The Devil's Ribbon (7 page)

SIX

SOHO

The floor Jasper Tooley knelt on was hard. There was no cushion upon it, but he guessed on the other side of the grille there was a crimson one for the priest. The priest, thought Jasper, deserved cosseted knees, for he was the
Representative of God on Earth
. Head down and hands clasped in the presence of such an earthly deity, the boy whispered, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

In the other chamber, a small tallow candle threw a lick of dirty light up behind a mouthing silhouette. A gloomy face, an outline of lips and lashes. The gruff voice which came back cut him off with, ‘Well, whatever you’ve done, I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,
Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto
. Amen.’

‘Amen.’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s four o’clock now, Father.’

Despite the heat outside on the streets of London, the Church of the Sacred Heart was cold. Jasper did what he was told, which was three Hail Marys and five Our Fathers, but before he managed to finish his prayers, he was hauled up by the scruff of his neck and pulled roughly into a dark corner under one of the vaulting aisles, as the priest hissed, ‘Where have you been, anyway? We’ve work to do and you smell rank, you smell of dead men.’

‘It’s glue from the bindings, Father. It’s made from animal bone and smells like the devil. I only came here to tell you that I went for a quick drink in the rookeries, and there’s rumours flying around like mad. They’re saying Gabriel McCarthy’s dead and also that there’s trouble at the docks. That Mr O’Rourke is on his way there now.’

There was a slight pause, an intake of breath, but when the priest spoke, he was matter-of-fact. ‘Sure, I knew it already about Gabriel, and if you ask me, it’s been a long time coming, and I gave the order to O’Rourke to pay a visit to Limehouse. Nothing happens without my knowledge. See here’ – the priest pointed to his skull – ‘all seein’ and all knowin’. I sent O’Rourke to the docks a couple of hours ago. But speaking of the devil, have you seen Damien? I haven’t laid eyes on him since last night.’

The boy stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor, saying nothing.

The priest tucked an oily black strand behind his ear. ‘Well, it doesn’t look good, one brother dead and the other not seen for dust. The police will be sniffing about, though those cowards don’t dare come into St Giles. We’d fucking kill them if they did. This is our turf now.’

The pair of them – odd shadows on the walls of a very tall priest and a very crooked boy – made their way past the Stations of the Cross, stopping to genuflect before they crossed the nave of the church and disappeared into the sacristy, where the priest de-robed, then said,
‘This way,’ as he opened an arched door at the very back of the room.

Outside the church it was still a drowsy summer afternoon. The other boys waiting for the catechism were sitting in the church garden, shaded by apple trees, and beyond the trees an unruly bed of snapdragons, poppies, and other jewelled petals – which the priest didn’t heed at all because he was far too busy counting heads, like an expectant schoolmaster.

‘So who’s got what, then? Come on lads, cough it up. I can’t run this place on air. I’ve told your mammies, before. I need money.’

A cap was passed around, with the usual paltry offerings dropped in of farthings, bits of old stale toke, and excuses made as to why one or two of the lads had nothing to give, their families having been cleared out already by the gombeen man.

The priest spat, ‘Of course, it’s fucking Monday, isn’t it? What did he take, this time? Steal the roof over your head? Well, he would if he could. Gregory Mahoney still comes here to church, the snivelling wretch, begging me for forgiveness. Well, shall I give it to him, boys? In spades? Shall I pay him a little visit he’ll never forget? I’ve a mind to, because God knows he’s deserving enough.’

Father O’Brian knew everyone in the Seven Dials and what they owed this world and the next. He made a point of it, and as if Nature reflected his thoughts, a cloud must have passed briefly over the sun, because the air felt suddenly cold. One of the boys shivered, another giggled, as the priest’s wiry shape cast a threatening shadow across the lawn.

If the boys were pale, they grew paler. If they were quiet, they grew quieter. ‘Stay away from that devil, boys. He’s no better than a Jew, a Jesus murderer. Understand me? And if you see him coming, run and hide, scatter like the wind, get to the hay barn and lay down real quiet.
Keep the babe from crying, because ssshhhh, he’s coming …’

One of the boys said, ‘I need to go the privy, Father.’

