The Insanity of Murder

by Felicity Young

  ‘She was Mrs Cynthia Hislop, former wife of Francis Hislop in Chelsea. What’s more, at one time she resided at the same rest home as Lady Mary. Lady Mary’s “Cynthia” and Cynthia Hislop must be one and the same person.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Matthew, well done. At last we have a name.’

  ‘And a verified connection. It seems that Hislop and his present wife have been together for a long time, despite her comparative youth. She was once Cynthia’s ladies maid, apparently, first employed in the house when she was about fourteen.’

  ‘Now that’s a scandal that would take some covering up.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Pike said thoughtfully. ‘The house was recently repainted but still gives the impression of being unkempt. Singh said the servants’ morale was low, with the cook having been longest in Hislop’s employ. But even she had not known the first Mrs Hislop.’

  ‘I sometimes think servants are more socially conscious than the rest of us.’

  ‘Singh concluded, without being told outright, that the new Mrs Hislop has trouble hiring staff. Apparently everyone in the locality knows about the scandal and servants with good references won’t work there.’

  ‘Hence the condition of the house.’

  ‘Quite. I haven’t finished with Mr Hislop yet. Suffice to say he left me with an unpleasant taste in my mouth.’ Pike paused. ‘Are you and Spilsbury certain the cause of Mrs Hislop’s death was suicide?’

  Dody paused. The questioning of their judgement would not please Spilsbury. It did not please Dody much either. ‘You have doubts, Matthew?’

  ‘The matron said that people with extreme melancholia are often unable to find the motivation to kill themselves.’

  ‘Her melancholia might not have been extreme at the time of her suicide.’

  ‘Still, I think this requires some more investigation. Mrs Cynthia Hislop must have been an embarrassing inconvenience to her former husband. Just how much would he have to gain by her death?’ he mused.

  ‘It is your prerogative to regard Mrs Hislop’s death as murder,’ Dody said stiffly, ‘though I think you will be wasting your time.’

  Pike arched an eyebrow at her, swirled the whiskey in his glass and took a swallow. ‘Back to Bethlem,’ he said, tactfully brushing off the Hislop case, though Dody sensed it was still in the forefront of his mind. ‘I was told that while they provide all sorts of therapies for the patients, they do not perform operations on the women there. Would that be correct?’

  ‘A high profile hospital like Bethlem wouldn’t, but I’m not sure about the smaller, private hospitals. Not long ago it was considered fairly normal practice to remove a woman’s reproductive organs to cure her of various nervous conditions.’ Dody eyed Pike when the gasp she expected did not come. ‘Now, thankfully, these kinds of procedures are less in vogue.’ She paused. ‘You don’t seem very concerned.’

  ‘Well,’ Pike said, ‘did the operations work?’

  Men. ‘Sometimes. In cases such as polycystic ovary syndrome, a condition that causes women to develop certain masculine traits, oophorectomy would certainly “work”. But that’s not the point, Matthew. The point is that these operations very often lead to infection and death. If survived, the procedures render a woman unable to have children. Most of the women who undergo this kind of surgery are in the prime of their lives. Surgery is something that should never be performed lightly. Do insane men have their sexual parts cut off — certainly not! So why should it be considered therapeutic for women?’

  Pike looked deeply into his glass. ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘And then there are the clitoridectomies — the removal of the piece of genitalia from which a woman’s sexual pleasure is derived. Many doctors still believe that damage to the central nervous system is caused by over excitement of the peripheral nerves, meaning mastur —’

  Pike tipped a good deal of whiskey down his throat. ‘Do I really need all the details?’

  ‘No, I suppose you don’t. But I think you should know that there is a school of thought among some doctors still, that the majority of female madness is caused by what they consider to be an unhealthy preoccupation with sex — nymphomania, if you will.’

