‘We must get her down,’ I said. ‘I hope she is not tangled in those branches.’
‘She will pass through,’ he assured me. Sidney Grice gripped the rope in both hands and hauled to create a little slack, and I unlooped the rope from the hook. He put a foot on the wall, then leaned back and paid out the rope. ‘I have her.’ His face was purple with the strain. ‘Go to her, March – quick as you can.’
I raced from the room, down the stairs and out into the front garden, almost crashing into the unicorn in my haste. Miss Flower was about four feet from the ground, facing the house and creaking downwards. I ran under the tree and reached up, grasping her under the arms as she descended.
‘I have her,’ I called up and the rope snaked down, crashing through the branches, her whole weight suddenly in my hands. She was heavier than I expected and I staggered back, almost toppling over with her on top of me, but the trunk steadied me as I laid her supine on the gravel.
Rosie Flower’s face was swollen black, her eyes wide and bloodshot, and her chewed tongue stuck out through a bloody froth. I pulled at the knot but it was embedded into the crêpe skin of her bruised neck. Sidney Grice appeared breathlessly. He brought out a clasp knife and sawed, but the rope was tough and it was several minutes before he was able to stop and rip the last few strands apart.
Her body was very hot but lifeless.
‘I must have heard her feet drumming on the wall,’ I said. ‘I did not realize…’ I stopped. ‘She talked about falling. I thought she meant…’
My guardian touched my shoulder. ‘If there is a beneficent God, she is happy; if there is not, she is at peace.’ He proffered me a big white handkerchief with DB embroidered in one corner. I did not need it, but I accepted it because I knew he was trying to comfort me.
I took some twigs from her sleeve and Sidney Grice lifted the old housekeeper as one might a child, his left arm under her shoulders and his right below her knees, and carried her back to her room. We laid her on her bed and I closed her eyes and crossed her arms, while he fished out her wig with his cane. I raised her head to put it on, but could only create a travesty of the woman we had met little more than an hour ago. I prayed quietly but, though he stood in respect, my guardian’s lips did not move.
‘I will arrange for an undertaker,’ he said, white-faced, and later, in a steadily swaying hansom, he asked, ‘Where did you read about the woman who killed a regiment?’
‘I was probably confused.’
He sucked his lower lip. ‘Yes, you usually are.’ He coughed and put a hasty hand to his eye. ‘Perhaps Miss Flower was right and I do kill people.’
‘It was not you,’ I said. ‘This Christian world of ours killed Rosie Flower.’
23
Kali and the Toothpick
We went home. Sidney Grice adjourned to his study and I to my room.
I read your letter, the one you wrote when you were sent to the hills. Several British and Indian travellers had gone missing in the district and it was rumoured that the Thuggee cult had been revived in the area. The Thuggees, you told me, were bandits driven by their fanatical devotion to Kali, the goddess of darkness and death. It was their practice to befriend groups of travellers and, having gained their confidence, strangle them with knotted handkerchiefs. The bodies were then mutilated and disposed of in wells.
You were worried that you might not get the chance to confront them. I was worried that you would. I was scared, of course, that you might get killed, but my greatest fear was that you might kill somebody. I could not imagine you doing that. Those big gentle hands that cradled my face were not those of a killer.
As always, we dined by ourselves – cold potatoes and a salad drenched in vinegar. My guardian was occupied with some old case notes, so I turned to Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’. Sometimes it comforted me, but not tonight – the doubts and hopelessness of the verses pressed too heavily upon my heart.
‘Ha,’ Sidney Grice called out triumphantly. ‘Although there are nine known cases of death by nitrous oxide poisoning in this green unpleasant land of ours, four were at the hands of incompetent dentists, another four were accidental overdoses at parties and one was during a demonstration on stage in Piccadilly. Silas Braithwaite could be the first case of murder or suicide by laughing gas ever to be documented. A bit of a feather in my cap, what?’
