Devoured (16 page)

Madame Martineau finished reading the letters and pressed the scroll to her lips. And kissed the golden parchment not once, but three times. A secret. And how she loved a secret, because secrets were eminently valuable. Perhaps not now. Perhaps this secret would have to wait a little, but still it was definitely worth knowing about. She smiled at her own brilliance and pushed the scroll into her muffler because it was cold in the alleyway where she was sheltering, and it was still snowing, although she didn’t mind the weather and let the flakes flit upon her blue-black lashes.

TEN

 

 

 

At the entrance to Bishopsgate Station, Inspector Adams was grabbing whatever was being pressed upon him by a posse of policemen. It looked like paperwork to Hatton. Mountains of the stuff. The Professor had left most of his behind in the morgue, thinking Roumande was a capital fellow when it came to that sort of work. Hatton watched Adams as he shook off the Specials and joined himself and Mr Broderig near the ticket office. ‘Have you got the autopsy report for Lady Bessingham, Professor?’ asked the Inspector.

Hatton rummaged in his surgical bag, but had to start walking, because Inspector Adams didn’t wait for an answer and was in danger of losing him in a wave of hats, cases, and umbrellas. Fat ladies in huge flounces with trunks, and children of varying ages with governesses, were looking cross and agitated with their charges, as the crush of excitement pushed the men along the platform of the Great Eastern Line.

‘Shouldn’t we get our tickets first, Inspector?’ Benjamin Broderig tried shouting above the tremendous roar of the engine, which was spluttering great billows of steam into the air.

‘What?’ cried the Inspector, still moving at great speed through the hurly-burly. ‘What did you say? Come on, gentlemen, or we’ll be left behind.’

‘All aboard the ten-fifteen,’ shouted the guard as he puckered up his lips to blow the whistle. Adams waved a card in his face and the guard ushered all three men to the front of the train.

The Inspector sat down in First Class, facing Broderig and Hatton, his great legs stretched along the carriage floor. ‘You’d think I was leaving for China the fuss my superiors make. I shouldn’t have to ask permission. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. Now then, gentlemen, first things first.’ Adams dumped his huge pile of papers on the seat.

A minion was duly summoned, and on return to the carriage, settled down a large tray of sandwiches and tea in a polished silver pot.

Adams wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand and, after checking that the carriage door was shut, said, ‘So, Lady Bessingham knew this Dr Finch, you say Mr Broderig? Do we know how well?’

Broderig shrugged his shoulders. He had a green ledger on his lap and seemed intent on studying it, but with a sigh shut it again and answered Adams. ‘As I told you, Inspector, they were in tacit discussions about the Nature of Man. Dr Finch is of a mind that God had made us savage, but Lady Bessingham felt he went too far. It is very indiscreet to discuss these matters, but …’

‘Please, Mr Broderig. This is a murder inquiry.’

‘Indeed it is, Inspector. Very well.’ Broderig cleared his throat, putting the ledger back in his bag. ‘I have reason to believe that Dr Finch put Lady Bessingham in a compromising position. She would never admit such a faux pas, but she wrote to me when I was in Borneo. She was very upset. She believed Dr Finch’s theories on Man were being stretched to suggest our appetites were essentially ungovernable. That God had created not a harmonious world, but a simmering sphere, perpetually spinning in chaos. That no matter what harm was caused or where it led us, our desires should be followed. Like many theologians, I surmised that Dr Finch had lost his faith in God, but not his rampant interest in women.’

Adams smiled. ‘But how on earth did they meet? They seem worlds apart.’

Broderig replied, ‘Finch is a great admirer of Charles Lyell, from what I’ve heard. I believe the pair of them met when Lady Bessingham held a soiree some years ago, in support of ideas contained within
The Principles of Geology
. Have you read it, Inspector?’

Adams laughed this time, and said of course not, but he’d read another quite like it. Broderig smiled, a little mockingly. ‘Not
Vestiges
, Inspector? I didn’t think a man in your position would have time for such a tome. What did you think of it, sir?’

Adams took a rolled cigarette, lit it, and said, ‘As a Christian, I have concerns as to its suggestions on the origins of the universe, but on the whole, what thinking man could argue with the facts of all these recent discoveries? That the earth is made up of sediments and layers of rock, which have formed over time? But essentially the book is a jumble with all of its ramblings about the cosmos. It is a hodgepodge, really, and I couldn’t understand its point.’

‘You are not alone, Inspector. It is a shoddy piece of work and far from scientific. You should read Charles Lyell. The man is a genius and a great supporter of other scientists, such as Mr Darwin. And you, Professor? Have you read it?’

Hatton bristled slightly at the idea, the book having gone out of fashion some years ago, despite the furore it caused at the time. ‘No, but I have a few fossils at my lodging rooms in Gower Street and it seems eminently right to me, as to any Man of Science, that they represent the magnitude of time. And that transmutation is an argument few of us can deny, whatever the Church would have us think.’ Hatton looked out the window, recalling the arguments he’d had. His student days at Edinburgh had been hard graft, broken up only occasionally when he lost his temper with someone, rarely over a woman, but more often, on a point of fact. His interest in forensics only just beginning to form, knowing that it would be a long haul before he could get to where he was going. But in the meantime, he would dedicate himself to seeing off the ignorant, the bigoted, or the simply unknowing.

The ripples of discontent science could cause in Society never failed to astonish Hatton, because to him it seemed obvious that Man should pursue Truth. No matter how many feathers it ruffled.
Vestiges
had Bible bashers frothing at the mouth, but frankly, it was only a continuation of other people’s work. Erasmus, Darwin, Lamarck, and many other thinkers agreed that the world must have transformed over millions of years, that man’s brain was not so unlike the apes when it was dissected. Hadn’t notable surgeons already proven this in the cutting rooms of Edinburgh University? And yet, despite all the evidence, this work was seen as sacrilegious and disreputable by those whose positions might be upturned by any unsettlement of the status quo.

