Devoured (22 page)
Inspector Adams’s hope for an incognito arrival was dashed at Bishopsgate Station. There was no mistaking the crowd of men who waited at the platform, notebooks to hand, and, in another place, standing to attention, Specials, including one holding out what appeared to be a note.
‘How many hacks are there, do you think? I see five, six, seven, and more coming. They’ve smelt blood alright, but whose is it?’
Hatton’s answer was drowned out by a boy shouting from the platform, ‘Read all about it! Read all about it! Society beauty butchered in her bed! Read all about it!’
‘Well it’s out, then. It’ll be me they’re after. I’ll meet you at St Bart’s, Professor, when I’ve given these boys a little morsel to keep them quiet. No word about this other body, though.’
And with that, the Inspector pushed the door of the carriage open and fell into the waiting mob, which practically swallowed him in a swirl of hats, great coats, and hollering. Hatton meanwhile followed Finch’s cadaver, or what was left of it, the victim’s body having been put in an ice-packed trunk and labelled, ‘This Way Up’ and ‘Handle with Care. St Bartholomew’s Hospital, Smithfield.’ Broderig, who was walking beside him, swung his bag over his shoulder, saying, ‘And don’t forget that I meant what I said, Professor. That you must call on my any time in Chelsea, if I can be of any further assistance.’ The two friends smiled, shook hands, and then Broderig set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the waiting carriages.
Meanwhile, Adams was still in the huddle of journalists saying, ‘Move back, gentlemen, and give me some air. For God’s sake, back, I say, the lot of you or you’ll get nothing from me today.’
‘Inspector Adams? The
Morning Chronicle
. Can you say anything about the Lady Bessingham murder? We hear she was bludgeoned to death with a fossil?’ The reporter, who had bad breath and a squint, continued, ‘And a bookseller in Millford Lane, we’ve heard was pinned like a moth and had his heart cut out. Is there any connection between these two deaths, Inspector?’ Adams looked at the one good eye, happy to oblige.
‘It’s true that Lady Bessingham was found dead. She was murdered in her home three nights ago. But on the details of her death, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly divulge the murder weapon. It might hinder our enquiries. And as for Mr Dodds, it’s far too early to say.’
‘Inspector Adams’ – it was a fellow from
The Standard
. ‘We understand a maid in Lady Bessingham’s service is missing. Word is she’s a suspect. Are you going to arrest her? We know you Scotland Yarders are great ones for chasing maids.’
The Inspector indulged the chortling, saying he was strictly a family man. Hatton watched from the sideline, intrigued. The Inspector was good at this. Orchestrating the press. He even looked like he was enjoying himself.
‘We’re very keen to find the whereabouts of Miss Flora James as soon as possible. She is, I should say was, lady’s maid to Lady Bessingham. It appears she was last seen at the British Museum. I believe her to be a crucial witness and we are not sure why she took flight, but I have my suspicions.’ Adams let the pause speak for itself. The hacks stopped scribbling and looked up, waiting for the great London detective to speak. ‘But I cannot divulge them, as that might hinder police enquiries.’
A great shaking of heads and nodding from other quarters.
‘Inspector Adams. Do you have a picture of the maid that we could put in our paper?’
‘I have already asked an illustrator to put a likeness together. Now, gentlemen, I think you have enough for today. I have no further comments, I’m afraid.’
Adams turned to have his picture sketched to go with the story. He straightened his tie and lit a cigarette, just so, something of a trademark since his celebrity. The sketch finished, Adams was just about to speak to the Special who held a note towards him, when a voice piped up.
‘Inspector Adams? Correspondent for the
Illustrated London News
. Word’s out, apparently there’s another body. Found in an alley, a hop from Fleet Street this morning.’
Adams was taken aback. He stumbled. ‘I’m not aware of anything. No comment.’
‘Not so fast, Inspector. Some say you have a pathologist constantly by your side. A Professor Hatton? Can you tell us more about the nature of his work? Rumour has it that you are dabbling in something called forensics. For the sake of our readers, Inspector, to reassure them you are doing your job. Can you tell us what this forensics is when it’s at home? Is it helping you or slowing you down?’
