A Donation of Murder Read online

  Pike introduced Dody as the Home Office Pathologist and led her into the room. ‘Set us up some lights, please, Constable,’ he ordered as he removed a brand new, brass-fitted electric torch from his pocket.

  He fumbled for a moment looking for the switch. ‘It’s the first time I’ve used one of these things, it runs on energy cells,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if they’re as good as everyone says they are.’ He found the switch and clicked the torch on, playing it about the walls and floors like a theatrical spotlight. Dody was impressed. The gadget was new to her too, and sure to prove useful.

  ‘Watch your feet,’ Pike said. The torch beam picked up sundry items of rubbish, ripped-up floorboards and broken crockery strewn about the floor, and a half-burnt bonfire of household goods.

  ‘The items in that bonfire would have produced a particularly thick smoke,’ Dody commented. ‘These men seem so brutal, so desperate. All this for the contents of a jeweller’s safe?’

  ‘Not even all the contents of the safe; as far as I know just one pouch was taken. Shepherd has not yet briefed me on the details, but I’m sure all will be revealed soon. The first body is over here.’ Pike led Dody towards a shattered window and pointed to the body of a young man lying face up on the floor a few feet away.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to proceed with the examination, Doctor?’ Pike asked.

  ‘Certainly.’

  The constable from the front door joined them, lighting then placing several bulls-eye lanterns around the body. With the addition of Pike’s unwavering torch beam, the light was reasonable enough for a preliminary examination. Dody found no signs of injury on the front of the body, though the man’s nostrils were black from smoke. Perhaps Pike was correct, Dody thought, perhaps he did die from smoke inhalation.

  The constable helped Dody turn the body into a prone position and she ran her bare hands from his feet up his legs and back to feel for injuries and broken bones. A sticky spot at the base of the victim’s head caught her attention. She pulled her hand away and examined her shining fingers under the light.

  ‘Blood,’ she said.

  Pike squatted beside her and shone his beam onto the man’s head. Dody eased apart a clump of matted hair.

  ‘This man has been shot in the back of the head,’ she said to Pike as she wiped her hands on his proffered handkerchief. ‘The exit wound is at the top of his forehead, above the hairline, which makes it difficult to see.’

  > ‘Extraordinary shot, hardly any blood at all,’ Pike remarked. ‘I had no idea we had such a marksman in the force.’

  ‘Luck, perhaps,’ Dody replied. ‘Gunshots to the head don’t bleed profusely when death is instantaneous. Surrounding tissue also provides a barrier.’

  ‘You’ll need to look for the bullet, Constable,’ Pike said.

  ‘I’ve already got it sir,’ the young man said, handing the bullet to Pike. ‘It was tangled in the rag mat.’

  ‘Good work.’

  The young man glowed at Pike’s compliment. Pike turned the flattened lead between his fingers. ‘Looks like a 22,’ he said as he slipped it into his inside coat pocket.

  ‘Show me the other bodies, please, Chief Inspector,’ Dody said.

  The second man was positioned near the door. He too had been shot through the back of the head, the bullet passing through the skull and burying itself in the doorframe. The constable took out his penknife and prised it from the splintered wood. Pike put it into his pocket with the other one.

  The third man, the one on the landing, was heavily bearded with a tangled thatch of thick hair. His wound appeared more severe than the other two, the back of his head all but shattered. Pike winced when he saw the damage.

  ‘Tell the men below they can collect the bodies now,’ he ordered the constable, ‘and have them taken to Paddington Mortuary — I trust this would be your preference, Doctor McCleland?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Dody replied as she straightened from her kneeling position.

  Neither spoke again until the constable’s footsteps on the stairs had begun to fade.

  ‘Is the last bullet, the one in the bearded man, still in situ?’ Pike asked Dody. He shone his torch around the floor and walls of the landing. ‘There’s no sign of it here.’

  ‘I believe so, I can see no evidence of an exit wound. I can be more thorough in the mortuary tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like to see it, if and when it is found.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Pike rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. Downstairs a baby began to wail. Cooking smells wafted up the stairwell as the occupants got on with their lives.

  ‘What is it, Matthew?’ Dody asked at last.

  ‘This man here.’ Pike glanced at the dead man at their feet. ‘Can you see him running out of the room and onto the landing with half of his head missing?’

