Antidote to Murder

by Felicity Young

  “What’s on your mind, Pike?”

  “That bloody briefcase the admiral insists on locking to his wrist.”

  “He’s always done that; likes to feel important.”

  “Isn’t he working on the fifteen-inch guns for the new Dreadnought? If the ship’s blueprints were to fall into German hands . . .”

  “Millbank isn’t that stupid, nor is the Admiralty. I doubt they’d let him carry anything more important than his wife’s shopping list.”

  “Well, we might know that, but Margaretha wouldn’t and her contact wouldn’t. Do you think the admiral is trustworthy?”

  “I haven’t had a problem with him so far. What are you suggesting, Pike?”

  “With all due respect, sir, the admiral is a well-known braggart. He could be useful for more than just the planting of false information. We could use him to bait a trap for our spy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We could suggest that he be deliberately indiscreet, play up the importance of the papers in his briefcase.”

  “I think he probably does that anyway.”

  “Make him aware then that our spy—Van Noort, Margaretha, or whom-so-ever it may be—might make a move to try to steal the briefcase. Now,” Pike thought aloud, “if there was just something we could do to that briefcase . . .”

  Callan shook his head and smiled. “You and your love of intrigue and gadgetry. I have not forgotten it was your idea to catch Dr. Crippen by means of the wireless telegraph.”

  Pike smiled at last. His fascination with the rapidly developing techniques of criminal detection was what kept him in the force. His main problem was getting the old fogies holding the reins interested in them, too.

  If only there was something he could place in the briefcase to make it easily tracked. He scratched his beard and ran through the possibilities in his mind: a wireless signal? No, too cumbersome. Something a dog could scent that the spy would not notice? Talk about the sublime to the ridiculous. And they could forget the time-bomb idea; couldn’t risk the admiral being blown to smithereens . . .

  Pike looked at Callan. “Back to basics, I think. A twenty-four-hour surveillance on that briefcase. Have you enough trained men?”

  “I doubt it,” Callan said without enthusiasm.

  “Then borrow some from the Met—it’s the only way, Tom. Someone is going to make a move on that briefcase, and we have to catch him or her red-handed.”

  “I’d hoped for something more imaginative from you.”

  Pike shrugged. What was Callan expecting, Sherlock Holmes?

  Callan sighed. “I’ll see if I can muster a team, but I can’t promise miracles.” He pushed back his chair and moved to a walnut drinks cabinet. Inside Pike saw neat ranks of bottles and sparkling crystal glasses, mirrored to appear like dozens. “A drink to success?”

  Pike hesitated only a moment. Perhaps one day they would feel at ease with each other again. His career had suffered because of Callan, but he should be grateful to the man for giving him a break from those troublesome suffragettes.

  “Brandy and soda, please.” He should have taken advantage of the truce and called on the McClelands before he and Florence were at loggerheads again. A brave man would have found some way of explaining his abysmal behaviour at the hospital to Dody.

  For a moment Pike lost himself in the memory of what might have been: soft brown eyes and the glossy pile of hair that tended to fall apart after a busy day. He found that her memory occupied his mind like a musical motif, anticipated with delight and mourned when gone. The bright intelligence of the woman, the bloody wilfulness, the stillness about her when she listened.

  A sudden crack of thunder made Pike start, jolting him from his reverie and reminding him that he was not brave at all. “You all right, old man?” Callan asked as he handed Pike his brandy.

  Pike took a gulp. “Fine. Thank you, sir. Damned weather. Hope it rains.”

  The sisters exchanged glances. There was a moment of pin-dropping silence. A train rumbled from a nearby platform, accompanied by the sound of a cheering crowd celebrating the end of the strike. For many, their immediate troubles were over, but Dody knew hers were just beginning.

  Chapter Nine

  TUESDAY 15 AUGUST

  The Paddington Coroner’s and Mortuary Complex was a modern structure boasting separate mortuary rooms for infectious and noninfectious cases and a well-lit postmortem room, separated from the civil side of the building by a viewing lobby. The self-contained building meant that the bodies no longer had to be carted between the different facilities as they had in the past—an inefficient process which rarely left them fresh for inspection.

  Although, Dody reflected as she stepped into the yard, the odour about the place that day was quite reminiscent of the improvised mortuaries of the bad old days. The night’s brief rainstorm had left nothing but steaming damp on the pavements and by afternoon the atmosphere was sultrier than it had been all week.

  The heat and the strikes meant ice was in short supply. The drone of flies drew her gaze to the last of their precious store dripping from a pipe in the exterior wall, trickling into one of several drains embedded in the brick-paved yard. A bony dog sniffed at the overflowing dustbins stacked nearby, causing an unpleasant picture to form in her mind. She shook her head to dismiss it. Medical waste from these modern premises was supposed to be incinerated. In any case, Alfred, the senior attendant, fed the dog, so it wouldn’t be that hungry—would it?

