The Devil's Ribbon (21 page)
‘Lie still, Inspector. Here, bear your teeth down on my sleeve. That’s right. Hold fast.’
The inspector’s arm was as good as gone, but all he could say over and over again when he saw Hatton was, ‘You! So where’s my watch? My fucking watch? Have you got it, you pathological bastard?’
‘For pity’s sake, hold still, Inspector. I’m trying to tie a tourniquet. Forget about the watch. Don’t move, Inspector. I need to splint this …’
‘Move? Are you fucking mad? Where’s my fucking watch? I’m not going anywhere without it. Get it for me, you fucking imbecile.’ He was sobbing like a baby. ‘I want my watch …’
Hatton looked up and around him to see people running everywhere,
a rush of blackened figures, their faces thick with blood, hair on fire, hot metal, screaming. Others were helping a girl who was leaning on an old man, staggering out of a shop.
Sorcha.
‘Get back,’ Hatton shouted, as he ran full mettle and caught her, just before she hit the ground.
‘Keep your palm as flat as you can against your cheek.’ Hatton watched a white hand trickle crimson. ‘Be brave, darling girl. You will live,’ he whispered, and he already had her up and cradled in his arms.
Roumande came out of nowhere. ‘
Mon dieu
. What’s
she
doing here?’
‘No time for questions, Albert. Inspector Grey’s over there. I’ve done my best and tried to rescue the arm, what’s left of it, but time is of the essence or he’ll bleed to death. There are at least two dead bodies in there …’ He suddenly stopped in his tracks, catching sight of the debris behind him. The bomb had ripped apart three shops and destroyed the arched glass dome. Piles of brick dust lay everywhere and littered among the rubble – clock faces, battered hats, gloves, canes and flickers of sparkling diamonds, a lady’s dance card, a baby’s rattle.
‘Take all the injured to St Bart’s,’ he cried, as he held Sorcha in his arms, her head nestled to his thumping heart, and once in the dark of a carriage, seeing the light slipping away from her eyes, her black lashes caked in blood, thinking,
Please God, not another one, I can’t fail again
. But knowing he must wait – that everything must wait.
Out in the hospital courtyard, a loud cheer went up as the resident stonecutters, using a series of ropes and considerable muscle, hauled the marble fountain into place, against a rousing ‘Three cheers for Dr Buchanan!’ His speech finished, the portly hospital director took an unsteady bow as a band struck up slightly out of tune and business at St Bart’s continued as usual. But in the South Wing, Hatton stood alone, paler than ever. He was haggard, his cheeks hollow, having barely slept for a fortnight.
He ate when he could, worked if he had to, but otherwise, mainly prayed to some omnipotent presence he had no faith in. God? Fate? Anyone who would listen, he thought, and he was praying right now to some nebulous deity, when there was a light tap on his shoulder. Hatton looked up with expectation in his eyes, only disappointed to
see it was just Inspector Grey, who’d somehow wrestled himself out of his bed and hobbled into the corridor, his stump hidden beneath a red smoking jacket with a gold tassel. ‘I’m discharging myself. Sitting around in a hospital only makes you sick, and besides,’ Grey winced, ‘I’m getting piles, bedsores. But give me your hand and let me call you friend. I am indebted to you, Hatton. But what the devil’s that noise? Sounds like a farmyard out there.’
At this point, the band had struck up even louder, dogs were yapping in reply, pauper boys were whistling from rooftops, babies crying. ‘Is that a duck I hear?’ said Grey, his eyes widening. ‘In a hospital? Well, whatever it is, I can’t think in this place. I’m heading to The Yard, so give me a hand, Hatton, and get me out of here. Oh, and I want any forensics evidence you’ve found, on my desk no later than tomorrow.’
‘Of course, Inspector, if you’re sure you’re …’
‘No delay. The case continues and now it’s damn well personal, so there’ll be no budget restrictions on anything that helps the inquiry. In other words, do what you like. By the way, have you been back to the bomb blast? Seems I’ve been rather delirious, in and out of a coma, I’m told, for a fortnight …’
‘Inspector, forgive me, but you’ve been ill so I haven’t bothered you …’
‘Fiddle faddle.’ Grey’s eyes were bloodshot, horribly so. ‘But you’ve been back, haven’t you? Find anything useful there?’
Hatton looked at his boots. ‘I’ve been here all the time, Inspector. Since the blast, I’ve barely moved from this spot, but Monsieur Roumande has been numerous times. He’s writing up the forensic report as we speak.’
But what had he found?
Crouched low among a hundred sprung clock faces, Roumande had done what he could. Knowing with each passing minute, any forensic traces might disappear forever, so, leaving Hatton at the hospital with the wounded, he’d packed a bag, taken Patrice, and, together with The Yard, they’d sealed the whole area off. Picked their way like crows, through every broken brick, every shard of glass, slowly putting the puzzle together of how the whole place had gone up like Guy Fawkes Night.
