Devoured (8 page)

She could see the islands up ahead and the looming warehouses. The boatman held the lamp aloft and helped her up the frost-grazed steps. Nightmen looked up from their work as she glided past and tried to catch her attention and call after her.

‘Heh, my pretty? Don’t leave me, my heart is breaking.’ They laughed.

‘Lord, what a beauty. Come back, angel. We loves you, we do.’

She smiled back, black ice glinting in the moonlight, but she knew there were bridges up ahead. Pushing her svelte frame against the chill, she swished on. And there along a lane by the river, an entrance brick plain, and above, a stag bellowing in pain.

She looked at the creature briefly, then turned away, reminding herself that she would speak to the Duke tomorrow. Make a visit to where the rich people lived. She despised all of them and would soon topple their empire, but not yet. She knew she had to wait. Sedition was a piece-by-piece endeavour. Revolution a misnomer in this country, not helped by the view of fools like Ashby, that with hard work and deference something good might happen. But Madame Martineau was not of this opinion. Her vision for the future was bigger and bolder, but ambition, she had learnt, like the clothes she stitched, often came with a snag. And her snag was money. Money to keep all of this going. Hadn’t she learnt that from the king himself? The Duke of Monreith, her most loyal customer.

She turned on her heels, knowing that a deal was a deal, whoever the player. She would honour their original agreement. And Monreith would pay her. Every damn guinea for this one. She felt cold, and began to shiver and pulled her stole around her, but then changed her mind, and using nimble fingers, loosened it a little. Yes, he would pay her, she thought. Or he’d hang with her, as well.

Her printing rooms were just along a bit from the Machars Trading Company. She lit a candle and the room flickered into life, illuminating her weapon store, which was not stuffed to the gill with cudgels, pickaxes, and swords but with an artillery of papers, illustrations, and all manner of seditious material. And in the centre of the room, a printing press, which wasn’t the latest or the fastest but would do the job well enough. The Chartists with their demonstrations and calls for justice had failed. But words circulated. Periodicals were debated. Ideas stimulated. Even here in England, Madam Martineau was certain, there was still a chance.

And how ironic that her secret printing press was just a spit away from Monreith’s sprawling empire, and how he didn’t know that this was how she spent the money he paid her. Not on bottles of rum or shots of opium, or the curse of gin which so many women in her predicament favoured, but words. Superheated words which promised to ignite everything, because all around her was the grinding poverty of labour. Long ago, Madame Martineau had vowed, that come what may, she would play her part. And that these nightmen and watchmen, these sailors and rope makers, would be grateful for her. They would rise to the occasion, lit by her words. They would bring the Duke of Monreith, and all like him – the dogs and their bitches – down to the same level as she was.

And it would be worth it. The pain of keeping all of this going. Madame Martineau ran her hand along the silenced machinery and picked up one of the many periodicals she favoured. The periodical fluttered in the tallow light, the sedition so deep inside the pages, so enticing she could taste it. She held the periodical to her mouth, pressed her lips upon the pages, and as she did so, felt the pain ebbing away. Madame Martineau sighed, tucked a little lock of hair behind a dainty ear, and put the periodical down. Knowing it was just around the corner. Her time would come.

FIVE

 

 

 

Hatton was back in the morgue and examining the body, to see Roumande had done the most excellent work. Lady Bessingham’s skull had been pieced back together like a jigsaw puzzle, whilst the skin on the back of her head was plumped out and re-configured with the usual concoction of wax, gelatine and isinglass. Meanwhile, the stitching around the top of her ears and down to the back of her neck had been wrought in an almost invisible cross-cross of linen thread.

‘Exquisite,’ said Hatton, fingering the thread as Roumande leant forward, taking Lady Bessingham’s hand in his as if he might kiss it. Hatton took a sharp intake of breath, confused for a moment as to his diener’s intention, but then remembering immediately the skin sample from the index finger he’d insisted upon earlier. Roumande twisted the hand around and reading Hatton’s mind said, ‘I have the skin sample ready as you requested, Professor, but I’ve also been intrigued by this tattoo on her ring finger. The flower looks like a rose, but I think it’s more exotic. Do you think it’s from the East?’

