The Secrets of Gaslight Lane

by M. R. C. Kasasian

‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked. ‘You are talking gibberish.’

  Sidney Grice strolled over. ‘Would you like to hear my music box, Ethel?’

  ‘Ethel?’ Harris and I chorused.

  ‘No.’ She backed away, still grasping the bars. ‘It confused me last time.’

  ‘Then sit down and keep quiet,’ he ordered.

  ‘Ethel?’ Harris performed a solo this time.

  ‘Ethel Turp,’ Mr G identified her. ‘I am surprised you have not come across her before. She gives dancing lessons, spins the gentlemen so fast that they get dizzy and fall over, takes their wallets, watches and boots and – as I believe her colleagues might term it – scarpers.’

  ‘Why their boots?’ I wondered. ‘They cannot be worth much compared to a good cravat, for example.’ The men exchanged knowing, silly-little-girl looks. ‘So they cannot chase after her,’ I realized.

  ‘Sergeant ’Orwich won’t be ’appy when ’e gets back,’ Harris forecast. ‘’E ’ates crossings out in his register.’

  ‘It is not my mission, nor my ambition, to make Sergeant Horwich happy. In which cell were you accommodated, Miss Middleton?’ Sidney Grice allowed his cane to play one note.

  ‘I’m going,’ Ethel Turp called hurriedly and disappeared from the hatch.

  ‘Three.’ I looked through the opening and it was much as I remembered, as far as I could remember – a single bed with a thin blanket that barely covered the boards and nothing else. ‘It was dark and I was confused.’

  ‘If only one could earn a living being that.’

  ‘I do,’ Harris quipped cheerily.

  ‘Many a true word,’ Mr G agreed.

  ‘I thought the wall was a darker colour.’ I struggled to remember.

  It was white now.

  ‘Repainted a couple of weeks ago,’ Harris told me.

  ‘Three to four, judging by the faintness of the smell,’ Mr G surmised.

  ‘Used to be brown,’ Harris said.

  ‘It was green when I first saw it, then blue,’ Mr G recalled.

  ‘Gawd,’ came a complaint from number five. ‘What is this – a decorayta’s conference?’

  ‘According to the book, Mortlock was in cell one.’ Sidney Grice limped towards it.

  ‘Pro’ly,’ Harris agreed. ‘But we do tend to move ’em abart if there’s any trouble – separate people and so on.’

  ‘But you only had four prisoners that night,’ I pointed out, ‘in cells five, one, six and ten. So they were all in the four corner cells, Nathan Mortlock in number one and his friend Daniel Filbert opposite in ten, either side of the back door.’

  ‘They pro’ly let ’em be then,’ Harris acknowledged, ‘but it was all before my time.’

  ‘I did not know you could even tell the time, never mind have one,’ Sidney Grice said so amiably that I wondered if he were aware when he was insulting people.

  ‘Shall we take a look at cell one?’ I suggested, while the constable thought about that.

  ‘Why were you in prison?’ he asked my godfather.

  ‘On one occasion to gain information about an assassination plot against the Crown Prince, who shall one day be known as Kaiser Wilhelm the Peacemaker.’ Sidney Grice examined the door. It had two sturdy iron locks. ‘On the other occasions I was detained against my will.’

  ‘Not against your Wilhelm then?’ Harris joked.

  And Mr G looked at him blankly. ‘It must be inconvenient having a surname that you cannot even pronounce correctly.’

  ‘What? ’Arris?’ Harris quivered with mirth. ‘It’s an easy one.’

  Cell one was on the left at the end. Inside it was identical to my cell, a basic bed, no windows, approximately ten feet long and eight wide.

  ‘The back door leads to the courtyard, does it not?’ I asked.

  Harris was still chuckling as he agreed with me. ‘Can be useful for getting troublesome prisoners in and out without going through the station, or sometimes to avoid the newspapers.’

  ‘It would be a pity to lose the cash they have to slip you for information,’ Mr G remarked tartly and the constable stuck out his chest.

  ‘Now that is a dirty libel.’

  ‘It would fall more into the category of slander were it proved to be untrue.’ Mr G stepped smartly into the cell and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Shall I lock him in?’ Harris nudged me.

