The Mangle Street Murders

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘Yes. For one hundred pounds with Jonah Insurance. I took out the policy just before Christmas.’

  The constable coughed to cover his amusement and Sidney Grice made another note, underlined it, and said, ‘Why so much? Indeed, why any at all?’

  William Ashby ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t know. I took advice.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Mr Jonah himself.’

  The constable sniggered.

  ‘Share the joke, man,’ Inspector Pound said.

  ‘He’s a bit of a card, old Jonah.’ The constable grinned. ‘Sell you the spit in your mouth, he could. Insurance is his latest trick, but be sure he will never pay a penny out to anyone. He closes his businesses the moment the claims start coming in and opens another the next day.’

  I watched William Ashby but his reaction to this news was one of complete indifference.

  ‘I hope you did not do it for the money then,’ Sidney Grice said and, for the first time, the prisoner flared. His face reddened and he clenched the edge of the table as if to upturn it.

  ‘I did not kill her,’ he said. ‘Not for money. Not for rage. Not for jealousy. Not for nothing. I loved…’ He put his face in his hands. ‘Dear God, how I loved her.’ William Ashby’s shoulders shook with sobs and Sidney Grice leaned forwards to separate his fingers and peer between them.

  ‘Real tears,’ Sidney Grice said, and leaned back to jot something down.

  ‘Have you no heart?’ I asked.

  ‘Not him,’ Inspector Pound said, as Sidney Grice surveyed his tea and pulled a wry face.

  ‘It has been contaminated by milk.’

  ‘Everybody has milk,’ the constable said.

  ‘Twenty-five per cent of the men and twenty per cent of the people in this room do not,’ my guardian said, and slid the mug across the table. ‘Would you like it?’

  William Ashby looked up. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Grice.’ He wiped his face with his sleeve and took a noisy slurp. ‘I am sorry. Please continue and I shall try to contain myself.’

  Sidney Grice’s manner remained brusque. He put his pencil down and said, ‘You have no children?’

  ‘No. None.’

  ‘Nor lost any?’

  ‘Not even in stillbirth.’

  My guardian pulled out his watch and flipped open the lid. ‘How was your business performing?’

  ‘Quite well. We keep busy most of the year.’

  ‘In profit?’ He clipped the lid shut.

  ‘A pound or two a week.’

  ‘Your wife died on Monday night.’

  ‘About eleven thirty, yes.’

  ‘Tell me about Sunday.’

  William Ashby had a gulp of the tea. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘In what way did it differ from every other Sunday?’

  William Ashby chewed his lower lip at the corner and smoothed back his hair, and said at last, ‘I cannot think of anything unusual, Mr Grice. We generally lie in a bit later on Sundays. The shop is closed, of course, unless anybody knocks.’

  ‘And did anybody?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You do not go to church?’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t make me a murderer.’

  ‘That much is true,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘We hanged the Rector of St Bartholomew’s two years ago, and you could not find a more regular churchgoer than he. Mr Grice was of great service in helping me to bring him to justice.’

  My guardian waved an impatient hand and asked, ‘Did you go to school?’

  William Ashby looked indignant. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A Miss Brickett ran a class on Divers Street in Whitechapel. I went until I was twelve.’

  ‘I thought you were brought up in Wigan.’

  ‘Until I was seven. My father brought us down to London in search of work. He was a carpenter.’

  ‘What about Monday?’ Sidney Grice asked. ‘Did anything untoward happen before, say, ten o’clock that night?’

  ‘Nothing that I can think of.’

  William Ashby finished his tea but still held the mug. His hand was trembling.

  ‘Was it a busy day?’

  ‘No, sir. It was a very quiet day. We had two customers in the morning and none at all after that.’

  ‘What did they buy?’

  ‘One bought a length of twine, the other a quarter pound of tacks.’

  ‘Were you in the shop all day?’

