The Devil's Ribbon (5 page)

‘I couldn’t even see them presented on the table, such was the scattering of crumbs and coffee cups. But there you have it. Why expect more from that oaf? As a physician, he’s only interested in infectious diseases.’

‘Indeed. Well, that’s most disappointing, for it throws all our plans for forensics to the wall, unless I can think of some other way to raise money. At least we’re back in favour with The Yard. But, Adolphus, I must press you on Mr McCarthy. Is there not something strange about his face? Aside, that is, from the grimace of poison?’

Hatton looked at the face with more attention. ‘It does look
unusually swollen, but we’ve already established, quite precisely, the cause of death from the gut samples. The hairline is never quite the same once the face is taken off.’

‘I think we only need to open his mouth, Professor.’

Hatton looked at McCarthy again. Was Roumande right? It was normal for the visage to be puffy, but perhaps around the mouth there was something else? There was only one way to find out and he secretly chided himself for not noticing, unprompted, as this was his normal exacting approach. He hated to make excuses but he’d slept little and was still out of sorts.

‘The rigor is advanced because of the poison, and the jaw will be clamped like a vice …’

Roumande already had the pliers ready. Hatton took them and pushed the tip through first, between the dead man’s lips, until he heard the click of metal on enamel. ‘Pass me the thinnest blade we have, Albert. Let me just see if I can push it through here.’ He leant under the chin and twisted the knife. The jaw snapped open, crocodile fashion.

‘You’re right, my friend. McCarthy’s had more than his breakfast it seems …’

‘What is it, Professor?’

‘It’s what I feared,’ Hatton said, pulling a long line of silk from the dead man’s mouth. ‘You know what this means, don’t you, Albert?’

‘That we must see it properly, Professor,’ said Roumande, telling Patrice to open the morgue door, quickly, so they could dry the ribbon in the sun. It was wet with mucus and old blood, disguising its true colour.

‘
Mon dieu
,’ Roumande gasped. It was boiling outside, the hottest part of the day. Hatton joined his friend to examine the silk, which began to
dry instantly and morph from black into a vibrant green, which was a calling card Hatton had seen before. Three years ago, when an off-duty English soldier had sauntered into a tavern, saying it was easy to get a fuck in Kerry, for a slice of toke, and my oh my, weren’t those colleens as beautiful as they were willing? Any orifice you damn well liked. Whatever was your pleasure, and they called themselves devout Christians. The soldier arrived on the slab an hour later, scalped, his ribs crushed, his heart cut out, and an emerald green ribbon in his mouth.

Ribbonmen,
thought Hatton.
Fenians
. And he remembered the ribbons which he’d first seen in Edinburgh, ten years ago. Worn in the hats of the gangs of so-called Ribbonmen, who claimed to be political activists, but were nothing more than a band of felons, outlaws who ran things as they wanted in the Irish quarters of any city they came upon. The emerald ribbons, worn as a measure of solidarity with other groups of peasants across the sea, who ran roughshod the length and breadth of Ireland, attacking English troops with anything to hand – pickaxes, shovels, even boughs of hawthorn. Was it all now returning to the very heart of London? Were they here to break the Union, as they once threatened they would be?

FOUR

LIMEHOUSE DOCKS

Just past midday, and the sun shimmered on shards of steel. At this point, the river was a mercurial sea, choppy and brackish. At low tide, mudflats would stretch for miles towards the marshes of Kent, a squelching melee of whelks, fish heads, bits of old china, Venetian glass, Roman pennies, and, occasionally, bodies. Emerging from the wash, blackened tree stumps were all that was left of primordial swamp – now drained, pummelled, and transformed into the docks of the greatest city on earth. London.

Oyster catchers skirled and seagulls screamed, as barges lolled past, sails unfurled, sculls sliced through the water like swords and Russian ships from Memel and St Petersburg lugged their way to the artificial lakes, filled with wine, barrels of porter, brandy. Meanwhile, leaning
against a wall, John O’Rourke was dressed in a shabby velvet jacket, sucking on his pipe, oblivious to the clatter of carts around him, the roar of a train overhead, the stevedores and dockworkers hollering, as crates crashed to ground, ropes snapped. He was concentrating hard as he unravelled a scroll of paper, ignoring a boy who was begging at his heels and an old sailor, who had a bright red parrot on his shoulder and was doing the damnedest jig. A little along the way, foremen were shouting from a roster and those who couldn’t hear their names were clambering on each other, waving their hands, desperate for any kind of work.