  ‘I very much doubt he would do anything except immediately fall to the floor. Why, what is it?’

  ‘Smoke inhalation, that’s what I thought when I first ran past the bodies, although I didn’t get much of a look at them at the time—’

  ‘You mean you were up here, Matthew,’ Dody’s voice rose, ‘with the robbers, when the place was on fire—’

  ‘Hush a minute, let’s keep to the point. I assumed the police must have shot the men through the window, though I had my doubts — most of my men couldn’t hit a barn door, which is why I requested army marksmen.’ Pike frowned. ‘Then you tell me this man was shot where he fell. Dody, the police didn’t shoot these men, they were shot from inside the building. By a fourth, or even a fifth man.’

  Chapter Six

  At last Tommy allowed himself to stop running. He collapsed onto a bench next to a barrow selling roasted chestnuts, and took some deep breaths as he tried to control the thumping of his heart. He hadn’t noticed the cold or the pain while he was legging it, but now both hit him at once. His leg stung to blazes and he was shaking all over. He lifted his trouser leg to inspect the damage and found one small hole bull’s-eyed through the side of his calf. It looked like the bullet had passed through the muscle. Lucky for him it had missed the bone. He picked up a blob of slushy snow from the footpath and pressed it against the wound for instant, numbing relief. He held the snow there until his hand turned blue and the wound ceased to seep blood.

  A line of people were queuing for the hot, sweet-fleshed nuts. Tommy’s mouth watered. He could do with some himself, but had no money to pay for them. Not that lack of money had ever stopped him from getting such treats in the past. But the chestnut monger was a long-legged fella, at least six foot tall, and Tommy knew he hadn’t a hope of outrunning him in his present condition.

  As the man piled chestnuts into a greasy bag for a young girl, one of the nuts tumbled from the mound onto the footpath. Tommy seized it with the speed of a snake, peeled off the charred skin and popped the yellow flesh into his mouth. He opened his mouth to cool the searing morsel, smiled and stuck his coated tongue out at the girl. The girl squealed and scuttled off with a look of revulsion.

  It was almost dark. A lamplighter carried his ladder from post to post, lighting the gas flames — no such thing as electricity in this part of London. Crowds of people passed by, but no one else stopped at the barrow. Tommy held his hands to the warmth of the brazier.

  ‘Time’s up — clear off, scallywag,’ the costermonger said.

  ‘There’s no laws says I can’t ’ang about ’ere.’

  ‘You’re scarin’ me customers. Buy a bag of nuts or fuck off.’

  ‘I got money, but not on me. ‘Ow ’bout some tick, mate?’

  ‘You gotta cheek,’ the man said, shaking the basket of nuts over the glowing coals.

  ‘I’m gunna be a gent one day and then you’ll be sorry.’ Tommy climbed unsteadily to his feet. He thought about pissing into the man’s brazier, then decided against it. The shakes were still rattling his bones and he’d probably miss and make a fool of himself.

  ‘You wouldn’t talk like that if yo
u knew what was buttoned in me shirt,’ he said.

  At last the chestnut seller looked interested. His gaze dropped to Tommy’s bulging shirtfront. ‘What’s that then, give us a look.’

  ‘You’ll give me some nuts if I shows you?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Then, from the corner of his eye, Tommy glimpsed the unmistakable point of a police helmet sticking up above the heads of the crowd.

  Rozzers. Shit.

  ‘See ya round, mate,’ Tommy said casually to the costermonger before he sidled off into the crowd.

  *

  Tommy managed to hitch a ride on the back of a tram for most of the way until the conductor spied him hanging on and rapped his knuckles. He fell off just as they were pulling up at a stop not far from his destination.

  The sight of the boss’s large house in Mayfair left Tommy trembling more than the sight of the rozzers had done. He’d never seen the opulent mansion before, though he’d heard about it enough. He enjoyed the stories of how Mr Giblett had been nothing more than a street urchin, like Tommy, when he’d started off in the Trade. And now he controlled one of the most successful gangs ever to prey upon the ranks of London’s upper classes, becoming a toff himself in the process.

  And here was Tommy, standing in the porch of the great man’s house.

