by Jess Kidd
‘An unfavourable aspect?’
Bridie nods.
The porter thinks a moment. ‘Sir, are you aware of the proportions and general character of this hospital?’
‘I am.’
‘Then you will know it to be a veritable maze of winding passageways where no bleeder stays put and no one is ever where they are supposed to be.’ He pauses. ‘Is this Cridge a patient, sir?’
‘He’s likely a medical man.’
‘Then you have a better chance of finding him alive.’ He gently scratches his nose with the point of his knife. ‘We’re full to the brim of the groaning and the suppurating, the roaring and the gurgling.’ He allows himself a chuckle. ‘And that’s just the surgeons.’
His colleague, the chair-dozer, snores loudly, as if on cue.
‘We have it all here: sepsis, consumption, nose-rot, stump-rot, flute-rot, maniacs and pus, beneficial and not-so-beneficial, by the bucketful.’ He lowers his voice. ‘And on occasion: cholera.’
‘But not today?’
‘No, not today,’ he admits. ‘Still, it is the last place I would come if I were sick, sir. I would as soon lie in the grave-yard ready. Or put my head under the wheel of an omnibus. Or find a friendly rope—’
‘This man, sir—’
The porter returns from his musings. ‘A medical man, you say, sir?’
‘He attended Dr Gideon Eames’s obstruction.’
‘Good show, I heard.’ The porter counts up the segments of pie and puts down the knife, satisfied. ‘And we have had some rollicking shows.’
Chair-dozer wheezes happily in his sleep.
‘But it’s not like the old days. Great doctors, oh, the speed of them, no more than a flash of knives. Liston needed no tourniquet,’ he recalls, starry-eyed. ‘He used his left arm, oh, the strength of the man! Tying off arteries with his knife between his teeth and the patient bucking beneath him. There’s just not the same entertainment when a patient sleeps through.’ He licks his fingers. ‘Big head, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The porter ponders awhile.
‘He smokes Hussar Blend,’ adds Bridie.
‘So does half the hospital. Now, has he the look of someone who might keep body parts in his pocket, shifty-like?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Kemp, the dead-house assistant,’ replies the porter assuredly. ‘He would fit the bill. Otherwise there’s a senior phlebotomist called Whispers but he’s eighty if he’s a day.’
The porter nudges a sliver of pie out from the whole and hands it to Bridie. ‘God loves a loser. Next time, go in tight and fast and get out quickly. Use your size to your advantage. You’re nippy on your feet, I dare say.’
Bridie tips her hat. ‘Much obliged to you, sir.’
He is barrelling out of the mortuary door as she approaches – Mr Cridge turned Mr Kemp – moving at speed. Bridie flattens herself against the wall as he passes. Then turns and follows as fast as her injuries allow. Ruby quicksteps along with her. She heads towards the entrance, past the porters’ office, where her advisor, awaiting his next instruction, salutes her with a pie-crust.
Striking off down the road, Kemp stops an omnibus and takes a seat on the top deck. The omnibus is delayed by two ladies climbing on board with a whole world of parcels long enough for Bridie to hobble to it. She hesitates on the ladder.
‘Make up your mind, sir,’ says the conductor.
Bridie has lost her tippet-fur whiskers giving chase. With or without them Kemp would certainly see through her disguise if she were to follow him up onto the open top deck and perch herself on the knifeboard. Instead she steps inside, after the ladies and the parcels, braving the crush and the odour of wet umbrellas and dirty straw. At each stop along the route Bridie ignores the glances of interested passengers and watches for Kemp’s descent.
Kemp dismounts along Oxford Street and Bridie follows. He cuts into Cavendish Square, runs up a flight of steps and raps on the door. Bridie heads into the gardens opposite the house. Clambering in among the bushes, she watches through the railings as the door of the house opens to receive Kemp.
Ruby draws near. ‘Whose house is this – not his surely?’
‘I can hazard a guess,’ says Bridie, grimly.
She calls out through the railings to a crossing-sweeper, who trots over and peers into the foliage.
‘Who lives in that house, Master Broom?’
‘Damned if I know . . . miss?’
‘Sir would do for now,’ corrects Bridie.
‘Sir,’ grins the boy.
Bridie finds a coin and holds it out.
The boy pockets the coin. ‘A doctor, sir.’
