The Insanity of Murder (6 page)

‘Dash it all, her again,’ Pike murmured. ‘She’s supposed to be at the home. That’s the woman I was telling you about, Dody. Stop! Police!’ he cried as he set off in pursuit.

Dody reached behind her back and tied up her baggy white gown. While she was obliged to start the suicide autopsy, it was a struggle to get the scene in the corridor out of her head. First her blatant lie to Pike, which she was sure he had seen through, and then the strange old woman in the mortuary. Was this the old woman Pike thought had been following him before, the witness to the bombing? Had he caught her yet? And what of Florence? She’d meant to ask Pike when the hearing before the magistrate had been scheduled. Florence had fronted plenty of magisterial sessions, but never for anything as serious as what she was charged with now: wilful damage to property, assault causing grievous bodily harm, and interference with multiple corpses. How would she cope with being force-fed again? Surely this time it would send her over the edge.

Dody closed her eyes for a moment and counted to ten. Enough of this useless dialogue of the mind, she chided herself, there would be plenty of time for hand wringing and speculation after she left the mortuary at the end of the day. With a determined hitch of her gown, ensuring her tie and the collar of her white cotton blouse were well covered, she ordered herself to concentrate on the job in hand.

The mortuary room was in the process of being renovated. Work was almost complete and she was not yet used to the modernised layout. To distract herself from her disturbing thoughts she glanced around, trying to familiarise herself with the new surroundings.

An extra slab had been placed next to the one at which she was about to commence work, meaning that now two autopsies could be carried out at once. Each work area had its own powerful overhead electric light, scales, and equipment trolleys, making the room a busier, more crowded space than she was used to. And the newly added mechanical refrigeration units — still in the process of being installed down one wall — would result in the loss of even more space. A few corpses had already been transferred from their icy beds in the cadaver room to the refrigerated shelves. It was a shame the corpse before her had not been prioritised to one of them.

Dody inhaled deeply on her pipe and blew out a thick cloud of smoke to help combat the stench.

‘Out with the pipe, please, Doctor McCleland.’

Dody started at the sound of Spilsbury’s voice. She was sure she had heard him inform the clerk earlier that he was out for lunch.

‘My lunch was cancelled,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘I thought we might do this together. It’s been a while.’

‘A simple suicide, sir?’ she queried. These days he tended to give her free rein on the straightforward cases.

‘Never assume, Doctor.’

Dody walked over to the handwashing trough, and tapped the smouldering tobacco from her pipe down the plughole.
Never assume
, she mimicked his voice in her head as she placed the empty pipe back in her mouth (an empty pipe was tolerable).
Never assume that I won’t be lurking around the corridors ready to leap on you for smoking your pipe. It’s not dignified for a female doctor to smoke a pipe. I am a man, and for a man smoking is perfectly acceptable, but in you the habit is abhorrent …

Spilsbury lit one of his strong Turkish cigarettes and yanked the cover from the corpse’s head. ‘Hmm.’

‘Goodness me,’ Dody remarked as she came to his side and gazed upon the corpse’s face. ‘The poor woman must have been desperate.’ All of a sudden Dody’s own troubles, and even Florence’s, seemed inconsequential compared to those of the dead woman on the slab.

‘What do we know of this lady, Fred?’ Spilsbury snapped at the young attendant who had trailed in behind him.

Spilsbury seemed to have no idea how intimidating his manner could be, how off-putting his drive and dedication were to those whose sole reason for working at the mortuary was to put food on the table. Fred Norbury was the only remaining member of a batch of young attendants employed by Spilsbury as part of the mortuary’s modernisation process. Dody suspected that Fred only remained to spare himself his grandfather, Alfred’s, wrath.

Fred made a brave effort at pulling himself together. Under the bright examination light, sweat gleamed down the central parting of his thinning hair and made his ruddy cheeks glow.

‘This … this lady is believed to be a vagrant,’ he stuttered. ‘No form of identification was found on her body and no one has reported her missing as yet. She was found dead in the ladies conveniences at Waterloo Station five days ago by one of the cleaners.’