  ‘Probably best not to,’ I demurred, but my guardian said, ‘Kindly do so.’ Which Harris did with alacrity, admonishing him, ‘Now you be’ave yourself, you gnaw’ee boy.’

  Sidney Grice rolled his eye and sat on the bed. ‘If you could enter cell ten, Miss Middleton.’

  ‘You will not lock me in?’ I sought assurance. The last experience had been enough for me.

  ‘I won’t double-lock it, miss,’ the constable promised, ‘but these are slam locks so you won’t be able to let yourself out.’

  ‘Very well.’ I went in and shut the door – the bolt clicking into place behind me – and stood at the bars to peer across the passage to see Mr G in the opposite cell returning my gaze.

  ‘Now where would you be if you were on so-called duty?’ my godfather asked.

  ‘No talking from prisoners.’ Harris laughed uproariously before catching Sidney Grice’s expression. ‘Mainly upstairs, sir.’

  ‘So there is no permanent guard?’ I clarified.

  ‘No need.’ Harris paced up and down between us. ‘This place is like the Tower of London.’

  ‘I could – though you shall not seduce me to do so – tell you nine thousand and forty-six ways in which it is not,’ Mr G asserted, ‘but it would certainly be difficult to escape from, even with my picks.’ He held up the gold cigarette case in which he stored them. ‘There is no keyhole on this side and it would be impossible to reach the lock through this hatch without my special cane to which I can attach them.’

  ‘We ain’t goin’ to allow you sticks in cells,’ Harris guaranteed.

  ‘I might possibly fashion something from the bed,’ Mr G conjectured, ‘but that would take a great deal of time, plus the lock is seven lever and would take a tremendous effort to pick even under ideal conditions, which these are not.’

  ‘Release us now, Harris.’

  ‘If only Inspector Quigley could see you both like this.’ Harris made towards the steps.

  ‘Please,’ I begged.

  ‘You’re no fun.’ Harris pouted as he opened my door, then my guardian’s, and we went back into the hall.

  ‘Never do that again – pleading with the lower orders,’ Sidney Grice said coldly. ‘Who has the key to the back door?’

  ‘Only the desk sergeant,’ Harris replied, miffed at his joke being scotched. ‘So nobody can overpower the constable and let themselves out.’

  ‘Could you pick those locks?’ I asked my guardian.

  ‘It would take a good half-hour each and then you would have to relock at least one to avoid raising the alarm.’ He kneeled to peer through the keyholes. ‘So let us say an hour to unlock the cell door from the outside; half an hour to relock it; one hour to unlock the back door; half an hour to relock it from the outside; then, on return, half an hour to reopen the back door; and an hour for both locks. Half—’

  ‘Why bother with both when you come back?’ Harris butted in.

  ‘Because sooner or later somebody would find one unlocked and report it. You would be taking a risk that no one else would use that door by leaving one unlocked while you were out,’ I reasoned.

  ‘Half an hour to pick the cell door and another hour to relock it from the inside,’ Mr G ended.

  ‘That is at least five and a half hours for an expert locksman with all the tools of his trade, undisturbed, and three hours of that time in this room, hoping that no constables appear and that no other prisoners are watching and thinking to get their sentences reduced or charges dropped by reporting you.’ Sidney Grice stood up. ‘The yard has a gate to the street as I recall.’

  ‘Tw
o locks on that as well,’ Harris confirmed. ‘The same sort.’

  ‘So a minimum of another three hours,’ I calculated. ‘That’s eight and a half hours.’

  ‘And, in all likelihood, your picks would have fractured long ago with so many heavy-duty locks.’ Mr G looked about him.

  ‘A minimum of fifteen minutes to Gaslight Lane, even if you had a cab waiting for you,’ I estimated. ‘So half an hour travelling time. Nine hours. Then you have to get into the house, murder seven people one by one and get out again, sealing the house after yourself.’

  ‘Charlie Peace couldn’t do all that,’ Harris pondered. ‘’Ow long was Mortlock in ’ere for?’

  ‘If the register is accurate, seven hours and fifteen minutes,’ I told him.

  ‘That don’t add up then,’ Harris said and I waited for my guardian to make some cutting remark about his mathematical skills, but he was walking away, his shoulder dipping badly.

  ‘Have you still not realized the real reason why it cannot possibly add up?’ he called back to me.

