The Insanity of Murder

by Felicity Young

  Pike attempted to regard the Yard through unfamiliar eyes. He wondered if the gothic-styled leviathan had intimidated Florence. The identity parade would have taken place in the central courtyard of the north-facing building, hemmed in on all four sides by windows and red brick walls. The cells were in the basement — small barred windows at ground level giving those interned a peep at what was going on above. Pike hoped that none of the prisoners had been abusive or lewd, not that that would have worried Florence. Depending on the mood she was in, she might just as well have blown the offending villain off with a kiss as flashed him an obscene finger sign.

  As far as Pike knew, force-feeding was the only thing that had ever seriously rattled Florence. Dody had told him that its nervous impact on the women involved could be likened to that of men seriously affected by battle experience. After telling him this she had shot him one of her pointed looks, as if she might be alluding to something within himself. Stuff and nonsense, of course; everyone knew that women were more sensitive to trauma than men — why else were the lunatic asylums filled with so many of them? While Pike held Dody’s opinions on most things in high regard, he could not agree with her on this.

  He made his way through a rabbit warren of corridors in the Yard to his ground-floor office, keen to find out what progress had been made in the hunt for Lady Mary. He found Singh leaning over the desk, preoccupied with writing on a sheet of paper taken from the type-writing machine. By his elbow sat a small wooden box Pike had not seen before.

  Singh stopped writing and jumped to his feet like the NCO he had once been. ‘I thought I might miss you, sir. I was leaving you a note.’

  Pike looked at his assistant’s face and frowned. ‘What happened, Singh?’

  He touched his semi-closed left eye, swollen and purple as a turnip. ‘It is nothing, sir. I merely tripped down the steps of the section house.’

  ‘You’d been drinking?’ Pike knew full well that Singh’s religion did not allow imbibing.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And Singh knew full well that Pike was aware of it. This was not the first time the constable had turned up to work with a minor injury that he had brushed off with an obvious lie. He was a proud man who liked to deal with his problems his way. Pike could only hope that his own favourable treatment of the Indian was not making things worse for him in the section house. Perhaps, for Singh’s safety, Pike ought to let him go so he could return to the relative anonymity of the uniformed ranks. But to do so would be abhorrent. It would mean giving in to all the injustices of the system that Pike battled daily, such as the promotion of buffoons while the real talent was left to languish. Furthermore, Pike suspected Singh would be as unwilling to return to the ranks as he was to send him. On a more selfish note, Singh was the best assistant he had ever had, and almost irreplaceable.

  Pike shrugged out of his coat and hung it beneath his bowler on the hat stand. ‘What’s in the box?’ Above his name on the address label, the box was stamped in red with the name of the latest brand of popular tea, Typhoo Tipps. ‘Where did it come from? I haven’t ordered any tea. Even if I had, it wouldn’t be that smouch.’

  Singh picked up the box from the desk and weighed it in his hand. ‘It’s not tea, that is for certain, sir. It is far too heavy for tea. Lady Mary left it in the clerk’s office at the mortuary, but ran before the clerk could get her name.’

  ‘So that’s what she was doing in the mortuary.’ Pike frowned. ‘Why didn’t she give it to me directly? She saw me, why did she run? And wasn’t she supposed to have been at the rest home?’

  ‘Perhaps she did not want to have to explain herself, sir.’

  ‘Did you finally catch up with her?’

  ‘Hensman found her at her son’s house. She was speaking incoherently. He could not get a thing out of her.’

  ‘He seems to have that effect on people.’

  Singh gave one of his rare smiles, making Pike think that Hensman was probably the cause of the bruises. ‘Her son, Sir Michael, told Hensman he was today taking her back to the asylum –‘

  ‘Rest home,’ Pike interrupted sardonically. ‘Did she go back earlier, like she was supposed to, after she’d finished looking at the suffragette photograph album?’

