The Devil's Ribbon (13 page)
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said. ‘Madam knows nothing of men’s appetites. So, please, gentlemen, would you be so kind as to follow me?’ Who the devil did that woman just wink at? Was it him or another? Hatton turned to see Patrice standing directly behind him, grinning.
Hmmph
… thought Hatton. Roumande was right about that one. Lock up your daughters time.
The maid ushered the two of them into the morning room and continued to talk, ten to the dozen. Hatton had no choice but to stand there and listen as she said, ‘Mr McCarthy’s body was supposed to be shipped back to Donegal tomorrow, but now they’ve changed their minds. The young master is very upset and has been shouting this morning, since the sun came up. But it’s to be expected, of course, for he has just lost his brother. I wasn’t afraid, no, not for me, but for Mrs McCarthy. I worry a great deal about my mistress …’ And on she prattled, making adjustments to the curtains in the room they now occupied, which was a smaller and duller affair than the one he’d left. But where was she? Sorcha McCarthy had gone off somewhere. The prattling was annoying, especially in this insufferable heat, and Hatton couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t he she addressed anyway, because the maid’s eyes were fixed upon another. Patrice smiled at her, and when he did so caused such a deepening crimson to her cheeks, Hatton thought the maid might drop the tray of cups and saucers, and so he took the whole lot from her with a grunt of disapproval.
She made a curtsy, lower than was required, and Hatton looked at the pair of them. She all red-gold hair and freckles and Patrice, sallow-skinned, dark-eyed, Latin. But Hatton could see what she saw in him. The lad’s face was fetching enough. He had a real gypsy look about him. And Hatton watched with creeping amusement as Patrice said ‘
Merci
’ to the thicker slice of bread and butter and the more generous glass of lemonade.
But barely a sip was taken before the Inspector popped his head around the corner and announced, ‘Roumande is a genius. I say bravo to the French and your strange modus operandi of forensics. Come quickly, Hatton. He has a print …’
Roumande was crouched on the ground in the study and Sorcha McCarthy was standing to the side of him, very pale, watching, a disk of sunlight blanching her skin to nothing.
‘What have you got there, Albert?’
‘I’m not sure, Professor. I left the gombeen man back at the mortuary and came as quick as I could. I’ve lifted something from one of the floorboards, which I think may be a fingerprint.’
It was bright daylight outside. Too bright. Blinding. ‘Shut the curtains someone and turn on a gas lamp. Bring it over here …’ Hatton was quick to the desk and Roumande was quick to his side with, ‘I need a word with you when we’re out of earshot of that Taffy over there.’
‘Grey? What’s he done now? He’s been here with me all the time, Albert.’
Roumande pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘Not now, Adolphus. Later.’
‘What’s that?’ Grey’s voice bounced across the room. ‘No whispering
in the classroom. If you have anything to say, you two, share it. So, can you make anything of it, Hatton?’
Hatton took his eyeglass from his medical bag. ‘Albert’s done an excellent job to lift anything at all. This is the first time we’ve even attempted such a thing, but here … look for yourself, Inspector. It’s a fingerprint mark all right, despite the maid and her scrubbing. Lifted by sprinkling charcoal and making an impression on the paper.
Almost
a perfect replica, but not quite. You can still see the whorls and troughs, but it’s smudged. It’s not good enough. But as you can see, it’s from a smallish digit …’
The inspector turned to the widow. ‘But there are no children in the house?’
‘Of course not.’ She stepped out of the disk of sunlight, her face suddenly world-weary, disappointed by whatever she saw or thought she saw. ‘You cannot read it, then?’ she said flatly. Hatton shook his head, as disappointed as she.
‘No, madam.’ He smiled at her.
She inclined her head to the side, as inquisitive as ever. ‘You cannot use it, then?’
‘Science is step by step, Mrs McCarthy. An empirical endeavour. We make mistakes, yes, but we start again. It can take decades to perfect a scientific method or a theory.’
‘And you look for fingerprints, but why?’
