He stepped aside for the police photographer to set up his tripod, and soon the chemical smell of flash powder had replaced the sweet pungency of hashish and the bleachy odour of lust. When the photographer had finished, Pike brushed away the residual flash-smoke from the air and pulled the sheet over the body. The arrival of the police surgeon was imminent, but the dead man deserved some dignity in the interim.
He lifted the admiral’s braided jacket from the floor and went through his pockets, finding a cigarette case, a handkerchief, some loose change, and a small key.
The key fitted the lock of the handcuffs, which he unlocked. The admiral’s arms flopped to the bed, and Pike tucked them under the sheet.
On the bedside table next to the key there stood a small, unlabelled jar. He unscrewed the lid, sniffed the contents, tipped some of the brown tablets into his palm, and showed them to the sergeant. “Any idea what these are?”
“No, sir, but the surgeon is on his way. He’ll know them.”
Pike slipped two of the tablets into his pocket. “I might be able to get them identified sooner.” He still planned on visiting Dody once he’d finished here and would ask her then—if she was talking to him, of course.
He found nothing of interest amongst the female articles of clothing: a blue satin blouse, a tight hobble skirt, and various items of risqué underwear, which he had seen more often than not strewn across Margaretha’s dressing room floor.
* * *
When she saw who he was, Margaretha went for him like a wildcat, tearing at his cheek with her sharp talons and ripping red furrows through his skin before the constable could wrestle her to the bed.
“Shall I cuff her, sir?” the young man asked.
Pike nodded and dabbed at his bleeding cheek with his handkerchief, bright red blood joining inky black stains. “Then leave us, please.”
The constable closed the door. Pike sat on the end of the bed and regarded Margaretha in silence. Her right arm hung from the cuff attached to the head of the bed. The lacy neck of her silken negligee had been stretched during the scuffle, leaving one small but perfect breast exposed.
“Cover yourself up,” he said.
She lunged as far as the cuff would let her and spat at him. Her aim fell short and the blob landed on the eiderdown. “You do it,” she said, hatred gleaming in her coal dark eyes. “You’ve always wanted to touch me; now’s your chance.”
The contrived smile made his skin crawl. “These kinds of games might have worked with the admiral, but they don’t work with me,” he said.
Pike moved to the window and pulled back the net curtain, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tension. Below stretched the wooded meadows of Green Park, through which women under lacy parasols strolled arm in arm with men in boaters and striped blazers: a world far removed from the one he was in now. Opening the sash window, he inhaled the tickling scent of mown grass and felt himself begin to calm.
“Tell me what happened,” he said without turning from the view.
“Laat me met rust!” Leave me be! Pike had learned enough Afrikaans in South Africa to understand this much Dutch.
She reverted back to English. “Then I shall tell you right now, Mr. Piano-Playing Policeman, that I did not kill him.”
“Let me decide that. What happened after I dropped you off at the hotel?”
“We dined late in the restaurant here—a magnificent meal prepared by M. Escoffier himself.”
“And how was the admiral’s mood?”
“Very jolly, especially when I tantalised him to his peak under the table.”
Pike ignored that. “Could he have eaten anything that made him ill?”
“We had the same meal. As you can see, I am perfectly well.”
“And then what?”
“We went up to our room.”
“I believe the admiral had a confrontation with a man in the corridor.”
Margaretha rolled her eyes. “The admiral said he was spying on us.” Her features lightened. “Ah, one of yours, of course. I should have guessed that filthy little man was one of yours.”
“The admiral knew about him. Amongst other things, the man was supposed to be your protection.” At her mocking laugh he said, “Please explain.”
“We had just begun to enjoy ourselves in our room—”
“With champagne and hashish.”
“No, the hashish came later—when we heard a strange noise from the walls between the rooms. The admiral found your little friend here, in this room”—Margaretha pointed to a painting on the wall depicting a reclining Venus—“at a peep hole, watching us.”
Pike moved to the adjoining wall and pushed the picture aside. Sure enough, a neatly bored hole through the wall zeroed in on the big bed next door. Bloody Appleby was in for it now. He couldn’t blame the admiral for sending the scoundrel on his way with a shiner; he would have done the same himself. And the bribe? Nonsense, the money was probably from Appleby’s own pocket. He’d see to it that Appleby lost more than his sovereign.
“And then?”
“The admiral was feeling inhibited, so I persuaded him to have some puffs of my pipe. It had the desired effect—we made love over and over again until we fell asleep. The rest you know, I think.”
Hearing the catch in her voice, he allowed himself to turn from the wall. Thankfully she had covered herself up and was busy patting at her tears with the bed sheet, finally behaving as a woman ought after suffering such trauma.
“Did you or the admiral lock the bedroom door?” he asked, adjusting his tone to remove some of its earlier sting.
Margaretha shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Did you see anyone else who looked suspicious, other than the policeman?”
Again she shrugged, “When you are in love, you only have eyes for your sweetheart. Then again, you probably know nothing of love, do you? Or is it men like Gabriel Klassen who are more to your taste?”