  ‘We were both in the house all day but we took it in turns to man the shop. I did the morning. Then we both did the afternoon. I tidied the shelves a bit and Sarah swept and washed the floor. Then I did the evening until about nine o’clock, then Sarah took over again.’

  ‘You keep long hours.’

  ‘We can’t afford to lose any custom. If we are closed people will go elsewhere and may never come back.’

  Sidney Grice was busy writing but I could not read his notes. He used some kind of shorthand, tiny complex symbols with occasional sweeps like musical clefs.

  ‘No strangers loitering about? Nothing suspicious?’

  ‘Nothing that struck me or that Sarah mentioned.’ The prisoner stared into his mug. ‘I wish to God we had seen something. I would not have left my wife in the shop alone if I had any concerns.’

  Sidney Grice tapped his teeth with his pencil and said, ‘Tell me exactly what happened from nine o’clock onwards.’

  ‘It was only just after nine by the church clock,’ William Ashby answered. ‘Sarah came in and said she had left me some bread and cheese in the kitchen. I took a glass of milk out to Tilly.’

  ‘Who is Tilly? The cat?’ Inspector Pound asked.

  ‘A match girl. I let her shelter in my doorway. She is half-starved, poor thing, and she has a cruel master – her own uncle, I believe.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I went out the back to the kitchen.’

  ‘And your wife was still in the shop?’

  ‘She was polishing the countertop.’

  ‘So you ate your bread and cheese?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any rabbit?’

  William Ashby looked bemused. ‘No. We had a rabbit for our Sunday dinner, though.’

  ‘In the kitchen?’

  ‘No. In the sitting room by the fire.’

  Sidney Grice made a note followed by a large question mark.

  ‘And what did you burn in the fire?’

  ‘Wood, I think. It is cheaper than coal and I had an old packing crate.’

  ‘Not paper?’

  ‘No, but Sarah burnt some paper on Monday afternoon. I was cross with her for I dislike the waste, but she said it was just old scraps from clearing up the shop so I let the matter drop.’

  ‘You did not fly into a violent rage?’

  William Ashby took a sharp breath and let it shudder out of him.

  ‘I thought you were here to help me, Mr Grice.’

  ‘Mrs Dillinger made the same mistake.’ Sidney Grice smiled fleetingly. ‘I am here to discover the truth. If you are innocent, I shall be all the help you need. If you are guilty, the hounds of hell shall not save you.’

  William Ashby’s gaze lingered in mine before he pulled away and looked my guardian in the eye.

  ‘If you can prove the truth, that is all I ask.’

  ‘Perhaps you accidentally stabbed her,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘Maybe your wife ran on to your knife or you slipped – nobody could blame you for that – or perhaps you just meant to cut her a few times to teach her a lesson. That would only count as manslaughter with a sympathetic jury.’

  ‘I did not kill her,’ William Ashby said quietly and slowly. ‘I should be arranging a Christian burial for my wife and comforting her mother, not being held here like a common felon.’

  Sidney Grice shrugged. ‘What did you do after your supper?’

  ‘I fell asleep.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About half an hour later. I don’t have a watch and the clock
only strikes the hour.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In my chair by the stove.’

  I heard a clinking and glanced over to see my guardian toying with two halfpennies, flipping them over in his left hand.

  ‘Was the stove lit?’ Sidney Grice asked.

  ‘No. Sarah did her baking on Sunday.’

  ‘Would the sitting room not have been more comfortable?’

  ‘Certainly, but I just fell asleep in the chair.’

  The constable sneezed into his hand.

  ‘Was the back door open or closed?’

  ‘Closed.’

  ‘Locked?’

  ‘No. We use it to get to the privy so we only lock it at night.’

  ‘What about the door into the sitting room?’

  ‘Closed as far as it goes. The frame sags in the middle.’

  ‘And that from the sitting room to the shop?’

  ‘Closed to cut the draughts.’

  Sidney Grice winced and rubbed his left shoulder.

  ‘And when did you awake?’

  ‘About eleven to a quarter past, I suppose. I didn’t check the time. How could I?’

