Hatton rubbed his eyes and tried to concentrate. ‘Mr Hecker? Remind me, Inspector?’
‘The mill owner and flour magnate, up in Limehouse. Mr Hecker and Gustave Pomeroy were well acquainted, it seems. Hecker is an influential man and has a number of important friends at The Yard, including the commissioner.’
Hatton wished the Inspector would cease with this nonsense, but the policeman didn’t, he barely took a breath. ‘And I am sure you know, Professor, Verrey’s is the very best French restaurant in town.’
From the depths of the carriage came an enthusiastic ‘
Si! Magnifico!
’ from Mr Tescalini, who leant forward, his moon face suddenly very close to Hatton’s.
‘Everything’s on the house tonight,’ said Grey, as the carriage slowed to a sweltering stop. ‘So, Hatton? Can I count on your company?’
Hatton felt flushed from the insufferable heat of the carriage as he said, ‘If you must have me there, although I can’t see what St Bart’s has to offer to the Mysterious Case of the Missing Pastry Chef.’
The inspector smiled. ‘Either way, it will be good for us to talk about the wider implications of your work. Where all this
forensics
is going? Some of my superiors think your science to be nothing more
than wizardry. That I must keep an open mind and look at other things. The competition?’
‘Competition?’ Hatton was aghast, for he had none in London. The only other forensic experts were in Berlin, Amsterdam, and Paris.
‘Spiritualists and table tapping, phrenology and the alienists.’ Grey paused. ‘All of these new disciplines offer insight into crime, and so you see, this McCarthy thing is rather a test for you and your unusual methods. You’ve let me down before, Hatton.’
Hatton’s face burned at the words, but the Inspector continued, ‘But don’t fret, because if you perform as required and forensics proves itself, I may even consider reinstating your retainer. It makes planning so much easier, and I’ve heard you’ve been looking at this novel idea of fingerprinting?’
Hatton was reluctant to proffer an opinion on something not yet empirically tested. ‘It has potential, I suppose.’
‘Well, what about White Lodge? Any fingerprints there? Have you got something in that bag of tricks of yours which allows you to measure such things? Don’t shy away from the new, Hatton. If you get stuck, don’t hesitate to ask. Get your clever fellow, Roumande, to help, because rumour has it he’s almost as good you, anyway. I’m teasing you, of course!’
Hatton’s knuckles gripped white. ‘As you well know, the crime scene was completely devastated. The study polished within an inch of its life. Roumande is the most excellent of dieners, but his presence today wouldn’t have made any difference. People don’t understand the first thing about forensics, Inspector. But,’ added Hatton, ‘the maid did mention that two crystal glasses and a decanter filled with sherry were
out on the desk, as if the victim was expecting someone. Of course, she’d cleared them away by the time we arrived.’
‘Well, the wife made no mention of any visitors,’ said the Inspector. ‘Only that the brothers argued yesterday, over money and politics. Perhaps the older brother wanted to clear the air before they retired for the night and was waiting up for the other. Did you look at the content of the glasses, Professor? Have you tested them for smears?’
This smacked of Grandma sucking eggs, thought Hatton, telling him things he knew to do already. ‘The taste of strychnine is bitter, and it can’t be disguised, even in sherry. I checked the glasses, of course, but they hadn’t been used at all; still, just to be sure, I’ll look again at the morgue.’
‘So, anything else or are we clutching at straws here?’
Hatton looked at the large evidence bag he’d placed at his feet. ‘There’s the ash, of course, and a number of books found in the study that might be of interest.’ Hatton took out an essay by Carlyle, a novel by Mrs Gaskell –
North and South
– and a leather-bound copy of
In Memoriam
. ‘From the theme of the subject matter, it would appear our MP had lost his faith in God. The essays and poetry relate to Christian doubt, Inspector, which is hardly surprising after Mr Darwin’s shocking revelations this month. Westminster talks of nothing else and Mrs Gaskell is very vocal on the problem of urban unrest.’
‘But Mrs Gaskell’s concern is with Manchester and The North, not London.’
‘Yes, Inspector, but there’s plenty of unrest in the rookeries. Perhaps the MP thought by reading this work, he could learn something.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But this is all conjecture. All I really have to go on, forensically speaking, is the cadaver. But,’ said Hatton flicking through one of the books, ‘if we could lift the smudge of a fingerprint off one of these pages, then who knows what story these books might
really
tell. Sadly we are a long way off that, Inspector, but if you are happy for me to experiment? Push the boundaries a bit?’
