The schoolboy constable blushed and nodded. He’d been the one flapping the note at the platform. Hatton added, trying to be helpful, ‘The Inspector means Monsieur Albert Roumande. Black hair, brown eyes. He’s very distinguished-looking and everyone knows him at the hospital. You’ll find him in the mortuary room at St Bart’s. Tell him Professor Hatton has asked for him.’
‘Yes, and now shut the fucking door, Constable Numskull,’ Adams spat out, as he did the task himself, leaving the constable reeling behind them.
‘Half my men can’t follow the simplest task.’ He rammed his cane on the top of the hansom and took his tobacco tin out. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one, Professor?’ Hatton shook his head, dumbfounded at the Inspector’s behaviour. He waited for an apology but none came.
Hatton crossed his arms, knowing he was not without faults, but at least he kept his composure. The Inspector must have read his thoughts because he suddenly leant forward. ‘Do you sometimes feel everything is spinning out of your control, Professor?’ Hatton shrugged. This was close to the bone. All the time, all the time he felt it, but he never let it show. ‘I think you are a man who has his life buttoned down.’ The Inspector lit his penny smoke. ‘My life is a different story. My job is difficult, treacherous even. I feel as if I’m sometimes a fly caught in a trap. And this fame. It doesn’t help.’ Adams gazed out of the window, then looked back at Hatton, his eyes searching for something. ‘I have seen you at your work. You are very precise. Is it so in all aspects of your life or are you more human than I give you credit for, Professor? The Greeks were right, you know, we all have one.’
‘I’m not sure what you are saying, Inspector. We all have what?’
‘An Achilles’ heel, Professor. You never talk of your home life. You’re a man dedicated to your work, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but do you have a secret? You see, in my experience all men have one. A secret or an obsession. What’s yours, I wonder?’ The Inspector laughed a tight laugh from the back of his throat and patted his tobacco tin. ‘They can be innocent, of course, like this little drug, for example. Are you sure you don’t want one, Professor?’
Adolphus Hatton was sure he did not. ‘Whatever the claims, I’m convinced tobacco is bad for the health. Why, look at you, Inspector.’ Hatton took hold of the Inspector’s free hand, turning it this way and that. ‘As a medical man, I should warn you that your pulse is too quick and your hands are shaking.’
The Inspector pulled his hand back, laughed again, but more nervously this time, saying, ‘Are you calling my bluff, Professor?’ Hatton’s face clouded in thought as he looked at the man before him.
Fleet Street was not a part of London that Hatton felt any great affinity for. In his opinion, it was a sorry collection of tawdry pubs and unenchanting bookshops, but as they approached, he could already see a crowd had gathered on a corner. Hatton braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.
Roumande arrived ten minutes later, and glued to his side, the schoolboy constable. The Chief Inspector barely acknowledged them, having pushed his way through to where the body lay sprawled. Crouching down to the corpse, his eyes firmly on his notebook, Adams said, ‘He’s met a pretty end this one. Good stuff this, strong as a noose. And here, Professor, this will interest you, there’s a load of little holes about his flabby neck like he’s been punctured, and some devilish tailor has pulled the thread through.’ Adams bent further over the body. ‘Stitched up, you might say … good and proper.’
Hatton leant down and touched the swollen wrists where the linen thread had cut through. Tiny bite marks and sharp scratches could be seen around the dead man’s fingers. Rats, though they had not had a real go yet. Rats, if they really want to, can devour a man, but there was plenty of other rubbish for the creatures to feed upon. Just a yard away was a mound of stinking trotters chucked out from some nearby eatery.
‘Time of death?’ spat Adams.
Hatton shook his head. ‘Roughly, bearing in mind the weather and the look of the corpse, maybe a couple of nights ago. I’ll need to do an autopsy to be absolutely certain.’
Adams was delving in the fat man’s pocket. ‘One Olinthus Babbage. He’s conveniently put his name on the front of his notebook. What say you to the stitching, Monsieur Roumande? You’re a Frenchman and live in Spitalfields, don’t you? You can tell us perhaps a little more about this silk thread? It looks very similar to the stuff you use at St Bart’s.’
