Chapter 18
Sir Peregrine Crisp sat behind his lofty desk and frowned over the pince-nez perched on the end of his ample nose. Before him were Thomas and the count, whose short legs dangled helplessly from his chair.
“But, sir, you have yet to see my report,” pleaded the young anatomist.
The coroner shook his bewigged head. “I have yet to convene a jury, Dr. Silkstone, but in the meantime do we want a madman we suspect of brutally slaying another to roam around our streets?”
Thomas was quiet for a moment. He knew he must not let his temper get the better of him. “On what evidence was Signor Moreno arrested, sir?”
The coroner huffed. “I have a witness,” he replied assuredly.
Thomas was intrigued. Glancing at the count he said: “To the murder?”
The coroner threw up his hands in a show of exasperation. “Not exactly, but the proprietor saw the Tuscan leaving the boy’s room in the early hours of the morning.” Thomas and the count exchanged glances. “Does that satisfy you gentlemen?”
It clearly did not. “With respect, sir, that does not prove anything,” ventured Thomas. He thought of the count’s elegant friend in his stylish high-cut coat and his powdered coif and wondered how he would fare in amongst the rabble in Newgate Prison.
“That is why you will give me evidence in your report, Dr. Silkstone,” replied the coroner through clenched teeth.
“And what motive would Signor Moreno have?” Now the count entered the fray to defend his friend.
Sir Peregrine sighed, signifying he was growing tired of this persistent questioning. “Jealousy, of course. He had lost his own voice and simply could not bear the adulation accorded to his protégé. I saw the boy perform, too, you know. All London was talking about him.”
It was true that all the newssheets had proclaimed that a vocal genius was in their midst. Thomas was privately forced to concede that such a motive might have been possible, but certainly not probable.
“And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” said the coroner, pointedly reaching for a heavy tome from a pile in front of him, “I have work to do, as I believe so have you, Dr. Silkstone.” A cloud of dust billowed up from the desk.
“You will have my report first thing tomorrow morning, sir,” said Thomas, bowing formally before he and the count took their unhappy leave.
Dr. William Hunter’s house in Jermyn Street was a very grand affair, as befitted his status as physician to the queen. His erstwhile neighbors included the Duke of Marlborough and Sir Isaac Newton, and he was in no doubt that history would dictate that his own name should be spoken in the same breath as such men of stature in years to come.
When it came to his dining table, however, all pretensions to grandeur seemed to dissipate. Regular guests never expected more than two courses at dinner and, what was more, only one glass of wine was ever served.
On this particular evening, in the company of his brother John and Rupert Marchant, William did not need more than one glass of his regular claret to put him in a lively mood. His guest of honor was Sir Oliver De Vere, the lately appointed chief surgeon at St. George’s Hospital, stepping into the shoes of the recently departed Sir Tobias Charlesworth.
“I propose a toast, gentlemen,” said William, raising his glass to the sharp-eyed man who sat opposite him. “To Sir Oliver and to St. George’s. May they both prosper.”
All present raised their glasses to the surgeon, who acknowledged the toast with a measured nod of his stylish head. He had a reputation for being a traditionalist and upholding the ways of Galen. “I hope I shall continue to see that St. George’s carries on its excellent work,” he replied, pointedly looking at John. William’s attentions also turned to his brother, who returned a sullen glare.
“So, John, I hear you are embroiled in yet more controversy,” he chided.
His sibling looked thoughtful. He had no real love for his elder brother, thinking him more involved in pomp and show than in true study. He resented, too, the many years he had spent in his shadow, doing his bidding in his laboratory without any recognition for his invaluable work.
“Och, if you mean my submission to the Royal Society on my observations on fossil bones, then it has sparked debate, yes.”
“Come, sir. Surely ‘debate’ is too mild a word. I have heard you may be asked to amend the paper or withdraw it,” goaded Marchant.
“You are playing with fire again, brother, are you not?” warned William.
John shrugged. “Was not Galileo persecuted for his remarkable discoveries? Did not our own Newton fight the repeated attacks of a papist king on our universities?”
William nodded. “So you see yourself on some great scientific crusade, do you, brother?”
“I only speak of what I find, and my work has led me to believe that fossil decay requires many thousands of centuries.”
“And what of Archbishop Ussher’s hypothesis that the moment of creation occurred on October 3, 4004 B.C. at nine o’clock in the morning?” asked Marchant.
“ ’Tis the common and decent Christian belief, yet my brother challenges it,” interjected William, growing redder in the face.
John shook his head. “Gentlemen, the facts speak for themselves. A single deluge, such as described in Genesis, could not possibly account for the vast fossil strata that have built up on landmasses. I have seen the evidence with my own eyes and I know that the sea has made incursions onto the land not once, but hundreds of times since creation.”
William sucked in his florid cheeks. “ ’Tis dangerous talk.”
John shook his head. “These are dangerous times,” he replied. “Indeed, revolutionary times. The Colonies, Ireland, France; they are all breaking away from the past, the old ways, and looking to new futures. That is what we must strive for—a new world, based on science, not superstition, and I make no apology for that.”
“A high ambition,” said Marchant, his fingers playing on the stem of his claret glass.
Leaning forward, John became even more intent. “At this moment, all I can do is catalogue life in all its wonderful variety, but one day I firmly believe that man will possess the power of God in a living world.” His companions looked at each other aghast. “One day we shall all worship at the temple of science,” he cried.
“Enough, brother! I will not have blasphemy in my house,” countered William, banging his hand on the table and rattling the cutlery and plates.
There was an awkward pause among the guests until their host composed himself. He filled their glasses in an uncustomary show of generosity. “Forgive our sibling squabbles.” He smiled at Marchant and Sir Oliver, knowing that a change of subject was required to lighten the mood. “So, speaking of high ideals, have either of you seen this Irish Giant yet?” he inquired jovially.
“As a matter of fact, he engaged my services only this afternoon,” said Marchant. “He wants a posthumous royal pardon for his father, no less.” His voice was tinged with contempt.
William nearly choked on his claret. “Ha! Now, there’s a lofty ambition if ever I heard of one.” .
“I had a mind to turn him down, of course, but he came with Lydia Farrell, and who am I to refuse such a fair damsel?” Marchant sneered.
John sat back in his chair, his agitation seemingly subsided. “Ah yes, the fair Lady Lydia. I saw her only the other night at a concert.”
“She is indeed fair, and now a widow,” said the lawyer, grinning.
“So while you have your sights on her,” said William to Marchant, “I’m sure you have yours on the giant,” he suggested, turning to John.
“You are right, brother,” came the reply. “He would make an excellent addition to my collection.” He paused, stroking his wiry whiskers. “And that is why I have arranged to see him tomorrow.”
“You waste no time, sir,” noted Sir Oliver, an eyebrow arched.
“ ’Tis not mine to waste,” retorted John. “He has tuberculosis and will be dead soon enough.”
“And you would get your scalpel into this colossus?”
“Indeed so.”
“Then let me propose a toast to both your ambitions, sirs,” suggested William, urging his guests to charge their glasses once more. “Let us drink to Beauty and the Beast.”
All four men raised their glasses. “To Beauty and the Beast,” they cried.