into the laboratory underground.
The anatomist had lit the fire under the copper vat before he had left for Castle Street, and the room was now filled with steam from the boiling water.
“You want him on the table?” asked Howison.
Hunter nodded and together they lugged the great carcass up onto the dissecting slab. Rigor mortis had set in, but that did not bother the doctor. There was no time for his usual practices: Meticulous anatomization was out of the question.
“Guard the door,” he barked to Howison. Aware that his fellow anatomists would be capable of scaling even high walls to steal his booty, he was afraid they would be besieged at any moment.
Quickly he unwrapped the shroud and allowed himself the luxury of marveling at his prize. Charles Byrne’s great hulk was as extraordinary in death as it had been in life. “You are wondrous,” he muttered to himself before reaching for a cleaver.
Taking a deep breath, he let the blade first fall on Charles’s left leg. The blow sprayed his topcoat with fluids and, evidently irked by the inconvenience of this, he flung it off to the ground and carried on in his shirtsleeves. Next he sliced through the bone with a saw, drawing it across like the bow of a cello. He repeated the procedure with the right leg as Howison looked on from the doorway in admiration. There was sweat on his forehead, and he wiped it away with the bloodied sleeve of his shirt. More sawing. He was playing arpeggio: up and down, across, backward and forward. His muscles ached from the pressure.
Out of breath from his considerable exertions, and wet with the steam, Hunter next chopped off the arms. They put up less resistance, the bones of the humerus capitulating sooner than the femurs. Gathering the limbs together he tossed them, one by one, and without the slightest ceremony, into the boiling vat. How he would have loved to explore those muscles and tease out those sinews. But there was no time.
Returning to the corpse, he was left with the torso and the head. Ah, the head, he said to himself, gazing at the giant’s face, framed by his flowing black hair. Eyes, thankfully, closed. What mysteries did this skull hold? What explanation could it give for this Goliath of a man? Just why had he grown so tall? Sadly, he would never know. There was no room for sentimentality. The cranium had to be severed. He called over to Howison. “Help me pull the corpse.” Together they heaved the giant up the table so that while his body was supported, his head dropped down over the side, exposing his neck and throat. “Put a basket down there,” he ordered and Howison obliged. And now Hunter stood, both anatomist and executioner, and taking a deep breath, he lifted the cleaver above his own head and brought it down again deftly. There was a splintery, cracking sound that lasted only a split second. With one fell swoop Charles Byrne’s head was off, dropping into the waiting basket like a rotten cabbage, and without hesitation John Hunter picked it up and flung it into the seething copper to be boiled away with the rest of the large chunks of human meat.
Chapter 48
Lydia put her head out of the carriage and breathed in the salty air. She had never seen the sea before, and now it stretched out before her like a great azure carpet, fringed by the cream and gold shingle of the shore. A dozen or so fishing boats bobbed on choppy waters a few hundred feet out as seagulls whooped and called above. In the distance great cliffs of chalk rose from the beach, while up ahead the twin towers of a church poked over the horizon.
“Reculver,” said Carrington, following Lydia’s gaze. “We shall soon be in Margate.”
“Yes.” Lydia nodded and slipped her gloved hand into Emily’s. The maid was sitting beside her and had remained silent throughout the journey. “We shall watch from the cliff top,�
� she said. “Mr. O’Shea has made all the arrangements with the fishermen.”
Less than two hours later they were in Margate and had stopped by the wooden pier. Lydia surveyed the scene, scanning for Thomas. Her efforts were in vain. A few fishing boats were in port, but most were out at sea. There were hoys, too, loading and unloading cargo. Donkeys waited patiently with great panniers on their backs, flicking troublesome flies from their eyes with jerks of their heads. Horses pulled carts and wagons laden with barrels of fish to take to London. There was noise, shouts from the fishermen and the dockers, and gulls, circling overhead. But of Dr. Silkstone there was no sign.
