The Insanity of Murder

by Felicity Young

  She caressed his cheek. ‘For the deeper thinkers, yes, it is.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I do not need to throw myself under a horse to state my case. I can show by example through my work. Others are not so fortunate.’

  Pike said nothing for a moment. Then he sighed, rolled off the bed and reached for his clothes.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Where’s the hotel telephone?’

  ‘Downstairs in the hall. I’ve been on it myself to Doctor Lamb for much of the day. Why? Who are you ringing?’

  ‘Violet’s grandmother. I want her to cancel the booking for the finishing school. Violet can commence nurse’s training — if she still wants to — with my blessing, just as soon as arrangements can be made.’

  Although Pike’s spirits had revived somewhat since he’d spoken to Violet’s grandmother, Dody chose the busy hotel dining room as the venue of her confession in case it should cause him a relapse. It was also wise to ensure Pike was well fortified with wine before she broached the subject of her nocturnal adventures.

  ‘You climbed in through the window?’ he repeated, aghast. ‘Why, that’s breaking and entering!’

  ‘Hush, Matthew,’ she soothed, indicating a man and women at the table next to them. ‘The window wasn’t locked and I didn’t break anything,’ Dody said, shamefully aware of the weakness of her defence.

  ‘Nothing you saw under those circumstances can be used as evidence against the institution,’ he shot back. ‘There has to be a better, a legal way for getting the place investigated.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t here, were you? I had to find out what Florence was letting herself in for and now I know — and it’s not at all pleasant.’

  She went on to tell him about the preserved organs she’d found in the specimen jars.

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ he said with forced calm, as if trying to compensate for his outburst. After swallowing a mouthful of smoked salmon on brown bread, he said, ‘It must have been one of those jars that Lady Mary stole and sent to me.’

  ‘Yes, because she wants you to know what’s going on in the home.’ Dody paused, saying almost to herself, ‘But is she capable of such a thing? It was challenge enough for me to get into that storeroom.’ Though if she had entered through the door, Lady Mary would not have had to tackle the roses, Dody thought. Just as well Pike had not noticed the state of her legs during their lovemaking.

  ‘Perhaps someone helped Lady Mary steal the specimen?’ Pike suggested.

  They fell silent pondering this, and considering their best course of action. The couple next to them vacated their table and left the dining room. The waiter removed Dody and Pike’s empty entree plates, presented them with plates of steaming roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables and topped up their glasses.

  ‘My aim in the office was to find the key to the treatment building,’ Dody said once the waiter had left. ‘In that I failed, but I did find Mrs Cynthia Hislop’s file, which I took with me.’

  Pike rubbed his chin in thought. ‘Have you looked through it?’

  ‘I’ve only had the chance to glance at it. I’d like to look through it with you,’ she said. ‘What did Constable Singh find out?’

  ‘Virtually nothing from the porter, Ponsomby, who was one of the first on the murder scene. I got more from Mrs Smart, the cleaner,’ said Pike. ‘And Hislop’s wife, Gloria, verified he was with her all night and during the early morning of Cynthia’s death. He’s hiding something, though, we are both sure of it. I’ll call Singh again in the morning when we’ve looked at the file. It might help us find out what’s going on in the place. We can’t use it as evidence because it was obtained illegally.’ He shot Dody his stern-father look. ‘It will have to be put back, you know.’

  The thought of climbing back through that window caused Dody’s legs to sting anew.

  ‘But I’ll take care of that,’ he added, to her relief.

  They cleaned their plates but declined the waiter’s offer of jam roly-poly.

  Pike removed his silver cigarette case, offered it to Dody, and they both lit up. Plumes of smoke twisted and entwined towards the hotel’s beamed ceiling.

  Pike leaned back in his chair. ‘Dody,’ he said as he exhaled, ‘we have another problem.’

  She cast her eyes upward. ‘For the love of … whoever.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pike paused. ‘We’ve …’ He hesitated. ‘We’ve been found out.’

  Dody covered her hand with her mouth and waited for him to continue.

