The Anatomy of Death

by Felicity Young

  “Hush, now,” Dody said. “There will be plenty of time for talking.”

  “Olivia, where’s Olivia?”

  “She’s dead—you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

  “She killed Catherine. Tried to kill me.”

  “She was deranged, my love.”

  “I think she broke my arm.” Florence tried to shift her position and gasped with pain. “It hurts terribly.”

  “I know, darling, but I will soon have you feeling like new again.”

  Dody continued to stroke her hair. Florence frowned, little corrugations cracking through the drying mud on her face. “This is quite a setback to our group. But we will overcome. You know that, don’t you, Dody?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “The fight isn’t over yet,” Florence said with as much strength as she could muster.

  Dody turned her head to Pike, wondering if he’d heard what her sister had said. His eyes met hers and he smiled.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ninety-nine, one hundred. Dody placed her silver-backed hairbrush on the dressing table and steeled herself. “I’m ready now, Annie.”

  The maid moved behind the chair and yanked the comb through Dody’s hair, indicating that Dody’s one hundred brush strokes were amateurish and insufficient.

  Dody drew a breath; no mean feat in her restrictive corset. “Gentle now, please, Annie, I’m a cowardly creature.”

  “You never used to mind, Miss Dody. It only hurts now because you’ve forgotten what it’s like for me to do your hair.” She took a “rat,” a small oval-shaped pad from the dressing table and pinned it to one side of Dody’s head.

  And now I have been reminded, Dody thought, I will not be requesting the service again.

  “Who would think that only two weeks ago you were flinging yourself about in the mud with a madwoman—there’s nothing cowardly about that, I’m sure.”

  “It wasn’t me in the mud, Annie. I was just one of the many heaving from the steps.”

  Annie took some sections of hair and carefully smoothed them over the pad, pinning them into place. “Miss Florence is lucky to be alive, thank the Lord,” she said through a mouthful of hairpins. “The mud wasn’t so merciful to Miss Barndon-Brown, though, was it? Not that she didn’t deserve everything she got.”

  Dody pictured Olivia as she had last seen her, a pathetic mud-caked figure on the mortuary slab. She had attended the postmortem conducted by Dr. Wilson, but not assisted; indeed she had scarcely spoken throughout the proceedings.

  The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the abdomen, deemed to be self-inflicted, though whether by intention or accident, it was impossible to say. The O’Neill brothers had disappeared before the police arrived on the scene, and nobody had mentioned their involvement.

  When Wilson cut through the skull to the brain, Dody had half expected to see a tumour, something organic to explain Olivia’s monstrous behaviour. But even at the cellular level under the microscope, the portions of brain she examined had appeared normal.

  “Florence’s arm is healing nicely,” she said, watching with awe the transformation that was taking place in the mirror before her. Annie had repeated the procedure on the other side of Dody’s head and was now skillfully smoothing her long fringe into the two pads.

  “Not long to go now, miss.” Annie gathered up a remaining length of hair at the back, twisting it into a bun and holding it in place with an enamelled comb, the same colour as the gown she had earlier laid out on the bed. “Do you want feathers, too, miss? All the ladies are wearing feathers these days.”

  “No, my hair looks wonderful as it is, thank you, Annie. I don’t want to block anyone’s view of the stage.”

  “And you don’t want to look taller than the chief inspector, neither, I wouldn’t think.”

  There was still an underlying sting to the maid’s tone whenever Pike’s name was mentioned. If Florence could forgive Pike, surely Annie could, too? In fact, Florence had forgiven Pike to such an extent that his daughter, Violet, had been invited to spend the night as a guest in their house. Florence was even lending the girl a gown for the opera.

  She could hear girlish laughter coming from Florence’s room now. It was hardly surprising that they should be getting on so well, Dody reflected. Violet Pike was more of a suffragette than Dody would ever be.

  “That will be all now, Annie. I can finish dressing myself. Go and see if Miss Pike needs a hand with her hair. Her father will be arriving shortly.”

  “Very well, miss.” As Annie opened the door to leave, Dody heard giggling from Florence’s room, then a snatch of a verse she hadn’t heard since Florence was a schoolgirl.

  Mama, Mama, what is that mess that looks like strawberry jam?

  Hush, hush, my child, ’tis poor Papa, run over by a tram.

  The girls fell silent. Annie must have entered the room like a cold draught. Dody returned to her dressing. Her gown was by no means the latest from Paris, but she had worn it infrequently enough for it to still look and feel new to her. She stepped into the folds of rose chiffon and fastened the close-fitting bodice, making sure the décolleté revealed plenty of the tantalising lace chemise beneath. She stared in amazement at the stranger in the full-length mirror: not a hair out of place in the mahogany pompadour, the perfect S-shaped posture, tiny waist, and she laughed at herself, the modern, freethinking career woman, secretly revelling in her own femininity.

