‘Why, you do, Mr Grice,’ our visitor said.
Sidney Grice checked his watch. ‘Explain.’
Mr Green sipped his tea. ‘We are not so reckless as you suppose, Mr Grice. First, we allowed only those of the highest character to join our society and, second, we hit upon the stratagem of investigating the death of every member no matter how natural their passing may seem. For this, we agreed to engage the skills of the finest independent detective in the empire.’
‘Then you have come to the right address,’ my guardian said.
‘However,’ Mr Green continued, ‘Mr Cochran was unwilling to take up the challenge and so I have come to you.’
Sidney Grice shot a hand to his eye. ‘Am I a pigeon to peck at that vain imposter’s crumbs?’
Mr Green put down his cup and chuckled. ‘Got you there, Mr Grice. You see, you are not the only one who can be rude. You are, of course, our first and only choice.’
‘I still consider it a great impertinence that I was not approached before now.’ My guardian eyed him icily and considered the matter. ‘If I accept your brief, Mr Green’ – he tapped his watch and edged the minute hand forward – ‘it will only be because the prospect of investigating your death will bring me boundless joy. Let us hope I shall not have to wait too long.’
Mr Green put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and drummed his fingers. ‘Well, come what may,’ he said, ‘I shall not be the first. We have only been constituted for a week and we have already lost one member.’
‘I am so deeply sorry,’ my guardian said.
‘Well, thank you, but—’
‘That I ever employed that useless lumpen serving wench,’ Sidney Grice continued. ‘This tea is as weak as a Frenchman, and why is she creeping about in the hall?’
‘I cannot hear her,’ I said.
Mr Green cocked his head. ‘Nor I.’
‘Dull minds have dull senses,’ my guardian told us and tugged the bell rope sharply twice. ‘I suppose I had better take the details.’
‘His name was Edwin Slab,’ Mr Green began, but my guardian raised a hand to silence him.
‘You will provide the information as and when I ask for it. Now…’ He took a small, red leather-bound notebook from the table by his chair and his silver-plated Mordan mechanical pencil from his inside coat pocket. ‘What is the name of your ridiculous society?’
‘We called it the Last Death Club.’
‘Ingenious,’ Sidney Grice murmured. ‘And who are the other members?’
‘I have made out a list with all our members’ names, addresses, occupations and ages.’ Mr Green proffered a folded piece of paper, but Sidney Grice sat back, closed his eyes and said, ‘Read it to me. Just the names and ages for now.’
Our visitor unfolded the sheet, hooked a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles over his ears and began, ‘Edwin Slab, aged eighty-one.’
My guardian raised his eyebrow. ‘An unlikely winner then.’ But Mr Green demurred.
‘We tried to organize our club so that all members had similar life expectancies. The Slabs have a long history of centenarians and until yesterday Edwin Slab was in perfect health.’
‘You were friends?’
‘The best of. I introduced him to the society.’
‘So how did Mr Slab end up on one?’
There was a clatter and Sidney Grice spun round. ‘Filthy footling tykes,’ he said. ‘Why have those street urchins nothing better to do than throw stones at my windows? There is no shortage of blocked drains they could be sent down.’
‘And no shortage of rats and disease to attack them there,’ I objected. But my guardian was unmoved.
‘No harm done this time,’ Mr Green observed. ‘You should have seen what they did to my pharmacy last night. I was just about to shut up shop when a group of boys burst in and started throwing stock off the shelves. I tried to stop them and got knocked over for my troubles. If a vicar had not turned up with his daughter and frightened them away, I dread to think what they might have done.’
‘Did they steal anything?’ I asked.
‘They did not get the chance,’ he said. ‘There were a few breakages but nothing too serious. The vicar picked most of the things up and I put them back on the shelf whilst his daughter composed herself. Ladies do not cope well with excitement.’
‘They so rarely get any,’ I informed them.
Sidney Grice, who had been leaning back with his eyes closed, opened them and asked, ‘How many children?’
‘Six or seven.’
‘Which?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘If it came to trial it would matter enormously to the seventh urchin who was or was not there. Had you met this vicar before?’
Mr Green winced and put his hand to his face. ‘I know him from a previous visit – a Reverend Golding from St Agatha’s. He suffers with his ears too and asked what I could recommend.’