‘Because.’ He glanced at her hands. ‘If I may? It’s easier to show you, by taking your fingertip, thus?’ He reached out to hear her sharp intake of breath, but she gave her finger just the same. ‘Your finger pattern is unique, and as a forensic pathologist, it’s my job to search
for traces at a crime scene. Alien traces. A drop of blood, a hair, or a print which may lead me to the killer. I need a physical thing …’ A hush fell on the room; as the other men watched, Hatton took her hand, pressing her finger onto the ink pad, then moving it to the paper, rolling it slowly, carefully, and then gently lifting her finger and releasing her. She bent forward to look. ‘Do you see?’ said Hatton with a smile. Her print was perfect. ‘Those whorls and troughs of your index finger are completely unique. They are
you
, madam. They are very special indeed.’
Her mouth made a little O shape in surprise, and then she said, ‘How I wish that I were a man so I could study such things. You are just like Mr Darwin on your scientific journey, Professor Hatton. And from what my husband told me, just days before he died, Mr Darwin has taken twenty years to perfect his ideas.’
Hatton was impressed that she knew of these discussions already. How wonderful to meet a woman whose mind was so alert. He wanted to continue talking like this to her forever, but Grey snapped the curtain back and let light flood in. ‘Well, you haven’t got that long, Hatton. Do you remember what I said to you? This is a test case, and I cannot continue to fund a method which doesn’t get results. You’ll have to do far better than a smudge.’ He turned to Mrs McCarthy and bowed curtly. ‘I’m afraid I must leave for dockside. My condolences, madam. You will bury your husband, when?’
She lowered her eyes to the floor, but not before Hatton saw tears on her lashes. ‘Tomorrow, Inspector. Damien says it will take too long to ship the body home, so he shall be buried in the dissenter’s catacomb in Highgate. It was not what Gabriel would have wanted,
and I’m sorry for it, but Damien is insistent, saying it is hot, that everything’s prepared, and that he’s the master now and I must obey him.’
‘So,’ said the Inspector, as the men stood on the pavement. ‘What an interesting garden saunter I had. Damien McCarthy is all bark and no bite, although he insisted on boring me with his own version of Irish history. I let him blather on and called his bluff by presenting him with the death as one of either suicide or accidental death. I left the detail of the ribbon out.’
‘But we can’t keep it quiet forever, Inspector. The Irish are as thick as thieves, and if it’s a lesson in betrayal that’s being meted out within their own community …’
Grey sighed, rustled in his pocket and, finding a topaz-coloured bonbon, popped it in his mouth. ‘Want one?’ Hatton shook his head because he liked to keep his senses sharp, not dulled by the stupidity of candied opium. ‘Watch and learn, Hatton,’ continued the Inspector, crunching his sweet. ‘I asked him a number of leading questions. How often and where they went to mass? Who he knew in the rookeries? If his brother had debts, was melancholic and inclined to take a draught? I stressed that if that was the case, he couldn’t possibly be buried in consecrated ground. I wanted to see how spontaneous his reaction was at my suggestion of suicide.’
Hatton was intrigued. ‘And …?’
‘Pretty convincing, if he’s lying. The poor man broke down and begged that a verdict of suicide was not acceptable. That his family name would be ruined forever, so I agreed, reluctantly, that under the circumstances I
was prepared to be charitable. But I left it open, mind. Said I still had other lines of enquiry to follow which might yet point to suicide or, perhaps, even murder. But before I left him, I said a death certificate stating “natural causes” would be the best solution, for the time being at least.’
‘And you mentioned nothing of the ribbon, to the brother or the wife?’ Hatton wanted to be sure. He didn’t mention that he had already told the widow. Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought.
‘Now look here, Hatton. You have a headache, am I right? You need to get out of the sun because it’s interfering with your logic. I have Damien McCarthy on the hop. There was no love lost between those brothers. The ribbon could simply be to cover Damien McCarthy’s steps, setting us on a different trail.’
‘You think he may have killed his brother, then?’
‘He’s a suspect, of course. He has a motive. The estate, a seat in Parliament, quite possibly the wife. It would have been easy for him. The ribbon perhaps merely a thumb bite at his brother’s Unionist politics.’
