“Dody wanted to be a bone surgeon, you know,” Florence said as she fetched a stool for Hugo’s foot. “But no one would take her on because she’s a woman.”
“Damned shame,” Hugo said, eyes fixed upon Dody’s swiftly moving hands.
“There now,” Dody said, patting the neat figure-of-eight bandage. She hoped Florence would elaborate no further upon her career; she doubted this emotionally fraught young man would cope well with it at all. “Keep the bandage on as long as you can.”
Florence attempted to lift his foot to the stool, but Cartwright protested. “No, Flo, I don’t think I can stay. I came early only to see you. Seeing all those women after yesterday, going over what happened to Aunt Catherine, will be too much. I think I might just go home now. Will you pass me my crutches?” He struggled to his feet. “And do give everyone my apologies.”
“That’s quite all right, darling, we understand.” Florence helped him from the drawing room and into the hall, where Annie handed him his topcoat and silk hat. Dody couldn’t help notice how, as he struggled with his coat, he seemed to favour one foot and then the other, as if he were confused as to which was paining him the most. She was muddling this over in her mind when the front doorbell rang. It was still too early for the other guests, surely?
Oh Lord, she remembered—Rupert!
Chapter Five
So much for the “fearless” Dody McCleland, she thought wryly on her way home from the teahouse. She had proved herself as incapable of telling Rupert that their farcical romance was over as she had been of informing him of her new position with the Home Office. She hadn’t even seized the opportunity when he leaned over the table to inhale her scent and murmured, “Mmm, lemons.”
To be fair, though, he had been making a fine job of anticipating and forestalling any such announcement, playing the wounded puppy if she so much as failed to smile at his endearments. What was she to do? His family were old friends of her family’s, and she could forgive him the self-centredness which made him oblivious to so much about her, or her thoughts—unless they pertained to him.
But his behaviour had puzzled her; she was sure he was no more in love with her than she was with him. They had been playing an elaborate game, and now he was building up to a marriage proposal which she was not ready to cope with. She fended him off with questions about the march. She had still not read the Times article.
Rupert told her the march was a response to the government’s rejection of the Conciliation Bill, a lukewarm compromise to female suffrage. Even if the Bill had been passed, it would give voting rights to female property owners only, ignoring the vast majority of women in the land. But it was a start, and its consideration had for a while given the suffragettes room to hope that the government was at last beginning to listen.
The street fighting lasted for several hours. “I was damned disappointed at missing out on it,” he said, battling to crush a knob of hard butter onto his teacake with his left hand, “but I had an appointment with the director of The Playhouse. Heaven knows whether I’d get another crack at it—it’s a fickle world, the theatre.” From there on, he’d spoken about his play, the theatre, Mr. Shaw, and Dody’s mother. Dody had her reprieve, at least until the following weekend, when they would meet at her parents’ house.
Only a handful of Florence’s Bloomsbury Division were still in the drawing room when Dody returned from the teahouse. She recognised Jane Lithgow and Olivia Barndon-Brown, and Florence introduced her to others she did not know. Several responded to her with a distinct chill, which made her suspect that the events of the autopsy room had already been discussed.
“My sister has just returned from Edinburgh,” Florence announced to the group, “to where she was forced to flee after her application to study bone surgery was turned down because she was a woman.”
Flee to Edinburgh? Lord, Florence, Dody thought, why do you have to make everything sound so dramatic?
“I won’t tell you what Dody specialised in at Edinburgh,” Florence went on, although she had clearly told them before Dody’s arrival. “It might put you off Cook’s delicious smoked salmon sandwiches.”
The laughter was soft and polite except for one of the factory women present. Molly Jenkins, legs splayed beneath her patched skirt, let forth a gusty roar that spread around the drawing room like a contagion, infecting even those who only moments before had acted so cool and disapproving towards Dody.
Dody immediately warmed to the woman with the ruddy cheeks and easy smile. The likes of Molly Jenkins were often missing in the nonmilitant groups. The WSPU understood that a group of differing social classes could foster an important sense of female solidarity. Dody heartily approved.
