The Devil's Ribbon E-Book

D. E. Meredith

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Hatton & Roumande
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 464

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

London 1858. Forensic scientist Adolphus Hatton and his trusty assistant Albert Roumande have a morgue full of cholera victims to attend to. But alongside the cholera outbreak, London is also home to a growing unrest. When a leading politician of the Irish Unionist movement is murdered, Scotland Yard calls on Hatton and Roumande for help.

Leseprobe

THE DEVIL’S RIBBON

D.E. MEREDITH

For Mum and Dad – with love, alwaysle grá go deo

They are going, going, going from the valleys and the hills,

They are leaving far behind them heathery moor and mountain rills,

All the wealth of hawthorn hedges where the brown thrush sways and trills.

They are going, shy-eyed colleens and lads so straight and tall,

From the purple peaks of Kerry, from the crags of wild Imaal,

From the greening plains of Mayo and the glens of Donegal.

They are going, going, going, and we cannot bid them stay;

Their fields are now the strangers’ where the strangers’ cattle stray.

Oh! Kathaleen Ní Houlihan, your way’s a thorny way!

– Ethna Carbery, ‘The Passing of the Gael’

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphPROLOGUEONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONETWENTY-TWOTWENTY-THREETWENTY-FOURTWENTY-FIVEHISTORICAL AFTERWORDACKNOWLEDGEMENTSBy D.E. MeredithAbout the AuthorCopyright

PROLOGUE

HIGHGATE 1858

Nothing but shadows and an eerie stillness in the heat of a simmering night as a figure stoops under a lintel and makes his way quickly, through a labyrinth of alleys, before finding Berry Street and heading north along the Farringdon Road. For a fleeting moment he pauses and looks over his shoulder, to be seen briefly against the backdrop of a Smithfield butcher’s shop. His face mottled like the pox in the dark of its window. A sharp jaw, full lips, skin drawn tight over jutting cheekbones, and grasped tightly in his hands, a book. Musty pages from another lifetime, another world away and on its broken board, just one word – Liberty.

Four hundred and twenty prayers are inside. Cries in the dark, ghosts from his past, but tonight some of those prayers are about to be answered, as he heads out of the city, past Finchley Fields, walking at a terrifying pace, his head down, continuing faster, faster. He isn’t wearing any boots as he sweeps past the numerous slop houses, slums, and taverns of the Holloway Road, where it grieves him to say that according to the newspapers, and that wonderful British institution, Punch, the Irish smell of piss, live eighty to a room and keep pigs in the privy. Well, that’s the Irish for yer, yer honour. Savages, the lot of ’em.

But this man is heading to where the rich folk live. Up Highgate Hill, still hogging the shadows, he smoothes on gloves so when he leaps over a wall, he bounds up from his haunches like a cat, not making a sound, not leaving a mark, as he pushes on through the meadows which are humming with night insects, moving at a swift pace past the spiked gates of The Necropolis.

Pitch black, the stars overhead like needles, lucent and shimmering. White Lodge. At the back of the house, he loiters, looking through a window at an older man who’s slumped over what looks like a mound of parliamentary papers, Points of Notice, bills from the estate, an essay by Carlyle, In Memoriam, and other testaments to a dire lack of faith.

Is the man sleeping? Or is it simply a love of laudanum?

The killer double-checks the poison which he keeps in a vial, knowing this death to be inelegant, mockingly cruel but, more important – fast.

He gives the door a sharp kick and it swings open with ease. The older man doesn’t move a muscle, but remains asleep, blissfully asleep – as the killer looks around the study to see back copies of The Nation, others of An Glor. Up above him, a map of Ireland, and on a little table, buttermilk, a plate of soda bread, and two sherry glasses, left untouched.

The killer lays a hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder and whispers his name, but nothing comes back. Gently does it, he thinks, filling up the needle and giving it a tap. Down the hallway, silence. The floor above him, silence. Not even a mantel clock.

He leans in closer. ‘Gabriel?’ He’s so close, he can smell a spicy pomade, the toilette of a gentleman, but this gentleman will never be clean until …

‘I’m here, Gabriel. Wake up.’

A drowsy look of surprise.

‘You …’ say laudanum eyes.

‘Save your prayers for the devil,’ the killer says, as he plunges the poison inside.

ONE

ST. BART’S HOSPITAL SMITHFIELD JULY 9TH, 1858

The skin is cold and often damp, the tongue flabby and chilled like a piece of dead meat. The patient speaks in a plaintive whisper, tosses incessantly from side to side and complains of intolerable weight or anguish. He struggles for breath, points out the seat of his agony. If blood is obtained at this point, it is black, oozes like jelly, drop by drop. Towards the close, the patient becomes insensible and with a rattle in the throat, dies quietly after a long convulsive sob.’

All was silent in the morgue, save the scratch of a nib, as Professor Hatton copied out a passage from one of his well-thumbed medical journals, underlining words which reminded him not of the symptoms of cholera, but of his father who’d died on a suffocating night, reminiscent of this one.

He was pale, when his sister Lucy had taken his hand. ‘You did everything you could, Adolphus.’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t enough,’ he’d replied bitterly, as they’d stood among the handful of people who’d gathered by the newly dug graveside, watching as the coffin was lowered, knowing prayers were a comfort to some. He’d stared at the Hampshire earth and the worms made violet by the spades, thinking if there was a God, then how could this happen … again?

Bone-tired, Hatton shook away the bad memory and forced his wandering mind back to his work, which was money well earned but giving him the damnedest headache, as he wrote on a neat, square of paper, ‘Note to self – alimentary canal, entry point? Sphincter muscle? Exit? See Mr Farr’s work, London Medical Gazette, page 12 – Broad Street Pump – how does cholera travel?’