Spilsbury took the cigarette from his mouth, leaned towards the corpse’s disfigured face and sniffed. ‘Bleach. Can you smell it, Fred?’ Fred hesitated.

‘Go on,’ Spilsbury encouraged him.

Fred filled his lungs with air, effectively holding his breath, and lowered his face to the dead woman’s blistered lips.

‘No need to kiss her, man.’

Fred sprang back, nodding, and surreptitiously released the breath he’d been holding. Dody smiled to herself before returning her attention to the body before them.
Why would a woman choose to end her life by swallowing bleach when there were so many less painful alternatives available?
she wondered.

‘Off you go, Fred,’ Spilsbury said. ‘Doctor McCleland will take my notes.’

Fred scuttled away from the slab but remained within earshot in case he was summoned. Dody reached for the customary index card on which to condense Spilsbury’s findings, while Spilsbury took an oral mouth prop and levered the woman’s damaged mouth open. Rigor mortis had been and gone and it was an effortless procedure. Dody adjusted the overhead light and shone it down the corpse’s throat.

Spilsbury grunted and indicated to Dody to take a look.

‘Tissue damage much the same as if she had swallowed fire,’ Dody observed. ‘First-and second-degree burns to the lining of the mouth and the gums.’

‘Indeed, Doctor. But how can we tell we are dealing with burns from a corrosive substance and not heat?’ Provided one could stand up to his intimidation tactics, Spilsbury was an excellent teacher.

‘The blistering on the mouth, lips and chin suggests the subject vomited the substance up,’ Dody said.

‘Very good. Anything else?’

‘The teeth are in reasonable condition, the subject might not be as old as her appearance suggests – forty to fifty years, perhaps?’ Dody mused aloud. ‘Were we to examine the alimentary canal I expect we would find extensive damage: perforation, leakage of stomach and intestinal contents into the abdominal cavity. And necrosis if death was prolonged.’

‘Which I fear it might have been. It usually is where bleach is concerned.’

For a moment neither of them spoke.

‘Shall we ask Fred to set up for a T-section?’ Dody asked.

Spilsbury shook his head. ‘We have all we need for the card. The cause of death is self-explanatory.’

‘Fred,’ Dody called, ‘you can prepare the body for the undertaker now.’

She removed the sheet from the body in preparation for Fred’s hose down. The woman was poorly nourished, not much more than a shrunken bag of bones. Dody wondered how long she had been on the streets. A knotted white scar traversed her abdomen. Dody turned to Fred, but seeing something from the corner of her eye she quickly turned back to the body again. The woman’s genitals, there was something not quite right …

‘Wait a minute, Fred. Doctor Spilsbury, have a look at this, please.’

Spilsbury walked back from the sink, flicking water from his hands. ‘Good God.’ For the first time that morning, he seemed truly shocked. ‘I think we’d better open this one up, don’t you, Doctor McCleland?’

Fred fled in horror from the room.

Spilsbury clattered his scalpel into an enamel kidney dish on the trolley and stepped away from the body, wiping the gore from his bare hands onto his gown. ‘Have you ever before come across a case such as this, Doctor McCleland?’ he asked.

She swallowed and shook her head. The significance of what she had just seen almost caused Dody’s breath to seize and she did not trust herself to speak.

‘Sew her up please, Alfred,’ Spilsbury said. Alfred had taken Fred’s place, no one having been able to persuade the younger man to return. For once Alfred did not appear ashamed of his grandson’s behaviour, but not due to any sense of horror or revulsion. Dody suspected fleetingly that he was still basking in the recent news the cadaver room would become his office once all the bodies had been removed.

‘A woman of your leanings would be familiar with this kind of practice, I’m sure,’ Spilsbury added dryly, nodding at the corpse.

Dody searched his face. A fine line had appeared between his eyebrows, the only betrayal of disapproval she could detect. From Spilsbury though, this reaction was tantamount to an indignant explosion. This helped Dody find her voice.

‘This woman has undergone a complete hysterectomy. All her internal reproductive organs have been removed.’

