The Anatomy of Death (16 page)

“Where’s Poppa now?” Florence said, pretending ignorance of the Irishman’s gaze.

“Cutting wood with George, he won’t be long. Mother wants us to be ready at the luncheon table as soon as he comes in. You hockey players have just enough time for a wash and change of clothes.”

“Come on, you two.” Florence took the Irish brothers by
the hand. “I’ll show you where you can sluice off.” The ragtag band of hockey players followed Florence’s lead and headed towards the house.

Dody was crouched on the ground, packing up her Gladstone, when a hand gripped the back of her coat sleeve. She turned and found herself looking into the miserable, mud-smeared face of Rupert.

“Dody, I can hardly walk. Did you not see me lying out there in the paddock? Did you not notice that I had not come in with the others?” he asked.

“Oh Lord, Rupert, I’m so sorry. Are you badly hurt?”

Rupert sank to the ground at her feet. “I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of this damned game; give me hockey any day. I’m sorry if I let you down, Dodes.”

Dody pushed up the leg of his grass-stained flannels to examine the line of welts down his shin. She dabbed his cuts with antiseptic and helped him to his feet.

“I hoped we might have gone for a walk after luncheon, but now I fear I won’t be able to. My body aches all over,” he said.

Tempted as she was to put off the occasion, Dody knew she had to get the conversation over and done with as soon as possible and strengthened her resolve. She had changed a lot in the last year, mixed with men of eminence such as Dr. Bernard Spilsbury. This shedding of her blinkers had not come a moment too soon. What, she wondered, had she ever seen in someone like Rupert?

“I’m sure you will be able to make it to the rose garden if the weather holds. If not, we can sit in the library.” Dody pulled his arm over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you into the house and cleaned up for luncheon.”

* * *

T
he dining table, a split Russian redwood shipped from Moscow, could seat up to forty. Today, twenty-five family members, guests, and servants sat upon its bench seats, chatting amongst themselves and nibbling on salted herrings as they waited for the arrival of their host. Dody found herself flanked by the Irish brothers, with Florence sitting opposite. Rupert was seated next to her mother towards the end of the table.

Dody glimpsed her father outside the French windows, washing himself at the horse trough with George, the yardman. No one was surprised when Nial McCleland appeared moments later in his Russian peasant clothes: embroidered tunic and baggy trousers tucked into soft boots, which he prised off and left at the door. He greeted his guests, enquiring in his cultured baritone how they had fared at hockey, then kissed the top of his wife’s head, his untrimmed beard and hair still dripping from his wash. Dody’s mother, Louise, put her hand to her wreath of grey plaits, felt the moisture there, and shook an admonishing finger at him. She met Dody’s eye with a smile before her fond gaze returned to her husband, who was making his way to the head of the table, clapping family members and friends across the shoulders as he passed.

When George had finished tending to the fire, he took his seat at the servants’ end of the table. Any servant not involved in the serving of the food was obliged to dine with the family and join in the conversation. There were two additions to the servants’ end, raw-boned country girls who came in on a daily basis to see to the heavy cleaning and laundry. Dody’s heart went out to them. How uncomfortable they looked sitting with
their “betters” at a table like this, and eating such strange, foreign food. One of the girls, seated on the other side of Derwent, had not touched her borscht and looked longingly at the untidy loaf of black bread just out of reach. Derwent did not think to pass it, and it was clear the girl did not dare to ask.

Dody passed the bread and whispered to the girl, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to things here at Tretawn.”

Derwent O’Neill was listening. “Marvellous,” he said with relish. “I love everything about this place—the simple way of life and all.” He pointed to the ornate silver tureen with his dripping soupspoon, daubing the table with blobs of pink.

Dody sensed he was making fun of her family. “My parents might aspire to the simple way of life, but they are not as fanatical as some,” she said. Derwent was now shovelling soup into his mouth as if he were a starving man. Surely he was playing the fool, aping the lowest manners. She had never seen a workingman eat in such a way.

“A wealthy aunt of ours has four boys,” Dody said. “She forces them to attend the village school, where they are beaten and bullied continuously. While I believe that all men are equal, I cannot see how the world will be made a better place for that.”

