‘Poppycock.’
I took a slice of Garibaldi but Mr G declined.
‘I rarely consume sweetmeats but I should like some of your pickles.’
Uncle Tolly frowned and then smiled. ‘March has told you about them – a little hobby of mine.’ He stood and went over to the bell pull. ‘But I have never thought to offer them with tea.’ The maid came in. ‘A dish of my pickles for Mr Grice, please, Annie.’
‘One moment, Annie,’ I called as she made to leave.
‘Yes, miss?’ She hovered under the lintel.
‘I shall not be angry if you tell me the truth,’ I promised, ‘but did you strike me with a poker the last time I was here?’
‘If you did not, then somebody went to the trouble of attaching a small blood clot and five dull brown hairs to it,’ Mr G observed.
Annie ran her tongue through the cleft in her lip before bursting out with, ‘Well-they-said-you-was-mad-and-had-killed-Mr-Travers-Smyth-and-I-thought-you-was-going-to-attack-me-with-those-tongs-and-escape.’ She took a deep breath and continued more slowly. ‘I only meant to tap you but you struggled and I had to do it you a couple of times.’
‘There are the signs of four,’ my guardian told her. ‘That will be all.’
‘Thank you for your honesty,’ I said as Annie backed into the hall.
My guardian produced a small telescope, extended it full-length and scanned the room slowly before settling upon my relative, who shifted uncomfortably under the long wordless scrutiny.
‘How many servants do you keep?’ Sidney Grice adjusted the focus a fraction.
Uncle Tolly counted them off on his fingers. ‘Colwyn and Annie you have met. Then there is Cook, a kitchen maid and a boot boy and a boilerman. Outside I have a head gardener, a—’
‘You are boring me now,’ Mr G complained. ‘How and where is your electricity manufactured?’ He lowered his telescope and Uncle Tolly perked up.
‘There is a boiler in an outhouse which turns a generator. I call them Billy and Danny.’
‘Which is which?’ Mr G snapped.
‘The boiler is Billy,’ Uncle Tolly replied. ‘The generator is—’
‘I think I can make an educated guess.’ Mr G compressed the telescope smoothly.
‘Does it matter?’ I asked.
‘The truth always matters.’ My guardian raised a foot to tidy his bootlace. ‘Though it may not be relevant.’
Uncle Tolly fiddled with his goatee. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’
Mr G sat back. ‘I wanted to see if you are as twitchy talking about seemingly irrelevant household matters as you were when I mentioned your murder, and I am interested to note that you are.’
‘You have thoroughly unsettled me.’ Uncle Tolly slopped tea into his saucer. ‘If I had known you would be put into the care of such a man, March, I should have applied to be your guardian myself. Indeed I should.’ The saucer tipped and stained his cuff and his indignation was all at once deflated. ‘Oh dear.’
I handed Uncle Tolly a napkin and he took it blankly.
‘It is just Mr Grice’s way,’ I tried to comfort him as Annie brought a silver tray bearing a small glass jar and a silver fork.
Mr G opened the jar. ‘Are these the pickles you so rashly consumed?’
‘I think so.’
‘The very same,’ Uncle Tolly affirmed. ‘Slices of Indian Comb.’
Mr G leaned forward. ‘Otherwise known as achycereus pectin-aboriginum.’
‘You know your caryophyllales too,’ Uncle Tolly approved.
‘And yours,’ Mr G affirmed.
‘Cacti?’ I clarified.
‘Why yes,’ Uncle Tolly agreed enthusiastically. ‘I have a special hothouse for them in the grounds. Would you like to see it?’
‘Do not accept that invitation, Miss Middleton,’ my guardian warned.
‘You can come too,’ Uncle Tolly assured him, but Mr G stiffened.
‘If I could be diverted in the course of my investigations that easily,’ he sniffed the vinegar, ‘I should not have rescued the six dwarves of Streatham High Street.’ And picking up the fork between his thumb and forefinger, he plunged it into the jar and withdrew a speared, elongated oval of dripping sliced cactus. ‘Perhaps you would like to sample this for us, Travers-Allegedly-Smyth.’
‘With my morning tea?’ Uncle Tolly held up his hands. ‘I think not, Mr Grice.’
