At first. he thought the woman was ignoring him when he asked if she could identify the body, but after a moment, she looked down to him and nodded her head.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and she turned to look over to the girl standing beside Constable Buchan.
‘It’s Constance,’ she said. Her voice trembled and she stifled a sob.
Buchan darted to the side of the hansom and held his hand out to aid the woman as she descended from the running board. Hammond scowled, making a mental note to tell the young constable to keep his distance from suffragettes. Getting too close to them could only mean trouble.
‘Well?’ Hammond demanded as soon as Martha stepped on to the pavement. ‘I am waiting for the identification.’ He towered over her, forcing her to step back a pace. Heat built in his neck and face as he waited while she smoothed her skirts. The woman was deliberately provoking him. ‘Well?’ he demanded again.
‘Yes, I can identify her.’
He had never struck a woman in his life, but he was tempted now.
‘Buchan!’ he shouted. ‘Bring your notebook and get the identification details from this . . . woman.’ He turned away, but not before he saw her smile of satisfaction. Damned woman was enjoying his discomfiture. Hammond stamped off in search of someone to drive the cab back to the police station.
* * *
Martha struggled to control her feelings and forced a smile. Nothing would please the inspector more than if she were to display her distress in front of him, but she was determined not to break down in front of this obnoxious man.
He beckoned to the constable, glared at Martha, and marched off.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you at a time like this,’ the young constable said, ‘but the inspector does need to know who the victim is.’
Victim. The word sounded alien when applied to Constance, one of the most active members of the league. It was Constance who took part in the London demonstrations. She’d broken windows and battled with the police along with the best of them. Imprisonment, hunger strikes and forced feeding were sacrifices she had made for the cause. It didn’t make sense for her to become a victim in Dundee, far away from the trouble and violence of a suffragette’s life.
‘Lady Constance Drysdale.’ Martha tried hard to keep the wobble out of her voice.
Constable Buchan wrote the name in his notebook.
‘She’s a Lady? The inspector’s not going to like that.’
‘Constance hasn’t been in the habit of using her title since she remarried after the death of her first husband.’ Martha wasn’t even sure Constance was still allowed to use the title, but she thought that if the inspector was aware of it then it might have some influence on the investigation. It would force him to treat her death more seriously than the others.
Her lips tightened as she stared at the inspector, who stood gesticulating to a cabby further along the rank. She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t treated the earlier deaths with the thoroughness they deserved. Was it simply that he didn’t like suffragettes? Or did he have a hidden agenda of his own?
The constable cleared his throat and Martha forced her attention back to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘but Constance’s death has shocked me. It is only a few hours since we parted company outside the Kinnaird Hall. We never, for a moment, considered her to be in any danger because she was returning home in a hansom cab.’
‘You must have been one of the last people to see her.’ The constable stopped writing, regarding her with interest. ‘What can you tell me about the cab she left in?’
‘It was just a cab, like any other. What do you want to know?’
‘Can you describe the cabby?’
Martha shrugged.
‘One doesn’t take much notice of cabbies. I did think he was a bit muffled up considering the evening was still somewhat warm.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he was wearing an overcoat, although that is not unusual. But he also wore a white muffler which covered the lower part of his face so you could only see his eyes below his bowler hat.’
‘And that didn’t make you suspicious?’
‘Why should it? He was only a cabby and you see them all the time. They are part of the Dundee landscape.’
Buchan tapped his teeth with his pencil while he thought. At last, he spoke.
‘Where did Lady Constance get the cab? Did she come here, to the rank?’
‘It was a lovely evening, and we had planned to walk here, but Paul said he would send one to collect her.’
‘Paul?’
‘Paul Anderson, the Courier reporter. He was covering the meeting for his newspaper.’
‘I see. So that means Lady Constance was still at the Kinnaird Hall when the cab arrived.’
‘That is correct.’ Martha observed the frown on the constable’s face and, not for the first time, she wondered about Paul Anderson. Was he as helpful as he purported to be? Or did he have an ulterior motive? She pushed the thought away and vowed to stop suspecting every male with whom she had contact.
‘Lady Constance’s husband,’ the constable continued. ‘I presume he does not attend these meetings with her?’
‘On the contrary. Archie usually accompanies her. But he wasn’t here today – he has been suffering from food poisoning after eating out-of-season oysters.’
‘I don’t appear to have a note of her husband’s full name or their address,’ Buchan said.
‘Archibald Drysdale. I’m not in a position to know whether he has any middle names,’ Martha said. ‘We just know him as Archie. They are currently living in their townhouse in the west end of the city, although the family estate is north of Aberdeen and they spend much of their time at their London home in Belgravia.’ She watched as he wrote the address she gave him in his notebook.
‘They’re not short of a bob or two, then.’
‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean.’ Martha regretted her tart reply as soon as she said it. Constable Buchan had been kind and pleasant during his questioning and didn’t deserve it.
Buchan closed his notebook.