‘Perhaps, Albert. I don’t know why I didn’t ask Mr Broderig at the time. It’s certainly unusual, but since the Exhibition so many ladies’ fashions seem to draw their inspiration from the colonies. Did you go to it, Albert?’

‘I took my whole family and we made a day of it. It was unbearably warm inside and we all had ices. In my opinion, the glass house was the most impressive construction. It’s up at Sydenham now, I believe.’

‘Yes, but we digress and I need to look at the skin sample.’

Roumande held a square of laboratory glass towards Hatton. ‘When I was preparing her body yesterday, I re-examined her hands. There’s ink, but also something else. I don’t want to influence your observation, Adolphus, so you look, and we’ll see if we concur.’

The shard of flesh was no bigger than a shilling. A smudge of indigo lifted from her index finger.

Roumande positioned the gas lamp over a magnificent microscope. A Zeiss imported from Jena in Germany and a make, in Roumande’s opinion, without a competitor, such was its optical quality. The Zeiss reduced spherical aberration to a minimum and almost did away with the colour distortions Hatton had come to expect and to work around. The aperture of its lens was more accurate than any other instrument in its class. It stood up on its well-hinged, mahogany frame.

Hatton peered down the binocular columns, adjusting the turning wheels so that the image blurred then expanded again to crystal clear. Roumande was good and, so often, almost irritatingly right. But any professional jealousy was wiped away in an instant with the mounting excitement of what Hatton’s eyes saw now.

There was wax. The merest trace of it.

‘So she wrote a letter and sent it, using a seal perhaps? She was at work on the very day she died. I think we can say this without question. A Zeiss cannot lie, Roumande. But it could be she had just lit a candle.’

Roumande shook his head. ‘It’s blue wax, Professor. Your first impulse is the correct one. It’s sealing wax. Given her love of tattoos, I suspect the Penny Post was not sufficiently distinctive for Lady Bessingham.’

Hatton moved over to his desk and took a quill and handed it to Roumande. ‘Your illustrations are far more delicate than mine. I think I’ll go and see Mr Broderig and ask him to tell us a little more about our victim, and while I’m in Chelsea, I’ll double check for traces of wax. Inspector Adams will have to wait a little for his report because without these
i
’s dotted, the autopsy conclusions aren’t complete. Do you mind, friend?’

Roumande smiled. ‘Perhaps pass me a finer quill, Professor? If he’s a collector, he’ll know the flora. It’s certainly worth a try.’

Roumande penned a perfect copy of the tattoo. A briar, a roselike flower, a star.

Hatton rolled the piece of paper up, taking his coat down from the meat hook, and made his way to the house, which was easily found, having the biggest plot and positioned directly opposite Chelsea Physics Gardens. He checked the brass plate to make sure he wasn’t wrong, but etched in metal, Sir William’s name and title. Hatton rang the bell.

A servant said that he would see if the master was available. Hatton waited in the drawing room, admiring a miniature clock topped by a tiny Indian prince resplendent with a turban and an umbrella carved from solid gold. The face was set to the right time – eleven-thirty in the morning. The servant came back and announced, ‘Mr Broderig will see you now, sir.’

Benjamin Broderig was at his desk and dressed in black. He looked up from a map opened before him, a large green ledger to his left, and said, ‘Good morning, Professor. Can I offer you some coffee or a sherry, perhaps? We have a fine Manzanilla.’

Hatton smiled and said Manzanilla sounded exactly right for this weather. ‘I have been up all night again, so please forgive my not making an appointment with you, Mr Broderig, but I have come on spec. I think you might be able to help me.’

