‘What did they argue about?’ I asked.
‘Money,’ Childe Finnegan said, so simply that I waited for more but no more came.
‘Come, Miss Middleton,’ my guardian said. ‘We have suffered enough for one day.’
‘Have you ever had any strange Italians in the shop?’ I asked, and Childe Finnegan rattled his fingernails on the countertop while he considered the question.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘And I do not think there would be any call for one.’
My guardian opened the door but as I turned to close it I asked, ‘Do you know what has happened to Tilly, the match girl that used to sit outside their shop?’
Childe Finnegan’s face lit up. ‘Died,’ he said with a dreamy smile. ‘Died of being too lazy to wrap up warm. Stiff as a fish when they found her still sitting on her box in the morning.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How awful.’
‘Dreadful,’ my guardian agreed. ‘Yet another expense for the parish council.’
I slammed the door.
‘Careful,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘You nearly caught my fingers.’
I looked at the Ashbys’ shop. It still had William Ashby’s name over the door.
‘Pity he could tell us nothing,’ my guardian said.
‘But surely—’
‘Did you observe that he did not have a device for removing the seeds from strawberries?’ he asked. ‘That has given me the idea for an invention.’
45
Dogs
For once my guardian did not complain about our tea, though I thought it very weak. He did not even mention the tablecloth, which had obviously not been changed for a while, and he forgot to be rude to the waitress. He seemed preoccupied with flattening the sugar with the back of a teaspoon.
‘Grace Dillinger.’ He spoke her name carefully as though it held a secret meaning which he had yet to discover. ‘She is our only living link between the Ashbys and Alice Hawkins.’
‘Perhaps it is just a coincidence that Alice worked in the shop opposite theirs,’ I suggested.
He dug a little hole in the sugar and asked, ‘Do you believe in coincidences?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘So do I.’ He filled the hole and smoothed it over. ‘But I do not think that this is one.’
‘Neither do I,’ I said and finished my tea. ‘Do you think Grace Dillinger might know something about Alice Hawkins?’
My guardian held his pince-nez up to the light.
‘That is what I need to find out.’
He produced a small white cloth from his inner breast pocket.
‘I cannot imagine she would want to speak to you.’
‘Neither can I.’ He huffed on the lenses and polished them. ‘Will you take another cup?’
‘No, thank you.’
Sidney Grice nodded and separated the chintz curtains to gaze on to the street with no apparent interest.
‘Very wise. There is something known by scientists as a chemical in tea which destabilizes the delicate female nervous system.’
Sidney Grice lifted the lid of the hot-water pot and let it fall noisily.
‘Oh, this is a conundrum.’ He plucked the petals from a violet that was wilting in a little green glass vase in the centre of the table. ‘If only I knew a young lady who was on good terms with Mrs Dillinger and had the intelligence to ask her a few simple questions.’
My guardian put on his wire-framed pince-nez for the sole purpose, it seemed, of peering over it at me.
‘I think I shall have another cup of tea,’ I said, and signalled to the waitress.
46
The Strewing of Straw
My guardian was standing at his desk, levering the lid off a wooden box.
‘Ah, March. I was hoping to see you.’ He was wearing one of his black eye patches. ‘You are seeing Mrs Dillinger today, I believe?’
The lid creaked up and he put it to one side.
‘We are having lunch together at twelve.’
‘Good.’ He tossed a few handfuls of straw on to the desk. ‘Because I have made a list of questions that I wish you to ask her.’
‘I have thought of a few things,’ I said.
‘I daresay you have, young lady.’ He strewed some straw on to the floor. ‘But you can hardly expect that your thoughts will be as relevant to the matter as mine. I do not want her views on the demise of the crinoline, for example. What did you think of asking her?’
‘I was going to ask whether she had heard of Alice Hawkins, if she had met her and, if so, how well she knew her and when she last saw her. Did she know of any reason why anybody should want to kill Alice? Had Alice mentioned receiving any threats, for instance, or noticed anyone suspicious, or did she seem frightened?’
Sidney Grice huffed and said, ‘I suppose those questions will suffice for now. Ah, here we are.’ He brought out a smaller box and hinged open the lid. ‘At last.’ He lifted the top layer of cotton wool off to reveal an eye staring out at me. ‘Is she not a beauty?’ He held it up for me to admire.
‘Lovely,’ I said as he lifted the patch from his forehead. He seemed to have some difficulty inserting the new eye and grunted a few times in discomfort. ‘Is it too large?’
‘Of course not.’ He wrenched his lids further apart and pressed harder. ‘As you are well aware, I made the impression myself. It is probably that the tissues have swollen a little into my socket whilst it was empty. Blast.’ He bent over away from me and took a sharp breath as he rammed his hand upwards. ‘Blast. Blast. Blast. Blast. Blast. There we are.’ He straightened up and faced me. ‘You see.’
‘Indeed I do,’ I said. His eyelids were stretched wide apart and purpled and the eye itself was enormous. ‘It makes you look like a giant squid.’
‘Nonsense.’ Sidney Grice looked in the mirror over the fire mantle. ‘It will just take a while to bed in.’
