The Anatomy of Death Read online

  “We said we were attacked by youths in the street outside the station and had our purses stolen. She took us to the police station and we had to make a statement to the police.”

  “You told a lie to the police?”

  “Yes.” Violet lowered her eyes.

  God in heaven, Pike ran his fingers through his hair. If this were to get out, his career, already tenuous, would be in ruins. And so would her schooling—and then what?

  He picked up the photograph and pointed to the bobby in the background, struggling with a woman. “Is this the policeman that hurt you?”

  “No, that wasn’t him.”

  Pike reached into his pocket for another envelope of photographs. He had retrieved them from Fisher and brought them with him, thinking that Violet might have seen something that the cameras had failed to pick up. Now he felt ashamed that he had planned to quiz his daughter in this way. But if she could point out the bobby who had knocked her down, that would be one positive outcome of this sorry day.

  He was hardly surprised when she stopped at the photograph of Dykins. Her pale face blanched even further.

  “Is that the one?” Pike asked her gently. She didn’t answer, but nodded faintly. Then he saw her eyes fill with tears before she buried her face in her napkin.

  “My dear.” Pike reached out and touched her arm.

  “Just a moment, I’m sorry…I need to go to the powder room.”

  “Of course.”

  To Pike, the ten minutes it took for Violet to return seemed like an eternity. She’d washed her face; he could tell by the diamonds of moisture clinging to her hairline. And her hair, previously dishevelled from the wild weather, had been brushed smooth and retied, her school hat once more planted firmly on her head.

  “Violet, is there anything else you want to tell me about that policeman?”

  “No, there’s nothing else, just what I already told you.”

  While Pike hoped to God that was the worst of it, something told him she was holding back, protecting him. He knew damned well about the bestial behaviour of the men at the riot, knew his daughter would have been an irresistible target. She straightened in her chair—yes, that was it. Perhaps it was best for them both that she did not give all the details. Suddenly she appeared very grown up.

  “Well, I can tell you something,” he said, hoping to make her smile. “I had the pleasure of sacking that policeman myself, the day after the riot. His unprofessional behaviour was well documented.”

  “I’m glad. He could be hanged for all I care.”

  Pike winced.

  “Violet, there is one more thing. I am trying to discover what happened to this lady.” He put in front of her a picture of Lady Catherine Cartwright while she was still alive. “Did you see what happened to her?”

  “Yes, I did, Father.” This time Violet answered with an accusatory coolness that chilled him. “She was lovely and wore a beautiful hat with purple feathers on it. She talked to Marjorie and me before everything turned horrible. I saw her being brutally beaten about the head by a uniformed policeman.”

  “You are completely sure that this is the woman you saw?”

  “Yes, it was her. Is she all right?”

  When he didn’t answer immediately, she slowly nodded. “She’s not all right, is she? If she were, she could tell you what happened herself.”

  Still he couldn’t speak, but she must have seen the answer in his eyes.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she? She was so nice to us. I didn’t realise she had been killed.”

  Pike felt his heartbeat quicken. “Killed by this policeman?” He pointed to Dykins.

  “No, not that one. Another.”

  They searched for his face among the other photographs, but were unable to find it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dody was reading by the fire when her sister entered the morning room.

  Florence looked taken aback. “I thought you were studying in your rooms.”

  “The fires upstairs have only just been lit. I’ll stay down here while my rooms warm up.” Dody returned to the report in her hand. The visit to her parents had been a pleasant break, marred only by Rupert’s behaviour. She wasn’t sure what he had been more upset about when he stormed from her parents’ house—the ending of their fictitious engagement or her mother’s rejection of his play. She suspected it was the latter.

  Now that they were back home, she had a lot to catch up on before morning. “I’m studying a proposal written by Dr. Garrett,” she said to Florence, “on the feasibility of setting up a new women’s clinic in the East End. The idea has merit. We could use one of the vacant warehouses dotting the area. It would need private funding, of course.”