“And anarchy, militancy, extremism—what do you think about these delicate subjects?” Derwent asked.

Her father’s beliefs had tempered with time. The Fabians, whom he had joined since his return to England, believed in social change without revolution. As Dody considered her reply, she could not help but notice the resemblance of the Irishman—with his goatlike beard, unshaven cheeks, and curly black hair tied back with a leather thong—to the wild-eyed revolutionaries who had sat around the dining table in years gone by.

Florence put down her soupspoon. Both she and Derwent watched Dody intently as they waited for her reply.

“I do not condone violence of any kind,” Dody said, “but I think nonviolent extremism is sometimes necessary if only to open the way for some form of moderation. By
moderation
, I mean a society that has justice and order and that cares. One where both men and women can coexist as equal partners.”

“Equal partners, Dody?” Florence’s eyes twinkled. “You mean as between the forensic scientist and the policeman?” Dody had related to Florence the circumstances under which she had witnessed the hanging, and how she had felt torn between opposing sides. Perhaps, Dody thought with a sigh, that was always to be the fate of her and her family.

She frowned at her sister across the table. It was all very well to tease Dody about her predicament in private, but not in the presence of strangers. Derwent O’Neill would hardly see her role with the police in an unprejudiced light.

Thankfully, Florence realised her faux pas. “And you, Derwent,” she asked quickly. “How do you view the women’s movement?”

“We don’t care for it much,” Derwent said, wiping the soup from his lips with the back of his hand. “We see it as of marginal importance and it detracts Westminster from our own cause.”

A spark flared in Florence’s eyes. She glared back at the Irishman for a moment. “Well, I appreciate your honesty,” she paused. “On
this
subject, in any case.”

Derwent ignored both her icy tone and its implications. “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” he said with a disarming smile.

“By your cause, you mean Home Rule, I suppose,” Dody said. “I would be interested to hear what it is you are hoping
to achieve from the government. Patrick,” she said, turning to the younger brother, who had said nothing at all yet, “perhaps you could tell me.”

Patrick cleared his throat and considered his words. “It is imperative that we become a self-governing nation. The English have never understood the Irish, and it is ridiculous that they should attempt to rule over us, oppress us with the pretence that they do it for the good of all men. The English have taken everything that is good about my country and given nothing back in return. Your average Irishman’s wages are worse than those of the Englishman, as are his living conditions. Even our food is exported to England. There is famine in our countryside—”

“But what about the oppression of Irish womanhood?” Florence interrupted. “Surely you do not seek freedom from oppression for men alone?”

Derwent cocked his head and affected an almost unintelligible brogue. “Don’t you be worrying your head about Irish womanhood around us, my girl. They can have all the freedom with me they want.”

Dody attempted to catch her sister’s eye.
Stop now, Florence, please stop now
,” she willed. Florence paid the unspoken message no heed. “You know, Dody, one thing I cannot abide,” she said, loud enough for everyone at their end of the table to hear, “is people who try to ingratiate themselves in this house by adopting manners and attitudes other than those into which they are born. Like those who affect an uncouth manner when they certainly know better.” At this she turned to Derwent O’Neill and shot him with a triumphant smile.

“And your father?” Derwent asked casually.

Florence lifted her chin. “My father might dress like a
peasant but he never adopts the manners of one. He is as much at home in Buckingham Palace as he is the local public house. Class means nothing to him; education and social justice are his driving ideals.”

“You think my brother and I are not what we seem?” Derwent asked with a hint of amusement on his lips. He finished his soup, this time spooning it towards the outer rim then dabbing his mouth with a starched table napkin.

“I hope you are not what you seem,” Florence said. “Your cause has no chance if you are.”

“I think you’ve met your match in that one, Derwent.” Patrick laughed.

Derwent raised his wineglass to Florence, the glint of desire in his eyes unmistakable, the curl at the edge of his mouth dangerous. “Touché, Florence McCleland.”

