The Insanity of Murder by Felicity Young Read Free Book Online Page B

her troops. The woman lingered for several seconds in front of each of the women in the line-up. This was the old dear they’d thought had been sleeping soundly when they’d scaled the station gate — Florence recognised the tatty straw hat. She only breathed again when, having completed her inspection, the woman stepped aside to confer with the policeman. She did not seem capable of keeping still, shuffling repeatedly from one foot to the other. Sergeant Hensman must be making her nervous, Florence decided, knowing too well how she felt.
    Florence wished Pike were here. She had not seen him since yesterday evening at the townhouse, although his henchman, Singh, had been present during her morning interrogation. Florence knew nothing about Singh other than that his sense of dress was even worse than Pike’s former assistant — his turban looking most odd with his poorly cut English clothes. She would have preferred big old comfortable Fisher, but he had been promoted (undeservedly, according to Dody) and shipped off to the East End somewhere.
    There was no sign of Singh now. Florence suspected he was watching from the wings — perhaps the mystic-like man did not even cast a shadow. He had left most of the talking to Hensman. The sergeant had tried to get Florence to divulge the name of her accomplice, saying that if she did, he’d plead with the judge for leniency, even though Florence had protested her innocence throughout. How could she have an accomplice to something she did not do? At one stage during the interview, Hensman had looked so angry Florence feared he would strike her.
    Florence wasn’t a sneak and had no intention of dropping Daphne in it. Besides, Poppa’s lawyer had told her to admit to nothing. Daphne would be in France by now, anyway, on a family holiday organised months ago. She’d left early in the morning after the blast and probably had no idea about Florence’s plight. Usually the suffragettes were quick to take responsibility for their militant actions, but this time there had been no such acknowledgement, despite newspaper speculation. Nor had Florence been contacted by any of her colleagues since the explosion, other than the note from Christabel Pankhurst, which she’d mistakenly told Dody about. Now Dody was against the movement more than ever.
    Florence watched the sergeant and the old woman converse — the young stocky and strong next to the old, withered and weak. Hensman was encouraging the old woman to have another walk down the line-up. What else was he saying? Was he giving her a gentle nudge to where Florence was standing in the line? Was he threatening her? One could never trust a policeman — other than Pike, and even he still infuriated her at times.
    The six other women in the line-up wore similar hats to Florence, were of similar build, and all wore dark skirts and coats to make the true culprit’s identity more obscure. No wonder the old dear looked so confused. Florence’s found hope in the woman’s vague looks, the way she nervously picked at the shawl around her shoulders — she really had no idea. Now, all Florence needed to do was make that big red arrow hanging above her head vanish. She screwed up her eyes and attempted to mentally bat it away.
    ‘Open those eyes, please, miss,’ Hensman commanded. Florence glared at the policeman. She’d had enough of his brow beating.
    The reprimand caught the old lady’s attention. She shuffled closer to Florence, dragging Hensman with her. Oh God , Florence thought, I’ve done it now . Her heart beat wildly. The perspiration streamed down her body.
    The old lady raised a brittle hand and touched her on the shoulder.
    ‘You really should have cleaned that bicycle of yours, my dear,’ she said.
    Doctor Dorothy McCleland carefully placed a charred leg into the mortuary box and closed the lid. This was the last of the body parts harvested from Waterloo Station that she and Doctor Bernard Spilsbury had spent the best