  Florence’s mind appeared to be on other things. She’d had several mysterious telegrams from her suffragette colleagues whilst she and Dody were still in Sussex—there was no telephone at their parents’ house—and each one seemed to have left her that bit more agitated. On the train home she’d been edgy and unable to keep still and unwilling to confide. Now, she fidgeted with her silken belt, twisting it askew. “Dody, I will soon be receiving visitors. If you plan to remain here, I will have to ask Annie to open up the drawing room for us and I don’t think she will be too pleased about that.”

  “Visitors?” Dody said. “Not the Irish brothers, I hope?”

  With brisk steps, Florence moved to the mantelpiece mirror, unpinned her hat, and tossed it on the settee. “Since when have you been so against the Irish? We still have family in Cork. Theirs is as worthy a cause as any.”

  “Of course it’s a worthy cause. But you yourself pointed out that Derwent O’Neill is not what he seems.”

  “Yes, he is obviously more educated than he pretends; that is clear.”

  “I fear there is more to him than that,” Dody said, searching her sister’s face.

  Florence ignored her concern and stood in front of the mirror, needlessly patting at her pompadour. “I would not object to getting to know him better. He might be useful. The Fenians certainly knew how to make themselves heard.”

  Dody placed her papers on the wine table. “With bombs, Florence—surely you don’t mean that?”

  “No, of course not. But I wouldn’t mind discussing strategy with him someday. Who knows, we might form a united front.” Florence moved towards the tray of decanters. “A quick sherry before you leave?”

  “Derwent O’Neill made it perfectly obvious he doesn’t give tuppence for the WSPU. And no, thank you, to sherry.”

  “Well, in any case,” Florence said, pouring herself a generous measure, “it’s not the Irishmen coming to call, but some of my committee ladies. And if you don’t mind, Dody, we would like to have the morning room to ourselves.”

  Dody pursed her lips. “Secret business, Florence?”

  “Something I would prefer you not to hear.”

  “Dangerous?” Dody rose from her chair.

  “You said yourself one needed extremism to promote moderation. Didn’t Mr. Shaw say the suffragettes should shoot, kill, maim, and destroy until given the vote?”

  Dody looked to the ceiling. Her sister drew Shaw like some would draw a pistol. “I said extremism can lead to moderation—can being the operative word. Florence, have you not done enough? You could have been killed at the march. It might very well have been your body and not Catherine’s I was called to look at. And what about the force-feeding? Could you go through that again if you were arrested?”

  Florence gulped her sherry in a single swallow. “I won’t be arrested. Please, Dody, don’t make me explain. I don’t want you compromised in any way.”

  “We share a house. You are my sister.”

  Florence paused. “I can always find myself new lodgings. While you were in Edinburgh, I came and went as I pleased. I managed to survive quite well without an older sister looking out for me, telling me whom I may see, how I may conduct myself—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I simply want to make sure you
’re safe.”

  “Ridiculous? That’s how you’ve always seen me, isn’t it? Well, Dody, I am sick of hearing it.”

  Dody gripped her sister’s arm. “Florence! I am sorry. I had not realised I was doing that, I was just concerned. But you are quite right, truly, and I am sorry. Now please, have your meeting in privacy; I will go upstairs right away.”

  Florence would not be mollified. “No. We shall take our meeting elsewhere, and I shall stay at Olivia’s. Perhaps for a few days.”

  The doorbell rang, followed by movement in the hall and women’s voices. Florence straightened her belt once more as Annie showed the group into the morning room. Dody wished them good evening, gathered her papers, and mounted the stairs with a heavy tread. How stubborn, how impetuous her sister was. Hopefully, come morning, she would see reason. Ridiculous. In a few moments she heard the door open and close again. Then all was silent.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pike turned down Brockman’s request for a few tunes and took a seat in a discreet corner of the pub beneath a mournful stag’s head. He glanced around the half-filled room. No surprise that Brockman wanted some music to liven the place up—Pike had read casualty lists to men less gloomy than this lot. Whether they were unemployed or on strike pay, their beer was taking a long time to drop.