O’Rourke glanced briefly in their direction, knowing that when it came to politics, men who were starving, with nothing to lose, were ripe for the picking. He checked his own worn pockets for a few florins to give to the shop steward, who he’d quote in an article soon to be penned. O’Rourke wrote like a scholar, and his lip curled at Mr Hecker’s, the mill owner, dreadful use of grammar, but that was the English for you.
Philistines, the lot of ’em, yer honour
. But the rehash, by the time he’d embellished it for the second edition of
An Glor,
would set these slums alight. This foreign land of belching smoke would bend to Irish will, sooner than it thought, if things went according to plan.

A tap on his shoulder and O’Rourke swung around to find Damien McCarthy, not his usual fresh-faced self but bug-eyed and haggard.

‘Jesus, Damien. You look terrible and you don’t smell too good, either.’

‘I’m done in. I’ve not been home since our meeting at The Flask. I’ve been walking the streets for hours, thinking about what’s going to happen. We’re really going to do it this time, aren’t we, John?’

O’Rourke nodded curtly, shoving the scroll at his friend. ‘Read it, Damien. If you should have any doubts …’

‘I don’t have any doubts, John. Sure, it was just a matter of when. So,’ said Damien, ‘what’s all this about?’

‘You’d hardly call the man a poet,’ sneered O’Rourke, ‘but he makes his point all right.’

Damien flattened the paper with his hand and read –

O’Rourke snatched the leaflet back. ‘Mr Hecker has already advertised the jobs to Poles, Italians, even the Chinks and Negroes. Most of the Irish will be gathered at the usual tavern by now.’

‘I know the one. The Salty Dog?’

‘Where our boys will be supping their pints but with a bit of organising, God Knows, they’ll be willing to fight. I’ll get the shop steward, O’Reilly, to get the men working on banners. O’Brian has blunderbussers, a couple of rifles, gun powder. He keeps it all in the sacristy at the Sacred Heart, would you believe? So, are you with me?’

‘I’m with you, John, but what about O’Brian?’

‘It was his idea in the first place. O’Reilly, the shop steward, is one of his flock. The chief wants a piece in
The Nation
by tomorrow. Says it’ll be vital to garner some sympathy here among the Quakers and anyone else who’ll listen to us.’

‘Carrot and stick, so to speak?’

‘Always. So, are you ready, Damien?’

‘Lead the way.’

They quickly found the tavern, where the two men pushed their way through the grumbling crowd, a heaving morass of hate, as Damien McCarthy told them to be quiet and leapt onto a nearby table. And was it any wonder that these men were willing to listen? McCarthy with his Dublin education reminded the men gathered of another, Daniel O’Connell, who’d led the monster marches back in ’47, only this aristo boy was younger and far better-looking.

‘Men of Ireland. Listen to me. I’m here on behalf of the Irish National Brotherhood. The chief’s heard of your plight and is begging you’ll not be taking this lying down this time …’

‘We don’t want any trouble,’ said a voice in the crowd. ‘We just want work and to feed our families.’

‘We can’t survive without the mill,’ said another.

‘Our children will starve,’ said a third, desperation in his voice.

‘But not if you take the revolution to them,’ cried Damien. ‘This could be the beginning, lads. Just think on it. A free and liberated Ireland? Can you imagine such a thing? We’ll burst the factory gates wide open and take the jobs anyway. Hecker owes you that. Men have died on the mill working for what? Pennies? We need to quell men like Hecker and hit them where it hurts, on their own turf. So are you willing?’

The men started to argue among themselves, but some of them were nodding, others cursing the hated mill owner, who’d boasted that he helped the Irish back in ’48. Claimed he’d given them free corn and sat on a charitable works’ committee. ‘What of it?’ said the younger men who had been babes at the time and could remember nothing akin to any kindness.

Damien reached out to the men and reminded them of all they’d suffered at the hands of their English landowners. The bloody flux, swollen bellies, the stench of famine, fever, living on nothing but grass and berries for year on year, dead babies left to be nibbled by rats and mothers torn apart by dogs.
An Gorta Mór
– the time of famine.

