A Donation of Murder (4 page)

A few flames were smouldering their way through the paper-thin walls to the flat next door. Pike called the firemen in, warning them not to touch the bodies and to confine their activities to this floor only until further word from him.

And then he heard a sound: footsteps on the floor below.

‘You! Stop right there, police!' he cried as he set off in pursuit. Looking down the stairwell, he glimpsed a small man in a cloth cap. The man was a lot more nimble than Pike, bolting down the stairs three at a time and swinging through the air at each turn of the banister.

Pike did his best to follow him down five flights of stairs, but lost him on the first-floor landing. Pike stopped, listening to the sound of his own laboured breathing. The man could not have reached the ground floor so quickly unless he'd slid down the banister the rest of the way. Pike glanced at the dull wooden handrail. Strategically placed knobs put paid to that notion. And surely if the man had made it through the back door, Pike would have heard shots by now.

He had to be somewhere on the first floor.

Pike found him in the third flat he searched, hidden behind a wardrobe missing its door.

‘Out you come, lad,' he said to the boy, fifteen years old if a day.

The boy stepped out, wide-eyed and blinking. His Adam's apple scurried up and down his scrawny throat as he faced Pike and tried to swallow. He had a small triangular-shaped face and the beginning of a downy moustache on his upper lip. Pike recognised him immediately.

‘Tommy “the Tadpole” Boo-champ.' He pronounced the boy's surname with the local accent. He doubted even Tommy knew the correct pronunciation of the name handed down to him by his Huguenot ancestors.

The boy's filthy hand crept towards a bulge in the front of his shirt.

‘Against the wall, Tommy,' Pike said, slamming the boy's body where he wanted it.

But Tommy slithered from his grip, dropped to his knees and darted between Pike's legs. Pike fired a warning shot into the air to alert the men outside, and dashed after the fugitive, down the remaining stairs and into the tenement's backyard.

‘There 'ee goes!' one of the policemen shouted, pointing his pistol at Tommy's fleeing form. The bullet missed its target and splintered into one of the privy doors.

Another man aimed a rifle. Pike got to him just in time, chopping the rifle downwards with his hand. The rifle discharged, hitting its prey in the lower leg, sending Tommy tumbling into a pile of dustbins.

‘I said aim for the legs, Constable,' Pike said through gritted teeth. One injured child was enough for one day.

A couple of constables approached the bins, picking over piles of frozen refuse. Then, like a jack-in-a-box, up Tommy jumped, clapping the closest constable around the ears with a pair of dustbin-lid cymbals. The constable collapsed in shock. The other dived for Tommy's legs, but he was not quick enough. In the blink of an eye Tommy had scaled the wooden perimeter fence and was legging it down the back lane, pursued by two puffing policemen.

Pike cursed under his breath. ‘They haven't a chance,' he muttered to the red-faced sergeant next to him.

‘You can see why he's called “the Tadpole,”' the sergeant said. ‘Slippery little bugger.'

Pike could not but agree.

The constable with the rifle scowled. ‘You should have let me take that shot, sir, I'd 'ave hit 'im in the noggin and that would-a-been that.'

‘As the only remaining member of the gang who robbed the jeweller's shop, he's more valuable alive to us than he is dead. And next time you disobey orders,' Pike peered through the sleet at the numbers on the high collar of the policeman's greatcoat, ‘PC 467, it's the charge sheet for you. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, sir,' he mumbled.

‘Keep an eye on him, Sergeant,' Pike said as he walked away from the group.

A thin trail of red drips upon the slushy grey snow caught his eye. He began to follow it.

The clinic was part of a scheme devised by Doctor Elizabeth Garret to turn disused buildings into places of medical care for disadvantaged women. It worked in a similar fashion to the casualty department of the London Hospital not far down the road. But While the London was much bigger, better staffed and better equipped, the women's clinic offered something the larger institution could not — a refuge from ill-intentioned men.