  ‘I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ she said with the hint of a tease, knowing he was probably thinking of the notorious siren Mata Hari with whom he once had professional dealings. ‘Many unenlightened surgeons blame this interest in sex for the desire of young women to leave home and set up independently, and to follow their chosen careers. But many are merely desperate for a fuller life than the one society offers. Lord knows what they would make of me! It was the same years ago for women who wanted to take advantage of the new Divorce Act and leave their husbands. Invariably, after having had their sexual enjoyment curtailed by surgery, they returned to their husbands like the meek little lambs society wanted them to be.’

  Dody regarded the thoughtful expression on Pike’s face. She wondered if he was thinking of his daughter. ‘The main thrust of the argument against this procedure, though,’ she went on, ‘is that many of the women are operated on without consent, because they are deemed insane.’

  ‘A legally insane woman cannot give legal consent. I see.’

  ‘Doctor Spilsbury and I are certain that the suicide you are helping us with —’

  ‘Suspected suicide,’ Pike corrected her. ‘Mrs Cynthia Hislop.’

  ‘Thank you. We think perhaps Mrs Hislop was the victim of an illegal procedure. She was not only missing all her internal reproductive organs, but parts of her external genitalia also.’

  ‘Do you know when the operation on Mrs Hislop took place?’

  ‘Possibly within the last five years.’

  ‘She was first admitted to the Elysium about ten years ago.’

  ‘The operation could have been performed then,’ Dody said.

  ‘But how do you know it was performed to treat a nervous condition? How can you discount the fact that it might have been done for medical reasons?’

  ‘Indeed. The reasons behind the surgery are often hard to prove, but I think the external mutilation in this case provides some evidence. The bottom line is that the coroner wants the suicide investigated, and jolly good for him, I say.’ Dody raised her glass. ‘This has been a long time coming. Perhaps we can help put an end to such immoral treatment for good. It’s about time women were given control over their own bodies.’

  Pike rubbed his hands together. ‘Now this is beginning to make more sense. Do you think that’s why Lady Mary wished me to have that, err, tissue sample?’

  Dody brooded on this for a moment. ‘Perhaps it is. Perhaps she is trying to tell you something. You were kind to her. Also, you are a policeman. Most law-abiding middle class English, with the exception of my family, accept and trust the police.’

  ‘Lady Mary knew my parents.’ Pike looked thoughtful.

  Dody smiled. ‘She’s obviously taken a shine to you.’

  ‘How extraordinary.’ Pike was oblivious of the effect he had on women — of any age. ‘Most of the time she resides at the Elysium — I will arrange a visit to Surrey and try to have a talk to her. I wonder if she has been a victim of that barbarous practice herself? Do you think that is why she sent me the …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Ovary. Think of the Latin, ova for egg,’ said Dody. ‘I would like to come with you to the rest home, if I may.’

  ‘I was hoping you would.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I never learned Latin at school. Frankly, I think I might be out of my depth in this.’

  ‘I think you might be too.’

  The smile on Dody’s face froze. Through a sliver of vision at the corner of her eye she caught a flash of white at the open door.

  ‘Matthew.’ She jumped to her feet, whispering, ‘I think someone’s there. Florence, is that you?’ she called as she approached the doorway.

  ‘No, Miss Dody, it’s only me,’ Annie replied, stepping into the room. ‘I was coming to enquire
if Mr Pike had intentions of staying for dinner. Or not.’

  Annie was wearing her black afternoon dress and white apron. Was it merely the flash of the maid’s apron or cap that Dody had seen in the doorway? She paused for a moment. She could have sworn she heard a creaking on the upper stairs. ‘Annie, was my sister here just now, at the door?’

  ‘Not that I know of, miss.’ Annie looked away. The girl had always been a terrible liar.

  ‘Neither of us will be in for dinner,’ Dody told her. They really did need somewhere private to talk about this.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pike’s fingers struck up an agitated rhythm on the head of his cane while he waited for Violet to open her door at the Royal Hotel. ‘Royal’ had to be a misnomer for this establishment, he thought wryly, with its tatty striped wallpaper, stained carpet, and dubious clientele. Thank goodness Violet’s room was next to his, meaning she had been buffered from the energetic thumping of his neighbour’s bedhead for most of the night. As a result, Pike had not slept well and he was tired. Violet should have been up by now, dressed and ready for breakfast. He had a meeting with Superintendent Shepherd later that morning and a desk full of paperwork to be completed before that.

