Antidote to Murder Page 29

  Pike lowered the pail of bottles and braced himself for a fight. He need not have worried.

  “In here, Inspector,” the younger white-coated man called dispiritedly over his shoulder.

  Fisher entered the dispensary with two constables, one of them gripping Henry Everard by his jacket collar. Pike had never been so glad to see his inspector.

  “Mr. Vladimir Borislav is our man, Chief Inspector.” Fisher paused, looking around him at the damage. “But I see you have met.”

  “What brought you here?” Pike asked.

  “Mr. Everard here led us to him,” Fisher said proudly. “Turns out he’s been blackmailing Mr. Borislav all along. This time he was intending to threaten Mr. Borislav with exposure unless he agreed to support Mrs. Everard financially while he was in prison. We were closing in when we met up with Mr. Champion outside the shop.”

  Champion addressed his uncle. “I did not want to believe what they said. The abortions, the drugs—what would Aunt Gertrude think?”

  Borislav turned quite puce and struggled against his bonds. “She’d be alive now if it wasn’t for a butchering doctor. And how many even poorer women are abandoned by this so-called profession? We were happy—we had everything.” Tears streamed down his face. “When the baby . . . the doctor . . . Incompetent, bloody drunk . . . couldn’t even get here on time.” He put his head up; pride and fear were at war in his eyes. “I may have made mistakes, but I was at least trying to make these women’s lives easier.” His tears redoubled. “I did not want them to die. That man”—he pointed waveringly at Everard—“knew everything. He calls himself a doctor, he’s too high and mighty to help women in trouble, but he blackmailed—”

  Before Borislav could say more, Everard broke free of the constable, rushed over, and gave him a hefty kick. The constable pulled Everard away.

  “You told those women you could help them and they died,” Joseph moaned.

  “My success rate speaks for itself,” the winded Borislav gasped. “I provided a service those women needed.”

  Pike could not afford to stop and hear what more there was to be said. He wanted answers, but they would have to wait. He moved over to Champion and showed him the pail of bottles. “Are these the correct ingredients for an arsenic antidote?”

  Champion examined each bottle and took out two he said were unnecessary. “Magnesia, liquor ferri-persulphatus, and water—correct now.”

  Borislav groaned. “Dorothy was not supposed to . . . Please, Joseph, give them a sedative for her, too. She should sleep while the antidote does its work.”

  Pike felt something warm running down his cheeks. He swiped it off with his hand and realised it was blood—cuts from the broken glass.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m fine,” he said to Fisher, “but Dr. McCleland is not. Send one of your men for a van and stand guard over these two. Jack, follow me to the fishmonger’s.”

  * * *

  Cool fingers on her neck brought Dody back to her senses. “Matthew?”

  “He’s on his way, Dr. McCleland,” Van Noort said, “with the arsenic antidote.”

  “And the girl on the bed?” she asked.

  “Her pulse is getting stronger by the minute.”

  Dody shivered violently. The disfigured face above her began to swim. Another spasm gripped her stomach. She cried out. If this was death, pray God for its sweet release.

  Van Noort stroked her head. “Hush now. Listen. Help is at hand and I must leave you now. Good-bye and good luck, my dear.” Van Noort moved towards the window.

  Thumping feet; Pike’s voice. “Stay where you are, for God’s sake, Van Noort.” In her weakened state on the floor, Dody could not see what was happening. She sensed a desperate urgency in Pike’s voice, but was beyond caring. “Jack, stay with him,” Pike instructed. “Sit on him if you have to.”

  Pike’s hand gripped hers and pressed it to his trembling lips. “It’s all right, Dody, the good doctor is going nowhere.”

  She heard the murmur of Pike’s voice as he spoke with Van Noort, the clunking of glass, and the pouring of liquid, and then her head and shoulders were cradled in Pike’s arms. “Drink this, my love, and try to keep it down,” Pike said.

  The antidote tasted foul and she struggled to suppress her gag reflex.

