Devoured (18 page)
‘Really, sir. Well, as I say, you gentlemen should wait in the bar. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’
A glassy-eyed barman acknowledged their arrival in the bar with a solemn nod, and a ‘What’ll it be?’ before returning to his task, which consisted of rubbing dirty glasses with a dirty rag which he spat on, and then rubbing again.
Broderig got the round in. Three brandies for half a shilling. Adams drummed his fingers on the table, rattaty tat, rattaty tat.
‘Ah, well, here I am as I said I would be,’ the porter stepped into the bar with a large bunch of keys. Inspector Adams stopped his drumming, and took his notebook out. ‘Before we go, rest your legs a little and tell me what you think on this fellow, Mr … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Mr Henry Hedge, sir. My father’s name, too, I’m proud to say. Porters from the other Colleges is less inclined to be forgiving of Dr Finch. They say to me, “He’s a right troublemaker.” But I says they’re only jealous. Oh, he’s very handsome-looking, Dr Finch, and appealing to the ladies …’ The porter winked at them. ‘And he isn’t so discriminating. He likes the lot of them. Loves variety, and when you are my age you can only dream what a man like that might get up to, the lucky devil.’
‘Indeed,’ said Adams, folding his arms.
‘Is it a crime you’re investigating?’ The porter looked at Adams, his bad eyes glistening.
‘Yes,’ Adams replied. ‘A very serious one.’
‘Well, well, and Dr Finch at the middle of it, eh? Can’t say I’m surprised.’
They crossed the quad and the porter picked through his great clump of keys till he found the right one. The door creaked open. ‘Wait a minute, gentlemen. I’ll light a candle.’
As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, an odd smell immediately hit them. The tallow’s pale light illuminated the floor before them, which Hatton could see was strewn with books, old bits of bread, and fetid mutton unfinished on a greasy metal plate, but this was not the smell which greeted them. ‘I know this scent,’ said Hatton. It was odd, sharp, unpleasant.
A tut tut came from the porter, like a mother hen. ‘The way dons live today. It’s a disgrace.’ Hatton ignored the porter and, peeling his gloves off, bent down and picked up some of the papers. He asked for another candle to be lit. The room began to form around them and in the midst of the debris lay a book, which caught Hatton’s eye. Sumptuously gilded on Morocco-grained cloth; he ran his finger over it and read its title, then flicked forward a page to a simple dedication, but no name from the giver, only a date: October 1856. He laid it down again.
‘This is a right monster mess,’ Adams’s voice boomed around the darkened place as he crouched next to Hatton, amongst the piles of books. ‘What’s all this, then?’ Adams read the titles out. A ragged, well-worn
Ibis
and umpteen fingered copies of the
Cybele Britannica,
a myriad of theological tracts and sermons torn out of papers at random it seemed, and a splattering of one shilling episodes from a new work by Mr Dickens. ‘
Bleak
House
. Indeed. Well, I can’t argue with that!’
And as the flame of the candles swelled, the men stood up and looked around them at the main room, which was a sad, pokey affair.
‘He’s in dire need of a wife,’ said Adams.
‘The College would never allow it,’ answered the porter.
‘We haven’t checked the bedroom,’ said Broderig.
‘After you,’ said Adams, gesturing to the second room.
The young man pushed the second door with a thrust, the strange stench now overwhelming.
‘My Lord, what a thing is that? Smells like, well, I don’t know what it smells like. Is it alcohol? It’s a strange sort of gin. I don’t think Dr Finch is much of a drinker. He likes other things.’ The porter stopped suddenly.
‘Not any more,’ said Adams.
The corpse sat bolt upright in its chair. Its eyes, glass. Its skin, leather. Henry Hedge had seen squirrels done this way and ducklings dressed in bonnets. He and Mrs Hedges had laughed at the sight of the weasels in wedding dresses, and had called them ‘dear’ and ‘fetching’, until they caught sight of the kitten with two heads. Perhaps, whoever had done this thing to Finch had thought it a joke to dress the academic up in his Sunday best. But Finch was not perfectly finished and carefully wrought. This taxidermist had been in a hurry. The poor man’s skin, despite liberal applications of preservatives, had started to lift and curl around the edges, where face met hair. More loose flaps hung around his jowls, where the stuffing had been botched. And despite the neat parting of the hair, the polished nails, the handsome and distinctive nose, Finch was deformed and unnatural.
