The Insanity of Murder (15 page)

It was less than an hour’s walk from the village hotel to the rest home, and Dody set off while it was still light, arriving at the entrance when darkness had only just begun to descend. She wore a purple woollen walking outfit of skirt and matching jacket, sensible shoes and a small cloche hat. The clothes were too warm for the season, but were the darkest practical things she had thought to pack.

It was a mild summer’s night, effused with the scent of newly mown grass and night-blooming flowers. Dody was perspiring by the time she arrived at her destination.

She concealed herself behind a bramble bush at the start of the driveway, removed her jacket, dabbed at her brow with her handkerchief, and lit a soothing pipe. No vehicles entered the driveway for the hour or so she remained hidden.

A mosquito buzzed like a dental drill in her ear. She slapped it away.

The moon sank lower in the sky and one by one the rest home’s winking lights were extinguished, till just a few remained in some of the upstairs rooms.
Where were Fogarty’s quarters,
she wondered, wishing she had thought to enquire during the tour. Not downstairs near the office, she hoped, for that was where she was expecting to find the key to the treatment house. She needed to find out what kind of treatments or operations were carried out in that place, as much to ensure her sister’s safety as to investigate poor Mrs Hislop’s death.

Pike would not approve of this daring mission, but desperate times required desperate measures — and it wasn’t as if she was planning to take on the whole investigation by herself. All she would do was get into the office, ‘borrow’ the key and have a quick look inside the treatment building. If she could confirm with her own eyes that nothing untoward seemed to be happening in the place — an absence of surgical instruments and anaesthetics used for major operations, for example — there would be no need to tell Pike about her little excursion.

She wasn’t being entirely reckless … just a bit.

The darkness grew. Dody packed her smoking paraphernalia into the bag, which also contained a lantern. She unfolded her cramped legs and eased herself back into her jacket. Fortunately there was plenty of cover behind the woodland on either side of the driveway. Should a vehicle pass she would hide behind a stand of trees, impossible to detect, she hoped, in her dark clothing.

She made it to the croquet lawn without incident, her eyes now adjusted as much as they ever would be to the darkness. In Fogarty’s office earlier, she’d made a careful observation of the view. While the office overlooked the croquet lawn, the trunk of the cedar of Lebanon was invisible from where she had been sitting, blocked by the wall space between the two sash windows. She visualised its flat branches now, cantilevering into the sky, the roses bobbing about beneath. With this picture in her mind, she viewed the front of the building from her vantage point beneath the tree, and identified the two office windows from among a line of about ten.

Carefully, she picked her way through the rose bushes in the bed below the windows. Neither window had been latched earlier and she was relieved to find this still to be the case. After blowing on her gloves to provide extra grip, she placed her palms flat against the glass and eased the window up on its sash. When the gap was large enough she slipped through, over the sill and onto the polished wooden floor of the office, closing the window behind her.

Before commencing her search of Fogarty’s desk for the key, she needed to satisfy her curiosity. Pulling a box of matches from her smoking pouch she lit the shuttered lantern and held it up to the shrouded object she had seen on the filing cabinet earlier. Removal of the sheet revealed a sturdy wooden box, with a crank protruding from its side very much like that of a motorcar’s.

Fascinating.

She was about to open the lid of the box to see if she could make out what the contraption was, when noises from the passage outside alerted her to someone’s approach. The footsteps were heavy, the voices male. It sounded as if there were two of them.

Dody spun around, directing her beam to the door between the bookcases. To her great relief, the knob turned under her hand. She darted through the opening and blew out her lantern a heartbeat before the main office door swung open.

Wherever she was, it was very dark. A switch was flicked in the office and a slash of light appeared beneath the door Dody hid behind.

She held her breath and listened.

The voices were clear. One of the men was Fogarty, the other had the voice of a younger man.

‘What’s that smell?’ Fogarty said.

‘What smell?’ the younger man asked.

‘Kerosene, I’m sure of it.’

The lingering fumes of her lantern, Dody thought. Blast it!

‘Probably just from that thing.’

Dody could not see where the young man pointed, but assumed it was the wooden box, which she had hastily re-shrouded. She dropped to her knees and peered through the keyhole. It was Fogarty all right. She couldn’t see his face but she recognised the pattern of his Harris Tweed Jacket. The other man wore a short white coat, probably one of the attendants she’d seen during the visit with her mother. The men stood next to the shrouded contraption with what Dody guessed to be a trolley of some kind between them — she was only able to see the top of its iron handle.

‘The windows are unlatched, Beamish. Better lock them,’ Fogarty said.

