The Insanity of Murder (14 page)

Louise McCleland seemed much more satisfied with their visit to the rest home than Dody was. So much so, as she explained over tea in the small hotel (scones, cherry jam and clotted cream) she felt happy enough to catch the evening train to Tunbridge Wells and return home and not stay the night with Dody as originally planned.

‘I’ve been in Europe for over two months. Jobs have built up on the farm and I’m keen to get started on them before your father comes back.’ Louise carefully placed her cup into its saucer and looked Dody in the eye. ‘Though really, dear, I don’t know why you have such reservations about the place. I thought Doctor Fogarty was quite charming.’

‘Reservations?’ Dody queried, sensing a reprimand coming.

‘You seemed quite put out that you weren’t able to visit the treatment house. Some of the looks you gave the doctor reminded me of when you tasted your first acorn.’

‘I didn’t mean to be difficult. I’m sorry, Mother. I was just curious.’ It annoyed her that she had appeared so transparent. What a shame she had none of her sister’s or mother’s dramatic flair. The last thing she wanted to do was cause Louise worry, when her own shoulders were broad enough to do the worrying for both of them.

‘And what about you, dear, what are your plans?’ Louise asked.

‘I don’t feel up to returning to London tonight, so I won’t cancel our room booking for now. I’m due some leave and might stay here a bit longer. The hotel is charming and so is the village — it will be an enjoyable place to explore.’

‘Good, you look as if you could use a rest. Perhaps your young man will be free to join you for a few days?’

The shock caused Dody to inhale some of her scone. Louise patted her on the back while she coughed and spluttered, and then forced her to drink some more tea.

When Dody’s coughing fit ceased, Louise laughed. ‘Just testing the water, my dear. I have no idea if you have a young man or not — nor is it any of my business, of course.’

‘You know full well that a young man would ruin my career, Mother,’ Dody said, dabbing her lips with her napkin, relieved her fit seemed to have passed unnoticed by the only other people in the dining room, a young couple seated at the far end.

‘One does not have to marry these days, provided one is discreet,’ Louise said.

‘I’m afraid most of society has not yet caught up with your and Poppa’s progressive attitudes.’

‘The artistic set are all doing it. Why, Virginia —’

‘I am not in the artistic set.’

Louise broke her daughter’s gaze and stirred her tea for the umpteenth time. ‘I’m sorry, Dody. I did not mean to cause offence.’

Dody ears began to burn. Fortunately her wide-brimmed hat disguised their redness. She looked at the fob pinned to her bodice. ‘That’s all right, Mother, no offence taken. But now I think we should ask the hotel manager to find us a taxi.’

Dody saw her mother safely onto the train at the village station and caught a motor taxi back to the hotel.

By evening the hotel was crowded with middle-class revellers taking advantage of the fine dining room and comfortably furnished lounge. Dody found a telephone closet in the vestibule and called Pike at his London hotel. It seemed to take an age for the clerk to find him. When Pike at last took the call he sounded relieved to hear from her. Despite his brief introduction to Bethlem, he did not seem as disturbed as she was by the news of Florence’s committal. In fact he seemed delighted that she had found a legal way out of her predicament.

‘You’re staying on for a while then?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It worries me that I am unable to see Florence for a whole week. Anything could happen in a week – what if Fogarty should operate on her?’

‘I very much doubt it. Try to stay calm and I’ll come down as soon as I can.’

There was nothing more irritating than a person who told one to stay calm. Dody prided herself on her cool head, but surely, sometimes, even she was allowed a temperature rise?

‘When?’ she asked abruptly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When are you coming down?’

Pike paused, as if making calculations in his head. ‘I can’t come tomorrow, I’ve promised to take Violet to the races.’ When Dody failed to respond he added, ‘And then the next morning I will be putting her on the train to return to her grandparents. She sends her love, by the way.’

‘So, when will you be here?’ she asked, hating the desperation she heard in her own voice, angry at herself for it. Just how dependent had she become on this man?

‘Thursday or Friday — just as soon as I can get away,’ he replied. He hesitated, before adding, ‘The status of Mrs Hislop’s case has been changed from suicide to murder. The coroner and Spilsbury have been informed. Mr Hislop, the prime suspect, is being questioned by Singh as we speak.’

‘I see.’ Dody wondered how Spilsbury had taken the news. Most police were not as enlightened as Pike when it came to scientific evidence, and the battle for understanding between scientists and the police was still raging. When Pike had finished explaining the circumstances of the body’s discovery, it was obvious to Dody that on this occasion the battle had been won by traditional policing methods.