’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I closed my book. ‘I am so happy for you,’ I said.
‘Thank you, March.’ He clapped his knees.
‘And how many cases of elderly housekeepers hanging themselves have you come across?’ I asked, and my guardian blew some air between his lips.
‘Oh, they are two a penny.’ He popped out his eye. ‘It would have to be a very quiet week for that to make even the local press.’
There were slug holes in my lettuce.
‘So’ – he put his eye into its velvet pouch – ‘what are we to make of Mr Slab’s unpleasant demise?’
‘He was probably poisoned with strychnine and possibly drowned in formalin,’ I said.
‘I am pleased to note that you have qualified your conjectures.’ He whipped a folded black patch out of his jacket. ‘So how was he poisoned?’
‘The chocolates.’ I wiped something grey off the surface of a leaf with the corner of my napkin and added hastily, ‘Perhaps.’
‘Probably not.’ He deftly tied the patch behind his head. ‘I kept one of them for analysis and gave the rest to Molly. She sucked them up like a McGaffey Whirlwind, well over an hour ago and – to judge by the shrill attempts at civilized speech drifting up the dumbwaiter shaft – she is still alive and as well as she will ever be.’
I swallowed, though I had nothing in my mouth. ‘You used Molly as a guinea pig?’ And he waved a hand.
‘Molly has unwittingly tested five suspect substances without ill effect since she came here, though she did become horrifyingly skittish after sampling an extract of Cannabis indica leaves once.’
I knew better than to argue about the morality of his deed. ‘So how do you think he was poisoned? With the syringe?’
‘That is the most likely.’ He straightened his patch. ‘You may remember, if you were paying attention, that I questioned the late Miss Flower about the needle and she assured me that she had not bent it.’
‘It could have been bent by being dropped.’ I cut a black bit out of a potato.
‘We have not established that it was dropped.’ My guardian drummed his forehead with his fingertips. ‘But, even if it was, the needle was bent to the left, back on itself and into a sigmoid shape, which would suggest that there was a considerable struggle whilst it was being inserted and, since none of Mr Slab’s specimens were capable of active resistance, he would seem to be the most likely recipient of that needle.’
I cut open another piece of potato but that was even worse. ‘But if he was injected with strychnine he would have died within a minute or two anyway. So why put him in the tank?’
He refilled his tumbler from his carafe of water. ‘To make sure that we knew he was murdered. A fit man would have some difficulty scaling a six-foot high glass wall and the stepladder was at least ten feet away. It is inconceivable that a man in the agonizing muscular contractions that strychnine produces could have done so. Unless we are willing to entertain the idea that he climbed into the tank unaided – and do not forget that Mr Slab was eighty-one years old – then injected himself with the poison.’
‘It does not seem likely.’ I pushed the potatoes aside.
‘Why do you suppose that Mr Slab gave his servant such luxurious accommodation?’
The skin on my tomato was wrinkled and splitting.
‘I do not think there was anything untoward going on,’ I said and Sidney Grice puffed.
‘Neither do I. I suspect it was, as Miss Flower told us, because he was a kind man and kind men are often easy victims.’
‘He was not kind to animals.’
�
��The most gentle man with whom I am acquainted goes to Spain every summer to watch men in gaudy costumes goading bulls to death.’ He gestured sharply. ‘Dash it all, March. Why does nothing seem to fit together? What am I missing?’
‘A good cook,’ I said. ‘Other than that I do not know. Why were you so hard on Rosie Flower?’
‘To find out if she was telling the truth about only trying to clean up when she destroyed the evidence. Guilty people are resentful when confronted with their wrongdoing. They may become truculent and they almost always try to stare you out or fix upon the floor. Miss Flower was upset and confused but said nothing to incriminate herself.’
I turned the plate round but my dinner looked no more attractive from a different angle.
‘I have had a message from Dr Berry,’ Sidney Grice told me as I forced myself to eat a slice of shrivelled cucumber. ‘She will have the results first thing tomorrow.’ He speared a radish with a flourish of his fork. ‘So you will have to entertain yourself for the day.’
