‘Porter,’ the young man replied. The door opened.
SEVENTEEN
SCOTLAND YARD
‘Get the keys, and release him. Don’t argue with me, Constable. I give the orders round here.’
Hatton stood at Inspector Adams’s side, waiting for the key to turn, and there he was, sitting in a corner and looking at his fingernails, as if nothing had happened.
‘Albert. I am so glad to see you. Inspector Adams here will be the first one to say it. You’re a free man, innocent of all charges. Come, friend, your wife is fretting. But I’ve sent a message to say you’ll be on your way as soon as possible.’
Hatton covered his joy in a rambling account of procedures to follow. Roumande looked up at his friend and smiled, another stickler for detail.
‘Released, you say? How long have I been here? Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the number of instruments we are lacking in the morgue, and I’m sure I could get them sent over from Belgium at half the cost.’
Roumande? Would you credit him? Any other man would be counting the hours till they knew the time would come when they would surely swing from a gibbet. But not this man.
‘Have I ever told you what a fine fellow you are? And how we could not, would not, cope without you at St Bart’s? But promise, Albert. No more letters, I beg of you.’
Roumande thumped Hatton hard on the back. ‘Come, Adolphus, we have work to do. Send another message and tell my wife I’m well, and I’ll return home when we’ve finished the autopsies.’
The two men left The Yard and headed back to St Bart’s. They hung their coats on the meat hooks and set to work, starting with Finch. It was hard to give the bloody lumps a Christian name but the leather form didn’t seem to deserve it, either. It was propped up, Sunday best, in a corner. Its dusty appearance was the same as before. Hatton looked again at it and the book it still held. Vestiges. Why that particular book, he thought to himself? Was the killer making fun of Finch? It was ten years out of date and already the world of science had moved inevitably forward. It was a book only read now by the masses. Why not something more suitably erudite by Mr Darwin or Charles Lyell?
Roumande, hand to his mouth, was caught in a momentary thought and then said, straight to the point, ‘It’s a sorry job, badly done. Why a halfwit or a child could make less of a mess of it. Look at the bulges, and as for the stitching, I wouldn’t let them hem my trousers, Adolphus. It’s hardly a masterpiece.’
The two of them laughed, their gallows humour a condition of the morgue.
Roumande addressed the Professor in a more serious tone, ‘If you permit me to say so, we never actually managed to inspect all his organs as thoroughly as we might have done. Perhaps we should start with the meat, before we conclude anything final about the form?’
Slowly, they unwrapped the body parts which had been preserved in excellent condition, having absorbed a great deal of the Fen’s peaty soil. Finch’s brain put to one side, still wrapped in calico, Hatton moved to the heart.
‘The large tweezers, if you please.’
Roumande handed them over.
‘And pass me the three-incher, Albert, if you would be so kind.’ Hatton was still looking for something, but what, he didn’t know.
The heart was a good one. An upside down, pear-shaped pumping machine. Hatton weighed it. Eleven ounces exactly.
But there was something else, and he traced the point of his knife along it. It was not large. But it was there. A small lump of scar tissue and a thin slash of a wound.
‘Do you see what I see, Albert?’
‘Yes. Cut it out, Professor, and put it under the microscope.’
Carefully, Hatton took his smallest blade and made a sharp incision into the left ventricle wall. ‘This knife isn’t working, Albert. I need the circulating biopsy tool.’
With a simple pressing down of his hand and a sharp twist, the instrument they had improvised themselves lifted a perfectly cylindrical sample of the tissue. Hatton walked over to his microscope and peered down the viewing rods.
And he was right. Twisting the little wheels, the tissue’s cell formation spoke only to those who could read it. Success. Forensic evidence. A sharp blade had been pushed through Finch with considerable force. There was a clear disruption to the tissue cells. Deep bruising and abrasions which had not, due to the brown discolouration from the peat, shown themselves to the naked eye initially, but more than that. A shard of silver.
‘Tweezers, Albert.’
The tweezers grew large and cumbersome under the lens, but Hatton plucked the shard out and held it up to the light.
