The Insanity of Murder (11 page)

‘Lady Mary knew my parents.’ Pike looked thoughtful.

Dody smiled. ‘She’s obviously taken a shine to you.’

‘How extraordinary.’ Pike was oblivious of the effect he had on women — of any age. ‘Most of the time she resides at the Elysium — I will arrange a visit to Surrey and try to have a talk to her. I wonder if she has been a victim of that barbarous practice herself? Do you think that is why she sent me the …’ He hesitated.

‘Ovary. Think of the Latin,
ova
for egg,’ said Dody. ‘I would like to come with you to the rest home, if I may.’

‘I was hoping you would.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I never learned Latin at school. Frankly, I think I might be out of my depth in this.’

‘I think you might be too.’

The smile on Dody’s face froze. Through a sliver of vision at the corner of her eye she caught a flash of white at the open door.

‘Matthew.’ She jumped to her feet, whispering, ‘I think someone’s there. Florence, is that you?’ she called as she approached the doorway.

‘No, Miss Dody, it’s only me,’ Annie replied, stepping into the room. ‘I was coming to enquire if Mr Pike had intentions of staying for dinner. Or not.’

Annie was wearing her black afternoon dress and white apron. Was it merely the flash of the maid’s apron or cap that Dody had seen in the doorway? She paused for a moment. She could have sworn she heard a creaking on the upper stairs. ‘Annie, was my sister here just now, at the door?’

‘Not that I know of, miss.’ Annie looked away. The girl had always been a terrible liar.

‘Neither of us will be in for dinner,’ Dody told her. They really did need somewhere private to talk about this.

Pike’s fingers struck up an agitated rhythm on the head of his cane while he waited for Violet to open her door at the Royal Hotel. ‘Royal’ had to be a misnomer for this establishment, he thought wryly, with its tatty striped wallpaper, stained carpet, and dubious clientele. Thank goodness Violet’s room was next to his, meaning she had been buffered from the energetic thumping of his neighbour’s bedhead for most of the night. As a result, Pike had not slept well and he was tired. Violet should have been up by now, dressed and ready for breakfast. He had a meeting with Superintendent Shepherd later that morning and a desk full of paperwork to be completed before that.

He tapped on the door again. ‘Violet, breakfast.’ He heard the patter of feet on floorboards, the sound of the lock turning, and then more pattering.

‘The door’s open. Come in, Daddy.’

She’d sprung back into bed by the time he entered and had pulled the sheets up to her chin.

‘Why are you not dressed? What is it, are you ill?’ he asked.

‘I have a bit of a tummy ache,’ she admitted.

He sat on the edge of her bed and felt her forehead. ‘No fever. Shall I ask Dody to have a look at you?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you. I’d just like a lie-in today, if that’s all right.’

He looked at his daughter closely; women’s problems, he surmised. He hoped her grandmother had instructed her on the business — he wouldn’t know where to start. How would Clara have coped with this mystifying woman/child of theirs? Was Violet’s behaviour normal for a girl of her age?

‘Shall I ask the maid to bring you up a breakfast tray?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you. Once I’m up I’ll go for a walk in the park and get something from the kiosk.’

Pike reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed her a shilling. ‘Make sure you get something decent. Dody says you’re getting too thin.’

Violet nodded listlessly.

‘You only have a few days left in London,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you’d like to do before you go back to Yorkshire? Other than Jujitsu.’

She smiled weakly at his attempt at a joke. ‘I’d like to hang the curtains in your rooms.’

‘What about something else? I was thinking of something we could do together.’

Violet raised her eyes to the ceiling for a moment as she considered his question. ‘But won’t you be working for the rest of my stay?’

Pike wondered about that too. It was all very well his offering, but … He clicked his fingers. ‘Derby Day, I’m sure to get Derby Day off — most of England does. How would you like to go to the races?’

