The Anatomy of Death (17 page)

“In other words, you think it rubbish—Mother, you are no better than me!”

Louise gave her daughters a smile, clicked her tongue, and spun the trap towards the village at a rapid trot, pea gravel pinging out from under the wheels. The sisters watched in silence until the trap rounded the bend of the long driveway and was swallowed by rhododendrons.

“You weren’t so dismissive of Rupert last year,” Florence said. “Don’t tell me you are now as against marriage as I am. When I spoke at the rally, a man in the crowd yelled for me to get a husband. It was hard not to laugh—but then again, I am married to the cause and you are not.”

Perhaps it was easier for Florence to reject the idea of marriage because of her unpleasant experience with the poet. Dody had yet to have any intimate experience with a man, unpleasant or otherwise. Her studies had left little time for that. But she was curious, and it was not as if certain feelings had never been stirred.

“I suppose my year in Edinburgh changed me. Before that, I had little hope of a specialist career,” she said. “Now I am a specialist doctor—even if it is in one of the less popular
branches. I could not give up my career now for a man like Rupert. Perhaps someone more suitable will come along, but I am in no hurry. And if I become too old to find a husband, well, so be it. There are surely worse fates that could befall a woman.”

Florence turned a full circle on her toes. “Well, Dody,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “I can’t see either of us settling down with a young man, suitable or otherwise, for a long time to come.” She swept her arm to take in the old Tudor manor and the fine gardens surrounding it. “How could either of us settle for less than this?”

Dody knew it was not just the bricks and mortar to which she referred.

T
he pier pointed into the churning sea like a dead finger. Bad weather meant the gates were locked, the slot machines silent, and the bandstand empty. Pike took his daughter’s hand and they dashed from the pier gates, down the deserted promenade to a tram shelter. He sat down immediately on the hard bench. Violet remained standing and gazed through the glass at the angry grey sea.

The cold air stung at their cheeks. Pike undid his scarf and tied it around his bowler.

She giggled. “Daddy, you look like you have toothache.” She had given up trying to keep her own hat on her head and stuffed it under the straps of her school cape.

They watched the curling waves crash against the sea wall. The pebble beach was deserted; further down, fishing boats waited patiently on the beach for the storm to pass and ragged seagulls clung to their naked masts. Pike had still not broached
the subject of the photograph, and Violet’s boarding school’s visiting afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close.

“Tea?” he shouted.

They held hands as they splashed around the traffic and headed to the tearooms on the other side of the road.

At a sweets stall next to the tearoom he bought two sticks of rock candy with
HASTINGS
written all the way through them.

“One for Marjorie,” he said as he handed them to her.

At the mention of her friend’s name, Violet’s mouth turned down.

“What’s the matter?” Pike asked.

“Marjorie’s no longer at my school. Her mother has sent her to Switzerland to improve her French and German,” she said.

Pike waited, sensing there was more to come. When Violet failed to elaborate, all he could think to say was, “Oh,” missing his chance to probe. The two girls were inseparable. Whatever Violet had been involved in, Marjorie would have been, too.

In the crowded tearoom they took off their outer garments, draped them over the backs of their chairs, and ordered tea for two and knickerbocker glories.

Violet lifted her cup in a toast. “To Mummy,” she said.

Pike guessed she was hoping he might say something nice about her mother. She did not remember her mother at all, and loved to hear stories about her. He clicked his cup against hers, remained silent, and cursed his own inadequacy at conversing with females.

Violet took it upon herself to fill the vacuum. Barely pausing to draw breath, she launched into an account of how Gloria Bradshaw had got stuck in a tree and been rescued by a teacher with a ladder; how much better this jelly was compared to what they got at school, which in summer was riddled with
tiny red spiders; how she was dreading next term when swimming started again—didn’t he think it cruel that they were forced to bathe in the sea when there was still frost upon the playing fields?

