The Curse of the House of Foskett

by Kasasian, M. R. C.

  ‘Sit there at his head.’ The doctor wrapped a tourniquet crushingly tight round my arm and plunged the needle in at the inside of my elbow. He had some trouble finding a vein in the inspector’s arm – they were empty and flat – but eventually he slid a needle in before releasing the pressure on my arm, and I watched my blood run into a sealed jar as the doctor operated a lever to pump it into the patient.

  ‘Dr Lower was doing transfusions two hundred years ago,’ he told me. ‘He tried putting the blood of a sheep into a patient who had a violent temper in the hope of making him gentle as a lamb.’

  The needle was burning in my arm. ‘And did it work?’

  ‘According to witnesses, the patient was so ill during the first course that he refused further treatment.’ The doctor adjusted a connection in his tubes. ‘Apparently Dr Lower was also planning to inject the blood of a lion into a coward to make him braver, but all his suitable cases’ – his weary face twitched – ‘were too timid to consent to treatment.’

  I laughed. ‘Perhaps you could give me the blood of a beautiful woman.’

  The doctor assessed me. ‘I doubt it would help.’ It was a long process, but eventually he stopped. ‘You must have given a couple of pints by now.’

  ‘I feel fine. You can take more.’

  He pulled the needle out and gave me a wad of cotton wool to hold over the site. ‘I have enough patients as it is.’

  I watched them lift the inspector on to a trolley and wheel him away. And it may have been wishful thinking but I thought he had some colour in his face.

  I stood up and felt quite dizzy. The cold outside air helped a little as I made my way cautiously down the steps but, strangely, a nip of gin from my flask only made me feel worse. It took another two nips to fully revive me.

  19

  Blotting Paper and Goldfish

  An old man helped me into a cab and I would have been more grateful if he had not taken my brooch in the process. Luckily for me, it was not a favourite and I was too shaken to care. I slouched back in the seat, staring out in front of me, but all I could see was that knife flashing forward and sliding so easily and so deeply into Inspector Pound’s stomach, and his look of stunned disbelief.

  My guardian came into the hall the moment I got home. He settled me in my chair by the fireplace and went out to pay the driver.

  ‘Let me see your neck… You have a nasty bruise but a high collar will hide that.’

  ‘Inspector Pound—’

  ‘Hush, March.’ He touched my shoulder. ‘Did you really think something like that could happen without my knowing it? Inspector Grant of the Commercial Road Station was informed by a constable who was questioning an attempted garrotting victim there, and the inspector sent word to me under the illusion that Pound is my friend. I was about to send Molly to collect you when you arrived.’

  There was a bottle on a lacquered tray on the round table. ‘What on earth were you doing in that area in the first place?’

  I struggled to remember. It was so recent but too long ago. ‘I attended Horatio Green’s funeral.’

  He went to the table. ‘That was unwise but only what I have come to expect of you. How did you know where and when it was?’

  ‘I stopped one of those girls who are always throwing stones at the house and told her there was a sovereign for whoever could find out which undertaker had the body. Rayner and Sons said that Mr Green’s sister was expected to be the only relative in attendance.’

  ‘That shows the best and worst sides of your character.’ Sidney Grice took a small penknife off the tray. ‘Initiative and extravagance. A shilling would have been more than sufficient. You are inflating the price of bribery, March. On top of which you could have asked me.’

  ‘Would you have told me?’

  ‘No.’ He cut the foil on the bottle. ‘And, in case you are thinking of traipsing back to the East End, the inspector is not allowed any visitors until he has been moved to a safer area. We shall discuss the incident in the morning when you are recovered.’ He put down the knife and took up a corkscrew. ‘Now the best thing for anaemia, Dr Berry tells me, is red wine. So…’ He twisted the corkscrew in. ‘I am afraid you will have to consume several glasses of vintage claret over the next few days to restore yourself.’

  ‘Poor me,’ I said.

  ‘You must be brave,’ he told me with no hint of irony. ‘If I ever manage to get this preposterous’ – he held the bottle between his knees and hauled – ‘cork…’ There was a pop and the wine splashed over his trousers. ‘Out.’ He poured a generous glassful and handed it to me.

