Devoured (5 page)

Heads were normally removed using only a knife, chisel, and handheld saw, requiring two men to do the work, and the hacking of heads from torsos was time consuming. But Roumande had recently managed to obtain an oscillating saw from a fellow diener working in Germany. It had taken Roumande a month of letters to secure the funding.

Roumande bent over it, almost lovingly, and started the rotation. He’d spent hours already, oiling the wheels and checking the rivets. The saw shuddered and whirred, the instrument astounding the two men with its accuracy and speed. The noise was deafening as Hatton locked eyes with Roumande, and for a moment, he saw the flicker of shared excitement. Their work was entering a new age. Their time of hiding away drawing to an end. Bone chips went flying and the two men working like dervishes. Together, they moved around the head with proficiency, peeling back the fat encasing the skull, cutting through veins, hacking further and deeper.

‘I have it,’ Hatton muttered, as he wrenched the object from its burial place. Covered in a mess of blood and tissue, Roumande held it up towards the gas lamp anchored over the end of the dissecting table.

‘What the devil is that?’ Adams’s eastern drawl.

Roumande held the object nearer to the light. Jagged edged, roughly hewn, and dripping with blood, there was no question of the murder weapon. Hatton recognised it instantly. He had a collection back in Gower Street along with his shells and feathers. An ammonite. Perfectly formed, a magnificent specimen, and as a crushing instrument of death, fatal.

‘Well?’ asked the Inspector again.

Hatton spoke, delivering only the facts. ‘Subclass
ammonoidea
. It’s a fossil, Inspector, from an animal which, like the dinosaurs, many believe became extinct millions of years ago. There are a number of equally impressive specimens at the British Museum. Lady Bessingham would have paid a considerable amount of money for this.’

‘It’s clearly the murder weapon. Using your forensics, do you think you can get traces of anything useful off it?’ Adams’s questioning was quick and to the point. Hatton shook his head.

‘I don’t know, Inspector. We’re not so advanced. We will do whatever tests we have, but looking at her body, I can see there are no bruises to her wrists or hands, no scratches to her face. The assailant came from behind or she knew him or her well, suggesting the maid. There’s also a slightly odd odour about her skin. This we can test. She had either been drugged or she used an opiate. And of her more intimate details? There are no bruises to her inner thighs. We have removed her stockings and her undergarments and already examined them carefully. None of them were ripped to suggest rape or anything of a sexual nature.’ Hatton turned to a nearby neat pile of French lace and the finest of English corsetry to underline his point. ‘Soiled only with light splashes of her own blood. The worst of the blood was absorbed by the thick rug on the bedroom floor. But I’ll need to finish the autopsy to know any more.’

As Hatton talked, Roumande had dried his hands and was now sitting at a trestle table making notes. Roumande wrote quickly and fluently, embellishing facts with his own comments. He sometimes observed what Hatton’s eyes missed, so intently was the Professor delving into the crevices and cavities.

‘So, Inspector, she was definitely murdered. But the ammonite is a strange choice, don’t you think? There was a poker in the grate, and also on her desk I noticed a huge glass ball, used as a paperweight.’

Adams was pensive. ‘It may have been the nearest thing to hand, if the murderer was disturbed. It’s blunt, heavy, and would have been easy for a woman to grab. But it would have required some strength to crush a skull like that. And Lady Bessingham didn’t cry out. Perhaps she knew her attacker, as you say? All grist for the mill, Professor. But can I light up now, or would you prefer I went outside? I think Mr Broderig could do with a puff.’

Broderig smiled weakly at the Inspector. Hatton nodded that they could go ahead, knowing more tests would be required, and at this, his heart began to pound. Not because ideas immediately formed. But because they might. Was this the chance to prove without doubt the power of forensics?

Because for too long now, life in the pathology department had been a struggle. But he saw the opportunity for improvement all about him. Not for nothing had he spent years away from friends and family. Edinburgh first, to train in the rudiments of medicine. Three years as a physician, with his father’s blessing, but then his bolder switch to surgeon, which did not rest so well.

Hatton had shaken his head as they’d walked the lanes in Hampshire. Yes, he knew his sister was engaged to what his family thought to be a proper doctor, but his mind was made up. The intricacies of muscle, organs, sinews which made up the molecular puzzle of Man was all he was intent on. Forensics, a word barely understood outside the mortuary room, would come later.

