Antidote To Murder (20 page)

Pike waited patiently for more, but nothing came.

The fact that she did not attempt to pull names from a hat made Pike inclined to believe her. “Different tablets but with the same markings have been distributed around the East End and used to murder children,” he said.

If he’d hoped the fact might stir some emotion in her, some empathy for someone other than herself, he was out of luck. She took the cigarette he offered her, leaned back in her chair again, and blew a smoke ring.

“I can tell you nothing more,” she said, turning her head away from him.

“But you are sure the admiral took them himself?”

“How many times do I have to tell you—yes, yes, yes!”

A constable appeared with a tin coffeepot and two mugs. For a moment Pike wondered if he could trust her not to throw the scalding coffee in his face. To his relief she circled cold hands around the mug and hunched into her blanket. He gave her a few moments to savour the drink before reaching into his pocket and putting one of the strychnine tablets on the table.

“Had the admiral taken these kinds of tablets before?” he asked.

“Yes, he usually takes one when he is with me.”

“Only ever one?”

“Until last night, yes.”

“What made last night different?”

“The hashish maybe; the distraction of that odious little man perhaps. He had never tried my pipe before. I think it made him reckless, adventurous. The handcuffs . . .” Surely that was not the stain of a blush Pike saw creeping up Margaretha’s neck? “He had never required that sort of entertainment before either. And he kept gobbling down the pills—to savour the enjoyment, so he told me.”

“You took them to be aphrodisiacs?”

“If that is the English word for them, then yes.”

It came to Pike then that if she had mentioned the word
aphrodisiac
initially, he might have been more inclined to believe her. He looked her in the eye and nodded and she relaxed into her chair.

“I can still press the point that you were a willing participant in the theft of the briefcase’s contents. You could easily have opened the door to an accomplice,” he said, blowing a smoke ring himself. Manipulating the suspect’s mood was all a part of the interrogator’s technique. Give her hope for release and then take that hope back again. “I suppose you might eventually get used to this kind of place.”

“Bastard!” she spat.

Pike continued to question Margaretha for the best part of half an hour and a second pot of coffee, getting no further with the business of the stolen papers, until finally a constable put his head around the cell door. “Mr. Klassen is here, sir, come to deliver the lady some clothes. He’d like to see her, with your permission.”

Pike climbed stiffly to his feet. He nodded as Margaretha’s manager entered the cell.

Klassen gasped when he saw who was before him, almost dropping the bundle of clothes he was carrying. “Captain. What are you doing here?” The manager looked dishevelled, as if he’d dressed hastily in clothes left piled on the floor.

“Detective Chief Inspector Pike to you, sir,” the constable said.

Pike was too tired to offer Klassen any kind of explanation. “Margaretha can tell you all about it when you take her back to her hotel,” he said.

“You are letting me go?” Margaretha asked.

He nodded. “For the moment, and on the condition that you report back to me here at the Yard, at noon. See that she does, please. Klassen, I’m releasing her into your custody. A good sleep in a soft bed might be just the thing to jog her memory.”

Klassen continued to look bewildered. “Margaretha, what have you done?”

“I have done nothing, you stupid man!”

Pike rubbed his eyes; he could not take much more of this. Klassen muttered some apologies and offered Pike his hand.

Pike had already registered the incongruity of gloves on such a stuffy night and now he noticed a small spatter of black on Klassen’s shirt cuff. Perhaps his idea had not been so wild after all.

Pike clamped hold of the man’s arm and ripped off the glove. The skin of Klassen’s hand was stained the same faded grey as his own, a souvenir from the leaking pen in the briefcase.

It looked as if he had found his spy.

* * *

T
here were no crowds tonight and the hansom dropped Van Noort directly outside the theatre doors. That alone made him uneasy. He told the driver to wait while he read the sign on the door:

DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES, THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS TO ANNOUNCE THE CLOSURE OF MATA HARI AND THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN VEILS.

His head buzzed. He hammered on the barred doors. A foul wave of sensation rolled up from his stomach and smeared his tongue. Exploding shells and the screams of ripped men shattered his skull. He leaned against the theatre wall and dropped his head. Not again.

Finally the fit passed. Bitter disappointment took its place.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You all right, guv? Can I take you someplace else?” the cabby asked.

Van Noort removed his top hat and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Er . . . yes. The Satin Palace, St. James, please.” He took a step and would have fallen had the cabbie not caught him. “I’m afraid I will need some help.”

The cabby took him by the arm, gave him a boost up the cab’s step, and closed the knee-door.

