A Donation of Murder

by Felicity Young

  Dody smiled. ‘I can’t imagine what wicked ways you are referring to, Miss Doyle.’ Her smile faded when she noticed the sincerity of her patient’s countenance. ‘Well,’ she backtracked, ‘they say we are all made up of good and bad.’

  ‘Please Doctor, call me Margaret. I’m not one for airs and graces and titles I don’t deserve. But in some people, me included, one characteristic is more dominant, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Dody said, wishing for a change of topic. Philosophy was not her strongest subject. Her preference was for proven facts, not matters metaphysical.

  To Dody’s relief, Margaret’s face brightened. She patted the bed, inviting Dody to sit. ‘But enough of all that. What of you, do you always come home this late of a night?’

  Dody perched on the edge of the bed. Florence had been away from home for several months and she was missing her companionship sorely. It was a pleasure to have someone to talk to at the end of a trying day.

  Margaret sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell, is it smoke?’

  I’m glad that’s all she can smell on me. Dody hated to think what other unsavoury odours might be lurking amongst her multiple layers of clothing; she’d not had the chance to bathe since leaving the mortuary.

  ‘Yes, it is smoke,’ she replied. ‘I was called to a building that had been deliberately set alight, to examine some bodies found there.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ Margaret wrinkled her pretty nose. ‘Dealing with dead bodies all day. This didn’t have anything to do with the siege in Brushfield Street, did it, Doctor?’ At Dody’s frown, Margaret added, ‘It’s been all over the evening news.’ She pointed to the newspaper lying at the end of her bed.

  Dody reached for it and scanned the front-page article. She found nothing she didn’t already know except for the news of the escape of a fourth man, described as a fifteen-year-old apprentice thief, a boy who had grown up on the streets. It was distressing that one so young had been able to murder his colleagues with such cold-blooded expertise. And what if Pike had been injured, or God forbid, killed in the skirmish? It did not bear thinking about.

  Her tired mind wandered. She wondered if he would be joining her in her bed tonight. It was already past midnight and it would be more practical for him to return to his lodgings above the Clarence public house in Whitehall, a stone’s throw from Scotland Yard. She was almost as eager to hear the details of the siege as she was to hold him in her arms. He had a key and let himself in these days, often managing to come and go without the servants’ knowledge — all except Annie, who didn’t miss a trick. Just as well Annie had learned to hold her tongue. Not long ago her tittle-tattle had almost caused Dody and Pike to lose their jobs — and her own too.

  ‘Your maid was very kind. As well as bringing the newspaper, she brought me up some whisky to help me sleep. May I offer you a glass?’ Margaret pointed to a tray set up on Florence’s dressing table on which Annie had thoughtfully placed two glasses.

  Dody hesitated. She really should be off to bed.

  ‘I suspect that your day has been just as trying as mine.’ Margaret’s warm tones were tempting. ‘Just a little tot, eh?’

  Dody gave in, walked over to the dressing table and poured them both a glass before returning to her position at the end of the bed.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Doctor —’

  ‘Dody.’

  ‘Dody. Whose bedroom am I borrowing? I hope no one has been inconvenienced because of me. I could not help but notice some very fine gowns hanging up around the place.’

  Dody smiled. ‘My sister’s. I do apologise for the mess. Florence is quite the clotheshorse and never seems to have sufficient cupboard space. Even my wardrobe is half crammed with her things.’

  ‘But where will she sleep tonight?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about Florence, she is in Scotland, learning to fly a Tiger Moth.’

  Margaret drained her glass and patted her chest, enjoying the burn. ‘How thrilling!’

  ‘Yes,’ Dody agreed. ‘Yes, it is, I suppose, if you like that kind of thing.’ She smiled, recollecting what Florence had said about flying machines causing havoc with one’s hair. ‘We, the family that is, were hoping she’d be home for Christmas — one can hardly learn to fly at this time of year in Scotland — but alas, she has decided to wait the weather out.’