Outside, there was a sudden sound of wheels on cobbles, the creak of a chain and a harsh voice crying in the dark, ‘Bring ’em over ’ere. For pity’s sake …’ere, I say …’

Not more bodies, he thought. It was midnight and he’d only just finished cutting the last lot, making the cholera count what – twenty? He checked his notes – yes, twenty – which wasn’t enough to call it an epidemic yet, which was good news for Infectious Diseases, but for him? Well, thought Hatton, that was a moot point.

The harsh voice came again –

‘Don’t lift the cover. Wheel it over there. There, I say. Leave the bodies by the water pump. Fussy devil? You ain’t heard the like. He’ll ’ave your guts for garters, if anyone touches that padlock.’

Hatton’s chief diener, Albert Roumande, was on the far side of the mortuary, a question in his eye to which Hatton said, ‘I know, I know, Albert. I’m going.’ Outside, in the moonlit yard, an arc of stars framed a paltry gang of body collectors who were gathered in a round with torches in their hands. Hatton snatched one of the torches. ‘For pity’s sake, put the damn flames out. Then for heaven’s sake clean yourselves up a bit. There’s a real risk of infection, here. Especially you! Have you learnt nothing from us, lad?’ The young man in question stood to attention, removing his cap in a quick show of deference, as Hatton shook his head at the youth’s dishevelled appearance. ‘Monsieur Roumande has a mountain of work for you, so hurry yourself. Where have you been anyway? You’ve been gone hours already.’

‘Excusez-moi, but Monsieur Roumande said he needed me to visit Newgate, sir, and then go on to the Irish nests in the slums, where I heard the fever bell ringing. Shall I help shift the bodies, Professor?’

‘Well, that’s your job, isn’t it?’ said Hatton, cross, because he’d done a fifteen-hour stretch already. ‘Get the corpses into the mortuary, quickly, then it’s hot water and carbolic for the lot of you. No hands anywhere near the mouth, until you’re done with the cadavers and washed. Do you understand me, Patrice?’

The boy nodded, contritely.

‘Very well, get on with it,’ said Hatton, wiping a swathe of sweat from his neck, because the air in the morgue was uncomfortable and fetid, but it wasn’t much better out here, he thought. St Bart’s Hospital had been built as a sanctuary for the sick on the ancient meadows of Smithfield, a holy place of medieval monks and healers, but the ‘smooth’ fields had long become a market, and the market had long become a herding place for animals and a slaughterhouse for a thousand dead sheep, a million disembowelled pigs, the split carcasses of cattle. But it was a different sort of death tonight that demanded Professor Hatton’s attention.

Back in the cutting room, Albert Roumande wobbled precariously on a rickety chair, risking life and limb, but determined to hang up another posy of dried herbs to drive the scent of death away, because as chief diener – a word meaning only ‘servant of the morgue’ – his work covered all matters of sanitation, odour control, preserving and pickling, the procurement of newfangled instruments, knife sharpening and bookkeeping. Added to which, being a man of rare intellect and an avid reader of everything from The Lancet to The London Medical Gazette, when it came to understanding the nuances of anatomy, in truth, he was barely a whisper away from Professor Hatton himself.

Roumande jumped down from the chair with remarkable dexterity as he announced, ‘If the summer keeps up at this temperature, we’ll soon be awash with corpses. But where and how to store them without buckets of ice?’ He scratched his head. ‘That’ll be the next problem. The heat is choking the city, but at least we’ve someone committed to help us, at last.’ He turned to their apprentice, Patrice. ‘But no peace for the wicked, eh? Go and get those cadavers onto the dissection slab, lad, and then I’ve got a treat for you.’

The boy wiped his hands on his apron and beamed. ‘A treat? For me, monsieur?’

‘Learning and erudition, Patrice. You’ve been with us for almost a fortnight now and you can’t always be scrubbing and mopping. Put on some gloves, don a mask, and you can observe your first cholera cutting. Is that permissible, Professor?’

Hatton nodded, happy to leave such matters to Albert Roumande. A man who excelled not only in all things to do with the running of the morgue, but whose sage advice was something Professor Hatton – the younger man, at thirty-five – had come to rely on. For example, on how to raise children – ‘With love, Adolphus, nothing but love.’ On how to sharpen a knife, ‘Always, Professor. Against the blade.’ On matters of dissection, ‘I think you’ve missed a bit, Professor.’ And matters of the heart, ‘Like birds need the sky, and stars need the moon, a man needs a wife, Adolphus …’

But tonight was not a night to contemplate matters of the heart. There was work to do. Standing under a sign which said Perfect Specimens for an Exacting Science – cherry red on Prussian blue – Hatton carefully inspected an array of surgical instruments, embossed with the doctor’s initials – ARH esq.

‘The smallest, I think, for the child’s gut,’ Hatton said to the sliver of silver in his hand.

‘I agree with you, Professor,’ said Roumande, rolling back his sleeves. ‘Here, Patrice, step up to the cadaver. See these scissors? They are typically used to separate the membranes out from the muscle. Each fold, each cavity may unlock a secret. Step forward, but touch nothing. Observe the organs carefully because later we shall expect you to draw them.’

Hatton prepared to delve in, to feel the flesh rip against the blade, and the muscle melt against metal. Muffled behind his calico mask, he said, ‘See here, as I draw the blade.’ Hatton sliced the torso of a young Irish girl, creating a purple slit, a seeping Y, running through the skin down to the pelvis and then back again to her right breastbone.

