Devoured (12 page)
Hatton had little time for it. He pulled on the bell of the shop, noting the stuffed bird, a large black crow with a nut in its bill. In the window were books. Mainly scientific journals and back copies of the radical journal the
Westminster Review
, which was edited just around the corner. Hatton pulled the bell again, impatiently this time, and turned to Roumande ready to say it had been a wasted journey. But Roumande had crouched down and was busy at the lock.
‘There’s more than one use for a scalpel, Adolphus. Jimmying, it’s called. Nimble fingers required. Ah, there you go.’
The lock clicked. The door opened.
And splayed out on the floor, hammered to the ground and pinned like a moth – a man.
‘Mother of God.’
‘He’s dead, Professor.’
‘Yes, Albert. I can see that.’
Mr Dodds was wearing only his nightshirt, which had been pinned up so his penis hung out, a flaccid lump. The foreskin had been stretched and pinned to the skin on his thighs. His fingers pinned to the floor, along with his earlobes. His hair had been pulled into strands. His ankle skin pinched and nailed.
‘He looks like Gulliver, Professor. When the traveller falls asleep and wakes in Lilliput and is pinned down by the little people.’
Hatton nodded, slightly nauseous from the sight, thinking that yes, Mr Dodds was like a picture in a book. But not a perfect replica of Gulliver, because the man’s heart had been cut out and sat near the body on a white plate, shining like jelly.
Roumande spoke, ‘Property of D.W.R. Dodds. We’re quite a hike from Charterhouse Street where we found our little angel, and there’re no family portraits on the walls, just moths and butterflies.’
Hatton bent down and felt the man’s temperature. ‘There’s no wedding ring here and I can tell you that he’s freshly done. Hours, I’d say.’
‘He was gagged first,’ said Roumande. ‘And the noise outside might have masked the culprit, but the cutting would have made a mess. It’s a bodge job. Still, they knew where to look.’
Hatton shook his head. ‘Any man knows where his own heart is and where to find another’s. He may have been strangled first. Gagged, tied, throttled with a rope, and then cut. There are abrasions around the neck.’
Hatton stood up and looked at the books on the shelf. ‘All these are mainly pertaining to natural science, but then we are not so far from the University.’
Hatton turned a handle to an adjoining room but it was locked. He walked over to the desk, which had a ledger for customers, and looked for the till, but there was none, just a tin box which he shook and then opened. ‘Well, whoever did this wasn’t here for the money. There’s fifty guineas plus a heap of change in here. Another person of means. Another botanical, pinned like a moth, but the book which led us here suggests this Mr Dodds had his mind on higher things. He was probably a collector once and ends up here, which is odd. But many start off in one profession and then end up in another. But I think we have a clue, Albert.’ Hatton put the money box down and went back over to the book they had brought with them, found in the orange box. ‘These pages have been tagged to mark the birds. But we shouldn’t touch anything else because police procedures are very clear on this. We need to fetch Inspector Adams.’
And Hatton was right to be of that mind. To call a cab and head straight to Number 2 Whitehall and demand that Adams come with them immediately, because the link was clear. The title of the book was
Flora and Fauna
. The maid was called Flora, wasn’t she? And the pictures of the birds? On closer inspection, the book was nothing but a hodgepodge, a mere vanity thing. The Foreword had spelling mistakes and was clearly not written by Hooker at all. Had Dodds, Hatton wondered, made the book himself? Using a needle, a bodkin, and inserting into the middle, not British birds at all, but plates which had been widely circulated. Hatton knew these pictures well. Everybody did, because they were finches from the great expedition by Mr Charles Darwin to the Galapagos Islands. They had been torn from
The
Zoology of the Voyage
of
HMS Beagle.
Adams was at his desk smoking and he continued to light penny smoke after penny smoke in the carriage to Millford Lane and to continue puffing, despite Hatton’s protestations, as the Inspector peered closely at the body of Mr Dodds.
