He cocked his head towards the table and said to Brockman, “Those three men over there, are they wedding guests?”
Brockman squinted through the smoke. “Never seen them before, must be from off the street. This isn’t a private function; I can’t afford to turn people away. Maybe the missus knows—I’ll call her over.”
Mrs. Brockman joined them at the pub door. “Irish by the sound of their voices, and not regulars, neither,” she said. “Say, Captain, what did you think of my pheasant pie?”
Pike tore his gaze from the strangers and dusted pastry crumbs from his shirtfront. “Best I’ve ever had.”
“Then I’ll get you another. You’re looking a bit peaky, if it’s not too presumptive of me to say so. I reckon you need fattening up. I’ll put another by the pianner for you. That landlady of yours certainly ain’t doing the job proper.”
Pike sat down at the piano and began the next bracket, the bawdy drinking songs the dockland crowd could not get enough of. His mother would turn in her grave if she knew how he employed his talents now. From the far table, he could feel the black eyes of the Irishman burning into his back.
His subconscious took over. Against his bidding, his fingers picked out “Whiskey in the Jar.” It was like a prompt. Now he knew the identity of the shadowy face. It belonged to a onetime Fenian, Derwent O’Neill. He’d seen it that very morning in a book of old mug shots he’d been flicking through on Shepherd’s insistence—the superintendent remained adamant the Irish were behind the trouble at the women’s march.
And he remembered the biography that went with the photograph. How could he not? Derwent O’Neill had been arrested on suspicion of being involved with a string of bombings in London—including that of the Queen Anne Hotel—ten years back. The cases against him had been thrown out of court owing to lack of evidence, though others had gone down. O’Neill had returned to Ireland and, as far as Pike knew, had not been seen on these shores since.
The crowd joined in with the lyrics. Pike felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck as the words took on a new meaning.
As I was a-goin’ over Gilgarra Mountain
I spied Captain Farrell, and his money he was countin’.
First I drew my pistols and then I drew my rapier,
Sayin’ “Stand and deliver, for I am your bold receiver.”
Musha ringum duram da,
Whack for the daddy-o,
There’s whiskey in the jar.
The song ended. Someone called out through the roars and stamping feet, requesting the popular music hall song “Brave Dublin Fusiliers!” In the present company, Pike knew the Loyalist song would cause nothing but trouble. The last thing he wanted was for the wedding celebrations to end in a donnybrook. He paid no heed to the request, ending the bracket with “Roll Out the Barrel,” then took his drink and pressed his way through the crowd to where O’Neill and his friends sat. He pulled up a chair and joined them.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector Pike,” O’Neill said. “Doing a bit of moonlighting, I see?”
“A favour for a friend. I’ve never met you, O’Neill. How do you know my name?”
“Perhaps for the same reason you know mine. You’re famous, Mr. Pike, in my circle, that is.” He waved his hand towards his three companions.
“Sinn Fein, you mean?—And famous for what?”
“Your luck, of course; maybe mine, too.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
“How lucky you were to have escaped the Queen Anne Hotel bomb. And how lucky I was to avoid Her Majesty’s pleasure. But I’m sorry, this is terribly insensitive of me; please accept, Mr. Pike, my most sincere commiserations on the untimely death of your unlucky wife.”
Pike raised his glass to his mouth to hide his flush at the scarcely veiled animosity. “It was a long time ago,” he said, taking several swallows of ale. “The men responsible have paid for it on the gallows and I have other concerns now—such as your presence in London.”
“Just wetting the head of me cousin’s new bairn; a family reunion, you might say. This is me cousin and the new father, Sean.” O’Neill pointed to a peach-faced lad no older than twenty-one. “He’s the son of my Uncle Liam, hanged by the English. My father, Seamus, was killed—”
“Your family tree interests me vastly,” Pike said.