Roumande stood ready with a large pair of coal tongs, peering over the corpse and adding, ‘A perfect skin flap, and the infection is clearly denoted by the telltale blood. It resembles crème de cassis, n’est ce pas?’

The youth spluttered, ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur. S’il vous plaît. Please, wait … wait a moment, monsieur.’

‘I have him.’ Roumande crooked his arm around their apprentice. ‘Here, steady now. Sit down for a moment, but what on earth’s the matter? You’ve seen umpteen dissections before.’

Patrice put his head between his legs and retched into a nearby bucket, wiping his mouth. ‘Excusez-moi, excusez-moi …’

‘Is it the girl that upsets you? Or the fear of these infected bodies?’

‘It’s the black blood, like a witch or the devil’s …’

‘Cholera isn’t the prettiest.’ Roumande patted Patrice on the back, and then turning to Hatton, said, ‘The smalls will be more interesting for Mr Farr, don’t you think? And we’re in luck tonight for we’ve a couple of babes, here.’

Hatton didn’t reply, his eyes still intent on the girl.

‘Lost in thought, Adolphus?’ asked Roumande.

Hatton shrugged. ‘You’re right, Albert. We should concentrate on the smalls.’ He pointed his scalpel at the micelike shrouds. ‘And I’d wager those babies are twins.’

‘My thoughts exactly, Professor. To compare the onset of fever on cadavers of the same nature will perhaps be worth a few extra guineas for Mr Farr? And I couldn’t sleep tonight if we dissected the girl. She must have been a sight for sore eyes, before the cholera took her.’

She was maybe fourteen, girlish yet womanly, on the cusp of life before she died, thought Hatton, as Roumande bent down to study the girl a little closer, saying, ‘There’s a priest in Soho might be willing to bury her. Though where he puts them is a mystery, for they can’t be buried in the confines of the city.’ Roumande turned to their apprentice. ‘All cholera corpses by rights should be incinerated. The Board of Health insists upon it. And yet here lies the prettiest of creatures, an innocent and a Catholic, as well. Well, what do you think, Patrice? Do we burn her like meat?’

The morgue wasn’t a democracy, thought Hatton to himself, and not all opinions mattered. Hatton was all for self-improvement, being of humble origins himself, but there were limits. And more to the point, was this dead child really worth the trouble? But before Hatton could say any of this, the lad spoke up, ‘I know the priest. It’s Father O’Brian at the Sacred Heart in Soho who buries them. Special dispensation for Catholics, Professor, because in death we don’t like to be burnt, monsieur.’

Professor Hatton lifted a handful of the dead girl’s red gold hair. Auburn curls, pallid lips, and lids of ash. ‘Very well, take her to the priest, for she’s at peace now. But mind yourself, Patrice. We’ve strict rules for cholera cadavers. There’s still the curse of disease upon her, so tell no one what you have on the cart. Only the priest, Father O’Brian, do you hear? If we can give one of these poor children some dignity, so be it.’

An hour passed, as Hatton sat quietly, not fighting the sense of loss which always overcame him after so many gone forever. In the winter, he would pull up his chair close to the huge stone grate. A roaring fire would warm his body, if not his soul. But this was summer. No fire was lit. The cholera girl had been delivered to the priest and the lad was back at his station again, as Hatton shut his eyes, listening to Roumande, slipping in and out of French, with his ‘Oui! Attention! Do it like this’ and ‘Mais, non! Non, non, non. Écoute. Do it like that.’

They had worked together long enough for Roumande to know that the Professor needed a pause for contemplation on life, and what it really meant when it ended.

The filigree watch in Hatton’s fob pocket ticked.

Perhaps twenty minutes passed before the Professor found the wherewithal to stand up, brush himself down, move over to the chipped enamel sink, and peer at himself, noting the worn-out face of a solitary man.

‘It irks me,’ said Hatton, still looking in the mirror.

‘What’s that, Professor?’ asked Roumande.

‘Mr Farr specifically asked me to do the cholera work, and yet all my findings must be checked by Dr Buchanan, our hospital director, but he’s a physician and knows nothing of pathology. He simply wants to ingratiate himself with Mr Farr and all those eminent gentlemen at the Board of Health.’

Roumande shook his head. ‘It’s been a long night. You’re tired, Adolphus, and still upset about the girl.’

‘No, Albert. It’s not just the girl. Our budget review is tomorrow at nine, remember?’

Roumande gave a shrug, but of course.

Moving over to his desk, and opening a drawer, Hatton found his favoured chisel blade. ‘The usual squabbling at the trough, Albert. You should see the other doctors and their sycophantic ways. It’s a disgrace.’ He nicked the wood; little shards were flying up. ‘They come to the meeting laden down with chocolates, bottles of Cognac, cigars for Dr Buchanan, but I shan’t do it. There’s no dignity in it, and anyway’ – he stabbed the desk, hard – ‘forensics isn’t a priority at this hospital. Never shall be, never will be.’

Roumande didn’t answer, because Professor Hatton had been this way for a while now – that is to say, peevish and irritable. Ever since their last proper case, which hadn’t gone well. Roumande cursed the day that dandified policeman, Inspector Jeremiah Grey, had arrived at The Yard. And if Roumande closed his eyes, he could still hear the Inspector’s Welsh squeal ricocheting off the panelled walls of the Old Bailey and see his friend, Professor Hatton, head bowed in the witness stand, as the judge shouted, ‘Order in Court! Order in Court! I will have order in Court …’ While Inspector Grey was a spit away, screaming like a girl, ‘But you’re our expert witness. So say it, damn you! Say it! Say they are indeed the victim’s digits in the biscuit tin, or step down, Professor Hatton.’

