A Donation of Murder (21 page)

Giblett froze.

‘Don't worry about me, get him,' Margaret said, desperate, her mind racing in time to her hammering heart, the pounding of the rain on the roof. She didn't give a toss about her own safety, only the safety of John, and Dody's man upstairs.

‘No can do, darlin',' Giblett said, his voice low and weak.

‘You can't let him get away with this. Think of your reputation!'

If they could get James to fire his gun, perhaps the police across the road would be alerted and the game would be up. But would the sound of a gunshot carry through the rain? She wasn't sure, but it was worth a try. Margaret was beyond caring about getting caught, her only hope was that they and the man upstairs got out alive.

Dody and Florence paced the black and white tiled floor of the hallway while Singh jiggled about with the telephone receiver. A few years ago the telephone exchange worked during office hours only, and she knew she should be grateful for small improvements. But God in Heaven, how long could one connection to the Yard take — the operator must be drunk! She glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall. Singh had been on the phone for ten minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime.

Callan at last came on the line. Dody stood next to Singh and put her ear close to the receiver but couldn't hear much. Callan did most of the talking and Singh nodded his head.

‘You want me to meet you at the observation post, sir?' The sergeant repeated for Dody's benefit. She snatched the earpiece from Singh's hand.

‘Doctor McCleland, Chief Superintendent. I will accompany the sergeant. You will need me if there are injuries.'

‘I'm sure we have the situation in hand, doctor. And this is hardly the place for a wo—'

‘Chief Superintendent, I insist!' Dody turned to Singh. ‘Please!' she mouthed.

Singh took the earpiece back. ‘I wouldn't underestimate this group of men, sir, I saw them for myself. They are a rough bunch and I fear they won't go down quietly. The presence of a medical person might save lives, I think — ours and theirs.'

‘Florence, fetch our coats and my medical bag, it's in my study,' Dody said in a voice she hoped Callan would hear. Florence nodded and dashed upstairs.

*

Afraid of what he might see, Pike dared not open his eyes. Bright light would surely make his head explode. Had he been shot? He wasn't sure. He felt a warm sticky substance congealing beneath his collar. He wondered why no one had cleaned the wound. A spot on the back of his head throbbed as if a dagger had been stabbed into it. Something for the pain would be appreciated.

He wished he'd tipped all of his champagne into the pot plant. A ferocious thirst left his mouth feeling as if he'd been licking the inside of a drainpipe. He wanted to
call out for water, but held back, worried about the effect the sound would have on his head.

So he lay there, blinded and still, trying to work out with his remaining senses where he was. The air smelled stale and tasted metallic. He had never in his life experienced such silence. If he were in a hospital or Dody's house surely he would be hearing something — the hum of vehicles in the street, the gentle murmuring of voices, the sound of rolling trolleys and footsteps.

He forced himself to think.

He remembered Malcolm James passing behind him while he was tied to the chair, but no sound of gunfire. Perhaps he hadn't been shot after all. Maybe James had hit him over the head, or stabbed him. But how long ago was that? A shiver flitted its way up his body from the tips of his toes to the top of his aching head.

Maybe he hadn't been rescued after all.

If not, where the devil was he?

His arms lay stiff at his sides. When he extended his fingers he felt cold metal. He steeled himself for the pain and opened his eyes. Instead of blinding yellow light he saw . . .

Nothing.

Gingerly he raised his arms only to have them meet a metallic resistance about a foot above his head. When he stretched down with his feet his toes touched the end of his container.

He was in a long metal coffin.

Fear seized him by the throat. He croaked out a cry for help. He pounded on the lid of the coffin, imagining it bowed down with six feet of wormy earth.

And then he did something that he had never in his life done before. Matthew Pike began to scream.

*

Ignoring the gun at her head, Margaret thrust her elbow into James's injured arm. He grunted, released his grip and she threw herself to the floor. Shepherd and Giblett launched themselves at him. Several deafening shots tore through the air above her head.

