The Devil's Ribbon (24 page)

‘But if you are suggesting she’s a killer, then why would she involve the very people who might point the finger at her?’

‘A double bluff, Professor. It’s a strategy often engaged by the most cold-blooded killers.’

‘And the gombeen man? The spade? The millstone? She’s the size of a London sparrow. No woman could commit such acts. Poison yes, but the rest?’

‘I don’t like her sanctimonious act. She tore up a hundred-pound cheque at the jeweller’s shop as if to punish me and …’

But the conversation had to lie fallow because they’d arrived at their destination. A red-brick house on Clapham Common.

‘So this is the place?’ said Grey. ‘Pay the man please, Mr Tescalini. And then give me the bottle.’ Hatton watched as the Inspector used his teeth to wrench a cork out of a tiny blue bottle containing what Mr Tescalini called ‘
oppiato
’. Still swigging, the Inspector shot up the stairs and banged a large brass knocker designed in the shape of a bookend. No answer came.

A soft breeze sighed across The Common. Birds sang. A man threw a stick for a dog.

‘Perhaps there’s a side door to the bindery?’ Hatton gestured the other two to follow him, around the house where stone steps led down to some spectacular hammering. Through a greased-up window, rubbing with his sleeve, Hatton could see men wearing bowler hats engaged in a variety of stages of bookbinding. Hot stamps for the gold leafing, someone altering the French press to make a Bible flat. And once inside, mirroring heat all around from two vast furnaces, as the detective announced, ‘Inspector Jeremiah Grey of Scotland Yard. Somebody fetch Mr Tooley.’

A man with a beard in an apron stuttered, ‘M-m-Mr T-t-Tooley is s-s-s-seeing ccc-cccc-cccc-customers, sir.’

Another chipped in, ‘Save your tongue, Brian. I’ll take it from here. Is it a contract you’ve come about?’

Outside light spidered through ancient sycamores, church bells rang, as Grey put his hand to his forehead. ‘Down tools, please, gentlemen, at once, because I’m here on government business. One of your files has fallen into enemy hands. Irish hands. So, no Mr Tooley then?’

A young man of about seventeen answered, ‘He’s in Paternoster Row, but he’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘Well, I can’t wait in this furnace,’ said Grey. ‘Can we get back to the main house from here?’

A woman who’d been bent down sewing pages into a book stood up and said, ‘Forgive me, I’m Mrs Tooley. You can wait for Mr Tooley in the parlour. Please, gentlemen, follow me.’

At the back of the overheated room was a smaller flight of steps
leading to a leather-backed door. Professor Hatton followed while Mr Tescalini stayed behind in the bindery.

The parlour was of the plainest style. No ornament, save a washed-out pastel of weather-beaten countryside. ‘The picture is of my father’s land in Mayo. We left before the famine took hold. I was very young when I married, but it’s a good life and I have five fine sons.’ Her face was smeared with sweat. She wiped her hands down the front of her work apron. ‘One of them was at the worktop. Did you see him? He’s almost seventeen, named Luke. Another is resting while the babes are asleep. Shall I bring you both tea or perhaps a drop of something?’

Grey smiled. ‘Tea would be delightful, Mrs Tooley. So, was the lad I saw in the bindery the very same lad who went to the Home Office with your husband?’

‘No, that was the middle child. Mr Tooley considers himself to be English now, you understand, so we’ve given our sons Anglican names. It’s better in the long run that we assimilate. Blend in, Inspector. The middle child is Jasper and he’s a cripple. Terrible rickets as a child, so I indulge him a little.’

Hatton looked at Mrs Tooley, who wasn’t old, but beyond the bloom of youth. She still had her thimble on and there were little shreds of multicoloured linen thread stuck to her dress and shavings of marbled paper scattered about her hair, most of which was loosely pushed up into her work cap.

‘I should like to meet your other son. He’s not ill, I hope?’

A mantel clock ticked.

‘No, no. But these last two weeks he’s had the most terrible nightmares.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s been screaming in the night,
and waking up in the most wretched state, and the boy looked so very tired this morning, I felt it best he took a little nap. He’s not in any trouble is he?’