  ‘Sergeant Horwich,’ I remembered. ‘He saw Nathan Mortlock at about six o’clock, roughly the time of the murders.’

  Sidney Grice disappeared up the steps.

  ‘Eh?’ Harris contributed.

  ‘So Nathan Mortlock cannot possibly have killed the Garstangs,’ I summarized.

  ‘Gawd, is that what all that racket has been about?’ Nettles emerged from cell five, his hair tousled boyishly. ‘I could ’ave told you – that loopy Spaniard biddy did it. Read the papers for cripes’ sake.’

  50

  ✥

  Tracking Tigers

  I HAD TO run after Sidney Grice. He was already past the desk and stalking through the front door on to the street, and I lost sight of him in the crowds, but then his cane rose above the sea of umbrellas, so terrifying to him, as he hailed a passing hansom.

  ‘What is the hurry?’ I panted as I caught up with him.

  ‘Thank heavens you are here,’ he cried and closed his eyes. ‘Now I do not have to look at them and, if I cannot see something, it cannot be seen to exist.’

  I guided him to the platform and he climbed aboard.

  ‘Number 125 Gower Street,’ he called weakly to the driver and flopped back in his seat.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’ I just had time to settle next to him when the cab set off.

  ‘It is too bad!’ my guardian cried, ‘Too bad. I spend my life seeking the truth. I track it like a Bengal tiger. I hunt it mercilessly and eventually I kill it – stone-dead truth with me posing, foot on its neck, looking magnificent in my solar topi and puttees. I hang it on my wall and wait for people to admire it.’

  We bumped the side of a roadside stall but the driver did not stop and my guardian gave no sign of noticing.

  ‘I know you care about the truth,’ I assured him.

  ‘If only I only cared,’ he moaned. ‘It haunts me, March. It fills every waking second. When I think I am stalking it, it springs out on me. It prowls and howls in my dreams, this monster truth. Sometimes I hate it and yet I have loved it longer than I loved—’ He stopped.

  ‘Loved what?’ I hardly dared add, ‘Or who?’

  ‘Rabbit skins,’ he whispered. ‘There were rabbit-skin gloves in that handcart.’

  Sidney Grice fell into a brooding abstraction.

  ‘But what has happened?’ I pressed him.

  ‘I have lost it, March.’ My godfather flopped. ‘I can neither see it nor smell it. I cannot find its spore. Where is it?’ He brought out his notebook, olive-green backed with multicoloured ribbons, and opened it to show me the tiny hieroglyphics, the lines, circles and squares, some cubed, the arrows sweeping round the pages, the block capitals of BLOOD POURED, plans of 1 Gaslight Lane with dozens of measurements pencilled over every surface, the word AMPHIBIAN diagonally up a page and then nothing.

  ‘But we have often had difficult cases,’ I pointed out. ‘You sometimes complain that they are not difficult enough.’

  ‘But usually I have so many ideas that I reprimand myself for not reining them in,’ he protested. ‘Stop it,’ he told the woman in the next hansom, who was drunkenly blowing him kisses. ‘You have an unsavoury periodontal condition.’

  He brought out a blue polka-dotted handkerchief and folded it into the shape of a flower.

  ‘Perhaps you need to sleep on it,’ I suggested.

  ‘Rat traps, ratty-ratty rat traps,’ a man bellowed from the pavement, holding out a clumsy wooden box.

  We squeezed through the stationary traffic and round a corner and speeded up.

  ‘I have a secret.’ Sidney Grice let out a groan, an empty cry of pain, almost a death rattle, and was quiet for so long that I thought that he had decided not to tell me. ‘I am suffering from…’ he confessed at last, but I had no hope of hearing him above the rattling of wheels on cobbles and the clashing of hooves on stone.

  ‘What?’ I cupped my hand to my ear, something I have never found to be useful.

  ‘Mens—’ he began again, the muffin man’s bell clanging like Big Ben beside us.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Get yer loverly muffins. Fill yerselfs to stuffin’s.’

  ‘Mens impeditone inquisitor,’ he yelled.

  ‘Loverly loverly muffins.’

  ‘The blocked mind of an investigator,’ I translated quietly.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ my godfather cried. ‘Why do you not scream it in the whispering gallery of St Paul’s? Why not place an advertisement on the front page of The Times?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘No,’ he shushed me. ‘Do not say anything. It is bound to be foolish and will upset my normally placid temperament even further.’