But Hatton was a man who understood Truth and could never testify to evidence he suspected had been planted, even if that meant a murderer walked free. After the case was dismissed and the accused found ‘not guilty’, Grey had waited for them just outside the Court and seethed, ‘That’s right, Hatton. Walk away, just as that murderer’s done. You should have spoken up, you should have been definitive, you should have said something, anything – not stood there like a lemon. And tell me, Professor, what is all this forensics for if not to help me?’

Hatton had turned to face him, trying to remain calm. ‘That was the first time I’d seen those fingers, and it appears your evidence came out of nowhere. Mr Tescalini found them? Simply stumbled upon them? I really don’t think so, and please, Inspector, don’t ever put me on the spot again like that. It’s extremely unprofessional.’

Grey was wrestling with a sweet wrapper, shoving a bonbon into his mouth, as if his life depended on it, as he said, ‘Cast dispersions on our methods if you like, but we found the tin, hidden in a bedpan and …’

Hatton shook his head, ‘Inspector, with respect, I checked that room …’

‘I’m a policeman and my job is a simple one – to send the guilty down and get results for my superiors, any way I can. Not be left with egg on my face by a supercilious prig like you.’

Hatton had shaken his head with disgust and then whistled down a carriage, ignoring the Inspector’s last remarks; he, in turn, had ignored Professor Hatton for these last six months.

It had been a bad day; a long, bad day for St Bart’s.

But work must carry on and so Roumande sighed and, turning back to Patrice, said, ‘My fingers grow thicker with each year and the Professor has no time for sketching any more. When it comes to the most important of our tasks, we need young blood. So come.’

Albert Roumande led the boy down a short passageway, to a room no bigger than a cell, whose walls were papered with a variety of anatomical sketches, and on a wooden table, a collection of pencils, quills, inks, and other sketching material plus a number of organs, displayed provocatively on white china plates. The ‘gallery’, as Roumande liked to call it, was lit by a single oil lamp. There was a scent of mould and old blood, masked by the sharper cut of turpentine.

Roumande pointed to a freshly cut lump; claret jelly in the morgue half-light. ‘The Professor is keen to capture any unusual aspects to the alimentary canal and the sphincter muscle. You’ve heard of the theory of miasma, of course?’

The apprentice nodded, because frankly, who hadn’t? That diseases like cholera were caused by the foul air of London and the great stink rising off the river.

‘Well, that’s one line of thought, but it’s our belief that cholera is, in fact, waterborne. The body count this summer is no epidemic, but it could easily become so. The Professor’s work is to gather statistical data in relation to how cholera travels, anatomically speaking. But tell me, because I’m curious. Before you came here, what did you know of the human body? You seem to have a certain talent.’

The youth smiled. ‘Thank you, monsieur. Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed. Your reputation on the Continent is second to none, which is partly why I came here. To learn from you, monsieur.’

Roumande was not without a modicum of vanity. Despite himself, he puffed his chest out a little as he said, ‘I strive to be the best, of course,’ then quickly added, ‘but only for the sake of the cadavers. One must always remember, these corpses were once somebody’s child. Never forget that.’

‘I won’t, monsieur.’

‘I’ve lived in Spitalfields for over twenty years and there was revolution in the air when I left in ’32, as you well know. But I’ve honed my skills here, in London, because the Metropolis is a sick city, Patrice, the sickest city on earth. And a violent one, too.’

The apprentice nodded. ‘I knew only a little of the dead, before I came here, monsieur. In Paris, I worked as a body collector, and before that, when I lived in Marseille, I had a job in the Jesuit hospital of St Jean’s, where I became accustomed to cadavers, but I was nothing as grand as a diener.’

‘So you’re from the South, then? I thought as much,’ said Roumande, enjoying the opportunity for a lighthearted chat for once, and reminiscing about the old country. ‘My great-great-grandfather was the first diener in Paris, who learnt his trade at the steps of the guillotine. We’ve had assistants in the past, but they’ve been butchers. A few Irish, a couple of English, even the odd Negro, but none has had the artistry which we require. The apprenticeship is ten long years for a reason. The skill of a diener must be learnt, honed, perfected. And you are how old, did you say?’

Patrice pulled his shoulders back. ‘I am almost eighteen,’ he said proudly.

‘Eighteen, eh?’ Roumande looked at Patrice as if he was surveying a horse at a country fair, weighing up the value of him. His dark curls and good looks were what Roumande’s wife might call Byronic. A certain kind of male beauty, which at eighteen was fetching enough, but by forty or so would be long gone, turned to swarthy as Roumande had become.

‘You’ll be nearly thirty by the time you qualify. But you’re still quite happy to wait?’

‘I believe patience is a virtue, monsieur.’

‘It is.’ Roumande put his arm around the lad and drew him closer. ‘But in this trade, so is passion, dedication, and a flexibility of mind, which doesn’t care what polite Society thinks. If you stay with us, you’ll need to grow accustomed to taunts, because they call us scoundrels, body snatchers, the devil’s magicians. And when they’re not insulting us, the living would rather ignore us, as if we didn’t exist at all.’

He paused, as the murky chasm of the morgue closed in on them. ‘But beneath the cobbled streets, down each bend and turn of an alley, from unmarked graves come ghostly whispers from the dead. Close your eyes and listen. Well? Can you hear them whispering your name? Can you hear them calling you?’

The apprentice, his eyes closed, answered,

‘Yes, monsieur. Je peux les entendre.’

