A Donation of Murder (2 page)

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, get off me!' the woman shrieked, snatching at the white sheet and pulling it up to her neck. At once the edge of the sheet wicked red around the wound at her jawline.

‘I'm so sorry, this is all a terrible mistake,' Dody stuttered, stepping over the prone form of Fisher to reach the woman.

Hutchinson remained motionless, frozen as if into a block of ice.

‘Get the inspector out of here,' Dody said through the side of her mouth, ‘and give him some smelling salts.'

She reached out to calm the hysterical woman while Hutchinson began the laborious task of dragging Fisher across the mortuary room floor towards the swinging doors.

‘Don't touch me!' the woman yelled as Dody attempted to staunch her bleeding neck with a piece of gauze. Still clutching at the sheet, the woman slipped off the slab, lost her balance and fell against the instrument trolley. Dody caught the toppling trolley and the screaming woman before they crashed to the floor, though she could not prevent the instruments from clattering to the tiles. The screaming woman, the noise combined into a nightmarish cacophony that threatened to drown out what little rational thought Dody had left in her head.

‘Try and calm down,' she said to the woman as much as to herself. ‘No one is going to hurt you.'

‘Oh, no — only cut my throat!'

‘It was a mistake. Please, let me help you over to the bench and I'll explain.' With one hand resting on Dody's elbow, the other pinching the sheet together to preserve the remnants of her modesty, the corpse — now patient — allowed Dody to guide her to a bench at the far end of the room, next to the dissection table. On the table sat a row of specimen jars containing pieces of cancerous lung tissue that Dody had excised from her previous case. She moved them out of sight to the shelf under the table.

Dody knelt before the woman and held her freezing hands, rubbing them between her own.

‘A policeman found you in an alley near the Anchor and Whistle public house first thing this morning. You were pronounced dead.'

‘Dead! Who said I was dead?'

‘The police surgeon. The police brought you here for an autopsy because they wanted to find out how you died.' Even to Dody's ears the words sounded ridiculous. ‘Sometimes, the body systems all but shut down in extreme cold, making signs of life difficult to detect.'

The woman paused as the information sank in. ‘And you brought me back from the dead? Like Lazarus?' she whispered, tightening her icy grip on Dody's hands.

‘Well, no, because you obviously weren't really—'

The door swung open. Hutchinson entered, followed by a sheepish looking Inspector Fisher. Hutchinson offered the woman a mug of steaming tea.

‘There you go, love, I've put lots of sugar in it.'

The woman reached for the tea, but could not grip the handle on account of her trembling hands.

‘I don't suppose you have anything stronger?' she asked.

Dody moved over to her Gladstone bag, removed a flask of medicinal brandy and poured a generous amount into the tea. ‘This should do.'

With Dody's help, the woman managed to take several reviving sips.

‘Where are my clothes?' she asked.

Dody pointed to the trolley. ‘Over there, but they're soaked through and filthy. Mr Hutchinson, could you please find some spare clothes or a blanket — anything more substantial than the sheet for the lady?'

Hutchinson nodded and left the room once more.

‘And my jewels!' the woman exclaimed, clutching at her neck, attempting to rise from the bench.

Dody stopped her with a raised hand. ‘It's all right, we still have them. Pass them to her, please, Mr Fisher.'

Dody helped the woman put on her cross and earrings.

‘Are you up to answering some questions, miss?' Fisher asked, glancing at Dody as if he expected some kind of reprimand.

The woman took a deep breath. ‘I don't know. You can but try.'

Her accent, Dody noticed, had the clipped edge and refined intonation of the educated middle class.

‘Let's start with your name,' Fisher said.

‘Margaret Doyle. Miss.

‘You are Irish?'

‘I was born here, but my parents were from Derry. They are both long gone.'

Nothing wrong with Miss Doyle's long-term memory, Dody thought. But what of her short-term memory? ‘Where do you live?'

‘Dalston, North London.'

‘And can you remember any of the events that led to you being found in that alley,' Fisher asked.

Margaret Doyle turned to Dody. Her eyes filled and her face all but dissolved. ‘Yes, I can, but the memory is a painful one.' She slumped against Dody's shoulder and began to sob. Dody stroked her unruly curls.