The men stood dumbstruck, but questioning. Where was the flesh? The blood and bones? The guts and the fluids? And worse. Worse than the act itself. What screaming terrors had this thing faced before the end? The elderly porter hit the floor. Inspector Adams broke the silence.
‘Can it be possible for a man to be skinned, stretched, tanned, remoulded, and padded out in a matter of hours? Even without forensics, Professor, I think we can safely say this man died some time ago.’ And as he spoke, the Inspector seemed puzzled and surveyed the preserved academic as if looking at a rare, zoological exhibit. He craned forward, demanding a candle. He peered closer still, so that he almost touched it, and then stepped back to consider his next steps. ‘What is this smell, dammit?’
Hatton found his voice. ‘Vinegar mixed with spice for preserving cadavers. Unmistakable.’
‘Get a gas lamp from the other room, Mr Broderig, light it, bring it here, and check on the porter. Make yourself useful, please, sir.’
Broderig, as meek as a lamb, did as he was bid and came back, his shocked face lit by the orangey glare of the burning oil. The lantern made things clearer.
Finch had been arranged as if in study. His left hand grasped a quill. There was a book in his other. Hatton peered closer at a leather-bound copy.
Vestiges
. The publication they had discussed on the train.
The creator of this thing had been thorough, if not exact. With Adams’s permission, Hatton touched it and felt the human leather. He moved around and pressed his fingers into the form. There was no blood, no gristle or mucus. Nothing to suggest the terrible violence which must have preceded the crime.
‘So, Professor. Best guess. When did he die?’
Hatton answered, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘It would have taken time to do this sort of work, Inspector. There can’t be that many people in Cambridge who could do it.’
‘Yes,’ Adams said. ‘We shall need to round up anyone who dabbles in this art. We must start at once. Three bodies, now. Dammit.’ Adams lit a penny smoke, his agitation showing. ‘The local Specials will help us. The remains must be somewhere.’
Hatton stood for a few more seconds, but staring at this form didn’t help. They needed the rest of the body. The Inspector was right, so Hatton followed Adams into the other room, where the porter and Broderig were now flaked out together, the old man mumbling, the young man comforting.
‘I want everything left untouched, Mr Hedge. No one is to enter this room. Do I make myself clear? Then I want everything you have on Finch. All the papers, all the documents. Anyone who knew him, worked with him, talked to him, liked him, hated him. And Mr Broderig, a little more information from you, too, sir.’
‘You know I have told you all I can, Inspector.’
‘You have told us very little about the content of the letters you seemed so concerned about. What, sir, was the nature of your correspondence to Lady Bessingham?’
Broderig stared at the floor and then looked to Hatton, who looked to the ground, not knowing what else to do. ‘My letters were personal but essentially the details of my journey to Borneo, a few sketches, illustrations, some rough ideas. Nothing else. But I want them back, Inspector. They’re not worth killing for. They had nothing to do with Dr Finch and are all that I have left of Lady Bessingham.’
Adams stubbed his cigarette out. ‘Well, I’m very concerned about your safety. Each of these murders is linked by science and you, too, are a botanical. You need to mind yourself, Mr Broderig. May I ask if you carry any means of protection?’
‘I have a small pistol which I keep in London. It’s at Swan Walk, under my pillow. Are you suggesting I carry it, Inspector?’
Adams nodded. ‘And Mr Broderig, I also suggest you keep it in a locked drawer, or in a safe with the safety catch on. I can’t tell you how many gentlemen I’ve known who have accidentally shot their own heads off keeping a gun under a pillow. It’s easily done.’
Adams helped the old man up, and then without waiting for anyone, marched out of the room. Hatton turned to his friend and said, ‘I’d better keep in his step, Mr Broderig. Are you sure you’re alright?’
Broderig nodded. ‘It’s poor Mr Hedge I’m worried about. I’ll stay with him awhile.’
Mr Hedge started to retch but Hatton could see he was in good hands. Broderig was stroking his hair, telling him, ‘No, I won’t leave you and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I feel sick to the stomach myself.’
Outside, the Inspector was frantically hailing a carriage.
‘Hurry up, Professor. Get inside. No Mr Broderig, then? Not that we need him now. Three botanicals dead. What a damn mess.’ And he yelled at the driver, ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake, man, or I’ll drive the thing myself.’