Giblett cried out in pain.

‘John!' Margaret called as she struggled to her feet, only to be knocked down again. Malcolm James leaned over her and pressed his knees into the muscles of her arms. Pawing at her bodice, he snatched the warm crumpled notes she'd hidden there.

‘You won't need this where you're going,' he said with a laugh. ‘Been nice knowing you, Peggy. I'll send you a postcard from somewhere warm.'

She was on her feet as soon as he'd rushed from the door, hurrying over to John who was slumped face down on the floor. Shepherd was moaning. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him slithering across the parquetry towards the door, a snail trail of blood glistening behind him.

‘Help me, I have to get out of here,' he croaked.

‘You've got to be joking, mate.' Margaret's concern was only for John.

Gently she rolled her lover onto his back and pulled him into her arms, cradling him like a baby.

‘We've had a lark, haven't we, darlin,' John whispered, blood trickling from the side of his mouth. She wiped it away with her white-gloved hand.

‘With many more larks to come. But hush, save your strength.'

‘No point. Too late.'

‘Don't talk like that,' she whispered, her heart fit to burst, feeling his pain as her own, deep within her chest.

‘I'm shot through the lights.' He coughed. Bloody foam flecked his lips.

‘It's nothing that can't be stopped.' She took a cushion from the dining chair they were leaning against and pressed it over his sucking chest wound. ‘Sit tight, I'll get a doctor, a doctor will see you right.' Where the hell were the police, she wondered, swallowing her panic. They must have heard the shots. Or had the sound had been blanketed by the drumming of the rain?

Dear God, send me to prison for life, string me up, I don't care, only save my John.

‘Help me,' Shepherd cried from near the door, his strength leaking into the pool of blood surrounding him. It looked like he'd been shot through both legs. Margaret had no sympathy, only contempt. Pig
of
a man. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for him. Ignoring Shepherd's pleas, she rocked John in her arms, pressing the pillow to his chest.

‘You're not going to die, love, I won't let you die. We've got too much left to do, eh? We'll set up somewhere else, maybe Australia, what do you think of that? We'll
show those colonials how it's done . . .' She went on talking, nonsense, really. The best outcome for them both would be prison for life, but she wasn't going to say that.

Despite all her efforts, all her talk and all her prayers, she could do nothing but watch the life of her lover ebbing away from his eyes. Within but a few minutes he was gone. She kissed his pale lips, eased his head to the ground and made the sign of the cross.

Margaret gulped down a sob, she wanted to continue holding him, to grieve, but there was no time for that. There was still something else she had to do.

One last donation. For Dody.

Grabbing another cushion she made her way over to the whimpering policeman who was lying near the doorway. He lay on his back and looked up at her with pleading, piggy eyes.

‘You've made life very difficult for my good friend Doctor McCleland and her Mr Pike,' she said, holding the cushion above his face with two hands.

‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Help me and I'll make it up to you, to them. I'll not say a word. I'll see to it that Pike's promoted, that McCleland takes over from Spilsbury.' His lips had a bluish tinge, his face looked pale and clammy. A heart attack now would save her a helluva lot of bother.

‘Don't be stupid. You can't do that,' she said.

She lowered herself to her knees, holding the cushion. It would be so easy. Press the cushion to his face and that would be it. She rested it against his nose.

‘Please, no,' he said, the cushion muffling his voice. ‘For God's sake have some compassion, woman.'

For God's sake
. She hesitated. The words struck a chord. She'd promised God she'd turn over a new leaf, hadn't she? Murder had never been her game, she reminded herself.

She let out a breath, rocked back on her heels and regarded him dispassionately.

‘All right,' she sighed again. ‘I'll make a tourniquet and try to stop some of the bleeding.'

‘Thank you,' he whimpered, piteously as she moved to the window and undid a curtain sash.

‘My pleasure,' she said, staring down at him, sash in hand.

We're all made of good and bad,
Margaret recalled her earlier conversation with Dody.

