Devoured (11 page)

The banging at the front door was insistent, but it was the yapping which probably disturbed him. It was only seven o’clock in the evening but it was not uncommon for Professor Hatton to take to his bed by this time, if he’d been up all night. Perhaps it was his country upbringing which gave him the constitution of a larger man, because Hatton wasn’t robust-looking. He was sinewy, sharp featured, milk-pale. But despite his catatonic stupor, he sprang up fully dressed, already sensing the knock was for him, and headed down the stairs to see his friend, Roumande, patting the King Charles spaniel which was wagging its tail.

‘Forgive me, Adolphus. But something peculiar has happened. I waited an hour before I decided that it would be best to fetch you. I’m deeply troubled by something.’

Hatton, asking nothing, immediately took his cane, his thick coat, and a derby, hoping that at least his friend had brought a carriage. But he hadn’t. ‘Are we walking then, Albert?’

‘I went round the block twice. I went in and out of a tavern, but it was no good. My mind wouldn’t settle. We’ve had a delivery, Professor.’

‘And will you tell me, in heaven’s name, what of? Or I am to be suspended in aspic, like one of your organs, Albert?’

Roumande laughed and let the snow settle on his nose and his lashes, looking skywards. A cold beam from an ornate gas lamp highlighted the spot where he stood, a circle of white. A shimmer of ice.

‘Round and round the block, but nothing, and so I thought a puzzle is a puzzle. And I know how you love a puzzle, and Mr Broderig isn’t the only fellow in London with a hip flask.’ Roumande tapped the side of his coat. ‘She’s just along here a bit. The body collectors wouldn’t bring her all the way. Said they were unnerved by her.’

‘She? What sort of she?’ asked Hatton.

‘Another girl, Professor. From her ragged clothes, clearly a pauper.’

By now, the two men were on the corner of Charterhouse Street. Roumande took Hatton by the arm and guided him down an alley. ‘It’s not much farther,’ he said, his voice thick, until they reached a little hump in the road and beyond that, a girl. Professor Hatton could see it was a girl before he even looked at her. Her childlike hands just visible, ghostly in the moonlight.

‘Here, Adolphus. You might want a slug, first?’

Hatton looked in Roumande’s eyes to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead, taking the flask from his friend’s hand, grateful for it.

‘Do you want to see her?’

How odd the question felt. It hung, dead in the air.

‘Do you want me to do the honours, Professor?’

Roumande seemed a little lost, a little hesitant, a little unsure of himself, and so Hatton, resolute, stepped forward.

Her hair was damp but she lay on a soft down pillow as if slumbering, tucked under a woollen blanket and placed in an orange box. She was dead; dead girls were two a penny around here, but still the questions came to him at once. Who was she? Where was her family? Did she have any? And how did she end up here and like this? As a boy Hatton had watched, with some amusement, his sister Lucy tucking up her treasured doll exactly like this little girl. And this child seemed unreal, like a doll, but perhaps it was just the moonlight.

Yet it was clear to Hatton at once that at some point she’d been in the river. Hatton gently pulled back the blanket to see wet, barely formed breasts and a child’s mouth agape, and around her mouth and in her hair a few souvenirs from the Thames. The tiniest shreds of flotsam. He checked her hands but there were no pebbles or rocks which might have been present if she had grabbed at the banks whilst trying to cling to life. But he was sure her death had been by drowning.

‘Look at her wrists, Adolphus.’

Pinpricks, but not random slashes and scars as with the previous girls. They were neatly done and barely touched the skin, more like bee stings or the imprint of kisses. ‘Does it remind you of the girls we already have? The pauper girls, Adolphus?’

‘Cover her.’ Hatton pushed his hand in his mouth. ‘Do as I say, Albert. Cover her, for pity’s sake.’ And for a second he thought of Flora James – the missing maid. Could it be her? But no, that thought was gone in an instant. Inspector Adams had been very clear that the missing maid was ladylike and nearly twenty.

‘She’s perfect, Professor. Like an angel, but barely twelve is my guess.’

‘I can do very little here. It’s the light, the snow, the temperature, but I think she drowned. We’ll take her back to the morgue to be sure. But she hasn’t been beaten, Albert. She’s as you say. Apart from death, she’s perfect.’