  ‘So you slept for two hours in an upright wooden chair?’

  ‘How did you know what chair it was?’

  Sidney Grice raised a finger. ‘You are quick off the mark, Mr Ashby, but I have not come here for you to cross-examine me. I ask you again. Why sleep in the kitchen when you have a serviceable sitting room with an armchair and a bed?’

  ‘Have you been in my house?’

  ‘Answer the question, Ashby,’ Inspector Pound said, and the constable shifted wearily on his legs.

  William Ashby looked about himself.

  ‘Stay seated,’ the constable said.

  ‘I don’t know. I just fell asleep.’

  ‘Can I say something?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Grice’s presence is unorthodox enough.’ Inspector Pound looked at his watch. ‘If word got out we had a mere girl interrogating our prisoners we would be the laughing stock of London.’

  Sidney Grice handed me his pencil and I wrote on a clean page, The chair was rickety.

  ‘Tell him that,’ Sidney Grice said, and the inspector huffed.

  ‘The chair was rickety and not very comfortable,’ I said, and William Ashby nodded.

  ‘I was a drummer boy in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment when I was fourteen,’ he said. ‘On a forced march I could fall asleep without breaking step. Sometimes the whole platoon would do likewise. If I can sleep marching up a mountain in driving sleet, I can sleep as well in a chair as you in your feather bed, miss.’

  ‘So you are a heavy sleeper.’ Sidney Grice slipped the coins back into his pocket.

  ‘No, sir. Very light. I wake at the slightest sound usually. When you have been on watch you learn to sleep with your ears open.’

  ‘A drummer boy on watch?’

  ‘I took the Queen’s shilling when I was sixteen.’

  ‘Why the Lancashires? You lived in London by then.’

  ‘It is a family tradition – my father and grandfather and—’

  ‘I know what family tradition means,’ Sidney Grice interrupted. ‘How long were you in the army?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘And then?’

  William Ashby’s left cheek ticked for a few seconds.

  ‘I came to London to work in my Uncle Edwin’s shop and that’s where I met Sarah. We fell in love and got wed and then Uncle Edwin died.’

  ‘How convenient.’ Sidney Grice scratched his ear. ‘Was he stabbed to death as well?’

  William Ashby shuddered and shook his head. ‘He was sixty-nine with a bad heart and weak lungs, and he left everything to us – the shop immediately and the rest of his estate to be put into trust for another five years.’

  Sidney Grice circled my comment and said, ‘Why were you so tired? By your own account you had not had a heavy day’s work.’

  ‘I slept badly on Sunday night. Something disturbed the donkeys stabled next to the shop. The rats, I expect. We get a lot since the sewer burst. And I can assure you, Mr Grice, if you have four braying donkeys on the other side of a lath-and-plaster wall, you would have to be a very heavy sleeper indeed not to be disturbed.’

  ‘So what woke you up on Monday night?’

  ‘The shop bell ringing.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Just once.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I went to see if Sarah was all right.’

  ‘Why would she not be?’

  ‘I don’t like her dealing with customers late at night. There is a public house either end of our – my street. We get drunks and troublemakers. Not often, but a woman by herself is fair game to a man with a belly full of ale.’

  William Ashby turned the mug slowly. It had a chipped rim.

  ‘So you woke up and went into the sitting room immediately?’ Sidney Grice asked.

  ‘Pretty well.’

  ‘Did you do anything first?’

  ‘No. I just didn’t see any reason to hurry – would to God that I had.’

  ‘Did you have your boots on?’

  ‘Yes.’ The tic started again.

  ‘And laced?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same boots as you are wearing now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stand up and show me the soles.’

  William Ashby rose and turned away and lifted his feet up, one at a time like a horse at the smithy.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sit,’ the constable said.

  Somebody was shouting in the corridor – a woman – something about oysters, and a door slammed.

  ‘What about your clothes?’

