Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Page 13

  ‘Impressive stuff, Professor. I have bouts of insomnia myself, and take the odd drop when I need to. There’s no shame in it.’ Adams took a pencil from his frock coat pocket and jotted down a note or two. ‘All very illuminating.’

  The train by now was hurtling along and London was a whisper, a memory. Adams sat back, patted his report and closed his eyes. Hatton watched the white world slip past as the train rolled and juddered.

  ‘Is he asleep, Professor?’ Hatton looked away from the frosty window to see Broderig come back in the carriage, and smiled at his companion, suggesting more tea.

  ‘Allow me, Professor but not tea for it’s almost noon. I’ll get something a little stronger.’ He was quickly back with two glasses and a bottle, swinging his travel bag onto the luggage rack. ‘I think the Inspector has definitely nodded off.’ The new friends laughed as they looked at the older man snoring, whose burns lifted in a nicotine breeze.

  ‘I don’t blame him,’ said Hatton. ‘I’m exhausted myself. Your health, Mr Broderig.’

  ‘So, Professor. Have you told the Inspector everything? On both reports?’

  ‘But still no news on the maid? Lady Bessingham always wrote such promising things about Flora James. She was quite taken with her. She told me that although the girl was young, she was clever and had the ability for self-improvement. I understood Flora often accompanied Katherine on visits to places of interest, as a friend and a confidante. I think Flora provided company while I was gone from her.’

  Hatton agreed, though in truth knowing little of women and their needs but he was sensitive to others and quickly changed the subject. Broderig stared into space but then seemed to recover himself, asking Hatton about the wider aspects of forensic work, and at once Hatton felt the weight of the investigation lift. He was delighted, because he’d never found such enthusiasm for the subject beyond his own medical circle.

  This young man’s mind was like his own. Eagle-eyed, seizing on every detail. They discussed the rapture of dissection, telling their own different stories. Hatton in relation to time, death, injury. Truth lit by microscope and lamp, tested, tagged, and concluded.

  Hatton felt more at home as he said, ‘My work is a burgeoning science, which unfolds the truth about men.’ Hatton poured another glass and offered one to Broderig.

  ‘We understand each other, Professor. Botany tells us similar truths. Truths about our world. In Borneo, I touched its very centre. Its overwhelming variety.’

  And Hatton felt it, too, as the young man’s voice ebbed and flowed like a wave on a distant shore. He let this new world take him on a journey, the sound of each vowel and consonant triggering colours in his mind, leading to discovery.

  And as Hatton listened, the land was getting flatter, but the two friends had gone elsewhere, to a place that soared into azure and rose up majestic, verdant and luminous. Monkeys chattered, birds fluttered, lizards dipped and basked. Hatton let it all devour him. This tropical storm. This tale of Borneo.

  Sarawak

  December 1st, 1855

  Dear Katherine,

  Months have passed, so forgive me for this neglectful silence, but I have not done much letter writing. I have been playing only chess but I have read your letters, for which I thank you. By now, you will have most of mine. I cannot say what you will make of them.

  All was left behind in Empugan. Good as their word, the boatmen arrived to deliver us back. We drifted through the lilies and as the boatmen dipped their oars in the pools of amber water, with each push and stroke homewards, I felt the memory of the ape hunt slipping from me.

  Mr Demarest did not survive, Katherine. The fever took him. This strong fellow was skin and bone when death came. I wish I could tell you that the end was sudden. We buried him next to Ackerman, but it didn’t seem just.

  Emmerich has kindly offered me the rice store for as long as I want it. I am exhausted from the trip, but I am happier here, in my little kingdom of sago plants and mudskippers, than in the forest. Emmerich comes to see me every evening, just as before. We never talk of Ackerman or what happened. He must be bones by now, his flesh mulched down into the ground, consumed by the earth.

  I am not so well. It is a malaise. I find it hard to do anything much. Even letter writing, for my pen now moves over the paper like a broken finger, barely working.

  Emmerich tells me all I need to know of life in Sarawak. News travelled quickly on the Dutchmen’s deaths, but they were accepted. It seems it is not so uncommon here, just another death in the eastern tropics.

