The Insanity of Murder (3 page)

Pike dismissed the uniformed sergeant he had been instructing and stood silently for a moment next to Constable Singh. The creeping dawn illuminated the extent of the destruction in a way a thousand light bulbs could not. Pike wondered if Singh felt the same sense of foreboding as he too gazed about the blast site. Singh’s shoulders were rounded, his long black beard ruffling in the fresh morning breeze. The man had been a London resident for several years now and Pike knew he still yearned for the warmer climes of his homeland. In a rare moment of intimacy, Singh, a widower like himself, had once confided that he was sending most of his wage home to his mother who looked after his three growing children in Bombay. What he could spare from the remainder he was saving for his own passage home. On a constable’s wage, Pike speculated, his assistant must still have years of saving to go. His children would be adults by the time he saw them again.

They were used to one another’s silences and rarely exchanged dialogue that wasn’t work related, sharing a peculiar sense of understanding born from common military experience. Singh had been an NCO, a non-commissioned officer, in the Bengal Lancers and Pike had been in the Seventh Lancers. They’d experienced similar postings during their careers, from the mountainous terrain of the North West Frontier and Afghanistan to the South African veldt.

Pike had never seen the effect of a massive explosion in an urban area before, and it chilled him. Since the start of the Balkan problems the destruction of cities was becoming more and more commonplace. There was talk that Britain and her rival in the arms race, Germany, might also become entangled. Was this wanton act of violence at the Necropolis Station a taste of what was to come for the city he loved?

A high-pitched scream shattered Pike’s thoughts. Both men swivelled towards the source. An elderly woman was either resisting arrest, or just unable to keep up with the brisk strides of the two policemen propelling her in Pike’s direction, a hand on each elbow.

‘Let me go, let me go, I can walk myself!’ the woman shrieked.

‘What’s going on here?’ Pike asked the higher ranked officer, a thick-necked sergeant with a magnificent handlebar moustache.

‘A witness, sir. Said she saw something, but it’s a bit hard to make head or tail of what she’s saying.’

‘Let her go.’

The men released their grip. The sergeant drew circles with his finger at his temple. ‘Barmy,’ he mouthed to Pike, one hand still hovering, ready to grab the woman should she attempt to bolt.

Pike introduced himself, tipped his hat and offered his hand.

The woman took one step towards him. ‘A gentleman at last,’ she said in a surprisingly refined accent, turning for a moment to glare at her captors. She pulled one hand from a fingerless woollen glove and shook Pike’s. Her skin was like silk, he noticed, not the hand of a street woman at all. Pike looked at her closely. Her creased skin placed her at any age between sixty and eighty; dark pouches hung beneath surprisingly bright eyes, delicate white strands of hair escaped from beneath her wilted straw hat. The hat was a startling contrast to the fine weave of her cape. Its bulk suggested it covered multiple layers of clothing, as on one used to sleeping on the streets.

‘Your name, madam?’ he enquired as he endeavoured to sum her up.

Sergeant Handlebar spoke for her. ‘She
says
she’s Lady Mary Heathridge, widow of Justice Geoffrey Heathridge.’ The name was vaguely familiar. Must have come across the judge at the courts, Pike thought.

The younger constable grinned.

‘And what is it, young man, that you find so amusing?’ the lady asked.

The man straightened. ‘Nothing, ma’am.’

‘Tell the chief inspector what you saw please,
m’lady,
’ Handlebar all but sneered.

Pike usually endeavoured to suspend judgement, but in this officer’s case he had formed an almost instant dislike.

The woman folded her arms and creased her lips into a line, planting her feet firmly on the bomb-damaged pavement. Her boots, Pike noticed, were on the wrong feet.

‘Lady Heathridge,’ he said, ‘would you care to accompany me to Scotland Yard? We can talk more comfortably in my office there.’

Her expression softened. ‘Oh, yes, please, dear. I could murder a cup of tea.’

‘See if you can trace her people,’ Pike murmured to Singh as he offered Lady Mary his arm. ‘And see if Bedlam is missing any patients.’