‘I had better be going,’ I said. ‘Does it hurt you?’
‘Not in the least.’ The tears were streaming down his cheek. ‘I hope you do not imagine that I will reimburse you for this lunch.’
‘I do not see why not. I am investigating the case on your behalf.’
My guardian brought out a handkerchief to wipe his face and said, ‘As I see it, this meeting concerns the possible connection of Alice Hawkins’ murder to the Ashby case.’
‘Yes, I agree with that.’
‘And since you are responsible for the cost of investigating the Ashby case, you may claim all the expenses you wish by presenting a report and written receipt to yourself, and if you are not happy with that you may consult a solicitor and take yourself to court. Excuse me, March. I have something to attend to upstairs.’
Sidney Grice rushed past me, clutching the handkerchief to his eye.
I took my cape from the coat hook and set off. It was cool and breezy with a heavy drizzle, but I did not care. I was setting off on my first solitary assignment.
47
Lamb Chops
Grace Dillinger was already at the table when I arrived at Brown’s Grill House. She rose and kissed my cheek and we sat opposite each other in a little kiosk.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘I am well,’ she said, but one look at her face, drained of life, told me she was not.
‘And your baby?’
‘Quiet.’
‘Are you sleeping all right?’
She twisted her wedding ring. ‘I try not to sleep. In my dreams the three people I loved are still alive, but even in my dreams they are murdered all over again. I shall never take off this mourning.’
A waiter tossed two menu cards down. He had close-cropped hair.
‘This table is filthy,’ I told him and he turned up his nose.
‘So it is,’ he said in a German accent and stalked off.
‘I have to ask you something,’ I said and her eyes flickered.
‘Have you been sent here?’
‘He did ask me to meet you but I—’
/> ‘Is your guardian too stricken by remorse to ask me himself? Or is he too much of a coward?’
‘I do not think he is a coward and I am not sure that he is capable of remorse,’ I said, ‘but he thought you would not be willing to speak to him.’
‘He was right in that,’ she said and then suddenly flared. ‘What is it now? He has let my daughter’s murderer go free and put my son-in-law into a pit of quicklime. Is he not satisfied with that?’
‘It is about somebody else.’
‘Who else is there? They are all dead now.’
The waiter returned, smeared the table with a greasy cloth, rasped, ‘So you are happy now?’ and spun away.
‘Alice Hawkins,’ I said.
Grace Dillinger lifted the menu but did not even glance at it.
‘She was supposed to be their friend,’ she said quietly, ‘and I almost believed that she was mine but once all… this… happened, she disappeared. It is strange how many people never came by when they thought some scandal might attach to their name. What of her?’
‘She has been found dead.’
She put the card down very carefully. ‘How?’
‘Murdered.’
Grace Dillinger paled and folded her hands into a prayer grip in front of her mouth.
‘In the same way?’
I nodded and asked, ‘Did you know her well?’ And Grace Dillinger closed her eyes and put her fingertips to her forehead, and said, ‘She used to come to the shop. You know what the Irish are like. Once they get talking there is no stopping them. She was a good girl, though. She was going to knit a shawl for my…’ She fell silent and when the waiter came with unconcealed contempt to take our order, she said, ‘I will have nothing.’
He wrote my order down resentfully and scooped her cutlery and napkin away.
‘When did you last see her?’ I asked.
‘What? I do not remember. A few days before this all started. It did not seem significant at the time.’
‘Did she seem all right?’
Grace Dillinger opened her eyes. ‘My God. You are turning into your guardian.’
I said, ‘We want to find out who killed her.’ But she shook her head and said, ‘The police and Mr Grice want the glory of solving cases. They do not care what the solution is. Find the Italian and you will have the man who murdered them both. God alone knows why he did it. He must have seen them at the shop. Perhaps he saw me too and I will be next. Not that I care any more.’
I took a breath. ‘We have found him.’
Grace Dillinger stiffened.
‘Where? Has he been arrested? What does he say?’
‘He says nothing. He was found in a canal.’
Grace Dillinger blanched and clutched the tablecloth so hard that I thought she would overturn the glasses. She breathed in deeply and slowly and breathed out in a shuddering sigh, and gradually her grip loosened and she touched her hair and brought herself under control.
‘Perhaps in a moment of sanity he was horrified by what he had done and committed suicide,’ she said at last.
‘The police surgeon said he was murdered.’
I needed a cigarette.
‘I hope so. I hope he suffered first. I hope he was terrified and died in agony.’ She lowered her hands to rest in her cleared place. ‘Perhaps somebody discovered what he had done and decided to rid the world of a monster.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but is there nothing you can tell me about Alice Hawkins?’
‘Nothing,’ she said and straightened the tablecloth. Her eyes were deep and she was far away, and her voice was flat when she said, ‘Let us hope these horrible murders will stop now.’
‘But how could they continue if the murderer is dead?’
Grace Dillinger sat up.
‘That is what your guardian said when poor William…’ She turned her face away, unable to continue.