Roumande nodded. ‘Foundlings are often left like this. Lost children. But you’re right, she’s definitely been pulled out of the river. I had a closer look before I came to get you, Professor. My guess, she’s been here a couple of hours. Most of her hair’s still damp to the touch, but some of the strands near her face are beginning to harden with frost. Two hours, best guess. Maybe three at the most. The body collectors did the usual rounds to Coram’s Fields and to several of the workhouses, but no joy. I should give you this, Adolphus.’

Hatton was shaken, but why he didn’t know. She was not the worst cadaver he had ever laid his eyes on. She was eerily beautiful. He opened the note, which said, ‘Metropolitan Police Delivery Note/For the Urgent Attention of Professor Hatton, St Bart’s Pathology Department.’

‘It looks official enough. But don’t the Specials normally bring corpses to the mortuary yard themselves, if it’s a suspicious death? It’s not our normal procedure.’

Roumande shrugged. ‘Methods are sometimes slapdash between the workings of The Yard and the body collectors. You’ve heard me say it, many times. The body collectors had a tip-off. They’ve labelled her as “pork”, but she’s more than that, isn’t she, Adolphus? She seems cared for, cherished almost. She seems as if she died but minutes ago, and that if I picked her up and carried her home I could warm her by the fire. That she would yawn and stir herself.’

Hatton nodded, and helped Roumande with the crate, thinking of the chicks he used to catch as a child. The sick ones put in a tin, wrapped in calico, and left near the hearth. A trick of his father’s, who would promise the boy that they’d be better in the morning, and sometimes they were. Other times, little eyes shut, warm still from the nearness of the fire, but their short life brutally over. His father’s hand, steady on his shoulders. ‘
They are not meant to live, son, if God has ordained it so.’

‘Have the men at least left us a wagon, somewhere?’ Hatton beckoned again for the brandy flask.

Roumande stamped his feet. ‘They said she had a ghost upon her. They said they didn’t want to touch her. Off to Newgate by now most likely, or the rookeries. But don’t worry, she’ll be as light as a feather. At least the Specials had the decency to label her this time. But even so, it’s a paltry amount of information offered. We should get her back, and then perhaps you could bring this up with the Inspector. Surely, this one he can’t ignore?’

Hatton pulled out his pocket watch. An hour, maybe two, and they would be done. Dinner by eight. He agreed with Roumande. ‘Let’s make it a quick autopsy, Albert, and I’ll speak to the Inspector tomorrow.’

In the morgue, the lamps were on. It seemed, unlike the other girls who had been beaten to a pulp, that his initial impression had been right – this child had died simply by drowning. Hatton stood over her, inspecting her organs. ‘Trauma to the sinuses and the lungs, considerable debris in her throat, and substantial haemorrhaging, suggesting that she struggled, sucking in the water before she succumbed. Pinpricks on one arm but nowhere else. Her body, malnourished, which is to be expected, although oddly it appears her hair has been brushed. What do you think, Albert? Her locks should be tangled, full of debris, but there’s only a little. The river has been frozen for a month. Not solid granted, but I think by the state of her, she’s been dead a day or so. But her cadaver kept in abeyance, helped by the freezing temperatures. Would you agree?’

Roumande nodded. ‘I agree with everything you suggest, Professor. Her locks are smooth, brushed, as if she was on her way somewhere.’

Hatton was troubled. ‘How many does that make now, Albert? Two? Three? Four girls? It’s not the same cause of death, but it’s the same sort of age and the pricks have definitely been done by a needle of some description; they have barely scratched the skin, as if the pricks were made after she was dragged from the river. And this narrows it down to what? Maybe a seamstress or a bookbinder? The sweatshops are notorious for child labour. The binding industry, not a whole heap better. But it is a very odd sort of person who would mark a cadaver.’

Roumande shrugged, finished up writing their notes. Hatton washed himself down and lay his hand on Roumande’s shoulder.

‘It’s almost ten, Albert. Are you hungry? And would Madame Roumande forgive me, if you missed supper at home tonight? Because I could do with a drink.’

Roumande looked up at the Professor from his notes. ‘I’ll put her back in her box and leave her by the hearth. It’s foolish, I know. Sentimental, even.’

Hatton shook his head. ‘You know we can’t do that, Albert. She’s possibly a murder victim. We can’t warm the body. We need to preserve her.’

‘We have the details in the report, Adolphus. Would one night of comfort really matter? I’ll not leave her near the fire. I’ll put her at the end of the passageway. It’s cold as ice there, but she’ll be near the other cadavers and have some company.’