  He tapped on the door again. ‘Violet, breakfast.’ He heard the patter of feet on floorboards, the sound of the lock turning, and then more pattering.

  ‘The door’s open. Come in, Daddy.’

  She’d sprung back into bed by the time he entered and had pulled the sheets up to her chin.

  ‘Why are you not dressed? What is it, are you ill?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a bit of a tummy ache,’ she admitted.

  He sat on the edge of her bed and felt her forehead. ‘No fever. Shall I ask Dody to have a look at you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. I’d just like a lie-in today, if that’s all right.’

  He looked at his daughter closely; women’s problems, he surmised. He hoped her grandmother had instructed her on the business — he wouldn’t know where to start. How would Clara have coped with this mystifying woman/child of theirs? Was Violet’s behaviour normal for a girl of her age?

  ‘Shall I ask the maid to bring you up a breakfast tray?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you. Once I’m up I’ll go for a walk in the park and get something from the kiosk.’

  Pike reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed her a shilling. ‘Make sure you get something decent. Dody says you’re getting too thin.’

  Violet nodded listlessly.

  ‘You only have a few days left in London,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you’d like to do before you go back to Yorkshire? Other than Jujitsu.’

  She smiled weakly at his attempt at a joke. ‘I’d like to hang the curtains in your rooms.’

  ‘What about something else? I was thinking of something we could do together.’

  Violet raised her eyes to the ceiling for a moment as she considered his question. ‘But won’t you be working for the rest of my stay?’

  Pike wondered about that too. It was all very well his offering, but … He clicked his fingers. ‘Derby Day, I’m sure to get Derby Day off — most of England does. How would you like to go to the races?’

  Violet seemed to perk up. She sat up in bed, still clutching the sheets to her neck. ‘Really, Daddy, we can go to the races?’ she spoke rapidly. ‘I’d love to see the latest fashions from Paris with my own eyes — it’s just not the same, looking at them in the magazines. Will we see the King, do you think? I’ve never been to a real horse race. Do you mean it — can Dody come too?’

  ‘Of course I mean it.’ Pike was delighted to have cheered her up so easily. She forgot her modesty and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Nothing will stop us from going to the Derby,’ he added with a chuckle.

  ‘Not even Superintendent Shepherd?’

  Pike smiled, inhaling the fresh-linen scent of his daughter. He patted her silky head. ‘Especially not Superintendent Shepherd.’

  Superintendent Shepherd sat in his office with his back to the window, the view of the Thames behind him. It seemed to Pike that Shepherd’s summonses to the Yard’s high tower always coincided with the glare of the sun at its worst. Shepherd appeared little more than a threatening silhouette as he sat at his desk. Pike was ordered to sit. He fumbled about for the visitor’s chair. The window was open and he could hear the cry of seagulls and the noises of the docks. A weak breeze barely stirred the curtains. Several flies, fresh from feasting on Thames sludge, came into focus on the shadier side of the wall next to the window. Unable to see Shepherd clearly, Pike spoke to them instead.

  ‘You asked to see me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, several things have come up, Pike. First, your stubborn insistence on having a constable for your assistant, it’s simply not on. You need a sergeant at least. You know the men have trouble taking orders from a constable.’

  Pike closed his eyes briefly. ‘Last year I recommended Constable Singh for promotion and he was passed over.’

  ‘He’s unsuitable, that’s why.’

  ‘He has an exemplary record.’

  ‘The men won’t listen to a wog.’

  Pike answered him with silence. This was nothing he didn’t know, though he was surprised to hear the prejudice voiced so openly. Once Pike might have been tempted to threaten his resignation over the point. But given how keen Shepherd was to get rid of him these days he’d probably accept it and Pike would find himself out of a much-needed job. God, how he hated being held over a barrel by this man.

  One of the flies flew away to be replaced by another, a particularly tremulous insect with a pulsating black abdomen.