Roumande and Hatton bent down to look closer at the skin on the neck, which had been flattened around the slit, then folded in a seam.
‘It’s not silk, Inspector Adams,’ answered Roumande, keen to help. ‘It’s linen. This thread is used for bookbinding. Weavers don’t use this, but there are plenty of binders round here. I would say these markings on his neck have been made by a sturdy needle. By the way, Olinthus Babbage is known to me.’
Adams straightened up. ‘Really?’
‘Well, only his byline. He writes for the Westminster Review. I subscribe regularly. We both do.’ Hatton gave a curt nod in agreement. ‘Yes, we both read it, along with The Lancet. I should add, we do not agree with its radical politics, Inspector. The Review runs articles on forensics from time to time, but it’s philosophical in its outlook, rather than informative.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, that appeals to the French. So what else can you gentlemen tell me about the body?’
Hatton nodded for his friend to go ahead, and Roumande answered Adams as if describing the weather. Hatton listened but his eyes were intent on the cadaver. The man had been garrotted. His trachea and larynx compressed until the pressure around his neck had stopped the airflow to his brain. He had been asphyxiated in seconds, cut at the throat and then, for some strange reason, stitched up again. ‘Maids can stitch,’ said Roumande. ‘Any news on that missing maid, Inspector? Although I think I must be mad to ask you, because no girl could do this. This work was done by a man. Large, good with his hands.’
Adams nodded. ‘Yes, a man. Large enough to topple this lump over, yet quick and nimble. I think you’re right on that count, monsieur.’
Garrotted, compressed, and asphyxiated. His throat slit. Then left in the blood-covered snow like so much rubbish. Hatton suddenly felt light-headed, so he let Roumande keep talking and stumbled away from the pair. The other two kept on with their discussion of time, place, evidence, weapon. ‘Bruises round the neck … blue tongue hanging out … the strength of ten men needed to hold this weight down.’ Hatton found a place to sit down, the icy cobbles numbing him.
‘Adolphus, are you alright, friend?’ It was Roumande back at his side again. ‘Constable, get this man some salts. He’s going to faint.’
But Hatton didn’t. ‘I’m perfectly well, Albert. I just need a drink.’
Roumande laid his hand gently upon Hatton’s shoulder. ‘I think we all do, Professor.’
The ancient tavern jutted out onto Fleet Street, its once whitewashed walls now a dirty yellow. Inspector Adams sat down, took his coat off, put his hat down, and took his notebook out. He turned to Roumande.
‘So, you’re quite the expert on stitching.’
Roumande gave the Inspector a weak smile. ‘My wife takes a little sewing in at home. She taught me all I know and helped me to develop a more delicate line for working the cadavers. But I’ve never seen a fellow stitched like that.’
Adams nodded to himself and called out, ‘Now then, where’s that bartender? I’m gasping for a pint. Monsieur Roumande? What’ll it be? A glass of cassis? Isn’t that what you French fellows drink? Purple stuff which looks like a lady’s cordial. And you, Professor, you’ll join me in an ale?’
Hatton nodded quickly as his eyes flitted to Roumande, feeling the insult.
‘So,’ continued Adams, ‘let’s look at this notebook, shall we? Perhaps there are names in here. Perhaps he knew our other victims.’ Adams ran his finger down the scribbles on the page. ‘Well, there’s little doubt. A treasure trove, you might say. Here’s jus
t a few. Shall I read them out?’
Hatton sat forward. ‘Never mind the names, look at the headline, “Essay on the Immutability of Species”. He was writing about science, Inspector.’
‘Well, he never got to start, never mind finish. How very irritating, but look here. The initials ‘L.B.’ Perhaps a coincidence, but I don’t think so. And the word “source” written as well.’ Adams carried on flicking through. ‘Various eateries and bordellos mentioned with times and dates. We’ll check up on those, but no mention of any Dr Finch or Mr Dodds. And here’s a name I don’t know, a Dr John Canning, and next to it the word “verification”. Any ideas, please, gentlemen?’