‘So that’s all I know. The bomb blast was some sort of timed mechanism that must have been set off by hand. According to Roumande there was a large grandfather clock to the front of the shop, whose existence he discovered initially by piecing together its shattered face and a number of Roman numerals. Mr Dawson, the shopowner, died in the blast, but a number of his customers verified that there was indeed a clock, to the right-hand side of the door.’
‘So the bomb was hidden inside a grandfather clock?’
‘The perfect place, if you think about it.’
‘Fucking ingenious, Hatton. People say the Irish are stupid but I think they’re a race of duplicitous intelligence and they’ve certainly applied it here. I didn’t even know you could get chemicals to blow like that, on command, as it were.’
‘Roumande’s done a bit of asking around Soho way, and says it’s well known among the émigrés that a number of anarchists have tried to carry out similar atrocities in Italy, but none done with such perfect timing or accuracy.’
‘So, a force to be reckoned with. Any ribbons there?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Traces of silver nitrate were found in the shop, but not as much as we thought there’d be and it doesn’t match the other stuff. The explosion, when we studied it back at the morgue, seems to have been of a different nature. Mainly nitroglycerine, and gunpowder, but how did they manage to set it off with a timer? Who knows? Nobody’s managed before, so whoever did this job is a master of explosives, more so than even Dr Meadows.’
‘Someone from the army, perhaps? A huge number of Irish were drummed into the Crimea by the British, so that doesn’t narrow it much.’
‘Our report will tell you everything you need to know, Inspector, but as to our initial suspect, Damien McCarthy’s hours are accounted for, to the very last minute. He went to White Lodge immediately after his brother’s funeral, and the maid, Florrie, swears he never left her sight for a second. He was packing to leave, by all accounts. Others saw him there, too – local villagers, including a vicar – so he’s in the clear, it seems.’
‘But you said you found chemicals at his house?’
‘Not much, and as far as any court’s concerned, what traces I did find would be deemed purely circumstantial. And the nitrate might have simply been from a fertiliser, which is what he claims.’
‘Hmmm,’ said the detective. ‘Well, we’ll still keep a close watch on him. Just because he wasn’t there doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved, though I doubt he’d choose to blow up his own sister-in-law, fine-looking filly that she is. But we’ll talk of her in a minute. First, I need to know,
did Roumande do any of that fingerprinting he’s so enamoured with?’
‘The place was soot, Inspector. Broken glass and soot, so any prints were lost, but oddly, well, it’s in the report and it may be nothing …’
‘What?’
‘A prayer book. We’ve kept it back at the morgue. Patrice found it just outside the entrance to Dawson’s, barely touched by the blast …’
‘A miracle?’
‘I doubt it. A number of helpers ran straight to the scene of the blast within minutes, plus the usual gawpers. It might have been dropped by anyone. No inscription in the book but it’s definitely Catholic. It has an ornate cover and, inside, a prayer dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Coincidence?’
‘And the nearest Catholic church to the blast is the Sacred Heart, which is bang slap wallop in the middle …’ Grey began to sway a little and grabbed Hatton’s arm. ‘Bang slap wallop in the middle of
The Dials
, Hatton. Thirty pieces of silver?’
‘And the gombeen man had been anointed, Inspector. With prayer oil?’
‘And Pomeroy was religious. Gabriel McCarthy was covered in ash. Don’t the Catholics do that?’
‘Only on Ash Wednesday and I’m not sure that’s relevant.’
‘What about that shop steward? I could have sworn when we were at Limehouse he was talking to you, Hatton. Did he make some sort of confession? He was muttering something about
a priest
?’
‘The man was dying, Inspector. He was delirious and should have been taken to St Bart’s not to those butchers at St Thomas’s. He might have made it and not bled to death on a surgeon’s slab.’
‘Either way, Mr Hecker doesn’t fit this line of thinking. He was a man
who only worshipped money, but I still want to talk to that priest, O’Brian.’
‘Well, go ahead and do it, Inspector.’
‘It’s not as easy as you think, Hatton. Disraeli’s on the warpath again about the fragility of the Union and my superiors have warned me to tread extremely carefully. St Giles is a city within a city, and O’Brian’s commonly known among his parishioners as The Chief. One false step, and … well, I’m not here to create innocent martyrs for fanatical freaks. But we’ll certainly question him—’
It came back to him. ‘Damien knew this priest, I’m sure that’s what Sorcha McCarthy said.’
‘Indeed.’