  I could see the surface wobble as I raised the glass to my lips. ‘So how did your visit go this morning?’ Wine was not my favourite drink but this was not at all bad. I drained it in three gulps.

  ‘Exceptionally well.’ My guardian touched his cravat and almost smirked. ‘Dr Berry is a truly exceptional woman. We had a fascinating chat about Euclidean algorithms. And her geographical knowledge is astonishing. Do you know that she can give you the map reference for almost two hundred cities, towns and villages in England?’ He refilled my glass, though not quite as generously this time.

  ‘It sounds like an uproarious morning.’ I could feel the effects already. ‘And how many can you recite?’

  ‘Oh, I know them all.’ He waved his hand airily. ‘Guess what she gave me. No you cannot. It—’

  ‘Oh, do let me try,’ I begged. ‘A goldfish in a bowl.’

  ‘No, she—’

  ‘A coconut?’

  ‘Now you are being silly.’

  ‘A kiss?’

  ‘Now you are being coarse. You remember I was interested in her pen? No, of course you do not. You never remember anything other than soppy poetry. Well, it turns out that Dorna—’

  I could not let that pass. ‘Dorna?’

  ‘Dr Berry,’ he corrected himself, ‘designed the nib of that pen herself. It has a fine, flexible point to allow fluid legible handwriting at a much faster rate, and I am going to see if I can adapt it to fit my pen. We shall call it the Grice-Berry Self-Filling Flexible-Nibbed Patent-Pending Pen.’

  ‘It will have to be a very long pen to print all those words on it,’ I said and he pursed his lips.

  ‘We have thought of that and agreed that a tasteful copperplate-style G&B embossed on the side will suffice. Just think of it, March. This pen will revolutionize commerce. Think how it would be if every office clerk could effortlessly increase his output by up to twenty per cent a day.’

  ‘But surely the typewriting machine will do that and it produces much more legible results,’ I said, and Sidney Grice put his hands together as if in prayer.

  ‘I dare say these novelties have their uses,’ he said. ‘But try slipping one into your pocket. No, March, the Grice-Berry Pen represents the future of chirography for the next hundred years.’

  I swirled the wine in my glass. ‘So what did the laboratory tests show?’

  My guardian stopped his rhapsody and said, ‘Oh, that. The results are not back yet. I shall have to call on Dr Berry again in the next day or two.’

  ‘What a nuisance for you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall I come too?’

  ‘You will not be required.’

  ‘So you will have to be all alone with that monstrous woman,’ I sympathized.

  Sidney Grice looked at me. ‘I shall manage,’ he said stiffly as the mantel clock struck. ‘But we have no time to squander in brainless chitterchat. Drink your wine, March. You must keep your strength up. Tomorrow we have an appointment at—’

  ‘Edwin Slab’s house.’

  My guardian looked askance. ‘And you acquired that information how?’

  ‘After you wrote a telegram with your wondrous pen,’ I explained, ‘you blotted it. As I am sure you know, it is a simple thing to read blotting paper in a mirror.’ I was feeling dizzy again.

  ‘How inquisitive you are,’ he said, not entirely disapprovingly.

&nb
sp; ‘I need to be,’ I said, ‘if I am to become a personal detective.’

  ‘Dear child,’ Sidney Grice selected a journal from the rack beside him, ‘that is one thing you shall never be.’ I was too worn out to argue with him. My neck ached from the blow and my arm throbbed from the needle. ‘There is an interesting paper in this month’s Anatomical News,’ he continued. ‘Not only do women have much smaller brains but they have only a quarter of the number of nerve cells per ounce compared to those of a man. Apparently, large areas of the female brain are filled with fluid – not so much grey matter as grey water. Oh, March, you have carelessly splashed your wine in my face. How on earth did you manage that?’

  ‘I cannot imagine.’ I closed my eyes and let the sound of sloshing in my head lull me to sleep.

  You could never hold your drink and I am not sure you ever really enjoyed it, but a subaltern who did not drink would have been like a vicar who did not pray. I always had a good head for it. My father said I was hardened to alcohol from infancy because my nanny used to put brandy in my milk to get me off to sleep, then top me up if I awoke in the night.

