The Devil's Ribbon (15 page)

‘You believe that fanciful nonsense?’ Hatton was aghast.

‘I’ve heard similar tales of St Giles, but come on now, Patrice, there’s work for you to do. I’ve something else to show the Professor, which doesn’t concern you.’

But the boy just stood there, his hands in his pockets, a pencil behind his ears, looking a little insolent, thought Hatton, not going anywhere at all.

‘Are you listening, Patrice? Get on with your work, I said,’ repeated Roumande.

The lad went from sullen to suitably embarrassed, saying quickly, ‘
Oui
, monsieur. Straight away, monsieur …’ and at once began brushing the floor vigorously while Roumande tutted and then disappeared, telling Hatton he would just be a moment, then reemerged from the back of the morgue with a tiny square of laboratory glass. He put it carefully under the Zeiss.

‘I took the liberty of taking a couple more skin samples before I embalmed Mr McCarthy, as is our normal procedure with murders. And you will remember, Professor, that there was a great deal of
bruising, which is to be expected when a man has consumed poison, for we crash and we bang.’ Roumande swayed as he said this, to add a little drama to the proceedings. ‘And so he did this,’ he crashed into the side of a table, ‘and then perhaps that,’ the chief diener knocked over one of the chairs. ‘And finally, he would have …’ Roumande put his hands around his own throat and, making a choking sound, fell to the ground.

‘Albert, please. The floor is mightily bloody, but I follow your meaning.’ Hatton hated it when Roumande did this, but he had to confess it was sometimes useful to reconstruct the crime.

Roumande jumped up, as if he were a far less bulky man, and lit the gas lamp that was positioned over the table where the Zeiss was sitting, continuing, ‘In my humble opinion, a German microscope is better for tissue samples, Professor, than the American. The Zeiss is cleaner, brighter, more dazzling in its display. I’ve tried both, and the difference is quite noticeable.’

Hatton wasn’t going to argue with his friend, although he knew Albert was wrong, but instead, Hatton looked down the viewing columns, twisting the little handles of the Zeiss. The tissue cells swirled as they splurged into globules before contracting again into a sea of cosmic creatures with wills of their own. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘Interesting. Where did you say the skin came from?’

‘From Mr McCarthy,’ Roumande answered rather unhelpfully.

‘Yes, Albert. But exactly where on Mr McCarthy?’

‘From his arm, and that’s the strange thing, Professor. This mark’s not consistent with a knock.’

‘Something else, then?’

‘A pinprick, a minute rupture, surrounded by blood vessels which have broken across the skin like a map, or that is my considered view, Professor. What do you think?’

Hatton kept his eyes pressed to the columns and twisted again to see the point of insertion surrounded by threaded violet and greening yellow. It could mean only one thing.

‘So,’ said Hatton. ‘It appears that Mr McCarthy didn’t imbibe the poison as we thought, but was injected.’

And out of nowhere, Monsieur Roumande lunged forward, grabbed Hatton, administering a sharp jab to the top of his arm with a sharpened pencil. The pain was excruciating. Albert had gone too far this time.

‘Damn you, Albert. What the devil are you doing? Have you lost your wits, sir?’

‘Excuse me, Adolphus, but I think Mr McCarthy was attacked from behind,’ Roumande continued excitedly. ‘A needle was pushed into his arm with the poison upon it, straight into the bloodstream. The impact would have been instant. We know he took laudanum to sleep, there were copious amounts in his body, so he would already have been woozy. He was a heavy user, it seems. The strychnine would have closed his throat, he would have collapsed as I demonstrated, and that, Professor, would have been that.’

Roumande was right. It would have been easy on a summer’s night with all the windows open. Anyone could have entered the house, and although Hatton didn’t approve of such theatrics in the mortuary, he was chastened by Albert’s performance, hammy or not, because thinking creatively was supposed to be his work.

But he added, ‘He wasn’t attacked from behind. There were two
sherry glasses, Albert. And the maid said he never drank the stuff except when he had important visitors. There were two mugs at the gombeen man’s house. No sign of forced entry there, either. So both men had a visitor. A friend, someone they spoke to, someone they trusted, someone they let in their home, willingly. Perhaps …’

‘Go on …’ said Roumande.

