The Devil's Ribbon (14 page)
At Scotland Yard, the brass plate announced
Metropolitan Police: Criminal Investigation Department
. The room was large, sunlit, with a sense of men just vanished, with its overflowing desks, ashtrays, bottles of spent whisky. It smelt of sweat, toil, and trouble but there was no one about to ask, so Hatton simply plonked himself down where he needed to be, grabbed a piece of paper, wrote ‘
Dear Inspector Grey
,’ then scrubbed out the ‘
Dear
’ and started again with ‘
For the attention of: Inspector Grey. Urgently require discussion on Ribbon Murders case
’, but that wasn’t right either.
How can people work like this
? he asked himself, as he tried to find a space amidst a cacophony of files, multicoloured inkwells, postcards from Morocco, and a huge number of recipe cards illustrated with little scenes – ladies having a picnic, a
man serving soup. Hatton glanced down at their titles, ‘
Drink and Be Merry’, ‘A Christmas Celebration’, ‘Parlours and Tea Parties
’, ‘
Sugared Dainties – A Home Cook Book
’, and noticed at the bottom:
Recipes courtesy of Monsieur Gustave Pomeroy, Chef of Verrey’s Restaurant, London
.
Gustave Pomeroy? It beggared belief. Hatton pushed the leaflets away with distaste and took the quill again, ‘
For The Urgent Attention of Inspector Grey. RE: Ribbon Murders. New forensic evidence relocated to St Bart’s. Yours in faith, Professor Adolphus Hatton
.’
This was where their attention should be, not gadding about eating free suppers in London’s best restaurants. Why, everyone knew that all chefs were a histrionic breed, and no doubt this Pomeroy chap was drunk as a lord in some brothel. What a waste of precious police time. Unless?
Hatton looked again. Recipe cards? Inspector Grey had mentioned recipe cards only this morning. Could they somehow be connected to the McCarthy case? But these weren’t recipe cards for cooking corn. He sighed, opening the drawers then shutting them again. Nothing. So where was the ribbon, then?
Hatton left the detectives’ room and, slipping down the hallway, pushed open a door and quickly found the jacket Grey had worn last night. How obvious the Inspector was. If they were going to tamper with evidence, they should at least have a foolproof system.
Dullards
, he thought to himself as pulled the little bag out, clearly labelled
Evidence. Item 1: Silk Ribbon, Mr Gregory Mahoney. July 10th, 1858. Deceased
.
So it simply had to be the Ribbonmen, didn’t it? This idea of Grey’s
that it could be elaborate subterfuge by the McCarthy brother seemed too far-fetched. Hatton could see the young man had a motive to kill his brother. That he was brutish, ill-tempered, a radical to boot, but why kill a rent collector? It didn’t make sense. Mob rule and gang punishment seemed the simplest explanation. On the one hand, an Irish MP who stood in opposition to repeal, and on the other, a gombeen man who bled the people dry. Both worked for the English. Both are duly punished on the eve of Drogheda. But, thought Hatton, both from a place called – ‘Ardara,’ he said, under his breath, but where exactly was this place? And why was it so important? What had Sorcha said? A sweeping place battered by Nature, a painter’s world of sunbursts, fields of emerald green. This place was God’s Own Country, yes, but what else? Was there a secret hidden in Ardara that was dark enough to kill for?
Hatton’s thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming down the hall, a click, and then steps heading back down the corridor. And it suddenly occurred to him, what on earth was he doing? Holed up in the Inspector’s store cupboard, a man in his position? He’d had enough. He would walk out, and if anyone tried to stop him … Hatton made up his mind there and then that he would shove the ribbon in their faces – saliva, blood clots, and all. For it was
his case, his evidence
, and if Scotland Yard wasn’t going to pursue the matter properly, well … Hatton turned the door handle. ‘Damn, someone has locked me in,’ he muttered to himself, as he sat down on his haunches and nestled his face into the soft caress of a smoking jacket.
Jesus, I could be here for hours
, he thought, and so for the hell of it, and with nothing else to do, he rustled in a couple more pockets, taking out a bundle of
things which felt odd in the dark.