But the priest, ignoring him, whispered, ‘He’s coming. Gregory Mahoney’s coming over the brow of the hill, do you see him, boys? Oh yes, he’s coming with that miserable cur, but have you seen him kick that cur? It’s a wonder the creature’s still alive …’

One of the boys began to wail as the priest jumped up, threw his head back, laughed and said, ‘Why only last week that bloodsucker came into mass, snivelling and saying, “It wasn’t me that hurt the colleens down on the beaches, Father.” And do you know what I did to him? I hauled him up, like the traitor he is, and told him that he was going to hell.’

The boys were blessing themselves, their eyes out on stalks.

‘That traitor not only raped, he killed his own people with promises he made about a New World which were lies, all lies. Anyways, enough of that. Let’s think about the future.’ Holding up three fingers, Father O’Brian continued with his class, ‘So, off the top, what are the three R’s towards Irish liberty?’

‘Ribbons,’ shouted one of the boys. ‘Green ribbons!’

‘Revenge!’ shouted another.

‘Revolution!’ said a third.

‘Exactly,’ said the priest. ‘You’ve been listening well. So, can anyone add to this?’

Jasper put up a faltering hand.

‘Yes, you – Jasper Tooley, from our little cell of one in Clapham.’

‘Errr … readies, rhino, and religion, Father.’

‘Hmm, not bad, but there’s another thing. Very important this, and I need a word in your shell like – alone.’

The other boys at the catechism instantly scattered, the crippled child left skulking under the shade of an apple tree, and for a moment the priest looked at this child with his rickety spine, who briefly reminded him of so many others who were long dead, burnt in a pyre or buried in quicklime. He pushed his sorrow down and said, ‘Word is your family’s now binding books for the British government?’

Under the glare of the priest, the boy almost physically shrunk.

‘You don’t need to answer because I already know.’ The priest winked, knowingly. ‘Did you and your pa have a nice cup of tea with the chief clerk of Her Majesty’s Home Office, Mr Amersham, then?’

The boy stuttered, ‘But I swore, Father. I swore on pain of death. Mr Amersham made Pa sign The Limitation of Speech Act. He was very particular and asked all sorts of questions before giving out the contract, which is worth
five hundred guineas
. You’re not Catholics are you, he said? My pa said emphatically no, sir. That we are, God forgive me, Father’ – he hung his head and whispered – ‘
Church of Ireland
.’

The priest’s face was stone. ‘How dare you utter those sacrilegious words in this holy place? Don’t you understand that Church of Ireland doesn’t exist? It’s a British invention, a colonial invention, and that’s why your mammy sends you
here
for catechism, to be a proper Catholic. Is your brain crippled as well? I thought you artisans were educated. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.’

Suddenly gripping the boy in his vicelike hands, Father O’Brian raised his eyes skyward. ‘Am I right or am I wrong? Did you, or did you not, sign a contract with the Home Office this morning at precisely ten o’clock?’

The boy was amazed, thinking this man was like a God who could see every move he made, every place he went, every thought in his head. The Home Office contract was a secret. It was confidential work and worth
a fortune to his pa. But Jasper knew he’d no choice but to confess, so lowering his head as if in prayer, he said, ‘You’re right, Father. My family took a large order of bookbinding from the Home Office today, including files going back ten years to the times of famine.
An gorta mor
, Father.’

‘So, the rumours are true. How many files, would you say?’

‘A veritable cartload, Father.’

The priest leant in a little nearer. ‘Anything pertaining to something called the
Gregory Clause
?’

‘The Gregory Clause? I don’t know about that. The files are all piled up in the bindery in Clapham. There are heaps and heaps of them and their guts are hanging out. Gregory Clause? Now you come to mention it …’

‘What?’ O’Brian rasped, practically salivating.

The boy, having recovered a little, was not without insolence. He eyeballed the priest. ‘First I need to know, will you be taking me to Lourdes? Will I get to meet the little Bernadette girl, who cures the sick?
Like you promised me, Father
.’

The priest went to pull the boy’s ear, but then thought better of it, saying, ‘Don’t push it, Tooley. Gregory Clause. Yes or no?’