But often, one outweighs the other.

She discarded the sash, picked up the cushion and pressed it against Shepherd's face and held it there until his spasming body stilled.

With a strange feeling of numbness she walked, trancelike, to the front porch and struck a match. And then, for good measure, she flicked the porch light on and off, on and off . . .

*

Pike woke up. The last thing he remembered was the sound of his own scream. Now silence engulfed him once more. He tried to control his breathing, the panicked beating of his heart.
No more screaming
, his rational voice urged,
you'll use up all your air
. The atmosphere was already warmer and heavier than when he had woken up the first time. He could smell the alcohol and cigar smoke on his clothes. Something bumpy pressed into his spine. He slipped his hand under his body and discovered a rifle barrel with a wooden stock. He was lying on top of a rifle — a fat lot of good that was now. Another object was lodged beneath his buttocks. It felt like a canvas pouch with a drawstring. When he shook it he heard the jingle of coins.

After some contorting he managed to extract the vesta case from his tail coat pocket and struck a match. In the flare he saw documents under his feet, a rifle case and more money pouches.

The light died, leaving a negative of his surroundings printed on his retinas. At least he knew where he was now. He wasn't in a coffin, not that that was much comfort. He was in the gun safe in Giblett's bedroom where James had been hidden from the police. Were they going to leave him here? How much air would he have? James was in a bad way after being in the safe for about half an hour. But Pike was smaller so maybe he could last longer. At least he was able to move his arms a bit; James would have been pinned as if in a straitjacket.

He lit another match and shone it towards the top of the box. A rectangular metal plate, held in place by screws, covered the underside of the locking mechanism. The match flickered in the diminishing oxygen and he dashed it out — there'd been plenty of miners' sons in his village school and he knew all about that sort of thing. He prodded one of the screws with his fingers and found it loose — safes were, after all, meant to keep people out, not in. He wondered how a canary would be faring if it was with him now.

From his pocket he grasped a ha'penny and managed to manipulate its rim into the screw's slot. He continued to blindly fiddle, and gasped with shock when the screw fell from its hole and landed on his face.

Fighting against the instinct to gulp air, he forced himself to take slow, shallow breaths. Sweat trickled down his face. He wanted to cry out, but held back, knowing it would take up valuable oxygen. He must think of something good, something to take his mind off his predicament.

He thought of Dody as he fiddled with the screws, gouging at them with the ha'penny. Her eyes, so deep brown and calm, the conker-shine of her hair. He wondered what she was doing now, wondered if she had taken his ring from the drawer and put it on the chain around her neck. He fantasised about them being married. They would have to find a home of their own — he could never live in her house and be beholden to his parents-in-law. The old man would have to be told sooner or later about their engagement. Better for all if Nial McCleland, the old Fabian who'd once taken aim at Pike with a shotgun, resigned himself to the fact and gave them a begrudging blessing.

But all this would be irrelevant if Pike were to die in this box.

His extremities began to tingle. He dropped the ha'penny. His fingers, now too numb to continue manipulating the screws, fell to his sides.

Would Dody ever know what had happened to him, would they ever find his body? He screwed his eyes up against the tears and began to count,
1, 2, 3, 4, 12, 5, 102.
The numbers became muddled. His mind twisted about inside his head like a foggy shroud, the breath leaving him in wispy rasps. His panic grew and then subsided again.

And then he felt a strange sense of calm. Everything would be all right after a little snooze, he decided.

Not long after they'd seen the match flare, Callan, Singh, half a dozen policemen, and Dody in her capacity as Home Office Pathologist, were on Giblett's doorstep. Florence, to her disgust, had been ordered by Dody to remain behind, and for once had chosen to obey her older sister.

The men brought a battering ram with them and burst through John Giblett's front door in a single crash. The hall was deserted. Singh sent several men to cover the back exit and others to search the kitchen and ground floor.

‘The reception rooms are upstairs,' Singh said, leading the way up a curving staircase with Callan, Dody and the remaining uniformed policemen hurrying behind him.