‘It will take all day?’ I queried as he chewed a stick of limp celery.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have promised to take her for lunch so that we can discuss the case at length, and then I intend to consult Mr White Senior of White, Adams and White, in an effort to find a clause that will allow Baroness Foskett to dismantle her society.’
‘But Baroness Foskett does not want it dissolved.’
‘Baron Foskett saved my life’ – my guardian stabbed his tomato so hard that it squirted over his napkin – ‘and I have a sacred duty to save his widow’s.’
‘What happened?’ I asked and he wiped his mouth.
‘My tomato burst.’
‘No, I meant—’
‘Besides,’ he spoke over me, ‘I am half-convinced that Baroness Foskett is a very frightened woman indeed.’
‘Why not visit her again?’
He took a drink of water. ‘I wrote to her this morning and had a reply by return. She has granted me an audience the day after tomorrow, but only on condition that you come too.’
I nibbled a stalk of watercress. ‘She probably wants to gossip about the latest fashions from Paris.’
Sidney Grice looked pensive. ‘I think that very unlikely.’
‘Silly me.’ I slapped the back of my hand.
‘Indeed,’ he said.
I did not trouble to tell him that he had smeared tomato juice over his cheek.
‘Speaking of visits, is it not about time we called upon the other lady member of the club?’
‘Ah yes.’ He looked towards the ceiling. ‘The reputedly merciless and disconcertingly young Miss Primrose McKay.’ My guardian rattled his fingernails on his carafe. ‘You may be interested to learn that I had news of Pound while you were upstairs.’
‘Well, of course I am.’
Was it my imagination or was he hesitating and avoiding my eye?
‘It appears’ – he smoothed a crease in the tablecloth – ‘that the inspector has departed.’ I dropped my knife. The room went out of focus and his voice became muffled, but I could just make out the words. ‘…from the London Hospital and been transferred to the University College Hospital.’ I steadied myself on the arms of my chair as he continued. ‘And, since it seems ordained by a higher but tedious power, that we talk of nothing but visits this evening, I believe that the Liston Ward is open to public invasion every evening and some mornings.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
‘You are welcome.’
‘I was talking to God,’ I told him as I retrieved my knife.
‘Let me know when he replies.’ He turned a chunk of cucumber over.
‘He already has,’ I said.
24
The Birthday Slaughter
The horse was hobbling, stumbling in every dip in the road and scarcely able to lift its feet over the bumps.
‘Is Miss McKay very wealthy?’ I asked as my guardian gave up his attempts to pour tea from his flask.
‘Eight years ago’ – he banged the cork home with the heel of his hand – ‘Primrose McKay was the sole heiress to a considerable fortune. Her late father’s coffers were bloated to the point of pathological obesity with every tube of swine flesh, gristle and sawdust that his factory produced.’
‘You are making my mouth water,’ I said and he tisked.
‘That was not my intention.’
Our horse tripped but just managed to recover its stride, almost throwing us over the flap.
Sidney Grice knocked on the roof. ‘Have a care, man.’
‘Your horse needs rest,’ I called and the hatch shot open.
‘Needs a good thrashin’, she do.’ He cracked his whip. ‘Lazy good-for-nuffink bag o’ bones.’
‘Perhaps you should try feeding her,’ I retorted, but the hatch slammed.
‘Do you believe that story about her killing a sow on her tenth birthday?’ I hung on to a strap as we rounded a corner.
‘When I was investigating the disappearance of Canasta – Lord Merrow’s prize hog – in ’76 I interviewed a slaughter man who mentioned that he held the sow still for little Miss McKay.’
‘What an odious creature she must be.’
He caught his satchel as it slid off the seat. ‘Hypocrites are always repelled by the lack of hypocrisy in others. You have no objection to pigs being killed on your behalf.’
