“The more weak and pathetic I look, the less I have to act.”
“That’s the ticket.” Daphne smiled encouragingly.
Both women wore simple dresses borrowed from their maids and small, unadorned hats. It felt strange to be going out with none of the usual regalia—cartwheel-sized chapeaux, parasols, and long gloves—and Florence felt naked and defenceless. Then again, that, too, helped her with what she saw as her very convincing performance as an unmarried woman desperate to rid herself of her unborn child.
Daphne played her part as supportive friend extremely well, too—not having to act much at all.
Even though the charges against Dody had been dropped, Florence knew the experience had left her sister wracked with anguish. Maybe this was also behind the illness that had been plaguing her. Despite the wonderful evening she purported to have had with Pike, she’d appeared haggard and tearstained at breakfast for the last two mornings.
Florence hated doing nothing and felt she had to help in some way. What a boost it would be to Dody if they identified the manufacturer of the lead tablets. Dody had said the tablets were more than likely distributed in the local public houses. But it was still worth investigating the drug dispensaries as well, and this was surely the most effective way. Florence looked at the apothecary’s across the road, Zimmerman’s—the man she had wanted to investigate days earlier when Daphne had been waylaid by Lady Harriet Frobisher’s tea party. She indicated to Daphne that they should enter.
The apothecary was like none of the other shops they had visited thus far in their quest. The electric lights rigged up behind the coloured bottles in Zimmerman’s shop window made the place as alluring as a sweet shop. A curling bell above the door tinkled as they entered. They skirted baskets of berries and sacks of dried goods with their strange, foreign smells. Florence felt like Dr. Livingstone hacking his way through the jungle as she pushed her way through medical hardware hanging in clumps from the ceiling, enamel bedpans and rubber hoses, and bunches of aromatic herbs.
The lighting over the counter was dimmer, as if to deliberately obscure the more nefarious contents of the bottles and jars on the shelves above. Several unborn hedgehogs shared a jar of preserving fluid; their neighbour, a curled grass snake, stared out through opaque eyes. Next to these, a stuffed stoat, teeth bared as if ready to pounce, guarded other jars containing less identifiable lumps of sloughing tissue and rubberised bone. Surely, she thought, there could be no better indication that this was the place.
Florence presumed it was Zimmerman himself leaning on the counter. The man adjusted his skullcap and smiled. “What can I do you for, miss?”
“I need something to help me. I am with child.” Florence rubbed her padded stomach and gave Zimmerman what she hoped was a knowing look.
“Vitamins, minerals; or is it iron you need to strengthen your blood?”
“No, nothing like that,” Florence whispered, more urgently now. “I mean I need something reliable to get rid of the baby. Surely you have something besides Widow Welch’s?”
Zimmerman frowned. “You won’t find anything stronger than that in my shop, young lady.”
“Not even lead tablets?”
“I would not risk my licence. Get out of here before I call the police.”
The man lifted his hand as if to strike. Florence cowered and reached for Daphne’s arm. The trouble she would face from Dody if the police became involved was not worth imagining. They scampered from the shop like a pair of frightened dormice.
“There is one last shop, Flo,” Daphne said as they continued down the street, “just a bit further down, not far from the Clinic. Let’s make that lucky last and then call it a day.”
“Mr. Borislav’s shop?”
“Yes, that’s it. I’ll have to wait outside, though. I sometimes get supplies for the Clinic from him and he might recognise me. Do you dare?”
“Well . . .” Florence hesitated. “I did call in the other day with Dody. He is a friend of hers and I really can’t believe that he would be a supplier of abortifacients, I—”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I feel very sorry for him, about the tragic death of his wife, I mean, and I’m sure he is a very nice man, but we shouldn’t let our personal bias get in the way of our professional investigation.” Daphne and Florence shared the same enthusiasm for detective literature.
