Devoured (30 page)
The girl sniffed and held out her spindly arms. ‘Thank you, Kitty. Thank you, my dear.’
Kitty pulled her arms back as quickly as she had shot them out, and gave a great final sniff before sitting down again at her work.
Hatton’s eyes filled with a visible disgust at the sight of the needle pricks and the deep cuts where she’d been slashed by something sharp. They left the workshop girls to their stitching, Hatton hastily promising Kitty he’d return with a shiny buckle. ‘My word,’ he promised.
In the carriage, Adams was wrestling with his many pockets, agitated.
‘I’ve bloody well lost something or one of those girls is a little thief.’ He began to shower the seat with bits from his coat. Scraps of string, a handful of coppers, cigarette papers, and several boxes of Swans.
‘Is this what you are searching for, Inspector?’ Hatton handed over a tin of tobacco, which he’d seen Adams place down on one of the trestle tables. The Inspector gave Hatton a look of such gratitude, it made the Professor laugh a little, though reluctantly, for he had not forgiven the Inspector. Far from it.
‘I must confess that I cannot think without a puff or two. It helps my mind focus and you would know the importance of that from your own demanding work. Would you care for a cigarette?’
Hatton declined. To him, this drug was bitter and disgusting. ‘You’re quite the purist, aren’t you, Professor? No bad habits at all, eh?’ The Inspector looked at the Professor for a second but Hatton said nothing. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ Adams said as he lit one up. ‘Nothing like them in the world.’ Very slim and tapering, it hung from his mouth and he sucked it up into his lungs.
‘Oh, that reminds me, Inspector.’ Hatton reached inside his coat and brought the notebook out. ‘I’ve been meaning to give this to you. You left it in The Old Cheshire Cheese. It was Olinthus Babbage’s. Might it still be useful?’
Adams nodded and popped it in his waistcoat. ‘Thank you, Professor. Perhaps Broderig is right? That I am getting forgetful. There’s some names still need following up and I might show this notebook to Dr Canning. He seems to know a great deal about the value of these missing letters. Perhaps if I show him this, it might jog something? Who might want them? Who might like to buy them? But for now we must focus on finding this woman.’
Hatton concurred for he, too, had been impressed by Dr Canning. He looked out of the window. The sun was dipping from the sky as the coach began to slow. The Isle of Dogs. Adams fumbled in his pocket again. ‘It’s standard issue, Professor. Do you know how to use it?’
Hatton looked at the pistol. ‘Yes, I think so. Aim and fire?’ Hatton asked, slightly perplexed.
‘Aim and fire, Professor. Exactly. So, here we are then. This is where the girl said. One up from the Machars Trading Company. Salmon Street.’
The printing rooms at the dockside were empty. The door was ajar. There was nothing to say anyone worked here at all, except for a pile of pamphlets and leaflets which were stacked up in the corner by one of the walls. Adams opened one of the leaflets, laughed, and handed it to Hatton, who looked at a cartoon of an old man having his balls licked by a surprised looking collie.
‘Making that bitch’s day, isn’t he? Lord Carruthers. Did a bit of work for him, a while back. Bit libelish to spread such scurrilous rumours, though? Says he has six months left and has syphilis. Don’t they all? Well, seems our Madame Martineau has ideas above her station, and this alone is enough to hang her.’
Hatton looked askance. ‘For cartoons, Inspector?’
‘It’s seditious, Professor. Designed to destabilise order. Practically treason, you could argue. And believe me, there’s plenty who would. Come on, let’s not dilly-dally. There’s nothing here to help us. But where she’s gone, who knows? I need to get my men stationed at both her places so the minute she shows her face, we’ll have her. And I’d better see if there’s been any progress on the other leads.’
Adams continued, ‘So you reckon old Finch was stabbed by a fishing knife?’ Hatton nodded, having already brought the Inspector up to speed. ‘Which means we’ll have to go back to Wickham Fen, Professor. Not that we’d find him. But what’s the connection between Finch and Madame Martineau, I wonder?’
