‘I couldn’t sleep and took a walk down the High Street.’ Dody concocted her story. ‘I heard some whimpering and came across a thick bed of roses with a dog stuck in the middle of them. With its collar hooked, the poor creature had no chance of escape. I managed to set it free, but scratched myself in the process, as you can see.’
The maid looked dubious. There probably wasn’t a rose garden down the high street, but the lie would have to do.
‘Please go to bed now,’ Dody said, opening the range door and casting her bloodied stockings and the rags into the flames.
With every nerve in her lower legs crying out in protest, she limped from the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. Still shedding thorns, she undressed gingerly and lay on her bed to contemplate her next course of action. Her mind felt like an overwound clock and her body had already begun to stiffen. Something told her she would not be getting much sleep this night.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Look, Father, Saint Thomas’s Hospital,’ Violet said, forcing Pike to a standstill on the Westminster bridge footpath, the murky river churning below them. ‘That’s where I want to do my training.’ She pointed. ‘In the nursing school founded by Florence Nightingale.’ Violet adjusted the tilt of her boater, still looking very much the schoolgirl with two scarlet ribbons trailing down her back. Pike was relieved she had not asked him for the money to buy a new hat for their outing; he was in no hurry for her to grow up.
‘Florence Nightingale, indeed,’ Pike said, urging his daughter on with a hand on her elbow. If they didn’t step up they’d miss the excursion train to Epsom.
‘Miss Nightingale is my greatest heroine of all times. I think I respect her even more than I do Joan of Arc,’ Violet said.
In Pike’s mind it was a toss-up as to who was the more aggravating: Joan of Arc, who dressed and behaved like a man and thought nothing of interfering with military matters; or Florence Nightingale, who’d done very much the same thing and died a neurotic invalid. Better that than being burnt at the stake, he supposed. Still, he prayed his daughter would not try to emulate either of those women. Why not choose Dody as her heroine? he wondered. He would be proud if she grew up like Dody, with the proviso she had nothing to do with dead bodies — one autopsy surgeon in the family was enough.
Family? What was he thinking? He shook his head to dismiss the thought; he was getting ahead of himself.
‘I don’t think Joan of Arc or Florence Nightingale went to finishing school, Father,’ Violet added.
Not this again. ‘Take that up with your grandmother. It is she who is so desperate for you to go.’ That was a cowardly move; he was just as adamant as Grandmamma that some of Violet’s rough edges be polished.
‘Nor did Dody.’
Pike pulled Violet to a stop. ‘Enough of such talk! Do you want to go to the races or not?’
Violet stared at her shoes. ‘Yes, Father, I do. I’m sorry.’
‘Then we’d better hurry. We don’t want to miss the train, do we? You know what a nightmare Waterloo is these days.’
The crowds grew as they neared the station. Fortunately Pike had had the foresight to purchase their third-class tickets the day before, and within minutes they were on the platform, fighting their way through clouds of lisping steam to board the train. As they squeezed down the cramped corridor they passed a closed door marked Typing Room. Pike felt the back of his neck redden and hurried Violet past it. He found her a window seat and they both settled down with sighs of relief. He sat diagonally opposite her near the aisle, next to a young woman with more rouge on her face than was proper.
The train lurched forward and soon fell into a regular clickity-clack rhythm. Disregarding the noise of the crowded train, the jostles and the bumps, and a group of lads behind them already in their cups, Pike pulled his hat brim over his eyes and sank into a reverie, observing his daughter through half-closed eyes.
While he was determined not to give in to her protestations about finishing school, he had not ruled out nursing altogether. The profession did not suffer the ill repute it once had and these days many respectable girls had joined the ranks. Perhaps he would give in to her when she was older and had had some more of life’s experiences. The thought of his little girl at the tender age she was now coping with certain realities that she didn’t know a fig about (naked men and their desires, for example) filled him with all manner of fears. And what if there was a war, something those in the know seemed to think increasingly likely? Under no circumstances would he allow Violet to go to war. This was yet another reason for her to go to finishing school before nursing; a year should be enough time to know where Europe was heading.