Many of the women who sought treatment were vagrants or prostitutes, working by night and sleeping by day in the graveyard of Christchurch Spitalfields, and controlled by dangerous and demanding pimps. Other patients, including children, came from tenements where families of up to fifteen people shared a room. In these places some men claimed unrestricted access to their daughters. Others expressed their misery and desperation through their fists.

And such abuse was not limited to the poorer classes. Dody was on duty once when a Duchess was admitted through the front door with eight-year-old twin girls. The Duchess had surprised her husband in the nursery on Nanny's day off. It appeared the Duke had a predilection for his own progeny.

The poor woman had been in a desperate state. She had applied for a divorce but had been informed by her husband's lawyer that a divorce would leave her destitute and destroy her daughters' future. The Duchess had remained in hiding at the clinic with her daughters until arrangements were made for them to be taken in by a kindly uncle who lived on the continent.

The lady would be aghast if she knew the place that had offered her succour in her time of need was threatened with closure due to lack of funds. Dody furrowed her brow as she joined the others in the clinic kitchen for the emergency meeting, wondering if the Duchess might be able to help.

The kitchen was simple, but clean, much as the original warehouse had been before it was bought by the clinic's original benefactor (since dead, alas) and rudimentarily renovated. Dody was acquainted with all eight women seated around the ringed table. Three were doctors like herself, who donated their services. Daphne Hamilton, Florence's suffragette friend, was also present. Upon leaving school Daphne had helped at the clinic two days each week. Dody and the other staff had
been so impressed with her natural ability that they had encouraged her to undertake nurses' training. She had completed her course about six months ago and now spent more time at the clinic than she did away from it, acting as unofficial ‘matron' and organising the voluntary nursing and cleaning staff. It would be a sad day for the clinic when Daphne hung up her fob watch to get married.

The medical staff were very much at ease in the draughty kitchen, though Dody could not help but notice the ramrod backs and fidgeting fingers of the non-medical members of the board. Though none of them visited the premises often, all were indispensable to the clinic's success. Mrs Lee and Mrs Purslowe managed the fundraising activities and Lady Lucinda Broome looked after the books and administration. She was the only one of the three who accepted tea from the tray of chipped mugs passed around by Nurse Little.

They were kind women with the best of intentions, even the unpopular Mrs Lee had a good heart and meant well despite her sometimes harsh approach. All were wealthy and married to decent men who indulged their wives, encouraging them to pursue charitable causes. These men knew too well what happened to bored, wealthy women — they either indulged in romantic affairs or joined the suffragette movement — heaven forbid!

Lady Lucinda regarded the notes before her through a pince-nez balanced on a button nose not big enough for the job. She held the eyeglasses in place as she shook her head.

‘It's not looking favourable, I'm afraid, ladies. Our fundraising over the last three months has been as follows: The jumble sale raised two pounds, nine shillings and sixpence. Christchurch Spitalfield donated five pounds, and, likewise, the Bloomsbury Suffragette Division donated five pounds.' At this Lady Lucinda gave Daphne an appreciative nod. ‘And we've had an anonymous donation of one hundred pounds.'

The women clapped and trilled ‘Bravo!' until Lady Lucinda raised her hand for silence. ‘Generous as the donation is, we are still left with five hundred and fifty pounds of debt.'

‘Then we will be unable to meet our rental,' Dody said, chewing on her pencil.

‘Indeed. Nor will we be able to purchase new linen. The money raised will cover a month's worth of medicines at the very most,' Lady Lucinda said.

‘And what good are medicines if we don't have the premises in which to use them?' Daphne remarked.

‘Our landlord has given us six weeks to pay or to vacate.'

‘But Lucinda, Mr Coppins was such a generous man, and a huge admirer of Doctor Garret's,' Mrs Purslowe exclaimed. ‘Why would he do this to us now?'

‘Mr Coppins passed away last year, dear. His son is in charge now, and not as sympathetic to our cause, I'm afraid.'

The forgetful Mrs Purslowe lowered her gaze to gloved hands resting on the table.

‘Does anybody have any ideas?' Lady Lucinda asked the gathered women.