‘The Mucker said his daughter had gone missing,’ offered Hatton. ‘Perhaps she came to London and ended up in The Borough. Perhaps Finch got her with child and found her work with Madame Martineau. You heard the porter suggest he had a way with girls. And bought silk shirts from London. It’s not uncommon, but she was only twelve …’
‘Twelve is old enough. Put it in your report, Hatton, and I’ll deal with it later. But nothing to link the Mucker, forensically speaking, with the other corpses?’
No, Hatton said. Nothing forensic at all. ‘So will you go to Monreith Square now, Inspector? As Mr Broderig suggested?’
Adams was non-committal with, ‘As I explained to him, I can’t just waltz into any old house and start throwing my weight about. I have no name, as such. No actual address. No tangible link. And frankly, it’s more than my job’s worth. I’m looking for another person, entirely. And I won’t rest until I have my hands on that woman. Once she’s dealt with, the rest is just tidying up. So, a lift to St Bart’s then, Professor?’
Hatton shook his head. ‘No, Inspector. I’ll walk from here. The air will do me good.’
Scotland Yard’s main incident room was quiet, although a few detectives were still about. One or two greeted Inspector Adams as he hung his gabardine coat up. He couldn’t go on like this, but he knew that he would, despite the dangers. Would Hatton do anything? Would he say anything?
Adams looked at the pile of papers on his desk, to see an envelope marked
Urgent, For The Attention of Inspector Adams
. He quickly opened it up, intrigued, and read the details written. At last. This case had done him enough damage. It would only be a matter of time before the Commissioner was on his back again, and despite his show of bravado in the carriage about how the case was almost closed, Adams knew full well he had to tie up all the pieces. And the note promised him this and more, but it also came with a warning.
Tell no one. And come alone
. The note was signed,
Yours faithfully, Dr Canning
. So, thought Adams, he must have come back to London and spoken to one of his colleagues, just as he promised he would.
‘Well, I might as well get on with it.’ Adams stubbed the penny smoke out and, stepping out into the cold night’s air, looked towards St James’ Park. And it occurred to Adams that Hatton seemed really chummy with that Broderig fellow. What if he blabbed? And there was Roumande, too. He shook his head, and remembered that molly boy comment at The Old Cheshire Cheese. How could he have been so stupid? He felt inside his coat and pulling out his hip flask, took a sip, thinking it was his word against theirs, if it came to it. There was no evidence against him. There was nothing.
He hailed a carriage thinking he’d give it up. The boy, the hotels, all of it. He’d damn well end it. Adams looked out of the window. He could see where they were. Great Russell Street. His legs were heavy but he got out and paid the driver. Gave him a tip. Why not? He looked at the colossus, which rose majestic, and above it, a flicker of stars in the night sky of London. The sky bore down on him. Just one more push and life could be good again. And he didn’t have to stay in this city. He could get a position in Bristol, Leeds, anywhere else would do, but Adams knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Life had already consumed him.
Adams looked ahead at the British Museum, its angular form a blank silhouette. He looked down the paving slabs which blinked, pinprick specs of silver, sequined ice warning him not to slip.
There was still a single light on inside, a porter keeping the night vigil and watching over the vast collection of treasures which lay encased within. Adams had taken his children here once on a rare day off, and with a smile, remembered the antiquities and natural curiosities, the elaborate headdresses from South Sea Islands and Paleolithic flint.
Adams flashed his card and asked for Dr Canning.
‘Well, if he says he’s here, he is. He keeps funny hours, that one. Can’t say I’ve seen him tonight, but you never know,’ said the porter. ‘You look like a man who can find their own way. Up the stairs, then on a bit, then third door on the left. You can’t miss it.’