  We turned right up Howland Street.

  ‘Buttons. Best bone buttons,’ a woman sang out, her tones much too refined for somebody in her occupation. ‘All shapes and sizes. Please buy my buttons.’

  ‘Lady Camellia Fainwatsinthorne,’ Mr G emerged briefly from his morass to inform me. ‘The twenty-third wealthiest hostess in London and reputed to be the ninth prettiest and third wittiest before she fell in love.’

  ‘With another man?’ I asked.

  ‘Worse than that,’ he replied. ‘Lady Camellia fell in love with her husband.’

  ‘But that is—’

  ‘Embarrassing.’ He completed my sentence with a word I had not intended. ‘The poor may marry whom they can, but nobody worth over twenty thousand a year marries for anything other than titles or possessions. Lord Fainwatsinthorne, who had become accustomed to his wife, had no choice but to divorce her and that was no easy task as she had the support of—’

  If Sidney Grice had been clockwork, I would have wound him up. He had ground to a complete halt.

  ‘Support of whom?’

  ‘The Home Secretary,’ he managed at last. ‘I must make an appointment to see him.’

  ‘’Ere we are.’ The hatch slid open. ‘I suffer from men’s problems too,’ the cabby told my guardian, ‘but don’t bovver wiv no secritries. There’s a noo clinic at the ’versity ’ospital. They fixed me up a treat.’

  I could see the accumulation of mercury in the blue margins of his swollen gums.

  ‘Pay him.’ Mr G rammed the flap open and clambered out. ‘I have things to do and a telegram to send.’

  ‘Mind that puddle,’ the cabby called after I had given him his fare. ‘Oh, too late.’

  Instead of going up to the front door, Sidney Grice was leaning over the railings.

  ‘I hate going down there,’ he grumbled, as if I had suggested such a thing.

  51

  ✥

  Moses and the Ape

  I HAD SEEN a caricature of Sir William Vernon Harcourt, his beard running under but not over his chin, by Carlo Pellegrini, the Vanity Fair artist better known as Ape. The Right Honourable gentleman looked rather pleased with himself, his pendulous lower lip curled superciliously above the peculiar low beard.

  ‘Not a
s evil a man as you might think from his liberal convictions,’ Sidney Grice informed me as we inched along Whitehall. It had been an agonizingly slow journey and my guardian was draining his flask of tea by the time we glimpsed the vast neo-Gothic King’s Tower soaring over three hundred and twenty feet over the House of Parliament. The decisions made there decided not only the fates of the masses thronging the Westminster streets, but the lives of everyone from the incalculably wealthy Maharajas to the children of convicts in New South Wales on the other side of the globe.

  ‘But did he not oppose the Cross Act to demolish slums?’ I argued.

  ‘To his great credit.’ Mr G tapped his cork back into place regretfully. ‘Where are the poor to live if you demolish slums?’

  ‘In housing fit for human habitation,’ I answered.

  There was a heavy mist rising from the Thames nearby. It soaked through my clothes, making them cold and heavy and cling to my legs.

  ‘It is attitudes like that which deprived young children of the right to work in factories.’ Sidney Grice looked at his hunter watch. ‘We shall be late.’ He banged on the roof. ‘Get a move on, man.’

  ‘Where to?’ the cabby asked, quite reasonably, for we were hemmed in on all sides by stationary carriages, omnibuses and goods wagons. ‘You’d do better gettin’ awt. It’s an easy stroll from ’ere.’

  But, even as he spoke, the lorry in front of us moved, a gap appeared and we muscled into it. Twenty feet down the road, we pulled over.

  My guardian screwed a small copper bowl on to the ferrule of his cane.

  ‘I would have thought you could have walked that, Miss Middleton.’ Sidney Grice passed up the fare in his bowl with great ceremony, but then spent two minutes trying to get the bowl off again. ‘The threads do not quite marry.’ He wrenched it off in exasperation.

  ‘Enjoy the wedding,’ the driver called cheerily after us.

  Most of the crowd that we now pushed our way through wore top hats or bowlers, depending upon their status, but Sidney Grice stuck to his soft felt hat, an odd choice for one who laid so much store by formality, but I had long expected my guardian to make odd choices.