Hatton spoke. ‘He’s an academic at the British Museum. Why, only the other day Mr Broderig mentioned him. I believe he is something called an anthropologist. It’s a very new science. Mr Broderig spoke highly of him and even had some of his books. Lady Bessingham’s tattoo is very similar to a native people from Borneo, I believe.’
‘Indeed.’ Adams raised a brow. He called over one of his Specials who had been slouching at the bar, ‘Get over to the British Museum, again.’
‘We’ve interviewed everyone there already, sir,’ said the policeman.
Adams stood up, gave the policeman a thwack around the back of his head, and said, ‘Well do it again, and this time ask specifically for Dr John Canning. And if he’s not available, seek him out. Find out where he lives, where he goes, if he takes sugar in his tea – and make it snappy.’
Adams sat back down again, shaking his head, and looked at Roumande.
‘So, monsieur. How well did you know Mr Babbage?’
Roumande shrugged. ‘It is as I told you, Inspector. He was a general commentator and invariably got it wrong. I’m no admirer of these broad-brush writers. Like the Professor, I’m a man of fact and detail.’
‘I can see that, monsieur. I watched you with the knife the other day at the morgue. Turning it into an art, I might say. But I digress. Here’s our ales, but still nothing for you, sir. Maybe not on the job, eh, Professor? A knife-wielding mortuary assistant, drunk before noon?’ Adams laughed, but Hatton braced himself, knowing what was coming.
‘Merde. Quel trou du cul! Excusez-moi, Professeur, je sors prendre un café.’ Roumande spoke French rarely. ‘So you know, Inspector. I find English ale to be vile like some Englishmen’s manners. I need some air.’
The Inspector gave Hatton a wink but the Professor shrunk from it. It would be best to let sleeping dogs lie. He sat stony-faced with the Inspector, sipping his drink, and through the mottled window, Hatton could see Roumande chatting to a coffee grinder. Roumande seemed animated; they were sharing a joke together.
‘Let me introduce you to Mr Gad, Professor. He’s the landlord here.’
The man, who was now standing in front of them, laden down with plates of steaming food, bowed obsequiously. ‘Inspector Adams. It’s an honour, sir. I follow all of your cases in the papers. An honour, sir, an honour indeed.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Adams said impatiently. ‘Let’s have the food, then. I for one am hungry. Sit yourself down please, Mr Gad, because I want to ask you about one of your customers.’
‘God rest his soul, is it poor Mr Babbage that brings you here? What a business to slit a throat like that and so near to The Old Cheshire Cheese. And poor Mr Dodds as well, just a hop from here.’
‘Well, I suspect, Mr Gad, that’s why you’re so busy. A little notoriety never does a tavern any harm, eh?’
Mr Gad forced a laugh. ‘You’re jesting, of course, Inspector.’
Adams lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in the landlord’s face. ‘I never jest about murder.’
The landlord nodded, his face now suitably solemn.
‘So, Mr Gad,’ continued Adams, ‘what do you know of Babbage? And also Mr Dodds, for that matter?’
Gad scratched his badly pitted skin. ‘Mr Babbage was a radical when it suited him, a columnist for the Westminster Review. He was a regular here. Mr Dodds came in now and then, although you’d hardly know it. He was the very opposite to Mr Babbage. Quiet as a mouse, kept himself to himself. Would order half a pint and make it last all night. He was the sort of customer I had no wish to encourage. Not that I’d wish him dead.’
‘Go on, Mr Gad. I’m listening.’
Adams asked if he’d seen anything suspicious in the last few nights, anything out of the ordinary. The tavern owner replied that he had noted Mr Babbage, God rest his soul, dining with a youngish man only the night before last, in fact. ‘Boiled potatoes and chops, or was it beef? Making notes Mr Babbage was, nodding and laughing with the man, and when they’d finished their food, shaking hands. I was distracted a little as there was, now I recall, someone unusual sitting in the corner. She kept her eyes from me, but such lashes. An unusual flower, I’d say, of the foreign variety.’
The tavern owner continued, ‘Anyway, the men were locked in conversation. Mr Babbage was a regular customer, but I had never seen the other one before. But he looked out of sorts, Inspector. And shifty. Shifty, yes, that’s the word.’