  ‘Yes sir, but she was only at the home for a few hours before she ran away. When she turned up back at Sir Michael’s he decided to let her stay until the identification parade was concluded.’

  ‘So we can hypothesise that she collected this package from the home and returned to London to give to me.’ He took hold of a paper knife and began to prod around the sides of the box.

  ‘Yes, that is a possibility, sir. Careful sir, it might be a —’

  ‘Voilà,’ Pike said as he slid the lid from the box. Singh released a pent-up breath.

  Wood shavings cushioned a fluid-filled jar. The jar had a frosted glass stopper that had been firmly tied down with a red ribbon. Pike took the handkerchief from his top pocket and wrapped it around the jar before plucking it from its nest. He shook it gently, held it up to the light and saw something of a greyish colour, the shape of a badly poached egg, with tendrils floating around the liquid within. The fluid also held smaller pieces of sloughed debris swirling around inside it.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ Singh asked.

  When Pike realised he was looking at some kind of organic tissue he wrinkled his nose with disgust. ‘I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘But I think I know someone who will.’

  Chapter Nine

  Lady Mary sat on her dressing-table stool and watched the maid pack her belongings into a portmanteau. She felt like a small child wearing a dunce’s cap, forced to sit in the corner by an uppity governess. Ever since she was little, being unable to move had been the worst kind of punishment for Mary, who had always been a fidget. Even now, there was something inside her pushing her on. She had to keep moving, to keep moving and to find Cynthia, her spirit sister. She must be on the streets somewhere; she had to be. They had always dreamed of being on the streets together, sleeping somewhere different every night, being free to wander the parks and take the train. Money, or lack of it, had never come into their reckoning. Money was something Mary always seemed to find in her pocket.

  ‘Not that portmanteau, dear, I’ll take the trunk,’ Mary said to the maid. ‘The trunk with all the stamps on it, the holiday flags,’ she qualified.

  Monte Carlo, Biarritz, Madeira. Where had she and Geoffrey not travelled to escape England’s winter gloom? She could remember those holidays as if they were yesterday. But what had happened between then and now? She was not so sure. Geoffrey had died — she’d never forget that slice to the heart — and the boys had married.

  ‘Your trunk is still at the rest home, m’lady,’ the maid replied in a patient tone, as if Mary had asked the question before. Maybe she had.

  Mary twisted the wedding ring on her finger. Something was missing. ‘My engagement ring, the pearl that Sir Geoffrey gave me – did you pack that?’

  ‘You gave it to young Lady Heathridge, m’lady, on her and Sir Michael’s tenth wedding anniversary.’

  ‘Did I?’ Lady Mary felt naked and undressed without the engagement ring. But giving was giving and she would not fall so low as to ask for it back now. She remembered when Geoffrey had given it to her. It was in the rose garden at Chatsworth. Geoffrey looked so elegant with his white collar and cuffs gleaming under the full moon. She even remembered how he smelled. To this day the smell of cigar smoke and claret evoked memories of that night.

  She’d worn a gown of tulle rose, the crinoline taking up most of the seat of the garden bench — thank goodness no one wore crinolines any more. As for the cruel corset! She was paying the price for that now, she thought, tapping its iron replacement. The doctors told her she’d have to wear the heavy carapace for the rest of her life to stop her back from total collapse.

  When Geoffrey had placed the pearl ring on her finger, he told her it had once belonged to his mother, said how fitting it was t
hat it should now belong to her. And then he had kissed her and set her body alive in a way that had never happened before …

  ‘All ready to go, are we, Mother?’ Michael bounded into the boudoir with the energy of an old dog playing at being a puppy. He couldn’t fool her, poor boy. The strain she caused him showed in the deepening creases of his face, which was becoming more and more like a bloodhound’s as each day passed.

  Mary straightened regally on the stool. ‘I have decided to stay here.’

  Michael glanced at the maid. ‘Have you finished, Elsie?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she answered, clicking the portmanteaux closed.