‘I am sorry,’ I said and she put her hand on mine and said, ‘I know you are.’ Her eyes flicked up to mine then down again, and mine went down with hers, and I could not help but notice a white envelope in her open handbag on the floor and the stamped address on it: Geo. Woodminster, Shipping Agent, 14 Liver Lan…
‘What is that?’
Grace Dillinger followed my gaze and bent to scoop her bag up and snap it shut.
‘He is training you well.’ She held on to her bag. ‘I worry about you living with that creature, March. But you will not have to worry about me for much longer. I am going to Australia. At least one knows who the criminals are there.’
‘But why?’
Her face flared as it lifted towards mine again.
‘How can I live in the land that murdered all my loved ones? How can I give birth to a child here, watch him walk the bridge where his grandfather was killed or the same streets as his sister and her husband, past the slaughterhouse that was their home, the prison walls… Imagine if my son or daughter were to come across Sidney Grice. If I were a man, I swear to God I would strike him down.’
‘Kindly moderate your speech,’ a corpulent man in a red jacket called from the opposite booth.
‘Kindly be damned,’ she retorted, and the man muttered something but returned to his kidneys.
‘But what will you do there?’ I asked.
‘Start a new life.’
‘When are you going?’
‘In three weeks… if I can raise the rest of the money. I have paid the deposit on a ticket for the Aphrodite. She sails on the twenty-fourth. I shall sell my ruby ring and wedding band.’
‘You cannot.’
‘I cannot do otherwise.’
‘But what will you live on?’
Grace Middleton opened her hands.
‘I can still teach. They must have pianofortes down there, though I doubt they have much use for French.’
‘Perhaps I can help.’
‘You helped once before and we both know the result of that.’ She wiped her eyes with a tissue. ‘I am sorry. That was unfair. I should go.’
She stood up.
‘But shall I see you again?’
‘You know how to find me.’ She turned and hurried away. I saw her through the side window as she went, tall with her head defiantly high, across the street.
The waiter brought lamb chops, clomping them in front of me with a half pint of porter. I had been looking forward to them all day but now I could not eat. I sat for a long time, looking into my drink, dark and deeper than the glass that held it.
48
Return to Huntley Street
On my way home I went to Huntley Street.
Harriet Fitzpatrick was sitting by herself, in a light blue dress.
‘March, how lovely to see you.’ She jumped up to kiss me hello the moment I entered the room. ‘It has been very quiet here today. I was just about to leave. I was half afraid you had forgotten all about me. I must seem very provincial now that you are moving in the smart set.’
She poured me a large gin and topped up her own.
‘There is nothing smart about the set I move in,’ I told her, ‘and of course I have not forgotten you, but I have been very busy.’
‘Helping Mr Grice catch more murderers, I hope. How thrilling your life must be now. Come and sit by me and tell me everything in grisly detail. I…’ She stopped. ‘Why, March, my dear, whatever is the matter?’
‘I am sorry.’ I gulped half my gin down. ‘I did not come here to make a fuss. But it has been so horrible. Oh, Harriet, those poor murdered girls and that man in the canal and the little match girl. I am sorry. You cannot even know who I mean.’
Harriet took my hand in hers. ‘I have been insensitive,’ she said. ‘But when one reads trashy novels it all seems exciting and rather fun.’
‘I need a friend,’ I said, and Harriet squeezed my hand and said, ‘I will always be that.’
We drank in silence for a while.
‘I hear that your guardian had a narrow escape from the mob,’ she said, ‘but he got his
conviction.’
I said very quietly, ‘We killed an innocent man, Harriet.’
‘We?’
‘Mr Grice would not have taken the case on if it were not for my interference.’
‘It was the judge and jury that condemned him.’ Harriet stood up to pour us both another drink.
‘I saw William Ashby’s mother-in-law today,’ I said.
‘Grace Dillinger? She’s a funny one.’
‘You know her?’
Harriet took another sip.
‘I should say. Quite a regular here.’ She gave me a handkerchief.
‘But why did you not say before?’
She put her glass down and rummaged in her handbag for her cigarette case, lighting one and giving it to me before lighting her own.
‘I did not realize who she was,’ she said, ‘until I saw her photograph in The Chandler Street Stabbings. We call her Buttercup here. It gave us quite a thrill when we found out who she really was, but then, of course, she has not set foot in here since.’
I drew the smoke in deep and held it before asking, ‘Why did you say she was funny?’
‘Well,’ Harriet drained her glass and I got up to pour her another. ‘After her husband died she went into mourning, which was right and proper, of course, but she still came here. Created a bit of a scandal really – socializing so soon after she was widowed. Then after a month she turned up out of mourning in the buttercup dress she always wore, which is how she got her name, saying that life was too short to spend it as a memorial for the dead and she was going to start living hers again – not that she had shown much sign of holding back before then. This created even more scandal, of course, but she was never a one to be frightened of that. Then about a month after that she went back into mourning, saying that perhaps she had been a little hasty in casting it aside. If you want my opinion – and I know you do, March – she rather enjoyed being in widow’s weed. It got her sympathy and attention from the men, if you know what I mean. Her daughter’s death was a different thing altogether, though. She cannot have been in any mood for socializing after that.’
The Mangle Street Murders Page 19
