After a moment of pin-dropping silence, Mrs Purslowe cleared her throat and said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve wheedled as much as I can from my husband, Lucinda. Most of our investments are in Ireland, and I don’t need to tell you what that means at the moment. Confidence in the Irish market has plummeted. I’ve been told we must forego our family holiday this year.’
‘I quite understand, dear,’ Lady Lucinda said. ‘And the European markets are just as erratic, or so my husband tells me, I tend not to read the papers — far too depressing. If he could just sell a couple of his racehorses we’d be in the clear. But he won’t. He says the clinic is bleeding us dry.’
> ‘They say a European war might pick things up again,’ Mrs Lee said. ‘Perhaps that will be of benefit to us?’
‘What about a civil war with Ireland?’ Mrs Purslowe interjected. ‘Surely one war’s as good as another?’
Dody managed to hold her tongue, but in so doing almost snapped her pencil in half. She knew enough about war, mainly through Pike, to know how it could not justify the saving of even a thousand pauper clinics. ‘I’ll have a talk with my father,’ she said.
‘No, Mr McCleland has taken on more than his share of the burden,’ Lady Lucinda said.
‘Then I will talk to Mother,’ Daphne said.
‘Noblesse oblige or not, Daphne, my dear, your family has done enough too.’
Dody and Daphne met eyes and shrugged. Surely between them they could work something out?
‘I admit it’s embarrassing to have to beg from one’s parents, but desperate measures and all that,’ Daphne said.
Lady Lucinda pushed herself up from the table. ‘Let us all go home and rack our brains, sleep on it, as they say. Travel safely, my dears, the weather is dire. If anyone needs a ride home in my motorcar, my chauffeur is waiting outside and will be more than happy to oblige.’
The society women said courteous goodbyes, leaving Dody and her medical colleagues in the kitchen.
Daphne smacked her hands together. ‘Well, that went well!’
The other doctors smiled, Dody rolled her eyes at the same time as she shook her head with affection. Daphne was almost as much fun to have around as Florence.
‘Has the Duchess really died, Daphne?’ Dody asked with concern.
‘How should I know?’ she shrugged. ‘I only said it to stop Mrs Lee from launching into one of her self-righteous tirades.’
Dody let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank heavens for that. Then hopefully the Duchess is basking in the sun with a rich lover or husband who adores her and will treat her children well.’
‘Here, here!’ said Doctor Wainright, an elderly woman who had been forced to study medicine in France at a time when England barred women from the profession. ‘Now that might make living on the continent bearable.’
After some much needed laughter, Doctor Wainright addressed Dody. ‘So my dear, when will you be returning to us?’
‘Not for a week at least, Doctor. With Doctor Spilsbury still away I’m afraid I’m terribly busy.’
‘That’s all right, we can manage, can’t we, girls?’
‘Better here getting some decent experience than sitting at home waiting for a job offer that will never come,’ Doctor Rachel Borkstein said. Since leaving medical school she’d been offered only one position, in northern Scotland, which she’d turned down on account of her invalid father. Dody suspected that it was not just her gender that was holding her back; her Jewish heritage would not be helping matters much either.
Doctor Amanda Birkmyre had fared only a little better. She worked as a ‘shilling doctor’ for the newly established Medical Insurance Scheme and earned less than a cook in a large country house.
It was a privilege to be working with such women, Dody reflected. It was also a humbling reminder that, but for her own good fortune, her medical career, like theirs, might have stalled. Or worse, been over before it had begun.
Despite having reached her decision that she would throw her hard-earned career away for marriage, she felt a jab of frustration, and not for the first time. Why couldn’t a professional woman have a career and a husband? Her frustration flared into a tinderbox of anger — not towards Pike, whom she loved heart and soul, but at the society that gave her no choice. The pencil snapped in her hand.
All eyes turned. ‘Oh, dear, excuse me,’ Dody said, trying to cover her embarrassment.