The drawing room, bereft of guests or staff, was a shambles. Chairs overturned, cushions scattered, rugs rippled. A champagne glass lay on its side, contents still trickling over the edge of an occasional table.

‘Someone's left in a hurry,' Callan remarked. He sniffed the air like a dog. ‘And only just, too.'

Dody scanned the room then hurried out of the door. On the landing she heard a low keening coming from behind a closed door. The sound sent shivers up her spine. She glanced at Callan. The senior policeman heard it too. He pulled a pistol from his pocket and indicated for her to stay back. Singh, also brandishing a weapon, pushed the door open with his foot.

Callan followed him through. ‘You can come in now, Doctor McCleland,' he called after a few seconds. ‘Watch your step.'

Dody almost tripped over a body lying a few feet inside the doorway. She didn't need a second glance to identify Superintendent Shepherd. His colour and the pool of blood surrounding him told her he had bled to death and was past help.

She glanced at Callan. He too knew the truth when he saw it, and shook his head.

Margaret Doyle sat on the floor a few yards away from them, a man cradled in her lap. Dody hurried to her friend's side while Callan ordered the men to search the remaining rooms on the floor and then head further upstairs.

‘Pike's got to be somewhere in this house,' he said. ‘Question the servants if you can find any.'

Dody put her hand to the man's neck and shook her head. He had been shot through the chest, drenching Margaret with his blood.

‘Is this your John?' Dody asked softly.

Margaret nodded. Despite the blazing fire she was shaking as if from the cold.

‘I'm so sorry,' Dody said, removing her black coat and wrapping it around Margaret's shoulders.

‘Where's Pike?' Callan demanded, striding over. Dody helped Margaret lower John to the floor and then helped her up. Margaret's usually animated features appeared vacuous, staring from one to the other of them as if she had not quite worked out what they were doing there.

Dody gripped the taller woman's face with both of her hands. ‘Margaret, listen to me. We can't find Chief Inspector Pike, where is he, what have they done with him?'

‘P-Pike?' Margaret stuttered. ‘Who . . .?'

Dody shook the woman by the shoulder. ‘You know who!' She glanced at Callan then back. ‘My friend, my lover,' she all but shouted. Callan blinked in surprise. She didn't give a damn about who heard. ‘The man you were so curious about!'

And then Margaret gasped, as if suddenly brought to her senses. ‘Oh my God, how long has it been?' She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Over an hour, we might be too late!'

Too late, what does she mean? Could Pike be dead?

Margaret took Dody by the hand and dragged her up a flight of stairs, Callan hurrying behind them. Now it was Dody's turn to feel numb, disorientated.

‘He's in the gun safe. James and Shepherd put him in there to suffocate,' Margaret panted.

Dody's heart leapt in her chest. ‘But where
is
the safe?' she asked, eyes scanning the room: double wardrobe, large bed, washstand, a Regency chair upholstered in brown velvet, a carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

Margaret pushed Dody aside. ‘You're standing on it. Move.'

She whisked a Turkish rug off the floor and began to lever out floorboards. Dody and Callan scrabbled to help. Wood splintered beneath Dody's fingernails. What if they were too late? How much air was in that thing?

Soon they had exposed the top of a long metal box that had been embedded in the floor cavity.

‘Matthew, can you hear me?' Dody called, rapping the top of the safe with her knuckles. All three held their breath and listened. Nothing.

‘It's all right, Mr Pike, we'll have you out in a jiffy,' Margaret called, ripping off her blood-stained evening gloves. She turned to Dody. ‘Don't worry, I helped John install this thing. It's almost impossible to crack unless you know the combination, which I do. Give me room, now.'

‘I'm sorry, miss, this is a police matter. Allow me,' Callan said, attempting to move Margaret aside.'

‘For God's sake, Callan, let Margaret have a go first,' Dody entreated. Margaret's confidence was obvious, the woman knew what she was doing.'