  He pressed the bell near the glossy black door and heard it jangle on down to the kitchen.

  A tall footman looked down his nose at Tommy. ‘What the hell do you want?’ the footman demanded.

  ‘I come to see Mr Giblett. I got orders, see.’

  ‘Not on the front steps, you don’t. Go down the back and wait at the tradesman’s entrance till I see if you got clearance.’

  Tommy shrugged his skinny shoulders and followed the signs down some steep stone steps towards the side of the house. He tried the door but it was locked. It was fucking cold down here. He slapped his arms across his body to keep warm.

  It seemed to take an eternity for the door to open, and as soon as the footman finished sliding the bolt Tommy was in like a flash, passing through a soft curtain of heat and enticing smells. He hadn’t eaten since the night before and realised then how weak and faint he felt. He glimpsed a fat-arsed cook leaning over a pot on the range. Maybe she’d just let him sit by the fire for a minute, toast him a crumpet or two.

  ‘This way, son,’ the footman said, guiding Tommy away from the warmth of the kitchen to some draughty back stairs. By the time they reached the third floor his leg was hurting like Hades.

  They stepped onto a carpeted landing, where Tommy was instructed to wait outside a panelled door while the footman announced his arrival. The footman took his time before he returned, snatched the cap from Tommy’s head and pushed him through the open door.

  Tommy gasped without meaning to. The room was the poshest he’d ever seen. Silver gleamed from every surface, there were chairs and couches as soft-looking as beds, pretty pictures on the walls, diamond-paned windows, and a blazing log fire.

  Two men sat in wingback chairs on either side of the fireplace, swirling brandy in delicate glass balloons. Tommy’s spirits rose. He knew one of them, and limped towards him with his hand extended.

  ‘Well, I never, ’ow did you get out then, Mr James?’ Tommy asked, face beaming. ‘I thought you was a goner. I ’ardly recognise you in that get-up, what a swell, eh?’

  Last time Tommy had seen Mr James they were in the tenement and Mr James had been dressed in an ill-fitting suit, hob-nailed boots and a cloth cap. Now he was done up like a tailor’s dummy, right down to his shiny black shoes.

  Tommy was even more impressed when Mr James stood up and shook his hand, saying, ‘This is the young man I was telling you about, Mr Giblett.’ Mr James smiled, showing the points of his filed eyeteeth.

  Tommy was struck dumb when Mr Giblett himself stood and shook his hand.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Beauchamp,’ the great man said. ‘Mr James here says you have promise.’ Tommy flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I heard you handled yourself well during some fairly distressing circumstances.’

  Tommy looked to Mr James who gave him an encouraging nod.

  ‘Not ’alf. I mean, yes, sir, very distressin’,’ Tommy said, finding his voice.

  ‘And the others are dead?’

  ‘Yessir, shot by the rozzers through the winder.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Dead as mutton. I saw ’em lyin’ on the floor.’

  ‘It must have been awful,’ Giblett smiled sympathetically.

  ‘It was an’ all. I collected one in the leg too, but I’m all right.’ Could use a slug of brandy though, mate, Tommy thought to himself.

  As if reading his mind, Giblett reached over to a decanter on the table beside him, poured a snifter and handed it to him. Both men looked at each other, then at him and raised their glasses.

  The grog tasted like liquid fire and it did the trick, filling Tommy with warmth and renewed confidence.

  ‘I got the stuff, like you asked me, Mr James,’ Tommy said, patting the bulge in his shirt.

  ‘Well, done, son. Lets ’ave a look-see.’ Mr James didn’t speak as posh as Mr Giblett.

  Tommy reached into his shirt and pulled out the package Mr James had plucked from beneath the body of Archie Slade, seconds before the bonfire they’d put together in the tenement flamed up. It was funny, that, Tommy reflected for the first time since he’d fled the scene. One minute Archie was alive and the next he was dead, and Mr James was standing there in Archie’s place, giving him the package and a load of instructions.

  ‘We trust you, Tommy, if anyone can get out of this alive, you can. You gotta take the goods to Mr Giblett, do ya hear me, son?’

  ‘Hand it over to Mr Giblett, lad,’ Mr James’s voice snapped Tommy back.