Violet pulled a cheap-looking novel from her bag and began to read. The elderly man sitting next to her unwrapped a packet of sandwiches and began to suck and chew on them noisily, bits of cooked egg dropping all over his waistcoat and sticking to his prickly chin. The carriage lurched and the sandwiches fell to the floor. Before you could say Jack Robinson, Violet was on her knees, picking them up and brushing the dust from them. She handed them back to the old man who rewarded her with a smile, revealing a single, egg-stained tooth and saying thank you, thank you, over and over again.
Pike crossed his arms. That old man belonged in an asylum more than Florence did. Pike was fairly certain that Florence was guilty, but he knew that as things stood now — with mad Lady Mary as a witness and the watchman’s continuing amnesia — they had little to go on. The law was like a pendulum, sometimes she swung towards the truth and sometimes she swung in the opposite direction. Sometimes innocent men were sent to the hangman, and sometimes the guilty were set free. By committing herself to the asylum, Florence at least had a better chance of the latter outcome — and he was not going to interfere with that.
His mind travelled to Dody — not that she was a problem. But her problems were his problems and visa-versa. He hoped she was not fretting too much over Florence or getting into trouble with the authorities at the rest home. He was as anxious as she was to get to the bottom of Mrs Hislop’s medical history, and looked forward to joining her in the village of Elysium. No, Dody was not a problem at all — other than filling his mind constantly.
Pike was woken by a rude jolt. Standing passengers dominoed into one another. The lads in the seats behind pushed and swore their way into the jammed aisle. Pike looked towards Violet, pleased to see she had remained seated. He signalled her to stay where she was until most of the throng had disembarked.
The station at Tattenham Corner was a pleasant half-mile walk to the racetrack itself and Pike and Violet allowed themselves to be swept up by the carnival atmosphere of the crowd. The path through the Downs was bordered by dancing displays, boxing tents, fire-eaters, jugglers, and refreshment booths. Pike bought them each an ice-cream cone, though Violet barely ate hers, too busy watching the fashionable ladies and gentlemen parading about in their finery. He warned her to look out for pickpockets. Instead of listening to him she enthused over the ridiculous ‘donkey-eared hats’ many of the women wore. Soon, ice cream was dribbling all over her gloves.
Pike gave her his handkerchief, relieved her of the melted remnants and popped them into his mouth.
‘Where are the King and Queen sitting?’ Violet asked, once they reached the course.
Before he could swallow the last of the ice cream and answer her, she exclaimed, ‘Look, Daddy, look!’
He glanced towards the royal enclosure, expecting to see the King and Queen, but Violet prodded his arm. ‘No, over there, it’s Annie! Let’s go and say good day to her!’
Before he knew it, Violet was pulling him by the hand towards her. He hardly recognised the McClelands’ maid in her fine yellow hat, but he had no trouble recognising the solid, moustached gentleman who accompanied her. Pike gritted his teeth.
It was that cove Hensman.
It was an awkward meeting in which no one seemed keen to converse except Violet. Pike barely kept his eyes off Hensman, who
responded by looking everywhere but at Pike. So this must be how Shepherd had found out about his liaison with Dody, Pike decided. And now they were waiting like jackals for the right time to use it against him. No doubt the information would also be used to get Florence McCleland convicted too — Shepherd was determined to pin the Necropolis bombing on her.
Watching the younger man squirm was little compensation for the fact that Hensman’s actions might cost Dody and him their jobs. He wondered if this was a genuine attachment, or if Hensman was merely using Annie to garner information to help further his career. However genuine it was, it was most unethical for a policeman to take up with a witness before the case had reached its conclusion. If not for Violet’s presence, Pike would have called Hensman out over this.