The local Cambridge police station was nothing like The Yard. For a start it was quiet.
‘Never thought I’d see myself back here again. Bloody useless lot when I left. I see nothing much has changed. Oi! You! Yes, you, Officer Dimwit. Look lively, and get me whoever’s in charge.’
A desk was hurriedly found, a line of command decided. Hatton watched as Adams, a terrifying taskmaster, bellowed at the rural constabulary and they jumped, every last man and boy. Whistles blew, papers flew, telegrams were dispatched at will. Interviews and searches commenced at speed. Cigarettes were rolled quicker still, and as each corner of the city was turned over, one man cast his shadow. But as night became day and day became night … nothing.
‘I need an extensive netting and wading of the Cam,’ the Inspector barked, but as the dull sun broke out fractured beams from a grey dawn, still nothing.
Dead cats, abandoned books, and bicycles were hauled up through the broken ice. The following morning passed and Hatton watched from the sidelines. By midday, still no body parts.
The meeting in the makeshift incident room told Professor Hatton little. And what they did know, Adams read like a riot act. ‘No talking at the back.’ He paused, letting a billow of smoke swirl about before addressing the now hushed room.
‘Finch was almost friendless, having courted controversy once too often. He’d not been seen for weeks. He was apparently quiet but when he did speak up, was arrogant. We know he was well turned out in silk shirts from London, but lacked manners.’
One brave soul asked, ‘Do we know about his family, Inspector?’
Adams looked at his notes. ‘All we know so far is that he came from a teaching post at University College, but was thrown out for something he said or wrote. Nothing’s verified. No paper was circulated. And there’s nothing immediate to link him to our other victims, Mr Dodds or Lady Bessingham, other than what we already know. So, anything else on Finch?’ Adams looked around the room.
One Special spoke out, ‘Well, he never went to church. Some thought him an atheist. Others, a genius. Ladies liked him for his wan good looks, and for his intellectual daring, as well, until he wrote something or said something which upset people.’
‘Yes, but where is this thing? What the devil does it say?’
No one seemed to know. More detail followed, and Hatton sat at the back of the meeting room where he listened to how Finch played cricket in the summer, enjoyed beetle collecting, went to London whenever he could, but kept himself to himself. Finch’s life in a nutshell.
One of the Specials spoke up again, trying to look useful. ‘We have three taxidermists in Cambridge and one in Ely. We’ve talked to nearly all of them. But have nothing to go on.’
‘But not spoken to everyone, then?’ Adams stared back at the hapless policeman.
‘Word is there’s a skilled stuffer in the Fens. He’s a breedling, Inspector. A waterman, otter skin hat, the lot. He’s out on a punt by day slipping through the waters round Wickham way. It’s hard to catch him, for he blends in with the rushes and doesn’t relish the law. But our boys will track him, be sure of it.’ Adams caught Hatton’s eye.
‘But it makes no rhyme or reason to me for a bog-trotting breedling to bother with this sort of freak show, unless there was money in it. What’s this slodger’s name?’
‘Locals call him Mucker. By all accounts he’s a strange fellow, living off the marshes like a regular wader and selling his trade of skinning and stitching when the fishing season’s on.’
Hatton was intrigued and began to follow these strange words. It seemed breedling and slodger were one and the same – watermen. Men who still lived off the Fens in a traditional way. He knew a little of their history. How they’d been thrown off their islands and inlets when the drainage men came. Some had put down their nets to work the land, but others still lived in the remotest parts of the Cambridgeshire marshes. By all accounts, they were strange people, half savage, living in damp huts and muddy holes.
‘Well,’ said Adams, ‘for God’s sake, let’s go there.’ Adams pushed his chair away and moved quickly to the door. ‘Come on, Professor. I’ll need you for a start.’
‘What about Mr Broderig, Inspector? Should we check on him, or at least tell him what we’re doing?’ Hatton guessed where his friend might be and felt bad simply leaving him. But Adams was insistent, saying, ‘He’ll be at The Eagle, perfectly happy. I’ll send word for him to wait for us there. He’s had enough shock for a lad of his age. A week or more, you reckon? To stuff a man like that?’
Hatton nodded, knowing where this was leading. A week or more. Finch had been the first.