‘Some might find your refusal suspicious.’ Mr G laid the fork on a saucer, tines down. ‘But I do not.’ He deposited the slice in another test tube and slid it into his cane.
Uncle Tolly blinked like a sleepy owl. ‘I do not understand.’
‘There appears to be a familial predisposition towards incomprehension,’ my guardian told him, and Uncle Tolly scratched his jaw.
‘We shall see upstairs now,’ Mr G announced, but my uncle bridled.
‘You go too far, sir.’ Uncle Tolly stood and reached for his bell pull.
‘I am sorry, Uncle Tolly,’ I put in hastily.
Uncle Tolly paused uncertainly. ‘I do not like your guardian’s manner.’
‘I have yet to meet anyone who does,’ I assured him.
‘I should be alarmed if they did,’ Mr G muttered.
‘Perhaps I could explain exactly why we are here,’ I suggested as my uncle wavered.
‘Very well, March, but I have just discovered that there is a limit even to my patience and your guardian is testing it severely.’ He twisted his chair in a little sitting jump a fraction away from Mr G but towards me, and sat back in it.
‘I have jumbled memories of when I was here last,’ I began. ‘I know that I was taken unwell as you showed me to my bedroom, and I do not think that I was drunk.’
Uncle Tolly found a wrinkle on his cheek and pinched it. ‘If you had food poisoning I do not fancy you could have acquired it here so suddenly, especially as we ate the same things.’ He puffed out his cheeks and swallowed nothing as if it were a hard lump. ‘You think,’ he swivelled his head towards my guardian like an angry hen, ‘that there is something wrong with my pickles?’
Sidney Grice placed his fingertips together. ‘It is a possibility.’
‘This is an outrage,’ Uncle Tolly blustered, but was all at once deflated. ‘But then perhaps it is not.’
‘Explain.’ Mr G jabbed at him with the fork.
‘It is the one thing I did not eat,’ Uncle Tolly told him miserably. ‘But only because I have had a slight stomach – and I apologize if that is too vulgar a word – complaint. Perhaps the cactus has gone off.’
‘Perhaps.’ Mr G tapped his telescope. ‘Or perhaps the plant itself contains toxins capable of confounding one’s mental processes. Fortunately for us and possibly unfortunately for you, the thoroughfare on which I reside is also occupied by the finest medical and scientific institutions in London and, therefore, the world. We shall soon find out.’ Mr G stroked the teapot handle regretfully. ‘But we are wasting time with these pleasantries.’ He flicked his head. ‘Ring for your agreeable footman and well-presented maid to accompany us. We shall inspect Miss Middleton’s sleeping chamber first.’
31
The Dead Moth and the Dust
UNCLE TOLLY LED the way, scrambling up the stairs, with Sidney Grice close at his heels and the servants following me.
The landing was just as I remembered it, large and square with three coloured doors to either side and a massive window filling most of the end wall – though there was still not much of a view out through the fog.
The first door on the right was pink and the wallpaper flowery.
Sidney Grice paced the bedroom like a caged bear. ‘What have you done to this room since Miss Middleton quit it?’ He wagged a finger at Annie and she flinched.
‘Why, just my job, sir. I cleaned the room.’
‘What state was it in?’ He picked up the water jug, sniffed it and tipped it upside down. It was empty.
‘A very bad state, sir.’ Annie avoided
my eye. ‘There was water sploshed all over – that rug was sodden – and the jug had been broken and there was a nightdress on the floor, sopping and stained.’
‘Stained with what?’ He replaced the jug.
‘Why, blood, sir – and water.’
Mr G polished his pince-nez. ‘And where is it now?’
‘In here, sir.’ Annie pulled open the top drawer of the chest to reveal my long white cotton nightdress, pressed and neatly folded.
‘Can you identify the garment with complete confidence?’ My guardian poked at it with his cane as if expecting a venomous snake to slither from underneath.
I took it out and unfolded it. ‘It is very like mine. The tag has my name on it… and there is a small repair on the hem.’
‘So either yours or a painstaking forgery.’ He stepped back. ‘Hold it up to the window, Miss Middleton.’