Doctor Wainright shot Dody a sympathetic smile. ‘Don’t worry, Doctor McCleland, the current situation is making us all anxious.’ She turned to the Jewish doctor. ‘Anything of interest to hand over, Doctor Borkstein?’ she asked, for a moment distracting Dody from her personal troubles. Unlike her younger colleagues Doctor Wainright never called any of the medical staff by their first name.
Rachel summarised her patients’ progress. ‘The successful delivery of twins this morning, mother and babies well so far. Mrs Crosby’s broken arm is healing nicely, as is young Billy’s leg. I fear though that Mrs Smith’s passing is imminent and she will be leaving us some time today. And there’s also Dody’s lady, Mrs Doyle.’
Dody did not correct the title. As a rule most of the women over the age of sixteen were referred to as ‘Mrs’ at the clinic to save embarrassment.
‘Mrs Doyle will be leaving with me, Doctor Wainright,’ Dody said. ‘I plan to invite her to my home to convalesce.’
‘Is that wise, Doctor? What kind of woman is she?’
‘Decent, I think. And as I am partly responsible for her condition, it is the least I can do.’ Dody went on to describe what had happened to Margaret Doyle in the mortuary.
The women were duly shocked and all agreed that Dody’s offer of personal care was an acceptable course of action. When Dody asked if anyone had had dealings with Mrs Doyle before, all said that they had never heard of her. She’s not notorious then, Dody thought with relief.
Dody took her leave of the other doctors and walked with Daphne towards the treatment room. On their way they passed through the clinic’s ten-bed ward. All the beds were taken, with patients ranging from a six-year-old boy who had been knocked down by a delivery cart, to Mrs Smith, suffering from postnatal septicaemia following the birth of her twelfth child. By all accounts this lady came from a stable family home, albeit an impoverished one. Dody wondered how her husband would cope when she was gone — and there was no doubt that she would go and soon.
Daphne tip-toed over to her bed and felt her patient’s brow. The woman didn’t stir; the only movement was the rise and fall of her chest in the ominous Cheyne-Stokes style of breathing, signifying that death was near.
‘Not long now,’ Daphne whispered respectfully. ‘I’ll sit with her after I’ve had a look at your Lazarus. I’m quite intrigued by your Margaret Doyle.’
‘As am I,’ Dody admitted.
In the treatment room, they paused before entering Margaret Doyle’s screened off cubicle.
‘So, we have just over a month to raise five hundred and fifty pounds,’ Daphne said to Dody.
Dody nodded. ‘Do you think you might be able to find out the Duchess’s whereabouts?
‘I can try — but you know how slow the postal service is on the continent. Even if she did have the means to help us, depending where she is living we might not see the money for months, and we’d be closed down by then.’
Dody stretched out her hand to the curtained screen. ‘I agree, but it’s our only hope. We have to get the money from somewhere.’
She pushed the screen back and affected a brighter tone of voice. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Doyle, are you feeling any better?’
‘I still feel a bit off-colour, Doctor. I haven’t managed to get dressed yet, I’m afraid. I can’t bear the thought of leaving this warm bed.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll help you,’ Dody said, reaching for the bundle of clothes Nurse Little had left at the bottom of the bed. ‘Mrs Doyle, this is my friend, Nurse Daphne Hamilton.’
The women exchanged polite greetings. Daphne took
a thermometer from her apron pocket, shook it and popped it under Miss Doyle’s tongue. While she was waiting for the temperature to set, she took her pulse. ‘Fifty two,’ she said to Dody. She took the thermometer from her patient’s mouth. ‘And her temperature’s ninety-five degrees, Doctor.’
‘Still a bit cool for my liking,’ Dody said as she and Daphne helped the striking red-headed woman to dress. ‘I’m going to take you to my townhouse to recuperate. It’ll be much more conducive to your recovery than here. Our spare room has a roaring fire and our maid is very handy with the bed warmer.’
Margaret Doyle looked stunned. ‘That’s truly generous, Doctor, very kind. But I couldn’t impose myself on you like that.’
‘It’s no imposition, I promise you. Besides, have you anywhere else to go?’
‘I was planning on going back to my house in Dalston.’
‘To John, who beats you? You are in no condition to withstand a beating.’