‘Just fetch your son, please. There’s nothing to fear. In fact, to make things a little quicker, I’ll come with you, shall I? Why don’t you stay here, Hatton. I shan’t be long.’

Hatton shrugged, quite happy being left alone to think. Parlour rooms were meant for hospitality and frivolity, for light entertainment, but this sad affair was bereft of any charm. Hatton wandered over to the window to glimpse Mr Tescalini outside on the pavers, gesticulating at the bindery workers, who were shaking their heads, and then watched, with some curiosity, the Italian gesturing at a policeman, who sauntered towards them. Hatton watched, as the policeman led the binders away from the house, towards The Common, and Mr Tescalini headed back to the house.

Minutes went by when suddenly, up above him, Hatton heard a door slam and then something which sounded like a sack of potatoes being dragged across the floorboards, then whispers, scurrying. Maybe ten minutes passed before the Professor, tired of waiting, went to the door to the parlour room and twisted the handle to find it was jammed.
What now?
He shook the door to no avail, put his boot against the skirting board, pulled, still no luck.
For God’s sake
. He kicked the bottom, wrenched the handle again, heard what sounded like a muffled scream. Rushed to the window, to find it was also locked and then hurled himself forward, but as he headed for impact, the door suddenly opened. The inspector, who was standing on the other side, said, ‘I was just coming to get you. Come down to the basement, please. We’re in dire need of a doctor.’

‘Somebody locked the door,’ said Hatton, to immediately see that Grey was drenched in sweat. ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’

‘Couldn’t be better, but there’s a bit of a mess downstairs …’

‘What sort of mess?’

But the Inspector was already gone, back towards the basement and the sound of whimpering, like a wounded cat.

‘The mother was dealt with swiftly and I’ve tried to get a signed confession, but he’s being very difficult, and now it seems he’s about to pass out. I need him up, alert. I’ve got more questions about what else was in the file, maybe a list of potential victims, so do me a favour, Hatton, would you, and deal with him?’

The door to the bindery swung open, to reveal a boy crouching in a corner, crumpled like a ball, and Mr Tescalini towering over him, holding a claw hammer dripping with blood.

‘No, please, God. Tell me you didn’t, Inspector? You couldn’t have?’

‘Remember the rosary beads discussed in Highgate? McCarthy’s beads? Well, take a guess where I found them – stuffed deep in a pocket! How did you find these, I asked him, because they belong to a dead man who lives five miles from here.’

‘Please, sir, I told the copper.’ Despite the pain, the boy seemed to have roused himself and cried out, towards Hatton. ‘I told him over and over again but he won’t listen, sir. I found them in St Giles. They’d been thrown on a rubbish tip. I’m always picking things up, regular magpie my da calls me …’

Grey kept his eyes on Hatton, ignoring the boy. ‘Likely story. Beads tipped with a solid silver figure, just thrown away in a tip? As if … and do you recognise them, Hatton?’ The inspector shoved the beads into
Hatton’s face. ‘Very plain, blessed in Rome and wooden, with a simple cross. Papist beads, from a boy who claims he’s Protestant, but he’s nothing of the sort. And guess where he worships? Soho Square. Your mammy sends you there for catechism, doesn’t she? And says you’ve been having nightmares for two weeks. Two weeks? Well, there’s a coincidence because there was a bomb blast two weeks ago. Where you there, with The Chief? Isn’t that what you Catholics call him?’

‘I haven’t seen Father O’Brian for over a year.’

‘Liar. Damn impudent liar. Mr Tescalini – try another hammer …’

‘I swear to God. I was just the lookout. Stand on Piccadilly they said and keep a lookout. A lookout for beaks, Specials, bluebottles, pigs, crushers, coppers, or general busybodies, but looking out, sir, that’s all I did. I didn’t kill anyone, I swear …’

‘You’ll do more than looking out by the time I’ve finished with you.’

‘Stop it,’ said Hatton. ‘Leave the boy, you’ll get nothing by torturing him and if you touch one more hair on his head, as God is my witness, I’ll—’

Panting, the Inspector reeled back from Hatton’s clenched fist. ‘You’ll what? You’ll do nothing. You work for
me
…’

But Hatton was cradling the boy. ‘Shhh, shhh now. Quiet now …’

‘Keep him away from me, sir. The Taffy will kill me.’

