Antidote to Murder

by Felicity Young

  But there were still the day-to-day activities to contend with, and the first of her priorities was a visit to the Kent family. Accompanied by Florence, Dody descended the stone kitchen stairs to consult Cook.

  Annie looked on in horror as, under Cook’s supervision, Dody placed a large basket on the scrubbed kitchen table and packed it with a family-sized pork pie, ginger beer, a seed cake, four crisp apples, and a sweating chunk of cheddar.

  “I thought we were having that pie for our lunch tomorrow, Mrs. C,” Annie complained.

  “By then it would ’ave walked out the larder by itself.” Cook turned to Dody. “I’m ’aving a terrible time stopping things from going orf, miss. The milk on the doorstep was sour before I got the chance to bring it in this morning.”

  “Try not to worry too much about it, Mrs. Crabbe,” Dody said, “and maybe order fewer perishables. None of us is hungry in this heat.”

  “I don’t see why baby-killers should be treated so special,” Annie huffed. She had been serving tea when Dody told Florence about the Kent case. No matter how often Dody chastised her, eavesdropping to Annie was as much a God-given right as her weekly half-day off. She wondered also how much the girl had taken in of her explanation to Florence of Everard’s treachery—the whole lot probably. Perhaps it was time for another what-goes-on-in-the-house-stays-in-the-house lecture.

  “We don’t yet know the truth, Annie. A person is innocent until proven guilty.” And besides, Dody thought, the food in the basket might help loosen hungry tongues. Not that she was particularly eager to see either of the wretched parents convicted of infanticide—if only the solution were that simple. What she really wanted was the unscrupulous supplier who had sold them the deadly lead medication and the know-how to use it.

  “I don’t think you should go there by yourself, Dody—let me come, too,” Florence said.

  Dody shook her head. “The place is a cesspool of germs. I wouldn’t want you to get ill.”

  Florence grimaced. “No, you weren’t at all well after the last visit.”

  “I was fortunate to get only a mild dose of English cholera. I probably won’t get ill a second time, but you would almost certainly be vulnerable. Don’t worry, I can manage on my own.”

  Florence did not press the point, though she did grumble about being left alone with nothing to do for the remainder of the afternoon.

  “Read your book, write to Mother and Poppa,” Dody said.

  Florence paused for thought. “I might see if Daphne’s free to visit Lady Harriet Frobisher with me.”

  “The household struck with cholera? Don’t have anything to eat or drink there, for goodness’ sake. You’d be better off coming with me after all.”

  “I think they are just about over it now. Besides, it can’t really be as dangerous as the place you’re visiting.”

  Dody shrugged. “Perhaps not. Mrs. Crabbe, I need you to keep a variety of food scraps readily available at all times. Tell me in advance what you plan on leaving out for the pig man; I want first refusal on all kitchen waste—bread, cake, meat, fish, cheese, et cetera.” She turned to Florence. “Before I start with the TB samples, I have to find out what food appeals to the rats the most, so I know how best to reward them for successful sniffing.”

  Florence, Cook, and Annie exchanged glances. “Dody,” Florence said, holding up a finger. “We really don’t want to see, hear, or smell anything more of your familiars, is that clear?”

  The servants backed up their younger mistress with vigorous nods.

  Dody sighed, outnumbered and suitably chastised. Back to the task in hand. She tested the weight of the basket: heavy. She would have to ask Fletcher to drop her at the chemist, a quarter-mile or so from her destination. No good would come from the visit if the locals saw her being delivered by a private motorcar. Even motorised taxis were a rarity in that particular East End neighbourhood.

  * * *

  The High Street chemist was airless. Dody put down her basket with relief and pressed the bell on the counter next to a giant pestle and mortar.

  Mr. Borislav emerged from the dispensing room and opened his palms in delight. “Two visits in one day: I am honoured. Are you still unwell? That pesky cholera has a tendency to come and go. Would you like some more Valentine’s Meat Juice?”

