whatever you might think of me, whatever you say behind my back among your colleagues at The Yard, we still retain a reputation for excellence at St Bart’s, and I must ask, or I should say insist, that I go to the crime scene, as soon as possible. I’ll also need to do a complete and total autopsy. There can be no funeral until Wednesday, at the very earliest.’
The policeman pulled a face, but he was not one to throw away the opportunity of help so lightly. The performance of the plate and Bunsen burner might do very nicely, should such evidence be required in court.
‘Very well,’ agreed Grey. ‘Go ahead, Hatton. I’ve a busy day ahead, so do what you must. I’ll send a carriage to St Bart’s to fetch you once I have spoken to the widow. Rest assured, the crime scene will remain unmolested. I shall see to it myself. But time is pressing, and I must attend to another case.’ He turned to Roumande as if to seek his opinion. ‘A missing chef? He, too, is a Frenchman from Spitalfields and famous for his gateaux. His name is Gustave Pomeroy. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, monsieur?’
‘Pomeroy? No, Inspector, but then I rarely go to restaurants and Idon’t like cake,’ replied Roumande. ‘Except for my wife’s, of course.’
‘Well, you are missing out, sir,’ insisted the Inspector. ‘For this skilled gentleman is highly sought after by the ladies of this town. He was due to deliver a private dinner of grand proportions for Mrs Holford and the philanthropist Tobias Hecker. In aid of workhouse children, and rumour had it that Her Majesty might attend. Well, the cooking maestro never arrived, and neither did our Queen, so the ladies were doubly disappointed. And it seems this Pomeroy chap has disappeared into thin air. No sign of the chef at his lodging house in Spitalfields, or at his restaurant in Piccadilly, and the ladies, Hatton, the ladies … they are verging on hysteria. As if I haven’t got better things to do, but you see, gentlemen, there’s no wriggling out of it. And Mr Tescalini is very fond of madeleines, which is an incentive of sorts, I suppose. So, yes, I must be off.’
And with that, the Inspector threaded around Patrice, who was standing in the way, head down, busy with a mop and bucket, his sinewy arms glistening from splashes of water as he whistled to himself. The inspector gazed for a second too long, then made a sound like ‘Grrrr,’ before whirling his pocket watch, lasso like, into his top pocket and hurrying out of the morgue.
It was noon.
‘Sorry, Professor. I wasn’t listening.’ Roumande was standing by the corpse, scratching the top of his head.
Hatton answered him, not getting up from his desk. His belly was rumbling and his patience thinning. ‘I said we’re done here this morning, Albert. Quite done. We’ll continue after lunch.’
‘Done, Professor? But there’s something here that intrigues me. What say you to his mouth? It’s not quite right, Professor.’
Hatton tried to mask his lack of patience. ‘His mouth is a grimace, which is quite normal for a person who has swallowed a large quantity of poison. Perhaps you could show Patrice how to fix it before delivery to the widow?’
Patrice put his mop down and hurried over to help.
‘You seem a little tense, Adolphus. Is there something wrong?’
‘No, friend.’ Hatton already regretted his shortness with Roumande, especially in front of their apprentice. ‘A little tired perhaps, and this morning I had some bad news. Dr Buchanan has decided to postpone our budget announcement until the autumn, although the scarlatina experts are sitting pretty, of course. I know I sound cross, but really, I spent forever on the figures, by which I mean of course that
we
spent forever on the figures.’
Roumande raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘And he hasn’t even looked at them, Professor? Not even noted the rising cost of embalming? Or our suggestions for introducing this new method of