‘Not at all, Professor. Please, sit by the fire. I’ve been up all night myself, because my mind is so restless here in London. There’s a great deal of administration, when death comes. But forgive me, as you can see, I’m not busy with the details of Lady Bessingham’s estate just at the moment.’ He patted the map. ‘An obsession of mine …’ Hatton looked at what appeared to be an island.

‘Is that Borneo, Mr Broderig?’

‘No, it isn’t, but you’re very close. It’s where I intend to travel next if I can raise enough capital. I met a man from Usk who by now will be collecting birds of paradise in the Aru Islands. This is the largest of the Arus, Tanahbesar. It’s my intention to join him. Perhaps you have heard of him? His name is Alfred Russel Wallace.’

Hatton shook his head.

‘Well, he’s not so celebrated as Mr Darwin but he shares a patron with me. Dr Joseph Hooker of the Linnean Society.’ Broderig paused. ‘I can see already by your face, Professor, that you’ve heard of him.’

‘Dr Hooker. But, of course. He’s a very eminent man.’

‘Yes,’ answered Broderig, taking a little key and placing his ledger into a drawer, before turning the lock and saying, ‘And by what the Inspector said to me, you’ll soon be joining Dr Hooker in the Hall of Fame. He’s very impressed with you.’

Hatton was delighted to hear such praise. ‘I’ve done very little so far, but yes, forensics I believe is the way forward, although it’s very early days. And Inspector Adams seems to want to understand my work and be prepared to listen, to take advice, or that is my impression.’

Broderig nodded, enthused by this company. ‘I think he does, Professor. And to have one’s ideas listened to. Isn’t that what we Men of Science all desire? But come, how exactly can I help you?’

Hatton took Roumande’s sketch from his doctor’s bag and placed it over the map of the Arus. Broderig nodded. ‘It’s the tattoo, isn’t it? It’s a very good likeness.’ The young man sighed. ‘Lady Bessingham was a very strong-willed woman. It’s
Paphiopedilum katheriniadum
. I discovered the flower and named it after her, and so I suppose she took it as a little symbol of her own and added the star, which is also Dayak.’

Hatton looked puzzled. ‘Ah, sorry, Professor. Dayak. I think I mentioned the term yesterday. It’s the name of the forest people in Borneo.’

Hatton listened, mystified, and at the same time excited, but a servant appeared at the door and set the cups and glasses down, all jangling together on a silver tray, an unwanted interruption. Broderig waited till the drinks were poured and, ignoring the coffee, knocked back the sherry. Hatton did the same.

Broderig continued, ‘Now let me see, I have a book somewhere.’ He crossed the room and climbed up a ladder, which was leaning against a wall stacked with shelves of books. ‘I can show you more examples, but there are better pictures in the British Museum. My collection of anthropology is very poor, I’m afraid. There’s a specialist you could talk to who could tell you more. His name is Dr John Canning. He is a botanist by training but has long since veered off and is interested in the native savage, whereas I stick with my lizards and butterflies.’ Broderig opened the book.

‘Here’s the meaning of it.’ He read it out, his voice cracking slightly. ‘The star is to light the way to the next world. I’m sorry, Professor.’ He took the bottle of sherry and poured himself another. ‘I don’t wish to vex you with my unmanly sentiment. To light her way, Professor? She’ll need it now.’

Hatton rested his hand on Broderig’s shoulder and waited for the weight of grief to pass. Broderig sat down again. ‘But tell me, on another subject entirely. What will happen to the girl?’

‘The girl in the mortuary?’

‘Perhaps you are inured to such sights in your work and I shouldn’t have looked I suppose.’

Hatton shook his head. What could he say? ‘We’ve had girls like her before and Roumande gets incensed by it. They are gay girls, Mr Broderig, there’s no delicate way to put it and we are men of the world, are we not? Girls who lift their petticoats to make a living. It’s a dangerous profession.’

‘But she was a child? Can The Yard do nothing about it?’

‘The police do what they can, which is to move the girls on from place to place, though it achieves little. Roumande is planning to speak to Adams about her, much good it will do.’

‘And you sleep at night? Knowing this, Professor?’