He responded with the occasional nod and a wan smile. He was running out of time, damn it. Eventually she gave up and concentrated on the concoction of fruit, jelly, cream, and ice cream. He had no appetite and hardly touched his. When she began to scrape the ice cream at the bottom of her glass with the long spoon, he pushed his dessert over for her to finish.

“Violet, there’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said just as she said,

“I’ve been selected for the lacrosse team, Daddy.”

The sudden shock of both of them speaking at once plunged them into silence once more. Outside the wind howled, waves crashed against the sea wall.

“The lacrosse team, that’s very good,” he said absently. Then he reached inside his suit jacket and removed an envelope. He passed it to her across the table and knocked over one of the empty parfait glasses, and everyone in the tearoom fell silent and turned their heads to look at them.

Violet flushed with embarrassment.
Good start
, Pike thought glumly.

She delayed removing the contents of the envelope until she was certain everyone had returned to their own murmurings. Pike watched her closely.

She looked at the photograph and paled. God only knew what memories it was stirring. The photograph shook in her hand; she tried to slide it back into the envelope, and failed. Pike took it and cleared a space for it on the table between them.

“Look at it again, please, Violet.”

Her hand went to her mouth. She shook her head; he could see her fighting back tears. And suddenly he saw in her face what he had not seen on the photographic paper—the terror she must have gone through in the middle of that violent scrimmage. Good God, what had she been through?

Pike remembered the first moment he’d seen the photograph in his office—her hat awry and face pinched and anxious—he had telephoned the school immediately. The headmistress had assured him she was absolutely fine, had suffered no ill effects from “the unfortunate incident outside the tube station” other than the loss of her purse. He had only half listened: the headmistress’s words had nothing at all to do with the protest outside the House of Commons. He had made arrangements with the school to take Violet out at the weekend and hastily rung off.

The look on her face told him he must be looking stern. “Violet, you have to tell me all about it, tell me right from the beginning,” he said. “You have nothing to fear. What is done is done.”

Violet bit at her bottom lip. “I’ll be expelled …”

“The school does not appear to know. I won’t tell them and I will not be angry. You have my word.”

Violet would not meet his eye. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “We heard about the demonstration from one of our teachers—many of us at school agree with the idea of women’s emancipation.”

Pike almost choked on his tea. “Women’s emancipation? You are fourteen years old!”

“Daddy, you gave your word!” Her voice rose.

He wiped his mouth with a serviette. “Carry on.”

Violet took a deep breath and spoke with more courage. “I
am nearly fifteen. I was spending my weekend break at Marjorie’s house in Hampstead Heath. We caught the tube into London, telling Marjorie’s mother we were going shopping, and we met with the protesters outside Caxton Hall. We saw the Pankhursts, they were marvellous—if only you could have heard them—and all the ladies were terribly kind.”

“I’m sure,” Pike said without enthusiasm. But he was glad they had been kind to his little girl.

“But things started to go wrong as we neared the Houses of Parliament. Other people joined in the march and started to heckle us and fight. Then the police came and they were absolutely horrid, the worst of all.” Violet dropped her eyes again. “They made me feel ashamed.”

Of me?
Pike thought. She looked up at him and he saw a look in her face he had never seen before, strained and defiant.

“Were you hurt?” he asked.

“A little. I was knocked to the ground and banged the side of my head.” Violet touched her cheek. “The bruise has only just gone. It was a policeman who did it, you know. My dress was torn, and for a while I lost Marjorie, and that was awful.”

“It’s all right, my dear, I am relieved you came to no worse harm.” Pike kept his voice calm but inside he seethed. He had put his daughter in one of the finest girls’ boarding schools in England, partly to protect her from the brutish behaviour of men. But instead she had been exposed to suffragette ideology and nearly killed. By a policemen, no less. He felt sick.

“When I found Marjorie, she had received similar treatment to me,” Violet continued. “She had a cut on her head and was terribly frightened. We tried to keep out of the fighting, but it was all around us. Then suddenly a young lady came to our aid and led us down a back alleyway to safety. If not for her,
I think we would have been killed. She took us to the railway station, where we caught the tube back to Marjorie’s house.”

