The Anatomy of Death

by Felicity Young

  “Alone, if you please, my lady.”

  She frowned, stood up from the desk, and glided over to the chesterfield. “That is up to my son—Hugo?” She had not lost her German accent, Pike noticed.

  “I have no secrets from my mother, Pike.” Cartwright’s forthright manner sounded forced. “We both know why you are here. She knows I participated in the women’s march, what I witnessed.”

  Pike looked at the dowager’s stern face and glanced back at her son, trying and failing to establish eye contact. “I would prefer to speak to you alone, sir. Some of the matters we need to discuss are of a somewhat delicate nature.”

  “Very well,” Cartwright said with a sigh, which might have been one of relief. “We can talk in the study. Please excuse us, Mother.”

  Cartwright led the way, showing no ill effects of his alleged trampling by the police horse. In the study, he offered Pike a chair, and pointed to a silver tray, where a set of decanters and glasses was arrayed. Each decanter was topped up to the same level; every glass sparkled. Pike politely refused the offer of Madeira. For himself, Cartwright filled a crystal glass and sat in a studded leather chair opposite, waiting for Pike to speak.

  “Mr. Cartwright, it has been brought to my attention that you tried to make a statement to one of the police officers after the riot, but that he failed to file the report.”

  “That’s correct. He didn’t even take down my name.”

  “I am very sorry about that. Perhaps you could give me your statement now.”

  Pike wrote down Cartwright’s story in his notebook; in most respects it confirmed Florence McCleland’s account.

  “Thank you, sir. Now I would like to show you some photo-graphs.” Pike reached into his briefcase. “I was hoping that you might be able to identify the man so that disciplinary action can be taken.”

  Cartwright stared for a moment at Pike, mouth slightly open. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said.

  He spent some time leafing through the photographs, pausing every now and then to sip from his glass. In their beehive helmets, even Pike would have had trouble recognising the policemen as individuals. Cartwright finally pointed to a man with a full beard. “That’s him.”

  “Are you positive, sir?”

  “Yes, quite sure. I recognise the beard.”

  “May I ask what you were wearing the day of the riot?” When Cartwright hesitated, Pike added, “If you are unable to remember, we could perhaps talk to your valet.”

  “That’s not necessary. I had on my silk hat and heavy brown coat with fur trim.”

  Pike tapped the photograph. “That man is Constable First Class Morley, sir. I have found him to be most reliable. He has been in the force for a number of years.”

  “Then I would suggest he may be getting lazy.”

  “I happened to speak to him this morning. His version of events is somewhat different to yours.”

  “It is?”

  “He claims he spoke to a man of your description, wearing clothes similar to those you have just described. He was part of the reinforcements sent early in the afternoon when the march first started getting out of hand. Just before he arrived at St. Stephen’s entrance, he accosted and questioned a man running in the opposite direction from the trouble. Morley said the man was in a state of panic, begged him to go to the aid of the women, refused to give his name, and then took off at a run before he could be questioned further.” Pike glanced down at his notes. “‘As if the very devil himself was after him,’ were Morley’s words. I would like to suggest that the man was you, and that for reasons known only to yourself, you chose to paint a different picture of events to your friends and your mother.”

  Hugo put his glass on the side table and stared into the fire. “For the record,” Pike continued, “did you actually see Lady Catherine attacked by a policeman—or by anyone else, for that matter?”

  Cartwright’s reply was barely audible. “No, Chief Inspector, I did not.”

  Pike held back a sigh of relief. He no more wanted to find a policeman responsible for Lady Catherine’s death than Shepherd did. He waited patiently for Cartwright to continue, taking in the large mahogany desk on which stern men and women stared out from silver frames. Cartwright’s eyes darted towards them, too. Pike had seen that look more times than he cared to remember: it was the look of a guilty man before judge and jury.

