The Insanity of Murder

by Felicity Young

  ‘May we have a look inside?’

  ‘Why, certainly, Miss McCleland.’ Fogarty made a futile attempt at patting himself down. ‘Hmm, I seem to have misplaced my key.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a spare in your office,’ Dody said.

  ‘In my desk drawer, yes.’

  ‘What kinds of treatments do the women have in there?’ Louise asked before Dody had the chance to say that they would be happy to wait while he went to fetch the key.

  ‘Just the usual calming treatments, ma’am: hot and cold hydrotherapy, the swinging chair, and a couple of padded cells for solitary confinement — not that we need to resort to any of these too often.’ He turned a circle on his heels, pointing out the magnificent surroundings. ‘The patients respond so readily to this place that few extra treatments are needed.’ He smiled at Louise, put a hand on the small of her back and guided her towards the back entrance of the house, Dody trailing behind.

  They walked through the kitchen staffed by patients, every one of them looking up from tasks ranging from kneading bread, rolling pastry, washing up dishes and basting meats. All greeted Mr Fogarty and his guests with friendly smiles.

  ‘Most of the women are from privileged homes,’ the doctor explained, ‘and these kinds of tasks are a novelty to them. If the modern woman spent more time in the domestic sphere, she would probably not suffer from half the afflictions she has today

  ‘I heartily agree,’ Louise said.

  Dody shot a look of astonishment at her mother, the woman who had encouraged her girls to put their hands to anything that interested them, despite the conventions of society. Louise seemed quite smitten with the place — or was it Fogarty’s artful charm? The man had a soothing speaking voice, almost hypnotic; the kind of voice that would inspire a patient’s confidence. She wondered why he had the need for the more outmoded therapies in the treatment room when voice therapy, as recommended by Doctor Freud, was breaking so much ground on the continent.

  He took them into the activity room where more women sat behind easels and sewing machines. Many here did not seem as well adjusted as those they had seen in the kitchen.

  ‘The women have to earn the right to partake in domestic tasks,’ Fogarty explained. ‘The women in this ward have progressed more than those you saw on the croquet lawn, but are not yet ready for the stimulation of the kitchen and the gardens.’

  Dody glanced at some of the canvases. Several were blank, the ladies in front of the easels staring languidly into space. Another canvas was a mess of haphazard drips and splotches, the artist — a young mongoloid — covered in almost as much paint herself. This girl acknowledged their presence with so much enthusiasm that Fogarty had to signal to an attendant to pull her away lest her uninhibited hugging stain the visitors’ clothing.

  In the corner, two women sat weaving wicker baskets. These were the only patients in the activity room who appeared to have any kind of balance about them. The elder of the two looked relatively normal, save for a thatch of untidy white hair and more lines on her face than a map of the London Underground. The younger was in early middle age, but still quite beautiful, with glossy dark hair, high cheekbones and almond eyes that suggested a touch of the Far East.

  Doctor Fogarty introduced the younger as Mrs Eva Blackman and the elder as Lady Mary Heathridge. Dody reacted to the name with no hint of recognition, just a neutral smile and a ‘How do you do?’

  So, this was Pike’s ‘mad’ Mary.

  ‘Are you ladies from London?’ Lady Mary asked. Upon their affirmation, she replied, ‘Have you seen my friend, Cynthia?’

  Louise and Dody glanced at one another. ‘No, m’lady,’ Louise replied. ‘I’m afraid we have not.’

  Mrs Blackman rose to her feet and whispered to them. ‘She calls almost every woman she knows ‘Cynthia’. Think nothing of it, ladies.’

  Dody nodded, thinking to herself that on this occasion, the old lady indeed might be correct.

  ‘I don’t call you Cynthia, dear. Or Laurentia. And where do you think Laurentia is, Eva?’

  Laurentia? Was Laurentia one of Lady Mary’s so-called imaginings too?

  ‘I’m not sure, dear,’ Mrs Blackman answered. ‘Perhaps the doctor here can …’

  Doctor Fogarty made some hushing noises, took Mrs Blackman by the arm and guided her back to her chair. ‘Thank you, Mrs Blackman, you may return to your work.’

