Chapter 39
Folded carefully inside the pocket of Charles Byrne’s topcoat was a very special piece of paper. It was white and measured half the size of an average pocket kerchief, but it bore the moniker of the Bank of England. It was worth more than seven hundred pounds.
That evening, when all was quiet and the count was dining with his society friends, the giant took a carriage and headed toward Haymarket. He did not feel strong. He had endured several bouts of coughing that day and he knew his condition was worsening. He had given up all hope of the lawyer, Marchant, being able to obtain a posthumous pardon for his father, so he had grudgingly paid him the money he owed him. His hope, although admittedly a slim one, was that His Majesty King George would keep to his word and take up the matter with his Minister of Justice.
At around nine o’clock he arrived at the Cock Tavern. Naturally when he walked in, the drinkers and the hussies all stopped what they were about to stare at him. Even the fiddle player fell silent. He was used to such behavior, and while it always made him feel uncomfortable, he knew straight away where he was heading.
Mad Sam O’Shea sat in a corner with four or five other men, all of them jug-bitten. There were women with them, too, sitting on their laps or seats nearby. One had her bubbies out. They were laughing and carousing, but when Charles caught the other Irishman’s eye, the merriment melted away.
“Be gone, now, I say,” cried the wayward hawker to a trollop who had draped herself ’round his shoulders. The other women followed suit. Tugging at his topcoat in a businesslike manner, O’Shea gestured to the settle next to him that had been occupied by two of the doxies.
“Charles, my dear friend, I got your message, sure I did.” He smiled.
The giant was surprised to be received in such a familiar way, but he returned the smile to his fellow countryman. He sat down on the settle, stretching his mighty legs out in front of him.
“You need my help, is that so?” asked Mad Sam, his eyes as bright as gemstones. Emily had sent word to her father that Charles was in need of a great favor, but that he would make it worth his while.
“I am not sure if Emily told you, s-sir, but I am not long for this world.”
Mad Sam shrugged and crossed himself. “None of us are, Lord bless us,” he slurred.
Charles continued: “There are those surgeons that would c-cut up my body when I am dead, sir, and put it on p-public show, like some common criminal. They would deny me entry into heaven, sir, so they would.”
“I have heard the talk, Giant. You are a wanted man, ’tis true.” He nodded sympathetically. “So tell me, what do you propose?”
Thomas was at work in his study, assiduously going through his notes on Carlo Cappelli’s postmortem, as Franklin scurried about in the corner. He wondered how Carrington was faring, if he had managed to gain access to Hunter’s secret store. Then, as if someone were reading his thoughts, Mistress Finesilver appeared at the door and announced there was a young gentleman to see him. It was Giles Carrington. He walked in looking nervous and worried, fingering the brim of his tricorn hat as he sat down.
“You have news?” asked Thomas eagerly.
“I am afraid I do, sir,” came the reply. “I went into the storeroom and I found it was full of more samples; human samples.”
“Go on,” urged Thomas.
“It is as we feared, sir,” said Carrington, looking grave. “There was a jar containing a larynx.”
“Were there any markings on the jar?”
“No, sir. Nothing, but it is possible to prove it belonged to the castrato, yes?”
Thomas nodded slowly. It would be possible to identify it from its unique physical characteristics. He sighed deeply. “Yes. Yes, I can,” he replied. “I must confront Hunter.” His expression was grave.
Carrington frowned. “Will you not tell the coroner first, sir, so that he can call the constables?”
“This jar,” said Thomas abruptly, “it was not labeled, you say?”
“No, sir. The larynx did not seem to have been prepared in any way—just dropped into the preserving fluid, as if in haste.”
Thomas nodded. “ ’Tis a serious business to accuse a man, and particularly one of such standing, of being complicit in a murder, Mr. Carrington, but it is becoming apparent that Dr. Hunter has many questions to answer. I have seen a convicted criminal enter his premises, and now this . . .” His voice trailed off.
The student nodded. “It would be the right and proper thing to do to go to Sir Peregrine. Hunter is clearly a danger to himself and others. The infection has turned his mind, as well as his body.” Thomas detected a note of frustration in Carrington’s voice.
“You have no love for your master, do you, Carrington?”
The young man looked uncomfortable. “I have no love for a murderer,” he replied.
Nor had Thomas, and he feared that unless he acted quickly, young Cappelli would not be the only victim. Dr. Hunter had another, altogether bigger prize in his sights.
Charles was as pleased as he could be with the evening’s transactions. O’Shea had vouched for the loyalty of his friends, and it would be their job to keep watch over his sealed coffin. He would remain under their charge until such time as a wagon would transport it to Margate in Kent. The mad Irishman and his friends would accompany it. From there it would be lifted onto a barge and taken out to sea to be sunk into the depths of the English Channel, where no thieving anatomist could reach it. For their pains the guardians would be paid a handsome five pounds each. And to prove he could pay them the money, Charles had flourished his seven-hundred-pound note before their very eyes. It was a fine plan, thought the giant as he walked out into the night air and headed back to the comfort of his bed.
It had begun to rain quite heavily and, as he rounded the corner into Cockspur Street, his eyes half-closed against the stinging drops, he did not see the three gin-soaked scoundrels lying in wait for him in the shadows. They had been drinking in the Cock Tavern, as they did most nights, and spotted his bank note. They were never known to miss such an opportunity. One hit him on the head with a pickax handle and as he went reeling from the blow, another pulled him down to the ground while the other felt inside his coat.
“Here it is,” cried the villain with the nimble fingers, waving the precious piece of paper in the air.
The other men stopped kicking the giant then, although one of them did boot him once more in the head, just for luck, and the thin trickle of blood from above his eye mingled with the rainwater and joined the general filth that ran down the street.
Dr. Carruthers delivered the longed-for news. It was a late hour, but Thomas made preparations to be on the road to Boughton at first light. The message from Sir Theodisius said only that Lydia was awake. It was a blessing, indeed, but the Oxfordshire coroner had neglected to give any further details. Thomas did not know what to expect. Inhalation of cyanide vapors could lead to a whole multitude of complications including vertigo, a weak pulse, and even short-term memory loss.
He was about to retire to snatch a few precious hours of sleep when there was a furious knocking on the door downstairs. He hurried to answer it, not wishing to alarm Mistress Finesilver. Standing breathless on the doorstep he recognized the house boy from Cockspur Street.
“Sir, I am come from the count. He says Mr. Byrne is hurt and needs your help right away,” he panted.
Thomas grabbed his coat and his medical bag, which was already packed in the hallway, and followed the servant to a waiting carriage. Arriving at Cockspur Street a few minutes later, he was greeted by Boruwlaski, worry etched all over his small face.
“What has happened? The boy said Charles was hurt,” said Thomas, rushing into the hallway.
“He was beaten senseless by a bunch of hoodlums,” replied the count, leading the way upstairs. “They stole all his money.”
The giant was lying on his bed, fully clothed, but barely conscious. Blood stained his waistcoat and breeches. Emily sat by his head, sponging a wound. She moved away as Thomas approached. Opening his bag, he took out a bottle of tincture of iodine and began dabbing the cut on Charles’s forehead. It was not as deep as he had first feared and did not, in his opinion, require stitches.
Thomas administered laudanum for the giant’s pain and told Emily to apply arnica to his bruises. “If his condition worsens, then you must call for Dr. Carruthers, who will know what to do,” he instructed the maid. “I am needed elsewhere, but I intend to be back as soon as I can,” he told her, secretly praying that Lydia would be in a fit enough state to return with him to London.