Antidote To Murder (25 page)
“I can’t say just yet.” The walls were close; they brushed against one another at the door. Pike’s face creased into a smile. “But let’s see what we can find out.” How she would grieve if she never saw that smile again.
D
ody was glad to see how focused Pike was on the job in hand. He was being professional, though something in his manner still held remnants of Monday’s hurtful aloofness in the mortuary yard. Then she had yearned to hold him in her arms and share with him the joy of her exoneration. Now she wanted to take him in her arms and drive his pain away—their pain.
Well, she would never know unless she tried. Instant rejection would surely hurt less than this lingering, painful distance. She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm as they walked towards the underground station, well prepared for him to cast it off. Instead he reached over with his other hand and gently squeezed her fingers. She felt the warmth of his touch through her glove. When he turned his head and met her eye, she wondered if he knew the smallest part of what she felt for him.
They settled into their carriage and she looked around her. With a motorcar at her disposal, she had little call to use the underground.
“How filthy and noisy it all is,” she said to Pike. “I hate to think what it was like when steam trains dominated.” As it was, the rumble of the electrical system, supposedly cleaner and quieter, still hampered conversation. She and Pike said little, but sat close. As she gazed about her, she marvelled at the diversity of the train’s occupants: from barrow boys to well-dressed women on shopping expeditions. Everyone paid the same fare and could sit where they wished. This was London’s first experiment with classless travel, and it seemed to have caught on.
They came out at Oxford Circus, crossed Cavendish Square to the clatter of rising pigeons, and strolled in silence, arm in arm down Harley Street. The long, straight road was lined with Georgian buildings. Dutch elms stood outside each house, giving the street an air of cool and shady tranquillity. Brass specialists’ plates winked in the dappled sunlight.
They climbed the steps of number seventy-seven. Screw holes visible below the number on the door showed where a brass plate had once been fixed. Pike paused halfway, closed his eyes, and drew a sudden breath.
“Your knee is paining you?” Dody asked before she could stop herself.
Pike flicked her a smile. He leaned on the railing and pointed with his cane to the plaque. “What would the plate have said?”
“Probably his name and initials indicating that he was a member of the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists.”
“So he could be a skilled abortionist.”
“He could do the job, yes, without a doubt—and that puzzles me. Even if he were the criminal abortionist, why would a man so eminently qualified make the kinds of mistakes he seems to have made? Esther and Elizabeth were butchered; there was no skill . . .” She thought for a moment. “Unless of course he suffered a seizure while working.”
Pike nodded and tapped the knocker onto the glossy black door. A maid appeared, glanced at them, and said, “I’m sorry, sir, ma’am, but Dr. Van Noort’s clinic is no longer operating.”
The maid must have assumed they were a childless couple seeking treatment—what other explanation for a man accompanying his wife to the obstetrician? Dody felt herself colour and stared down at her walking shoes.
Fortunately Pike seemed to have no idea of how things might look to the maid. He lifted his hat. “This is a personal matter. I am an old friend of the doctor’s here to pay a social call.” Pike patted his pockets. “I’m afraid I have forgotten my calling cards, but tell him the Captain and Dr. Dorothy McCleland wish to see him.”
“Very good, sir. Please come in.”
They followed the maid into a wide high-ceilinged hallway from which a walnut-banistered stairway curled towards a spacious landing with a row of dark wooden doors. The maid led them into a tastefully furnished parlour that might once have been used as a waiting room. Dody could imagine chairs along the wall now occupied by a chintz settee. A world away from the waiting room at the Women’s Clinic, she mused. One consultation fee here would probably have equated to about a month’s rent on the Clinic’s premises.
No fire burned in the duck’s-nest grate, but the room had a welcoming feel, enhanced by the greeting of the pleasant-faced woman who joined them. The faded blond hair and the fine lines around her eyes put her somewhere in her late forties. She introduced herself, and her bright smile lifted years from her face. Dody warmed to her immediately.
“I believe you are an old friend of my husband’s. Are you from his army days, Captain?” Mrs. Van Noort enquired.
