The Devil's Ribbon (12 page)

‘Which is what?’ asked Hatton, genuinely curious.

‘Why, visit the odd sick or lonely parishioner, of course, but I don’t care for him and he was no friend to my husband. You encourage me to speak freely but I want to hear from you. I know you’re hiding something. What is it?’

Hatton was taken aback, because this young woman was bold, just like Mary had been. Perhaps it was an Irish thing. ‘Well, there was something,’ he admitted, but the minute it was out of his mouth, Hatton regretted it; her boldness had put him off his guard.

‘I knew it.’

‘But you cannot speak of it, Mrs McCarthy. I have given the Inspector my word.’

She spun around, directly facing him; her hand gripped his arm. Her
eyes were burning. ‘My husband is dead, murdered. You must tell me.’

‘A ribbon was found in his mouth.’

Her hand fell away.

‘But you mustn’t speak of it. I shouldn’t have told you.’

‘And the ribbon?’ She paused. ‘Was it green?’

Hatton nodded.

‘
Fenians
.’ She was visibly shaking. ‘Do you know who these people are? They’re killers. They attack anyone they think is standing in the way of liberty. My husband was prepared to wait and to win freedom, through peaceful means. But the Fenians know nothing of this. They are little more than thugs. They will break the Union even if it means murdering innocent people, their own kith and kin. You don’t know what they’re capable of …’

‘Please, madam. Calm yourself,’ Hatton said, steering her towards a chair, knowing that women, when they were roused like this, should be treated with tenderness and care.

She was grief-stricken, more than a little wild, but she looked at Hatton with sudden daggers. ‘I’ll not calm myself. I may be only twenty, but I have lived twice that life. All Irish women have.’ She sat down, despite herself, and clasped her hands, leant forward towards him, her voice growing softer. ‘When I was a little girl, I watched from behind my mother’s skirt, terrified. They would come down from the glen of Croaghanmoira and rampage through our village, armed with cudgels, pikes, whips. It wasn’t the English landowners they came to teach a lesson, but us, Professor – their own people. They called themselves Ribbonmen and now they call themselves this Gaelic word, Fenians. There’s graffiti in the rookeries,
Tiocfaidh ár lá
. Have you seen it?’

‘I try not to venture into the rookeries, madam.’

‘You are wise. It means “Our day will come.” There’s revolution in the air, can’t you feel it? And like the French who wore the
tricolore
cockades, the Fenians believe you’re either with them or against them.’ She bit her lips, damson red again, and her hands were trembling. Hatton reached out and steadied them. Her hands were soft. She left her hands in his and looked into his eyes again, more beguiling than ever. ‘Please, Professor, you have to help me. I need Gabriel’s rosary beads. To lose them will bring bad luck, and it’s not right that my husband should be buried without the sign of his faith. The killer has taken them to mock us. But if you find them, they could be evidence, couldn’t they? If the killer has left a trace upon them? A smudge of dirt? Blood?’

She released her hand from his. ‘My husband’s killer is out there, somewhere, right now, I am sure of it, but you can surely help me find him? You see, I know a little of your work, Professor Hatton. I was a ward of the Arada Estate before I married, and was well educated. My husband’s father took me in. I stood in rags, had lost my family, I had nothing. They fed me, clothed me, and taught me not just to read and write but history, geology, the constellations, the glories of science, Professor Hatton.’

She sighed and went over to one of the many bookshelves. ‘The Irish gentry, such as it is, has a heritage stretching back to the Normans and are firm believers in educating women. I speak a little Latin, did you know that?’ A faint smile came upon her lips but there was sorrow underneath. ‘And I have even read
The Lancet
. My husband bought the periodical every month and would read little snippets to me. I shall
miss him and I shall miss his counsel.’ She held Hatton’s eyes for the briefest second, as she continued, ‘My husband taught me so much and he spoke so highly of science. How blood circulates the body, how time of death can be measured. Is that right, Professor Hatton? And that
you
are some kind of expert?’

Hatton was flattered. He made a curt bow and gestured her back to the easy chair. She sat, like an eager student or a lady determined on self-improvement, and looked up at him. ‘Well?’

‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Gone are the days when the testament of a witness is enough to send a man to the gallows, and the missing beads might offer us a clue and set us on a trail. But it’s not clear to me why anyone would take them, unless they are incriminating in some way. I presume they are of little intrinsic value?’