  Once, in a silly dispute, I recklessly challenged you to a drinking competition. It would not have mattered really, but I was your guest in the mess and we quickly gathered a crowd of your comrades round us. Only a man could handle whisky, you said, and we matched each other glass for glass. After ten glasses I felt quite woozy, but you were slurring and spilled your eleventh down yourself. You had to take a double drink in forfeit for that and I could see that you were having trouble getting it down, so I dropped my glass and pretended to pass out, and not a moment too soon. I had hardly slumped in my chair when you toppled sideways out of yours.

  I was ill the next morning and my father was furious when he found out the cause.

  ‘How irresponsible,’ he fumed, ‘leading a young innocent astray.’ And he stalked out of the house, cane in hand, straight to the junior officers’ quarters to commiserate with you.

  20

  The House of Beasts

  Edwin Slab had lived in a large white house set nicely back from a well-swept street just off Prince Albert Road, the tidy garden secluded from public gaze by a low wall and a high privet hedge. The clatter of traffic was muffled by the tall grand houses overlooking Regent’s Park but still audible as Sidney Grice rattled the knocker.

  ‘I wonder why’ – he ran the toe of his boot backwards along the path – ‘anyone would use shingle from Llandudno beach when there are so many supplies of gravel closer to home.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ I asked and he raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The truth always matters, March. If you mean “is it pertinent?” the answer is almost certainly no.’ He eyed two pigeons uneasily as they landed in a lilac tree.

  We were greeted by a small elderly lady in a grey dress and a voluminous black wig, masses of curls with long ringlets dangling about her face.

  ‘Have you come to evict me?’ Her voice quavered.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We just want to talk to you.’

  ‘Do we?’ Sidney Grice tapped a stone unicorn with his cane.

  ‘Well, there’s nobody else here, sir,’ she told him. ‘The owner, Mr Slab, has passed away and the rest of his staff have upped and gone.’ She made a dipping arc with her arm as if introducing them. ‘Maissie and Daisy and Polly and Mrs Prendergast – all skidooddled. But I’m eighty-six, you know, and who would take me on?’

  ‘Not I,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘Not even in your heyday – if you ever had one.’

  The woman swallowed a wounded gulp.

  ‘My name is March Middleton,’ I said, and she perked up.

  ‘The March Middleton?’ Her voice rose excitedly. ‘I’ve read all about you in the papers. You must be the one who works with that horrible Sidney Grice, the man what kills everyone.’

  The man what killed everyone scowled, but I laughed and said, ‘Not quite everyone. This is Mr Grice in person, and who are you?’

  ‘Miss Flower,’ she said. ‘I’m eighty-six, you know, and my mother called me Rosie.’

  ‘Then I shall too,’ I said. ‘Can we come in, Rosie?’

  ‘Of course we can.’ Sidney Grice pushed past her into the house. ‘What is your position here, old woman?’

  ‘Housekeeper,’ she said, ‘or at least I used to be until I got too old. Mr Slab only kept me on out of charity.’ She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief which she had tucked into her sleeve. ‘Full of kindness, Mr Slab was. He didn’t deserve to die like that.’

  ‘To judge him by his taste in furnishings, I am not so sure,’ my guardian said. The floor of the entrance hall was scattered with zebra skins and the pine-panelled walls were hung with them. ‘Where did your employer die?’ He fingered her hairpiece.

  ‘In his workroom,’ Miss Flower said, ‘if you would like to follow me.’

  ‘I should not like it in the least. Hold still, woman. ’ He picked a piece of fluff out of her wig and popped it into an envelope. ‘I am most particular about whom I follow, why, when and where, and I shall not have witnesses dictating the sequence in which I collate evidence. At best your suggestion is impertinent. At worst it might be construed as suspicious.’

  Rosie Flower blinked. ‘Suspicious, sir?’

  ‘But since I am unfamiliar with the topography of this building…’ He took off his gloves and dropped them into his hat. ‘Show me his study.’

  ‘Study, sir?’ She placed his hat on the hall table and my parasol in a stand made of an animal’s leg.

