Devoured (2 page)
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 boots, 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.
Hatton was surprised to feel warmth at her temple, although he knew it was fast ebbing away. He sprang his surgical bag open and, finding a thermometer, confirmed his first impression. He made a note. The state of rigor mortis was setting in just around the bottom of her jawline. ‘She’s been dead three hours, perhaps four, Inspector.’ Hatton stated the facts. ‘The livor mortis effect is creeping across her body, her temperature dropping, causing this blue marbled discolouration.’
Hatton knelt down and sniffed her skin. He felt his audience’s disapproval and so added, ‘It’s an unusual practice here in England, Inspector, but it’s a device I have adopted after hearing of my colleagues’ criminal successes in Germany. But it would be better without this infernal cigar smoke.’ He may have sounded peevish, but he couldn’t help himself and beat the air theatrically, already laden with the scent of tobacco. ‘When we get to St Bart’s, there will be no smoking there.’
‘Well, of course not, Professor,’ the Inspector said, still drawing on his own cigarette and then, thinking better of it, stubbing it out. ‘But for those of us not so grounded in forensic matters, please, Professor, would you be so kind as to explain yourself?’
Hatton surveyed the room, where two men in particular were glaring at him, incensed. They were clearly not Adam’s minions. ‘Her scent is slightly odd,’ he replied. ‘I won’t know what it is until I have dissected her.’
‘Have you no respect, sir?’ growled one of the men. ‘Damn him, Adams. I thought you said this one was good. Dissected her? For God’s sake, man. You have no permission for that.’
This gentleman was dressed in garb found only in the most elevated of London Society. Hatton had seen pictures of Sir William Broderig in the papers a great deal recently. The Liberal’s views on religion and science had ensured this peer was rarely out of the limelight. Coiffed and buffed to a shine, Sir William was completely out of place in this lair of death. Hatton looked at Adams for help, who interjected, ‘It’s the word I think that vexes you, Sir William, but this is a police matter and so we must do as we see fit.’
Adams turned to Hatton. ‘Lady Bessingham was a close friend of the Broderig family. Sir William lives in Swan Walk, just five minutes from here. A scullery maid found the body, raised the alarm, and Sir William called us immediately. Isn’t that right, sir?’
‘I have known her since she was a child. And her late husband also. He was a dear friend of mine.’ The gentleman stumbled a little, grasping the edge of an armchair.
‘Hurry up and get Sir William a glass of brandy, Constable.’
Sir William took the brandy and, recovering a little, said, ‘I apologise, Professor. I am out of sorts. We’re most grateful for you coming here, but everything you see and hear tonight must remain between these four walls. We need your absolute discretion.’
Hatton bowed. ‘Of course.’
Sir William, knotting his brow, continued, ‘Lady Bessingham courted controversy before she died, as I have, Professor. She was a dear friend to me but she was also a blue stocking, a woman of learning and letters, involving herself in things which were perhaps not entirely appropriate, or this is how some might see it. But in death she deserves some dignity, surely? This brutal crime will have a thousand tongues wagging and a thousand of those Grub Street scribblers selling their lies for thru’pence. We will be awash with rumours before the sun has risen.’ Sir William wrung his hands. ‘Whatever you have to do, Professor, please do it, but I beg you, as a gentleman, proceed with the utmost discretion.’
Hatton answered that he would proceed as required and turned to the Inspector. ‘It’s a delicate question, but was she found half naked, like this?’ and as he spoke, Hatton ran his eye along the lines of her hips and curves. He was already elsewhere, thinking about the cutting of her flesh which lay ahead.
Adams nodded. ‘There’s a dress over the back of a chair in the adjoining room. There was a fire still smouldering in the grate when we found her. It’s ebbing now, but the room, as you can feel, is still warm, although I doubt she slept like this. She still has her stockings and corset on. Not normal attire for bed even for a bohemian.’
Hatton looked around him for some sort of clue as to what she might have been doing half dressed like this, and then made another note. Perhaps she was simply preparing for bed when somebody found her. Hatton knew little of women, especially rich ones, but he knew enough to tell him that few prepared their evening toilette without a maid to carry out their bidding. To brush their hair, to unbutton their stays, to warm and fetch a nightdress. But there was no fresh nightdress on the bed and no warming pan, either.
‘She hasn’t been moved or touched. She is exactly as she was found, Professor,’ continued Adams. ‘But I think we need to get her to the mortuary now. We’ll follow you on with the hearse. I assume you are happy to be observed as you work?’
Hatton said that he was and if truth were known, he welcomed it. There was no opportunity here for theatrics or demonstrating his talent, as there was in the morgue. ‘But it’s five hours till dawn, midwinter and the mortuary is gloomy at the best of times, so with your leave, I shan’t start the cutting till ten o’clock. It’s easier to do such work when the sun has fully risen.’
The Inspector said, ‘But of course, Professor,’ before turning to Sir William and saying, ‘You and your son are free to go now, sir. Ah, forgive me, Professor. I should have introduced you before. This is Sir William’s son, Mr Benjamin Broderig. He also knew Lady Bessingham.’
Another stepped forward and shook Hatton’s hand. The young man’s face was weathered and bronzed by the sun, Hatton noticed, as he said, in earnest, ‘I believe you can help us find Lady Bessingham’s killer, Professor. I’ve heard a great deal about your work. I’m a scientist myself and I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, but please forgive me, I must take my father home. But if I may, I will come by the mortuary room later. It would please my father knowing that one of us is with her. To the very end, if that’s how I can put it.’
Hatton was relieved for this support. ‘Of course, sir. Ask for me directly or for my Chief Diener, Monsieur Albert Roumande. I would be more than happy for you to observe. But, as I said to the Inspector, I shan’t start till ten, and so perhaps, till then, you can get a little sleep?’ Without another word, the younger man patted, then took his father’s arm.
‘Thank goodness they’ve gone,’ quipped Adams. ‘I can do without the relatives breathing down my neck. But Sir William’s right about the press. They’ll be all over this one.’ Inspector Adams looked at Hatton for a second, then brought out his tin of tobacco. Hatton, despite himself, said nothing.
‘I prefer a cane tip. Wool gets in the teeth. Anyway, it’s going to be hard to operate in this jumble, eh, Professor?’ The penny smoke was lit. ‘It will be easier once we’ve moved her, but do what you can. Do whatever you like, in fact.’
The Inspector smiled at Hatton as he billowed out a haze of smoke, then waved it clear again. Hatton, meanwhile, got on with his work, examining the room, a muddle of woven baskets and copper pots, fossils, lumps of crystal, and by the bay window, three little upright music chairs, covered in brocade dresses. And on a table by her bed, a gorgeous display of conches. Hatton would have loved to put one to his ear and listen to the waves. He admired the largest,
Strombus gigas
. It was pink and wet with shine.
