Chapter 16
The chamber had been left exactly the way the maid had found it, save for the bloody footprints. The young singer lay on his back on the mattress, his eyes closed and the coverlet pulled up under his chin. His head was tilted backward and his dark hair framed his soft, almost feminine features. His skin was as smooth as alabaster and his lips were fulsome, but colorless. It was only when she saw the splashes of blood that had collected on the rug by the bed that the girl went screaming to raise the alarm.
Thomas arrived at Smee’s Hotel in Jermyn Street just after eleven o’clock that morning. Sir Peregrine Crisp, the Westminster coroner who had engaged his services, had already ordered that the room be secured until the young anatomist’s arrival.
Signor Moreno, whose own room was only two doors away, had rushed to the scene as soon as he heard the maid’s screams. So overcome with grief and horror had he been that his instinct, according to the hotel’s proprietor, the eponymous Mr. Smee, had been to try to throw himself on the corpse, but he had been prevented from doing this. He had, however, stepped on the bloodied rug, and the footprints that led from the room and out into the corridor were his.
The count accompanied Thomas, and on their arrival they were met by a somber-looking Sir Peregrine and Mr. Smee. Understandably, the latter appeared most concerned that such a terrible event should have occurred in his establishment. He was a very rotund gentleman who sweated profusely.
“This will not look good. Indeed it will not,” he muttered to Thomas as he led him up an uneven flight of stairs and along a narrow corridor to the soprano’s room.
Sir Peregrine, a man of imposing stature who wore a periwig that had been in fashion at least twenty years before, led the way into the chamber, ducking at the lintel. Thomas scented the ferrous smell of blood in his nostrils as soon as he walked in.
“The door was apparently open, not forced, but nothing has been touched, Dr. Silkstone, although those are Signor Moreno’s footprints,” said Sir Peregrine, pointing to the crimson stains.
“And where is Signor Moreno?” asked Thomas.
Mr. Smee stepped forward. “He’s in a very bad way, Doctor. My word, he is,” he said, shaking his round head.
“I shall go and see him,” the count announced, leaving the room.
The window shutters were still closed and Thomas asked for them to be opened so he could see more clearly the horror that lay in front of him. The maid obliged, pulling them back with trembling hands before curtsying and fleeing in tears. Light now flooded the small room. It was furnished comfortably, with a chest of drawers, an escritoire near the window, and a washstand, complete with pitcher and ewer. On the bedside table was a candle half-burned in its holder.
Thomas walked over to the burr-walnut chest of drawers and opened them one after the other. A coat and two shirts lay neatly in the first. Two pairs of shoes were ranged in the second. The third was empty. On the dressing table sat a looking glass in a fixed easel frame. Two brushes were positioned next to a circular leather case containing everything a gentleman might need for his toilet: eau de cologne, wig powder, toothpicks, and an alum block for shaving.
Following the young doctor’s movements, Sir Peregrine became agitated. “May I ask what you are about, Dr. Silkstone? I asked you here to examine the body.”
Deep in thought, Thomas looked at the coroner blankly at first and then realized he was being addressed. “Forgive me, sir,” he said. “But do you notice anything odd, anything out of place in this room?”
The coroner looked about. “No. No, I do not,” he said slowly.
“Precisely,” replied Thomas.
Sir Peregrine rolled his eyes heavenward. “What on God’s earth is your meaning, Dr. Silkstone?”
“My meaning, sir, is plain. There does not seem to have been a fight here. No violent struggle. It may mean that Signor Cappelli’s attacker was known to him.”
“That is all very well, but I’d be much obliged if you could turn your attention to the body, sir,” charged Sir Peregrine, drumming his fingers on the dressing table.
Doing as he was bidden, Thomas studied the young man’s face. There was slight bruising around the mouth. He parted the full lips. It was as he thought; there were incisions where the delicate inner skin of the lips had been pierced by his own teeth, and the front incisor was chipped. It looked as though he had been suffocated, but turning the coverlet back revealed much more.
Even Sir Peregrine, a man who had seen more corpses than the alleyways of St. Giles in his long career, was forced to look away in disgust. The source of the blood became immediately apparent. The young man’s throat had been slit from ear to ear, but instead of a long, straight gash, the normal method of dispatch practiced by muggers and cutpurses, a large portion of his entire neck had been removed. A gaping black hole was left in the throat.
Sir Peregrine held his kerchief up to his mouth. Even Thomas felt slightly nauseous at the sight.
“What in God’s name . . . ?” The coroner’s horrified voice trailed off in disbelief.
“It seems the murderer has removed the trachea,” said Thomas thoughtfully, bending over the victim’s throat.
“But what . . . Why . . . ?” The coroner was so troubled his speech was becoming incoherent.
