Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Read online

  DEVOURED

  D.E. MEREDITH

  For Charlie, with love

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  The door creaked open as the maid stepped into the room. In a flattened jungle of leaf gold and petals of magenta, a myriad of exotic birds and flowers competed with one another. On the walls, butterflies were pinned, framed, and labelled, and all around her a dizzying quietness, except for a scratching sound made by a little finch that was kept in a cage by the window.

  In the maid’s hand was a key which she turned in the lock of her mistress’s wardrobe, and crouching down low, she pulled out the brushing tray. The scent of lavender bags rose from the opened drawer as she lifted it up, revealing a hidden compartment and a different scent altogether. Dried ink and woody parchment. Enveloped by this scent, the maid bound the bundle of letters together with a length of rattan cord.

  It was still snowing outside. Thick pelts were falling silently beyond the huge arched window which led her down into the hall. Pushing the door open, she left nothing behind, only a flurry of air and the bracing, cold bite of December.

  Flora’s instructions had been clear. Her mistress had been agitated, in a state of tortured indecision for over a month, pacing the floors, wringing her hands, and then she suddenly announced, in that way of hers, ‘I am decided at last. Make your way back to London and deliver the letters, Flora. You know where to find them. Do exactly as I have told you.’ And who was she to question anything? She was just the messenger, a mere servant, thought Flora, wrestling with her pocket watch, fearful that she would be late. But she needn’t have worried, for here, right on time, was the regular omnibus, veering around the corner of Nightingale Walk with a deafening clatter of hooves.

  Flora clambered into the coach, and holding the letters close, drifted for a while with the earliness of it all, only to be jolted back to wakefulness by the cry of, ‘Next stop, Great Russell Street.’

  Her heart pounding, Flora looked skywards at the towering Colossus before her and sprang up the steps, each bound made quiet by the falling snow. She knocked at the huge oak door with a resonating thud, to hear a shuffle and rattling of keys.

  ‘Go easy I say, or you’ll bring the house down,’ a voice grumbled through the grate. Flora showed the porter the scroll of letters, as he swung back the door and nodded her in.

  ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll find us a nip of something,’ he offered, peering at her. ‘It’s perishing out there.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ she said, and the porter shrugged.

  ‘Dr Canning never arrives early, nor any of the other curators,’ he replied. ‘But if you like, we can go and look for him.’

  The museum was a pitch-black crypt as the pair, illuminated only by a tallow, climbed slowly up the central stairs past row upon row of shells, bones, mummified creatures. The mosaic-tiled floor clipped and echoed as they turned down a corridor, until finally the flame licked around a bend, where—

  ‘Would you fathom it, I could have sworn …’

  A single lamp burned, igniting a collection of minerals into a spectacular firework display. And Flora for an instant saw her fear and the scroll of letters in her hand reflected in a glass cabinet, where a flutter of tiny birds had been caught in iridescent flight. And to the left of the hummingbirds, a door with a brass nameplate that announced, ‘Dr John Canning, Anthropologist and Naturalist.’

  The door opened and a man greeted them, ruffling his hair, a half-smile upon his face.

  ‘Ah, excellent. I’ve been expecting these letters for some time,’ Dr Canning said, as he ushered Flora into the room. He smoothed out the first of them – a scroll of golden, weather-beaten parchment – and putting on a pair of glasses, sat back in his chair and began.

  Sarawak, Borneo

  June 1st, 1855

  To My Dear Lady Bessingham,

  You know me well enough to know that I am not a man of letters. But your unstinting support for my endeavours demands that I finally put pen to paper and tell you that this world is all that you imagined. Nay, madam, it is more. A country so enticing as to leave me breathless. Breathless from the sheer audacity of its mountain splendour, but perplexed because such variety disturbs me, and begs questions which cannot be easily answered. Your Council was not wanting, madam. The drumbeat of Nature beats loudly here.

