Hatton peered down the lens of the Spencer, his fingers curling around the viewing rods, the instrument astounding him with its precise and extraordinary clarity, leaving little room for doubt. The mucosa was clear of any fever, but the gut samples would take a little more scrutiny.
‘The Marsh Test, Professor?’
‘Yes, Albert. Bring me the Bunsen burner.’
Grey was intrigued, for it was well known that this method was reserved for detecting traces of arsenic only. He watched mesmerised, as Hatton selected a glass test tube in the shape of a capital U and, using a dropper, added a little sulphuric acid and a gram of zinc and, with steady hands, took a tad of the gut muscle and dropped it into the tube. Roumande lit the Bunsen, the blue flame illuminating a small plate, which the chief diener held up as if it was a mirror. Grey hovered, Patrice not far behind, as Hatton held the tube as close as he could to the plate, and then after a count of, ‘Are you ready, Professor?
Un … deux … trois …
’ Hatton pulled the stopper out, like a champagne bottle. Instantly, the gas revealed itself against the gleaming white, like a miniature storm cloud, which was not the shiny black of arsenic, but sepia.
Hatton allowed himself a triumphant smile. ‘The amber stain of strychnine, Inspector. I’m yet to write up a definitive paper for
The Lancet,
but several experiments here at St Bart’s have now demonstrated that this test is not only accurate, but it’s flexible as well. I’ve used it now, successfully, for a number of different poisons.’
‘What about his hands?’ Inspector Grey asked, moving closer to the slab, his cologne so strong it made Hatton double take. It was a distinctive perfume and held memories of a brothel in Pall Mall, a place where, two years ago, the Professor had finally been summoned to meet this new member of The Yard, and from the start things hadn’t gone well.
Despite his reputation, as reported in
The Metropolitan Police Gazette
and
The Daily Telegraph,
as an indisputable ‘Giant of the Law’, at first sight, Inspector Grey had been somewhat of a disappointment. Standing on the steps of the blood-drenched brothel, Hatton had thought him diminutive, unmanly, a natty dresser but not in an agreeable way. In a blue silk suit clashing with a primrose waistcoat, Grey had picked his way around the decapitated corpse of the prostitute as if he was a ballet dancer, barking orders to his servant – Mr Tescalini – a bullishlooking man with meat-cleaver hands.
Hatton had tipped his hat at the Italian, who’d tipped his own battered derby back with a curt, ‘
Buongiorno, professore. Mi fa molto piacere conoscerla
’ before marching up the steps and grabbing the owner – an unfortunate, highly rouged madam – into a corner where squeals and shrieks were emitted along with the dulcet tones of, ‘I’m not giving you’s a penny, not a damn penny, you’s rascalian, Italian, dough-faced, fat arsed …’ Another shriek, followed quickly by, ‘Iris was
like a daughter to me … how dare you’s insinuate that I would touch a hair on her head …’ The sound of a furious thump had followed, and the well-bosomed lady seemed to be all of a swoon and displaying a great deal of purple petticoat. Out of good manners, Hatton quickly averted his eyes, but not before seeing the Italian doff his hat again, but this time towards the Inspector, which appeared to be some sort of signal known only to each other. Hatton, being new to this pair, was at a loss what to do next and simply watched, dumbfounded, as the Inspector appeared to wink and then run his index finger across his own lily-white throat like a … well, in retrospect, like a surgical knife.
Grey had steered Hatton away from the fracas with, ‘I brought him with me from Cardiff. Rarely go anywhere without him, you understand, because Mr Tescalini’s a marvel, Professor, a marvel but he speaks very little English. He can understand us perfectly well though, can’t you?’ Grey had looked over his shoulder, raising his voice as if he was talking to a child. ‘Can’t you, Mr Tescalini? He listens. Others speak, which can be useful, but
ma il suo inglese è terribile
, signore.
Dobbiamo assolutamente ripassare il passato remoto.
And yes, thank you, Mr Tescalini, but that’s enough now. That’s quite enough now, so pleeeeassse … put the lady down.’ The inspector had turned duly back to Hatton with, ‘Anyway, I’ve called you here because such is the nature of this prostitute’s many influential customers, an arrest must be made quickly and to help me …’ Another wink followed, this time for Hatton. ‘I shall require a forensic sweep, Professor. Leave no stone unturned.’ Famous last words, because many stones were left unturned on that particular case. But that was a different story.
