19

THAT EVENING, MR HAPSWORTH didn’t answer when called for dinner. I went to his paltry space in the back room, and it was empty, no clothes on the hooks or books on the shelf.

‘I suppose we can’t blame him,’ I said to Rosie. ‘He was just a lodger. No reason for him to stay and risk his safety.’

‘Just a lodger?’ she said. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘What do you mean?’

She pursed her lips. ‘Strange that Viola’s pregnant now, after she was married to Bill for eight years.’

I goggled at her. ‘You can’t think … Mr Hapsworth?’

‘It’s common enough.’

‘Why would he leave?’

Rosie gave me a look, as only she could: a mixture of impatience and forbearance. ‘Also, common enough.’

Viola took the news of Mr Hapsworth’s disappearance with equanimity. Nothing could hurt her further. ‘My concern isn’t with the living.’

It was well after ten o’clock when she turned down the lamps and asked us to join her in the parlour, where she took a seat at the little table with the alphabet board in front of her. Once again, Rosie pleaded that she was too tired to converse with the dead.

‘That means it’ll just be Viola and me,’ I whispered to her. ‘The two of us. At a séance.’

‘That’s right.’

Her expression left me in no doubt that I shouldn’t upset her grieving sister with petty concerns such as science or rationality.

I righted a chair and sat opposite Viola, our hands on the table like last time. I was unused to being in a house on such a quiet street, and the silence was oppressive. The blood was rushing in my ears.

She closed her eyes and started making low groans in the back of her throat, rising in tone and volume to a peculiar, closed-mouthed scream, as though she’d been unwillingly gagged. Abruptly, she became silent and flopped forward, almost touching the board with her forehead, and then jerked upright again. I flinched, and immediately she opened her eyes wide and clutched my hand.

‘Don’t move from the table.’

I was shivering. ‘I won’t.’

She went back to her groaning, her face full of twitches and grimaces. Finally, after a queasy convulsion, she started to speak, as though bringing up the words from her stomach. ‘Spirits, we beg for your help in all humility. We seek Bill Broadman, my husband, newly taken from this world. We need to know who committed such an awful crime.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Allow him to speak to us, please.’

Of course, it had been Bill who had communicated on behalf of the dead last time. And now he was one of them. She was waiting for a message that would never come.

The silence seemed to stretch for hours.

Tears were forming in her eyes. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘I want to speak to my Bill. He’s a good man, though he wasn’t himself at the end.’

Again, there was no reply.

She stood up and started walking in small circles on the rug. ‘I don’t understand. Why won’t they let me? Why can I speak to other people’s husbands, but not my own?’

‘I’m very sorry. Maybe they can’t. Or perhaps Bill doesn’t know who killed him.’ I stood in front of her to interrupt her circumambulations. ‘What did you mean when you said Bill wasn’t himself near the end? Did his behaviour change in some way?’

She tapped her foot on the ground, exactly as Rosie would have done. ‘It’s not fair,’ she said, wringing her hands and scratching pink lines down her wrists. ‘They’ve abandoned me is what it is. I’m alone, utterly. No Bill, no Eddie, no spirits, and Roisin will be going back to London soon. What am I to do?’

‘All right.’ I pulled out her chair for her to sit. ‘Let’s have one more attempt.’

She was so pitiable; what else could I do?

I replaced my fingers on the board, and once again she started to groan. So lost was she in her own mind, she didn’t notice that I had moved my chair so that my foot was now next to one of the tripod legs.

‘Spirits,’ she began. ‘I beg you to speak to me. Is Bill in a better place?’

I tipped the table forward and slid my foot underneath. Then, pressing down hard with my hands, I lifted it a few inches from the floor on my shoe. It was devilishly difficult to keep it steady without being obvious. Bill must have had muscles like a stevedore.

Viola inhaled loudly. ‘Bill? Is that you? Where are you, my love?’

I tipped the table towards the ‘H’ and the ‘E’ and the ‘A’, which were fairly easy as those letters were roughly on the other side of the table from me. But the next was a ‘V’, which was to one side, meaning I had to keep hold of the table between my hands and my shoe while leaning it to the right. I barely managed, accidentally producing a ‘T’ and a ‘Z’.

‘It’s a “V”,’ I announced hastily. ‘He’s in heaven, Viola.’

Her shoulders relaxed and she fell back in her chair, facing the ceiling as though basking in sunlight.

‘Spirits, we thank you,’ she said, her voice breathy and hoarse. ‘Now, tell us who committed—’

At that moment, there was a tap at the window. Viola shrieked with shock, and I nearly fell off my chair. My foot slipped out from under the table leg and the table itself rocked to one side, tipping the alphabet board on to the floor.

My heart was fluttering like a starling’s wings. I peered out through a crack in the curtain, and there was Peregrine’s giant face peering back at me.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he bellowed through the glass. ‘Have you completely lost your mind?’

I opened the front door, still shaking. He wasn’t alone.