  ‘Then I expect she has her reasons for staying. A young man, perhaps?’

  Dody nodded, not wishing to divulge anything more about her sister’s private life. Florence had been learning to fly with a pleasant young Scotsman called Harold Lamb, who had been her nerve doctor for a very short time. This had been of some concern to Dody, but not because Florence had once been his patient. They started their friendship after their professional relationship ceased and Florence had been declared ‘sane’. Dody’s concern was more about their mismatch of character. He was sensitive, quiet and bookish. Florence, while just as vulnerable, tended to hide her emotions behind wild and passionate deeds that were often not thought through — like pretending she was insane, for example. Dody could only hope that neither would be badly hurt when the relationship came to its inevitable end.

  ‘And you?’ Margaret added, bringing her back to the present. ‘I expect walking out with a young man is near impossible for a woman in your position.’

  Dody agreed. ‘My hours are not very sociable.’

  ‘And I expect most men go running when they discover the nature of your work.’

  ‘Most, but not all,’ she said, feeling the tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

  Margaret raised a sickle eyebrow.

  ‘I mean,’ Dody stumbled on, ‘there is someone, but it’s, ah, complicated. We work together, and our careers would be jeopardised if word got out.’

  ‘Ah, I see, he is a doctor like yourself.’

  Before Dody could say no, Margaret had refilled her glass.

  ‘No, my friend is not a doctor. I can’t really say what he does. But he has an ill-natured superior, you see, an incompetent who holds my, er, my friend over a barrel. I sometimes wonder if there is a future for us at all.’ She lowered her gaze to the diminishing contents of her glass and found the crystal shimmering through an unexpected film of moisture in her eyes.

  When Margaret rubbed her arm Dody succumbed to the need to confide in a sympathetic listener. ‘And then there are my parents. As liberal — radical, some say — as their views are on most issues, they would never be able to reconcile the fact that he works for the pol—’

  Dody stopped herself, knowing she was saying too much. Oh my God, I’m getting drunk. ‘No more, please,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve had no supper. This is going to my head.’

  ‘I might not be a doctor, Doctor, but my senses tell me this is the best medicine for both of us at a time such as this,’ Margaret said gently.

  ‘Dody, please call me Dody. It’s short for Dorothy.’ She downed her last drop of whisky and put the glass under the bed before it could be refilled. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you very much. Perhaps we can continue our chat tomorrow?’

  ‘Stay for a moment more, please, Dody. I am frightened about where my dreams will take me if I fall asleep now. I will not talk about your chap if it makes you uncomfortable, I promise. We will find something else to talk about . . . I know, my jewels — what do you think of them, are they not exquisite?’

  ‘I think it quite remarkable that they were not stolen when you were lying unconscious in the alley,’ Dody replied, relieved to hear the steadiness returning to her voice.

  ‘So do I. All I can think is that the snow must have kept the villains and the bone grubbers away.’

  Margaret stretched over to the bedside table and picked up her necklace and earrings. She held one of the long earrings against Dody’s ear. ‘Marvellous, the deep red of the rubies goes so much better with your hair colour than it does mine. John gave me them and I love them to bits for that reason alone, even though I think in r
eality they don’t suit me.’

  ‘I think they look superb on you,’ Dody said, meaning it.

  ‘You should consider getting your ears pierced, Dody. There are so many more beautiful earrings to be had for pierced ears.’

  Dody’s mother considered pierced ears to be ‘common’, and Dody and Florence had never contemplated it. Both were content with their screw-ons, even if they did pinch on occasion.

  Not wishing to hurt her new friend’s feelings, Dody replied, ‘I don’t think I could bear to have someone sticking a pin through my ears.’ She smiled to herself. So spoke the woman who had once stitched up a gash in her own forehead.

  ‘You might change your mind when your loved one presents you with the perfect pair.’

  Pike could never afford such extravagances and Dody could not have cared less. Margaret’s weakness seemed to be for jewellery and hers was for Pike; each to their own, she supposed.

