Devoured (Hatton & Roumande) Page 8

  Emmerich thinks he is from Vlissingen on the coast of Holland, and like the boatmen, knows the water. If he does, he doesn’t show it and seems intent on nothing but his gun. Even in the dugouts, he’s forever oiling it or taking it apart, examining every hinge and bolt. In silence. He is readying it for hunting.

  Madam, forgive me. I am rambling, but is it any wonder that in this forest, one becomes jumbled and confused? Of course, I am fine here and have already collected over twenty specimens of butterflies, including the common birdwing (Troides helena) and common tree nymph (Idea stolli), and identified more than five types of orchid, guided by the knowledge of Emmerich. Tomorrow we are heading for Empugan, a small village, where we will stay for a while and are promised many pitcher plants (for Emmerich) and for the rest of us, orang – meaning man – utan.

  I will put this letter to rest now with the others. Who knows when I shall next see a mail boat.

  Your servant etc.

  Dr Canning took off his reading glasses and lay the letters down, but left Flora wanting more. More of Borneo, of its secrets, and for Dr Canning to look at her again for just a second longer, but then came the message from Violet.

  Violet didn’t come herself but had sent the footman. Her so-called beau, as Violet foolishly liked to call him. The knock when it came was a harsh interruption. Flora went quickly to the door, telling Dr Canning she’d only be a minute, and stepped out into the hummingbird corridor, where the footman grabbed her by the arm and hissed in her ear, ‘Where the hell have you been? Lady Bessingham died last night. Her head crushed in by that bloody great fossil. You know the one, Flora …’ And then he said that everyone was looking for her, and that she’d better ‘hop it’ or she would ‘cop it’, unless of course, he added with a lascivious wink, ‘You’d like to do a little favour for me, nice little chit like you …’ These last words delivered as he scrunched a note into her face, whilst clinching her waist and trying to kiss her. A sharp stamp with her boot was all it took to make him let her go and Dr Canning must have heard the blood curdling yelp, because he was quick to the door with, ‘What the devil’s going on out here?’ but the footman had already gone.

  Back in the room, they examined the note.

  ‘The writing is poor,’ she said. ‘There is an attempt here at an h and another at d and e. She must be telling me to hide.’

  Canning tried to persuade her otherwise. ‘But how did she know you were here? I thought your mistress told you to tell no one you were coming to the museum.’

  Flora was as pale, visibly shaking as she admitted, ‘I mentioned my errand for Lady Bessingham to another maid called Violet, but she’s a meek little thing and would never say anything to anyone. She must think we’re in some kind of danger or she wouldn’t have sent a warning.’

  ‘Well, this is a matter for the police, Miss James. They’ll want to talk to us and your friend might be right. We could be in danger. These letters? Who else knows of their existence? Are you absolutely sure you’ve spoken to no one else? Miss James? Are you listening to me? Miss James?’

  Dr Canning caught her as she fell. He rushed to get brandy and held a glass to her lips but she pushed it away.

  ‘We need to leave here, sir,’ she begged.

  ‘This is against my better judgement,’ he muttered to himself but ten minutes later they were walking quickly through the snowy streets of London, Dr Canning knowing she was right and that they needed to go somewhere private, somewhere he could think a little more clearly.

  Home, he thought. Home is where they needed to be.

  And home was Gordon Square, just a quick hop from Great Russell Street. His rooms were in a house on the corner, opposite a monstrous church, and as they reached his door, the bells rang out, a great peel of chimes calling the faithful to prayer.

  The sky was tin metal with great puffing clouds, and Flora was glad to be inside the narrow stairwell because she couldn’t help thinking they were being followed. But there was nothing, of course. And no one.

  Dr Canning had busied himself arranging the furnishings to ensure she had some privacy; this simple act of kindness to her, a maid and nothing more, not unnoticed, and Flora stayed in this little room of his for what felt like for ever.

  She sighed remembering all that had passed. It seemed like an age but was only two days ago. She swayed as she stood, the funeral card still in her hand.

