The Devil's Ribbon (9 page)
‘They sell the finer ones in Piccadilly, monsieur. The shops there are like Aladdin’s Cave, it’s a wonder to see, it’s …’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Hatton, sure that he was on to something. ‘You’re right, but the shops in Piccadilly will be shut by now, so let’s start on this particular line of thought tomorrow. I want the ribbon measured, width ways and length ways. First thing in the morning, I’ll analyse the molecular structure as best I can. What chemicals have been used to get this vibrant green? Where does this particular silk hail from? Handwoven or factory made? Anything we can find out about the silk might just help lead us to the killer …’
Father O’Brian was chanting the evening mass in Latin to a packed church when the rock was hurled through the window, gashing the skull of an old woman, who fell to her knees with a scream. Across the black-and-white floor of the nave, shards of indigo glass mixed with splashes of red wine and communion wafers as O’Brian raced down the aisle to see the hastily scribbled messages, already stuck on the door of his church –
No Popery. Death to All Catholics
. But the culprits must have been younger and quicker than he. He tore down the notices, but not before seeing the steaming dog turd left on the steps of the porch. He grabbed a parishioner and told them to do the usual – ‘Clean it up, fast. This is the fifth time this month.’ He grabbed another, ‘Take whatever money’s in the sacristy and get Mrs Murphy to Dr Gilbert on Neal Street, quickly.’
The furore was over in an instant, the blood and glass swept from the nave. The parishioners dispersed as O’Brian went back into his church, bolting the door behind him. There were prayer books scattered about, the stink of incense in the air as the priest made his way slowly, but with intent, towards the sacristy, where the black pouch was just where he’d left it.
He waited for a second, to hear outside – a horse whinny, the sound of shouting – but he was sure the church was empty, pin-drop silent, as he eased the device out from its resting place, with the delicacy of touch he used to save for women, before he became a religious man.
A raw recruit at seventeen, he’d been drummed into the army by the British to fight their enemies in Europe, for a few shillings a week. A stroke of luck in retrospect, because he’d learnt a thing or two on the battlefields, before he took to the cloth. Like how to swim in a bloodbath, fire a bullet from a musket, and win the loyalty of men, but more important, to understand chemistry, which was something of a hobby. O’Brian knew nitroglycerine was unreliable at the best of times, guncotton no better. One accidental bump, one unfortunate shake and …
‘That’s not what we want now, is it?’ he said to himself,
ticktock, ticktock
in the one hand, and in the other, well, it didn’t take a genius to work out the following –
3HNO + CHO + O + 6H (NO) + 3H10
Did it?
Hatton stood on the steps of Verrey’s, looking down at his best boots, which Mrs Gallant had polished to a shine. He’d walked from Bloomsbury to Piccadilly, the boots pinching a little, and along the way couldn’t help but notice several chaperoned ladies lift their eyes fleetingly to his, reassuring Hatton that his evening dress was, thank goodness, flattering attire.
But there would be no couture competition with The Yard, because here was Inspector Grey delivered to the steps of Verrey’s by a gilded barouche. Operatic might describe tonight’s garb, with his muffler, his silk white tie, and the fashionable cut of his suit, all elegant lines. He was smoking a cigar. He was swinging a cane. The inspector looked dashing. ‘Yes,’ muttered Hatton to himself with envy, dashing was the word.
‘Here we all are then, Professor,’ said Grey, Mr Tescalini by his side. ‘Nine o’clock, precisely. So, shall we dine?’
They stepped inside Verrey’s, where peacock dresses shimmered, fans fluttered, and ringlets curled and kicked. And it took a second for Hatton to adjust himself to the gay laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the
hurrahs
, as dish after dish was paraded through the gilt and crystal restaurant. As the little party made their way to the table, it was all that Hatton could do, as a gentleman, to avert his eyes from a sea of alabaster clavicles and diamond-strewn décolletage.
Inspector Grey, however, did nothing of the kind.
‘How delightful you look tonight,’ he said, as his puckering lips brushed eager hands. From a less silver-tongued man it might have seemed rehearsed, but from Grey’s mouth, the ladies took it as the most delicious compliment and held their palms to their hearts in reply, or pretended to hide behind featherings of ostrich.
‘So,’ said Grey, waving away his adoring fans. ‘Have you decided yet, Adolphus?’
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ said the Professor, glaring at the menu with its
au this
and
à la that,
thinking
helllllpppp
because he was from Hampshire, dammit.
Meanwhile, Grey talked ten to the dozen, only forking in the odd mouthful as he discussed, at huge length, the missing pastry chef. ‘The most celebrated chef in London and lost, disappeared, gone, vanished into thin air. Are you sure your diener hasn’t heard of him? By all accounts his disappearance is completely out of character. Monsieur Pomeroy was a master of his art. No money worries, no creditors, no skeletons in the cupboard, but hardworking, disciplined, and highly religious.’
