Shepherd heaved a sigh and stepped back towards the small window.
Dody had learned much from Dr. Wilson at the Crippen autopsy and was keen to practise some of her newly acquired skills. Despite her eagerness, first she gazed respectfully at the body for a full minute, as was the custom she had developed in Edinburgh. Shepherd probably thought she was praying, and indeed it could be argued that this ritual was the closest she ever got to prayer these days.
She made a mental note of the blackened face and the bulging, bloodshot eyes. She tried to read their silent story—terror and despair, almost certainly. This had been a slow death through strangulation, nothing like the quick snap of the neck of a legal execution. Dody removed her gloves and gently pressed down the eyelids, holding the pressure until she could be sure they would not spring back open.
Miss Treylen wore day clothes: a black pleated skirt, shiny with wear; a woollen shawl pinned with a cheap brooch; and a plain white blouse with its stiff collar removed. Dody took a scalpel blade from her bag and sliced through the noose, careful not to inflict any more damage to the disfigured neck. The knot had been positioned at the back, she noticed. In a judicial hanging it was on the left side. With the constable’s help, she turned the body onto its side, pulled back the neck of the blouse, and pointed out the inverted V-shaped bruise to him.
“But couldn’t someone have knocked her out or strangled her with his hands before stringing her up?” Blunt asked.
Shepherd gave an exasperated sigh as if to say, Let her get on with it, man. But it was a reasonable question and one Dody felt deserved a reply. “If she was manually strangled,” she told him, “there would be more bruising around the neck, possibly even a handprint visible.” She allowed the body to fall back, unpinned the dull brown hair, and ran her fingers over the scalp. “I can feel no lumps, and there appear to be no other injuries to the head. Unfortunately I can’t at this time rule out the possibility that someone may have put the noose around her neck and strung her up while she was alive. The scene might easily have been manufactured to imitate suicide.”
Shepherd turned from the small window. “At what time did the lady expire?”
Dody spent a moment manipulating the corpse’s lower jaw, examining the fingernails and limbs. “Rigor mortis has not yet started to wane. I estimate that this lady met her death in the early hours of the morning.”
“Well, at least she did it properly. Unlike some.”
“Yes, I suppose she has saved you some extra paperwork, Superintendent. Failed suicides must be extremely tiresome for you.”
Agatha Treylen’s limbs showed no signs of bruising. Dody undid the woman’s blouse and continued to look for evidence of a struggle.
“Not just paperwork, there’s court proceedings and jail expenses, too,” Shepherd said.
“Shall I start questioning the neighbours, sir, see if she had any visitors last night?” Blunt asked. The lad must have felt the mounting tension and wanted to distance himself from it.
Shepherd held up his hand to silence the constable. He kept his eyes fixed on Dody as she went about undoing the dead woman’s corset. At the last of the fastenings, Dody felt the crinkle of paper beneath her fingertips. Reaching between the layers of clothing, she removed a folded square of paper. Barely had she read it before Shepherd snatched the note from her hand and waved it at the constable.
“Don’t bother with the neighbours,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “This note will tell us what we need to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Florence declined Annie’s offer of soup and fell silent. She had not touched a morsel since her arrival home at daybreak. She waited until Dody had been served and the maid dismissed from the dining room before continuing to talk.
“I telephoned Jane’s and Olivia’s solicitors while you were out,” she said. “All three have been charged with criminal damage and sentenced to three months’ hard labour at Holloway Prison.”
“Are they all in the same division?”
“Jane and Olivia have been classified as first-division prisoners—political prisoners—while poor Daisy has been put in the third division.”
“Because of her class?”
“The magistrate maintained it was due to the nature of her crime, which he saw as manual labour. He must have considered the other crimes to be more genteel, I suppose. Goodness only knows what would have become of me if I had been caught—the gallows, probably.”
Dody suppressed a shudder. If Florence had witnessed what she had at Pentonville Prison, she might not be so flippant. “Which means Jane and Olivia will be spared the indignity of broad-arrow uniforms, receive better quality food and less arduous labour, while Daisy will suffer treatment of the worst kind. I thought Lady Lytton had put an end to that kind of discrimination.”
“Obviously not.” Florence lowered her gaze to her empty table setting.
“Did you manage to get some sleep this morning?” Dody asked.
“My body was tired but my mind wouldn’t stop. I awoke not long after you left and started making telephone en-quiries.” She paused. “You do know what this means, don’t you, Dody?” Her sister’s earnest look made Dody reluctant to ask for fear of hearing the worst. She lowered her eyes to her soup.
“Olivia will go on hunger strike,” Florence said. “Her solicitor said she announced from the dock that while incarcerated she would refuse all form of food and drink until all imprisoned suffragettes, regardless of social status, are treated as political prisoners.”
“Are the others striking, too?”
“I don’t know, not sure if the others have the same kind of pluck.”
Annie and the scullery maid slipped into the dining room with their dinner of gammon steaks and parsley sauce. Dody insisted that Florence eat something. “It’s not you on the hunger strike,” she said.
