Chapter 21
The journey to Dr. Hunter’s country retreat, about an hour’s drive away from Covent Garden, in Earls Court, was a tense one. The count was haunted by the unfortunate predicament of his Tuscan friend in Newgate Prison, while Charles was in a morose mood, staring out of the carriage window. Thomas’s thoughts were also elsewhere. With Lydia. She would be on the Bath road by now, maybe heading out of Slough, or maybe even as far as Aylesbury. Was she feeling as utterly dejected as he was? She had broken off their engagement and yet it seemed that she only did so out of a sense of duty, not because she wanted to. Something else was driving her, he told himself. There was some terrible compulsion behind her actions, and he had to discover what it was before the gnawing suspicions ate away his very soul.
After about half an hour, the bustling streets where hawkers vied for space with cattle drovers and their herds gave way to a more rural landscape. Soon four-story houses were replaced by thatched cottages. Thomas noted that the air was sweeter, too. Instead of the stench of decay and preserving fluid that hung over his laboratory, and the smell of piss and horse dung that pervaded many a London street, he detected hay and grass on the wind. He breathed in deeply and began to redirect his melancholy thoughts into more positive ones.
The young doctor had heard much talk about Dr. Hunter’s new premises. His famous collections of species, from tapeworms and terrapins to fungi and fetuses, had grown far too big for his Leicester Fields home, so he had purchased this large plot in the country.
As the carriage progressed into the grounds, through high, spiked gates, a sense of unease settled upon Thomas. Spring-guns were mounted on the crenellated walls, presumably to discourage trespassers. They passed a fishpond bordered not by dancing dolphins or mermaids, as was the fashion, but by a neat row of small animal skulls. On the lawns, strange birds the height of small men roamed, their necks as long as their legs, while in the pastures beyond Thomas swore he could see bison graze, just as they did in his homeland.
As they approached the house, a newly built villa of brick, Thomas could make out a crocodile’s head, its jaws agape, projecting over the main entrance. Four stone lions guarded the front door.
The count obviously shared his wonderment. “What manner of place is this?” he muttered.
But there was no wonder in Charles’s eyes, only deep anxiety. “I do not like it,” he confided.
Thomas was inclined to share his feelings. Even as a scientist himself, he found the use of specimens as architectural decoration distasteful, verging on the grotesque. There was an eerie sense that nature in all its glory was being in some way perverted and mutated into something frightening and unnatural. He had even heard talk in the coffeehouses that droves of human monsters could be found roaming the grounds, only to be anatomized on their deaths. Of course he did not believe the rumor, but he could understand how it had spread, and since Carrington had told him of the anatomist’s self-mutilation in the cause of science, he could almost believe it.
“Come; the sooner you are examined, the sooner we can leave this ungodly place,” urged Thomas, helping the giant down the carriage steps.
No sooner had he said these words, however, than an almighty roar shook the very ground on which they were standing.
“What in God’s name was that?” cried the count, clutching his chest in fright.
“That, gentlemen, was a lion,” came a voice behind them. John Hunter was smiling broadly, obviously amused by their reaction to the noise. “He is one of several beasts—tigers and leopards, too—which I keep in my underground dens. But there’s no need to fear. They are quite secure.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” said Thomas, sighing with relief.
The anatomist, wigless and wearing a shabby topcoat, was pleasant enough in his greeting, but he reserved his most effusive welcome for Charles.
“By Jesu, what a specimen,” he cried, tilting his head backward to take in the full extent of the giant’s size.
“Dr. Hunter, this is Mr. Charles Byrne,” introduced the count, clearly finding the anatomist’s address verging on the offensive.
“Forgive me, Mr. Byrne, but, och! ’Tis not every day I meet a giant.”
The three visitors followed Hunter along the path that snaked behind the villa toward a long wing that housed his laboratory. As they walked, they passed a large pen. Inside, what sounded like dogs began barking loudly as they heard the party approaching. The surrounding fence was high, but there were cutouts in the wooden panels for observation.
Curious, Thomas peered through one. “Surely those cannot be wolves?” he said out loud.
Hunter stopped in his tracks. “Wolves, jackals, and dogs,” he concurred in a matter-of-fact way. “I have penned them all together to see what manner of hybrids might come out of them.”
