by Tessa Harris
She was shaking her head now and long strands of hair were breaking loose like writhing snakes. “No!” she hissed. “No!” And grabbing a half full pitcher from the table, she threw the contents at Thomas’s face and scrambled toward the door.
Wiping the ale from his eyes, he ran after her and lunged for her just as she reached the threshold. He grabbed her arm. She turned once more to face him, tears now pouring down her cheeks. She was frightened and he suddenly felt sorry for her. “If you tell all you know, the court will be lenient, Marie,” he told her. “I know you didn’t want to . . . ,” he began again, but he did not finish his sentence. Looming behind Marie in the doorway stood her brother, Jean-Paul, and behind him, Dubois himself.
“You were saying, Dr. Silkstone?” said the barber. His manner was oddly self-assured. There was a strange look in his eye and a smirk on his lips. There was no trace of the genteel mien with which he usually greeted his clients. He motioned to his brooding son, who barged past his sobbing sister and rammed Thomas’s arms behind his back. The doctor let out a startled cry, but he knew he had to be calm. He did not wish to inflame the barber’s passion even more. He had come across patients like him before. They suffered from delusions of grandeur. They needed to be treated with respect.
“You are a fine barber, Monsieur Dubois,” said Thomas as Jean-Paul manhandled him onto a nearby settle. The brute forced his hands behind his back, securing them with thick twine that cut into his wrists, but he tried to remain composed.
The Frenchman eyed him, proudly thrusting out his hairless chin. “I am indeed a fine barber, Dr. Silkstone. But I would make an even better surgeon.” He arched a brow as he gazed down imperiously at his helpless victim.
It was just as Thomas had suspected. He was suffering from a severe sense of inferiority that had lain festering within him for many years. He would flatter him rather than confront him with the brutal truth.
“But you are the finest in your field, sir. You provide a vital service to so many gentlemen,” said Thomas, his words gathering pace. “Your skill is consummate. Your clients speak very highly of you. Why, Herr Haydn—”
“Tessez-vous!” cried the barber, clapping his hands. “You talk too much.”
“Forgive me, I—”
“Enough, I said!” he barked once more. “I have heard enough from your kind,” he sneered.
Thomas swallowed hard. “My kind?”
“You surgeons and anatomists. You think you are so superior. You close your ranks like a cabal. You look down on men like me.”
The young doctor could sympathize with these sentiments. He did not care for the superciliousness displayed by his profession. “I do not look down on you, sir,” he protested. “Neither of us is native here. I am away from my homeland, too. I am not one of those surgeons who puts his own interests above those of his patients. It takes many years of—”
But Dubois did not want to listen. He raised his hand and a tangy scent of lemons filled the air around him. “Enough, I said! You talk too much, Dr. Silkstone.”
“I am only trying to—”
“Enough!” Dubois turned and opened a small case he had brought with him. Thomas watched him, sweat now breaking out on his own forehead.
“Do not tell me how many years it takes to become a surgeon. I have served my apprenticeship, Dr. Silkstone. I deserve to be accorded that status,” he said, fumbling in his case.
“I do not doubt it, sir, but there—”
“Silence, Dr. Silkstone. You talk too much!” he barked once more before his hands emerged from the case. Thomas’s eyes opened wide with terror when he saw what the barber was holding.
“I know a surgical procedure that will help you with your condition, Dr. Silkstone,” he said coldly, glaring at Thomas with his weasel eyes. In his left hand he held a razor.
“No, Papa!” screamed Marie, but her father took no notice, walking slowly toward Thomas, the blade held aloft.
The young doctor shuffled on the settle, but Jean-Paul clamped his hands on his shoulders, forcing him down. The barber grabbed hold of Thomas’s head and jammed a wodge of gauze between his jaws on either side of his face, wedging open his mouth.
“Normally I would give a patient strong liquor to dull the senses, but I will deny you that, just as I was denied entry into se Company of Surgeons,” he growled. He was bending low now; Thomas could smell his peppermint-scented breath and the lemon scent on his skin. All his senses were suddenly heightened. He could feel his heart beating faster in his chest and his breathing quicken. He could feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his guts heaving.