Roumande, satisfied, said, ‘As I can. And it’s our work, and the work of Professor Hatton with his new science of forensics, to give the dead a voice that all the world can hear, by seeing everything, by missing nothing. So, open your eyes, Patrice, and draw.’

TWO

ST GILES

One hour till dawn and the lamps in The Flask were dimmed, the tallow candles burnt to nothing. Two men and a boy sat in a huddle in a corner, hunched over dirty pints of what looked like porter but could have been gin; it was too dark to make out the difference. John O’Rourke, an Irish hack, looked at his watch then growled like a bad-tempered dog, ‘Where the devil is O’Brian? We take huge risks showing our faces, even here. That priest treats us all as if we are nothing.’

Jasper Tooley, a cripple child, slugged back a gulp of his drink, saying that he needed to be off soon, or his pa would surely miss him and then there’d be hell to pay. Meanwhile, the third in the group – a young man, smartly dressed, with a tumble of red curls and a freckled complexion, said, ‘Calm yourself, for we know where he is. Father O’Brian is tending to the sick in the rookeries. Cholera grips our people. Five more dead were found tonight and word is the bodies were treated like animals. Snatched, they said, and taken to St Bart’s to be hacked to pieces, all in the name of science.’

‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.’

‘Yes, but we’re fighting back this time.’ Damien McCarthy had a quill and a map spread out in front of him, and had circled an area in green ink which said ‘Piccadilly’. ‘It’ll be the English cut to ribbons when the time comes, John, and it’s fast approaching.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said O’Rourke. ‘Our people are starving again in the home country. We should strike now. Parliament’s in recess and the Lords are off in the country to fuck dogs and sodomise their women. And they call us savages.’

At the mention of the word sodomise, the boy blessed himself and looked to Heaven, which was a mouldy spot on the ceiling.

‘You think I’m joking?’ John O’Rourke eyeballed the lad. ‘They’re a filthy nation of perverts and liars. Sure, doesn’t your father like to call himself British when it suits him, though? When he has a contract to win, am I right?’ The boy was ashamed of his pa but said nothing, only looked into the dregs of his drink, as O’Rourke continued, ‘Still, you might yet redeem your family’s name and die an Irish martyr, eh?’

The poor boy’s eyes grew wide with terror, but Damien added in a gentler voice, ‘Take no notice of Mr O’Rourke. None of us are going to die and he’s a foul-speaking gentleman at the best of times. Isn’t it the nature of these pen pushers? Am I right, John? Isn’t it in the heart of you to be rather too free with your powers of description?’

O’Rourke sucked on a small clay pipe. ‘But I wrote a fine piece yesterday. Did you read it, Damien? It was on the latest developments in Westminster, and as usual I mentioned your wonderful brother.’

‘Ah, yes. The Appeaser of Highgate? But you’ve no need to worry about Gabriel. There’s no love of Union politics any more. I was in Ireland only a month ago and the tide’s moving towards our way of thinking. Towards a single, free, and liberated Ireland. The time is coming, John. I know it.’

And the time was coming. There was revolution in the air. Irish prisoners transported to Australia were rising up in the goldfields of Ballarat, and in America, roaming in gangs, arming themselves, and here in the slums of London, discontent was simmering and John O’Rourke could feel the lust for change, he could cut it with a knife. Irish liberty would rise out of the ashes of the famine and their draconian masters, the British, would pay for what they’d done. A thousand years of oppression – The Tara Hill rebellion, the Battle of the Boyne, the Three Rocks, Ovidstown, and the bloodletting of Ballinamuck.

As God was his witness, O’Rourke knew the facts, all right. He wrote about them every day of his life. The words rattled around in his brain, grew in his heart like a malodorous cancer – by the end of 1848, after the deadly spores of the potato blight, one million lay dead, another million banished to the far corners of the earth, to live in squalor, to languish under the heat of a foreign sun, to be exiled from their own land, to be laughed at, spat at, mocked.

O’Rourke narrowed his eyes. ‘A guinea says Gabriel McCarthy MP will get his comeuppance for his liberal sensibilities. His speeches about perseverance and waiting for liberty make me retch. Waiting for what? Waiting till the English wipe us out completely? It’s hard to believe sometimes that you’re brothers. He sits in The Commons, like his father before him, preaching to our people about achieving repeal, not through the blood of martyrs but,’ he cleared his throat and did his best Donegal accent, ‘tru legil and constitutional means and lickin’ the hairy Inglish arse, yer honour …’

‘To my eternal shame, my brother is his father’s son,’ replied Damien with a smile. ‘Whereas, I …’

‘Jesus, Damien, I’ve heard it all before. The little babby of the McCarthy clan, livin’ in the corner of yer brother’s house but free to have opinions of yer own? Well, aren’t you the lucky one?’

‘Some say it might be the making of me, John. That I’m a free spirit.’

O’Rourke laughed and sat back in his chair. ‘Oh, and let me guess who’s been putting those romantic notions in your head. She’s married to him, you know. He’d cut your throat if he knew your thoughts, brother or no brother. You know the rules. Till death do they part.’

Damien dipped his quill in the ink. ‘I’ll not discuss Mrs McCarthy in this low company. Times were such, she had no choice but to marry my brother. Anyway, pay attention. We’ll need the device placed round about here’ – he stabbed the map with his quill and smiled.

The crooked boy blessed himself again, and John O’Rourke went to clip his ears, but the boy looked back with such contempt that the sometime editor of An Glor and regular contributor to the marginally more respectable The Nation decided not to antagonise this puppy any further. The Flask had long since been a place for secret meetings of the Irish political variety, but they needed to be mindful. Spies were everywhere. Even here in St Giles, which was an underworld, a law unto itself. Thousands of Irish lived here, the poorest of the poor, in what was termed the rookeries. A labyrinth of squalid boardinghouses, a little north of Soho, its pavers heaving with rubbish, screaming children, half-dressed costermongers, and prostitutes, but all proud to be speaking their own language, following their own religion.