Dody remembered one of Florence’s lengthy telephone calls to Edinburgh in which she had spoken enthusiastically of Mrs. Jenkins’s innovations, such as the tying of string to stones and holding on to them when they were thrown as if they were yo-yos. Thrown in this way, the stones would maximise damage to property, but minimise injury to people. It was also economic on stones, which were sometimes in short supply on the London streets. At this, Dody had been forced to cover the receiver to prevent her laughter from escaping down the wire.
The other working-class woman in the room was Daisy Atkins. Dody had already heard her story. A waiflike creature with large blue eyes, Daisy had been orphaned at the age of thirteen and had been adopted by a group of wealthy WSPU women, who taught her to read, write, and type. She had recently been transferred to Bloomsbury, where she held the position of secretary. Her devotion to the movement was complete; this was the family she had always craved. “She doesn’t seem to think for herself, though, Dody,” Florence had confided. “It’s almost as if she’s been mesmerised.” The comment came as no surprise to Dody. Daisy had spent considerable time living with the Pankhursts; a more mesmerising family one could not imagine. But the women in the group were fond of Daisy and she brought out their maternal instincts.
Dody accepted a cup of tea from Annie and settled herself in a chair next to a handsome, regal-looking woman in her late thirties wearing a fox stole. Miss Jane Lithgow looked at Dody with a steady gaze. “I’d like to know where you stand, Dr. McCleland,” she said. “How far would you go to support the union, or are you allied more to the likes of Mrs. Fawcett?”
Everyone else in the room stopped talking. Dody knew she would have to choose her words carefully. “I am not in favour of extreme militancy,” she replied, “but the cause will always have my moral support. I believe that the emancipation of women is the most effective way of bringing about true social reform to man, woman, and child—”
“You are involved with Mrs. Fawcett’s group?”
“No, I am still trying to establish my career, and I do not have the time—”
“Mrs. Fawcett’s sister, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett, seems to find time for the cause. She was a participant in yesterday’s march,” Miss Lithgow said.
“That may be, Miss Lithgow, but she is considerably older than I and her career firmly established.”
“And she would never have condoned the violence that erupted yesterday,” a sparrow of a woman named Mrs. Slowcroft put in. “Like me, she believes in nonmilitant tactics.”
“We didn’t start the violence; it was a peaceful march,” Molly Jenkins said, but her words were lost as Miss Lithgow, her fair skin emblazoned with passion and her eyes as accusing as those of the fox around her neck, cried out, “How, may I ask, can we be expected to peacefully bring about change when we don’t have the political rights to do so? You and your like have had more than twenty years to get us the vote, Mrs. Slowcroft, and where has your nonmilitancy got us? Nowhere! We need to act now: deeds, not words!” Then, turning to the other women in the room, she said, “I propose we launch some kind of counteroffensive. We need to let the authorities know we will not allow ourselves to be trampled in the street!”
“I’m with you,” Molly Jenkins called out, and the rest of the room, barring D
ody and Mrs. Slowcroft, stamped their feet and rang teaspoons against cups in agreement.
Florence raised her hands to silence the din. “Whatever counterattack we decide upon, we must discuss it with Christabel Pankhurst first.”
“I don’t think Christabel would be averse to blowing up the Houses of Parliament itself,” Miss Olivia Barndon-Brown said with a chuckle. Olivia was a rotund, jolly woman who wore a Moorish kaftan of brilliant hues. When not involved in suffragette activities, she could be found working in the East End soup kitchen funded by her wealthy parents. She was second-in-command of the Bloomsbury Division and her earthy humour had proven a useful antidote to the petty tensions that tended to undermine other groups.
“Then, in the event of any such measure, Miss Barndon-Brown, I am leaving.” Mrs. Slowcroft climbed to her feet. She gave Dody her hand. “It was lovely to meet you, my dear. I’m glad to see you have more sense than your young hotblood of a sister.”
