A Donation of Murder

by Felicity Young

  ‘The world is changing, my love,’ John went on. ‘You just need to read the newspapers to see that. My business is like any other. Gentlemen thieves are a thing of the past, we change or we die.’ John paused and looked up to the ceiling. ‘If I find the right buyer for that necklace I’ll be rich, Pegs.’

  ‘You’re already rich.’

  ‘One can never be too rich, darlin’, John said, Cockney slipping through the gaps. ‘Besides, it’s not just the money, you know that. It’s the thrill of the chase, my wits against theirs, the beating of the system. I wouldn’t be giving this up for all the tea in China.’

  Margaret understood what he was saying. She’d felt the same way too; it was one of the many things they had in common — once had in common, she corrected herself. If he had not come to rely so much on that odious Mr James they’d have been business partners by now, married even. After all, she had loved him. Once.

  Her eyes roamed to the three Meissen cherubs that took pride of place on the top shelf of her corner cabinet. They were nothing to her now but expensive ornaments, though she’d once viewed them as her future children: two baby boys for John and a girl for her. Her bittersweet memories must have shone through her features, softening her face to a look John interpreted as love. He beckoned her over to the bed with his naked arm. She clasped his outstretched hand and perched on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you just now. I won’t do that again, I promise. I was just so worried about you love, that’s all — you know, like a mother punishes her child when he runs across the road. Fancy, you disappearing into the snow like that — you gave me one helluva headache.’

  ‘Mr James said you needed to be harder with the men. I didn’t think he was referring to me too.’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose I’m getting into the habit of treating my people like that, that’s all. Look, I’m hosting a dinner party next week, just after New Year’s Eve, and I want you over to help.’ He reached for one of her auburn curls and twirled his finger through it. ‘I’ve invited all the buyers I can think of who might have the funds for the necklace — one’s coming all the way over from America. Will you help me, Pegs, love? I don’t think I could do it without you.’

  ‘Will Mr James be there?’ she asked.

  ‘No, these people are class. It’s you I need.’

  Margaret nibbled her lip, thought of the notes she’d piled up in her desk drawer, ready to send to her employees. They could wait a week or two, she supposed. It would be fun to have a last hurrah and partake in some of the glory associated with the theft of the La Peregrina necklace. Although once she sent the notes off and left the gang, John Giblett wouldn’t be seeing her for dust.

  ‘All right, then.’

  John beamed from the bed. ‘That’s my girl.’ The smile faded as he scrutinised her face. ‘I need you Peggy. You’re not to leave me in the lurch like that again, do you hear me? Do you promise?’

  A promise from a thief wasn’t worth the air used to utter it, and John should have known that. Margaret nodded. You haven’t heard the half of it, John Giblett, she thought to herself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dody rose from the desk as Alfred, the senior mortuary attendant, ushered Pike into Spilsbury’s office.

  ‘Can you manage without me for a moment, Doctor?’ the old man asked. ‘Only I am told there is another delivery at the hearse entrance waiting for my signature.’

  ‘I think we’ll manage, Alfred,’ Dody said, not daring to meet Pike’s eye lest she betray herself with a smile.

  The door closed and they both relaxed. Pike leaned towards her and imitated a sniffing dog before demurely kissing her on the cheek.

  Dody laughed. ‘Really, Matthew, you must be used to the smell by now.’ Despite the harrowing circumstances of the last twenty-four hours he seemed to be in an uncommonly playful mood.

  ‘It’s not that, it’s what you use to cover it up that fascinates me so. Lavender or lemon or sandalwood . . . Mm . . . I think today’s selection is rosewater.’

  ‘You have the nose of a bloodhound,’ she said.

  ‘I do,’ he sighed. ‘But now I have a different kind of detection on my mind.’ He put his book of mug shots on the desk and reached into his pocket for his cigarette case. She shook her head when he offered her one, reaching into her apron pocket for her tobacco pouch. When working in the mortuary she preferred her pipe, and with Spilsbury away she could smoke it as much as she wished. Bliss.