‘Well done, Matthew,’ Dody conceded graciously. ‘I still wish you were here, though.’

‘You know I long for the day when I can spend my every waking hour with you. I will be with you as soon as I can, my darling. Meanwhile, please don’t do anything rash. I’m sure, in the short term at least, Florence will be safe.’

‘Have you ever known me to do anything rash?’

‘No, but there’s always a first time.’ Picturing his face on the other end of the line, a teasing glint in his eyes and their good-natured creases, restored some of her humour.

‘No, I won’t do anything rash,’ she reassured him. ‘Sleep well, Matthew, and enjoy your last day with Violet. Please give her my love.’

She re-hooked the earpiece and exited the telephone closet, uncrossing the fingers of her left hand as she followed the aroma of roast duck to the hotel dining room.

It was an odd feeling, being one of so many yet not knowing a soul. Florence decided that she did not care for it much.

From her seated position on the small iron bed she looked around the cell-like room. The only other items of furniture were a washstand and a tiny bedside cabinet so crammed with uniforms there was little room for her few personal possessions. The attendant, Mr Beamish, a seemingly pleasant young man, told her the idea behind the Spartan facilities was to discourage anything but sleeping in the rooms. The residents were urged to socialise, enjoy the grounds, and take up practical or artistic pastimes to help cure them of their mental anguish.

Someone had attempted to soften the prison-like window with floral curtains.

But nothing could soften its rusty bars.

She had only just finished changing into her uniform when Mr Beamish knocked (the bedroom doors were only permitted to be closed for the briefest amount of time it took for a patient to dress) and entered her bedroom again, scooping up the ‘home clothes’ Florence had left draped over the single bed.

‘You won’t be needing these for a while, miss,’ he said politely but firmly when she was about to object. ‘I’ll make sure they are laundered and stored safely for you.’

It was peculiar to be discussing her wardrobe with a man. But as it was unlikely that a melancholic would object to such an arrangement, Florence managed to keep her mouth buttoned.

‘Lift your skirts up please, miss,’ Beamish said suddenly, as casually as if he were asking her to pass the butter.

Florence would do no such thing. She took a step back. Should she scream? Would a melancholic scream?

Beamish rolled his eyes, dumped her clothes back on the bed, held her wrist and forcefully lifted her hem. ‘Nice,’ he commented, gazing at her ankles. Florence swung her hand back, ready to chop him in the neck. ‘Nice sensible shoes —T bar and no laces,’ he added. ‘You can keep them.’ He let her skirt drop back down.

Florence heaved a mental sigh of relief at having avoided a violent altercation. Self-restraint, she reminded herself.

‘Oh,’ he said, noticing the book she had left on the bed, ‘I’ll take the book too.’

It was a collection of short stories that included Charlotte Perkins Gillman’s ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, about a woman’s descent into madness. Florence had only just started reading it, hoping it might give her some behavioural tips. She attempted to hide her dismay.

‘Reading’s not encouraged here, miss,’ Beamish explained.

‘You have no library then, Mr Beamish?’ she asked timidly.

He looked at her as if she were mad (she’d better get used to that look, she supposed). ‘Doctor Fogarty says reading’s the very worst thing a woman of delicate inclinations should be doing — it’s one of the reasons so many women get themselves into trouble these days. So to answer your question, no miss, we have no library here. Follow me now, please. The doctor would like to see you before dinner.’

Florence obeyed without a word, reminding herself to speak as little as possible and to accept things as they were without asking questions. If she remained quiet, but compliant, she would hopefully not be subjected to any unnecessary treatments. She followed Mr Beamish down a steep, narrow staircase, keeping her head lowered and her senses primed to her surroundings: the savoury aroma coming from the kitchens at the rear of the building; the sound of a gramophone from the activity room; a high-pitched wail from somewhere within the bowels of the house.

‘Don’t let that worry you, miss.’ Beamish turned on the stairs. ‘There’s some disturbed ladies in here that no amount of kindness can cure, I’m afraid.’

So what becomes of them, Florence wondered. Awful images invaded her mind of lunatics chained to dungeon walls — like those she had seen in engravings of old Bedlam — visitors filing past as if inspecting the latest circus exhibit. Florence did her best to swallow down her fear and followed Beamish to Fogarty’s office.