‘Yes, Father.’

The priest patted the crippled boy on the head. ‘You’ll make us a fine little foot soldier one day. The Home Office, eh? So, Senior Intelligence Officer Jasper Tooley, take a pen and write this down.’ He cleared his throat and repeated, ‘“The Gregory Clause 1847.” Got that, lad? The exact detail of this clause has been denied on a number of occasions, but Mr O’Rourke and I are sure it exists. But we need to see it. We need to see how they did it. We need to see who sanctioned the tumbling.’

SEVEN

HIGHGATE

The day had been a long one. The house in Highgate offered very little in terms of forensic evidence, but nevertheless Hatton had taken three samples of household ash, a variety of bottles from the cleaning cupboard, and what Mrs McCarthy claimed was her husband’s draught – a small, blue bottle containing laudanum. The sun was just beginning to dip as Hatton wandered into the meadows of White Lodge, which were ablaze with poppies, iridescent dragonflies, beewhals, and butterflies. Getting his notebook out from his medicine bag, he added ‘antimony’ to the lists of common poisons he’d already found, or knew he would find with a bit more quizzing of the maid. Mercury and arsenic in the household paint, hydrochloric acid, morphine for bouts of indigestion, tincture of Belladonna for ladies’ complaints. All highly toxic, yes, but
not enough to kill a man, and no sign of that deadliest of all – crushed from the seeds of an Indian deciduous tree –
nux-vomica
.

But knowing all the time that murder left an imprint and that to doubt, to look again, to ask questions, always questions, and to look beyond the obvious was all that mattered. Death would speak to him, he just had to listen. But right now, all Hatton could hear was the burring of chickens as he bent his head under a lintel, stepping into the cooling shade of one of the outhouses, an ancient half-forgotten place which smelt of dry hay, rushes, and something he knew at once – the cut of turpentine.

Leaning up against a wall was an easel, a few pots of paint, some brushes, and a number of half-finished paintings. Brightly coloured oils of romanticised places and one in particular which caught his eye, having the air of a Constable about it – a riverscape, a muddy beach, a dear little skiff named
Liberty
nestling under a weeping willow, and in the distance, what he knew to be an ait – a river island.

Her voice made him jump when it came.

‘Are you admiring my paintings, Professor?’

She was wearing a linen smock with a thick, brown leather belt around her waist. Her hair hung loose in a most becoming way, and her feet, he noticed, were bare. ‘My poor, dear husband wasn’t one to stand on ceremony, Professor, and I could no longer wear those heavy mourning silks. The heat is making me ill.’

Hatton was embarrassed. ‘It’s not for me to judge, madam …’ he said, clearly averting his eyes. There was a strong, bright light behind her which melded the dove grey dress into practically nothing, a diaphanous shift.

‘No, it’s not for you to judge, though I find the English often do,’ she said, stepping out of the light, her dress becoming thick again in the
shadows of the outhouse – the long line of her thighs, the curve of her hips, the nip of the waist, other things, secret things, disappearing again.

He hung his head with shame at his lascivious thoughts, and at the same time was cross that the young woman would appear, unannounced, to creep up on him like that. For heaven’s sake, couldn’t she see he was working? That he was a busy man and she was interrupting?

‘I am interrupting you,’ she said. ‘But your inspector is talking to Florrie for so long, and I came out here to think. My mind is tormented with questions, Professor, so many questions. Was there something I didn’t do, something I didn’t say, something I should have heard but didn’t? That in some way, Gabriel’s death is my fault. Please, Professor … do whatever you must …’

She leant against the wall, as if she might faint.

Hatton was aghast at himself. This was a young woman in obvious distress, and he was a doctor and should behave like one. She needed to sit, to have something for the shock, but not those damn quackery tonics used for feminine hysteria. A glass of brandy would be better. He would see to that in just a second, but before heading to find the maid, he took her arm and steered her to a milking stool, saying, ‘Please, Mrs McCarthy, rest awhile.’

She looked up him. ‘Florrie gave me a draught and I’m not used to such things. I feel a little dizzy.’

