Dody McCleland 02 - Antidote to Murder

by Felicity Young

  He wrote down Gabriel Klassen’s name and the address of his hotel for the constable. “Get someone to contact this man and tell him to bring her in some clothes.” The constable said he would and ushered Pike into the cell.

  Margaretha sat bolt upright on the bed.

  “Leave the door unlocked and send some coffee in, too, please, Constable,” Pike said.

  “Are you sure, sir? She’s a wild one.”

  “I think she might want to listen to what I have to say.” He spoke to the constable, but looked at Margaretha. “She might be out of here by morning if she cooperates.”

  Margaretha pushed a clump of hair from her face and regarded him suspiciously.

  He pulled a chair out from the rough table and invited her to sit. She held the blanket tight around her chest. She had a look about her that Pike had seen more often than he cared to remember: the look of a woman who had been abused, intimidated, and exploited by men for most of her life.

  “We need to talk more about those tablets the admiral took,” he said.

  “I know nothing about those bloody tablets. I told you that.”

  “I have to find out where the admiral got them from.”

  “Achnier. How am I supposed to know?”

  “Do you realise just how close to a prison sentence you are? Tell me, Margaretha, tell me, please—where did he get those tablets from?”

  Her arms flailed. Desperately she looked around the cell as if the answers could be found inscribed on its dank grey walls. “He mentioned something about the East End. He said you could find anything in the East End if you were prepared to pay for it. I know he used to visit the area sometimes—he brought the smell back with him on his clothes.”

  Pike waited patiently for more, but nothing came.

  The fact that she did not attempt to pull names from a hat made Pike inclined to believe her. “Different tablets but with the same markings have been distributed around the East End and used to murder children,” he said.

  If he’d hoped the fact might stir some emotion in her, some empathy for someone other than herself, he was out of luck. She took the cigarette he offered her, leaned back in her chair again, and blew a smoke ring.

  “I can tell you nothing more,” she said, turning her head away from him.

  “But you are sure the admiral took them himself?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you—yes, yes, yes!”

  A constable appeared with a tin coffeepot and two mugs. For a moment Pike wondered if he could trust her not to throw the scalding coffee in his face. To his relief she circled cold hands around the mug and hunched into her blanket. He gave her a few moments to savour the drink before reaching into his pocket and putting one of the strychnine tablets on the table.

  “Had the admiral taken these kinds of tablets before?” he asked.

  “Yes, he usually takes one when he is with me.”

  “Only ever one?”

  “Until last night, yes.”

  “What made last night different?”

  “The hashish maybe; the distraction of that odious little man perhaps. He had never tried my pipe before. I think it made him reckless, adventurous. The handcuffs . . .” Surely that was not the stain of a blush Pike saw creeping up Margaretha’s neck? “He had never required that sort of entertainment before either. And he kept gobbling down the pills—to savour the enjoyment, so he told me.”

  “You took them to be aphrodisiacs?”

  “If that is the English word for them, then yes.”

  It came to Pike then that if she had mentioned the word aphrodisiac initially, he might have been more inclined to believe her. He looked her in the eye and nodded and she relaxed into her chair.

  “I can still press the point that you were a willing participant in the theft of the briefcase’s contents. You could easily have opened the door to an accomplice,” he said, blowing a smoke ring himself. Manipulating the suspect’s mood was all a part of the interrogator’s technique. Give her hope for release and then take that hope back again. “I suppose you might eventually get used to this kind of place.”

  “Bastard!” she spat.

  Pike continued to question Margaretha for the best part of half an hour and a second pot of coffee, getting no further with the business of the stolen papers, until finally a constable put his head around the cell door. “Mr. Klassen is here, sir, come to deliver the lady some clothes. He’d like to see her, with your permission.”

  Pike climbed stiffly to his feet. He nodded as Margaretha’s manager entered the cell.

  Klassen gasped when he saw who was before him, almost dropping the bundle of clothes he was carrying. “Captain. What are you doing here?” The manager looked dishevelled, as if he’d dressed hastily in clothes left piled on the floor.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Pike to you, sir,” the constable said.

  Pike was too tired to offer Klassen any kind of explanation. “Margaretha can tell you all about it when you take her back to her hotel,” he said.

  “You are letting me go?” Margaretha asked.

  He nodded. “For the moment, and on the condition that you report back to me here at the Yard, at noon. See that she does, please. Klassen, I’m releasing her into your custody. A good sleep in a soft bed might be just the thing to jog her memory.”

  Klassen continued to look bewildered. “Margaretha, what have you done?”

  “I have done nothing, you stupid man!”

  Pike rubbed his eyes; he could not take much more of this. Klassen muttered some apologies and offered Pike his hand.

  Pike had already registered the incongruity of gloves on such a stuffy night and now he noticed a small spatter of black on Klassen’s shirt cuff. Perhaps his idea had not been so wild after all.

  Pike clamped hold of the man’s arm and ripped off the glove. The skin of Klassen’s hand was stained the same faded grey as his own, a souvenir from the leaking pen in the briefcase.