Grey’s voice echoed around the morgue and brought Hatton back to
the present, who answered, ‘The hands, did you say, Inspector? Well, they certainly look as if fever’s upon him, but I think you will find that the distinctive colouring is caused by something else.’
‘Is it dust of some description, Professor? That’s what your French fellow here suggested. His hands and feet seem to be covered in the stuff.’
Roumande was quickly at the end of the body with a small nailbrush and a thin sheet of paper, as Hatton continued, ‘Roumande’s right. It’s from a grate. Quite clearly ashes, though we’ll need to run some tests to be sure. We’re able to break down the molecular structure to some extent, although our methods are new.’
Hatton asked Roumande if he would be so kind as to get the sample bottles, and quickly turned back to the detective, knowing on the next point he could be decisive.
‘You have a murder victim, Inspector. It’s been made to look like cholera but it’s penny gaff stuff. Perhaps whoever did this thought the body would be burnt in a fit of panic. It’s quite a reasonable assumption, given the way people are behaving in the city in this infernal weather. Reason and logic have left the city. I hear daily reports of Londoners refusing to cross the river by bridge or use the paddle steamers. But where was he found, Inspector? You never said.’
‘In his study, Professor,’ answered Grey, impressed by the theatrics of it all and moving with a lingering smile out of the way of Patrice, who was busy slopping out the blood bucket, before moving on to his next job, a pencil behind his ear.
Grey stroked his moustache. ‘Well, whoever did this didn’t count on the nature of the wife. It was she who calmly organised for the body
to be brought here, for a doubt clouded her mind as well. It seems she’s heard of your new science, Professor, and insisted that we bring the body here to be properly examined. I told her I wasn’t entirely convinced. Yours remains a voodoo science but, well, at this stage, I have little else to go on. I’m prepared to give you another chance, bury the hatchet, all forgiven and forgotten, eh?’
Hatton didn’t reply but only swallowed these snide remarks, because money was short and opportunities like this one thin on the ground, as the Inspector continued, ‘So, are we finished here? I’m sure poor Mrs McCarthy will want the body back, and as there’s no fever here, things can proceed quickly once we’ve signed the necessary paperwork. You’ll get back to me on any more samples, Professor, and I assume I can call upon your services as I investigate this case? On the usual terms, of course. I presume fifty guineas will suffice?’
Hatton bowed at such a generous offer.
‘Well, let us hope,’ continued the Inspector, ‘for all our sakes, there’s a simple explanation here, and this gentleman’s demise is nothing to do with politics.’
Hatton laughed, not able to help himself. ‘Nothing to do with politics, Inspector? Surely it would be everything to do with politics? The “Appeaser of Highgate”? Isn’t that what they called Gabriel McCarthy?’
The inspector shrugged. ‘He was useful to the British government, but no man is indispensable. Gabriel McCarthy was a man of compromise, a Unionist, and so not wedded to repeal like these so-called Irish Nationalists. In my opinion, they should hang the lot of them. Are you a political man, Professor?’
Hatton shrugged. He occasionally wrote to
The Times,
read essays by Carlyle, knew the works of Bentham, and got into the odd contretemps in a Smithfield tavern if the subject mattered. He’d signed petitions when they came his way – the banning of public hangings, the abolition of slavery, better education for girls, vaccination programmes for the scourges of diphtheria, smallpox, and so on. But on the whole, science was his concern, not politics.
The inspector continued, ‘I’ll tell you what I think, then, shall I? That Britain is a mighty nation, chosen by God and Providence to lead the world, but as to the Irish? In my opinion, they’re worse than the Negroes. Have you seen the way the Irish live? Like pigs, Professor. They’re a nation that cannot even feed themselves.’
Hatton looked at the scalpel in his hand. ‘We rule them by martial law, Inspector. Anglo-Irish politics has become a poison in our midst. I cannot even walk through St Giles these days without fear of having my throat slit, just for being an Englishman. Men of compromise are badly needed. Gabriel McCarthy is a terrible loss.’
Grey adjusted a solid gold cufflink. ‘Hmmmm. Well, the volatile nature of Anglo-Irish politics was ever thus. But you’re right. These are dangerous times, so for the time being at least, the less said outside these four walls, the better. So, is that all, Professor?’
But Hatton wasn’t finished with the body. ‘If this is a murder case, and I’m to be called upon, Inspector, then I’m sure you understand it’s not simply a matter of money.’