“Our acquaintance is more recent than that, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m afraid he is not at home. I’m sure he will be disappointed to have missed you.”
“Really? Your maid seemed to think he was here.”
“Sally was mistaken. My husband comes and goes often these days. It is hard to keep track of him.”
The smallest delay in Pike’s response betrayed his suspicion. “Can you tell me when you expect him back?” he asked.
“Why don’t you both sit down?” Mrs. Van Noort suggested. “Sally will fetch us some tea. Sally?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, leaving the room. Oddly enough, Mrs. Van Noort did not seem anxious to get rid of them.
Dody and Pike sat alongside each other on the chintz settee. Dody felt uncomfortable with the deception and spent some time adjusting her skirt. It was a relief when Pike said, “Ma’am, my name is Chief Inspector Pike and I am with Special Branch. Your husband knew me as the captain.” Pike pulled his warrant card from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to her.
Mrs. Van Noort frowned at it for a moment, and then turned her gaze to Dody.
“And I am a doctor with the Home Office.”
“We are investigating a series of incidents,” Pike said, “and were hoping your husband might be able to help shed some light on them for us.”
Mrs. Van Noort lowered her eyes to fingers that twisted on her lap. “I do not know where my husband is or when he will be back. As I said before, he comes and goes at whim.”
After a moment’s thought, she rose from her chair. Moving to the mantel, she picked up a photograph of an officer dressed in the uniform of the Royal Army Medical Corps. She passed it to Dody. A fair young man with an angular face stared back at her from a silver frame.
“That was my husband before he left for the war in South Africa. He was not the same man when he returned.” She paused, as if to say something more, then stopped herself.
Dody handed the photograph to Pike, who indicated with a tip of his head that this was the Van Noort he had met.
“In what way was he changed, Mrs. Van Noort?” Dody asked.
The woman glanced at Pike and back to Dody with the tiniest shake of her head. The maid returned with the tea tray and placed it on an inlaid card table near her mistress.
Pike rose from his chair. “May I impose on your maid to show me around the house?”
Mrs. Van Noort touched her throat. “But your tea?”
“Not for the moment, thank you.”
“Why do you wish to search my house, Chief Inspector?”
“Solely for the purpose of eliminating your husband from my investigation.”
Pike’s vague answer would not have satisfied Dody, but strangely, it seemed to offer Mrs. Van Noort some form of relief. “As you wish. Sally, show the chief inspector anything he wants. Start in the basement and work your way up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid closed the door behind them, and Mrs. Van Noort poured the tea in silence.
“Was there something you wished to tell me about your husband in private?” Dody asked, blessing Pike’s insight.
Mrs. Van Noort turned her head away and took a sip of tea. “This is hard for me. I have been expecting a visit from the police for some time now—my husband follows his heart, Doctor, and is therefore not as careful of regulations or reputation as one might wish. Nevertheless, it is still a shock. When rehearsing this scene in my mind, I had always resolved to tell all. I had no idea how hard it would be when the time came—to speak to a man about it, especially.”
Dody gave an encouraging smile. “We are alone now. Let us take advantage of that.”
“Of course. But first of all, Doctor, can you tell me what you think my husband is involved in?”
“We think he might be able to provide us with information. His card was found in the pocket of a dead girl who died from injuries sustained during a criminal abortion.”
Mrs. Van Noort covered her mouth. It took a moment for Dody to realise that rather than attempting to hide an exclamation of horror, the woman was in fact covering a sigh of relief.
“And you think my husband was somehow involved? Of all the crimes he could have committed, I assure you illegal abortion is the most preposterous. We were unable to have children; we see children as a precious blessing denied to us. My husband is also a deeply religious man and a dedicated doctor. He could no more take a life than you could.” Mrs. Van Noort paused and looked closely at Dody. “But of course I realise who you are now. I thought your name sounded familiar. You are the doctor at the centre of the inquest into the death of that scullery maid. The charges against you have been dropped, I believe.” She put down her cup, moved over to Dody, and took her hand. “You poor girl, how awful it must have been.”