“Did this lady have a name?”

“Yes, Miss McCleland.”

Florence McCleland. Of all the confounded things! Pike could feel the rise of colour in his face.

Violet frowned. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said, exercising all his restraint. “Though it seems that I owe a debt of gratitude to this young lady.” He lit a cigarette and tried to calm himself. “And then I suppose you had to explain your condition to Marjorie’s mother?”

“We said we were attacked by youths in the street outside the station and had our purses stolen. She took us to the police station and we had to make a statement to the police.”

“You told a lie to the police?”

“Yes.” Violet lowered her eyes.

God in heaven, Pike ran his fingers through his hair. If this were to get out, his career, already tenuous, would be in ruins. And so would her schooling—and then what?

He picked up the photograph and pointed to the bobby in the background, struggling with a woman. “Is this the policeman that hurt you?”

“No, that wasn’t him.”

Pike reached into his pocket for another envelope of photographs. He had retrieved them from Fisher and brought them with him, thinking that Violet might have seen something that the cameras had failed to pick up. Now he felt ashamed that he had planned to quiz his daughter in this way. But if she could point out the bobby who had knocked her down, that would be one positive outcome of this sorry day.

He was hardly surprised when she stopped at the photograph of Dykins. Her pale face blanched even further.

“Is that the one?” Pike asked her gently. She didn’t answer, but nodded faintly. Then he saw her eyes fill with tears before she buried her face in her napkin.

“My dear.” Pike reached out and touched her arm.

“Just a moment, I’m sorry…I need to go to the powder room.”

“Of course.”

To Pike, the ten minutes it took for Violet to return seemed like an eternity. She’d washed her face; he could tell by the diamonds of moisture clinging to her hairline. And her hair, previously dishevelled from the wild weather, had been brushed smooth and retied, her school hat once more planted firmly on her head.

“Violet, is there anything else you want to tell me about that policeman?”

“No, there’s nothing else, just what I already told you.”

While Pike hoped to God that was the worst of it, something told him she was holding back, protecting him. He knew damned well about the bestial behaviour of the men at the riot, knew his daughter would have been an irresistible target. She straightened in her chair—yes, that was it. Perhaps it was best for them both that she did not give all the details. Suddenly she appeared very grown up.

“Well, I can tell you something,” he said, hoping to make her smile. “I had the pleasure of sacking that policeman myself, the day after the riot. His unprofessional behaviour was well documented.”

“I’m glad. He could be hanged for all I care.”

Pike winced.

“Violet, there is one more thing. I am trying to discover what happened to this lady.” He put in front of her a picture of Lady Catherine Cartwright while she was still alive. “Did you see what happened to her?”

“Yes, I did, Father.” This time Violet answered with an accusatory coolness that chilled him. “She was lovely and wore a beautiful hat with purple feathers on it. She talked to Marjorie and me before everything turned horrible. I saw her being brutally beaten about the head by a uniformed policeman.”

“You are completely sure that this is the woman you saw?”

“Yes, it was her. Is she all right?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, she slowly nodded. “She’s not all right, is she? If she were, she could tell you what happened herself.”

Still he couldn’t speak, but she must have seen the answer in his eyes.

“She’s dead, isn’t she? She was so nice to us. I didn’t realise she had been killed.”

Pike felt his heartbeat quicken. “Killed by this policeman?” He pointed to Dykins.

“No, not that one. Another.”

They searched for his face among the other photographs, but were unable to find it.

D
ody was reading by the fire when her sister entered the morning room.

Florence looked taken aback. “I thought you were studying in your rooms.”

“The fires upstairs have only just been lit. I’ll stay down here while my rooms warm up.” Dody returned to the report in her hand. The visit to her parents had been a pleasant break, marred only by Rupert’s behaviour. She wasn’t sure what he had been more upset about when he stormed from her parents’ house—the ending of their fictitious engagement or her mother’s rejection of his play. She suspected it was the latter.