O’Neill narrowed his eyes. “And this is me brother Patrick, who came over with me.” Patrick was dark like his brother, but quieter and more serious, lacking Derwent’s charismatic energy. “There’s no law against a man visiting his family in England, is there, Mr. Pike?” Derwent added.
“None at all, but I think Special Branch will be interested to know you’re in the area.” Pike rose to leave, a visit to Special Branch added to his list of things to do in the morning. Since its recent formation, Sinn Fein had not been associated with any violent acts in London, but one could never be too complacent when it came to the Irish.
“Haven’t yous got better things to do than spy on innocent family reunions?” Patrick O’Neill said. “I hear victimising the Irish is out of fashion in London anyway.”
“Yeah,” Sean O’Neill added. “The English police seem a lot more interested in stamping on their fellow workers on the docks and down the mines, men whose only crime is wanting to put more food in the bellies of their children.”
“And punching women and putting their hands up their skirts, so we hear,” Derwent O’Neill added with a sly glint to his eye.
Pike put his hands on the table and leaned towards O’Neill. “What do you know about that? Were you at the riot outside the House of Commons?” The notion was ridiculous, of course. Sinn Fein wouldn’t bother with something as minor as stirring up a women’s protest; the Fenians, from whom they had evolved, preferred ripping people apart with gunpowder and nail bombs. But the Lords were employing delaying tactics over the introduction of the third Home Rule Bill, and tensions were beginning to rise again. So Irish troublemaking couldn’t be ruled out.
“Everybody knows.” Derwent O’Neill laughed. “Maybe you don’t need to go further than your own field to find the shit, eh, Mr. Pike?” He nodded to his companions. “We best be off, the air is too close in here.” They rose as one from the table. “We’ll be seeing you, Mr. Pike,” Derwent said, doffing his cap in a mocking manner.
Chapter Eight
A chilly breeze had swept away much of the nighttime fog, and the flame in the oil lamp flickered as Dody held it up to the mortuary door. Florence shivered and took her sister’s arm. “I don’t know how you can bear to work in this kind of place.”
“This mortuary is older and worse than most,” Dody said. “Many are not much different to operating theatres these days. Now, are you sure you’re going to be able to go ahead with this?”
“I can do anything provided I don’t have to look at Catherine.”
“Good girl, just leave that part to me.”
Dody pulled the doorbell and within seconds Alfred was standing in the porch. When she held the lamp to her face, he recognised her immediately. “Dr. McCleland? Well, ’ow do you do, miss? What brings you ’ere, on such an ’orrible night?”
“I have something to ask you, may we come in? Oh, Alfred, this is my assistant, Nurse—”
“Nightingale,” Florence said, holding up the lamp and giving the old man a sweet smile. Nightingale. Dody repressed the urge to smile. “No relation, I’m afraid,” Florence added.
Alfred chuckled. “Come in, ladies, do. And what a pretty pair you are to be warming up such a cold foggy night, if you don’t mind my saying.”
They stepped with Alfred into the anteroom. The gaslights were on and sputtering, though the yawing mouth of the stairwell leading to the mortuary itself was dark as pitch. Dody was glad she’d had the foresight to take the lamp from the carriage. “How is your chest, Alfred?” she asked. “Did you manage to find a carbolic ball?”
“We’ve been so busy ’ere miss, can’t say I’ve ’ad the chance t
o get ’old of one yet. That lotion you gave me is working a treat, though.”
Dody reached into her bag. “I thought you might not have had the chance, so I picked one up from the chemist’s for you this evening.”
Alfred beamed. He took the ball from her and turned it over in his hands. “Bless you, Doctor, and may the good Lord reward you for your generosity.”
“But now I’m going to have to ask a favour of you. I’ve just come from a visit to Chief Inspector Pike.”
“A fine man that!” Alfred said between enthusiastic inhalations of the carbolic ball.
“A fine man indeed.” Dody ignored the disdainful look on her sister’s face and took a deep breath. “He asked me if I would have another look at Lady Catherine’s head wounds before she’s claimed in the morning by the funeral parlour.”
