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Authors: Tessa Harris

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BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Chapter 51
I
t was no longer to the dead, but to the living that Thomas knew he must now turn his full attention. Time was fast running out if he was to save Leonardo Moreno from his undeserved appointment at the gallows.
It was shortly before noon when he reached Newgate Prison. The familiar stench, as vile as any dissecting room on a hot day, assailed his nostrils as soon as he entered the wealthier prisoners’ wing. An ill-visaged jailer led him down the corridor to the small cell and let him inside. A shaft of sunlight had pierced the narrow window high up in the wall, and the Tuscan, hunched on his pallet, was watching dust motes dance like moths in the beam.
This is a good sign,
thought Thomas.
He is still trying to connect with the outside world. He has not given up all hope.
But his optimism was short-lived.
“Signor Moreno, how fare you?” he greeted him.
The prisoner tried to rise, wincing in agony as he pulled himself forward. But the effort seemed too much for him. The past month of incarceration had put twenty years on him. His joints were clearly stiff as starch and his muscles were wasting away.
“Please, stay where you are, sir,” urged Thomas. He could not bear to watch such painful exertions. Although the count had kept him updated on the Tuscan’s state of mind and body, the young doctor was still shocked by the prisoner’s rapid deterioration. Moreno lifted his head. Even his once-lustrous lashes seemed scant and crusted with pus, and his eyes were glazed and listless. Worse still, Thomas could tell they were devoid of hope. The prisoner remained silent.
The young doctor took a chair from the corner of the cell and sat by his patient. “I am come to examine you, Signor Moreno,” he said softly, taking him by the hand and feeling for his pulse. It was weak, but not worryingly so.
Next Thomas bade him lie down so that he could inspect his torso. Lifting the soiled shirt, he could see that the wounds were healing well. He ran his fingers over the rib cage. Moreno stifled a cry, but Thomas was satisfied the bones were knitting, although still tender to the touch.
The next area for examination was more delicate. “Will you permit me to look at your other wound, sir?” inquired Thomas tactfully.
Moreno nodded submissively and turned over slowly. The young doctor was swift and efficient in his examination and, mercifully, pronounced the wound completely healed. Although suffering from the deprivations of the cold and damp and a diet deficient in most nutrients, the Tuscan’s bodily health was not as bad as Thomas had feared. It was his mind that was in need of healing.
The doctor sat back in his chair, leaving Moreno lying prone, staring up at the stone ceiling. “You are doing well, sir,” he said encouragingly.
He saw the Tuscan’s lips flicker in an ironic smile. “I do not see that as a reason for cheer,” he replied.
“How so?” Thomas frowned.
“I would sooner have died of my wounds than suffer the public indignity of the gallows, Dr. Silkstone.”
The young doctor shook his head and leaned nearer the pallet. “I am edging closer to finding the real killer, signor,” he said.
The Tuscan turned his head. “You are?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes, but I need to ask you some personal questions.”
“Go ahead. I have nothing to lose,” he replied, raising his arm in a laconic wave. “You are already privy to my darkest secrets, Dr. Silkstone.”
“Did you or Signor Cappelli ever have the need to shave, sir?”
Moreno raised an eyebrow. “No, sir. I have never grown facial hair and Cappelli’s skin—” He broke off suddenly and swallowed hard at the sudden recollection of his dead lover. “His skin was as smooth as silk.”
It was as Thomas thought. “So can you tell me if you have seen this before?” He bent down and produced the alum block from his bag.
Moreno frowned. “No, sir, I have not,” he replied. “But I believe it is something barbers use.”
Thomas nodded. “You are right, sir, but I found it in Signor Cappelli’s room. Can you think why that should be?”
The Tuscan shook his head. “No, I cannot.”
“And he did not visit a barber when he came to London?”
“Why would he? He had all his own powders and pomades. He took great pride in seeing to his own wig and—” Moreno suddenly stopped midsentence.
“What is it, sir?” pressed Thomas.
The Tuscan turned his head to face him. “I recall he complained of a toothache the day after we arrived in London.” His features suddenly became animated. “We were rehearsing with Herr Haydn, but Signor Cappelli could not concentrate. He was in too much pain.”
“And?”
“And Herr Haydn recommended his barber. He said he was good at pulling teeth and a great deal more besides.”
Thomas felt his own heart hammering inside his chest. This could be the breakthrough he needed. Were his suspicions about to be confirmed? “Can you recall the name of the barber?”
Moreno closed his eyes, deep in thought. “He was French,” he said finally. “Dubois. His name was Dubois.”
 
Thomas found Smee’s Hotel almost deserted. It was midafternoon and there was no one to greet guests. He wandered unheeded into the bar. It smelled of tobacco smoke and stale beer. From the taproom beyond he could hear the sound of a pump and he knew she must be there. There was only one other drinker, and he was distinctly the worse for wear. He was asleep, his matted head resting on the sticky table, a half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow. By the looks of him Thomas guessed he had been imbibing for many hours. He took a seat at a settle in the dingy corner and waited. A few moments later Marie Dubois came into view and headed toward him to take his order, but it was only when she was standing close to him as he sat that he lifted his gaze.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, fixing the girl straight in the eye.
Marie, her long black hair swept off her face and piled medusa-like on the top of her head, let out an involuntary bleat, like a sacrificial lamb. Quickly she turned to see if anyone had seen the encounter. They were alone, save for the slumbering drunkard.
“I do not understand you, sir,” she replied breathlessly, picking up an empty pewter tankard from the next table.
“I think you do, Marie,” insisted Thomas. “What was your brother doing in Signor Cappelli’s room?”
An expression of panic flashed across her face and the tankard she was holding clattered to the floor. “How do you . . . ?” she blurted.
“Did he bring the alum block? Or was it your father?” pressed Thomas, still looking at her intently. “How much did Carrington pay him for the larynx?” He was bombarding her with accusations like grapeshot, but they were wounding her more than he dared hope. Her eyes darted hither and thither and her breath came in short, sharp rasps. “’Tis over, Marie. Carrington is dead. ’Tis over for you, your brother, your father. . . .”
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.
BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
8.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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