  As they walked from the room, he said, ‘It’s best not to let that Blackman woman become too familiar. I will try to keep her out of your way when you return to visit Miss Florence. She tried to kill her husband, y’know.’

  ‘But obviously didn’t succeed,’ Louise said with humour. ‘Please, there is no need to keep her away from us. We did not find her at all offensive.’

  ‘She’s manipulative,’ Fogarty said, looking back over his shoulder and wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

  They returned to the office. This time, Dody noticed a door in the right-hand wall, located between two bookcases. Where did this door lead to, she wondered — another treatment room, an examination room, a place to store files? Again she caught Fogarty looking at her, and resisted the urge to squirm. There were times when she felt as if he was staring right into her.

  ‘Doctor Fogarty,’ Dody said quickly to cover her discomfort, ‘I’d like your reassurance that my sister will not be subject to any form of operation or therapy in this home without my written permission.’

  Doctor Fogarty rummaged in his desk drawer and removed a manila file with Florence’s name on it. ‘I can’t see any specific instructions from her doctor other than rest and healthy diversions.’

  ‘Good. Do you ever resort to operations here, Doctor?’ Dody asked, rather too interrogatively, if the look on her mother’s face was anything to go by.

  Fogarty cleared his throat. ‘Well, I removed a patient’s in-grown toenail last week.’

  ‘You neglected to show us your operating theatre, Doctor,’ Dody said.

  Fogarty hesitated. ‘I didn’t think a layperson would be interested. It’s in the treatment building.’

  ‘But Dody’s not a —’

  ‘Would you mind finding the spare key and showing us the building now, Doctor?’ Dody interrupted her mother.

  Fogarty made as if to open his desk drawer, then pulled out his fob watch instead. ‘My apologies, ladies, but that excursion will have to wait until your next visit. Time is marching on, and I like to take tea with my patients. They often unburden themselves at tea time, and it’s a good opportunity for some casual counselling.’

  ‘When will I be able to visit my daughter again, Doctor?’

  ‘In one week’s time, Mrs McCleland. No visitors for the first week, I’m afraid, and then you can ring for an appointment.’

  ‘But I would like to see Florence too, Doctor, and I have to be back at work next week,’ Dody said.

  Fogarty paused. ‘You work, Miss McCleland?’ His expression suggested she’d just declared herself a practising devil worshipper.

  It was time to admit her occupation, Dody decided; it might make him more frank with her. And she really needed to know what went on in that building.

  ‘I am a doctor, sir. That is why I am interested in your treatment building. I don’t like referring patients to places I have not seen.’

  Her reasoning seemed to placate him somewhat. ‘Oh, I see. Then when you return to visit your sister I will ensure the building is open for your inspection, miss, I mean, err, Doctor.’

  Dody nodded graciously. ‘So again, when might I next see my sister?’

  Fogarty opened his palms. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. Experience has taught us that isolation from friends and relatives — even if they are medical people themselves — is the best policy for at least the first week of a resident’s stay.’

  Chapter Twenty

  “We got to Waterloo at eleven, and asked where the eleven-five started from. Of course nobody knew; nobody at Waterloo ever does know where a train is
going to start from, or where a train when it does start is going to, or anything about it.”

  Pike often called to mind this piece from Three Men in a Boat when circumstances necessitated a trip to the station. It was somehow comforting to know that the place was just as infuriating to an eminent author such as Jerome K Jerome as it was to an ordinary police officer like himself. Waterloo Station had always been chaotic. But since work had commenced on its rebuilding it had metamorphosed into a whirlpool of disorientation and ill temper, with the occasional stampede thrown in for variety.

  Pike and Singh fought their way through the crowd until they found themselves queue-jumping a line of disgruntled people waiting outside the assistant duty manager’s office. They flashed their warrant cards in order to get to the top of the queue, calmly taking the insults hurled and the dirty looks shot at them.

  The overwhelmed assistant duty manager of the L&SWR line did not look up when the policemen entered the office.

  ‘The porter is wrong. The 3.05 is leaving from Platform 10 today, and not Platform 18 as stated in the timetable. There is no Platform 18 today because the numbers have been changed.’

  Hardly surprising, Pike thought. Everyone knew that Waterloo Station had eighteen platforms and only ten numbers.