Love? Is that what she called her liaisons with the admiral? He rubbed his hand across his brow. This task would be easier if she had been nothing but a stranger to him.
The sergeant put his head around the door. “The police surgeon has examined the body, sir, and reckons the pills are strychnine. Says he thinks the admiral died from strychnine poisoning.”
“Thank you.” Pike returned to the woman. “You heard what he said?”
Her sudden pallor said she had. She tugged against the handcuff. “You think I poisoned him?”
“Yes, I do, unless you convince me otherwise. I think you distracted the admiral and then poisoned him to allow your accomplice to steal the contents of his briefcase. Perhaps you didn’t mean to poison him, perhaps you didn’t know quite how lethal the strychnine was—”
“He took the tablets himself!” she screamed, tugging at her chain like a wild beast. “After smoking the pipe!”
“Why would someone deliberately poison himself with strychnine? It’s a ghastly way to die, agonising.”
“Ach, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Pike paused and regarded her coolly. “You can’t be very impressed with your accomplice, leaving you to take the blame for all this.”
“What are you talking about? I have no accomplice.” Her eyes welled with tears and her face took on such an overwhelming look of misery that his softer side almost believed her.
But she was a performer, he reminded himself. “I’ll give you some time to think this over,” he said. “Take her to the cells at the Yard,” he said to the sergeant.
Chapter Twenty
The sisters removed their veils as soon as they were clear of the mob of agitators and walked through the faded grandeur of Bloomsbury to Museum Station where they caught the underground train to Aldgate. As far as Dody knew, Florence had not visited the East End since her terrifying pursuit by
a deranged killer the previous year. They linked arms, Florence thrusting her rolled parasol before them like a lance, and stuck to the longer, safer route towards the High Street, avoiding the gloomy maze of winding streets to the left and right, though they might have got them to their destination quicker.
Two hundred years earlier, Huguenot refugees had established the area as a centre for silk manufacturing, but during the previous century the domestic industry had suffered such decline that it was now almost nonexistent. The fine terraced houses and mansions belonging to the master weavers had deteriorated into smoky slums and penny lodging houses, and the precinct was now a rookery of crime and depravity.
They passed the dripping water pump at the junction of Fenchurch and Leadenhall Streets, where people queued with buckets. Approaching the High Street, they glimpsed the tall white steeple of Christ Church rising above the slums of Commercial Road—the detached finger of God, heedless to what went on below. The parks were closed at night and sleeping in the streets was illegal, so the homeless had no choice but to walk all night and sleep in the parks by day. In her mind’s eye Dody saw the street women, many of whom she treated at the Clinic, dozing beneath yew trees or stretched out upon the benches of “Itchy Park,” their children swarming around or playing knucklebones with grave pebbles.
Florence relaxed her grip on her parasol when they approached the comparative safety of the High Street. A street stall outside Borislav’s shop attracted her attention, and she began rummaging through piles of secondhand clothing.
“We’re organising a fancy dress ball to raise funds for the movement; I might find something suitable in here,” she said.
Dody was relieved at Florence’s distraction, though the sallow-faced vendor didn’t seem too impressed at having her stock of practical clothing labelled “fancy dress.” Reluctant to let her sister know just how unwell she was feeling, Dody wanted time alone in the chemist’s. The meat juice didn’t seem to be working and she needed something stronger.
To her surprise, she discovered the CLOSED sign hanging on the shop’s front door. She cupped her eyes to the glass. Looking beyond the garish bottles of coloured water, she caught some movement and recognised Borislav’s nephew, Joseph, sweeping the shop floor.
Dody banged on the window and waved to get his attention. Joseph propped up his broom and opened the door a cautious crack. When he saw who it was, he flung it wide and ushered her in. Something crunched beneath her feet. She looked down to see the floor awash with sticky substances, scattered powders, and broken glass.
“My goodness, what’s happened here?” she asked. “It looks as though an elephant’s been let loose in the place.”
Joseph scowled, and slammed the head of the broom onto the ground. “We were robbed, that’s what. After taking what they wanted from the back room, they decided to leave a calling card.” He pointed to the debris then started pushing it towards another pile already waiting at the wall for disposal. “Could be worse, I suppose. At least the old man wasn’t hurt too badly.”
“Mr. Borislav?” Dody had assumed the break-in had been at night when the shop was unattended. She looked towards the counter with concern.
“He’s all right, Dr. McCleland; he’s in the back room making an inventory of what was stolen.”
She found Borislav sitting on a high stool at his workbench, adding the final touch to a list of supplies. An angry bruise was evident on the chemist’s forehead as soon as he looked up.
She rushed to his side. “That looks nasty; let me put something on it.”
Borislav gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t fuss, Dorothy. Joseph has done enough of that for both of you.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing that has not happened before, only this is the first time I’ve caught them at it. It’s the drugs, you see; they always want the drugs. A couple of roughs came into my shop this morning just before I opened up, when the streets were still quiet. They forced me into the dispensing room, where I gave them what they wanted. Regardless, they still left me with a bump on the head and a smashed-up shop.”