  After they’d lit up, she grabbed a clipboard from her desk and led him into the autopsy room, pipe clamped between her teeth, both of them enveloped in a fragrant cloud of tobacco. The autopsy room had been renovated, and it was now one of the most up-to-date facilities in the country and Dody was proud of her part in the planning. Many of the innovations came from France, the country that led the world in forensic science.

  How things had changed since she had commenced her medical training, almost fifteen years ago. Gone was the cadaver room, where dripping iceboxes were lined up with pipes that drained into the yard. Now, large mechanical refrigerators lined the walls with separate compartments containing body drawers. From these, bodies could be rolled and pushed back for cursory examination, or transferred with ease onto trolleys and then to slabs for dissection.

  And the slabs weren’t even slabs any more, although they were still referred to as such. They were actually steel benches, tilted so the run-off could escape through closed pipes into the new sewerage system.

  Dody checked the number on her clipboard against one of the drawers and rolled the body from its compartment.

  Cigarette between his lips, Pike drew the sheet back and gazed down at the face of the young man. He frowned. ‘How old would you say?’

  ‘Eighteen at the most.’

  ‘Spotty.’

  Dody lifted the boy’s upper lip.

  ‘And missing some teeth,’ Pike remarked.

  ‘Is he familiar?’ Dody said as she moved over to the sink and tapped the ash from her pipe down the plughole.

  ‘No, but I haven’t been on the streets for a few years. I’m not as up to date as I’d like to be.’

  When they had first met, Pike sometimes disappeared for several weeks at a time, working undercover to foil underworld plots and political conspiracies. In those days he took on the persona of the ‘Captain’, his former army rank. His skill at the piano got him all sorts of jobs in places where villains were likely to congregate: dockside pubs, music halls and fancy restaurants. Pike always played down his part in such clandestine activities, accounting his successes to his unprepossessing appearance and his ability to blend into the street as an ordinary man. Unprepossessing? Dody marvelled — how warped one’s view of oneself could be!

  ‘How did he die?’ he asked, oblivious to Dody’s admiring glance.

  Dody sucked on her empty pipe. ‘Like the other two, a single gunshot wound to the back of the head.’

  ‘Hm.’ Pike rifled through the photograph album until he came to a lad of similar appearance. Spotty face, a missing front tooth, and short, close-cropped blond hair. He tapped the photograph with an elegant fingertip. ‘Is it him, you think — William Morrison, aka the “Spot”?’

  ‘Could be.’ Dody couldn’t help smiling. The monikers were the only things amusing about these gangs. ‘Is it the Anchors, do you think? A heist as elaborate as this seems like their kind of operation.’

  ‘I think it might be. If it is, it’s a change of style though.’

  ‘Surely that fifteen-year-old boy didn’t do this?’ Dody nodded to the corpse before them. She wondered where the lad who’d fled the tenement was now, wondered if there was any hope for him. At best the boy was destined for a life behind bars, at worst, the gallows. A shiver ran up her spine.

  ‘I can’t imagine it was Tommy who shot the other thieves, he wasn’t even armed,’ Pike said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never known them to kill their own before. I’ve got Singh wo
rking on that angle — what’s made them change so drastically. I’ve also sent the two bullets retrieved so far to the ballistic department for identification. Even I could see they were not fired from police issue weapons, so it had to be an internal hit.’ Pike paused, tapping Spot’s mug shot. ‘Looks like “Spot” Morrison to me. Let’s have a look at the other ones.’

  Dody pushed Spot back into his temporary resting place and pulled out another drawer. Pike hadn’t been sure during the cursory examination at the tenement, but now he recognised the older occupant straight away.

  ‘I put that bump on his nose,’ he said, pointing to the man’s deviated septum. ‘It was at the Red Lion, Aldgate. He accused me of being a police informer — can you imagine that?’

  Dody knew Pike’s cavalier attitude was intended to mask the danger he’d been exposed to. Thank God she hadn’t known him well in those days; thank God he no longer worked undercover. If he still did she’d never be able to sleep at night.