‘I don't trust her,' he said. ‘How do we know there isn't a gun in there, that she plans on blowing us to kingdom come with it?'

‘Then trust me, at least! Take that bloody gun out of your pocket and train it on her while she works if you have to, but at least allow her to have a go!'

Callan let out a sigh of defeat and took a step back. He didn't take his gun from his pocket, Dody noticed, though his hand hovered just above it.

‘Thank you for trusting me, Dody,' Margaret said. She dropped to her stomach beside the exposed top of the box and began to manipulate the combination this way and that. With a satisfied nod she shoved the handle down.

The handle did not budge.

‘Jaysus, must have done it wrong,' she said, passing a hand across her pale forehead.

She tried again, and again the handle didn't yield.

‘I don't believe it,' Margaret said, ‘John's changed the sodding combination.'

Panic ballooned in Dody's chest. In her head she estimated the safe's dimensions, tried to calculate the volume of air in it, and failed. There were so many variants: how many other items were in the safe, the number of minute cracks through which small amounts of air might enter, how calm Pike was managing to stay, his height, his weight. They might have an hour, they might already be too late.

‘Let me have a go,' Callan said, forgetting about the pistol in his pocket and ripping off his coat. He squatted beside the safe and turned the dial this way and that. His efforts were futile, though Dody could well understand his need to take action.

‘Can we blow it, Margaret?' she asked as Callan cursed.

‘We could, but we'd probably blow a hole through Mr Pike too.'

Dody shuddered. ‘What about just one end?'

‘Too much of a gamble.'

Dody sank onto the floor and placed her head in her hands. Margaret squatted beside her and rubbed her shoulder in an unpleasant exchange of roles.

‘Don't worry, we'll get him out. You, Mr Policeman,' Margaret stood and thumped Callan on the back. ‘Stop what you're doing, you're wasting your time. If I can't do it, you certainly can't. Give me your pencil and notebook.'

Callan rocked back on his heels and looked at Dody as if to say,
who is this woman?

‘Please, Chief Superintendent,' she said, ‘do as she says.'

With a look of resignation he reached into his pocket and handed Margaret what she'd asked for.

‘Now get back to your men and organise explosives and metal cutters,' Margaret said.

Callan didn't move. He clearly did not appreciate being ordered around by the mistress of a thief.

‘Callan,' Dody said, feeling her eyes start to well. ‘We have no time to waste.'

After huffing out a sigh, Callan was gone.

‘Thank God,' Margaret said, exhaling. ‘Now I can concentrate.
Sight, sound, touch. Knowledge of the lock design and function
,' she muttered. ‘That's what old Bill the locksmith used to say.'

The room fell silent except for the ticking clock on the mantelpiece above the glowing fire. Dody said nothing as she watched Margaret perform a series of calculations in Callan's notebook. Then Margaret lay on her stomach again and propped herself on her elbows, her ear almost touching the combination dial. Dody dared not breathe as she watched Margaret click and turn, stopping every now and again to scribble in the notebook.

‘Kill that bloody clock,' Margaret said.

Dody climbed to her feet and shoved the clock under the pillows on the bed. She crouched down again next to Margaret.

And that's when she heard it, a gentle tapping coming from the inside of the safe. Margaret's eyes met hers with a desperate gleam. Dody gasped, her hopes soared.

Again a tap, weaker this time — or had she imagined it?

Margaret broke the silence with a sudden cry. Slamming the lever down she heaved the heavy door open.

Dody knew that for as long as she lived she would never forget the sight of Pike lying there, still and blue, as if laid out in a coffin.

‘Matthew!'

‘No, my Lord, no!' Margaret screamed. ‘Maybe I deserved it, but she didn't!'

Dody dived for the pulse in Pike's neck. She felt a flutter, saw the flick of dark sapphire eyes.

‘He's alive!' Dody cried, light-headed, tears pricking her eyes. ‘He's alive. Help me get him out.'