  Not so Pike’s. He downed his tankard, then signalled to Brockman for another, promising himself that this would be his last. The third, which he justified by his need for a good night’s sleep, he drank with only slightly more restraint. This much beer on an empty stomach? He was a fool. He couldn’t think straight with alcohol, but tonight it seemed the only alternative.

  Upon his return from Hasting’s to London, he’d walked from the station to his office and switched his bowler and overcoat for a cloth cap and donkey jacket, his collar and tie for a homespun muffler. After examining the photograph of Violet once more—that small, strained, white face—he had locked it in the bottom drawer of his desk. This was one picture he would not be handing to Fisher for further examination—the others he had replaced in the pile for Fisher, to be used as evidence. Then he had caught an omnibus to Brockman’s.

  He took another swallow of beer. He was withholding evidence. In a few seconds he had cast aside his values and lowered himself to protect his personal interests. He’d heard other men justify similar behaviour with petty excuses more often than he cared to remember, and he’d always viewed them with contempt. Now it was he who had turned his back on his principles.

  He took some comfort in the knowledge that his deceit would never stretch to covering up the truth itself. He would find a way of proving that Lady Catherine had been killed by a uniformed police officer, without involving Violet.

  But how? His mind turned to a recent article about advances in blood identification in The Police Review. Apparently, certain substances had been discovered that could identify the owner as belonging to one of several blood groups. The results were not as specific as fingerprinting, but since that was not possible in this case, such a blood test might be a useful alternative. If Lady Catherine’s blood group was found on a particular officer’s truncheon—the article suggested that no more than a single drop or stain was required—his suspect list could be narrowed considerably.

  He pushed back his cap and scratched his head. He would need a valid reason to test the men’s truncheons without arousing suspicion. An equipment inspection might do, he decided. But was this kind of forensic test possible, and, if so, how long would it take?

  There was one person who might be able to tell him. He stood and tipped down the last of his pint. It was too late to call on Dr. McCleland now, but he would make an appointment to see her in the morning. He had kept her secret; perhaps now she could be trusted with his.

  Initially, it did not occur to Pike that the man walking some distance behind him on the bridge might be tailing him. Although it was late when he’d boarded the last omnibus to Lambeth, there had still been activity in the street outside the pub: a hawker braving the damp chill to sell the last of his pies, a group of men standing around a glowing brazier of roasting chestnuts. In retrospect, Pike remembered, it was from this group that the man had stepped and joined him on the omnibus.

  And then followed him off.

  The sobering realisation cleared Pike’s head quicker than a dunk in the icy river. He tuned his ears to the sharp ring of his follower’s boots. The man was making no effort now to disguise himself. Whenever Pike increased his pace, the footsteps quickened, too. Along the bridge he slowed to skirt puddles of brittle ice. If he slipped now, he had no doubt the man would be on to him in no time.

  Not even a rat stirred amongst the festering piles of refuse waiting for the barges which, come dawn, would be jostling and shoving like ducks for bread along the riverbank. The space between the towers at the end of the bridge was empty of vagrants tonight. If there had been anyone in the vicinity of the unburied sewerage pipes, they had crawled deep inside, seeking out what little warmth they offered.

  Thirty yards from the end of the bridge, instead of taking the wider street to Millbank Road and his lodgings, Pike veered into the shadows of a narrow alley and ducked into a recessed doorway. Sure enough, the echo of footsteps grew louder and the man from the omnibus passed him by. Pike expelled his breath and waited several minutes before stepping from the doorway.

  “Oi, where do you think you’re going, Pike?”

  Pike spun in the direction of the familiar voice. He should have guessed there would be two of them; damn his drinking. That they should have chosen tonight of all nights.

  “Dykins?” Pike narrowed his eyes and peered at the figure looming through the mist.