  ‘My John’s a jeweller and I’ve learned a lot from him,’ Margaret went on. ‘For example, I judge the locket hanging about your neck to be Faberge. May I have a closer look, see if I am correct?’

  Dody had no idea that the locket had escaped from beneath her blouse. It tended to get in the way of her work and she tried to keep it concealed. She unhooked the clasp and handed it to her houseguest.

  Margaret weighed the locket in her hand. ‘It’s a good sized piece, and the filigree engraving shows masterful craftsmanship.’ She turned it in her hand, drawing Dody’s attention to the maker’s mark on the back. ‘See, Faberge. I am correct. My, but you are a lucky woman.’

  ‘Some of my family were in business in Russia with Mr Faberge. Indeed, my parents and my sister and I lived in Moscow for some years. The locket was given to me by an uncle,’ Dody said, impressed by Margaret’s ability to identify the piece. ‘I would never have been able to buy it myself. I know I am a lucky woman, many times over — though it is not the material things that I really treasure.’

  ‘Whether we like it or not, Dody, material things do matter. Without the financial help of your family, you would doubtless not be practising medicine. You would not be helping those poor souls in the clinic nor solving the puzzle of mysterious deaths at the mortuary in order to bring some kind of peace to the victims’ relatives. Or raising others up from the de—’

  ‘Enough, please!’ Dody felt herself redden. ‘Let’s not start this again.’

  Margaret laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you.’ She placed the locket on the bedside table and clasped Dody’s hand, giving it a squeeze. ‘I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Doctor, I mean, Dody. But I think it best that I return to my own home tomorrow. I am feeling better already and by tomorrow I will be as good as new.’

  ‘But what of John?’

  ‘I can handle him.’

  ‘Your stitches?’

  Margaret gave Dody a tender look that made her realise just how desperate she must have sounded. The bottom line was that she was lonely and craving female companionship.

  And she had drunk too much whisky.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Any doctor or nurse could take them out, I suppose,’ she said, trying to hold on to her dignity.

  Margaret hesitated, glanced down at the top sheet of her bed, its lace edge folded over the counterpane. ‘I do hope we can stay in touch, though. I’d like us to become friends.’

  Dody smiled. ‘As would I.’

  *

  Dody knew that she was overtired because the knot of worry that had begun in her stomach was tightening her limbs and getting worse, despite the liberal amount of whisky with which she’d lubricated it. She turned the tap and added more hot water to the bath, breathing deeply of the lemon-scented steam. It had been a mistake to agree to remain in contact with Margaret, to become friends with a patient of whom she knew very little. By doing so she was breaking every rule in her professional rulebook. This was far worse than Doctor Lamb’s show of affection towards Florence. Business and pleasure must remain separated, all her instincts told her that. Her job included working for the police and it was too easy to be compromised. Her love for Pike and his for her made things complicated enough, and they needed no more salt added to that pot. The only thing she and Margaret had in common was an unfortunate shared experience and some mutual respect. That did not constitute an intimate friendship.

  God, how much had she revealed to Margaret about her special friendship with Pike? Already the conversation was muted in her memory by a whisky fug. All she recalled was that she had confided some personal things about herself while receiving almost nothing from Margaret in return. It was so unlike Dody to talk intimately with any female other than Florence. Even her mother did not know of her fondness for Pike. Thank goodness she had not revealed his name or his occupation.

  Dody pulled the plug and watched the whirlpool of water, listening to it scream as the plughole sucked it down. Surely her relationship with Margaret would fizzle out in the end?

  Her toes curled. The tiles through the bathroom mat felt like ice. She wrapped herself in a towel, gazing out of the small window as she dried herself. Snowflakes spiralled from the inky sky. She shivered as she pulled her nightdress over her head, marvelling how Margaret had survived the night outside in weather such as this. Her mind travelled to the sick and homeless women who slept in the park. How would they be faring tonight? And what would happen to them when the clinic closed its doors? She prayed to the God she did not believe in that they could sweet-talk the landlord into letting it remain open at least until the spring, when the worst of the weather would be over.

