“Jack,” Van Noort said as he reached into the store cupboard for his doctor’s bag. The boy’s smile faded when he heard the stern tone. “What are you still doing here?”
“A fella’s gotta feed ’is family, Doc.”
Van Noort opened his bag and began restocking the contents with supplies purchased from the chemist. “You are a child, Jack. This is no place for children. When we last talked, you promised you would find some other kind of employment.”
“There’s no jobs—what else can I do? Get a high hat and become a City tosser?”
Van Noort snapped his bag shut and endeavoured to keep a straight face. The boy had spunk, he had cheek—qualities that might just keep him alive. “You should be in school,” he said.
“Then I would never’ve met you, would I, or been learned to read with one teacher all to meself. Some fings is just meant to be, Doc. Funny old world, ain’t it?”
The brothel’s proprietor, Harold Trevelly, came up from behind and put an arm around the boy’s shoulder. The man dressed like a gentleman but spoke like a sewer rat.
“Are you lecturing my apprentice, Doctor?” he asked.
“Apprentice? What rot you talk, Trevelly. You’re leading him on and you know it.”
Jack broke in, “I don’t care, really I don’t, Doc. I like it ’ere and the ladies is real nice to me.”
“Your soul, Jack, think what this place is doing to your soul.”
“I ’ardly fink you’re one qualified to preach salvation. Bloody lunatic,” Trevelly added under his breath. To Jack he said: “And you watch yourself, son. Remember there’s some what come ’ere ’oo give it both ways. We could even send you on to number forty-seven. A fresh-arsed young’un like you would go down there a treat.”
Jack picked up the basket of dirty washing and hurried off down the passageway.
Van Noort stared down at Trevelly, a man so pitted by the pox his face looked like a gravel road. He represented everything Van Noort hated about himself; just another version of the Beast and one for whom there could surely be no redemption. There were times when he wanted to grab the man by his scrawny neck and wring the life out of him.
Trevelly mustered the women into a disorderly line in the passageway. From there they entered the large parlour with its leather armchairs, gilt mirrors, and elaborately carved mahogany bar. One by one they lay on the chaise for Van Noort to examine them. Fortunately none of them required time off, which meant Van Noort would be granted his satisfaction. Trevelly knew his doctor’s weakness and exploited him as much as he did his whores.
When Van Noort had finished his work, he selected a small-breasted girl called Mee-Mee. The girl had glossy dark hair and an olive complexion and, when playing out his fantasy in one of the small back rooms, allowed him to call her Margaretha.
It was close to midnight when he eventually reached his own door. As his key turned in the lock, he offered the Lord a prayer of thanks. Once more his saintly wife, Matilda, had failed to bar his entry. There were times when he thought she understood him better than he did himself.
In the library he poured himself a brandy from the drinks tray and settled into his favourite wingback chair with the heavy family Bible resting on a table by his side. The ticking of the clock and the gentle crackle of his cigar were the only sounds in the large, comfortable room. Grey light from the street shone through a chink in the curtains and danced on him like a spotlight, isolating him, while all around the shadows crept.
As he sat he became aware of a euphoric sensation growing like a wave from his stomach and rolling upwards—the brandy and the relief provided by Trevelly’s whore, he supposed. He did not fight the feeling but floated along with it. There was no foul-tasting cordite on the tongue and the sensations were pleasant for a change. They reminded him of how he felt before his first encounter with the Beast, when he was young and capable, in South Africa, where his skills were tested to the extreme. That piano player—not his patient, but he remembered him now—the young officer who had refused the amputation with his pistol cocked and pointing at the medical staff. They were all too tired to argue or call the MPs, and no one could blame him. Van Noort was busy with another patient—he would have liked to have seen the man’s injuries for himself, but by the time he had finished, the orderlies had picked up the young officer and taken him to another tent to die.
The young man had defied them all by not dying. He had lived on to play the piano for Margaretha.
Just as, later, Van Noort had survived the explosion that shattered the field hospital and had lived on to conduct banal examinations of whores.
He glanced at the Bible by his side.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Funny old world.
Chapter Thirteen
THURSDAY 17 AUGUST
Early the next morning another telegram arrived for Dody. Spilsbury had been unable to book a berth on the night train due to returning hordes of holidaymakers previously stranded by the strike. She calmly paid the telegraph boy, but when he had remounted his bicycle and headed back down the road, she screwed the paper tight in her fist, digging her nails painfully into her palms before throwing it into the garden. She would be facing the court alone. Until now, she had not realised how much she had been counting on Spilsbury’s presence.
She forced herself to take some deep breaths and dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. It was imperative that she stop this, that she did not present to the court as a hysterical female. Even to her sister, she resolved, she must remain cool and levelheaded. Composed once more, she retrieved the paper ball from where it had landed on the box hedge and returned calmly into the house to break the news to Florence.
“Well, if Spilsbury can’t be here,” Florence said, “you must have some other support. Please let me see if I can trace Pike. If there is something sinister going on behind the scenes of this court, Pike is sure to find it.”
“Pike’s out of London, Florence. Besides, I have you for support and that’s all I need.”