  “I’ve put the sedative in the mixture. She should sleep through the worst of it,” Van Noort said.

  Pike gently lowered her head to the floor. The sounds in the room were distant, as if she were listening through water. The original taxi had long gone. John/Jack was sent to fetch another while Van Noort and Pike talked in subdued voices. They spoke of war, of constant fear, of revulsion for their own kind. The choke in their voices broke through the roar of the sea in her head.

  And then there was a shout from Pike, and the shatter of breaking glass followed by a long and terrible silence.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  FRIDAY 1 SEPTEMBER

  Pike’s eyes had always mesmerised Dody; now it was his lips she could not tear her gaze from. Not too thin and not too fat, well-defined, beautiful, kissable lips. His face began to waver. She lost focus and forced herself back with a jolt. “What was that about the fishmonger’s woman?”

  Pike leaned across the bed and gently kissed her. “Too much talking—you can hardly keep your eyes open. Sleep now.”

  “No, Matthew, please don’t go yet.” She seized his hand as he made to move. “I need to know everything. Don’t try to spare me. Anyway, I remember now. You said the woman at the fishmonger’s knew Borislav was doing abortions in her upstairs room, but was paid to turn a blind eye, or so she told you, but you suspect she was more involved. She’s in custody now and you hope to prove her active involvement. You see, I was listening. But I need to know more. I need to understand how Everard fitted into things.”

  Pike smiled. “Very well, if you’re sure you’re all right.”

  “Go on.”

  “When Everard was in his fourth year at university, he was keeping company with a chorus girl. He got the girl pregnant and performed a successful abortion on her, which he boasted about to his friend Joseph Champion.”

  “And Champion in turn told Borislav?”

  “Indeed. Family circumstances meant that Champion was forced to withdraw from university and go to work with his uncle, Borislav. Borislav’s business was in bad shape, his wife had just died—were you aware of the details?”

  Dody shook her head. “He never spoke about it.”

  “She was some years younger than he was and pregnant with their first child. There were complications during the birth and the doctor arrived late, obviously intoxicated. Mistakes were made; the woman and child were lost. Borislav’s resentment of the medical profession increased; more so when his nephew was forced to withdraw from university. He gave up teaching medical students and decided to provide what he saw as vital services the medical profession wouldn’t touch. He began by supplying illegal drugs—opiates and poisons. He also tried to convince his East End customers to use contraception, and when that didn’t work, he graduated eventually to criminal abortions.”

  “Which is where Everard came in?”

  Pike nodded. “Borislav asked, hypothetically, how such surgery might be performed. Everard had already made contact with him regarding the drug business, finding out all about it from one of his private practice patients, a society matron who asked him for morphine. She had been a Borislav customer, but he had cut her off for nonpayment. The society matron led Everard to Dunn, whom she had met through Borislav, and Everard jumped at the opportunity to be a part of this undoubtedly prosperous venture.”

  Dody shook her head in dismay. A doctor and a respected chemist, manipulating vulnerable people for profit. She could hardly credit it. “So they were in business together? Borislav had so little respect for Everard.”


  “It’s pretty clear the good doctor left Borislav little choice but to cut him in—Everard could easily have turned the whole network over to the police. Borislav decided to pay him off and hoped he’d be satisfied with that. But Everard was not satisfied; he wanted more. When Esther’s body was discovered, he realised Borislav was behind it and used her death to simultaneously endanger you and blackmail Borislav. Borislav, to his credit, did try to get you out of the firing line and turn suspicion on Van Noort, though he was also happy to make you very ill rather than risk your continued investigations into the dented pills.”

  “I thought my symptoms were the return of the cholera.”

  “As he hoped you would. He kept your symptoms just uncomfortable enough to impede your work—the marzipans, the meat juice. He did not imagine you would drink so much more of the effervescent mixture than prescribed.”

  Other than Poppa and now Pike, Borislav was one of the few men Dody had felt totally at ease with; he was her friend, or so she had thought. An educated woman like herself should have seen through him, seen the greed and anger beneath. Strange; throughout history, it seemed, women and men had been blinded by their own needs and duped by the opposite sex. No amount of equality could rectify that.