“And have they?” asked an incredulous count.
The Scotsman shrugged. “A jackal bitch gave me nine vulpine monsters.”
Thomas glanced at Charles, who was now even paler than usual. His green eyes darted here and there, doubtless wondering what new horror would be revealed next.
“What have we done, bringing him to such a place?” whispered Thomas to the count as Hunter opened the door to his laboratory. Inside there were more curiosities, all manner of strange, large insects from foreign shores pinned flat to boards. Small creatures, too, like bats and voles were suspended in fluid in great jars on shelves.
Thomas saw the familiar figure of Giles Carrington sitting by a workbench, hunched over some specimens. The young student rose and bowed, regarding the visitors awkwardly.
“Mr. Carrington,” Thomas acknowledged him.
“The lad helps me with my preparations from time to time,” Hunter explained. By him on the workbench were three dead doves, their pure white plumage stained red with blood at the breasts. Thomas stopped to look at them.
“My latest discovery,” said the anatomist, pointing to the carcasses. “Birds breathe partly through their wing bones. The air sacs in the cavities communicate with those in the lungs.”
“Fascinating,” said Thomas, marveling at the man’s enquiring mind while at the same time being troubled by his ghoulish imagination.
As Hunter began to move on, Carrington darted a knowing look at Thomas before seating himself again at his workbench and picking up a brush once more. It was then that something registered with Thomas. He recalled his postmortem report, or rather an omission from his report. Carrington, he noted, was holding the brush in his left hand.
They walked on past various contraptions and strange-looking devices that Thomas had never before encountered, until they came to a small door.
“You’ll have to duck right down,” Hunter instructed the giant as he opened it. “This is where I examine my patients.”
Charles glanced anxiously at the count and Thomas and, as if anticipating the next question, Hunter said: “I would appreciate some time with Mr. Byrne alone.”
Boruwlaski paused. “Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Byrne?” he asked.
The giant nodded slowly, but anxiety was written all over his face.
“Please, take a turn around my grounds, gentlemen. I am sure you will find plenty to interest you. I will call you when we are done,” insisted the anatomist, his facial muscles flexing into a brief smile.
Bowing, Thomas and the count departed reluctantly, leaving Charles standing in the room with the anatomist, the top of his head cocked to one side so as not to touch the ceiling.
Charles Byrne surveyed the room with mistrustful eyes. An assortment of small animals that were unfamiliar to him, some with striped tails and even one that carried its babe in a sort of pouch, stood lifelike on shelves in various poses.
“You collect d-dead things, sir,” he ventured nervously.
Hunter peered at him over a pair of spectacles, but ignored the observation.
“Where I c-come from we string up vermin,” he continued.
“So do we,” replied Hunter, adding under his breath, “of the human variety, too.” He gestured to a large table. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable seated.”
The giant obliged, the table creaking under his weight. He shivered and felt his chest tighten as his lungs went into a sudden spasm, forcing out a loud cough. Now the anatomist, too, was seated and poised with a pencil in his hand. He watched with interest as Charles’s shoulders heaved for a few seconds, but offered no assistance.
“How long have you had the cough, Mr. Byrne?”
“A few months, sir,” he replied, wiping the sputum from his chin with his kerchief. It was colorless, and for that he was grateful.
“Do you ever cough up blood?”
“No, sir,” he lied.
“How is your health in general?”
“I’m as fit as the next man, sir.”
Hunter threw down his pencil onto his desk, almost disdainfully. “Come, come, Mr. Byrne. Your height and weight put huge strains on your skeleton. You must suffer from aches and pains.”
The giant nodded. “That I do, sir, but I cannot complain.”
“Then you will not mind if I examine you?” The doctor was smiling now.
“If that is your wish, sir.”
“It most certainly is. You may divest yourself over there,” said Hunter, gesturing to a three-paneled screen painted with exotic birds.
Charles Byrne lumbered over to the screen, which barely came up to his waist. First he took off his topcoat and then his cravat and waistcoat before beginning to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.
“May I keep my breeches on, sir?” he asked, anxious to preserve what little dignity he had left.
“Och, very well,” replied the anatomist reluctantly. It was his patient’s upper torso, and in particular his lungs, that interested him most, so he conceded.