‘Is his name Eames, by any chance?’
The boy demonstrates an intense effort of recollection, with much frowning and looking skyward for divine assistance. He’s a brown-eyed boy of great filthiness of face, the type with business everywhere, who knows everyone else’s business. He sports a bright neckerchief showing his allegiance to one or other pugilist and a felt wide-awake. The once-broad hat-brim has been trimmed to allow its wearer greater all-round vantage, as befitting his occupation. The outfit is completed with the addition of a grubby silk flower in the buttonhole of the boy’s too-short jacket.
Bridie finds another coin. ‘Would this assist your memory?’
‘It would, sir.’ The boy pockets it. ‘Eames. That’s the fella.’
‘Is this your patch?’
‘Here and abouts, sir.’
‘I need an agent. Someone to keep an eye on local proceedings.’
‘Jem,’ says the boy, catching her meaning. He straightens his wide-awake and gives her a firm nod. ‘At your service.’
Chapter 28
Ruby Doyle is throwing punches, his jaw tightened and his eyes flashing and his tattoos darting about his transparent body. Since Bridie’s attack he is often to be found sparring with a parlour palm, or threatening thin air. Noticing Bridie’s eyes upon him, Ruby lowers his fists and shakes out his arms.
Bridie sets about opening the post, sipping coffee. Halfway through the second letter she puts down her cup and curses under her breath.
‘What is it?’ asks Ruby.
‘News from Maris House; in this letter, Mr Puck thanks me on Sir Edmund’s behalf for my latest report regarding the confidential matter in hand and states that all is as usual in his master’s estate.’ Bridie turns to the second letter. ‘Agnes Molloy, the housemaid, tells a very different story: the headless corpse of Dr Harbin has been found at Maris House. In Sir Edmund’s study.’
Ruby widens his eyes. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’
‘Mr Puck will never recover, according to Agnes. He discovered the body sitting on the chair by the fire.’
‘That would be a shocker.’
‘Mrs Puck sent for the police. While they awaited the local constabulary, Berwick absconded. They caught up with him on the road to London.’
‘I’ve no sense that the baronet could kill a man and have the head from off him, Bridie’
‘Then set the corpse before his own fireplace there, where he had previously entrusted his most private affairs to the victim.’
‘Didn’t the victim betray him? If Dr Harbin kidnapped the child, that is?’
‘There is that,’ grants Bridie.
‘But why would Sir Edmund send the poor bugger’s head to you?’
‘I’ve no idea, Ruby.’
*
Inspector Valentine Rose’s office at Scotland Yard is a picture of order and gentility, apart from the plaster copies of Newgate death masks above the picture rail. It’s an identity parade of the murderous, old and new. Bridie recognises the face of Charlie Pill just over the door. Sandwiched between James Mullins and a strong-jawed smirker unknown to her. In death, Charlie Pill looks remorseful, as well he might. Bridie is not convinced that Monsieur Pilule didn’t harvest some of the ingredients for his infamous roasts to order. After all, people go missing every day i
n London, many with a good lay of meat on their bones, or a nice bit of padding (and isn’t the crackling the best part?). Every sausage – your humble ‘bag o’ mystery’ – should earn its name.
Ruby strides into the room with a little more front about him than usual. Perhaps he is riled, finding himself inside a hive of coppers. He’s had his dealings.
Ruby saunters up to Inspector Rose and walks around him, slowly, eyes trained on his face. He holds his great fists loose and low.
Bridie throws Ruby a sharp look.
The boxer leans forward and flicks Rose’s cheek, as he would an opponent in the ring. Rose, intuition heightened by the best and worst of London’s criminal society, glances around the room as to locate a draught. He sees nothing, of course.
Ruby sees a contender.
In the Red Corner:
Ruby Doyle. Heavyweight. Clearing six-foot. Left-handed. Stunning technique. Devastating brown eyes. Moustache, waxed, black. Favours drawers, tangled bandages, unlaced boots. Nose: broken on occasion, but always set with careful hands. Square of head like a dependable dog, broad of shoulder and passionate of temper. Dead.
In the Blue Corner:
Valentine Rose. Middleweight. Just shy of average height. Right-handed. Will fight dirty. Grey eyes, sandy beard, well-trimmed. Dapper dresser. Rose (currently pink) in his buttonhole. Nose: unbroken. Unremarkable of head, slim of shoulder and resolute of temper. Living.
