‘I’m so sorry,’ Dody said, removing her black coat and wrapping it around Margaret’s shoulders.
‘Where’s Pike?’ Callan demanded, striding over. Dody helped Margaret lower John to the floor and then helped her up. Margaret’s usually animated features appeared vacuous, staring from one to the other of them as if she had not quite worked out what they were doing there.
Dody gripped the taller woman’s face with both of her hands. ‘Margaret, listen to me. We can’t find Chief Inspector Pike, where is he, what have they done with him?’
‘P-Pike?’ Margaret stuttered. ‘Who . . .?’
Dody shook the woman by the shoulder. ‘You know who!’ She glanced at Callan then back. ‘My friend, my lover,’ she all but shouted. Callan blinked in surprise. She didn’t give a damn about who heard. ‘The man you were so curious about!’
And then Margaret gasped, as if suddenly brought to her senses. ‘Oh my God, how long has it been?’ She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Over an hour, we might be too late!’
Too late, what does she mean? Could Pike be dead?
Margaret took Dody by the hand and dragged her up a flight of stairs, Callan hurrying behind them. Now it was Dody’s turn to feel numb, disorientated.
‘He’s in the gun safe. James and Shepherd put him in there to suffocate,’ Margaret panted.
Dody’s heart leapt in her chest. ‘But where is the safe?’ she asked, eyes scanning the room: double wardrobe, large bed, washstand, a Regency chair upholstered in brown velvet, a carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
Margaret pushed Dody aside. ‘You’re standing on it. Move.’
She whisked a Turkish rug off the floor and began to lever out floorboards. Dody and Callan scrabbled to help. Wood splintered beneath Dody’s fingernails. What if they were too late? How much air was in that thing?
Soon they had exposed the top of a long metal box that had been embedded in the floor cavity.
‘Matthew, can you hear me?’ Dody called, rapping the top of the safe with her knuckles. All three held their breath and listened. Nothing.
‘It’s all right, Mr Pike, we’ll have you out in a jiffy,’ Margaret called, ripping off her blood-stained evening gloves. She turned to Dody. ‘Don’t worry, I helped John install this thing. It’s almost impossible to crack unless you know the combination, which I do. Give me room, now.’
‘I’m sorry, miss, this is a police matter. Allow me,’ Callan said, attempting to move Margaret aside.’
‘For God’s sake, Callan, let Margaret have a go first,’ Dody entreated. Margaret’s confidence was obvious, the woman knew what she was doing.’
‘I don’t trust her,’ he said. ‘How do we know there isn’t a gun in there, that she plans on blowing us to kingdom come with it?’
‘Then trust me, at least! Take that bloody gun out of your pocket and train it on her while she works if you have to, but at least allow her to have a go!’
Callan let out a sigh of defeat and took a step back. He didn’t take his gun from his pocket, Dody noticed, though his hand hovered just above it.
‘Thank you for trusting me, Dody,’ Margaret said. She dropped to her stomach beside the exposed top of the box and began to manipulate the combination this way and that. With a satisfied nod she shoved the handle down.
The handle did not budge.
‘Jaysus, must have done it wrong,’ she said, passing a hand across her pale forehead.
She tried again, and again the handle didn’t yield.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Margaret said, ‘John’s changed the sodding combination.’
Panic ballooned in Dody’s chest. In her head she estimated the safe’s dimensions, tried to calculate the volume of air in it, and failed. There were so many variants: how many other items were in the safe, the number of minute cracks through which small amounts of air might enter, how calm Pike was managing to stay, his height, his weight. They might have an hour, they might already be too late.
‘Let me have a go,’ Callan said, forgetting about the pistol in his pocket and ripping off his coat. He squatted beside the safe and turned the dial this way and that. His efforts were futile, though Dody could well understand his need to take action.
‘Can we blow it, Margaret?’ she asked as Callan cursed.
‘We could, but we’d probably blow a hole through Mr Pike too.’
Dody shuddered. ‘What about just one end?’
‘Too much of a gamble.’
Dody sank onto the floor and placed her head in her hands. Margaret squatted beside her and rubbed her shoulder in an unpleasant exchange of roles.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him out. You, Mr Policeman,’ Margaret stood and thumped Callan on the back. ‘Stop what you’re doing, you’re wasting your time. If I can’t do it, you certainly can’t. Give me your pencil and notebook.’
Callan rocked back on his heels and looked at Dody as if to say, who is this woman?
‘Please, Chief Superintendent,’ she said, ‘do as she says.’
With a look of resignation he reached into his pocket and handed Margaret what she’d asked for.
‘Now get back to your men and organise explosives and metal cutters,’ Margaret said.
Callan didn’t move. He clearly did not appreciate being ordered around by the mistress of a thief.
‘Callan,’ Dody said, feeling her eyes start to well. ‘We have no time to waste.’
After huffing out a sigh, Callan was gone.
‘Thank God,’ Margaret said, exhaling. ‘Now I can concentrate. Sight, sound, touch. Knowledge of the lock design and function,’ she muttered. ‘That’s what old Bill the locksmith used to say.’
The room fell silent except for the ticking clock on the mantelpiece above the glowing fire. Dody said nothing as she watched Margaret perform a series of calculations in Callan’s notebook. Then Margaret lay on her stomach again and propped herself on her elbows, her ear almost touching the combination dial. Dody dared not breathe as she watched Margaret click and turn, stopping every now and again to scribble in the notebook.
‘Kill that bloody clock,’ Margaret said.
Dody climbed to her feet and shoved the clock under the pillows on the bed. She crouched down again next to Margaret.