  “No, no, I am much better now, thank you.”

  “Your paper then—how was it received?”

  “Actually, there are two things I need to talk to you about.”

  “And I have something for you, too.”

  “You do? Then please . . .”

  “No, I insist, ladies first.”

  Dody drew a breath. “Mr. Borislav, I think you and I both know that you were shown two very similar papers.”

  “Ah.” Borislav removed the spotted handkerchief that usually poked from his top pocket and dabbed at his damp forehead.

  “How could you doubt me?” she asked with undisguised hurt.

  “It was not you I doubted.”

  “Then why did you not warn me?”

  “What good would warning you do? By the time I saw you, I knew Everard had already handed in his paper—what was done was done. Do you wish me to tell Spilsbury about it now?”

  Dody frowned. “No, no, Spilsbury has no idea about the plagiarism. And I have been given an extension, which should just give me time to rewrite my paper. I’m only sorry that you were placed in such a difficult position.”

  “My heart dropped into my boots when I saw Henry Everard on my doorstep the other day, wanting me to check his proposal for him. He was at the same university and in the same year as my nephew, you know.”

  Dody waited with interest for him to elaborate.

  Instead he said, “I think it is time you two met.” He turned his head and called to Joseph in the dispensing room.

  The younger man emerged, wiping his hands down his white coat. He was as tall as his uncle was short, his face as rugged as Borislav’s was soft and round. But his smile was similar to his uncle’s, and his identical spectacles caught the light in the same manner, adding a certain rakish charm.

  “I have heard much about you, Mr. Champion,” Dody said with a smile, liking him at once.

  “Likewise, Dr. McCleland. My uncle speaks very highly of you. When I heard that your Clinic was opening down the road, I was hoping we would at last get to meet.”

  “I was telling Dr. McCleland how you knew Henry Everard at university,” Borislav said.

  Joseph paused as if to consider his words. “Indeed,” and let the word hang. The lack of warmth, praise, any comment at all for that matter, told Dody more about his opinion of Everard than anything his uncle might have coaxed from him.

  Borislav exaggerated a shrug. “How can I help that he was raised to be the gentleman?”

  When their laughter had died, Joseph said, “It’s been lovely to meet you, Dr. McCleland, but I must now tear myself away and return to work.”

  “Work of your own making, I would like to remind you,” Borislav said. To Dody he added, “Joseph is working on a way of mass-producing poultices so we always have a ready stock. Frankly, I think it detracts from the sense of personal service our customers receive when they know the product has been made for them specifically.”

  “But far more efficient, Uncle. If you’d only allow me to employ an apprentice to help . . .”

  “Be off with you!” Borislav said with an undercurrent of irritation in his voice that suggested his words were not entirely jest.

  When the dispensary door had closed, Borislav said, “Change, change, change. I have to admit that Joseph has played his part in the shop’s reversal of fortunes, but the customers can only take so much newness.”

  “You mean the proprietor can,” Dody teased.

  Borislav straightened his bow tie, then leaned across the counter towards Dody a
nd returned to the earlier subject. “Everard was quite the wastrel, according to Joseph, and about the only thing Joseph did not miss from the university when he left it. It grieved me when I learned that you and Everard had been thrown together for work. Apparently he made no effort to hide what little respect he had for female doctors, even then.”

  Dody quirked her friend a smile. “I can cope with Henry Everard.”

  “Of course you can.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “That’s my girl. There was something else you wanted to ask me?”

  Dody reached into her bag and put the matchbox of tablets on the counter. “These tablets were found at the premises of a suspicious death. We think they are lead.”

  Borislav picked out a tablet and examined it under a magnifying glass. The bright electric light shone down on his bowed head, his pink scalp shining through salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Yes, they appear to be lead,” he said. “How unusual—highly concentrated, I suspect. But I cannot tell for certain without tests.”