  ‘It would seem that Mr Slab, not content with filling up beasts, employed the services of a parrot.’

  ‘Parrot, sir?’

  ‘Study,’ he snapped. ‘There is not a man in England worth over four thousand pounds who does not possess one. Take me to it… now.’

  Rosie indicated an open door on the left and Sidney Grice brushed past her again. ‘Come along.’ And Miss Flower tottered after him with me at the back, scrutinizing the decor.

  A zebra’s head hung over the interior porch, mouth agape as if remembering the nasty shock it must have endured, and the black-and-white striped curtains were tied back with tasselled tails.

  ‘He called this the Hyena Room,’ Rosie Flower announced as we entered.

  ‘I cannot think why,’ my guardian murmured. Stuffed hyenas posed self-consciously all around the room, their fur patchily spotted, their black lips pulled back to reveal gapped spikes of orange teeth and dark tongues, their faces a curious cross between bears and wild dogs, with big oval ears and ugly, cold yellow eyes.

  ‘Because—’ Rosie Flower began.

  ‘Was this his chair?’ Sidney Grice pointed to a hairy armchair with a hyena crouching as a resentful footstool.

  ‘The very one he sat in every evening,’ Miss Flower said.

  He went down on one knee and patted the seat cushion. ‘Left-handed.’ He dabbed the tip of his middle finger on the tip of his tongue. ‘And a lover of chocolate éclairs.’ He lifted the cushion. ‘You were not lying about him being kind.’

  Rosie Flower looked bewildered. ‘But how can you tell?’

  ‘The undersurface of this cushion has not been cleaned since before eighteen seventy-seven. There are five distinct rings of Erysiphales Espanola – Spanish mildew also known as oak mould, not because it grows on oak trees, but because it does so in an incremental annual annular fashion.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’ She sucked her lips in.

  ‘I am merely pointing out that no one other than a soft-hearted dolt would have employed the services of a maid who was so slovenly, nor a housekeeper who was so decrepit as to allow such laxity.’

  Rosie’s eyes welled up. ‘Mr Slab was always very appreciative of our labours.’

  Sidney Grice snorted. ‘Hence my choice of the word dolt. Why are there buckets of sand in every corner?’

  ‘Mr Slab was terrified of being caught in a fire, sir. He had ropes fixed inside all the up
stairs windows to climb down but I would die if I tried using one of those.’

  I trod on an outstretched paw and jumped. ‘Did he kill all these himself?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Miss Flower said. ‘He did love killing things, but he never travelled further abroad than Winchester. All of these came from the zoo. The man who brought them was most anxious to reassure me that they had all died of old age.’

  ‘But this one is a cub.’ The pole of a table lamp projected from its head.

  ‘That one died of young age,’ she said.

  ‘If only you had followed its example,’ Sidney Grice told her. ‘Were you with your lackadaisical employer when he died?’

  ‘No.’ Miss Flower polished the tip of a hyena’s nose with her sleeve.

  ‘Did you discover him?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She ruffled its spiky mane affectionately.

  Sidney Grice walked round an onyx table supported on the heads of four sitting hyenas. ‘Tell us.’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Well, I was having my supper downstairs with Maissie and Daisy and Mrs Prendergast when—’

  ‘Where was Polly?’ my guardian interrupted.

  ‘It was her afternoon off, sir.’ Rosie twisted her handkerchief. ‘I expect she was spooning in a pleasure garden with her young man.’

  ‘And his name is?’

  ‘Richard Collins.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  She reddened. ‘I’m trying to tell you, sir.’

  ‘Get on with it.’ He brought a short pair of tweezers out of his satchel.

  Rosie Flower’s right hand twizzled in agitation. ‘I’m eighty-six,’ she remembered. ‘Or seven.’

  I took her arm. ‘Please tell us what happened to Mr Slab the night he died.’

  ‘Well, I was having my supper downstairs with Maissie and Daisy and Mrs Prendergast,’ she began as Sidney Grice plucked a tuft of hairs from a snarling hyena’s head, ‘when Mr Slab rang the bell.’

  ‘How do you know it was Mr Slab?’ My guardian dropped his sample into a white envelope.