He put the mug down very carefully.
‘How was the room lit?’
‘By the gas lamp turned low, and I suppose there would have been light coming from the door to the kitchen. Oh, and the door to the shop was open.’
‘You are sure?’
‘As certain as I am here.’
‘And where was she lying?’
‘On the floor.’ William Ashby paused and coughed. ‘Between the table and the wall.’
‘What colour were her boots?’ Sidney Grice asked, and William Ashby ran his fingers through his hair.
‘I don’t remember. Black, I expect. The light isn’t very good and I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘But you saw her boots?’
William Ashby looked at me and I returned his gaze.
‘Yes.’ He looked away. ‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’ Sidney Grice said. ‘You have just told us you saw her feet. Did you see her boots?’
‘I must have but I did not notice the colour. Why would I?’
‘How many pairs of boots did your wife have?’
‘Two. One black and one brown. Why is this so important?’
Sidney Grice was very still. He was fixed on the suspect as I have seen a python with a monkey. Very quietly, he said, ‘Did anybody take your wife’s boots off after she was found?’
William Ashby blinked. ‘What? No. Why would they?’
‘Because she had none on when she was taken away.’
William Ashby looked baffled. ‘Maybe they were stolen,’ he said. ‘Good boots cost money.’
Sidney Grice touched his eye. ‘Both pairs are still under the bed.’
William Ashby swallowed and pushed his fringe back. ‘Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she had none on. It was dark and—’
Sidney Grice broke in. ‘So how can you be so certain that her dress was not disarrayed?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your wife would not man the shop barefooted.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Then why was she barefooted?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t think straight.’
Sidney Grice was scribbling furiously.
‘Let us leave the matter of the boots for a moment,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘What happened next?’
‘I went over to her.’ William Ashby’s voice died in his throat and he closed his eyes. ‘I thought she must have fainted.’
‘Was she prone to fainting?’ I asked, and the inspector shot me a glance but said nothing.
‘No.’ He opened his eyes and whispered, ‘But then she was not prone to being murdered.’ He stared at us and at nothing. He sucked the air and blew it out, looked up and then down and said, ‘I saw her and it was horrible. My beautiful Sarah lay there on the floor and I hardly knew her. She had become a thing, a disgusting waxwork. It oozed and stank of blood. The eyes like a dead animal and the mouth was open, stupid and revolting. She had been taken from me and some… thing flung on to the floor in her place. I ran into the shop, hoping to see her there, to scoop her in my arms and carry her to safety… But the shop was empty. No Sarah. Nothing. I must have dreamed it or somehow got it all wrong. But when I ran back into the sitting room, sweet Jesus, she was still there, and I kneeled at her side and picked her up and I thought I heard a sigh and I thought She is still alive. She has just had some accident and fallen over. I will call Tilly to fetch a doctor. And then I saw the opening in her throat and her open mouth full of blackness, and I knew.’
I reached out and put my hand on his, white with clutching the mug, and he looked at me, his eyes burning with pain, and he swallowed and licked his lips and said, ‘God bless you, miss.’ I knew then, as certainly as I have ever known anything, that William Ashby was innocent of the murder of his wife.
‘Do you want to have time to compose yourself?’ Inspector Pound asked gently, but William Ashby shook his head and said, ‘It will not get any easier.’
‘Go on.’ Sidney Grice lifted my hand away and dropped it on the table.
‘I laid her back.’
‘Did you move her body away from where you had found it?’
‘No. I just held her and laid her back.’
‘She was still warm?’
A spasm of disgust welled up in William Ashby’s throat.
‘Yes.’
‘And not stiff?’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Inspector Pound said.
‘I’ve seen men die,’ William Ashby said. ‘She was just gone when I first went into the room. It was only that I could not let myself believe it.’
‘You said she sighed,’ Inspector Pound reminded him.
‘I thought she did.’ William Ashby plunged his hands into his hair. ‘It may be I was wrong.’
‘I have seen men die too,’ I said, ‘when I used to assist my father in surgery. They would sometimes groan as we lifted them from the table. He told me it is the air being forced from their lungs.’
‘What did you do then?’ Sidney Grice asked.
‘I stood up and I cried out Help! Murder! Murder! And I went into the shop and cried it out again, and I ran into the street and I saw Tilly running round the corner and a drunk staggering after her.’
Sidney Grice leaned suddenly towards him.
‘What did the drunk look like?’ The words snapped out.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Man.’
‘Well or badly dressed?’
‘Badly. Very badly, I think. What does it matter?’
‘Perhaps it was the murderer pretending to be drunk,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘No. It was dark. The nearest gas lamp is on Hopper Street. We live in its shadows… We lived… ’ His voice wandered away and he looked lost.
The constable straightened his back.
‘What happened next?’
‘I cried out again and people came. Then a peeler, who sent a boy running to get help. Mr Brown who owns the donkeys and sleeps above them came. We have had many arguments about the noise they make, but he put a blanket over my shoulders and gave me a gin.’