Thomas delved into his bag and pulled out a pair of forceps and a magnifying glass. Carefully prizing apart the two short flaps of skin that skirted the wound, he peered inside the gaping hole. To his utter amazement he found that the entire larynx had been removed, and with it the vocal cords.
“This is extraordinary,” muttered Thomas, to himself as much as to anyone who would listen.
Suddenly, from down the corridor the two men heard a commotion. The shouting grew louder.
“Let me see him. I must see him.” The distraught figure of Signor Moreno stood in the doorway, his face tearstained. The count was with him, tugging at his coat like a small dog.
“No, Moreno, you must not . . .”
The tall Tuscan merely brushed the little man aside and lunged forward into the room before dropping onto his knees at the sight of the young man’s throat.
“You should not be here, Signor,” Thomas reprimanded.
The coroner motioned to a fretful Mr. Smee to remove his guest and he duly obliged, putting his arm out to help the Tuscan steady himself.
“Carlo. Carlo,” he wailed as he was led away.
“May I take custody of the body, sir?” asked Thomas, walking over to the washstand to clean his bloodied hands.
“You are not to dissect it, Dr. Silkstone,” chided Sir Peregrine.
“I mean merely to examine it, sir,” retorted Thomas.
“You have until first thing tomorrow,” instructed the coroner. “After that the Tuscan consular officials will want the body back for burial.”
“Thank you, Sir Peregrine,” said Thomas, rolling up his sleeves and beginning to pour water from the pitcher into the large bowl to wash his hands. As he did so, however, he noticed something odd. The liquid was a deep pink color and smelled of something he could not quite place. Remembering Dr. Carruthers’s words when faced with such a situation, he quickly poured a small quantity of the water into an ampule. “Ignore nothing, however insignificant it may seem at the time,” his mentor had said when lecturing on the art of the postmortem. Although it seemed insignificant now, Thomas told himself, the liquid might be crucial later on.
The body was to be taken to Thomas’s dissecting room in Hollen Street as soon as Sir Peregrine could arrange a cart and an escort. In the meantime the doctor decided to walk back alone. He felt he needed to clear his head. Although he said nothing incriminating at the time, he had a feeling that whoever carried out that ghastly murder was highly skilled. There had been precision and cold calculation in the incisions. He was convinced he was not dealing with a crime of passion, motivated by greed or lust or jealousy, but of something much more chilling than any of these venal sins. Whoever murdered this young man not only stole his life, but his voice as well.
A slow and steady rain began to fall, topping up puddles and potholes that were already full from a downpour in the early hours, as Thomas walked down Russell Street, his feet slapping in the mud. Passing carriages threw up spray as they progressed along the uneven thoroughfare of the Strand and he was beginning to regret declining the coroner’s offer of a ride back to his laboratory. He did not want him to know that he intended to return via Cockspur Street.
He was approaching the junction of St. Martin’s Lane when a small post chaise, drawn by four horses, swept past him, splashing his stockings and breeches as it did so. He looked up to curse the postilions and saw, staring down at him from the carriage window, the face of Lydia. He saw her lips part and her eyes widen as he held her gaze before the carriage turned out of sight around another corner. He assumed she was heading for the count’s lodgings. He quickened his pace, no longer caring about his muddied breeches and wet topcoat.
Five minutes later Mistress Goodbody was opening the door to the bedraggled doctor.
“Why, Dr. Silkstone, but you are soaked! Come in, come in.”
“Is Lady Lydia in?” he asked, wiping his muddy shoes on the boot scraper.
“Why, yes, she has just returned not five minutes past,” she said, taking Thomas’s wet hat, clucking like a concerned mother hen as she did so. “Please wait in the drawing room and I shall see if she is receiving visitors.”
It was not long before she returned, looking slightly crestfallen. “I am afraid her ladyship says she is too tired to receive you today, Dr. Silkstone,” she said sheepishly.
Unable to hide his frustration, Thomas sighed deeply. “Is Lady Lydia unwell?”
“Not unwell, sir.” Charles Byrne’s loud voice boomed from the doorway. He stood towering over Mistress Goodbody, dressed smartly, with his dark hair hidden under a powdered wig.
“Mr. Byrne. ’Tis good to see you looking so restored,” greeted Thomas as the giant strode toward him.
“I am much better, in spirits at least, sir,” he replied. “We have j-just returned from Lincoln’s Inn to see the lawyer who says he can get my da a p-pardon. I made my mark on a paper.”
Thomas’s expression changed. The giant’s words wiped the smile from his lips. He had suspected as much, but did not want to think of it. So Lydia had just returned from seeing that braggart Marchant and now would not entertain him.
“Perhaps you could convey my respects to her ladyship and tell her I am always at her disposal should she need me?” Thomas told him.
The giant nodded his large head, detecting the annoyance in the doctor’s voice. “That I will, sir.”