The Anatomy of Death Page 3

  The other attendant wheeled in the next body from the cadaver keep and Dody refilled her pipe.

  “Now this death has to be regarded as potentially suspicious,” Shepherd said as the attendants exchanged one body for the other on the slab. “We are obliged to perform a full medico-legal autopsy, though I’m sure you will be able to confirm accidental causes. We don’t need to take too long about it.”

  Dody riffled through the items in the effects parcel: an expensive walking outfit, gloves, boots, stockings, silk blouse, assorted linen, and a somewhat crushed wide-brimmed hat. Under this, something metallic glinted against the brown paper packaging. She picked it out and turned it over in her hand. The silver medal of a hunger strike survivor gleamed back at her—her sister Florence had one just like it. For a moment Dody ceased to breathe. At once she dreaded what she might find under the sheet.

  But Florence was alive and unharmed; Rupert had told her so. Drawing a lungful of pipe smoke, she pulled back the sheet and found herself looking upon the familiar face of Lady Catherine Cartwright, one of her sister’s close friends. Closing her eyes, she prayed her vision was playing tricks on her. She opened them again. It was not. She felt herself grow dizzy.

  She must not faint.

  To steady herself, she reached for the dissecting slab. With the other hand, she replaced the sheet.

  “Doctor? Is something the matter?” Pike appeared from nowhere, moving to her side.

  “Fetch some smelling salts, Alfred, the lady is going to faint.” Shepherd made no effort to hide the glee in his voice.

  “I am not about to faint, Superintendent,” Dody managed. “Alfred, stay where you are if you please, I am perfectly all right. But I regret to inform you that I cannot proceed with this autopsy. I know this woman; she was a friend of my sister. It would be unprofessional of me to continue.”

  Shepherd smacked a heavy fist into his hand. “Damn it, this is all we need. Are you quite sure? It is most important we ascertain a cause of death immediately.”

  “Sir,” Pike cut in, “Dr. McCleland is correct; she can’t be expected to continue.” He spoke with a peculiar emphasis, and Dody looked up to see him giving his superior a meaningful glance, as if he was trying to signal something to the superintendent that should already have been self-evident.

  Chapter Three

  Pike held Shepherd back from following Dr. McCleland up the mortuary stairs. “McCleland, sir, do you not recognise the name?”

  Shepherd turned. “Should I? Not a bad-looking filly,” he said, as if to himself. “But marred by intelligence and overly wilful, I suspect.”

  Pike hadn’t paid much attention to the woman’s looks; he had other things on his mind. “Florence McCleland is an associate of Emmeline and Christabel Pankhurst, the leaders of the militant suffragettes,” he said. “She runs the Bloomsbury Division of the Women’s Suffrage and Political Union. Presumably she is the sister Dr. McCleland was referring to.”

  Shepherd slapped the side of his mackintosh. “You mean that woman is one of those godforsaken Anglo-Irish-Russian-Socialist McClelands from Sussex?”

  “I believe they call themselves Fabians, sir.”

  “Fabians, socialists, what’s the difference?”

  Pike allowed a faint smile. “Despite their close ties with the Labour Party, Fabians tend to be better bred than most socialists. They believe in gradual reform through education rather than sweeping, revolutionary changes. The simple way of life is important to them, though some are absurdly rich and often artistic—Mr. Bernard Shaw is a Fabian I believe, sir.”

  “Intellectual poppycock.”

  For a change Pike was inclined to agree with his superior. “But it would have been useful to have Dr. McCleland conduct the autopsy—should the result fall in our favour, sir,” he said. “If a suffragette sympathiser could prove we had no involvement in the death, then no one could accuse us of falsifying the results. Assuming, of course, that, like her sister, she is a sympathiser.”

  “Yes, but if the results aren’t in our favour—if one of ours is accused of dealing the fatal blows—how could we trust such a woman to give an unbiased account? We need someone totally neutral on the job.” Shepherd called out to the assistant coroner. “Bright, you’ve conducted autopsies before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, a fair few, but that was a long time ago, before they changed the regulations.”