“Now, let me see your tongue, Dr. Silkstone,” ordered Dubois, lifting the blade.
Thomas called out, but he could only grunt. His tongue was jammed under the gauze. His shoulders were still clamped hard by the brute as the razor hovered by his cheek. Suddenly he felt an extraordinary surge of energy, like a wave washing over him. The only sound he could hear was his heart pumping rapidly. Taking in great gulps of air and summoning all his might, he drew back his knees and kicked out with both his feet, hitting the barber in the shins and throwing him off balance. He jerked back, crashing into a table. Marie rushed forward and Jean-Paul released his grip on Thomas’s shoulders.
Seizing the opportunity, the young doctor leapt up and began running for the door, his hands still bound.
“Suivez-t’il!” cried Dubois, steadying himself with a chair. “Don’t let him get away!”
Jean-Paul lumbered after him, reaching Thomas just before he made it to the door. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he dragged him back into the room.
“Put him on a chair this time so we can tie his legs,” ordered his father.
Once more, the brute pushed Thomas down onto the seat. From his pocket he again produced the twine and, thrusting the doctor’s legs apart, he bound each one tightly to a chair leg. There was no way that he could kick out again.
Dubois approached him once more, the blade flashing in his hand. “You must hold still, Dr. Silkstone. I would hate for my blade to slip!” he sneered, bending over Thomas a second time.
The doctor braced himself, clenching his fists so tightly that he could feel his nails cut through the flesh on his palms. He tried to close his mouth, but the gauze was still jammed between his jaws, preventing movement. The blade came closer. He closed his eyes and felt Dubois’s pincer fingers against his gums and teeth, probing for his tongue. He would wake soon from this nightmare, he told himself. Any moment now.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside. Shouts could be heard in the hallway. The barber retracted his hand and Thomas opened his eyes to see Dubois motioning to Marie to see what was happening. But she did not get far. Before she reached the threshold, the imposing form of Sir Peregrine Crisp appeared, accompanied by five constables.
“Francois Dubois, I arrest you in the name of His Majesty King George!” he cried. The constables surged forward, heading first for Jean-Paul. Releasing his grip from Thomas’s shoulders, he lunged forward, but the constables’ cudgels were more than a match for him and he was felled by a blow to the back of his head. Marie did not put up any resistance, but instead of relinquishing the blade, her father remained rooted to the spot, still hunched over Thomas.
“Come closer and I will give this man a shave he will never forget!” Dubois warned Sir Peregrine.
Thomas darted a look at the coroner, then back to Dubois, his eyes wide with terror as he saw the blade flash once more in the candlelight. Just at that moment, the drunkard, who had been sleeping throughout Thomas’s ordeal, chose to stir. Dubois saw him from out of the corner of his eye and turned. The constables took their chance. One of them knocked the razor out of his hand with a cudgel while the other pinioned his arms behind his back. He struggled momentarily, cussing and oathing in his native tongue. But he was no match for the burly men who soon pushed him out to a waiting wagon.
Another constable came forward to release Thomas. As soon as his
hands had been cut free, the doctor took the gauze out of his mouth. He rubbed his aching face as Sir Peregrine approached.
“I thought you were never going to come, sir,” complained Thomas, still clutching his jaw.
“I was in court when I was handed your note, but a moment longer and we would have been deprived of your dulcet tones forever!” replied the coroner, patting Thomas on the back.
“I am most grateful to you, sir,” said Thomas; then, turning toward the drunkard in the corner whose stirrings had distracted Dubois, he called, “And thank you to you, sir, too.”
The man, who still appeared stupefied by liquor and unaware of the dramatic scene just played out before him, raised his disheveled head and stared blankly into the distance, trying to focus. Thomas recognized him instantly. It was Mad Sam.
“O’Shea!” he exclaimed.
The Irishman eased himself back into his chair, shaking the fog of strong drink from his head. “Why, Dr. Silkstone!” he cried, his face splitting into a broad smile. “Will you not join me in a drink?”
Thomas paused for a moment. Seeing O’Shea, he was suddenly reminded of the tragic fate of Charles Byrne. He looked at Sir Peregrine. “Forgive me, sir, but I need to talk with this gentleman. I will come to your office later.”
