Devoured (23 page)

‘Adolphus, are you alright, friend?’ It was Roumande back at his side again. ‘Constable, get this man some salts. He’s going to faint.’

But Hatton didn’t. ‘I’m perfectly well, Albert. I just need a drink.’

Roumande laid his hand gently upon Hatton’s shoulder. ‘I think we all do, Professor.’

The ancient tavern jutted out onto Fleet Street, its once whitewashed walls now a dirty yellow. Inspector Adams sat down, took his coat off, put his hat down, and took his notebook out. He turned to Roumande.

‘So, you’re quite the expert on stitching.’

Roumande gave the Inspector a weak smile. ‘My wife takes a little sewing in at home. She taught me all I know and helped me to develop a more delicate line for working the cadavers. But I’ve never seen a fellow stitched like that.’

Adams nodded to himself and called out, ‘Now then, where’s that bartender? I’m gasping for a pint. Monsieur Roumande? What’ll it be? A glass of cassis? Isn’t that what you French fellows drink? Purple stuff which looks like a lady’s cordial. And you, Professor, you’ll join me in an ale?’

Hatton nodded quickly as his eyes flitted to Roumande, feeling the insult.

‘So,’ continued Adams, ‘let’s look at this notebook, shall we? Perhaps there are names in here. Perhaps he knew our other victims.’ Adams ran his finger down the scribbles on the page. ‘Well, there’s little doubt. A treasure trove, you might say. Here’s just a few. Shall I read them out?’

Hatton sat forward. ‘Never mind the names, look at the headline, “Essay on the Immutability of Species”. He was writing about science, Inspector.’

‘Well, he never got to start, never mind finish. How very irritating, but look here. The initials ‘L.B.’ Perhaps a coincidence, but I don’t think so. And the word “source” written as well.’ Adams carried on flicking through. ‘Various eateries and bordellos mentioned with times and dates. We’ll check up on those, but no mention of any Dr Finch or Mr Dodds. And here’s a name I don’t know, a Dr John Canning, and next to it the word “verification”. Any ideas, please, gentlemen?’

Hatton spoke. ‘He’s an academic at the British Museum. Why, only the other day Mr Broderig mentioned him. I believe he is something called an anthropologist. It’s a very new science. Mr Broderig spoke highly of him and even had some of his books. Lady Bessingham’s tattoo is very similar to a native people from Borneo, I believe.’

‘Indeed.’ Adams raised a brow. He called over one of his Specials who had been slouching at the bar, ‘Get over to the British Museum, again.’

‘We’ve interviewed everyone there already, sir,’ said the policeman.

Adams stood up, gave the policeman a thwack around the back of his head, and said, ‘Well do it again, and this time ask specifically for Dr John Canning. And if he’s not available, seek him out. Find out where he lives, where he goes, if he takes sugar in his tea – and make it snappy.’

Adams sat back down again, shaking his head, and looked at Roumande.

‘So, monsieur. How well did you know Mr Babbage?’

Roumande shrugged. ‘It is as I told you, Inspector. He was a general commentator and invariably got it wrong. I’m no admirer of these broad-brush writers. Like the Professor, I’m a man of fact and detail.’

‘I can see that, monsieur. I watched you with the knife the other day at the morgue. Turning it into an art, I might say. But I digress. Here’s our ales, but still nothing for you, sir. Maybe not on the job, eh, Professor? A knife-wielding mortuary assistant, drunk before noon?’ Adams laughed, but Hatton braced himself, knowing what was coming.

‘
Merde. Quel trou du cul! Excusez-moi, Professeur, je sors prendre un café
.’ Roumande spoke French rarely. ‘So you know, Inspector. I find English ale to be vile like some Englishmen’s manners. I need some air.’

The Inspector gave Hatton a wink but the Professor shrunk from it. It would be best to let sleeping dogs lie. He sat stony-faced with the Inspector, sipping his drink, and through the mottled window, Hatton could see Roumande chatting to a coffee grinder. Roumande seemed animated; they were sharing a joke together.

‘Let me introduce you to Mr Gad, Professor. He’s the landlord here.’

The man, who was now standing in front of them, laden down with plates of steaming food, bowed obsequiously. ‘Inspector Adams. It’s an honour, sir. I follow all of your cases in the papers. An honour, sir, an honour indeed.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Adams said impatiently. ‘Let’s have the food, then. I for one am hungry. Sit yourself down please, Mr Gad, because I want to ask you about one of your customers.’