The murmuring of the crowd reached crescendo pitch. All eyes turned toward the royal stand as the King and Queen took their seats. Violet jumped up and down, frustrated with her inability to get a good view of them. Shame she was too old for a bunk-up these days. Pike was wondering if there’d be a better view on the other side of the stand, when a bookie — distinguishable by his loud suit and the betting slip poking up from his hatband — offered Violet his stool to stand on. She accepted with glee, and soon she was oohing and aahing with the rest of the crowd.
‘The King’s looking handsome as usual, but you should see the Queen, Daddy! She’s wearing an ivory gown with a veil of blue chiffon that looks to be floating over the top of it. And her hat, I wish you could see her hat, it’s covered in the most darling pink roses — I wonder if they’re real?’
While Violet prattled on, Pike looked around for Annie and Hensman. They seemed to have disappeared. He hoped he’d ruined their day.
Pike was not a betting man, but to show his appreciation to the bookie he placed sixpence each way on the King’s horse, Anmer. Although the horse was a rank outsider and didn’t stand much of a chance, he wanted to add to Violet’s excitement and give her something to cheer for.
Violet was thrilled by the news. After giving the bookie back his stool she insisted they head towards the railing to get as close to the horses as possible. The main race of the day, the Derby Cup, would soon be starting. They chose a vantage point at Tattenham Corner, marking the most exciting part of the race. It was a sharp bend where the horses slowed down before speeding onto the home straight to finish in front of the royal box. Pike told Violet to look out for Anmer’s jockey wearing a purple and gold jacket.
From where they were standing they couldn’t see the start of the race, but the roar of the crowd told them the barrier was up and the horses were off. It was a short race, and in less than two heart-stopping minutes the horses emerged around the bend.
Out of the corner of his eye, Pike became aware of a tall woman pushing her way through the crowd to stand next to Violet. She was the only one in their vicinity not jumping around, waving a flag or yelling. She almost seemed to be in some kind of a trance. Her strange manner alerted his policeman’s instincts.
He took his eyes off her for barely a moment, just as the horses turned the bend for the home straight. He saw no sign of Anmer until Violet pointed the horse out at the back, among the stragglers.
‘Never mind,’ he said.
‘Oh no!’ Violet screamed, pointing at the tall woman ducking under the barrier.
With a gasp of recognition — the woman was a prominent suffragette — Pike tried to stop her, but found himself wedged in by the crowd. All he could do was call out, ‘Stop that woman!’
Too late, the woman stepped into the path of the King’s horse. Hands outstretched, it looked as if she was trying to stop the horse by grabbing its reins. But like a railway train on full steam, the horse had no time to stop. It crashed into her with tremendous force, knocking her down and tumbling her across the ground. The horse fell in a tangle of limbs, clearing the woman but pitching the jockey to the track.
Pike cupped his daughter’s face in his hands and shouted above the screaming and yelling. ‘Stay here, don’t leave this barrier.’ He ran onto the track, waving his police identification card.
Onlookers flooded the track. Pike and a uniformed policeman did their best to keep them back, allowing only the racecourse doctor, a doctor from amongst the crowd and a nurse through. Upon the arrival of more policemen, Pike was able to leave his post and join the authorised few huddled around the injured woman. She was out cold. Blood smeared across her face and oozed from her head. Her jacket was open. Pike glimpsed some fabric of purple, green and white pinned to the inside of it. Gently he removed it and unfurled two large suffragette flags. Those around him gasped.
What would make a woman do such a thing, he wondered, quickly bundling the flags back up again and handing them to a policeman.
‘Make a thorough inventory of her pockets,’ he ordered the constable.
While they waited for a stretcher, the constable gingerly patted the woman down, listing her possessions for another policeman to record in his notebook: one purse containing three shillings and eight-pence, two postal orders, one insurance ticket, eight and a half pennyworth of stamps, a helpers’ pass to the Suffragette Summer Festival bearing the name Miss Emily Davison, one race card, a key, writing paraphernalia, and a handkerchief monogrammed E.D.
And one half of a return ticket from Epsom to Victoria Station.
‘Thank you, officer,’ Pike said. He handed the policeman his card. ‘Give this to your superior and ask him to keep me informed.’