William Ashby put the mug down heavily and covered his face and blew between his hands, while Sidney Grice sat back and looked at him. He might have been regarding a creature in a menagerie rather than a man so recently and so cruelly made a widower. He leafed through his notes and added a few more.
‘Rivincita,’ he said, as though to himself. William Ashby’s face was blank. Sidney Grice looked at him. ‘What does Rivincita mean, Mr Ashby?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sidney Grice scratched his forehead and fell silent. He was not looking at the prisoner or anyone else. He seemed to be inspecting his fingernails.
‘Is that it?’ Inspector Pound asked.
‘Very nearly,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘but I should like the prisoner to look at this.’
Sidney Grice delved down and brought out the white cloth bag, tipping its content on to the table.
‘Do you recognize this?’ he asked, and William Ashby reached out and his hand trembled.
‘Leave it,’ the constable said, and the hand hovered before it fell away.
‘It is very like one of the knives I had in my shop.’
‘One?’ Sidney Grice queried.
‘I had two,’ William Ashby said. ‘They were made for me about three months ago by Philby’s Cutlers on Midden Street. I drew the design myself from my memory of an Arab dagger I saw once in barracks. I thought they might sell well as a novelty, but I only sold one of them and that was a week ago.’
‘To whom?’
‘I don’t know his name, but I would know him again anywhere,’ William Ashby replied. ‘He was a foreigner, Italian, I should say from the way he stuck A’s to the end of his words.’
‘Describe him,’ Sidney Grice said.
‘A strange man.’ William Ashby blinked rapidly. ‘About normal height but that was
all that was normal about him. He had an enormous head and a huge shock of curly red hair and long drooping moustaches.’
‘Red also?’
‘Yes, and a big hooked nose, and a long flapping cloak and a canary waistcoat, and he carried a stick with an ivory top in the shape of a monkey.’
Sidney Grice perked up.
‘Canary?’
‘Yes. Yellow.’
My guardian tugged his earlobe and asked, ‘Do you or did your wife own any yellow clothes?’
‘No. None.’
I opened my mouth, but Sidney Grice put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Continue.’
‘He came into the shop, striding about like he was on a stage. He took a quick look about him and pointed at the knife. Showa me that. He had a quick look at it and said Thata will serve me nicely. And he paid and walked straight out of the shop with it clasped in his hand. He didn’t even want it wrapped. Sarah was there too. We laughed about him.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Did you tell anybody else about him?’
‘Mrs Dillinger,’ William Ashby said, ‘and a few customers, just for the joke.’
‘So this is the knife you did not sell?’
‘It looks like it,’ William Ashby said, ‘and, if you took it from my cabinet, it must be.’
‘Have you ever used it?’
‘No.’
‘Or cut yourself with it?’
‘No.’
‘Have any customers touched it?’
‘No.’
‘You are certain of that?’ Sidney Grice was rattling out the questions so fast that William Ashby hardly had time to answer.
‘Yes.’
‘Did your wife ever touch it – to polish it, for example?’
‘No. I looked after the knife cabinet. She did not like it.’
Inspector Pound turned the knife over.
‘Looks clean.’
‘Do not touch the blade,’ Sidney Grice said, and turned back to William Ashby. ‘So you are willing to swear that this blade has never had any blood on it whilst it has been in your possession?’
William Ashby looked him straight in the eye. ‘On my life, Mr Grice.’ And Sidney Grice smiled coldly. ‘Your life may well depend upon it, Mr Ashby.’ He picked up the knife again and said to the constable, ‘I shall need a clean bowl of clean water.’
The constable looked uncertain.
‘Well, see to it, man.’ Inspector Pound clicked his fingers and the constable hurried out. ‘What is your game, Mr Grice?’
‘You know my interest in science, Inspector,’ my guardian said. ‘Well, there is a certain professor of pharmacology at the University College by the name of Cornelius Latingate, and he has devised a chemical analysis which is specific to the presence of haemoglobin.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grice,’ William Ashby said, ‘but you have lost me.’
‘It is a test for blood.’ Sidney Grice took his watch out but did not open it, making it spin on its chain and swing side to side. ‘It can detect the presence of blood on an apparently clean surface or material for up to five days after it has been put there. Imagine finding a bloodstained garment, for example. The owner of that garment insists it is paint. This test can verify or refute his story. The older tests only detected iron, and would show positive reactions to blood and rust. This test detects a protein present only in blood and is so sensitive that it will demonstrate a drop so small as to be invisible to the naked eye.’
‘But if I had killed my wife with that knife why would I put it back on display?’ William Ashby asked.
‘Who said it was on display?’ Sidney Grice jumped in.
‘It was in my cabinet.’
‘Was it?’
‘I know it was, that very day, because I took out all the knives and polished them,’ William Ashby said.
‘But was it in the cabinet after the murder?’
‘I suppose it was. I did not check.’
‘Your wife was killed with a knife with a blade shaped like this, Mr Ashby.’
William Ashby sat up and said, ‘Then it must have been him.’
‘Why would an Italian stranger murder your wife?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Why would he behave in such an ostentatious manner? It could only be to make sure that you remembered him.’ Sidney Grice stopped his watch spinning and peered at the back of it.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Rivincita means revenge. It was written on the wall in your wife’s blood.’