Roumande walked briskly to a large enamel sink at the back of the mortuary room, where he picked up the bar of carbolic and lathered his hands, the acidic stink rising up into the air. Taking a nail brush, he carefully scrubbed away any traces of the victim’s flesh from his fingers. He’d hung a shaving mirror, at the request of Professor Hatton, and peered at himself.

Unlike Hatton, not so young any more, and he was tired. But he knew this was where he belonged. This was where he was most himself, if he could dare think such a thing. Madame Roumande would have laughed at such thoughts, and as he looked at the little cadaver now, just a calico form, he felt chastened, thinking of his own five children. And though he had jested about it, his lodging rooms were a long way from the rookeries. Not geographically speaking, granted, but in every other way. His house was cosy and paid for on time, once a month, every month, and had been for years. His oldest boy was twelve. His eldest daughter, barely ten. He shook his head in disgust and reminded himself to ask Adams why the child had come here yesterday with not even a question. And she was not the first they’d seen like this. Unlike this Lady Bessingham, whose death would be more than noted. She would be investigated, contemplated, eulogised even.

‘Are you coming out into the yard, Albert?’

‘Like you, Professor, I’m not a great partaker of tobacco, but I could do with some air. By the way, I’m interested to know what you make of our Inspector.’

Hatton smiled, indulging his friend. ‘I think he’ll do well enough, and more importantly, we’ll earn some badly needed guineas for our coffers. Who knows? An annual income of five hundred a year? Perhaps, even a Scotland Yard retainer?’

‘So, you think a permanent contract with The Yard is possible, then?’ Roumande turned the collar up on his coat. ‘It would certainly help. Our supplies are as low as ever. But do you know, Professor, his face is familiar to me. I’m sure he used to work in Spitalfields, though perhaps it’s just his likeness I remember from the crime pages. Do you sometimes get that sensation, Adolphus? Of thinking you have met someone before, but cannot place them?’

‘Every time I look in the mirror, Albert. But come, you’ll scrub your face away. Did you hear Mr Broderig say he’s a collector? Can you imagine? He must have seen some incredible things. He must have travelled far and wide.’

‘Indeed,’ said Roumande, ‘I wasn’t aware it was a profession, but thought it more of a hobby. But then, unlike you, Adolphus, I’m not an educated man. I know little of that science.’

Outside the air hummed and the yard gate moaned. The four men gathered in a round, stamped their feet, and kept their heads down, shielded by their hats from icy blasts.

‘Aaah, Professor,’ Adams spoke first. ‘If you don’t want baccy, have a nip of this. Mister Broderig brought it.’

Broderig, still pale from the autopsy, said, ‘Go ahead, Professor. In Dayak, it’s called
tuak
. Rice wine.’

Hatton was intrigued and took a gulp from the hip flask thrust towards him. ‘It’s the right stuff in this weather. Thank you, Mr Broderig.’ Broderig nodded and beckoned Roumande to take some.

‘I hear you’re a specimen collector, Mr Broderig,’ said Roumande. ‘I was saying to the Professor that I didn’t know it was an actual profession.’

‘It’s my chosen vocation. I’ve recently returned from Borneo, less than a month ago. Lady Bessingham was one of my principal patrons.’ Broderig knocked back a slug. ‘We wrote to each other when I was on my travels. Our correspondence should be somewhere in the house. Perhaps you have seen these particular letters, Inspector? They are very personal to me, and they were distinctive, written on parchment from the depths of a tropical forest.’

The Inspector shook his head at this. ‘No, Mr Broderig. We found nothing along those lines. Parchment, you say?’

Broderig, his face clouding with thought, repeated, a little more agitated, ‘As I said, they are private and all that I have left of her. I will want them back again, as soon as possible. Are you sure you have looked everywhere?’ He bit his bottom lip, clearly worried as to their whereabouts. ‘Searched every nook and cranny of the house?’

‘You’ll get them back if we find them, Mr Broderig. But speaking of correspondence, do you know if she wrote to any other scientists? I understand she courted controversy when it came to ideas. Do you know a little more of what your father referred to last night?’