She’d done it now, there was no going back. She could only hope that word would not get out, and that if it did, it would not cost her too dearly.
“This is most irregular, miss,” Alfred said, placing the ball on the desk delicately as if it were a precious Fabergé egg. “Once the coroner has signed the release documents—”
“Quite right. The chief inspector said you were a noble upholder of the law and would not allow any interference with the body without written consent.” At this, Alfred threw back his shoulders and puffed out his pigeon chest. “Consequently, he wrote me a note to pass on to you.” Dody snapped her fingers at Florence, who patted herself down under her cape, searching for the note. Dody hoped the poor lighting would hide the quality of the garment, far too fine a cut for a mere nurse to be wearing.
“Well, where is it? Chop-chop, girl!” Aside, she said to Alfred, “She’s new to the job, this is her first assignment with me.”
“I can’t find it, Doctor,” Florence said with a wail worthy of Sarah Bernhardt. “I think I must have dropped it in the street. Shall I go back and retrace our steps?”
“Silly girl, we’ll never find it in this fog.” Dody exaggerated a sigh. “I fear we won’t be able to get another note from the chief inspector at this hour. Alfred, is there anything you can do to help?” Her heart was beating wildly; she was asking more of Alfred than he could know—and she feared for his job, too.
Alfred rubbed his chin. “Well, I suppose I could let you down there, accompanied by me, that is, and then we can document your proceedings together—but you’ll ’ave to sign the register.”
“Thank you so much, I won’t be long, I promise. Now if you’ll just hand me the pen…”
At this Florence swayed, clutching the corner of the desk. “Doctor, the odour is getting to me…I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Good heavens, girl—not in here!” Dody said, fanning Florence’s face with her hand. Turning to Alfred, she said, “Would you be so kind as to take my nurse out for a moment? She needs some air. I can find my way to the cadaver keep without you, you need not worry. I only require a quick glance at the body and just enough time to take some measurements.”
With a look of genuine concern, Alfred took Florence by the elbow and propelled her to the front door, clucking his tongue like a nursemaid. Dear old man. Dody would make it up to him somehow—keep him in carbolic balls for life perhaps.
“This is the last time you work with me, my girl,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to the stone staircase. Florence had once boasted that since her force-feeding experience, she could be sick on demand. Dody hoped she would put on a convincing performance.
Now time was of the essence. She needed to be out of the building before Alfred realised she had not signed the register; she could leave no official proof that she had been here. If she had read the conscientious Alfred correctly, he would not care to advertise his mistake. She was counting on that. Unless she could prove without a doubt that a policeman had bludgeoned Lady Catherine to death, she wanted no one else the wiser of her visit.
She descended the stairs, hurried through the mortuary, and entered the cadaver keep, which was even colder than the mortuary room itself. The beam of the lamp picked out six body-sized ice chests resting on a long wooden trestle running the length of one of the walls. Small shapes scurried from the sudden intrusion of light. The place dripped like a cave; melting ice trickled from holes in the chests to an open porcelain drain, which disappeared through a hole in the wall to God only knew where.
Dody placed the lamp on the floor, where a cold mist swirled and wreathed its glow. Her movements threw magnified, eerie shadows on the wall. She wasn’t afraid of the dead; it was the living who frightened her. If the authorities discovered her deception, they might strike her from the medical register; she tried to reassure herself that medical men had done far worse than this for the sake of their science. Dr. Spilsbury himself might resort to similar measures in her situation; his fight against the incompetent system was legendary. If finding justice for Lady Catherine meant admitting to her clandestine activities, Spilsbury would come to her defence, she was sure of it. So might Pike, for that matter; there was an air of justice about the man which was rare in most policemen.
