On cue, Florence tapped on the door and entered with Pike. They stood at the door without moving for a moment and stared open-mouthed at the shrouded dining room.
Florence gave Pike a nudge. “There you go, Pike, up you get,” she said with the enthusiasm of a jolly-hockey-sticks games mistress.
Pike looked anything but jolly as he shuffled over to the table, wearing a dressing gown over a striped nightshirt, and nodded to Barker. Florence relieved Pike of the gown, helped him onto the table, and then hurried from the room.
Daphne straightened the pillow under the patient’s head and moved to the carbolic spray machine positioned on a planter near the window. The steam-powered contraption chugged into action and soon the room’s occupants were covered in a fine mist of antiseptic spray.
“Are you ready, Chief Inspector?” Dody asked, mindful of what had happened the last time someone had attempted to operate on Pike’s knee. Fortunately, she could see no sign of a pistol tucked in the folds of his nightshirt.
Pike nodded, his body shivering uncontrollably despite her earlier administration of calming bromide. Dody’s hand lingered on his forehead as she remembered the stories she had heard above the fishmonger’s. Well, why wouldn’t he be anxious after what he had seen in that hospital tent? Van Noort had told him that if he had attended, he would not have amputated, but left his knee in a much better state than it was now. He had strongly advised Pike to have the operation that Barker was about to perform.
Dody smoothed away Pike’s hair and lowered the mask.
If only Van Noort’s own problems had been this easy to treat.
Author’s Note
The inspiration behind this work of fiction was my examination of Dr. Bernard Spilsbury’s handwritten autopsy notes at the Wellcome Library, London. The poignancy of each death recorded solely on a single, yellowing palm card struck me deeply, with many attributed to causes rarely seen today, especially death by criminal abortion.
My Bernard Spilsbury was fictionalised, though his personality was gleaned from several biographies. I experienced his chain smoking for myself when I examined his palm cards. After all these years, they still reeked of cigarette smoke.
I have been unable to find evidence of a female autopsy surgeon as early as 1910, but Bernard Spilsbury did have a female assistant, Hilda Bainbridge, by 1920. I hope the reader can forgive this ten-year discrepancy.
Dody McCleland’s background is that of my grandmother, at the time one of only a handful of female graduates of Trinity College, Dublin. Much of the Fabian colour was inspired by her memoirs.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page
Praise
Also by Felicity Young
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Author’s Note