The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  “And meanwhile Moreno remains in Newgate Prison.” Boruwlaski looked grave.

  “You have visited him?”

  “Yes. He grows weaker and thinner each day.”

  “And we have less than two weeks to find the real killer,” said Thomas to himself as much as to the count.

  Mr. Smee broke out into a sweat the moment he saw Thomas standing in the hallway. “Dr. Silkstone,” he greeted him nervously. “What a surprise! My word, it is.”

  “Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” said Thomas graciously.

  “Why, not at all.” The little man giggled. “May we fetch you some refreshment?” Thomas would have enjoyed nothing more than a tankard of cool ale, but he could not allow himself to be distracted. He wanted to revisit the scene of Cappelli’s murder. Sir Peregrine had given him no time at all in which to investigate the area properly. There could have been clues, vital ones, on the rug, in the drawers, under the bed, that held the key to the murderer. And he had a hunch.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. He wanted to see if he was right.

  “I trust the giant gentleman was delivered safely to his grave,” said Smee in a reverent tone.

  Thomas nodded. “Yes. May he rest in peace,” he said, adding quickly: “But I am here on another matter, I am afraid, Mr. Smee.”

  The little man tensed visibly and brought out his large kerchief from his pocket.

  “What sort of matter, pray tell, sir?”

  “I have been tasked to see that there are no vermin on your premises,” Thomas told him, managing to keep a solemn face.

  Smee blushed, recalling the embarrassing episode of the victuals in a downstairs room. “I run a respectable establishment here, my word, I do, sir,” he blurted indignantly.

  “I know that your standards have improved much since my previous remarks, Mr. Smee, but nonetheless I need to satisfy His Majesty’s minister in charge of public health,” replied Thomas, inventing the grand title on the spot.

  His words, nevertheless, had the desired effect. Smee swallowed hard. “Then by all means, feel free to inspect all the rooms, sir. I will do anything I can to assist. My word, I will.” He mopped his shiny brow as he pictured being hauled in front of King George himself and admonished.

  Thomas was businesslike. “Then I shall start with your kitchen,” he said. The little man bowed and led the young doctor down a narrow flight of stairs to the kitchen and scullery. A fat woman sat mixing dough in a large bowl while a young boy peeled potatoes nearby. The stone flags were covered in discarded peelings and the occasional crust, and a dog lay chewing intently on a bone.

  “The floor needs sweeping regularly if rats are to be discouraged, Mr. Smee,” he said, shaking his head. He took out a notebook from his bag and, using a pencil, wrote a few words.

  “My word, indeed it does,” tutted the little man; then addressing the fat woman he chided: “You heard the good doctor, Cook.”

  The tour next progressed upstairs. Thomas was shown into the room where Moreno stayed. He gave it a cursory inspection. “You have let this room since the murder?” he asked.

  Smee shook his head. “No sir. Murders are not good for business. My word, they are not.” Thomas felt a twinge of guilt at leading this sad little man a merry dance, but he would be kind. “It is in order?”

  “Yes, Mr. Smee,” he said, again taking out his book and making notes. The proprietor craned his neck in a vain attempt to see what was being written.

  Thomas looked up. “Shall we move on?”

  Smee nodded and once again led the way along the narrow landing, but instead of stopping outside the room where the murder had been committed he walked on, heading for the stairs.

  “Mr. Smee,” called Thomas. “We have not seen this room.”

  The little man turned. A bead of sweat was running down his nose. “Forgive me, Dr. Silkstone, but no one has been in that room since . . .”

  “Since Signor Cappelli’s death?” said Thomas obligingly. It was just as he had hoped, and suspected, although he kept his glee in check.

  “Marie could not bring herself to enter and clean, and no one wants to sleep in a bed where a man has had his throat slit,” bemoaned the little man. “The door’s been locked these past two weeks.”

  That was music to Thomas’s ears, but he did not let his guard slip. “Dirty, unused rooms become palaces to rats, Mr. Smee,” he scolded. “I should not have to tell you that. Pray, let me enter.”

  With a trembling hand, Smee turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The room smelled loamy and damp, with the ferrous hint of congealed blood that only an anatomist would recognize. Specks of dust danced like mad midges in the thin lines of light that forced their way through cracks in the shutters.