Florence shivered, but took a small mouthful. “I do wish Cook would not serve such heavy meals when there are only the two of us at home.”
Dody waited for Florence to push her half-finished meal away, then asked Annie to leave them. “I have some distressing news, Florence. I was called to a suicide this morning, a young woman from Whitechapel.”
“Oh, poor you, how terrible,” Florence said absently.
“I’m afraid it’s someone you know. Agatha Treylen.”
Florence straightened, giving Dody her instant attention. “Whom did you say? Miss Treylen?”
Dody outlined the circumstances of the woman’s death, but did not reveal the contents of the note. She wanted to make sure Florence could cope with the news before adding the twist at the end of the tale. “But what I don’t understand,” she said as she concluded her narrative, “is how a reasonably educated, apparently respectable woman like Miss Treylen could end up living in a place like that.”
“I’ll tell you why,” Florence said with a flush to her cheek. “It’s what this whole fight is about—that men and women should be treated as equals. It was Miss Treylen’s circumstances that prompted her to join us in the first place. Miss Treylen is”—she took a sip of wine to calm herself—“was a married woman unable to obtain a divorce from her husband.”
“I thought divorce was easier for women now.”
“The laws are better than they were, but still men can obtain a divorce if their wives commit adultery; women if their husbands commit incest, or adultery coupled with desertion, cruelty, or unnatural practices. Agatha’s husband frequently beat her. She thought that was a good reason to leave him, but the law did not. Not only has she been unable to divorce him, but she has not received a penny from him either. And to add insult to injury, when he discovered she’d found an office job at the docks—employment which pays only half that of her male counterparts, I might add—he demanded she contribute towards the welfare of their child, whom he took from her.”
“But surely no law would expect her to do that?”
“He claimed she owed it to him because she deser
ted him. And she believed him, because—you may not believe this, Dody—he’s a lawyer. A lawyer who earns one hundred times as much as she does.”
That a professional man should beat his wife did not surprise Dody. From her work at the hospital she knew that, contrary to popular belief, it was not only the working-class man who used physical force against women.
“Christabel Pankhurst, who has studied law, but is not allowed to practice—”
“Because she is a woman,” Dody finished for her.
“Don’t mock me, Dody.”
“I’m sorry. Please continue.”
“Christabel was going to see what she could do to help, but the pressure for Miss Treylen was obviously too much to bear.” Florence dabbed her eyes with her napkin.
“Poor Miss Treylen,” Dody said and meant it.
“I’m glad you feel sympathy, Dody, but can’t you see, the system has to change!” Florence banged her fist upon the table to emphasise these last words.
That’s more like it, Dody thought, surprised that the table banging had not come any earlier. “Of course I see,” she said. “My dear, you are preaching to the converted.”
Florence turned her head away. “Sometimes I wonder about you, after everything you went through to study medicine …”
“Florence, that is enough, we are slipping from the point. Please let us not get into our methodology argument again. There is something else I need to tell you. Miss Treylen left a note addressed to the Bloomsbury Division, which I’m sure you will be given when the police are finished with it. In the note she confessed to telling the police about the golf course sabotage in return for payment. She begged you all to forgive her.”
The angry flush left Florence’s cheeks, and she became deathly pale. Dody left her seat and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders.
“That explains everything, doesn’t it?” Florence said. “I don’t blame Miss Treylen at all, and of course I forgive her. It’s the police I cannot forgive, those scavengers who prey upon the weak and the helpless. I could so easily have pressed that plunger when they were gathered about the clubhouse entrance. Derwent wanted us to kill police, I’m sure of it. Even though he never said anything outright, he hinted—he hates them even more than we do …” Her voice trailed off as if she could not face the direction her mind was taking her.
“I cannot tell you how glad I am that you didn’t,” Dody said, closing her eyes to try to hide the horror she felt. Had her sister acted on the impulse, she would have crossed the line from the obsessively passionate to the deranged fanatic. Once that line had been crossed, no psychiatrist on earth could pull her back.
Not wishing to upset Florence further, Dody said no more on the subject. Agatha Treylen’s suicide had caused her to miss her morning duties at the hospital, and she told Florence she would be out for the rest of the afternoon.
“I have to go out also,” Florence said, leaving her chair and hobbling over to the bell to summon Annie to clear the table.
“I would much rather you didn’t. You should stay at home and rest with your foot up. You have had quite an ordeal.”
“My mind will not let me rest. And anyway, I promised I’d call on Lady Lytton to discuss the golf course disaster.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dody put down her pen and paused for thought. She was in the habit of updating her diary every evening, but had returned from the hospital late the previous night too exhausted to do anything. Her watch had been even grimmer than usual. Upon her arrival she had been required to sign two death certificates, septicaemia cases brought in during the night, both the result of criminal abortion. Next she’d assisted the house surgeon in repairing the prolapsed uterus of a woman who had recently given birth to her tenth living child. After that she’d seen to the admission of a malnourished fifteen-year-old, pregnant to her father. Between then and the night locking of the hospital doors, she had treated two babies with diphtheria and organised a young girl into isolation with a suspected case of poliomyelitis.