‘And why might this have been deemed necessary?’

‘Cancer, fibroids … nervous or sexual imbalance.’

‘Why the hesitation?’ Spilsbury asked.

‘If it weren’t for the mutilated genitals I might not have considered the latter two reasons.’

‘Alfred, leave the room for a moment, please.’

Dody raised a questioning eyebrow as the attendant shuffled out.

‘I do not want to cause you undue embarrassment, Doctor,’ Spilsbury explained. ‘This is distasteful for people of opposing genders to discuss as it is, without a third person listening in.’

Opposing
genders, Dody ground her teeth around the stem of her pipe. That just about explained everything. His pomposity fuelled her outrage and sped her voice. The woman’s condition was not Spilsbury’s fault, but it might well have been for the way she targeted him with her spleen.

‘It is common belief amongst some less enlightened medical
gentlemen
that parts of the female anatomy are responsible for hysteria and a variety of melancholic conditions more common in women than in men. In some cases, not only is complete hysterectomy recommended, but also the removal of the clitoris, which is thought to cause in some an obsessive interest in sex. All this does, of course, is obliterate any possibility of sexual pleasure the unfortunate women may derive.’

Spilsbury shuffled his feet, but Dody went on regardless.

‘Girls as young as ten sometimes undergo this procedure if caught in the act of self-stimulation —’

‘That’s enough, Doctor McCleland,’ he replied, glowing like a hot coal. ‘You may climb down from your soapbox. You obviously have a thorough understanding of the topic. Call Alfred back now, please.’

Dody did not move. She attempted to meet his eye but he seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. ‘May I have your permission to explore the legality of this surgical treatment with the police?’ she asked.

‘This is an ill-advised procedure. It may be immoral, but as far as I am aware, it has not yet been decreed illegal.’

‘Yes, but it is my understanding that the removal of the clitoris can only be performed for physical reasons these days — and not on the off chance that it might cure a woman’s nervous condition. How can a so-called insane woman give legal consent?’

Dody recalled the case of the disgraced gynaecologist, Doctor Isaac Baker Brown, who had published a book on the merits of clitoridectomy – a book that had (mercifully) been much maligned. He had been struck off the medical registry for his blatant self-publicity, following complaints that many of his patients and their families had been coerced into, or had not given consent for the brutal operations largely performed for experimental purposes.

Dody persisted. ‘This woman may have been subject to an injustice that may have indirectly caused her to take her own life. If you like I can have a word with the coroner and see if he will sanction an investigation.’ In other words, if Spilsbury didn’t agree to an investigation, Dody would go above his head. ‘We might find enough evidence to ban this kind of procedure permanently.’

Spilsbury appeared to relax, as if he had fully anticipated her request and was relieved to be getting it over and done with. ‘You may, if your workload permits it,’ he said. ‘I will inform the coroner myself.’ Spilsbury was a misogynist and sometimes a challenge to work with, but his desire for justice was as well developed as her own, and for this Dody was grateful.

She opened the door and invited Alfred in to tidy up. She followed Spilsbury to the sink and they washed their hands, fingers flinching away from one another to avoid all skin contact. In the background, Alfred whistled as he worked.

‘Internal adhesions — scar tissue — suggests that this procedure was carried out some time ago, Doctor Spilsbury. Have you any idea when?’ Dody asked.

‘Five years, fifteen years — I am unable to tell. First, I suggest you find out the identity of this woman, and then when and where the procedure was performed. It is fortunate that you have such a healthy relationship with the police.’

If there was innuendo in Spilsbury’s remark, Dody refused to let it bother her. ‘Does this mean my investigations have your complete sanction?’ she asked. ‘Whatever it takes?’

‘We work on the right side of the law, Doctor McCleland, the law for which I have a healthy regard. We can’t have people manipulating the law of this land, can we? Even if they are medical men.’