Mr Gad continued, hoiking the odd bit of spit up as he talked, ‘Gorgeous she was. Tiny waist.’ He sent a spray of spittle before him. ‘Dressed in black, red rabbit fur. Quite the little lady. An actress perhaps.’ Gad winked. Adams laughed. ‘And little boots. I noticed that. Her ankles were slim.’ Mr Gad winked again, this time at Hatton.
Adams unfolded a piece of paper from his left-hand pocket. ‘Anything like this, Mr Gad?’ Hatton looked, too, and saw the likeness of a maid, clear-faced and pretty. Gad laughed. ‘No, nothing like that. She’s very plain, ain’t she? No, this one was,’ and he smiled and drew a shape in the fetid air of the tavern. Out, in, and out again.
Roumande came back in, rubbing his hands together.
‘How was your coffee?’ asked Adams, looking up from his notebook.
‘The coffee was excellent. French and of the finest quality, according to that costermonger, and he’s been running that stand for nigh on a decade.’
‘Really?’ Adams smirked. ‘How interesting.’
‘Well, he’s heard of you, Inspector, and he remembers when you used to work around The Strand. Says it was your patch for a while, along with St James’ Park, when they were clearing up the molly boys. Do you recall him, Inspector? Says you were in charge of vice.’
‘Recall a coffee grinder?’ Adams drew on his cigarette. ‘I hardly think so. It’s well known I ran vice for a number of years, earning my stripes. And the molly boy thing was a while ago. We did an excellent job, and what of it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Roumande. ‘Nothing at all, but yes, he does remember you. Says you also do quite a bit of private work for toffs around Belgravia and Mayfair.’
Adams shrugged, and knocked a glug back.
‘It’s no secret. We all do. Do you know how much The Yard pays a policeman? Even a senior one?’
Roumande smiled, but Hatton felt uncomfortable. ‘If you are finished on Mr Babbage, perhaps then, Inspector, we can discuss the girls?’
‘Girls? Which girls do you mean, monsieur? I have my mind on one only, and her name is Flora James. I’ve got the whole damn Force looking for her, as we speak.’
‘Are you being deliberately vague, Inspector? Not the maid. The other girls. The one I did the autopsy for and the little angel sleeping in the box, which led us directly to the bookseller. Do you know how many I’ve seen like that? I make it four now, in the last three years. All of them, save the last, tortured, slashed, and dumped in an alley. But the last was different. She was a virgin, Inspector. Do you know what I think?’
Adams sighed. ‘What do you think, monsieur?’
‘That the killer of these children is either getting more daring or less fussy. It’s not just gay girls he’s after any more. But didn’t you look at the autopsy report on the train? Adolphus gave it to you, didn’t you, Professor?’
Inspector Adams, even in the half light of the tavern, grew pale. ‘Professor H
atton, please spare me from the wrath of this man. How many times, monsieur? We got the endless letters you sent us, but we have no time to answer them all. You simply send too many, and I know you speak against The Yard when you can. You think we’re stupid, don’t you? You’re a foreigner and have little understanding of an Englishman’s reputation, or The Yard’s, but if you damned well suggest I’m not doing my job, I’ll …’
Hatton quickly interjected, ‘But perhaps you should look again, Inspector, for Roumande thinks all these girls are connected. You didn’t look at the report, Inspector, did you?’ Hatton felt something. Was it panic or relief? He couldn’t tell, but he was glad he’d finally said something which felt like the truth.
Adams stood up. ‘What do you take me for? To suggest I care more about these botanicals than children is an outrage. I have a job to do, leads to follow, and when I get through my mountain of paperwork, a home to go to. Today is the Sabbath, if you hadn’t noticed. I’ve nothing left to do here. Mr Gad, good day to you, sir.’
Hatton watched Adams leave. The Inspector left the door open so the snow whooshed into the tavern, and he turned back fleetingly, his face a vapour. ‘Unlike you two, it seems, I have to report back to my superiors. Get the autopsy for Dr Finch ready, Professor. This is the last time I’ll ask you nicely. If you can’t cope, I can always send the cadavers to St Mary’s. Would you prefer that?’
Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Page 17