The Anatomy of Death Page 8

  “I hope it was worth it. I don’t think I’ve ever vomited so much. All I had to do was think of that ghastly tube rammed down my nose and out it all came. Alfred was endeavouring to walk me to the hospital when you appeared—not a moment too soon, I might add.”

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  Dody froze.

  Florence gasped as if she’d just caught sight of Jack the Ripper.

  Chief Inspector Pike materialised through the mist as if from nowhere. “My apologies for startling you,” he said, lifting his hat to them.

  Dody was first to regain her composure. “I hope you are not following us, Chief Inspector?”

  “On the contrary, I am making my way home from an engagement in Southwark. I caught the omnibus to the corner of Blackfriars Road and decided to walk home from there.” He paused, using his cane to indicate their gloomy surroundings. “Seeing as the night is so pleasant and ideal for such a stroll.”

  “A stroll is good for the health regardless of the weather,” Dody replied with affected haughtiness. “We called on Alfred at the mortuary to deliver him a carbolic ball.”

  “Yes, I saw you leave.”

  “Fletcher must be worried for us. I think we should be going now,” Florence said, grabbing at Dody’s arm. “Good evening, Mr. Pike.” They turned towards the carriage without waiting for his reply.

  He called after them, “Oh, ladies? Sergeant Fisher would very much appreciate the return of his truncheon—at your earliest convenience, of course. Thank you.”

  It had been quite by chance that Pike had come across the women leaving the mortuary. There were easier ways to find out what they were up to without following them himself. His was a desk job; he was a gatherer of intelligence. He had an army of detectives and informers at his disposal, but he was glad, nevertheless, for the opportunity to see them in action with his own eyes. He was not surprised that Dr. McCleland was not content to let the matter of the slipshod autopsy rest. Nor was he perturbed that his orders had been disobeyed. He had hoped they would be.

  He pondered just what she intended to do with any new findings. She would surely not make them public; that would be to betray herself. Would she trust him enough to confide in him? If the decision were left to Dr. McCleland’s sister, Florence, the answer would surely be a definitive “No.” The hatred of her kind for the police was no different from that of any common criminal, perhaps even more bitter. He sensed the older sister to be more flexible, however. There was a depth of understanding and maturity in those soft brown eyes that had drawn him to them. He could see that the doctor and he both worked for the same ends—the discovery of the truth, no matter how unsavoury it might be. He hoped he was not imagining this. He had no stomach for setting his spies upon Dr. Dorothy McCleland.

  He continued to brood upon the problem as he crossed the Lambeth Bridge towards his lodgings off Millbank Road. No need to worry about being mown down by speeding motorcars here. The bridge had recently been deemed unsafe and vehicular traffic was barred, though there was still danger about. He banished thoughts about Dr. McCleland and the case to the back of his mind. He had seen too many bloated bodies pulled from the river to drop his guard even for a moment.

  A group of men lounged in the shadows of one of the bridge’s towers, and Pike tightened his grip upon his cane. He strained to hear the talk of the men above the slapping of water, and detected Cockney accents; not Irish, thank God. There was laughter, and he saw one snatch a bottle from another with an angry curse. So intent were they in draining every last drop from the bottle, they weren’t even aware of his passing. He expelled a breath and commenced the steep descent from the bridge.

  Though never quite as bustling as the docklands further downriver, it was hard to believe not long ago the Millbank district had been a crazy quilt of timber, cement, wine and coal wharves, crowded tenements, and dingy back alleys reminiscent of Dickens’s London. The passing of the Thames Embankment Extension Scheme had brought the closure of most of the wharves and warehouses. Now only a few rusty cranes were left, elbowing their way across the river, waiting to unload the barges and lighters that would never come.