  “Sir,” Pike cut in. “Law requires that a medical practitioner conduct—”

  “And the coroner’s office has the legal authority to appoint one.” Shepherd all but sneered. “Bright will find us a medical man, won’t you, Bright?”

  “Dr. Mangini is usually available, sir,” Bright said.

  Pike yanked the cigarette from his mouth. “Mangini? The man’s a soak. Probably only available because no one will employ him!”

  “We don’t have the time to rustle up someone else through the Home Office. I want this off my plate today. Mangini’s a medical practitioner and his rooms are close by; that’s all that counts. We’ll make sure he does the right thing, won’t we, Bright?” Shepherd slapped the assistant coroner on the shoulder.

  Just then Sergeant Walter Fisher, Pike’s assistant, stepped into the frigid basement. “Sorry to disturb you, sirs,” he said, waistcoat buttons straining across his giant belly, bowler hat deferentially twisting in his hand. “I’ve assembled the officers outside your office, Detective Chief Inspector, and they’re waiting for their interviews.” Fisher had a flattened nose and missing front tooth—he’d been a fistfighter in his youth—but he was a gentle giant, and a man Pike was glad to have in his corner.

  Pike hesitated. He wanted to stay for the autopsy, especially now that he knew who was to conduct it.

  “I’ll stay and supervise Mangini, Pike,” Shepherd said with an air of magnanimity. “You’d better get going. Can’t have the men kept waiting indefinitely. Rest assured Bright and I will see the doctor does the right thing.”

  The right thing, Pike mused, the right thing for whom? He didn’t doubt that Shepherd would have conducted the autopsy himself if he thought he could get away with it.

  Situated on the Embankment, the New Scotland Yard building looked like a cross between a medieval fortress and a French château. The top half of the building was red brick and included a turret overlooking the Thames. The ground-floor walls were made of granite quarried by inmates of Dartmoor Prison. Rooms of all shapes and sizes were linked by a tangled maze of stairwells and corridors. To avoid putting them to any unnecessary exertion, senior officers were situated at ground level. Many considered this a dubious privilege, for it meant missing out on the views across the Thames from the top floors and the cooling river breezes in summer. Pike, though, appreciated the ground-floor location with its private waiting room and exit, and not only because of his gammy knee. It meant people could enter and leave his office with few of his colleagues being any the wiser. They didn’t understand him or the way he operated, and he was happy to keep it that way.

  Pike gave the cringing constable standing in front of him one last steely look before pointing to the rear door of his office. He didn’t want to give the man any chance of talking with the others in the waiting room. “That way, Excel,” Pike said, handing the man his papers of dismissal. “Collect your pay and arrange the return of your uniforms with the Whitechapel quartermaster.”

  Once the man had gone, Pike stretched his leg out from under his desk. It felt like a block of wood today—in the cold of the autopsy room it had frozen up completely. He rubbed it vigorously for a moment before cautiously pushing himself up from his chair and reaching for his cane. By the time he’d crossed his office, it had loosened up. If time permitted, he would take a long walk this evening to perhaps improve his chances of getting some sleep.

  He stopped at the small window in the wall dividing his office from the waiting room, drew the curtain, and looked beyond his own blurry image. This was no ordinary pane of glass, but an obs
ervation window, appearing as a plain mirror on the waiting room side. He’d had the innovation shipped from America and installed at his own expense. Few officers in the building, other than Fisher, were aware of its true purpose.

  Peering through the curtain now, he saw the two men he had yet to interview, both sitting on the bench in silence, arms folded, legs splayed, brooding upon their fate, no doubt. Pike opened the door and signalled Sergeant Fisher to show the next constable in.

