The Insanity of Murder (5 page)

Florence appeared not to hear Dody’s last remark, as if still fixated on the scene in her head. It must be a relief to talk the whole ghastly incident through with someone, Dody thought.

‘And all those bodies … it was a horrible mistake that should never have happened,’ Florence said.

‘Who was your partner? You seem to have been left to face the consequences.’

She lifted her chin with some of her usual spirit. ‘I will never reveal my accomplice’s name. ’

‘But you will turn yourself in, won’t you?’

Florence swallowed. She shook her head.

‘But you have to.’

‘I received a note from Christabel. On no account am I to admit to this disaster. This incident has apparently been an embarrassment to them.’

‘For goodness sake, Florence, you mean they will take no responsibility for this atrocity at all?’

‘No,’ she said, with an amazing absence of rancour.

Dody wanted to throttle her sister. How could she brush this betrayal off so easily? Her dedication to the cause had made her quite blind to its dark side. Dody jumped up from the bed and began to pace.

‘I suppose you’ll tell Pike now,’ Florence said with a sigh. ‘I’ll deny it, of course.’

Dody said nothing. Her agitated footsteps bounced the floorboards and made the scent bottles on the dressing table tremble.

‘So where does this leave you?’ Florence added, finally.

‘Between Scylla and Charybdis,’ Dody muttered under her breath as she continued to pace. And think.

The afternoon was dull, the pungent breeze from the river worse than none at all. In the police yard, Florence lined up with the other women under a dishwater-grey sky. A residue of sulphurous grease coated her skin, a cold trickle of sweat inched its way down her side. It was impossible to control her perspiration under these conditions. But she knew she must not betray her guilt by appearing too nervous, nor must she be overly nonchalant, as that might also give the game away.

The woman beside her stiffened as the yard door opened. Her neighbour’s reaction provided Florence with some consolation. It served to remind her that taking part in a police identification parade was not all in a day’s work for most people.

Despite this comforting thought, when Sergeant Hensman appeared with the witness, Florence could not help but imagine a big red arrow hanging down from the sky and pointing at her head. She held her breath as the old woman shuffled past, like an ageing general inspecting her troops. The woman lingered for several seconds in front of each of the women in the line-up. This was the old dear they’d thought had been sleeping soundly when they’d scaled the station gate — Florence recognised the tatty straw hat. She only breathed again when, having completed her inspection, the woman stepped aside to confer with the policeman. She did not seem capable of keeping still, shuffling repeatedly from one foot to the other. Sergeant Hensman must be making her nervous, Florence decided, knowing too well how she felt.

Florence wished Pike were here. She had not seen him since yesterday evening at the townhouse, although his henchman, Singh, had been present during her morning interrogation. Florence knew nothing about Singh other than that his sense of dress was even worse than Pike’s former assistant — his turban looking most odd with his poorly cut English clothes. She would have preferred big old comfortable Fisher, but he had been promoted (undeservedly, according to Dody) and shipped off to the East End somewhere.

There was no sign of Singh now. Florence suspected he was watching from the wings — perhaps the mystic-like man did not even cast a shadow. He had left most of the talking to Hensman. The sergeant had tried to get Florence to divulge the name of her accomplice, saying that if she did, he’d plead with the judge for leniency, even though Florence had protested her innocence throughout. How could she have an accomplice to something she did not do? At one stage during the interview, Hensman had looked so angry Florence feared he would strike her.

Florence wasn’t a sneak and had no intention of dropping Daphne in it. Besides, Poppa’s lawyer had told her to admit to nothing. Daphne would be in France by now, anyway, on a family holiday organised months ago. She’d left early in the morning after the blast and probably had no idea about Florence’s plight. Usually the suffragettes were quick to take responsibility for their militant actions, but this time there had been no such acknowledgement, despite newspaper speculation. Nor had Florence been contacted by any of her colleagues since the explosion, other than the note from Christabel Pankhurst, which she’d mistakenly told Dody about. Now Dody was against the movement more than ever.

Florence watched the sergeant and the old woman converse — the young stocky and strong next to the old, withered and weak. Hensman was encouraging the old woman to have another walk down the line-up. What else was he saying? Was he giving her a gentle nudge to where Florence was standing in the line? Was he threatening her? One could never trust a policeman — other than Pike, and even he still infuriated her at times.

The six other women in the line-up wore similar hats to Florence, were of similar build, and all wore dark skirts and coats to make the true culprit’s identity more obscure. No wonder the old dear looked so confused. Florence’s found hope in the woman’s vague looks, the way she nervously picked at the shawl around her shoulders — she really had no idea. Now, all Florence needed to do was make that big red arrow hanging above her head vanish. She screwed up her eyes and attempted to mentally bat it away.