‘I think I’ve got everything I need for the time being,’ he said. ‘Though if Inspector Hammond requires further details, I’ll have to speak to you again.’
Martha nodded her head in acquiescence.
* * *
‘You took your time.’ Hammond’s eyes itched from the lack of sleep. He’d given up hope of returning to his bed in the foreseeable future.
‘It is the middle of the night, you know,’ Dr Jenkins snapped. He mounted the step of the hansom cab, which now sat in the police courtyard. Several minutes later, he dismounted. ‘I’m sure you had no trouble noticing she was dead. You didn’t need to call me out, it could have waited until a more civilised hour of the day.’
‘Are you suggesting we should leave her where she is until morning so you can get your beauty sleep? Have some respect, man. The poor woman needs to be transported to the mortuary, and until she is officially declared dead, that can’t be done.’
Hammond snapped his fingers and beckoned to the man leaning on the coffin-shaped barrow in the corner of the yard.
‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘that is what the police department pay you for.’
The doctor snorted.
‘The pittance they pay me doesn’t cover the number of times I’ve been called out.’
‘In that case, you won’t mind if I recommend using a different doctor when your contract comes up for renewal.’
Jenkins pulled himself erect, glaring at the inspector for a moment before stomping out of the courtyard.
‘I will expect you to supply the cause of death to me before lunchtime,’ Hammond called after him.
The wooden wheels of the barrow clattered over the cobbles. 'How does we get her out of there, sir?' Davvy balanced the barrow on its shafts alongside the cab.
‘Buchan will help you get her down.’
‘Aye, si
r, but it won’t be easy.’
Hammond stood back and watched Buchan and Davvy manoeuvre the body from the interior of the cab.
‘She be pretty stiff, sir.’ Davvy descended to the ground and waited for Buchan to lower the body. Buchan clambered down as soon as Davvy grasped it and, between them, they carried Constance’s lifeless form to the barrow. A frown creased Davvy’s face.
‘I didnae open the lid,’ he said. ‘D’ye think ye could dae it for me?’
Hammond sighed and raised the lid, closing it again after Davvy and Buchan deposited Constance inside the box. Davvy fastened the latch before positioning himself between the shafts and lifting them to waist height. With a nod to the policemen, he trundled the barrow across the cobbles.
‘Sir,’ Buchan said, ‘I thought Lady Drysdale had been strangled, but when I lifted her body, I noticed there was blood on her back.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before we let Davvy leave?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Well, I didn’t know, and now you will have to run after Davvy and stop him so I can check.’
A wry smile twisted the corner of Hammond’s mouth as he sauntered after the constable’s running form. Served him right for not speaking sooner, Hammond thought.
‘Your bobby says you be wanting another look at the lady before I takes her to the mortuary.’ Davvy still stood between the shafts of the barrow; Buchan leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
‘That’s right, but you will need to pull the barrow a wee bit further along so it is under the streetlamp.’
Davvy adjusted his hands on the shafts and pulled the barrow underneath the gas lamp.
‘Be there enough light here?’ He lowered the shafts to rest on the ground and rubbed his hands together.
‘That will have to do.’ Hammond stared at the box and steeled himself to examine the body again.
‘Will you be wanting me to open the lid?’
‘You stay where you are, Buchan can open it.’ He glared at the constable. ‘Well, get on with it. We don’t have all night.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Buchan’s fingers scrabbled with the latch until he prised it free and opened the lid. He hesitated as if waiting for further instructions.
Hammond shook his head. If the man had any common sense, he would know what was required without having to be told.
‘Turn her over so I can see this blood you were telling me about,’ he snapped.
The constable’s eyes widened; his reluctance obvious by the hesitancy with which he reached into the box.
‘She won’t bite you. She’s dead.’
Hammond leaned over to inspect the woman’s back as Buchan rolled her on to her side. Damn, the constable was right. There was a bloodstain. He pulled the dress down from her shoulders, exposing her flesh, noticing as he did so that the constable averted his eyes. The puncture wound was small, and he had to peer to see it. Not a knife, then. Something slimmer, but not as slim as a needle. This complicated things. It made this death different from the others and yet, the manner in which she had been left, with the sash knotted around her neck, was the same. Why was nothing ever straightforward?
‘All right, constable. Close the box and let Davvy be on his way.’
He clamped his teeth on his cold pipe and strode back to the office without waiting for Buchan. He had a lot to think about.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Martha cradled the cup in her hands as she stared, unseeingly, out of the window. She hadn’t slept since identifying Constance’s body. She wondered how Ethel had fared.
A board creaked in the room above, followed by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.
‘I couldn’t face breakfast this morning,’ she said when Ethel appeared, ‘but there’s tea in the pot.’ She gestured to the silver tea service.
Ethel came over and stood at her side.
‘I’m sorry about Constance. I know you were close.’
‘Yes.’ Martha blinked, fighting gathering tears. One escaped and rolled down her cheek. ‘We both supported the cause from its earliest days, though Constance was more militant than I ever was.’ Silence fell over the two young women.