  He did as he was told. Giblett peeled off the paper wrapping and tossed it into the fire, then opened the flat, blue velvet jewellery box. Tommy took a step closer and squinted at the necklace resting there, the sparkler for which three of his friends had died. The necklace was said to be worth over thirty thousand quid but it looked kind of ordinary to Tommy — no accounting for taste. The pearl was a whopper, though.

  Giblett drew the big pearl to his mouth and curled his tongue around it in a way that sent a shiver down Tommy’s spine. When he scraped it across his tooth, Tommy wanted to yelp with pain. Blimey, the thing would crack! But the man must know what he’s doing, Tommy reasoned. Blokes said Mr Giblett knew more about jewels and gems than all the Jews in Hatton Gardens put together.

  Apparently satisfied, Giblett tossed the necklace onto an occasional table near the fire, setting agleam the tiny diamonds, sprinkled all over the necklace’s clasp like sugar. Tommy was impressed. He supposed the man could afford to be careless. Maybe Giblett lit his cigars with five-pound notes too.

  ‘Take Mr Beauchamp down to the kitchen, Mr James, and tell Cook to feed him well.’ Then Giblett glanced down at the carpet. Tommy followed his eyes and, to his horror, noticed the bloodstain. ‘And I’ll call the doctor to have that wound tended to.’

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Mr Giblett, about the carpet, I mean,’ Tommy stuttered.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. It’ll clean.’ Giblett picked up the necklace and tossed it at Mr James who caught it with one hand. ‘On second thought, take that too — you know what to do with it.’

  Tommy was escorted back down to the kitchen without catching sight of the grumpy footman. In fact, the kitchen was quite empty. Must all be in the servant’s hall having their tea, Tommy decided.

  Mr James pulled a chair out for him at the kitchen table and Tommy collapsed into it.

  ‘Cook usually leaves leftovers in the warming oven after lunch. Let’s have a look-see-daisy.’ He bent down at the range and removed a covered dish, put it atop the workbench, lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Mmm, roast beef. How does that sound, Tommy my lad?’

  ‘Tops, Mr James,’ Tommy said, his mouth watering. Fancy,
Mr James preparing a meal for him.

  Mr James unfolded an oilcloth and spread it on the table before him. ‘Can’t be making a mess can we, son? Cook would serve me bollocks on a silver plate.’

  Tommy laughed, Mr James was a right old cove. He couldn’t understand how he’d ever been frightened of the man.

  And then Tommy felt something hard and cold jab into the back of his head. He smelled gun oil. He tried to turn but Mr James’s sledgehammer of a hand had clamped itself down onto his shoulder, forcing him to stay rigid in the chair.

  ‘What . . . what are you on about, Mr James? Are you joshin’ me?’

  ‘You left a blood trail, Tommy, right to Mr Giblett’s house.’ The voice was as cold and as hard as the pistol barrel stuck into the back of Tommy’s head.

  Tommy’s mouth dried up, he could barely choke out the words. ‘The sleet was washing it away as I walked, I swear it! I’d never lead the rozzers to Mr Giblett’s gaff, honest! Please, sir. I promise I never—

  ‘Shut up, Tommy.’

  No mess for Cook to clean up, Tommy thought, the instant a fiery pain ripped through the back of his skull.

  Chapter Seven

  Margaret Doyle knelt by the bed in Florence’s room. She cut an ethereal figure in the borrowed white nightdress, hands clasped, the room dark, save for the swaying flames in the fireplace.

  Dody hastened her retreat from the doorway, not wishing to disturb the praying woman.

  Her guest made the sign of the cross and let her hands fall to the bed. ‘It’s all right, Doctor,’ she said turning. ‘I’m finished. Please come in. Turn the light on if you wish.’

  Dody flicked the switch. Miss Doyle placed the jewelled crucifix she had been holding on the bedside table and allowed Dody to help her back into her bed.

  ‘I’m surprised to find you awake at this hour,’ Dody said. ‘Would you like a sleeping draught?’

  ‘No, thank you, Doctor; I’ll settle, eventually. It’s just that I have so many thoughts swirling about in my head. I feel so very blessed. But for the life of me I cannot imagine why He would choose to bring a sinner such as I back to life. Can it be that He has plans for me? Is it a sign for me to end my wicked ways?’