The Anatomy of Death (11 page)

“Thank you, no. Shepherd might catch wind of it. As far as he’s concerned, a brick-wielding Irish rough killed Lady Catherine. The less he knows about my continuing investigation, the better. I’ll take my chances with the omnibus.” He paused at the door. “Oh, one more thing, sir,” he said, turning back. “What can you tell me of the McCleland family of Sussex? I know they have been considered troublemakers, but that’s as far as my information goes.”

“We had them under surveillance two or three years ago,” Callan said after some thought. “It came to nothing, and we have since dropped it.”

“Their politics put them under suspicion?”

“That, and the people they mixed with. They were patrons of the arts in Russia, mixed with the intelligentsia, personal friends of Tolstoy, et cetera, with socialist beliefs—you know the form.” Callan gave a wry smile. “It’s easy to be a socialist when you’re rich, eh?”

“Left wing and upper crust—an interesting paradox,” Pike mused.

“To which they are all probably blinkered.”

Pike doubted this was the case of the elder daughter; she seemed to have her feet planted firmly on the ground. Then again, in her profession, she’d have to.

Callan continued. “And then one of Mr. McCleland’s brothers was murdered.”

“Political?”

“No, nothing of the kind; he was a university professor of English in Moscow, shot by a student who felt he deserved better exam marks.”

“Good heavens.”

“Quite. The McClelands presumably saw this as a sign that the country was going to the dogs—in any case, their socialist leanings were drawing the attention of the Russian authorities. They brought their daughter Florence—the older girl was already at school here—and their considerable fortune back to England, where they have lived the life of wealthy eccentrics ever since. Why the interest?”

“I’ve had recent dealings with both daughters.”

“Miss Florence McCleland, I take it, the suffragette? You know, some of the higher-ups view the suffragettes as a greater threat to the British Empire than the Irish, the anarchists, the socialists, and the Germans all rolled into one.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Pike said. “The women were certainly troublesome, but hardly a serious threat. Why were those arrested on Friday released so quickly?”

“The government’s afraid of more hunger strikes, I suspect. The torture of women doesn’t exactly cast any of us in a good light. I’d say the Pankhursts’ tactics appear to be working. You mentioned daughters, plural.”

“The elder is an autopsy surgeon.”

Now it was Callan’s turn to look surprised. “Well, I suppose anything is possible when you consider how they were brought up. Good-looking women, though, so I hear, the younger one especially.”

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.” Pike smiled slightly, his second of the day.

* * *

T
he omnibus dropped Pike off a short walk from the Cartwright residence, one of a row of grand terrace houses fronted with trimmed box hedges in Lyall Street. He stepped back from the front door and looked up, counting five storeys including the servants’ attic. The grey of the tall Georgian building seemed to blend in with the grey of the sky.

“Chief Inspector Pike, Scotland Yard,” the butler announced as he opened the double doors of the opulent morning room. Lady Helen Cartwright remained seated at her writing desk, her back turned to the door. Pike used the same tactics himself on subordinates who needed reminding of their place. He took off his hat and scarf, thumbed open the buttons of his coat, and pointedly handed the damp items to the butler, whom he suspected had deliberately omitted to take them.

Hugo Cartwright acknowledged Pike’s presence with a brief tip of his head, making no effort to move from where he stood warming himself by the fire, coattails lifted.

Despite his considerable height, Cartwright had about him an air of delicacy, enhanced by the fairness of his hair and skin, which would barely require a razor’s scrape. His eyelashes were so blond they appeared tipped with snow. If he stood much closer to the fire, Pike feared he might melt.

Pike remained where he was, the butler hovering behind, as if waiting to eject him at the first sign of trouble.

Lady Helen Cartwright finally turned. She wore a gown of black tulle as befitted the mourning of her sister-in-law, Lady Catherine. “What is your business, Inspector?” she asked with a slight rise of her upper lip.

“I would like to speak to your son, please, my lady.”

She gestured towards Hugo Cartwright. “Well, there he is.”

“Alone, if you please, my lady.”