The daylight shone weakly through. ‘There are still some faint stains,’ I observed.
‘Blood is difficult to get out,’ Annie said.
‘Do you do the laundry?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, miss. A Spanish girl from abroad – though she lives in Dartmouth Park – comes every Thursday.’
‘I believe Maria is actually Maltese,’ Uncle Tolly chipped in, but my guardian ignored him.
‘And does it where?’ Mr G clipped on his pince-nez.
‘Why, in the laundry room in the outhouse, sir.’
Sidney Grice began to hum. He was almost getting into a tune when he broke off and whipped round with a grace and speed that would have done credit to a ballet dancer, knocking Uncle Tolly’s cap off with a swish of his cane.
‘Have a care,’ Tolly protested, his head suddenly small as he bent to retrieve his cap.
‘I intend to,’ my guardian assured him. ‘Where might one most conveniently gain admittance to your attic?’
Uncle Tolly was crumpled as he stuffed on his cap and led us back into the corridor and to the light saffron door at the end. Mr G pushed through us and ran his index finger lightly over the top bolt, held it up and sniffed it. ‘This has not been oiled.’
‘It does not need oiling,’ Uncle Tolly objected.
‘You would be wise to think before you speak,’ Mr G advised as he pulled his coat sleeves up to bare his wrists and drew back the bolts. He opened the door a crack to peek through. ‘Stand back,’ he barked and flung it open so violently that it crashed against the wall.
‘Was that really necessary?’ I asked. But Mr G dropped on to his knees below the first step and enquired, ‘Was it like this when you saw it?’
‘The dust was there and that dead moth.’
‘Nobody has been up there for months,’ Uncle Tolly said.
Mr G hummed seven notes, picked up the moth delicately by one wing and whispered, ‘Cossus cossus.’ His voice rose as he declaimed, ‘The goat moth.’ He laid it respectfully aside. His tweezers appeared and he picked something like half a shrivelled pea to drop into a test tube. ‘I must have some of this dust.’
‘Shall I have it sent round?’ Uncle Tolly asked with newfound spirit.
‘That is a generous offer – though I am always suspicious of kindness, however it presents itself.’ Sidney Grice used the edge of a plain postcard to scrape a sample into an envelope. ‘Remember thou art dust,’ he told his sample as he folded the flap over. He got to his feet and regarded his trousers in dismay. ‘I must design an overall suitable for criminological investigations.’ He patted himself down. ‘Your bed chamber, Mr Travers Smyth,’ he announced. ‘I shall examine that now.’
Uncle Tolly prickled timorously. ‘I am not sure that I want you poking about in there. A gentleman’s bedroom is private.’
Mr G smiled thinly. ‘Not if he is murdered in it.’
‘But I…’ Uncle Tolly wiggled his fingers through his beard. ‘But I…’ He flapped his hands in confusion before steeling himself to make a decision. ‘I think you had better go now, Mr Grice.’
‘What you think is of little interest to me,’ Mr G informed him cheerfully, and I noticed Colwyn bulking out his chest. ‘It is what Miss Middleton has or has not done that commands my attention at present.’
‘Mr Travers Smyth has asked you to leave,’ Colwyn reminded him with a steely edge to his voice.
‘Not so.’ Mr G looked him up and down as one might a garish painting whilst wondering if it is really art. ‘Your employer expressed an opinion as to what might be best. It is a subtle difference which might not be apparent to one in servile employment.’
Colwyn towered over Sidney Grice.
‘Please forgive my guardian, Uncle Tolly,’ I said hastily. ‘He means no offence.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Mr G pondered.
‘Uncle Tolly,’ I continued. ‘I do know what happened when I stayed here, but I had an overpowering impression that you had been murdered and possibly by me.’
Uncle Tolly fluttered his arms. ‘But as you can see, dear March, I have never been less murdered in my life.’ He revolved to demonstrate that he was alive from every angle.
‘I know that now,’ I said. ‘But it might help me to dispel the images that still trouble me if I could see that your room is not the death chamber of my imagination.’
Uncle Tolly pushed his little finger through a buttonhole in his coat. ‘I will do anything I can to help you do that.’
‘Thank you.’