‘Mr Honey,’ I said to his companion. ‘Sergeant Dorling told us you were missing. We were worried.’

Peregrine ushered Honey into the hall and they made quite the contrast: Peregrine’s profligate bulk, wrapped in a fur-collared coat and topped with a velvet opera hat, beside Honey’s skinny frame and gentle prettiness. His skin was so pallid it was almost translucent. I found it hard to believe the two men were of the same species.

Peregrine took off his hat and scowled at me. ‘What on earth was all that?’

‘A séance.’ Before he could ask anything more, I held up my hand. ‘Not now, please. I’m glad you’re here.’

His scowl deepened. ‘It doesn’t mean you’re forgiven. I came for Rosie, not you.’

Honey turned his pale blue eyes in my direction. Truly, he seemed so removed from the earth and its torrid concerns that this brief attention carried disproportionate weight. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’m here too.’

‘Not at all. Any friend of Peregrine is welcome.’

‘Mr Black is the best of men. He was kind enough to take me in, and he asks for nothing in return.’

Peregrine coughed into his fist. ‘Well, let’s not exaggerate. That Navy fellow, Chastain, has been looking for him. Anyone would’ve done the same.’

‘An act of philanthropy,’ I said, sounding, even to myself, halfway between flattery and sarcasm.

Viola came into the hall, and I introduced them.

‘Mrs Broadman is a … ’ I wasn’t sure what to call her. A spiritualist? A mystic? A fantasist? ‘She’s my sister-in-law. I’d like to ask Mr Black to stay here for a day or two, Viola. He can help keep everyone safe in case whoever did this comes back.’

While Honey and Peregrine made themselves at home in the sitting room, I took Viola aside.

‘What you said earlier about Bill, that he was acting out of character at the end. In what way?’

She gave me the smile of someone who has forgotten what a smile is supposed to mean. ‘Nothing at all.’

I looked her in the eyes, attempting to reach the woman inside this swaddle of delusion.

‘Viola. It’s important.’

She sighed. ‘Bill was always very neat and tidy. He took care of things.’

‘But he changed?’

‘He was proud of that privy. Professional pride, I suppose, him being a night-soil man. He always kept an eye on it and was ready with his spade when needed. He hated the chamber pot for … anything solid. Despised it, never used it, not even in the coldest weather. He said our privy was good enough for a king on his throne.’

I admit this wasn’t the direction I’d expected the conversation to take. The exactitudes of Bill’s toilet habits didn’t seem likely to lead to a killer. But I had asked her, so I couldn’t abruptly exit the conversation now.

She lowered her face and I noticed something in her expression I hadn’t anticipated: shame.

‘You mustn’t tell people, Leo. I don’t want it ending up in that newspaper of yours. He was a good man and deserves to be remembered well.’

‘Of course. This is just between ourselves.’

She sighed deeply and winced a couple of times, trying to persuade her mouth to force out the words. ‘The last day or two, I think he lost his mind. He started using the chamber pot and was fascinated by its … you know, by its contents. Staring at his own … discharge.’

‘He examined his own faeces? Why?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’ She shook herself, casting these horrors from her mind. ‘Will your Mr Black and the other one be wanting some tea, do you think?’

I didn’t answer. My brain had already skipped onwards.

I pulled open the door to the sitting room and called to Peregrine. ‘I know I have no right to ask, but please keep an ear open. I have to go out.’

‘Very well.’ He withdrew something from his pocket, but I couldn’t make out what it was in the dimness. ‘If anyone comes, I have this.’

I squinted more closely, and realised it was a gun.

The night was pleasantly warm as I headed north towards the main road. I kept up a good pace. The hospital was an hour away at least.

I couldn’t help but feel pity for poor Viola, wondering whether Bill had gone mad before his death. What a memory to have of him, staring at his own faeces in a chamber pot.

As I reached the junction, the streets became more crowded: women smoking on their doorsteps, men in groups on their way to the pub, children chasing each other and stray dogs sniffing round empty stalls. I wasn’t certain of the route and had stopped to consider whether I should go left or straight on when I heard a voice.

‘Would you care to have a go, mister? I can tell you your future. Only a penny.’

She was sitting at a table in a doorway with a pack of cards in front of her. She had a round face and large eyes, and was no more than fifteen years of age. Behind her on the step, two babies were fast asleep in a basket.

‘Thank you, no.’

‘No need to be squirmish. I’ll tell you one thing, and if you like it, you can pay for the next.’ Without waiting for a reply, she started shuffling her cards. ‘What brings you here today?’

‘I’m visiting someone. Out for a stroll.’

She deftly cut the pack and turned four cards over on the table. I didn’t notice what they were, nor could I imagine what difference it would make. My fate lay in my hands and Rosie’s, not in cartomancy.

‘Two hearts, but at either end,’ she said. ‘You’re divided.’

‘I’m not divided.’

She looked me up and down, her eyes sharp. ‘Is it a matter of love, mister? One’s a queen and the other a five. You know which of ’em you want. How am I doing?’