‘What about the Duchess, surely she would help?' Dody asked.

‘Alas, we seem to have lost contact. Happy as I am for her and her dear little girls, the rumour mill suggests she has met someone on the continent, a foreigner, and married him. She may well have moved. I received no Christmas card from her last year or this.'

‘Ungrateful. After all we did for her,' snapped Mrs Lee.

‘Actually, I heard she'd died,' Daphne said, bluntly. Daphne never did have the time for sour-faced Mrs Lee who was so thick-skinned she never seemed to notice.

After a moment of pin-dropping silence, Mrs Purslowe cleared her throat and said, ‘I'm afraid I've wheedled as much as I can from my husband, Lucinda. Most of our investments are in Ireland, and I don't need to tell you what that means at the moment. Confidence in the Irish market has plummeted. I've been told we must forego our family holiday this year.'

‘I quite understand, dear,' Lady Lucinda said. ‘And the European markets are just as erratic, or so my husband tells me, I tend not to read the papers — far too depressing. If he could just sell a couple of his racehorses we'd be in the clear. But he won't. He says the clinic is bleeding us dry.'

‘They say a European war might pick things up again,' Mrs Lee said. ‘Perhaps that will be of benefit to us?'

‘What about a civil war with Ireland?' Mrs Purslowe interjected. ‘Surely one war's as good as another?'

Dody managed to hold her tongue, but in so doing almost snapped her pencil in half. She knew enough about war, mainly through Pike, to know how it could not justify the saving of even a thousand pauper clinics. ‘I'll have a talk with my father,' she said.

‘No, Mr McCleland has taken on more than his share of the burden,' Lady Lucinda said.

‘Then I will talk to Mother,' Daphne said.

‘
Noblesse oblige
or not, Daphne, my dear, your family has done enough too.'

Dody and Daphne met eyes and shrugged. Surely between them they could work something out?

‘I admit it's embarrassing to have to beg from one's parents, but desperate measures and all that,' Daphne said.

Lady Lucinda pushed herself up from the table. ‘Let us all go home and rack our brains, sleep on it, as they say. Travel safely, my dears, the weather is dire. If anyone needs a ride home in my motorcar, my chauffeur is waiting outside and will be more than happy to oblige.'

The society women said courteous goodbyes, leaving Dody and her medical colleagues in the kitchen.

Daphne smacked her hands together. ‘Well, that went well!'

The other doctors smiled, Dody rolled her eyes at the same time as she shook her head with affection. Daphne was almost as much fun to have around as Florence.

‘Has the Duchess really died, Daphne?' Dody asked with concern.

‘How should I know?' she shrugged. ‘I only said it to stop Mrs Lee from launching into one of her self-righteous tirades.'

Dody let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank heavens for that. Then hopefully the Duchess is basking in the sun with a rich lover or husband who adores her and will treat her children well.'

‘Here, here!' said Doctor Wainright, an elderly woman who had been forced to study medicine in France at a time when England barred women from the profession. ‘Now that might make living on the continent bearable.'

After some much needed laughter, Doctor Wainright addressed Dody. ‘So my dear, when will you be returning to us?'

‘Not for a week at least, Doctor. With Doctor Spilsbury still away I'm afraid I'm terribly busy.'

‘That's all right, we can manage, can't we, girls?'

‘Better here getting some decent experience than sitting at home waiting for a job offer that will never come,' Doctor Rachel Borkstein said. Since leaving medical school she'd been offered only one position, in northern Scotland, which she'd
turned down on account of her invalid father. Dody suspected that it was not just her gender that was holding her back; her Jewish heritage would not be helping matters much either.

Doctor Amanda Birkmyre had fared only a little better. She worked as a ‘shilling doctor' for the newly established Medical Insurance Scheme and earned less than a cook in a large country house.

It was a privilege to be working with such women, Dody reflected. It was also a humbling reminder that, but for her own good fortune, her medical career, like theirs, might have stalled. Or worse, been over before it had begun.

Despite having reached her decision that she would throw her hard-earned career away for marriage, she felt a jab of frustration, and not for the first time. Why couldn't a professional woman have a career and a husband? Her frustration flared into a tinderbox of anger — not towards Pike, whom she loved heart and soul, but at the society that gave her no choice. The pencil snapped in her hand.

All eyes turned. ‘Oh, dear, excuse me,' Dody said, trying to cover her embarrassment.

Doctor Wainright shot Dody a sympathetic smile. ‘Don't worry, Doctor McCleland, the current situation is making us all anxious.' She turned to the Jewish doctor. ‘Anything of interest to hand over, Doctor Borkstein?' she asked, for a moment distracting Dody from her personal troubles. Unlike her younger colleagues Doctor Wainright never called any of the medical staff by their first name.

Rachel summarised her patients' progress. ‘The successful delivery of twins this morning, mother and babies well so far. Mrs Crosby's broken arm is healing nicely, as is young Billy's leg. I fear though that Mrs Smith's passing is imminent and she will be leaving us some time today. And there's also Dody's lady, Mrs Doyle.'

Dody did not correct the title. As a rule most of the women over the age of sixteen were referred to as ‘Mrs' at the clinic to save embarrassment.

‘Mrs Doyle will be leaving with me, Doctor Wainright,' Dody said. ‘I plan to invite her to my home to convalesce.'

‘Is that wise, Doctor? What kind of woman is she?'

‘Decent, I think. And as I am partly responsible for her condition, it is the least I can do.' Dody went on to describe what had happened to Margaret Doyle in the mortuary.

The women were duly shocked and all agreed that Dody's offer of personal care was an acceptable course of action. When Dody asked if anyone had had dealings with Mrs Doyle before, all said that they had never heard of her. She's not notorious then, Dody thought with relief.

Dody took her leave of the other doctors and walked with Daphne towards the treatment room. On their way they passed through the clinic's ten-bed ward. All the beds were taken, with patients ranging from a six-year-old boy who had been knocked down by a delivery cart, to Mrs Smith, suffering from postnatal septicaemia following the birth of her twelfth child. By all accounts this lady came from a stable family home, albeit an impoverished one. Dody wondered how her husband would cope when she was gone — and there was no doubt that she would go and soon.

Daphne tip-toed over to her bed and felt her patient's brow. The woman didn't stir; the only movement was the rise and fall of her chest in the ominous Cheyne-Stokes style of breathing, signifying that death was near.

‘Not long now,' Daphne whispered respectfully. ‘I'll sit with her after I've had a look at your Lazarus. I'm quite intrigued by your Margaret Doyle.'

‘As am I,' Dody admitted.

In the treatment room, they paused before entering Margaret Doyle's screened off cubicle.

‘So, we have just over a month to raise five hundred and fifty pounds,' Daphne said to Dody.

Dody nodded. ‘Do you think you might be able to find out the Duchess's whereabouts?

‘I can try — but you know how slow the postal service is on the continent. Even if she did have the means to help us, depending where she is living we might not see the money for months, and we'd be closed down by then.'

Dody stretched out her hand to the curtained screen. ‘I agree, but it's our only hope. We have to get the money from somewhere.'

She pushed the screen back and affected a brighter tone of voice. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Doyle, are you feeling any better?'

‘I still feel a bit off-colour, Doctor. I haven't managed to get dressed yet, I'm afraid. I can't bear the thought of leaving this warm bed.'

‘That's all right, I'll help you,' Dody said, reaching for the bundle of clothes Nurse Little had left at the bottom of the bed. ‘Mrs Doyle, this is my friend, Nurse Daphne Hamilton.'

The women exchanged polite greetings. Daphne took a thermometer from her apron pocket, shook it and popped it under Miss Doyle's tongue. While she was waiting for the temperature to set, she took her pulse. ‘Fifty two,' she said to Dody. She took the thermometer from her patient's mouth. ‘And her temperature's ninety-five degrees, Doctor.'