The Anatomy of Death by Felicity Young Page A

were just trying to provoke you. I think Shepherd is trying to divert you from the main issue—his own incompetence at handling the women’s march. Ignore his suggestions, and proceed as you think best.”
    Not wishing to involve Callan in any breach of procedure he might be forced to make, Pike did not mention the inadequate autopsy or reveal his suspicions that there might be more than incompetency behind Shepherd’s behaviour. It was gratifying to hear that his mentor was still counselling him to follow his own instincts. Pike relaxed into his seat. Superintendent Callan was one of the few senior police officers for whom Pike had a genuine regard.
    “On the day of the riot, the brothers were with family in Kent,” Callan continued. “Besides, they haven’t been in the country long enough to organise trouble from behind the scenes.”
    “Have you any idea who issued the instructions for the police to act with such force?”
    Callan shrugged. “What does Shepherd say?”
    “He denies any such instructions were issued. He says the Whitechapel divisional sergeant briefed the men and suggests that orders had been misinterpreted.”
    “And the Whitechapel sergeant—has he been questioned?”
    “Yes. According to Sergeant Fisher, he is saying the same thing: the men misinterpreted his instructions. Shepherd has forbidden us to interview him further. Apparently he is too valuable an officer to lose.”
    Callan paused and regarded Pike with concern. “I heard Shepherd at the club the other day talking to some of his cronies, complaining about you. Not your work,” Callan responded promptly to Pike’s look of indignation. “Even he couldn’t find fault with that. He was implying you weren’t physically fit enough for the job, that maybe it was time you were pensioned off. Do you think you might have been asking a few too many questions?”
    Pike said nothing and turned his gaze to the window.
    “How
is
the knee these days, Matthew?”
    “It always plays up in winter, but come spring it’ll loosen up again.” He focused his attention on the snarled traffic in the street outside Callan’s office, the muted sounds of jingling harnesses, clopping hooves, and motorcar engines.
    “Then you’ve not taken up that offer at the Royal Victoria? Didn’t the surgeon there say he could do something for you?”
    Pike turned back from the window. “I don’t want surgery.” He would rather lose his job than find himself in the hands of army surgeons again. He ran his hand along the inside of his collar and found he was perspiring despite the chill of Callan’s office. “I’m sorry, sir; I appreciate your concern, but the subject is closed.” His mouth was dry. Reaching for his cane, he climbed to his feet.
    “That’s quite all right, old man, one can hardly blame you—I can only imagine what that South African field hospital must have been like. But if Shepherd does start on your case, don’t forget there’s a position waiting for you in my department.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Where are you off to now?”
    “Belgravia, to speak to a possible witness to Lady Catherine’s death.”
    “I can organise a dispatch motor wagon for you if you like.”
    “Thank you, no. Shepherd might catch wind of it. As far as he’s concerned, a brick-wielding Irish rough killed Lady Catherine. The less he knows about my continuing investigation, the better. I’ll take my chances with the omnibus.” He paused at the door. “Oh, one more thing, sir,” he said, turning back. “What can you tell me of the McCleland family of Sussex? I know they have been considered troublemakers, but that’s as far as my information goes.”
    “We had them under surveillance two or three years ago,” Callan said after some thought. “It came to nothing, and we have since dropped it.”
    “Their politics put them under suspicion?”
    “That, and the people they mixed with. They were patrons of the arts in Russia, mixed with the