‘Shhh now,’ said Hatton taking his doctor’s bag, holding the boy gently, giving him morphine, stroking his head. Then turning to Grey, daggers in his eyes. ‘You’ll pay for this, Grey. If it’s the last thing I do, you’ll pay for this.’

TWENTY-ONE

SMITHFIELD

‘They’d crushed most of the metacarpal bones but his phalanges were still intact and he’s young. The pain must have been excruciating but the boy gritted his teeth and bore it. He was brave, Albert. Braver than I would have been.’ Hatton tossed some calico bags in Roumande’s direction. ‘These are the bags of so-called evidence. There were some ribbons in the bindery but they weren’t the right colour, but still Grey insists that he wants us to find an indisputable match, so he can wrap it all up. The bomb, the ribbon murders, the whole damn lot.’

Hatton was outside in the yard and, for the first time in his life, lit a penny smoke. ‘He’s a man gone mad, Albert. He’ll break the boy and get a confession.’

‘He’s a man turned criminal from what you’ve said, Professor. I cannot believe they would torture a child.’

‘I’m afraid they are capable of anything. I’ll testify in court if it comes to it, because any confession Grey gets from that boy won’t be worth the paper it’s written on.’

‘I’m sure you did all that you could, Adolphus. Is the tobacco helping?’

‘Not much. It’s making my head light whereas I need clarity.’ A peevish impatience crept up on Hatton. ‘But where the devil’s Patrice? Why’s the lad never at his station when he’s needed?’

‘He’s on an errand for me. We’re running short of practice cadavers and there was a hanging at Newgate, but whether he’ll get there in time for the spoils I’m not so sure. I told him I needed him back no later than two, but it’s past that now.’

‘You’re too used to working on your own, Albert. You need to keep a better charge of that lad. The mortuary is a mess. Whenever I see him, all he’s doing is drawing or having cups of tea with Dr Buchanan. Who washes the floors these days? Who sharpens our knives?
Perfect Specimens for an Exacting Science
? I hardly think so.’ Hatton sucked the bitter weed into his lungs, and Roumande, not caring for this pointless talk any more, left him to it and went back into the morgue.

Hatton sat for a while with his own dark thoughts, knowing he’d done nothing for that child. He’d dressed his hand, but what of it? He could feel himself ageing a thousand years as he sat in a mire of his own despondency watching the cigarette burn to his fingertips. In the distance he could hear the body cart. The rumbling got louder before the bulky shadow of their old nag, Snowdrop, loomed up against the mortuary wall, and then Patrice appeared, giving the horse a pat before coming across the yard with, ‘Are you feeling unwell, Professor?’

Hatton shook his head –
please, just go away
– as Roumande put his
head around the mortuary door saying, ‘You’re back, at last. What the devil kept you so long? Get the cadaver into the mortuary or it will begin to boil in this heat, and then you’re wanted at Dr Buchanan’s office after I’ve finished with you. He’s very delicate today and our department needs the money, so hurry yourself.’ Roumande clapped his hands with impatience.

Hatton took another puff, not entirely surprised that the honeymoon period was over for their apprentice. It was always the same. When they arrived, Roumande saw only the good in them, but as the weeks passed, it was a different story. Hatton kept his eyes to the ground as he said, ‘I can hardly believe Dr Buchanan is here at all, after last night. Was anyone else taken ill from the symposium?’

‘Nobody else that I know of. But you’re quite the general practitioner, as he was back at his desk by noon today. The director said something to me as I went past his office, about what a gifted doctor you are.’

‘But I’m a better pathologist.’

‘And forensics await you, friend. I know we should hasten to the details of the case.’ Roumande put on a pleading face. ‘But if I could only make this fingerprinting work properly, it might just give us the breakthrough we need – and there are three of us here all together for once, but only with your say-so, of course, Professor.’

‘You’re right.’ Hatton stamped the penny smoke under this thick-soled boot. ‘Work, Albert. Work is what we need to do.’