  ‘Police, Mr Carr,’ Pike said, slipping his warrant card under the manager’s nose. ‘We need to talk to the man who found the vagrant woman’s body in the Ladies Conveniences on Tuesday the twenty-fourth.’

  Carr jumped to his feet when he registered who was talking to him. ‘Good afternoon gentlemen – the vagrant, you say?’ He cast his eyes aloft, as if trying to recall which vagrant Pike was referring to. The discovery of a homeless person’s body was hardly an unusual occurrence in London.

  ‘I wasn’t working on that day, sirs, but if you’ll bear with me I’ll check the log book.’ He removed a heavy book from a shelf behind the desk, blew away a fine coating of soot from the cover and began to leaf through it. Pike glanced down at his palms, already a shade darker since they had first stepped foot in the station.

  ‘Ahh, here we are, the twenty-fourth. Mrs Smart, the cleaning lady in charge of that particular block of conveniences, discovered the body at 5 am when she was unlocking the lavatories for the day. She called the Head Porter, Mr Ponsomby, who called the police.’

  Pike glanced over to Singh who was checking the facts against the typed report from the constable who originally handled the call. The report was less than half a page long — one more non-event in a long day of police work — and why Pike had decided to re-interview the witnesses himself.

  Mr Carr said, ‘I believe they have already been interviewed by your man, may I ask …’

  ‘Are both the witnesses working today, sir?’ Singh interrupted.

  Carr referred to another book with a soft cover and dog-eared pages. ‘This is the staff roster. Let me see … Ponsomby is not at work this afternoon, but Mrs Smart should be in the vicinity of the Ladies Conveniences or else in the staff canteen. She works from 5 am to 10 am, and then from 4 pm to midnight.’

  Singh looked at the roster and copied Ponsomby’s address into his notebook. They thanked the manager and exited the office, Pike holding the door open for the next in line, a harassed women with a babe in arms and three ragged children at her feet.

  ‘I don’t envy him that job,’ Pike commented as they headed back down the stairs, keeping his hands well away from the filthy banister.

  ‘Nor I the cleaning lady’s shifts,’ Singh said.

  ‘You take Ponsomby and I’ll take the char. I’ll meet you back at the Yard.’

  Singh gave Pike a small bow and negotiated his way through newsstands and piles of luggage towards the station exit. Pike slowly pivoted until he glimpsed the sign to the Ladies, and followed the pointing finger. One full-height turnstile door led into the lavatories, and one led out. To the side of the building there was a door with Staff Only stencilled upon it.

  Pike approached a smart young woman dressed in boater and tie, pushing her way out through the exit.

  He lifted his hat. ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  Upon her wary look he showed her his warrant card and she relaxed.

  ‘A cleaning woman in there?’ she repeated his question. ‘Yes, there is. I just gave her a tip.’

  ‘Would you mind fetching her for me?’

  ‘Not at all, Chief Inspector.’ The young woman’s mischievous smile reminded him of Florence. She probably worked in a dull office and talking to a policeman was the most interesting thing that had happened to her all week. She reappeared with a plump woman wearing carpet slippers, an apron over her uniform, and a scarf from which grey curls spilled like cigarette ash. The young woman introduced the char as Mrs Smart.

  ‘I can’t be long, Mr Pike, I can’t leave me trolley unattended,’ Mrs Smart said. The Gibson girl nodded with enthusiastic agreement, making no move to leave.

  Pike addressed the girl, ‘Ahh, Miss …’

  ‘Cooper,’ the girl replied with a radiant smile.

  ‘Miss Cooper, I can manage from here. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing —’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Well, if you ever need me again, I’m always at the station at about this time. It’s when I change trains, you see.’ The girl smiled and pointed with her foot to the portable typewriter on the ground next to her. ‘If you ever need anything typed on the commuter train, you bring it to me. I have my own little compartment with Typing Office written on the door.’

  ‘She always spends a penny ’ere before she catches her next train,’ added Mrs Smart. ‘My lavs are cleaner than the trains’, aren’t they love?’

  Pike was unsure who coloured more, him or Miss Cooper. The young woman put one hand briefly to her cheek, then excused herself, picking up her typewriting machine and rapidly disappearing into the rushing crowd.