*
‘Short arse,’ Ruby utters, in Rose’s uncomprehending face. He strolls over to the inspector’s desk, where he sits down on his chair, rolls his gleaming shoulders and puts his boots up on his blotter.
Rose frowns into thin air.
They sit side-by-side on the window seat, Mrs Bridie Devine and Inspector Valentine Rose. Ruby watches them from the corner of his eye, while pretending to nose at the papers spread over the desk.
A young policeman in his stiff serge suit and new leather belt brings in tea and arranges it on the table deferentially.
‘We’ll take it from here, son.’ Rose waits for the door to close. ‘So?’
‘Developments at Maris House.’
‘You’ve heard already?’
‘What can you tell me?’
‘Nothing you don’t already know. The headless body was found by the butler. Dr Harbin was identified by his collar studs.’ Rose pours the tea. ‘The doctor’s head has washed up at Bart’s in a hatbox. A porter saw an unfeasibly large woman departing the scene pushing a perambulator.’
‘Fancy that,’ says Bridie.
The policeman’s face is impassive but for a slight curve to his lips. ‘Sir Edmund made a run for it, we picked him up a few miles from Maris House on the London road.’
Tea is drunk. Bridie looks out of the window, Rose looks at Bridie, Ruby looks at the pair of them.
‘You’re still searching for his missing child?’
Bridie wrinkles her nose.
‘Oh, come on, I had to find out. Any luck?’
‘A few leads. And you? Is Mrs Bibby your master criminal?’
Rose sips his tea, glancing over the rim of his cup with a sharp grey eye. ‘It seems that way.’
‘Mrs Bibby told the doctor’s daughter something macabre.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘That she killed a lady and a gentleman.’
Rose puts down his cup and goes over to his desk and leafs through some papers. Finding a clipping, he hands it to Bridie and sits down again.
‘Eight years ago: two murders back-to-back in that many days, one a wealthy spinster, the other a retired schoolmaster. Perpetrator was never found, labelled the Brentford Butcher.’
Bridie scans the article. ‘They were strangled. Dismembered.’
Rose nods. ‘The spinster turned up jugged in a picnic hamper, the schoolmaster was found cradling his own severed leg. Remind you of anyone?’
‘You think this Mrs Bibby is responsible?’
‘I think you should be cautious.’
‘What about Sir Edmund? You are still holding him.’
‘He made a run for it and resisted arrest. He could be in league with her.’
‘I doubt it: she stole his child.’
Bridie thinks a moment. ‘Mrs Bibby met with a man called Kemp at Mrs Peach’s guest-house in Somers Town.’
‘You went there?’
‘I found Mrs Bibby’s library book, that was the address given.’
‘Bridie, did you not think it could be a trap?’ Rose rubs his forehead. ‘She’ll have a good idea who’s chasing her now. Peach is an ex-Judy. A lag for hire.’
Bridie bites her lip.
‘The man she met?’ asks Rose, less sharply. ‘You’ve suspicions?’
‘Kemp: he works in the mortuary at Bart’s. He posed as the curate of Highgate Chapel when I visited. He bought or stole the walled-up corpses from Reverend Gale.’
‘You’ve proof?’
‘Not exactly, Reverend Gale is not likely to be forthcoming on that. But Kemp is one to watch, Rose.’
‘Kemp: noted.’
‘He was at Dr Harbin’s the day his surgery was wrecked.’
‘He gets around, this Kemp.’
Ruby nods in begrudging agreement.
‘He knows Gideon Eames,’ says Bridie. ‘I saw them together, at Bart’s, and then I followed Kemp to his house.’
‘Bridie, I know you’ve had dealings with Gideon Eames in the past—’
‘It’s not about that.’
‘So what exactly are you accusing him of?’
Bridie puts her cup down too heavily and stands up too suddenly. She walks over to the window. ‘I don’t know yet.’
It has started to rain again. She traces the path of a droplet on the glass, wondering if she’s the only one noticing them moving backwards.
Bridie presses her palm against the glass, then her forehead, for the coolness. She watches police officers swarm in the alleyway below.
‘It’s good to see you, Bridie,’ says Rose, softly. ‘Up and about.’
Bridie glances back at him. He’s looking at her with a mixture of pity and concern. Neither of which she welcomes.