  ‘That will be all, then.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and left the room. ‘How was the identity parade, Mother?’ he asked.

  ‘Interesting. Exciting. Except for that awfully rude sergeant with the moustache.’

  ‘Did you recognise the woman who blew up the station?’

  ‘Without a doubt. I didn’t need that sergeant to tell me who it was, I knew as soon as I laid eyes on her — such a sweet-looking little girl. I do hope I haven’t got her into too much trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ Michael said, lying to ease her concern.

  He took a key from the pocket of his white motoring coat, crouched down and unlocked the padlock from the light chain attached to Mary’s ankle that had kept her tied to within eight feet of her bedhead.

  ‘Woof, woof,’ said Mary. She so liked to tease Michael.

  ‘Needs must, mother. Do you think I like doing this?’ Michael got to his feet, offered her his arm and picked up her portmanteau. ‘Your carriage awaits, m’lady. All ready to take you to your country house.’

  Michael must have learned his sarcasm from her.

  They were unable to talk on the journey above the rattle of the motorcar and the rush of wind, which Mary likened to the boom of the sea in her ears. She didn’t mind it though; this was her last taste of freedom till who knew when, and she wanted the moment to last.

  She waved and shrieked with delight when they overtook other cars and carriages on the road. Leaning over Michael, she peeped the horn when they passed a farmer on a plodding horse. The horse shied, the farmer’s tirade lost in the wind. Michael wagged his finger at her, just as she used to do to him when he was a child. The gesture made her laugh; even Michael smiled.

  They stopped at a pub for a simple luncheon of bread, cold meat and cheese. They talked pleasantly enough, although Mary was conscious of Michael never taking his eyes off her. He even asked the waitress to check the lavatory window before she went in to ensure it was locked. As if she would abscond now — when there was so much excitement about!

  During the last few miles of their journey, to her delight, a bi-plane flew above their heads. It looked like a cardboard box caught by the wind, or a fancy kite. Quickly, Mary unpinned her motoring hat and threw it out of the car, hoping that it too might be taken up in the same current of air.

  Michael skidded the car to a stop. ‘Mother, what did you do that for?’ he grumbled as he alighted, trudging down the road to retrieve the hat. It had caught itself on a roadside hedge, its broad ribbons beckoning to Mary in the wind.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Father’s lawyer seems to think Lady Mary’s testimony will never stand up in court.’ Dody set her coffee cup down next to Pike’s. ‘What do you think, Matthew?’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree. But there’s still the night watchman. Although he is yet to speak, he is showing signs of regaining consciousness. His doctors think he might survive after all.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Dody said. ‘For both his and my sister’s sake.’

  ‘He could still be a valuable weapon for the prosecution, though.’

  ‘Only if he is coerced into remembering something he didn’t see. She wasn’t there, Matthew.’

  ‘So you keep saying. Have you visited Florence yet?’

  ‘No, she is not allowed visitors until next week. She sent me a note through our lawyer saying she hasn’t eaten since her arrest and that she is still determined to go through with her hunger strike. Of all the stupid, idiotic — Lord, Matthew, what are we going to do? Do you think the authorities will let me supervise the force-feeding to ensure that it is done as humanely as possible?’

  Pike took her hand and said gently, ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea? It would be impossible for you to remain detached. It’s bad enough to watch the torture of a stranger, let alone someone you care for.’

  ‘I’m a doctor, detachment is one of the skills of the trade.’ Pike looked doubtful. ‘Besides, my feelings are irrelevant, Matthew. Someone has to protect Florence. There are all kinds of ways the procedure could go wrong: damage to mucous membranes, fluid in the lungs …’

  Pike gave her hand a squeeze. She realised then that she had been raising her voice and forced herself to relax.

  ‘Florence won’t back down,’ she added with artificial calm.

  ‘But perhaps the government will.’

  What did he mean by that? she wondered, scrutinising his even features.

