The Anatomy of Death Read Online Free Page B

full medico-legal autopsy, though I’m sure you will be able to confirm accidental causes. We don’t need to take too long about it.”
    Dody riffled through the items in the effects parcel: an expensive walking outfit, gloves, boots, stockings, silk blouse, assorted linen, and a somewhat crushed wide-brimmed hat. Under this, something metallic glinted against the brown paper packaging. She picked it out and turned it over in her hand. The silver medal of a hunger strike survivor gleamed back at her—her sister Florence had one just like it. For a moment Dody ceased to breathe. At once she dreaded what she might find under the sheet.
    But Florence was alive and unharmed; Rupert had told her so. Drawing a lungful of pipe smoke, she pulled back the sheet and found herself looking upon the familiar face of LadyCatherine Cartwright, one of her sister’s close friends. Closing her eyes, she prayed her vision was playing tricks on her. She opened them again. It was not. She felt herself grow dizzy.
    She must not faint.
    To steady herself, she reached for the dissecting slab. With the other hand, she replaced the sheet.
    “Doctor? Is something the matter?” Pike appeared from nowhere, moving to her side.
    “Fetch some smelling salts, Alfred, the lady is going to faint.” Shepherd made no effort to hide the glee in his voice.
    “I am not about to faint, Superintendent,” Dody managed. “Alfred, stay where you are if you please, I am perfectly all right. But I regret to inform you that I cannot proceed with this autopsy. I know this woman; she was a friend of my sister. It would be unprofessional of me to continue.”
    Shepherd smacked a heavy fist into his hand. “Damn it, this is all we need. Are you quite sure? It is most important we ascertain a cause of death immediately.”
    “Sir,” Pike cut in, “Dr. McCleland is correct; she can’t be expected to continue.” He spoke with a peculiar emphasis, and Dody looked up to see him giving his superior a meaningful glance, as if he was trying to signal something to the superintendent that should already have been self-evident.

Chapter Three
    P ike held Shepherd back from following Dr. McCleland up the mortuary stairs. “McCleland, sir, do you not recognise the name?”
    Shepherd turned. “Should I? Not a bad-looking filly,” he said, as if to himself. “But marred by intelligence and overly wilful, I suspect.”
    Pike hadn’t paid much attention to the woman’s looks; he had other things on his mind. “Florence McCleland is an associate of Emmeline and Christabel Pankhurst, the leaders of the militant suffragettes,” he said. “She runs the Bloomsbury Division of the Women’s Suffrage and Political Union. Presumably she is the sister Dr. McCleland was referring to.”
    Shepherd slapped the side of his mackintosh. “You mean that woman is one of those godforsaken Anglo-Irish-Russian-Socialist McClelands from Sussex?”
    “I believe they call themselves Fabians, sir.”
    “Fabians, socialists, what’s the difference?”
    Pike allowed a faint smile. “Despite their close ties with the Labour Party, Fabians tend to be better bred than most socialists. They believe in gradual reform through education rather than sweeping, revolutionary changes. The simple way of life is important to them, though some are absurdly rich and often artistic—Mr. Bernard Shaw is a Fabian I believe, sir.”
    “Intellectual poppycock.”
    For a change Pike was inclined to agree with his superior. “But it would have been useful to have Dr. McCleland conduct the autopsy—should the result fall in our favour, sir,” he said. “If a suffragette sympathiser could prove we had no involvement in the death, then no one could accuse us of falsifying the results. Assuming, of course, that, like her sister, she is a sympathiser.”
    “Yes, but if the results aren’t in our favour—if one of ours is accused of dealing the fatal blows—how could we trust such a woman to give an