‘Where is Sir Edmund being held? I want to speak with him, Rose.’
Rose gets up and goes to his desk. Ruby vacates the man’s chair, taking a dramatic step back as the policeman passes. Rose sits down to write.
Bridie surveys the room, taking in the potted plants, the polished furniture and the glass-shaded lights. Rose has made his office comfortable, homely even; Bridie suspects he might live here. It’s pleasant indeed, if you ignore the death casts smirking down at you. There’s space, just over the window, for a few more. She would like to see Gideon Eames’s face there, and the bastard who knocked out her teeth.
‘Any news on my attacker?’
‘A few leads, from your description. Leave it to us, you’ve enough to be getting on with.’ Rose blots and folds the letter and hands it to her. ‘You know the drill, give this to the guards.’
‘Obliged, Rose. And I’ll let you know if Mrs Bibby surfaces.’
‘If she does, Bridie, for Christ’s sake keep away from her.’
*
The Newgate turnkeys take their time reading Rose’s letter. Then they think for a while. Then they read it again.
One guard is tall, with an egg-shaped head topped with buttery curls. The other is short, with a breadth to him and an exemplary set of jowls. They are suited entirely in black and affect gloomy expressions, as if to uphold the feeling of dread afforded the visitor by passing through the gates of the foreboding prison (and of hearing them close behind them). In the receiving room Bridie autographs the guest book under the death masks of Bishop and Williams in resentful repose. Rose ought to add them to his collection.
The tall guard fixes Bridie with wary eyes. ‘And so a visitor arrives at the stone jug for—’
‘Sir Edmund Athelstan Berwick, Esquire,’ supplies the short guard.
The tall guard
gives a dour bow. ‘Thank you, Mr Scudder. Sir Edmund being a guest of ours in this depository of human misery.’
Mr Scudder laughs. ‘Why, he’s staying in our best chamber, Mr Hoy!’
‘He is, of course!’ Mr Hoy’s face brightens with morose delight. ‘He is receiving every comfort what can be afforded.’
‘Three square a day and a clean nightie every Thursday.’
Mr Hoy nods. ‘As befitting a baronet.’
‘A peer of the realm.’
Mr Hoy frowns at Mr Scudder. ‘You are mistaken, my friend, Berwick’s a baronet. There’s no peer about it.’
Mr Scudder looks confused. Then another thought crosses his mind and he cheers visibly. ‘He’s lively enough!’
‘We’ve had some noise from him,’ Mr Hoy concedes.
‘When he’s not weeping, he’s griping, when he’s not griping, he’s calling for his lawyers.’
‘His attorney.’
‘His barrister.’
‘His advisors.’
‘Never still and never silent; always petitioning,’ Mr Scudder crows.
‘Protesting his innocence!’
‘Night and bloody day, day and bloody night.’
‘Or pacing,’ suggests Mr Hoy.
‘Up and down.’
‘Down and up.’
‘His confining yet well-appointed cell,’ says Mr Scudder.
‘Or chamber, really. More of a chamber.’ Mr Hoy gives a coy smile. ‘Where he receives every comfort, as befitting a baronet.’
‘A peer of the realm.’
Mr Hoy looks at Mr Scudder with barely concealed frustration.
‘Am I to be visiting the prisoner today, gentleman?’ enquires Bridie, evenly.
Mr Hoy gives an officious nod. ‘Admit the visitor, Mr Scudder. Conduct the visitor thence.’
‘Right you are, Mr Hoy.’
‘Follow the protocols, strictly and according to the multitudinous rules and myriad regulations laid down by our good governor in his infinite wisdom.’
‘Meaning, Mr Hoy?’
‘Get her to turn out her pockets and lock the doors behind you.’
‘Aye, Mr Hoy.’
The tall guard narrows his eyes at Bridie. ‘And check her bleeding’ boot heels.’
Bridie follows Mr Scudder down a labyrinth of passageways. Prisons, they will have you believe, are far nicer places these days. Clean-swept and whitewashed, and with spaces for health-giving exercise and sanitary quarters. The food is more than edible and the inmates are treated with gentle kindness. For example: the condemned man is no longer compelled to sit with his own coffin at chapel and the Salt Box (the last cell he’ll see before he meets Jack Ketch!) boasts chairs with antimacassars.