Thomas and Count Boruwlaski were now free to roam around the grounds as they wished. Nearby they could hear the crowing of cocks and other sundry fowl and decided to head for the barnyard.
“I would be happier if I had stayed with Mr. Byrne,” said Thomas.
“Hunter will not hurt him,” countered the little man. “Remember he is an old acquaintance; an odd one, true, but he means no harm.”
All is well as long as the harm he does remains confined to his own personage, thought Thomas. He nodded to the count. “You are right. The man’s genius renders him rather eccentric, but his work is for the good of us all.”
The two of them walked on toward the barnyard, both savoring the country air after the relentless assault of the capital on the senses.
“I envy Lady Lydia’s return to Boughton,” said the count. “The air is so much fresher there and the countryside so pleasing.”
“Yes,” agreed Thomas thoughtfully.
The little man raised his gaze. “Do I detect a note of melancholy?”
The doctor stopped and turned to face him. Abandoning all formality he said: “How long does she intend to remain at Boughton?”
Boruwlaski was taken aback by the young surgeon’s reaction. “I am not privy to her plans,” he replied. “I know that she has seen to it that the lawyer works on behalf of Mr. Byrne to secure the royal pardon. She has asked me to oversee those affairs, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he shrugged his tiny shoulders before he added: “I think you will miss her ladyship.”
The count was a wily judge of character and no stranger to affairs of the heart himself, but although he was well-meaning, he had no comprehension of the emotional torment Thomas was feeling. He simply smiled, masking his pain.
“Perhaps,” he replied vaguely. His answer, however, was not heeded by the count, whose attention was already focused elsewhere. Thomas turned to follow the object of his morbid fascination.
“What goes on there?” Boruwlaski asked as both men watched a swarthy laborer wheel a barrow laden with wicker baskets down a ramp and into a tunnel behind the villa. High-pitched squeals and squawks emitted from the hampers. The man, with dark, matted hair under his large-brimmed hat, scowled at them momentarily before disappearing through a passage down below.
“Laboratory animals. Rats and mice,” said Thomas, suddenly reminding himself of Franklin. He knew these rodents would not be so fortunate as to escape their unpleasant fates.
They looked uneasily at one another, as if reading each other’s thoughts.
“We should return for Mr. Byrne,” said Thomas.
The count nodded and they both started to make their way back to where they had left the giant in Hunter’s care. Knocking on the laboratory door, the two men entered to find the anatomist measuring the giant’s thighs.
“Och, Dr. Silkstone, what perfect timing. I need a willing assistant to hold the tape at one end for the final, but most important measurement. Would you oblige?” His tone was almost amiable.
Thomas smiled reassuringly at Charles, who, wearing his shirt once more, seemed happy enough to comply with the anatomist’s request. Thomas uncoiled the tape, which was marked off in inch sections, and held it to the floor as Hunter mounted a stool and reached to the top of the giant’s head.
“Ninety-nine inches. I make that eight feet and three inches,” he announced, almost triumphantly, as if he had just reached the summit of a mountain. “You must be one of the tallest men in the world, Mr. Byrne.”
Hunter walked over to his desk drawer and reached for a wallet. Opening it, he took out some coins. “Here’s ten guineas, Mr. Byrne. Thank you for your time. Our meeting has been most informative.”
“Thank you. I am most obliged to you, sir.” Charles smiled, pocketing the money. He donned his topcoat once more and he and the count filed out of the room. As Thomas began to follow them, however, Hunter caught hold of his arm. The smile that had been on his lips only seconds before was nowhere to be seen.
“You know, do ye not?” His eyes were steely gray and piercing.
Thomas looked down at his arm. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You know the giant is dying.”
Thomas felt his guts knot. “We are all dying, sir,” he replied, holding the anatomist’s cold stare. From the corner of his eye he could see Charles and Boruwlaski heading back through the laboratory.
“I give him a year at the most.”
“Let go of my arm, if you please,” Thomas insisted.
The anatomist relaxed his hold, then patted Thomas’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, but there was no mistaking his meaning. “Forgive me. I am a little intense at times,” he said, adding: “But the giant will be mine, Dr. Silkstone. I will have him.”