There were no names on the chests, only numbers. Hopefully Lady Catherine’s body would not be the last. She heaved the lid off the farthest chest and met the face of a stubbly chinned, elderly gentleman. The next contained an alabaster girl. In the third she gazed upon the pugilistic face of a labouring man with the top portion of his scalp missing.
The lids of the ice chests were heavy and the exertion had turned her arms to rubber; a cool draft chilled the perspiration on her brow. With a loud creak, she prised open the fourth lid.
Catherine stared back from her pillow of ice.
Dody paused for a moment of respect, then reached out a hand to push a strand of bloodied hair from the icy face. “We didn’t always see eye to eye, Catherine,” she whispered, “but my sister loved you and that is what matters. This was not the end you deserved.”
She lifted the lamp and positioned it on the trestle for maximum light. Ideally, an examination such as this would be undertaken in daylight, certainly not by lamplight in the cadaver keep. Even in daylight, the only natural illumination in the mortuary room came from a narrow row of small, ceiling-high windows. Mangini probably missed all manner of things during his cursory examination that she would have no chance of finding now. But hopefully those details would be irrelevant to what she was trying to prove. The shape, fragmentations, and depth of the wounds should tell her what she needed to know.
With a touch as gentle as if Lady Catherine were only sleeping, Dody lifted the head towards the light. With one hand supporting the neck, she began to probe the bloodied hair with the fingertips of her other hand, feeling for fragments of bone, trying to discover the exact locations of the wounds so she need only shave the hair where necessary. Once the wounds were exposed, she would take measurements of length, depth, and angles, using the ruler and recording her notes in a sketchpad she had brought.
The wind started up again, breaking the silence, and the lamp on the trestle flickered. The cold on her cheek grew in intensity and the wick flickered again, almost extinguishing itself. She let Lady Catherine’s head fall back onto the ice and lunged for the lamp, only to knock it over in her haste.
Blackness closed in on her from all sides.
Alone in the dark, Dody was again a nervous medical student, horrified and repulsed by her first session in the dissecting room. Her teeth chattered. She groped along the stone floor for her Gladstone bag, determined not to let this setback deter her. Needled feet scampered across her hand. She choked down her scream. The rank smelly mist seeped into her lungs as icy fingers caressed her cheek.
Dody found her bag at last, up against the trestle leg. She fumbled with the catch and dived in, feeling for her smoking pouch and matchbox. Her first strike along the side of the damp ice chest failed to catch. Again she tried, this time upon the sole of her boot. It took several attempts before the match finally stuttered into a flame. With trembl
ing fingers, she managed to set the lamp straight, remove the glass, and light the wick. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmured, believing, despite scientific evidence to the contrary, that some form of God still existed. The glow of the lamp, so ineffective before, was at once as comforting as the light from her own fireplace.
Taking a steadying breath, she commenced her work.
Chapter Nine
Dody thanked Alfred for his offer to walk them to their carriage but insisted it wasn’t necessary. So as not to draw attention to their presence in the mortuary, she had instructed Fletcher, their coachman, to park in a side street off Lambeth Palace Road. The breeze had dropped and patches of river mist had returned. Directly outside the hospital a team of labourers worked by lamplight, scraping up the straw spread on the road to muffle the sounds of the street and replacing it with a fresh layer. Other than these men, there were few people about and little traffic.
The sisters hurried through the dark from lamppost to lamppost, as one might scoot from one shady tree to another on a hot summer day. They paused to catch their breath under the last pool of yellow light before their carriage. If they needed to call for help now, Fletcher would be close enough to render assistance.
“Nightingale?” Dody said, raising her eyes to the lamplight.
“Sorry, it was the first name that sprang to mind.”
“It was the last that sprang to mine.”
“Did you manage to find out everything you needed?” Plumes of Florence’s breath mingled with the fog.
“About as much as I could under the circumstances; the conditions were far from ideal. I won’t be able to form any conclusions until I’ve completed my tests. Unfortunately I have a full day at the women’s hospital tomorrow, so I doubt there will be time then.”
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