‘They?’
‘Sarah worked in the shop also.’
‘Are you employed?’
‘I give private tuition in the pianoforte and French Conversation, and I sometimes take in children whilst their parents are unable to look after them.’
‘For money?’
‘Yes. I need it all the more since my dear husband died.’
‘And how did he die?’
Mrs Dillinger shivered. ‘He was killed by a footpad on Westminster Bridge for his father’s watch which did not even work. Is this relevant?’
Sidney Grice compressed his lips. ‘I do not know yet. Was your daughter’s life insured?’
The front door slammed and footsteps raced along the hall.
‘For a very small amount, I think, but I do not know the details.’ Mrs Dillinger’s face tightened. ‘And I do not see what that has got to do with anything.’
‘The court may find it has something to do with everything. How old was…’ Sidney Grice consulted his notes ‘… Sarah?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Why, she was younger than I,’ I said, and Sidney Grice said, ‘Please do not interject again, Miss Middleton. How old is your son-in-law, Mrs Dillinger?’
‘Thirty-four.’
The mantle clock struck the quarter.
‘Quite a difference.’ Sidney Grice leaned back. ‘Perhaps your daughter was tired of being with an older man.’
‘Fifteen years is nothing,’ Mrs Dillinger said. ‘And I have told you… they were devoted.’
‘Perhaps he caught her with another man and killed her in a rage.’
Mrs Dillinger straightened her back. ‘She was a loyal and decent girl and would never have betrayed him, and my son-in-law is a gentle and kind man. He could never have been so cruel.’
‘Where is he now?’ Sidney Grice extruded a little more lead from his pencil.
‘He is being held in Marylebone Police Station.’
‘And what is the address of this incident?’
‘13 Mangle Street, Whitechapel.’
‘Mangle Street,’ my guardian mused. ‘Now there is a place with history. I know of six other murders along that road, the first being in seventeen forty as I recall, and the most recent being that of a certain Matilda Tassel and her two daughters, who were killed with an axe.’
‘How tragic,’ I said.
‘Thank you for your shrewd forensic critique, Miss Middleton.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Perhaps William killed them too.’
‘Or perhaps their murderer killed Sarah.’
‘I believe her husband died of consumption whilst awaiting trial,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘but I shall check with my records later. One last thing.’ He was still writing. ‘My services are very expensive and your means are obviously limited. Quite how do you propose to reimburse me?’
Mrs Dillinger took a small black-edged handkerchief from a pocket in her coat. ‘But surely your first concern is to see justice done?’ And Sidney Grice smiled unpleasantly.
‘It might be a novel diversion,’ he said, ‘but if word got about that I was prepared to lower my extravagant fees for the deserving poor, I should have every jackanapes in London sitting on my doorstep.’
‘But I have no money.’
My guardian raised his left eyebrow.
‘Then how do you propose to pay for this consultation?’
Mrs Dillinger looked at me and back at him blankly.
‘I thought…’
‘I do not want your thoughts,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘I want your money.’
Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Have you no human feelings?’ I said.
‘I am neither silly nor sentimental if that is what you mean.’
Mrs Dillinger rubbed her forehead. ‘I will pay whatever you ask.’
‘This,’ Sidney Grice held his pencil vertically, ‘is a Mordan Mechanical of the very latest spring-loaded design, silver-plated and engraved with my initials. It was a gift from one of my many grateful clients and must have cost her twenty-four guineas. I doubt you have that much to your name.’
Mrs Dillinger folded her handkerchief and blotted her tears with a corner. ‘William will pay you. He has a regular income.’
‘Which has been put into abeyance by his arrest and will cease the moment the trapdoor opens,’ Sidney Grice said, and Mrs Dillinger sat back heavily.
‘You are a monster.’
‘We both earn our keep protecting the innocent.’ Sidney Grice twisted the lead back into his pencil. ‘But in my case the stakes and therefore the remuneration are higher.’
‘But I have nothing to give you.’
Sidney Grice shrugged.
‘Then I have nothing to give you either, and your son-in-law will almost certainly hang.’ He snapped his notebook shut. ‘I bid you good day, Mrs Dillinger. Expect my bill of charges by the next post.’
Molly came, carrying a black-lacquered tea tray.
‘Shall I bring another cup, sir?’
‘That will not be necessary. Our visitor is about to leave.’
Mrs Dillinger stood up again as if in a dream, casting about for something she did not have. I rose to steady her.
‘Show Mrs Dillinger to the door, Molly.’
For some reason Molly turned to me. I looked away.
‘This way please, madam.’
A tress of Molly’s hair was escaping from under the side of her cap. It dangled over her ear.
‘No,’ I said, and Sidney Grice glanced up sharply.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Mrs Dillinger may not have the money,’ I said, ‘but I have a small portfolio of shares in my inheritance. I do not know if you follow the stock exchange.’
‘I never gamble.’
‘I have one thousand shares in the Blue Lake Mining Company of British Columbia, which are currently valued at two shillings and sixpence each, which makes them worth one hundred and twenty-five pounds in total. I am unaware of your usual scale of fees but you can have them all if you agree to take on this case.’