The consultation with Fogarty passed without incident. Realising she would have to be able to communicate with the other patients in order to get an idea about what was going on in the place, Florence did allow herself to answer the doctor on occasion. She even found herself shedding a genuine tear upon being questioned about the loss of her only love, Tristram.

She kept her answers to Fogarty’s more harmless questions monosyllabic, remembering Beamish’s comment about the wretched, wailing patients who failed to respond to kindness. It was a cautionary tale and served to curb her natural tendency to over-dramatize. She did not want to end up chained to a wall. Or worse.

One thing that puzzled her, however, was Fogarty’s interest in Dody.

‘Your sister’s a fascinating lady, Miss McCleland. I wonder, do the two of you have much in common?’

‘In our own ways we are both passionate about equal rights for women, but other than that, no, not really. We are quite opposite — more like friends who balance one another’s strengths and weaknesses, than sisters.’

‘You had the same background?’

‘Same parents, of course. But I am quite a bit younger than Dody and our family circumstances were different when I was growing up.’

‘In what way?’

‘Our parents lived in Russia so Dody was sent to England to be educated at an English boarding school. She was only ten when she started there, and the long journey meant she could only return for the summer holidays — sometimes not even then.’

Arriving at this place had given Florence an appreciation of what it must have been like for Dody as a new girl at her boarding school. And to think, Florence had been envious of her big sister then!

‘That explains her academic bent, her wilfulness — I mean, her independence.’ Fogarty corrected himself.

Goodness, Dody can’t have made a good impression.
And she’s not the only wilful member of the family
, Florence thought with amusement. She’d have liked to know what Fogarty would have made of Poppa!

‘And you, Miss McCleland, where were you educated?’ Fogarty asked.

‘By the time I was old enough for school the family had moved back to England and I was educated by a variety of governesses and tutors. By then Dody had started medical school. She graduated at the top of her class,’ she added with a proud lift of her chin.

Fogarty did not seem impressed. ‘Indeed,’ he said as he clasped his hands and leaned back in his chair to regard Florence. Florence twisted hers on her lap and tried to avoid his gaze.

‘And you’re now a suffragette. You have taken that on as a career in the same way as your sister has taken on medicine.’

No matter how Florence wanted to present as a melancholic, she could not act as if this was unimportant to her. ‘Yes, I am. It is the one thing about my life that I am truly proud of.’

‘Interesting,’ Fogarty said, uncapping his fountain pen and writing something in the notes before him. ‘What about marriage and children? You are already in your mid-twenties. You don’t really have the luxury of time to grieve for your fiancée.’

‘Then I shall remain an old maid. Other men hold no attraction for me.’

‘Give it time.’ Fogarty tented his fingers and stared at the surface of his desk as if in deep thought, tapping at it with his pen. ‘You must get this old maid business out of your head. For a woman like you, to be such would be a sin against God. It is my duty to do my best for you. I am working on a treatment for which you are an ideal candidate.’ He absently picked at one of the bandages on his fingers and regarded her from the corner of his eye.

She nodded, looked up in alarm when his words struck home. ‘But I will not consent to an operation!’

Fogarty chuckled. ‘No, not an operation — where an earth did you get that idea from?’

Florence shrugged. She didn’t know quite what he was talking about, but if his treatment made her feel better than she felt now, maybe it would be worth it. Anything would be an improvement. Once more genuine tears began to well. She reached for her handkerchief again.

‘Your mother mentioned that you enjoyed boating?’

Florence nodded.

‘Then how would you like to join two other ladies on a boating excursion tomorrow? The weather will be nice, and the lake is very pleasant at this time of year.’

Florence kept her nose buried in her handkerchief. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

The interview ended with Fogarty agreeing with Lamb’s diagnosis of hysteria.

‘If you put the preposterous notions of the Pankhursts out of your mind, Miss McCleland,’ he concluded, ‘I am confident that I can cure you. It is all just a matter of restoring the natural femininity you seem to have lost somewhere along life’s path. I also think it is probably best that you do not see so much of your sister. We’ll talk again when you have had time to settle in. Dinner will be served soon, and we have a marvellous cook — so that’s something to cheer you up, eh?’

Florence thanked him and approached the door. Fogarty leapt to his feet to open it for her. ‘There is just one more thing I have to ask you. Your answer will remain in my strictest confidence, of course.’

‘Yes, Doctor?’ said Florence, wondering what on earth he wanted now.

‘Tell me …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Does Doctor McCleland have a problem with facial hair?’