Jack was acting as the Satin Palace’s doorman. Trevelly had acquired for him a ridiculously large braided green coat and a top hat that would have dropped over his face if not held up by the handles of his ears.

The boy opened the doors with a flourish. “Welcome to the Satin Palace—oh, it’s you. ’Ello, Doc. I don’t fink we need you tonight, sir.”

Van Noort did not have the energy to give lectures. “Is Mee-Mee free?”

“I believe she is, sir. Would you care to partake in a drink and some merriment in the lounge first?”

“For God’s sake, Jack, it’s me you’re talking to.”

The boy shrugged. The big coat failed to move.

Van Noort grasped the boy by the chin and tilted his face towards the light.

“Have you been crying, son? Trevelly beaten you again?” He reached out his hand with the intention of gently probing the boy’s bruised cheekbone. Jack pulled back. “Better pay the cabby, sir.”

Van Noort gave the kindly cab driver a generous tip then followed Jack up the marble steps and into the Palace. He must think of a way to get the child away from this evil place.

But he had needs to satisfy, and the sin that beset him always came first.

Chapter Twenty-Three

SATURDAY 26 AUGUST

T
here was no sign of the mob the next day and Pike’s contemplative silence only seemed to intensify the eerie quiet of the morning room. He sat opposite Dody in the winged chair, his bad leg propped on a footstool, a cup of coffee growing cold on the table at his side. She moved over to where he sat, crouched, and took his hand.

“You do not look to me like a man who has just captured a German spy. This is a win for you, surely, Matthew.”

Pike squeezed her hand. “If only it were that simple. The case has left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Is . . . Margaretha . . . guilty, innocent, or merely a victim herself? Klassen maintains he worked alone; he said Margaretha never told him anything overt. He told us he subtly questioned the admiral himself and then transcribed what he gleaned in invisible ink onto musical scores, which he posted to Germany. The false papers from the briefcase were found in his room—he admitted breaking into the room when the couple were asleep. He was planning on condensing the papers and sending them to Germany the same way as before.”

“And you find it hard to believe that Margaretha was not involved in any of this?”

Pike pushed his hand through his hair; he seemed so tired, so defeated. Then again, staying up all night to interrogate Margaretha’s manager couldn’t have helped.

“I don’t know what to believe,” he said. “With Klassen maintaining her innocence, we don’t have enough evidence to hold her. He is not so very different from other men after all, it seems. She still managed to cast a spell over him.”

“Perhaps you will have to accept that her innocence—or guilt—is something you might never prove.”

“She will be deported, never allowed to return to this country again.”

“I’m sure Florence will be happy to hear that.”

Pike smiled tiredly. Dody walked over to the newly repaired window, through which heat from the street seeped. Charred curtain fabric crumbled beneath her fingers and an acrid smell filled her nostrils.

“And there’s still that.” Pike pointed to the window. “Do you realise how close you were to being killed?”

“We were all in danger, Matthew.”

“But it was you they were after. You are no longer just being framed. They want you out of the way permanently.”

“I am aware of that.” Though Dody had not thought about her situation in quite such blunt terms. His words gave her a sudden chill.

“Your parents are staying in Sussex?” Pike asked.

Dody had telephoned them to say there was no need to hurry back to the city. She had told them with an exaggerated optimism that the police were close to finding the man who had written the letters, and once they had discovered his identity and obvious calumny, charges against her would be dropped. She had not mentioned the attack or the damage to the house.

But she could still see where Pike’s question was going. “If you expect me to go running off to the country and to the protection of my parents, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Pike climbed painfully to his feet and limped to her side by the window. He touched her shoulder lightly, briefly. “Did I say that? Would I dare to say that?”

“Not if you know what’s good for you.”

“I rest my case.”

She looked into his troubled blue eyes. “What else is worrying you?”

“I’ve had some enquiries made and discovered the approximate value of lead tablets sold on the street. They amount to little more than three shillings a dozen—slightly dearer than rubber preventatives.”

Dody thought back to Esther Craddock’s horror at the price of French letters. “Expensive for a working-class girl,” she said.

“Still, comparatively cheap, and not lucrative enough to kill for, surely. I need to speak to Inspector Fisher about this. I fear we might be up against something bigger than we thought, perhaps an organised gang with a speciality for things medically related.”

“My friend Mr. Borislav, the Whitechapel chemist, has been robbed several times this year.”

“Which supports my suspicions. Tell me, Dody, anything. Anything you might be privy to that might give the gang reason enough to first frame you and then attempt to kill you.”