O’Shea halted the cart by one of the hoys and climbed down to talk to a stocky man on board. Lydia saw him nod and call some of his men over. They lowered a gangplank so that O’Shea could board. He gestured over to his gang. There were nods and handshakes and the others returned to the coffin.
“This be the vessel, your ladyship,” said O’Shea to Lydia.
“But Dr. Silkstone is not here yet. Can we wait?” She was growing increasingly anxious.
“The tide waits for no one, ma’am. The skipper says we need to leave port in the next hour, or we’ll lose another day.”
“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “We shall drive up to the headland and watch you discharge the coffin from there.”
Lovelock drove them east up a steep track that led to the cliffs that stood sentinel over the vast sweep of the bay. All the time Lydia was looking out of the window, watching for Thomas, but as the road rose, the people below became as small as black pebbles on the seashore. Even if he had been there, she would not have been able to distinguish him from the others below. She could, however, discern the hoy as it left the port, making its slow and solemn progress with its precious cargo. She wrapped her shawl around her. The sea breeze was stronger the higher they rose. She saw Emily shiver, not from cold, she suspected, but with the thought of seeing Charles’s body consigned to the depths.
“ ’Tis what he dearly wanted,” comforted Lydia.
“Aye,” replied the maid. “But ’tis a sad thing that it had to come to this.”
Lydia knew exactly what she meant.
When they reached the crest of the hill, all three of them alighted. Lydia had brought her prayer book with her, the same one that she had consulted in her darkest hour at Boughton. She had chosen a few words of commendation and had hoped that Thomas would be able to read them as Charles was lowered into the sea. In his absence, she would have to ask Carrington, she told herself.
As they stood on the cliff top, the wind whipping around their faces, they could still make out the hoy, struggling to leave the shelter of the port. Although the tide was with it, the wind was blowing onshore, pushing against the vessel as it attempted to make headway, like some great, unseen hand. Lydia had brought a telescope with her and was watching the mariners on board trim the sail to the prevailing wind.
After a few minutes, however, they began to make progress and were soon rounding the foreland and heading out to sea. So preoccupied were Lydia, Carrington, and Emily with the spectacle that they did not notice a lone horseman galloping up the track until he came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away.
“Dr. Silkstone!” cried Lydia as she saw the doctor dismount and hurry over to her.
“Thank goodness I have found you,” he panted. He was relieved to see that Carrington did not seem to have done anything untoward in his absence. His accusations would have to wait until after the interment. “I am in time?” he said.
“Yes. The vessel will be in the right position soon,” replied an unsuspecting Carrington.
“Twenty fathoms out,” said Thomas, repeating Charles’s instructions. He had even heard a rumor on his travels that there were those with diving bells who would seek to haul the giant’s coffin to the surface.
Lydia handed Emily the telescope. “Here,” she said. The servant had never held such an instrument before, but with help, she put it to her eye and was able to focus. “Tell us when it is time,” she instructed.
Next she handed Thomas the prayer book. “Could you read a psalm for Mr. Byrne, please?”
The doctor took the psalter and opened it at a marked page. Through the telescope Emily could see the men were heaving the coffin into position on thick linen straps.
“It is time,” she said.
Thomas turned his face to the sea and read: Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.
They stood in silence for a few more moments, saying their wordless farewells, as they watched the great coffin plunge into the sea, safe from the clawing hands and sharp knives that had hounded Charles ever since he had come to London.
“He is safe now,” said Lydia to Emily. The maid crossed herself and nodded, wiping away the tears that streamed from her eyes. As the two women began to walk back to the carriage, Thomas took the opportunity to confront Carrington.
“I have spoken with Hunter,” he said. His expression gave nothing away.
The young student looked uncomfortable and let out a nervous laugh. “And he denied any wrongdoing, of course.”
“Not only did he deny murder, he accused you of the killing as a way of revenge for the death of your father. You wanted Hunter disgraced, did you not?” Thomas’s voice remained calm, but his thrust was cutting.