  By the time you receive this letter, I will be upriver near a far-flung place called Simunjan, which I’m promised will be bursting with botanical marvels. But before I elaborate, I should firstly tell you a little of my journey here.

  Her Majesty’s Ship The Advancement set sail for the Malay Archipelago on December 12th, 1854, a ten-gun brig, under the command of Captain Owen. Its primary object being to circumnavigate Africa and Indo-China, if the great magnitude of this journey does not defeat both ship and crew.

  Before we left Dover, The Advancement was equipped to bursting. Crates crammed with every conceivable thing and, much to my delight, casks full of alcohol and spices for storing biological specimens. Some of my own finds have already been confined to the hold, and will be held there safely until the vessel eventually returns home. I only hope I shall be there to meet it.

  One of my more interesting finds from this leg of the journey included a type of billfish I named Tetrapturus brodegius. It is like an Atlantic sailfish, with a great sword-like snout and a metal-grey body, as firm as a side of pork. The meaty flesh we ate for a hearty supper (leaving skin and bones for taxidermy), and I am hopeful that the fish will raise substantial funds on my return, which should please my father immensely.

  In addition to Captain Owen, the crew consisted of seven officers, more than twenty English sailors, and at least ten native Malays, including Chief Petty Officer Alam.

  He was a very fascinating fellow. Bedecked in a pristine English naval uniform, Alam had long since shed his native guise, but still had the athletic bearing of his Minang descendants. Heralding originally from Padang, his name meant three things, all at once. Each meaning was of equal bearing and boded well for my expedition.

  ‘Alam’, it seems, means Nature, Universe, and Teacher. Can you imagine, madam, how excited I became at this discovery? A Noble Savage made ‘Respectable’ by our British navy and representing such a ‘Universal Truth’. A sign, I hope, of things to come.

  My other notable companion was Chief Scientist Dr Bacon. Perhaps you know of him? He has certainly heard of you. He proved to be an avid collector of sponges (genus, Porifera) and collected over fifteen fascinating examples from the rocks along the shoreline. These strange animals appear most simple, and yet, according to Dr Bacon, consist of a vast network of chambers and canals. We observed their comical habit of sucking up seawater, and spurting it out again. For what reason I cannot say, but it passed several hours of what might have been an otherwise tedious day. Indeed, these Porifera are not so unlike some people I could mention, sucking in the swell of power before it overcomes them an
d they are forced to retch it out.

  But I digress.

  Mainly, as we crossed the Mediterranean, life was quiet. The heat beat down upon the deck, and I must confess that I gave into a creeping lethargy, whiling away whole hours lolling on the deck. I still managed the odd sketch, if a gliding bird caught my eye. I would even wave my hands around frantically hollering, if a curve of flying dolphins broke the stern. But on the whole, the sea had made me listless and I longed for ground. I longed for some distinction. And we were blessed, because almost as I thought this, the softest breeze lifted and at once, sailors were shimmying up the rigging, bellowing, ‘Land Ahoy!’

  After five long weeks at sea, Aboukir Bay. For me, the end and the beginning.

  On arriving at the port, Alam shook my hand to wish me God Speed and handed me a talisman. It was an evil-looking thing, but all the time Alam was smiling as if he had given me his last guinea, so I took it just the same – this carved wooden figure with its protruding eyes, swollen belly, and reptilian claws raised as if to the heavens. He told me the carving was Dayak, from a hill tribe in Sarawak. The figure – a water spirit, he said – would ward off the bad spirits of the Underworld. I laughed, but his eyes unnerved me. But I thought nothing more of it, as I boarded the train which took me from Alexandria to Suez, keeping the talisman hidden, buried deep in my bag under a pile of drawings and instruments.

  On the train I enjoyed more luxury than I deserved. Endless cups of mint tea, bowls of nuts, and hot linen towels brought by starched Egyptian servants, who called me ‘Master’ and ‘Yes, sir, Mr Broderig.’