‘I’ll have to think a little more, Albert. If the killer is a Fenian, he didn’t come with a cudgel in his hand. The ribbon was hidden somewhere, out of view, to be pushed into the victims’ mouths post-mortem, or at the very moment of death, but what is this telling us? It’s saying whoever this visitor was, these men knew their killer. I’m sure of it, but, God, it’s hard with this damned throbbing in my arm.’

The door was kicked open with a bang. Inspector Grey had decided to join them. ‘Bad arm, eh? Could be a lot worse, Hatton, by the time I finish with you. Been rustling around in my store cupboard, have you?’

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, thought Hatton, not turning around at all. Roumande could deal with these fraudsters, for he would not, could not. Instead, Hatton continued with his work, placing the ribbon under the microscope and making a miniscule note.

‘The least you can do is be civil and turn around and face me, Professor.’ Grey’s voice pierced the room. ‘You have the other ribbon, I see.’

Hatton carried on writing,
Item 1: Green ribbon, Fenian green, stuffed in the mouth, silk
.

Grey continued, ‘I’m quite happy to share my latest news on the Irish situation with Roumande and leave you out of it altogether, Professor. Is that what you want? And while I’m about it, perhaps Dr Buchanan
would be interested to know that one of his most senior doctors is helping himself to police evidence.’

Adding a full stop, Hatton put the quill down. ‘Inspector Grey. Good afternoon. How good of you to come. I was a little perturbed that you didn’t send the cadaver in its entirety, and so yes, I had to extract the ribbon myself. Roumande saw a telltale thread in the dead man’s gullet and was somewhat shocked that the rest of it had gone. Well, despite your threats and bribes, we’re not prepared—’ He stopped here and beckoned to Roumande to close the door behind them so they could have some privacy. ‘The tampering or withholding of evidence, for whatever reason, is a crime, Inspector. But tell me something, why hide the ribbon at all?’

The inspector stood firm. ‘You found the ribbon in my dinner jacket, bagged and labelled, didn’t you? Hardly tampering, then? I was going to hand it over as soon as I was ready and you’re welcome to it. For both our sakes, and to find this killer, let’s keep the real enemy in sight. To that point, have you ever been to Limehouse, Professor?’

Hatton’s focus was still on the ribbon.

The inspector continued, readjusting his cufflinks. ‘It’s a rank place and fairly takes a man’s breath away. Why, the vapours from the lime kilns are so noxious as to burn a man’s nostril hair. I thought by now you might have heard, because the news is out already. Mr Tescalini and I have been to quite a party there, haven’t we?
È stata una bella scenetta
.’

Mr Tescalini for his part only cracked his knuckles together.

‘I had to wash from head to toe when I returned,’ said Grey. ‘There are gangs of Irish navvies outside Hecker’s flour mill, rioting on the streets and bombarding anyone they think is a toff or an industrialist
with clods of horse shit, cabbage leaves, sticks, whatever they can lay their hands on.’

‘I thought you investigated murder, Inspector, not public disturbances.’

Grey smirked. ‘As of today I’ve taken it upon myself to extend my own brief. Henceforth sedition is something I shall seek out and crush. It’s quite an obsession with the commissioner, and it won’t do me any harm to be seen to be taking a lead. Either way, we were unprepared for such a battering, but I have since organised a little
tête-à-tête
for those thugs down at the factory gates that they’ll never forget.’

‘And what
tête-à-tête
would that be?’

‘A
tête-à-tête
with the boys in brown, Hatton, because it’s the only language the Irish understand.’

Roumande caught Hatton’s eye and the Professor’s heart sank – they both knew what this meant. Roumande immediately began packing a surgical bag with morphine, crêpe, iodine, splints. ‘They will need as much help as they can get, Professor. I’m coming with you …’

Grey shook a trouser leg, to realign the crease. ‘There was no one dead when we left, so no need to panic. But yes, a few bandages might not be a bad idea. Mr Hecker, who I had an appointment with, ironically, is stuck inside the mill. No one can get in or out of the factory, for love nor money. You can see your Ribbonmen in action there, Professor, for sure as eggs are eggs, they’re behind this.’

‘Take the other road,’ shouted Inspector Grey, but the coach driver was already pulling his horses up, begging to differ, refusing to go any further. But Grey was out, and moving like a bullet along the wharfside. ‘Can you hear the shouting up ahead? It’s not as bad as it was …’

The roar ricocheted towards them and slammed into a nearby building. Hatton threw himself to the ground, then jumped back up, smothered in dust and shards of glass, to see the Inspector sprawled in the dirt. Roumande was ahead of him, spread-eagled.