Violet seemed to perk up. She sat up in bed, still clutching the sheets to her neck. ‘Really, Daddy, we can go to the races?’ she spoke rapidly. ‘I’d love to see the latest fashions from Paris with my own eyes — it’s just not the same, looking at them in the magazines. Will we see the King, do you think? I’ve never been to a real horse race. Do you mean it — can Dody come too?’

‘Of course I mean it.’ Pike was delighted to have cheered her up so easily. She forgot her modesty and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Nothing will stop us from going to the Derby,’ he added with a chuckle.

‘Not even Superintendent Shepherd?’

Pike smiled, inhaling the fresh-linen scent of his daughter. He patted her silky head. ‘Especially not Superintendent Shepherd.’

Superintendent Shepherd sat in his office with his back to the window, the view of the Thames behind him. It seemed to Pike that Shepherd’s summonses to the Yard’s high tower always coincided with the glare of the sun at its worst. Shepherd appeared little more than a threatening silhouette as he sat at his desk. Pike was ordered to sit. He fumbled about for the visitor’s chair. The window was open and he could hear the cry of seagulls and the noises of the docks. A weak breeze barely stirred the curtains. Several flies, fresh from feasting on Thames sludge, came into focus on the shadier side of the wall next to the window. Unable to see Shepherd clearly, Pike spoke to them instead.

‘You asked to see me, sir.’

‘Yes, several things have come up, Pike. First, your stubborn insistence on having a constable for your assistant, it’s simply not on. You need a sergeant at least. You know the men have trouble taking orders from a constable.’

Pike closed his eyes briefly. ‘Last year I recommended Constable Singh for promotion and he was passed over.’

‘He’s unsuitable, that’s why.’

‘He has an exemplary record.’

‘The men won’t listen to a wog.’

Pike answered him with silence. This was nothing he didn’t know, though he was surprised to hear the prejudice voiced so openly. Once Pike might have been tempted to threaten his resignation over the point. But given how keen Shepherd was to get rid of him these days he’d probably accept it and Pike would find himself out of a much-needed job. God, how he hated being held over a barrel by this man.

One of the flies flew away to be replaced by another, a particularly tremulous insect with a pulsating black abdomen.

‘Singh would stand a better chance at being listened to if he was a sergeant,’ Pike persisted. Somewhere on the river, a foghorn bellowed like a bull.

The bulk behind the desk shifted. A hand appeared out of the glare and an open cigarette box was pushed across the desk towards him. Pike took a cigarette. There was no match forthcoming so he lit it himself.

‘Listen, Pike, it’s just how it is, eh?’ Shepherd said in a placating tone, exhaling. The smoke drifted upwards and formed a canopy above their heads. ‘You are entitled to choose your own assistant and I am entitled to promote him. If discipline becomes an issue,’ Pike caught a flash of white palms, ‘then you will have to rethink your choice — understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pike paused, not ready to give up just yet. ‘Seeing as you have brought up disciplinary problems, I would like Hensman removed from my investigation. He is proving to be problem.’

‘He is clashing with Singh?’

‘He clashes with everyone — witnesses, the public, everyone.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’

Shepherd’s response reinforced Pike’s suspicions that Hensman had been seconded to Pike’s department to keep an eye on him. Shepherd had always resented Pike, who, because of his extensive military service, had joined the force at senior officer level instead of working his way up through the ranks. Socially, of course, a military officer was also considered superior to a police officer, something Pike had barely been aware of until his transfer to Scotland Yard. It was a toss-up as to who was resented more by the men, himself or the Indian, Singh.

‘Is there anything else, sir?’ Pike asked, unable to curb the impatient edge to his tone.

Palms flapped. ‘Wait where you are, Pike. Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. The Necropolis bombing investigation — I need an update.’

Shepherd climbed to his feet and began to pace the floor. The floorboards shook under his weight and the flies scattered. Pike rose too, positioning himself to get a clearer view of his superior. Shepherd’s complexion was not as florid as usual, in fact, he looked quite pasty and puffy. Was he ill? Pike wondered, regarding him closely. He wore a baggy, unseasonable tweed suit, the turn-ups of his trousers were mud-stained and his boots needed a good lick of polish. He wouldn’t have lasted a week in the army, Pike thought with contempt.