“As far as I’m concerned, the death of Billy Kent and the lead tablets are the only noteworthy case I have been involved in recently.”

“Yesterday you mentioned someone at the mortuary called Everard.”

As distasteful as it was, even she could no longer keep ignoring the obvious. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose his plagiarism has shown that he is quite capable of theft and trickery—but it does not necessarily connect him to this gang you’re talking about. His bag of drugs was stolen recently . . . Oh, surely he would not stoop so low?”

Pike said nothing, but his eyes searched her face. He retrieved his briefcase from where it rested on the chaise. “True, all I have is supposition,” he said. “But I have to tell you now that we have had some definite luck with the typed accusations.” He handed her a bundle of papers. “Here we have the originals—the lawyer’s office was closed, but Fisher contacted him at home and persuaded him to open up and hand the letters over.” He reached into his case and produced a single sheet of paper which he handed to her. “And this is a sample document from the Paddington Mortuary.” He handed her another paper. “The autopsy report for the Kent child—I noticed the similarities immediately. All the documents show malformed lowercase
g
’s. The top halves of the uppercase
S
’s are also noticeably thicker. The typewriting machine has left its fingerprints. These documents were all produced from the same machine.”

Dody’s stomach contracted painfully. The room was stiflingly hot. “Go on.”

“It’s a handy point of reference,” he said, taking the documents back from Dody and returning them to his briefcase. “But I have to play this carefully. I can’t trample too much in Fisher’s jurisdiction. I’m hoping my history with him might count for something. I will suggest he interviews the mortuary staff as soon as possible. You said earlier that you had seen Dunn there—that he was seen fleeing with stolen property, in fact. I will make sure that Fisher is supplied with his picture to show around.”

“The staff?” Dody queried, horrified. “What will Dr. Spilsbury say? He will be furious to have them in any way involved in my case. I have always tried to keep a low profile. I have to if my professional life is to continue. This will destroy everything—I can’t allow—”

Firm hands gripped her shoulders. “Dody, take a breath, please. Plainclothes officers will question the staff discreetly with as little disruption to the mortuary routine as possible. Through no fault of your own, you are already in the spotlight. The damage has been done and you have to face the fact that your enemy might be someone who works in the mortuary. You don’t want this trial of yours to go ahead, do you?”

She shook her head and realised then how silly, how hysterical she must have sounded. She put it down to the lingering effects of her illness and sat to collect herself for a moment. From the hall she heard the whirr of the grandfather clock as it prepared to strike the hour.

When she spoke again, her voice, she was pleased to note, sounded quiet and even. “Of course not, Matthew. Do what you have to do.”

“I contacted the local police to retrieve the broken-down motorcar, but by the time they arrived to collect it, it was gone—spirited away. Does your colleague Everard own a motorcar? Could he have been the driver I was pursuing?”

Dody thought carefully. No matter how much she wished to believe Everard was not behind this, she had to remain objective. “I have heard him discussing motorcars with Dr. Spilsbury. He is interested in them, but I have no idea if he owns one or not. I can’t imagine it, though. They are fearfully expensive, and Everard’s salary is not much more than mine.”
Despite the fact he is my junior
, she thought wryly. “Though, of course, he does work as a private practitioner also.”

“I will have enquiries made. This is all a good start and will give me more leverage when I question Daniel Dunn. I’ll throw Everard’s name at him and see how he reacts.”

Dody rose from her chair. “You are going to see him now at St. Thomas’s? I will fetch my hat.”

Pike took hold of her arm. “Dody, I said I have to question him. You might not like my methods.”

“As long as you don’t use torture, I don’t really care.”

Pike relaxed. “All right then.”

* * *

T
hey took some time finding Daniel Dunn’s ward, and when they did, the place was a scurry of activity, clanging bedpans, and rattling trolleys. Dody finally managed to grab the attention of a flustered-looking nurse to ask her what was going on.

“We’ve had a sudden death, ma’am. I’m sorry I can’t help you now,” she said, about to rush off until Dody took hold of her arm.

“I am a doctor; please tell me the patient’s name,” she said.

The nurse hesitated—she might never have dealt with a female doctor before.

“And I am a police officer.” Pike flashed his warrant card.

The nurse paled. This was an announcement she understood. “We had two that passed in the night, sir.”

“This last one, then, the one you are in a fluster about,” Pike said.

“Um, Mr. Daniel Dunn, sir.”

Dody suppressed a gasp.

“Where is he now?” Pike asked sharply.

