Death Descends On Saturn Villa (The Gower Street Detective Series)

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  *

  There were three letters for me when I returned home: one inviting me to visit a new haberdasher’s on Oxford Street, but rather spoiled by addressing me as Dear Sir; another complimenting me on using their genuine whale-oil hair restorer, which was the first I had heard of it but also the first time anyone had said anything nice about my hair in years; the last was from Mrs Prendergast and my heart sank as soon as I saw the name. I had no desire to be remembered as the first detective to specialize in neurotic animals.

  Dear Miss Middlington, [Not the best of starts, I thought.] I should like to apologize for wasting your time on the two occasions you have visited Alby and me. I cannot begin to express my gratitude for your patience and kindness…

  I skipped a couple of paragraphs.

  I have bought you a present and would be honoured and delighted if you would call on me at four o’clock today to accept it.

  I showed it to my guardian.

  ‘I see she went to Hempleman’s College,’ he said. ‘Only Miss Beetle would teach a girl to cross her H’s like that.’ He held the paper up. ‘This ink has not been produced for eight years now. Either she purchased a prodigious quantity of it or she writes very few letters.’

  ‘I wonder how many tattoos she could get out of a bottle of that,’ I murmured and he perked up.

  ‘An interesting question. Perhaps you could ask her to give you a sample.’ He mopped his glistening brow. ‘Oh, I see, you were being sarcastic.’ And he looked so wounded that I felt guilty, until he added, ‘They say it is the lowest form of wit but I am not convinced that it is wit at all.’

  *

  I walked to Mrs P’s and two children broke off from throwing a dead rat at passers-by to walk with me.

  ‘Penny for a bowla soup.’ The boy prodded my sleeve.

  I gave them tuppence each.

  ‘Is it true old Puddin’ guzzles blood for dinner?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Every day,’ I told her. ‘And if you try to put your hand in my bag again, he will drink yours tonight.’

  ‘Sorry, I was tryin’ to shut it for you.’ She mimed what she imagined to be an appearance of innocence.

  There were patches like kettle fur on her eyes and the left eye was almost covered. Bitot’s spots – my father had told me – were keratinized plaques. I had seen them in the poorest parts of India and now in the wealthiest city in the world. If I did get Uncle Tolly’s money, I resolved, I would do something to help.

  They skipped on either side of me.

  ‘You off to catch a murderer?’ The girl dipped to pick a scrap of something off the pavement.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Can we ’elp?’ She popped it in her mouth and chewed.

  ‘Yes.’ I tapped her hand away from my purse. ‘If you wait outside our house and shout miserable old gizzard when Mr Grice appears, he will know it is a code and that I am on the trail of the Bloomsbury Butcher. But you must run away afterwards because he will pretend to be angry so that no one knows what we are up to.’

  ‘Corr,’ the boy said, but she was obviously the business brain of their partnership.

  ‘What’s it wurf?’ She spat out whatever she had found.

  ‘Fourpence each.’

  ‘Sixpence.’ She watched as the boy retrieved the scrap and tried it.

  ‘Very well, but you must shout it twice and very loudly.’

  ‘Orright,’ the boy decided as he smacked his lips.

  56

  Haddock and Tonsils

  MRS PRENDERGAST HAD albert in her arms as her maid showed me into the sitting room. It was prettily decorated in a rosebud pattern, with bright floral fabric chairs.

  ‘Oh, Miss Middlington,’ she cried, jumping up to put Albert on a cushion. ‘How kind of you to come. You must think me an awful nuisance.’

  I did, but I gave her my best smile and said, ‘No, not in the least.’

  ‘Say hello, Alby,’ she urged, but Alby snuggled down and ignored us both.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your cake.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I lied, reminding myself to remove it from the pocket of my cloak where I had stuffed it the previous evening.

  Every surface was covered with china dogs – Staffordshires posed snootily, white, some with orange patches, some with black or blue, all with black noses and lips; gun dogs presented pheasants or rabbits; spaniels rolled over to be tickled; and poodles showed off their new coiffures.

  ‘You will join me for tea, I hope.’ Mrs P interlocked her fingers.

  I wanted to tell her that I was too busy, but she said it so imploringly that I did not have the heart to refuse her.

  ‘You are too kind.’

  ‘The lovely lady is staying for teasey-weasy, Alberty-walberty.’

  Alberty Walberty buried his nose under a cushion and I wondered if he felt as nauseated as I did. Mrs P skipped to turn the bell handle.

  ‘Before I forget…’ She scuttled to a little cherrywood escritoire by the window. ‘…I must give you your present.’ She pulled down the lid and brought something out. ‘Albert helped me choose it, didn’t you, Alby Walby?’

  Whatever the gift was, she had gone to no trouble wrapping it for she was walking towards me with a brown paper bag, with something about the size and shape of a small cucumber bulging inside it. If this was a bone, I resolved, I would thank her politely, make my excuses and leave.

  ‘Oh, I do hope you will like it.’ She came quite close, closer than I like most people to come, and held it up. ‘Can you guess what it is?’

  ‘A haddock,’ I joked weakly and she gurgled in delight.

  ‘Not a haddock! Isn’t she a silly-willy, Alby?’ Albert gave no sign that he cared a burned bun as she poked the bag towards me. ‘Now, no cheating, have another guess.’

  I had been tired of this game before it started. ‘An ornament,’ I tried, a little more sensibly, and Mrs P chortled. She was almost touching me now and for a horrible moment I thought she was going to kiss me. I felt whatever it was press against my stomach and she seemed to be tilting it upwards to press under her breast.

  ‘I am sorry, Mrs Prendergast. I do not want to play any more. Please stand back a little.’