  ‘He went by his real name, Toby Munster, nothing else.’ Pike smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so disappointed, he was still a bad’un. Could he have been their leader, I wonder?’

  ‘Wait until you see the next one.’ Dody pushed Munster back then rolled out the last of the dead jewel thieves. Pike drew a sharp breath as he withdrew the sheet and gazed upon the creased face and nut-brown skin of the man Dody had nicknamed the Sailor.

  Pike leaned over the body, his blue eyes darkening with interest as he focused upon the bearded face before him. ‘Would you be so kind as to fetch me a razor, soap and a bowl of water?’

  ‘I can ask Alfred to shave him, if you like.’

  ‘No, I’d rather we were alone.’

  Dody returned with the required tools and Pike shaved the man, his long fingers as deft with the blade as they were on the piano. The true features of the jewel thief appeared: pale skin where the beard had been; jagged creases down each side of the mouth, a cleft like a crevice dividing the two sides of his chin.

  Pike grunted as he removed the last of the growth and dropped the razor into the bowl. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said, rinsing hair from his hands. ‘It’s Archie Slade.’

  The name meant nothing to Dody. ‘And who might Archie Slade be when he’s at home?’

  Instead of enlightening her, Pike examined the man’s skull. ‘The head wound is not as clean as the others,’ he murmured.

  ‘This was the man we found face down in the corridor. My conclusion — and you can refer to my notes for more detail — is that, unlike the others, he was not caught unawares. This was not a neat killing. He was floored by a desperate shot, probably fired while he was trying to escape from his killer. The bullet entered from a downward angle and almost blew the back of his head clean off. It penetrated the soft palate and ended up in his mouth. Here.’ Dody removed a specimen jar containing the bullet from her apron pocket, and handed it to Pike.

  He turned the jar in his fingers, examining the bullet, but did not look up. ‘Good,’ he murmured, brows creased, lost in thought.

  ‘What is it, Matthew?’

  ‘I’m meeting Superintendent Callan at the club tonight.’

  Dody hid her disappointment. She had been hoping they would dine together.

  ‘He’ll be very interested in this find.’

  ‘But why is this one so special?’ she asked.

  At last he looked up from the specimen jar. ‘Archie Slade’s last known address was Devil’s Island.’

  ‘Then what in God’s name is he doing here?’

  ‘Why don’t I fill you in on the details over lunch?’ Pike said. When Dody hesitated he added, ‘You need to eat, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s a fresh body waiting for me to examine.’

  ‘That won’t be going anywhere in a hurry. And if it does come back to life I’m sure Alfred can deal with it.’

  She smiled. ‘I think a shock like that would kill him. But I suppose I can catch up at the mortuary tonight when you’re with Callan at the Rag.’

  They washed their hands at the sink. Pike handed her a towel.

  ‘We’ll call on Mr Sachs on the way to lunch, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I need to re-interview him. The man has had an awful shock and you might be able to help me.’ He paused and brushed his hand across hers. ‘You have a softer touch than I.’

  Dody spoke from the side of her mouth. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Pike.’

  They passed through the mortuary door and down the passage. Dody told the clerk at the front desk that she would be absent for a few hours, retrieved her cape and hat from the ladies cloakroom, and stepped into the street with Pike. Through a strong wind and stinging rain — umbrellas were useless — they pressed on to the nearest taxi rank, tumbling into the relative warmth and the clean, boot-polish smell of the motorised vehicle.

  ‘De Keyser’s Royal Hotel, the Embankment, please,’ Pike said to the driver.

  ‘De Keyser’s?’ Dody queried as Pike closed the driver’s communication hatch. ‘Just how wealthy is this jeweller?’

  ‘Wealthy enough to take rooms at the hotel while his London house is being renovated,’ Pike replied. ‘The hotel is popular with the European jewel traders. It would be a handy venue for making contacts and signing deals, I would imagine.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘A widower, no children. The murdered shop girl was his niece. They lived together and she kept house for him.’

  ‘Tragic. No wonder he’s in a state of shock.’