  She would make sure she dressed up like this at least once a year; it was good for the soul, if not—she struggled for a deep breath—for respiration.

  Pike pulled his watch from the pocket of his cream brocade waistcoat. “We still have plenty of time, but I can’t think what’s keeping them.”

  “It takes time to create a thing of beauty,” Dody said from her seat on the chaise.

  Pike’s eyes laughed. “Then it should have been you keeping us all waiting.”

  Dody felt herself colour. She had not meant to fish for a compliment. She moved to the window, hoping for a cooling draught, and pulled the curtain. White flakes tumbled from a black velvet sky. Pike moved to stand beside her. She breathed in his familiar, reassuring scent. How she had clung to him when they’d been trying to find Florence. Then it had seemed the most natural thing in the world, but now? Now she did not know.

  “The first snow of winter,” he remarked. “Beautiful.”

  “Yes, for those of us who have warm, comfortable houses.”

  “That is true. But if one were to always think like that, how could one ever enjoy doing anything—even going to the opera?”

  She turned to face him. “Oh, I know I will enjoy this very much.”

  He put out his hand and walked her back to the fireplace, where he noticed the postcard on the mantelpiece. “Greetings from Ireland?” he cocked an eyebrow.

  “From Derwent to Florence, wishing Florence a rapid recovery.”

  “I see.”

  “As you should, seeing as it was you who helped the brothers vacate the country so speedily.”

  “Derwent killed Olivia by accident while they were struggling with the gun—we know that. But an Irish-hating judge might not have seen it that way.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by an offstage trumpet blast—or Florence’s imitation of one—announcing the arrival of “Lady” Violet Pike.

  Pike stared for several incredulous seconds. Violet wore Florence’s magnificent gown of forget-me-not blue silk, which, thanks to Annie’s skill with pins and darts, could have been made for her.

  But at Pike’s dumbstruck reaction, the smile on Violet’s lips began to falter, as if she thought his look must signify disapproval.

  “Go on,” Dody whispered to him. “Make her feel grown-up.”

  “Oh, yes, right.” Pike moved to his daughter, took her hand, and kissed it. “My dear, you look beautiful.” He turned to Dody. “I am a lucky man to be able to escort two such beautiful women to the opera.”

&nbs
p; Florence cleared her throat in an exaggerated fashion, indicating her arm, which was still in the sling, and then to her elegant day dress as if it were made of rags. “Well, I suppose it’s all right for some. Go ahead, the three of you, have a jolly good time. Bring me back a program—if you can bear to spare me a thought, that is.”

  Dody laughed. “Have a sherry with us, Florence, before we go.”

  “Oh, if you insist,” Florence gave in with no hesitation. “But you must promise to take me with you next time, Pike, just as soon as my arm is better.”

  “Three beautiful women next time, splendid,” Pike said with a smile as he handed Florence a glass of sherry.

  Annie entered the morning room carrying a small silver tray with an envelope on it. She stood before Dody and gave an uncharacteristically formal curtsy as if she, too, was overwhelmed by the elegance surrounding her.

  “A boy just dropped this off, Miss Dody,” she said.

  “Oh, who can this be from? And at this hour?” Then Dody saw the untidy handwriting and the Home Office stamp. She became conscious of four pairs of eyes staring at her, and coloured for the second time that evening. “Excuse me, please.”

  She moved into the hall, where she opened the note with trembling hands and read it beside the Christmas tree to a backdrop of silver orbs and miniature candles. Dr. Bernard Spilsbury had returned from his holidays. If it were convenient, he wrote, would Dr. McCleland mind joining him for a staff meeting at St. Mary’s Hospital at eight o’clock tonight?

  So, he was back. This was typical Spilsbury. He worked all hours himself, and would think nothing of calling a meeting late on a Friday night, giving no notice at all. The privileges of the great, she thought. But Dr. Eccles had said that Spilsbury was looking for an assistant, even intimated that Dody’s name had been mentioned. Could this be the purpose of the meeting? She pressed her hand to her temple and felt the beginning of a headache. How could she enjoy the opera, knowing that her dream job might be on offer? Not to mention working alongside a man she respected so highly.

  Her sister joined her at the tree. “Well?” Florence said, tapping her foot upon the black-and-white tiles. “It’s from him, isn’t it? He wants you for something right now. I can tell. Let me see it.”

  She took the note from Dody’s hand and read it quickly. “The cheek of the man! There is no emergency.”

  Dody wrung her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Go to the opera with Pike and Violet, of course. Imagine this wretched note came two minutes after you had left.”

  “But …”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Both.”

  “Don’t fib. You want to see Spilsbury, despite how guilty it makes you feel.”