  The ease of this journey gave me time to drink in the desert. And it was not the arid landscape I had expected, but rather mile upon mile of luminous green. Villages made entirely of mud, crops of corn and lentils, majestic palm trees and red kites lifting in an African breeze.

  The train curved along the coast towards Yemen at exhilarating speed until the line ran out, and I was forced to find another mode of transport. The most common in Egypt being straddling one’s legs over some desperately overburdened donkey, as we trundled through markets with ‘Backsheesh, backsheesh, ingleesh man’ ringing in my ears. Until at last, crumpled and exhausted, I reached the port of Aden.

  The steamer which awaited took me all the way to Singapore. But I was not so happy here as on The Advancement, despite the cheering crowds and thumping bands which sent us on our way. Suffice to say, I found myself thrown in with a throng of businessmen and traders. At first, I tried to entice them by pointing out whale sharks and gliding, ghostlike manta rays, but these scurrying gentlemen were not impressed. And so I simply gave up and spent the last few weeks in my cabin, preparing for my work.

  My final ship was a Chinese junk crewed entirely by Cantonese fishermen who took me to Sarawak. And for a few guineas, I had my own thatched-roof cabin with a bamboo floor, a lamp to read by, and the most comfortable little bed.

  These fishermen were the very opposite to the men on The Eugene. They were enthusiastic about my work and cooked some of the finest meals I have ever tasted, and it’s true to say that the last little bit of my voyage was, if not the best, certainly the most peaceful.

  But I am here now in Sarawak. Ants crawl across the paper as I write. Geckoes hang, pink embryos, winking knowingly at me. For this is a world where spirits dwell in every rock and crevice. They weave in rivers and lie waiting, breathless in the ground. But the talisman sits beside my bed and I am beginning to understand its purpose. It is, I believe, benevolent and here to bring me luck.

  And as for my friends from The Advancement? Their journey is still ahead of them. I often wander down to the beach and gaze out upon the South China Sea, thinking of Alam and his long journey of discovery, which will end here, where mine is just beginning, in the Malay Archipelago.

  But it’s late now. I must attend to my arrangements, because we have but three months before the rainy season begins. During this Season, all expedition work ceases, for the flooding is tremendous, and would make this trip upriver impossible. And so I must to my work. To collect. To understand and ask questions, madam, as you would want me to. To look at this world as a Man of Science.

  Your humblest and most devoted servant,

  Benjamin Broderig, esq.

  ONE

  ST BART’S SMITHFIELD, LONDON 1856

  Professor Hatton lay slumped at his desk, his silhouette devoured by thrown shapes from an ebbing fire burning low in the grate. In the quiet chasm of the morgue, Hatton’s eyes were tightly shut, shielding out the peeling walls around him. A lamp burned on his desk. He was still awake, but only just, exhausted by contemplation of the great task before him, knowing that the value of his new science, forensics, was forever in question.

  ‘Professor Hatton. Open up, sir. There’s a carriage waiting. You are needed urgently, sir.’

  He shuddered, gathered his thoughts, wondering what the devil time it was, but knowing Monsieur Roumande must have gone home already. Hatton found his surgical bag, and then took his coat, his hat and his cane down from one of the meat hooks and opening the mortuary door, stepped out into a moonlit yard. Lantern light illuminated folding drifts of snow as he tumbled into the waiting carriage. There was no need to find his pocket watch as a bell was chiming somewhere, three times, across the velvet skies of London.

  ‘Good evening, Professor Hatton. My name is Inspector George Adams of Scotland Yard. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’

  Hatton studied the man sitting before him, who thumped the roof of the hansom with his cane and lit a penny smoke, offering one to him. Hatton shook his head, his eyes still bleary with sleep. The coach lurched off towards the river, now nothing more than a tapered line, soon lost in the swirling pall of driven snowflakes.