Despite her brave words, Dody’s anxiety deepened. She must have one last look for the Book at the mortuary.
For some inexplicable reason, Thursdays at the Paddington Mortuary were often quiet, and Dody seldom worked them. Even Everard was missing from the front desk, where he could usually be found at this time, gossiping with the clerks and going over the paperwork for the day’s jobs.
In the autopsy room she found Alfred sharpening the blades of some rib-cutters. He stopped what he was doing when she entered and slid from the lab stool.
“It’s all right, Alfred, don’t let me interrupt you. I’ve just come for one last look for the Book.”
“It’s not ’ere, Doctor, and that’s a fact. The police questioned all the staff and no one’s seen it.”
“Can it have been thrown away with the rubbish? Incinerated even?”
“No, miss. And the dog ain’t et it neither.”
Alfred was teasing her. He obviously had no idea how important that book was; that it might be the difference between her innocence and perceived guilt. She continued with her search, rechecking the places she had already looked in the hope that it had been returned, but to no avail. That ugly little man must have taken it; there was no other explanation.
Her continuing sighs of exasperation finally got through to Alfred.
“Well, there’s something nice waiting for you at the front desk that’ll cheer you up. Flowers and what looks like fancy marzipan fruits displayed in a box all pretty like. Your admirer ain’t short of a bob, that’s for sure. I don’t know—why don’t these young fellas just come out with it instead of spending all their money trying to impress?”
Now it was Dody’s turn to blush. If this was Pike’s apology, it was a bit late. “No admirer, Alfred. They are probably gifts
from a patient—I’d say someone I have been treating at the Women’s Clinic.” Those patients, of course, could barely afford to feed themselves, let alone buy sweets and flowers.
“Then why didn’t they ’ave ’em delivered to the Clinic?” Alfred muttered. He sat himself back down at the bench, picked up the chest cutters, and began to whistle a romantic music-hall tune:
The boy I love is up in the gallery
The boy I love is looking now at me . . .
Dody needed no more of this irritation. She left the autopsy room and stalked to the front desk to collect the bouquet of roses and the box of sweets. The note was printed in ink and minimalist—typical Pike. Why could he not express his feelings?
I’m sorry.
He might well be sorry, but that wasn’t going to help her now, was it?
* * *
Later that morning, Dody entered the hall where the inquest was being held. Unlike the previous day, there were now a number of expectant reporters seated behind the row of witnesses. This was no longer a simple, routine enquiry; something of public interest was anticipated, and the gentlemen of the press had caught the whiff of scandal.
Henry Everard settled on the bench next to her. She could only guess why he was here today—he had come to witness her fall from grace. A cramp gripped her stomach. She suddenly felt sick.
“I’m sorry, Dr. McCleland,” Everard said when he read the expression on her face. “Like you, I am obliged to obey a coronial summons.”
Dody met his eye. “Dr. Spilsbury will not be impressed at this public show of antagonism between his staff.”
“Look, we must put your accusation of me behind us.”
“My accusation? Your plagiarism.”
“Is not the issue here. I have been called as a character witness and I plan on doing my best for you.”
Dody stared at him, open-mouthed.
“It’s what’s called making amends,” he added.
An eternity seemed to pass. “Thank you,” she said at last, the words almost sticking in her throat. She sat stiffly on the witness bench, puzzling about his real motives, and waited for the proceedings to commence.
First, Inspector Walter Fisher was asked to explain what he saw in the room above the Crown and Anchor public house. He described a scene of bloodstained sheets and hysteria.
Then the police surgeon, Dr. Anthony Burton, took to the witness table. The police had called him to examine the body where it had been found in the attic room, and he had later performed the autopsy at the Bishopsgate Mortuary.
“To anticipate a little,” said the coroner, “did you arrive at an immediate opinion as to the cause of death?”
“Yes. From the postmortem examination and the analysis taken at the time the body was found, I came to the conclusion that the deceased died from the effects of a mismanaged criminal abortion.”
“Have you any doubt that criminal abortion was really the cause of the deceased’s death?”
“No doubt whatsoever.”
“Please explain your findings, sir.”
“There was a considerable amount of blood on the sheets and soaked into the mattress, enough to conclude at the scene that death was due to exsanguination. Upon further examination at the mortuary, I discovered the blood loss to have been caused by several tears in the deceased’s uterus—commonly called the womb—wall and a pierced uterine artery.”
“Could these injuries have been caused by anything other than an abortion?”
“Unlikely. To add more weight to my findings, I discovered remnants of foetal tissue still adhering to the uterine wall.”
“How do you think the injuries were inflicted?”
“Because the neck of the uterus is clamped tight during pregnancy, a long thin instrument would have been inserted to dilate it. The instrument would also have been used to scrape the lining of the uterus. It was during this procedure that the womb was perforated.”
“Knitting needles,” said a juror who had not spoken before. “I hear they use knitting needles.”
The coroner looked to Dr. Burton.
“Indeed, knitting needles are often used in the case of an illegal procedure, but not in this instance, I feel.”
The juror, more excited now, called out again, “Then what, sir, what was used?”