But Hatton wasn’t interested in chefs, celebrated or otherwise. It was another case he wished to talk of.
‘So as I was saying, Inspector, the silk could be the key. A number of murders have recently been solved on the Continent, where an item of clothing found at the scene has led directly to the killer. There’s the fingerprinting we can try, of course, and there’s another test, a new test involving nitrate acid which—’
The inspector interrupted him, ‘Very innovative, I’m sure, Professor, and when the fingerprinting’s ready, I’d like to go and do a proper forensic sweep of Gustave Pomeroy’s home in Fournier Street.’
Hatton sighed. He wasn’t getting anywhere, so he gave up for the time being and allowed himself to relax a little and enjoy
Timbales d’Asperges
, whipped into the palest green imaginable. Even Inspector Grey paused, eating a mere teaspoon, to exclaim, ‘Now this, my friends, should be illegal.’
Next up
Sole à la Dieppoise
(buttery and ghost white), then a positively melting
Escalopes De Veau à la Crème
accompanied by scatterings of braised chicory, followed by a variety of other delights concluding with two desserts. At which point, the sous chef arrived.
Grey stood up. ‘Ah, Monsieur le Chef! May I say that this evening, your food has surpassed all our expectations. Isn’t that so, Professor?’
Inspector Grey beamed at Hatton and toasted the table with an effervescent, ‘Good health, gentlemen! Please, please, Monsieur le Chef, sit down and join us.’
‘I mustn’t stop, Inspector. I only came out to apologise in advance for our paltry desserts, because without Monsieur Pomeroy at my side, I’ve only been able to produce two tonight.
Salade de Fruits
, which
as you can see is predominantly
Tropiques
, and our usual chocolate offering of
La Gloire de Verreys
.’
Inspector Grey jumped up, grabbing the sous chef’s arm. ‘I’m not a lover of
Les Desserts
, I shall leave that indulgence to my colleagues. A quiet word with you is all I require, sir.’
The sous chef nodded. ‘Anything, Inspector. Gustave is the best of men. We can’t imagine what’s become of him. His reputation’s never been better. Although his wife had recently died, he was deeply religious and that, perhaps, helped him recover from his grief, especially these last few months, where he seemed to be almost happy. Why, he was even whistling at work. His disappearance makes no sense at all. I fear something terrible might have happened. Perhaps he’s been hurt and is lying somewhere injured, completely helpless, right now—’
‘Well, that’s why we’re here, monsieur. To find him,’ said the Inspector, steering the sous chef back towards the kitchen, and leaving Hatton with a slice of cake and some slithery-looking melon. And like the melon, the room began to swirl.
Such delightful ladies, such exquisite tables, such opulence. Now this,
thought Hatton looking around him,
is Society,
as he slugged down another drink and imagined how his life might be with professional success, perhaps even a wife by his side. Why the devil not? He, too, could be in demand, not simply by the dead but by the living. And it occurred to Hatton that he’d been too long in the mortuary, too long in the morgue.
But these wine-soaked thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a man of the most inappropriate kind, who lumbered over to Hatton’s table, dressed in a squashed Tom Bowler and wearing the expression of a madman. Sending cutlery flying and without an introduction, the John
Bull figure sat down and blurted, ‘Damn that Inspector Grey. No, sir, as one Englishman to another, I’ll not be quiet for that Methodist taffy. I shall sit here until I’ve got what I came for. Scotland Yard is supposed to help people like me and protect
my
interests.’ He banged the table. ‘I pay my bleedin’ taxes!’
‘My dear fellow, calm yourself,’ said Inspector Grey, who came charging up behind him.
John Bull turned around and spluttered, ‘Now listen to me, Grey. I shall not be quiet. As you know, I am a plain man, very plain, and it’s taken me several hours to find you. I want my money and I’ll give you the usual ten per cent, of course, if you secure it for me without any fuss. He may be drunk, he may be dead, he may be in cahoots with other rookery thugs. They may have split the lot and gone back to Ireland, but a deal is a deal, come on now, shake on it and say you’ll help me, Grey …’
Grey stroked his waxed moustache. ‘Thirty per cent, Mr Brown. Deal or no deal?’
‘Damn you, Grey, you drive a hard bargain. Very well, deal, but we must go to the rookeries right now and not after … what is this? Pudding, is it?’
Tescalini nodded, shovelling in the gateaux.
The inspector smiled. ‘Let me introduce you to my friend here, Professor Adolphus Hatton. If this rent collector’s being difficult, there are three of us tonight. Who knows how drunk he’ll be, or how rough? But this man is a doctor, young, and full of vim, which might prove useful when we get to the slums.’
It was at that moment that Hatton realised how profoundly drunk
he’d become – not only had he cleared all seven plates, but he’d also finished every glass and failed to notice that at Verrey’s once the last sip is taken, another glass is poured. And so Hatton, when asked if he was happy to go with them to the Seven Dials, simply nodded, followed by a slurred, ‘No bother at all …’ and turning to Mr Tescalini promised the Italian that they were brothers in arms and that if there was trouble, he would, ‘Fight to the end, Mr Tescalini!