‘The suspect was released from prison after having commenced a hunger strike, as per the Prisoners’ Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act,’ Pike said. ‘Evidence in the form of paint on her bicycle frame suggests she may be responsible for vandalising the Prime Minister’s car. But the evidence against her for the bombing is flimsy to say the least,’ Pike said.

‘I take it we are talking about Florence McCleland? Dreadful woman. I’d like to throw the book at her. That would be a feather in my cap.’ Shepherd shot Pike a sly glance from beneath bristling eyebrows. ‘Dashed awkward that her sister sometimes works with us, though,’ he said with emphasis.

Pike looked down and straightened the line of his waistcoat buttons, the lapels of his immaculate dove-grey summer suit. ‘I have distanced myself from the case because of it, and Hensman and Singh are co-ordinating the day-to-day investigation.’ Pike sensed it was time for a change of topic. ‘There is something else, however, that needs looking into, sir, which has nothing to do with the bombing. Spilsbury’s department has drawn my attention to some suspect medical practices that might be going on in some of our lunatic asylums. I was hoping to investigate further. It will probably involve some trips away from London —’

Shepherd stopped pacing and waved a hand, the matter obviously of no interest to him. ‘Yes, yes, put it on expenses, take as long as you need.’

Was Shepherd trying to get him out of the way? Pike wondered.

‘But back to the bombing,’ Shepherd continued. ‘The Home Secretary is screaming for a conviction. The night watchman must be forced to remember what he saw. If necessary, the evidence must be made to fit.’ Shepherd clenched his jaw and gave Pike the eye, as if challenging him to object.

Pike, who had somehow managed to remain po-faced during the meeting, felt his composure begin to slip. ‘I think I misheard that last remark, sir.’

‘No, you bloody didn’t,
sir.’

There was a knock at the door. Shepherd’s uniformed male secretary showed Sergeant Hensman in.

Hensman gave Pike a nod as he passed. After smoothing his luxuriant moustache he said to Shepherd, ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Shepherd said, ‘good of you to drop by, Bert. Take a seat. No, not there, bring the chair alongside mine out of the glare, that’s the way. Must organise some blinds for that damned window. Pike, you may be excused now. Start looking into those asylums, or whatever it is you have to do. Bert and I will discuss the bombing matter.’

Bert?

Pike failed to move. ‘The bombing is still officially my investigation,’ he said.

‘Not any more. I am relieving you and taking over myself, effective immediately.’

Hensman smiled as if he had known this was coming.

Pike’s heart dropped. Innocent or guilty, with those men on the case, Florence wouldn’t stand a chance. ‘Sir …’

‘You have enough to do. Besides,’ Shepherd glanced at Hensman. ‘I’ve heard tell that …’

‘What?’ Pike snapped, unable to control his anger any longer.

‘That you are,’ Shepherd coughed, ‘possibly too close to the suspect and her family to conduct an unbiased investigation of the bombing.’

‘It is no secret that I occasionally work with Miss Florence McCleland’s sister.’

‘Work? Is that what you call it?’ Shepherd snorted and glanced at Hensman, a sly smile tugging at his thick, bluish lips. ‘If you value your job, Chief Inspector Pike, you would be advised to tread very carefully.’

Pike felt as if he’d been dealt a body blow. He and Dody had always been so careful, so discreet. How on earth had Shepherd discovered their secret? It must be something to do with Hensman — the two were unusually close for men of such disparate rank. Had Hensman seen, heard, or sensed something — or was Shepherd just testing the water, seeing if he could provoke a reaction?

Pike would not give him the satisfaction. He forced himself to remain outwardly calm.

‘And now, Bert,’ said Shepherd, ‘about your application to the Detective Branch …’

Pike excused himself and left the office in a daze. As he made his way past the secretary’s desk to the stairs, a short middle-aged woman wearing a cartwheel of a hat entered the secretary’s enclave and nodded to Pike in recognition.