He took her wrist to feel the pulse. ‘Don’t take any more of that tonic, Mrs McCarthy. It’s full of morphine and Indian hemp. Overdoses are not uncommon, so I strongly suggest, steer clear of it.’

‘I will, Professor,’ she said, as he held her wrist and looked into her eyes for a second too long.

‘Ah there you are, Hatton …’ Inspector Grey was suddenly under the lintel. ‘I thought I might find you out here. We shall be off now, Mrs McCarthy, but I’ll be back the minute your brother returns, so as soon as he shows himself send a message to The Yard, clearly marked for my attention, Room Three, Second Floor, Criminal Investigation Department.’

As they got into the waiting carriage, Grey was initially effusive, grabbing Hatton’s arm with, ‘The widow was a tap, a veritable tap. Far be it for me to say, but as a confirmed bachelor, I seem to have a way with women, a natural affinity with the fairer sex. Couldn’t stop the little woman talking … on and on she went.’

Oh, do be quiet for once,
thought Hatton as Grey complied and lapsed into silence for most of the journey back to the city, only every now and then letting a self-satisfied smirk break over pencil-thin lips, as he remembered something Mrs McCarthy had done, or something she’d said.

Hatton had to steel himself. It was a lonely fact that, apart from brushing past nurses on his way to the morgue, the demands of his work ensured he had little opportunity to enjoy the company of women. Until now, he’d rarely let this thought bother him, so intent was he on work, but as he looked out of the window, at the flat line of the sky and the density of buildings, he remembered:

He’d been fishing in the brook for hours when he heard a long, low whistle, thinking it was the village dolt, Eddy Stoates, come to scare the fish away. But then a peep, peep, peep like a bird and the snap of a branch. He thought no more of it but cast his rod again, intent on
 
landing a trout, but then another flitter and a shower of tiny pebbles, breaking the surface of the water.

That does it, he thought.

It was time he taught that dolt a lesson. He loathed the village boys at the best of times. Their heads were full of nothing, and it was sheep that moved in a herd, not men. Addy dreamt of escape, a different kind of life, and this shady brook was his secret place, a place to be quiet and think about his future. He didn’t want to be a farmer, a life driven by the elements and seasons, the lay of the land, the bland demands of soil prices, hungry pigs to feed. He dreamt of higher things, but this thought was broken by another shower of pebbles and a girlish laugh.

‘Hey you!’ he cried, but she was gone in an instant. Addy threw his rod down and went after her. A flash of black hair, she ran like the wind up the grassy bank, but he was a damn good hunter when he put his mind to it. ‘Got you!’ he said, as the girl – and she was a girl despite her strange appearance – fell to her knees then turned around to face him, saying,
‘Saoirse …’
Her breathing came in sharp little rasps as he held her to the ground. ‘You scared the fish away …’ He grabbed her wrists tighter. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘Saoirse …’

‘I don’t understand you? Speak English.’ He held her there for a few more seconds, pinned beneath him, his legs straddling a thin body in rags. There was a storm coming, electric in the air, a crack of thunder, clouds rolling in. His breath running faster than hers.

‘I speak the Queen’s own English,’ she said, wriggling free of him. ‘I speak Latin, as well. All Irish do, maaaster.’ The ‘maaaster’ said with a sly smile. The girl brushed her ragged dress down as if it was the best
Indian silk. She had flowers in her hair – speedwell and purple mallow. Ophelia, he thought, laughing to himself. ‘Sure, the fish could see you coming for a mile. I was standing on the bank watching you. I could teach you how to tickle them straight out of the water, if you want me to.’

Hatton laughed out loud. ‘I’d like to see you try. A girl who can fish? Now I’ve heard everything. You’re Irish aren’t you?’

She curtsied, lower than she should have done. ‘My people are here for the seasonal work, yer honour. There’s nothing at home.’ She twisted her foot in the ground and sighed. ‘We’re here for the hops but I slipped off half an hour ago.’ She looked at him, with defiance in her eyes. He walked off, thinking girls are stupid and a waste of good fishing time, but she followed him and continued to seek him out and follow him for that long hot summer, and when summer was out, he was of a different mind altogether.