Needing little encouragement, Roumande gathered up some fly paper, charcoal, a fine brush, and said, ‘As luck would have it, Sir William Herschel is back briefly from India. I bumped into him outside the Colonial Office and took the opportunity to ask him what he thought about our work and …’

‘Sir William Herschel? The Raj connection? The one who uses this method on his Indian workers?’

‘The very same, and he had a number of suggestions about the amount of ink I’ve been using, Adolphus, and also the powder. So I’ve cut it down a little on both. So let’s see if this works,’ Roumande said, rolling his sleeve back and pressing his finger into the ink. He rolled his finger from side to side and, taking a quill, wrote his name against the print. ‘You can see my whorl is spiral and sits a little to the right, which suggests a propensity for tidiness. Which is true, isn’t it? You next please, Professor.’

Hatton did as he was told, as Roumande said, ‘Not too hard, gently does it, now roll it from side to side, lift, and, hey, presto.’

Hatton was cynical. ‘And mine, Albert? What does mine tell you?’

‘I would say your mark denotes a man with romantic inclinations. See, the loop is a single one and the whorl arches to the left. In fact, I believe it suggests a man who takes the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Am I close?’

‘It’s nonsense, Albert, and you know it. So, Patrice, you’re next.’

The lad shrunk back.

Roumande interjected, ‘Come now. We need all three of us.’

‘But you will not keep them, will you, monsieur? I have no wish to have my liberty threatened.’

Roumande laughed. ‘Thus speaks a true Frenchman.’

But Hatton shook his head, looking at his watch, impatiently. ‘Yes, well, we’re in England now and we’re investigating murders here, so come along now, hurry.’

The assistant reluctantly offered a finger, as Roumande said, ‘Two double loops, a tented arch and a whorl which almost falls off the tip of the
finger, denoting an artistic temperament, loyalty, and passion. Do you see?’

Patrice inclined his head. ‘
Oui
, monsieur, but what should we do next? How do we lift them?’

‘Good question. Sir Herschel says he feathers the layer of ink with only a hint of powder using the tiniest fingerprinting brush, like this … and then lays something sticky upon it.’ Roumande leant across the table. ‘If I keep it really flat, press down evenly, Herschel says the flypaper should work …’ He looked at their apprentice. ‘This is the last sheet, by the way. We seem to be eating the stuff. Steady with those orders, Patrice, or Buchanan will have my guts for garters. Eighteen rolls he claims have been used up by this department alone in the month of July.’

‘But the flies, monsieur?’

Roumande shrugged. ‘Well, use a flyswatter, as well.’ He rubbed his chin as he returned to the print and said, ‘It’s not a perfect likeness, granted, but with a few more weeks of empirical research, Adolphus …’

‘I’m as keen as you are for this method to work, but I fear we don’t have a few weeks, because if Grey’s wrong, if the boy’s information turns out to be misleading, we have days, hours, minutes before the next murder. Have we anything else to go on which might point to something? Anything?’

‘There’s still the oil, monsieur?’

Hatton turned to Patrice. ‘The oil?’

‘
Oui
, the oil, do you remember? And oil suggests a priest, and the Inspector, he has gone to arrest a priest,
n’est ce pas
? So the puzzle, Professor? Perhaps it’s coming together at last?’

But Hatton’s job was to doubt. Always to doubt. ‘I’m not sure. The oil was only found on one man’s forehead. A man who had been excommunicated
by Father O’Brian in the rookeries. But if
he
murdered Gregory Mahoney, why bless him at all? It seems strange and flies in the face of what he’d previously done. To be excommunicated means your soul is dead, so there’s nothing to bless at all. And whoever killed our victims has been careful to leave few clues. Just the glitter chemical, leading to the bomb. Anything else?’

‘The ash on Monsieur McCarthy?’ offered Patrice.

‘We’ve dealt with that. Move on.’

‘The ribbons?’

‘Thus telling us it’s Fenians. We already know this. Anything else? Any other traces under their fingernails, in the hems of their trousers, any unusual splatters, footprints?’

‘No,’ said Roumande, emphatically.

‘Thirty pieces of silver,’ suggested Patrice.

Hatton’s eyes narrowed. ‘A religious message, pure and simple. But half the bloody rookeries thought Mahoney was a Judas.’

‘More than half,’ added Roumande with a weary sigh.