‘Go home and talk to your womenfolk, but tomorrow, myself and Mr O’Rourke – that’s the gentleman scribbling at the table over there – will be back again first thing and we’ll bring guns, explosives, axes, cudgels.
Clan Shan Van Vocht
. If you are with us …’

The room exploded; hands slammed on the tables, men thumped the walls with their fists, and only a few slipped out with their heads down, shuddering to the resounding cry of ‘Aye.’

FIVE

HIGHGATE VILLAGE

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Hatton opened the door to a Scotland Yard hansom, expecting to see the diminutive Welshman, hopefully dressed in something more appropriate. It wasn’t unusual for Inspector Grey to do at least one costume change during the day. It was well known that Grey kept a rack of Savile Row suits and Jermyn Street shirts hung up in a store cupboard somewhere at Number 4 Whitehall, Scotland Yard.

‘I can express myself, or blend in as required,’ Grey once told Hatton. ‘One must be ready for anything and Mr Tescalini keeps my clothes just so. He’s a marvel, Professor. Every policeman should have one.’

And Hatton was sure, after this morning’s eye-aching display of gregarious tartan, he would find Inspector Grey out of his tangerine
breeches and head to foot in woven sobriety. But to his surprise there was no Inspector Grey at all within the carriage, sartorially elegant or otherwise.

‘
Buongiorno
, Signor Hatton.
Andiamo
!’

It had been six months since the Professor last laid eyes on Mr Tescalini. Had he got fatter since the performance at the Old Bailey? Hatton wasn’t sure, but Tescalini’s bulbous head – partly bald, partly badger bristle – and tombstone face still looked the same. Did the man not sleep, he wondered? Hatton had never seen such darkened circles under the eyes, not even in the mirror when he’d been up for two nights on the trot, which was normal at the morgue.

Mr Tescalini pulled the tatty tails of his ancient frockcoat about his rump. He made a hasty apology in Italian mixed with faint mutterings of English to say that Inspector Grey had gone ahead to Highgate several hours ago, as he was so concerned about ‘
la bella
’ – Hatton presumed the widow.

Hatton shrank into the far side of the coach, uncomfortable at being so close to a man who had once been a suspect in a particularly brutal murder case, even though the Italian had been declared entirely innocent of all charges. This accusation being a particular cause for concern, during a meeting in Inspector Grey’s office Hatton had brought the matter up.

They’d been alone in the Criminal Investigation Department sipping coffee at the time, as Hatton had ventured, ‘Not many policemen have their own servant, Inspector.’

‘Hmm … what did you say?’

‘I said, not many …’

‘Yes, yes,’ the Inspector answered, turning away and looking out of a nearby window. ‘I’m very lucky, I suppose. Mr Tescalini has been my assistant for quite a while now. Five years or so. There are a great many Italians in Wales, did you know that?’

‘No, Inspector, I didn’t know that. So, may I ask, how did you come to hire him?’

The inspector smiled, clearly reminiscing as he said, ‘I met him down at the docks in Cardiff. It was a beautiful day, July 24th, 1853. Off a boat, he’d come, from a far-flung island called Sicily, where families have strong ties. Blood ties, Professor. But blood ties can go array and he’d faced a terrible danger there, which we can never speak of. He’d stowed away on a brig and found himself stranded in Wales of all places, working as a stevedore. He has strong arms, big muscles, have you noticed?’

Hatton shrugged,
Not particularly
.

‘Well, Professor, he does. And he has a nose for fashion and the cut of my jib, which is so often the way with these Latins, which is why he does the valeting. I had a very difficult case on when I met him, involving a number of nasty individuals and a gang of thugs who were on my tail, threatening my very life, and I was in need of some protection, and my errr … Auntie Sally …’

Hatton leant forward. ‘Your Auntie Sally? Where does she come in?’

Grey twisted a gold cufflink. ‘Nice lady. Presbyterian. Well, she left me a little rhino and as a detective, I have needs, Professor, which The Yard doesn’t cater for. This job comes with certain dangers, I make enemies, and as a bachelor I have little time to take care of my toilette, which is something I take considerable pride in. In short, I needed an assistant who could look after me, in more ways than one.’