‘No comment. No comment on any of that.’ The Inspector pushed through the throng and headed over to his waiting officers. He furrowed his brow, took the note from the Special, and bent his head in conversation with his men. Then waved frantically to Professor Hatton to come over and join him.
‘Bloody hacks.’ Hatton watched Adams wrestle with a Swan, then drop the lit match from his hand. ‘Jesus, now I’ve bloody well burnt myself. And where the hell has Mr Broderig gone?’
Hatton looked around him. ‘I just said goodbye to him. He’s gone home, I think, but what was that about another body, Inspector?’ Hatton stopped and watched the trunk being pushed towards a waiting wagon by two burly constables. Adams shook his head. ‘No, they don’t know about Dr Finch yet. This is a different one, it seems. I’d better get over to Fleet Street, as the press are already on to it.’
‘And I see The Yard greeted you with one of their infamous telegrams, Inspector. Have they found the maid?’ Hatton attempted a smile, but Adams seemed puzzled at this question.
‘No? Why do you ask?’ Hatton shrugged, and felt himself redden, but he had every reason to ask, damn it.
‘Well, I am the acting pathologist on this case, and Medical Jurisprudence specifically demands a clear information flow between St Bart’s and …’
‘Good God, man. Enough, I say. I don’t want to answer any more questions from anyone.’ Adams was already away, his walk turning into a run. A carriage door was promptly opened. Hatton, crimson-faced at such rudeness, got in ahead of Adams, but not before the Inspector grabbed a waiting constable, his eyes still on the pack of hacks behind them. ‘Why the devil didn’t you telegram me, you numskull? About the body in the alley? I left clear instructions before I left. Any developments, I said. And I’d say another body qualified. Leaving me like this, ready for a public hanging. Get Professor Hatton’s morgue assistant to meet us at Fleet Street. And make it damn well snappy.’ The constable looked lost. Adams said, exasperated, ‘He’s the Johnny Foreigner. The letter-writing one. You’ll know where to find him.’
The schoolboy constable blushed and nodded. He’d been the one flapping the note at the platform. Hatton added, trying to be helpful, ‘The Inspector means Monsieur Albert Roumande. Black hair, brown eyes. He’s very distinguished-looking and everyone knows him at the hospital. You’ll find him in the mortuary room at St Bart’s. Tell him Professor Hatton has asked for him.’
‘Yes, and now shut the fucking door, Constable Numskull,’ Adams spat out, as he did the task himself, leaving the constable reeling behind them.
‘Half my men can’t follow the simplest task.’ He rammed his cane on the top of the hansom and took his tobacco tin out. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one, Professor?’ Hatton shook his head, dumbfounded at the Inspector’s behaviour. He waited for an apology but none came.
Hatton crossed his arms, knowing he was not without faults, but at least he kept his composure. The Inspector must have read his thoughts because he suddenly leant forward. ‘Do you sometimes feel everything is spinning out of your control, Professor?’ Hatton shrugged. This was close to the bone. All the time, all the time he
felt
it, but he never let it show. ‘I think you are a man who has his life buttoned down.’ The Inspector lit his penny smoke. ‘My life is a different story. My job is difficult, treacherous even. I feel as if I’m sometimes a fly caught in a trap. And this fame. It doesn’t help.’ Adams gazed out of the window, then looked back at Hatton, his eyes searching for something. ‘I have seen you at your work. You are very precise. Is it so in all aspects of your life or are you more human than I give you credit for, Professor? The Greeks were right, you know, we all have one.’
‘I’m not sure what you are saying, Inspector. We all have what?’
‘An Achilles’ heel, Professor. You never talk of your home life. You’re a man dedicated to your work, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but do you have a secret? You see, in my experience all men have one. A secret or an obsession. What’s yours, I wonder?’ The Inspector laughed a tight laugh from the back of his throat and patted his tobacco tin. ‘They can be innocent, of course, like this little drug, for example. Are you sure you don’t want one, Professor?’
