Free Devoured by D. E. Meredith

mouth, pressed her lips upon the pages, and as she did so, felt the pain ebbing away. Madame Martineau sighed, tucked a little lock of hair behind a dainty ear, and put the periodical down. Knowing it was just around the corner. Her time would come.

FIVE
     
     
     

SMITHFIELD
     
    Hatton was back in the morgue and examining the body, to see Roumande had done the most excellent work. Lady Bessingham’s skull had been pieced back together like a jigsaw puzzle, whilst the skin on the back of her head was plumped out and re-configured with the usual concoction of wax, gelatine and isinglass. Meanwhile, the stitching around the top of her ears and down to the back of her neck had been wrought in an almost invisible cross-cross of linen thread.
    ‘Exquisite,’ said Hatton, fingering the thread as Roumande leant forward, taking Lady Bessingham’s hand in his as if he might kiss it. Hatton took a sharp intake of breath, confused for a moment as to his diener’s intention, but then remembering immediately the skin sample from the index finger he’d insisted upon earlier. Roumande twisted the hand around and reading Hatton’s mind said, ‘I have the skin sample ready as you requested, Professor, but I’ve also been intrigued by this tattoo on her ring finger. The flower looks like a rose, but I think it’s more exotic. Do you think it’s from the East?’
    ‘Perhaps, Albert. I don’t know why I didn’t ask Mr Broderig at the time. It’s certainly unusual, but since the Exhibition so many ladies’ fashions seem to draw their inspiration from the colonies. Did you go to it, Albert?’
    ‘I took my whole family and we made a day of it. It was unbearably warm inside and we all had ices. In my opinion, the glass house was the most impressive construction. It’s up at Sydenham now, I believe.’
    ‘Yes, but we digress and I need to look at the skin sample.’
    Roumande held a square of laboratory glass towards Hatton. ‘When I was preparing her body yesterday, I re-examined her hands. There’s ink, but also something else. I don’t want to influence your observation, Adolphus, so you look, and we’ll see if we concur.’
    The shard of flesh was no bigger than a shilling. A smudge of indigo lifted from her index finger.
    Roumande positioned the gas lamp over a magnificent microscope. A Zeiss imported from Jena in Germany and a make, in Roumande’s opinion, without a competitor, such was its optical quality. The Zeiss reduced spherical aberration to a minimum and almost did away with the colour distortions Hatton had come to expect and to work around. The aperture of its lens was more accurate than any other instrument in its class. It stood up on its well-hinged, mahogany frame.
    Hatton peered down the binocular columns, adjusting the turning wheels so that the image blurred then expanded again to crystal clear. Roumande was good and, so often, almost irritatingly right. But any professional jealousy was wiped away in an instant with the mounting excitement of what Hatton’s eyes saw now.
    There was wax. The merest trace of it.
    ‘So she wrote a letter and sent it, using a seal perhaps? She was at work on the very day she died. I think we can say this without question. A Zeiss cannot lie, Roumande. But it could be she had just lit a candle.’
    Roumande shook his head. ‘It’s blue wax, Professor. Your first impulse is the correct one. It’s sealing wax. Given her love of tattoos, I suspect the Penny Post was not sufficiently distinctive for Lady Bessingham.’
    Hatton moved over to his desk and took a quill and handed it to Roumande. ‘Your illustrations are far more delicate than mine. I think I’ll go and see Mr Broderig and ask him to tell us a little more about our victim, and while I’m in Chelsea, I’ll double check for traces of wax. Inspector Adams will have to wait a little for his report because without these i ’s dotted, the autopsy conclusions aren’t complete. Do you mind,