Her watch had at least ended on a high note, with the successful delivery of abnormally presented twins. It was the euphoric look on the father’s face she’d carried into her dreams that night, and not the misery of those unfortunate others.
She yawned, put a full stop at the end of her diary entry, and was about to pull the bell for some morning coffee when the door flew open and her sister blew in amongst a whirlwind of rustling pink silk.
“Oh thank goodness, you are still here,” Florence said, one hand over her breast as if to calm a fluttering heart. “I wasn’t sure if you were at the hospital today or not.”
“I only work three days a week at the hospital. Today I plan on studying at home.”
“Of course, you can choose your own hours, can’t you? Considering the amount of time you’ve spent there, one would think you were getting paid for it.”
With so few hospitals willing to employ female physicians, the only alternative to being labelled an incompetent “shilling” doctor was to give one’s services for free in order to gain experience. In this respect Dody was lucky; she was of independent means and could afford to give her time gratis, though there were still plenty of other obstacles to overcome that no amount of money could smooth.
“What is it, Florence? Do you really care whether I am paid or not?” She pointed to the jumble of textbooks on her desk. “I have much to get done here.”
Florence was pacing the room, her dress rustling with every step. “They have started force-feeding Olivia. Dody, I beg you. Please do something!”
Dody sighed. “There’s nothing I can do to stop it. These measures are ordered by the court and enacted by the prison physician.”
“Well, you could supervise, couldn’t you? Make sure the procedure is carried out safely? The doctor who fed me was a brute. Not only did he force me to swallow his wretched tube, he slapped my face when I protested. And when I refused to lie still, four wardresses were called in to hold me down. It was tantamount to, well—”
Rape. Dody said the unmentionable word in her head, the act that was implied but never said aloud by any of the victims of force-feeding. The procedure was brutal and cruel and if, in her capacity as a doctor, she were ever asked to perform it, in all but the most extenuating of circumstances, she would surely refuse. But still, Florence was right—there should be something she could do to try to ensure the procedure was carried out in a safe and humane manner.
“Dody, are you listening to me?”
“Be quiet for a moment, I’m thinking.” She tapped her nails on the leather surface of her textbook. “At Pentonville,” she mused aloud, “I met an agreeable doctor called Wilson. He is sure to know the Holloway physician. I will telephone him and see if something can be arranged.”
Dody put the telephone down, wishing that every door could be opened this easily for her. She looked towards the grandfather clock in the hall. She had just enough time to search her new textbook for poliomyelitis before she was due at the prison. A ring of the doorbell stopped her halfway up the stairs. As Annie was nowhere to be seen, Dody made her way back down and answered the door herself.
Pike lifted a shiny silk hat. “Good morning, Dr. McCleland.”
He appeared much improved. The sea air had put colour into his cheeks, and he was dressed as smartly as any city gentleman.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise.” She could not hold back the delight she felt at seeing him looking so well. “How is the knee?”
“Much better, thank you.” He took hold of the crutches propped on the front pillar. “I thought it was time I returned these—may I bring them inside?”
“Please.” She stepped aside to let him pass. He leaned the crutches against a stack of Florence’s boxes and turned to face her, his weight propped on his cane.
“You are back at work now?”
“I start officially tomorrow morning—with a meeting in the superintendent’s office.”
“Som
ething you are no doubt greatly looking forward to.”
He responded with a smile. “And in the meantime I am out taking the air.”
“I would like to examine your knee.”
“Another time, perhaps. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Nothing that can’t wait a minute or two, and besides, you are as much my patient as anyone.” She put her hand out for his hat and gloves and placed them on the hall table as Annie pushed through the downstairs door. The maid’s face fell. After a curt nod from Dody, she helped Pike off with his outdoor things. Under his coat he wore a dark frock coat with silk lapels, a grey waistcoat, and matching cravat.
“She seems as pleased to see me as ever,” Pike remarked as he watched Annie drag her feet off to the cloakroom.
Dody indicated the door of the morning room. She wanted him ahead of her so she could assess his gait. He leaned more heavily on his cane than he had before the beating, she noticed, but he certainly didn’t require the crutches. He sat on the chaise and began to roll up his trouser leg, but stopped with a sudden intake of breath, his hand reaching for his side.
“Your rib is still troubling you?” Dody asked.
He straightened with care. “Sometimes, yes.”
“Here, let me.” She knelt before him and finished rolling up the trouser leg for him. “When did you remove the splint?” she asked, finger and thumb exerting gentle pressure on his knee.
“About two days ago.” He breathed out. “My daughter found the writing most amusing. I believe she has cut it out and kept it to show her school friends.”
“Are you getting used to the idea that you and your daughter have different views upon the matter?”
“I am not made of stone, Doctor; I am capable of seeing the humorous side of some situations. But this will not prevent me from doing everything in my power to stop her from getting involved with the hysterical activities of the unwomanly suffragettes.” She hit a tender spot and he drew another sharp breath. “Fortunately there is not much of this term left for her to make mischief in. Her maternal grandparents will be keeping a close eye on her during the Christmas holidays.”
The Anatomy of Death Page 19