  But then a tread on the stairs. A little tread and a creaking sound. Was it near, or far away? Her heart stood still. Her blood ran cold. There was nowhere to hide. She’d been right. Someone had followed them. How foolish. How ridiculously foolish to think they could pass unnoticed, for there is always someone prepared to sell a stranger’s life for practically nothing.

  The card dropped to the floor. She listened. Steps quite heavy coming up the stairs, nearer and nearer. She was panicking, but where could she go?

  When the bang on the door to the room came, it was loud. Like a hammer. Did they hammer her mistress’s head in? Is that what the footman said?

  Quick, think, for heaven’s sake, Flora, she begged herself, then, wild-eyed, looked at the window, pressing her face against it, knowing she could fit through, yes, but fall to her death? There were up five flights. It was certain. So instead, she simply waited. Until she heard the person move away again with a clack, clack, clack down the stairs.

  SEVEN

  BLOOMSBURY

  The banging at the front door was insistent, but it was the yapping which probably disturbed him. It was only seven o’clock in the evening but it was not uncommon for Professor Hatton to take to his bed by this time, if he’d been up all night. Perhaps it was his country upbringing which gave him the constitution of a larger man, because Hatton wasn’t robust-looking. He was sinewy, sharp featured, milk-pale. But despite his catatonic stupor, he sprang up fully dressed, already sensing the knock was for him, and headed down the stairs to see his friend, Roumande, patting the King Charles spaniel which was wagging its tail.

  ‘Forgive me, Adolphus. But something peculiar has happened. I waited an hour before I decided that it would be best to fetch you. I’m deeply troubled by something.’

  Hatton, asking nothing, immediately took his cane, his thick coat, and a derby, hoping that at least his friend had brought a carriage. But he hadn’t. ‘Are we walking then, Albert?’

  ‘I went round the block twice. I went in and out of a tavern, but it was no good. My mind wouldn’t settle. We’ve had a delivery, Professor.’

  ‘And will you tell me, in heaven’s name, what of? Or I am to be suspended in aspic, like one of your organs, Albert?’

  Roumande laughed and let the snow settle on his nose and his lashes, looking skywards. A cold beam from an ornate gas lamp highlighted the spot where he stood, a circle of white. A shimmer of ice.

  ‘Round and round the block, but nothing, and so I thought a puzzle is a puzzle. And I know how you love a puzzle, and Mr Broderig isn’t the only fellow in London with a hip flask.’ Roumande tapped the side of his coat. ‘She’s just along here a bit. The body collectors wouldn’t bring her all the way. Said they were unnerved by her.’

  ‘She? What sort of she?’ asked Hatton.

  ‘Another girl, Professor. From her ragged clothes, clearly a pauper.’

  By now, the two men were on the corner of Charterhouse Street. Roumande took Hatton by the arm and guided him down an alley. ‘It’s not much farther,’ he said, his voice thick, until they reached a little hump in the road and beyond that, a girl. Professor Hatton could see it was a girl before he even looked at her. Her childlike hands just visible, ghostly in the moonlight.

  ‘Here, Adolphus. You might want a slug, first?’

  Hatton looked in Roumande’s eyes to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead, taking the flask from his friend’s hand, grateful for it.

  ‘Do you want to see her?’

  How odd the question felt. It hung, dead in the air.

  ‘Do you want me to do the honours, Prof
essor?’

  Roumande seemed a little lost, a little hesitant, a little unsure of himself, and so Hatton, resolute, stepped forward.

  Her hair was damp but she lay on a soft down pillow as if slumbering, tucked under a woollen blanket and placed in an orange box. She was dead; dead girls were two a penny around here, but still the questions came to him at once. Who was she? Where was her family? Did she have any? And how did she end up here and like this? As a boy Hatton had watched, with some amusement, his sister Lucy tucking up her treasured doll exactly like this little girl. And this child seemed unreal, like a doll, but perhaps it was just the moonlight.

  Yet it was clear to Hatton at once that at some point she’d been in the river. Hatton gently pulled back the blanket to see wet, barely formed breasts and a child’s mouth agape, and around her mouth and in her hair a few souvenirs from the Thames. The tiniest shreds of flotsam. He checked her hands but there were no pebbles or rocks which might have been present if she had grabbed at the banks whilst trying to cling to life. But he was sure her death had been by drowning.