E Viva Italia!
’
Grabbing his cane, Hatton stumbled to the door and tumbled out of the restaurant, to be hit in the face with a night-air thump. He hovered on the edge of the pavement for less than a second and then led the way for them, in a slightly swaying gait, along Regent Street, turning east towards Soho.
But as the walk progressed, Hatton returned to his senses, because it occurred to him, hadn’t he just chopped through six victims of cholera, from this very spot? The Seven Dials was a den of thieves, felons, and garrotters and the prime location for his body collectors to find corpses. Piled high, Patrice had told him. Piled high and slumped up against doorways and bundled into corners. And wasn’t it here, only two years ago, where they had found a man so sliced about that when they removed him they needed a trowel?
‘So this is the place then, Mr Brown?’ asked Inspector Grey, his voice a whisper.
‘The rent collector’s place is just along this alleyway a bit,’ replied Mr Brown, who owned a few dosshouses here but rarely came to visit, and certainly never alone. ‘Locals call him the gombeen man, and he collects money for all the landlords around these parts. Mr Hecker, the mill owner, owns everything to the north of the Charing Cross Road.
I’ve just a few tenement blocks here in the Seven Dials. Mahoney was supposed to deliver my money hours ago, but he didn’t show up. I presume, Inspector, you’re suitably armed?’
Inspector Grey patted his dinner jacket. ‘You know that I wouldn’t have offered my assistance in the rookeries without a loaded pistol, Mr Brown. But I’m not at liberty to swing it about. It’s standard issue, of course, but The Yard doesn’t want to get itself a reputation for the reckless use of firearms. Mr Tescalini and our dear doctor are here. No firearm will be necessary.’
The men hovered on the corner of a street, actually little more than a passage, leading off into a darkened alley. To the other side, a huddle of jutting-out buildings, half-timbered, battered brick, and shattered windows.
‘Steady now, Professor,’ said Grey. ‘By God, this stench is unspeakable. Mr Tescalini, do you have a kerchief? I presume, Mr Brown, the rising vapours from your picturesque tenements do not offend you? No, friend,’ said the Inspector, ‘do not answer that.’
Inspector Grey pressed a hand-stitched, linen handkerchief to his mouth, and after breathing deeply, handed the lemony cloth to Hatton. Cadavers arrived at St Bart’s in hideous form, encrusted with faeces and other reeking fluids, but this was the rot and decay of sewer creatures. One privy to thirty families and a year of slops, which had seeped through the cracked and uneven pavers; a ripe mixture of dead dogs, vermin, and a fug of infectious diseases.
‘Come now, Inspector,’ said Mr Brown. ‘It isn’t so bad. And there’s no one about. They’re drunk, or suppurating quietly in their own filth, for it’s nearly all Irish in this quarter.’
The inspector asked curtly, ‘Have you a light or a candle perhaps, for there seems to be a shortage of gas lamps?’
The landlord shook his head. Mr Tescalini disappeared for a moment, returning promptly illuminated by a swinging lantern.
‘Ever inventive, Mr Tescalini. So, gentlemen,’ continued the Inspector, ‘are we finally ready?’
Tescalini gave Mr Brown a quick shove towards the lodging house, making the landlord totter forward. They followed him as he mounted rickety wooden stairs to a door patched up with planks of wood and rusty nails. ‘Mind your step here,’ said Mr Brown. ‘I haven’t quite got round to sorting out the floorboards. Mr Mahoney’s just two doors along.’
There was a faint coughing coming from somewhere, but in the gloom it was difficult to tell exactly where it was. ‘There’s no fever here, is there?’ the Inspector’s terse whisper filled an echoing void.
‘No, Inspector. Some of my tenants are labourers at the tannery, while others just cough and splutter for the sake of it. You have my word, Inspector. The Board of Health’s been here. There’s no more cholera. It’s burnt itself out.’
Tescalini held the lamp up a little higher, illuminating a door which bore no name – just yellowing paint and splintered planks, hinges which were green with algae and a cobweb of dirt.
Tescalini knocked. No answer, but from above their heads more coughing, louder now, and then a thwack followed by a howl, and a shout of something in a tongue Hatton thought he recognised. He shuddered.
Mary, again
. Was she following him? Because the words she had first spoken to him were so similar. He tried to recall it.
Saoirse
, he thought. Yes, that was the word.
‘Try again, Mr Tescalini.’ Inspector Grey’s voice was monotone.
Another bang, still nothing.
‘Stand back,’ Grey commanded.
Instantly a lightning sideways leg kick, so acrobatic and powerful that it seemed to come not so much from Mr Tescalini as from some other, much younger, perhaps oriental man. And with a ‘
Prego
, signore!’ the door came crashing down.
‘No need for a pocket pistol,’ said Grey. ‘Someone’s been here before us.’