‘God rest his soul, is it poor Mr Babbage that brings you here? What a business to slit a throat like that and so near to The Old Cheshire Cheese. And poor Mr Dodds as well, just a hop from here.’

‘Well, I suspect, Mr Gad, that’s why you’re so busy. A little notoriety never does a tavern any harm, eh?’

Mr Gad forced a laugh. ‘You’re jesting, of course, Inspector.’

Adams lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in the landlord’s face. ‘I never jest about murder.’

The landlord nodded, his face now suitably solemn.

‘So, Mr Gad,’ continued Adams, ‘what do you know of Babbage? And also Mr Dodds, for that matter?’

Gad scratched his badly pitted skin. ‘Mr Babbage was a radical when it suited him, a columnist for the
Westminster Review
. He was a regular here. Mr Dodds came in now and then, although you’d hardly know it. He was the very opposite to Mr Babbage. Quiet as a mouse, kept himself to himself. Would order half a pint and make it last all night. He was the sort of customer I had no wish to encourage. Not that I’d wish him dead.’

‘Go on, Mr Gad. I’m listening.’

Adams asked if he’d seen anything suspicious in the last few nights, anything out of the ordinary. The tavern owner replied that he had noted Mr Babbage, God rest his soul, dining with a youngish man only the night before last, in fact. ‘Boiled potatoes and chops, or was it beef? Making notes Mr Babbage was, nodding and laughing with the man, and when they’d finished their food, shaking hands. I was distracted a little as there was, now I recall, someone unusual sitting in the corner. She kept her eyes from me, but such lashes. An unusual flower, I’d say, of the foreign variety.’

The tavern owner continued, ‘Anyway, the men were locked in conversation. Mr Babbage was a regular customer, but I had never seen the other one before. But he looked out of sorts, Inspector. And shifty. Shifty, yes, that’s the word.’

Mr Gad continued, hoiking the odd bit of spit up as he talked, ‘Gorgeous she was. Tiny waist.’ He sent a spray of spittle before him. ‘Dressed in black, red rabbit fur. Quite the little lady. An actress perhaps.’ Gad winked. Adams laughed. ‘And little boots. I noticed that. Her ankles were slim.’ Mr Gad winked again, this time at Hatton.

Adams unfolded a piece of paper from his left-hand pocket. ‘Anything like this, Mr Gad?’ Hatton looked, too, and saw the likeness of a maid, clear-faced and pretty. Gad laughed. ‘No, nothing like that. She’s very plain, ain’t she? No, this one was,’ and he smiled and drew a shape in the fetid air of the tavern. Out, in, and out again.

Roumande came back in, rubbing his hands together.

‘How was your coffee?’ asked Adams, looking up from his notebook.

‘The coffee was excellent. French and of the finest quality, according to that costermonger, and he’s been running that stand for nigh on a decade.’

‘Really?’ Adams smirked. ‘How interesting.’

‘Well, he’s heard of you, Inspector, and he remembers when you used to work around The Strand. Says it was your patch for a while, along with St James’ Park, when they were clearing up the molly boys. Do you recall him, Inspector? Says you were in charge of vice.’

‘Recall a coffee grinder?’ Adams drew on his cigarette. ‘I hardly think so. It’s well known I ran vice for a number of years, earning my stripes. And the molly boy thing was a while ago. We did an excellent job, and what of it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Roumande. ‘Nothing at all, but yes, he does remember you. Says you also do quite a bit of private work for toffs around Belgravia and Mayfair.’

Adams shrugged, and knocked a glug back.

‘It’s no secret. We all do. Do you know how much The Yard pays a policeman? Even a senior one?’

Roumande smiled, but Hatton felt uncomfortable. ‘If you are finished on Mr Babbage, perhaps then, Inspector, we can discuss the girls?’

‘Girls? Which girls do you mean, monsieur? I have my mind on one only, and her name is Flora James. I’ve got the whole damn Force looking for her, as we speak.’

‘Are you being deliberately vague, Inspector? Not the maid. The other girls. The one I did the autopsy for and the little angel sleeping in the box, which led us directly to the bookseller. Do you know how many I’ve seen like that? I make it four now, in the last three years. All of them, save the last, tortured, slashed, and dumped in an alley. But the last was different. She was a virgin, Inspector. Do you know what I think?’

Adams sighed. ‘What do you think, monsieur?’