  I still have the ledger with its names of various customers, which I need to follow up. Although I hated the man, it would be foolish, under the circumstances, to miss an opportunity. To square the circle, so to speak.

  I miss San and often think how much he would love my gentle world here of lizards and butterflies. When they left me, I gave the boy a regular English bear hug and as a gift, my rifle. San gave me a glorious feather in return, with a line of spectacular eyes. The eyes of the Argus pheasant (Argusianus argus) to watch over me.

  Today, I felt a little better. My strength is slowly returning, day by day, and I have decided to join Emmerich on a trip to meet another collector, who I am told currently resides in the Rajah, Mr James Brooke’s mountain cabin. Emmerich met Mr Brooke in the town and mentioned my illness and our endless chess playing. It seems that the Rajah and a collector from Usk have been playing their own matches in the foothills of Mount Santubong, but are so well matched that they long to challenge another.

  The collector in question is a great deal older and more established than me. I think I have mentioned him before? He has quite a pedigree, having travelled extensively in South America, more specifically the Rio Negro and the Amazon, and he has already had a number of essays and thoughts published in the Journal of the Linnean Society, Chambers’s, and the Ibis. He even knows Mr Charles Darwin. Perhaps you have read of him, Katherine, or even demanded an audience? It would not surprise me! His name is Alfred Russel Wallace.

  Emmerich is delighted to receive an offer of hospitality from Mr Brooke, which, to some extent, seals the Professor’s reputation in Sarawak, which perhaps, until now, has been shaky. He tells me his excitement, however, is nothing to do with that.

  ‘Lauter Unsinn. Utter nonsense, Mr Broderig!’ he shouted at me, quite cross, and vowed emphatically he had no interest in ‘quasi-English royalty’ and that it was merely that he had heard a rumour that there was an abundance of Vanda lowii near this country retreat.

  I do not think we will be gone for too long. I have nets for moths and butterflies and no longer feel the need for a gun. I will use this time to build my knowledge in all things entomological. It will be good to be the student again. So, I have no more sketches for you this time, Katherine. Are these words enough? I fear they are paltry and boring. But I am sure that I will have tales to tell you from the Brooke riverside cottage, shall I not?

  Until then,

  Your servant

  Benjamin Broderig

  ELEVEN

  CAMBRIDGE

  Hatton looked out of the window and saw the spires of Cambridge. Inspector Adams yawned and asked, ‘Have we arrived?’

  Broderig answered, ‘We’re here, Inspector. The sun will be setting in an hour.’ Then he jumped up, swaying a little, and threatened to topple, but steadied himself as the train pulled into the station.

  ‘After you, please, gentlemen.’ The Inspector picked up his things.

  ‘But haven’t you forgotten something?’ Broderig pointed at the little girl’s autopsy report, which lay flattened against the seat.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the Inspector hurriedly picked it up, and pushed it firmly into his bag.

  ‘Are you always so forgetful, Inspector?’ Broderig smiled, sweetening the insult. ‘I never leave anything behind. My travel bag, for example. I never leave home without it!’ Broderig hugged the bag to his chest, as if the crown jewels were in it. The Inspector scowled at the younger man and arched
a bushy brow at him. ‘I rarely forget anything, if you must know. Not anything important.’

  ‘The girl’s not important, then, Inspector?’ Broderig winked at Hatton who shook his head like a disapproving schoolteacher, but if the truth was known, he was glad his new friend made a point of it.

  ‘So, shall we get a carriage?’ said Adams. ‘How far is it to the College?’

  ‘It’s a hop by coach, Inspector. Follow me, gentlemen.’ Broderig pushed through the hordes of other passengers.

  ‘Sidney Sussex, as quick as you like,’ he said to the coach driver.

  The three men jumped in and the carriage took off. Hatton peered out of the grimy window as they sped into the city, watching sycamore trees bending in a blustery wind.

  After fifteen minutes, or less, the carriage hurtled to a stop.

  ‘How much?’ the Inspector asked the driver as they hopped out.

  ‘A shilling, unless you gentlemen want to pay more.’

  Broderig laughed and found some change in his pocket. Hatton watched a shiny guinea pass from one hand to another.