She frowned, stood up from the desk, and glided over to the chesterfield. “That is up to my son—Hugo?” She had not lost her German accent, Pike noticed.

“I have no secrets from my mother, Pike.” Cartwright’s forthright manner sounded forced. “We both know why you are here. She knows I participated in the women’s march, what I witnessed.”

Pike looked at the dowager’s stern face and glanced back at her son, trying and failing to establish eye contact. “I would prefer to speak to you alone, sir. Some of the matters we need to discuss are of a somewhat delicate nature.”

“Very well,” Cartwright said with a sigh, which might have been one of relief. “We can talk in the study. Please excuse us, Mother.”

Cartwright led the way, showing no ill effects of his alleged trampling by the police horse. In the study, he offered Pike a chair, and pointed to a silver tray, where a set of decanters and glasses was arrayed. Each decanter was topped up to the same level; every glass sparkled. Pike politely refused the offer of Madeira. For himself, Cartwright filled a crystal glass and sat in a studded leather chair opposite, waiting for Pike to speak.

“Mr. Cartwright, it has been brought to my attention that you tried to make a statement to one of the police officers after the riot, but that he failed to file the report.”

“That’s correct. He didn’t even take down my name.”

“I am very sorry about that. Perhaps you could give me your statement now.”

Pike wrote down Cartwright’s story in his notebook; in most respects it confirmed Florence McCleland’s account.

“Thank you, sir. Now I would like to show you some photo-graphs.” Pike reached into his briefcase. “I was hoping that you might be able to identify the man so that disciplinary action can be taken.”

Cartwright stared for a moment at Pike, mouth slightly open. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said.

He spent some time leafing through the photographs, pausing every now and then to sip from his glass. In their beehive helmets, even Pike would have had trouble recognising the policemen as individuals. Cartwright finally pointed to a man with a full beard. “That’s him.”

“Are you positive, sir?”

“Yes, quite sure. I recognise the beard.”

“May I ask what you were wearing the day of the riot?” When Cartwright hesitated, Pike added, “If you are unable to remember, we could perhaps talk to your valet.”

“That’s not necessary. I had on my silk hat and heavy brown coat with fur trim.”

Pike tapped the photograph. “That man is Constable First Class Morley, sir. I have found him to be most reliable. He has been in the force for a number of years.”

“Then I would suggest he may be getting lazy.”

“I happened to speak to him this morning. His version of events is somewhat different to yours.”

“It is?”

“He claims he spoke to a man of your description, wearing clothes similar to those you have just described. He was part of the reinforcements sent early in the afternoon when the
march first started getting out of hand. Just before he arrived at St. Stephen’s entrance, he accosted and questioned a man running in the opposite direction from the trouble. Morley said the man was in a state of panic, begged him to go to the aid of the women, refused to give his name, and then took off at a run before he could be questioned further.” Pike glanced down at his notes. “‘As if the very devil himself was after him,’ were Morley’s words. I would like to suggest that the man was you, and that for reasons known only to yourself, you chose to paint a different picture of events to your friends and your mother.”

Hugo put his glass on the side table and stared into the fire. “For the record,” Pike continued, “did you actually see Lady Catherine attacked by a policeman—or by anyone else, for that matter?”

Cartwright’s reply was barely audible. “No, Chief Inspector, I did not.”

Pike held back a sigh of relief. He no more wanted to find a policeman responsible for Lady Catherine’s death than Shepherd did. He waited patiently for Cartwright to continue, taking in the large mahogany desk on which stern men and women stared out from silver frames. Cartwright’s eyes darted towards them, too. Pike had seen that look more times than he cared to remember: it was the look of a guilty man before judge and jury.

“Something happened to me out there,” Cartwright said finally. “Don’t ask me what, I have trouble explaining it: the noise, the screams, the lack of control, people behaving like animals. I had to get away. I suppose I just panicked. I was trying to get help for my aunt, I really was …” He broke off and looked at Pike, as if inviting some kind of understanding comment. When none came, he left his seat and topped up
his Madeira. “What will happen to me now?” he asked, his back still turned.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you. This is not a military matter; you will not be shot for cowardice.”
Though that is what you deserve,
Pike thought. “Nor will you be charged for making a false statement. You have not, in fact, lied to the police, only to your mother and your friends.”