Hatton looked at Roumande for support, who took the cue, and stepped forward to flank him. ‘As you know, despite the recent upset with those digits in the biscuit tin …’
‘The victim’s you mean …’
Hatton tried to bite his tongue, but this time he simply couldn’t, as he said, ‘In my opinion, Inspector, as the expert witness on that case, those digits you found so miraculously, halfway through the trial, could have been just about anyone’s. They weren’t necessarily the victim’s, and you damn well know it, Grey. They were so badly severed, so decomposed, so knocked about among the biscuit crumbs, as to render them useless, and whatever you might think of me …’
Grey sighed and adjusted the fit of his waistcoat fussily.
Flustered, nevertheless Hatton pressed on, ‘Yes, whatever you might think of me, whatever you say behind my back among your colleagues at The Yard, we still retain a reputation for excellence at St Bart’s, and I must ask, or I should say insist, that I go to the crime scene, as soon as possible. I’ll also need to do a complete and total autopsy. There can be no funeral until Wednesday, at the very earliest.’
The policeman pulled a face, but he was not one to throw away the opportunity of help so lightly. The performance of the plate and Bunsen burner might do very nicely, should such evidence be required in court.
‘Very well,’ agreed Grey. ‘Go ahead, Hatton. I’ve a busy day ahead, so do what you must. I’ll send a carriage to St Bart’s to fetch you once I have spoken to the widow. Rest assured, the crime scene will remain unmolested. I shall see to it myself. But time is pressing, and I must attend to another case.’ He turned to Roumande as if to seek his opinion. ‘A missing chef? He, too, is a Frenchman from Spitalfields and famous for his gateaux. His name is Gustave Pomeroy. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, monsieur?’
‘Pomeroy? No, Inspector, but then I rarely go to restaurants and I
don’t like cake,’ replied Roumande. ‘Except for my wife’s, of course.’
‘Well, you are missing out, sir,’ insisted the Inspector. ‘For this skilled gentleman is highly sought after by the ladies of this town. He was due to deliver a private dinner of grand proportions for Mrs Holford and the philanthropist Tobias Hecker. In aid of workhouse children, and rumour had it that Her Majesty might attend. Well, the cooking maestro never arrived, and neither did our Queen, so the ladies were doubly disappointed. And it seems this Pomeroy chap has disappeared into thin air. No sign of the chef at his lodging house in Spitalfields, or at his restaurant in Piccadilly, and the ladies, Hatton, the ladies … they are verging on hysteria. As if I haven’t got better things to do, but you see, gentlemen, there’s no wriggling out of it. And Mr Tescalini is very fond of madeleines, which is an incentive of sorts, I suppose. So, yes, I must be off.’
And with that, the Inspector threaded around Patrice, who was standing in the way, head down, busy with a mop and bucket, his sinewy arms glistening from splashes of water as he whistled to himself. The inspector gazed for a second too long, then made a sound like ‘Grrrr,’ before whirling his pocket watch, lasso like, into his top pocket and hurrying out of the morgue.
It was noon.
‘Sorry, Professor. I wasn’t listening.’ Roumande was standing by the corpse, scratching the top of his head.
Hatton answered him, not getting up from his desk. His belly was rumbling and his patience thinning. ‘I said we’re done here this morning, Albert. Quite done. We’ll continue after lunch.’
‘Done, Professor? But there’s something here that intrigues me. What say you to his mouth? It’s not quite right, Professor.’
Hatton tried to mask his lack of patience. ‘His mouth is a grimace, which is quite normal for a person who has swallowed a large quantity of poison. Perhaps you could show Patrice how to fix it before delivery to the widow?’
Patrice put his mop down and hurried over to help.
‘You seem a little tense, Adolphus. Is there something wrong?’
‘No, friend.’ Hatton already regretted his shortness with Roumande, especially in front of their apprentice. ‘A little tired perhaps, and this morning I had some bad news. Dr Buchanan has decided to postpone our budget announcement until the autumn, although the scarlatina experts are sitting pretty, of course. I know I sound cross, but really, I spent forever on the figures, by which I mean of course that
we
spent forever on the figures.’
Roumande raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘And he hasn’t even looked at them, Professor? Not even noted the rising cost of embalming? Or our suggestions for introducing this new method of fingerprinting?’