The Scent of Murder (18 page)

‘Is something worrying you, Poppa?’ Dody asked, turning the conversation away from herself. ‘You did not appear too happy when I first entered the kitchen.’

Nial’s and Louise’s eyes met. Rather than answering, Nial pulled a chair out for Dody. Louise refreshed the teapot and urged Dody to take a piece of sugary Russian tea-cake before she grasped the nettle.

‘I’m afraid your father is in trouble again,’ she said.

‘Oh, Poppa,’ Dody sighed.

‘They confiscated my camera when I was in the woods,’ Nial growled. ‘I was setting up to photograph a woodpecker when out they sprang, two miserable creatures in filthy mackintoshes. Special Branch types, can smell ’em a mile off. I am apparently being accused of photographing a British reconnaissance balloon on its way to Germany. Utter rot, of course. As if I would spy for the Germans! Hell’s teeth, I detest Germans! As for the balloon, they must think I have supernatural powers to be able to spot it through the trees.’

‘Don’t swear please, Nial.’ Louise twisted her hands and turned to Dody. ‘Why can’t the police leave us alone?’

‘Because of your politics, Mother. The British establishment is fearful of challenges to its old ways. The suffragettes, unions, the Labour Party, troubles abroad … they’re making the authorities wary of everyone.’

And, Poppa, Dody addressed him in her head, you dress so strangely, like a Russian peasant, despite having been born in Sevenoaks. You have eccentric habits too, Mother. You write literary critiques for a left-wing newspaper and you associate with radical writers and artists who are constantly under government censorship. Of course the authorities are going to be suspicious of both of you.

‘But we Fabians are peace-loving people!’ Louise said. ‘We encourage reform by negotiation, not by inciting revolution.’

‘Supporting Germany? What rot!’ Nial continued on his ranting path. ‘I detest the Huns. Their government is more dictatorial than our own, and their police even worse — if that’s possible.’

‘I expect the police will see the error of their ways, dear, and give you back your camera sooner or later,’ Louise said. ‘You get on famously with our local magistrate. I can’t see how the police can possibly charge you with anything.’ She turned to Dody. ‘Your father is giving Mr Block lessons in the Russian
balalaika
, an instrument Mr Block purports to be very keen on — though I fear he is more interested in the vodka accompaniment.’

‘Bloody police, corrupt to a man,’ Nial muttered.

This was definitely not the right time to tell her parents about Pike.

She took a bite of tea-cake. Sugar flew about the table. The thick texture felt like glue in her mouth. Her mother was saying something, but Dody had ceased to hear. All she could think about was her dream and the look of hurt on Pike’s face.

Dody wondered what would happen if Pike ever found out her true reason for leaving Fitzgibbon Hall. The last thing she wanted to do was tell Pike what had happened in the tack room; during his investigations he was sure to come across Sir Desmond again, and who could tell how he would react.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Pike looked with curiosity through the window of the single-horse brougham to the McClelands’ long pea-gravel driveway fringed with glossy rhododendrons. He had heard much about the Tudor farmhouse from Dody — half-timbered walls bowing with age, thatched roof — and he already felt a sense of familiarity. One of the house’s wings was a later addition of brick, he noticed, and spidered with veins of Virginia creeper, which he hoped one day to see in glorious autumn splendour.

The cab driver stopped at a horse trough next to a hitching rail. An elderly man with a long beard looked up from the empty flower bed he had been tilling some way off. Dody had said her father played an active role in every aspect of his property’s maintenance. Was this he? Pike had only met the old gentleman once and could not tell at this distance. The old man squinted back for a moment, threw down his hoe, dashed to the front door and scuttled inside, leaving the door open behind him. Must be one of the staff, Pike decided. He told the cabby he wouldn’t be long and asked him to wait.

No sooner had he stepped from the brougham than a figure appeared in the doorway and a shotgun blasted above Pike’s head. Pike ducked behind the carriage.

The cabby cursed and cried out, ‘I’m not staying around ’ere, mate.’ Without collecting his fare, he whipped his horse and took off with a spray of gravel, leaving Pike exposed.

The shotgun blasted again. Pike dived for cover behind a water trough, slamming himself stomach-first onto the driveway. Taking out his revolver, he gingerly lifted his head.