  Pike said nothing. He stared at the wet streets through the window, movement at his temple betraying the tightening of his jaw. His earlier, playful mood had vanished and he was now thoroughly focused on the case: the child killed during the siege, the shop girl, the Anchor Men. Dody knew that he would not stop until he’d found the perpetrators of this heinous crime, whatever it took.

  And neither would she.

  She tapped on the cab’s window, hoping to distract Pike. ‘Look at that.’ She pointed to a banner stretched across the street that read Happy New Year. Below the banner huddled several temporary stalls selling party paraphernalia, cheap hats and streamers. The stalls’ owners clutched at overhead tarps trying to protect their goods from the weather.

  ‘Do we have plans for New Year’s Eve?’ Pike asked.

  ‘Well, I certainly do,’ she said with a deliberate hint of mischief. ‘Provided we both manage to have a night away from work, that is.’

  He smiled and took her hand. ‘I’ll put my order in then: no murders, robberies, resurrections or unexplained deaths.’

  ‘You were going to tell me about Archie Slade, former resident of Devil’s Island. I thought the penal colony was escape-proof, that once a convict was sent to that place, he died there.’

  ‘True, there have been very few escapes. I don’t know how Slade evaded the guards, but he escaped with a small group by raft through shark-infested waters. By the time the raft was picked up by a Spanish ship, he was the only survivor, the others having died of starvation or been eaten by sharks — so he’d claimed. According to his rescuers he didn’t seem all that malnourished.’

  Cannibalism. Dody shuddered.

  ‘I don’t know how he made it back to England. I’m hoping Callan might be able to fill in some of the gaps for me.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The taxi pulled up at De Keyser’s, once the largest hotel in London. Even by the standards of 1913 it was an imposing six-storeyed structure curving gracefully for about two hundred yards along the line of the embankment.

  After paying the driver, Dody and Pike were forced to run an obstacle course across building debris and potholes related to the construction of the electric tramline along the riverfront. Their boots were thick with mud by the time they reached the front steps of the hotel, a fact that did not impress the top-hatted doorman. They did their best to scrape off their footwear before Pike requested entrance. On being asked for his letter of introduction, he presented his police w
arrant card and the door was swiftly opened.

  An elaborate Christmas tree dominated the hotel foyer with decorations like none Dody had seen before. Crystal droplets gleamed; strings of pearls and glass baubles shimmered; coloured gems caught the light and the draughts, and sparked off the marble floor like kaleidoscopes. She caught her breath and glanced at Pike. He too looked amazed, though his gaze seemed focused less on the tree, and more on the man in hotel livery standing next to it in the manner of a Buckingham Palace guard, minus the rifle.

  ‘Are those decorations made from genuine jewels?’ Dody whispered as they passed the tree.

  ‘They must be, hence the armed guard.’

  ‘Armed? I can’t see a gun.’

  ‘Pistol, inside jacket pocket.’

  ‘Trust you to notice.’

  They found a cloakroom and deposited their outerwear. At the front desk Pike enquired as to the whereabouts of Mr Sachs and they were directed to the smoking room. Apart from a waiter behind the bar, Mr Sachs was the sole occupant of the wood-panelled hide-away, a hunched, wizened figure wearing a skullcap and a loose but well-cut black suit. He did not seem to notice their approach, and only looked up when Pike cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr Sachs, my name is Pike and I’m with the police. This is my colleague, Doctor McCleland.’

  In the dim light of the room the old man looked dazed. One side of his face was bruised and swollen where he had been pistol-whipped by the thieves. The undamaged side of his face was pale and splashed with age spots, like the markings of a quail egg, Dody thought. He gave a little jolt like one who has been abruptly woken, then attempted to lever himself up from the leather chair.

  Pike put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Please, sir, stay where you are. May we take a seat?’

  Sachs nodded and fell back into his chair.

  ‘You have our condolences, sir,’ Dody began as she and Pike settled on the sofa opposite him.

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t understand why you are here. I have already spoken to the police.’ His English was good, with a subtle Yiddish accent.