  The yard was the only place Dody was permitted to smoke. She reached into her skirt pocket for her tobacco pouch and pipe and packed the tobacco into the bowl—not too tight—and took several relieving puffs. An afternoon in the office trying to sort through teetering piles of Spilsbury’s neglected paperwork was more exhausting than a full day in the mortuary room. Smoke hung about her in the still air. From beyond the hearse entrance she heard someone hail a taxi, the clatter of a slowing engine, the slam of a motorcar’s door.

  Moments later a slight man wearing a greasy cloth cap entered the yard—surely this man had not arrived by taxi? Unaware of Dody’s presence, he made as if to enter the premises through the back door.

  Dody stepped from her place beneath the eaves. “Excuse me, sir. This entrance is for staff only; the public entrance is at the front of the building.”

  The man started, froze for a moment. He took off his cap and slowly turned. Dody found herself looking at a small man with a pushed-in face, the picture of misery itself.

  “Sorry, missus,” he said as if all the cares of the world rested on his shoulders. “But I’ve an appointment with someone in this place.”

  Poor soul must have come to collect personal effects or, worse, identify a dead relative, Dody thought. But while her heart reached out in sympathy for the man, they could not afford to have people off the street in this section of the coronial building. “That’s quite all right,” she said gently. “Just go to the entrance and state your business to the clerk at the front desk.”

  The man said he would, replaced his hat, and shuffled off, hobnailed footsteps ringing funereally across the paved yard.

  A distant clock chimed four. Dody drew in a last breath of smoke and tapped out the remainder of the tobacco against the heel of her boot. It was time she left for home to prepare for the ballet. The ladies’ cloakroom was at the civil end of the building, and she’d taken advantage of Spilsbury’s absence by leaving her coat and bag in the more conveniently located doctors’ common room. She would not have time to wash her hair when she got home before going out, but might still manage a bath if she was quick. It would be a good idea to ask one of the attendants to whistle her up a cab while she prepared to leave the building.

  In the common room she dabbed scent behind her ears and straightened her tie and stiff collar in the mirror above the empty fireplace. The senior attendant, Alfred, shuf
fled in, clutching a bunch of fresh lavender. He stopped short when he saw Dody at the mirror, blushed, and took a step back.

  “It’s all right, Alfred, I’ve finished. Come in,” Dody said.

  “I don’t like to disturb you, miss.”

  “I know I shouldn’t be in here—you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  Alfred gave her a crooked smile. “I’m beginning to lose count of all them secrets we share.”

  “Then just remember who got you this job,” she teased. “Think how much better your chest is here than in that draughty old St. Thomas’s Mortuary.”

  Alfred coughed, as if to remind her that he was not out of the woods yet.

  Suddenly, they heard a commotion from the front of the building and raised male voices. Alfred and Dody rushed into the passage in time to see the small man she had directed earlier fleeing from the autopsy room through the door leading to the yard, clasping a heavy case to his chest.

  “Stop him!” Everard yelled in pursuit. “He’s stolen my bloody bag!”

  Dody and Alfred rushed to follow Everard into the yard and from there to the street, where the man melted into a crowd of unemployed protesters. Everard’s cries of “Stop thief!” were lost amongst the desperate chanting of the men. “Jobs for all!”

  He returned to them beet-faced. “Damn and blast it. Didn’t one of you see him enter the building, try to stop him?”

  Dody did not answer him until they had returned to the comparative cool of the building. “I thought he was a grieving relative. I directed him to the front entrance,” Dody said.

  “How thoughtful of you. He still made it through to the back and right to my medical bag. It contained enough narcotic medicines to last my surgery for a week.” Like Dody, Everard spent only part of his time at the mortuary. Unlike Dody’s, though, his second role as a general practitioner also paid a substantial salary. “Alfred, call the police,” he ordered.

  “And then find me a taxi, please,” Dody added.

  Everard followed Dody back into the doctors’ common room, where she collected her things. “You can’t go yet. You have to stay and tell the police what you saw.”

  “If they need to talk to me, you can tell them where to find me. I have to get home. I have an important proposal to finish.” A slight bend of the truth there; she did not want to be late for the ballet. She gave him a pointed look. “As if you didn’t know.”

  Everard said nothing for a moment, but watched her gather her things. “In the doctors’ common room again, Dr. McCleland?” he said finally.

  Dody drew herself up to her full five-feet-four. “Quite obvious, I would have thought, Dr. Everard.”

  The skin of Everard’s neck prickled red against the white of his winged collar. “Just as well the boss is away.”

  “I’m sure I can rely on you to inform him,” she said. “Just as I should have expected you to plagiarise my paper.”

  Everard shrugged as if it were but a trivial matter.

  “Are you not going to deny doing this despicable thing?” Deny her an argument even? Dody fumed, feeling the heat rise in her face. His arrogant stare, his erect posture suggested he thought he was merely exercising his rights. “If that is your right, what of my rights?” she added, not bothering to keep her voice level. Let anyone hear.

  Everard waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t think this will be of much concern when . . .” He hesitated, his face grave and nonmocking for a change. “Soon we will have far more worrying things on our minds than our papers and a stolen medical bag. The other day you mentioned seeing a young woman called Esther Craddock in your clinic—remember?”