Dody squeezed the hand that held her own. “Thank you,” she whispered, unable to trust her voice. After the events of the last few weeks, it took no more than a sympathetic tone to leave her on the verge of tears.
“I can see why you would want to find the true criminal, but I assure you that it is not my husband,” Mrs. Van Noort said, returning to her chair.
“I’m afraid I was unable to find his name listed with the Medical Licensing Board,” Dody said, pausing to allow the words to register. “Has your husband been practising without a licence? Is that why you have been expecting a visit from the police?”
“Your tea must be cold, let me refresh it.” Mrs. Van Noort made as if to move.
Dody held up a palm to stop her. “Mrs. Van Noort, the police will eventually discover whatever it is your husband has been up to. I’m afraid they can be quite relentless in their pursuit.” She took a stab in the dark. “Did his deregistration have anything to do with his epileptic seizures?” Mrs. Van Noort looked to the ceiling as if to prevent tears. Dody continued gently. “I know that nothing they could say or do to me was going to stop me practising my profession. Had my career been totally ruined, I still would have found somewhere to practise—behind prison bars if necessary.”
“Once a doctor always a doctor, I suppose. Archie can’t seem to help himself.”
Dody waited patiently for Mrs. Van Noort to continue.
“His physician said his problems were due to an injury sustained during the war.”
“Where exactly was this injury?”
Mrs. Van Noort indicated an area on the side of her head, the temporal area. Dody had not come across such a case since medical school, but as Mrs. Van Noort talked, the signs and symptoms of temporal lobe epilepsy came back to her in almost textbook form.
“He is selective with his work, of course, performs no dangerous or complex medical procedures, and he knows what to look out for these days,” Mrs. Van Noort said. “His body gives him a warning—an odd feeling, a strange taste in his mouth—that a fit will soon be upon him. The seizures became so frequent he was forced to close down the practice. He had a turn in front of a patient. The lady was not injured, but she made a complaint, and the Board decided his illness compromised patient safety and struck him from the list. Funnily enough, we still have people making enquiries of the clinic. It was closed years ago, but my husband’s good reputation lingers on.”
The poor woman had to have something to cling to, Dody supposed. “But he continues to practise?”
Mrs. Van Noort shifted her gaze from Dody’s. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Mrs. Van Noort looked pained, as if what she was about to say required great effort. “He treats harlots, Doctor. Women whom few doctors want to touch. He examines them for signs of . . . disease . . . and administers simple treatments. Drug therapies, mostly, I have taken care to discover. As I say, he came back from the war a damaged man . . .”
Her last sentence was left to hang in the air, as if Dody was expected to fill in the gaps herself. She was no mind-reader, but her knowledge of temporal lobe epilepsy was beginning to give her an idea as to what the woman was alluding to. No wonder she had not wanted Pike to hear any of this. His questions would have undoubtedly been too painful and embarrassing to answer.
“Pregnancy is an occupational hazard with the women your husband attends. How can you be so sure that he does not perform abortions on them, too?” Dody asked.
“In the course of your medical experience, Doctor, I am sure you have noticed that even the most unbalanced have certain parameters they will not cross—they will not step on the cracks in the footpath, they will not eat anything that is green—things that might not make sense to us, which do to them. My husband is not completely unbalanced. I know he would rather take his own life than that of another. The saddest thing about it is that he is sane enough to hate himself for the other . . . things . . . his condition compels him to do. He is a tormented man, Dr. McCleland.”
“I think I understand,” Dody said. But while understanding, she did not see how this torment made him any less capable of performing an abortion than any other doctor who had gone wrong. The woman’s love for her husband might well have blinded her to the truth. “But it is still important that we find him.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea where he is, my dear—in some house of ill repute as likely as not.”
“I appreciate your candour, Mrs. Van Noort.”
“I want you to help him.”
“I hope that we can.”
Pike returned to the room with a pill press tucked under his arm.
“I found this in your husband’s study, Mrs. Van Noort,” he said. “May I borrow it for a while? I’ll return it undamaged as soon as I have run some tests.”
The woman looked to Dody, who encouraged her cooperation with a nod.