  “I have to, Florence. This might be the only way I can get ahead with my career—you of all people should understand this.”

  “But what of Violet, what of Pike?”

  “I’ll make it up to them. Next time it will be my treat. I’ll apologise in a minute, after I’ve changed, and I’ll explain the situation to them. They won’t mind…they both adore Miss Melba …” She hesitated; saw her reflection in one of the Christmas baubles—the pile of dark hair above a slightly blurred face, a dreamy hint of rose. She could have been looking at her sister.

  “I know,” she said, “you can go to the opera instead of me.” Her voice sped. “I’m sure your arm will be fine. Just don’t exert yourself, no clapping. We’ll call Annie and she’ll have you dressed in a jiffy.”

  Florence placed a hand on Dody’s arm and forced her to look her in the face. “Dody, that won’t work, can’t you see? It simply won’t work at all.”

  “Of course it will work. You and Violet get on splendidly.”

  “For someone so clever, you can be quite stupid.”

  Dody bristled, brushed Florence’s arm away, and turned to the staircase.

  “Violet’s not the problem,” Florence went on, following Dody up the stairs. “Can’t you see? It’s Pike.”

  Dody reached the landing and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Sensible clothes, warm clothes,” she chanted as she moved to her wardrobe.

  Florence knocked but didn’t wait for an answer. She sat on the bed and addressed herself to her sister’s back. “Dody, what are you scared of? If Spilsbury’s job offer is contingent on you dropping your plans at a moment’s notice on a Friday night—are they the sort of conditions you want to work under? Surely, if you are the best person for the job, and how would you not be, the job will be there for you on Monday morning.”

  Dody turned around with a heavy sigh, and came and sat next to her sister. She felt the cold of a tear snaking its way down her cheek.

  Florence took out her handkerchief and dabbed Dody’s face. “Careful, Dody, you don’t want to go to the opera with a tear-streaked face. I am half convinced you are afraid of going with Pike. I think that you may actually feel something for the man and it’s scaring you silly.”

  Perhaps her sister was right, Dody thought. True, she was desperate for the job, for some formal recognition among her peers, and her desperation was making her behave like an idiot.

  As for Pike.

  She sniffed. “I don’t know how I feel.”

  “Shush, of course you don’t know. But right now, that doesn’t matter. You are going out to see the famous Miss Melba in a gala performance and that is wonderful in itself. Try not to think of anything else.”

  Some minutes later, Dody walked down the stairs, her head held high. She met Pike’s quizzical look with a steady smile. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. And you, too, Violet. There was something I needed to discuss with Florence. It is resolved now. Shall we go?”

  Florence was right. If the job was to be hers, it would still be hers on Monday morning.

  Pike put out his hand to Dody. She saw the unasked question in his eyes and hesitated. It was such a brief hesitation that no one else in the hall, with the exception of Florence, would have noticed it. Nor understood the significance of the squeeze that Dody gave his hand back.

  The three of them walked together to the waiting carriage. It was snowing lightly. Gentle flakes brushed their cheeks and sparkled on their hats. As Florence waved them good-bye from the porch, Dody wondered when her little sister had grown to be so wise.

  Author’s Note

  While this is a work of fiction, all of the attitudes and many of the events depicted are fact. Details of the November 1910 riot were taken from eyewitness accounts and newspaper articles. Police did behave brutally, and three women were killed. None of the women, however, were called Lady Catherine Cartwright and none were mysteriously murdered. Nor has it been proved that Winston Churchill was behind the brutal behaviour of the police, though rumours abounded at the time.

  I have been unable to find evidence of a female autopsy surgeon as early as 1910, but Bernard Spilsbury did have a female assistant, Hilda Bainbridge, by 1920, so I hope the reader can forgive this ten-year discrepancy!

  Dody McCleland’s background is that of my grandmother’s, at the time one of a handful of female graduates of Trinity College, Dublin. Much of the Fabian colour, for example the hockey match, was inspired by her memoirs.

  Details of Crippen’s execution were constructed from newspaper articles of the time. The force-feeding scene was inspired by eyewitness accounts—the horror has not been exaggerated.

  The main characters are of my own creation, but several of the background figures are nonfiction. These include:

  DR. BERNARD SPILSBURY, the father of modern forensic science.

  EMMELINE PANKHURST, the founder of the militant suffragettes, the WSPU.

  CHRISTABEL PANKHURST, her daughter.

  LADY CONSTANCE LYTTON, a prominent victim of force-feeding.

  DR. HAWLEY HARVEY CRIPPEN, hanged at Pentonville Prison for the murder of his wife. DNA evidence recently come to light suggests that Crippen might have been innocent of the crime.

&
nbsp; WINSTON CHURCHILL, future Prime Minister of Britain.