  ‘Do you always tip so heavily?’ asked Hatton, genuinely curious.

  Broderig smiled, strands of hair blowing across his handsome face. ‘I liked his coat,’ he beamed.

  The huge main door to the College entrance was shut.

  Broderig said, ‘Allow me,’ and twisted a blackened handle, which opened the door with ease. The men stepped into the lodge, which was brightly lit, almost welcoming.

  The Inspector sprung forward and rang the bell sharply. An ancient porter appeared rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir? Can I help you, sir?’ asked the old man, brushing down crumpled clothes.

  ‘We’re here to see Dr Finch,’ answered Adams, shaking clumps of snow from his coat.

  ‘Is he expecting you, gentlemen?’ The porter peered at the visitors more closely.

  ‘Hurry yourself. We’re from Scotland Yard on a matter of urgent police business,’ Adams shouted at the porter.

  ‘Scotland Yard? Alright, alright. Just give me a moment – these old bones need wrapping up, for it’s perishing outside.’ The porter found his coat. ‘This way, then.’

  The men made their way out of the porch and into Chapel Court. They crunched along the gravel, thick with snow, keeping to the path. Hatton shoved his hands in his pockets, because despite his gloves, they were freezing. The light was ebbing fast, as the porter banged on the door, with, ‘Dr Finch, open up please, sir.’

  Sidney Sussex wasn’t the richest of Cambridge’s colleges, and despite its ornate mullion windows and grand arched entrance, rooms in Chapel Court were on the scruffy side. The paint on the door was peeling. Hatton smiled to himself. It was as bad as the morgue. ‘Dr Finch, answer the door please, sir.’ The porter hammered again. ‘I have some gentlemen here that wants to see you.’ But no answer came.

  ‘Do you have any idea where Dr Finch might be if he’s not in his rooms?’ the Inspector asked.

  ‘No, no, I haven’t seen Dr Finch for a long time. And many would say good riddance to him. Why don’t you gentlemen wait in the bar and I’ll get the key. He might just be sleeping. He keeps odd hours, does that one.’

  The Inspector scrutinised the porter’s face. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  The porter rubbed his nose and coughed a little. ‘’Scuse me. I have a terrible cold. It’s the weather. I can’t recall exactly, but it must be several weeks or more. It don’t get any easier, you know, when you get to my age, trying to remember who is where and what is what. Dr Finch comes and goes and does as he pleases.’

  The old man looked vexed for an instant and then brightened up saying, ‘I’m sure he’s about. Quite often, if I recall, he’s off collecting beetles and the like. He came to us as a theology don. But like so many of our Fellows these days, he’s more interested in Nature than God.’

  Broderig clapped his hands together to warm them and said, ‘I’m in that line of business myself.’ The porter looked intently at Broderig, and Hatton watched them. He saw the dimming eyes of this porter, the white ring about them. Cataracts. His father had them. The porter was almost blind.

  ‘Really, sir. Well, as I say, you gentlemen should wait in the bar. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

  A glassy-eyed barman acknowledged their arrival in the bar with a solemn nod, and a ‘What’ll it be?’ before returning to his task, which consisted of rubbing dirty glasses with a dirty rag which he spat on, and then rubbing again.

  Broderig got the round in. Three brandies for half a shilling. Adams drummed his fingers on the table, rattaty tat, rattaty tat.

  ‘Ah, well, here I am as I said I would be,’ the porter stepped into the bar with a large bunch of keys. Inspector Adams stopped his drumming, and took his notebook out. ‘Before we go, rest your legs a little and tell me what you think on this fellow, Mr … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Mr Henry Hedge, sir. My father’s name, too, I’m proud to say. Porters from the other Colleges is less inclined to be forgiving of Dr Finch. They say to me, “He’s a right troublemaker.” But I says they’re only jealous. Oh, he’s very handsome-looking, Dr Finch, and appealing to the ladies …’ The porter winked at them. ‘And he isn’t so discriminating. He likes the lot of them. Loves variety, and when you are my age you can only dream what a man like that might get up to, the lucky devil.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Adams, folding his arms.

  ‘Is it a crime you’re investigating?’ The porter looked at Adams, his bad eyes glistening.