Adolphus Hatton was sure he did not. ‘Whatever the claims, I’m convinced tobacco is bad for the health. Why, look at you, Inspector.’ Hatton took hold of the Inspector’s free hand, turning it this way and that. ‘As a medical man, I should warn you that your pulse is too quick and your hands are shaking.’
The Inspector pulled his hand back, laughed again, but more nervously this time, saying, ‘Are you calling my bluff, Professor?’ Hatton’s face clouded in thought as he looked at the man before him.
Fleet Street was not a part of London that Hatton felt any great affinity for. In his opinion, it was a sorry collection of tawdry pubs and unenchanting bookshops, but as they approached, he could already see a crowd had gathered on a corner. Hatton braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.
Roumande arrived ten minutes later, and glued to his side, the schoolboy constable. The Chief Inspector barely acknowledged them, having pushed his way through to where the body lay sprawled. Crouching down to the corpse, his eyes firmly on his notebook, Adams said, ‘He’s met a pretty end this one. Good stuff this, strong as a noose. And here, Professor, this will interest you, there’s a load of little holes about his flabby neck like he’s been punctured, and some devilish tailor has pulled the thread through.’ Adams bent further over the body. ‘Stitched up, you might say … good and proper.’
Hatton leant down and touched the swollen wrists where the linen thread had cut through. Tiny bite marks and sharp scratches could be seen around the dead man’s fingers. Rats, though they had not had a real go yet. Rats, if they really want to, can devour a man, but there was plenty of other rubbish for the creatures to feed upon. Just a yard away was a mound of stinking trotters chucked out from some nearby eatery.
‘Time of death?’ spat Adams.
Hatton shook his head. ‘Roughly, bearing in mind the weather and the look of the corpse, maybe a couple of nights ago. I’ll need to do an autopsy to be absolutely certain.’
Adams was delving in the fat man’s pocket. ‘One Olinthus Babbage. He’s conveniently put his name on the front of his notebook. What say you to the stitching, Monsieur Roumande? You’re a Frenchman and live in Spitalfields, don’t you? You can tell us perhaps a little more about this silk thread? It looks very similar to the stuff you use at St Bart’s.’
Roumande and Hatton bent down to look closer at the skin on the neck, which had been flattened around the slit, then folded in a seam.
‘It’s not silk, Inspector Adams,’ answered Roumande, keen to help. ‘It’s linen. This thread is used for bookbinding. Weavers don’t use this, but there are plenty of binders round here. I would say these markings on his neck have been made by a sturdy needle. By the way, Olinthus Babbage is known to me.’
Adams straightened up. ‘Really?’
‘Well, only his byline. He writes for the
Westminster Review
. I subscribe regularly. We both do.’ Hatton gave a curt nod in agreement. ‘Yes, we both read it, along with
The Lancet
. I should add, we do not agree with its radical politics, Inspector. The
Review
runs articles on forensics from time to time, but it’s philosophical in its outlook, rather than informative.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, that appeals to the French. So what else can you gentlemen tell me about the body?’
Hatton nodded for his friend to go ahead, and Roumande answered Adams as if describing the weather. Hatton listened but his eyes were intent on the cadaver. The man had been garrotted. His trachea and larynx compressed until the pressure around his neck had stopped the airflow to his brain. He had been asphyxiated in seconds, cut at the throat and then, for some strange reason, stitched up again. ‘Maids can stitch,’ said Roumande. ‘Any news on that missing maid, Inspector? Although I think I must be mad to ask you, because no girl could do this. This work was done by a man. Large, good with his hands.’
Adams nodded. ‘Yes, a man. Large enough to topple this lump over, yet quick and nimble. I think you’re right on that count, monsieur.’
Garrotted, compressed, and asphyxiated. His throat slit. Then left in the blood-covered snow like so much rubbish. Hatton suddenly felt light-headed, so he let Roumande keep talking and stumbled away from the pair. The other two kept on with their discussion of time, place, evidence, weapon. ‘
Bruises round the neck … blue tongue hanging out … the strength of ten men needed to hold this weight down
.’ Hatton found a place to sit down, the icy cobbles numbing him.
