“Yes?”
“What does it feel like to . . . I mean, what do I do about these feelings I have for Pike?”
“My advice is to have nothing to do with men at all. They are only trouble and grief.” The twinkle in Florence’s eye belied her serious tone.
“You can’t generalise like that. You can’t compare Bobby Stratford to Pike, surely.” Stratford was the married man who had nearly ruined Florence when she was just seventeen years old. “They are poles apart, barely of the same species.”
“I agree. Pike is very straightlaced.”
“And Bobby had no laces at all!”
“He was a poet, an artist—people like him must not be confined by society’s ridiculous restrictions.”
The defensive tone surprised Dody. She thought Florence had recovered from her attachment to that wretch. “Indeed,” she countered, “his sort turn promiscuity into an art form.”
“But it still stands to reason that Bobby behaved like he did. It was just unfortunate for me that I did not understand it at the time.”
“You were lied to. And you were seventeen. I am thirty. I have made no such mistakes to learn from.”
Florence put her hand out to Dody. “I understand your curiosity, and I am hardly in a position to judge. It must be hard for you with most of the men you have ever touched lying before you cold on the slab. Follow your instincts. I think you can trust Pike. In fact, I am sure you can.”
* * *
Dody was overly aware of the rustle of her dress, the beating of her heart, and the pinch of her shoes and corset—she had felt less self-conscious at her university admissions interview. When Pike rose from his chair, she found herself dropping her eyes like a nervous debutante.
“You both look delightful,” he said, kissing first Florence’s hand, then lingering a second longer over Dody’s. She made every effort to banish her childish insecurities. This would not do. Dr. Dody McCleland, Britain’s first female autopsy surgeon, was not going to allow herself to turn to jelly over one man’s appreciative gaze. She forced herself to meet his eyes. How dashing he looked in his cream brocade waistcoat, matching bow tie, and black tailcoat.
He poured them a sherry.
“So, Pike, distasteful as it obviously was to you,” Florence said teasingly, “your infiltration into Mata Hari’s troupe was worth it. Your success is being bandied all over the evening newspapers.”
“On the contrary, Florence, not distasteful at all.”
Florence’s eyes flashed. “Typical. Men!”
“Quite. In my case, conducting a full orchestra was a new experience and most educational.”
Florence took breath as if for a stinging retort, noticed Dody’s smile, and relaxed into easy laughter. “I suppose I deserved that,” she said.
They toasted Pike’s success. Dody was glad to see he had managed to put the morning’s disquiet behind him.
“Klassen is fortunate we’re not at war with Germany,” Pike said. “If we were, he would have been taken to the Tower and shot. As it is, he faces a lengthy prison sentence.”
“And Mata Hari?” Florence asked.
“She will be deported back to Holland,” he said. “Though I expect she will be brought back to testify further down the track.”
Annie called them in to the dining room. Over dinner Dody joined in with Florence’s accounts of what it had been like to grow up in a family of Fabians. They told Pike of the artists and literary guests who frequented their parents’ homes and the high regard the artistic community had for their literary critic mother. They also told him of their father’s insistence that every guest participate in a Fabian hockey match before enjoying the family’s hospitality—an endurance test of sorts—to see if they were worthy company.
“Somehow I don’t think I would make the grade,” Pike said with a fleeting smile.
“Nonsense, Pike,” Florence said. “If you think your knee will prevent you from playing, all you have to do is stand in the paddock as an obstacle. Poppa’s rules are very flexible.”
Dody doubted that was what Pike had meant. As Florence continued to explain the conventions of Fabian hockey to Pike, it struck Dody that her parents, who accepted most people with open arms, might possibly not allow Pike through their front gate, let alone into their house. His distant gaze while Florence talked on indicated to Dody that he was probably aware of the situation, too.
It wasn’t his class that would be the problem—her parents were constantly battling the absurd British class system—it was his status as a policeman that would cause them the greatest unease, a problem increased tenfold now that Pike was with Special Branch. Special Branch officers had spied on her family when they had first settled back into England from Moscow, certain they were out to spread subversion and revolution. Dowdy little men had stared at them through binoculars for hours from the shrubbery, stolen their letters, and pumped their servants for information. The experience had left the McClelands with a bitter taste for the English police.
But perhaps she was jumping ahead of herself on this issue. There was still a lot more territory to explore before taking Pike home to meet her parents.
They dined on soup, saddle of lamb, and trifle. Fletcher wore his chauffeur’s uniform while he helped Annie wait at table. They had no need for a butler or a footman in their small, unconventional household.
Pike entertained them with stories of the regimental reviews he’d had the dubious honour of accompanying with piano at various postings in India, the Sudan, and South Africa.
She would have liked to hear about his war experiences, how he had injured his knee, but dared not ask. She suspected that that part of his life was closed to her and anyone else who had not been there.