  “Something happened to me out there,” Cartwright said finally. “Don’t ask me what, I have trouble explaining it: the noise, the screams, the lack of control, people behaving like animals. I had to get away. I suppose I just panicked. I was trying to get help for my aunt, I really was …” He broke off and looked at Pike, as if inviting some kind of understanding comment. When none came, he left his seat and topped up his Madeira. “What will happen to me now?” he asked, his back still turned.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you. This is not a military matter; you will not be shot for cowardice.” Though that is what you deserve, Pike thought. “Nor will you be charged for making a false statement. You have not, in fact, lied to the police, only to your mother and your friends.”

  “Need they learn the truth?”

  “That is between you and your conscience.” Pike regarded the beaten creature before him, feeling no sympathy at all. “But you might wish to consider that the claims you made to your friends have stirred up considerable antipolice sentiment. Moreover, they could have resulted in a police officer being wrongly charged.”

  “I’m truly sorry, sir.” Cartwright put down his glass and reached into the pocket of his morning coat for his wallet, extracting a number of crisp notes. “Look, if I can make up for this in any way, contribute to the police pension fund or whatever it is you call it …”

  “Put your money away, sir.” A man who would abandon a family member—a woman no less—to a riotous mob was beyond contempt, and a man who attempted to bribe a policeman was not much better. Both actions showed a singular lack of honour.

  Tears were streaming down Cartwright’s face. Pike turned his attention to the leaping flames in the grate, hoping to give the man time to compose himself. The whole situation was embarrassing. Men of Cartwright’s cloth were supposed to have better control of their emotions. Hanged if he knew what Cartwright was doing at an hysterical cause like the women’s march in the first place—his ghastly mother obviously didn’t approve. The suffragettes were an impertinent, troublesome group of women, and much of what they did was just audacious spectacle. Their leaders tended towards too much money, too little common sense, and often more beauty than was good for them. In Pike’s estimation, they were certainly not womanly.

  He had always pictured the stately Emmeline Pankhurst as the face behind the women’s movement. Now the face of a recent visitor to his office leapt into his mind: Florence Mc-Cleland. Just as wilful, but much younger and of even greater beauty.

  He shook his head to clear the image and turned back to Cartwright. The young man seemed to be pulling himself together at last.

  “Sir,” Pike asked, “how well do you know Florence McCleland?”

  “Quite well, she is a personal friend. Why do you ask?”

  “It is my privilege to be asking the questions, sir. What do the letters WSPU stand for?”

  A sweep of blond eyelashes. “Umm?”

  “What do the colours white, green, and purple represent?”

  “Really, Pike, how on earth is this relevant?”

  “I put it to you that you do not know the answers because you are not a true supporter of the women’s movement. That you joined the march only to ingratiate yourself with Florence McCleland, with whom you wish to become more than friends.”

  When Cartwright hung his head in defeat, Pike felt the first twinge of compassion for the wretched young man.

  Chapter Eleven

  No respectable restaurant or hotel would allow the breakfast meeting on their premises, so the WSPU was forced to gather in the draughty hall of an East End workingme
n’s club. Florence and some of her Bloomsbury members arrived before dawn, setting up the purple, green, and white bunting, the banners, tables, chairs, and abundant vases of flowers. By the time the hall was filled with women and she finally sat down at her own table close to the stage, Florence felt as if she had put in a full day’s work.

  Beside her, Olivia Barndon-Brown caught her eye and they exchanged smiles of satisfaction for a job well done. “How many have been released this month?” Olivia asked Florence as Miss Jane Lithgow pulled a chair up at the table.

  “I’ve allowed for eight places at the table of honour, though I’m not sure if Lady Constance Lytton is well enough to attend. Her time in prison has left her quite ill,” Miss Lithgow answered before Florence could form her reply.

  “Olivia and me paid her a call yesterday,” Daisy Atkins said, holding her cup up to a waiter pouring tea from a large metal pot. “She’s right poorly still, isn’t she, Olivia?”

  “She is. Still, if she cannot be here, someone else will make the speech to our newly released sisters.”