Pike bowed. ‘Mrs Shepherd.’

‘Is my husband in, Hoskins?’ she asked the secretary.

‘He’s in a meeting with Sergeant Hensman, ma’am.’

‘Oh, what luck,’ Mrs Shepherd said as she sailed past the desk towards her husband’s door. ‘I’ve been meaning for ages to ask Cousin Bert for dinner. I shall do it right now.’

Annie helped Florence from her bed and saw her comfortably settled in the window seat with a view of the street below. The front door of the townhouse banged shut. A few seconds later Florence saw Dody’s neat form pause at the side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic. It was a change to see Dody out of her usual suit and boater. This morning she wore a cotton tulle one-piece dress, high-waisted to suit her corset-less figure, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her glossy mahogany hair appeared constrained and well-coiffed for once, with none of the usual recalcitrant strands straggling beneath the hat.

Dody stepped back from the road as a bus gusted past, its top deck crowded with passengers sporting boaters and straw hats, some of the women twirling parasols.

‘Looks like the weather is finally improving,’ Florence said, while Annie stripped the sheets from her bed. ‘But where is Miss Dody going at this hour?’

‘It’s gone ten, miss, not that early, really. She’s out to get some flowers for the house. Your mother arrives late this afternoon, remember.’

Oh, yes, poor mother
, Florence thought.
She’ll be mortified at seeing me laid up and in such a state.
The mere picture of her mother’s worried face almost caused the tears to flow again — God, what was wrong with her these days! She felt as if she had fallen into a deep black hole, constantly fighting back unbidden tears. Whatever it took, she had to be strong in front of her mother — the woman who’d brought her up to have the courage of her convictions — even if it meant dying for them. Wait, had Mother really said that or had she imagined it? Florence’s mind seemed so cloudy, almost as weak as her body. Surely Mother would never have suggested such a thing. She must be getting her confused with someone else.

‘Did you manage to see your young man on your afternoon off, Annie?’ Florence asked, desperate for something to distract her from her own misery.

‘Yes, I did, miss.’

‘Oh, and where did you go?’

‘Went to the flickers and saw ever such a funny show at the Plaza. It was about these coppers who chased the villains all about the place in their police wagon. They were terrible bunglers and caused calamity wherever they went.’

Florence offered the maid an indulgent smile and nodded her head. She didn’t understand how anything involving the police could ever be considered funny. ‘And what does your young man do?’

‘He’s a teacher, ever so clever.’ Annie turned down the freshly made bed. ‘There you are, Miss Florence. Would you like to hop back in or stay by the window a bit longer?’

‘Back to bed, please.’ As Florence rose with Annie’s help, she noticed a female bicycle rider pull up outside the house and pause, as if reading the number. The woman wore a plain grey, ankle-length skirt, a white blouse and no hat. Florence pointed at her. ‘Hullo, Annie, it looks like we’ve got a visitor.’

Mistress and maid peered out of the window as the dowdy woman dismounted and pushed her bicycle up the garden path, disappearing from view beneath the porch. Florence felt her spirits lift. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said with a hand on her heart. ‘I know who that is. It’s Miss Emily Davison!’

‘That’s nice, miss. She’s obviously popping in to see how you are. Not much to look at, is she?’

‘How thrilling! Quick, Annie, go downstairs and let her in. I can get back into bed myself.’

Florence checked her hair in her dressing-table mirror and made her way back to bed on wobbling legs. Within a minute or two, Emily was shown upstairs and perched on the edge of the mattress. She declined the offer of tea and Florence sent the ever-lurking Annie on her way.

Once they were alone, Emily took both of Florence’s hands in her own large, ungainly ones. ‘And how are you, you poor dear girl?’