  “Open the window,” instructed Thomas. Smee obliged.

  The bed was just as it had been left, with the counterpane turned back to reveal a small patch of dried blood. There were clues here, lying in front of him. Of that he was certain. He wanted to inspect everything thoroughly, to take samples, swabs, but he knew he had no authority. He was chancing his luck as it was.

  “Do you have a small brush?” he asked an anxious Mr. Smee.

  The little man balked, as if requiring some explanation.

  “If I am to check for rats, I need to sweep under the bed, sir,” explained Thomas, adding pointedly: “Droppings.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Mr. Smee turned tail and headed downstairs, giving the young doctor valuable time. He examined the sheets more closely, looking for blood, for stains, for anything. And there was something. A long, black hair. He moved swiftly, opening his bag and taking out a pair of tweezers. Carefully, he lifted the hair and put it in a glass phial, which he returned to his bag.

  Kneeling down he inspected the floor. The bloody footprints were still there, made by large, tapered feet—Moreno’s, he knew. But what was this? There were other outlines, broader, squatter, not made by shoes, but by boots perhaps. There were two such outlines, broken and faint, but distinguishable nevertheless. Someone else had mistakenly trodden in the viscous blood that was spilled on the rug. Another man other than Moreno, Smee, Sir Peregrine, and Thomas himself had been in the room since the murder.

  Hearing Smee’s footsteps coming up the stairs, he switched his attention to under the bed.

  “Here we are, sir,” said the tubby man, out of breath after climbing the stairs. He handed Thomas the brush and the doctor began to sweep the floor underneath the bed. As luck would have it, there was plenty to sweep. He had guessed it would be an area that was rarely cleaned, and he was right. By the time he had finished, he had two or three spoonfuls of dirt, which he carefully scooped up onto a piece of parchment and decanted into a glass jar. Although there was plenty for Thomas to analyze, he could not see any telltale rat droppings. But he would not give the landlord his verdict just yet.

  Mr. Smee watched him anxiously. “I’ll have to scold that Marie. My word, I will, sir,” he wailed.

  “Indeed you will, Mr. Smee,” replied Thomas, securing the lid of his glass jar and returning it to his bag. He suspected that the sullen girl would not take chastisement well. But that was not his concern. His work was done and he could not wait to return to his laboratory to analyze the contents of his jar, but he forced himself to remain professional.

  “If I find anything untoward, I shall contact you immediately,” he told Mr. Smee, who was wringing his chubby hands. “But I am sure I shall not,” he added with a smile.

  Emily climbed the sagging stairs up to the room in St. Giles with a heavy heart. Her ladyship had given her leave to spend a few hours with her family on her return from Margate. She was grateful to her. There was a strange emptiness inside her now that Charles was dead. She had only known him for a few weeks and loved him for even less, but his absence left a void that only time would fill.

  How she hated this vile place: the dripping walls that closed ’round her, the smell of piss that choked her, the ceaseless voices, pun
ctuated by cries when a woman was beaten or a child kicked. She had been lucky to escape the rookeries and she could not wait to return to Cockspur Street, but she needed to see her family first.

  As she made her way through the maze of corridors up to the top landing, she noticed something odd. It was still dark and damp and the dogs still barked and the men still scowled, but there was something else. A delicious smell was wafting down the stairs. Hot food. Not the usual crusts or maggoty cheese. She sniffed once more. Meat. Real meat. Not offal. Not potatoes. Meat.

  Not bothering to knock, she found her mother at the table. She was bending over a roasted joint. The woman looked up, surprised. She did not smile.

  “I heard the giant died,” was all she said.

  She was slicing the meat thickly, the bloody juices dribbling onto a tin plate. Her sharp knife made light work of the muscle. Emily suddenly thought of Charles. At least now he would be spared such an indignity. She nodded slowly, sniffing the steam that spooled from the joint. Her mouth began to salivate. She remembered she had not eaten all day.

  “Is it mutton?” she asked.

  “Yes,” came the terse reply.

  “And Da is not back yet?”

  “He’s back, all right, but he’s gone out drinking again.”

