The Anatomy of Death (15 page)

Knowing the reason for the task, she carried out her orders without distaste. Faeces and excess urine might indicate
prolonged distress. Every minor detail must be recorded to provide evidence that the execution had been carried out as humanely as possible, so that any mistakes made might be prevented in the next. Semen would indicate ejaculation at the time of death, a common occurrence when the spinal cord is snapped.

Wilson pointed to the dead man’s flaccid penis. “No priapism,” he dictated to Dody.

His gaze travelled to the top of the body. “This isn’t as clean as some, though. The hangman could have done a better job. No doubt we will find considerable damage to the bony as well as the soft structures of the neck—the drop was too long, in my opinion. I will have to note it in my report. The hangman, Mr. Ellis, will not be pleased; he takes considerable pride in his work. Help me turn him, please, Doctor.”

Dody placed her hands upon the cooling skin and heaved. The body groaned as air was forced from the lungs. The buttocks and shoulders showed the beginning of lividity where the table had pressed.

Once more Wilson drew Dody’s attention to the neck area, then asked her to pass him the scalpel. “Spilsbury would have liked a full autopsy, but time is against us,” he said. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to make use of those specimen jars. He should have done this himself, or pulled a few more strings. My budget does not extend to full autopsy when the cause of death is so obvious.”

“Dr. Spilsbury is still on leave, sir.”

“Ah, that explains his absence. In any other forensic pathologist, absence might betray a reluctance to perform a postmortem on a criminal his evidence had condemned—but not Spilsbury.”

Wilson sliced through the skin and dissected the muscles of the neck, exposing the spine. The man knew his job, Dody did
not doubt it, despite the awkward angle of the scalpel between his blunt fingers and the slight tremble of his coarse hand. She could not help comparing Wilson’s style to Dr. Spilsbury’s ambidextrous elegance with the knife. The difference was like that between a competent colliery band and the London Symphony Orchestra.

“Ah, observe, Doctor. It is as I suspected, fracture of third cervical vertebrae and dislocation.”

When Dody failed to answer, Wilson waved the scalpel over the incision area. “I am expected to state my findings at the inquest within the hour, no time for much more. Any questions, Dr. McCleland?”

Dody shook her head. Wilson’s comments about Spilsbury’s lack of scruples had provoked an uncomfortable train of thought. She had been trained to save lives, not be responsible for taking them. But surely, the opposing voice in her head reasoned, the forensic pathologist was no more responsible for sending a man to his death than the arresting police officer, the judge, or the jury. If only she’d thought to remind Pike of this when he made his remarks about her
further education
.

“Are you feeling unwell, Doctor?” Wilson asked.

“I’m feeling quite well, thank you,” she said, regaining her focus. “I hope that when you next perform a judicial postmortem, you might allow me to assist you again. I feel that it has helped very much with my continuing education.”

“Splendid! You have been a most able assistant, I would be delighted!” Wilson said, smiling broadly beneath his bushy white moustache.

P
ike shuffled the last batch of surveillance photographs aside. His concentration had begun to flag and he could not stop his thoughts from drifting to the slight, dark-haired autopsy surgeon; the delicate pucker of her brow when she was in thought, the curve of her mouth when she smiled, which seemed all the more valuable for the rarity of it.

What they had witnessed together in Pentonville, while not as horrific as some events he had seen on a battlefield, had still been confronting. Was it because of the persistent feeling he had that Crippen might be innocent? Yet he felt he could trust Dorothy McCleland’s professional judgement; perhaps there was no mistake in the forensic conclusions that Spilsbury had drawn. Although she seemed as spellbound as everyone else by the man.

Whatever the reason for his own distress, the doctor, for the most part, had remained controlled and detached. Had
Pike not seen for himself her reaction to the possibility that the hanged man might have continued to writhe alone and unattended in the pit, he would have taken her to possess a heart of stone. They had formed a bond that even their acrimonious separation could not alter. He shuddered that their newfound intimacy should be founded on something so terrible.

His thoughts were thankfully interrupted when Sergeant Fisher entered his office.