Carrington’s expression changed. “Of course I want him disgraced. Any surgeon, any physician, any anatomist worth an iota of respect wants him disgraced, Dr. Silkstone.”
“So you do not deny putting the castrato’s larynx in the storeroom to implicate Hunter?”
The student stiffened, as if proud of himself. “I do not deny it, but I did not commit the murder.”
Thomas was stunned, but he did not show it. He thought he could be confident in his accusation. He persisted.
“So how did you come by this?” he asked, walking over to his horse and pulling out the jar containing the larynx from a pannier. “You, of all people, know I can prove if it is Cappelli’s or not.”
An insolent look settled on Carrington’s face. “Save your science, Dr. Silkstone,” he sneered. “It is Cappelli’s sure enough and, yes, I put it in Hunter’s store, but I did not commit murder.”
“But you know who did?”
Carrington raised a contemptuous eyebrow. “Perhaps,” he tormented.
Thomas grew impatient. “Constables are waiting below in the port,” he said, pointing below. “They are waiting for my signal.”
Carrington let out another nervous laugh. “That was a foolish move to make, Dr. Silkstone,” he shouted, the gathering wind muffling his words. Suddenly his eyes darted to his right and he rushed forward, grabbing hold of Lydia as she was about to climb back into the carriage. Emily screamed as she watched the student take her mistress by the throat, then put his hand over her mouth. “Let me leave on my own, Dr. Silkstone, or I will take her with me.”
Thomas rushed forward, too, but Carrington only tightened his grip on Lydia’s neck. “Let her go, Carrington. It’s over. You know you cannot escape,” the doctor told him, walking slowly toward him.
“Oh, but I can,” he countered, and flinging Lydia to the ground, he jumped up onto Thomas’s horse and began kicking it violently and tugging at its rein. The crop had been left on the saddle and now he used that, too, lashing the animal ferociously. But instead of galloping off, the terrified horse reared up on its hind legs and let out a loud whinny before bolting off along the cliff top toward the town.
Thomas ran to Lydia. “Leave me, you must get after him,” she said as Emily comforted her.
“The constables are waiting for him. They will arrest him,” replied Thomas. But just as he said this, there was another whinny in the distance from the horse. Running over to
the crest of the hill he could see the beast rearing up halfway down the track. It was up on its hind legs, neighing loudly as it had before. Only this time Carrington was not in the saddle.
Chapter 49
The journey back to London was spent in sober reflection. Naturally the constables had questions about Carrington’s death. Witnesses said that the horse had thrown him and that he had rolled over the cliff edge, plunging sixty feet to the beach below. Their accounts were accepted and his body transported for burial.
Lydia was still in shock from the assault and had accepted a draft from Thomas. Much of her journey was spent asleep. The only person who could take comfort from the trip to Margate was Emily, believing that her beloved giant’s wishes had been fulfilled.
Count Boruwlaski was waiting for them on their return to Cockspur Street. Once Thomas had settled Lydia in her room and said farewell to O’Shea and his gang, who had escorted their carriage, he joined the little man in the drawing room. He seemed delighted to see them return safely from their sad mission and relieved that Charles’s dying wish had been granted.
“I was most concerned that Hunter’s men, or some such other villains, would get their hands on him,” he told Thomas over a brandy.
“Indeed we all were,” agreed Thomas. “There was one very unfortunate incident, however,” Thomas began. He told him how Carrington had hidden the jar with the castrato’s larynx in Hunter’s storeroom.
“Naturally, after that, I assumed he had murdered Signor Cappelli, but he denied it, saying he only wanted to implicate Hunter in the murder.”
“And you believed him?” asked the little man.
Thomas paused for a moment. “Yes, I did. I do not believe he would have denied it. He seemed almost proud of his hatred toward Hunter and would have admitted the act if it were true.”