At that moment Hutchinson reappeared with a ratty blanket. ‘This is all we've got, Doctor. The poor box is empty.'

‘Good enough for the moment, thank you,' Dody said as she wrapped the woman in it. ‘Inspector Fisher, I'd like to take Miss Doyle to my clinic; it's only a short taxi ride from here. She needs a different kind of medical attention to what the mortuary can provide, and some decent, warm clothes.'

Fisher indicated that he wanted a private word. Dody left Hutchinson helping Margaret Doyle with the remainder of her tea and joined Fisher near the trough sink.

‘I'm afraid you won't be welcome at my clinic, Inspector,' Dody said, pre-empting him. ‘It is a female-only establishment. Exceptions are made, of course, though not for the police, due to the nature of many of the women's occupations. It's nothing personal, Inspector Fisher.'

‘I understand,' he said, ‘but I was hoping you might be able to question her for me there — the atmosphere has to be more pleasant than it is here — and report back to me.'

‘I'll do my best.' Dody examined his battered face with concern. ‘Are you feeling better now? Did you hit your head when you fell?'

Fisher coloured, and rubbed the back of his skull. ‘I've banged it a lot worse than that, Doctor. You won't tell Chief Inspector Pike about my, err,' he waved his hands around, ‘little turn, will you?'

‘No, of course not. Although Mr Pike would probably have reacted in exactly the same way. It was a terrible shock for all of us. Please think nothing of it, Inspector
Fisher. And now, if you would be so kind as to flag down a taxi to take Miss Doyle and myself to the clinic?'

*

Daphne Hamilton, a great friend of Dody's sister, Florence, greeted Dody from behind the tall desk to which patients reported on first entering the clinic.

‘Good morning, Doctor McCleland, you're early — the other doctors and board members aren't here yet.'

Bother. Dody had forgotten all about the board meeting and the serious business that lay ahead on its agenda.

‘Hullo, who's this?' Daphne added, peering down at them.

Dody tightened her grip around Miss Doyle's shoulders. Before they'd left the mortuary Dody had wrapped her in her own fur-lined cape, though she still shivered under her touch. ‘Miss Margaret Doyle, a lady I've just met under some rather distressing circumstances. She has hypothermia and needs warming. Is there a cubicle free?'

Daphne peered down at Margaret's neck wound. ‘Number two's empty. I'll ask one of the nurses to send in a bowl of hot water for her feet, and set up a dressing trolley for you.'

‘And some clean warm clothes, please. Last time I looked there were plenty in the storeroom. Some tea and currant buns would go down well too, if you have any.'

‘Tea, yes, but no buns — they were the first things to be lopped from the budget.'

‘Oh, yes, the budget,' Dody said in a tone of resignation. As soon as she'd settled Margaret, she'd pop into the street and find a vendor, a pie-man if possible. If she could not find a pie, then something else hot and stodgy, something to restore energy and warmth to the woman's hypothermic blood.

‘Will you be needing any assistance, Doctor?' Daphne asked.

‘No, thank you, I'll manage, you are busy enough.' Dody looked around the crowded waiting room. Gaunt women and children occupied the benches. Some of the babies were obviously ill, too listless to cry, or else intent on seeking comfort from long-empty breasts. A Christmas tree stood withering in the corner, denuded now of the candy canes that had once given the place a semblance of cheer.

With an arm around the trembling woman's shoulders, Dody escorted her to treatment cubicle number two, helped her onto the bed, and pulled the curtain screens
around them.

‘What kind of place is this?' Margaret Doyle asked between chattering teeth.

The cold journey in the taxi had done her no good at all. Dody wondered if she'd moved her too soon. The problem was that the mortuary was no place to be performing an aseptic procedure. Dody would never forgive herself if the woman died from septicaemia. The clinic was the only choice she had.

‘It's a women's clinic, Miss Doyle, for the impoverished. The nurses and doctors are all volunteers, and we rely on charitable donations to continue our work.'

‘You are a saint then,' Margaret Doyle whispered as if to herself. She picked up the cross from her neck and kissed it.