She drew him into her world. Each night he’d leave the house, while the others were asleep, to visit the camp on the edge of hop fields; flames of fire under a dark luminous sky, the sound of rapacious fiddling, and, in the middle, a people gone mad, wild with drink and dancing, Mary festooned with ribbons, golden bells around her heels.

She was always questioning why the moon controlled the waves, why the sun rose, was it true what people said about the layering of the earth? She told him stories, but said they weren’t stories, but legends – ancient legends of a noble people, with their own language and their own ways, downtrodden by his. He’d be angry with her and she’d only kiss him and tell him, ‘It’s of no matter, Addy. A hundred years ago. All forgiven and forgotten.’

He should have heeded his father’s warning.

The accusation came on the brow of a hill. Eddy Stoates had come out of nowhere, red-faced, spitting, ‘That Irish bitch of yours is stealing. Her whole family is. Our milk’s gone sour, the hens ain’t laying, my ma’s silver brush has been taken from the dresser.’

Eddy Stoates was leering at her. ‘So, what have you got to say for yourself? But I’ll let you off a thrashing if you give me whatever you’re givin’ Addy Hatton, here …’

Hatton rounded on him, saying he would give him a pummelling if he didn’t take every word back and, for good measure, Mary said, ‘He’ll not be bothering me, Addy.
Pogue mahone,
Stoat face …’

‘Irish bitch.’

Addy was quick, running at Eddy Stoates, levelling him, his fists raised for more. ‘Apologise, right now—’

Mary was quicker, laughing her head off and grabbing some itchy hay, sticking it down the boy’s shirt and calling him a scarecrow. ‘That’ll teach you a lesson.’

The boy kicked her and wrestled himself free and slunk off. ‘You’ll pay for this …’

Addy brushed himself down. ‘Are you all right, Mary? He didn’t hurt you, did he?’

She smiled.
‘Is Troid e an Saol!
Life’s a fight, Addy. We saw him off though, didn’t we?’

If only he had seen her home, back to the bosom of her family, but after talking for a while, he gave Mary a farewell kiss and left her on the path. He had studying to do, he said. September loomed and his pa had finally raised the capital for boarding school. ‘Of course you must go.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Grab this opportunity with both hands, Addy. You can be whatever you want.’

‘I want to be a doctor. To study science, chemistry, anatomy and go to Edinburgh, where the best work is done.’

‘And you shall,’ she said, skipping off, her figure getting smaller and smaller, merging into the hedgerows.

Not enough evidence they said, as a cold-blooded murderer walked away from the magistrate’s court. Eddy Stoates had always been violent, a real temper on him, a dog teaser, a kitten drowner.

When they found her, she was hanging from a hawthorn tree, the speedwell in her hair, spoilt with blood. The coroner said she’d been raped before she was hung. There was a bloody footprint in the ground, marks around her neck, a crushed larynx but still not enough evidence they said to hang a seventeen-year-old English lad. Hatton’s pa had shaken his head in disgust as he left the gallery, and swore there was no justice in the world – ‘A peasant,’ he said. ‘That’s what our so-called neighbours called her. I’d like to string them up myself.’ And Lucy sobbed and sobbed and said, ‘My poor, poor Addy …’

Not poor Addy, Hatton thought. And whenever he a saw a fish jump, starlight break the density of trees, summer shadows skip before him, campfires, a country fiddle – he thought of Mary, and of what could never be.

‘Have you ever eaten at Verrey’s, Professor?’ There was a long pause before the detective repeated, ‘Professor, you’re away with the fairies. I just asked you a question. Would you be so polite as to answer me?’

Hatton murmured he had little time for such things, nor, sadly, the money.

‘Well, we shall dine there tonight,’ announced Grey. ‘I have to interview Monsieur Pomeroy’s sous chef.’

Hatton didn’t reply, his mind flitting again to a long, hot summer, twenty years ago.

‘Professor, please! Pay attention. Our missing chef? The Pomeroy fellow hasn’t shown his face for over a week and I’m getting quite a lot of nudging by the ladies of this town and sharp prods from Mr Hecker.’