Hatton sat down on his chair, bit the top of his thumbnail. ‘All the victims are connected. We know this, but maybe it’s more than that. Maybe all these men did something, together. Something terrible, and yet everyone we’ve spoken to says during the famine – apart from Mahoney – these other men
tried
. Made a bad job of it but still
tried
. According to Mr Amersham at the Home Office, hundreds sat on these work committees, so there’s nothing special in that, and we know the land Hecker bought is worthless. And yet, so many things connected to these killings point to a priest. And that’s what’s troubling me. They
point
– as if they might have been put there.’

‘Like a trap, Adolphus?’

‘Or a message, Albert, and we’re simply not reading it. This killer wants us to know something, but what?’ Hatton found his chisel blade and dug the tip deep into his desk, then twisted it. ‘For example, the oil? So theatrically done, so how did I miss it?’

‘You were drunk, monsieur?’

Hatton smiled. ‘Thank you, Patrice, and you’re right, of course, I
was
drunk the first time I saw him, very drunk, and the next day paying for it with a wretched headache, but Albert – not to accuse anyone – you were there, too, sober as a judge, and the next day decapitated the corpse?’

Roumande was circumspect and shrugged. ‘There was so much blood initially, and the next day …’ Another shrug that said,
Well, that could happen to anyone. Overwork. Too much to do. A slip, nothing more
.

‘Either way,’ continued Hatton, twisting the blade again, ‘I suppose it would do no harm to check the oil again. That reminds me, those orange petals I scooped up from the lily pond at the McCarthy place? Did they match?’

Roumande shook his head because he’d already checked that. They were marigolds.

‘So,’ Hatton said, looking down the viewing columns of the Zeiss, ‘this orangey hue? It’s a plant of some kind. A plant derivative mixed in prayer oil. Have you any ideas, before I tell you mine?’

‘The oil is olive, Adolphus, without question, but as to these flower specks? Perhaps it’s some kind of pollen, but I’ve been through all the books we have in the mortuary. Nothing.’

Hatton had his eye pressed close to the microscope. ‘I don’t need a book to tell me it’s not pollen. Pollen has a spherical shape whereas these flecks are tapering. These are petal strips, crushed then stirred
into oil. It’s a flower, but is it Welsh poppies or dandelions? From my research, I think this molecular structure is close to dandelions. Have you looked at the new book? The one that I got from the School of Apothecaries?’

‘Not yet, but dandelions are mostly yellow, Professor. Our file for spices and other flora samples isn’t all it could be. But if it’s prayer oil, it definitely points to a priest.’

‘It doesn’t have to be a priest. Anyone could have done this. Oil is easy enough to come by, as are petals, even in the city. We must ask ourselves a simple question. What are these marks telling us? What does an anointment mean?’

‘Forgiveness, Adolphus?’

‘Or a closeness to God? Purity?’

‘Healing from a sickness?’

‘Or simply to mark death, Albert. A full stop.’

Patrice was away on the other side of the morgue by now, but hovering, waiting for his dismissal, having gathered up his sketch paper and pencils in readiness for Dr Buchanan. Roumande asked him what was he still waiting for, then catching Hatton’s eye as the boy left, added, ‘He has a real skill, Adolphus. He listens, is keen, and he has a great knowledge of herbs, which is useful when embalming. All of this combined together with a drive for self-improvement makes for a real possibility. In short, he’s worth my attention and I can forgive a couple of foibles. His timekeeping is not the best. But he’s young and I think, perhaps, has a sweetheart who’s distracting him from the morgue.’

‘Mrs McCarthy’s maid, I suspect. I noticed a little romance when I was at the widow’s house.’

‘Really, Professor? He’s said nothing to me.’

‘Well, it didn’t go unnoticed that Patrice fared far better than me at White Lodge. His slice of soda bread was definitely the thicker.’

Roumande shook his head in sympathy. ‘Women, Adolphus. They’re all the same. But there’s no arguing with Patrice’s obvious charms. Everyone loves a handsome face.’

Outside the mortuary, a fight had broken out. Glasses were being smashed and someone was shouting, ‘She ain’t dead yet, I tell you! Not till I’ve finished with ’er!’