Adams spat a little of the tobacco on the floor. ‘So initially this was a meeting of minds, which quickly led to an uncomfortable spat? A beautiful widow with ideas in her head and a lascivious academic? Is that what you’re saying, Mr Broderig?’

Broderig leant forward in his seat and said, ‘All I know is that he was removed from University College by force, and was very lucky to find himself another position at Sidney Sussex. They are extremely liberal at that college. But I believe he has been troubled by scandal on and off for years.’

Hatton intervened, ‘And our victim, Mr Dodds. Any views on him? Could they have known each other? His bookshop is but a hop from University College.’

‘I cannot help you with that sorry case. Before you told me of the terrible murder, I had never heard of the man.’

‘Well, perhaps this Dr Finch will be able to illuminate us.’ Adams closed his notebook and seemed suddenly impatient. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be a wasted trip. It seems I have to answer for every minute of my time these days. But let’s leave that conversation till we get to Cambridge.’ Adams put his hand out to Hatton. ‘I had better look at the autopsy report now.’

Hatton handed over the reports, both the one Adams had asked for and the one he hadn’t. ‘Two reports for one death, Professor? You have been busy at St Bart’s.’

Hatton was embarrassed, but he’d promised his friend.

‘The other is for the pauper girl, Inspector.’

The Inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘Which girl? Last night’s or another’s? As I say, these girls turn up time and time again. It sounds harsh, Professor, but you of all people know that London is made that way.’

Hatton took a sharp intake of breath. What was wrong with the man? But he said simply, ‘Monsieur Roumande specifically asked me to give you the report. The girl we found yesterday evening was different from the others, but we are convinced her death is somehow related. She led us to Dodds and there were clear pinpricks around her wrists. But she wasn’t gay. She was a virgin, Inspector, her hymen still intact, and the previous ones were beaten and tortured. But Roumande believes whatever the cause of death, all these girls fall within the jurisdiction of The Yard, and he has written to you, I believe, on a number of occasions, because the body count goes back some years now, and yet we’ve heard little.’

Adams glanced at the document. ‘Thank you, Professor. I am aware of your diener’s letter writing. How could I not be? All answered, I believe, by myself or one of my colleagues. But what a marvel that Frenchman is. Quite the capital fellow. Where on earth did you find him?’ Hatton smiled at the Inspector’s sarcasm, and took it for what it clearly was, the guilt of doing nothing. Adams continued, ‘I will look into these deaths, but it amuses me that an Englishman should be so steered by a foreigner.’

‘He’s been at St Bart’s for far longer than I, Inspector. He was promoted to be Chief Diener some time ago, and as you know, is widely admired. His work goes far beyond that of a simple mortuary assistant.’

Broderig had been listening and chipped in, ‘So another girl was found yesterday, Inspector? You made no mention of it before. Is she worth so very little?’ He shook his head, his disapproval palpable.

‘The pauper girls are no concern of yours, Mr Broderig,’ said Adams sharply, lighting up another penny smoke.

‘Of course.’ Broderig smiled. ‘But you’re wrong about foreigners, Inspector. I am greatly admiring of them and have been fortunate enough to work with many during my travels, and nearly all have impressed me with their competence. I watched Monsieur Roumande at work in the morgue yesterday. His stitching was excellent and he took such care of the cadavers, especially the little girl – far beyond simply a mark of respect, if I may say.’

‘Ah yes, the stitching, as well as the writing.’ Adams dragged on his cigarette. ‘And you let him wield the dissection knife as well, Professor? Is that not just a little unusual?’

Hatton chose not to answer but instead looked out of the frosted window. The train was gathering speed, shuddering through the eastern parts of the city. His travels through these parts were rare, but Roumande and his team of body collectors were regular visitors and knew each turning alley, especially in the summer when the fevers hit, clasping a choking hand around the rookeries. But looking at this frozen city now, it glistened, a fairy-tale place.

The Chief Inspector, putting the pauper girl’s report aside, continued, ‘But let’s stick to the case in hand. Is there anything in here I don’t know?’

They’d already discussed the ink and wax earlier, but Hatton had kept a little back. ‘I don’t think I told you about the opiate test we carried out.’

Adams nodded to him to continue. Broderig excused himself. He’d clearly had enough, and so Hatton waited for the young man to leave, not wanting to worsen the situation. Suffering the indignity of the cutting had been enough, and there was definitely more to his relationship with Lady Bessingham than Broderig was saying.

‘Well?’ said Adams.

‘All vital organs were extracted, Inspector. We took a sample from her abdomen and a large piece of her lower intestine and surrounding stomach wall. The odd odour I detected in Chelsea was a mild opiate.’

‘You’re sure, Professor?’

‘Quite sure. Poisons, once digested, are notoriously difficult to identify, but I’m embarking on a method which is widely practised in Germany but not something I would want anyone else to know about.’ Hatton looked over his shoulder where he could see Broderig just beyond their carriage, walking up and down the aisle. ‘We made a little stew by boiling the stomach samples with water, straining it, and removing all bits of flesh. You’ve heard of the Metzger Mirror, of course?’ The Inspector nodded. ‘Well, we used the basic principle of that test but have perfected it, trapping the vapour rising off the liquor in a test tube and then inserting a shard of cold metal at the opening. We scraped off the film and added two drops of sulphuric acid; by its colour it definitely wasn’t arsenic. Lady Bessingham wasn’t poisoned. She was probably using laudanum.’