“Buttercup had only been on stage for about five minutes,” Pike went on, “when he shifted his position and ended up falling through the rotting timbers of the bolted trapdoor. The crowd loved it, of course.”
“I imagine they did,” Dody said, laughing.
Soon after dessert, Florence surprised them both by jumping to her feet. “It’s been a delightful evening, but I’m afraid I have to go out now.”
Pike stood.
“Where on earth are you going at this hour?” Dody asked.
Florence glanced at Pike then back to Dody. “Oh, you know . . .”
“Not more plotting, surely?” Dody asked.
Pike put his hands over his ears. “I hear nothing.”
“I’m just visiting Daphne; we have a few things to sort out,” Florence said. “It’s all right, Pike; we are not planning anything illegal. But I will be home late and will use my key to get in. Dody, tell the servants not to wait up.”
And with a slide of burgundy silk, she was gone.
Pike sat down again. Dody found herself staring at him through the candlelight. The more she got to know Pike, she realised, the more attractive he became.
“Well?” he asked softly.
“Well?” Dody repeated. “Shall we take our coffee in the morning room?”
* * *
The servants had been sent to bed. Dody and Pike stood in the morning room by the light of the standard lamp. Side by side, arms brushing, they examined with feigned interest the photograph of an elderly relative on the mantelpiece.
Pike took the photograph from Dody’s hand and put it back on the mantel. He put his arms around her and drew her close. She did not resist.
He kissed her gently at first and she did not hesitate to return the kiss, pressing her body against his in a response that felt like hunger. He pulled her down onto the chaise and she felt the beat of his heart—a beating heart—through the silk of her dress and the stiff barrier of his shirt.
She longed to feel the smooth warmth of his skin, imagined herself undoing his tie, the studs of his shirt, and waistcoat buttons—so many buttons—and slipp
ing her palm into the gap.
She could not go to her grave untouched by a man. She wanted, she needed, to give herself to Pike. Below his starched bib she found a button. She hooked her finger beneath it and felt a small patch of skin.
He covered her hand with his and gently held it back from further exploration. With a groan, he buried his face in her neck. “We can’t go any further with this, not here, not now,” he murmured.
What did he mean?
“Because of our work? We could be discreet. No one need know,” she said as she rubbed her hand against the taut muscles of his neck, spreading her fingers into the soft damp of his hair.
He took a deep breath and straightened beside her on the chaise, winged collar askew, pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. “No, not that.”
What then? She lowered her head. With a burning feeling of shame, she busied herself with adjusting the crooked bodice of her dress. What had happened? What had gone wrong? What kind of fool had she made of herself?
“I understand,” she whispered. “I have gone too far and you no longer desire me.”
“Good God, woman, of course I desire you,” he all but choked. He leaned towards her and cupped her face in his hands. “I love and desire you more than any woman in the world. But I also respect you and I will not take advantage of you. You are a rebel, yes, but not in matters like this. If we were to do as we want now, you might hate me for it later and I could not stand that. There will be plenty of time to fulfil our desires, if”—he hesitated, as if unsure whether to go on—“if we are married.”
Her own heart seemed to stop beating. “Married?” she whispered. This was a proposal? Marriage to Pike was something that had not crossed her mind. Lovers, yes, she had fantasised that. But marriage?
She got up from the chaise, moved to the newly repaired window, pulled back the curtain, and strained to see past the shadows of Cartwright Gardens.
He approached her from behind and encircled her with his arms. She watched his reflection in the window through eyes blurry with tears.
“I don’t know, Matthew,” she said truthfully.
“We wouldn’t want a stiff Victorian marriage. Ours would be a union of equals—I love and respect you too much for it to be anything else. You could continue your work at the Clinic if you wished. I would never stand in your way.”
“And the Home Office?”
He paused. His silence told her this was another story. She wondered if he had given any thought at all to having a wife who, for the better part of the week, reeked of death.
“I do not have much to offer you, and we could not live as you are accustomed on a policeman’s wage. But you would never be short of love. Please tell me that you love me and that what I desire is what you desire, too.”
She turned in his arms to face him. “I don’t know what to say.”
He brushed his finger across her lips. “Just tell me that you love me.”
“I do love you, Matthew,” she said with all her heart, gazing into his face with one hand on his chest. “But this marriage proposal is unexpected. Please give me time to think.”
His hold loosened. “You didn’t seem to have any hesitation in considering me as a lover.” His words were spoken levelly, but the look on his face made her think of a calm lake ruffled by a cool breeze.
“That is not quite the same as marriage.” She moved over to the electric switch and flooded the room with unforgiving light.
Pike left the window and slumped onto the chaise. “Are you really prepared to swap roles completely with men? Advocate that women behave as they do—take lovers instead of husbands? Is marriage to me such a degrading thing?”
“No, no, I did not mean it to sound like that.” She rushed to sit at his side and took his hand. “I just need more time—surely you can understand? I am still establishing my career as one of a small handful of female specialists. Marriage now will put an end to that, to my independence. I would always wonder what might have been . . .”