  She bit her lip. Pike squeezed her hand as if he knew what she was thinking, as if to show that she could trust him.

  Dody fought back tears. “Go on,” she urged him. “Borislav ran a gang? We were right about that?”

  “We were. He ran a network of roughs, many of them morphinomaniacs, like Dunn, who, as well as the cheaper remedies favoured in Whitechapel, sold stolen drugs to a wealthy clientele in the West End. Nothing like a syringe of morphine to liven up a ladies’ tea party. Borislav and Everard staged the robbery at his own pharmacy to justify the missing drugs to Joseph.”

  That explained the lack of defensive injuries on Borislav’s arms, Dody thought. She said, “I suppose the tighter pharmacy laws are better than the old days, when people got opiates as easily as ale. Now at least they have to get them through prescriptions. Though it has, it seems, created an underground market. Something new for criminals to do! Is that why Everard’s bag was stolen?”

  “That was largely a clever ruse to hide the true intention of the visit, which was to steal the Book of Lists. It’s vanished by the way; probably at the bottom of the Thames by now. And Borislav did have a suspicious mark against his name, from a couple of years ago. Everard had seen it and organised the theft before you got the chance to look. Dunn was something of a double agent; he worked for Borislav—and was terrified of him—but he had been recruited by Everard as a source of information initially and then later to help bring you down. An addict belongs to anyone who’ll provide him with a dose.”

  “Has Borislav said any more?”

  “Not much more than what he told me originally in the back room of the chemist shop. He’s hardly said a word—though he seems genuinely remorseful on your account. Most of what I learned is from Everard and the thugs he was able to name.”

  “Borislav didn’t . . .” Dody almost choked on the words. “He didn’t deliberately kill Esther to stop me talking to her again, did he?” When Pike failed to answer, she forced some strength into her voice. “Answer me, Matthew; I’m not a child.”

  Pike got up from the bed and began to pace the small room.

  “Please tell me,” she urged. “I asked you not to spare me.”

  Pike sat back down and said gently, “We can only speculate that Esther’s death was deliberate. There was no reason for him to murder Elizabeth Strickland, however, and her death most probably was accidental. He knew we were getting close and I suppose he lost his nerve.”

  “Can you prove that Borislav murdered Dunn?”

  “It’s common knowledge amongst his gang that Dunn was murdered to stop him talking. Borislav’s lost control now and his thugs are willing to speak against him. He will hang on their testimony alone, I’m sure of it.”

  Dody suppressed a shiver. “But Everard murdered no one.”

  “He tried, may I point out, to murder you. Had you been convicted—and he genuinely thought you might be—you might have hanged. He still faces a prison sentence, but it will, I’m sad to say, be considerably reduced in the light of his cooperation. He will probably also gain the court’s favour by claiming he picked Dunn up in his car to save him from Borislav’s clutches—when, in fact, he was using Dunn to get to both you and Borislav.” Pike shrugged.

  “His poor wife . . . is there anything you can do for her?”

  Pike sighed. “Dody, I am police, not Salvation Army. She has supportive relatives. They will see to it that she does not starve.”

  There was something else she needed to ask, but her eyelids were getting heavy and she was having trouble holding on to the threads of her thoughts. If she rested her eyes for just a minute, perhaps she could gather the tangles up again. “Van Noort . . .” she began.

  “Hush now,” Pike said and placed his finger across her lips. “Sleep.”

  And for once she obeyed his wishes without further question.

  * * *

  She was sleeping peacefully when Pike kissed her forehead, murmuring that he would soon return. Footsteps in the corridor caused him to straighten and retreat into the shadows of the room. A couple of late middle age, whom he recognised from photographs in the townhouse as Dody’s parents, hurried over to the bed with Florence in tow. They were too distracted to notice Pike inching towards the door; he had no wish to eavesdrop on an intimate family gathering.