  In the corner, seated in a chair, sat her grandmother. The baby sat placidly on her knee as she fed him small slices of meat. Emily had barely seen her brother when he was not bawling. Grandmother Tooley smiled broadly, showing her toothless gums. Her small, gray head was lost inside a thick woolen shawl that Emily had not seen before. How would she manage to chew this new-gotten meat, Emily asked herself.

  “Gran,” she cried, rushing over to the old woman. “You look in good health.”

  The old woman nodded. “That I am, child,” she croaked, but her voice was stronger than before. Emily blinked. She looked stronger, too. The life that seemed to be ebbing from her as she lay in her dirty cot seemed to have returned. The breathless urgency with which she warned her granddaughter that a tall man from across the water was coming was all but a distant memory, as faded as her complexion had been. Now there was color in the old woman’s cheeks and a keen look in her eyes. She held out a hand to her granddaughter. It no longer shook like an autumn leaf. It was steady and the grasp, when Emily took it, was firm.

  “So, your giant has gone, child,” said the old woman.

  Emily’s eyes welled up at the memory of him. “Did you know he was going to die, Gran?”

  The old woman shrugged. “We are all going to die,” she answered, lifting the baby and returning him to the filthy floor.

  Emily knelt down. “But did you not foresee that it would be so soon?” Her voice was plaintive.

  “I could not foresee it, no,” replied her grandmother, her response oddly reticent.

  Emily cocked her head to one side. Something was amiss. She sensed it as surely as she sensed the smell of the hot mutton. “How did you know he was coming?” she asked. “Who told you about the giant?”

  Her mother swung ’round, waving the carving knife in her hand. “You would question your grandmother’s prophecies?” she scolded. “She is told by a higher power.” Her eyes shot heavenward and she crossed her bony chest.

  A higher power. Her mother’s words resonated in her head as her mind took her back to Charles’s last night on this earth. She recalled looking down on the crowd in the street below, Count Boruwlaski at her side. The men had gathered to protect him, brave and true. They saw to it that no knife man would plunge his scalpel into her Charles. There was great sadness, but there was joy, too; joy that her father, her drunken, ne’er-do-well father, had sprung to his fellow countryman’s defense. And the count had known his name.

  Emily scrambled suddenly to her feet. “Did the higher power tell you about a dwarf, too, Gran?”

  The old woman’s expression hardened. Her brow furrowed, turning the ridges on her face into deep ravines. A shocked silence sliced through the air as surely as the carving knife through the meat.

  “I don’t know what you can mean!” cried her outraged mother. “How dare you speak to your grandmother so?”

  But the old woman did not shriek in indignation. She did not protest her powers. Her granddaughter was far too shrewd for that, she knew. There was no point in trying to hide her deception. “We have eaten well thanks to the dwarf,” she said calmly.

  Emily felt anger twisting her guts deep inside her. “And what did you do in return?”

  Grandmother Tooley pulled the shawl tighter ’round her head, trying to take refuge in its warmth. “We did no harm.” She darted a look at her daughter, as if asking for support.

  “Your da was drinking all our money, so when the dwarf came and offered—”

  Emily broke in. It all made sense now. “So Count Boruwlaski asked Gran to spread the word about the Amazing Irish Giant so that the crowds would come and pay their half crowns?”

  Her mother’s gaunt face hardened defensively and she rebuked her daughter. “Your brother cried all day and all night through hunger. There was no milk in my breasts. Now, thanks to the little man, I could go to the cook shop and buy meat. Real meat!” She pointed at her son. “He has food in his belly and is content.”

  “And did my father know of this?”

  A sneer crossed her mother’s thin lips. “He’s in his cups most of the time. What need was there for him to know? No harm’s been done.”

  “No harm,” echoed Emily. “But I trusted you,” she said, shaking her head and looking at her grandmother, who seemed to shrink once more before her eyes. “You lied to me.”

  The old woman shifted in her chair and pinned her granddaughter with a knowing look. “A great hunger makes liars of us all,” she said sagely.

  Emily returned her gaze. How could she hate her? She knew what she said was true. Grandmother Tooley was no soothsayer, no prophetess, but her pearls of wisdom were worth more than a half leg of mutton. She could not be angry with her, or her mother. It was Count Boruwlaski who had betrayed her trust.

