Antidote to Murder

by Felicity Young

  Pike’s protests over conditions in the camp fell on deaf ears, and little fuss was made over his resignation. A crippled officer wasn’t good for the reputation of the regiment anyway, despite his chest full of medals. Joining the police had seemed a natural progression from the military. Strange, he thought, after last year, I am now not only an embarrassment to the army, but to the police force, too.

  He shook his head and hefted himself from the floor. He needed a bath, but the sounds of running water and singing from the bathroom at the end of the landing put paid to that notion. Moving over to the marble washstand, he poured cold water into the bowl from the jug, stripped off his nightshirt, and sluiced himself down. He inspected his face in the shaving mirror. Florence had said the beard made him look sinister. Dody would probably think the same, and he couldn’t afford that. After trimming his beard with scissors, he mixed up the shaving soap and applied a thick lather to his face, stropped his razor, and carefully removed the offending growth.

  He dressed, adjusted his cravat in the wardrobe mirror, and slung his jacket over his shoulder. As he made his way downstairs, the savoury aroma of kedgeree grew stronger. In the dining room he piled up his plate, took a seat at the large polished table, and was about to take his first mouthful when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “There’s a telephone call for you, Mr. Pike.” Mrs. Keating looked annoyed. She hated the newly installed telephone with a passion—how it always rang at mealtimes and the space its closet took up in her fine front hall.

  Pike excused himself from the other lodgers and retired to the telephone. “Pike,” said the crackling voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Callan. We have an emergency. Get to the Ritz immediately. The operation’s off.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dody had slept badly. Her digestive condition continued to flare, necessitating several trips to the WC, and she’d been up since dawn with the first gatherings of the mob in the street outside her house.

  It was mortifying that her parents had had to see this. They had departed early to attend to some urgent farm business, leaving for the station by the back door.

  As they kissed her good-bye, they had promised to return as soon as possible to support her for the trial.

  Dody tried to distract herself from the mob’s chanting by working on her paper, but found it impossible to concentrate. The paper was probably a complete waste of time now. She had been barred from the mortuary until the end of the trial and had no idea when she’d get the chance to hand it in—if at all. If convicted, she would surely never work as a doctor again.

  Sensing the scrutiny of a pair of beady pink eyes, she looked up to see a whiskered nose twitching at her through the bars of a cage. Edward Rat had been confined to sturdier lodgings since he had been identified as the ringleader of the last escape. Now he resided on her desk, and his increased contact with her meant he was tamer than ever. Dody imagined herself in his place, looking out from the wrong side of the bars.

  To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark dock, in a pestilential prison with a life-long lock . . .

  A tremble surfaced from somewhere deep within her body. She shuddered and opened the cage door. Edward Rat would be allowed a short exploration of her desk.

  Exercise period in C block.

  She returned to the journal she was scanning for articles on TB research but instead came across a paper on surgical knee repair. Here at last was something that held her attention. It was impossible not to think of Pike as she studied the article with her head propped on her hand. The writer recommended a vertical incision to open the knee joint and then provided a step-by-step guide for the removal of shrapnel. This technique, Dody realised as she looked at the date of the paper, had been documented before the development of Röntgen’s X-ray machine. With the help of the X-ray, which Pike had already had, the operation would be even more straightforward.

  Engrossed at last in her reading, she barely heard the quick, energetic footsteps on the landing and a knock on her study door. Not that Florence ever waited for permission to enter.

  Dody hastily put the rat back in his cage and slipped it out of sight under her desk. “Good afternoon, Florence.” She never understood those who chose to miss the best part of the day by sleeping through it.

  Florence must have detected the starchiness in Dody’s tone and said defensively, “I deserved a lie-in. I had a very late, but very successful night.” She dabbed the back of her hand on her forehead, careful not to disturb the meticulous pompadour that took Annie half an hour to arrange each morning. “Goodness, but it’s stuffy in here,” she added, apparently not noticing the ratty odour about the room. “Another overcast day, with not enough blue for a sailor’s suit—we might as well be living in equatorial Africa.”

  “Since when have you been to equatorial Africa?”

  “I’ve read enough about it in the National Geographic magazine to know that I never want to go there.” Florence moved to open the sash window. “Let us pray it rains again soon.”

  “Don’t open it—I can’t bear the chanting.”

  Florence peered down into the street at the crowd. “I know what you mean: loathsome reporters.”

  “No, I don’t think they’re reporters. They look too rough. Paid troublemakers, I think.”

  “Put up to it by reporters, then—do I look all right, by the way?” Florence turned from the window and twirled.

  This morning she wore a striped batiste dress in blue and white, to which she would add a hat and matching parasol when she went out. Florence and her group of suffragettes always made a special effort with their dress to belie the dowdy spinster stereotype the antisuffragettes had concocted.

  “Enchanting as always,” Dody said.

  “Thank you.” Florence looked out of the window again to the jostling, pushing group of hooligans below. “I hope Pike has the common sense to use the mews entrance.”

  Even the mob seemed to fall silent.

  “Pike? Florence, what are you talking about?”