‘I see,’ said Hatton.

Grey leant across the table. ‘Of course, he’s not officially part of The Yard, but as the years have gone on, Mr Tescalini has made himself indispensable and I’ve grown rather attached to him, despite these scurrilous rumours about him being a killer, which is pure rubbish! He’s an excellent fellow, which is why I brought him to London, because Mr Tescalini is a truncheon, Adolphus. A human whistle. If there’s danger about, Tescalini will protect me, for he has eyes in the back of his head and he’s as loyal as a dog.’

In the past, Hatton had often wished that Mr Tescalini was at least versed in more than just a smattering of the mother tongue, but as he looked at him now – ashen, sweating, and prodding his gums with a toothpick – it occurred to the Professor that this lack of English was, in fact, a blessing.

They sat in stony silence all the way to Highgate Hill, until the Italian shifted on his seat and pointed. ‘Aaah!
Bellissimo cimitero. Ammirevole,
no, Professor Hatton?’

‘The Garden of the Dead, Mr Tescalini. Is that what you are pointing at? Yes, it is very delightful, but I have never visited it myself.’

Mr Tescalini seemed to understand and nodded in sympathy, but the conversation was abruptly called to a halt as the carriage came to a stop and the driver cried out, ‘Whoa there, my beauties.’

‘
Quanto costa
, signore?’ Mr Tescalini asked politely to the driver, doffing his battered derby.

‘A shilling to you, Mr Italiano,’ responded the driver. ‘And we’ll call it no more. A very good day to you, sir.’

Hatton was always surprised how very politely everyone spoke to
the detective’s assistant, because his presentation to the world certainly didn’t invite such manners.

The gate to the house was already open, a hand-painted sign decorated with a twist of tenacious buttercups announcing very prettily,
White Lodge
. There was a long gravel pathway winding to the house, past poppies, daylilies, delphinium, and a flush of hollyhocks and scrambling over an ornate wheelbarrow, terracotta pots, little topiary hedges, a spread of jasmine and honeysuckle. Hatton took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the perfumed air, and for just a second listened to the delightful drone of honeybees.

But there was no time to spare. Mr Tescalini rapped on the door, his ham fists pounding, and it was instantly opened by a Special in a blue uniform with gilt buttons, who ushered them into what Hatton thought must be the study. But the curtains were shut, as was tradition with death, and the rheumy light offered him nothing.

‘Please see to the curtains, Mr Tescalini, for I cannot work in the dark.’

A rush of light, and Hatton almost jumped out of his skin to see Inspector Grey sitting on a red leather and mahogany chair.

‘How very like you to draw the curtains, Hatton. But you’re quite right to illuminate the matter, and you’re exactly on time.’

Hatton looked askance at him. ‘On time, Inspector?’

‘For a communion, Hatton.’

The inspector spun the chair and faced him. ‘There is a mood of unease here, and I’m a great believer in the telling nature of sensation, when an unexpected death occurs. I know you are of a more scientific inclination, Professor, but as I sat here in the dark, on the dead man’s
chair, certain feelings began to form. They are not clear yet, but my initial hunches are rarely wrong.’

Mr Tescalini stared at Hatton, his bloodshot eyes challenging the Professor to naysay these spiritualist connections, but Hatton simply let the mesmerism nonsense float, saying, ‘So you have a sensation, Inspector Grey? And yes, houses often do convey feelings. But what did the widow tell you? Anything of note?’

Inspector Grey smiled, and lit a wafer-thin cigarillo.

‘That Gabriel McCarthy was a man under strain, Professor. It seems there were financial issues, which out of kindness I did not let her dwell on. But the widow is already fretting about the cost of shipping the body to the family estate in Donegal.’

‘I see,’ said Hatton, wishing the Inspector would stub his cigarillo out. This was a crime scene, and any trace of a vital odour that might linger in the air and lead them to a killer would be destroyed, masked at the very least.