‘Stop playing with your food,’ Pike said to his daughter in a tone he immediately regretted. It wasn’t Violet’s fault he’d lost Lady Mary in the crowded street market, and he knew he mustn’t take it out on her. He’d come across a police call box in the street, telephoned Singh, and instructed him to call Sir Michael’s house to see if Lady Mary had returned home. He had also given Singh the number of the tearoom and asked him to telephone as soon as he had some news, but had heard nothing since.

Because of all this, Pike had kept Violet waiting alone at the Lyons tearoom for over half an hour. Perhaps that was why she was being so uncommunicative now, pushing the food around on her plate. Good God, how long did it take to chew one wilted piece of lettuce?

Violet scraped the mangled salad into a pile and placed her knife and fork side by side. ‘I’m not hungry, Father.’

All around the cavernous tearoom, patrons, mainly women, clattered about with cutlery and crockery, competing to be heard above the hubbub in loud, piercing voices.

‘You never are.’ That tone again. Pike closed his eyes for a moment and tempered himself with a calming breath. There was too much noise and he could hardly hear himself think. Added to that, the decorative frame of the dainty wrought-iron chair cut into his thighs and made his knee ache.

‘It’s not ladylike to have a big appetite,’ Violet said, imitating the pompous voice of her maternal grandmother.

Pike took a sip of tea, wishing it was beer. Since when had Violet taken to mimicry, to answering him back? She had always been such a compliant child. Or had she? This was the longest amount of time they had spent together in years.
How well did he really know his daughter?
he wondered. Well enough, surely, to ascertain that this type of behaviour had only started recently, since she had left her boarding school and he’d allowed her to spend a few weeks with him in London. God, he hoped she was not turning into her late mother. Violet was looking more and more like Clara as the years passed. She had his brow line, but her mother’s button nose, wavy dark hair and freckles, which Clara had spent so much time fretting over. And their deportment was identical; probably due to the expensive school they had both attended which forced its students to walk around for hours a day with a book balanced on their heads.

A bomb had been placed under the Clara’s lover’s carriage when Violet was about six. Despite what many had said during their clumsy efforts to console, the Fenian bomb had done neither Pike nor Violet any favours. Violet had been sent to school at a young age, spending most of her holidays with Clara’s family in the North. Pike would visit when his work permitted, which was never very often.

His accommodation was unsuitable for a young lady, so he’d booked two rooms in an inexpensive hotel for the duration of her visit to London. Naturally, she had soon become bored and gravitated towards Florence, whom she had met three years ago during a suffragette rally. Violet had been spending most of her time at the McCleland sisters’ Bloomsbury home when he was at work. The city air was doing her no good at all, he decided, looking at her wan face across the table. The sooner his daughter returned to her grandparents in the country, the better.

He took another gulp of tea. ‘Not ladylike to enjoy eating? Really?’ he said with contrived of nonchalance.

‘Well, that’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? Why do you wish me to go to a Swiss finishing school if not to make me a lady?’

‘Please, Violet, not this again. That topic has nothing to do with your appetite. Your grandparents have offered to pay the fees, and it is an opportunity, in my opinion, that should not be missed. You know I could never afford such a place on my salary. It will be the making of you.’

‘Florence says nursing will “make me” just as well. She went to finishing school and said it was an utter, ghastly waste of time. Her parents allowed her to withdraw after just one term.’

‘And what has Florence done since, but …’ Pike stopped himself in time. It was not as though he wasn’t fond of Florence, or worried about her, especially now she was in prison. And she did have many admirable traits. If only she didn’t get so obsessed over things.

‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ Pike asked, keeping his voice level.

‘I’m going to Oxford Circus to enquire about Mrs Garrud’s Jujitsu classes. Florence says they are fantastic.’

Pike sprang to his feet. ‘What!’ This was beyond the pale. Heads turned and conversation ceased. He knew all about the suffragettes and their Jujitsu lessons. Their newly acquired fighting tactics had recently been giving the police plenty of headaches, both literally and metaphorically.

Violet wriggled on her seat and glanced around the room. ‘Daddy, please sit down. I was only teasing.’

