Chapter 33
“He is there again,” said Charles Byrne, peering through the drawn curtains of the upper reception room back in Cockspur Street.
The count, reading a book by candlelight, raised his tiny head. “Who, dear friend?” he enquired nonchalantly.
“Hunter’s man. He is standing under the street lamp.” He coughed.
The count tut-tutted. “Surely not again?” He climbed down from his chair and waddled over to the window, tiptoeing over to the sill to look out at the darkened street beyond. “I see him,” he said.
“He has been following me these past three days,” said Charles. “He’s out to get me like Corny Magrath.”
“What happened to him, pray tell?”
A shiver ran down Charles’s long spine. “He was a giant afore me. At his wake they put sleeping medicine in the d-drink, then dragged him out over all the mourners and c-cut him up. Then they hung him up in one of their fancy colleges in Dublin for all to see.”
The count paused, looking thoughtful. “Dr. Hunter is playing a game with you.” The little man winked. “But we know you will never give in.”
“Never.” The giant nodded. “I may as well sell my soul to the devil as give my dead body to that m-monster.”
“Because of what happened to your father?”
“Aye. I’ll not be butchered like a piece of meat,” replied the giant, lugging his frame across the room to his chair.
The count poured him a gin. “Tell me about him, Charles,” he said, helping himself to a brandy and climbing back into his own chair.
“He was a good man. He never h-hurt no one. ’Twas Con Donovan that did it,” he began, staring into the fire as it crackled in the grate.
“How do you know?”
After a reflective pause Charles turned to the count, wearing a glazed expression, as if he had just relived an unforgettable moment. “Because I was there.”
“You saw the murder?”
He nodded. “Con was foolin’ with Mary O’Malley in the b-barn. I came to see what was happening when I heard them laughing. They was rollin’ in the hay. I saw them kissing, but then Con, he . . . well, he wanted m-more.”
Boruwlaski drew closer, intrigued. “Did they know you were watching?”
“Only when Mary started calling for him to stop and he wouldn’t. He put his h-hand over her mouth and I told him to let her go.”
“And did he?”
“He started shouting at m-me, calling me names. Called me dirty. Said I only wanted to w-watch.” The giant’s eyes were now filling with tears. “He picked up a shovel and told me to get lost or he’d bash me. He said he wasn’t afraid of m-me.”
“And then?” urged the count.
“And then my da came to see what all the noise was about. And he saw Con and he saw Mary crying and he saw him turn and h-hit her with the shovel. ‘Hush ya mouth, will ya?’ he said, and he hit her and she fell back. B-blood everywhere.”
“So you and your father saw all this?”
“Yes, but they believed Con over me and my da. They said I was s-simple. Couldn’t be trusted to tell the truth. Said my da was foolin’ with Mary and that he did it. They believed Con because his uncle was the p-parish constable.” Tears now flowed down the giant’s cheeks. “So they strung my da up by the neck, then took him to the local slaughterhouse to c-cut him, those butchers.” Anger flashed across his face. “What right had they to do that? ’Twas the Lord’s body, not theirs. It did not belong to them, and now the fires of purgatory will be licking at his heels. How can he rise on Judgment Day?”
The count shook his head. “God knows that he was a just man. He will be in heaven,” he consoled.
“You think?” asked Charles innocently. He tried to stifle a cough.
“I am sure of it,” comforted the little man, reaching over to touch Charles’s hand. “And now this Con has confessed?”
The giant gulped down more gin. “He did when another girl came before the court and said she’d seen the whole thing. I saw her, too, but I thought she’d left the barn before the kissing. But she stayed to look out for her friend. She saw him strike Mary but was afeared to say so before because he told her he would kill her, too.”
“So now he will hang, too?”
“He ought to, but my ma has pleaded that he be sent far away. Says she doesn’t want no more killing.”
“Your mother is a generous woman.”
Charles turned to the little man, wiping away his tears with his shirt sleeve. “Will I see her again, Count? Will I ever get home?”
“How goes it with the giant?” asked Dr. Hunter when Howison returned later that evening. In his servant’s absence he had begun feeding some of the living specimens.
Howison took off his hat and scratched his matted hair. “I do as you bid, sir,” he replied.
“So you went to the cane shop and he saw you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you followed him home and waited outside and he saw you there?”
“Yes sir. Just like I did yesterday and the day before.” There was a certain insolence in Howison’s voice.
“Och, I don’t know what is wrong with the wretched creature. I only told him he’d not long to live and offered him twenty guineas to dissect his corpse. It was only his cadaver I was asking him to sell, not his soul,” said Hunter, clearly annoyed. He was standing beside a large glass tank that contained a bright red frog. “I think we will have to make contingency plans, Howison,” he reflected as he took a live mouse and held it squealing above the tank.
“Yes, sir,” replied Howison, grinning broadly.
“Have you seen any deterioration in the giant’s health?”
“Sir?” Howison did not understand his master’s question.
“Does the giant seem worse?”
The servant rubbed his nut brown forehead. “I cannot rightly say so, sir,” he replied. To him the giant seemed no better or no worse. He coughed now and again and looked weary at the end of the day, but no more than most men who have plied their trade for eight hours straight. He added: “ ’Tis early days yet.”
The mouse let out a shrill squeak and squirmed wildly the moment the frog’s poison dart pierced its fur. Both men looked at each other and smiled as within a second or two, the struggling stopped.