  ‘That new sergeant who was foisted upon me, Hensman.’

  Dody nodded in recognition of the name. Pike had mentioned him in passing and so had Florence, who’d referred to him as the ‘pig of a policeman’ who had interrogated her.

  ‘He’s Shepherd’s cousin. He’s also walking out with your maid, Annie. I think Shepherd put him up to it.’

  Dody froze as the information sank in. Their secret had to be discovered sooner or later, she was expecting that — but why now, of all times? Did Annie really understand the dangerous position she had put them in? Dody hoped not. In her book, ignorance was preferable to malice, and if her motivation were the latter she would be dismissed, no matter what argument Florence offered in her defence.

  ‘Annie told him. About us? She told us she was walking out with a teacher,’ Dody said, aware of the audible shake to her voice.

  ‘She must have.’ Pike reached for her hand and clasped it across the table.

  ‘What can be done?’

  ‘We continue as we are until they make their move. I think I have enough in my arsenal for a counter-offensive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he said with a poor attempt at a reassuring smile. He let go of her hand and added sugar to his cooling coffee, stirring it far more than was necessary.

  With all that was going on — Florence, Emily Davison, poor Mrs Hislop and the other abused women like her — it was amazing how this last piece of news could still strike Dody with such debilitating force. Perhaps her armour had taken such an onslaught recently it was at last beginning to crack.

  What would Doctor Spilsbury’s reaction be when he discovered she was intimately involved with a policeman? Or had he already guessed and chosen to ignore it? To his credit, that might be the case, but could he continue to ignore it if their liaison were publicly declared, snickered about and mocked? Understandably, he would consider such gossip as a blight upon the medical profession and validate his initial reluctance at hiring a female assistant. Dody had only got the job due to the lack of suitably qualified men.

  Public knowledge of her conduct would lead to her dismissal. At best she would end up as a shilling doctor — provided her tarnished reputation allowed her to get that far. At worst she would be struck off the register for behaviour unbecoming.

  While Pike would not suffer the same social disgrace as she, their fraternisation would be regarded as most unprofessional, and the cases they had worked on together would be scrutinised for signs of bias or pillow talk. It would also add another brick to the barriers between females and the male-dominated professions, barriers she had made her life’s mission to tear down through impeccable example.

  ‘Dody, Dody, are you all right?’ Pike asked, his question cutting through the misery of her thoughts. ‘A penny for them?’

  ‘I won’t take your money to tell you things you already know.’

  He nodded and finished his coffee in one swallow. ‘You know,’ he began, ‘there are alternatives …’

  ‘Yes?’

  He said no more, rubbed his eyes. With the heaviness of one near exhaustion, he pushed his chair back and moved to help her with hers. ‘Shall we retire to your room to examine the file you borrowed?’

  Dody found herself exhaling a breath she’d not known she was holding. What had he been about to say?

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven


  That night over dinner, Florence and Eva were toasted as the heroes of the day.

  ‘And she was fully conscious in the car when you and Beamish took her to the hospital? Did she remember anything of her experience?’ Eva asked.

  Florence pulled herself back from melancholic thoughts of Emily Davison ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So she didn’t say anything about falling in?’

  ‘No,’ Florence replied. ‘She just complained about Beamish’s driving, said he drove like an old woman.’

  Eva laughed. ‘Typical.’

  Florence smiled, but found herself only half-heartedly sharing in the jubilation of her ward. Of course she was thrilled that Mary was expected to survive, but her happiness had been overshadowed by the news of Emily’s death and she found it a challenge to keep up a happy pretence.

  ‘Listen to this everyone,’ Eva said as she glanced down at the smuggled newspaper resting on her lap. ‘It’s an account of the horserace and Emily’s accident — Florence stole it from the hospital.’

