Free The Dead Shall Not Rest by Tessa Harris Page B

the barber-surgeons from his father, who was also a surgeon. Just before he was born, these men with no education or training would perform the duties of a physician: bloodletting, pulling teeth, and giving clysters. In Thomas’s opinion, the Act of Parliament that separated the two companies had not come before time. Nowadays barbers brandished razor blades instead of scalpels and applied pomades instead of poultices. It was a great advancement, he told himself as he stepped into the small salon with the count by his side.
    The first thing that struck him was the smell, the sickly-sweet perfume that wafted about the place, pungent, yet pleasant. He detected notes of sandalwood, musk, and exotic spices. Large flacons and apothecary jars were ranged on shelves around the salon. They reminded him of his own laboratory. There were even weighing scales so that Monsieur Dubois could, no doubt, concoct the olfactory sensations for which he was so renowned, the voluptuous scents of civet and ambergris that masked a multitude of malodors. His mastery of his art and its accoutrements had made him the talk first of Paris and now of London. Accordingly the more savvy gentlemen about town would bring their stubbly faces and their bulging purses to this most trusted and deft barber and emerge feeling smooth, scented, and sensuous.
    Thomas and Boruwlaski found Monsieur Dubois, a lean-looking man in his later years with weasel eyes and a prominent chin, concluding a transaction with a customer. “Au revoir, Monsieur Haydn,” he said to the distinguished-looking gentleman who had just been shaved.
    The count looked at the man. “Ah, Herr Haydn,” he greeted him familiarly, his little arms outstretched. The famous composer was an old acquaintance. “I trust you are well.”
    Haydn would regularly patronize Dubois’s establishment during his stays in London. He bent down low to greet Boruwlaski. “It is good to see you, Count,” he said in a heavy, guttural accent.
    “May I present Dr. Thomas Silkstone?” said the little man.
    Thomas bowed politely. Haydn’s reputation as being popular with the female sex was known to him and he was, indeed, striking, although not conventionally handsome, thought Thomas, with his pitted complexion and strong features. What his physician’s eye did note, however, was an inflammation and swelling around his nose. At first sight Thomas’s instinct told him he could be suffering from severe nasal polyps. He said nothing and switched his gaze quickly from the composer’s nose to his eyes when he smiled at him.
    “Vot a pleasure,” said Haydn as Dubois helped him on with his coat, but he was clearly in a hurry. He made toward the door that the barber held open, but walking out of the shop he called back: “We must dine togezer soon.”
    “Indeed, sir,” the count called after him.
    Boruwlaski, Thomas, and Dubois all watched the composer hail a sedan before returning to the business in hand. The barber’s eyes momentarily emerged from under their sagging lids. “I am at your service, sir.”
    “Dubois, this is my good friend Dr. Silkstone. I have told him that you give the best shave in all London,” announced the little man.
    The barber’s lips twitched. “Then we must see that we live up to your recommendation, sir.” He turned and clapped his hands together loudly twice in the direction of a door at the back of the salon. “Jean-Paul,” he called.
    A heavy-framed youth appeared with dark, simian features and the same jutting chin possessed by Dubois, only this one sprouted scant black whiskers. If this is Dubois’s son, thought Thomas, it’s a wonder that the barber has not dispatched that unsightly growth.
    The barber gestured to Boruwlaski. “The count,” he said, and without further instruction the boy, who Thomas estimated was no more than sixteen or seventeen, lifted the little man up as if he were a sack of eider feathers and deposited him effortlessly on the pile of silk