‘They were of great personal value. Are you a man of faith, Professor?’

What could he say? He couldn’t lie to her, so said nothing. She didn’t seem to notice but only continued, ‘I have heard that you do tricks with mirrors and use thermometers to tell the nature of death. That you read a cadaver like a map and can run your hand along a dead man’s skull and say if he murdered another. That you can slice a man open and see his last supper? Am I right? Can all this be possible?’

Hatton shook his head. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that, madam.’

She became a little more insistent. ‘But this is what people say you do, Professor. And that you’re the only man in London who carries out this science, which is, I must confess, partly why I sought you out.’

‘You sought me out?’ He was taken back, because few sought him out, especially beautiful women.

‘Of course,’ she insisted. ‘You see, as soon as I saw the body, I knew it wasn’t right. I was brought up in Ireland during terrible times, and as a child saw umpteen bodies racked by the blackness of cholera. So even in the first awful moment of discovery, I admit, though I am not proud to say so, I was afraid for myself. Death stalks each and every one of us, Professor, and if Fenians have killed my husband, then who next? I married him. My voice is strong, but my body is weak. I need protection.’ She looked across the garden. ‘But I’m not so sure about Scotland Yard and this strange Inspector Grey. What do you know of him? Is he any good, would you say?’

Hatton was surprised. ‘But madam, your husband knew him. Why don’t
you
tell me.’

She stood up from her chair and brushed her skirt down. ‘Yes, they knew each other, I believe, but my husband knew many people. He was a politician and Grey is a policeman. Sure,’ she said, ‘it seems to me in this country they are practically the same thing. But what do I know? I am a foreigner in this land and a woman.’

‘Do you miss Ireland, Mrs McCarthy?’

Her face, her whole body seemed to melt. She leant against the drawing-room wall and briefly closed her eyes. ‘England is not my home.’

‘I’ve heard it’s very beautiful …’

‘It is.’ She came alive. ‘Here, come with me and let me show you …’

She left the room, bidding him to follow her. They went down the corridor and into the music room. She closed the door behind her firmly and turning to him said, ‘Forgive me for saying this, but it’s good to be away from death, if only for a moment.’ She took a deep breath and,
despite her black silks and mourning veil, suddenly appeared to Hatton not as a widow, old before her time, but a vibrant, eager twenty-year-old woman. She pointed to a small oil on the wall beside her which was positioned above the piano. ‘It was my husband’s favourite …’

It was wonderful, he thought, subtle with the delicate line and the precision of a serious painter. He said so. She inclined her head to thank him. ‘I painted it before we left Ardara. Most of the region is little more than bog, high mountains, but it’s a magical place, full of legends, ancient customs, huge, gushing rivers …’

‘And the sea …’ said Hatton looking at the waves crashing onto a windswept beach.

‘You are from the city, Professor?’

Hatton smiled. ‘I’m a nature child, like yourself, madam. I am cut from the land.’

‘But you do not farm?’

‘My father’s farm earns little and now he’s gone and there’s no one to manage it. And I am very busy.’

She sighed. ‘But you own the land, still?’

He nodded, throwing off the guilt which haunted him. He hadn’t been back to the farmstead since his father died. Lucy had written pleading with him to
do something
, anything. Sell it off in its entirety, rent it to someone who would tend to it – there were hops fields, she’d said, strawberries they could grow – but the thought of returning to the burden of those damp walls, the broken roof, and all those echoing ghosts made him shudder. Every day he thought of it, and yet he did nothing. The widow must have seen something telling on his face because she asked, ‘Did someone die there? Someone close to you, Professor?’

He didn’t wish to speak of this now. Not speak of his mother who worked herself to death, out in the rain, her teeth gritted against the elements, her hands red raw, herding pigs through Hampshire mud to catch a chill, they said. A chill? He was eight years old when she died. And he would not speak of his father, nor would he speak of Mary.

‘Yes, people died there, but this painting,’ he said, quickly changing the subject back to something pleasant again. ‘It’s wild, open country. What about the estate?’