Both women heaved on Pike's arms and pulled him upright. Dody could barely see him through the sheen of tears in her eyes.

‘About time too,' he panted as they helped him step from the safe.

He held onto Dody and clasped her as if he would never let her go. After a moment she pushed him back and examined his face. His earlobes were still a touch on the blue side but his colour was returning. He was panting as if he had run a marathon. There was also a bloody lump on his head, and his jaw was blue and swollen. Not that either injury seemed to be bothering him too much. As she held his body next to hers she looked over his shoulder to Margaret.

‘Thank you,' she mouthed to her friend. In a louder voice she said, ‘Now this is what
1
would call a miracle.'

*

The house was searched and the few servants who had not fled were interviewed. None of these were Giblett's old retainers. They had all been hired through an agency for the dinner party and were unable to shed much light on the peculiar household of John Giblett's.

The only witness of potential value was Margaret Doyle.

‘Have you any idea where Malcolm James might have gone?' Pike asked her.

He'd washed his face and drunk about a pint of water, and apart from the bruises almost looked like his old self again. Dody sat next to him on the drawing room sofa, her hand resting but a few inches from his own. How close she had come to losing him. Had he not managed to partially unscrew the metal plate to allow in a minimal stream of air, he'd be lying in the mortuary van now, alongside John Giblett and Superintendent Shepherd. She shuddered and brushed her hand against his to reassure
herself of its warmth. The movement was not lost on Margaret, who managed the semblance of a smile.

Dody hoped her friend — yes, Dody admitted, her
friend
, for that's what Margaret was to her, even if she was a thief — would get over the loss of John and start her life over again. And she planned on helping her every step of the way, even if it did mean turning a blind eye to her various minor misdemeanours.

Margaret shrugged. ‘With his contacts, Mr Pike, James could be halfway to Dover right now.'

‘You think he'll go overseas?' Pike asked.

‘Europe would be the best place to flog the necklace.' Margaret fell silent, put her hand to her mouth and swallowed down a sob. ‘You will find him, won't you, Mr Pike?'

Pike clenched his jaw. Dody knew that look.

‘I will, Miss Doyle,' he said. ‘You need have no fear of that.'

He would be true to his word, of that Dody had no doubt.

‘And you'll tell me he's caught, won't you, even when I'm in Holloway?'

Dody and Pike exchanged glances. ‘On what charges do you expect to be imprisoned, Miss Doyle?' Pike asked.

Margaret looked down at her lap. ‘A shed load, Mr Pike, after everything I've done.'

‘And what might your misdemeanours be?'

Margaret looked to Dody for help.

‘I'm not sure that Mr Pike has anything to charge you with,' Dody said. ‘What say you, Matthew?'

Pike made a play of sifting through his notebook. ‘Can't see anything here. Ah, yes, just the matter of some stolen earrings from Selfridges.'

At last Margaret understood. ‘Oh, those, yes, the ones I found in John's house and posted to Dody? Of course I'll be returning them to the shop. Along with all the other stolen goods John Giblett stashed at my place.'

‘And the money donated to the clinic?' Dody asked.

‘But that was mine to give, I thought I explained that.'

Dody opened her mouth to speak but closed it again when she noticed Pike's scrutiny. What with everything else that was going on, and despite the best of
intentions, she had neglected to tell him about the suspicious donation. ‘Oh, yes, of course, from your wealthy aunt,' she said.

Pike rose and Dody followed suit. ‘Everything is in order then,' Pike said. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Doyle. I'll contact you if I have any further questions.'

‘One more thing, Chief Inspector,' Margaret said as she dug into her evening bag. ‘This is no good to me now. Perhaps you and Dody could make use of it?'

Dody peered around Pike's shoulder at the document he unfolded.

‘A Notification of Marriage,' she read.

Pike said nothing, refolded the document and tucked it carefully into his inside pocket. ‘Thank you, Miss Doyle,' he said, glancing at Dody with a spark in his eye.