‘That is the most intriguing petty crime I have come across in four years.’ My guardian waved a hand. ‘Proceed.’
‘Well, I told him that after breakfast—’
‘Not with that twaddle.’ Sidney Grice gesticulated. ‘Tell me about Mr Slab.’
Mr Green puffed up but only for a moment. ‘The doctor put it down to a seizure.’
‘You have your doubts?’
Mr Green spread his hands as if to demonstrate that they were empty. ‘I have no opinion on the matter, Mr Grice, but the rules of the society oblige me to ask you to investigate his passing.’
My guardian yawned. ‘I am rather swamped by work at the moment.’
‘It is a thousand pounds a time, Mr Grice, with a two thousand pound bonus should you be able to prove that any member was murdered by another.’
‘To be paid when?’
‘After the death of the last member.’
‘And what if I predecease you? Does the money stay in the society’s fund? If so, I am laying myself open to the same risks of murder as you so blockheadedly are.’
‘We thought of that,’ Mr Green said. ‘If you should die before all of us, the money for each case you have investigated will be left to whosoever you desire.’
‘But there is nobody to whom I would wish to leave money. I have not been cursed by children.’
‘You have a mother,’ I said and he shrugged.
‘A few thousand pounds would be nothing to her. She probably spends that much every month, purloining lumps of chipped stone from that old temple in Athens.’
‘Another relative or friend or somebody you are fond of,’ Mr Green suggested, but my guardian frowned.
‘There is no one.’
‘What about Miss Middleton?’
‘She does not enter any of those categories.’
Molly came in with a fresh pot.
‘Perhaps you could have the money buried with you.’ I poured our teas, pleased to see them actually steaming for once, as Molly tried an elaborate curtsy and stumbled out of the room.
‘That is the first sensible thing you have said,’ my guardian told me, ‘especially as I intend to be cremated.’
Mr Green laughed uncertainly, but Sidney Grice held out his hand and said, ‘Give me the roster.’
Mr Green passed it across and my guardian perched his pince-nez on the bridge of his long, thin nose to study it with interest.
‘Horatio Green,’ he read out, as if the name had a new meaning for him. ‘Edwin Slab, Gentleman; Primrose McKay – an unsavoury lady if a small proportion of the stories are to be believed.’
‘Is she connected to McKay’s Sausages?’ I asked and he nodded.
‘One account has it that her father took her to the abattoir on her tenth birthday and that she found the experience highly entertaining. Her greatest joy was to be allowed to cut a sow’s throat.’
‘How horrible.’ I fought down the nausea.
Sidney Grice blew his nose. ‘And by no means the worst I have heard of her.’ He scratched his scarred ear. ‘She is very you
ng.’
‘Twenty-nine,’ Mr Green confirmed, ‘but none of her female antecedents has lived beyond the age of thirty-five since records began. In fact—’
‘The splendidly equestrian-sounding Warrington Gallop of Gallop’s Snuff Emporium,’ my guardian continued. ‘The Reverend Enoch Jackaman, rector of St Jerome’s Church – I met his brother on the crossing to Calais once; the eccentrically named Prometheus Piggety, self-proclaimed entrepreneur.’ His voice had dropped soothingly but it suddenly rose. ‘Baroness Foskett,’ he said loudly and Mr Green sat up.
‘You know the baroness?’
‘Nobody has known her for over one and a half decades now. My father was a great friend of the late Baron Reginald and as a child I often played at Mordent House, the family home in Kew, with their late son, the Honourable Rupert. What is so amusing, Miss Middleton?’
I covered my mouth. ‘I am sorry. It is just the thought of you playing.’
My guardian scowled. ‘I was a perfectly normal boy and Rupert was only thirteen years older. Many were the boisterous games we enjoyed…’ a slightly wistful look drifted across his face ‘…of chess, or, in more frivolous moods, we would set each other mathematical or syllogistic problems.’
Mr Green winked at me. ‘Quite a jack-the-lad then.’
Sidney Grice grunted and said, ‘I am nonplussed that Baroness Foskett engages in such a frivolous and foolhardy enterprise.’
‘Why, she is very enthusiastic.’ Mr Green helped himself to the sugar and I added his milk. ‘She told me so herself.’
‘I understood that she is still in deep mourning and receives no one.’ My guardian leaned forward. ‘You have met her?’