The floor under Dody’s feet vibrated as the younger man moved to latch the windows. At least she hoped to God they were being latched and not locked with a key. If the latter, her egress from the office might prove rather more complicated than her ingress had been.

Beamish rejoined Fogarty at the contraption. ‘Did the man at the garage manage to fix it, sir? he asked.

. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll tinker with it myself in the treatment room, conduct some basic tests.’

‘Watch your fingers this time, sir.’

Fogarty laughed. ‘Will do.’ Dody heard the sound of a crank being turned. ‘They’ve fixed that part, anyway. Come on, Beamish, let’s get this thing over to the treatment room.’

Dody caught movement through the keyhole, heard grunts of exertion as they moved the box, then the sound of rolling wheels across the floor.

‘I thought this thing was supposed to be portable,’ the younger man complained.

‘It’s lighter than most,’ Fogarty said during a pause to catch their breath. ‘And not a drop of kerosene in it either,’ he added as if suddenly remembering Beamish’s earlier comment.

‘No? Then perhaps there’s been a leak in the storeroom. I’ll check once we’ve got this thing into the treatment house.’

‘Jolly good. Thank you, Beamish,’ Fogarty said as the door clicked behind them.

The storeroom — that must be where she was hiding. When she was confident the men had gone, Dody groped about on the wall, found a light switch and turned it on. The light illuminated a generous cupboard about the size of her townhouse pantry and, like the pantry, lined with shelving on three sides. Instead of food though, the storeroom was stacked with all sorts of bottles, boxes of equipment and medical supplies.

On the shelves at the far end, light reflected off an assortment of what, at first glance, appeared to be lines of variously sized pickle jars. Dody stepped towards them for a closer inspection.

She stopped.

Dody was more than used to the sight of detached body parts, nevertheless, the sight of so many female organs floating around like trophies in the jars caused the bile to rise in her throat. How members of her profession could get away with performing such heinous, experimental acts, under the guise of a cure for insanity, beggared belief.

She thought of the wretched women like Cynthia, the pain they must have gone through, of all the lives ruined or lost due to unsubstantiated hypothesising. She closed her eyes for a moment and ran her fingers across the jars, feeling the cool smoothness of the glass, speaking to the contents as she did to the dead before a post mortem. You will not be forgotten, she reassured them.

Dody reached for a small jar with the intention of taking it with her as proof of Fogarty’s unethical practices. But she had nothing with which to secure the loose-fitting lid. Even the smallest of jars would impede her escape and might leak. With reluctance, she put it back on the shelf.

There would be no avoiding telling Pike about her midnight excursion now, no skirting the matter. He would have to take her word about the specimen collection and somehow convince a magistrate to provide him with a search warrant for the premises.

Dody was running out of time. Beamish might be back any minute to seek out the source of the kerosene smell and she needed to hurry. Quickly, she scanned the other shelves until she found a sealed tin of kerosene next to some brown paper packages labelled cotton wool.

She picked up her lamp, opened the tin and tipped some of the kerosene onto the shelf, positioning the can on top of the greasy puddle. With any luck Beamish would think the new can had sprung a leak and put the smell from her lamp down to that. Fortunately, the men had not seemed at all suspicious; they were men who worked without any sense of a guilty conscience. They had not even seemed concerned about the unlocked windows. Well, Dody would soon be showing them the error of their complacency.

Now she must find the spare key to that treatment building. She could not investigate it now obviously, with Fogarty using it. She’d had the foresight, however, to add a lump of builder’s putty to her bag, meaning she could take an imprint of the key and get it cut in the village. When the next opportunity presented itself, she could use the new key to gain access.

Dody relit her lamp, turned off the storeroom light and closed the door behind her. The key had to be in one of the desk drawers. She reached for the top drawer and pulled it open. The first thing she saw was a file with Florence’s name written upon it in small, cramped handwriting. Under this she found another file marked with Cynthia Hislop’s name. This file she folded in half and slipped into her bag. She continued rummaging through the drawer looking for the key, then froze at the sound of footsteps in the passageway.

That was quick. Beamish must be returning already.

She eased the drawer shut. For a moment she moved like a frightened rabbit, looking this way and that for an escape route. After noting the position of one of the window latches, she fumbled to unfasten it then blew out her lamp. The footsteps were getting closer; any minute now the door would swing open.

She heaved the window up, stuffed the lantern in her bag and dived with it through the gap, landing directly onto the roses below. Her legs were speared from all directions. Fabric tore and skin ripped. Then more pain as she attempted to right herself in the garden bed. She took a deep breath, heaved herself upright and pushed the office window down.