‘It’s a sliver of steel. Which means our killer must have used tremendous force for the metal to break off like this.’ Hatton was beginning to understand what might have happened. The weapon had been pushed through Finch’s heart; the cut deep and at an angle. That Dr Finch had been facing his murderer when he died was clear. So, had they known each other? Had they been friends? Lovers?
‘Can I see it, Adolphus?’
Hatton stepped aside. ‘I think I know this type of tip end, Adolphus.’ Roumande held the tiny shard of metal up into the light using the tweezers. ‘It’s not from a dissection knife. This might be a wild guess, but I think this is for hunting or fishing.’
Roumande was right, and Hatton knew it. The shard of metal had a tiny point which was razor thin, and the beginnings of a crescent-shaped dip, a groove in the metal.
‘I think we can surmise that Finch was stabbed through the heart with a fishing knife by someone he knew, as you suggest, Albert. He was overpowered. His body parts were then cut up and carted to the Fens. How and by whom, I cannot tell. But I have my suspicions. The mess was cleared up, the parts deposited, and then whoever was the culprit came back and rebuilt him again. Quite an undertaking and not for anyone fearful.’ Hatton didn’t mention the Mucker, but he thought it.
The next body was Mr Dodds. There was little else to discover beyond their original conclusions. He’d been garrotted, strangled by a rope, and his heart cut out. ‘His heart again, Albert? He was dead already when whoever played surgeon decided to put it on a plate.’
Roumande prodded the heart with a scalpel. Pickled enough to hold its shape, but as for its colour? It had turned from claret jelly to something leathery. They sliced it open. But there was no telltale metal. ‘No ink on his fingers.’ Hatton turned the digits, examining them closely. ‘Nothing to link him to Lady Bessingham, or Finch for that matter. But to pin him to the ground like that? To make a display of him?’
Roumande shrugged. ‘Property of D.W.R. Dodds, the book said, leading us from a sleeping angel to this sorry form. The pins around his genitals and flaps of skin, as one might display a moth, but perhaps they are relating to something else? Pinpricks, Professor. Like the pauper girls.’
Hatton’s head hurt. Yes, these crimes seemed linked, but who Mr Dodds was, beyond a seller of scientific periodicals, he didn’t know. Nothing seemed to be forthcoming on this particular victim. Adams had shown he had something to hide, and that he could be easily blackmailed. Hatton was sure the Inspector was in the pay of someone, but the man seemed intent on helping him now. Perhaps the best strategy where Adams was concerned was to let sleeping dogs lie. To feed him information, to keep him close but to know the Inspector was not to be trusted. What had Adams said about this type of police work? Hatton nodded to himself, knowing he would follow the same strategy. He would proceed with stealth.
‘The heart, Albert? The organ which pumps the brain with oxygen. The organ that makes us live, that’s barely bigger than a fist, which contracts and expands and is made up of chambers and cavities.’
Roumande laughed. ‘Ever the anatomist, Professor. Your sister Lucy’s right, Adolphus. And Madame Roumande agrees with her. Did I tell you that they regularly correspond with each other, enquiring as to your health, your living arrangements, your lack of a sweetheart? The heart has another purpose. What are the two main reasons for murder, in your
opinion?’
Hatton smiled, knowing the answer to this question. ‘Money. Or the lack of it. And love, Albert. Passion.’
‘Exactly, Adolphus. A thwarted affair. Jealousy. Lust. Lady Bessingham had many male admirers. Perhaps a lover kills her first in a seething rage, and sets out to finish the others.’ Hatton shook his head, thinking of Benjamin Broderig and his friendship with Lady Bessingham, what little he knew of it. ‘Finch was first, Albert. Lady Bessingham was next, followed by Dodds, and then Mr Babbage.’ And he thought, as well, that it was not possible for Broderig to be involved. Broderig admired Lady Bessingham, perhaps even loved her, but there was nothing to suggest he could hurt her. When Broderig spoke of Lady Bessingham, it was with real grief, real loss. He was not her murderer. Hatton was sure of it and so shook his head again, and turned his attention to Babbage.