Hatton nodded and poured himself a glass of porter and watched Roumande scoop the little girl up and place her back in the orange box.

‘Did you check the box she came in, Professor?’

Hatton shook his head. ‘No, just the girl. We were both out of sorts this evening, Albert, so forgive me. Why? Is there something wrong?’

Roumande bent down, the girl still in his arms. ‘There’s a book in here, Professor, beneath the pillow.’

Roumande picked it up and read out its title, ‘
Flora and Fauna of Great Britain
, by D.W.R. Dodds, with a Foreword by Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, Botanist, Biogeographer, Traveller.’

Hatton took the book from Roumande, flicking from front to back to see a number of pages tagged and marked. The birds were done as simple line drawings, but beautifully wrought, depicting nature at its most varied. Hatton turned to the last page, to find an inked stamp, which he read out, knowing that Roumande was hanging on his every word. ‘Write this down, Albert, then call a cab. Property of: Mr Daniel Dodds, Purveyor of Fine Books, Number 202, The Strand.’

‘I’m just telling you what I knows. Ain’t never been no Numbers Two Hundred and Two, on this road. Number One Hundred and Ninety is as far as I can take you. So that’ll be two shillings, if you please, and two shillings if you don’t.’

Hatton fumbled for his money but, as ever, had forgotten to bring his purse. And so Roumande did the honours, jumping out with a thud into a drift of snow.

Despite the inclement weather, The Strand was full of people. A number of fine restaurants were still offering excellent dinners. The sweet, pungent smells of cooking filled the air, but there was no time for eateries, reasonably priced or otherwise. And the cab driver was right. The Strand had no Number 202. It stopped before it hit these digits, the last even-numbered building being a rather tatty musical hall.

‘Wait for me here, Albert. I’ll ask someone.’

Hatton was out of the music hall quicker than he went in it, but this time with two half-dressed ladies on his arms, both of whom he attempted to shake off, but who were clinging to him limpet-like, and one of the ladies, puckering up and slurring, ‘You is gorgeous, sir. Ain’t he gorgeous, Rose? My friend thinks you is gorgeous, as well. Ow’s about both of us, for half a guinea.’

‘Please, ladies, desist. Albert, be a good fellow. Help me out here?’

Roumande wondered if he would just let his friend struggle for a minute longer before he interceded, because it was rare to see the Professor with any kind of woman on his arm, but pity got the better of him. He released Hatton, being charm itself to the ladies, hat doffed, and giving them both a shilling, asked, ‘Two more, if you can tell us the whereabouts of a bookseller?’

‘Don’t read, luvvie. None of us does.’

Roumande brought out a half a guinea. ‘Name of Dodds. Daniel Dodds? A purveyor of fine books.’

The girls looked at the money.

One of them put out a hand but Roumande took the money back and repeated, ‘You had better be honest with me, girls.’

The girls looked at each other before one of them spoke.

‘Dodds, you say? I know ’im. Quiet as a mouse. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Purveyor of fine books? Purveyor? What sort of word is that when it’s about? But he does ’ave a shop. It’s along a bit, down Millford Lane. There’s those round ’ere says The Strand, cos it sounds better but ’e’s no better than us. Can’t miss it. Great big bloody bird in the window. Stuffed, ain’t it?’

‘Thank you, ladies. You’ve been most helpful,’ and Roumande bowed again, a little lower, as the girls giggled and nudged each other. And although Hatton was glad that he didn’t have the ways of the street, on occasions like this he could definitely see the benefits of having a little Metropolitan
je ne sais quoi,
when it came to detective work.

They made their way quickly, taking a street to the right which appeared to be mainly ladies for sale, but at the end, the sound of hammers against leather, people talking, spilling out on the streets. Not drinking, but talking. Mainly foreign voices, Italian and other things. A young man with a cap hissed at the two men as they walked up towards a sign, which flapped in the chill, announcing, ‘Purveyor of Fine Books, D.W.R. Dodds Esq.’

‘Anarchists. All Italians are, Professor,’ Roumande mumbled in Hatton’s ear. ‘Knife you in the back, soon as look at you.’

Hatton nodded, knowing his friend was right because London had had an influx recently and they were up to no good. Hanging around on the street corners, and their leader, Giuseppe Mazzini, widely reported to be attempting revolution at home, but for some reason, holed up here, the least radical city on earth, stirring up sedition from the library of the British Museum with his absurd notion of Giovine Italia.