Dody noticed the wolfhound asking to be let out at the French doors. As she passed Derwent to reach the dog, she whispered, “My sister is also not as she seems. Tread carefully, Derwent O’Neill, or be accountable. To me.”

She did not linger to gauge his response. Two servants, a man and woman dressed in ordinary street clothes, cleared the remnants of the first course from the table. When one of the new girls rose to assist, the manservant clicked his tongue and ordered her to remain seated. Dishes of steaming Russian dumplings filled with potato and minced meat as well as shish kebabs, cabbage, and mashed potatoes appeared on the table along with decanters of fine French wines. The rest of the meal passed in relative equanimity.

After the meal, Louise McCleland called the brothers aside. “Now, Derwent, Patrick, I believe we have something to discuss in the library.”

She rejoined her daughters in the kitchen moments later. “They need more help with their writing than I expected. I’ll have to get back to them this evening.”

Writers? Dody thought. Derwent and Patrick were writers? Who would have imagined that?

Dody and Florence helped their mother pack up the leftovers. The kitchen was the heart of the house; her parents ate there with the servants whenever they had no visitors. Bunches of herbs and knotted onions dangled from wires stretched wall to wall. A massive Victorian range dominated one wall, a huge vat of water bubbling upon it ready for the washing up. The plumbing was basic, and a single cold-water tap in the scullery was the only source of water downstairs. The servants still bathed in a tin tub by the range, while family and guests had their hot water hauled upstairs to their bedrooms. Dody’s father viewed electricity with suspicion. Little wonder their mother had fought so passionately for the townhouse, Dody thought. Not only did it serve as a London base for her daughters, but it was a handy bolthole for Louise McCleland when the deprivations of country life became too much to bear.

With George’s help, they carried the baskets of food outside, where the pony and trap waited for them at the hitching rail. Louise gave the pony a sugar cube, scratched it between the ears, and announced that she would drive it to the vicarage herself.

George untied the stamping pony, keeping a firm hold of it. Dody noticed the stiffness with which her mother mounted the trap. “Your hip looks to be bothering you, Mother. Why don’t you allow George to deliver the food?” She looked to the lowering sky. “There’s a feeling of snow in the air.”

No one spoke for a moment. The expectant hush of pending
snow was broken only by the occasional caw of the rooks from their haphazard nests high in the leafless trees.

“Mother is making a point, Dody,” Florence said. “If she comes back with frostbite, she thinks she might be able to persuade Father to purchase a motorcar.” Florence leaned into the trap and tucked a fur rug around her mother’s legs, which were already encased in a skirt of rich tweed. While tolerant of her husband’s eccentric dress, Louise McCleland had never been in favour of Russian peasant clothes for herself.

“Nonsense, my dear, I need to talk to the vicar in person. There is a new widow; her husband was killed last week, run over by a feed wagon. They had a hard enough time making ends meet when he was alive. Now I don’t know what’s to become of them. The children are half starved as it is.”

“Mother, the people need rights, not charity,” Florence said.

And I hope they soon develop a palate for Russian food
, Dody thought.

“One can’t fight for rights on an empty stomach, Florence dear,” their mother said. “Tell the young Irishmen to meet me in the library at four o’clock. We can discuss our business when your father comes in for his tea.”

“What exactly is their business here, Mother?” Dody asked. “I have an unpleasant feeling about them.”

“Oh, Dody, they are harmless fellows, you mustn’t worry.” Louise picked up the long switch and was about to tickle the pony’s back with it. “Oh, one more thing, can you make sure your Rupert is around also, Dody? There is something I need to discuss with him, too.”

“
My
Rupert?”

Her mother lowered the whip and pulled back on the reins.
The pony pawed at the ground and shook its untidy mane. “If you think otherwise, you really should let him know, my dear.”

“Yes, Dody, you are being cruel, keeping him hanging on like this,” Florence said with a twinkle.

Dody shot Florence a cool look before returning to her mother. “What do you think of his play? Are you really going to show it to Mr. Shaw?”

Her mother appeared to be searching for something diplomatic to say. “I really gave him no encouragement, you know. All I said was that I thought it…ah…interesting.”