Devoured (Hatton & Roumande)

by D. E. Meredith

  A servant, looking bleary-eyed, did so, and beyond him, Sir William Broderig in a silk dressing gown.

  ‘Where’s your son, Sir William? We need to find him.’

  ‘I don’t know. But what the devil is this? What do you mean by this unwarranted intrusion?’

  ‘Your son has lost his way, Sir William. We must save him from himself and stop the killing,’ Hatton answered, knowing this was the truth.

  ‘Killing? What the devil are you saying? He’s not here, I tell you. He’s been out all night. I can’t keep track of him. He goes down to the river to see if his specimens have returned.’ Sir William was ringing his hands.

  Roumande grabbed Sir William by the scruff of his neck. ‘And where would that be? By the river? Which bit of river, you old fool?’

  ‘The Isle of Dogs. To the portside near the Machars Trading Company. His ship is returning this morning.’

  The two men headed east along the river to the Isle of Dogs. A sober grey light fell flat about them as they moved along the wharfside, and the snow was still falling in the bilious fog. The warehouses loomed up before them. A web of cobbled ditches, and cries about them, of rivermen and seagulls.

  The Machars Trading Company was spectral and menacing, but they were already past it moving quickly to another place, where shadows of men and boats cracked through the ice.

  But where was he? Where was Broderig?

  Then Hatton saw him. Benjamin Broderig sauntering along the wharfside, one gloved hand in his pocket, the other with his gun.

  ‘He has a pocket pistol, Adolphus. We need to be careful.’ Hatton called out, ‘Please, Ben. For your own sake, give yourself up!’

  Broderig turned around, his pistol pointing directly at the Professor, and then almost as an afterthought, he turned away and sped off.

  Roumande shouted, ‘Quick, Adolphus. I’ll keep pace. But mind yourself. I’ll shoot if I have to.’

  ‘Broderig. Stop, I say! We know what you did.’ But Hatton’s voice was carried across the river, deadened by a fog horn.

  Broderig vanished into the river mist.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  Roumande answered by pointing straight ahead, where the vessels decreased in number and the fog thickened. But then a rasping cough.

  ‘He’s up ahead.’

  Knowing if they could corner him, they had him, because the fog was shrouding their approach. And as they drew closer, Hatton caught sight of Broderig, who stood for a second, his hand pressed to his chest, before he shot away again behind flapping sails of calico.

  ‘Keep to my left side, Adolphus. There’s nowhere to go. He’s no runner, for that’s an asthmatic cough. He won’t get far before his lungs seize up in this weather. The land turns to marshes soon. We will have him any minute now.’

  Roumande was right. But what was he doing? He was heading away from the warehouses, which would have kept him hidden, and instead was moving out into the open water where the great prison hulks dominated the skyline. There was no escape this way. He must have known that. And if he had a gun and had taken other lives, why didn’t he stop and face them? Why didn’t he shoot?

  And then Hatton saw it. Ahead, a magnificent ship, laden with cargo. And on the side of the ship, its name – The Advancement.

  Broderig knew they were following him. But could it be that he was leading them? And it occurred to Hatton that perhaps he’d been leading them since the very beginning.

  Broderig had constantly asked Adams about the welfare of the girls. In the yard at St Bart’s, drinking tuak in the snow, Broderig had offered up information about Dr Finch – who he was, where they could find him, what he wrote about. But at the same time, claimed he’d never met the man. Of course, Hatton realised now it was lies. All lies.

  And Broderig’s constant jibbing at Inspector Adams wasn’t the stuff of an overzealous young man, inclined to outbursts of temper. Hatton knew for certain now that Broderig wanted Inspector Adams to pay attention to the one thing which tormented him. An evil trade stretching to the farthest corners of the earth – children bought and sold, who were abused, beaten, and then killed by rich men like the Duke of Monreith, one of many customers in Ackerman’s ledger book.

  Which is why Broderig had begged Inspector Adams to visit Monreith Square and debated the issue of justice so vehemently in the carriage back to London. Of course. Broderig wanted Adams to do his job properly and arrest Monreith, ending the trade with a public hanging, which could only be secured by The Yard. But Adams didn’t act. Because Adams wouldn’t listen. If only he’d listened, thought Hatton, his mind racing. But he didn’t, and so he had to pay the price. He had to be punished.

  But why kill Adams at the museum? And then Hatton heard something. A voice in his head. Two voices. If he shut his eyes for a second, Hatton could hear them in the drawing room at Ashbourne.

  ‘Do you have names, Dr Canning? Anyone you could specifically point to who might want to destroy these letters or bury them?’

  ‘Not to the point of killing someone, Inspector, if that’s what you mean. But when I return to London this evening, I’ll talk to some of my colleagues. I’ll send a note to Scotland Yard if I learn anything useful. You never know, I might find something to help.’

  Broderig must have hidden in Dr Canning’s office, perhaps forged a note and pretended to be him. The sharpened quill through his throat? Yes, Broderig must have lured Adams to the museum, exasperated but knowing that the only way to end these crimes was to finish the job himself.