‘And the gombeen man? Did you press him on that?’
‘My dear Adolphus, you heard me in the drawing room. He denies all knowledge of Mahoney, but I’m not without my informants in the rookeries. I’ll get there, although I fear the clock is against us.’
‘You think there could be more punishments to come?’
‘If these deaths
are
punishments. What about the glitter stuff?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Well, let’s give him the death certificate he wants and put him off his guard. He’s either killed his brother for a personal reason or maybe these two killings are linked to something bigger, something political. But if that’s the case, an upstart like that won’t be the ring leader –
they’ll have bigger fish to fry. Maybe some of his friends will come to the wake. Who knows? Maybe he’ll go visit them, and if he does … watch and learn, Hatton.’
But this didn’t excuse lying. Hatton stuck to his guns. ‘So I am right to think you want me to write a false death certificate to put him off our tracks? Is that what you are saying, Inspector? I am to practise subterfuge? Potentially lose my job, my reputation by lying for The Yard?’
‘I’ve told you of my strategy. Enough, I say.’
Roumande and Patrice were by now standing a yard or so away, chatting to each other casually by the empty body cart. Grey took his opportunity. ‘Let me give you a word of advice, Hatton. You, sir, should pay attention to your
superiors
.’ And for the second time in so many days, Hatton felt the hands of Grey upon him, this time pressed firmly to his larynx.
Hatton couldn’t breathe or call for help, Grey’s face now less than an inch from the Professor’s. ‘As to what these killings mean, I am well attuned to the Irish and their little gangs of thugs, but that’s for me to investigate. Forensics is nothing more than my backup. Do you understand me, Professor?’
He released his grip. ‘I didn’t have to give you the gombeen man, by the way, but I knew you wanted that particular cadaver very badly, and not just for the sake of the autopsy. Let’s call it a favour, from one gentleman to another. I know you have a taste for veal …’
Hatton took a step back, still spluttering from the policeman’s ironlike grip. How on earth did Grey know the term that Albert and he used as code, known only to each other?
‘I see I surprise you, Professor.
Veal
… isn’t that what you anatomists
call gross deformities? Tender meat, as opposed to the normal run of beef or pork? It’s not strictly legal to be hoarding abnormalities. In fact, I think under the 1839 Human Remains Protection Act it’s completely illegal, but on that particular issue I shall say no more, our little secret, eh, Professor Hatton? You see, I know all about your basement.’ He tapped the side of his nose again. ‘Little bird told me, but if word got out you were up to all sorts of ungodly experiments with poor, dead, Christian souls, St Bart’s reputation would be … My God, it doesn’t bear thinking on it, does it?’
And with that, Grey turned on his heels, jumped into his barouche, shouting at his driver, ‘Hecker’s Flour Mill, Salmon Lane, Limehouse, quickly—’ and in a rise of yellowing dust was gone.
Hatton shook his head in disbelief. Was nothing sacred any more? He turned towards White Lodge in the vain hope that he might catch one more glimpse of her, to lift his spirits a little. But instead he saw Damien McCarthy standing at the study window with nothing but contempt on his lips. Was it contempt? Hatton couldn’t be sure, but he was certain that this young man with his red hair and fiery temperament should be watched, very closely, whatever might have happened.
The Professor got into the carriage with Roumande, but no sooner were they settled, than –
‘We have a problem, Professor.’
‘What sort of problem, Albert?’
‘The gombeen man.’
‘You got him, didn’t you?’
‘Not quite.’
‘What do you mean not quite?’
‘Most of him.’
‘Most of him or all of him?’
‘All the body parts.’
‘I don’t follow.’ God, his head was splitting.
‘Mr Tescalini was there …’
‘And?’
‘I didn’t fancy my chances, Adolphus. I’m a family man.’
‘You’re speaking in riddles, Albert. We have the corpse, the delivery note, permission to cut?’