I produced a penny from my pocket and tossed it on the table. ‘You’re very good. Very observant. You see a single man in the evening approaching from a residential street, pensive expression, suit and ascot, no coat. You ask a question, make a suggestion, then another. It’s a deception, but it’s clever. You’ve earned your fee.’

I turned to go, but she called after me: ‘Mister! The other two cards are both knaves. Neither love will last. But you know that already, don’t you?’

I stopped, briefly perturbed, but it was all nonsense. She was a Mr Jingle, a teller of stories, nothing more. I was allowing the moist evening and unfamiliar roads to unsettle me. I hastened onwards, growing impatient with the pair of sailors staggering in front of me, arms around one another, leaning in to keep themselves from falling. On the main road near Peregrine’s theatre, there was a rank of hansom cabs. The first fellow in the line was asleep, as was his horse. At such moments, I dearly wished Jacob was with me; one of his favourite games was poking sleeping cabbies with his stick.

‘Excuse me, I want to go to the Royal Hospital.’

He opened one eye. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing. I’m visiting.’

He closed his eye again. ‘It’s shut at this time of night.’

I had to think of a lie. ‘I’m visiting near there. I want to look at the harbour.’

‘The harbour? Christ almighty. Have you lost your sense of smell?’

‘Will you take me or not?’

Once he’d woken his horse, we set off, winding northwards and westwards, the stink rising with every turn of the carriage wheel. We reached the street alongside the harbour, and the stench became almost overwhelming. The tide was out, and the shore beyond made a twinkling stripe between the inky black sky above and the dull grey mudflats below.

‘This will do.’

The cabbie pulled on his reins. ‘Your loss.’

I made the walk of two hundred yards to the hospital wishing I had a scarf to wrap around my mouth.

The lamps were lit inside, but the main door was locked. I sloshed round the side of the hospital, marvelling that the building had not yet fallen into the sea. The crack in the front wall was matched by one at the back, and the ground under my feet was sodden, seeping into my shoes.

I tried every window and door. The fifth window was unlocked; indeed, it was unlockable because the frame had twisted and split as the brickwork surrounding it sank inch-by-inch into the mire. The misaligned hinges creaked as I pushed it open. The sill was low, and I was able to get a knee on top and alight with passable grace on the other side.

I was in a women’s ward. On each side, a dozen or so beds were lined up, and some of the occupants were awake, their white faces peering above their blankets.

A hand reached out. ‘Is that you? Are you here?’ The voice sounded constricted, as if she had little breath left in her lungs.

‘I’m sorry, no.’

I hurried out into the corridor. Last time I was there, I’d been following the mortuary assistant, Miss Squires, and had not expected to have to remember the way. Hospitals differ greatly in their designs, except in one respect: you will find the mortuary in the furthest, deepest, coldest corner. No one wants to pass it on the way to somewhere else, so it’s always the last stop on the line.

The door was locked. I ran my fingers along the sill above, and sure enough, a key fell down. All mortuary assistants were the same, too.

I lit the lamp, keeping it low. It huffed softly like an old man on his pipe.

Nine corpses, each covered with a sheet.

The trolley where Micky had lain was empty now. Presumably, he’d been carted off, literally, for his funeral, probably far from here in a big cemetery with a small chapel. No cross would mark his place; no gravestone would stand at his head. Paupers’ graves were dug deep and their coffins stacked to save space. Pine boxes rot and flesh is eaten away, so their bones intermingle at the lowest point. You can look across a paupers’ graveyard and spot the divots every few yards where the ground has fallen in.

The first two corpses were women.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to each of them, keeping my voice low, though there was no living person in the room to hear me.

The third was Bill.

His face wasn’t the beery russet it had been. Now it was grey. His lips too. I pulled his covering down further; his throat had been cut. It was thorough and certainly fatal, but lacked the precision of those slashes administered to poor Natalia and Micky. This was ragged and crooked, ripping the skin beneath his jaw.

‘Who killed you?’

I was sounding like Viola at her séance, but I didn’t care. People talk to themselves, to their dogs and cats and chickens, to wooden icons on the wall. How was this any different? Rosie had been known to hold entire discussions with her knitting, arguing with it about dropped stitches and poorly dyed yarn.

I checked Bill’s limbs and torso for any damage and was glad to see nothing unusual there. He had died quickly.

Now, it was time for the real work to begin.

Had this been the mortuary at the Westminster Hospital, where I had previously worked, the tools would be hung on a rack in strict order. But here, they were not, and I had to search the room, finding a somewhat rusty scalpel in a drawer along with a collection of other disused tools: broken needles, jammed calipers and blunted bone saws. In the cupboard underneath, I found a metal bowl and some thread.

‘I’m truly sorry for what I’m about to do, Bill. But it’s for the best, I promise.’

I fixed a spot a couple of inches to the right of his belly button, took the scalpel in my fist and stabbed him as hard as I could.