But being poor meant two things in John O’Rourke’s book – easily radicalised but also easily bought. And, thought O’Rourke, there was something about this boy which wasn’t quite there. There was definitely something missing. He wasn’t entirely reliable. These were dangerous times to put your trust in a twelve-year-old bookbinder’s son. Still, if the boy turned out to be as useful as Father O’Brian promised he’d be, then O’Rourke was willing to take the risk, for the time being at least.

The journalist pointed at the map. ‘And this jeweller’s shop? How well do you know it?’

‘Well enough,’ answered Damien. ‘Why only last week I accompanied Mrs McCarthy there. Gabriel, as ever, was far too busy for her, but we walked arm in arm quite nicely, and I helped her pick a diamond brooch. Very becoming, it looked, too.’

O’Rourke laughed, a scoffing sort of laugh, as Damien wrote ‘Burlington Arcade’ on a separate piece of paper and drew an impression of arches.

O’Rourke lit his pipe. ‘Did O’Brian say when the device might be ready?’

‘There are still one or two mechanisms which needed adjusting, and I left him to it. He only went off with it in his pocket after mass this morning!’

O’Rourke could feel his sense of humour slipping. ‘Well, he needs to hurry himself. The anniversary of Drogheda is July 12th, which is just three days from now. Anniversaries work best. Sends the message home where it hurts. Just get the package back from his saintly hands, and I’ll deliver it myself. It’s time.’

‘Amen to that, Mr O’Rourke. But I’d love to see how far you’d get without me.’

The men swung around to a low voice that rolled across the darkened tavern like thunder. The priest was standing by the door, his hands covered in dirt.

‘Jesus, Father, don’t go sneaking up on us like that,’ said O’Rourke. ‘Why didn’t you announce yourself?’

The priest threw his head back and laughed. ‘Sure, I only wanted to listen to the washerwomen, for that’s what you sounded like. You need to mind yourselves. As far as I remember, the punishment for sedition in this godless country is death by hanging.’

The priest pulled up a chair. He was a tall man and found it difficult to get comfortable. He stuck his legs out, making the others pull back, putting a black leather pouch gently on the table, and John O’Rourke instinctively reached out, but the priest was quicker. ‘Jesus. I wouldn’t go touching that, John, unless you want to blow your own head off. It’s a finely tuned device. And I for one think the anniversary of Drogheda is a grand idea.’ His voice grew louder and he seemed afraid of no one, as he stood up in the middle of the tavern and seemed to fill the very air, the very space around him. He’d been a soldier once with his ramrod back, his massive chest, his hands the size of shovels and feet the size of boats. ‘I’ll not stand dissention in the ranks, do you understand me? Does anyone have issues with that?’ He looked directly at the journalist. ‘Well, John?’

John O’Rourke cast his eyes to the ground. ‘Whatever you say, Father.’

‘And what about you, Damien?’

‘You know I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, if it wins our people liberty.’

‘And you, lad, what do you say?’

But the cripple boy’s attention had been taken by a moth that had settled on the table ledge. The moth was perfect, fresh burst from its chrysalis, its armoured body like a wasp. A luminous wasp.

‘It’s a death’s head moth, Father,’ said the boy, looking up from the fluttering creature, slightly lost to the world. ‘It makes its home in the rotting trees up in Finchley Fields. It’s a rare beauty to find in the middle of the city, Father.’

As quick as a flash, the priest grabbed a glass and with a sharp twist, severed the moth’s head from its body. He smashed it underfoot, saying, ‘Forget about the moth and repeat after me – Clan Shan Van Vocht … if you are in favour, say aye.’

The men stood up to join their chief, but the boy stayed sitting on his chair, bereft, till he was grabbed by the collar by the priest who glowered, ‘Pay attention, child. I’m in no mood for any more nonsense. Sure, just look at my hands …’ His palms were thick with dirt. ‘I’ve just been burying a pauper girl who died of the cholera. She was left outside the Sacred Heart, with a note addressed to me, begging for God’s Mercy. Too late for that, I’d say, but I buried her anyway. It’s not mercy she needs now, but sweet fucking vengeance. So, repeat after me, if you are in favour …’

‘Aye!’ The men thumped the table, fist on fist.

‘The twelfth of July, then,’ said the priest. ‘Motion carried.’

THREE

BLOOMSBURY JULY 10TH

Just as Hatton closed his eyes and fell deeply into a moonlit dream, Mrs Gallant, his landlady, was rapping sharply at his door with that irritating little tap of hers.

‘It’s almost nine o’clock, Professor.’

Damnation, Hatton thought as he leapt out of bed, galvanised by fear of Dr Buchanan’s barking voice, sure to greet him as he entered the hospital director’s dominion, the last and the least.

‘No breakfast, Mrs Gallant. Not today,’ Hatton yelled as he heard a clattering of dishes from behind him and momentarily caught the sweet scent of bacon in the air, knowing he would have to make do with a bitter coffee from the grinder’s stall by the hospital gates.

The Professor headed down Holborn, not waiting for the omnibus, rushing along Charterhouse Street, on and on, till at last he caught a glimpse of St Paul’s golden dome in the distant haze. Sweating buckets, he could hear in his head his feeble excuses for arriving at the budget meeting … he pulled out his pocket watch … half an hour late.

