Antidote to Murder

by Felicity Young

  Everard dropped back into his seat. Under the table, his foot began an agitated tap. “I haven’t visited St. Thomas’s for months.”

  “You deny the murder charge?” Pike asked.

  “Of course I bloody well do.” Everard folded his arms and turned away, muttering, “This is absurd.”

  “Did someone coerce you into helping him? Did you perform the illegal abortion on Esther Craddock, too?” By rapidly switching the subject matter, Pike hoped to forestall a formulated response.

  “I did not.”

  It was time for some fearmongering. Pike turned to Fisher. “How vehemently he denies the charges that could have him dancing at the end of the hangman’s rope.”

  “He’s guilty, sir.”

  “Of course he’s guilty,” Pike snapped and turned back to Everard. “I can see why you might have begrudged a female doctor lording it over you at the mortuary, even been prepared to set her up for something she did not do. But I don’t understand why you would go so far as to murder for the same reason—surely the risk to you is too great? And you do have something to do with all this; of that I have no doubt. Do you have an accomplice, or is it you who is the accomplice, Dr. Everard? Who, if not you, was driving your motorcar on the evening of Friday the twenty-fifth of August? What kind of hold does this man have over you that you would be prepared to swing for him?”

  “No hold, no man, no comment.”

  Pike sighed, gathered up the letters, and put them back in his pocket. He wasn’t going to break this man today; Everard’s barriers were too rigidly fortified.

  “I need to send word to my wife, Pike. When can that be arranged?” Everard asked.

  Pike glanced at Fisher and back to Everard. “No comment.”

  As the cell’s door banged behind them, Pike said to Fisher, “Charge him over the letters, give him some time to stew, and then grant him police bail—nothing too hefty, mind, I don’t think he can afford much—and then let him go. Have him watched around the clock. I want to know what he does and who he sees.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pike began to make his way down the passageway until the sound of Fisher clearing his throat made him stop and turn.

  “One more thing, sir,” Fisher called out.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I just wanted to say that it is a privilege to be working with you again, sir.” When Pike made no reply, the big man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And I feel you deserve some kind of explanation for my recent behaviour.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Remember my wife, Mary, sir? You kindly sent a hamper when you learned of her sickness.”

  “I remember. Consumption, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. She passed away a few months back.”

  Pike felt the hard set of his shoulders slacken. “I’m sorry, Fisher.” He remembered them as a devoted couple.

  “I should never have done what I did, sir. But I thought there was hope for Mary, you see. There was an apothecary who supplied her with medicine, said it would cure her. It was very expensive—the stuff had gold in it—and it seemed to be working. But there was no way I could continue to afford it on a sergeant’s wage. Superintendent Shepherd always had it in for you, didn’t he? He promised me a hefty bonus and promotion if I could find anything against you—”

  “And you did.”

  “If you want to report me, that is your right.”

  “There is nothing to report you for.”

  “I also stole money that was meant for an informer.”

  “I didn’t hear you say that, Inspector.”

  They stood for a moment in awkward silence. Fisher had broken the law for the woman he loved. Pike had always prided himself in being an honourable man. Arrogantly, perhaps, he had always thought himself above temptation. But he had proved more than capable of bending the rules to keep his daughter out of a police investigation. What else would he do for love? Would he do what Fisher had done to save someone he loved, Dody say, from unnecessary suffering? Of course he would.

  “I’m glad I was able to have the charges against Dr. McCleland dropped,” Fisher said, interrupting the train of Pike’s thoughts. “I also regret my part in what must have been a very upsetting experience for her. I will do my best to find the abortionist and get to the root of what is going on here.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that, Inspector. As will I.”

  There was nothing else Pike could think to say. The events of the last forty-eight hours had left him feeling as if he’d been wrung through a mangle, the words squeezed out of him.

  He put his hand out to the inspector.

  * * *

  Florence leaned against the shop wall next to Daphne to catch her breath. Her feet were killing her. Crowds of people filled the footpath on their way to an open-air market down the street. A cabby pulled up a few yards away and hooked a nosebag around his horse’s ears. Florence took a deep breath, exhaled, and listened for a moment to the rhythmic grind of teeth on oats.

  “How many have we visited now?” she finally asked.

  Daphne pulled a list from her shopping basket. “This will be number five out of a possible six chemists, apothecaries, and pharmacies in the Whitechapel area.”

  “With no luck in purchasing any ready-made lead tablets and enough Widow Welch’s to open a sweet shop.”

  Daphne examined Florence, reached for her face, and tucked a loose tendril of hair under her hat. “You’re beginning to look quite weak and pathetic, Flo. Are you sure you want to keep doing this?”

  “The more weak and pathetic I look, the less I have to act.”

  “That’s the ticket.” Daphne smiled encouragingly.

  Both women wore simple dresses borrowed from their maids and small, unadorned hats. It felt strange to be going out with none of the usual regalia—cartwheel-sized chapeaux, parasols, and long gloves—and Florence felt naked and defenceless. Then again, that, too, helped her with what she saw as her very convincing performance as an unmarried woman desperate to rid herself of her unborn child.