  “She’ll be here, I don’t doubt it. I’ve never known such a brave woman.” Florence nodded her thanks to the waiter as he placed a rack of toast on their table. She wished she could be as brave as Lady Constance. Florence could barely think about her ordeal, let alone talk about it to anyone other than Dody. She wondered if Constance had nightmares, too.

  “Will you be joining us this afternoon for pistol practice at the Tottenham Court Road?” Olivia asked Florence, pulling her from her thoughts.

  “I’m not sure yet. Dody will be home and I think she has made some plans.”

  Miss Lithgow raised an elegant, if sardonic, brow.

  Florence frowned. Miss Lithgow turned her attention to breakfast. Florence had sworn not to tell a soul about her activities with Dody in the mortuary, but she had come close to it on several occasions, especially when people like Jane Lithgow all but accused her sister of being a traitor to the cause.

  Molly Jenkins joined them with kisses all around. “Sorry I’m late, ladies. I wanted to come early to ’elp, but me old man stirred up one ’ell of a fuss, tried to stop me from coming. Look at what he did to me arm.” Molly pushed up her sleeve and proudly exposed a mass of purple and red skin. There was a collective gasp from the ladies at the table: her bruises were deemed as much a symbol of heroism as the hunger strike medals many of them wore.

  “Pig of a man,” Daisy spat.

  Olivia raised a cautionary hand. “Quiet, Daisy,” she whispered. “Miss Christabel Pankhurst is making her way over here.”

  Daisy blushed, lowering her eyes, and Olivia gave her hand a reassuring pat.

  Florence looked up with admiration as Christabel approached. Like her mother, Christabel was a beauty. They had the same shade of glossy dark hair and the same velvety bloom to their skin, though Christabel’s rounder face showed no evidence yet of Emmeline’s spectacular cheekbones.

  “How are you, Daisy? Are the Bloomsbury ladies looking after you well?” Christabel put her arm around Daisy’s childlike shoulders.

  Daisy giggled. “Yes, thank you ever so much, miss, everyone is very kind to me.”

  Christabel greeted each woman at the table by name, taking a moment to add something touching or personal in each case. “Did you make the necessary telephone calls?” she asked when she reached Florence, a mischievous smile adding a cheeky lilt to her voice.

  Florence smiled back. “Yes, and I think we’ll get the response we’re looking for. The secretary of the men’s antisuffrage league was incensed that we should be using the premises of a workingmen’s club—I’m sure there will be a protest at the very least.”

  “Splendid.”

  “I just picked up Lord Curzon’s latest pamphlet, ‘Against Female Suffrage—The Unsexing of Women,’” Miss Lithgow said to the table at large. “He declares that those who join us will become thinner, dark-featured, lank, and dry.” There was a burst of laughter and Florence’s gaze strayed to the thin and dark-featured Miss Treylen, who was sitting next to Molly. She wasn’t laughing, hadn’t managed a smile for anyone except Christabel since her arrival. Working in an office would make anyone crusty and dry, Florence thought, then immediately felt ashamed. She was well aware of how Miss Treylen struggled to make ends meet, often forfeiting a day’s wages to sell their newspaper. She had sold more copies of Votes for Women than the rest of them put together.

  Florence’s uncharitable thoughts transferred from Miss Treylen to Miss Lithgow. The woman always had to have her say, didn’t she? She couldn’t help feeling that Miss Lithgow deliberately set out to upstage her. Lord Curzon’s pamphlet was old news; it had been discussed weeks ago when Catherine sent a brilliant retaliatory letter to The Times. Catherine. Florence allowed her gaze to stray to the place setting laid in honour of Catherine and felt a visceral wrench of grief. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow,” she whispered to herself.

  Christabel and Florence resumed their conversation. “I telephoned several newspapers, too,” Florence said. “I told them we would be starting an hour later than we actually are, so we can at least have our breakfast and attend to business before any trouble starts.”

  “You are a wonderful lieutenant, Florence. I don’t know what the union would ever do without you. Perhaps you would like to say a few words outside the hall after breakfast?”