Hatton helped Inspector Grey struggle his good arm into a frock coat, knowing it would be ten more weeks till any prosthetic could be fitted, but the detective seemed determined that his time in the hospital was well and truly over.
It’s now or never
, he thought. Hatton knew if he didn’t ask the Inspector why he was talking to the widow in Dawson’s on that fateful day two weeks ago, he’d never know the truth.
‘Before you go, Inspector, something has troubled me. I didn’t know if you would live or die, but I feel now I must press you to tell me …’
‘Spit it out, Professor.’
Hatton plucked up the courage. ‘Very well, Inspector. I’ve been waiting for you to recover, but I simply must know to what purpose were you meeting Mrs McCarthy at the jewellery shop? You see, I saw you through the window of Dawson’s and she was crying, I think, and I need to know …’
‘Say what you have to say and make it quick. I’ve an appointment to keep. Here, grab my good arm, Hatton. Lead the way!’
‘It’s just, that fateful morning, she looked distressed and, well, I simply must—’
Say it damn you
, said Hatton to himself as he steered the Inspector like a drunk on a ship. ‘I simply must press you … in relation to the case …’
The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘Distressed? No, I don’t think she was distressed, other than she’d just buried her husband, but well, it’s no secret. I was simply getting my watch fixed and, frankly, I was as surprised to see her there as you were.’
Hatton’s shock was palpable. ‘You hadn’t arranged to meet her, then? When I saw you together, I thought perhaps, for some reason, you might have done.’
The inspector raised his other eyebrow. ‘That day is still a little hazy, but London is a small place, practically a village, and Dawson’s is well known. She was there it seems on some practical matter.’
‘But you were talking. You seemed to be together.’
The inspector laughed. ‘Imagination is a fine thing if you have it, but no, sadly, she was merely intent on returning some rather beautiful jewels her husband had bought her, and being first and foremost,
a
policeman
, I was suspicious. Odd sort of behaviour, don’t you think? So soon after her husband’s demise? Selling off love tokens?’ He looked at his pocket watch. ‘I know I wouldn’t do it.’
Hatton felt a wave of relief wash over him, as the Inspector continued, ‘I challenged her, of course, and she grew a little agitated and declared that she was glad to bump into me because she had a delicate matter she wished to discuss. I think the term she used was
blood money
.’
He laughed and shook his head as if the term was ridiculous.
‘I’m not sure I follow you, Inspector.’
‘You’re a man of the world, and she’s bound to tell you anyway. Walls have ears, Professor, especially hospital walls. I have heard, of course, of your visits, the exotic fruits, the bouquets of flowers.’ Hatton’s face remained perfectly blank. ‘You see, Gabriel McCarthy was well connected with the Irish in this city and, it appears, the widow found a cheque I’d given to him. We did a little business, he and I.
Police business
. She had it in a little bag, along with her gems and rather theatrically tore it up, there and then, and if you must know, cursed me. Said I was a wicked man and that God would punish me.’ He laughed. ‘And I told her she’d better mind her manners, paid for the watch, and then, of course, you grabbed me out of that shop but not before I told her she was a sanctimonious little hussy.’
Hatton was astonished. They were now outside on glistening London pavers, among a circle of pigeons pecking at bread, as Inspector Grey said, ‘My business with Gabriel McCarthy is no concern of yours, but so you know, he was supposed to help feed me information about possible flare-ups among the Irish. As it turned out, he was a fat lot of good, head in the skies, a do-gooder, completely useless, but she’s another thing entirely. So, keep an eye on her, Hatton. She will be here at St Bart’s for how much longer would you say, Doctor
Amour
?’
This time the blank response was a crimson blush, as Hatton stuttered, ‘Another week at the most and …’
Is it so obvious? It must be obvious
. ‘Then it’s her wish, I believe, that she prefers to recuperate in Highgate where the air is better.’ His colour deepened to livid. ‘I’ve volunteered to look after her, in between my work at the morgue.’
The inspector stood a little unsteadily, as they waited for his carriage to arrive. ‘Your duty, eh? Well, keep close, Hatton. Watch her every
move. Don’t let her out of your sight. And if you take her back to White Lodge, use your intuition. Use stealth and check the house again for ribbons or anything that seems relevant. I want to know exactly where the widow goes, who she sees, what she does, understand?’
‘Surely you don’t think—’
‘All I think, Professor, is that you should stay close to Mrs McCarthy as I shall stay close to the brother. No hardship, surely with a beauty like that? She’s a little uppity for my taste but I think she trusts you, which suits me very well.’
The carriage arrived.
‘I have been told that I must go at once to Clacton for sea air, but these gentlemen surgeons really have no understanding of my work. Still, I have Mr Tescalini on the Pomeroy case. He’s following a trail, which has taken him beyond Greenwich to the borders of Kent.’