Finally, stubbing out his cigarette, Adams took the bird book and handed it to one of his Specials, saying, ‘Bag it.’ And then turning to Roumande, who was speaking at great length, cut him off mid sentence, impatiently with, ‘I hear you, monsieur. I promise you, we will investigate the girls you speak of. Perhaps they are all connected, but probably not. And this new girl you found this evening? This angel, you describe? I know nothing of her, Scotland Yard delivery note or not. However, this man’s death …’ Adams bent down to further inspect the corpse, then stood up and scratched his head. ‘Flora and fauna, eh? Very clever, and points directly to our maid. Perhaps she’s what mind doctors call an hysteric? A mad girl, who hated her mistress and wanted all like her to suffer? Or perhaps, she works for another? Or has some bizarre connection to Mr Dodds, and has now dealt with him, too? It makes no sense to me. Well, whatever the reasons, I’ll have someone interview all the staff at Nightingale Walk again. There’s more to wheedle out of them, I’m sure of it.’
Hatton went to speak, then shook his head.
‘What’s that, Professor? Something I’ve said? Or have you got a theory of your own? Don’t hold back, Professor. We’re short on ideas here and the Commissioner’s breathing down my neck as it is, so please, sir, share it.’
Hatton waved the smoke away. ‘I think Dr Finch is the key. Our academic in Cambridge, Inspector? The man Mr Broderig mentioned. Don’t you think so? Because the pages marked in the book clearly depict finches, and in my opinion, no woman could have committed this terrible crime. This act is monstrous. To cut a heart out? To pin a man like this? Women use poison, stealth. This is a maniac at work.’
The Inspector said, ‘I think you’re right, but still it’s strange that your discovery of a pauper girl should lead us here.’ Adams pointed at the walls, where displays of Merveille du Jour and common emeralds were framed in gilt.
But Hatton’s mind was on words and writing again, not moths and butterflies. ‘I’ve been thinking, Inspector, about Mr Broderig’s letters. He was pale when he spoke of them, more than a little agitated. Could they contain something so dangerous that people are being killed for them? Perhaps the letters are of some value? Perhaps Flora James brought them here to sell them to Mr Dodds and someone followed her? Which means if Mr Broderig knows the content of whatever these letters say, he could also be in danger.’
Adams nodded. ‘Or perhaps he’s got something to hide? I worry about the letters, too. We’ve done a search again, and there’s nothing like them in Lady Bessingham’s house. As to Mr Broderig’s safety, I have two Specials I can assign to Swan Walk, but we need to talk to this Dr Finch, sooner rather than later. We’ll leave for Cambridge tomorrow and I’ll keep a close eye on Mr Broderig, myself.’
‘But what about Mr Dodds, Inspector? I’d like to inspect the crime scene properly. It’s often the tiniest detail that can illuminate something vital. Subtle signs and traces which tell us more about our victim. Who he was. What he knew. And why someone might want to kill him.’
The Inspector stepped back from the corpse. ‘I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, Professor, but I give the orders round here. My superiors will want containment, so when we make an arrest, it sticks. I want to proceed carefully, go step by step. My men will seal off this place. Nothing will be touched or tampered with, rest assured. You’ll get to do your forensic sweep, but not tonight.’
Hatton was not a ‘by the book man’, but nevertheless, to leave a crime scene so quickly didn’t feel right, and there was a locked door to another room which might tell them something. He said as much to the Inspector, who only shrugged. ‘If we find anything, I’ll tell you. I think I’ve made myself clear.’
It was unusual and not police procedure, but Hatton complied. ‘Very well, but no one should be allowed to cross the threshold until I return, and as for the cadaver, I suppose it can wait. But surely you want to check for a list of customers or suppliers? Perhaps Lady Bessingham was a regular here, or even Dr Finch? There’s a ledger over by his money box.’
The Inspector nodded. ‘Good thinking, Professor. Leave it with me. There’s also the matter of this damn maid. Downstairs staff mixed up with wealthy botanicals. When this gets out, the press will have a field day.’