The final body was massive and splayed over the sides of the post-mortem slab. At first, they found nothing not already surmised in the alleyway. Cause of death: asphyxiation. Throat: slit after strangulation. Signs of an awl and a bone folder. Distinguishing marks: cut area restitched using linen thread. ‘Let’s unpick the stitches,’ suggested Roumande and as they did, they noticed something. They were waxy. But not with the thin layer of coating normally found on bookbinder’s thread. This wax was thick, globular, and blue.
‘It’s exactly the same, Albert. The same as the wax we lifted from Lady Bessingham’s finger.’
Hatton went over to the little shaving mirror. They were making a little forensic progress, but not enough. Two bodies were linked by the same blue wax: Lady Bessingham and Mr Babbage. But the other two bodies – Dr Finch and Mr Dodds? Absolutely nothing. Hatton looked at himself. The hawkface looking back gave no clues. He was dog tired, his mind a blank, and it would be light soon. He needed to think.
So Hatton left Roumande, heading back to Gower Street along the icy streets, his mind numbed by the air. No gas lamps were lit at this hour. No shadows, just a black, patternless, formless world. Hatton tried to force some sense of logic, to find that place in his mind where the truth would unfold, but it was pointless. The dark and the cold nullified reason, but he was almost home.
The hansom back to Isleworth was bumpy. His throat felt dry, so Adams pulled the small silver flask from his pocket and slugged back a glug. He breathed slowly, and then gently knocked on the door of his house. With no yapping dog to wake his family, nothing stirred. He knocked a little harder and through the window saw her come to him, sleepy and lit up by a single tallow. She opened the door and he put his finger to his lips. Her nightclothes were crumpled and the scent of warm bedclothes rose off her skin. ‘George,’ she whispered, ‘whatever time is this? Come out of the cold before you catch something.’ He rubbed his face with his bear-like hands and stepped across the threshold, pulling her into him. ‘Sshh, don’t wake the children,’ she said.
EIGHTEEN
ASHBOURNE
Flora James had tied a makeshift strip of black cloth around her bonnet. It was all she could find in the time allotted because the journey to Surrey had been swift. They had fled London like criminals, but two days was all it took before they became aware of the next murder. A chance sighting of the Illustrated London News suggesting the body of a journalist had been found, a hop from The Old Cheshire Cheese. It was Olinthus Babbage. It had to be. No mention of the parchment letters, but a page on, the picture of a maid. It was an excellent likeness, as if looking in a mirror.
‘The letters are gone, Flora. Perhaps to be destroyed, for ever. But at least we’re safe.’
Safe enough, in a little boathouse by an icy river a few miles from Dr Canning’s birthplace, but only safe if they hid, and remained like fugitives. Pacing the room, speaking in whispers, peeping through the cracks to make sure no one was coming, and asking themselves, how it had come to this? The police were bound to be looking for them. Asking questions. They knew it wouldn’t be long before dogs and whistles surrounded them. So on the morning of the funeral, together, they made their way to Ashbourne, prepared to face whatever would await them.
Ashbourne was not large enough to be called a village, and apart from the Georgian stonework mansion which sat in a bowl of lawn, there was just a single line of dismal workmen’s cottages, ending at a small Norman church. The churchyard had been dug down for burials so many times that the tombstones were supine, as though the stones themselves were dead. The new graves were few, but they were prominent. An angel, hands clasped together in prayer, weeping silent tears for the child that lay within. ‘Herein lies Esther Rose, our only daughter.’ The baby’s grave had been hemmed in by spiky railings, and in the middle of the plot, a mottled glass vase had been placed with a single, wilting flower.
And when the earth was thrown over the ebony coffin, beside the infant sepulchre, nobody wept, save a young woman dressed quite disgracefully in a battered bonnet and fawn dress leaning on a bookish-looking man, who steered her away from the church and up towards the house.
Inspector Adams peered at the girl over his notebook. ‘So, Miss James. You’ve finally decided to show yourself. You’ve been giving my officers quite the runaround, but I suspected you might come here. May I enquire as to the name of this gentleman?’
‘My name is John Canning, Inspector. Curator at the British Museum for anthropology, and a grateful beneficiary of Lady Bessingham. I understand you have been looking for us.’