  It looked as if he had found his spy.

  * * *

  There were no crowds tonight and the hansom dropped Van Noort directly outside the theatre doors. That alone made him uneasy. He told the driver to wait while he read the sign on the door:

  DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES, THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS TO ANNOUNCE THE CLOSURE OF MATA HARI AND THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN VEILS.

  His head buzzed. He hammered on the barred doors. A foul wave of sensation rolled up from his stomach and smeared his tongue. Exploding shells and the screams of ripped men shattered his skull. He leaned against the theatre wall and dropped his head. Not again.

  Finally the fit passed. Bitter disappointment took its place.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You all right, guv? Can I take you someplace else?” the cabby asked.

  Van Noort removed his top hat and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Er . . . yes. The Satin Palace, St. James, please.” He took a step and would have fallen had the cabbie not caught him. “I’m afraid I will need some help.”

  The cabby took him by the arm, gave him a boost up the cab’s step, and closed the knee-door.

  Jack was acting as the Satin Palace’s doorman. Trevelly had acquired for him a ridiculously large braided green coat and a top hat that would have dropped over his face if not held up by the handles of his ears.

  The boy opened the doors with a flourish. “Welcome to the Satin Palace—oh, it’s you. ’Ello, Doc. I don’t fink we need you tonight, sir.”

  Van Noort did not have the energy to give lectures. “Is Mee-Mee free?”

  “I believe she is, sir. Would you care to partake in a drink and some merriment in the lounge first?”

  “For God’s sake, Jack, it’s me you’re talking to.”

  The boy shrugged. The big coat failed to move.

  Van Noort grasped the boy by the chin and tilted his face towards the light.

  “Have you been crying, son? Trevelly beaten you again?” He reached out his hand with the intention of
gently probing the boy’s bruised cheekbone. Jack pulled back. “Better pay the cabby, sir.”

  Van Noort gave the kindly cab driver a generous tip then followed Jack up the marble steps and into the Palace. He must think of a way to get the child away from this evil place.

  But he had needs to satisfy, and the sin that beset him always came first.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  SATURDAY 26 AUGUST

  There was no sign of the mob the next day and Pike’s contemplative silence only seemed to intensify the eerie quiet of the morning room. He sat opposite Dody in the winged chair, his bad leg propped on a footstool, a cup of coffee growing cold on the table at his side. She moved over to where he sat, crouched, and took his hand.

  “You do not look to me like a man who has just captured a German spy. This is a win for you, surely, Matthew.”

  Pike squeezed her hand. “If only it were that simple. The case has left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Is . . . Margaretha . . . guilty, innocent, or merely a victim herself? Klassen maintains he worked alone; he said Margaretha never told him anything overt. He told us he subtly questioned the admiral himself and then transcribed what he gleaned in invisible ink onto musical scores, which he posted to Germany. The false papers from the briefcase were found in his room—he admitted breaking into the room when the couple were asleep. He was planning on condensing the papers and sending them to Germany the same way as before.”

  “And you find it hard to believe that Margaretha was not involved in any of this?”

  Pike pushed his hand through his hair; he seemed so tired, so defeated. Then again, staying up all night to interrogate Margaretha’s manager couldn’t have helped.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” he said. “With Klassen maintaining her innocence, we don’t have enough evidence to hold her. He is not so very different from other men after all, it seems. She still managed to cast a spell over him.”

  “Perhaps you will have to accept that her innocence—or guilt—is something you might never prove.”

  “She will be deported, never allowed to return to this country again.”

  “I’m sure Florence will be happy to hear that.”

  Pike smiled tiredly. Dody walked over to the newly repaired window, through which heat from the street seeped. Charred curtain fabric crumbled beneath her fingers and an acrid smell filled her nostrils.

  “And there’s still that.” Pike pointed to the window. “Do you realise how close you were to being killed?”

  “We were all in danger, Matthew.”

  “But it was you they were after. You are no longer just being framed. They want you out of the way permanently.”

  “I am aware of that.” Though Dody had not thought about her situation in quite such blunt terms. His words gave her a sudden chill.

  “Your parents are staying in Sussex?” Pike asked.

  Dody had telephoned them to say there was no need to hurry back to the city. She had told them with an exaggerated optimism that the police were close to finding the man who had written the letters, and once they had discovered his identity and obvious calumny, charges against her would be dropped. She had not mentioned the attack or the damage to the house.

  But she could still see where Pike’s question was going. “If you expect me to go running off to the country and to the protection of my parents, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

  Pike climbed painfully to his feet and limped to her side by the window. He touched her shoulder lightly, briefly. “Did I say that? Would I dare to say that?”

  “Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I rest my case.”

  She looked into his troubled blue eyes. “What else is worrying you?”

  “I’ve had some enquiries made and discovered the approximate value of lead tablets sold on the street. They amount to little more than three shillings a dozen—slightly dearer than rubber preventatives.”