He recognised Mr McCleland now. He was taller than the old gentleman in the garden, though they shared the same style of untidy grey beard and Russian dress. Stupid old fool, Pike thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Had he no idea of the trouble he could get into, shooting at a police officer?

Two women approached Mr McCleland as he reloaded the gun. One was his wife, the other was Dody. Each resting a hand on one of his arms, they appeared to be pleading with him.

Mr McCleland paid them no heed. ‘Clear off now, you bugger, and you won’t get hurt,’ he shouted from the door.

Pike had no intention of doing any such thing. One maniac with a shotgun was not going to stop him from seeing Dody. He put his pistol back into his pocket and took out a white handkerchief. Waving this in the air above his head, he scrambled to his feet. Thanks to his brief secondment to Special Branch the previous year, he knew all about the crusty old man’s reputation. Standing orders in the notes stated that officers were never to deal with Nial McCleland alone. Pike was more inclined to believe Dody’s account that her father was harmless — or so he tried to convince himself as he approached the house, sweat pricking his armpits, and trousers damp from the driveway and scratching against his knees. The barrel of the gun continued to point unwaveringly at his chest.

Dody recognised him and forcefully urged her father to put his weapon down. She wore a dark-grey skirt and jacket, and instead of the usual soft chignon her hair was scraped harshly back from her face, a tiny escaped lock hanging limply down her cheek.

Pike forgot all about the danger he was in when he saw the bruise on her forehead and the pallor of her skin. He quickened his pace. What on earth has happened to her? he wondered.

‘Father, please, put the gun down. I know this man. He is Chief Inspector Pike, one of my professional colleagues from London.’

This registered with Mrs McCleland before her husband. ‘Nial, this is the man who helped Dody last year. Do you not remember meeting him at the hospital?’

McCleland slowly lowered the gun. Dark eyes bored into Pike’s. The old man reminded him of someone famous, and it took him a moment to remember who. Count Leo Tolstoy, that was it. He wondered if the image created was coincidental or contrived.

Well, Mr McCleland, you are not the only one capable of taking on a role when it suits you, he thought. Pike drew his notebook from his pocket and licked the end of his pencil for Dody’s benefit. ‘Your full name, please, sir.’

‘Why? What do you need that for?’

‘For the charge sheet. You are being charged with firing a weapon at a police officer.’

Nial McCleland turned puce. ‘Utter rot. I wouldn’t waste ammunition on the police. The crows, sir, I was firing at the crows. I stopped as soon as I saw you.’

‘“Clear off, you … so and so”,’ Pike said as he wrote. He glanced up from his notebook and met Dody’s eye. He expected a fleeting smile but got a lighter shade of pale instead. Well, his charade might have fallen flat with her, but at least it had rattled the belligerent old man. Pike put the notebook back into his coat pocket, but continued to hide behind his policeman’s pose, rocking on his heels, hands behind his back. ‘I need to speak to your daughter, sir. I have an urgent message from her sister, Miss Florence McCleland.’

McCleland handed his gun to the bearded retainer and looked in puzzlement at his wife.

‘You’d better come in, then, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs McCleland said with the same air of composed dignity so often displayed by her elder daughter.

As Pike followed the couple through the door, his arm brushed Dody’s. She turned her head from him. Something was wrong, he sensed it, and he wondered how he might talk to her alone.

He was shown into the crowded parlour. Paintings and photographs of all sizes hung on the walls, leaving barely a glimpse of the richly textured wallpaper beneath. The floor was strewn with worn oriental carpets. Sagging leather chairs crowded like acolytes around an overstuffed sofa piled with colourful cushions, and a gleaming brass samovar bubbled on a circular copper table. Pike attempted to show no interest in the room, despite being enchanted by the cornucopia of colour and composition surrounding him.

Louise pulled at the tasselled bell cord and asked the maid to fetch Pike tea. McCleland tried to protest but was stopped by his wife’s raised finger. The old man obviously still viewed Pike as the enemy and was against giving him sustenance of any kind.

‘Doctor McCleland,’ Pike addressed Dody, who sat hunched in the furthermost corner of the sofa, ‘your sister has asked me to fetch you back to Fitzgibbon Hall. Mr Tristram Slater has been involved in a riding accident and appears to be seriously injured.’