  The river fog was blowing out across the brackish water. It made the great sails flap and sent an eerie sound of wailing through the vessel’s timber frame. The cries of seabirds, across the choppy water, were high tones and whistles.

  ‘He’s stopped, Adolphus.’

  The two men hung back and watched him, half-hidden by the scaffolding which stretched along the river.

  ‘We have to get him to lay down his gun, Albert, and then arrest him. Are you ready, friend?’

  But something was holding both of them back. What was he opening? He had a crowbar in his hands, and was pulling back a lid which was slowly coming open. Roumande stepped forward towards the vessel, his hand on walnut and metal.

  ‘Wait, Albert. Let me speak to him. He trusts me. Ben? For pity’s sake, give yourself up …’ But the wind took Hatton’s voice and sent the words like bits of paper hurtling up and away. Hatton spoke again, this time shouting, ‘Broderig! Turn around. For pity’s sake, friend. I know what you did. And why.’

  On command, Broderig turned around to face Hatton and was speaking, a half-smile upon his lips, but his voice was flat and disappeared in the brake of the tidal water, which was splashing against the dockside, nullified against the lee of the land.

  ‘Stand aside, Professor! I have him in my sight.’ It was Roumande.

  Hatton heard his friend, and shouted, ‘No, Broderig. Don’t …’ and heard a crack. One shot. That was all it took. Broderig fell backwards, his own gun smoking, a penny dimensional hole in the side of his head.

  The two men moved forwards. Roumande first to check that Broderig was dead, his own pistol unused but still at the ready, and then Hatton, who moved reluctantly, as if he was a visitor to this place and had work to do that involved some humdrum inspection. But in truth, Hatton was in shock at the death of a friend. Because despite everything, that was what Benjamin Broderig was to him. A good man, lost. But Hatton said nothing and looked in the open crate, into which Broderig had fallen. His body bent over a great jumble of stuff. A fish, some frames, nets, and guns. But the strangest of all, at the bottom of the crate was a creature. It had arms like a man’s and a face so forlorn, as if it knew something. But its eyes were not its own. They were glass. Hatton peered more closely, as if to find the creature’s soul. But all that was offered was a distorted image of himself, reflected back.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SMITHFIELD

  TEN DAYS LATER

  ‘So, there were
two killers, Adolphus? All the time, we should have been looking for two killers, not one. Which is why we could find no forensic evidence to link all of the murders. Madame Martineau was working for Monreith and killed Lady Bessingham and then Mr Babbage in order to get Broderig’s letters any way she could. But the reason she wanted them was nothing to do with scientific theory.’

  ‘No, Albert. I suspect there was something in the letters which linked Monreith to Ackerman’s trade in children.’

  ‘But where do you think they are now? The Yard checked every nook and cranny of that monstrosity of a house.’

  Hatton shrugged. ‘Those letters are gone, Albert. Long gone. Destroyed like the bookshop.’

  ‘I still find it incredible.’

  ‘Yes, but not impossible. So many things in life are connected. As Men of Science, we know this.’

  ‘And those other letters, Adolphus? Those vile, hateful words we took from Mr Ashby at Monreith House. Those words scattered like tears across the swirling monogram.’

  Hatton nodded. ‘Ah, yes. M for Monreith. I think Madame Martineau provided those notes to Monreith along with children from the workshop. Once read, I couldn’t look at them again. Did you put them in the incinerator, Albert?’

  Roumande nodded. ‘Yes, I did as you asked and burnt them.’

  Hatton knew it was against police procedures. That it could be argued that the letters were crucial forensic evidence, but in the end, he decided the world was better without them, that they no longer served any purpose.

  And so Hatton stood up, thinking he needed a drink, and got their usual round, as was becoming traditional after finishing a case. One double cognac for Roumande, and for Hatton, nothing more complicated than a tin mug of porter. They clinked glass against metal.

  ‘But I sense that you are a little melancholy, Adolphus? Is it the memory of Mr Broderig?’

  Hatton shrugged. ‘He went to a dark place in his heart, Albert. But it is done with now. Did I mention that I tried to make contact with Sir William, a day or so ago? Well, he refused it. Benjamin Broderig’s body has been buried quietly in a necropolis, but I suspect that was not what he would have wanted. It would have been better if he had fled these shores and died in the jungle.’

  ‘You wanted him to escape, then?’

  Hatton said, ‘He killed four people. Five if you include Madame Martineau, although we haven’t found her body and I think may never do so. We shall never really know the truth about her, but yes, I think Broderig must have killed her. I think he put two and two together, as I have. Everything was connected and it all started with Broderig and so it is fitting that it should end with him.’

  ‘And there was no one at Madame Martineau’s workshop to tell us anything more? No sign of life at all?’

  Hatton felt in his pocket and sighed. ‘I went back yesterday but the place was boarded up. The girls all gone.’ He reached for the buckle, and put it on the table. ‘I still hope that I might one day give this buckle to a girl called Kitty. But this is a sprawling city.’