Pike gaped at her for a moment. Teasing? His daughter wasn’t about to learn Jujitsu? He pulled at his waistcoat and dropped back into his seat, leaning across the table to her. ‘May I remind you, young lady, that I am your father and you do not tease your father. I am permitted to tease you, but you do not tease me — is that understood?’ Pike drained his teacup and loosened his collar. His own father would have thrashed him for such impertinence.

Violet stifled a giggle with her hand. ‘Sorry, Daddy. Actually I thought I might visit Liberty’s. The curtains in your rooms are in a terrible state and I was hoping to sew you some new ones before I left.’

Pike thanked her. Dear girl. It was impossible to be angry with her for long. And he did appreciate her offer. His former lodgings had been knocked down to make room for the Victoria Gardens extensions and he’d recently moved to rooms above a public house in a small street off Whitehall. His new lodgings were run down and dingy, yet more expensive due to their central location, which was only five minutes walk from Scotland Yard. New curtains would make the place homier. Although Liberty fabrics were beyond Pike’s budget, he would make it stretch. He was relieved their conversation had returned to safer ground. He delved into his waistcoat pocket and handed her a few shillings, making sure he had enough left to cover the tearoom bill.

Violet smiled. ‘Thank you. Annie said I could borrow her sewing machine.’

‘That’s nice of her. Would you like an ice cream, or a packet of biscuits to take home? They bake them on the premises. I’m told you cannot find fresher biscuits in the whole of London.’

Pike nodded to a pile of artfully arranged biscuits displayed under a glass dome on the expansive counter. Next to it stood an extravagant iced wedding cake — all Doric columns and bell towers. It looked very pricey.
How much did it cost to get married these days?
he wondered absently.

‘No, thank you, Daddy,’ Violet answered. ‘Doctor Fletcher says ices and biscuits are incredibly bad for one.’

Pike’s eyes flicked back to his daughter. ‘And who’s Doctor Fletcher when he’s at home?’

‘A diet doctor from America. Among other things, Doctor Fletcher says one must chew each mouthful thirty two times: “Nature will castigate those who don’t masticate.”’ She paused and regarded him with a frown. ‘I’m not teasing this time, it’s not funny, Daddy. Many famous and intelligent people are followers of his teachings.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ Pike said, trying to maintain a straight face. ’Is Florence also a follower?’

‘I don’t know, we haven’t discussed it much. Florence has far more important things on her mind.’

‘Indeed she does.’ Now was as good a time as any, Pike decided. ‘I’m afraid Florence won’t be home tonight,’ he said. ‘You will have to make do with only Dody’s and my company.’

‘Oh, when I last saw her she said she was looking forward to seeing us for dinner. She even asked me what my diet allowed me to eat.’

‘I’m afraid she has been arrested. For vandalism.’

Violet’s face turned as white as the tablecloth. ‘She’s in Holloway Prison?’

Pike pulled out his fob. ‘On her way there now, I expect, yes.’

‘Then you must get her out!’

‘There is only so much I can do for her, my dear.’

‘Will they force-feed her?’

Pike hesitated. ‘I doubt it.’

Violet relaxed slightly. ‘So things aren’t so bad then?’

Pike shook his head. What was that Dody said about lying for those we love?

‘Then she will get a suffragette medal, like she did the last time, and her fame will spread even further!’

Infamy more like, Pike thought, especially if the night watchman dies. ‘I expect so,’ he said, doing his best to hide the anxiety that gnawed at his gut like acid.

Father and daughter linked arms and walked from the teashop in Shaftesbury Avenue to Liberty’s in Regent Street, where a pretty, black-clad shop girl bamboozled them with a dazzling display of curtain fabrics. Pike was relieved that his budget could stretch to but a small fraction of them, otherwise it would have been impossible for Violet to make up her mind. Finally he left her to it, giving her instructions to return to their hotel when she had finished and wait for him there so they could take the tube together to the McCleland sisters’ townhouse.

By the time Pike reached the embankment, the wind had picked up, driving away the earlier greyness and humidity. Tattered clouds allowed the sun short bursts of freedom, like coded flashes from heaven. If only he could decipher them, Pike thought as he stared up at the twin fortress-like structures of Scotland Yard, flickering with light and shadow.
Have I really done the right thing?