  ‘All will reveal itself when we arrive in Chelsea but are you sure you won’t join me, Professor? They’re Turkish, you know.’ Hatton declined, as the Inspector shrugged and puffed on his cigarette. ‘This could be a very long night,’ he said.

  ‘Your reputation goes before you, Inspector Adams,’ said Hatton finally, having taken the measure of the man. ‘So I presume this is a medical jurisprudence matter?’

  ‘Yes, Professor.’ The Inspector was stretching his legs out, partly enclosed in a gabardine coat. ‘It’s a case of the utmost sensitivity. But I’ve wanted to work with you for some time now; I’m intrigued by your new science, Professor.’

  Hatton nodded, curious as well for he knew a little of this man, but Albert Roumande knew more. He had heard his Chief Diener talk of Scotland Yard’s celebrated new detective many times, reading snippets out of the papers about various cases.

  To work with Inspector Adams? Hatton allowed himself a smile.

  ‘As I said, I’ve followed your work with some interest,’ continued the Inspector, in what Hatton recognised was an eastern drawl, not unlike his own accent once, when he was a boy. But Adams seemed to take delight in his drawn-out vowels, whereas Hatton had long since rubbed the edges off, keen to meet society’s expectations of a young professor at St Bart’s, in a new position of some standing. But here was a man who clearly took no prisoners, nor apologised for what he was. A man to admire, then.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ answered Hatton. ‘Perhaps it is the series of articles in The Lancet you refer to? We are so misunderstood, Inspector. Forensics needs all the friends it can get, and I understand from my fellow pathologists that you are indeed a friend. So, I’m delighted to finally make your acquaintance.’

  ‘The Yard is modernising,’ said the Inspector. ‘Look at me, for example. Do you think I would have stood a chance ten years ago? A lad from Cambridgeshire? A working man’s son? An out-of-town Special? But I’m a regular hero now, if you follow the crime pages. Although, don’t believe everything you read about me, Professor.’

  The horse whinnied as they reached their final destination.

  ‘This way, Professor.’

  Hatton followed him out of the coach, briefly stamping the snow off his b
oots, before ascending the steps of a house on Nightingale Walk which loomed above him, its green gloss door lit by an ornate gas lamp. Hatton glanced up at the clear night sky, brilliantly lit by an arch of flickering stars, and as a flurry of snow caught his face, he relished its cold bite. It would be overbearingly warm inside.

  ‘You should know this is the home of a bohemian, as they like to call themselves. Her taste is not the same as mine. Nor yours, I suspect,’ the Inspector said, as they were admitted by a constable, and Hatton was amazed to see, as they headed up the stairs, that this elegant house seemed to be crammed full of everything and anything – shelves were brimming over with a thousand books, competing for space with rocks, shells, feathers, cases of moths and butterflies. Hatton stopped in his tracks as they turned a corner into an expression of pure evil. Slashed red and black with eyes yellow rimmed and teeth as jagged as knives.

  ‘A tribal mask, I think they call it,’ said the Inspector. ‘So, you will meet their late owner now. Prepare yourself, for there’s a great deal of blood.’

  Stepping into the room they were greeted by more jumble still and so many policemen, doing what Professor Hatton didn’t rightly know, but he could feel his temper rising as he saw all these clodhoppers poking about amongst the victim’s possessions, clearly unaware that anything they moved or altered could wreck his forensic gathering.

  ‘Please, Inspector. Would you ask your men to refrain from doing that? Yes, that!’ One fellow was bending over the four-poster bed and pulling off pillows. Hatton was no novice in murder, and suddenly losing patience, he loudly told the policemen to stop everything they were doing and step aside.

  The wave of uniforms parted to reveal the crime.

  The body before him was shockingly white, and lay on the softest, hand-stitched patterned rug, among vivid hibiscus flower petals, coconuts and palms, swinging monkeys, now becalmed by a seeping blackness still sticky to the touch.