Pike expected Dody to jump to her feet and rush to gather her things. All she did was stare at him, her lower lip trembling like that of a person in a state of shock.

Mr McCleland broke the awkward silence. ‘Good God, that’s terrible. Poor Tristram. What happened?’

Pike tore his eyes from Dody. ‘The girth of his saddle snapped as he was jumping a hedge, sir.’

‘But why did Florence ask
you
to fetch Dody?’ Mrs McCleland asked.

‘I am temporarily residing in the area, ma’am, while working on a case. As I am an acquaintance of both your daughters, Miss Florence thought it appropriate that I come for her sister.’ Pike tried to catch Dody’s eye but she remained focused on her fingers twisting in her lap. He sensed the scrutiny of Mrs McCleland, however, as he went on. ‘The local doctor is away on leave and his substitute is miles away and unknown to the family. Florence thought it would be a good idea to fetch Doctor McCleland. Even if the substitute is available, it may take some time for him to arrive at the Hall, and he may not be able to remain with the patient.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Am I to tell your sister that you are unable to come, Doctor?’

Dody failed to answer.

‘Dody?’ Her mother prompted. ‘Surely you will not ignore Florence’s request?’

Dody snapped herself out of whatever was troubling her. ‘Of course not, Mother. Father, will you be so kind as to ask George to take us to the station in the trap? What are Mr Slater’s symptoms, Chief Inspector?’

‘He appears to be paralysed.’

Mrs McCleland gasped and sought the comfort of her husband’s hand.

Dody nibbled on a fingernail, something Pike had never seen her do before. ‘I will gather up my things while you give the chief inspector some tea, Mother.’

She brushed past Pike as if he were a stranger to her. In front of her parents, he supposed he had to be.

As they jolted along, side by side in the otherwise empty first-class train carriage, Dody told Pike the same story she had told her parents: that as well as the infected shoulder bite, she had also been kicked in the head.

‘You don’t have much luck with horses, do you?’ Pike said sceptically. ‘What the devil induced you to venture into a stable?’ he asked.

She hesitated. ‘On my way back from meeting you I thought I saw something on the floor among the sawdust.’

‘What? An animal? Jewellery?’

‘Please, let’s talk about it later, Pike. I’m tired.’

She closed her eyes, indicating an end to the conversation, and tried to lose herself in the steady rhythm of the train. He did not believe a word of her story, she could tell. He was the man she loved and her love made her as transparent as water. Despite her best efforts, she could no more lie convincingly to him than she could to herself.

Disconcertingly, she found that she could control herself no longer. Tears pressed through her closed lids. Pike pulled her into his chest, stroked her hair and pressed gentle kisses on the crown of her head. The image of Sir Desmond stroking her hair invaded her mind and she gritted her teeth, resisting the illogical urge to pull back from her beloved, who wanted only to help her.

She had tended many rape victims in the Women’s Clinic, even examined several on the slab who had died from their injuries, and had always viewed these women with empathy. But observing from a distance was entirely different from being involved oneself, even if her attack had not, mercifully, reached its intended conclusion. No amount of women’s suffrage could alter the fact that men were physically stronger than women, and that in sexual matters women would always be more vulnerable. Pike was different, she told herself; he would never use brute force. But he was still male, wasn’t he? One whose physiology she could understand, but whose inner passions were a complete mystery to her.

‘If you can’t tell me what really happened, I am in no position to help you, my darling,’ he said.

She caught a whiff of his hair oil. It was a different scent from Sir Desmond’s, but still she could not help but retch and pull away. ‘It is over now, Matthew. No harm done but a sore head. Please try to forget about it.’

‘It wasn’t a horse, I know that much.’

Her voice rose, and snapped. ‘Oh, do be quiet, Pike — I am not one of your suspects.’

He drew away quickly, his body tightening as if from an internal blow.

She had never intended to cause him pain, but why, oh why couldn’t he just accept that this was something she could not talk about in her present state? Telling him what had happened in the tack room could only lead to disaster. He would confront Sir Desmond; he would not be able to help himself, he was that kind of man. Then Sir Desmond would retaliate by ruining both of their careers. And what about facing Sir Desmond again?