‘Ah yes, the estate,’ she sighed. ‘There’s a large oil in my husband’s bedroom, a few more along the corridor as you came in and …’ She opened a drawer and took out a black-and-white etching of a sprawling country house. ‘As you can see, the place I was raised from the age of ten was a solid house with very grand proportions. The McCarthys are what others call West Brits, Professor. My husband’s family were fair landlords, but their management of Ardara was imposed upon the people by the British. Ordinary Irish cannot own land, as your family did. They may labour upon it, but they cannot buy it. The McCarthys were middlemen but my husband’s family were good landlords. They did the best they could.’

‘But it’s a terrible system.’

‘Yes, Professor.
It is
. The common Irish are no better than slaves. You see the cottage in the foreground?’

Hatton leant a little closer to the picture to see a forlorn, run-down sort of place, a primitive hut.

‘Sure, it’s quaint to an artist’s eye,’ she said, ‘but this is all we are allowed, even today. Nothing’s changed. The West Brits live in the big house, while most Irish languish in a mud hut, with a grass roof, not
even windows, just a hole to let the smoke out. If the tenant improves his property, the rents are increased. Do you see, now? Do you see why there’s so much anger on the streets, here in London? It runs deep, Professor.’

Her face was flushed; she sighed, pushed a lock of jet black hair back from her face, and stood very close to him as she said, ‘But these are miserable things to talk of and I would rather forget them. I am just very glad you like my painting, but I shouldn’t smile, should I? Nor should I profess pleasure in this time of mourning, for I’ve just lost my husband. I’m young, Professor Hatton, and you are most attentive. May I ask? Are you married?’

Hatton felt himself redden but said firmly, ‘No, madam.’

She looked surprised, then said, ‘Marriage is a state of grace and one I hope you find. You see, my life was blessed when I met Gabriel. He was so much older, but he saved me, did everything for me. Loved me, taught me, even put me on a pedestal, but now he’s gone.’

He said it, before he could stop himself, as he turned to her. ‘I can see why he did so, you are so very—’

‘Professor Hatton, you shouldn’t …’

‘No, madam, I shouldn’t, but …’

Before he could say another word, a sharp knock interrupted. It was Florrie at the door, and if Hatton was not much mistaken, the slightly older woman gave the younger, prettier one a sharp look. ‘We wondered where you’d gone to, madam, and the music room, of all places. Tea, Professor Hatton?’

Hatton coughed. ‘Tea would be most agreeable.’

The widow rustled out ahead of him, her silk a whisper on the parquet floor, but her voice firm. ‘Lemon verbena, Florrie, and serve it
in the parlour, please. Nothing to eat. It’s far too hot and I hate to see food wasted. Professor Hatton …’

Hatton went to follow but as he did – ‘Urgggh …’ – he physically collided with a skulking adolescent. Patrice, who must have been loitering all this time, lowered his head, his cheeks red with sunburn, cap in hand, his usual deferential self. ‘
Excusez-moi,
Professor?’

‘Yes, Patrice.
What is it
? You trod on my foot, you dolt.’

‘Begging your pardon, monsieur. Should I stay here in the corridor or outside near the body wagon? Or I can go to the servant’s quarters, if you prefer? That’s what the maid has suggested. Oh, and Monsieur Roumande is here.’

‘Monsieur Roumande? Already?’

Florrie cocked her head. ‘Oh yes. Should have said so, sir. A big, burly man arrived ten minutes ago. He’s got all sorts of tricks up his sleeve and making a right old mess in my master’s study what with the flypaper, the blotting paper, the charcoal, and that Welsh dandy draped all over my master’s chair and smoking cigarillos. It isn’t right, so soon after the master’s death …’

Hatton ignored the flustered maid and only hissed at the boy, ‘While I’ve got your attention, Patrice, did you find any rosary beads on Gabriel McCarthy’s body? In the pockets, perhaps? Did you double-check everything, thoroughly? The mistress of this house is quite beside herself and says they are lost. Perhaps even taken.’

The boy scratched his head. ‘There were no beads, sir. I’m sure of it. Monsieur Roumande is most particular. He has a system, a file and a selection of calico bags which …’

‘Yes, yes, Patrice. I know the system.’

Hatton turned around to see the maid who in a trice was back again laden down with a huge pile of sandwiches, cakes, buns, soda bread, glistening golden butter, porter, and other refreshments, quietly standing behind him.