Chapter 36
Thomas took a coach out to St. George’s Hospital, on Hyde Park Corner, first thing the next morning. The air was no longer as fresh as the institution’s founding fathers would have wished it, and the once-quiet countryside was being swallowed up by the city’s voracious appetite so that traffic and noise swirled around the building day and night.
Climbing three shallow steps, Thomas entered via a narrow blue door and found himself in a large, stone-flagged hallway. The place was bustling with physicians and surgeons as well as patients in various states of distress. He gave his name to a porter who sat at a desk behind a wooden screen.
“Dr. Thomas Silkstone to see Mr. Giles Carrington,” he said.
A young man standing nearby looked up and regarded Thomas with a strange expression.
“I will send word to Mr. Carrington,” said the porter. “Please wait here, sir.”
Thomas did as he was bidden, pacing up and down past the dispensary and other offices that led off the reception area, but he was suddenly aware that he was becoming the object of some curiosity. Huddles of young men were gathering nearby, looking at him, whispering and smiling. Giles Carrington arrived not a moment too soon for Thomas’s comfort.
“Mr. Carrington,” he greeted the young student courteously. “I am come to see you on a most urgent matter. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
Carrington looked puzzled. “Yes, indeed, Dr. Silkstone,” he said. “We can walk in the grounds. We will not be overheard,” he assured him, leading Thomas outside to a flower garden.
Thomas began earnestly. “I am speaking to you in the utmost confidence,” he said. “It concerns the murder of Signor Carlo Cappelli.”
“The castrato?” replied Carrington. “I have read about the case in the newssheets. The case is the talk of taverns and dinner tables throughout the capital.”
Thomas nodded and took a deep breath. “I carried out a postmortem on his body and found that his larynx had been surgically removed, with great skill.”
“Yes, I read that, too,” replied Carrington, looking serious. “A terrible affair, but they have charged a fellow countryman, yes?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes, but I believe the man is innocent.” He went on: “I also believe that the murder was the work of two men; one to smother the victim and the other to carry out the surgery.”
Carrington stopped walking, contemplating the hypothesis. He turned to face the doctor. “And you think Dr. Hunter may be responsible?”
Thomas was slightly taken aback by the student’s forthrightness, but he welcomed it. “In light of what you told me about him, I wondered if the disease might be turning his mind.”
Carrington closed his eyes. “I feared something like this might happen,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned closer to Thomas. “He has a secret store.”
“A secret store?” echoed Thomas, frowning.
“’Tis where he keeps all his special specimens. He will not let me see it and he keeps it under lock and key. I’ll wager that is where you will find this poor unfortunate’s larynx and many more body parts besides.”
The young student spoke with a confidence that shocked Thomas. “So you believe that your master is capable of such an act?”
Carrington looked Thomas straight in the eye. “I fear so, sir.”
The doctor nodded. “Then we must find a way of entering this store and searching it to try to obtain evidence. How can this be done?”
Carrington thought for a moment, then said: “I will be working at the laboratory tomorrow. I know where he keeps the key. I shall look for the larynx, and that will be our proof.” There was a note of excitement in his voice that unsettled Thomas. He feared that such enthusiasm for the task would be the young man’s undoing. If Hunter were to find that his pupil had betrayed him, God alone knew what he might do.
“Be careful, Mr. Carrington,” he warned. “Dr. Hunter is clearly unstable.”
The student nodded. “Have no fear, Dr. Silkstone. I am up to the task,” he said gravely, any trace of his boyish enthusiasm now dissipated.
Just as they were about to bid each other farewell as they walked back toward the gateway, Thomas saw another young student smile at him on the path and remembered the curious looks of the others as he waited in the hallway earlier.
“Mr. Carrington, I have noticed that some students are regarding me very oddly here. Do you know why that might be?” he asked.
Carrington let out a spontaneous laugh. “Why, yes, sir. All of London’s anatomists know that you are the Irish Giant’s physician and that you are the man to beat to dissect him when he dies!”
Thomas looked askance. “In God’s name!” he exclaimed. “You jest?!”
The student shook his head. “Why, no, sir. Dr. Hunter is not the only one with designs on the giant. His brother, William, is another who would love to get his hands on the carcass, to name but one.”
A sense of repulsion suddenly filled Thomas. Members of his profession were, at times, no better than a pack of baying wolves or conniving vultures intent on scavenging, with scant regard for human dignity. He would personally see to it that they would all be disappointed in their quest to dissect Charles Byrne.
Arriving back in Hollen Street before noon, Thomas went immediately to his laboratory. Franklin, his pet rat, was gnawing away at the bars of his iron cage and he opened the door and let him roam freely. Walking over to his desk, he picked up the sheaf of notes he had made on Carlo Cappelli’s postmortem. Somewhere, he told himself, within those pages, lay some vital clue as to the murderer. For the moment, however, he had to trust in the investigations of a guileless but enthusiastic youth, and he felt most uncomfortable with it.
Was Dr. Hunter really capable of such a gruesome crime, he asked himself. He had already proved himself to be totally irrational in his behavior toward Charles. Setting his man on him to shadow the giant day and night was a cruel and heinous act. He was playing games of the mind, taunting him, just as a childish bully would in a schoolroom.
The dividing line between genius and madness was a thin one, he knew, but could such a man turn from a committed anatomist to a scheming murderer? He was inclined to think not, but then he was reminded of the vile syringe that Carrington had discovered. Who in his right mind would infect himself willingly with such a scourge? The answer was, surely, no one in his right mind.
He was reminded, too, of the episode involving Mr. Haydn that was reported by Carrington. That he should ever countenance manhandling a close acquaintance against his will in order to perform a potentially life-threatening surgery would also be inconceivable to any sane man.
Thomas sat down at his desk and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of despair, and his thoughts turned to his beloved Lydia. Since his return from Boughton four days ago, he had heard nothing. He would go back as soon as he was able, but he needed news from Carrington before he could leave London, even it was only for a few meager days, to be by Lydia’s side.
His beloved had now been in a coma for seven days, and he knew that with each passing day, hope of her full recovery faded. Yet he refused to give up. He watched Franklin shuffle across his desk, nudging papers and sniffing the air, oblivious to the fact that his master’s world was so chaotic and traumatic. A copy of the Morning Herald lay on his desk. Mistress Finesilver must have put it there while he was at St. George’s. Feeling in need of a diversion, Thomas opened the newspaper and scanned it. In amongst news of the war in his homeland and the domestic squabbles of Whigs and Tories, he came across several advertisements that vied for the attention of Londoners. In Piccadilly, a Mr. Katterfelto offered punters the chance to see insects in all manner of liquids through his greatly improved solar microscope, and in Spring Gardens, a few doors away from where Charles was exhibiting his mighty physiognomy, spectators could be treated to an extraordinary mind reader. Mr. Breslaw declared he could command a fresh egg to dance on a stick by itself to the accompaniment of a violin and mandolin. Such weird and wonderful claims managed to bring a smile to Thomas’s lips. But a little farther down, his attention was caught by a much larger advertisement. Another giant, by the name of Patrick Cotter O’Brien, was coming to town. He was, according to the newspaper, a direct descendant of Brian Boru, the ancient king of Ireland. To view this unique spectacle, the esteemed public need only pay one shilling. Worse still, it was claimed he was a full four inches taller than Charles Byrne.