Pike leaned back in his desk chair. “How are your investigations going, Sergeant?” he asked Fisher. “Have you found anyone who might have hated Lady Catherine enough to want her dead?” Other than a blood-frenzied bobby, he prayed.

Fisher shrugged. “She certainly stepped on a few toes, sir; she was quite outspoken in her views.”

“The WSPU women have many different viewpoints, all of them extreme. How was Lady Catherine different? Did she anger any of her WSPU group? What does your informant say about that?”

“Nothing, sir, ’sept she doesn’t think that was the case. But when the Bloomsbury group started to become more militant, Lady Catherine didn’t like that too much either.”

“The Bloomsbury group has recently had an influx of working-class women—perhaps that was the root of the problem? They do tend to be more violently demonstrative,” Pike said.

“Yes, sir. Apparently she was hostile to the working-class members, didn’t want to allow them into the group. Apparently it was Florence McCleland who persuaded her to moderate her views.”

“A more persuasive young lady I can hardly imagine.”

“My informer tells me Lady Catherine was devoted to Miss McCleland—saw herself as the young woman’s guardian, I
believe.” Fisher took a breath and fixed his eyes on the wall above Pike’s head, and Pike prepared himself for something he might not wish to hear.

“Sir, remember how there was talk about them planning to assassinate the prime minister?”

“Yes, that was ruled out as a jest; you told me so yourself.”

The sergeant cleared his throat. “Yes, well, some of the ladies have now taken up pistol shooting.”

Pike slammed his hand onto his desk. “Dash it all, man—this puts a very different complexion on things. How long has this been going on?”

“It’s a recent development, sir. That’s all I know.”

“We’ll have to inform Special Branch about it all the same.” Pike uncapped his pen and began to scribble Callan a note. “Anything else?”

“There’s probably nothing to fear. Mrs. Pankhurst has ordered, quote, that not a cat or a canary is to be harmed.”

“There’s rogues in every group, Fisher.” Pike was thinking of the police officers he’d been forced to sack—they’d hardly followed orders. “It may be time to pull the informer out, I don’t want her to be put in any kind of danger.” Pike took a cigarette from his case and lit it.

“Not just yet, if you don’t mind, sir. She says they’re planning something for next week.”

“Can you guarantee her safety?”

“She told me she wants to stay—she knows the risks, sir.”

“Desperate for the money, is she?” Pike gave in with a sigh. “Very well, then.” He opened the cashbox in his desk drawer and handed Fisher two gold sovereigns.

“Thank you, sir.” Fisher put the coins in his waistcoat pocket. “Besides,” he said after he signed the account book,
“they wouldn’t hurt a woman, would they? It’s against their creed.”

“I would have thought you’d been in the job long enough to avoid such generalisations, Fisher.” Pike’s eyes strayed to one of the photographs on his desk. It showed a modishly dressed young woman swiping at a policeman with a rolled umbrella. He looked at it again and placed it on top of the pile of those he had already examined. “When women behave like men and upset the natural order, who can say what they may do.”

Pike put the scribbled note to Callan aside and placed a clean piece of paper over the blotter. He began to list their suppositions. “She might have been killed by someone in the group who had opposing views to her own—who else?”

“We’ve ruled out Cartwright, haven’t we, sir?”

“I think so.”

“What about the men’s antisuffrage league? There was a few of them at the riot. Lady Catherine’s letter in
The Times
a few weeks ago might have humiliated some of those gentlemen. She wrote, quote, the men’s antisuffrage league was no better than muscle-bound bulldogs. And then she added some insulting things about their manhood. The editor was forced to remove some words, but you could tell what they was—no words a lady should know about, if you ask me, sir.”

Pike grunted and ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray. “Find out how seriously her letter was taken, how much anger it provoked. Go through the photographs again and look for familiar faces—I’ve nearly finished with this lot.” Pike removed another photograph from the envelope, looked at it, and placed it on the pile.

“Have we eliminated a bobby from our enquiries then, sir?”

Pike sighed. “No, I’m afraid not. Nor a rough, nor anyone
disguised as one, whether he be police detective or Irish. Leave that side of the investigation to me; there’s no point both of us treading on the superintendent’s toes.”