  The church clock chimed two. The copper warmer Annie had put in her bed would be cold by now.

  But at least the fire was still in; she saw its gentle glow as she stepped from her bathroom. She didn’t bother with the light, instead heaping the fire with coal before turning to her dressing table to pull the pins from her hair. Too tired to run her brush through it, she’d face the resultant bird’s nest in the morning.

  In the glow of the firelight, she made her way over to her large bed and slipped under the covers, bracing herself for the chill sheets as one might for a dip in the North Sea. The bed felt comforting and warm, as if a body had just rolled off it.

  ‘I kept your side warm for you,’ said a sleepy voice. Pike pulled her into his arms, his warm legs twisting around her cold ones.

  They were both too exhausted for passion, but to hold one another as close as this was, in its own way, as good.

  They made up for it the next morning when the curtains seeped a grey, watery light. A second sense must have prevented Annie from delivering Dody her usual morning tea, which meant they had almost an hour alone together before breakfast. Pike gave her one last lingering kiss before rolling over to lie on his back. She gazed into his face, his dark blue eyes glowing like coals in the soft firelight. He picked up her hand and absently kissed her fingertips.

  ‘What happened after we parted yesterday evening, Matthew?’

  ‘Shepherd told me to report to him when I was finished for the day, but when I got to his office, he’d gone home. There was a note on his desk telling me to call by his house.’ He paused. ‘I did just that, but found all his house lights off. I look forward to seeing him this morning.’

  Dody smiled. ‘Do I detect a certain irony in your tone?’

  ‘A smidgeon, perhaps.’ Pike got up from the bed and began to dress, removing his folded clothes from Dody’s Queen Anne chair.

  ‘Matthew, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  He stepped into his trousers then turned to face her. ‘Ah, your mysterious houseguest — I’d forgotten about her.’

  ‘Perhaps we could breakfast together? You would have to leave and come back though, as if you were calling in to update me on a case. I’ll ask Cook to delay breakfast if you like, to give you more time.’ She went to the wardrobe to select her clothes for the day, pushing through Florence’s coloured silks in se
arch of her own conservative work clothing: a sensible sax-blue wool skirt, matching jacket, stiff collar and tie.

  Pike rubbed his eyes. Was he as tired of the subterfuge as she was? ‘Tell me more about this lady and why you are so eager for us to meet.’

  Dody told Pike the circumstances of Margaret’s awakening on the slab.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said, snapping his braces over yesterday’s shirt. ‘And you say she lay in the alley all night, resplendent in jewels and furs?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Describe the jewels to me.’

  Dody raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Must you always be so suspicious?’

  ‘Inviting a stranger to stay in your house is not the wisest thing you’ve ever done. What if she’s a thief?’

  Dody folded her arms. She was not used to being chastised by Pike.

  ‘It’s my job to be suspicious, you know that,’ he said, softening his tone.

  ‘A beautiful ruby cross at least one and a half inches long, and spectacular dangling ruby earrings.’

  ‘She’s a Papist?’ Pike asked with a frown.

  ‘I expect so, she’s of Irish extraction.’

  The frown deepened. ‘It’s best to remain cautious of the Irish right now. Their demand for Home Rule is reaching ridiculous proportions.’

  A Fenian bomb had killed Pike’s wife, the mother of his only child, Violet, and he sometimes had difficulty controlling his prejudice against the Irish. Adding to that, the fight for Irish Home Rule had recently escalated and violence had been predicted once more for the streets of London.

  ‘Please be friendly when you meet her, Matthew,’ Dody pleaded, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for a buttonhook to fasten her boots. ‘She’s had an awful time.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be friendly.’ He smiled and brushed his lips against her cheek. ‘Am I not always?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’ll pop out of the back door, get a shave at the barber’s, and miraculously reappear for breakfast in about half an hour’s time in the guise of your work colleague and nothing more.’