Mr Green sipped his tea. ‘Well, sort of,’ he said and pulled a wry face. ‘This tea tastes very odd.’
My guardian tried his. ‘A touch flowery perhaps, but we are sampling a new blend from the lower eastern slopes of the Himalayas.’
‘Very odd,’ Mr Green said again and took another mouthful. He winced. ‘So hot.’
Sidney Grice wrinkled his nose, looked briefly puzzled and, throwing his cup and saucer down, leaped up. ‘Stop!’ He flung the table between them towards the hearth, smashing the china and spraying my dress with hot water. ‘Spit it out, man. Spit it out.’
Our visitor looked about him.
‘Anywhere! On the floor!’ my guardian shouted.
Mr Green gulped. ‘I couldn’t do that.’ He smacked his lips sourly and screwed up his face. ‘Goodness, it burns.’
‘You stupid man.’ Sidney Grice prodded his lapel. ‘That was—’
‘Prussic acid,’ Mr Green whispered in confused wonder, letting the cup fall empty into his lap. He blanched and countless tiny beads of sweat broke out on his brow. His head jerked back and his mouth opened wide as he clutched the arms of the chair, raising his shoulders and expanding his chest to take a deep breath.
I rushed over, loosened his cravat and undid the stud of his shirt collar. The sweat was trickling down his temples now. Mr Green exhaled heavily and took another shuddering breath, his face blood-red and his eyelids pulled back in terror.
‘Save me.’ The words came out half-strangled. ‘Please.’
‘Do something,’ my guardian barked. ‘You are the one with the medical experience.’
Mr Green’s hands clutched at his neck. He was panting quickly and I could hear his lungs starting to fill with water. His complexion turned dark blue.
‘Lean forward.’ I felt as if somebody else were giving the instructions. ‘And try to breathe slowly.’ But I knew that whatever I said was useless.
Horatio Green’s face was black now as he fought to take in air.
‘Do not die in my house,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’
Horatio Green doubled up, the fluid gurgling in his chest. With one gigantic effort he struggled to his feet. His left hand went down but missed the arm of the chair and he slipped sideways. I caught his arm and he gripped the sleeve on my dress, pinching my skin so hard that I cried out.
‘Stay conscious,’ my guardian commanded.
‘It is all right,’ I said as he swayed towards me. I steadied myself. ‘It is all right,’ I said again slowly. ‘I have got you and I shall not let you go.’
Those eyes locked on mine in helpless desperation. I had seen that look before and I had hoped not to see it again.
‘God bless you,’ I said as his knees sagged under him. I held on, but he was too heavy for me as he slumped.
My guardian grabbed him under the shoulders and tried to take his weight, but he was a big man and we were off-balance. Horatio Green made one last shallow gurgling suck of air before it was flooded out of him, and toppled backwards into his chair. I felt for his pulse but there was none to detect. I put my ear to his nose and listened for what I had no hope of hearing.
‘Blast and blazes.’ Sidney Grice put his hand to his forehead. ‘I have lost another client.’
5
The Dancing Skull
I took a step back, and breathed deeply in and out slowly to try to calm myself. ‘You have lost a client? Is that all he was?’
‘To me, yes.’
‘And do you only care about the money?’
Sidney Grice returned my gaze coolly. ‘From a financial point of view – as you well know – the sooner they all die the better,’ he said. ‘But my reputation hangs in tatters already and this will fray it to threads.’
I worked my way round the toppled table and the debris of our tea tray and pulled the bell rope, the ivory skull dancing obscenely. My guardian looked back. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Summoning Molly.’ Something sharp caught in my chest. ‘We must call the police.’
‘No.’ Sidney Grice raked his hair back and hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’ He crouched to peer into Horatio Green’s bulging eyes. ‘But how did you get the poison?’ he asked. ‘It was not in the teapot and you had nothing to eat.’ He coughed.
The smell of bitter almonds was filling the room. I went over and pulled up a sash window. It was stiff and probably had not been opened in years and the hubbub of Gower Street with all its clattering hooves and rattling wheels flooded in.
‘It was not in the milk or sugar either. He and I both had those,’ I recalled. ‘And he did not take any pills, unless he slipped one in his mouth while we were not looking.’
‘I would have noticed.’