  Daphne played her part as supportive friend extremely well, too—not having to act much at all.

  Even though the charges against Dody had been dropped, Florence knew the experience had left her sister wracked with anguish. Maybe this was also behind the illness that had been plaguing her. Despite the wonderful evening she purported to have had with Pike, she’d appeared haggard and tearstained at breakfast for the last two mornings.

  Florence hated doing nothing and felt she had to help in some way. What a boost it would be to Dody if they identified the manufacturer of the lead tablets. Dody had said the tablets were more than likely distributed in the local public houses. But it was still worth investigating the drug dispensaries as well, and this was surely the most effective way. Florence looked at the apothecary’s across the road, Zimmerman’s—the man she had wanted to investigate days earlier when Daphne had been waylaid by Lady Harriet Frobisher’s tea party. She indicated to Daphne that they should enter.

  The apothecary was like none of the other shops they had visited thus far in their quest. The electric lights rigged up behind the coloured bottles in Zimmerman’s shop window made the place as alluring as a sweet shop. A curling bell above the door tinkled as they entered. They skirted baskets of berries and sacks of dried goods with their strange, foreign smells. Florence felt like Dr. Livingstone hacking his way through the jungle as she pushed her way through medical hardware hanging in clumps from the ceiling, enamel bedpans and rubber hoses, and bunches of aromatic herbs.

  The lighting over the counter was dimmer, as if to deliberately obscure the more nefarious contents of the bottles and jars on the shelves above. Several unborn hedgehogs shared a jar of preserving fluid; their neighbour, a curled grass snake, stared out through opaque eyes. Next to these, a stuffed s
toat, teeth bared as if ready to pounce, guarded other jars containing less identifiable lumps of sloughing tissue and rubberised bone. Surely, she thought, there could be no better indication that this was the place.

  Florence presumed it was Zimmerman himself leaning on the counter. The man adjusted his skullcap and smiled. “What can I do you for, miss?”

  “I need something to help me. I am with child.” Florence rubbed her padded stomach and gave Zimmerman what she hoped was a knowing look.

  “Vitamins, minerals; or is it iron you need to strengthen your blood?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Florence whispered, more urgently now. “I mean I need something reliable to get rid of the baby. Surely you have something besides Widow Welch’s?”

  Zimmerman frowned. “You won’t find anything stronger than that in my shop, young lady.”

  “Not even lead tablets?”

  “I would not risk my licence. Get out of here before I call the police.”

  The man lifted his hand as if to strike. Florence cowered and reached for Daphne’s arm. The trouble she would face from Dody if the police became involved was not worth imagining. They scampered from the shop like a pair of frightened dormice.

  “There is one last shop, Flo,” Daphne said as they continued down the street, “just a bit further down, not far from the Clinic. Let’s make that lucky last and then call it a day.”

  “Mr. Borislav’s shop?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I’ll have to wait outside, though. I sometimes get supplies for the Clinic from him and he might recognise me. Do you dare?”

  “Well . . .” Florence hesitated. “I did call in the other day with Dody. He is a friend of hers and I really can’t believe that he would be a supplier of abortifacients, I—”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I feel very sorry for him, about the tragic death of his wife, I mean, and I’m sure he is a very nice man, but we shouldn’t let our personal bias get in the way of our professional investigation.” Daphne and Florence shared the same enthusiasm for detective literature.

  Florence brightened. “But Mr. Borislav didn’t see me—we weren’t even introduced. I spoke to his nephew.” Florence paused. “If Joseph is serving at the counter, though, I’d better not risk it. But if it’s Borislav at the counter”—she gave a dismissive wave of her hand—“he won’t have a clue who I am.”

  “That’s settled then.” Daphne nudged her with her elbow. “Go on.” Florence took a deep breath and crossed the shop’s threshold.

  The chemist was empty, but the sound of angry male voices reached Florence from somewhere behind the counter. As she edged closer, she noticed the door leading to the dispensing room was ajar. The voices became clearer, a young man, Joseph, and an older one—Mr. Borislav, she guessed—and they were arguing.

  “I’ve had just about enough of your moneymaking schemes,” Borislav said.

  “If it were not for my innovations, we’d be on the street. As for that doctor from the mortuary who’s always hanging around—why put up with him when you have me to help? Can’t you give me just a little bit of credit for the shop’s renewed good fortune?”

  “You have proven good at the book work, I’ll grant you that.”

  “I have to protect my investment somehow. Can’t you see, Uncle, the only way we can prosper is to diversify.”

  “Like Boots, you mean, turn ourselves into a lending library? For goodness’ sake, Joseph, it’ll be tinned salmon next, then tin-openers and!”

  “In order to survive, we have to damn well offer our customers that something extra that the competition does not provide. You’re blind, old man, totally blind to what’s going on under your very nose. Aunt Gertrude’s been gone for six years, it’s time to—”

  The voice stopped, as if the men were suddenly aware of another’s presence.