‘When I got to the Dials, he’d changed somewhat. I pressed Mr Tescalini on it but he told me, in his own special way, to mind my own damn business. Anyway, I’d already noticed by then that the mouth was like this—’ Roumande leant back in the carriage, lifted his chin and opened his mouth, wide like a frog.
He shut it again and said, ‘Remind you of anyone? Because rigor mortis had set in. His mouth should have been clamped down like a London oyster, but it had been yanked wide open, Adolphus. They’d left a thread that I detected with an eyeglass, peering down the cadaver’s gullet on the way back to the morgue. Vibrant green it was, but the rest of the ribbon had vanished into thin air, just like that poor Monsieur Pomeroy fellow.’
‘Damn,’ said Hatton, thumping the side of the carriage door with his fist. ‘Damn that man. But don’t worry, for I’ve a plan already. You go to St Bart’s and start cutting without me, Albert. I’m heading for Whitehall.’
Inside the carriage, O’Rourke’s eyes scoured the estates involved in the Gregory Clause. ‘And Ardara was one of them, as I’ve long suspected. A deal was struck, leaving the McCarthy family rich, acting as land managers for the British in Donegal, which begs the question as to our future involvement with Damien. Before Gabriel’s death, he could act the black sheep, but now?’ O’Rourke paused, looking at the priest’s face for a second, and then continued, ‘We might have to sever him, Father.’
They had reached the corner of Piccadilly Circus as the priest shook his head and said, ‘I made up my mind about Damien long ago. This is a war we’re fighting, and besides, The Yard will be watching his every move. He’s too big a risk for us now, so you’re right, we need to sever him.’
The two men slipped through the crowds and into the arcade that ran along a covered hall decorated with metal hanging lamps and, soaring high above, a cathedral of glittering skylights. Unrolling the map, O’Rourke quickly found ten shops down on the right. Dawson’s, Purveyor of Fine Jewels and Clocks. In the window of Dawson’s a display had been created with a hundred different clocks, so as they stepped into the shop, the pinging began, a reverberating sound of one clock chasing another clock. Looking to his right, O’Rourke caught sight of a timepiece which was embellished with flowers, a spray of feathery blue.
‘The mantel is by Asprey’s,’ said the horologist, as he came out to greet them, his eyepiece in, his halitosis unmistakable. ‘The movement is Swiss,’ he breathed. ‘The craftsmanship is second to none. Perhaps you’re viewing for your wife, sir? It’s a lady’s clock, you see.’
O’Rourke answered quickly, pulling out his pocket watch, ‘We’re just here for some mending, Mr Dawson. It was my father’s and once kept excellent time, but it now seems to be dragging a little.’
The horologist nodded, taking the watch and turning the face towards him before flipping it over and taking a tiny pair of tweezers, opening the back and examining it, saying, ‘It’s veritably clogged. A good clean would see the watch back in perfect working order, and I could have it ready in a few days’ time, at a price of two and six?’
‘What about tomorrow? We’re in a bit of a hurry, you see.’
‘Hmmm … tomorrow is certainly possible …’
The horologist looked over at the priest, who appeared to be inspecting a grandfather clock, opening and shutting the front.
‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it, sir?’ he said.
The priest patted the clock and said in a perfect English accent, ‘Just window shopping today, but tell me, are you losing customers due to this great stink? The arcade seems a little quiet today.’
The horologist smiled. ‘Stinks don’t bother me, and by late afternoon we’ll be jammed to the gills with courting couples, trippers, you name it, honking river or not.’
‘I see,’ said the priest, shutting the door of the huge mahogany clock behind him, his back pressed flat to it, before continuing, ‘Well, we don’t want to take up too much of your time.’
‘Yes, just the mending, please,’ added O’Rourke, catching the priest’s eye.
‘Your name please?’ asked the horologist, his pencil at the ready.
‘My name?’ said O’Rourke. ‘Mr Jones. Mr Edward Jones.’
‘It will be ready tomorrow at opening time, Mr Jones. It’s a very nice watch,’ the horologist said, against the incessant
ticktock, ticktock, ticktock, ticktock
.