The startled nurse nodded to a screened-off bed about halfway down the ward.

Dody and Pike hurried over. “Hello in there,” Dody called.

“You can’t come in here, ma’am,” a woman’s voice called from behind the screens.

Dody pushed the screen aside and found a middle-aged nurse putting the final touches to the laying-out of the body of Daniel Dunn. She glimpsed the flesh, caught a brief flash of cherry red skin, before the nurse covered the head with a sheet.

“I am a Home Office doctor and this is Detective Chief Inspector Pike. We need to examine the body.” Dody attempted to push past the nurse, but the woman remained planted to the ground like an immovable oak.

Pike said, “Please step aside and give the doctor access. While she examines Mr. Dunn, you can tell me what happened.”

His tone had the desired effect. The nurse dropped the limp hand she had been washing and tucked it under the sheet. She moved to Pike’s side, straightened her veil, and smoothed down her apron. Dody barely had room to move. She did not wish to examine the body while the nurse was present—who knew what hysterical rumours she might spread—and remained where she was, listening to the exchange.

“The note in the night nurse’s report indicated that he seemed well enough,” the nurse told Pike. “And his burns didn’t seem to be bothering him too much. She last checked him at about two this morning and found him to be sleeping soundly. Then when she went to take him his morning cup of tea at about seven, she found him dead in his bed. That is all I can tell you, sir.”

“No one heard him cry out, saw any suspicious persons near his bed?”

“Apparently it was pandemonium here last night. Several of the patients were taken ill, so their doctors needed to be fetched.”

“Who was Dunn’s doctor?” Pike asked.

“Dr. White, but he was not one of those summoned. As far as I know, no one attended Mr. Dunn last night.”

A tremolo of a voice called out from the other side of the screen. “’E yelled, sir, I ’eard ’im meself.” Dody and Pike stepped out and found themselves being addressed by a prickly faced old man propped up in the neighbouring bed.

“Please tell us what you heard and saw”—Pike glanced at the name on the bed—“Mr. Bingham.”

“The nurse ’ere wasn’t wrong when she said it was pandemonium—for a while anyway—more like Charing Cross Station if you ask me, doctors and nurses flying about everywhere.”

“About what time was all this?” Dody asked.

“Between about three and four or thereabouts, miss.”

Well after the nurse last checked on Dunn,
she thought.

“What was Mr. Dunn doing while all this was going on?” Pike asked.

“Trying to sleep through the racket, I s’pose, like I was. And then one of the doctors came over and said something to ’im. ’E spoke as if he knew ’im and give ’im something ’e said would ’elp ’im sleep. I called out, ‘I’ll ’ave what ’e’s ’avin’,’ but ’e paid me no mind.”

Which was just as well. Dody had only needed a brief glimpse of the body to decide almost certainly that Mr. Dunn had been poisoned.

“It can’t have been Dr. White you spoke to, Mr. Bingham.” The nurse turned to Pike. “I assure you, sir, Mr. Dunn’s doctor was not called into the ward last night.”

Pike flicked the nurse a tight smile. “Thank you for your help; we’ll call you if we need you.”

“And please tell Sister that this man’s body must be sent to the Paddington Coroner’s and Mortuary Complex without delay,” Dody added.

The nurse’s hand went to her throat. “You suspect foul play, Doctor?”

Dody said nothing, but glanced at Mr. Bingham and then back to the nurse—not in front of the patient. “Oh, yes of course, Doctor,” the nurse said as she scurried off.

“Did you see what this doctor looked like?” Pike asked the old man.

“Nah, didn’t really try. ’E was carrying a lamp and I shut me eyes against the light. Just caught a flash of white coat, that’s all.”

“And then what?”

“Not long after that, Mr. Dunn cried out. I ’eard the squeaking of the bedsprings as if ’e were thrashing around, and then ’e fell silent. I thought ’e must’ve ’ad a bad dream or somefink. Didn’t think much more about it till morning when I found out ’e’d clapped ’is clogs.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Bingham,” Pike said. He and Dody returned to the body and drew the screens around themselves.

Each raised an eyebrow, releasing a simultaneous breath.

Before she examined the corpse, Dody paused for a moment as she always did. She had not cared for Dunn in life, but in death he took a different aspect. It was the same with every corpse she examined, as if the very emptiness of the vessel somehow proved the existence of something beyond it. It was a privilege to sense this—so many of her colleagues viewed a corpse as just one more slab of meat—and all she had left of a Christian upbringing. She prayed scientific rationalism would erode no further the remnants of her once solid belief.