Devoured Read Online Free PDF Page B

way, and he didn’t feel better by having it pointed out. Especially when his hours were long and his income little, but today was an opportunity to impress. To prove himself. And Hatton had noticed, recently, that requests to attend his autopsies were increasing. This was the fifth cutting this month which had involved a small audience. Did he dare hope that interest was growing? Hatton narrowed his eyes and reached for his knife; there was never any question that this was simply his calling. His affinity with the exact science of forensics was something which had surprised him once, but now his life would be wholly meaningless without it.
    ‘Do we have a jug of porter available, Professor? Or some salts?’ Inspector Adams didn’t wait for an answer, catching sight of the Chief Diener. ‘Ah! You must be Monsieur Roumande. I’ve heard of you, sir. Every mortuary room I have ever had the misfortune to grace speaks of you, if I may say, in a hushed tone of admiration. And of course,’ the Inspector smiled broadly, ‘you’re a man of many letters.’
    Monsieur Roumande gave a curt bow. ‘I’ve heard of you, too, Inspector Adams. And yes, I’m in regular correspondence with The Yard about various concerns of mine. Vice, crime, felons, and the murder of prostitutes. Perhaps it’s because I’m from Spitalfields and feel an affinity for such things. We are one up from the rookeries at Fleur de Lys, but if my wife heard me say that, she would murder me herself. Your reputation goes before you, Inspector.’ The two shook each other’s hands.
    Hatton called Roumande over to wipe down the dissecting table, and then with the help of others, lifted the cadaver onto the slab.
    ‘Monsieur Roumande, if you please.’
    Albert Roumande was a head taller than Hatton. More bear-like in stature than the Professor’s medium frame, and with the gruff voice of a man who liked to make his presence felt. And to Hatton, he was more than a friend. Roumande was an able, exacting, acutely intelligent observer without whom no post-mortem would be entirely accurate. Despite Hatton’s elevated position, the younger man, at thirty-three, still felt firmly under Roumande’s tutelage, because they had worked little more than a year together, and Hatton was not so arrogant to assume anything.
    The dissection table played centre stage, the cadaver now its focus. Roumande lifted the shroud. The gathering stepped forward to see thick, chestnut hair coiled around delicate shoulders. Her hands were long, her fingers tapering. Hatton noted Lady Bessingham’s status – a ring of gold on the wedding finger. But turning her hand over like an attentive suitor, a more intriguing detail. A briar ran up the middle of her ring finger, at the bottom of which was a tiny star and at the top, a roselike flower. So delicate, the adornment would have easily been hidden by a pair of gloves and only noticed, Hatton was sure, by those whose eyes were as observant as his own. This smallest and most delicate of tattoos confirming what they already knew. That this lady was, or had been, independently minded.
    Hatton lifted the hair to make his first incision. Blood. Thick, black and coagulated but he wanted her on her front, because it was clear where he needed to look. Roumande tipped the body sideways, revealing a fist-sized hole, a mangle of tissue and bone. On first impression, what looked like tiny chips of stone were embedded in the skull, and as Hatton began to pick his way through her sodden locks, he could clearly see sharp fragments framing the gaping wound. Bigger lumps lurked within.
    ‘An extremely heavy blow to the back of the head resulting in direct trauma to the brain.’
    Hours had passed since they had moved Lady Bessingham from Chelsea, and the blue marbling of livor mortis had spread across her body like a map. Hatton lifted her hand once more. It was as he thought. ‘Take a skin sample from the index finger please, Roumande. There’s ink