Dody laughed. ‘Hardly.'

Quick, efficient footsteps approached, the curtains rippled and a nurse pushed a dressing trolley into the cubicle and removed a large bowl of steaming water from the lower shelf.

‘Thank you, Nurse Little,' Dody said to the departing breeze. ‘I'll attend to your neck wound now, Miss Doyle. While I do that you can put your feet in the hot water — that should help warm you up.' Dody would have preferred to put Margaret Doyle into a hot bath, but doubted the staff would be able to find one at such short notice.

The wound was less than an inch long, but deep. Thank heavens Dody's knife had missed the artery. Even though the gash had stopped bleeding, it was still necessary to squeeze the sides and tease out a few more drops of blood.

‘Ow!'

‘I'm sorry, Miss Doyle, I was just removing potential contaminants.' Dody cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic. ‘I'm afraid it will need a couple of stitches. Can you cope with that, Miss Doyle?'

‘As long as you don't squeeze, I'm so cold I doubt I'll feel a thing.'

Dody inserted five stitches to the gaping lips of the wound, leaving a neat surgical line. Miss Doyle, much to be admired, did not flinch.

‘Will I be left with a scar, Doctor?' she asked, when Dody had finished.

‘A small one, but given the position under the jaw it will barely show.'

‘I can't thank you enough. I owe you, Doctor McCleland.'

‘On the contrary, my medical colleague, the police and I are the ones who must apologise to you. It is abhorrent that you were left for dead like that.'

‘But maybe I
was
dead?'

Dody humoured Margaret Doyle with a smile, though inside she wished that her patient would abandon the
miracle
insinuations. Nurse Little shoved the curtain aside again and brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, which she put on the dressing trolley.

‘You're in luck, Doctor,' she said. ‘Found some gingernuts in the kitchen brought in for the meeting.'

‘Oh, my — the meeting! How long have I got, Nurse Little?'

‘About half an hour,' she said, leaving a bundle of clean clothes at the foot of the bed before bustling off once more.

Half an hour should be enough time to have a good talk to Margaret Doyle, Dody decided. She reached into her bag and topped up the woman's tea from her flask of medicinal brandy.

‘Please join me, Doctor. It's a cold day after all, and I expect you've been traumatised almost as much as I have,' Margaret Doyle said.

Dody couldn't argue with that. She'd heard about patients waking up on the slab but this was the first time such a thing had happened to her. If she'd been a praying person she'd have thanked God that Margaret Doyle had not been found in the Paddington area. If that was the case, she would have been put in one of their very efficient modern refrigeration compartments, which would certainly have finished off what the freezing night had already started.

Dody shrugged and tipped a small measure of brandy into her tea. ‘If you insist.'

Margaret Doyle smiled. ‘That's better. Now, I suppose I have some explaining to do.'

‘Well, I admit to being curious about how you came to be found in that alleyway.'

‘I was on my way out with my young man. We were off to the opera together, travelling by carriage — he's an old-fashioned gentleman. I was in a bit of a grim mood; I'd been hearing rumours that he had been,' she hesitated, ‘unfaithful to me.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Dody said.

‘Yes, well, that's men for you, isn't it? I'd planned on confronting him in the morning anyway, so I don't know what possessed me to bring it up then when we were on our way out to the opera — I'd been so looking forward to the new production of
The Pirates of Penzance
. Have you seen it, Doctor?'

‘Not yet, but I intend to.' Pike had suggested they go to the opera to celebrate her birthday.

‘They say it's gloriously fun and colourful. But I am straying from the point. I brought up the subject of his infidelity as we rattled along in the carriage and he became defensive, gave me a litany of excuses, and then asked me to marry him — I mean, well, really. I think he just pulled the notion out of the air, hoping to appease me. As you can see,
that
didn't work!'

Dody began to appreciate that she was talking to a woman of the world.

‘He remained calm, too calm, saying nothing that I wished him to say,' Miss Doyle continued, ‘while the anger inside me churned and churned. Finally, I could stand his company no longer. I discarded all rational thought, turned the handle of the carriage door and tumbled out into the slushy street.'