  ‘Look at her wrists, Adolphus.’

  Pinpricks, but not random slashes and scars as with the previous girls. They were neatly done and barely touched the skin, more like bee stings or the imprint of kisses. ‘Does it remind you of the girls we already have? The pauper girls, Adolphus?’

  ‘Cover her.’ Hatton pushed his hand in his mouth. ‘Do as I say, Albert. Cover her, for pity’s sake.’ And for a second he thought of Flora James – the missing maid. Could it be her? But no, that thought was gone in an instant. Inspector Adams had been very clear that the missing maid was ladylike and nearly twenty.

  ‘She’s perfect, Professor. Like an angel, but barely twelve is my guess.’

  ‘I can do very little here. It’s the light, the snow, the temperature, but I think she drowned. We’ll take her back to the morgue to be sure. But she hasn’t been beaten, Albert. She’s as you say. Apart from death, she’s perfect.’

  Roumande nodded. ‘Foundlings are often left like this. Lost children. But you’re right, she’s definitely been pulled out of the river. I had a closer look before I came to get you, Professor. My guess, she’s been here a couple of hours. Most of her hair’s still damp to the touch, but some of the strands near her face are beginning to harden with frost. Two hours, best guess. Maybe three at the most. The body collectors did the usual rounds to Coram’s Fields and to several of the workhouses, but no joy. I should give you this, Adolphus.’

  Hatton was shaken, but why he didn’t know. She was not the worst cadaver he had ever laid his eyes on. She was eerily beautiful. He opened the note, which said, ‘Metropolitan Police Delivery Note/For the Urgent Attention of Professor Hatton, St Bart’s Pathology Department.’

  ‘It looks official enough. But don’t the Specials normally bring corpses to the mortuary yard themselves, if it’s a suspicious death? It’s not our normal procedure.’

  Roumande shrugged. ‘Methods are sometimes slapdash between the workings of The Yard and the body collectors. You’ve heard me say it, many times. The body collectors had a tip-off. They’ve labelled her as “pork”, but she’s more than that, isn’t she, Adolphus? She seems cared for, cherished almost. She seems as if she died but minutes ago, and that if I picked her up and carried her home I could warm her by the fire. That she would yawn and stir herself.’

  Hatton nodded, and helped Roumande with the crate, thinking of the chicks he used to catch as a child. The sick ones put in a tin, wrapped in calico, and left near the hearth. A trick of his father’s, who would promise the boy that they’d be better in the morning, and sometimes they were. Other times, little eyes shut, warm still from the nearness of the fire, but their short life brutally over. His father’s hand, steady on his shoulders. ‘They are not meant to live, son, if God has ordained it so.’

  ‘Have the men at least left us a wagon, somewhere?’ Hatton beckoned again for the brandy flask.

  Roumande stamped his feet. ‘They said she had a ghost upon her. They said they didn’t want to touch her. Off to Newgate by now most likely, or the rookeries. But don’t worry, she’ll be as light as a feather. At least the Specials had the decency to label her this time. But even so, it’s a paltry amount of information offered. We should get her back, and then perhaps you could bring this up with the Inspector. Surely, this one he can’t ignore?’

  Hatton pulled out his pocket watch. An hour, maybe two, and they would be done. Dinner by eight. He agreed with Roumande. ‘Let’s make it a quick autopsy, Albert, and I’ll speak to the Inspector tomorrow.’

  In the morgue, the lamps were on. It seemed, unlike the other girls who had been beaten to a pulp, that his initial impression had been right – this child had died simply by drowning. Hatton stood over her, inspecting her organs. ‘Trauma to the sinuses and the lungs, considerable debris in her throat, and substantial haemorrhaging, suggesting that she struggled, sucking in the water before she succumbed. Pinpricks on one arm but nowhere else. Her body, malnourished, which is to be expected, although oddly it appears her hair has been brushed. What do you think, Albert? Her locks should be tangled, full of debris, but there’s only a little. The river has been frozen for a month. Not solid granted, but I think by the state of her, she’s been dead a day or so. But her cadaver kept in abeyance, helped by the freezing temperatures. Would you agree?’