‘I exaggerated. He hit me once — and he apologised to me afterwards with a bunch of carnations.’
‘How kind of him,’ Daphne said, her expression suggesting a sip of sour milk.
‘Daphne,’ said Dody, ‘I think you should see how Mrs Smith is faring, don’t you?’
Chapter Five
Collar turned up, scarf tight against the stinging sleet, Pike followed the blood trail east until he came across two frustrated policemen standing by the side of Commercial Road. The thoroughfare was chaotic with people, horse-drawn carriages and motorcars trying to escape the weather. The road was a river of slush and ground-up horse dung, and the policemen appeared to be debating whether to cross or not.
‘The trail’s cold, sir,’ one of the officers told Pike when he approached. ‘Lost in the muck of the road. He could have gone in any direction.’
Pike drove a fist into his hand and looked across the street. As if at a magic signal, pandemonium broke out. A motorcar slewed from one side of the icy road to the other, sliding into the covered back of a goods wagon pulled by a pair of spavined horses. The nags reared and the wagon driver jumped from his seat to calm them. A motorised omnibus missed the wagoner by a matter of inches. As the bus swerved, it hit the rear of the motorcar. The driver let off a string of obscenities, and threw a crank at the bus, missing it and hitting a bicycle ridden by a delivery boy. The boy wobbled but maintained his balance. Not so a box of apples resting on the handlebars, which tipped off, spilling fruit across the road. A horse stopped dead in its tracks in order to reach the tasty bonus and pitched its rider onto the street.
Pike had played piano accompaniment for a moving picture less amusing than this. Shame he was in no mood to appreciate it.
With nothing but a tilt of his head, he indicated the fracas.
‘Yes, sir,’ the policemen said in unison, stepping into the street to direct the traffic and prevent the road users from throttling one another.
What a day.
Pike turned his back on Commercial Road and retraced his steps to the tenement in Brushfield Street. A few police vans remained. The men, earlier anxious to get people out of the building, were now holding back a crowd desperate to return to the meagre warmth of their rooms. Pike instructed one of the uniformed sergeants to assure the tenants they would be able to return once night had fallen, and the thieves’ bodies had been removed. Before he’d set off in pursuit of Tommy, he’d left specific instructions that the bodies were to be left alone, posting a guard outside the door until he could return with the police surgeon. But not just any police surgeon would do, he thought wryly as he crossed the road and made his way through the smoke of the local public house.
He phoned Dody’s home number. Annie, the maid, answered and he asked to speak to her mistress. When Dody at last picked up the telephone she sounded distracted, which was most unlike her. They both usually jumped at the opportunity to work on a case together. God knew how little they saw of one another and how precious each moment was — even if there was often a dead body lying between them.
‘You want me to meet you at Brushfield Street, right now?’ she asked.
Pike picked up the reluctance in her tone. ‘It might be the only chance we’ll get to see each other in a while.’
‘I will not be able to see you tonight?’
‘I’m not sure. If at all, it will be late. Once I’ve finished here I’ll have to report to Shepherd and work out an operational plan. This case will be on the front page of the newspapers tomorrow and could keep me busy for weeks.’
‘Oh, I understand.’ She paused. ‘You see, Matthew, I have a visitor whom I’m reluctant to leave.’
‘Don’t tell me Florence is back?’
‘No,’ Dody said, ‘though I wish she were.’
‘In that case don’t worry, I’ll send for the police surgeon,’ Pike said, reasonably, ‘and you’ll get the bodies tomorrow in the mortuary once he’s finished with them.’ The police surgeons were often accused of being heavy handed by the Home Office Pathology department. But with Spilsbury away, and Dody unwilling, Pike had little choice. ‘It’s bitterly cold out and best you stay in anyway,’ he added. ‘Take care, my love. I’ll call you when I can.’
Pike was about to hang up when Dody stopped him. ‘Wait, Matthew, wait. Where are you?’
‘The Red Lion in Cooper Street.’
‘I’ll check on my visitor. If she’s settled I’ll meet you there in about half an hour. It’s stopped snowing and I’m sure Fletcher will be able to drive me. I’ll see you soon, I hope.’