Florence brightened. “But Mr. Borislav didn’t see me—we weren’t even introduced. I spoke to his nephew.” Florence paused. “If Joseph is serving at the counter, though, I’d better not risk it. But if it’s Borislav at the counter”—she gave a dismissive wave of her hand—“he won’t have a clue who I am.”
“That’s settled then.” Daphne nudged her with her elbow. “Go on.” Florence took a deep breath and crossed the shop’s threshold.
The chemist was empty, but the sound of angry male voices reached Florence from somewhere behind the counter. As she edged closer, she noticed the door leading to the dispensing room was ajar. The voices became clearer, a young man, Joseph, and an older one—Mr. Borislav, she guessed—and they were arguing.
“I’ve had just about enough of your moneymaking schemes,” Borislav said.
“If it were not for my innovations, we’d be on the street. As for that doctor from the mortuary who’s always hanging around—why put up with him when you have me to help? Can’t you give me just a little bit of credit for the shop’s renewed good fortune?”
“You have proven good at the book work, I’ll grant you that.”
“I have to protect my investment somehow. Can’t you see, Uncle, the only way we can prosper is to diversify.”
“Like Boots, you mean, turn ourselves into a lending library? For goodness’ sake, Joseph, it’ll be tinned salmon next, then tin-openers and!”
“In order to survive, we have to damn well offer our customers that something extra that the competition does not provide. You’re blind, old man, totally blind to what’s going on under your very nose. Aunt Gertrude’s been gone for six years, it’s time to—”
The voice stopped, as if the men were suddenly aware of another’s presence.
Borislav burst through the door from the back room, saw Florence, and tried to compose himself. He looked at her over his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles and moulded his mouth into a smile. “Good afternoon, miss, what can I do for you?”
When Florence explained her predicament, his pink complexion deepened. “I think it would be more appropriate for you to consult your sister on this matter, Miss McCleland,” he said. “I am afraid I’m unable to help you.”
Bloody hell.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TUESDAY 29 AUGUST
At the sound of her mother’s brisk footsteps on the stairs, Elizabeth Strickland drew her knees to her chest and buried her head beneath the bedclothes. The mattress sagged as her mother sat down. Elizabeth smelled the starch from her fresh cotton blouse. No fancy perfumes for Mrs. Arthur Strickland and certainly no makeup. Heaven forbid she was mistaken for a trollop.
“Elizabeth, dear, isn’t it time you got ready for work?”
“I’m not feeling very well, Mama. I think I have a touch of the cholera.”
“Oh, my poor lamb. In that case I will pop down to the surgery and see if Dr. James is free. You can’t afford to be missing much more work. They’ll be sacking you soon, mark my words.” Elizabeth sat bolt upright in bed, pulling the sheet to her chin lest her mother notice the swollen breasts pushing against her flower-sprigged nightdress.
“No, Mama, please. Let us wait and see how I am tomorrow before summoning Dr. James; just give me one more day at home to rest. Besides, today is sewing circle and I know how little time you have to finish the church kneelers.”
Elizabeth read the conflict on her mother’s face: whether to be a good mother or a dutiful parishioner. The parishioner won.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“Go, Mama.” Elizabeth looked to the clock on the wall. “Your fr
iends will be waiting.”
* * *
It was a warm day, but it had rained quite heavily in the night. Mud, churned up by rumbling carts, splattered many of the shopfronts. A boy tossed a bucket of water against the fishmonger’s window, lashing it like sea spray. The fish must feel at home, Elizabeth thought. Not that she cared. Elizabeth hated everything about fish: their smell, their gaping mouths, their jellied eyes, and the prick of their scales. Not to mention the shiny film of blood that coated their gills.
She pushed open the door. It was hotter in the shop than it had been in the street. Shards of ice covering the fish were shrinking before her eyes. Come afternoon, the stock would be as warm as the customers.
A heavy woman with a grey bun and a bloodstained apron stood behind a sloping slab of fish. “What can I do for you, love? Want some fish?”