Adams passed under arches, up the central stairs, and along a long stretch of corridor to see a small light flickering at the end of the hall. Perhaps this was the place? Adams looked about him and a display caught his eye. A huge glass cabinet imprisoning a myriad of tiny birds, and their wings outstretched as if they were flying. They had needles for beaks and their wings fanned out like butterflies dipping in flower blossoms, drinking and pollinating. But the petals couldn’t compete in beauty with the velvet tourmalines, copper heads, and emerald plumages of the little birds.
A glimpse was enough. He sighed, and felt a little less troubled. And now directly in front of him was Dr Canning’s door. Dr Canning had promised he’d be here, and had said in the note that what he had to tell Inspector Adams would explain everything. Who the killer was. How all the murders were connected. The Inspector cleared his throat, and tapped on the door.
Where the devil was Ashby? The Duke of Monreith had had a hectic day or two, not helped by the sudden absence of his clerk and several important discussions with several important people. Representatives from the Oxford Movement, revisions to the Factory Acts, and all matters concerning the government of his sprawling empire, which stretched from Belgravia to the farthest corners of the world. And then there was the matter of that bloody bookseller. Still, the fire had been a good one, ensuring no trace of the Duke’s name anywhere. Any ledgers, any mention of customers and suppliers was now like its owner – ashes and dust.
The Duke of Monreith unrolled the parchment scroll again, poured himself a glass of Machars whisky, thinking blink and you’d miss it, but not Madame Martineau, who had an excellent eye for detail. One reference only, and not the Duke’s name, but the name of his company. And that braggart Ackerman drinking his malt, and talking of secrets till his last sorry breath. He knew he shouldn’t have sent the whisky, but a deal was a deal and he’d honoured it. Along with an endless supply of money. Did anyone else who saw these letters make sense of it all, he wondered? His little whore certainly had. She’d put two and two together. Well, although he’d argued against it many times in The House, it was one good reason for educating women. He laughed to himself a little uneasily, and then continued flicking through the rest of the parchment letters. So much nonsense about flora and fauna, and some boring old bugger called Alfred Russel Wallace, who played chess. Fucking botanicals. He was sick to death of them.
But the words which haunted him were not in Latin, relating to genus and species. They were hidden, dangerous, and made mention of children. Subtle hints, scraps of conversation, names here and there, poison which could ruin him. No different from being linked to that pornography merchant, Dodds. The Duke knew he would have to find another supplier, but there were plenty in Hollywell Street, where he presumed Dr Finch used to go to find examples to back up his arguments. To demonstrate clearly, Man was Beast. Monreith had read his various private essays on transmutation, and the general argument that Man was animal in his instincts. Yes, of course, Dr Finch was right. Man had needs, desires, impulses. Who could argue with that, because trade and the empire were built on such principles. And that at the age of ten, or even younger, those little madams were women. Why, hadn’t they said so themselves, in the notes supplied by Madame Martineau? She sometimes sent him a few when the girls weren’t free or were not to his liking. He always insisted on his own private paper and for the girls to write their words directly across his monogram; across the M so the very curl of the font, the gold of the crest, like a mouth, swallowed them.
The Duke tucked these private affairs away in his desk, kept hidden. Such delicious words, they tormented him with how much they desired him. How they wanted to be touched and caressed. And had not God ordained it so? God must have done because Dr Finch, the great theology don, had said so. But at the thought of God, Monreith cowered, looking over his shoulder.
For pity’s sake, didn’t he, and those like him, help the poor? Put food in their belly? And wasn’t it part of the order of things? He took the girls in, sheltered them. He damn well nurtured them, just like Ophelie Martineau, and look how clever she’d turned out to be. Though she was getting rather greedy. Still, she had one last job to do, and then perhaps he would be finished with her.
The Duke looked at the scrolls of parchment for a second, and then tossing them into the fire, one by one, watched the letters crackle then glow. Snow feathered against the window, whilst the blackened smoke curled and the words of Ackerman and his specimens were silenced forever.