But Broderig had turned away and was looking back towards the morgue, lost for a moment before shaking his head and saying, ‘I really do want those letters back, Inspector. She would have wanted me to have them. My poor Katherine …’ He pushed his hand towards his mouth, his lip trembling, his voice lowered. ‘I have dissected many things. I have seen death, but what we have just witnessed …’

‘We can talk later, Mr Broderig. If this pains you.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Inspector, I’m here for this. But please …’ He gathered himself and turned back to face them. ‘You asked me, did Lady Bessingham court controversy? There was one piece of work, but I was abroad at the time. It involved a Dr Ignatius Finch and the topic was the Nature of Man. His conclusions upset her, but controversy is a debatable thing, because it really depends which side of the fence you sit on.’

‘You mean Science or Religion, Mr Broderig?’ Hatton was beginning to think he understood this man.

‘Exactly, Professor. He’s based in Cambridge now. I’ve never been to any of his lectures, although rumour has it, like me, he’s an avid collector of butterflies. I had a mind to show him one or two of my specimens, but I’m in no mood for it now. I don’t have the heart.’

‘Please, Mr Broderig, come out of the wind, sir.’ Adams steered him towards a small outhouse used for stacking tools. Hatton and Roumande followed and the four men huddled even closer.

‘I’m uncomfortable offering an opinion on a man I barely know, but Katherine often had soirees when she was in London, scientific gatherings, and I understand he attended one or two.’

The Inspector lit a cigarette. Hatton, intrigued by this talk of science, urged him, ‘Please, Mr Broderig. Tell us all you know.’

‘Very well, Professor, but it’s little. Dr Finch, I believe, is working on a radical theory of transmutation. The idea being that we are all animal. That we share the same instincts, good and bad. His theorising is, of course, an extension of other people’s work, but apparently going a great deal further than many would dare. Lady Bessingham wrote to me in Borneo and made mention of his thinking, which I understand saw him drummed out of University College. Katherine was rarely shocked but she seemed greatly upset. I suggested that if she was unenamoured with his thinking, she should simply cut him off. After all, it’s the patron’s prerogative.’

Hatton nodded, feeling his face redden, because the same had occurred to his work in forensics, many times.

The Inspector randomly lit a Swan. ‘Well then, perhaps we should see this Dr Finch, if he’s as controversial as you say he is. And to Cambridge, of all places. My old stomping ground, but we cannot just go hurtling into a college, unannounced. Perhaps, Mr Broderig, you would be prepared to take us there and make a formal introduction? As Lady Bessingham’s friend?’

The young man nodded. ‘I studied at Trinity and I would be happy to help.’

The Inspector sucked up the last dregs of his tobacco. ‘I’d better get back to The Yard. The Commissioner’s already on my back about this missing maid, and there’s work to do if we’re going to keep this out of the press.’ He turned to Hatton. ‘Report on my desk tomorrow, Professor. I have more than my superiors to answer to on a case like this.’ Adams pulled his coat around himself a little tighter against the bitter chill. ‘And perhaps you would like to join us on a short trip to Cambridge, if Mr Broderig can arrange it? It would be a good opportunity for us to get to know each other a little better.’

And heaving the whining gate open, Adams and Broderig headed off down the road, soon disappearing into a flurry of white.

Hatton turned to Roumande, peering under his frosty brim. ‘That gate needs oiling, Albert. Perhaps another one of your begging letters wouldn’t go amiss? We could do with a new one, frankly. It’s embarrassing, and hardly demonstrates us at the helm of our profession. Well, never mind. It’s almost noon and we’ve a heap of work to do, but we’ve been offered an opportunity here. I really think so.’

The day in the cutting room was finally over and Professor Hatton’s walk was against the wind. Up ahead, the lights at Number 14 Gower Street were welcoming as Hatton looked at his pocket watch again. The filigree face of his gold Swiss timer said it was just gone ten and that Mrs Gallant would still be up waiting for him, although her other tenants would be out in restaurants, gentlemen’s clubs, or already asleep. Hatton sometimes wished for a life that was more conventional than the one pathology afforded. Or so he told himself on these long walks back from the morgue. He could have taken a carriage, but walking allowed time for contemplation and reminded him that there was indeed a world outside St Bart’s, where people lived. Where they argued, laughed, raised families, had passions. He saw the results, but did he really live that life himself? Not yet, he thought. But maybe one day, soon.