‘Yes, but to enjoy doing it and at such a young age…’ I stopped, appalled by the thought.
My guardian put his flask away. ‘Not an endearing trait, I grant you, but it does not make her a murderess.’
‘It has to make her a more likely suspect.’
He snorted. ‘There are few things less likely than a likely suspect.’ And while I pondered over that we paused for a funeral cortège to pass by.
By the time we reached Fitzroy Square the horse was struggling so badly that the driver had to pull over to let us off. There was a cold wet stillness in the air.
‘You’ll be cat meat before this day is out if you don’t git goin’.’ The driver lashed his mare pointlessly as she crumpled to her knees.
‘There is a foul pit in hell for people like you.’ I shook with anger and he laughed mockingly.
‘Live there already, darlin’. Only it’s called Peckham.’
‘If I ever see you on Gower Street again I will have your licence.’ Sidney Grice flung him his fare.
‘Never ’ad one anyways,’ the driver shouted after us. ‘So don’t fink…’ but his voice was drowned out by the raucous cries of the newspaper vendor, ‘Brave British boys face Russian fret to India.’
My guardian shuddered. ‘I knew I should have killed the tzar when I had the chance.’
I looked askance at him but he did not seem to be joking. ‘Do you think there will be another war in Afghanistan?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘And when we have won it we should march on to Moscow.’
Miss Primrose McKay lived in a grand house just off the square, the third in a smart Georgian terrace, clad in white stone with a burgundy front door.
‘Make an observation,’ Sidney Grice said and I looked about me.
‘The pavement is uneven.’
‘Good. And what conclusion do you draw from that?’
I pulled my cloak tighter around me. ‘It needs repairing.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘What about the pattern of the unevenness?’
‘I cannot see any.’ My cloak was heavy with damp.
My guardian sighed. ‘Everything has a pattern even if it is random. In this case it is not. The slabs are tilted or even cracked close to the coal holes where sacks of fuel have been dropped carelessly over a period of many years. The pavement outside this dwelling is unscathed which shows…’
My mind raced. ‘Either they do not have coal delivered – which seems unlikely for a house of such grandeur – or the servants ensure that the coal merchant takes care.’
‘And how will we ascertain the more likely conclusion?�
��
‘By testing their efficiency.’ I twisted the bell and scarcely let go before I heard two bolts slide back.
‘Case proven,’ I said and my guardian put his cane on his shoulder.
‘If one ignores the multiple other interpretations which spring immediately to mind.’
We were confronted by a footman in green and gold livery – tall and heavily built with a pox-scarred face.
‘Thurston Gates.’ Sidney Grice raised his cane as if prepared to use it.
‘Mr Grice.’ The footman eyed us icily. ‘I was told to expect you.’
My guardian lowered his cane. ‘What a pity for you that you did not expect me when I exposed your protection racket.’
Thurston sneered lopsidedly. ‘It was an insurance scheme. Nothing was proved against me.’
‘Only because the shopkeepers were so terrified of your brothers.’ Sidney Grice dragged the sole of his boot over the scraper. ‘Still, we must not reminisce all day.’
The footman grunted and stood back to admit us.
25
Dead Dogs and Dancing Mandarins
We were taken to the music room, high-ceilinged with full-length windows and ivory silk curtains pulled back. Through the voile I made out a knot garden, the low box hedges laid out in a series of concentric circles within squares.
Chairs were set out on the parquet floor as if for a soirée, facing a raised platform scattered with empty music stands and dominated by an inlaid rosewood piano at which Miss Primrose McKay was seated side-on to us, stabbing out a one-fingered scale. There was something mannered about her posture, her left elbow on the lowered top lid and her forehead resting on her fingertips in a studied pose of pain. Her dusty pink floral dress was arranged in flowing folds as if by a portrait painter. Her yellow tresses hung freely down her back. She did not stand or even raise her head as Thurston announced us.
The Curse of the House of Foskett Page 12