The coroner raised an eyebrow. “Very good, Silkstone,” he said. “I am sure you could do with a stiff drink.”
Thomas walked toward O’Shea, who was already pouring out gin into a tankard. He took out a chair and sat down beside the Irishman.
“I will join you in a drink, sir,” said Thomas, who never usually touched gin. “And I would propose a toast.”
The young doctor raised his tankard and clinked it against O’Shea’s. “To our dear departed friend, Mr. Charles Byrne,” he toasted. “May his soul rest in peace,” he said, then quietly to himself he added, “even if his body does not.” And with that, the two men gulped down their liquor.
Chapter 52
It was mid-June and the sun was high in the sky over Boughton Hall. The red kites soared overhead in the warm thermals and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. The dissecting rooms of London were a world away and Thomas could at last find the peace he so craved after the past few tumultuous months.
Lydia walked by his side on a path of bleached stones in the gardens. She was fully restored to health and happy to be back at her beloved country home. Yet he noticed she was still quiet, as if something was troubling her. He had not pressed her. He had held off quizzing her since their arrival from London, but now, as they walked arm in arm, surrounded by clipped yew hedges and away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues, he resolved to ask her if anything else troubled her. As they sat on a seat under the shade of a large hornbeam, there was an awkward silence.
“There is something you wish to tell me, is there not?” he said, taking her hand in his.
She looked at him with her large, doleful eyes. “You know me so well.” She smiled. “Yes. Yes, there is.”
“So?” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I am listening.”
Sighing deeply, she turned her head away, looking into the distance. “You know I told you about Hunter—” She broke off, as if uttering his very name was too much for her. Thomas put his arm around her. “How he tried to kill my baby.”
“Yes.” Thomas nodded.
She turned abruptly, looking him in the eye. “He did not succeed.”
The doctor swallowed hard in amazement. “Go on,” he urged.
“Afterward my belly still grew, and four months later I gave birth to a boy.”
Thomas looked at her in disbelief. “You have a son?”
She nodded. “He was beautiful. Perfect in every way, apart from his arm.” Her voice was now choking with emotion. “It was withered.” Thomas thought of Hunter’s long needle piercing the uterus. Instead of penetrating the fetus’s heart, brain, or lungs to kill it immediately, it must have gone straight through its arm, severing vital arteries. “We called him Richard, after my father, and all was well until the fifth day, when Michael came into the bedroom to tell me he was dead.” She wiped away a tear from her cheek. “He said the nurse found him in his cradle. He would not let me hold him, but I could see no sign of life. He was so pale and limp. He called the undertaker and we buried him in Bath.”
Thomas held her close. “ ’Tis a terrible thing to lose a child,” he comforted, but she pulled away. “Michael said nothing. ’Twas as if the babe was never born. I wasn’t allowed to say his name. Then, a few weeks later, we made our peace with my mother. Michael renounced all claim to my inheritance and we were married.”
The familiar look of hurt and pain had returned to her face once more. No wonder her soul was so tortured, thought Thomas.
She continued: “Nothing was ever said again about Richard, even though I remembered him in my thoughts and prayers every day and longed for another child. But although I was a dutiful wife, I did not conceive.” Thomas feared that because of the attempted abortion, she might never be able to bear a child again. He was sure she was aware of that, but he suspected there was more.
She took a deep breath and carried on: “Then, one day, after Michael’s death, I was looking through some of his private papers and I came across some bills.”
“What sort of bills?” urged Thomas.
“They were from a wet nurse, and they were for the care of Richard Michael Farrell.”
Thomas did not try to hide his shock. “So you think the child lives?”
“I wrote a letter to her, but she replied saying that because no one had paid the bills for a while and letters to Michael had gone unanswered, she had given Richard’s care over to a workhouse.” Her tears were flowing freely now, but Thomas wiped them away and smiled. Finally he had found that source of the deep, terrible pain that had caused Lydia so much suffering. For a long time he had suspected that despite everything that she had endured since the death of her brother, there was something else, something more, that had been eating away like a cancer. Now he knew what it was he could try, like any good physician, to devise a remedy for it. The treatment might prove painful, but he would endeavor to heal her the only way he knew how. He slipped his hands in hers and held them tight. “I promise you,” he told her, fully understanding her pain for the first time, “if your son lives, we shall find him, as God is my witness.”