So far, the summer had been unseasonably cool. Pike lit the fire in his office, hoping the warmth would dull the ache in his knee caused from standing around in the cold for most of the night. Before the fire had even got going though, Lady Mary declared that she was too hot. Pike helped her off with her cape and a moth-eaten woollen jacket. Following her instructions he undid the ties of a rough cotton apron and then the back buttons of a roomy black satin gown. She wriggled out of her clothes and handed them to him like one used to being assisted by servants. Beneath the gown she wore another black gown, equally fine and decorated with small jet beads. This, to Pike’s relief, she decided to keep on. His hat stand sagged with the weight of her clothing and he was forced to prop it up with his umbrella.

There was no one in the waiting room outside his office other than the handle-barred policeman now known to him as Sergeant Hensman. Shepherd had insisted that Hensman be pressed into service as the detective division was so understaffed. Already there seemed to be tension brewing between Hensman and Singh. Although they were of unequal rank — Hensman, a sergeant and Singh, a constable — Singh was unofficially considered superior because he was a plain-clothed officer. He’d had to earn the right to the prestige and higher pay of the detective division. Resentment on Hensman’s part was understandable, and the fact that Singh was a foreigner did not help matters either. Pike wondered what Shepherd had been thinking when he had seconded Hensman to his division. He could have at least chosen someone of equal rank — talk about putting the cat among the pigeons.

The pair had traced Lady Mary’s family to a large house in Saint James – for she was indeed who she claimed to be – and her son had informed them he would collect her from the station after he had breakfasted. The delay suited Pike. He had a feeling it might take him some time to untangle exactly what Lady Mary had seen outside the Necropolis Station.

Singh knocked on Pike’s door and appeared with a tea tray and several currant buns purchased from a local street vendor. Pike’s stomach rumbled — he’d missed breakfast altogether. Good old Singh, he would have made a terrific batman.

When Lady Mary saw Hensman trailing behind Singh, walking as if he had a barrel tucked beneath each arm, she turned her face away. ‘That man has a taurine aspect,’ Pike overheard her muttering. ‘One can’t help but think he has a taurine temperament to match.’

She does not seem to have any problem recognising faces. Or assessing character, Pike thought, smiling to himself.

‘Sir Michael Heathridge won’t be long, sir. I told him where to find us,’ Hensman said.

‘Good. Show him in when he arrives. Put the tea tray on my desk, please.’

Pike shifted the silver-framed picture of his daughter, Violet, making room on the orderly desk. The teapot shook as Singh attempted to pour. Tea dribbled from its spout and pooled onto the tray. Lady Mary tut-tutted, relieved him of the task, and poured the tea with a steady hand.

‘That will be all,’ Pike told the men.

Once the tea was poured and the elderly woman settled into the visitor’s chair, Pike began.

‘First, Lady Mary, I’d like to thank you for joining me here. I need to ask you a few questions about —’

‘Where were you born, Chief Inspector? Wakefield perhaps?’

‘Well, I —’

‘It’s not just that hint of accent. It’s the tea, you know. People from Wakefield always put their milk in last and stir their spoons anti-clockwise.’

Pike touched the knot of his tie. He’d never heard that one before. She took a bun from the plate Pike offered and began to devour it with unladylike gusto, making him wonder when she had last eaten.

‘We knew Wakefield well,’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘Had friends there whom we visited during the grouse season. I suspect you did not grow up in the town itself, but in one of the nearby villages?’ She leaned across the desk and regarded him with bright scrutiny. ‘You do look familiar. I think it’s your eyes. They are an unusual shade of blue, quite dark, cerulean even. And your name is Pike, is it not?’

He squirmed inside. This kind of talk always made him uncomfortable.

She licked icing from her fingers as she got to her feet. Pike made as if to move but she gestured for him to stay where he was.

‘I think I knew your mother, Mrs Amelia Pike. Taught the piano. I took lessons from her whenever I was in the region. I mean one can only take so much grouse shooting, can’t one? I always felt sorry for the little birds. Mrs Pike was married to the local schoolmaster.’

Pike paused, teacup halfway to his lips, and stared at the woman who was now shuffling back and forth across the office. He should be on his feet too but the shock of what she’d said had made him forget his manners. He put his teacup down and stood up, searching back through the fog of time. An image began to take shape in his mind: racing green with gold lettering, shining wheels and a brass smokestack. ‘You gave me a windup train,’ he said at last, his voice not much more than an incredulous whisper.