‘It looks so normal in the street. It’s as if last night never happened.’ Ethel’s voice was strained, little more than a murmur.
Martha turned away from the window. She couldn’t bear to see the line-up of hansom cabs in front of the church. She laid her cup on the table and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress.
‘I must visit Archie. I’m not sure he’ll know . . .’ Her voice faltered. She couldn’t say the words ‘Constance’ and ‘death’ in the same sentence. ‘How on earth am I going to tell him?’ She dashed another tear from her eye.
‘I’ll come with you. We can do it together. Lila won’t mind if I take the morning off. I’ll let her know before we leave.’
‘We can’t exclude Kirsty. She has been part of our murder investigation since the beginning.’ Martha stepped away from the window and placed her cup in its saucer. ‘I have sent Aggie to her aunt’s house with a note.’ She could see Ethel thinking and wondered what was going through her mind. At last, the girl spoke.
‘Do you think her husband had anything to do with Constance’s death?’
‘Archie?’ Martha couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘I hadn’t given that any thought, but I suppose we shouldn’t rule it out. However, I was thinking he might know if anyone had been following Constance or held a grudge against her. In any case, the poor man has been somewhat debilitated since he ate those bad oysters.’
* * *
Laughter and raucous voices mingled with the sound of doors banging and feet thumping in the corridor, announced the arrival of the early shift. Hammond groaned. His eyes felt glued together and his joints ached. The hard wood of the canteen bench he’d fallen asleep on hadn’t helped his back any; he groaned again as he tried to move. He struggled into a sitting position and rescued his hat from the floor. He was getting too old for the hassle his work entailed, though being in the job protected him from his gran’s company. She must be as old as Methuselah, and he was fed up waiting for her to kick the bucket.
By the time he massaged feeling into his limbs, the worst of the noise had died away. Faint commands echoed from outside, indicating the bobbies had gathered in the courtyard on morning parade.
The sink in the corner of the canteen was full of dirty mugs, but he splashed cold water over his face before wandering up the corridor to his office. He wanted to check whether Constable Buchan had carried out his order to write a report on the evening’s events.
The room was in its usual state of disarray. Papers and files littered every available surface and most of the floor. Buchan’s report lay in a cleared space on the desk, pinned down by a brass ashtray. He slumped into his chair to study it, but the further he read, the more depressed he became. It wasn’t Buchan’s fault. The lad could write a damned good report, even if he wasn’t much use at anything else. It was these damned suffragettes who kept getting themselves killed.
Footsteps clomped up the corridor and Buchan appeared in the doorway.
‘Thought you might want a cup of tea,’ he said, pushing papers aside and placing a mug on the desk.
Hammond swallowed a mouthful. The tea was so strong he had to stop himself from gagging. But that was the way bobbies liked it; brewed until it resembled tar.
‘I’ve examined the hansom cab and noted the details of the cabby it belongs to.’
Buchan’s expression was similar to that of a puppy looking for praise and Hammond suppressed a groan. What right did the constable have for being so bright after the night they’d put in?
‘Good lad,’ he said, though he wanted to kick him into submission. ‘We will follow that up after we’ve visited the victim’s husband.’
* * *
With a shower of sparks and the grinding of wheels on iron rails, the tram clanked to a halt. On a normal day and in
a normal situation, Martha would have hired a cab, but after the discovery of Constance’s body during the early hours of the morning, she’d shuddered at the very thought. It had been Ethel’s suggestion they travel by tram car and, although the journey had been less comfortable, it had eased Martha’s distress.
Kirsty, Ethel and Martha waited on the kerb for a bicycle and then a horse and cart to pass before crossing to the other side of Perth Road. Springfield was a cul-de-sac of Regency, terraced houses, bordered by waist-high walls topped with iron railings. Doric pillars at the entrances and ornamental balustrades on the edge of each roof indicated the occupants were wealthier than their Perth Road neighbours.
Martha counted the numbers until she came to the house halfway along the east side of the street. She turned into the entrance, followed by Kirsty and Ethel, but before she could announce their presence, the door flew open and Inspector Hammond strode out. Constable Buchan followed in his wake. Hammond stopped when he saw Martha.
‘I might have known you lot would tramp all over my investigation. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to pay my respects,’ she snapped, stiffening. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘If you lot weren’t out roaming the streets all the time, you wouldn’t be getting yourselves killed.’
‘Lock us in the house. Tie us to the kitchen sink. Is that how men think they should treat women? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but there are a lot of women who would disagree with you.’ Martha’s voice was tight with anger as she watched the inspector stride down the steps and on to the road.
‘He’s not in the best of moods today,’ the constable whispered to Ethel.
She raised her eyebrows and shared a smile with him.
‘I can see that. But Martha’s his match.’
A young woman stood in the doorway, regarding them with a bemused expression.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Please inform Mr Drysdale we wish to pay our respects,’ Martha said, handing her a visiting card.
‘I’m afraid Mr Drysdale is indisposed.’
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