  Back at Hollen Street Thomas found Dr. Carruthers seated in his study.

  “Ah, Silkstone, young fellow. Welcome home. I was beginning to think you’d left us for good,” greeted the old surgeon.

  “I was beginning to feel that I had,” he replied, smiling and dropping into a chair opposite his mentor.

  “Still, the giant is buried at sea?”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed.” At least one thing had gone according to plan, Thomas told himself. “But I am afraid that Carrington, the student I told you about, is dead.”

  The old surgeon arched a brow. “How so?”

  “He fell from his horse and down a cliff.”

  “That was careless,” said Carruthers dryly.

  “He was trying to escape from the constables. I had just accused him of conspiring in Signor Cappelli’s murder.”

  “Ah. I see. And did he?”

  “I believe so, but I still have no clue as to who carried out the act itself.”

  “So you have discounted that scoundrel Hunter?”

  “Carrington was trying to implicate him. He bore him a grudge.”

  “I see. Then perhaps you need to go back to Dr. Hunter and ask more questions, young fellow.”

  Thomas knew Carruthers was right. He would pay another visit to the anatomist first thing tomorrow to inform him of Carrington’s death and to find out if he could suggest a possible motive for Cappelli’s murder. He would also need to analyze the contents of the sample jar. Before that, however, he needed his bed. It had been a very long time since he had enjoyed eight decent hours of sleep. He resolved to return his medical bag to his laboratory instead of taking it up to his room.

  Carrying a lighted candle, he opened the door. That same familiar sharp smell of preserving fluid greeted him. It evoked cleanliness and order and it made him smile. He had just deposited his bag on the workbench and was turning to leave when he heard a noise coming somewhere from th
e far corner of the room.

  “Who’s there?” he called. No reply. With his candle aloft he took three or four steps farther into the laboratory. He saw his table, his books, and his phials ranged just as he had left them. All seemed in order. His instrument box, too, lay untouched. Using his free hand, he flipped open the lid. A blade glinted in the candle glow and he grabbed it quickly. There was the noise again, a slight, scratching sound.

  “Come out,” he called, tension rising as he clutched the knife to strike.

  It was then that he heard a squeak, a small, pathetic note, and he realized his mistake. It was Franklin, his rat, scuttling about in his cage. In his absence he had forgotten all about his furry white companion. He hoped Mistress Finesilver had not neglected him while he was away.

  By the light of his candle Thomas could see he had scraps and water in his bowls, but the peevish housekeeper was no lover of rodents and had not changed his bedding for days. The familiar smell of ammonia stung his eyes. He opened the cage door and Franklin came up to him, his long whiskers twitching wildly at Thomas’s familiar scent.

  “Hello, boy.” He smiled, holding out his palm. The rat approached and walked straight onto his hand. Thomas lifted him out of the cage and lowered him gently into his pocket. “Poor old boy. You shall stay with me tonight.”

  Wearily he climbed the stairs and opened the door to his room. It had been almost a week since he had slept in his own bed. Holding his candle aloft, he looked around the place that was so familiar and comforting to him. He guided the beam of light over his books, his papers, his brushes and creams and powders on his dressing table. All was just as he had left it. It reminded him of Signor Cappelli’s room. He thought of his gentleman’s cabinet, how elaborate it was, with its pomades and its pastilles and the alum block.

  Reaching into his frock-coat pocket he retrieved Franklin and set him down on the dressing table. As he expected, the creature scurried from object to object sniffing, bringing a smile to Thomas’s face. But when he came to the alum block his pink tongue suddenly appeared and he began to lick it. Thomas watched him for a moment. Was it the potassium in the block he craved? He had heard that animals with certain mineral deficiencies often sought them out in nature, so that cats with kidney problems might lick coal for its carbon. Could Franklin be doing something similar? He was just about to pick him up when he stopped dead in his tracks. An alum block, for shaving. He recalled the alum block in Cappelli’s room. What would a castrato, without any body hair at all, want with an alum block? He had often recommended alum himself to treat canker sores, but that was in powder form. In a block, the alum was mixed with potassium and rubbed over the wet, freshly shaved face. The substance acted as an astringent to prevent bleeding from small shaving cuts.