He then turned away and started barking orders. Hatton watched Adams for a moment. He was commanding, resilient – his eyes on the body as if it was nothing unusual. A problem to be solved, cleared up, dealt with as efficiently as possible, so he could move on to the next thing. Yes, thought Hatton, he made an excellent policeman, but the Inspector was not, in the Professor’s opinion, what he would call inherently interesting, and, thinking to himself, he was glad Mr Broderig would be going to Cambridge, too. He was better company, with more about him than Inspector Adams – celebrity detective or not.
The crime scene marked, the area sealed off with ropes and ‘Keep Out/Metropolitan Police Crime Scene’ erected in what felt like seconds, Hatton stood with Roumande on the icy pavers, watching the Inspector hare off to interview suspects.
They trudged off to a local tavern together as the night folded in around them, and it was there they supped their ale, staring into space, neither of them uttering a word but both knowing what the other one was thinking. And they had been like this, in synergy, since the very first day they met, on a night very similar to this. A night which was unforgiving, bleak and ending in violence. Knowing that they shared something which could not easily be captured with words. It was more than a feeling. It was more than pushing back boundaries. It was more than science. It was the mystery of death itself, and the draw of imminent danger.
Flimflam and fripperies. Olinthus Babbage was the very opposite of grubby. Now there are plenty of folk that thought the common trade of journalism was the lowest of the low. Grub Street, full of grubs and lying creatures. But Mr Babbage certainly wasn’t one of them. For despite growing up in the scribbling trade as a purveyor of half-truths for the lurid penny dreadfuls, Babbage had come up smelling of roses. Discovering, as he did, that what the readers really wanted was sensation thinly disguised as news. The longer the words, the bigger the scandal, the better.
Babbage had learnt his trade from the bottom up. Starting with local reports about all manner of things. His own personal favourites being ‘Scandal – Man of God Kicks Dog’ and ‘Justice! Deaf Mute Gets Hearing.’ And after a number of years, Babbage found a new job, sidestepping any more hanging out at Newgate or dropping in at The Marshelsea. This job was a plum duff, a real honey pudding of a job. A weekly opinion column situated at the
Westminster Review
, 142 The Strand. An address, most radical, where he plonked himself down and looked at his watch. Five-thirty. What time did Dr Canning say they would meet? Seven o’clock, or thereabouts.
Always a late riser, he had already penned his ‘Comments on the Day’ at home, and along the way to The Strand, via one or two gin palaces, had commissioned several other thinkers, essentially strangers, to ‘Go on, sir, have a go! My round!’ and say what they really thought, not holding back, about the Great Universal Questions. About Rocks, Fossils, and Stones. About Who Was the Real Author of
Vestiges
? ‘No, sir! Not I,’ he would say, laughing his great fat head off, but pleased that his gin-soaked companions thought he might be.
But the pubs had closed till opening time again, so here he was, watching the clock and intrigued as to what sensation might be offered tonight. Because he had an appointment with Dr John Canning, who was well known amongst learned circles as having Opinions on the State of The Native Savage and to back up the arguments with apparently enticing pictures to match.
And sensations were just his thing. They were weapons of destruction. Bullet-like, shot out into a searing current of chatter, down The Strand, around Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall taking a sharp left, then a right and thwack – straight into the heart of Government. Babbage had seen the effect of the
Westminster Review
’s sensations, many times.
And Babbage surmised that this journal was definitely one of the best places to find women, because they flitted in and out of here all day long. Some pretty, some plain, but all, he thought as he chomped on a piece of buttered toast, all a delightful distraction from his very heavy workload.
Because the
Review
, though prestigious, hardly paid Babbage enough to cover his rent, never mind his dinner. Only last month he’d penned for the
Man in Moon, Chat
, and
Punchinello
, plus the
London Journal
, the
Illustrated London News, The Times
… to name but a few. But still he worried, especially in the winter when his feet were freezing and his teeth chattering, that he might go out of fashion. And a tale haunted him of another writer, who was found in a soiled and grubby chamber in Johnson’s Court, just a hair’s breadth from The Strand, starved to death surrounded by his Notes and his Comments, unread and unpublished. And his body nibbled by vermin.