“There is only one problem with that,” said Hunter finally, dropping the mouse in front of its waiting predator. “I am not a patient man.”
Count Josef Boruwlaski felt a tiny pang of guilt as he entered the cell of his old friend Leonardo Moreno the next morning. It had been well over a week since his last visit. He had seen the castrato shortly after Dr. Silkstone’s call, and his physical state had been most distressing to him, so he did what any right-minded man in his position would do—he stayed away. He was therefore exceedingly glad to see the castrato had enough strength to pace up and down in his cell, even though his face was thin and waxen.
“How fare you, Leonardo?” he greeted him in Latin, a language they both spoke fluently.
Moreno managed to bend down to embrace him. “All the better for seeing you, dear Josef,” he said.
“I am glad my visit brings you some cheer,” said the little man as the jailer locked the door behind him.
The Tuscan looked grave and spoke in hushed tones. “I am told that my trial will be within the week, but I have not yet seen a lawyer to prepare my case.”
The count shook his head. “In England they say you do not need a lawyer to defend you. All you need to do is speak the truth plainly if you are innocent. You have seen a lawyer for the prosecution?”
“Yes, a man by the name of Rupert Marchant, I think his name was.”
The count’s eyes opened wide. “But I know him!”
“You do?”
“He is acting on Mr. Byrne’s behalf to obtain a pardon for his father,” said the little man excitedly.
Moreno’s frown turned to a smile. “Then perhaps you can vouch for my character, Josef. Perhaps he will be kinder to me in court.”
“I shall indeed be happy to be a witness as to your good character, Leonardo,” said the little man. “And, of course Dr. Silkstone’s report points the finger of blame away from you. All will be well,” he assured his friend. “All will be well.”
The hours hung heavily at Boughton Hall. Thomas took it in turns to watch over Lydia with Sir Theodisius and his wife, and either Eliza or Hannah Lovelock was always in attendance, too. Parson Lightfoot also called, offering his well-worn platitudes to anyone who would listen. Yet there was no alteration in the patient’s condition, not a flicker of an eyelid nor a change in the light rhythm of her breathing.
Thomas had spent the time both resting and reflecting. His bruised body was now repairing, but his mental state was still in turmoil. He must have reread Lydia’s letter a dozen times, and the only conclusion that he could draw was that she must have seen someone in the audience at the concert that night who had resurrected a long-buried memory that so disturbed and horrified her as to make her suicidal.
Thankfully word had spread that Lady Lydia had suffered a terrible accident. This had, in part, been put about by the servants as they went to market in Brandwick. Whether or not they believed their own rumormongering was another matter, thought Thomas, but their loyalty to their mistress appeared steadfast.
Three days had passed, three days and three very long nights since Lydia had fallen into her coma, and there was no way of telling how long she would remain in this state. He knew he could not stay by her side indefinitely, even though he wished to. He had duties and obligations to fulfill, not least to Signor Moreno and to Charles Byrne. With this in mind he had sent for a nurse from London, a good woman he knew personally, who could be trusted to be diligent in her care of Lydia. She would be able to monitor her pulse, turn her to prevent sores, wash her, and moisten her lips with water.
On the morning of the fourth day Sir Montagu Malthus arrived unannounced from Banbury. He swept into Lydia’s bedchamber to find Thomas seated in a chair by the bed. He was staring at the locket she had asked young Will to give to him as a token of her love before they parted for the winter and which he always kept with him.
“Ah, Dr. Silkstone. I heard you were here,” he greeted Thomas haughtily.
The young doctor leapt to his feet. “Sir Montagu, how good of you to come,” he replied, although he did not mean it.
“A terrible accident, I believe?” he said, looking at Lydia, lying senseless on the bed.
“It appears so,” replied Thomas, not wishing to elucidate.
“That cursed laurel water?”
Thomas nodded. “The vapor from it, sir.”
He frowned. “I should’ve made certain there was no more of it on the estate.” He added pointedly: “It needs a man to take charge.”
Thomas felt himself flush with anger. “I believe her ladyship is capable of running her own affairs,” he replied hastily.
Sir Montagu’s brows knitted together. “You think so, do you?” He smirked, looking the doctor straight in the eye. His face was so close Thomas could smell his rancid breath. “Then who shall inherit the estate if there is no heir?”
Thomas remained looking straight ahead as Sir Montagu circled him. “Surely that is for Lady Lydia to decide, sir,” he replied.
The man let out a disdainful laugh. “And you are hoping that she chooses you,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Thomas.
The young doctor clenched his fists at his sides. Anger was welling up inside him, yet he knew he must keep it in check. “I do not feel it is seemly to talk of such matters, sir, while her ladyship lies in a coma.”
His words registered almost immediately with the lawyer. “You are right, Silkstone,” he acknowledged. “It is a discussion for another time perhaps. But be assured, as long as I draw breath, Lady Lydia Farrell will not be marrying an upstart from the Colonies.” He spat out these last few words with a tone of utter derision in his voice.
Thomas was thankful when Howard knocked on the door, interrupting Sir Montagu’s tirade. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but I have an urgent message for Dr. Silkstone.” He handed over a letter to Thomas.
“It seems I am needed back in London immediately,” he said, looking at Sir Montagu. “A nurse will be arriving later today to keep watch over her ladyship.”
Malthus’s head jerked in acknowledgment. “Then we shall have to continue our conversation at a later date, Dr. Silkstone,” he replied acerbically. Thomas nodded, even though he dared not think about the future.