  Dody felt her breath stop. “I don’t believe I told you her surname.”

  “No. Of course not. I made something of a deductive leap from the information you did impart. I was asking the clerk this morning about cases that might be linked to your lead tablets, and he mentioned this Craddock girl being found dead in her room on Friday night. The police are regarding her death as suspicious and there’s to be a coronial enquiry.”

  “Here?”

  “No, Bishopsgate—but if you saw her, you are likely to be summoned to attend the inquest. You’ll get the details, I don’t doubt, with the little blue envelope.” He frowned. “Thought you might appreciate some prior warning.”

  Why the sudden consideration? Why the support of her interest in the lead tablets? Was Everard, in his own warped way, trying to make up for his previous actions against her? Dody swallowed her anger and directed her thoughts to poor Esther. She wasn’t the first and she wouldn’t be the last. “I have attended coronial enquiries before, Doctor,” she said coolly.

  “Maybe so, but not . . .”

  “What?”

  Everard pulled out his watch. “My goodness, is that the time? Surely the police should be here now. I must fly. Good luck!”

  Dody watched his dark form retreat down the corridor. Good luck? Why on earth should she need good luck?

  * * *

  Dody had half expected Joseph to have taken his uncle’s place for the ballet, and it was a relief to discover that Borislav had not taken his matchmaking to such lengths. After the ballet, the two of them supped at a chophouse within easy walk of the theatre, dining on mutton chops, mashed potatoes, and parsnips. Dody was hungry; she had not eaten since luncheon and it was now past ten o’clock. She finished her meal, took a sip of wine, and glanced at the people around her. This was by no means an up-market establishment. She had not wished to be beholden to Mr. Borislav for an extravagant night out and had chosen the supper venue herself with every intention of paying her way. He would probably argue with her, most men did, and she would relinquish gracefully—it was all part of the game and at least he had let her pay him back for her ballet ticket.

  The place was crowded with the noisy patrons of the theatre district. Dody surveyed the clientele. The rowdy beer-swilling group near the counter was made up of men wearing Sunday best suits and women with gaudy hats, doubtless from the music halls, their laughter every now and then punctuated by loud bursts of song. Men in evening dress and women in glistening gowns conducted earnest conversations with one another about the merits of the opera or the ballet. On other more shadowy tables, couples—the men often smart and young, the women painted and vulgar—caressed and whispered sweet nothings into one another’s ears.

  Borislav finished his meal and saw the direction of Dody’s gaze. “They’re probably from the latest show at the Alhambra, lively to say the least. I hate to think what this place will be like when the Mata Hari show opens—to be avoided at all costs I would think.”

  Dody smiled back at him. “I work in the East End, too, Mr. Borislav. I assure you I’ve seen it all.”

  “And now you have seen Nijinsky. That is something to tell your children.”

  “Children? I can’t see myself married, let alone having children. But yes, seeing Nijinsky is something I will never forget. The music, the costumes were all superb. And poor Petrushka the puppet! Thank you so much for taking me.”

  “My pleasure,” Borislav said.

  “Did it remind you of home?”

  “Not really, but I can forgive the lack of realism for its entertainment value. The colourful peasants were certainly nothing like those I remember from my childhood. When I look back, I see nothing but drab greys. Do you remember much about Moscow life?”

  The McClelands had once been staunch members of the British community in Moscow. Her father, Nial McCleland, had made his decision to return permanently to his home country after the murder of his brother at Moscow University. That was the beginning of the end of the country, he’d said. Russia was going to the dogs.

  “I remember bits and pieces,” Dody said. “I was nine when I was sent away to school in England. My mother and her aunts always seemed to be involved in some way or another with helping the Mos
cow poor. I was too young to accompany them on their errands of mercy, but I do remember being told about my aunt visiting a peasant hut in winter that contained so little oxygen even a candle could not be kept alight. She thought the place deserted as a mausoleum until she found the occupants sewn into their clothes and hibernating on shelves above the woodstove.”

  “Ah, yes, the Moscow poor. Your family’s charity. How nice to be philanthropic, to wear peasant clothes and eat coarse black bread on a whim. Some of us had no choice, you know, Dody,” he said gently.

  Dody touched his hand. “I know how hard it was for you, but I assure you my family did, and still do, really care. My father is constantly writing letters, urging our country’s intervention in Russian affairs before the situation blows out of control. He and my mother are genuinely sympathetic to the plight of the Russian repressed.”

  Borislav shot her a strained smile and gazed thoughtfully into his drink. “I remember desperately sitting on the hob as a small boy. I had no idea how it was that my breeches singed while the rest of me remained a block of ice.” Borislav laughed, then shivered, despite the stuffiness of the room. He said no more. Whatever other memories had been stirred, he had no wish to share them with Dody.

  Dody respected this need for privacy and did not probe. She knew enough of his background: the genteel poverty, the academic father banned from the university for holding radical views. She had given up inviting Borislav to meet her own family, with whom she felt he had much in common, reluctantly accepting his apologies and understanding his need for seclusion since the death of his wife. It was a privilege, she realised now, to be asked out by someone who shunned most social engagements.