‘Indeed. A Lyle-built train all the way from America.’ She dropped back into the seat again.

Pike shook his head and sat back down. ‘Well, I never.’

For months he had slept with that train. He must have been eleven or twelve when he had last seen Lady Mary. He remembered overhearing his mother telling his father what a determined pupil she was. ‘No talent at all, but ferociously dedicated.’

‘The complete opposite to that boy of ours,’ his father had answered.

‘And now you are a policeman? They must be very proud,’ Lady Mary said, snapping Pike back to the present.

‘Alas, my parents have both passed away.’ Turning in their grave most probably, he thought. A police detective, even one of senior rank, could hardly equate to a concert pianist. ‘I would love to chat, Lady Mary. Perhaps you will allow me to take you out to tea one day so we can reminisce? For now though, I’m afraid, questions need to be answered.’

She rose once more and once more Pike made to move but she shooed him back down. Watching the woman bobbing up and down from her seat was beginning to tire him; this was as bad as a Roman Catholic Mass. Did she ever sit still for more than a minute or two?

‘The explosion. Of course,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for distracting you.’

Pike smiled. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’ He removed a notebook and pen from his desk drawer. ‘First, would you mind telling me what you were doing outside the Necropolis Railway Station at approximately one o’clock this morning?’

‘I was looking for a friend. She often sleeps in the vicinity of the railway.’ She sat down again.

Pike kept his face expressionless. ‘Did you find your friend?’

‘No, unfortunately, I did not. I became weary myself and decided to take a nap. That’s when I saw them, two young ladies pushing bicycles. Their racket woke me up. They leaned their bicycles against the railing next to the entrance and climbed over the gate. After a few minutes I heard them arguing with a man down the corridor and I decided it was time to leave — I didn’t want the man to make me go home, I still needed to find my friend, you see. I’m worried about her state of mind. She had been talking about … well, never mind. It took a few minutes for me to walk to the fountain near Waterloo and then I heard the explosion. BOOM!’ She brought her hands crashing down upon the desk.

Pike nearly jumped out of his skin.

‘Ha! Got you!’

He reined in his galloping heart. This old woman was full of surprises.
Just how mad was she?
he wondered. ‘Would you recognise those women again, do you think?’ he asked.

‘Possibly, there was plenty of light about. And one of their bicycles was covered in whitish patches.’ When Pike raised an eyebrow, she shrugged. ‘Drips of paint, perhaps.’

White paint? A thought sparked in Pike’s head. Were these the same women who had recently vandalised the Prime Minister’s motorcar, scrawling their suffragette slogans across its doors and bonnet in white paint?

At the sound of movement in the waiting room and the murmuring of voices, Pike met Lady Mary’s eye. Her son had arrived. A well-dressed man entered after a sharp rap on the door, Singh close upon his heels.

‘Not again, Mother!’ the man cried as he rushed in.

Lady Mary plumped her skirts and turned her face away with a gesture Pike was becoming familiar with.

Singh introduced Pike to Sir Michael Heathridge.

‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, gentlemen,’ Sir Michael said. ‘This is not the first time I’ve had to pick up Mother from a police station. Mother, this is getting downright embarrassing,’ he added, gently but firmly.

The son had the same intelligent blue-grey eyes as his mother, a strong jaw, and a tall upright bearing. He plopped his top hat on Pike’s desk and kneeled before his mother, taking her hand like one about to propose marriage.

‘Was your room not comfortable, Mother? Was the maid unkind? Was there anything you lacked? What do I tell Doctor Fogarty? You know he’ll put a stop to your home visits if you continue to abscond like this.’ The gentleman turned to Pike. ‘My mother usually resides in the Elysium Rest Home for Gentlewomen — it’s in Surrey. She’s allowed out for regular family visits. My wife and I enjoy having her, but …’ He turned to Pike and muttered out of his mother’s earshot, ‘Senile decay, according to her doctor. The condition involves a host of problems and can make life very difficult at times.’

‘I was looking for my friend, Cynthia, Michael. I told you I would not rest until I found her.’

‘Cynthia was my mother’s childhood friend. She’s been dead fifty years,’ Sir Michael said as another aside to Pike.