It seemed so easy. A simple dressmaker’s visit arranged. ‘Yes, by all means, come late, if you must. Just have the dress ready.’ The lady was bohemian and dispensed with all convention. Even the habit of normally having fittings in the morning. A night-time fitting was nothing to her. A little lower, a little tighter, a flounce here, a trimming there.
The fitting finished, the lady disappeared to try the half-made dress on, so Ophelie saw her moment, her fingers flying around the brushing tray, but the letters had gone.
And then who came in? The soirée queen herself, wrapped in a half-made dress, wax now smudged on her lily white fingers.
‘What are you doing?’ the lady said, and that Violet girl had stood open-mouthed, and then the lady said what sounded like ‘Thief!’ And those rich ladies can really scream when they want to. Madam Martineau had her scissors in her pocket but her eyes moved to the desk, a breath away. She picked up the ammonite and brought it down.
But no time for perusal or checking the finish. Ophelie had put her palm across the girl’s mouth and she warned her. ‘Not a word, or you’re coming back with me little missy, where you came from. Back to The Borough.’
And the girl had helped. As they cleaned up, Ophelie reminded Violet that she still had the smell of the brothel upon her, and if she opened her trap, well, she would cut it out. Clack, clack around the edge of her little missy tongue. Or she’d take a bodkin to her. She told the girl that’s what happens to a snitch, and to get her a swig of the lady’s laudanum before she left, because she had a terrible headache.
So that was that. Everything tossed in the river. But then, still she had to get the letters any way she could. But thank God, she was good on the scent and now there was a hundred more pounds on offer from the Duke to finish with this business and cover their tracks, so she wrapped herself up in a rabbit-fur muff.
And she’d dressed for the part. Madame Martineau had decided upon a dress of agate green. It lifted the colour of her skin and she’d applied a little rouge. She had her ruby earrings on and her fur-lined cloak. And it was almost Christmas, and so why not add a sense of festivity to the proceedings?
And with the money she had made – the lucre – she let the word trip around her tongue, she’d maybe run a new story, all about a Duke and his penchant for children, because time marched on and frankly, she was absolutely sick of him. Her future lay elsewhere. But first things first. She mustn’t get carried away or get ahead of herself.
She pulled her fur cloak tighter against the bitter chill. A fog was lifting as she moved towards the river, and she heard no sound of the advancing steps until she saw, in the flare of a gas light, a figure moving as if stepping out of nowhere. And he was picking up his pace. That was no surprise to her. Men always did that when they saw her, the silvering shards of beaming light falling to illuminate her skin. He had a sense of purpose. She could feel it as he moved towards her. And as he moved more clearly into the beam, she knew him at once. The Duke had shown her a likeness from some scientific journal called the Ibis and there was no mistaking this one.
She dipped her head and caught his eye. He smiled back at her. She moved away feeling his eyes follow the curve of her back as she stepped off the pavers, lifting up her petticoat a little, thinking, men were so easy. Was this really all it took? She reached out, taking his hand, and led him down an alley with the promise of something.
‘A glass of porter?’ she smiled, her hard teeth glinting. ‘There’s a tavern at the end of this street.’ He answered yes, the sooner the better, because this man was the very devil. But she was not beyond giving him a little leaving present, so to speak.
‘Take my arm,’ he said. ‘For I think I know you.’
‘I’d be happy to, cherie,’ she purred and lifted her petticoat a little higher. His breathing like a kiss.
‘I know who you are,’ she whispered and reached for her scissors in her pocket.
She heard his sigh, or was it hers? A moan of longing and desire. Then something else. She felt the stab cut through her dress. She fell away from him.
‘Do you think I would be so stupid? I’ve been to your workshop. I asked the girls about you. They told me where to find you. And how you would be dressed. What you would carry in your pocket. The children were not yours, Madame. They were not yours to give away. They needed protecting, but who will do it? The law? The police? They only care about money.’ His voice was harsh and she fell from him, clutching her side.