Elizabeth shook her head, lost for words.
The woman looked her up and down. “’Im upstairs, then?”
“Yes, please, ma’am. My name is Elizabeth Strickland and I was told to meet the doctor here.” The woman smiled, showing a row of blackened teeth. “Call me Mother, if you like.” She rubbed the side of her nose with a scaly finger. “Told no one else about this, I ’ope.”
“Not a soul.”
The woman guffawed, grabbed a big flat fish by the tail, and pointed to the orange spots on its back. “Sole,” she said.
Elizabeth tried to smile and failed.
“Mother” flicked the sign to CLOSED and beckoned Elizabeth to follow her up several narrow flights of stairs until they came to a small landing. The woman tapped on a door to the right of the stairwell, opened it, and pushed Elizabeth in. “This ’ere’s Elizabeth Strickland, Doctor,” she said to a man sitting behind a large desk.
“Thank you, Mother, you may go now,” the man said.
Mother closed the door behind her, clumping footsteps fading down the stairs. Alone in the room with the man, Elizabeth started to shake.
“You have the money?” the man asked without lifting his head from the open book in front of him.
She nodded, unable to get her words out, her throat constricted from all the days of crying.
“Put it on the desk then,” he said. “There’s a good girl.” Elizabeth reached into her pocket for the money and clunked it down. The coins were hot from her hand and it felt as if she were parting with a piece of her own body. The tears began to well again.
The man went for the money, sliding it across the leathered top of his desk and into his palm. “No more crying; this will soon be over. Climb onto the bed and let me examine you.” When he finally met her eyes with his, she noticed how dead they were—as dead as the fish for sale downstairs. She felt a spasm of fear. Was she really doing the right thing? What choice did she have, though?
The doctor took her by the hand, holding it high as if she were a posh lady about to mount a carriage, and led her to a high bed. Leather straps were attached to poles at each corner of the mattress and Elizabeth wondered what they were for.
“Just relax down onto the pillow now,” he said as he helped her up.
With a flick of a switch, the stained white ceiling disappeared, replaced by a blinding electric light that swallowed the shadows of the dingy room. She could no longer see his face, but felt his fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress. As instructed, she’d not worn a corset. His fingers were cool against her burning flesh. He palpated her breasts and worked his way like a spider to her stomach.
“You took the pills?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“No symptoms at all?”
“Um?”
“Did they make you cramp or bleed?” he asked impatiently.
“Cramp. But only a bit.”
“You are still with child. Do you remember what we discussed?”
Elizabeth nodded. The man pushed the light away. “I’ll put you to sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be over. You’ll stay here for a few hours before going home, just to make sure there are no, er, complications.”
Something cool and rubbery was placed over her nose and mouth, some kind of mask. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reach for a bottle and slowly drip the contents over the mask. “Breathe deeply and tell me about yourself. What do you like doing best in the whole world?”
Other than being with Jimmy? Well. “I like family sing-songs, sir.”
Her voice sounded funny through the mask, like she was speaking from the depth of a cave.
“Sing me one of your favourite songs.”
Elizabeth liked the romantic songs best but she worried that the man would laugh at her. It was romance, after all, that got her into this mess in the first place.
“Go on,” he urged.
“All right then.” She began to sing in a high, quavering voice:
Let me call you “Sweetheart,” I’m in love with you.
Let me hear you whisper that you love me, too.
The darkness began to crowd in on her. “Doctor,” she said, “will it hurt?” She felt muddled and light-headed. She wasn’t sure if she was thinking, saying, or singing, if he was a doctor, Jimmy, or the devil himself.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WEDNESDAY 30 AUGUST
Dody held the dripping red paisley dress over the mortuary sink to examine it. The dress was labelled SELFRIDGES; the material, while not overly expensive, was too fine for your typical East-Ender. A faded brown stain spread from the middle of the back and travelled to the hem. The garment had not been in the Thames long enough to disguise the stain’s true nature—blood.