“You called the police?”
“Yes, and they asked me to write a list of what was taken.”
Dody glanced over his shoulder at the list: morphine and raw opiates, strychnine, arsenic, medicinal brandy, as well as various ingredients and suspension agents used in the manufacture of tablets. She waited for more commentary from Borislav, but none came. Whoever stole these drugs must know what to do with them. Many of the items were raw and useless on their own without some kind of mixing or manufacture.
She considered this for a moment. “Could these have been used for the manufacture of lead tablets?”
“I don’t even stock lead,” he said impatiently, pointing to his list. “As you see, lead is not on my list.”
“But some of the ingredients, such as the suspensions, could be used in the tablets’ manufacture.”
Borislav sighed and said wearily, “No mention was made of lead by the police or by me, Dorothy.”
Dody realised what he was thinking, that she was attempting to use his misfortune to somehow reverse her own. In his opinion, the two events were barely related. Or were they? Perhaps, but this was not the time for an interrogation.
With no further probing from Dody, he said, “I got a good look at the men, though, and gave the police their description. One was short and swarthy, the other tall with a long unkempt beard. They warned me not to go to the police.”
Dody smiled. “Which only strengthened your resolve.” This was so like Borislav. “Please, let me look at your injury.”
“If you insist.” He huffed, but closed his eyes and allowed Dody to tip back his head. In the middle of the discoloured lump she spied a small streak of grazed skin.
“What did they use?”
“A wooden spar of some kind.”
“You were lucky.” Her gaze automatically dropped to his forearms. “Any defensive injuries? Please, roll up your sleeves.”
“My arms are fine. It happened so quickly,” Borislav said. “One held my arms behind my back as the other struck, giving me no time to ward off the blow at all.”
“Thank heavens they only struck you once.”
The chemist nodded and rubbed a hand across his tired face. “But look, Dorothy, I have a lot to do here, and I’m sure you did not pop in to hear my troubles or pass the time of day. Do you require something for the Clinic?”
“No, I will pay for this myself. Are you able to mix me up a powder of citrate of potash and bicarbonate of soda? I’m happy to do it myself if you tell me where you keep the ingredients.”
“Someone has a stomach complaint?”
“Yes.” Dody did not wish to elaborate.
“Leave it to me.” He stood, reeling slightly. Hearing voices from the shop floor, he glanced in the mirror angled towards the front door. “It seems that Joseph is being distracted by yet another young lady,” he said with some irritation.
“That will be Florence, my sister. Why don’t you come out and meet her?”
He touched his head. “No, if you don’t mind, I’m not feeling particularly sociable today. Pop back in half an hour and collect your medicine, eh?”
* * *
The sisters recommenced their journey down the High Street. When they came to the fishmonger’s, they held hands and counted like schoolgirls—“One . . . two . . . three!”—and dashed through a swarm of flies hovering around the gutbuckets waiting for collection by the cats’-meat man.
There were few motor vehicles puttering about the East End. They crossed the side street, dodging horse-drawn vehicles and handcarts and entered the Clinic from the High Street side, pushing their way through a queue of destitute women. A visit to the doctor was an unaffordable luxury for the unemployed, and Dody felt a surge of pride that she and a handful of female doctors had at
least made medical care possible for some.
The sisters blocked their ears to the profanity-laced protests at their queue jumping and arrived at the tall admissions desk.
Daphne Hamilton looked with surprise at the two well-dressed women below her.
“I’d like you to put this up on the notice board, please, Daphne, but make sure you also inform potential attendees verbally.” Dody handed the nurse a notice she had drawn up during the sleepless hours of the early morning, informing the patients at the Clinic that she would be available for Friday evening consultations as usual. Also, that Tuesday evening lectures on health and hygiene were pending.
Florence raised an eyebrow to Daphne. When she received nothing but a shrug in return, she folded her arms as if to say she expected this kind of plan from her sister, but surely not her friend as well. Dody felt tempted to leave her there while she attended to the rest of the day’s business, but she was not that cruel. She knew too well her sister’s squeamishness to a profession that dealt with squalor, poverty, and hideous disease.
They bade Daphne good day and continued their journey to the Kents’ decrepit tenement.
Dody recognised one of the Kents’ elder children, John, a boy of about twelve with a pale, feral face, wearing a bargeman’s cap. She’d first met him when she had been called to the tenement to view the body of his brother, Billy. The boy lolled idly against a wall watching some smaller girls playing with a skipping rope and chanting a rhyme:
Jack the Ripper’s dead
And lying in his bed
He cut his throat with Sunlight Soap
Jack the Ripper’s dead.
“Good afternoon, John, how’s the family?” Dody asked.
The boy neither changed position nor doffed his cap. “You’re the doc ’oo was called when Billy died, ain’t ya?”
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