‘No.’ William Ashby swept the mug on to the floor. ‘You are just saying these things to torment me.’ He stood up.
‘It is true,’ I said, and the prisoner put his hand to his mouth.
‘Sit down, Ashby.’ Inspector Pound stepped towards him and William Ashby sank back on to his chair, breathing fast.
‘Why would an Italian want revenge upon your wife?’ Sidney Grice slipped the watch back into his waistcoat.
‘I don’t know, Mr Grice.’
‘Did she or you have any Italian friends or enemies?’
‘No.’
‘Any Italian ancestry or connections of any kind?’
‘Not that I know of.’ William Ashby put his hands down, trying to calm himself. ‘I don’t know who he was or why he did what he did, but I do know one thing, Mr Grice. There is a madman on the loose and he must be found immediately before he murders some other poor woman and, when he does, will you accuse her poor husband too?’
The door opened.
‘If your knife fails the test, then I shall follow your unlikely lead,’ Sidney Grice said as the constable returned, carrying a white-enamelled basin and placing it very carefully on the table.
‘You took your time,’ Sidney Grice told him.
‘Sorry, sir, but there wasn’t a bowl in the station.’
Sidney Grice touched it and flinched. ‘The water is near frozen.’
He produced a blue bottle with a handwritten label on it from his bag and tipped a few white crystals into the basin.
‘Observe,’ he said, ‘how clear the solution is.’
We all stood to watch.
‘Now,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘observe what happens if I take this knife and swirl it around the solution to wash any possible residue off it. See that? It has turned red. There is no doubt about it. This knife has been in contact with blood within the last few days.’
‘But that is not possible.’ William Ashby looked bewildered.
‘There is no doubt about it,’ Sidney Grice said, and William Ashby sat down suddenly and ran his fingers over his brow.
‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘I nicked myself when I wiped it.’
‘Show me the cut.’
‘It was very small.’
‘It was deep enough to bleed so it cannot have healed yet.’
William Ashby looked at us both and inhaled deeply, and said, ‘I do not know how, Mr Grice, but you have put a noose round my neck.’
‘How did that knife get blood on it?’ Sidney Grice asked, but William Ashby lowered his head and did not reply.
‘I am damned,’ he said at last.
‘So you are,’ Sidney Grice said and snapped his notebook shut.
16
The Red Book
‘I will see you out, Mr Grice,’ Inspector Pound said, and we pushed back our chairs. ‘Take him back to the cell, Constable.’
William Ashby did not look at us as we left, though I looked back at him, climbing to his feet, a crumpled man.
‘Come into my office.’ Inspector Pound led us into an even smaller room, the desk piled high with manuscripts and red-bound volumes. ‘I cannot offer you a seat.’ The one chair was overflowing with more papers. ‘I could take a year to sort through the paperwork that my superiors expect me to do and let a thousand murderers, housebreakers and pickpockets run free.’ He leaned back on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, that was a pretty experiment, Mr Grice. Are y
ou sure it is foolproof? Something like that will swing a case, but we will not look very clever if the defence can show that your crystals change colour with strawberry jam.’
He toed a ball of paper under the desk.
‘Professor Latingate will back us all the way.’ Sidney Grice leaned his shoulder against the wall. ‘He is a good performer in the witness box. Juries are impressed by academic titles and he can show them enough chemical charts to convince them he knows what he is talking about. I have seen him demonstrate his test to an audience of fellow scientists who were invited to bring whatever substances they thought might change the colour of the crystals, and not one of them succeeded.’
‘Funny.’ Inspector Pound frowned. ‘I would have bet my liver on him being innocent.’
Sidney Grice snorted and said, ‘Ashby knew he had been caught out. He said as much.’
‘I do not think he did,’ I said. ‘I think he was dumbfounded. He did not know how to counter your science.’
‘Mr Grice has never been wrong yet,’ Inspector Pound told me. ‘Why, we had Gertrude Rayment, the Lambeth Poisoner, walking free before he was able to prove that she had reset her grandmother clock to concoct an alibi.’
‘It is not only the test that shows his guilt,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘It is the whole gamut of inconsistencies in his version of events that condemn him.’
‘How so?’ I tried not to show my loathing of his smugness.
Sidney Grice gave his little smile. ‘If we are to believe Ashby’s account of events, a preposterous Italian man came into his shop and flamboyantly purchased the very weapon with which he intended to murder the lady of the house a couple of weeks later.’
‘But why would he make that story up?’ I asked.
‘To send us on a wild goose chase for somebody we could never find because he never existed.’ Sidney Grice measured his words for my poor brain. ‘He was doubtless hoping to make us think the Slurry Street murderer was on the prowl again.’
‘If that rumour was circulated there would be mass panic.’ The inspector picked up a red book and stuffed it on to a shelf. ‘Which is another good reason to discount it.’
Another book fell dully off the end of the shelf and he booted it under his desk.
‘What about the writing in blood?’ I asked. ‘Rivincita.’
The Mangle Street Murders Page 8