He added “bobby,” then “rough” to their suspect list, realising it was not much bigger than when he had started. After replacing the cap of his pen, he slid the photographs towards Fisher and climbed to his feet. A walk along the Embankment might clear his head and loosen his knee.

There were a few photographs left in the envelope. He glanced at the last one as he moved it towards Fisher’s pile. In the background was a scuffle between a bobby and a suffragette, but in the foreground…he looked at it again, closer, and froze.

He sank back heavily into his chair, his cane clattering to the floor beside him.

“Sir, are you all right? Can I get you anything?” Fisher moved to Pike’s side.

“I’m fine, thank you. Take the photographs and go.”

“And that one, sir?”

Pike glanced down at the photograph still in his hand. “No, not this one,” he said. What the devil was he going to do about this? He reached for the telephone as Fisher closed the door behind him.

D
ody watched from the sidelines as the battle in the top paddock raged on. Opposing teams in their red or blue sashes wielded tree branches and fought violently for possession of the hockey ball, hitting, trampling, and lunging at anyone who tried to stop them. Family member, friend, young or old, male or female, no one was spared. Even Rupert had been persuaded to play. His captain had positioned him near the goalposts and told him not to move. A clever strategy, Dody decided. Rupert was far more effective as an obstacle than he was in any form of active defence.

Without leaving his position, he made a halfhearted attempt at blocking Florence’s dribble towards the goal. She hit him in the shins with her prickly branch and sent him tumbling to the ground with cries of agony. Florence let out a warlike whoop and, with skirts tucked into her knickerbockers
and ponytail flying like a schoolgirl’s, she dashed towards the goal to enthusiastic cries from her team.

“Go, Flo, go!” Dody pulled her fingers from the arnica salve and clapped her sister on, much to the consternation of the ten-year-old cousin she was treating at her first-aid post.

“Please don’t stop, Aunt Dody, my knee’s killing me,” young Oscar whined.

Florence scored, narrowly missing three geese that had sauntered onto the playing field from the frozen pond. The geese honked with indignation and Florence’s team cheered. Only when the applause had died did Dody’s attention return to her patient. “Come now, my brave soldier, it’s only a bruised knee, it doesn’t need amputation.” She finished applying the ointment, patted him on the back, and returned him to the fray.

They had grown up playing Fabian hockey, their father maintaining it promoted kindliness, resilience, teamwork, and a healthy circulation. Her parents would not play host to anyone who would not participate in a hockey match at least once, even if it was just a question of ducking at the oncoming ball, as was the case with Rupert Sotherby.

The Irish brothers showed no such timidity. It seemed even Florence might have met her match in the older brother, Derwent O’Neill. After the next bully-off, with Florence in possession of the ball once more, he ran abreast of her across the lumpy paddock, left hand lunging with spectacular ferocity. But Florence was nimble and lithe and outmanoeuvred him with her skilful ball play, back-sticks, and feints. And then, as she lifted her stick for another victorious goal, the Irishman hooked her around the ankle with his crook-shaped branch and sent her facedown into the frozen sod. His brother Patrick
immediately helped her to her feet while Derwent, less the gentleman, took possession of the ball and cracked a goal for the opposition. Despite his dirty play, when the final whistle blew, Florence’s team was the victor.

Players congregated around the lemonade table, steam rising from them through the chilly air. The maid could not pour the drinks fast enough. Dody busied herself daubing the wounded with arnica and applying sticking plasters to cuts, grateful when she could finally join in with the merriment.

Derwent pushed a damp curl from his eyes and said to Florence, “I’m sorry, Miss McCleland; I hope I didn’t hurt you. For a moment I was back hurling again.”

“That’s quite all right, Derwent. My father always says the rules of the game are that there are no rules.” Florence pulled her skirts from her knickerbockers and brushed the grass and mud from her thick stockings, her cheeks rosy with exertion.

Dody handed the panting Irishman a tall glass of lemonade. “One of the few rules that we do have here at Tretawn, Derwent,” she said, “is that we call one another by our Christian names—even the servants call us such. I am Dody and my sister is Florence.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Derwent said, looking appreciatively at Florence.