Seconds later, the office flooded with light.

Dody staggered through the hotel yard and pounded on the back door. After some minutes, a sleepy scullery maid in dressing gown and nightcap admitted her into the kitchen. The surly expression on the maid’s face turned to alarm when she noticed Dody’s shredded appearance.

‘I’m all right, don’t worry,’ Dody said as she dropped onto one of the hard kitchen chairs. ‘If you could just make me a cup of tea and get some hot water and clean rags, I can tend to myself and you can return to your bed.’

The maid put the kettle on the hob and prepared tea while Dody hitched up her skirts and set to work pulling rose thorns from her stockings. When she was sure she had got them all, she gingerly peeled the stockings from her legs and cleaned the myriad scratches and cuts with the hot water and rags.

The maid looked on in horror as she observed the procedure. She was too subservient to question the cause of Dody’s injuries, but that didn’t count for much. By morning every staff member in the hotel from the manager down would know something about their peculiar female guest and her night-time ramblings.

‘I couldn’t sleep and took a walk down the High Street.’ Dody concocted her story. ‘I heard some whimpering and came across a thick bed of roses with a dog stuck in the middle of them. With its collar hooked, the poor creature had no chance of escape. I managed to set it free, but scratched myself in the process, as you can see.’

The maid looked dubious. There probably wasn’t a rose garden down the high street, but the lie would have to do.

‘Please go to bed now,’ Dody said, opening the range door and casting her bloodied stockings and the rags into the flames.

With every nerve in her lower legs crying out in protest, she limped from the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. Still shedding thorns, she undressed gingerly and lay on her bed to contemplate her next course of action. Her mind felt like an overwound clock and her body had already begun to stiffen. Something told her she would not be getting much sleep this night.

‘Look, Father, Saint Thomas’s Hospital,’ Violet said, forcing Pike to a standstill on the Westminster bridge footpath, the murky river churning below them. ‘That’s where I want to do my training.’ She pointed. ‘In the nursing school founded by Florence Nightingale.’ Violet adjusted the tilt of her boater, still looking very much the schoolgirl with two scarlet ribbons trailing down her back. Pike was relieved she had not asked him for the money to buy a new hat for their outing; he was in no hurry for her to grow up.

‘Florence Nightingale, indeed,’ Pike said, urging his daughter on with a hand on her elbow. If they didn’t step up they’d miss the excursion train to Epsom.

‘Miss Nightingale is my greatest heroine of all times. I think I respect her even more than I do Joan of Arc,’ Violet said.

In Pike’s mind it was a toss-up as to who was the more aggravating: Joan of Arc, who dressed and behaved like a man and thought nothing of interfering with military matters; or Florence Nightingale, who’d done very much the same thing and died a neurotic invalid. Better that than being burnt at the stake, he supposed. Still, he prayed his daughter would not try to emulate either of those women.
Why not choose Dody as her heroine?
he wondered. He would be proud if she grew up like Dody, with the proviso she had nothing to do with dead bodies — one autopsy surgeon in the family was enough.

Family? What was he thinking? He shook his head to dismiss the thought; he was getting ahead of himself.

‘I don’t think Joan of Arc or Florence Nightingale went to finishing school, Father,’ Violet added.

Not this again. ‘Take that up with your grandmother. It is she who is so desperate for you to go.’ That was a cowardly move; he was just as adamant as Grandmamma that some of Violet’s rough edges be polished.

‘Nor did Dody.’

Pike pulled Violet to a stop. ‘Enough of such talk! Do you want to go to the races or not?’

Violet stared at her shoes. ‘Yes, Father, I do. I’m sorry.’

‘Then we’d better hurry. We don’t want to miss the train, do we? You know what a nightmare Waterloo is these days.’

The crowds grew as they neared the station. Fortunately Pike had had the foresight to purchase their third-class tickets the day before, and within minutes they were on the platform, fighting their way through clouds of lisping steam to board the train. As they squeezed down the cramped corridor they passed a closed door marked
Typing Room
. Pike felt the back of his neck redden and hurried Violet past it. He found her a window seat and they both settled down with sighs of relief. He sat diagonally opposite her near the aisle, next to a young woman with more rouge on her face than was proper.

The train lurched forward and soon fell into a regular clickity-clack rhythm. Disregarding the noise of the crowded train, the jostles and the bumps, and a group of lads behind them already in their cups, Pike pulled his hat brim over his eyes and sank into a reverie, observing his daughter through half-closed eyes.