Molly came in, carrying a feather duster over her shoulder like a parasol. She stopped and opened her mouth.
Sidney Grice pointed at her. ‘Do not screech.’
She closed her mouth, took one nervous step forward and peered over. ‘Is he’ – she pushed a lock of hair up under her hat – ‘dead?’
‘I am afraid he is,’ I told her and she bent to pick up the sugar bowl which had rolled into the middle of the room.
Sidney Grice picked up our visitor’s shattered cup and held it to his nose. ‘No prussic acid here.’ He put it down and inspected the soles of Mr Green’s boots.
Molly looked puzzled. ‘Did you want some, sir?’
‘No, Molly,’ I explained. ‘It is a poison.’
‘Oh, sir’ – Molly’s hair escaped again – ‘when I accidentally listened at the door and overheard you telling your visitor you hoped he died soon, I didn’t think you meant to murder him here and now.’
Her employer’s eye fell out. He caught it deftly and dropped it into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I did not kill Mr Green.’
He was holding Horatio Green’s right hand, turning the palm up and then down, and scrutinizing the fingernails. He held it under his nose, as one might capture the fragrance of a flower, and let it fall back on to the dead man’s leg.
‘If you say so, sir.’
Sidney Grice straightened up. ‘Why am I always beset by dead men and imbeciles?’ He went to his desk.
‘Dead men are your profession,’ I reminded him. ‘And if there are any imbeciles in this room, you brought them here.’
But my guardian was not listening. He was bent over with his Grice Self-Filling Fountain Pen, scratching a letter.
‘Now, Molly, I am probably asking too much, but listen carefully.’ He blotted his note, folded it and screwed the nib back into his pen. ‘You will go into the hall and run up the flag. When a hansom comes, go straight to Marylebone Police Station.’ He slipped the letter into a white envelope, dipped a brush into a pot of glue and gummed down the flap. ‘Do not stop to gawk in shop windows or chatter with your grubby scullion friends. Go to the desk and ask for Inspector Pound. You are not to give this letter to anyone else. Have you got that?’
‘What if he ain’t there?’
‘Then come straight home with the letter and tell me. Here is two shillings and four pence. That is one shilling for the fare and tuppence for the tip each way.’ My guardian dropped the change into the sugar bowl. ‘Go.’
‘They ain’t grubby,’ Molly muttered to herself as she left. ‘Well, not very.’
I righted the table. ‘Perhaps the poison was already in his mouth,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he was sucking on something for his toothache.’
Sidney Grice snapped his fingers. ‘Baumgartner,’ he said.
‘What is Baumgartner?’
My guardian strode past his desk to the row of oak cabinets on the right-hand wall, pulling the lowest drawer of one halfway open. His fingers ran over the top of the tightly crammed brown envelopes as his lips moved silently through the titles.
‘Here we are.’ He whipped up a file and opened it to bring out a sheaf of handwritten notes and cuttings. ‘Not what, who.’ He passed me a yellowed copy of a newspaper, Wiener Zeitun. ‘Otto Baumgartner was an Austrian dentist who counted several members of the Habsburgs amongst his clientele. In the summer of ’54 a number of his patients died suddenly within days, hours or, in one case, minutes of attending his surgery. But it was only after the archbishop of Vienna fell dead at the high altar of the cathedral that Emperor Franz Joseph himself ordered an investigation.’ The paper was dry and crackled as I opened it. ‘Even then it was some months and several deaths later before the police made the connection to the victims’ recent dental treatments,’ Sidney Grice continued. ‘A search of Baumgartner’s surgery revealed a nearly full bottle of strychnine powder – sufficient to wipe out half the city. Confronted with this, Baumgartner confessed. He had been lining his patients’ cavities with the powder and weakening his restorations so that they disintegrated when the patient had a meal or even a hot drink.’ I surveyed an artist’s impression of the murderer, a rotund, jolly-looking chap with mutton-chop whiskers. ‘It was estimated that Otto Baumgartner killed over forty of his patients.’ He took the newspaper back. ‘But the true figure and his motive may never be known as he had managed to destroy his records before the arresting officers arrived at his house, and self-administered his own medicine in the middle of the trial.’ Sidney Grice dumped the file on his desk. ‘Come, March. Help me to put him on the floor.’
The Curse of the House of Foskett Page 2