The inspector gave a curt nod.
‘Roumande has recently returned from a lecture at the University in Lyon, where …’
And for a minute, all other thoughts were forgotten, as Hatton basked in a brighter, braver future where his new science was in the ascendance. Where justice would be done.
‘Excellent, excellent. These flights of fancy might help inform how best we should present the death of Gabriel McCarthy. For
present
it we must, and with the least hyperbole possible.’
‘Present, Inspector? I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘Come, come, Hatton. I think you do. I’ve already discussed this with Sorcha. That’s her name, by the way. Sorcha, meaning radiance, and she is, don’t you think? I’ve never seen a widow who was more becoming in the face of death. Is that a sin, do you think, to think such a thing? Well, religious quandaries aside, the radiant Mrs McCarthy is in complete agreement that the death of her husband should be presented initially as “natural causes”. Thus allowing us to do our work, free from the whirligig of politics.’
Hatton was astounded. ‘But he was murdered, Inspector. To present his death as anything less would be a lie.’
Inspector Grey sat back firmly in the carriage, and momentarily caught the eye of Mr Tescalini, on whose enigmatic features hovered the very faintest trace of a smile.
‘It isn’t exactly a lie, Professor.’ Inspector Grey leant forward, placing his hand firmly upon Hatton’s thigh. ‘The strategy is expedient and will purchase time. Time to identify all possible suspects, all possible leads, all possible possibilities. And when the right moment is upon us, and the opportunity for political exploitation passed, we can correct our initial conclusions, announce the guilty, and close the case. In the blink of an eye, for both of us, a stupendous success.’
‘Retainer or not, I cannot sanction this.’ Hatton forced himself free of the thigh embrace and went to open the carriage door, rattling the handle this way and that.
Oblivious to the Professor’s distress, Inspector Grey continued, ‘Tell me Adolphus, are you aware of what the date is?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Inspector. It’s July 10th, and I wish to leave the carriage,’ Hatton said, still wrestling with the lock.
‘And so July 12th is just two days from now. I see that date means nothing to you, does it? Please, leave the door. I need your attention for just a little longer.’
Damn this man, thought Hatton, but he sat back, crossed his arms, and said more emphatically, ‘Very well. Let’s hear it, then. What of the date?’
The inspector said, ‘It’s an anniversary of the bloodiest kind. Drogheda? The battle of the Boyne? Cromwell versus the Irish? Does that ring any bells or are you such a committed Englishman that you do not let such historical trifles invade your consciousness?’
‘I understand you perfectly well, Inspector, but to lie …’
‘Make no mistake, just as I am a servant of the Law, you, sir, are a servant of The Yard. You found the ribbon and understand its meaning. In two days’ time, as is tradition, Protestants will be dressed in orange, marching in Liverpool, London, and Manchester and thinking if a Unionist MP can be so easily killed by Fenians, then who next? And it will be the Battle of the Boyne for sure, or that is what the Ribbonmen would like, but not on my watch, Professor.’
Hatton shrunk back in the carriage and looked grimly out of the window.
‘So, I think we have an understanding,’ said Grey, ‘and I assume dinner is still agreeable? Excellent. Nine o’clock sharp and don’t be late.’
‘So there you have it, Albert. The death is to be presented as “natural causes” in exchange for money.’ The two men were in the “gallery”, at the far end of the mortuary; to the side of them, a number of rudimentary sketches of organs in different states of decay were pegged on string, draped as if washing on a line. Roumande peered closely at a cross section of a dissected heart which clearly depicted – in intricate detail – Tardieu spots, indicating asphyxiation of some kind. Hatton peered at the image as well, taking in the smattering of carmine pinpricks.
‘But from what you say, to fund forensics we can’t rely on The Yard, but I’m quite convinced we have other skills to sell, some of which could demand a high price. For example …’
And from a small side table, Roumande picked up a detailed black-and-white portrait of a flayed male cadaver – a gaping torso,
head thrown back, mouth slightly open (as if in post-mortem ecstasy), its entire chest fully exposed.
‘This is astonishing, Albert.’ Hatton took it, held the sketch up to the light. ‘This is from
Grey’s Anatomy
, surely? But I don’t recall this plate. Where did you get such a thing?’
‘He’s done an excellent job, don’t you think?’
‘This work’s been done by Patrice? Already? Can it be possible?’
