The child’s done this before, Pike thought as he watched man and boy disappear into the crowded passageway. He shook his head, puzzled for a moment, and then turned his mind to more important things: Margaretha.
He tapped on her dressing room door and entered at her command. The floor was strewn with petticoats, underclothes, and feather boas. She sat at her dressing table in a silken robe of oriental design. The lightbulbs around the mirror shone down upon a cornucopia of makeup pots, crystal bottles of scent, tubs of powder, and wilted flowers. On a small table next to this sat her elaborately carved water pipe, similar to the ones Pike had seen in the Sudan. Mata Hari revered the object not only for its decorative appearance; its soporific fumes had almost overcome Pike on more than one occasion.
She removed her jewelled headdress, looked at Pike through narrow eyes, and took aim. With a sweep of her hand, she sent the headdress flying through the air straight at him. He dodged and it smashed to the ground. Shattered faux rubies dotted the dressing room floor like drops of blood.
“Shall I call your maid?” he asked with deliberate calm.
“I heard you outside with him, that slobbering oaf! I don’t want anything to do with him. Tell Gabriel to cancel the remainder of his tickets.”
“Can’t be done. He’s paid in advance. Shouldn’t Betty be here now, helping you to dress?”
“I sacked her. She was stealing from me. Gabriel will find me another maid.” She ripped the pins from her hair, tossed them onto the dressing table, and seized her hairbrush. “Sometimes I feel I am nothing but a whore, a prisoner of you men, with Gabriel and you as my pimps.”
The hairbrush caught in a clump of hair at the back of her head. She yanked it, crying out with pain and frustration as the brush became even more tangled.
“Careful, you’ll hurt yourself.” Pike moved in on her from behind and relieved her of the brush’s handle. With as gentle a touch as possible, he attempted to extract the brush from the tangled nest of hair. “You shouldn’t have sacked your maid,” he said. “She should be doing this.”
Her shoulders curled as his fingers brushed against the skin of her neck. She lifted her hand to his, but he avoided her touch by moving to another knot. “You tease me,” she said.
To prove that this was not the case, he ripped the brush out of her hair with a yank that made her gasp.
Glancing in the mirror, he saw there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Pike closed his eyes briefly; the torture of women was not to his taste. Did she really want him this badly? Pike doubted it; to his mind he was nothing but ordinary—poor, ordinary, and half crippled. This woman could have almost any man she wanted. She got through more lovers than most women got through silk stockings, confound it. She only wanted him because she could not have him, because, unlike most men, he refused to succumb to her allure. Was this the personality trait that drove her to espionage, he wondered—the love of a challenge, the glory of success, the adoration of men?
He tossed the brush back onto the table. Trying to understand her would not get his job done. “Hurry up,” he said, “the admiral will be waiting.”
“Pimp!” The brush thumped against the door as he closed it behind him.
* * *
It didn’t take long for the others to follow Florence and Daphne’s lead. Soon there were almost as many of them waiting outside the back of the theatre as there had been at the front; protesting suffragettes, young men lusting for Mata Hari, and a starstruck group from a nearby restaurant who had heard the commotion and wanted to join in the fun.
Mata Hari’s appearance at the top of the back steps caught Florence by surprise. She was expecting the woman to appear as in her poster, wearing more jewels than clothing, but the spotlight on the back door illuminated a tall, lithe woman, fully dressed—although the silken blouse visible through her open summer coat was cut a little lower than respectable. Her figure-hugging skirt appeared so tight at the ankles that it made her take Geisha-like steps, and she descended the iron stairs leaning heavily into the arm of the gentleman in white tie and tails escorting her.
“That’s the conductor,” Florence heard one young man say to his companion.
“What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes tonight,” the friend replied.
As they reached the bottom of the steps, Mata Hari pulled a feather from her hat and began to tickle the conductor’s cheek in a manner most provocative.
Florence dug her elbow into Daphne’s side. “Give me some ammunition.” She reached into Daphne’s bag and selected the softest tomato she could find. More suffragettes followed Florence’s lead, screaming out their protests. Reinforcements, led by Jane Lithgow and her rotten-egg brigade, joined them from the front of the theatre.
A group of ushers came running down the steps and linked protective arms around the pair. The conductor took the dancer’s hand and shouted something above the din, then indicated the taxi ranks in the neighbouring street with his cane.
Florence took aim with her tomato and, with a strength gained from years of playing Fabian hockey, struck the silk hat from his head. The man touched his bare head with surprise and glared angrily into the crowd, seeking the direction from which the missile had been thrown.
Florence drew her breath with a gasp, blinked, and looked again. Mentally, she shaved off the beard.
Pike.
Of all the duplicitous men she had known, she would not have expected this from him.
In that instant Pike recognised her, too. He put his fingers to his lips and tried to hush her.
Florence was damned if she would be hushed. “Pike!” she screamed with righteous indignation, her blazing anger lifting her voice above the din. “You traitor, you cad, you . . . you . . . crippled weed!”