Back in London, five men met in an upper room. One of their number was absent. They were in a black humor as they sat ’round a large table.
“Gentlemen, I am afraid I have bad news to report,” announced Sir Oliver De Vere. “Our plans seem to have received a setback.”
They mumbled and murmured over their claret; Keate, Gunning, Walker, and Home. Their master explained: “You may have heard that Giles Carrington died in Margate; a most unfortunate accident.”
“Or fortunate,” piped up Keate.
“How so, sir?” pressed Walker.
“At least he could not reveal that he was on our mission.”
General agreement was voiced at this remark, but Sir Oliver continued: “As for Monsieur Dubois, the bitter and twisted Frenchman so anxious to join our ranks on completion of his task, he was arrested for the castrato’s murder, and his son sent to Bedlam.”
“I hear we have that colonist, Silkstone, with his newfangled science to thank for scuppering our plans,” ventured Gunning.
At the mention of Thomas’s name there was a collective jeer. “Yes, Silkstone is a thorn in our side.”
“Was it not he who Charlesworth was about to consult over his reforms?” interrupted Gunning.
“Yes, he and Hunter,” replied Sir Oliver.
“So how did Silkstone uncover our barber?” asked Keate.
“He traced the castrato’s alum block back to the salon,” revealed Sir Oliver. “There was a lock of the boy’s hair at the murder scene, too. The daughter broke under questioning.”
“The girl at the inn?” asked Home.
“The ve
ry same. She confessed to letting her father and brother into the room.”
“And the prizefighter?” asked Gunning. “Was he not charged, as we planned?”
“No. The girl blabbed that she was put up to it by her father. There was no evidence against Crouch.”
“Will the Frenchman talk?” asked Walker.
Sir Oliver smiled. “There is no fear of that, gentlemen.” He smirked. “He slit his own throat before he said any more. Rather apt, don’t you think?”
Gunning huffed. “I did not think he had the wit to do such a thing after what we saw. Eh, Keate?” He glanced over to his colleague. “Well, I hope his corpse ended up at St. George’s.”
“Like the carter’s.” His colleague chuckled.
Nervous laughter rippled ’round the room.
“And the sodomite has gone free?” queried Home.
“Sadly, yes. There is no justice, gentlemen,” mocked Sir Oliver.
“So now we will renew our efforts to destroy Hunter’s name?” asked Gunning.
“Indeed,” replied Sir Oliver, stroking his chin enigmatically. The other men leaned forward, elbows on the table, their interest piqued. “I have devised another, more subtle plan,” he told them and, gesturing toward the door, he called out: “Mr. Foot.”
At this bidding a dapper little gentleman with a haughty air entered the room, a bundle of papers under his arm. He bowed graciously.
The master introduced him. “Mr. Foot is known to you all, gentlemen, as a surgeon of impeccable integrity,” he began. “He has been gathering evidence against the Scotch heathen for a number of years now and he plans to write the man’s biography. I put it to you, sirs, that the quill is mightier than the sword. So, from now on, instead of the cutthroat razor, the pen will be our weapon with which to slay this scourge of our sacred profession.” And with that the surgeons raised their glasses in a toast. “To Galen,” they cried, “and the destruction of Dr. John Hunter, the most reviled anatomist that ever lived.”
Postscript
Dr. John Hunter waited two years to reveal the existence of Charles Byrne’s skeleton, and then only to close associates. It can be seen to this day hanging at the Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons in London. In 1909, a postmortem examination revealed Charles Byrne suffered from a tumor in his pituitary, the gland responsible for producing a growth hormone. In 2010 the results of tests carried out on his bones by Professor Márta Korbonits of Barts Hospital, London, were published in the New England Journal of Medicine. They revealed that Byrne and up to 300 living patients inherited their genetic variant from the same common ancestor and that this mutation is some 1,500 years old. The study of Charles Byrne’s bones makes it possible to trace carriers of this gene and treat patients before they grow to be giants.