Pike moved towards the jockey who was covered in blood but regaining consciousness. The doctor said he was suffering from abrasions, concussion and shock. The course veterinarian had examined the horse and found it unscathed, save for a few cuts to its flanks.
And then Pike remembered Violet — where was she? He pivoted on his heel and found his daughter still standing obediently where he had left her, face drawn and tearstained. He ducked under the barrier and took her in his arms.
When the stretcher-bearers arrived to take the injured away, he was still holding her. He swivelled her away from the sight of the woman’s body being lifted onto the stretcher, a pool of blood already beginning to gel on the grass where she had lain.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he murmured as he stroked his daughter’s hair, knowing full well that it wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Beamish rowed in his shirtsleeves. Eva sat next to him, trailing the fingers of one slender hand through the water. Florence had stretched out across the bottom of the rowing boat, head cradled in Lady Mary’s lap, feet propped on the opposite seat. The bright sun turned the insides of her eyelids red. Her ghastly uniform bonnet lay sloshing around on the bottom of the boat. Unencumbered by the usual parasol, she lay still, willing the sun’s healing powers to seep some colour into her lifeless skin. For once in her life she would not worry about freckles.
The birds sang as the oars dipped into the placid lake with barely a splash. Florence opened her eyes. They were only a few feet away from the bank. Above her head a breeze, too weak to sway the willow’s branches, contented itself with the gentle tickling of leaves. A sweet muddy smell from the lake wafted in the air around them; bees hummed from flowering shrubs. Patterns of light and shadow danced across the boyish features of Beamish’s face. Perspiration shone in the dip of his throat; golden hairs, gleaming in the sun, stood out against his tanned arms.
‘You look hot. Would you like me to take over?’ Florence offered.
‘No, you are to rest — doctor’s orders,’ he said.
Only now that she was experiencing such utter relaxation did it dawn on Florence how exhausted she’d been. She had been in the home no more than twenty-four hours and already felt like a new woman. The only thing that spoiled the present tranquillity was the occasional cross look that Eva shot at Beamish. When next alone, she would ask her newfound friend what the problem was between them.
‘Can you row a bit faster, dear?’ Mary asked Beamish.
Flo
rence made eye contact with Eva and they both laughed.
‘Try and be patient, Mary,’ Eva said. ‘Sit back, relax and enjoy the excursion.’
Beamish locked the oars and passed the back of a hand across his perspiring brow. ‘Let’s just drift for a while.’
The water lapped gently against the sides of the boat. A fish jumped. Across the lake’s surface, dragonflies dipped and dived with quick, luminous movements. A school of minnows darted under the boat.
Mary managed to keep still for all of a minute. ‘Should we ring the bell for luncheon now, dear?’
Eva smiled. ‘I think Mary’s hungry.’
‘All right then.’ Beamish manoeuvred the boat to a small jetty, tied it to a post and helped Lady Mary out. Florence, following Eva’s lead, refused his offer of help.
They unpacked the picnic — pork pies, Scotch eggs, fruit, and bottles of Bell’s Mineral Water — on a grassy patch under the shade of a willow.
When they had finished eating, Florence stretched out on the tartan picnic rug and closed her eyes again, her mind drifting to Cynthia Hislop. It was hard to imagine that she had been subject to hideous cruelty and experimental operations in this tranquil place. Dody and Pike must have got it wrong.
Eva muttered about mosquitos. Florence heard the slap of a palm on skin.
Mary began to sigh, restless again. ‘I’d like to see if the bluebells in the wood are still out, Mr Beamish.’
‘I think they’d be dead by now, Lady Mary,’ he said.
Florence opened an eye and saw Eva helping Mary to her feet.
‘Please take me there, Mr Beamish. I would like to see for myself. It is not often we get the opportunity to come to this part of the country,’ Lady Mary said.
Beamish sighed, stood up, and dusted himself down. ‘All right.’ He crooked his arm out to Lady Mary. ‘M’Lady?’
The Insanity of Murder Page 17