  ‘Yes,’ Adams replied. ‘A very serious one.’

  ‘Well, well, and Dr Finch at the middle of it, eh? Can’t say I’m surprised.’

  They crossed the quad and the porter picked through his great clump of keys till he found the right one. The door creaked open. ‘Wait a minute, gentlemen. I’ll light a candle.’

  As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, an odd smell immediately hit them. The tallow’s pale light illuminated the floor before them, which Hatton could see was strewn with books, old bits of bread, and fetid mutton unfinished on a greasy metal plate, but this was not the smell which greeted them. ‘I know this scent,’ said Hatton. It was odd, sharp, unpleasant.

  A tut tut came from the porter, like a mother hen. ‘The way dons live today. It’s a disgrace.’ Hatton ignored the porter and, peeling his gloves off, bent down and picked up some of the papers. He asked for another candle to be lit. The room began to form around them and in the midst of the debris lay a book, which caught Hatton’s eye. Sumptuously gilded on Morocco-grained cloth; he ran his finger over it and read its title, then flicked forward a page to a simple dedication, but no name from the giver, only a date: October 1856. He laid it down again.

  ‘This is a right monster mess,’ Adams’s voice boomed around the darkened place as he crouched next to Hatton, amongst the piles of books. ‘What’s all this, then?’ Adams read the titles out. A ragged, well-worn Ibis and umpteen fingered copies of the Cybele Britannica, a myriad of theological tracts and sermons torn out of papers at random it seemed, and a splattering of one shilling episodes from a new work by Mr Dickens. ‘Bleak House. Indeed. Well, I can’t argue with that!’

  And as the flame of the candles swelled, the men stood up and looked around them at the main room, which was a sad, pokey affair.

  ‘He’s in dire need of a wife,’ said Adams.

  ‘The College would never allow it,’ answered the porter.

  ‘We haven’t checked the bedroom,’ said Broderig.

  ‘After you,’ said Adams, gesturing to the second room.

  The young man pushed the second door with a thrust, the strange stench now overwhelming.

  ‘My Lord, what a thing is that? Smells like, well, I don’t know what it smells like. Is it alcohol? It’s a strange sort of gin. I don’t think Dr Finch is much of a drinker. He likes other things.’ The porter stopped suddenly.

  ‘Not any more,’ said Adams.


  The corpse sat bolt upright in its chair. Its eyes, glass. Its skin, leather. Henry Hedge had seen squirrels done this way and ducklings dressed in bonnets. He and Mrs Hedges had laughed at the sight of the weasels in wedding dresses, and had called them ‘dear’ and ‘fetching’, until they caught sight of the kitten with two heads. Perhaps, whoever had done this thing to Finch had thought it a joke to dress the academic up in his Sunday best. But Finch was not perfectly finished and carefully wrought. This taxidermist had been in a hurry. The poor man’s skin, despite liberal applications of preservatives, had started to lift and curl around the edges, where face met hair. More loose flaps hung around his jowls, where the stuffing had been botched. And despite the neat parting of the hair, the polished nails, the handsome and distinctive nose, Finch was deformed and unnatural.

  The men stood dumbstruck, but questioning. Where was the flesh? The blood and bones? The guts and the fluids? And worse. Worse than the act itself. What screaming terrors had this thing faced before the end? The elderly porter hit the floor. Inspector Adams broke the silence.

  ‘Can it be possible for a man to be skinned, stretched, tanned, remoulded, and padded out in a matter of hours? Even without forensics, Professor, I think we can safely say this man died some time ago.’ And as he spoke, the Inspector seemed puzzled and surveyed the preserved academic as if looking at a rare, zoological exhibit. He craned forward, demanding a candle. He peered closer still, so that he almost touched it, and then stepped back to consider his next steps. ‘What is this smell, dammit?’

  Hatton found his voice. ‘Vinegar mixed with spice for preserving cadavers. Unmistakable.’

  ‘Get a gas lamp from the other room, Mr Broderig, light it, bring it here, and check on the porter. Make yourself useful, please, sir.’

  Broderig, as meek as a lamb, did as he was bid and came back, his shocked face lit by the orangey glare of the burning oil. The lantern made things clearer.