That she could be so weak. That she could let this creature fool her. She thought she was triumphant in that embrace, but she could see it now and her tapering hands clasped around the handles and tried to pull the scissors out, but they were stuck fast.
She staggered a little. The Borough was miles from here. She was falling with the snow. Red splatters on glistening white, and the figure walked away, without a turn or a glance at the heap of green silk stained crimson on the feathered paving stones.
The man headed for Mayfair and Monreith House. The door was shut, so he used the servant’s entrance, easily forcing it open with a kick. No servants about, for they were not so loyal that they watched over the Duke, but had, the man presumed, taken to their beds. He could hear a muffled bark somewhere along the endless corridors and then a sleepy, ‘Shut up, you bloody hound,’ and then nothing.
He climbed the stairs, thinking to himself, so the old devil is asleep, then? He found the study, opened his travel bag, and took his green ledger out, running his fingers along the lines of the profit margins. A testimony to all he had become. All that drove him. Componotus gigas.
Everything had been neatly catalogued by Mr Ackerman. The names, the entries, the customers – companies and individuals. Sundries given as gifts, Machars whisky and the like. Some goods had been underlined because they were significant finds, and between the lines and the classifications, it was easy to make out the truth. The word mainly used being ‘Specimen’ but there were other words, more descriptive, telling of Dayak children either sold already or due to be exported soon.
But no time to spare. He shut the ledger and as fast as an ocelot jumped up onto the desk and threw a rattan rope up and over a chandelier, making a noose, just big enough for an old man, who would be easy. Not like the other ones. Especially the Inspector, who did nothing despite all of his warnings, despite everything he’d shown him. In the end, he was as bad as the rest.
The old bugger was just next door sleeping, and there was no time for waiting. He’d show the Duke the ledger before he took his last sorry breath, so the devil could see what he really was and why justice would be done.
The door to the bedroom swung open, and Broderig hoiked the Duke from his bed, his mouth gagged, dragging him into the study. And the Duke was writhing, kicking, eyes bulging in terror, thinking this was not what he’d planned, this was not what he’d paid for, as the rope was bound tighter and tighter.
And to Broderig’s disgust, he could feel the Duke’s tears, and so he pulled harder, saying, ‘Do devils cry when they take their last breath? Well, I’ll show you something to make a man cry.’
Broderig opened the ledger.
‘Do you see your sorry past, Monreith? Can you read the evidence?’ Broderig’s breath came hard, rasping. ‘In return for a crate of Machars whisky and ten guineas, this child was only eight when Ackerman took her for you. Not much of a cover was it, using words like specimen. And the name of your company entered over and over again. Along with the others. Mr Dodds and Dr Finch were good customers, too, from the looks of it. So, yes, sob old man, sob and repent and ask for God’s forgiveness. But he’s not listening, I promise you. I learnt that in the jungle.’
The Duke’s legs were buckling. Would no one save him? Where was Martineau? Where were his servants? And Inspector Adams? The note must be there by now, at The Yard, demanding his attention or his molly boy habit would soon be the talk of London. Where were they?
‘You never met Dr Finch, did you? But I bet you read
his essay, the self-justification for men like you. I made him read a little extract before he died. On his ramblings about lowering the age of consent from thirteen to eight. Is that young enough for you, Monreith? And what happens with these girls when you are sick of them? When they grow too cumbersome? Did you have them beaten, dumped somewhere, thrown in the river? Yes, I’m sure they’re dead now, like you’ll be soon. And don’t worry, there’s no one coming. Your whore is dead. And Inspector Adams, too, who did nothing, less than nothing. I warned him but he didn’t listen.’
‘Adams?’ the Duke managed to splutter through the gag, knowing it was over now.
‘He should have done his job better and I hoped he might help me. I practically begged him to hunt you down in Monreith Square, but then I realised my words were falling on stony ground because I soon realised that all he cared about were the botanicals. And it occurred to me, if you want a job done well, then you must do it yourself. Well, that’s it from the prosecution, M’lud. Bring the black hood. Bang the mallet down.’