  He allowed the man to stand at attention in front of his desk, beehive helmet under his arm, while he examined the paperwork before him. Only when he could hear the man’s breathing and sense his figure beginning to sway did he slowly look up into the battered and bruised face. With some difficulty, Pike cracked his lips into a smile. “Dykins, Constable 358, Whitechapel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pull up a chair, Dykins, you look done in.”

  “I am at that, sir, thank you, sir.” The chair looked no more substantial than a bundle of matchsticks in the constable’s hamlike hand, and it creaked as he settled his bulk into it. Pike’s transfer from the army into the metropolitan police at officer level had meant he was exempted from the usual height requirements. Sometimes when confronting men such as this, he felt like a midget. He opened his cigarette case. “Care for a cigarette, Dykins?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir.” The cigarette shook in the constable’s hand as Pike lit it for him.

  Pike drew in smoke, leaned back in his chair, and regarded the man across his desk. “I hear you had a rough time yesterday, Dykins. Did you get your injuries adequately attended to?”

  “Just a few bruises, sir, nothing very serious.”

  “And what about a look at the person who attacked you?”

  “There were several, sir, all of ’em women.”

  Pike shook his head. “Bloody women, eh? And you let them get the better of you? I’m surprised a big chap like you would let himself be subdued by a gaggle of hysterical females.”

  Dykins relaxed into his chair, smiled. “Well, it wasn’t quite like that, sir. I did manage to put a few of ’em back in their place, if you know what I mean.”

  Pike met Dykins’s eye and shot him a wink. “But not with undue violence, I hope.”

  “No, sir, but let’s just say some of ’em might think twice about taking to the street again.”

  “A woman’s place is in the home, eh, Constable?”

  “That’s what I always say, sir. If they got ’urt, it was because they asked for it. They’d no business being there.”

  Pike measured his words carefully. “Some of the women claim they were indecently assaulted by the police. Did you see any evidence of that?”

  “Not at all, sir, most of us was just defending ourselves. I think if there was anything not quite right going on, it was probably from all them roughs that was ’anging about, following the marchers. I reckon in the confusion, a woman could easily be mistaken about ’oo it was ’ad touched ’er up.”

  “And one of the women who died, Lady Catherine Cartwright, can you remember seeing her in the crowd?” Pike pushed the postmortem photographs of Lady Catherine over to him, along with a picture of her wide-brimmed hat.

  Dykins studied the photographs for a moment. “No, sir, can’t say that I remember seeing that woman at all.”

  Pike opened a file on his desk and fanned out another series of photographs. “Do you know what these are, Dykins?”

  Dykins leaned forward. “More photographs—pictures of the riot, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s right, but more than just pictures.” Pike kept his tone conversational. “These photographs were taken without the subjects’ knowledge—we call them surveillance photographs. No one posed for these. The camera operator was concealed in a motor wagon using a special long-focus lens. Some of the images are quite astonishing. Here, have a look at this one.” Pike slid a large photograph across his desk.

  Dykins rested his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up a photograph of a police officer ripping at a woman’s bodice and exposing her breasts. He paled under his bruises.

  “Do you recognise that police officer, Dykins?” Pike’s tone was no longer conversational.

  Dykins put his hand to his mouth as if to cough. The high neck of his tunic moved as he swallowed. “It looks like me, sir, but it must be some mistake, some trick of photography.”

  “No trick, I assure you. I supervised the setting up of the equipment myself. The idea behind it was to capture the women in the act of breaking the law so we could show proof of their behaviour to the courts.” Pike paused. “I had no idea just how useful this surveillance technology would be.”

  He glanced pointedly at Dykins. Removing a magnifying glass from his desk drawer, he took the photograph back from Dykins and read aloud the enlarged serial numbers on the policeman’s collar. Then he left his desk, bent over the seated Dykins, and made a show of inspecting his collar. “No mistake, it’s your number: 358.”