Sidney Grice’s face was expressionless.
‘I will think about it.’ He spoke so casually that I knew this must be much more than he would demand normally.
I took a small breath. ‘There is, however, one condition.’
‘And that is?’
‘That I accompany you.’
Even as I spoke I knew that he would tell me it was out of the question.
‘I should like to see how my father’s money is spent,’ I said, ‘and I may be of some use.’
Sidney Grice smirked.
‘I cannot imagine how,’ he said, ‘but it might be amusing. Very well, Miss Middleton. Consider my services engaged.’
6
The Green Flag
Sidney Grice smiled thinly as Mrs Dillinger left his library.
‘You will soon see your small inheritance evaporate if you take pity on every stray that comes scratching at my door.’
I struggled to keep my voice calm. ‘Have you no heart? The woman’s husband and her daughter have been taken from her brutally and her son-in-law faces the prospect of the gallows, and she is left with nothing but the expectation of a child which she will probably not be able to support.’
‘If she wants charity she should go to the workhouse.’ He tossed his notebook on to the table. ‘Or the allegedly Christian church she attends. Besides, how do you know that he is not guilty?’
I sat down to face my guardian, and thought about the question but could not answer it.
‘There are several precedents for this crime,’ he told me, ‘the most recent being that of Jonathon Carvil, the Sidmouth Stabber, as he was so colourfully styled by the popular press. The details are, at first glance, remarkably similar. He too claimed to slumber in the next room whilst his wife was butchered – quite literally in this case – her body was expertly jointed and trussed as if for the spit and her hands were never found. It transpired that he had i
ntercepted a message from his wife to her lover that very day. I hope you are not easily shocked, Miss Middleton.’
‘I do not think so,’ I said, ‘and please call me March.’
‘Very well, March,’ he said. ‘I am generally known as a casual fellow but, given your position as my ward, I do not think it proper for you to address me by my Christian name.’
‘I should not dream of it.’ I poured us both a cup from the willow-pattern tea set.
‘Stop,’ my guardian cried out as I lifted the milk jug.
‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘I will not drink the mammary excretions of cattle,’ he said. ‘Even the smell is nauseating.’
‘You make it sound disgusting.’
‘I make it sound what it is. Especially when one remembers that the cow only has milk to spare because her calf has been dragged from her to have its throat cut. If I were not such an excellent host I would not have milk in the house. Even the word curdles on my tongue.’
I put the jug down and asked, ‘What happened to Jonathon Carvil?’
‘He too claimed to have been disturbed by a door closing. The jury did not believe him.’
‘Were you involved in that case?’
I noticed there were no pictures on the walls or photographs on the desk.
‘Carvil consulted me.’ He sniffed his tea suspiciously. ‘And I counselled him to flee the country, but he ignored my advice and took the drop in consequence. I never like to lose a client but it taught me one very important lesson – always to insist on being paid in advance.’ He screwed his face up and tugged sharply upon the bell pull. It had an ivory skull on its end, which joggled about when he let go. ‘This tea is cold and stewed.’
‘And you think the Ashby case will take the same course?’
‘Almost certainly.’ Sidney Grice tossed me the letter. ‘Take a look at that.’
On the envelope in big clumsy capitals was written in pencil:
MR GRISE DITECTIVE
The sheet of paper was similarly inscribed, the words sloping down to the right of the page:
DEAR MR GRISE
PLEASE HELP ME I AM AN INNASENT MAN
YOURS TRUELY
WILLIAM ASHBY.
Molly came in, and he said, ‘Fill my bottle, Molly, and when the doorbell is rung, I shall answer it myself.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Molly left, and Sidney Grice asked, ‘What do you make of it then?’
‘It is an uneducated hand.’
‘Obviously. But why was it written?’
‘To ask for your help,’ I answered, and Sidney Grice snorted.
‘I hardly think so,’ he said. ‘Why send that half-illiterate scrawl with such an articulate and attractive woman to plead your case?’
I said, ‘You seem to have formed a very good opinion of her,’ and Sidney Grice tugged his ear.
‘One of the most intelligent women I have ever come across,’ he replied.
I finished my tea and asked, ‘But what other reason could he have for writing it?’
Sidney Grice put his fingers to his eye.
‘I do not know the answer to that yet.’ He pushed the eye towards his nose. ‘But I cannot help feeling that the key to the whole problem might lie in this letter.’ He stood up. ‘But we have wasted enough time already. I must run up the flag.’
We went into the hallway, where there was a small brass wheel with a handle on the wall, and he proceeded to turn it contra-clockwise about half a dozen revolutions.
‘It raises a green flag outside,’ he explained. ‘The local cabbies know that I tip well enough for them to look out for it.’
Molly hurried up with a brown bottle which he took from her without a word, slid it into a scratched leather satchel on the table and lifted an Ulster coat from a rack on the opposite wall.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked and Sidney Grice paused, arm in sleeve.
‘We?’
‘Have you forgotten my condition?’
‘I never forget anything,’ he said, slipping his coat on, ‘least of all conditions, and I shall take you to any meetings that may be conducted during this investigation. But I am going now to the mortuary, hardly a place fit for the entertainment of a young lady.’