Roumande took a quill and tapped at the bottom of the page, where the assistant’s name was clearly signed in a tidy hand.
‘I asked him to do the entire cadaver, last night, and he’s been drawing all day at incredible speed, for there are more here. The infant’s alimentary canal we asked for, a bloater’s eyes, the unborn fetus of a dogfish. Look around you, Professor. He’s done nearly everything on our shelves. All of our treasured specimens in a matter of hours, snatching the time to draw when he’s not busy with other, more pedestrian things.’
Hatton looked at his pocket watch and repeated, ‘Incredible …’
Over the years, Hatton and Roumande had put together an impressive collection of organs pickled in laboratory glass, some of them displayed, others hidden from view, kept bolted down in the basement. The dissected brains of criminals, the lungs of a two-headed dog, the genitals of rapists, fish gills, frog spawn, lizards the colour of milk.
‘He’s a rare talent. And he has already caught the attention of Dr Buchanan. You may recall our director has a governor’s meeting coming up? A fundraiser for the hospital? With a number of Americans coming?’
Hatton nodded.
‘Well, Dr Buchanan is preparing a leaflet to give them on the history of St Bart’s, and I have suggested a flat fee of ten guineas for illustrations by Patrice. And you know how very vain Buchanan is, so I suggested a portrait of our hospital director for the front cover. Dr Buchanan is beside himself in anticipation of a masterpiece. With your agreement, of course.’
Roumande looked rather pleased with himself.
‘And you would like a slap on the back, my friend? A round of applause from our cadavers? Well, you shall have it. As long as Patrice doesn’t get ideas above his station – his work at the morgue comes first.’
‘My thoughts exactly. The young lad, by the way, is turning out to be the most excellent student. He’s done a range of errands for me, with speed and accuracy. He is very self-reliant and has a great enthusiasm for pathology. We must hold on to him, and this extra work will be a way of showing him we value his talent.’
‘And it’s ten guineas a throw, you say?’
‘Ten guineas, yes, but a retainer would offer us more. Times are hard, Professor, and I can understand Grey’s reasoning for wanting to keep McCarthy’s murder quiet for as long as possible. It’s a tinderbox in the slums.’
At that moment, a large horsefly settled on Roumande’s bare arm; he slapped it hard. ‘Damned flies!’
‘Are you sure you won’t come with me to Verrey’s?’ asked Hatton, a little more gently. ‘It might do you good to get out of the morgue.’
‘Sadly, it’s out of the question,’ said Roumande. ‘McCarthy will need embalming tonight before we deliver him tomorrow, and I’ve got some
new methods to try. It’s quite the fashion in Vienna to mix a little morphine with the other preservatives. It makes the waxy pallor creamier, and from what you’ve said, we should do our best for the widow.’
‘Point taken, but what we really need to crack is the ribbon, Albert. Is there anything distinctive in the weave? What dye was used to get such a vibrant green? Where was it bought? Questions, Albert, always questions.’
Roumande followed Hatton back through to the mortuary where the ribbon was pinned on laboratory glass, ready for viewing under the microscope. Hatton peered again, twisting the viewing columns. ‘I drew a blank at White Lodge. There was no trace of strychnine anywhere, but I’m sure the ash was taken from the grate, then smeared on McCarthy’s body at the crime scene,
post-mortem
. The killer, or killers, hoped that when the body was found, it would be burnt. So why bother with the ribbon at all? Why increase the risk of being caught? Why leave a sign?’
‘As he collapsed from the poison, monsieur, he’d be sure to see it coming.’
Hatton turned around to see that their apprentice was back, mop in his hand. Hatton was impressed. ‘Exactly, Patrice. The poison is intense; the MP would be in agony, lying on his back, but for ten minutes, his eyes would be open. The very last thing he’d see would be the silk, the very last thought in his head would be some sort of a message from the Fenians – if it was the Fenians. But not all ribbons are the same. You live in Spitalfields, Albert, which is full of weavers, correct?’
‘They’re on their last legs, Adolphus. Most of them retired or gone to the wall. The weaving industry is practically dead among the
Huguenots. Madame Roumande buys her haberdashery at the docks these days, straight off the boats, from Chinese traders. It’s a damn sight cheaper than Spitalfields, or if it’s just ribbons for the girls, we go to Petticoat Lane. I’ll ask Sylvie what she thinks of all of this, when I get home tonight.’