Pike swallowed. “So your answer is no?”
“Please, Matthew,” she said desperately, “can we not just forget marriage and live for the here and now?”
He squeezed her hand back, his body sagging. “Of course I understand. But as for the here and now, that is not how I live, Dody—can you understand that?” He ran his hand over his mouth as if wanting to take his words back. “I have made a fool of myself. Forgive me.”
“No, no, you are never a fool, Matthew; it is me. You surprised me and I’ve been clumsy and hurtful. I beg you to forgive me.”
Even through her pain, Dody knew she must be grateful to Pike. In the heat of the moment, it would have been too easy to continue what they were doing without a thought for contraception, to become a doctor who did not practise what she preached.
He kissed her hand. “There is nothing to forgive. Why don’t we just blame Florence for leaving us unchaperoned and then forget this ever happened?”
She smiled through her tears. “Yes, let’s do that.”
But how could they?
Chapter Twenty-Five
MONDAY 28 AUGUST
For two nights Dody had grappled with various scenarios, none of them comforting. Marrying Pike to the displeasure of her parents and the end of her career. Or the alternative: rising to the top of her profession, making a difference, proving that a woman was as capable as a man.
Being lonely, missing Pike.
Of course, he might come to share or at least accept her terms, but then, if he did, how could they function professionally together?
Perhaps she would find someone who, unlike Pike, had nothing to do with her work and would be happy to love her without the restrictions marriage would automatically impose. Modern, unmarried women of her age and class did take lovers. Her parents—often operating just barely on the fringes of polite society themselves—would not be concerned for long, provided she remained discreet. But that scenario required that she could bear the thought of giving herself to any man other than Pike. That she could even dally with the thought of being with another man shamed and repulsed her.
What kind of a world do I live in? she’d thought as she’d buried her face in her pillow, finally allowing the bitter tears to flow. Why couldn’t she have the man she loved and continue with her career? What price must one pay for love?
* * *
Monday morning she did her best to put Saturday’s disastrous night behind her. She had told Pike that she would meet him in the mortuary yard and she intended on being punctual.
Pike seemed surprised to see her. He shook her hand with a formal greeting and a stiff bow. “Dr. McCleland.”
Dody hated hearing him address her so formally. The touch of his hand brought with it sudden, unbidden sensations.
“Fisher and his men are interviewing the staff now,” he said, “and I do not wish to interfere with his procedure—this is his case after all. He has orders to report to me here when he’s finished.”
She now wished she had not been so punctual. She had no desire to show her face while the interviews were being conducted, and the mortuary premises were still out of bounds to her. Waiting there with Pike was more painful than she could have imagined. They stood in uncomfortable silence, listening to the sound of the Benz fading down the street.
It was another close morning, and the rising heat had done nothing to dissipate the sulphurous fog that wound its way around the yard. As they waited for Fisher, Dody kept her eyes on what was going on outside the mortuary gates; at that moment men in rubber boots were hosing away the horse manure from the road.
She glanced at Pike, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way he leaned heavily on his cane. He looked as tired as she felt and there was a vague odour of whisky about him. Had he barely slept for the last two nights also?
Under different circum
stances she would have been proud to show Pike around her place of work. It was a relief to find the yard much tidier than when she had last stood under the eaves, smoking her pipe. The strikes were mostly over, there were no overflowing dustbins, and the stench was easier on the nose. The stray dog seemed to have vanished. Perhaps Alfred’s wife had finally allowed him to take the pathetic creature home.
To break the silence, she told him about the dog. Pike nodded. He didn’t seem able to bring himself to say anything, and she gave up trying for conversation.
Finally, Inspector Fisher and another plainclothes detective slammed through the back door and clumped across the paving to meet them. Dody looked from Fisher to Pike as they coolly shook hands. There was some kind of unpleasant history between the men, she knew that much, and it dated back to their time together at the Yard. Well, she would probably never know what now. There was a lot about Pike that she would never know now, and he about her. Her hopes of sharing their past and present, their dreams and aspirations, had been stronger even than her desire for physical intimacy with him. Now it seemed as if they might not even remain friends.
Oh, God, what had she done?
“Any results, Fisher?” Pike asked.
“Yes, sir. We talked to most of the staff. The head clerk told me Everard borrowed the typewriting machine on several occasions before the inquest. Dr. Everard was also seen by one of the staff in a local public house giving Daniel Dunn an envelope. The staff member recognised Dunn as the man who had earlier stolen Everard’s medical bag and had assumed Everard was paying to get it back. I checked with the Bishopsgate coroner, sir, and on that same day Dunn handed a similar-looking envelope to the clerk there. Everard might well have written the letters, sir. It is common knowledge in this place that he bears Dr. McCleland some resentment.”
“He has admitted to writing the letters?” Pike asked.
Antidote to Murder Page 22