Broderig pushed the ledger and manhandled the accused up onto the desk. The Duke could see his future now. It was hanging before him.
‘Death by hanging. It could be worse. It was worse for Finch, but then I had a little help. And it was terrible for Dodds. I pinned him down alive then cut his sullied heart out. It was better for Adams. I did it quickly. The whore, too. But for you, I want a proper hanging along the lines of Newgate. In this world without God, I’m your judge.’
The Duke struggled and kicked his feet, but it was no use against the weight and youth of this man. The noose went around his neck and with a push, the body swung, flinched, then shuddered.
The makeshift gibbet worked a treat. The chandelier, an excellent hook. Broderig looked up at its crystal shards. French, eighteenth century, no doubt. There were many in London’s fashionable houses all over this part of the city, and they were often stolen, taken during the Revolution and kept here in the city, like so many other thefts. This one looked extremely ornate, perhaps from a bordello. ‘How appropriate,’ thought Benjamin Broderig as he thought about a job well done.
Ashby woke up with a start. How long had he been asleep? He didn’t know; the candle was almost out. But in his dreams he’d gone to a different place – a world bathed in perpetual sunshine, where people walked past, tipping their hats, saying, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Ashby. Lovely day!’ And this dream told Ashby that he should leave by the front door. For the very last time, knowing that Mr Arnold Ashby, Esquire, was only answerable to God. And with the ease of a much younger man, he now walked briskly back to the central hallway where the spaces were vast, and the walls lined with glorious oils.
Ashby was no expert, but he took his time because why not? He had all the time in the world and so he looked at the portraits as if he were a gentleman in a gallery. And as there was no one about, he stepped into a little anteroom hung with magnificent hunting scenes. But they were not to his taste. Strung-up peacocks, their tender necks wrenched. White swans splayed out with blood on their alabaster necks. He could see that they were elegantly painted, but they were violent, yes, violent was the word.
And as Ashby walked the line of the pictures he came to the largest, which had been hung on its own. In the foreground was a magnificent stag. Ashby shut his eyes, thinking he could hear its dying bellow as its last breath ran out. He rubbed his eyes, but then it struck him like a thunderbolt. It was the very same house depicted on his own small oil. The house where his mother had worked up in Scotland, all those years ago. There was a title on the frame, ‘The King of Scotland Slain, Monreith House, 1802.’ Of course, not this London house, but the Scottish one.
And the truth dawned on him. The truth about his life. And how life was simply a set of bizarre coincidences. Like the city, a labyrinth. But at each bend and turn, in each nook and cranny, there is an interlinking of lives.
Ashby went back up the stairs. His heart was pounding, his mind racing with so many questions but less and less doubt. With the strength of an ox, he shoved the door open and it framed a broken old man. Too late for revelations. He climbed up on the desk and took the body down. And he cradled the old man’s head in an old man’s arms. One brother with another.
TWENTY-THREE
MAYFAIR
‘So, I think this is the place. Yes, look up ahead, Adolphus. I’m sure it is.’
As their carriage pulled into Monreith Square, the house announced itself. It could be no other. Hatton was sure of it. The two men ran up to the main door but it was shut. They went around back to the servants’ entrance.
When they left the morgue, Hatton had given the gun to the better shot, remembering the Inspector’s words. Aim and fire. Adams’s last, Hatton now realised. As a boy he had shot a handful of rabbits, but he had never used a weapon like this one. Roumande had looked at the gun in the carriage, caressing the metal in his bear-like hands, pressing his finger lightly on the curve of the trigger, and had asked one question. ‘Is it loaded?’
