Anatomy of Murder

6

As Jocasta came to the main road toward Holles Street, her view of the way was blocked by a carriage with a phoenix on the door. It was working into a free space on the road, so the wheels came very close to her, almost snagging her skirts. It brought back her dream of The Chariot with a sort of sick lurch, and she stopped dead, so as it pulled away and she saw the cart and Kate’s limp body supported by her husband and mother-in-law, it was like being at a theater and watching the curtain swept back.

The sight of it almost knocked her down. She had to put her hand out palm flat to the wall of some fancy goods shop behind her to keep from falling. Kate’s face was dirty and there was red on Fred’s breeches.

She stumbled forward to the edge of the crowd where she could hear the voices talking.

“Slipped and her husband tried to catch her. .”

“Such a pretty girl too. .”

“Dead before he could pick her up again. .”

“Constable’s writing it up now. His mother was there-saw the whole thing. .”

“He’s taking it hard. .”

The crowd shifted and Jocasta saw Mrs. Mitchell reach down, unclasp the little brooch from Kate’s shawl and slip it into her pocket.

Jocasta pushed her way through and started to shout.

“Oh no, not Milan, Mr. Crowther, not Milan!”

Harriet did not think she would ever become very fond of Mr. George Gillis. He had a face that reminded her of a self-satisfied raisin pudding, and his eyes looked like dubious oysters. That, if unappetizing, she could forgive, but his voice, drawling and nasal, seemed to find its way to some sensitive spot in the middle of her forehead and attack it with a brass pin.

He was sitting back in his chair in the reading room with his legs crossed and toying with a lorgnette tied to his waistcoat with purple ribbon. His tone from their arrival had been one of conceited disdain. Having made lengthy remarks on how honored he was to be asked for advice by the great Mr. Crowther, he had been of no assistance whatsoever, answering only in negatives and evincing very little interest in Crowther’s curiosity, despite his avowed expertise in matters of the kind. The lorgnette continued to twirl and wink between his fingers. Crowther did not reply but simply watched the man with level attention. Harriet looked about her. The reading room of the Royal Society was a place of some beauty. This north wing of Somerset House had been only recently completed, and the high ceilings, comfortable armchairs scattered in groups, and conveniently lit reading desks all gave an air of elegant confidence. It was a place built by and for men who believed absolutely in their work, and in their capacity to unfold the various mysteries of the universe. Men like Crowther, but also it seemed men like Gillis. She could not believe that such a being would contribute much to the knowledge of his countrymen, yet Crowther had referred to him without irony as an expert, and stood waiting for him now.

Gillis gave a dramatic sigh. “There may be. . I suspect there was a reference in a letter I had from a correspondent on the continent some weeks ago. .”

He paused. Crowther raised his eyebrow and Harriet clenched her hands together in her muff.

Gillis unfolded himself and with a slowness Harriet thought could only be deliberate, reached into his pocket for a notebook and began turning the pages. It seemed necessary that he read each page complete before moving onto the next, and all the while he wore the same amused self-indulgent smile that certain people reserve for their own work.

After a pause of some minutes he gave a little nod and tapped the page with his forefinger.

“Ah, yes. Here it is. My friend has been traveling on the continent and made the acquaintance of an apothecary called Alexis Duchateau. He has been experimenting with porcelain for false teeth rather than ivory or wood. His experiments have not become particularly commercial as yet, though my friend says he had supplied some people with sets by way of experiment. Apparently he tries to give them to the great and good, or their friends, to try and build their popularity.” Gillis looked up at them and blinked.

“And where is Mr. Alexis Duchateau’s shop? Is he resident in Italy?” Crowther asked, a little impatient.

Gillis smothered a yawn. “Dear Lord, no. Why would you think that? The French are the experts in this area. These teeth came from Saint-Germain-en-Laye, near Paris. Nowhere else.”