“Mrs. Slowcroft is a visitor to our Bloomsbury Division,” Florence explained to Dody almost apologetically. “She’s a member of Mrs. Fawcett’s group, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Society.” She shot Mrs. Slowcroft a frown. “I invited her here as a courtesy.”
“None of us asked for the trouble yesterday,” Molly Jenkins said to Mrs. Slowcroft, more moderately this time. “The Pankhursts told us to be’ave and be’ave we did. It was the police what caused the problems. And this ’ere”—she indicated the seated ladies with a reddened hand—“is exactly what they want—they want us to start bickering and fighting among ourselves so they can smash us up—divide and conquer, that’s their plan.”
“Quite right, Molly,” Florence said. “Mrs. Slowcroft, please sit down, do. Why don’t we all have another cup of tea and be friends?” Her sister reminded Dody of their mother breaking up a childish argument. “Although we work through different means,” Florence continued, “we are all fighting for the same cause.” She pulled the bell for Annie.
Mrs. Slowcroft let out a martyr’s sigh and sat back down again.
A slender young woman in a plain office suit, with muddy boots and a sodden hem, accompanied Annie into the room a few minutes later.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, I’ve had the most dreadful time,” she said. Her sudden burst of tears interrupted any kind of formal introduction to Dody, but as the other women fussed around her, repeating her name, Miss Treylen, Dody was able to gather that she worked as a clerk at the docks. She had been using her afternoon off to sell copies of Votes for Women until she was accosted by a group of men, who snatched her bundle of newspapers and threw them into the gutter. She didn’t know what to do and the papers were quite ruined, she’d had to leave them where they fell—would Miss McCleland like her to collect more newspapers and return to the same street corner or should she try another?
“You will do no such thing; you’ve had enough for one day,” Florence said, her expression torn between anger at the ignorant men and sympathy for the bedraggled victim. “You’ll catch your death of cold. Annie, another cup and saucer, please.”
“Apropos of the police, dear,” Miss Lithgow addressed Florence once Miss Treylen had been settled into a chair by the fire and plied with sandwiches and cake. “Isn’t it time we informed your sister what it is that we require of her?” Florence glanced at Dody. “Dr. McCleland,” Miss Lithgow continued, her voice calm once more, “seeing as through no fault of your own, you have fallen onto the side of the opposition”—she eyed Dody over her pince-nez—“would it be possible for you to at least find out the results of Lady Catherine’s autopsy?”
“I don’t see why not,” Dody replied, looking Miss Lithgow levelly in the eye. Her acquiescence had nothing to do with the other woman’s attempts at intimidation. Having been unable to perform the autopsy, a follow-up was the least she could do, for Florence’s sake. “It would be a professional courtesy for them to inform me anyway. I imagine I will be hearing from them soon.”
“I’m not sure soon is good enough,” Miss Lithgow said.
“We need to know now, Dody,” Florence added. “The Division wants me to accompany you to Scotland Yard to make immediate enquiries before the officers leave for the evening.”
Dody could see no problem with that. “Very well, I am as eager as you to find out the results.”
“Can you tell us the names of the policemen you were dealing with?” Miss Lithgow asked.
“There was a Detective Superintendent Shepherd—”
“The deputy head of the Detective Division—as big a tub of lard as ever I did see,” Molly Jenkins cut in, provoking a smile even on the glacially beautiful features of Miss Lithgow.
“And a Detective Chief Inspector Pike,” Dody added.
It seemed none of the ladies had come across this name before. But after a few moments, Mrs. Slowcroft said, “Actually, I believe I know the name. Miss Hobhouse has spoken of him. An unusual type for a policeman, if it is the same fellow.”
At the mention of Miss Hobhouse, the highly respected welfare campaigner, all eyes became fixed on Mrs. Slowcroft. “There is quite a story. It was during her campaign to expose the appalling conditions inside the British camps in South Africa where the Boer women and children were imprisoned,” she said. “Mr. Pike was an army captain then, a bit of a war hero—received the Distinguished Conduct Medal or something or other. Then he was injured and sent to supervise the running of the Bloemfontein camp. He resigned his commission over what he saw there. Miss Hobhouse approached him hoping to use him in her campaign, but he refused, saying his resignation was all he needed to say on the matter.”
