Devoured (34 page)

‘So, there were two killers, Adolphus? All the time, we should have been looking for two killers, not one. Which is why we could find no forensic evidence to link all of the murders. Madame Martineau was working for Monreith and killed Lady Bessingham and then Mr Babbage in order to get Broderig’s letters any way she could. But the reason she wanted them was nothing to do with scientific theory.’

‘No, Albert. I suspect there was something in the letters which linked Monreith to Ackerman’s trade in children.’

‘But where do you think they are now? The Yard checked every nook and cranny of that monstrosity of a house.’

Hatton shrugged. ‘Those letters are gone, Albert. Long gone. Destroyed like the bookshop.’

‘I still find it incredible.’

‘Yes, but not impossible. So many things in life are connected. As Men of Science, we know this.’

‘And those other letters, Adolphus? Those vile, hateful words we took from Mr Ashby at Monreith House. Those words scattered like tears across the swirling monogram.’

Hatton nodded. ‘Ah, yes.
M
for Monreith. I think Madame Martineau provided those notes to Monreith along with children from the workshop. Once read, I couldn’t look at them again. Did you put them in the incinerator, Albert?’

Roumande nodded. ‘Yes, I did as you asked and burnt them.’

Hatton knew it was against police procedures. That it could be argued that the letters were crucial forensic evidence, but in the end, he decided the world was better without them, that they no longer served any purpose.

And so Hatton stood up, thinking he needed a drink, and got their usual round, as was becoming traditional after finishing a case. One double cognac for Roumande, and for Hatton, nothing more complicated than a tin mug of porter. They clinked glass against metal.

‘But I sense that you are a little melancholy, Adolphus? Is it the memory of Mr Broderig?’

Hatton shrugged. ‘He went to a dark place in his heart, Albert. But it is done with now. Did I mention that I tried to make contact with Sir William, a day or so ago? Well, he refused it. Benjamin Broderig’s body has been buried quietly in a necropolis, but I suspect that was not what he would have wanted. It would have been better if he had fled these shores and died in the jungle.’

‘You wanted him to escape, then?’

Hatton said, ‘He killed four people. Five if you include Madame Martineau, although we haven’t found her body and I think may never do so. We shall never really know the truth about her, but yes, I think Broderig must have killed her. I think he put two and two together, as I have. Everything was connected and it all started with Broderig and so it is fitting that it should end with him.’

‘And there was no one at Madame Martineau’s workshop to tell us anything more? No sign of life at all?’

Hatton felt in his pocket and sighed. ‘I went back yesterday but the place was boarded up. The girls all gone.’ He reached for the buckle, and put it on the table. ‘I still hope that I might one day give this buckle to a girl called Kitty. But this is a sprawling city.’

The two men glanced at each other for an uncomfortable second, and then looked back at their dregs.

‘And your trip to Cambridge, Adolphus? Forgive me for not joining you. Just nothing again, you said, but it’s hard to believe you went all that way and found not a trace.’

Hatton smiled. ‘It was as I described. The Feltwell boy and the Mucker, both gone as if they were ghosts. I asked around the villages near Wickham Fen but the people there kept quiet, little trusting an outsider like me. But there’s no doubt in my mind. On return from Borneo, armed with the evidence in Ackerman’s ledger, Broderig killed Finch with the Mucker’s help. The Mucker’s daughter disappeared the year before he set off to Borneo, when he was an undergraduate at university so he would have known about the case. And when Lady Bessingham was brutally murdered by the mantuamaker, he seized his opportunity, having a policeman and a forensic expert in his grasp. He wanted us to help him.’

‘To bring down the House of Monreith?’

Hatton nodded. ‘He took us to Cambridge, he led us to Dodds, and at Ashbourne and in our carriage back to London, he mentioned Monreith Square over and over again. He was trying to make us do our job better, but as he saw it, we failed him.’

Roumande sipped his brandy. ‘And you were right about that little angel, Adolphus. She was never like the others. Her hair had been brushed. Broderig found her by pure chance, dragged her from the river, pricked her wrists in a perfect circle and tucked her up all cosy in the orange box. He wanted us to find her.’

‘Yes,’ said Hatton. ‘As I say, leading us to Dodds, the child pornographer. Property of D.W.R. Dodds? The girl was just a symbol, pointing us to others. If only we had listened to him. If only we had paid attention. It’s all clear now, Albert. And although Broderig is dead, there’s a message from the grave if you like, which we would both do well to take note of.’

Roumande asked solemnly, ‘A message from Broderig? And that message is what, Adolphus?’

‘
Camponotus gigas
. Being blind to everything, but our natural purpose. If Adams had listened, acted as he should have done, pursued the truth as Broderig saw it, he would still be with us.’

Hatton’s face clouded, and Roumande offered to buy another round, but the Professor shook his head. ‘Whatever you say, you are first and foremost a family man. And I’ll not delay your return home to Spitalfields. Come, Albert. If you catch a carriage, you’ll be back in time for lunch.’

Albert resigned himself, stood up, and placed his derby firmly on.

It was a fine, crisp January day, but still cold and blustery.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

 

 

 

Huge thanks to Susie Dunlop and all her team at A&B for publishing this book in the UK. In the US, thanks to my editor at Thomas Dunne Books, Peter Wolverton, for his smart suggestions and eagle-eyed advice, plus Anne Bensson and all the team at St Martin’s. Thanks to all my early readers – Julie Major, Gaby Chiappe, Tracy Brett, Marika Lysandrou, Melanie Lanoe, Amy Fletcher, Liz Byrne, Anne Wilk. Thanks to my mum and dad, Alec and Kay Laver. Thanks also to Sarah Gordon, Claudia Daventry, Natasha Fairweather, Christine Langan, Caroline Stack and Freya Newberry – you all know why. Massive thanks to my two boys – Joseph and Rory – for their endless patience with me always disappearing to sit in front of my laptop. Writers rely on their agents for so many things, so a big, heartfelt thanks with bells on to Kevin Conroy-Scott and Sophie Lambert at Tibor Jones Associates, who have astonished me with their hard work and unshakable belief in my work. I’ve dedicated this book to my husband, Charlie Meredith. He also deserves my gratitude and love.

As with all historical crime novels, there was a lot of research involved in writing this book. Apart from numerous visits to the British and Natural History Museums, The Hunterian Museum and The Wellcome Collection, I read a great deal of books. Here are the most enticing:
The Malay Archipelago
by Alfred Russel Wallace;
Charles Darwin
(Vol I & II) by Janet Browne;
London in the Nineteenth Century
by Jerry White;
Alfred Russel Wallace, A Life
by Peter Raby;
Victorian London
by Liza Picard;
The Science of Sherlock Holmes
by E.J. Wagner; and finally,
A Dictionary of Victorian England
by Lee Jackson.

I also recommend you visit my website at
www.demeredith.com
if you want to know a bit more about the wonderful world of the Victorians.

D.E. M
EREDITH
lived in numerous foreign countries as a child, which contributed to her lust for travel in later life. After reading English at Cambridge University she became a campaigner for the WWF, and spent ten years working for the environment movement. She has flown over the Arctic in a bi-plane, met Inuit, and been pursued by the Russian mafia. Meredith later became a spokesperson for the British Red Cross, spending six years travelling through war zones and witnessing humanitarian crises. The experience strongly influenced her crime writing, with its themes of injustice and inequality. She currently lives on the outskirts of London with her husband and two teenage sons. When not writing she runs, bakes cakes and does yoga to relax.

www.demeredith.com