  ‘Singh would stand a better chance at being listened to if he was a sergeant,’ Pike persisted. Somewhere on the river, a foghorn bellowed like a bull.

  The bulk behind the desk shifted. A hand appeared out of the glare and an open cigarette box was pushed across the desk towards him. Pike took a cigarette. There was no match forthcoming so he lit it himself.

  ‘Listen, Pike, it’s just how it is, eh?’ Shepherd said in a placating tone, exhaling. The smoke drifted upwards and formed a canopy above their heads. ‘You are entitled to choose your own assistant and I am entitled to promote him. If discipline becomes an issue,’ Pike caught a flash of white palms, ‘then you will have to rethink your choice — understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pike paused, not ready to give up just yet. ‘Seeing as you have brought up disciplinary problems, I would like Hensman removed from my investigation. He is proving to be problem.’

  ‘He is clashing with Singh?’

  ‘He clashes with everyone — witnesses, the public, everyone.’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’

  Shepherd’s response reinforced Pike’s suspicions that Hensman had been seconded to Pike’s department to keep an eye on him. Shepherd had always resented Pike, who, because of his extensive military service, had joined the force at senior officer level instead of working his way up through the ranks. Socially, of course, a military officer was also considered superior to a police officer, something Pike had barely been aware of until his transfer to Scotland Yard. It was a toss-up as to who was resented more by the men, himself or the Indian, Singh.

  ‘Is there anything else, sir?’ Pike asked, unable to curb the impatient edge to his tone.

  Palms flapped. ‘Wait where you are, Pike. Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. The Necropolis bombing investigation — I need an update.’

  Shepherd climbed to his feet and began to pace the floor. The floorboards shook under his weight and the flies scattered. Pike rose too, positioning himself to get a clearer view of his superior. Shepherd’s complexion was not as florid as usual, in fact, he looked quite pasty and puffy. Was he ill? Pike wondered, regarding him closely. He wore a baggy, unseasonable tweed suit, the turn-ups of his trousers were mud-stained and his boots needed a good lick of polish. He wouldn’t have lasted a week in the army, Pike thought with contempt.

 
‘The suspect was released from prison after having commenced a hunger strike, as per the Prisoners’ Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act,’ Pike said. ‘Evidence in the form of paint on her bicycle frame suggests she may be responsible for vandalising the Prime Minister’s car. But the evidence against her for the bombing is flimsy to say the least,’ Pike said.

  ‘I take it we are talking about Florence McCleland? Dreadful woman. I’d like to throw the book at her. That would be a feather in my cap.’ Shepherd shot Pike a sly glance from beneath bristling eyebrows. ‘Dashed awkward that her sister sometimes works with us, though,’ he said with emphasis.

  Pike looked down and straightened the line of his waistcoat buttons, the lapels of his immaculate dove-grey summer suit. ‘I have distanced myself from the case because of it, and Hensman and Singh are co-ordinating the day-to-day investigation.’ Pike sensed it was time for a change of topic. ‘There is something else, however, that needs looking into, sir, which has nothing to do with the bombing. Spilsbury’s department has drawn my attention to some suspect medical practices that might be going on in some of our lunatic asylums. I was hoping to investigate further. It will probably involve some trips away from London —’

  Shepherd stopped pacing and waved a hand, the matter obviously of no interest to him. ‘Yes, yes, put it on expenses, take as long as you need.’

  Was Shepherd trying to get him out of the way? Pike wondered.

  ‘But back to the bombing,’ Shepherd continued. ‘The Home Secretary is screaming for a conviction. The night watchman must be forced to remember what he saw. If necessary, the evidence must be made to fit.’ Shepherd clenched his jaw and gave Pike the eye, as if challenging him to object.

  Pike, who had somehow managed to remain po-faced during the meeting, felt his composure begin to slip. ‘I think I misheard that last remark, sir.’

  ‘No, you bloody didn’t, sir.’

  There was a knock at the door. Shepherd’s uniformed male secretary showed Sergeant Hensman in.