  Pike picked his way through the bleak wasteland, still showing more sign of destruction than construction. Six thousand people had been moved out of the surrounding slums and placed in the blocks of red brick flats springing up all around the City of Westminster. Like cats, many returned to the area they still considered home, though there were few of the original landmarks left for them—some boarded-up shops, a public house, a crumbling warehouse or two. But it was cheap and meant that on the rare occasion his daughter visited, he had money left over for a few nights in a modest hotel on a safer side of town.

  The streetlamps were spread further apart here. He stepped in a pile of horse manure as he passed a group of ragamuffins taking shelter against a stack of yet-to-be-laid sewerage pipes. Out of habit he examined the thin faces flickering in the light from the brazier, seeking a match to the wanted posters that lined the passages of Scotland Yard. But the hollow look of hunger was the only resemblance.

  He was skirting a pile of rags blocking his way when the rags moved. A skinny arm appeared and a woman’s voice begged him to buy a flower. He crossed to the other side of the road, blocking his ears to her pleas. In years gone by he might have succumbed, but the job had hardened him, his compassion now tempered by practicality. He couldn’t do right by everyone, and he had more than enough charity cases for the salary he drew.

  The police pay was terrible and his decision to join the force had been the last straw for his wife. The daughter of a major, she’d felt betrayed when he resigned his commission in South Africa. His joining the metropolitan police had driven her into the arms of a guardsman, the same man who had been killed with her when the hotel was bombed. Pike hadn’t needed the Irishman to remind him—a strange mixture of grief, regret, and hurt pride still dogged him.

  The wind was bitter. He rammed his free hand deep into his pocket and hunkered into his scarf. He made his way along Millbank Road. The putrid smell of the river mist dissipated, giving way to that of effluent and soot. There were few working streetlights in the vicinity of his boardinghouse. Like a blind man, he tapped the path with his cane, avoiding piles of refuse and potholes, until at last he caught the winking front lights of his clapboard lodgings.

  Fated for eventual demolition, the boardinghouse had received little maintenance over the last few years, though it was quite comfortable. His rooms consisted of a small bedroom and sitting room and a bathroom on the landing, which he shared with two other gentleman boarders. When the time came for him to move, he would be hard-pressed to find similarly cheap lodgings so close to his work.

  He prayed that his landlady, the widowed Mrs. Keating, had not waited up for him. He tried to ensure that he arrived home at the busiest time of her day, when she was serving the evening meal to her five gentlemen boarders—or so late that even she would not be awake.

  His timing was wrong tonight. The flaking wooden door opened before he could put his key into the lock. Mrs. Keating stood there, swaying slightly, dressed in feathers and jewels as if she had just returned from an evening out.

  “Mr. Pike, I was getting worried about you,” she said. “You never told me nothing about missing supper tonight. But I’ve kept a lovely pig’s trotter warm for you if you’re hungry—my other gentlemen was most complimentary of the dish.”

  “I’m sure your supper was of your usual high standard, Mrs. Keating, but I’m afraid I’ve already eaten.” Pike undid the buttons of his overcoat and removed his scarf, putting his hat and gloves on the hall table.

  His landlady smiled and sidled towards him. “No collar tonight, Mr. Pike? And you who usually looks such the gentleman. Your blue cravat is back from the laundry, the one that brings out your eyes so well. I put it on your bed.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Keating, you are most kind.” The banister was pressing into his back as he attempted to increase
the distance between himself and the invitation of the low-cut cleavage thrust towards his chest. This aging trollop was as lonely as he was, but she would have to look elsewhere for her comfort. He had his standards, and the womanising ways of his early youth were well and truly over. After the miserable years of his marriage to a woman he could never, apparently, satisfy, he had little taste for embarking on the whole catastrophe again.

  “I’m very tired and will retire to my rooms,” he muttered, turning his cowardly heel upon the foot of the stair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Keating,” he added softly.

  Behind him he heard her huff of breath. “Well, you’ve got no letters. Not one from your daughter nor your sister, neither,” she said with relish.

  He turned and gave her a tight smile. “Then perhaps I shall hear from them tomorrow. Good night, Mrs. Keating.”