Paper
, he was sure of it, a rattling tin of something, maybe peppermints. He popped one into his mouth, yes, peppermints, and something perfectly smooth on one side, on the other a raised elaborate pattern. A cigarette case, perhaps?
‘For heaven’s sake, get me a new tie and a clean shirt. I am covered in the stuff. Drenched in it. Three changes in one day. It’s a record! Hurry up.
Veloce, veloce
…’
The closet door opened, but rather than diving out, for some reason Hatton chose to stay hidden, watching carefully as Mr Tescalini selected a jacket from the cupboard, a starched white shirt, a paisley tie. The Italian left, leaving the door ajar, and went off whistling somewhere. And Hatton was out, not looking back for even a second, but keeping up a pace until he turned the corner into Pall Mall, and hailing a hackney, thundered back to St Bart’s, despite all that had happened, ahead of himself.
There was a loud noise emanating from the mortuary room. The sound of hacking, indicating that Monsieur Roumande was already sleeves rolled up, bespattered in gore, and organising some sort of lobotomy or a partitioning of bones. Flies were already thick in the air, the oilcloth on the floor swimming with guts, as Hatton reached the dissection slab where the new cadaver lay. Roumande looked like he had been in a fight with a bear. Taking a cloth, Hatton said, ‘Here, Albert. I can’t have a conversation until I can see you better!’
Roumande did his best to get the bits of gristle out of his stubble. ‘Well, did you get it?’
Hatton put the ribbon down and smoothed it across the table. ‘PC Plodders, the lot of them. It was only in Grey’s dinner jacket, hanging in that ridiculous store cupboard he has …’
‘Well done, Professor. I’ll put it with the other one. The deaths are definitely connected, then?’
‘Most certainly, but please, Albert …’ said Hatton, looking around him at the organs, the bones, the floor awash with blood. ‘This is too much for one man alone, even if the man is you. Where the devil’s Patrice? Why isn’t he here helping you?’
‘Patrice is in the South Wing with Dr Buchanan, earning us money. Ten guineas a throw, remember? The light at this time in the afternoon is excellent, according to our resident artist. As soon as we got back from Highgate there was a message demanding a sitting, for Dr Buchanan’s portrait …’ Roumande trailed off, distracted, flapping his hands in the air. ‘I’m worried these flies will lay eggs in our cadavers, although I have been toying with the idea of letting them anyway. Empirical research, Professor?’
‘Hmmmm …’ said Hatton.
‘We could watch what they do. Just go ahead and let them. What do you think, Professor?’
Hatton allowed himself a smile, relieved to be back where he belonged. In the morgue, questioning the known parameters of science. ‘Measuring decomposition? Why the devil not. There’ve been a number of cases where time of death has been pinpointed, more or less, despite advanced decay, by looking at the mites in a cadaver.’
‘I read that article, too. The missing milkmaid? She’d been raped, butchered, then hammered under a doorstep and left for years, only
unearthed when the new owners of the house were having some work done. The April issue of
The Medical Journal
, I believe. Is that the case you refer to?’
‘The very same, Albert.’ Hatton pointed at his friend’s chin and Roumande scrubbed a little harder with the gum-pink soap. The head of Mahoney had already been decapitated and sat, yellow leather on a blood-smeared plate.
Roumande walked around the slab where the rest of the cadaver lay. ‘One Gregory Mahoney, aged sixty or thereabouts, native of Donegal, resident of St Giles, London, now deceased. There was so little keeping him together by the time I took the spade out, it was easier just to finish the job, and then by the time I did that, well, I didn’t want to step on your toes, but …’ Hatton nodded,
keep going
. ‘His testicles were cut with a sharp knife, not scissors as you initially supposed, Professor, and as to
the veal
? Now that’s the really interesting bit, because …’
A rap at the door interrupted them. ‘Come,’ Hatton said impatiently, as a hospital porter, with huge ears and a broom in his hand, barged in and went directly over to Roumande.
‘Dr Buchanan says he wants your lad for the rest of the afternoon, monsieur.’