‘Open those eyes, please, miss,’ Hensman commanded. Florence glared at the policeman. She’d had enough of his brow beating.

The reprimand caught the old lady’s attention. She shuffled closer to Florence, dragging Hensman with her.
Oh God
, Florence thought,
I’ve done it now
. Her heart beat wildly. The perspiration streamed down her body.

The old lady raised a brittle hand and touched her on the shoulder.

‘You really should have cleaned that bicycle of yours, my dear,’ she said.

Doctor Dorothy McCleland carefully placed a charred leg into the mortuary box and closed the lid. This was the last of the body parts harvested from Waterloo Station that she and Doctor Bernard Spilsbury had spent the best part of four days identifying and assembling. They had completely restored two bodies (if one included the easily reassembled decapitation) and there were five semi-complete cadavers.

Dody and the attendant heaved the box from the slab and thunked it onto a trolley.

‘Have the box delivered to the undertaker’s now, please, Alfred,’ she said to the crusty old man as he guided the squeaking wheels through the mortuary door to the waiting hearse.

Dody moved to the trough sink, removed her rubber apron and sleeve protectors and scrubbed her stained hands vigorously with carbolic soap until the blackened water ran clear. She sniffed her wet hands. She never seemed to completely erase the stink of the mortuary room. Even if she stopped doing what she did, she wondered, would the smell ever leave her? Or would she continue to obsessively wash her hands, like Lady Macbeth, trying to rid hers of Guilt?

Guilt. She’d told Pike that Florence had been home all night with her. They had dined together and listened to the gramophone until the grandfather clock in the hall had chimed half past midnight. Then later, at around three o’clock, Dody had dropped by her sister’s bedroom to tell her she had been summoned to the bomb blast, and that Florence had chided her for waking her up.

When Constable Singh had questioned their maid about the evening her mistresses had allegedly enjoyed together, Annie had corroborated the sisters’ story. Unfortunately though, she took it upon herself to embroider their plan further by telling Singh they had dined on roast lamb, when Dody and Florence had already informed him they had dined on silverside with white sauce. The truth was that Dody, having no appetite and no Florence to dine with, had picked at some fruit and cheese in her room. Thank God Pike had not been there to see her backtrack and stutter, tangling herself up in her lie while stubbornly refusing to admit to it. Dody was a truthful person, the lie breached all of the principles she lived by. But she would continue to lie for Florence, even if it meant a charge of perjury against her. Her love for her sister was stronger than any moral code.

Dody closed the faucet and reached for a hand towel, wishing she could turn back the clock. With hindsight she’d have chained Florence to her bed.

There was no ladies room at the business end of the Paddington Mortuary, just a doctors’ common room that she only dared use when Spilsbury was absent from the building. He was there now; she could see his tall angular silhouette through the frosted glass of the door as she walked past. It was hard to imagine that she had once harboured a schoolgirl infatuation for that cold, aloof man.

She tried to make herself presentable as she made her way down the corridor, removing a bottle of scent from her pocket and dabbing it behind her ears. What she would give for a lemon-scented bath. After unravelling the scarf from her head she attempted to pat her chignon back into place. Then she untied her linen apron and bundled it up with her scarf, tossing them into a dirty-linen hamper she passed along the way.

At the entrance to the waiting room she paused to scan the crowded benches. Some of the occupants looked bored. Their vacant looks and middle-class dress suggested government officials, coroners’ clerks, workhouse facilitators and charity representatives. The majority, however, were from the gaunt-faced ranks of the poorer classes, shabbily dressed, hands twisting in laps. To many, this would be remembered as one of the worst days of their lives. Dody could only hope that the attendants handled them delicately. To Spilsbury’s chagrin she had encouraged the attendants and clerks to be sensitive to the bereaved, to offer cups of tea, a sympathetic smile, even a telephone call to arrange a lift home if necessary. After having gone through the trauma of identifying a deceased loved one, many were not in a fit state to leave the place on their own. If it were up to Spilsbury, Dody thought cynically, they would be filed en masse into the viewing room and sent on their way with nothing but a chit of information and a paper bag of effects.

It took a moment for Dody to spot Pike sitting rigidly behind a copy of the
Times
. In his well-cut grey summer suit and boots that shone like mirrors, he did not look like your average policeman — more like a city gentleman. His grim expression was all policeman, however. She wondered if Singh had already told him of her deception.