“The nature of the tears to the uterus indicate the use of a surgical hook.”
A hook? Dody thought. No wonder the policemen had been so fixated on hers.
“There are also other marks on the uterus that suggest other medical instruments were used,” the surgeon continued. “I conclude that someone with access to medical instruments and some knowledge of surgical procedure performed this disastrous operation.”
Mr. Carpenter allowed several long seconds for the medical officer’s conclusion to register with the jury before saying, “And how long would such a procedure take?”
“Anything from twenty minutes to one hour.”
“And would the deceased have been capable of walking home after this?”
“A short distance, yes, but with extreme discomfort.”
“She would have been bleeding?”
“The uterine artery was damaged but not severed. She bled out slowly.”
Dody could contain herself no longer and jumped to her feet. “Sir,” she addressed the police surgeon. “Do you not agree that a hook is an inappropriate instrument for a pregnancy of this duration?”
“It did cross my mind, yes. A case of overkill, certainly.”
Some of the jurors snickered. The surgeon covered his mouth as if he might snatch back the unintentional pun.
“So, possibly performed by an amateur,” Dody said, as if to herself, hoping to get the same thought ticking in the brains of the jury. “Did you find the deceased to be in good health otherwise?” she asked, louder again.
Dr. Burton looked to Mr. Carpenter, who indicated that he could answer the question.
“No, Dr. McCleland, I did not think further examination was relevant.”
“Lead poisoning,” Dody said through pursed lips, thinking that Dr. Burton’s autopsy could not possibly have been conducted to Dr. Spilsbury’s standards. “She was suffering from lead poisoning. She had already attempted abortion by ingesting lead and was showing all the symptoms. Professionally manufactured lead tablets were also found in her possession—not supplied by me, I might add.” She turned to Inspector Fisher. “Tell them please, Inspector, tell the court about the lead.”
Fisher nodded his head. “Yes, sir, Mr. Carpenter. Professionally made tablets were found, and we have no evidence that Dr. McCleland supplied them, despite Mrs. Craddock’s supposition.”
“The abortionist might have supplied the lead first,” a juror called out.
“Yes.” Dody seized on the juror’s words. “That is what I suspect.”
“To suspect is not good enough for my court, Doctor,” the coroner said, directing his monocle at Dody. “You may speak further on the subject when it is your turn to testify. Thank you, Dr. Burton, you may step down, but please remain on the premises. The court will adjourn for fifteen minutes.”
During the short break, Dody discovered that her parents had arrived, having caught the train from Tunbridge Wells. Dody barely had time to glare at her sister for summoning them before a crowd of reporters converged upon the small family group as they stood grasping one another’s hands outside the school hall. For a moment Dody was relieved that the reporters’ attention was on her father. Until she saw the direction their questions were heading.
“Is it true that your group encouraged the unions to take strike action?” a reporter in a crumpled linen jacket asked.
“Are you also encouraging revolution amongst the working classes?” asked another wearing a brown homburg.
“Fabians believe in reform, not revolution,”
Nial McCleland replied calmly.
“You are socialists?”
“In a manner of speaking—we believe in equality and justice for all, independent of class.”
“All, meaning female suffrage also?”
“Of course.”
“Your younger daughter is a champion of this cause, I believe.”
“I am very proud of Florence and her activities, yes.”
“And it seems your elder daughter, Dorothy, is taking the cause one step further, providing women with the means of shirking their God-given responsibilities by disposing of their babies for them,” Homburg Hat said.
Dody clenched her fists. Both sides of the suffrage movement twisted their arguments, but this was surely the most obscene of all.
“That is preposterous! How dare you?” she shot at him.
“Equality for all, I say,” the crumpled reporter sneered.
Her father looked aghast. He put out his hand and pulled Dody close. “This is not the Criminal Court yet, my dear. Your family’s reputation can have no bearing on the outcome.” An usher appeared outside the hall and jangled a small hand bell. “Come.” Nial McCleland drew himself up and addressed his party. “The proceedings are about to recommence.”
As she turned to enter the building, the crumpled reporter hurried over to her and leaned forwards so only she could hear what he had to say: “A whistling woman, a crowing hen, are no use to God or men,” he chanted. “Much like a female autopsy surgeon, eh, Dr. McCleland?”
For the first time in her life Dody learned what it really meant to hate another human being. Fortunately she was not holding a pistol. If she had been, she might not have been responsible for her actions. She turned her back on him and hurried to the ladies’ cloakroom just before her bowels turned to water.
* * *
Dody moved over to the witness table for the swearing in. As she gave her name, she glanced at the sea of faces before her. Florence sat a few rows from the front, between Mother and Poppa. Poppa as usual wore his Russian peasant garb: a coarse wool shirt, embroidered jerkin, and baggy trousers tucked into knee-high felt boots—just this once she wished he would dress like other Englishmen. Thank God Mother wore clothes more appropriate to her class: a high-collared lace blouse and a pale pink trumpet skirt. Her lace-adorned hat, Dody took pleasure in seeing, was wide enough to block the view of the obnoxious reporters who had insulted her.
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