  Florence flopped onto the Queen Anne chair opposite her sister. “I met him last night outside the theatre. You are never going to believe this, but he was conducting the orchestra for that dreadful Mata Hari creature, the woman we were protesting against. I barely recognised him.”

  All Dody could do was cover her mouth with her hand and stare.

  “At first I was furious, especially when he kissed me—”

  “He what?”

  “Don’t worry; it was just a pretend kiss. He explained it all to me later, in the Oyster Room. He’s coming to see you”—she glanced at her wristwatch—“any time now, to tell you everything he’s been up to. It’s all very hush-hush. He also wants to help you.”

  Dody turned from her sister and faced the wall. The only thing that seemed to have registered with her was that Pike had kissed Florence. He was supposed to be helping his daughter Violet prepare for the start of the school term, filling tuck boxes and buying uniforms. Instead he was consorting with dubious women and kissing her sister. Did she really know this man? How could she when he appeared to lead such a secret life? And he expected her to accept his offer of help—who did he think he was?

  “Did he seem well?” she could not help enquiring.

  “He has grown an ugly beard, and it doesn’t suit him. It makes him appear villainous.”

  “I mean his health, Florence.”

  “Oh, that, well, yes. His limp is as bad as ever. He was a fool not to have the operation, and I imagine he regrets it now. There is also some grey at his temples—whether or not it was there before, I don’t know. You would probably be a better judge of that than me.”

  “I don’t need Pike’s help. I’m going to help myself,” Dody said. “Last night the lawyer said the best way of having my case dismissed before trial was to find out who really did perform the abortion th
at killed Esther Craddock.”

  “Yes, that is just what we, that is, Daphne and I, were saying.”

  “Poppa’s lawyer wants to hire an agent of enquiry.”

  Florence looked taken aback. “One of those sleazy fellows? I would have thought an officer of Special Branch would be more appropriate, and a lot more discreet.”

  “Well, it looks like I have no choice: your Special Branch officer is not here, is he?” Dody heard the crack in her voice and hated herself for it. “What time did he say he’d be coming?”

  “He said midmorning. Perhaps he was put off by the mob?”

  “Or perhaps he never intended coming in the first place.” She put her hand out to her sister. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done, Florence—your support and your attempt to bring Pike in to help—but do you know, I really don’t think there is anyone, Pike, lawyers, police, or agents of enquiry, who can help me any better than I can help myself.”

  “But how? What do you intend to do?”

  “Before her abortion, Esther Craddock had been poisoning herself with professionally made lead tablets. When the tablets failed to work, it stands to reason that she went back to the supplier for something stronger. In all likelihood, the supplier was the one who referred her to the abortionist, or—”

  “The supplier might be the abortionist as well. Yes, it makes sense, though that Fisher didn’t seem to think it worth following up,” Florence finished.

  “It’s a long shot, but at the moment it’s all I have.” Dody left her chair, picked up her shopping basket, and moved to the door. “Supplier, abortionist, whoever it is, they are obviously worried enough about me to try and have me sent to prison, get me out of the way. I’m sure they stole the Book of Lists, too. Perhaps I have been asking the right questions after all.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to see someone who might be able to give me some more information about the tablets.”

  “But what if Pike comes while you’re out?”

  “I can’t wait in all day for something that may never happen.”

  Florence rose to follow. “Then we’d better leave via the mews, and wear veils over our hats—the sun is hot enough to warrant them—so we are not recognised.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Dody. I’m coming, too.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pike’s dread increased with each step along the plush carpet to the hotel room door. He repeated a phrase in his head—I told them to warn him, I told them to warn him—a feeble attempt to ease his overwhelming sense of responsibility. The admiral was an eager participant in the plan, he told himself. Not only had he grasped at the chance to serve his country, but he’d been more than willing to satisfy his baser instincts as well. He had been on high alert and had been warned of the danger. What, then, had gone wrong?

  A uniformed constable stood guard outside a corner suite at the end of the corridor, where a small man in a brown suit paced to and fro. The small man looked up at the sound of Pike’s tread and hurried to meet him.

  “And you are?” Pike asked coldly. The man pulled out his warrant card and handed it to Pike. “Detective Constable Appleby.” Pike slowly mouthed every syllable. He’d been briefed by Callan earlier on who the man was, what he had and had not done.

  Pike looked closely at Appleby and noticed a purpling bruise around his swollen left eye. The detective delved into his waistcoat pocket and removed a gold sovereign. “Here, sir, take this. I was going to give it to the widows’ and orphans’ fund.”

  “As you still will,” Pike said without taking the money. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I exchanged places with Detective Constable Simpson outside the dining room when the admiral and the lady were about halfway through their meal. I sat in the hotel lobby so I could follow them upstairs when they’d finished. I caught the lift immediately after the one they were on, and as I stepped out on their floor, the admiral accosted me. Quite aggressive and drunk.”

  “He assaulted you?”

  “Yes, well, but I’d rather not make anything of it.”

  I bet you won’t, Pike thought.