  Dody thought back to Esther Craddock’s horror at the price of French letters. “Expensive for a working-class girl,” she said.

  “Still, comparatively cheap, and not lucrative enough to kill for, surely. I need to speak to Inspector Fisher about this. I fear we might be up against something bigger than we thought, perhaps an organised gang with a speciality for things medically related.”

  “My friend Mr. Borislav, the Whitechapel chemist, has been robbed several times this year.”

  “Which supports my suspicions. Tell me, Dody, anything. Anything you might be privy to that might give the gang reason enough to first frame you and then attempt to kill you.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the death of Billy Kent and the lead tablets are the only noteworthy case I have been involved in recently.”

  “Yesterday you mentioned someone at the mortuary called Everard.”

  As distasteful as it was, even she could no longer keep ignoring the obvious. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose his plagiarism has shown that he is quite capable of theft and trickery—but it does not necessarily connect him to this gang you’re talking about. His bag of drugs was stolen recently . . . Oh, surely he would not stoop so low?”

  Pike said nothing, but his eyes searched her face. He retrieved his briefcase from where it rested on the chaise. “True, all I have is supposition,” he said. “But I have to tell you now that we have had some definite luck with the typed accusations.” He handed her a bundle of papers. “Here we have the originals—the lawyer’s office was closed, but Fisher contacted him at home and persuaded him to open up and hand the letters over.” He reached into his case and produced a single sheet of paper which he handed to her. “And this is a sample document from the Paddington Mortuary.” He handed her another paper. “The autopsy report for the Kent child—I noticed the similarities immediately. All the documents show malformed lowercase g’s. The top halves of the uppercase S’s are also noticeably thicker. The typewriting machine has left its fingerprints. These documents were all produced from the same machine.”

  Dody’s stomach contracted painfully. The room was stiflingly hot. “Go on.”

  “It’s a handy point of reference,” he said, taking the documents back from Dody and returning them to his briefcase. “But I have to play this carefully. I can’t trample too much in Fisher’s jurisdiction. I’m hoping my history with him might count for something. I will suggest he interviews the mortuary staff as soon as possible. You said earlier that you had seen Dunn there—that he was seen fleeing with stolen property, in fact. I will make sure that Fisher is supplied with his picture to show around.”

  “The staff?” Dody queried, horrified. “What will Dr. Spilsbury say? He will be furious to have them in any way involved in my case. I have always tried to keep a low profile. I have to if my professional life is to continue. This will destroy everything—I can’t allow—”

  Firm hands gripped her shoulders. “Dody, take a breath, please. Plainclothes officers will question the staff discreetly with as little disruption to the mortuary routine as possible. Through no fault of your own, you are already in the spotlight. The damage has been done and you have to face the fact that your enemy might be someone who works in the mortuary. You don’t want this trial of yours to go ahead, do you?”

  She shook her head and realised then how silly, how hysterical she must have sounded. She put it down to the lingering effects of her illness and sat to collect herself for a moment. From the hall she heard the whirr of the grandfather clock as it prepared to strike the hour.

  When she spoke again, her voice, she was pleased to note, sounded quiet and even. “Of course not, Matthew. Do what you have to do.”

  “I contacted the local police to retrieve the broken-down motorcar, but by the time they arrived to collect it, it was gone—spirited away. Does your colleague Everard own a motorcar? Could he have been the driver I was pursuing?”

  Dody thought carefully. No matter how much she wished to believe Everard was not behind this, she had to remain o
bjective. “I have heard him discussing motorcars with Dr. Spilsbury. He is interested in them, but I have no idea if he owns one or not. I can’t imagine it, though. They are fearfully expensive, and Everard’s salary is not much more than mine.” Despite the fact he is my junior, she thought wryly. “Though, of course, he does work as a private practitioner also.”

  “I will have enquiries made. This is all a good start and will give me more leverage when I question Daniel Dunn. I’ll throw Everard’s name at him and see how he reacts.”

  Dody rose from her chair. “You are going to see him now at St. Thomas’s? I will fetch my hat.”

  Pike took hold of her arm. “Dody, I said I have to question him. You might not like my methods.”

  “As long as you don’t use torture, I don’t really care.”

  Pike relaxed. “All right then.”

  * * *

  They took some time finding Daniel Dunn’s ward, and when they did, the place was a scurry of activity, clanging bedpans, and rattling trolleys. Dody finally managed to grab the attention of a flustered-looking nurse to ask her what was going on.

  “We’ve had a sudden death, ma’am. I’m sorry I can’t help you now,” she said, about to rush off until Dody took hold of her arm.

  “I am a doctor; please tell me the patient’s name,” she said.

  The nurse hesitated—she might never have dealt with a female doctor before.

  “And I am a police officer.” Pike flashed his warrant card.

  The nurse paled. This was an announcement she understood. “We had two that passed in the night, sir.”

  “This last one, then, the one you are in a fluster about,” Pike said.

  “Um, Mr. Daniel Dunn, sir.”