  ‘There are plans afoot, but I cannot reveal them until they are public knowledge.’ After a thoughtful pause, Pike continued, ‘Wait there. I have something to show you.’

  He exited the morning room and Dody attempted to pull herself together. Pike was right, it would be impossible to remain detached. Besides, she was jumping ahead of herself. The prison authorities would probably not allow her to attend the force-feeding of her sister anyway. God, how she hated feeling so helpless!

  Pike returned from the hall carrying his briefcase. He settled back onto the couch, rummaged in his case and lifted out a smallish glass specimen jar, its lid tied down by a red ribbon. Something of a grey-brown nature was floating about inside it.

  ‘Have you any idea what this is?’ he asked.

  Dody smiled despite everything. Pike knew her so well. He could not have found a better way of distracting her from worrying about her sister. With some difficulty he undid the ribbon and lifted the lid from the jar.

  ‘Ugh!’ she said after a quick sniff. Her eyes started to water.

  Pike handed her his handkerchief. ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. I had no idea —’

  ‘Some kind of tissue or organ preserved in formalin,’ she said, dabbing at her tears with the handkerchief.

  ‘Human?’

  ‘It’s too hard to tell just by looking at it. Where did you get it from?’

  ‘It was left in the mortuary for me by mad Lady Mary. It was she I was chasing.’

  ‘The woman who allegedly recognised Florence at the station? How extraordinary. Why don’t you ask her about the specimen then? Don’t you know where she lives?’

  ‘I tried, but she’s left London again and it might take a while before I can contact her. She’s also a bit of a challenge to make head or tail of — senile decay, apparently.’

  ‘So, you want me to examine this specimen for you.’

  He took the jar back and replaced the lid, shrugging. ‘I would. But if you don’t wish to get involved with one of my cases, I quite understand. What with Florence, you have enough worries at the moment. I’ll have the jar delivered to Doctor Spilsbury in the —’

  Dody sprang to her feet and held her hand out for the jar. ‘Over my dead body you will!’

  Pike smiled, muttering, ‘Knew that would work.’

  As they headed up the stairs towards Dody’s third-floor rooms, the sombre tones of the piano loomed gloomily closer.

  ‘I wish Violet would play something else,’ Pike remarked as they approached the closed drawing-room door. ‘It’s been nothing but this piece for the last few weeks. It’s supposed to be played at a graceful walking pace. She plays it like a funeral dirge.’

  The music stopped as soon as they entered the room. ‘Daddy,’ Violet swivelled from the piano, slapping her palms on her knees, ‘I just can’t seem to get this second movement to flow.’

  Dody and Pike trod t
he parquetry floor to the piano. Pike told Violet to move over, pulled up the knees on his trousers and sat next to her on the stool. Then he closed his eyes and began to play, channelling the music through his fingers, somehow lifting Violet’s dreary interpretation to another, more enlightened level with more pedal and a subtle change of tempo. Dody had hardly recognised Violet’s version, but when she heard Pike’s she realised she was listening to the second movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No.21 in C Major. Dody was mesmerised by his effortless playing. The way he used his graceful fingers to slide down the keys before applying pressure was like a caress. She shivered. It was all too easy to imagine those fingers doing the same to her skin.

  The piece finished too soon.

  Violet frowned. ‘I thought it should be played slower than that.’

  ‘Andante, indeed — but not the pace of one about to shuffle off one’s mortal coil.’

  ‘Why can’t I play it like you do?’

  ‘You can, you are technically quite capable. But first you must feel it.’ He met Dody’s eye. She felt herself redden. ‘And then practise, always practise,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m just going up to Dody’s study for a moment.’

  ‘To examine this,’ Dody quickly qualified, showing Violet the specimen jar.

  Violet screwed up her face. No emotion except disgust for the object before her showed through. Was the seventeen year old still so innocent as to be oblivious to the attraction between Dody and her father? Or was she truly in some kind of a funk?