‘There’s also a brother,’ Grey continued. ‘He has apparently lived with the couple since they married, having no place of his own. The widow says she hasn’t seen him since yesterday evening, and on that point, I must confess that I pushed a little and she became most distressed. Most agitated. She wrung her delicate hands, tears flowed, and she told me that the brothers were at loggerheads – over money, over politics, over being here in England, and other things besides which I can only guess at. All this’ – he looked at his pocket watch – ‘in under an hour. She was a tap, Hatton. After I adjusted the valve of her emotions, a veritable tap. And such an outpouring that I felt the poor Mrs McCarthy should rest a while before we cursed her with any more
questions. But back to forensics, Professor. Unfortunately, it appears that the room has been tidied.’

The inspector was right. There were no upturned chairs and no sign of struggle. The fireplace had been swept, the carpets brushed, the whole place smelling, he now noticed, not of the Inspector’s cigarillo but of household disinfectant. Damn, thought Hatton as he sighed, taking his notebook out. ‘It’s a shame the maid got in before us, but forensically speaking, poison is a quiet death. It leaves no bloody footsteps for us to follow. We may have to make do with your sensations, Inspector.’

Hatton shook his head at the devastation of the crime scene, a room cleared of all possible clues, and put his notebook away. He turned to the desk where the Inspector was still sitting, rifling through official-looking papers.

‘Have you looked at all his correspondence?’ the Professor asked, hoping for something.

‘There is little here to interest me,’ said Grey. ‘A copy of that despicable newspaper,
An Glor,
with bits of blarney torn out and a pile of parliamentary papers. A scattering of newspaper clippings, not entirely cleared from the grate. But there are no immediate state secrets. Nothing to pinpoint a political motivation, but I’m quite sure Gabriel McCarthy had his enemies. Appeasement rarely wins friends, and in that regard, I shall be most interested in talking to the brother.’

‘Who I assume will inherit everything?’

The detective sat back in the chair. ‘Yes, Hatton, everything. But it’s a mixed blessing, as far as he’s concerned. A struggling estate in Donegal, mountains of debts, and an unwanted seat in the House, should he decide to take it. Although it’s well known that Damien
McCarthy’s views are not his brother’s, so that isn’t likely. He’s a thorn in the Union’s side, and a very vocal Repealer. But there is another prize, which I believe is a tradition among the Irish gentry.’

‘A prize, Inspector? What sort of prize?’

‘It appears that he might also inherit the widow. You know what a village is like for tittle-tattle. But at this stage, it’s nothing more than a rumour.’

The detective paused, looking out towards the verdant garden, and spoke as if to himself. ‘She is a dark and most enticing flower. And as such, provides the younger brother with a clear motive and my favourite sort of murder –
La crime passionnel
.’ The inspector carried on looking out of the window for a moment before turning back to Hatton. ‘So yes, the brother must be treated as a prime suspect, unless your gatherings of evidence, such as you can still do, suggest otherwise.’

Hatton looked briefly over his shoulder and checked that the door was shut before he ventured, ‘I’m not sure this is a crime of passion. Monsieur Roumande and I finished the final autopsy only an hour ago. This death has a signature. A very clear one. May I speak freely, Inspector?’

‘Well, there’s no one to hear us.’

In the corner of the room, Mr Tescalini was stuffing a small iced cake into his mouth. There was a china cup balanced on his knee. On the table next to him was a Bible and a little stack of books – essays by Carlyle, Mr Tennyson’s
In Memoriam
. Hatton realised there was no easy way to put it.

‘There was a ribbon in Gabriel McCarthy’s mouth, Inspector, and the ribbon was green. Surely this means only one thing?’

‘A ribbon, you say?’

The inspector visibly shuddered, his face twisting like a gargoyle, as he jumped up and spat, literally spat, saying, ‘Then damn those fucking Irish scum to the bottom of the sea, but I thought we’d seen the last of them. The Irish Republican Brotherhood? Isn’t that what they call themselves now, and there’s another word, isn’t there … and the word is—’

There was a knock and in the doorway stood a fresh-faced maid laden down with a tray.

Grey was transformed – as if he hadn’t been speaking at all. ‘Ah, excellent. French Fancies. My absolute favourite. It’s the combination of sugar and violets I find so irresistible.’

The maid set the rattling tray down, and began to pour the tea, saying, ‘Mrs McCarthy cannot sleep, sir, as you suggested. She heard the gentlemen’s voices and wanted to meet them.’