  “St. Mary’s is conducting tests. I was just wondering if you had come across tablets with this type of unusual scoring before,” Dody said.

  “Not that I can remember, but I will check with Joseph. They were supplied in the matchbox?”

  “Possibly; they were found in it. And the victim was from this area.”

  “Unfortunately there are many around here with the ability to manufacture tablets such as these. All it requires is some basic scientific knowledge, equipment, and a pill press such as you would find in all chemists, pharmacies, and apothecaries—sometimes doctors’ surgeries. Even a doctor like yourself would be capable of manufacturing them . . .” Borislav broke off and rubbed his chin.

  “What’s on your mind, Borislav?”

  “Oh, it is nothing, really. But—you are aware that lead is often used for criminal abortion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, the lack of a specific container could indicate they have been made without a licence by someone who did not wish to be traced. You can imagine how these tablets would appeal, especially if not diluted with superfluous ingredients. The higher potency means they have a better chance of working.”

  “More expensive?”

  Borislav nodded. “I imagine so, but not too pricey or else the poorer classes would not be able to afford them. A rather strange fellow has been visiting me of late.” Borislav paused and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Both Joseph and I have had occasion to serve him and we have both questioned his motives. He calls himself a doctor, though I have my doubts about that. He tends to buy supplies relevant to female needs, if you get my drift. I wonder if he might have something to do with these tablets?”

  “The man practises obstetrics, you mean? Do you know his name?”

  “Something foreign, I think.” Borislav’s Russian heritage made him no less suspicious of foreigners than most English. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dorothy, but that is all I remember. At times I have been driven to having words with him for pestering my female customers. I would go to the police if I had anything more conclusive.”

  “Will you let me know when he next visits—see if you can get his name for me and any other details? I might be able to find something about him in our Book of Lists.”

  “Ah yes, your record of suspicious persons.”

  “I’ve also seen tablets like this in the possession of a scullery maid I have been treating. I only had the chance for a quick glance, but they might have been scored this way. Perhaps she has had dealings with your foreign doctor? I will track the girl down and ask her some questions. I will not rest until I get to the bottom of this.”

  “Tread cautiously, Dorothy: asking the wrong kinds of questions in an area like this might not be such a wise move. It would be all too easy for you to kick over the wrong stone.”

  Dody heard the shuffle of feet, the clearing of a female throat. She stepped aside to let Borislav serve a customer, a plump woman of indeterminate age who ordered eight ounces of humbugs.

  Borislav scooped out a clump of sticky sweets, weighed and bagged them, and exchanged friendly conversation with the woman about the close weather. Perhaps they would be blessed with a shower tonight. He finished up by trying to persuade her to part with tuppence for some soothing peppermint lozenges. She declined, her departure from the shop accompanied by the vigorous clanging of the spring bell on the door.

  He turned back to Dody and shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all.”

  She laughed.

  “I am glad to see you cheered up. And now I have something that will really put a smile on your face.”

  He leaned across the counter and patted his top pocket mischievously. “Some weeks ago we had a conversation about the Ballets Russes . . .”

  She stared at him for a moment, placed her hand on her chest to calm the sudden racing of her heart. “You didn’t . . .”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Tickets to the ballet?”

  “Due to cancellation; two tickets for tomorrow night, but only in the stalls, I’m afraid. Sorry about the short notice.” Borislav smiled. “I take it you are still interested?”

  “Oh yes, thank you. Of course I’m still interested!” Dody said, her thoughts hurrying over everything she had to get done. As for her paper, she could spend some time on it when she returned from the theatre. She must not let her concerns for that wretched assignment cast a shadow over the following evening: the Ballets Russes was the chance of a lifetime. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock and we can have supper after the performance,” Borislav said.

