Devoured (33 page)

‘So, I think this is the place. Yes, look up ahead, Adolphus. I’m sure it is.’

As their carriage pulled into Monreith Square, the house announced itself. It could be no other. Hatton was sure of it. The two men ran up to the main door but it was shut. They went around back to the servants’ entrance.

When they left the morgue, Hatton had given the gun to the better shot, remembering the Inspector’s words. Aim and fire. Adams’s last, Hatton now realised. As a boy he had shot a handful of rabbits, but he had never used a weapon like this one. Roumande had looked at the gun in the carriage, caressing the metal in his bear-like hands, pressing his finger lightly on the curve of the trigger, and had asked one question. ‘Is it loaded?’

They were soon in an entrance hall burning with lamps and could hear servants scuttling and someone shouting, but the two friends carried on up the fanning stairs to a room where an old man lay sobbing with something dead in his arms. But where was the dressmaker? The old man was muttering something over and over again about children and letters. But Hatton was distracted because he recognised, hanging over a chair, a well-worn travel bag, and on the desk, Broderig’s ledger.

Roumande spoke to the clerk, ‘Do you know this man?’

Ashby looked up and answered, ‘He was my master, but he was dead when I found him.’

‘We’re looking for someone. Her name is Madame Martineau. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?’

‘Madame Martineau, you say? Did she do this, then? But that makes no sense at all, because she was making money from us. I came to ask him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. She gave me these letters, but I had to pay for them.’ The old man looked at some letters still in his hand, which were tied with a bright-blue ribbon. Dainty in descriptive ink, the paper was flesh-coloured and run through with a monogrammed
M.
Hatton snatched them, read them, and as he read on, page after page, the innuendoes gave way to something more obvious. An intake of breath. An ardent tongue. The pain of love. A push, a shove. Then slashes and pricks.

Hatton put the letters down and looked at the heap before him, thinking he could have hung the Duke again, slit his throat and wielded such violence on that sorry sack of evil that it momentarily shocked him.

So had she killed the Duke for this? Or did she provide it? Hatton thought of the girls in the sweatshop. Of their sallow complexions and of Violet and the angel in the box, who he knew was not like the others. She had died by drowning and had been tucked in that orange box, her hair brushed, her hands just so, like a sign from Heaven, showing them the way, telling them something. Property of D.W.R. Dodds. And as he was trying to think about what all of this meant, the room filled with noise from the gathering of servants. Hatton watched the gun glint as Roumande pointed it, his finger on the trigger.

‘We’ll call the police,’ Hatton heard one of them cry and Roumande say, ‘Do it, then. It’s about time, you drunks. Meantime, you’d better not come anywhere nearer if you know what’s good for you.’

Hatton moved back over to the windows and sat down at the Duke’s huge desk. Fog and snow. The worst weather yet. The thickening vapours were yellow-tinged and murky, like the great river that snaked through London.

‘What’s in the ledger, Adolphus? Is there anything in that that would help us, for there’s no trace of any dressmaker here.’

What had Broderig said? ‘
Write it down, Inspector
.’ The quill in his throat.
Camponotus gigas
. Forest ants and their blind sense of purpose. Hatton opened the ledger, already knowing what he’d see. The candle threw a beam of light across the owner’s name. Had Broderig mentioned this man? On the train to Cambridge? The name said, ‘Property of Mr Christiaan Ackerman. 1855, The Malay Archipelago.’

Hatton turned the pages, which were filled with goods in and out. Imports and exports. Listed commodities. And the details of customers, companies and individuals, with names that included Finch, Mr Dodds, and the Duke of Monreith, plus their addresses in London. And by the names, it said:
Specimens. Age seven, eight, six. Gender, female.

What had the Feltwell boy said? That the Mucker’s child had gone missing. That there’d been a fuss at the time but that the case was dropped. Benjamin Broderig had been at Cambridge as an undergraduate, and it dawned on Hatton that when Broderig returned from Borneo, he must have headed there, the ledger in his hand, knowing that he would find someone who’d be only too willing to help. It all made sense now. Finch, pleading for his life as he faced certain death at the hands of two men. One young and fearless, the other old but determined, as they stabbed him in the heart and cut him into pieces. And of course, thought Hatton to himself, the old porter at the lodge had cataracts. He was no watchdog. He was practically blind.

The last page of the ledger described a glorious river journey and mentioned names of the party that had travelled with this man. Mister Benjamin Broderig. It was the last entry. Hatton understood everything. ‘I know this ledger. Though he never showed me what it contained. It was the secret which devoured him.’

By the time the two friends reached Chelsea, the sun was coming up. Swan Walk was no less elegant than the sweeping terraces of Mayfair. A topiary garden with clipped box hedges frosted with snow. Hatton could hear his own voice yelling, ‘Open up!’

A servant, looking bleary-eyed, did so, and beyond him, Sir William Broderig in a silk dressing gown.

‘Where’s your son, Sir William? We need to find him.’

‘I don’t know. But what the devil is this? What do you mean by this unwarranted intrusion?’

‘Your son has lost his way, Sir William. We must save him from himself and stop the killing,’ Hatton answered, knowing this was the truth.

‘Killing? What the devil are you saying? He’s not here, I tell you. He’s been out all night. I can’t keep track of him. He goes down to the river to see if his specimens have returned.’ Sir William was ringing his hands.

Roumande grabbed Sir William by the scruff of his neck. ‘And where would that be? By the river? Which bit of river, you old fool?’

‘The Isle of Dogs. To the portside near the Machars Trading Company. His ship is returning this morning.’

The two men headed east along the river to the Isle of Dogs. A sober grey light fell flat about them as they moved along the wharfside, and the snow was still falling in the bilious fog. The warehouses loomed up before them. A web of cobbled ditches, and cries about them, of rivermen and seagulls.