  The two men glanced at each other for an uncomfortable second, and then looked back at their dregs.

  ‘And your trip to Cambridge, Adolphus? Forgive me for not joining you. Just nothing again, you said, but it’s hard to believe you went all that way and found not a trace.’

  Hatton smiled. ‘It was as I described. The Feltwell boy and the Mucker, both gone as if they were ghosts. I asked around the villages near Wickham Fen but the people there kept quiet, little trusting an outsider like me. But there’s no doubt in my mind. On return from Borneo, armed with the evidence in Ackerman’s ledger, Broderig killed Finch with the Mucker’s help. The Mucker’s daughter disappeared the year before he set off to Borneo, when he was an undergraduate at university so he would have known about the case. And when Lady Bessingham was brutally murdered by the mantuamaker, he seized his opportunity, having a policeman and a forensic expert in his grasp. He wanted us to help him.’

  ‘To bring down the House of Monreith?’

  Hatton nodded. ‘He took us to Cambridge, he led us to Dodds, and at Ashbourne and in our carriage back to London, he mentioned Monreith Square over and over again. He was trying to make us do our job better, but as he saw it, we failed him.’

  Roumande sipped his brandy. ‘And you were right about that little angel, Adolphus. She was never like the others. Her hair had been brushed. Broderig found her by pure chance, dragged her from the river, pricked her wrists in a perfect circle and tucked her up all cosy in the orange box. He wanted us to find her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hatton. ‘As I say, leading us to Dodds, the child pornographer. Property of D.W.R. Dodds? The girl was just a symbol, pointing us to others. If only we had listened to him. If only we had paid attention. It’s all clear now, Albert. And although Broderig is dead, there’s a message from the grave if you like, which we would both do well to take note of.’

  Roumande asked solemnly, ‘A message from Broderig? And that message is what, Adolphus?’

  ‘Camponotus gigas. Being blind to everything, but our natural purpose. If Adams had listened, acted as he should have done, pursued the truth as Broderig saw it, he would still be with us.’

  Hatton’s face clouded, and Roumande offered to buy another round, but the Professor shook his head. ‘Whatever you say, you are first and foremost a family man. And I’ll not delay your return home to Spitalfields. Come, Albert. If you catch a carriage, you’ll be back in time for lunch.’

  Albert resigned himself, stood up, and placed his derby firmly on.

  It was a fine, crisp January day, but still cold and blustery.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to Susie Dunlop and all her team at A&B for publishing this book in the UK. In the US, thanks to my editor at Thomas Dunne Books, Peter Wolverton, for his smart suggestions and eagle-eyed advice, plus Anne Bensson and all the team at St Martin’s. Thanks to all my early readers – Julie Major, Gaby Chiappe, Tracy Brett, Marika Lysandrou, Melanie Lanoe, Amy Fletcher, Liz Byrne, Anne Wilk. Thanks to my mum and dad, Alec and Kay Laver. Thanks also to Sarah Gordon, Claudia Daventry, Natasha Fairweather, Christine Langan, Caroline Stack and Freya Newberry – you all know why. Massive thanks to my two boys – Joseph and Rory – for their endless patience with me always disappearing to sit in front of my laptop. Writers rely on their agents for so many things, so a big, heartfelt thanks with bells on to Kevin Conroy-Scott and Sophie Lambert at Tibor Jones Associates, who have astonished me with their hard work and unshakable belief in my work. I’ve dedicated this book to my husband, Charlie Meredith. He also deserves my gratitude and love.

  As with all historical crime novels, there was a lot of research involved in writing this book. Apart from numerous visits to the British and Natural History Museums, The Hunterian Museum and The Wellcome Collection, I read a great deal of books. Here are the most enticing: The Malay Archipelago by Alfred Russel Wallace; Charles Darwin (Vol I & II) by Janet Browne; London in the Nineteenth Century by Jerry White; Alfred Russel Wallace, A Life by Peter Raby; Victorian London by Liza Picard; The Science of Sherlock Holmes by E.J. Wagner; and finally, A Dictionary of Victorian England by Lee Jackson.

  I also recommend you visit my website at www.demeredith.com if you want to know a bit more about the wonderful world of the Victorians.

  About the Author

  D.E. MEREDITH lived in numerous foreign countries as a child, which contributed to her lust for travel in later life. After reading English at Cambridge University she became a campaigner for the WWF, and spent ten years working for the environment movement. She has flown over the Arctic in a bi-plane, met Inuit, and been pursued by the Russian mafia. Meredith later became a spokesperson for the British Red Cross, spending six years travelling through war zones and witnessing humanitarian crises. The experience strongly influenced her crime writing, with its themes of injustice and inequality. She currently lives on the outskirts of London with her husband and two teenage sons. When not writing
she runs, bakes cakes and does yoga to relax.

  www.demeredith.com

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2012.

  This ebook edition first published by Allison & Busby in 2012.

  Published by arrangement with St Martin’s Press.

  Copyright © 2011 by D.E. MEREDITH

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1282–3

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN