Antidote To Murder (6 page)

“Are you sure? This is not the norm. I’ve never known people like this using lead in tablet form.” Everard joined the discussion under the light and severed the thread of her thought. “The poor are opportunists, using what they have at hand—paints, plaster, piping—whatever they think will do the job.”

“Then someone is making the despicable task much easier for them, possibly instructing them with dosage, too. Inform the coroner, Dr. McCleland. Visit the family and see if you can find out where they got the lead tablets from.”

“It might be worth asking the Whitechapel chemist, Mr. Borislav, if he knows the Kent family, or anything about the tablets’ manufacture,” Dody said.

“Yes, Vladimir. I’ve known him since university,” Everard said.

“He tutored me at medical school,” Dody said, her resentment of Everard’s acquaintance with Borislav tempered by the knowledge that the chemist had little respect for her colleague.

“Women’s medical school,” Everard corrected her.

“He tutored students from many of the medical schools, Dr. Everard, sometimes even going to Edinburgh to lecture. He was not discriminatory.”

“Well, jolly good for him.”

Jets of smoke shot from Spilsbury’s nostrils. “Go and see this Borislav chap then, Dr. McCleland,” he said. “He’s in the right locale and might have his ear to the ground. Since the tightening of the pharmaceutical laws, there has been a rise in street gangs selling all kinds of dangerous ‘remedies.’ Take one of the tablets and show it to him. Make a note to that effect and add this case to the Book of Lists. And see if tablets with these unusual indentations were indeed recorded there before our time.”

Dr. Spilsbury was an enthusiastic compiler of lists; or rather he delegated the task to Dody. As well as lists of unscrupulous pharmaceutical suppliers, he’d recently had Dody working on lists of persons suspected of practising illegal abortions, infanticide, and baby-farming. The Book of Lists, started in a haphazard way by Spilsbury’s predecessor, was growing more comprehensive weekly, and sometimes led to successful prosecutions.

Dody stifled a sigh. She admired the zeal Spilsbury put into the task of bringing such carrion to justice, and yet after years of university studies, numerous unpaid medical positions, and a diploma in autopsy surgery, she sometimes felt a coroner’s clerk or agent of enquiry was more suitable for these duties than she. But she had worked hard to attain her position in the Home Office and was not about to complain and risk losing her one paying job, even if it was only part-time.

Spilsbury stepped aside from the table and ordered Everard to sew up the body, a procedure that could have been performed by any one of the lowly attendants. She smiled to herself when she caught Everard’s low groan. Perhaps if Henry Everard had had to work as hard as she had to obtain his position, he, too, would have been more accepting of the minor tasks he was assigned.

Dody moved over to a wooden filing cabinet at the far end of the autopsy room and retrieved the heavy leather-bound Book of Lists. In it she recorded the details of Billy Kent’s death and sketched a tablet with the unusual scorings. She was about to flick back the pages to see if similar tablets had been recorded before her time, when Everard let out a curse—“Hell’s teeth!”—and held up his hand. Blood trickled from his finger and ran down his wrist, daubing the ashen corpse with drops of red.

Spilsbury cast his eyes aloft and indicated for Dody to take over.

She picked up the dropped needle and thread. “Disinfect that well, Dr. Everard,” she said. “You know what damage a simple needle prick can do.”

“I don’t need you to point that out,” he shot quietly. In a louder voice, he said. “Thank you, Dr. McCleland.”

When she had finished with the corpse, she joined Spilsbury at the trough-like sink, where they washed their hands in silence with the leathery-smelling carbolic soap.

Conversation was not one of the pathologist’s attributes. Recently, though, Dody had taken the opportunity to watch him testify in court and experienced once more the sensations that had sparked an earlier, short-lived, infatuation. At the mortuary he had less life about him than most of their patients, but in court, Dr. Bernard Spilsbury shone.

“You will visit Billy Kent’s family this afternoon, Doctor?” he enquired.

“Yes, sir, and inform the coroner that he has a case.”

“Good. If you find anything of further interest, I’ll be in the lab at St. Mary’s until about ten tonight. Tomorrow I leave for Edinburgh for two weeks. You will save all but the most routine cases for me.”

“Will the trains be running, sir?” Everard called out.

Spilsbury turned to face him and dropped the towel he had been using on his hands. “Lord only knows. I’ll go by automobile if I have to. Damned strikers—food left rotting on the docks, mobs in the street, starvation. Can’t they see what they are doing to the country, to their own people?”

Dody remained silent. At first she had been in support of the strikers, who worked long hours often under intolerable conditions, until she’d begun dealing with the innocent victims—mainly the children, slowly dying of starvation. If the strikes went on for much longer, famine was predicted.

“They say the country’s a whisker away from revolution, and a foreign war is the only way to fix the situation. God help us all,” Spilsbury added.

Everard pulled the sheet over the body and joined them at the sink.

“Have you had the chance to peruse our papers yet, sir?” he asked.

“I have indeed. Very good, Everard.”

Dody’s heart skipped a beat. “Papers? I thought our papers weren’t due until tomorrow.”

“At the end of last week, actually,” Everard said, flicking water from his fingers and reaching for a clean towel. “Because Dr. Spilsbury has been called away, he wanted them in sooner—did I not inform you of that, Dr. McCleland?”

“No, you did not,” she said coldly.

Everard pressed a finger to his cheek. “Dear me, come to think of it, I didn’t, did I? Frightfully sorry; sir, this is my fault.”

Spilsbury nodded; evidently Everard’s gallantry absolved him of all sin. Dody glared at Everard as they followed Spilsbury to his office, a large impersonal space off the autopsy room. Everard met her eye and shrugged.

Spilsbury lifted a sheaf of typed foolscap from his desk and handed it to Everard. “As it will be some time now before I can look at Dr. McCleland’s paper, you may as well have yours back, Everard. Experiments showing that some foods are tumour-inducing in rats. Most interesting.”

What?
Dody all but gasped.

Everard must have noticed her look of shock. “Care for a look?” he asked with aggravating nonchalance.

She snatched the paper from his hand and leafed through it. Over the weeks he had openly quizzed her about her research paper. Once she had even caught him riffling through a draft copy she had left on a bench top, an act she’d put down at the time to harmless interest. She needed only a quick glance now to see that although the presentation was slightly different, much of the text was blatantly paraphrased from her own. More fool her for thinking her own profession above such deceit. No wonder Everard had orchestrated getting his paper to Spilsbury first.

Using all her powers of restraint, she managed to halt the accusation before it spilled from her lips. An altercation in front of their mentor would do more harm than good. Besides, it would be almost impossible to prove that she had come up with the idea first. She couldn’t hand her proposal in now. What could she do?

Spilsbury said, “I can’t guarantee that Dr. Eccles, our primary researcher in tumours, will be interested, but it is a feather in your cap, Everard, well done. As for your paper, Dr. McCleland, you may hand it in if you wish; otherwise, hang on to it until I come back.”

“I might just as well keep it for a bit longer, sir,” Dody said.

“Suit yourself.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Everard smirk.

She whirled to face him. Now she understood Borislav’s strange reaction to her paper; it was because Everard had shown him his first. That her old friend might have labelled her as the plagiarist was almost as upsetting as the crime itself.

“Yes, Dr. McCleland?” Everard challenged. When she failed to respond, he said, “Save us the suspense, then. Tell us something about your proposal.”

She straightened and attempted to cover her inner fury with an outer aspect of cool dignity. She could not think clearly when she was angry and this answer required a quick, calm head.

After a brief pause, she said, “Mine also involves rats, only I am interested in seeing if the creatures can be trained to sniff out the tuberculosis bacilli.”

Johannes Fibiger was also investigating the correlation between cancer and TB. The sniffing talents of rats had been but a passing thought of Dody’s during the course of her reading and the idle observations of her new pets.

The question now was, could she really assemble the information and put the proposal together before Spilsbury’s return? She had no choice. She had to.

Spilsbury shook his head in apparent wonder. “Marvellous, Dr. McCleland, marvellous. A cheap method of diagnosis that has the potential to reach masses.”

Praise indeed! Dody could hardly believe her ears. For a fleeting moment she wondered if Spilsbury knew more about the conflict between his assistants than he revealed.
Playing us off against one another,
she supposed,
is one way of bringing out our best—or our worst.

“Bravo,” Everard said drily. “What interesting reading. I can hardly wait.”

Chapter Six

T
he paper had taken several weeks to produce and now Dody had only two weeks to start and finish the new one. Despite the pressure, the more she thought about it, the more excited she became about her off-the-cuff proposal. The new challenge filled her with an electric charge she counted on to keep her going through the busy days ahead.

But there were still the day-to-day activities to contend with, and the first of her priorities was a visit to the Kent family. Accompanied by Florence, Dody descended the stone kitchen stairs to consult Cook.

Annie looked on in horror as, under Cook’s supervision, Dody placed a large basket on the scrubbed kitchen table and packed it with a family-sized pork pie, ginger beer, a seed cake, four crisp apples, and a sweating chunk of cheddar.

“I thought we were having that pie for our lunch tomorrow, Mrs. C,” Annie complained.

“By then it would ’ave walked out the larder by itself.” Cook turned to Dody. “I’m ’aving a terrible time stopping things from going orf, miss. The milk on the doorstep was sour before I got the chance to bring it in this morning.”

“Try not to worry too much about it, Mrs. Crabbe,” Dody said, “and maybe order fewer perishables. None of us is hungry in this heat.”

“I don’t see why baby-killers should be treated so special,” Annie huffed. She had been serving tea when Dody told Florence about the Kent case. No matter how often Dody chastised her, eavesdropping to Annie was as much a God-given right as her weekly half-day off. She wondered also how much the girl had taken in of her explanation to Florence of Everard’s treachery—the whole lot probably. Perhaps it was time for another what-goes-on-in-the-house-stays-in-the-house lecture.

“We don’t yet know the truth, Annie. A person is innocent until proven guilty.” And besides, Dody thought, the food in the basket might help loosen hungry tongues. Not that she was particularly eager to see either of the wretched parents convicted of infanticide—if only the solution were that simple. What she really wanted was the unscrupulous supplier who had sold them the deadly lead medication and the know-how to use it.

“I don’t think you should go there by yourself, Dody—let me come, too,” Florence said.

Dody shook her head. “The place is a cesspool of germs. I wouldn’t want you to get ill.”

Florence grimaced. “No, you weren’t at all well after the last visit.”

“I was fortunate to get only a mild dose of English cholera. I probably won’t get ill a second time, but you would almost certainly be vulnerable. Don’t worry, I can manage on my own.”

Florence did not press the point, though she did grumble about being left alone with nothing to do for the remainder of the afternoon.

“Read your book, write to Mother and Poppa,” Dody said.

Florence paused for thought. “I might see if Daphne’s free to visit Lady Harriet Frobisher with me.”

“The household struck with cholera? Don’t have anything to eat or drink there, for goodness’ sake. You’d be better off coming with me after all.”

“I think they are just about over it now. Besides, it can’t really be as dangerous as the place you’re visiting.”

Dody shrugged. “Perhaps not. Mrs. Crabbe, I need you to keep a variety of food scraps readily available at all times. Tell me in advance what you plan on leaving out for the pig man; I want first refusal on all kitchen waste—bread, cake, meat, fish, cheese, et cetera.” She turned to Florence. “Before I start with the TB samples, I have to find out what food appeals to the rats the most, so I know how best to reward them for successful sniffing.”

Florence, Cook, and Annie exchanged glances. “Dody,” Florence said, holding up a finger. “We really don’t want to see, hear, or smell anything more of your familiars, is that clear?”

The servants backed up their younger mistress with vigorous nods.

Dody sighed, outnumbered and suitably chastised. Back to the task in hand. She tested the weight of the basket: heavy. She would have to ask Fletcher to drop her at the chemist, a quarter-mile or so from her destination. No good would come from the visit if the locals saw her being delivered by a private motorcar. Even motorised taxis were a rarity in that particular East End neighbourhood.

* * *

T
he High Street chemist was airless. Dody put down her basket with relief and pressed the bell on the counter next to a giant pestle and mortar.

Mr. Borislav emerged from the dispensing room and opened his palms in delight. “Two visits in one day: I am honoured. Are you still unwell? That pesky cholera has a tendency to come and go. Would you like some more Valentine’s Meat Juice?”

“No, no, I am much better now, thank you.”

“Your paper then—how was it received?”

“Actually, there are two things I need to talk to you about.”

“And I have something for you, too.”

“You do? Then please . . .”

“No, I insist, ladies first.”

Dody drew a breath. “Mr. Borislav, I think you and I both know that you were shown two very similar papers.”

“Ah.” Borislav removed the spotted handkerchief that usually poked from his top pocket and dabbed at his damp forehead.

“How could you doubt me?” she asked with undisguised hurt.

“It was not you I doubted.”

“Then why did you not warn me?”

“What good would warning you do? By the time I saw you, I knew Everard had already handed in his paper—what was done was done. Do you wish me to tell Spilsbury about it now?”

Dody frowned. “No, no, Spilsbury has no idea about the plagiarism. And I have been given an extension, which should just give me time to rewrite my paper. I’m only sorry that you were placed in such a difficult position.”

“My heart dropped into my boots when I saw Henry Everard on my doorstep the other day, wanting me to check his proposal for him. He was at the same university and in the same year as my nephew, you know.”

Dody waited with interest for him to elaborate.

Instead he said, “I think it is time you two met.” He turned his head and called to Joseph in the dispensing room.

The younger man emerged, wiping his hands down his white coat. He was as tall as his uncle was short, his face as rugged as Borislav’s was soft and round. But his smile was similar to his uncle’s, and his identical spectacles caught the light in the same manner, adding a certain rakish charm.

“I have heard much about you, Mr. Champion,” Dody said with a smile, liking him at once.

“Likewise, Dr. McCleland. My uncle speaks very highly of you. When I heard that your Clinic was opening down the road, I was hoping we would at last get to meet.”

“I was telling Dr. McCleland how you knew Henry Everard at university,” Borislav said.

Joseph paused as if to consider his words. “Indeed,” and let the word hang. The lack of warmth, praise, any comment at all for that matter, told Dody more about his opinion of Everard than anything his uncle might have coaxed from him.

Borislav exaggerated a shrug. “How can I help that he was raised to be the gentleman?”

When their laughter had died, Joseph said, “It’s been lovely to meet you, Dr. McCleland, but I must now tear myself away and return to work.”

“Work of your own making, I would like to remind you,” Borislav said. To Dody he added, “Joseph is working on a way of mass-producing poultices so we always have a ready stock. Frankly, I think it detracts from the sense of personal service our customers receive when they know the product has been made for them specifically.”

“But far more efficient, Uncle. If you’d only allow me to employ an apprentice to help . . .”

“Be off with you!” Borislav said with an undercurrent of irritation in his voice that suggested his words were not entirely jest.

When the dispensary door had closed, Borislav said, “Change, change, change. I have to admit that Joseph has played his part in the shop’s reversal of fortunes, but the customers can only take so much newness.”

“You mean the proprietor can,” Dody teased.

Borislav straightened his bow tie, then leaned across the counter towards Dody and returned to the earlier subject. “Everard was quite the wastrel, according to Joseph, and about the only thing Joseph did not miss from the university when he left it. It grieved me when I learned that you and Everard had been thrown together for work. Apparently he made no effort to hide what little respect he had for female doctors, even then.”

Dody quirked her friend a smile. “I can cope with Henry Everard.”

“Of course you can.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “That’s my girl. There was something else you wanted to ask me?”

Dody reached into her bag and put the matchbox of tablets on the counter. “These tablets were found at the premises of a suspicious death. We think they are lead.”

Borislav picked out a tablet and examined it under a magnifying glass. The bright electric light shone down on his bowed head, his pink scalp shining through salt-and-pepper hair.

“Yes, they appear to be lead,” he said. “How unusual—highly concentrated, I suspect. But I cannot tell for certain without tests.”

“St. Mary’s is conducting tests. I was just wondering if you had come across tablets with this type of unusual scoring before,” Dody said.

“Not that I can remember, but I will check with Joseph. They were supplied in the matchbox?”

“Possibly; they were found in it. And the victim was from this area.”

“Unfortunately there are many around here with the ability to manufacture tablets such as these. All it requires is some basic scientific knowledge, equipment, and a pill press such as you would find in all chemists, pharmacies, and apothecaries—sometimes doctors’ surgeries. Even a doctor like yourself would be capable of manufacturing them . . .” Borislav broke off and rubbed his chin.

“What’s on your mind, Borislav?”

“Oh, it is nothing, really. But—you are aware that lead is often used for criminal abortion?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the lack of a specific container could indicate they have been made without a licence by someone who did not wish to be traced. You can imagine how these tablets would appeal, especially if not diluted with superfluous ingredients. The higher potency means they have a better chance of working.”

“More expensive?”

Borislav nodded. “I imagine so, but not too pricey or else the poorer classes would not be able to afford them. A rather strange fellow has been visiting me of late.” Borislav paused and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Both Joseph and I have had occasion to serve him and we have both questioned his motives. He calls himself a doctor, though I have my doubts about that. He tends to buy supplies relevant to female needs, if you get my drift. I wonder if he might have something to do with these tablets?”

“The man practises obstetrics, you mean? Do you know his name?”

“Something foreign, I think.” Borislav’s Russian heritage made him no less suspicious of foreigners than most English. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dorothy, but that is all I remember. At times I have been driven to having words with him for pestering my female customers. I would go to the police if I had anything more conclusive.”

“Will you let me know when he next visits—see if you can get his name for me and any other details? I might be able to find something about him in our Book of Lists.”

“Ah yes, your record of suspicious persons.”

“I’ve also seen tablets like this in the possession of a scullery maid I have been treating. I only had the chance for a quick glance, but they might have been scored this way. Perhaps she has had dealings with your foreign doctor? I will track the girl down and ask her some questions. I will not rest until I get to the bottom of this.”

“Tread cautiously, Dorothy: asking the wrong kinds of questions in an area like this might not be such a wise move. It would be all too easy for you to kick over the wrong stone.”

Dody heard the shuffle of feet, the clearing of a female throat. She stepped aside to let Borislav serve a customer, a plump woman of indeterminate age who ordered eight ounces of humbugs.

Borislav scooped out a clump of sticky sweets, weighed and bagged them, and exchanged friendly conversation with the woman about the close weather. Perhaps they would be blessed with a shower tonight. He finished up by trying to persuade her to part with tuppence for some soothing peppermint lozenges. She declined, her departure from the shop accompanied by the vigorous clanging of the spring bell on the door.

He turned back to Dody and shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all.”

She laughed.

“I am glad to see you cheered up. And now I have something that will really put a smile on your face.”

He leaned across the counter and patted his top pocket mischievously. “Some weeks ago we had a conversation about the Ballets Russes . . .”

She stared at him for a moment, placed her hand on her chest to calm the sudden racing of her heart. “You didn’t . . .”

“Indeed I did.”

“Tickets to the ballet?”

“Due to cancellation; two tickets for tomorrow night, but only in the stalls, I’m afraid. Sorry about the short notice.” Borislav smiled. “I take it you are still interested?”

“Oh yes, thank you. Of course I’m still interested!” Dody said, her thoughts hurrying over everything she had to get done. As for her paper, she could spend some time on it when she returned from the theatre. She must not let her concerns for that wretched assignment cast a shadow over the following evening: the Ballets Russes was the chance of a lifetime. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock and we can have supper after the performance,” Borislav said.