The Machars Trading Company was spectral and menacing, but they were already past it moving quickly to another place, where shadows of men and boats cracked through the ice.

But where was he? Where was Broderig?

Then Hatton saw him. Benjamin Broderig sauntering along the wharfside, one gloved hand in his pocket, the other with his gun.

‘He has a pocket pistol, Adolphus. We need to be careful.’ Hatton called out, ‘Please, Ben. For your own sake, give yourself up!’

Broderig turned around, his pistol pointing directly at the Professor, and then almost as an afterthought, he turned away and sped off.

Roumande shouted, ‘Quick, Adolphus. I’ll keep pace. But mind yourself. I’ll shoot if I have to.’

‘Broderig. Stop, I say! We know what you did.’ But Hatton’s voice was carried across the river, deadened by a fog horn.

Broderig vanished into the river mist.

‘Which way did he go?’

Roumande answered by pointing straight ahead, where the vessels decreased in number and the fog thickened. But then a rasping cough.

‘He’s up ahead.’

Knowing if they could corner him, they had him, because the fog was shrouding their approach. And as they drew closer, Hatton caught sight of Broderig, who stood for a second, his hand pressed to his chest, before he shot away again behind flapping sails of calico.

‘Keep to my left side, Adolphus. There’s nowhere to go. He’s no runner, for that’s an asthmatic cough. He won’t get far before his lungs seize up in this weather. The land turns to marshes soon. We will have him any minute now.’

Roumande was right. But what was he doing? He was heading away from the warehouses, which would have kept him hidden, and instead was moving out into the open water where the great prison hulks dominated the skyline. There was no escape this way. He must have known that. And if he had a gun and had taken other lives, why didn’t he stop and face them? Why didn’t he shoot?

And then Hatton saw it. Ahead, a magnificent ship, laden with cargo. And on the side of the ship, its name –
The Advancement
.

Broderig knew they were following him. But could it be that he was leading them? And it occurred to Hatton that perhaps he’d been leading them since the very beginning.

Broderig had constantly asked Adams about the welfare of the girls. In the yard at St Bart’s, drinking tuak in the snow, Broderig had offered up information about Dr Finch – who he was, where they could find him, what he wrote about. But at the same time, claimed he’d never met the man. Of course, Hatton realised now it was lies. All lies.

And Broderig’s constant jibbing at Inspector Adams wasn’t the stuff of an overzealous young man, inclined to outbursts of temper. Hatton knew for certain now that Broderig wanted Inspector Adams to pay attention to the one thing which tormented him. An evil trade stretching to the farthest corners of the earth – children bought and sold, who were abused, beaten, and then killed by rich men like the Duke of Monreith, one of many customers in Ackerman’s ledger book.

Which is why Broderig had begged Inspector Adams to visit Monreith Square and debated the issue of justice so vehemently in the carriage back to London. Of course. Broderig wanted Adams to do his job properly and arrest Monreith, ending the trade with a public hanging, which could only be secured by The Yard. But Adams didn’t act. Because Adams wouldn’t listen. If only he’d listened, thought Hatton, his mind racing. But he didn’t, and so he had to pay the price. He had to be punished.

But why kill Adams at the museum? And then Hatton heard something. A voice in his head. Two voices. If he shut his eyes for a second, Hatton could hear them in the drawing room at Ashbourne.

Broderig must have hidden in Dr Canning’s office, perhaps forged a note and pretended to be him. The sharpened quill through his throat? Yes, Broderig must have lured Adams to the museum, exasperated but knowing that the only way to end these crimes was to finish the job himself.

The river fog was blowing out across the brackish water. It made the great sails flap and sent an eerie sound of wailing through the vessel’s timber frame. The cries of seabirds, across the choppy water, were high tones and whistles.

‘He’s stopped, Adolphus.’

The two men hung back and watched him, half-hidden by the scaffolding which stretched along the river.

‘We have to get him to lay down his gun, Albert, and then arrest him. Are you ready, friend?’

But something was holding both of them back. What was he opening? He had a crowbar in his hands, and was pulling back a lid which was slowly coming open. Roumande stepped forward towards the vessel, his hand on walnut and metal.

‘Wait, Albert. Let me speak to him. He trusts me. Ben? For pity’s sake, give yourself up …’ But the wind took Hatton’s voice and sent the words like bits of paper hurtling up and away. Hatton spoke again, this time shouting, ‘Broderig! Turn around. For pity’s sake, friend. I know what you did. And why.’

On command, Broderig turned around to face Hatton and was speaking, a half-smile upon his lips, but his voice was flat and disappeared in the brake of the tidal water, which was splashing against the dockside, nullified against the lee of the land.

‘Stand aside, Professor! I have him in my sight.’ It was Roumande.

Hatton heard his friend, and shouted, ‘No, Broderig. Don’t …’ and heard a crack. One shot. That was all it took. Broderig fell backwards, his own gun smoking, a penny dimensional hole in the side of his head.

The two men moved forwards. Roumande first to check that Broderig was dead, his own pistol unused but still at the ready, and then Hatton, who moved reluctantly, as if he was a visitor to this place and had work to do that involved some humdrum inspection. But in truth, Hatton was in shock at the death of a friend. Because despite everything, that was what Benjamin Broderig was to him. A good man, lost. But Hatton said nothing and looked in the open crate, into which Broderig had fallen. His body bent over a great jumble of stuff. A fish, some frames, nets, and guns. But the strangest of all, at the bottom of the crate was a creature. It had arms like a man’s and a face so forlorn, as if it knew something. But its eyes were not its own. They were glass. Hatton peered more closely, as if to find the creature’s soul. But all that was offered was a distorted image of himself, reflected back.

TWENTY-FOUR