“Need they learn the truth?”

“That is between you and your conscience.” Pike regarded the beaten creature before him, feeling no sympathy at all. “But you might wish to consider that the claims you made to your friends have stirred up considerable antipolice sentiment. Moreover, they could have resulted in a police officer being wrongly charged.”

“I’m truly sorry, sir.” Cartwright put down his glass and reached into the pocket of his morning coat for his wallet, extracting a number of crisp notes. “Look, if I can make up for this in any way, contribute to the police pension fund or whatever it is you call it …”

“Put your money away, sir.” A man who would abandon a family member—a woman no less—to a riotous mob was beyond contempt, and a man who attempted to bribe a policeman was not much better. Both actions showed a singular lack of honour.

Tears were streaming down Cartwright’s face. Pike turned his attention to the leaping flames in the grate, hoping to give the man time to compose himself. The whole situation was embarrassing. Men of Cartwright’s cloth were supposed to have better control of their emotions. Hanged if he knew what Cartwright was doing at an hysterical cause like the women’s march in the first place—his ghastly mother obviously didn’t approve. The suffragettes were an impertinent, troublesome
group of women, and much of what they did was just audacious spectacle. Their leaders tended towards too much money, too little common sense, and often more beauty than was good for them. In Pike’s estimation, they were certainly not womanly.

He had always pictured the stately Emmeline Pankhurst as the face behind the women’s movement. Now the face of a recent visitor to his office leapt into his mind: Florence Mc-Cleland. Just as wilful, but much younger and of even greater beauty.

He shook his head to clear the image and turned back to Cartwright. The young man seemed to be pulling himself together at last.

“Sir,” Pike asked, “how well do you know Florence McCleland?”

“Quite well, she is a personal friend. Why do you ask?”

“It is my privilege to be asking the questions, sir. What do the letters
WSPU
stand for?”

A sweep of blond eyelashes. “Umm?”

“What do the colours white, green, and purple represent?”

“Really, Pike, how on earth is this relevant?”

“I put it to you that you do not know the answers because you are not a true supporter of the women’s movement. That you joined the march only to ingratiate yourself with Florence McCleland, with whom you wish to become more than friends.”

When Cartwright hung his head in defeat, Pike felt the first twinge of compassion for the wretched young man.

N
o respectable restaurant or hotel would allow the breakfast meeting on their premises, so the WSPU was forced to gather in the draughty hall of an East End workingmen’s club. Florence and some of her Bloomsbury members arrived before dawn, setting up the purple, green, and white bunting, the banners, tables, chairs, and abundant vases of flowers. By the time the hall was filled with women and she finally sat down at her own table close to the stage, Florence felt as if she had put in a full day’s work.

Beside her, Olivia Barndon-Brown caught her eye and they exchanged smiles of satisfaction for a job well done. “How many have been released this month?” Olivia asked Florence as Miss Jane Lithgow pulled a chair up at the table.

“I’ve allowed for eight places at the table of honour, though I’m not sure if Lady Constance Lytton is well enough to
attend. Her time in prison has left her quite ill,” Miss Lithgow answered before Florence could form her reply.

“Olivia and me paid her a call yesterday,” Daisy Atkins said, holding her cup up to a waiter pouring tea from a large metal pot. “She’s right poorly still, isn’t she, Olivia?”

“She is. Still, if she cannot be here, someone else will make the speech to our newly released sisters.”

“She’ll be here, I don’t doubt it. I’ve never known such a brave woman.” Florence nodded her thanks to the waiter as he placed a rack of toast on their table. She wished she could be as brave as Lady Constance. Florence could barely think about her ordeal, let alone talk about it to anyone other than Dody. She wondered if Constance had nightmares, too.

“Will you be joining us this afternoon for pistol practice at the Tottenham Court Road?” Olivia asked Florence, pulling her from her thoughts.

“I’m not sure yet. Dody will be home and I think she has made some plans.”