Dr. Spilsbury stooped over the girl’s body. He had been silent for some time now. The only sound in the echoing room was from his autopsy instruments: the brisk scraping of the bone saw, the snip of the rib-cutters, and the drip of watery blood into the drain beneath the slab.
“Where was the body found, Inspector?” Dody addressed Fisher, who stood near the swinging mortuary door as far away from the slab as possible.
The body was reasonably fresh and virtually odour-free save for the fetid smell of the river. Nevertheless, Fisher still answered through a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “She was pulled out of the river last night by a lighterman near Temple Pier,” he said. Temple Pier, as the crow flies, was only about a mile away from the Clinic, Dody realised.
“Why wasn’t the body taken to the Bishopsgate Mortuary?” she asked.
“I sensed it would be of interest to you here, Doctor, and arranged for it to be delivered to Paddington.”
“Thank you, that was very considerate.” He is still trying to make things up to me, she thought, touched.
Spilsbury looked up from the body. “Had the corpse been weighted down or tied, Inspector?”
“A rope, sir, attached to her ankle. You’ll find it in the sack of clothes that came with her.”
Dody removed a coarse rope from the hessian bag and held it up.
“The body was attached by that rope to a heavy metal wheel found resting on a sand bar,” Fisher went on. “Whoever put it there either did not know about the sand bar or misjudged how close to the surface it appears at low tide. The lighterman saw her hair just below the water and thought at first it was seaweed.”
Our man’s making silly mistakes, Dody thought. Interesting. Back to the dress. Dody felt something at the bottom of one of the deep pockets, put in her hand, and removed a printed calling card. Dropping the dress back into the sink, she hurried over to Inspector Fisher with it.
“Look, Inspector, a name.”
Fisher held the soggy card at arm’s length. The name was easy to read; the card had not been in the river long enough to suffer much damage. “Dr. Archibald Van Noort. Number seventy-seven Harley Street.”
“She probably intended on seeing this Harley Street specialist to correct damage done,” Spilsbury said, throwing his heavy gloves to the floor with a splat.
Dody sensed the owner of this dress was not the type to visit a Harley S
treet specialist, but kept the thought to herself. That a Harley Street man might be responsible for the damage done was a notion Spilsbury would find hard to entertain. Not too different, she thought, from my own earlier difficulty in believing that Everard would stoop as low as he has.
“Sew her up, Alfred,” Spilsbury said as he moved to join Dody and Fisher at the door.
“What have you discovered, sir?” Fisher enquired.
“She was dead before she was tossed into the river,” Spilsbury said. “The lack of water in her lungs tells me that she did not drown; this was no suicide. The cause of death was exsanguination. She bled out from a pierced uterine artery as a direct result of criminal abortion.” He turned to Dody. “This case bears striking similarities to the Esther Craddock case. There are still remnants of placental tissue adherent to the uterus wall, and the girl also shows signs of plumbism.”
Dody’s heart leaped. “Then it might be the same person who operated on Esther.”
“It might be.”
“When did she die, Doctor?” Fisher asked.
“Anytime between yesterday afternoon and late last night,” Spilsbury said.
Fisher had told her earlier that Henry Everard had only just been released from jail that morning. He could not have done this. Dody felt light-headed with relief.
“May I examine the body please, Doctor?” she asked.
“If you wish, but I think you will find that I have not missed anything.”
Heaven forbid. “I’m sure you haven’t, sir, but I would like to see it for my own experience.” Dody moved over to the body. Alfred abandoned his suturing and stepped aside to make way for her.
She pulled back the girl’s lip and saw the telltale blue line on the gums. Then she cast her eyes along the pale, marbled corpse. This was not the body of a street woman or a servant: the hands were unblemished, the body well nourished.
“Do we know her identity?” Spilsbury asked the inspector.
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