While he was determined not to give in to her protestations about finishing school, he had not ruled out nursing altogether. The profession did not suffer the ill repute it once had and these days many respectable girls had joined the ranks. Perhaps he would give in to her when she was older and had had some more of life’s experiences. The thought of his little girl at the tender age she was now coping with certain realities that she didn’t know a fig about (naked men and their desires, for example) filled him with all manner of fears. And what if there was a war, something those in the know seemed to think increasingly likely? Under no circumstances would he allow Violet to go to war. This was yet another reason for her to go to finishing school before nursing; a year should be enough time to know where Europe was heading.

Violet pulled a cheap-looking novel from her bag and began to read. The elderly man sitting next to her unwrapped a packet of sandwiches and began to suck and chew on them noisily, bits of cooked egg dropping all over his waistcoat and sticking to his prickly chin. The carriage lurched and the sandwiches fell to the floor. Before you could say Jack Robinson, Violet was on her knees, picking them up and brushing the dust from them. She handed them back to the old man who rewarded her with a smile, revealing a single, egg-stained tooth and saying thank you, thank you, over and over again.

Pike crossed his arms. That old man belonged in an asylum more than Florence did. Pike was fairly certain that Florence was guilty, but he knew that as things stood now — with mad Lady Mary as a witness and the watchman’s continuing amnesia — they had little to go on. The law was like a pendulum, sometimes she swung towards the truth and sometimes she swung in the opposite direction. Sometimes innocent men were sent to the hangman, and sometimes the guilty were set free. By committing herself to the asylum, Florence at least had a better chance of the latter outcome — and he was not going to interfere with that.

His mind travelled to Dody — not that she was a problem. But her problems were his problems and visa-versa. He hoped she was not fretting too much over Florence or getting into trouble with the authorities at the rest home. He was as anxious as she was to get to the bottom of Mrs Hislop’s medical history, and looked forward to joining her in the village of Elysium. No, Dody was not a problem at all — other than filling his mind constantly.

Pike was woken by a rude jolt. Standing passengers dominoed into one another. The lads in the seats behind pushed and swore their way into the jammed aisle. Pike looked towards Violet, pleased to see she had remained seated. He signalled her to stay where she was until most of the throng had disembarked.

The station at Tattenham Corner was a pleasant half-mile walk to the racetrack itself and Pike and Violet allowed themselves to be swept up by the carnival atmosphere of the crowd. The path through the Downs was bordered by dancing displays, boxing tents, fire-eaters, jugglers, and refreshment booths. Pike bought them each an ice-cream cone, though Violet barely ate hers, too busy watching the fashionable ladies and gentlemen parading about in their finery. He warned her to look out for pickpockets. Instead of listening to him she enthused over the ridiculous ‘donkey-eared hats’ many of the women wore. Soon, ice cream was dribbling all over her gloves.

Pike gave her his handkerchief, relieved her of the melted remnants and popped them into his mouth.

‘Where are the King and Queen sitting?’ Violet asked, once they reached the course.

Before he could swallow the last of the ice cream and answer her, she exclaimed, ‘Look, Daddy, look!’

He glanced towards the royal enclosure, expecting to see the King and Queen, but Violet prodded his arm. ‘No, over there, it’s Annie! Let’s go and say good day to her!’

Before he knew it, Violet was pulling him by the hand towards her. He hardly recognised the McClelands’ maid in her fine yellow hat, but he had no trouble recognising the solid, moustached gentleman who accompanied her. Pike gritted his teeth.

It was that cove Hensman.

It was an awkward meeting in which no one seemed keen to converse except Violet. Pike barely kept his eyes off Hensman, who responded by looking everywhere but at Pike. So this must be how Shepherd had found out about his liaison with Dody, Pike decided. And now they were waiting like jackals for the right time to use it against him. No doubt the information would also be used to get Florence McCleland convicted too — Shepherd was determined to pin the Necropolis bombing on her.

Watching the younger man squirm was little compensation for the fact that Hensman’s actions might cost Dody and him their jobs. He wondered if this was a genuine attachment, or if Hensman was merely using Annie to garner information to help further his career. However genuine it was, it was most unethical for a policeman to take up with a witness before the case had reached its conclusion. If not for Violet’s presence, Pike would have called Hensman out over this.

The murmuring of the crowd reached crescendo pitch. All eyes turned toward the royal stand as the King and Queen took their seats. Violet jumped up and down, frustrated with her inability to get a good view of them. Shame she was too old for a bunk-up these days. Pike was wondering if there’d be a better view on the other side of the stand, when a bookie — distinguishable by his loud suit and the betting slip poking up from his hatband — offered Violet his stool to stand on. She accepted with glee, and soon she was oohing and aahing with the rest of the crowd.