Outside, one of the peacocks on the lawn began to shriek.

The evening meal was delicious — vegetable soup and fish followed by summer pudding, one of Florence’s favourites. She made sure Doctor Fogarty saw her enjoying her food and listening attentively to the other ladies at her table, collectively called her ‘ward’ because their rooms were situated down the same corridor. When there were no attendants in hearing distance Florence contributed to the conversation with lively enthusiasm.

She sat next to a charming lady who was introduced to her as Mrs Eva Blackman.

‘Call me Eva,’ the lady said as they shook hands over their meal. In turn Eva introduced Florence to a young girl of about sixteen with a flat face and a broad smile called Aggie; Bet-Bet, a woman with blonde hair all awry and a basket of knitting resting on the floor by her side; and Priscilla, a deaf mute with whom Eva conversed in sign language.

Eva explained that they were the smallest ward on the establishment, and even more so now that two of their members were missing: Miss Laurentia O’Brien and Mrs Cynthia Hislop.

‘Were they discharged?’ Florence asked.

‘No, I’m afraid they both absconded. Laurentia’s disappeared into thin air. She was a severe epileptic and Fogarty is worried she might have run off somewhere and then died of a fit. They even dragged the lake for her.’

‘How sad,’ Florence said.

‘Yes, it’s awful,’ Eva agreed. ‘We miss her, don’t we girls?’

Nods all around.

‘But I saw Cynthia in London,’ said an old lady at the end of the table. Florence knew who this was without being introduced. She was Lady Mary, the witness to her crime.

‘So we think Cynthia’s all right,’ Lady Mary added.

‘Praise God,’ Bet-Bet chimed in.

Florence had no wish to destroy their illusion by telling them that Cynthia Hislop had taken her own life. The ladies seemed like a close-knit bunch, and she did not want to add to their grief. But as Cynthia’s shocking medical history was one of the reasons Florence had opted to be admitted to this place, she knew she would have to start asking questions sooner or later.

‘But wait, Florence, you haven’t been introduced to Lady Mary, have you?’ Eva said. ‘How remiss of me.’

After being formally introduced to the old lady, Florence lowered her eyes and concentrated on her pudding. When she dared a glance upward, the woman’s leathery old face almost cracked with her smile.

‘I know you!’ Lady Mary exclaimed, pointing with a knobbly finger. ‘You blew up the station. How lovely to see you again!’

An attendant passed within earshot. Florence put a finger to her lips and lowered her head. Eva nudged Lady Mary with a sharp elbow, making the table wobble.

‘You’re one of the suffragettes who blew up the Necropolis Station?’ Eva whispered once the attendant had wandered off to another table to help an invalid cut up her food – the cutlery was wooden, which made it hard for some of the patients to manage. ‘That was a splendid job! I was a suffragette too before I landed in here, the Hampshire Division. Fogarty says that is the root of all my troubles.’

‘He said something similar to me too,’ Florence replied. ‘But the station bombing is our secret — please don’t let anyone else you know about it. I’m faking my illness to escape from the authorities. I beg you, try to curb your friend’s tongue.’

‘That’s all right, no one ever believes a word poor Mary says.’

‘But you do, dear Eva, don’t you?’ Mary interjected.

Eva patted Mary’s hand, veins bulging and blue. ‘Of course, darling, I too know what it is like not to be believed.’ Her beautiful face took on a brief air of sadness that quickly dissolved with her next eager question.

‘They want to send you back to prison?’

Florence nodded, popping the last of her pudding into her mouth.

‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’

‘Thank you.’ There doesn’t seem anything wrong with this woman’s mind, Florence thought, wondering if she had been diagnosed with hysteria also.

‘I have a secret too,’ Eva said, looking around as if to make sure she was not being overheard. ‘It’s about this place. I’ll tell you all about it when there aren’t so many of
them
around.’

Florence whispered so only Eva could hear. ‘You mean how your friends absconded from this place?’

‘No, there’s something else. Anyway, it’s easy to abscond from this place and it’s no secret. Cynthia had some home clothes under the floorboards of her room. She hid them under her uniform apron and wandered off from the croquet lawn once the attendant had fallen asleep. I expect that’s what Laurentia did too.’

‘How did she get hold of the home clothes?’

‘Stole them off the nurses’ washing line.’

Florence clapped her hands.
Brilliant!
she thought. With such spirited women around her, perhaps this place would not be such a bore after all.