Pike smiled as he replaced the earpiece. Whether her decision had been for him or for the intrigue of a new case was of no consequence — he’d most likely be seeing Dody soon.
*
Pike was waiting for her outside the Red Lion, stamping his feet and slapping his arms to keep warm. The evening gloom was already descending and the lamps had been lit. They embraced discreetly, just outside the street lamp’s range. Pike smelled of smoke, and his ear, where it rested against her cheek, was like ice.
Dody peeled off her glove, desperate for the feel of skin on skin.
‘Matthew, you’re frozen,’ she said as she cupped his ears in her hands. ‘Where’s your hat?’
‘In the street, stamped into a pancake by now, I suspect.’
‘What have you been up to?’
‘No heroics, if that’s what’s worrying you. Just doing my job, as you must now do yours.’
Without further explanation he picked up Dody’s medical bag and escorted her across the street to a foreboding leviathan of a building about five storeys high.
‘The Disraeli building,’ Pike explained, ‘home to about four hundred souls. Not long ago most of them were in the street. We’ve let them return home now — all, that is, except the occupants of the fifth floor, where the villains were holed up for most of the time.’
‘I think you should start at the beginning, Matthew.’
‘Right you are,’ Pike said, pushing the scarred front door open for her.
Dody was immediately assailed by the stench of dirty baby nappies and greasy mutton. She turned to Pike. ‘I’d like some background information, please, Matthew. All you’ve said so far is that you have some bodies you want me to examine in situ.’
‘Certainly, Doctor,’ Pike said as they climbed the stairs side by side. ‘Upon arriving early for work this morning, Mr Sachs, a jeweller, and his young assistant, Miss Ursula Levi, discovered their shop in the process of being robbed.’
He sounds as if he’s addressing a courtroom, Dody thought. What is he hiding?
‘The thieves had dug a tunnel from the premises next door and surfaced in the safe room. They forced the jeweller to open the safe and then commenced to brutally pistol whip him. The shop girl escaped up some stairs and into the street where she ran screaming. One of the thieves shot her dead in front of witnesses. Then the thieves, carrying the contents of the safe in a small leather bag, tumbled into an idling motorcar and sped away. A vigilant bobby sp
otted them and hastened after them on his bicycle. Once he’d managed to flag down some colleagues in a police van, a pursuit ensued.’
At the fourth floor landing they paused for breath. Pike rubbed his knee.
‘Your knee, Matthew —’
‘My ears, my knee, stop fussing,’ he said with the flicker of a smile. Behind one of the closed doors, a baby began to wail. ‘The bobbies followed the men to this building and immediately laid siege. I arrived not long after that. The tenants were evacuated, but in the process . . .’ Pike paused to clear his throat. ‘In the process there were casualties, a child and two policemen were wounded, one of them being Sergeant Singh.’
So that’s what the courtroom tones were hiding. ‘Oh my goodness, are they all right?’
‘Both men’s wounds were minor. But the child . . .’ Pike was unable to continue.
Dody squeezed his arm. ‘Perhaps we should be getting on?’
He nodded and they carried on up to the fifth floor.
A policeman guarding a smoke-blackened door straightened to attention when he saw Pike. Nearby, a pair of heavy boots protruded from the end of a white sheet.
Pike pointed to the body. ‘They set fire to the place to cause a diversion, but I believe they underestimated the power of the smoke and were overcome by it. This one made it out of the room before he collapsed. There are two other bodies inside.’
‘Were the police shooting at them?’ Dody asked.
‘Some gunfire was exchanged.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘Has the photographer been and done his business, Constable?’
‘Yes, sir, left about ’arf an hour ago.’
‘And he didn’t touch the bodies?’
‘Just photographed them where they lay. I didn’t take me eyes off ’im. This one,’ the constable nudged the protruding boots with his own steel-capped toe, ‘I covered with a sheet after he left. I hope that’s acceptable, sir, I couldn’t bear to ’ave to look at ’im.’
‘That’s quite acceptable,’ Pike said. ‘Good man.’
A Donation of Murder Page 4