‘Indeed,’ Adams said, as he sucked on his pencil, desperate for a cigarette, and looked at Hatton, both men now sitting in Lady Bessingham’s drawing room, the funeral over. The Professor hadn’t slept a wink last night and before first light had caught a train here, knowing this was where Inspector Adams would be found.
The drawing room was draughty despite a roaring fire, and oddly plain for a country residence. A walnut desk, a chaise longue, some potted plants, and a few unknown artists on the wall. But even in the depths of winter, long sash windows showed the garden to its advantage. Hatton, however, wasn’t interested in the scenery. He took the girl in, who sat opposite him. So this was Flora James, thought Hatton. On the face of the furore which had surrounded her, she was a little disappointing. She was a girl, nothing more. Her face, one notch up from ordinary, but like his sister Lucy’s, it was honest and open. And when she spoke, her voice was bell clear.
‘On the day before she died, I left Ashbourne early and went directly to Nightingale Walk. I was given strict instructions. Where the letters would be and to whom I should deliver them. Dr Canning was a name I’d heard mention of before. Lady Bessingham had even visited him once, a number of years ago, and I had waited for her on a little bench outside his room, next to a display of hummingbirds.’
Adams nodded. ‘Carry on …’
‘Dr Canning enjoyed the patronage of my mistress. But it was his expertise in anthropology and the natural sciences which I believe was the purpose of his involvement. Madam wanted him to view the letters and then to distribute them to an appropriate journalist. Madam was a great lover of controversy. It was her belief that the letters, and the ideas contained within, would add to a debate, she’d said. I believe the author had recently returned from abroad and wanted to discuss them further. But my mistress did as she pleased. And so I was sent on an errand.’
Hatton interjected, ‘But then why not come forward and tell us so? You committed no crime.’
The girl’s resolve crumbled and Dr Canning spoke, ‘We learnt of Lady Bessingham’s murder and we hid. A mistake it seems, in retrospect, because now another is dead. It was Olinthus Babbage found murdered, near Fleet Street, wasn’t it?’
Adams didn’t look up from his scribbling, and so Hatton continued on behalf of them both, ‘And there’s nothing else at all that you can think of? You see, you and Dr Canning are the only witnesses to not just one but two serious crimes, and I’m afraid we don’t think the killing is finished. You were probably the last people to see Olinthus Babbage alive.’
Dr Canning raised
an eyebrow and addressed Hatton. ‘Are you a policeman, sir?’
Adams put his notebook down. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen. I am country bred and my manners are lacking. This is Professor Adolphus Hatton of St Bart’s. He’s our Medical Jurisprudence adviser and is helping me on the case. Answer his questions, sir, the same as you would mine.’
‘Inspector Adams,’ Flora replied, her face pale. ‘Believe me, Dr Canning was all for staying in London, but I persuaded him otherwise.’ Canning laid his hand on the frightened girl’s shoulder. ‘The letters had a theory in them and she was a great supporter of Dr Canning’s work, but their friendship was of a formal nature, whereas I …’ The young woman began to cry. Adams didn’t nudge her or bully her and did anything but accuse her. It seemed he had decided that Flora James was no suspect after all.
‘I am very sorry for your loss, Miss James. But knowing precisely what was in those letters may help us catch the murderer. Can you think of anyone your mistress was out of sorts with? Was there anyone she withheld patronage from or slighted?’
Flora shook her head and looked towards an opening door. Hatton followed her gaze as Benjamin Broderig entered the room and pulled up a chair by the window.
Dr Canning failed to acknowledge this new arrival but instead bent down and took a book from a bag. Hatton read its spine. It was a book he had in his own lodgings at Gower Street. It was The Principles of Geology by Charles Lyell.
Dr Canning cleared his throat as if readying himself for something. ‘Lady Bessingham gave me this book and it categorically shows that our earth was not created in the blink of an eye, but evolved over thousands of years. Who knows exactly how many, but one day, we shall know the answer. And this work has led us to a fundamental question few dare ask. But not Lady Bessingham.’
Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Page 20