‘I have not asked to be entertained,’ I told him, ‘and, if you will not take me, I must tell you that our agreement is terminated.’
He chose a silver-topped ebony cane from an old oak stand. ‘You would disappoint Mrs Dillinger so cruelly because you cannot have your own way?’ He put on a wide-brimmed soft felt hat.
‘It is not I who breaks our contract.’
The doorbell rang and he said, ‘It is no place for feminine sensitivities.’
He turned the handle clockwise and put the satchel over his shoulder.
‘I may be feminine,’ I said, ‘but nobody has ever accused me of being sensitive. You leave me with no choice but to withdraw my offer.’
Sidney Grice scowled and opened the door to a cabby.
‘I shall be out directly.’ He turned back to me. ‘I will not be dictated to, especially by a girl.’ He snatched up a pair of leather gloves. ‘Besides, it is very cold in the mortuary. You will need your cloak.’
7
The Hansom Cab
In the hansom cab Sidney Grice explained.
‘Evidence deteriorates,’ he said, ‘but at very different rates. For instance, the hand of man can be seen on the pyramids of Egypt some thousands of years after they were built, but if a butterfly were to land on that ledge, the evidence of its presence would disappear the moment a breeze took it away.’
‘Unless one managed to make a photograph of it,’ I said, and my guardian tutted.
The hansom lurched round a pile of wood and Sidney Grice said, ‘There are three main portions of evidence in this case. The first is the victim, or rather her body, and she must be our primary concern, for bodies and the clues which they might give us deteriorate rapidly. The second is the scene of the crime. The longer evidence is left, the more likely it is to be deliberately or accidentally destroyed or removed. The third is the suspect himself. We can leave him to the last because we know that he is not going anywhere. It may give him time to fine-tune his story but, in my experience, the longer a criminal is in police custody, the more he is likely to lose his nerve and become confused or even confess. Once we have identified and examined those three items – victim, scene and murderer – it is only a question of linking them, and then we can all go home for a nice cup of tea and look forward to a good hanging.’
Sidney Grice took the bottle from his satchel, uncorked it and took a swig.
‘The Grice Heat Retentive Bottle,’ he told me. ‘It was made to my instructions in a glass-blowing factory on the island of Murano.’
We bounced over a pothole and my head hit the window.
‘What does it do?’
‘Why, it keeps my tea hot enough to drink with pleasure for up to three hours.’ He took a swig. ‘It consists of a smaller bottle inside this outer bottle, the space between them being filled with lambs’ wool which, as you are aware, is a great retainer of heat. This is why we make our clothes and blankets from it.’ He took another draught and reinserted the cork, tapping it firmly into place with the ball of his thumb. ‘One day I shall go into the manufacture of my invention and retire to my estate in Dorset, where I shall write my memoirs, drill for oil and keep bees.’
The horse stumbled and the hansom rocked.
‘I have an improvement to suggest.’ I caught hold of the steady strap. ‘You could design a cup to put over the end and perhaps clamp on to the bottle.’
‘And what benefit would that bring?’
‘Why, then you could offer your companion some refreshment as well,’ I said.
Sidney Grice considered the matter before shaking his head. ‘It would only add to the already considerable difficulty and cost of manufacture. Besides which I never travel with anyone to whom I should wish to offer my tea. T
here would be less for me and what would be the point of that?’
‘Kindness,’ I said, and my guardian rolled his eye.
‘The poor, I am told, are kind to each other but that is because they have nothing to lose,’ he said. ‘The rich cannot afford to be. What did you make of Mrs Dillinger?’
He put the bottle away.
‘She seemed a very nice lady,’ I said.
‘But what did you notice about her?’
I let go of the strap.
‘She has been comfortably off and fallen on hard times, but never desperate ones.’
‘And how did you come to those conclusions?’
A man on a dappled horse overtook us and blew me a kiss.
‘Her dress was of good quality but she could not afford to buy new mourning clothes so she had it dyed,’ I said, ‘and she had done some minor repairs to it. Also she wore a ruby ring, which must have been expensive, but she has not been forced to sell it yet. What did you observe?’
‘All those things,’ he said, ‘and the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen. I should not be surprised if there were aristocratic blood in her veins as well.’
‘As well as what?’
‘As well as mine,’ he said. ‘Charles Le Grice was at the Conqueror’s side at Hastings and would have been lord of all Northumbria if he had not fallen out with William about who shot the arrow which killed a stag in Colchester.’
‘I cannot imagine a Grice falling out with anyone,’ I said, and my guardian looked at me.
A street urchin ran alongside and jumped on to the running board.
‘Spare a copper, guv.’ But my guardian rapped the boy’s knuckles with his cane and he fell away.
‘How did you set out to become a private detective?’ I asked as we swung round a fruit stall.
‘Personal detective,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘Bedrooms are private. I am personal.’
‘When was your first case?’
‘Whilst I was still at school,’ he told me. ‘I was able to prove that the boy who had been awarded the Latin prize had cheated with the aid of his housemaster, with whom he had struck up what I can only describe as an inappropriate relationship.’
The Mangle Street Murders Page 3