Instantly, Hatton sprang over with, ‘No, no. Sorry, he’s had an hour. There’s a mountain of work here in the morgue, and Infectious Diseases is swimming in people.’
‘Dr Buchanan was most insistent, Professor,’ the porter continued, his huge ears casting batlike shadows on the wall. ‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped. ‘Is that a man’s hand?’
‘It’s a limb, of course, but what do you expect here?’ Hatton answered
stiffly. ‘We’re surrounded by them,’
you imbecile
, he thought as he continued, ‘but I’m sure I don’t have the time to discuss the aesthetics of the mortuary with the likes of you. Now go back to Dr Buchanan and tell him I cannot spare Patrice a second longer.’
But then Roumande did something he rarely did. He interrupted Hatton with, ‘Ah, there’s a slight problem with that, Professor. You see, the hospital director’s now paying for a whole set of new illustrations for St Bart’s. You weren’t here when this larger project was discussed and so, as we are a little hard up with the possible risk of closure … In France we say
un petit service en vaut un autre
.’
‘By which, I think you mean, Albert, quid pro quo.’
‘Exactly, Professor.’
‘And he’s paying more than just ten guineas, then?’
‘A hundred guineas, Adolphus, which, by my estimation, will pay for the beginnings of our work on fingerprinting, your acid tests, a part-time chemist, and all those things we’ve been dreaming of.’
Hatton sighed. ‘Very well, but enough interruptions. Back to the case in hand.’
‘The hand? Ah yes, very droll, Professor, and after the fingers, I’ve a little something else to show you.’ He tapped the side of his Roman nose and winked at the Professor. ‘
J’ai tenté le coup! Un petit détail médico-légal, pour toi
.’
‘Indeed.’ Hatton was intrigued, as he walked back over to the trestle table. The gombeen man’s hand looked like a crab, which might at any moment move to the end of the trestle table in a crustaceous sort of way, throw itself off, and scuttle out of the morgue.
‘Shall I turn it over for you?’ Using a pair of pinchers, Roumande
lifted the hand up and placed it back down the other way, so they could see the palm clearly.
‘You were right about the veal. Just look at the fingernail.’
The nail in question was possibly three inches long and sharp like a knife.
‘He played the fiddle, perhaps?’ suggested Roumande.
‘That thing would cut the strings to any bow. I’m not sure what to make of it. But this nail’s most definitely veal.’ Using the end of a scalpel, Hatton lifted the nail slightly. ‘So, Albert, what do you think of our medical colleagues who suggest that our body parts continue to grow, post-mortem?’ Hatton locked eyes with his friend with a half smile, interested in seeing what Roumande made of this debate.
‘I think those quacks who think such things haven’t cut up as many cadavers as us.’
Hatton popped the scalpel back into his top pocket, glad that Roumande agreed, because he’d had this very argument with Dr Buchanan only a month ago, but then Buchanan was only an ignorant physician and didn’t fully understand the secrets of the dead, the intimacies of a cadaver, its cavities and smell, as a pathologist must.
‘
Excusez-moi
.’
It was their apprentice, back again.
‘I thought you’d another hour at least with Dr Buchanan, Patrice?’
‘
Non, non,
monsieur. The light was slipping and casting deathly shadows over his face …’ The lad stepped forward and peered at the finger saying, ‘
Mais le doigt. J’ai déjà vu un ongle comme ça!
’
Roumande beamed at the lad. ‘You’ve seen a finger like this before? Excellent, so, Patrice, tell us what you think. Here’s the delivery note. You read English, don’t you? Out loud, please …’
‘Is that an
M
? Ma … ho … ney?
Oui
. I know this, too. It’s an Irish name.’ His face was solemn, as he said, ‘These people were starving once. They had nothing, not even knives by the end, monsieur. They lived in bog holes, ate grass, berries, anything they could lay their hands on. Some even grew their nails long enough to peel the blighted potatoes by. Or that’s what my old gangmaster said. Slit your neck to the bone as soon as look at you, those Paddies, or that’s what he said, monsieur.’
‘A charming story, I’m sure,’ said Hatton, but quickly realised Roumande was in agreement with the boy.