  ‘His mother-in-law brought him a change,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘They were saturated in gore.’

  ‘And where are the soiled clothes now?’

  ‘She took them to launder,’ the inspector said, and Sidney Grice’s hand shot to his eye.

  ‘And you let her walk out with them?’

  ‘No need to get upset, Mr Grice,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘We searched the pockets but there was nothing in them except a stained handkerchief.’

  My guardian massaged his closed lids.

  ‘Stained from blood soaked through the pocket or from being used to wipe something?’

  Inspector Pound shrugged. ‘Stained.’

  ‘And what of the bloodstains? Were they in pools or droplets? Were the knees of his trousers soaked? Was the jacket damaged – buttons torn off or loosened, or lapels misshapen? Sleeves stretched? Stitching snagged? What of his shirt? Buttons missing, handprints, rips?’

  ‘It was just a ruined old suit,’ Inspector Pound said.

  ‘And quite possibly one of our most important witnesses,’ Sidney Grice said, and the constable chuckled.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Inspector Pound told him.

  ‘When God created fools he put the biggest of them into uniform and gave them helmets to prevent any thoughts entering their heads,’ Sidney Grice said, his face almost drained with anger, as Inspector Pound turned on him.

  ‘I will not have you address one of my officers in such a manner,’ he said.

  ‘When is washday?’ I asked.

  Inspector Pound stood up. ‘That does it,’ he said. ‘I will thank you both to step outside this room.’

  ‘I was only asking Mr Ashby when Mrs Dillinger does her laundry,’ I said. ‘Few women do it more than once a week.’

  Sidney Grice said, ‘I hardly—’

  ‘Now,’ the inspector said and flung open the door.

  15

  The Last Sigh

  Out in the corridor Inspector Pound waited for two constables and an old woman to go by.

  ‘I am surprised at you, Mr Grice. I can just about tolerate the presence of a girl at an official interrogation, but I cannot have you insulting the force and one of my officers in front of my prisoner.’

  The woman was handcuffed an
d struggling.

  ‘On a point of law,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘William Ashby is Her Majesty’s prisoner, not yours and—’

  ‘And nothing,’ the inspector broke in. ‘It is completely unacceptable. And as for you, Miss Middletone—’

  ‘Middleton,’ I said.

  ‘Middle-whatever. I told you not to interview the suspect.’

  ‘No, you did not,’ I said. ‘You told me you could not have a mere girl interrogating him and, whilst I may be a girl, I assure you, Inspector, there is nothing mere about me.’

  The inspector looked at me for a while and laughed.

  ‘Looks like I have met my match here,’ he said, and Sidney Grice smiled.

  ‘If I have caused offence, please accept my apologies.’

  The woman started to growl.

  ‘We will let it pass.’ Inspector Pound straightened his tie, and one of the constables screamed. The woman had dropped to the floor and was biting his ankle. The other constable hit her three times with his truncheon and she flopped to the floor. Inspector Pound shook his head wearily. ‘What do you make of Ashby then?’

  ‘Guilty as Cain.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  The injured constable kicked the woman’s stomach and leaped back as she snapped at him again.

  ‘Given time,’ Sidney Grice said, and we went back into the room.

  William Ashby was blowing his nose and the constable came to attention.

  ‘So when is washday?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘She was going to do the clothes straight away,’ William Ashby said. ‘They had her daughter’s blood on them.’

  We sat at the table again.

  ‘So what happened after you heard the bell?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘I went into the sitting room.’

  ‘The door opens outwards from the kitchen, does it not?’ Sidney Grice asked, and William Ashby nodded. ‘I went into the sitting room, expecting just to pass through, but then I saw her.’

  ‘What part of her?’ Sidney Grice said.

  ‘Her feet and the bottom of her dress.’

  ‘You are sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Sidney Grice flicked back a page of his notebook and circled a line of shorthand.

  ‘Her dress had not risen up her legs?’

  William Ashby stopped turning the mug.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Her dress was not disarrayed.’