part of four days identifying and assembling. They had completely restored two bodies (if one included the easily reassembled decapitation) and there were five semi-complete cadavers.
Dody and the attendant heaved the box from the slab and thunked it onto a trolley.
‘Have the box delivered to the undertaker’s now, please, Alfred,’ she said to the crusty old man as he guided the squeaking wheels through the mortuary door to the waiting hearse.
Dody moved to the trough sink, removed her rubber apron and sleeve protectors and scrubbed her stained hands vigorously with carbolic soap until the blackened water ran clear. She sniffed her wet hands. She never seemed to completely erase the stink of the mortuary room. Even if she stopped doing what she did, she wondered, would the smell ever leave her? Or would she continue to obsessively wash her hands, like Lady Macbeth, trying to rid hers of Guilt?
Guilt. She’d told Pike that Florence had been home all night with her. They had dined together and listened to the gramophone until the grandfather clock in the hall had chimed half past midnight. Then later, at around three o’clock, Dody had dropped by her sister’s bedroom to tell her she had been summoned to the bomb blast, and that Florence had chided her for waking her up.
When Constable Singh had questioned their maid about the evening her mistresses had allegedly enjoyed together, Annie had corroborated the sisters’ story. Unfortunately though, she took it upon herself to embroider their plan further by telling Singh they had dined on roast lamb, when Dody and Florence had already informed him they had dined on silverside with white sauce. The truth was that Dody, having no appetite and no Florence to dine with, had picked at some fruit and cheese in her room. Thank God Pike had not been there to see her backtrack and stutter, tangling herself up in her lie while stubbornly refusing to admit to it. Dody was a truthful person, the lie breached all of the principles she lived by. But she would continue to lie for Florence, even if it meant a charge of perjury against her. Her love for her sister was stronger than any moral code.
Dody closed the faucet and reached for a hand towel, wishing she could turn back the clock. With hindsight she’d have chained Florence to her bed.
There was no ladies room at the business end of the Paddington Mortuary, just a doctors’ common room that she only dared use when Spilsbury was absent from the building. He was there now; she could see his tall angular silhouette through the frosted glass of the door as she walked past. It was hard to imagine that she had once harboured a schoolgirl infatuation for that cold, aloof man.
She tried to make herself presentable as she made her way down the corridor, removing a bottle of scent from her pocket and dabbing it behind her ears. What she would give for a lemon-scented bath. After unravelling the scarf from her head she attempted to pat her chignon back into place. Then she untied her linen apron and bundled it up with her scarf, tossing them into a dirty-linen hamper she passed along the way.
At the entrance to the waiting room she paused to scan the crowded benches. Some of the occupants looked bored. Their vacant looks and middle-class dress suggested government officials, coroners’ clerks, workhouse facilitators and charity representatives. The majority, however, were from the gaunt-faced ranks of the poorer classes, shabbily dressed, hands twisting in laps. To many, this would be remembered as one of the worst days of their lives. Dody could only hope that the attendants handled them delicately. To Spilsbury’s chagrin she had encouraged the attendants and clerks to be sensitive to the bereaved, to offer cups of tea, a sympathetic smile, even a telephone call to arrange a lift home if necessary. After having gone through the trauma of identifying a deceased loved one, many were not in a fit state to leave the place on their
Dody and the attendant heaved the box from the slab and thunked it onto a trolley.
‘Have the box delivered to the undertaker’s now, please, Alfred,’ she said to the crusty old man as he guided the squeaking wheels through the mortuary door to the waiting hearse.
Dody moved to the trough sink, removed her rubber apron and sleeve protectors and scrubbed her stained hands vigorously with carbolic soap until the blackened water ran clear. She sniffed her wet hands. She never seemed to completely erase the stink of the mortuary room. Even if she stopped doing what she did, she wondered, would the smell ever leave her? Or would she continue to obsessively wash her hands, like Lady Macbeth, trying to rid hers of Guilt?
Guilt. She’d told Pike that Florence had been home all night with her. They had dined together and listened to the gramophone until the grandfather clock in the hall had chimed half past midnight. Then later, at around three o’clock, Dody had dropped by her sister’s bedroom to tell her she had been summoned to the bomb blast, and that Florence had chided her for waking her up.
When Constable Singh had questioned their maid about the evening her mistresses had allegedly enjoyed together, Annie had corroborated the sisters’ story. Unfortunately though, she took it upon herself to embroider their plan further by telling Singh they had dined on roast lamb, when Dody and Florence had already informed him they had dined on silverside with white sauce. The truth was that Dody, having no appetite and no Florence to dine with, had picked at some fruit and cheese in her room. Thank God Pike had not been there to see her backtrack and stutter, tangling herself up in her lie while stubbornly refusing to admit to it. Dody was a truthful person, the lie breached all of the principles she lived by. But she would continue to lie for Florence, even if it meant a charge of perjury against her. Her love for her sister was stronger than any moral code.
Dody closed the faucet and reached for a hand towel, wishing she could turn back the clock. With hindsight she’d have chained Florence to her bed.
There was no ladies room at the business end of the Paddington Mortuary, just a doctors’ common room that she only dared use when Spilsbury was absent from the building. He was there now; she could see his tall angular silhouette through the frosted glass of the door as she walked past. It was hard to imagine that she had once harboured a schoolgirl infatuation for that cold, aloof man.
She tried to make herself presentable as she made her way down the corridor, removing a bottle of scent from her pocket and dabbing it behind her ears. What she would give for a lemon-scented bath. After unravelling the scarf from her head she attempted to pat her chignon back into place. Then she untied her linen apron and bundled it up with her scarf, tossing them into a dirty-linen hamper she passed along the way.
At the entrance to the waiting room she paused to scan the crowded benches. Some of the occupants looked bored. Their vacant looks and middle-class dress suggested government officials, coroners’ clerks, workhouse facilitators and charity representatives. The majority, however, were from the gaunt-faced ranks of the poorer classes, shabbily dressed, hands twisting in laps. To many, this would be remembered as one of the worst days of their lives. Dody could only hope that the attendants handled them delicately. To Spilsbury’s chagrin she had encouraged the attendants and clerks to be sensitive to the bereaved, to offer cups of tea, a sympathetic smile, even a telephone call to arrange a lift home if necessary. After having gone through the trauma of identifying a deceased loved one, many were not in a fit state to leave the place on their
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