She cleared her throat. A dozen pairs of grief-rimmed eyes met hers. ‘Chief Inspector Pike?’ she enquired as if she did not know him. ‘Please come this way.’

After folding the newspaper methodically and tucking it under his arm, he followed her into the small room used to break bad news to loved ones. He picked up her hand and absently kissed her heavily scented fingers.

‘Well?’ he enquired as he pulled a chair out for her. The room contained two chairs and a desk. Spilsbury had declined her request to lighten it up with pictures and flowers and it was as featureless as a crypt. The only other item in the room was a pile of blankets stacked in one corner. The mortuary loaned the blankets out to the poor during the winter in exchange for a small deposit. With the advent of summer most of the blankets had been washed and returned.

‘I’ve gathered and labelled the body parts,’ said Dody, ‘and you’ll be pleased to hear that all the damage was inflicted post-mortem.’

The tension failed to leave Pike’s shoulders as he lowered himself into the other chair.

‘How is the night watchman?’ she asked.

Pike turned his face away from hers. ‘Still unconscious.’

‘You are angry.’

‘How am I supposed to feel?’

‘I gather you heard about my interview with Singh.’

‘I read the notes.’ Pike turned and fixed her with a hard stare. ‘Dody, how could you?’

‘Lie for my sister, you mean? Surely, you of all people understand, Matthew. What about Violet? You once failed to reveal that she was a witness to a major crime!’

Pike flushed. ‘Please, leave Violet out of this. You cannot compare the two cases.’

‘The principles are the same. Of course I will lie for someone I love. I would lie for you too — just as I hope that you would lie for me.’

‘Has she said anything to you about the bombing?’

Dody glanced away. ‘Only to tell me she is innocent.’ Turning Florence in would not do the night watchman any good, she reassured herself, but the effect might be fatal to Florence.

When Dody turned back Pike was scrutinising her; he was adept at reading the language of the body. This time she met his glare head on. He sagged in his chair as if defeated. After some brow-rubbing he held his hand out to her.

‘Matthew, what are we going to do?’ she whispered as he covered her hand in his.

‘The only proper thing for me to do is to step back from the case, which I have done as best as I can without drawing too much attention to the fact. Singh’s in charge with Hensman as his assistant.’

‘Singh respects you, he will listen to you.’

‘I can’t order him to ignore evidence, Dody. Even if I did — and I won’t — Hensman is watching him like a hawk. He’s young and ambitious and seems to see Singh as a rival. He was appointed to the case under Shepherd’s orders. I expect he is reporting to Shepherd at this very moment.’ Pike paused, and gazed at the floor.

Dody waited. When nothing else seemed forthcoming, she said, ‘I won’t be able to give evidence at Florence’s trial. Spilsbury will have to do that.’

‘Indeed. You will have to distance yourself as much as I.’

‘And Florence, where is she now?’

‘In a cell, waiting for her hearing before the magistrate. After that I expect she will be put on remand in Holloway until the trial.’

Dody bit down on the knuckles of her free hand. ‘Oh Lord, she will refuse to eat, and then they will force a tube down her nose —’

‘Perhaps not,’ Pike interrupted. Dody frowned, wondering what he meant. Did he have a plan?

He rose from his chair. ‘Are these the autopsy reports on the body parts?’ He indicated a stack of index cards on the table. Dody nodded and he placed them in his briefcase. ‘I’ll hand these to Singh to use as he must.’ He pulled out his fob. ‘And then I have a luncheon appointment with Violet.’

‘How is she?’

‘I’m not sure. I suspect I will soon find out.’

Dody knew better than to question him further. Past experience had taught her not to probe, that he would divulge the latest problem with his daughter only when he was good and ready.

‘Give her my love,’ Dody said.

Alfred put his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, Doctor, but Doctor Spilsbury sends his compliments and wishes to remind you of the suspected suicide still awaiting your attention.’

‘Thank you, Alfred.’ Dody turned to Pike. ‘That was next on my list until the bombing put paid to it. The wretched relatives, if there are any, have had a long and anxious wait.’

Pike put his hand out formally to Dody. ‘Time waits for no woman. Thank you for your help, Doctor McCleland.’

When they stepped from the room and into the corridor, they found themselves in the middle of a sudden commotion.

‘Stop that woman!’ someone bellowed.

Dody, Pike and Alfred turned towards the sound of clomping boots. Dody glimpsed a rush of ragged clothes and a soiled bonnet partly covering an unruly thatch of white hair. The old woman lurched through the waiting room to the front entrance and out into the busy street.