Pike whispered something to Mata Hari, placed her into the care of one of the ushers, and pushed his way through the crowd to Florence’s side. Before she knew it, he had tipped her back in his arms and forced his lips to hers, pressing her screams of protest into silence. When they broke for air, he rubbed his cheek against hers. “I told her you were a friend of mine,” he said, sotto voce. “Florence, listen, please, don’t call me Pike. This is not what it seems.”
Florence’s head was still reeling from the unexpected kiss; it was a long time since she had been kissed like that. And by Pike, of all people—the very cheek of it! She drew back and walloped him hard across the face. Pike flinched, grabbed hold of her hand, and glowered down at her. He was not a tall man but in this instant he appeared to Florence like a giant. In the tension of the moment she was vaguely aware of Daphne Hamilton creeping up behind him, hefting her VOTES FOR WOMEN sign above his head. “Meet me in one hour at the Queen’s Hotel, in the Oyster Room, and I’ll explain—”
His words were cut short by a sharp crack and the sound of splintering wood.
* * *
The classic white front of the Queen’s Hotel stood out from the dark leviathan shapes of the buildings around it. Pike hesitated on the bottom step. Florence deserved to know what was going on, and in any case, there was nothing to lose now—he was certain the covert operation was ruined. His explanation to Margaretha in the hansom on their way to the Ritz had been weak, and in the flickering light of the cab’s lamp he’d read the suspicion in her eyes. She was sure to tell Gabriel Klassen about the scene outside the theatre, and her accomplice, too, if she had one. Perhaps that was not a bad thing; it might spur them to act. The admiral had been well briefed; he might be a buffoon, but he was still a patriot and more than happy with using his briefcase as bait, provided talk of his escapades did not reach his wife.
As Pike stood on the steps, he felt a great, cleansing wave of relief wash over him. He was free now to help Dody in any way he could if she would let him. He need not creep to her house under cover of darkness, worried someone might recognise the quiet police officer as Mata Hari’s conductor; he could visit her t
omorrow, in respectable daylight.
Of course, there was still one other hurdle to overcome, and that was to convince Florence of his integrity. Despite their differences, the sisters were close. If he could win over Florence, he might have a chance at winning Dody over, too.
He mounted the steps with a new resolve, handed the doorman a penny, and entered the hotel’s plush interior. The Oyster Room stayed open late and was popular with theatregoers, offering light oyster suppers, clam chowder, and assorted specialities from the grill. The interior was dimly lit and smoky, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He saw her, finally, at the far end of the room, wearing a dress of mauve brocade. She was sitting alone at a table next to a window facing the busy, flickering square. He handed the maître d’ his stained hat and made his way over to her past a table of boisterous young Guards officers. Florence refused to acknowledge his presence. Even when the maître d’ pulled out a chair for him, she would not turn her head from the view.
Pike cleared his throat. “May I order you something? I can recommend the oysters.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Pike beckoned to a waiter. “Two glasses of Krug, please, and a dozen oysters natural.”
“I told you I wasn’t hungry,” Florence said.
“I am.”
Pike did not have to wait long. The plate was soon in front of him. Florence looked from the oysters to him. “Rather expensive, I would imagine, for a policeman’s purse.”
“As you’ve probably gathered, I’ve been employed elsewhere recently.”
“Selling yourself, you mean?” she responded coolly. The oysters seemed to wriggle about on their beds of ice.
“I assure you, it’s nothing like that.”
“Then you’d better explain.”
Pike leaned across the table. “Firstly, I need to know how your sister is.”
“Good of you to ask.”
“Florence, please. I know about the inquest and have been worried sick.”
“You don’t seem unwell. If anything, I would say you are quite in the pink.”
Pike put his hand to the back of his head and probed the lump, testing her mood with a slight smile. “Actually, I’ve got a thumping headache.”
“Good, you deserve it.” She failed to smile back. “I don’t like the beard; it makes you look sinister. I think it illustrates your true nature. You probably never had any intention of helping my sister—how could you, when you’ve been so busy consorting with harlots?”
“Florence, I’ve been on special assignment, undercover, and that’s all I can tell you. You can believe it or not, the choice is yours.” He pushed his chair from the table to leave. His head hurt, he was tired, and he had lost his appetite. He did not have the time for this. Besides, if he had to explain his behaviour to anyone, he would rather it was to Dody.
The beaded trim of Florence’s dress danced in the lights of the candelabra and reflected in her eyes. “Spies?” she enquired in a stage whisper that had Pike looking around the restaurant in a panic. “If you don’t want the whole restaurant to hear me, you’d better sit back down, hadn’t you?”
Pike reluctantly sat. The waiter poured the champagne, and Pike took several swallows before the fizz settled.
Florence said, “I have read all about the German threat and I am full bottle on it.” Pike could almost see the thoughts chasing one another through her brain. “I take it you mean German spies? They say there are thousands of them in the country at any given time, disguised as butchers and bakers and businessmen even.”
“Yes, I’ve read that in the shilling shockers, too.”
“Must you be so obtuse? You know very well that what I am saying is not some kind of fiction.”