  She read to the table as if reading from a boy’s adventure novel, complete with dramatic pauses and increased tempo as she neared the end. Florence found it painful to hear and regretted stealing the paper for her friend. Eva got to the part where an eyewitness reported to the paper:

  I could not see whether any other horses touched her, for the whole thing happened so quickly, and I was so horrified at seeing her pitched violently down by the horse and tumbled across the ground …

  Bet-Bet let out a peal of inappropriate laughter. Little flat-faced Aggie dropped her jaw, revealing a row of small uneven teeth, and burst into tears. Eva shoved the paper at Florence and climbed to her feet. She put her arm around the girl who buried her face in her breast and started to wail like a banshee.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have read from the paper,’ Eva said. ‘I’m sorry to upset you, Aggie, dear.’

  ‘Sit down please, Mrs Blackburn,’ Beamish said, striding over to Florence’s table. ‘I’ll take care of Aggie.’

  Florence dropped the paper on the floor and pushed it under the table with her foot.

  When Eva didn’t respond, Beamish repeated his command. Eva remained where she was, a muscle working in her jaw as her back teeth clenched and unclenched. Another attendant joined Beamish. Eva did not seem the least bit intimidated and stood her ground. The thought that she would have made a marvellous suffragette filtered through Florence’s distress as she witnessed the unfolding scene.

  ‘She doesn’t need your attention, Mr Beamish,’ Eva said with the sharpness of an implied accusation.

  A chill travelled up Florence’s spine. Did this mean what she thought it meant? Realisation dawned. Suddenly, Florence found herself viewing Beamish through different eyes. He no longer looked like the handsome hero of the day, but a sinister figure with a stare the colour of an Alpine lake.

  So Eva knew his secret. No wonder there was little love lost between them.

  Fogarty must have heard the altercation. He wandered down the dining room from his position at a top table where he had been eating his meal with other staff members. He bowed to the ladies on Florence’s table, twitched a smile Florence’s way, and then spoke under his breath to Beamish in a tone he must have thought could not be heard.

  ‘Mrs Blackburn giving you trouble again, Mr Beamish?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. She’s making the usual accusations — not suitable for our new lady’s ears, in my opinion.’

  The ‘new lady’s’ ears were straining to pick up what was being said, all the while hoping she was giving the impression of being preoccupied with the cleaning of her pudding plate.

  Beamish retrieved the newspaper from under the table. He rolled it up and beat it against his open palm, then pointed to Florence with it.

  He looked angry. ‘You obviously picked this up from the hospital waiting room. This is why we don’t allow newspapers in the home, Miss McCleland.’

  Florence flushed and dropped her head. Bloody man, he had no right to talk to her like that, like she was a naughty schoolgirl. It was hard to believe that a day that had started off with such a blissful row on the lake could end like this. She no longer felt rested and relaxed; her old anxieties seemed to have returned with all the power of the horse that had trampled poor Emily to death.

  Aggie stopped crying, but Eva remained where she was.

  Fogarty reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook, flicking through the pages as if looking through a list of names.

  ‘Ah, here we are, Beamish.’ He jabbed at the page. ‘She’s menstruating. No wonder she’s acting up, that can be a problem with her. Put her in isolation until her menses cease and her mental integrity returns.’

  Eva accepted her fate with a quiet dignity. ‘Look after them, Florence, will you?’ She gestured to the strange assortment of women around the table as Beamish took hold of her arm. ‘Make sure Beamish stays away from Aggie, and don’t, whatever you do, let them put old Mary in a straitjacket.’

  Florence acted as if she hadn’t heard, though inside, her mind whirled. That’s all very well for you to say, Eva, but how on earth am I supposed to do that?

  Florence lay awake in her bed, listening to the noises of the night, thinking about Emily, about how strong and vital she had been. It was hard to imagine her spirit so easily extinguished. But had her martyrdom really been a blow for the cause, or was it merely a horrible waste of life? She would have liked to be able to get hold of another paper to gauge the public’s opinion. She had a horrible feeling that, as with her own escapade at the Necropolis Station, Emily’s action might merely be viewed as a stunt gone wrong and gain the movement more enemies than friends.