  Florence felt the heat rise in her face and hoped her blush wasn’t as obvious as Daisy’s had been. While her respect for Christabel was boundless, she liked to think she wasn’t quite as enslaved as Daisy Atkins. “Certainly, if you want me to, Christabel.” She crossed the fingers of one hand and hoped the trouble would start before the terrifying opportunity of speaking in public arose.

  “Calling the newspapers was a splendid idea, Christabel,” Olivia said. “There can never be enough martyrs for the cause.” Then her eyes, too, fell on the empty place setting as a momentary hush settled on the table.

  Christabel broke the silence and asked Florence, “How are your other plans progressing?”

  “Perfectly, we have set a date for next week.”

  “Splendid.” Christabel paused. “I don’t want to throw cold water on you, dear Florence, but I hope you remember my instructions.”

  Florence glanced at the faces around the table and lowered her head. “Yes: I am not allowed to let myself be arrested.”

  “My lieutenants are far too important. I need every one of you on the outside of the bars for the time being.”

  At that moment a tremendous cry of welcome arose from the gathered suffragettes. Led by the visibly ailing Lady Constance Lytton, a group of seven women was being escorted to the stage. All seven wore dresses in the suffragette colours: white for purity in public and private life, purple for dignity, and green for hope. Christabel excused herself and rushed to take Constance’s arm.

  “Don’t look so gloomy, Flo,” Olivia said beside her. “You’ve been arrested enough; it’s time the rest of us did our bit.” Olivia must have taken her look of shameful relief at Christabel’s instructions to be one of disappointment, and Florence did nothing to right her friend’s misapprehension.

  On the stage, Christabel introduced the women individually, giving a short account of their exploits and imprisonment, before they had their hunger strike medals presented by Mrs. Pankhurst. When the ceremony was completed and the medal recipients settled at their table of honour, Christabel lifted her hands for the members to stand and observe a minute’s silence for Lady Catherine Cartwright and the two other women who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the cause. There followed eulogies to the three women, during which most of the audience audibly wept.

  When the tears were dried, Mrs. Pankhurst began to speak. Her oratory gripped each woman like a fist, and her face shone with a radiance that seemed to light the stage. Everyone leaned towards the stage as if pulled by invisible strings, hoping to catch their share of her light.

  “As the government is refusing t
o yield on female suffrage,” Mrs. Pankhurst concluded her speech, “we have no choice but to adopt more aggressive forms of militancy!”

  Florence’s heart skipped a beat, and the women roared. Mrs. Pankhurst allowed the noise to continue for a full minute before raising her arms for silence. “But there must not be a cat or a canary killed. Our own lives and our own lives alone will be sacrificed for the cause!” More applause. She plays the audience like a magician, Florence thought. We are all mesmerised by her.

  Now she introduced Lady Constance Lytton. Of aristocratic birth, Mrs. Pankhurst explained, Constance had joined the WSPU the previous year and been jailed for her part in a violent demonstration outside the House of Commons. Because of her high social status, she was classed as a Division One prisoner, which meant she was kept in comparative luxury, well fed, and allowed to wear her own clothes. The next time she was arrested, she had dressed herself as a working-class woman and gave a false name to the police. Sentenced this time as a Division Three prisoner, no more than a common criminal, she was kept in a cell resembling an animal’s den and dressed in prison clothes. Upon refusing her ration of cabbage soup and stale bread, she was force-fed eight times. When her identity was finally discovered, she was released, but as a result of her brutal treatment on top of an existing heart condition, she had suffered ill health ever since.

  Mrs. Pankhurst turned to the other women on the stage. “Lady Lytton has suffered what you have suffered. If she is feeling strong enough, I hope she will say a few words to our gathering.”

  Constance Lytton inclined her head in assent and the women roared their appreciation. “I commend your bravery, all of you,” she said, not getting up from her chair. “It is a terrible thing you have been through.”

  Florence knew what was coming, what Lady Lytton was about to say next. She wanted to block her ears or leave the room, but that would draw attention to herself. She tried to focus on other things, the colourful spray of flowers on the table, the odour of freshly brewed tea, the exciting plans for next week.