It was at times like this that the age difference between Dody and her sister became glaringly obvious. This was a game to Florence, much like the protests and stone-throwing she got up to with the suffragettes. Had she no idea of the real danger the German threat posed? “No, not fiction. German spies on our soil could indeed be the precursor of an invasion. The Kaiser’s jealousy of Britain is getting out of control—he’s building up his armaments, setting his neighbours’ teeth on edge, and demanding Germany’s ‘place in the sun,’” he said, endeavouring to get the seriousness of the situation across.
She clasped her hands and peered earnestly into his eyes. “It’s Mata Hari, isn’t it? She is Dutch and surely has German sympathies. It is no surprise to me that she’s one of them. They say she is dangerous, wanton, and promiscuous—she certainly seems to fit the bill . . .”
Alarmed at her enthusiasm, Pike furtively looked around the room and raised his hands for her to stop. “Slow down and please keep quiet. I can neither confirm nor deny what you’ve said. And don’t tell anyone about this conversation or your suspicions, despite the fact that the operation is almost certainly at an end now.”
Florence looked contrite. Her eyes dropped to the rising bubbles in her champagne glass. “Because of me? I am sorry, Pike.”
“Don’t be. Part of me is relieved.”
“You will visit Dody tomorrow morning and explain?”
“I’ll explain what I can. Yes.”
“And tell her why you reneged on your knee operation? I’m afraid she’s taken it very personally.”
Pike had no answer to that. He might be able to explain his extracurricular activities to Dody, but to explain the other issue was a matter easier said than done.
Chapter Seventeen
FRIDAY 25 AUGUST
He lay on a stretcher in the operating tent after a three-day journey across the veldt in an oxcart. The hospital tent he was carried into was so small they could barely fit the operating table between its two poles. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his body cried out for water. He stared longingly at the row of pannikins on the dressings stand, tried to reach out for one, and found he could barely lift his hand. Flies pattered across his face, and he did not have the strength to bat them away.
An orderly leaned over him, peeled the stinking dressing from his right knee, and called the doctor over.
“That left leg will have to come off,” the doctor said.
No, not the left, the right leg, Pike tried to say, but the words would not leave his mouth.
“There’s no anaesthetic,” the orderly said.
“Cowards don’t deserve anaesthetics.”
The remains of his ragged trousers were cut from his left leg. Above him the surgeon hefted a great axe. Then he realised this wasn’t the surgeon he’d seen earlier. This one had the face of Dody McCleland. She leaned over and kissed him long and deep, one moment looking like her sister, the next looking like herself. “It has to be done, Pike,” she said, resuming her position with the axe.
“No, no!” Pike cried mutely. He wriggled and strained and, just as the orderly moved to hold him down, fell with a crash from the operating table.
* * *
He awoke on the floor of his bedroom in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. “Just a dream, just a dream,” he murmured to himself. It hadn’t been like that at all. But despite his reassurances, the dream had opened a curtain in his mind on events he had no desire to remember.
First there was the fighting that transformed the dusty veldt into a butcher’s shop, painting it red with the spilled blood of both sides. White stars of shrapnel smoke dotted the landscape; big guns boomed. Shredded eucalyptus leaves released their medicinal odour while imbecilic British commanders sent hundreds to their deaths. It was in one such skirmish where the British troops had been led into an ambush—boxed in on each side of a high ravine—that Pike had been hit. His batman had led his horse from the lines and taken him to a field dressing station. Indian stretcher-bearers had next loaded him onto a bullock cart and transported him to the field hospital. His companion in the cart was a sergeant with similar injuries
to his. The stench from their legs grew with each hour they spent on the rutted dirt track. By the time they reached their destination, Pike could not say which of them reeked the most.
They were both feverish and in a dreadful state when they arrived at the village of tents that served as the field hospital. The sergeant was examined by the doctor, who, after waving the flies away, declared that he had no time for intricate surgery—the leg would have to come off.
Pike saw it all from where he lay on the stretcher waiting his turn.
He saw orderlies hold the sergeant down. He saw the young doctor under the watch of an older man—Van Noort—reach for his surgical saw and press it against the sergeant’s bone. The sergeant screamed; the doctor said, “God damn it—the bloody thing won’t cut!”
For a moment the young doctor had looked around the tent in a state of panic. Then his eyes fell on a big ripsaw which the women had been using to make splints. After washing the saw in a bucket of water, he cut through the bone as if it were butter. Fortunately by then the sergeant had lost consciousness.
The older doctor clapped the younger one on the back. “Well done, George. I’ll leave the other to you then,” he said and he exited through the tent flaps.
“Next!” the younger doctor ordered as the sergeant was carried away. It was then that Pike had drawn his pistol.
The medical staff had more than enough casualties to attend to and no time to argue with a belligerent lieutenant, even if he was the holder of the DCM, and took him to another tent to die.
But he hadn’t died. Having found him unfit for frontline duty, the military promoted him and sent him to help supervise the running of the internment camp at Bloemfontein, where Boer women and children were imprisoned to prevent them from providing succour and supplies to the guerrilla forces. It was then that his nightmares had really started: the waking nightmare of starving children, overcrowding, and pestilence and disease that left people dying like rats. The British authorities could barely see to the needs of their own forces, let alone those of enemy civilians.
Antidote to Murder Page 15