  Chapter Seven

  Her excitement over the ballet was soon forgotten when she entered the Kents’ tenement building. So heavy was its press, Dody felt she could have pushed the stench away with her hands. It seeped through the tenement walls and floorboards like invisible fog, through window gaps and under doors. In the single-room dwelling belonging to the family, it gathered in greatest concentration in the vicinity of a dilapidated set of bureau drawers. Near these a red-faced Mrs. Kent dozed in a rocker, one breast drooping like an empty slipper from her open blouse.

  Dody slammed the basket of food on the table. The woman gasped and opened her eyes.

  “Blimey, Doctor, caught me napping.” Mrs. Kent shoved her breast back into her blouse and struggled to her feet. Taking a rag from a bucket of water on the table, she wrung it out and dabbed at her face, her movements slow and deliberate in the stultifying heat. Then she took a chipped cup and dipped it into the same water, looking over the rim at Dody with defiance as she gulped it down. Dody bit her tongue. These people were sick of personal hygiene lectures given by toffs who had no idea what life was like without indoor plumbing, at the mercy of a single, erratic standpipe in the street.

  The other occupant of the room, Mr. Kent, lay sprawled half naked and snoring across the sagging iron bed. “Where are the children?” Dody asked.

  “John’s at work and the others are playing in the street; it’s cooler there.” Mrs. Kent plopped the cup back into the water bucket and began to riffle through the basket’s contents.

  “John has a job?” That had to be something, Dody supposed.

  “A good one—our John’ll go far s’long as ’e watches that lip of ’is.”

  “And the baby.” Dody glanced around the room. “Where’s Molly?”

  Mrs. Kent, busy lifting the pie from the basket, failed to answer.

  With a spasm of dread, Dody moved towards the bureau. She didn’t need the scenting talents of a bloodhound to recognise the smell of English cholera. “I told you to take her to the London Hospital if she got any worse,” she said, stooping over the baby to feel her burning head.

  “Bert an’ me ’ave been sick an’ all,” Mrs. Kent said, spraying a mouthful of pie crumbs. “I mean look at ’im now”—she nodded to the sprawled lump on the be
d—“’e can barely move.”

  Dody’s eyes rested on the empty bottle cradled in the man’s arms. Reading her expression, Mrs. Kent added, “For the pain, love.” She shot her husband a cautious glance, cut a generous piece of pie, and put it back in Dody’s basket. “Take that to my kids on yer way out, will you, miss? They won’t get nuffink if it stays in ’ere.”

  Dody said she would and closed the basket’s lid.

  Sifting through a pile of dirty linen on the floor, she picked up the cleanest of the items, a hemless rag that might once have been a tea towel, and placed it over her shoulder to protect her fine cotton blouse. She lifted the listless baby from the drawer and settled herself on the only kitchen chair. “Has she been feeding?”

  “Me milk’s just about gorn, miss. I’ve been trying ’er with this.” Mrs. Kent nodded towards a small milk jug sitting on the table next to the water bucket. “But she ain’t interested.”

  Dody sniffed at the milk, amazed to find it still fresh. Taking a clean rag from the table, she twisted it into a wick and dipped it into the jug. With her little finger she prised open the baby’s mouth and gently inserted the wick.

  “Have you given her anything else?” Dody asked as she tickled the baby’s throat, enticing her to swallow. “Anything from the chemist or apothecary?”

  “We can’t afford no fancy medicines,” Mrs. Kent said, popping the cork from the ginger beer and taking a long swallow.

  “I ask because lead was found in the stomach of your child Billy, probably from the tablets the police found here hidden in a matchbox.”

  Dody indicated an unopened blue envelope on the kitchen table. “I see you have received your summons—I’d open it soon if I were you; it will tell you where and when you need to appear in court. But listen carefully to me, Mrs. Kent. If you tell me now who gave or sold you the lead tablets, the enquiry will be a lot easier for you. Perhaps you purchased the tablets for yourself to prevent pregnancy and the child found and swallowed them. If that can be proved, Billy’s death will be ruled as misadventure.”