Her sympathetic tone made Florence’s eyes mist up again. ‘All the better for seeing you,’ she said, hating the weakness she heard in her own voice. Emily was second only to Mrs Pankhurst and her daughter, Christabel, in Florence’s estimation. She was a woman of derring-do and the very embodiment of the suffragette motto: Action not Words. One of her recent antics had been to sneak into the Houses of Parliament and stay there all night, hidden in a heating cupboard where she nearly died of thirst. It was a bold deed that not only drew the public’s attention to the cause, but highlighted the lack of security in Parliament at a time when security was of paramount concern. On the downside, the Pankhursts had not sanctioned Emily’s action as it occurred during a so-called truce with police. Rumour had it that Mrs Pankhurst had been displeased enough to confide in an associate that she worried Miss Davison might be on the way to becoming a rogue operator.

‘Christabel asked me to reassure you that you have not been forgotten,’ Emily said. ‘She considers you mature enough and committed enough to understand that this temporary — and I stress that word, temporary — distancing is necessary. Our mistake at the Necropolis Station has left everyone baying for blood I’m afraid. Even Daphne has been ordered to stay overseas for the remainder of the year.’

Florence nodded in understanding. A postcard from Daphne would still have been nice.

‘Everyone sends their love, Florence – everyone except Mrs Pankhurst, though I’m sure she would have if she was not behind bars herself.’

‘Oh no! What for?’

‘The attack on the Chancellor’s house.’

‘But I thought the firebomb was thrown by Jenny and Martha Bridges.’

Emily agreed that it was. ‘But for reasons known only to herself, Mrs Pankhurst has claimed responsibility. She’s been charged with incitement to cause a felony and been given three years penal servitude.’

Florence covered her mouth with her hand. ‘No! Is she hunger striking?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then she will be sent home, like I was. And if she becomes so ill that she dies, the government can blame her for it and not take any responsibility themselves. It’s just so jolly unfair!’

‘It’s all right, my dear, calm down. This policy can’t go on for long — the government is already being strongly criticised for this Cat and Mouse Act, as people are calling it. As for the matter about being sent back to prison after recovery, I’m sure that can be easily avoided. One just has to disappear for a while and go somewhere where the authorities can’t find one. We have already formed networks of suffragettes to help with this.’

Florence sniffed away her welling tears and managed a weak smile. ‘Funny you should say that, Emily, because I was thinking of doing something similar myself. What do you think about this? Let me explain …’

‘Doctor McCleland,’ the big-boned woman said as Dody stepped over the threshold of her house, arms laden with hyacinths and chrysanthemums. ‘Have no fear, I was just leaving.’

‘You have been visiting my sister?’ Dody asked with equal coolness, placing the flowers on the hall table. They had met on several occasions, neither approving of the other’s
modus operandi
. Dody suspected Emily Davison regarded her as a traitor for working with the system and not, from where she stood, against it. Dody regarded Miss Davison as an unhealthy obsessive, the type of suffragette she had always worried her sister would become.

Dody found it impossible to believe that a woman as well-educated and mature as Miss Davison could stoop to such childish and dangerous antics to draw attention to her cause. Miss Davison had a first in English Literature from Oxford — although being a woman meant that her degree was not officially acknowledged. She was also a qualified teacher.

A woman like that should know better. She could have died in that heating cupboard. Her antics made Florence’s misdemeanours seem no more than schoolgirl pranks. When last in prison Miss Davison had jumped from the prison balcony. After she’d recovered, she justified her actions by saying that ‘one big tragedy may save many others’, by which Dody assumed she meant the force-feeding of the suffragettes. On last count, Miss Davison had been force-fed forty-eight times. Dody couldn’t help feeling that this woman was even more deserving of the attention of the nerve doctor than Florence was.

She found her eyes drawn to a protruding lump on her visitor’s bare wrist. The rumour was true then: she had broken her wrist in the jump from the prison balcony.

Miss Davison followed the direction of Dody’s gaze with her flickering pale eyes. ‘It’s healed nicely, thank you, Doctor.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. You must be careful in future, Miss Davison. Bones become more brittle as we age.’