Uncle Tolly struggled to extract his digit as we crossed to the blue door. ‘Here we are.’ He wrenched himself free and reached towards it.
‘No,’ Sidney Grice snapped. ‘Let her do it.’
Uncle Tolly put his head to one side. ‘Very well.’ He moved away and I took hold of the handle.
‘The door was shut?’ Mr G asked.
‘Yes. I knocked and called out.’
‘Then kindly do so now.’
Feeling more than a little foolish, I tapped and called, ‘Are you all right in there?’
‘Did anyone reply?’ Mr G was watching me intently.
‘I thought I heard somebody whimper but I could not be sure, so I called Have you been having a nightmare? And somebody cried out so I went in.’
‘Show me.’
I took a deep breath and turned the porcelain handle and the door swung open.
32
Shrews and the Submariner
IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower I possessed not to close my eyes. I knew, of course, that my relative was alive and well, but nothing I told myself could dispel the expectation of being greeted with the sight of him lying on that bed, axed to death.
The fog was lifting and sunlight filtered a little more strongly through as we entered the room. The bed, I was relieved to see, was unoccupied and neatly made. It was pretty for a man’s room – cornflower wallpaper with matching curtains, a washstand with a white bowl and jug, a light oak dressing table and wardrobe, both carved in swirling interlocked T’s and S’s similar to the shield on the carriage that had first brought me there. The general effect was airy and cheerful and quite unlike the slaughterhouse that I thought I recalled.
‘Did you go straight in?’ Mr G asked.
‘I peeped round the door and sort of stumbled.’
‘How can you sort of stumble?’
‘I tripped.’
‘On what?’
I slid my boots over the threshold but they did not snag. ‘I do not know. Perhaps just my own feet. I was very unsteady.’
‘Enter the room.’ He followed me in. ‘What is different?’ My guardian craned his neck as the others filed in behind us.
I thought about it. ‘It is difficult to say.’
‘The fact that something is difficult should not prevent you from doing it.’
‘It was dark and I was confused.’
Mr G wagged a finger. ‘It was unwise of you to be so at such a time. What did you see?’
‘I thought—’
‘I did not ask what you thought.’
I tried again. ‘Thi
s sounds—’
‘I shall decide how it sounds.’
‘I saw Mr Travers Smyth on the bed.’
‘How did you know it was him?’
‘It looked like him – even that mole on his temple.’
‘I was born with it.’ Uncle Tolly touched the mark to confirm it was still there.
‘You told me it was dark,’ Mr G objected.
‘It was dark in the corridor but the gaslight was burning on the wall there. It dazzled me for a moment but then I saw quite clearly.’
‘I always have it on at night,’ Uncle Tolly concurred. ‘Billy and Danny are prone to overheat and could catch fire if unattended, and so I have the electricity off.’
‘The mantle is fifteen inches from the wall,’ Mr G estimated, ‘and the pipe has been extended recently. Explain.’
Uncle Tolly twiddled through his beard. ‘I wanted it to be overhead for reading at night.’
Mr G glanced about. ‘I see no literary materials.’
‘I usually bring a book up from my library and take it down to continue over breakfast.’ Uncle Tolly scratched his pate. ‘I have just finished Lichens of the New Forest by Professor David Corless.’
‘Which edition?’
‘The third.’
‘An excellent choice.’ My guardian beamed. ‘His observations on lecanorineae are second only to my own.’
‘You have made a study of pezizomycetes?’ Uncle Tolly’s eyes lit up.
‘I dabble,’ Mr G acknowledged with unusual modesty.
‘Perhaps I could show you the paper I am preparing for the Highgate Scientific Society,’ Uncle Tolly ventured.
‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ I said, ‘but is any of this relevant?’
Both men eyed me with distaste.
‘He who is bored with symbiosis is bored with life,’ Mr G opined. ‘But you are right, Miss Middleton. I must not let the fascinations of phycobionts divert me from your selfish concerns.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘So what did you see?’
‘Mr Travers Smyth was sitting up in bed. His right hand was raised defensively and his left hand was partially severed.’
Death Descends On Saturn Villa (The Gower Street Detective Series) Page 10