  Mrs Smart laughed, a wheezing rattle of sound. ‘Looks like you’ve got yerself an admirer, Mr Pike.’

  Hardly. The girl wasn’t much older than his Violet. Pike ran a finger under the stiff collar of his shirt. ‘Madam, is there anywhere where we can get a cup of tea, have a talk?’

  ‘In the staff canteen, if you like, sir. But I’ll ’ave to collect me trolley first.’

  She unlocked the side door of the conveniences and reappeared seconds later pushing a trolley of cleaning utensils: buckets, broom, brushes, clean towels, soap, and several earthenware bottles of bleach.

  Pike followed her the few yards it took to reach a small stand-alone building within the great dome of the station. It resembled a cabmen’s shelter, with green paintwork and a shingled roof. Mrs Smart parked her trolley next to the door, muttering that it should be safe there what with all the staff coming and going into the canteen.

  The room was packed with porters enjoying tea from battered enamel mugs and tucking into Chelsea buns. No one looked up when Pike and the woman entered, even though Mrs Smart was the only female in the cramped space — other than the tea lady who stood at a counter at one end of the room behind a teapot the size of a watering can.

  They collected a mug each and found a bench to sit at. Pike invited Mrs Smart to tell him what happened, starting with her routine the night before the discovery of the body.

  ‘I always check that there’s no one in the lavs before I lock up, and there she was, ’iding in one of the cubicles. I smelled ’er before I saw ’er, even above the pong of the WCs. I told ’er to scram, and as far as I knew she did. Must ’ave crept back in when me back was turned.’

  ‘Had you seen that particular woman before?’

  Mrs Smart nodded, and drained her cup. ‘Want another, sir?’

  Pike shook his head.

  ‘Well I do, I’m still parched.’ Mrs Smart had her mug refilled and sank back into her seat.

  ‘How often did you see this woman?’ Pike asked.

  She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. ‘Every now and then.’<
br />
  ‘It must have been hard, tossing her out when you knew she had nowhere else to sleep.’

  ‘She’s not the only pebble, Mr Pike. There’s thousands like ’er round town.’

  ‘If your boss knew you allowed her to sleep in the public conveniences, you’d lose your job, wouldn’t you?’ Pike asked softly.

  Mrs Smart folded her arms and focused on a newspaper cutting of the king tacked to the wall next to a Union Jack.

  Pike reached into his pocket and produced his wallet. From that he partly slid a one-pound note. He placed the wallet on the table with the edge of the note just protruding.

  ‘That’s less than my job’s worth, Mr Pike.’

  ‘The woman had a name,’ Pike said. ‘Her name was Cynthia. That’s a beautiful name, don’t you think? Did you know her name, Mrs Smart?’

  No reply. Pike knew all he had to do was wait, and hope they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  Finally the woman nodded. A range of emotions passed over the doughy face: fear, guilt, compassion.

  ‘It weren’t right, ’er being alone like that. Someone should’ve been looking out fer ’er.’ Mrs Smart pushed Pike’s wallet away. ‘I don’t want yer money, neither.’

  ‘Then tell me what you know and I’ll do my best to protect your job.’

  Mrs Smart sniffed. ‘As I said, I saw ’er when I went to lock up.’

  ‘You gave her a cup of tea, in a mug like this.’ Pike lifted his mug, pointing to the station crest. According to the report, the mug was found empty sitting next to the body, tea leaves still on the bottom of it.

  ‘Yeah, I usually brought ’er a cuppa. She often slept there, said she felt safe there. She wasn’t safe that night though, was she, Mr Pike — not safe from ’erself, anyway.’

  Pike passed her his clean handkerchief. She blew into it, inspected the contents and then offered him it back.

  ‘Keep it, Mrs Smart,’ Pike said. ‘So, you locked the lavatory door, expecting to let her out in the morning when you started your early shift.’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s right. Only when I called out first thing, like I usually do, there was no answer. I went into the cubicle expecting to have to wake her up, and well … I think you know what I found. I locked the lavs again, rushed to find Mr Ponsomby ’oo called the police.’ She began to softly weep. ‘And it were my bleach she drank, weren’t it? She took it from me trolley.’