Pike had been one of several consultants to a parliamentary body empowered with dealing with the problem of suffragette force-feeding and the introduction of a more humane solution. He was proud of his role. His frank descriptions of the force-feedings he had witnessed had had the intended horrific effect on the men he addressed, men who had obviously not given the mechanics of the procedure much thought. He’d spared no details in his explanation of the physical constraints placed upon the women involved: the insertion of the oversized tube, the bleeding from the nostrils, the gagging, vomiting and chest pain — that he’d heard likened to a heart attack — and the cruel metal clamps used to force the mouth open when the nostrils became too damaged for the tubes.

The committee had been impressed by the solution he and his colleagues had put forward, and after several months in the planning, the hereto secret proposal was being presented to parliament this very day. Pike prayed that the Act would be passed and implemented before the prison authorities started to force-feed Florence.

Despite his belief in the more humane measures, Pike now held a niggling concern that they would not go down as well with the suffragettes and their supporters as he had at first thought. And what would Dody think? Surely she would approve. She had once told him that, in her opinion, force-feeding was nothing less than government-sanctioned torture. He would have liked to have talked the plan over with Dody, but only a select few doctors had been chosen to be let in on the pending Act. Besides, it might have put her in a difficult position. It was challenging enough for her to have a police officer as a lover and a suffragette as a sister — even when things were running smoothly. One of his most consistent prayers was that Dody would never have to choose between the two of them.

Pike attempted to regard the Yard through unfamiliar eyes. He wondered if the gothic-styled leviathan had intimidated Florence. The identity parade would have taken place in the central courtyard of the north-facing building, hemmed in on all four sides by windows and red brick walls. The cells were in the basement — small barred windows at ground level giving those interned a peep at what was going on above. Pike hoped that none of the prisoners had been abusive or lewd, not that that would have worried Florence. Depending on the mood she was in, she might just as well have blown the offending villain off with a kiss as flashed him an obscene finger sign.

As far as Pike knew, force-feeding was the only thing that had ever seriously rattled Florence. Dody had told him that its nervous impact on the women involved could be likened to that of men seriously affected by battle experience. After telling him this she had shot him one of her pointed looks, as if she might be alluding to something within himself. Stuff and nonsense, of course; everyone knew that women were more sensitive to trauma than men — why else were the lunatic asylums filled with so many of them? While Pike held Dody’s opinions on most things in high regard, he could not agree with her on this.

He made his way through a rabbit warren of corridors in the Yard to his ground-floor office, keen to find out what progress had been made in the hunt for Lady Mary. He found Singh leaning over the desk, preoccupied with writing on a sheet of paper taken from the type-writing machine. By his elbow sat a small wooden box Pike had not seen before.

Singh stopped writing and jumped to his feet like the NCO he had once been. ‘I thought I might miss you, sir. I was leaving you a note.’

Pike looked at his assistant’s face and frowned. ‘What happened, Singh?’

He touched his semi-closed left eye, swollen and purple as a turnip. ‘It is nothing, sir. I merely tripped down the steps of the section house.’

‘You’d been drinking?’ Pike knew full well that Singh’s religion did not allow imbibing.

‘Yes, sir.’

And Singh knew full well that Pike was aware of it. This was not the first time the constable had turned up to work with a minor injury that he had brushed off with an obvious lie. He was a proud man who liked to deal with his problems his way. Pike could only hope that his own favourable treatment of the Indian was not making things worse for him in the section house. Perhaps, for Singh’s safety, Pike ought to let him go so he could return to the relative anonymity of the uniformed ranks. But to do so would be abhorrent. It would mean giving in to all the injustices of the system that Pike battled daily, such as the promotion of buffoons while the real talent was left to languish. Furthermore, Pike suspected Singh would be as unwilling to return to the ranks as he was to send him. On a more selfish note, Singh was the best assistant he had ever had, and almost irreplaceable.