  Dykins jumped to his feet. His face had reddened; his mouth moved without sound. Pike moved back to his side of the desk to sign the dismissal papers. With an impassive expression, he handed the papers over, repeating what he’d said to the three previous interviewees. “Collect your pay and hand your uniforms in to the Whitechapel quartermaster.”

  He was indicating the rear door when Dykins caught him off guard. With surprising speed, the man grabbed the front of Pike’s waistcoat and almost lifted him from the ground one-handed. “You fucking officer toff,” Dykins said through a spray of spittle. “You’ve no bloody idea what it’s like out there on the street. I been in the force over fifteen years now, and doing me duty, spat at, ’urt, abused, and you reckon you can judge me by one fucking photograph? We was told to stamp on them women. I was just following orders …”

  With a swift chop, Pike brought the edge of his hand down on the man’s bicep. Dykins lost his grip and cried out in pain.

  “Sergeant Fisher,” Pike called, pulling down his waistcoat and adjusting his collar. Upon the sergeant’s speedy entrance, he said, “Please escort this man from the premises.”

  Of even greater height and weight than Dykins, Fisher had no trouble restraining the burly man and hustling him out the back door. The sound of the man’s curses and threats continued to be heard down the street.

  “Another one who said he was following orders,” Pike said when Fisher returned, dusting his hands.

  “Well, there’s orders and orders, ain’t there, sir? That Whitechapel mob are a rough lot, they wouldn’t need much encouragement.”

  “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” Pike mused. Fisher looked back at him blankly. Pike wondered what was troubling the man; he was usually quicker than that. “I want you to speak to the Whitechapel sergeant,” Pike said. “Find out what he said to his men. But wait, don’t go just yet.” They both needed a break. Pike had noticed the fatigue in the eyes of his sergeant, the paleness of his usually ruddy skin. The final constable could wait a little longer. “How are things at home, Walter?” he said. “Is Mrs. Fisher any better?” Fisher’s wife had been diagnosed with tuberculosis, though Pike would never have known had Fisher not recently requested a day off work to take her to the doctor.

  “Much better, sir; she was—we both were—very grateful for the hamper. The doctor says she needs as much eggs and fresh milk as we can get.”

  And a rest cure in Switzerland, no doubt, Pike thought bleakly. “Have you tried for the Policeman’s Hardship Fund?”

  “No, sir, and I don’t intend to neither. A man’s got to look after his own, else it’s the beginning of a long slippery slope down—don’t you think so, sir?”

  Pike nodded; pride was something he could understand. He asked Fisher to send the next man in and lowered his head once more to the photographs with their sickening images of animalistic violence. This was only the first batch to be developed, and he had seen no sign yet of Lady Catherine. He wondered what secrets the others might
reveal.

  Chapter Four

  The leadlight door opened in a kaleidoscope of glowing reds and greens. “Miss Dody! I sensed it was you ringing the bell. Welcome home!”

  “Hello, Annie, how have you been?” Dody smiled. She was determined not to let the incident at the mortuary mar her homecoming.

  “Oh, busy as always,” the maid said. “Miss Florence has had ever so many visitors lately.” Dody stepped through the porch into the black-and-white-tiled hall, removed her hat, gloves, and cape, and handed them to the parlour maid.

  She glanced around her at the stacks of boxes, typewriter cases, and other assorted office equipment. The potted palms, her sister’s pride and joy only last year, could barely be seen above the clutter.

  “Is my sister alone now?”

  “Yes, in the morning room, miss. Would you like to be announced?”

  “First, I would like a bath and a change of clothes. I’m afraid I’m dreadfully smelly. Please go to the kitchen and see if Cook can spare me some lemons. The juice is a powerful odour eliminator, and from now on, I’d like her to keep plenty in stock. And see that the clothes I am wearing are washed separately and also rinsed in a weak solution of lemon juice.” At the sight of the young maid’s wrinkled nose, Dody said, “This is something you’re going to have to get used to, Annie.”

  Annie sighed, “Yes, miss—would you like me to help you wash your hair?”