  For an answer, Dykins put his fingers to his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Within seconds there were footsteps advancing quickly from the other end of the alleyway. Pike had no intention of waiting to see what the men wanted. He feinted to the left of Dykins and, as the big man lunged, ducked to his right and dashed as fast as he could down an offshoot of the main alley. He couldn’t outrun his pursuers for long, but with luck, he might make it to Millbank Road and flag a cab before they caught up to him.

  But luck was not on Pike’s side. With fear hammering at his heart and his eyes focused on the distant streetlamp, he failed to notice the sheet of frozen gutter spill stretching like a black mirror before him. He lost his footing and skidded the length of the ice on his stomach, cane skittering off into the darkness. On hands and knees he scrabbled desperately, groping for his cane along the alley wall, ice cutting into the skin of his hands and through the fabric of his trousers. Then he heard their pounding feet, the rasping of their breath, and their cursing as they, too, hit the ice.

  Dykins fell upon Pike, pinning him down with his weight. Pike caught the blurred features of his companion; it was Joe Excel, another of the sacked officers, skidding like a hockey ball towards them.

  Was this it, Pike wondered as he struggled against Dykins’s grip, or were there more men in the shadows, waiting for their turn at him? One he might manage, two possibly, if he could find his cane. Three or more and he was a pig’s breakfast.

  “You’re going to pay for what you done, Pike,” Dykins snarled as he pulled Pike to his feet and shoved him against the alley wall. “Families to feed and no ’int of a job in sight—give ’im one, Joe.”

  Brass knuckles gleamed on Excel’s hand. Pike felt the blow to his stomach clean through to his spine. He dropped to the ground, drawing up his knees and fighting for breath. A kick from Dykins to his kidneys forced his body into a painful arch. His arms flailed and his hands smacked against the ground. A loose cobble shifted under his palm and he curled his fingers around it; it would have to do.

  Dykins grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him to his feet once more. Pike went limp, making it impossible for Dykins to hold back his arms and keep him on his feet at the same time. His head sagged, the hand holding the cobble hanging loose by his side. He knew he would have to
let Excel get dangerously close to use the stone with any effect.

  Dykins struggled to keep Pike vertical. “Save some for me, Joe.” He spat on the ground. “Nancy pen-pusher’s soft as butter, just about gorn already.”

  Excel drew back his fist and aimed once more at Pike’s stomach.

  Pike was unable to block the blow completely, but slamming the cobble into Excel’s face softened the follow-through. Excel crumpled without a sound and Dykins’s grip loosened. Pike spotted his cane and dived for it. His fingertips were brushing the smooth wood when Dykins grabbed him by the ankles and yanked.

  “Gotcha!” Dykins roared, and his boot caught Pike in the side with an audible crack. Then Dykins slammed his boot down on Pike’s leg. Rockets of pain exploded in Pike’s knee. He felt every nail in the big man’s boot and he cried out, clutching at his knee as waves of pain coursed through it. His screams made even Dykins hesitate. Stepping back, he nudged Excel with his boot. “Get up, you lazy git, ’e’s ’ad enough. Time we left before someone ’ears the racket.”

  Although his knee felt shattered, Pike managed to reach his cane. He flicked the clasp, unsheathed the slender sword secreted within the handle, and lashed out at Dykins.

  “Me legs, me legs, you bastard!” Dykins screamed as he fell to the cobbles.

  Pike heaved himself up against the alley wall, fighting off waves of nausea and pain. A wide moon peeped from behind a scudding cloud and gave him a clearer view of the two men lying on the ground before him. Excel was out cold on his back, his face a glistening mask of bloodied flesh, his breath hanging in white wreaths above his head. Dykins lay on his side, moaning, legs clasped to his chest.

  Pike put the tip of his sword to Dykins’s throat. “Ever heard of death by a thousand cuts?”

  “We wasn’t going to kill you, Chief Inspector, just pay you back for what you done, that’s all.”