Devoured (17 page)

‘Impressive stuff, Professor. I have bouts of insomnia myself, and take the odd drop when I need to. There’s no shame in it.’ Adams took a pencil from his frock coat pocket and jotted down a note or two. ‘All very illuminating.’

The train by now was hurtling along and London was a whisper, a memory. Adams sat back, patted his report and closed his eyes. Hatton watched the white world slip past as the train rolled and juddered.

‘Is he asleep, Professor?’ Hatton looked away from the frosty window to see Broderig come back in the carriage, and smiled at his companion, suggesting more tea.

‘Allow me, Professor but not tea for it’s almost noon. I’ll get something a little stronger.’ He was quickly back with two glasses and a bottle, swinging his travel bag onto the luggage rack. ‘I think the Inspector has definitely nodded off.’ The new friends laughed as they looked at the older man snoring, whose burns lifted in a nicotine breeze.

‘I don’t blame him,’ said Hatton. ‘I’m exhausted myself. Your health, Mr Broderig.’

‘So, Professor. Have you told the Inspector everything? On both reports?’

‘But still no news on the maid? Lady Bessingham always wrote such promising things about Flora James. She was quite taken with her. She told me that although the girl was young, she was clever and had the ability for self-improvement. I understood Flora often accompanied Katherine on visits to places of interest, as a friend and a confidante. I think Flora provided company while I was gone from her.’

Hatton agreed, though in truth knowing little of women and their needs but he was sensitive to others and quickly changed the subject. Broderig stared into space but then seemed to recover himself, asking Hatton about the wider aspects of forensic work, and at once Hatton felt the weight of the investigation lift. He was delighted, because he’d never found such enthusiasm for the subject beyond his own medical circle.

This young man’s mind was like his own. Eagle-eyed, seizing on every detail. They discussed the rapture of dissection, telling their own different stories. Hatton in relation to time, death, injury. Truth lit by microscope and lamp, tested, tagged, and concluded.

Hatton felt more at home as he said, ‘My work is a burgeoning science, which unfolds the truth about men.’ Hatton poured another glass and offered one to Broderig.

‘We understand each other, Professor. Botany tells us similar truths. Truths about our world. In Borneo, I touched its very centre. Its overwhelming variety.’

And Hatton felt it, too, as the young man’s voice ebbed and flowed like a wave on a distant shore. He let this new world take him on a journey, the sound of each vowel and consonant triggering colours in his mind, leading to discovery.

And as Hatton listened, the land was getting flatter, but the two friends had gone elsewhere, to a place that soared into azure and rose up majestic, verdant and luminous. Monkeys chattered, birds fluttered, lizards dipped and basked. Hatton let it all devour him. This tropical storm. This tale of Borneo.

ELEVEN

 

 

 

Hatton looked out of the window and saw the spires of Cambridge. Inspector Adams yawned and asked, ‘Have we arrived?’

Broderig answered, ‘We’re here, Inspector. The sun will be setting in an hour.’ Then he jumped up, swaying a little, and threatened to topple, but steadied himself as the train pulled into the station.

‘After you, please, gentlemen.’ The Inspector picked up his things.

‘But haven’t you forgotten something?’ Broderig pointed at the little girl’s autopsy report, which lay flattened against the seat.

‘Ah, yes,’ the Inspector hurriedly picked it up, and pushed it firmly into his bag.

‘Are you always so forgetful, Inspector?’ Broderig smiled, sweetening the insult. ‘I never leave anything behind. My travel bag, for example. I never leave home without it!’ Broderig hugged the bag to his chest, as if the crown jewels were in it. The Inspector scowled at the younger man and arched a bushy brow at him. ‘I rarely forget anything, if you must know. Not anything important.’

‘The girl’s not important, then, Inspector?’ Broderig winked at Hatton who shook his head like a disapproving schoolteacher, but if the truth was known, he was glad his new friend made a point of it.

‘So, shall we get a carriage?’ said Adams. ‘How far is it to the College?’

‘It’s a hop by coach, Inspector. Follow me, gentlemen.’ Broderig pushed through the hordes of other passengers.

‘Sidney Sussex, as quick as you like,’ he said to the coach driver.

The three men jumped in and the carriage took off. Hatton peered out of the grimy window as they sped into the city, watching sycamore trees bending in a blustery wind.

After fifteen minutes, or less, the carriage hurtled to a stop.

‘How much?’ the Inspector asked the driver as they hopped out.

‘A shilling, unless you gentlemen want to pay more.’

Broderig laughed and found some change in his pocket. Hatton watched a shiny guinea pass from one hand to another.

‘Do you always tip so heavily?’ asked Hatton, genuinely curious.

Broderig smiled, strands of hair blowing across his handsome face. ‘I liked his coat,’ he beamed.

The huge main door to the College entrance was shut.

Broderig said, ‘Allow me,’ and twisted a blackened handle, which opened the door with ease. The men stepped into the lodge, which was brightly lit, almost welcoming.

The Inspector sprung forward and rang the bell sharply. An ancient porter appeared rubbing his eyes.

‘Yes, sir? Can I help you, sir?’ asked the old man, brushing down crumpled clothes.

‘We’re here to see Dr Finch,’ answered Adams, shaking clumps of snow from his coat.

‘Is he expecting you, gentlemen?’ The porter peered at the visitors more closely.

‘Hurry yourself. We’re from Scotland Yard on a matter of urgent police business,’ Adams shouted at the porter.

‘Scotland Yard? Alright, alright. Just give me a moment – these old bones need wrapping up, for it’s perishing outside.’ The porter found his coat. ‘This way, then.’

The men made their way out of the porch and into Chapel Court. They crunched along the gravel, thick with snow, keeping to the path. Hatton shoved his hands in his pockets, because despite his gloves, they were freezing. The light was ebbing fast, as the porter banged on the door, with, ‘Dr Finch, open up please, sir.’

Sidney Sussex wasn’t the richest of Cambridge’s colleges, and despite its ornate mullion windows and grand arched entrance, rooms in Chapel Court were on the scruffy side. The paint on the door was peeling. Hatton smiled to himself. It was as bad as the morgue. ‘Dr Finch, answer the door please, sir.’ The porter hammered again. ‘I have some gentlemen here that wants to see you.’ But no answer came.

‘Do you have any idea where Dr Finch might be if he’s not in his rooms?’ the Inspector asked.

‘No, no, I haven’t seen Dr Finch for a long time. And many would say good riddance to him. Why don’t you gentlemen wait in the bar and I’ll get the key. He might just be sleeping. He keeps odd hours, does that one.’

The Inspector scrutinised the porter’s face. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

The porter rubbed his nose and coughed a little. ‘’Scuse me. I have a terrible cold. It’s the weather. I can’t recall exactly, but it must be several weeks or more. It don’t get any easier, you know, when you get to my age, trying to remember who is where and what is what. Dr Finch comes and goes and does as he pleases.’

The old man looked vexed for an instant and then brightened up saying, ‘I’m sure he’s about. Quite often, if I recall, he’s off collecting beetles and the like. He came to us as a theology don. But like so many of our Fellows these days, he’s more interested in Nature than God.’

Broderig clapped his hands together to warm them and said, ‘I’m in that line of business myself.’ The porter looked intently at Broderig, and Hatton watched them. He saw the dimming eyes of this porter, the white ring about them. Cataracts. His father had them. The porter was almost blind.