  Every now and then, hollow footsteps announced the night nurse or male attendant walking the passageway. They shone a lamp into each darkened bedroom they passed — suicide watch, Florence had been told. It was a wonder Mrs O’Brien and Mrs Hislop had ever managed to escape from this place.

  She had taken Eva’s last words to heart, that she should ensure the safety of the ladies in her ward, and so she fought to keep herself awake. After a day such as this it was proving an almost impossible task and her mind screamed for the gentle release of oblivion.

  She was drifting off when noises in the corridor jerked her awake: a raised male voice, a woman’s high-pitched scream. It sounded like little Aggie. Florence leapt from her bed and bounded towards Aggie’s room.

  She flicked on Aggie’s bedroom light. The night nurse and Beamish looked up in guilty panic from the girl they’d pinned to the bed. They quickly stepped back. Aggie continued to scream, hiding herself beneath the bedclothes. The nurse put down the lamp she had been holding and extended placating hands to Florence.

  ‘It’s all right dear, calm down. Aggie is just refusing to take the tonic for her indigestion. She plays up like this every now and then,’ she said.

  Florence turned to Beamish. He looked just like he had when he’d helped drag Eva away, his face contorted into … what? A gloating smirk? Whatever it was it was the same expression the Holloway Doctor had when he was about to ram the force-feeding tube up her nostril!

  Something ferocious was released in Florence. She could not help herself. ‘How dare you touch her, you pig of a man!’ she shouted, spinning on her toes jujitsu-style and chopping him in the stomach with a stiffened hand.

  Beamish fell to the floor moaning. The nurse jumped back from Florence, snatched a bell from her pocket and began to ring it furiously. Within seconds, two male attendants appeared as if from nowhere, charging to the nurse’s assistance. One helped Beamish off the floor while the other attempted to pin Florence’s arms behind her back. But she was too quick for him. She caught him by the arm and threw him with the same jujitsu move she’d used on the watchman. He landed on the bed on top of a sobbing Aggie.

  More staff arrived. Florence fought them off as best as she could, screaming at the top of her lungs like the mad woman she
was supposed to be. Despite her skill, the sheer number of the opposition and her extreme fatigue meant she was soon overwhelmed. They shoved her arms into a starched-linen garment with extra-long sleeves, crossed them and tied them behind her back.

  She was in a straitjacket.

  ‘Get Doctor Fogarty,’ Beamish ordered one of the female nurses.

  It took several of the staff to manoeuvre Florence into the corridor. She refused to stand, so they were forced to drag her away from Aggie’s room along the polished floor. Through the pandemonium she heard the word ‘treatment house’ mentioned.

  ‘No, I’m not supposed to have any treatments, ask my doctor!’ she screamed, conscious of her nightgown bunching up around her waist. One of the nurses pulled it down.

  Fogarty appeared in his dressing gown and a crushed-velvet smoking hat. ‘What’s going on here, Beamish?’

  ‘We were trying to give Aggie her medicine when the new lady burst in and went psychotic.’

  ‘I won’t give you my consent, what you are doing is illegal!’

  ‘Let us decide what’s best for you, Miss McCleland,’ Fogarty tut-tutted. ‘Beamish, draw me up some chloral hydrate, there’s a good chap. I’ll let her doctor know tomorrow. This is a medical emergency; he’d sanction the sedative under these circumstances, I’m sure. The woman appears to be totally breaking down.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Florence woke with a headache as ferocious as the one she’d had after the Holloway doctor had knocked her out. And her mouth felt like a vulture’s armpit — she’d learnt that particularly fruity expression from one of the coarser members of her division, never thinking she’d experience the sensation first hand.

  She lay on a rubber mattress on the floor. Mercifully, she’d been released from her straitjacket. Now she understood why poor Mary was so averse to the restraint, the feeling of such total, utter helplessness was enough to tip anyone over the edge. Florence allowed herself a luxurious stretch, every muscle aching. Her fingertips brushed the nearest wall. Feeling fabric, she opened a bleary eye. All the room’s walls were padded and dimpled like a mattress. She must be in one of the treatment building’s padded cells.