‘That the killer of these children is either getting more daring or less fussy. It’s not just gay girls he’s after any more. But didn’t you look at the autopsy report on the train? Adolphus gave it to you, didn’t you, Professor?’

Inspector Adams, even in the half light of the tavern, grew pale. ‘Professor Hatton, please spare me from the wrath of this man. How many times, monsieur? We got the endless letters you sent us, but we have no time to answer them all. You simply send too many, and I know you speak against The Yard when you can. You think we’re stupid, don’t you? You’re a foreigner and have little understanding of an Englishman’s reputation, or The Yard’s, but if you damned well suggest I’m not doing my job, I’ll …’

Hatton quickly interjected, ‘But perhaps you should look again, Inspector, for Roumande thinks all these girls are connected. You didn’t look at the report, Inspector, did you?’ Hatton felt something. Was it panic or relief? He couldn’t tell, but he was glad he’d finally said something which felt like the truth.

Adams stood up. ‘What do you take me for? To suggest I care more about these botanicals than children is an outrage. I have a job to do, leads to follow, and when I get through my mountain of paperwork, a home to go to. Today is the Sabbath, if you hadn’t noticed. I’ve nothing left to do here. Mr Gad, good day to you, sir.’

Hatton watched Adams leave. The Inspector left the door open so the snow whooshed into the tavern, and he turned back fleetingly, his face a vapour. ‘Unlike you two, it seems, I have to report back to my superiors. Get the autopsy for Dr Finch ready, Professor. This is the last time I’ll ask you nicely. If you can’t cope, I can always send the cadavers to St Mary’s. Would you prefer that?’

Hatton, exasperated, stood up and followed him, picking up the hack’s notebook, which had been left on the table. Outside the air was freezing. ‘Inspector, please. If we have overstepped the mark, I apologise. Let’s not part on these terms. Of course we can cope. We will do the exacting work we always do. Monsieur Roumande is a capital fellow and he loves children, sir. He has five of his own including two girls, and that’s his concern. He meant no harm and did not wish to insult you.’

‘Do you think I am so high and mighty I can take no criticism? Quite frankly, I’m used to it. But as it happens, if you genuinely want to make my life easier, then please tell your friend I could do with him at the station. I didn’t mean to offend him, either. I think it might be useful to show him what I have on these girls. Could you spare your excellent fellow for an hour or so? To put his mind at rest? I can show him all the case notes pertaining to these girls when we get to The Yard and then perhaps he’ll be satisfied.’

Hatton nodded, relieved, and was about to speak again but Roumande had already joined them out on the icy pavers, and spoke for himself, the cold making his face glow. Roumande smiled, his front teeth chipped and stained, his hair unruly in the whipping wind, and said he would be happy to go with the Inspector, if it helped. Hatton looked at his watch, turned to Roumande who was waiting to get into the carriage. ‘But Albert, then an end to this? There are three full autopsies for us tonight and I cannot do them alone.’

Hatton headed back to The Old Cheshire Cheese, where Mr Gad was standing by the bar. There were no other customers, save a couple of old men playing chequers, who didn’t look up from their game. Hatton asked for porter. Mr Gad gestured over at a rough-faced barmaid to fetch it and said, ‘Strange sort of fellow though, ain’t he?’ Here we go, thought Hatton, more unwanted comments on Monsieur Roumande, but instead the barman continued, ‘That Inspector Adams. Odd for a policeman. Not the usual type. He’s too tall, and if you ask me, he smells funny.’ Hatton couldn’t help laughing, and said, ‘Well, Mr Gad, I cannot say I’ve noticed an odd whiff about him.’

‘No? Well, you’re perhaps not as observant as I, because he wears cologne. Like a rich man. Not that I smell too many of those round here, but occasionally I walk past them on The Strand when they arrive in their carriages. They come here for the musicals and the theatre, their women smelling of lily of the valley, and the men smelling of something different. Cologne, I’m telling you. Overpowering stuff.’

And Hatton knew Mr Gad was right, and that he had noticed the scent but given little thought to it. Odours were part of his forensic work, but he applied the question of their source only when dealing with the dead, not the living. And there was no fault in it, because far from being a man unconcerned with outward appearance, Professor Hatton was not above a little toilette, himself. He knew it became a gentleman, or a man striving in that direction. His sister had many times made mention that it was beholden upon him to make a little more effort than a quick shave and a rub-down with carbolic.