  Chapter Ten

  By lunchtime the next day Pike had finished interviewing several more officers and detectives involved in the riot—without thankfully having to sack any of them. He picked up the photograph of his daughter from his desk. Despite his regrets about his catastrophic marriage, he could never look back and think of those years as wasted. His daughter’s sunny smile cheered him up as it always did and encouraged him to keep going.

  He asked Fisher to chase up the last batch of photographs to be developed and then set off along the endless corridors to the section of the building devoted to the offices of Special Branch.

  Superintendent Thomas Callan listened intently as Pike reported his confrontation with the O’Neill brothers in the public house. Callan had been with the elite division of the Met since its formation when it was called the Special Irish Branch. Recently the “Irish” part of its title had been dropped and its responsibilities increased. Now it concerned itself with the gathering, collating, and exploiting of intelligence relating to any security threat, irrespective of origins. Britannia might still rule the waves, but at the dawn of the new century, her grip on the established order had become tenuous and she faced more threats than ever from both within and without.

  Callan reassured Pike that the brothers’ arrival in the country had been noted and their movements closely monitored. “So you can rest easy, Matthew,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure they were just trying to provoke you. I think Shepherd is trying to divert you from the main issue—his own incompetence at handling the women’s march. Ignore his suggestions, and proceed as you think best.”

  Not wishing to involve Callan in any breach of procedure he might be forced to make, Pike did not mention the inadequate autopsy or reveal his suspicions that there might be more than incompetency behind Shepherd’s behaviour. It was gratifying to hear that his mentor was still counselling him to follow his own instincts. Pike relaxed into his seat. Superintendent Callan was one of the few senior police officers for whom Pike had a genuine regard.

  “On the day of the riot, the brothers were with family in Kent,” Callan continued. “Besides, they haven’t been in the country long enough to organise trouble from behind the scenes.”

  “Have you any idea who issued the instructions for the police to act with such force?”

  Callan shrugged. “What does Shepherd say?”

  “He denies any such instructions were issued. He says the Whitechapel divisional sergeant briefed the men and suggests that orders had been misinterpreted.”

  “And the Whitechapel sergeant—has he been questioned?”

  “Yes. According to Sergeant Fisher, he is saying the same thing: the men misinterpreted his instructions. Shepherd has forbidden us to interview him further. Apparently he is too valuable an officer to lose.”

  Callan paused and regarded Pike with concern. “I heard Shepherd at the club the other day talking to some of his cronies, complaining about you. Not your work,” Callan responded promptly to Pike’s look of indignation. “Even he couldn’t find fault with that. He was implying you weren’t physically fit enough for the job, that maybe it was time you were pensioned off. Do you think you might have been asking a few too many questions?”

  Pike said nothing and turned his gaze to the window.

  “How is the knee these days, Matthew?”

  “It always plays up in winter, but come spring it’ll loosen up again.” He focused his attention on the snarled traffic in the street outside Callan’s office, the muted sounds of jingling harnesses, clopping hooves, and motorcar engines.

  “Then you’ve not taken up that offer at the Royal Victoria? Didn’t the surgeon there say he could do something for you?”

  Pike turned back from the window. “I don’t want surgery.” He would rather lose his job than find himself in the hands of army surgeons again. He ran his hand along the inside of his collar and found he was perspiring despite the chill of Callan’s office. “I’m sorry, sir; I appreciate your concern, but the subject is closed.” His mouth was dry. Reaching for his cane, he climbed to his feet.

  “That’s quite all right, old man, one can hardly blame you—I can only imagine what that South African field hospital must have been like. But if Shepherd does start on your case, don’t forget there’s a position waiting for you in my department.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “Belgravia, to speak to a possible witness to Lady Catherine’s death.”

  “I can organise a dispatch motor wagon for you if you like.”