At the sight of the hospital gates ahead of him, Hatton broke into a run and thought he heard a Special blow a whistle in his direction, but darted into the safety of the vast building, where the entrance hall’s sparkling mirrors showed fleetingly his shirt stuck to his skin, his tie unloosened, his hair all over his face, and as for his hat? His new brown derby? Missing. In short, Professor Hatton was a mess and hardly worthy of a pay rise, if the cut of his trousers was to be judged.

‘Enter,’ said the gruff voice of Dr Buchanan. Hatton stepped into the director’s room in the newly painted South Wing, which was full to bursting with physicians and their unspeakable smugness.

‘Aaah … Professor Hatton. How good of you to join us, at last. But alas, we’ve finished already. In fact, we didn’t have time to discuss your particular requirements.’ Hatton’s heart sank because he knew what that meant – budget cuts at the morgue. ‘And anyway you’re wanted elsewhere. Inspector Grey arrived a full fifteen minutes ago and he didn’t come alone. So, off you go, and get freshened up at once. You’re a monster mess, sir. It doesn’t do for St Bart’s professors to present themselves in such a shambles to The Yard. This is the most eminent hospital in London and we have a reputation to uphold. Really, Professor … it doesn’t do at all …’

‘Professor Hatton. What a pleasure, sir. What a pleasure indeed. It’s been far too long. And despite some professional disagreements in the past, dare I say that I have missed you so? And I’m here because I urgently need your counsel. It’s a very intriguing case …’

The man decked out in a blue waistcoat, tangerine breeches, and a sumptuous tartan coat was clearly no stranger to the morgue. Despite an absence of more than six months, Inspector Jeremiah Grey had positioned himself to make his little speech of ‘rapprochement’ not on Hatton’s chair – which would have been bad enough – but on the Professor’s desk, his legs crossed, just so.

It was true, thought Hatton, that Grey’s predecessor, the late Inspector Adams, and he had never been friends. Indeed, far from it. So, when word came that Adams’s replacement would be a religious man, coming from Cardiff of all places – a city of Methodists, God-fearing, hardworking, straitlaced people – Hatton had heaved a huge sigh of relief. At last, a senior policeman in London they could rely on. But Jeremiah Grey soon proved to be a law unto himself.

The inspector had been at The Yard less than a week when the rumour mill started. First, that this new detective was strongly suspected of planting evidence, and second, that he hadn’t come to London alone.

Hatton had been busy at the slab when he confessed, ‘No, Albert, I haven’t met him officially yet, but it appears he has an assistant with him. An Italian, of all people. A Mr Tescalini, who isn’t on the payroll of The Yard but is some kind of valet to the Inspector.’

Roumande had been eating a jambon sandwich at the time, but stopped mid-bite. ‘A valet, Professor?’ He’d swallowed, mustard smarting his eyes. ‘Isn’t that a little unusual?’

Hatton wiped his hands on a cloth as he answered, ‘It most certainly is. A policeman’s salary is paltry. Even a senior detective like Grey will earn, what? Three hundred pounds a year at the most, which isn’t enough to keep a personal manservant. And if the stories are true, I’ve heard this Italian carries a gun. Odd for a valet, don’t you think? A valet normally carries a clothes brush, some shaving cream, a diary for keeping appointments, a little money, perhaps.’

‘A gun, you say?’ Roumande was rightly perturbed.

Hatton moved over to the sink to wash himself down. ‘I’ve also heard that the Inspector, far from being the epitome of Christian piety, is rather something else.’ But then Hatton swiftly added, not wanting to jump the gun, ‘But I don’t want to prejudge him based on the usual Smithfield gossip. We must give this Welshman the benefit of the doubt until we make up our own minds, based on the evidence of actually working with him.’

But the ‘evidence’ turned out to be indisputable. As the months wore on – and they had worked together on and off for almost two years now – the Inspector revealed himself to be a man who skated on thin ice, relished it even. Grey was as slippery as an eel and seemed to have his own incomprehensible modus operandi, which involved disappearing witnesses, testimonies lost or slightly tampered with, evidence vanishing before miraculously appearing again with ‘Just in the nick of time, Professor …’ or ‘Like a rabbit from a hat, this one …’ or something along the lines of, ‘Well, you could knock me down with a feather, but when Mr Tescalini went back to the lady’s drawing room, there was this letter knife simply dripping in her husband’s blood. Test it, would you, Hatton?’

The blood, almost certainly a rabbit’s. But as far as Grey’s superiors were concerned – various politicians, the Yard commissioner, Lord this, and Lord that – this new inspector got results and sent umpteen to the gallows. Crime rates came crashing down, arrests went soaring up whether it was felons, rapists, armed robbers, fraudsters, garrotters – and who could argue with that? Hatton had tried and duly paid for it.

But perhaps it was time, thought Hatton, to let bygones be bygones and start again with a clean slate, if not for his sake then for his department’s. But it wasn’t really any of this history or, indeed, the ornamental draping of a Welsh detective on polished walnut which demanded the Professor’s attention. Hatton had to look twice, but no, he knew he wasn’t mistaken. It was the Inspector’s tie which caught his eye, the pattern, even by the Inspector’s standards, being somewhat unusual.

‘Yes, my dear Professor. You are not mistaken.’ The inspector leant forward. ‘They’re dancing girls and they are definitely cancanning. Mr Tescalini and I recently experienced the delights at a private party in Paris. A case took me there, as a case has brought me here. Monsieur Roumande, be a good fellow and fetch the Professor a chair.’