And that’s when she heard it, a gentle tapping coming from the inside of the safe. Margaret’s eyes met hers with a desperate gleam. Dody gasped, her hopes soared.
Again a tap, weaker this time — or had she imagined it?
Margaret broke the silence with a sudden cry. Slamming the lever down she heaved the heavy door open.
Dody knew that for as long as she lived she would never forget the sight of Pike lying there, still and blue, as if laid out in a coffin.
‘Matthew!’
‘No, my Lord, no!’ Margaret screamed. ‘Maybe I deserved it, but she didn’t!’
Dody dived for the pulse in Pike’s neck. She felt a flutter, saw the flick of dark sapphire eyes.
‘He’s alive!’ Dody cried, light-headed, tears pricking her eyes. ‘He’s alive. Help me get him out.’
Both women heaved on Pike’s arms and pulled him upright. Dody could barely see him through the sheen of tears in her eyes.
‘About time too,’ he panted as they helped him step from the safe.
He held onto Dody and clasped her as if he would never let her go. After a moment she pushed him back and examined his face. His earlobes were still a touch on the blue side but his colour was returning. He was panting as if he had run a marathon. There was also a bloody lump on his head, and his jaw was blue and swollen. Not that either injury seemed to be bothering him too much. As she held his body next to hers she looked over his shoulder to Margaret.
‘Thank you,’ she mouthed to her friend. In a louder voice she said, ‘Now this is what 1 would call a miracle.’
*
The house was searched and the few servants who had not fled were interviewed. None of these were Giblett’s old retainers. They had all
been hired through an agency for the dinner party and were unable to shed much light on the peculiar household of John Giblett’s.
The only witness of potential value was Margaret Doyle.
‘Have you any idea where Malcolm James might have gone?’ Pike asked her.
He’d washed his face and drunk about a pint of water, and apart from the bruises almost looked like his old self again. Dody sat next to him on the drawing room sofa, her hand resting but a few inches from his own. How close she had come to losing him. Had he not managed to partially unscrew the metal plate to allow in a minimal stream of air, he’d be lying in the mortuary van now, alongside John Giblett and Superintendent Shepherd. She shuddered and brushed her hand against his to reassure herself of its warmth. The movement was not lost on Margaret, who managed the semblance of a smile.
Dody hoped her friend — yes, Dody admitted, her friend, for that’s what Margaret was to her, even if she was a thief — would get over the loss of John and start her life over again. And she planned on helping her every step of the way, even if it did mean turning a blind eye to her various minor misdemeanours.
Margaret shrugged. ‘With his contacts, Mr Pike, James could be halfway to Dover right now.’
‘You think he’ll go overseas?’ Pike asked.
‘Europe would be the best place to flog the necklace.’ Margaret fell silent, put her hand to her mouth and swallowed down a sob. ‘You will find him, won’t you, Mr Pike?’
Pike clenched his jaw. Dody knew that look.
‘I will, Miss Doyle,’ he said. ‘You need have no fear of that.’
He would be true to his word, of that Dody had no doubt.
‘And you’ll tell me he’s caught, won’t you, even when I’m in Holloway?’
Dody and Pike exchanged glances. ‘On what charges do you expect to be imprisoned, Miss Doyle?’ Pike asked.
Margaret looked down at her lap. ‘A shed load, Mr Pike, after everything I’ve done.’
‘And what might your misdemeanours be?’
Margaret looked to Dody for help.
‘I’m not sure that Mr Pike has anything to charge you with,’ Dody said. ‘What say you, Matthew?’
Pike made a play of sifting through his notebook. ‘Can’t see anything here. Ah, yes, just the matter of some stolen earrings from Selfridges.’
At last Margaret understood. ‘Oh, those, yes, the ones I found in John’s house and posted to Dody? Of course I’ll be returning them to the shop. Along with all the other stolen goods John Giblett stashed at my place.’
‘And the money donated to the clinic?’ Dody asked.
‘But that was mine to give, I thought I explained that.’
Dody opened her mouth to speak but closed it again when she noticed Pike’s scrutiny. What with everything else that was going on, and despite the best of intentions, she had neglected to tell him about the suspicious donation. ‘Oh, yes, of course, from your wealthy aunt,’ she said.
Pike rose and Dody followed suit. ‘Everything is in order then,’ Pike said. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Doyle. I’ll contact you if I have any further questions.’
‘One more thing, Chief Inspector,’ Margaret said as she dug into her evening bag. ‘This is no good to me now. Perhaps you and Dody could make use of it?’
Dody peered around Pike’s shoulder at the document he unfolded.
‘A Notification of Marriage,’ she read.
Pike said nothing, refolded the document and tucked it carefully into his inside pocket. ‘Thank you, Miss Doyle,’ he said, glancing at Dody with a spark in his eye.
‘What do you think, Doctor McCleland, might this be useful?’
Dody smiled back. ‘I think it will be most useful indeed, Mr Pike.’
About the Author
FELICITY YOUNG was born in Germany and educated in the United Kingdom, while her parents were posted around the world with the British Army before settling in Perth. Felicity trained as a nurse, married young and, having always been a passionate lover of history and English literature, completed an arts degree at the University of Western Australia while her three children were growing up. In 1990 the family moved from the city and established a Suffolk sheep farm in Gidgegannup, Western Australia. Here she studied music, reared orphan kangaroos, joined the volunteer bushfire brigade and started writing.
Also by Felicity Young
Flashpoint
Flare-up
The Dr Dody McCleland Series:
A Dissection of Murder
Antidote to Murder
The Scent of Murder
The Insanity of Murder
Copyright
Impulse
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2016
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
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harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Felicity Young 2016
The right of Felicity Young to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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A Donation of Murder Page 22