  “Thank you, no. Shepherd might catch wind of it. As far as he’s concerned, a brick-wielding Irish rough killed Lady Catherine. The less he knows about my continuing investigation, the better. I’ll take my chances with the omnibus.” He paused at the door. “Oh, one more thing, sir,” he said, turning back. “What can you tell me of the McCleland family of Sussex? I know they have been considered troublemakers, but that’s as far as my information goes.”

  “We had them under surveillance two or three years ago,” Callan said after some thought. “It came to nothing, and we have since dropped it.”

  “Their politics put them under suspicion?”

  “That, and the people they mixed with. They were patrons of the arts in Russia, mixed with the intelligentsia, personal friends of Tolstoy, et cetera, with socialist beliefs—you know the form.” Callan gave a wry smile. “It’s easy to be a socialist when you’re rich, eh?”

  “Left wing and upper crust—an interesting paradox,” Pike mused.

  “To which they are all probably blinkered.”

  Pike doubted this was the case of the elder daughter; she seemed to have her feet planted firmly on the ground. Then again, in her profession, she’d have to.

  Callan continued. “And then one of Mr. McCleland’s brothers was murdered.”

  “Political?”

  “No, nothing of the kind; he was a university professor of English in Moscow, shot by a student who felt he deserved better exam marks.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Quite. The McClelands presumably saw this as a sign that the country was going to the dogs—in any case, their socialist leanings were drawing the attention of the Russian authorities. They brought their daughter Florence—the older girl was already at school here—and their considerable fortune back to England, where they have lived the life of wealthy eccentrics ever since. Why the interest?”

  “I’ve had recent dealings with both daughters.”

  “Miss Florence McCleland, I take it, the suffragette? You know, some of the higher-ups view the suffragettes as a greater threat to the British Empire than the Irish, the anarchists, the socialists, and the Germans all rolled into one.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Pike said. “The women were certainly troublesome, but hardly a serious threat. Why were those arrested on Friday released so quickly?”

  “The government’s afraid of more hunger strikes, I suspect. The torture of women doesn’t exactly cast any of us in a good light. I’d say the Pankhursts’ tactics appear to be working. You mentioned daughters, plural.”
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br />   “The elder is an autopsy surgeon.”

  Now it was Callan’s turn to look surprised. “Well, I suppose anything is possible when you consider how they were brought up. Good-looking women, though, so I hear, the younger one especially.”

  “Is she? I hadn’t noticed.” Pike smiled slightly, his second of the day.

  * * *

  The omnibus dropped Pike off a short walk from the Cartwright residence, one of a row of grand terrace houses fronted with trimmed box hedges in Lyall Street. He stepped back from the front door and looked up, counting five storeys including the servants’ attic. The grey of the tall Georgian building seemed to blend in with the grey of the sky.

  “Chief Inspector Pike, Scotland Yard,” the butler announced as he opened the double doors of the opulent morning room. Lady Helen Cartwright remained seated at her writing desk, her back turned to the door. Pike used the same tactics himself on subordinates who needed reminding of their place. He took off his hat and scarf, thumbed open the buttons of his coat, and pointedly handed the damp items to the butler, whom he suspected had deliberately omitted to take them.

  Hugo Cartwright acknowledged Pike’s presence with a brief tip of his head, making no effort to move from where he stood warming himself by the fire, coattails lifted.

  Despite his considerable height, Cartwright had about him an air of delicacy, enhanced by the fairness of his hair and skin, which would barely require a razor’s scrape. His eyelashes were so blond they appeared tipped with snow. If he stood much closer to the fire, Pike feared he might melt.

  Pike remained where he was, the butler hovering behind, as if waiting to eject him at the first sign of trouble.

  Lady Helen Cartwright finally turned. She wore a gown of black tulle as befitted the mourning of her sister-in-law, Lady Catherine. “What is your business, Inspector?” she asked with a slight rise of her upper lip.

  “I would like to speak to your son, please, my lady.”

  She gestured towards Hugo Cartwright. “Well, there he is.”