Free The Dead Shall Not Rest by Tessa Harris Page A

silence, now held their attention. “You are right, gentlemen. Something must be done,” he concurred, nodding his elegant head emphatically. “But what?”

Chapter 10
    A t first only a handful gathered ’round to look. Then, as those who could read saw the notices pinned on trees and affixed to doors, the news began to travel from Covent Garden, out to Holborn, Ludgate Hill, and beyond.
    “Mr. Byrne, the surprising Irish Giant, the tallest man in the world . . . ,” proclaimed the posters. This extraordinary spectacle, the reader was told, was to present himself at the cane shop next to Cox’s Museum in Spring Gardens for the delectation of the nobility and gentry for the princely sum of half a crown each person.
    “ ’Tis said the giant has to take a walk when ’tis dark so as not to affright anyone,” confided one of the motley onlookers to her neighbor.
    Another woman trumped that. “ ’Tis nothing,” she chimed. “I’ve heard night watchmen have see’d him take the tops off street lamps and light his pipe by the flame.”
    A third smiled and said: “Well, I’ve heard he’s hung like a donkey,” and all of them cackled like a gaggle of fishwives.
    Talk of the giant’s physical attributes had also traveled to the Temple of Venus, a pleasure palace run by a libidinous fraudster, James Graham.
    “You have an invitation to try out his famous celestial bed!” cried the count, flourishing a large card in front of Charles’s nose on the morning of his first public exhibition. He was standing with Thomas in the drawing room of his Cockspur Street lodgings. The giant, however, remained less than enthusiastic.
    “I am not versed in the ways of Venus, sir,” he replied languidly.
    “Come, come, Mr. Byrne. I have heard great reports of Mr. Graham’s temple. Delights that are out of this world.” The little man nudged his friend suggestively, but he remained unmoved.
    While Thomas did not share the count’s enthusiasm for such bawdy pleasures, he still had his misgivings as to the giant’s health. Charles sat looking morose in the corner. Yet still he refused to entertain Thomas’s suggestion that he rest for a few days. He appeared determined to go ahead with his plans, and no amount of persuasion seemed to be able to divert him from his purpose.
    Boruwlaski looked at the timepiece on the wall. “Three hours to go. Just time for a good shave,” he declared. “I shall take you to my barber in St. James’s. He will make you look like a veritable Adonis,” he told Charles.
    The giant, however, was less than eager. “I don’t want no b-barber shaving me, sir,” he muttered. The count looked at the uneven growth on his broad face and frowned. “But we must have you looking your best, dear friend,” he exclaimed.
    “I’ll not go to a barber’s, sir,” said Charles Byrne, clearly brooking no argument. There was a hint of aggression in his voice that Thomas had not heard before.
    Unhappy at this rebuff, Boruwlaski tugged indignantly at his waistcoat. “Well, I shall certainly go. There is nothing like a good shave to make a man feel civilized,” he said, his tiny chin jutting out in defiance. He turned to Thomas. “Will you join me, Dr. Silkstone?”
    The young doctor was slightly taken aback by the invitation. He had not intended to go for a shave, but after a short pause, he agreed. “I should like that.” He smiled, feeling the light growth on his own chin.
    The count nodded. “Then we shall take ourselves to see Monsieur Dubois this very instant,” he concluded, and with that he left the room.
    Thomas looked at his patient half apologetically as he remained in his seat. “We shall return before noon,” he assured him. The giant nodded.
     
    The red and white striped pole outside a bow-fronted shop in St. James’s signified that Monsieur Francois Dubois was a practitioner of the art of barbering. It also signified blood and bandages. Thomas recalled hearing tales from the days of