Deeds, not words, the suffragette slogan—Dody barely managed to keep the thought to herself.
The women exchanged glances. “I think we could suppose he has some sympathy towards the women’s movement, and a sympathetic police officer is worth cultivating, surely,” Mrs. Slowcroft finished.
“It sounds as if he has some principles at least,” Florence said.
“He’s still the enemy,” Olivia Barndon-Brown said, with no trace of humour at all.
Chapter Six
A plainclothes officer showed Dody into the chief inspector’s office. Pike got to his feet and positioned the visitor’s chair in front of his desk for her. Dody looked around the room. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs or mementos on the shelves. A framed photograph stood on his desk, but of whom she could not tell, as it faced away from her. A tidy row of legal tomes stood on a shelf near a small curtained window set into the internal wall. A bicycle leaned against a heavy filing cabinet. Dody wondered how he managed to ride the old boneshaker with his leg as stiff as it seemed. Observing his gait, she deduced the problem to be his right knee; must be the war wound Mrs. Slowcroft had mentioned. He sat down once she had assured him that she was comfortable and had just had tea, and that no, her sister in the waiting room would probably not want tea either.
“I imagine, Doctor, you would like to view Lady Catherine’s autopsy report?” he said before she’d even expressed the reason for her visit. “I anticipated as much, and have it here for your perusal.” His voice, which she hadn’t paid much attention to in the mortuary, was refined for a police officer, softened with but a trace of a northern accent. His suit was well cut, if slightly dated, his cravat pinned with perfect symmetry. A dandy he was not, but he had a pride of appearance that Dody took to be a legacy of his time in the military.
He pushed the report across the desk. “This is the only copy. I’m afraid you’ll have to read it here. The notes were dictated by Dr. Mangini to Mr. Bright, the assistant coroner.”
Two photographs had been pinned to the autopsy report. The first was a grainy shot of Lady Catherine lying like a rag doll next to her crushed hat on the cobbles outside St. Stephen’s. Litter and debris were strewn about her person; Dody made out a single boot, bricks, and a piece of four-by-two timber. She pointed to a discarded wooden club. “What manner of weapon is that?” she asked.
“A belaying pin, Doctor—a large club used to tie ships’ halliards to.”
“A common weapon of sailors?”
“Or anyone from the docks.”
Dody thought for a moment. “Any of these objects, other than the boot, could be the instrument of death. I assume they were all tested for human blood?”
“The evidence around the body was collected, but not tested. With the autopsy results as conclusive as they seem to be, I doubt such tests will now be authorised. I’m afraid the budget allocated to forensics is limited.” Dody directed a look at Pike that told him exactly what she thought about his department’s competency. Dr. Spilsbury had told her the police often used the budget as an excuse. If Spilsbury had been in attendance, Dody was sure he would have insisted upon these basic forensic tests.
The other photograph was of Lady Catherine lying naked on the slab. Neither of the pictures showed the head wounds with any clarity.
The autopsy report was brief and didn’t take long to read.
“You have finished with the photographs?” Pike asked, reaching out to gather them up.
“Yes,” said Dody, “thank you. But I’ll just read through this report again if you don’t mind.”
Pike put the photographs in a drawer then rose from the desk and limped to the waiting room. Through the open door, Dody heard him address Florence. “It’s marginally warmer in my office, Miss McCleland, why don’t you join us?”
Indeed, the cold bleak day had turned into a colder, bleaker evening. Dody glanced up from the report and noticed through the office window the rising river mists, tinged an eerie blue from the line of police lamps along the building’s exterior. As Pike pulled up another chair, Florence caught Dody’s eye. She raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“May I share this with my sister, Chief Inspector?”
The Anatomy of Death Page 5