‘In God’s name, what the devil …’
Wham
. Hatton headed to the floor again as windows shattered, a wall collapsed, roof tiles smashed, a chimney came hurtling to the ground, thinking,
Don’t let me die, here … not yet, not now … not until …

‘A fucking cannon ball. What the devil are those boys doing? Get up, Hatton, you’re right in the line of fire,’ said Grey, and before Hatton knew it, he was being hauled up and shunted elsewhere. ‘You as well, monsieur …’

Roumande belted across the street, his face covered in black grit, glints of glass. Hatton went straight to him, grabbing tweezers from his medical bag, iodine. ‘Keep still, Albert. There’s a shard right near your eye …’

‘Keep your fucking heads down. There’s glass flying everywhere. Welcome to Limehouse, Adolphus.’ The inspector was enjoying himself; he was laughing like a madman.

‘Leave him,’ said Roumande, and if Hatton hadn’t been otherwise detained, he would have grabbed the detective, his hands around his scrawny neck, and pummelled his face to nothing. Instead, he said, ‘You’re bleeding, Albert. But they’re surface wounds, nothing more, but no thanks to him.’ The two friends locked eyes with each other then crouched down, hands over their heads, shielding each other till the pounding stopped and the screaming started. Checking his doctor’s bag, Hatton knew there was nothing else for it.

‘Come back, Professor. We’re not clear yet,’ cried Grey, but Hatton
didn’t heed the Inspector’s warning. His legs were carrying him forward. He could hear Roumande’s heavy breathing coming up behind him. Hatton didn’t dare look back but headed around the corner to see the river ahead, then at least eight army officers, muskets at the ready.
Jesus. Is that a cannon?

‘I’ll head up Commercial Road, Adolphus. There’s people dying up there, but I’ll do what I can—’

Hatton had stopped in his tracks. He looked three feet ahead of him to see half of the brain was gone, the child barely nine. The rest of the carcass was ten feet away. The boy had breeches on, and next to where he lay was a slice of pie and an apple. The boy hadn’t eaten a bite when the guards had blown him to kingdom come.
Kingdom come?
thought Hatton.
Would it? For this child?

Hatton shut his eyes, sick to the stomach, and said something like a prayer, but knowing what he should have done was stand there, among that bloody carnage, raised his arms to heaven, and screamed for God’s mercy. Instead, being the good doctor that he was, he turned his attention reluctantly away from the dead, to the living.

The boy wasn’t the only decapitation. An arm had been severed and been blasted across the street from the rest of a man, so that all that remained was a trunk and a hand clutching a sign about
Liberty
and
The Rights of Man
. Groaning, moaning, and soft, soft crying and a yelling of ‘Stand back, boys’ in an English accent, and prayers uttered in a foreign language and calls for God.

Bending down, ignoring the limbs littered around him, Hatton lifted the head of a man and saw half his guts were gone. Hatton told the man he was a doctor, as he jabbed the morphine in. ‘Close your eyes. You
can hold my hand … that’s right … squeeze a little … gently now …’ Four dead, he thought, by anyone’s counting.

‘Move out,’ came an ugly cry from behind him. All around, the galloping of horses, the smack of truncheons. Gunfire as Hatton headed up a lane, towards the factory where the rioters had tried to level the gates, but failed. A great monster padlock had seemingly stopped them but now it was bent and hanging at an angle. The rioters had already gone. Just a tilted sign, flapping in a lifting breeze. It must have been the last two words that did it:
SITUATIONS VACANT:
NO IRISH
.

Turning back to look at the carnage, Hatton suddenly caught sight of a redheaded man crawling away from the river. Hatton rushed over to him, in time to hear him whisper, ‘Call a priest, Da, for I’m dying. And where’s the priest, for I saw him here.’

Hatton bent down to the injured man, wrapping the terrible wounds, lifting him up but then slapping him hard around his ghostly face, to stop him from slipping away. ‘What’s your name? For God’s sake stay with me, tell me …’ Hatton begged.

‘Seamus. My name’s Seamus, but don’t you know that, Da? Don’t you know your own son? Or are you the priest? Are you Father O’Brian?’

‘I’m whoever you want me to be, but just stay with me, Seamus, stay with me …’ Hatton began to work quickly, pressing on the bloody wound to stem the flow.