Hatton didn’t need a chair, waving the offer away; but for politeness’ sake, he ventured, ‘So how is Mr Tescalini? Still working for you, then?’ Hatton couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice, for he loathed the man. Hatton was a scientist, not a phrenologist, and tried not to judge a book by its cover, but Mr Tescalini was no ordinary cover. For a start, the Italian’s countenance was unnaturally pale and his eyes, which were very close together, were always shifting, never resting, never still, as if he was watching out for someone – or something. His form was squat and solid, but not in a reassuring way. More like a primed musket ball, ready to blow.

Grey, ignoring Hatton’s tone, peeled off a lavender kid glove and answered with a wry smile, ‘Thank you for asking, Hatton. Mr Tescalini is splendido, bellissimo, magnifico, stupendisimo.’

‘I see,’ said Hatton, adding, ‘Glad to hear it,’ not really caring either way and quickly turning his attention to a male form laid out on the slab to see at once the feet were slate coloured, as were the hands.

‘Cholera?’ Hatton asked, as it was an obvious question.

‘He was admitted as such, Professor,’ said Roumande.

Hatton turned to Inspector Grey, ‘And this is a police matter, Inspector?’

The detective’s face was blank. ‘Please, Professor, just take a look at him. There’s a five-guinea wager at stake here.’

Hatton detected a faint smile under the policeman’s well-brushed moustache, clipped privet-neat against a thin upper lip. Inspector Grey had clearly decided that this body was not so infectious, for his face and mouth were bare to the room. Nevertheless, Hatton rolled back his sleeves, washed his hands, and put on a clean apron, one of many which hung from a set of meat hooks behind the entrance door, and according to hospital procedure, a protective calico mask. Albert Roumande looked at his friend, his eyes peering over his own mask, a scrunch of intelligent lines around them, questioning.

Hatton looked at the corpse, which was in a state of extreme rigor mortis, and recognised him at once, because his face had been on the front cover of The Times only days ago. Underneath a film of grey, there was a distinctive, bluish tint to Gabriel McCarthy’s face.

Hatton made a small initial incision to see the blood run freely, and immediately removed his mask. Roumande quickly followed suit, saying in an exasperated tone, ‘The Yard wouldn’t let me take off my mask until you concurred, Professor, but it’s clearly not cholera. So you see I was right, Inspector.’ Roumande swung around to face the detective. ‘Five guineas, monsieur, and it’s your round.’

Grey’s high-pitched laugh spliced the room. ‘Your diener is quite the betting man, and put a guinea on arsenic, but I upped the stakes a little. As we know, arsenic is a slow poison, administered little by little and manifests itself with cramps, cold sweats, bellyache, and so on. But according to the wife, her husband had shown no signs of being ill. She told me his death was sudden. But I’ll let you play detective, because I need to be crystal clear on this, from the very beginning. You see the man before you? You take my point, Professor?’

Yes, he took the point, because Hatton knew this man. Gabriel McCarthy MP was an Irish Unionist and so considered a friend of the British. The two countries had been forged into one, the Act of Union described in The Times as a ‘delightful marriage’ but viewed by many as nothing less than a rape. Emancipation for Catholics was promised but not given, rebellions were quelled with the gun. The Unionists vaguely talked of Repeal but only by legitimate means. But these moderates were the Old Men of Ireland with their aristocratic manners and respect for the Queen. Secret societies with names like The Oak Boys, The White Boys, and Ribbonmen had long since gathered in the bogs and glens of Ireland plotting revenge, but now they had morphed into a hiss on the streets of St Giles, Whitechapel, Soho, Southwark, Saffron Hill – a hiss of Gaelic – Fenians.

There was a definite tint to the MP’s face, but it wasn’t the Blue Death. Hatton bent down and smelt the dead man’s mouth. There was no mistaking the sourness, as he announced, ‘It’s strychnine, gentlemen. Strychnos nux-vomica, in its purest form. Vile and bitter to the taste, even in minute proportions. Muscular convulsions tighten the neck muscles here’ – Hatton pointed to the area of the throat – ‘leaving this terrible look upon his face as if he has seen something too awful to imagine.’

‘Like he’s seen a ghost?’ asked Inspector Grey.

‘Exactly, Inspector. Death in less than ten minutes. He would have been unable to shout for help almost as soon as he imbibed it. He’d have staggered about the place, crashing into furniture, his back arching into the agony of opisthotonos before he hit the ground, which explains these minor lacerations and bruises to his arms and legs. This bluish tint to the face is not fever of any description. It was his last fight for breath.’

Hatton asked Roumande to turn the gas lamps up and position them directly over the body. The Y cut was quickly made and Hatton was about to wrench back the rib cage when, instead, he slowly lowered his knife and hesitated, feeling the tension, knowing that the rookeries in London were already simmering with Irish unrest, and what he was about to find might tip London into open warfare. A whisper in the confessional, a whistle in the street, or a poster of Gaelic scrawls across the window of a tavern in the Seven Dials. And what would start as a rumour – murder – would surely end in more violence still. The murder of a Unionist could act as a trigger for open rebellion. If McCarthy could be so easily killed, why not the others who stood in the way of a liberated Ireland?

‘Get on with it,’ said Grey, impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Just thinking, nothing more,’ said Hatton.

‘Your lead, Professor,’ said Roumande, peering at the corpse. ‘Although if I may suggest, some intestinal mucosa would tell us for sure. Patrice, leave the blood bucket for now and fetch the Eaton and Spencer.’

How Roumande had secured this magnificent microscope, Hatton didn’t know and he didn’t care to know, as it cost more than half their yearly income. Nut brown and polished to a shine, the instrument was left standing on its own special table, to be used only in matters of forensics.

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.