‘The King’s looking handsome as usual, but you should see the Queen, Daddy! She’s wearing an ivory gown with a veil of blue chiffon that looks to be floating over the top of it. And her hat, I wish you could see her hat, it’s covered in the most darling pink roses — I wonder if they’re real?’

While Violet prattled on, Pike looked around for Annie and Hensman. They seemed to have disappeared. He hoped he’d ruined their day.

Pike was not a betting man, but to show his appreciation to the bookie he placed sixpence each way on the King’s horse, Anmer. Although the horse was a rank outsider and didn’t stand much of a chance, he wanted to add to Violet’s excitement and give her something to cheer for.

Violet was thrilled by the news. After giving the bookie back his stool she insisted they head towards the railing to get as close to the horses as possible. The main race of the day, the Derby Cup, would soon be starting. They chose a vantage point at Tattenham Corner, marking the most exciting part of the race. It was a sharp bend where the horses slowed down before speeding onto the home straight to finish in front of the royal box. Pike told Violet to look out for Anmer’s jockey wearing a purple and gold jacket.

From where they were standing they couldn’t see the start of the race, but the roar of the crowd told them the barrier was up and the horses were off. It was a short race, and in less than two heart-stopping minutes the horses emerged around the bend.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pike became aware of a tall woman pushing her way through the crowd to stand next to Violet. She was the only one in their vicinity not jumping around, waving a flag or yelling. She almost seemed to be in some kind of a trance. Her strange manner alerted his policeman’s instincts.

He took his eyes off her for barely a moment, just as the horses turned the bend for the home straight. He saw no sign of Anmer until Violet pointed the horse out at the back, among the stragglers.

‘Never mind,’ he said.

‘Oh no!’ Violet screamed, pointing at the tall woman ducking under the barrier.

With a gasp of recognition — the woman was a prominent suffragette — Pike tried to stop her, but found himself wedged in by the crowd. All he could do was call out, ‘Stop that woman!’

Too late, the woman stepped into the path of the King’s horse. Hands outstretched, it looked as if she was trying to stop the horse by grabbing its reins. But like a railway train on full steam, the horse had no time to stop. It crashed into her with tremendous force, knocking her down and tumbling her across the ground. The horse fell in a tangle of limbs, clearing the woman but pitching the jockey to the track.

Pike cupped his daughter’s face in his hands and shouted above the screaming and yelling. ‘Stay here, don’t leave this barrier.’ He ran onto the track, waving his police identification card.

Onlookers flooded the track. Pike and a uniformed policeman did their best to keep them back, allowing only the racecourse doctor, a doctor from amongst the crowd and a nurse through. Upon the arrival of more policemen, Pike was able to leave his post and join the authorised few huddled around the injured woman. She was out cold. Blood smeared across her face and oozed from her head. Her jacket was open. Pike glimpsed some fabric of purple, green and white pinned to the inside of it. Gently he removed it and unfurled two large suffragette flags. Those around him gasped.

What would make a woman do such a thing,
he wondered, quickly bundling the flags back up again and handing them to a policeman.

‘Make a thorough inventory of her pockets,’ he ordered the constable.

While they waited for a stretcher, the constable gingerly patted the woman down, listing her possessions for another policeman to record in his notebook: one purse containing three shillings and eight-pence, two postal orders, one insurance ticket, eight and a half pennyworth of stamps, a helpers’ pass to the Suffragette Summer Festival bearing the name Miss Emily Davison, one race card, a key, writing paraphernalia, and a handkerchief monogrammed E.D.

And one half of a return ticket from Epsom to Victoria Station.

‘Thank you, officer,’ Pike said. He handed the policeman his card. ‘Give this to your superior and ask him to keep me informed.’

Pike moved towards the jockey who was covered in blood but regaining consciousness. The doctor said he was suffering from abrasions, concussion and shock. The course veterinarian had examined the horse and found it unscathed, save for a few cuts to its flanks.

And then Pike remembered Violet — where was she? He pivoted on his heel and found his daughter still standing obediently where he had left her, face drawn and tearstained. He ducked under the barrier and took her in his arms.

When the stretcher-bearers arrived to take the injured away, he was still holding her. He swivelled her away from the sight of the woman’s body being lifted onto the stretcher, a pool of blood already beginning to gel on the grass where she had lain.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he murmured as he stroked his daughter’s hair, knowing full well that it wasn’t.