They were soon in an entrance hall burning with lamps and could hear servants scuttling and someone shouting, but the two friends carried on up the fanning stairs to a room where an old man lay sobbing with something dead in his arms. But where was the dressmaker? The old man was muttering something over and over again about children and letters. But Hatton was distracted because he recognised, hanging over a chair, a well-worn travel bag, and on the desk, Broderig’s ledger.
Roumande spoke to the clerk, ‘Do you know this man?’
Ashby looked up and answered, ‘He was my master, but he was dead when I found him.’
‘We’re looking for someone. Her name is Madame Martineau. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?’
‘Madame Martineau, you say? Did she do this, then? But that makes no sense at all, because she was making money from us. I came to ask him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. She gave me these letters, but I had to pay for them.’ The old man looked at some letters still in his hand, which were tied with a bright-blue ribbon. Dainty in descriptive ink, the paper was flesh-coloured and run through with a monogrammed M. Hatton snatched them, read them, and as he read on, page after page, the innuendoes gave way to something more obvious. An intake of breath. An ardent tongue. The pain of love. A push, a shove. Then slashes and pricks.
Hatton put the letters down and looked at the heap before him, thinking he could have hung the Duke again, slit his throat and wielded such violence on that sorry sack of evil that it momentarily shocked him.
So had she killed the Duke for this? Or did she provide it? Hatton thought of the girls in the sweatshop. Of their sallow complexions and of Violet and the angel in the box, who he knew was not like the others. She had died by drowning and had been tucked in that orange box, her hair brushed, her hands just so, like a sign from Heaven, showing them the way, telling them something. Property of D.W.R. Dodds. And as he was trying to think about what all of this meant, the room filled with noise from the gathering of servants. Hatton watched the gun glint as Roumande pointed it, his finger on the trigger.
‘We’ll call the police,’ Hatton heard one of them cry and Roumande say, ‘Do it, then. It’s about time, you drunks. Meantime, you’d better not come anywhere nearer if you know what’s good for you.’
Hatton moved back over to the windows and sat down at the Duke’s huge desk. Fog and snow. The worst weather yet. The thickening vapours were yellow-tinged and murky, like the great river that snaked through London.
‘What’s in the ledger, Adolphus? Is there anything in that that would help us, for there’s no trace of any dressmaker here.’
What had Broderig said? ‘Write it down, Inspector.’ The quill in his throat. Camponotus gigas. Forest ants and their blind sense of purpose. Hatton opened the ledger, already knowing what he’d see. The candle threw a beam of light across the owner’s name. Had Broderig mentioned this man? On the train to Cambridge? The name said, ‘Property of Mr Christiaan Ackerman. 1855, The Malay Archipelag
o.’
Hatton turned the pages, which were filled with goods in and out. Imports and exports. Listed commodities. And the details of customers, companies and individuals, with names that included Finch, Mr Dodds, and the Duke of Monreith, plus their addresses in London. And by the names, it said: Specimens. Age seven, eight, six. Gender, female.
What had the Feltwell boy said? That the Mucker’s child had gone missing. That there’d been a fuss at the time but that the case was dropped. Benjamin Broderig had been at Cambridge as an undergraduate, and it dawned on Hatton that when Broderig returned from Borneo, he must have headed there, the ledger in his hand, knowing that he would find someone who’d be only too willing to help. It all made sense now. Finch, pleading for his life as he faced certain death at the hands of two men. One young and fearless, the other old but determined, as they stabbed him in the heart and cut him into pieces. And of course, thought Hatton to himself, the old porter at the lodge had cataracts. He was no watchdog. He was practically blind.
The last page of the ledger described a glorious river journey and mentioned names of the party that had travelled with this man. Mister Benjamin Broderig. It was the last entry. Hatton understood everything. ‘I know this ledger. Though he never showed me what it contained. It was the secret which devoured him.’
By the time the two friends reached Chelsea, the sun was coming up. Swan Walk was no less elegant than the sweeping terraces of Mayfair. A topiary garden with clipped box hedges frosted with snow. Hatton could hear his own voice yelling, ‘Open up!’
Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Page 24