  Borislav burst through the door from the back room, saw Florence, and tried to compose himself. He looked at her over his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles and moulded his mouth into a smile. “Good afternoon, miss, what can I do for you?”

  When Florence explained her predicament, his pink complexion deepened. “I think it would be more appropriate for you to consult your sister on this matter, Miss McCleland,” he said. “I am afraid I’m unable to help you.”

  Bloody hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  TUESDAY 29 AUGUST

  At the sound of her mother’s brisk footsteps on the stairs, Elizabeth Strickland drew her knees to her chest and buried her head beneath the bedclothes. The mattress sagged as her mother sat down. Elizabeth smelled the starch from her fresh cotton blouse. No fancy perfumes for Mrs. Arthur Strickland and certainly no makeup. Heaven forbid she was mistaken for a trollop.

  “Elizabeth, dear, isn’t it time you got ready for work?”

  “I’m not feeling very well, Mama. I think I have a touch of the cholera.”

  “Oh, my poor lamb. In that case I will pop down to the surgery and see if Dr. James is free. You can’t afford to be missing much more work. They’ll be sacking you soon, mark my words.” Elizabeth sat bolt upright in bed, pulling the sheet to her chin lest her mother notice the swollen breasts pushing against her flower-sprigged nightdress.

  “No, Mama, please. Let us wait and see how I am tomorrow before summoning Dr. James; just give me one more day at home to rest. Besides, today is sewing circle and I know how little time you have to finish the church kneelers.”

  Elizabeth read the conflict on her mother’s face: whether to be a good mother or a dutiful parishioner. The parishioner won.

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “Go, Mama.” Elizabeth looked to the clock on the wall. “Your friends will be waiting.”

  * * *

  It was a warm day, but it had rained quite heavily in the night. Mud, churned up by rumbling carts, splattered many of the shopfronts. A boy tossed a bucket of water against the fishmonger’s window, lashing it like sea spray. The fish must feel at home, Elizabeth thought. Not that she cared. Elizabeth hated everything about fish: their smell, their gaping mouths, their jellied eyes, and the prick of their scales. Not to mention the shiny film of blood that coated their gills.

  She pushed open the door. It was hotter in the shop than it had been in the street. Shards of ice covering the fish were shrinking before her eyes. Come afternoon, the stock would be as warm as the customers.

  A heavy woman with a grey bun and a bloodstained apron stood behind a sloping slab of fish. “What can I do for you, love? Want some fish?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, lost for words.

  The woman looked her up and down. “’Im upstairs, then?”

  “Yes, please, ma’am. My name is Elizabeth Strickland and I was told to meet the doctor here.” The woman smiled, showing a row of blackened teeth. “Call me Mother, if you like.” She rubbed the side of her nose with a scaly finger. “Told no one else about this, I ’ope.”

  “Not a soul.”

  The woman guffawed, grabbed a big flat fish by the tail, and pointed to the orange spots on its back. “Sole,” she said.

  Elizabeth tried to smile and failed.

  “Mother” flicked the sign to CLOSED and beckoned Elizabeth to follow her up several narrow flights of stairs until they came to a small landing. The woman tapped on a door to the right of the stairwell, opened it, and pushed Elizabeth in. “This ’ere’s Elizabeth Strickland, Doctor,” she said to a man sitting behind a large desk.

  “Thank you, Mother, you may go now,” the man said.

  Mother closed the door behind her, clumping footsteps fading down the stairs. Alone in the room with the man, Elizabeth started to shake.

  “You have the money?” the man asked without lifting his head from the open book in front of him.

  She nodded, unable to get her words out, her throat constricted from all the days of crying.<
br />
  “Put it on the desk then,” he said. “There’s a good girl.” Elizabeth reached into her pocket for the money and clunked it down. The coins were hot from her hand and it felt as if she were parting with a piece of her own body. The tears began to well again.

  The man went for the money, sliding it across the leathered top of his desk and into his palm. “No more crying; this will soon be over. Climb onto the bed and let me examine you.” When he finally met her eyes with his, she noticed how dead they were—as dead as the fish for sale downstairs. She felt a spasm of fear. Was she really doing the right thing? What choice did she have, though?

  The doctor took her by the hand, holding it high as if she were a posh lady about to mount a carriage, and led her to a high bed. Leather straps were attached to poles at each corner of the mattress and Elizabeth wondered what they were for.

  “Just relax down onto the pillow now,” he said as he helped her up.

  With a flick of a switch, the stained white ceiling disappeared, replaced by a blinding electric light that swallowed the shadows of the dingy room. She could no longer see his face, but felt his fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress. As instructed, she’d not worn a corset. His fingers were cool against her burning flesh. He palpated her breasts and worked his way like a spider to her stomach.

  “You took the pills?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No symptoms at all?”

  “Um?”

  “Did they make you cramp or bleed?” he asked impatiently.

  “Cramp. But only a bit.”

  “You are still with child. Do you remember what we discussed?”

  Elizabeth nodded. The man pushed the light away. “I’ll put you to sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be over. You’ll stay here for a few hours before going home, just to make sure there are no, er, complications.”