  Mr. McCleland went straight to Dody’s side.

  “Hush, don’t wake her, Nial,” his wife admonished.

  “She’s so pale,” he said as he bent over his daughter, his face almost hidden behind his shaggy beard.

  “Don’t worry, Poppa,” Florence whispered. “The doctors are expecting a full recovery. She should be home within a few days.” And then she spied Pike. “Ah, Pike, stay where you are. I’d like you to meet our parents.”

  “Not here, dear, we might wake Dody. Let’s step outside for a moment,” Louise McCleland whispered. Her hair was grey under her wide-brimmed hat, and she met Pike’s gaze with eyes the same violet hue as her younger daughter’s. But her mannerisms were all Dody, from the tilt of her mouth to her sensible, calming countenance.

  They all stepped into the corridor, where Florence introduced them. “If not for Chief Inspector Pike, Dody might not be alive now,” Florence said.

  Pike took Florence’s lead. He kept his manner stiff and formal. “I am more inclined, miss, to give the credit to the late Dr. Van Noort,” he said.

  “The poor fellow who jumped to his death?” Mr. McCleland enquired.

  Pike closed his eyes briefly. “The same, sir,” he said.

  “He was of unsound mind, Poppa,” Florence said.

  “But that does not make it any easier or right, does it, Chief Inspector?” Mrs. McCleland responded.

  “No, indeed, ma’am, it does not. I was hoping he could have been helped. His only crime, after all, was practising medicine without a licence.”

  “Such a shame. Thank you, Chief Inspector, for all you have done.” Mrs. McCleland put her hand out to him.

  “Indeed. Please don’t feel you have to stay, we don’t wish to hold you up,” her husband added. There was no hostility in his voice, but it was obvious that Mr. McCleland was keen to have his family to himself, and Pike could not blame him for that.

  He bowed and bade them good day.

  He was about to step out into the street when he heard hasty footsteps from behind. “Pike, wait,” Florence said, reaching for his arm. “I’ve said nothing to Mother and Poppa, but I can hardly bear the thought that so much of this is my fault.”

  Pike had never seen Florence look quite so miserable. He took her by the arm and guided her to a wooden bench against
the wall near the admissions counter.

  “It’s my fault,” she said again, twisting her gloves in her hands. “It was my stupid idea to try and discover who had manufactured the tablets, and it was my actions that alerted Mr. Borislav and spurred him into laying the trap. I thought he would not know who I was.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Florence,” Pike said. “Many things have happened to get us to this point and yours was just a small part of it.” He could only hope that she had learned from her mistakes and would not take police matters into her own hands again.

  “And Dr. Van Noort—I feel responsible for his death, too,” she said.

  Pike rubbed his hand over his eyes and down his face. His skin still stung from the myriad tiny glass cuts. “The man had attempted suicide before,” he said tiredly. “If not now, he would have succeeded further down the track.”

  Pike found himself unable to control the sudden shudder that wracked his body.

  “Pike, are you all right?”

  “I almost talked him out of it, you know. He was on the ledge about to jump when I returned to the room with Jack. I persuaded him to climb down. We gave Dody the antidote and I sent Jack to find a taxi. During that time we spoke about the war; I think it helped him to talk. And then suddenly, there he was, rushing for the window again before I could stop him. I only hope Dody was unaware of it. She’d drunk as much of the antidote as she could take and was, I think, unconscious by that time.”

  Florence squeezed his arm. “You are a good friend, Pike, not only to poor Dr. Van Noort and to Dody, but to me, too.”

  Tuesday 5 September

  It was a still, overcast day and fitting for a funeral. Dody, who had only been out of hospital for a day, held on to Florence’s arm and looked across the grave to Mrs. Van Noort. The widow exhibited a combination of grief and relief, as a person helplessly watching a loved one slowly dying of an incurable disease might at the close. Mrs. Van Noort held baby Molly tightly as the vicar said his final words. John—or Jack, as Dody knew him now—stood pressed against her side, twisting his fingers through the folds of her black coat.