  “He didn’t mince his words, told me to take the money and get lost, go down to the bar, anything but hang around the corridor—said he could handle matters himself.”

  Stupid old fool, Pike thought to himself. What did the admiral think he could do alone? “Had you or Simpson seen anything that aroused your suspicion?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And your instructions?”

  “To sit in the dark in the adjoining room with the door ajar to keep an eye on the admiral’s room and to watch if anyone else was to enter it.”

  “And the admiral objected to that?”

  Appleby shrugged, brushed a pale thread from his jacket sleeve. “Must have.”

  Pike stared pointedly at the man for a moment. “What are you not telling me, Appleby? What did you do to upset the admiral?”

  Appleby paled. “Just a small misunderstanding, sir.”

  “I’m sure.” Pike pushed past the detective and flicked his warrant card to the constable guarding the door. A pungent smell assaulted him as he entered the room. The admiral lay naked on the giant bed, body arched, the back of his head jammed between the mattress and the bed head, his blackened face contorted into an agonised grimace.

  Trying to avoid the hideous eyes, Pike leaned over the body and examined the handcuffs fixing the dead man’s hands to the head of the bed. They were police issue, similar to those usually attached to the admiral’s briefcase.

  Pike straightened and glanced around the opulent white, gold, and scarlet room. There were two others present apart from himself, an elderly sergeant and a police photographer. A constable sat with Margaretha in the adjacent room, where Detective Appleby was supposed to have been stationed for the night. As a courtesy, the hotel had provided the room for continuing use of the police. Pike had already spoken to the twittering hotel manager and suggested it was in the Ritz’s best interest to cooperate.

  “The admiral usually kept his briefcase cuffed to his wrist; I can’t see it anywhere,” Pike said to the sergeant as he pushed through the dead man’s clothes with the toe of his boot. “Have you made a thorough search?”

  “Ah, yes, sir. Left the briefcase under the bed where I found it. I didn’t want to touch it; know what you Special Branch chaps are like.”

  Pike ignored the sergeant’s attempt at a jocular tone and dropped to his knees. Bone ground on bone. He suppressed a grunt of pain, slid out the case, and placed it on the bed.

  He inspected the latch. Damaged, prised open by a small knife by the looks of it. With a handkerchief wrapped around his hand to prevent contamination by his own prints, Pike opened the lid and gazed at the case’s contents: a copy of yesterday’s Times and a fountain pen, but none of the planted documents. He picked up the pen and immediately felt the black ink seeping through his handkerchief. There was an ink stain on the newspaper where the pen had rested. The gathering of fingerprints would now be even more arduous than usual.

  “Damn it,” Pike cursed. He threw the pen back into the case and made his way to the bedroom sink.

  “What was supposed to be in the briefcase, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  Pike did not reply, but scrubbed at his hands under the running water until the black trickle turned to grey. The sergeant should have known better than to question a Special Branch officer. Fortunately the genuine blueprints of the Dreadnought’s new fifteen-inch guns were residing safely in the Admiralty strongroom. The stolen papers were fakes, but the fewer who knew that the better. The prospect of the Germans wasting time and resources on plans that were at least four years out of date had given the British military authorities much satisfaction.

  “Who raised the alarm?” Pike asked as he dried his hand
s on a fluffy white towel hanging next to the sink.

  “The woman in his bed”—the sergeant coughed—“discovered the admiral like this when she woke up early this morning. She ran screaming into the corridor and told the maid, who contacted the hotel manager. He located your man, who had fallen asleep in the lobby and who in turn called Special Branch.” He paused. “And here you are, sir.”

  “Yes. Here I am.”

  How could Margaretha not notice someone dying in such a violent manner beside her in the bed? Although, Pike conceded, having witnessed Margaretha’s condition after a hashish binge, perhaps it was possible she slept through the admiral’s death throes.

  “Did she say whether, when she ran out into the corridor, the door was locked or unlocked?” Pike asked.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t ask her that, sir.”

  Pike tried to hide his frustration, stepped from the room, and examined the brass plate under the door lock. Several thin lines scored the polished sheen of the plate. He licked his finger and rubbed at one, causing it to fade. Brass fittings were polished every day in this kind of hotel; these scratches were new.

  Returning to the sergeant, he said, “I think the lock was picked.” He pointed to a heavy key on the bedside table. “That’s the door key, still where it was placed after one of them locked up last night.”

  He scanned the room again. Women’s clothes spilled from a gilt chair next to a table where Margaretha’s water pipe stood. The smell of stale smoke in the room suggested it had been used within the last few hours. Dirty blobs of water surrounded the pipe and two empty champagne glasses rested next to it. An empty bottle of French champagne lay under the table.

  “See if you can lift some fingerprints from the champagne bottle, briefcase, and table—and try not to touch them yourself,” Pike said to the sergeant.

  The sergeant sighed. He was old-school and had not taken to the new innovations in crime detection that always so intrigued Pike. But, Pike thought soberly, he’d not been able to think up any bright ideas this time. Please God, he prayed, help me find justice for the admiral and make up for his death, even if I can’t make up for the blood of Bloemfontein on my hands.