  Roumande nodded. ‘I agree with everything you suggest, Professor. Her locks are smooth, brushed, as if she was on her way somewhere.’

  Hatton was troubled. ‘How many does that make now, Albert? Two? Three? Four girls? It’s not the same cause of death, but it’s the same sort of age and the pricks have definitely been done by a needle of some description; they have barely scratched the skin, as if the pricks were made after she was dragged from the river. And this narrows it down to what? Maybe a seamstress or a bookbinder? The sweatshops are notorious for child labour. The binding industry, not a whole heap better. But it is a very odd sort of person who would mark a cadaver.’

  Roumande shrugged, finished up writing their notes. Hatton washed himself down and lay his hand on Roumande’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s almost ten, Albert. Are you hungry? And would Madame Roumande forgive me, if you missed supper at home tonight? Because I could do with a drink.’

  Roumande looked up at the Professor from his notes. ‘I’ll put her back in her box and leave her by the hearth. It’s foolish, I know. Sentimental, even.’

  Hatton shook his head. ‘You know we can’t do that, Albert. She’s possibly a murder victim. We can’t warm the body. We need to preserve her.’

  ‘We have the details in the report, Adolphus. Would one night of comfort really matter? I’ll not leave her near the fire. I’ll put her at the end of the passageway. It’s cold as ice there, but she’ll be near the other cadavers and have some company.’

  Hatton nodded and poured himself a glass of porter and watched Roumande scoop the little girl up and place her back in the orange box.

  ‘Did you check the box she came in, Professor?’

  Hatton shook his head. ‘No, just the girl. We were both out of sorts this evening, Albert, so forgive me. Why? Is there something wrong?’

  Roumande bent down, the girl still in his arms. ‘There’s a book in here, Professor, beneath the pillow.’

  Roumande picked it up and read out its title, ‘Flora and Fauna of Great Britain, by D.W.R. Dodds, with a Foreword by Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, Botanist, Biogeographer, Traveller.’

  Hatton took the book from Roumande, flicking from front to back to see a number of pages tagged and marked. The birds were done as simple line drawings, but beautifully wrought, depicting nature at its most varied. Hatton turned to the last page, to find an inked stamp, which he read out, knowing that Roumande was hanging on his every word. ‘Write this down, Albert, then call a cab. Property of: Mr Daniel Dodds, Purveyor of Fine Books, Number 202, The Strand.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what I
knows. Ain’t never been no Numbers Two Hundred and Two, on this road. Number One Hundred and Ninety is as far as I can take you. So that’ll be two shillings, if you please, and two shillings if you don’t.’

  Hatton fumbled for his money but, as ever, had forgotten to bring his purse. And so Roumande did the honours, jumping out with a thud into a drift of snow.

  Despite the inclement weather, The Strand was full of people. A number of fine restaurants were still offering excellent dinners. The sweet, pungent smells of cooking filled the air, but there was no time for eateries, reasonably priced or otherwise. And the cab driver was right. The Strand had no Number 202. It stopped before it hit these digits, the last even-numbered building being a rather tatty musical hall.

  ‘Wait for me here, Albert. I’ll ask someone.’

  Hatton was out of the music hall quicker than he went in it, but this time with two half-dressed ladies on his arms, both of whom he attempted to shake off, but who were clinging to him limpet-like, and one of the ladies, puckering up and slurring, ‘You is gorgeous, sir. Ain’t he gorgeous, Rose? My friend thinks you is gorgeous, as well. Ow’s about both of us, for half a guinea.’

  ‘Please, ladies, desist. Albert, be a good fellow. Help me out here?’

  Roumande wondered if he would just let his friend struggle for a minute longer before he interceded, because it was rare to see the Professor with any kind of woman on his arm, but pity got the better of him. He released Hatton, being charm itself to the ladies, hat doffed, and giving them both a shilling, asked, ‘Two more, if you can tell us the whereabouts of a bookseller?’

  ‘Don’t read, luvvie. None of us does.’

  Roumande brought out a half a guinea. ‘Name of Dodds. Daniel Dodds? A purveyor of fine books.’