  Mrs P opened her mouth so widely that I could see her tonsils. She took a deep breath and let out an eardrum-bursting shriek. For an instant I was stunned.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’ I tried to push her away, but she grabbed my arm with her right hand and slipped it round the back of me.

  ‘No, Miss Middlington, please do not kill me,’ she screamed in my face.

  Albert was yapping now.

  ‘Let go of me,’ I protested. ‘I have absolutely no intention of killing anybody.’

  But Mrs P threw herself on to me and I felt a sharp pain just under my ribs as her present ripped through the bag and stabbed into me.

  57

  The Glistening, Growing Lake

  MRS PRENDERGAST LET out another scream. This one was not so loud but was all the more alarming for that. The other screams had been histrionic and annoying, but now it was a real cry of shock and her fingers hooked into my arm, hurting even through the thick fabric, but what frightened me most was the sharpness in my abdomen.

  ‘Mrs Prendergast,’ I gasped as she sprayed into my face, but her eyes were wild and unreasoning now.

  I pressed my palms on to her shoulders and pushed with all my might, and Mrs P let go and stepped back so easily that I almost toppled into her. I examined the area of pain and saw a dark patch on my dress, about the size of a dinner plate. I felt it damp and my hand came away red. It was brighter than I had expected but unmistakeably blood.

  ‘What have you done?’ It dripped from my fingers, but I could not see a rip and the pain seemed to be easing. And then I saw where it was coming from. It was pumping out of Mrs Prendergast.

  Mrs Prendergast was clutching at her chest and the knife projecting between her hands, and her life’s blood flooded through them. She stared at it all in
shock and then at me in astonishment.

  ‘Stuck,’ she breathed, and then something that may have been more words or just three short breaths.

  She gripped the golden handle.

  ‘Do not pull it out,’ I warned, but Mrs Prendergast bunched herself up and with one massive effort tore the dagger away.

  Three great streams burst out of the tear in her dress and she staggered forward, the blade still pointing towards her as she sagged. Albert was down off his chair and darting about excitedly. His mistress groaned and swayed, and I knew that she would impale herself again if she fell on that knife. I reached out and snatched it from her as she sidestepped helplessly like an old drunkard, grabbing uselessly at a whatnot and a revolving bookcase, and bringing both crashing as she dropped to her knees and tipped face down on to the dusty-rose circular rug in the middle of the floor. Then the door flew open and the maid rushed in, slopping milk and hot water, to find me standing over Mrs Prendergast’s body and Albert lapping blissfully at the glistening, growing lake in which her mistress lay.

  58

  Hiawatha

  IN MELODRAMAS MAIDS always scream when they come across a body. In real life I had never known them to do so. This maid did. She dropped the tray and jumped back, as if it were the sugar bowl that terrified her, and screamed again and again and again. I rushed to calm her down, and it was only after she had fled that I remembered I still had the knife in my hand.

  ‘Get the police,’ I called needlessly because she was out of the door and howling for them on the street.

  I threw the knife down and kneeled beside Mrs P, but there was not a moment of doubt that she was dead. I did not even trouble to check for a pulse or signs of breathing.

  I heard heavy fast footsteps and the maid uttering hoarsely, ‘That way, through there.’ And a man dashed in.

  ‘Strike me!’ He was dressed in oily overalls, undone to the waist. ‘Fetch a peeler. I saw one down Thornhaugh Street not two minutes ago.’ She dithered. ‘Oh, never mind.’ He trod backwards on to a Russian doll. ‘I’ll go. It’ll be quicker.’ He ran out.

  ‘Don’t leave me alone wiv ’er.’ The maid rushed after him. Albert was licking around Mrs P’s open eyes. I pushed him away and he darted behind her to lap at the blood.

  ‘Go away.’ I flapped my hand and he scrambled on to her back and grasped her hair clip in his teeth, growling playfully as he pulled it out. ‘Go away.’ There was a copy of Tit-Bits amidst the spilled books. I whacked his hindquarters with it and he yelped but danced round to try to tug the magazine off me. I tapped him on the nose.

  ‘Gawd, she’s tryin’ to kill the mutt now.’ The man was back, his overall buttoned up now, with a constable at his side and the maid hanging back, crushing her apron into her mouth and whimpering as if she too had been mortally injured.

  ‘That’s ’er. Mrs Prendergast called for help and I ran in and saw ’er over Mrs Prendergast’s body with a knife in ’er hand.’

  I did not trouble to deny it. ‘My name is Miss March Middleton,’ I told the policeman. ‘I am assistant to Mr Sidney Grice, the personal detective, who resides at 125 Gower Street. I expect you have heard of him.’

  ‘Certainly ’ave,’ the constable concurred. He had black stumpy teeth with the gums growing over some of them.

  ‘We must get Mr Grice here immediately,’ I said. ‘He should still be at home.’

  ‘Watch out! She’s still got the knife wrapped up in that paper,’ the man warned.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, and was about to open the magazine to show them when the constable knocked it out of my hand to land near where the dagger still lay.

  ‘There you are.’ The man danced about. ‘Told you.’

  ‘It was already on the floor where I dropped it,’ I insisted, and kneeled to unroll the Tit-Bits to show that there was no blood inside it.

  ‘Watch out,’ the man warned. ‘She’s going for it.’

  This policeman, it seemed, was a man of no words but plenty of action. He whipped out his truncheon and whacked into my forearm. And before I knew it I was being hauled up and my hands forced behind my back with my wrists clamped in iron manacles.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ I protested.

  ‘No need?’ the maid parroted, still hoarse from her screaming. ‘Was there any need for all this?’

  Albert was scrabbling at the hem of the rug. He was having a wonderful time.

  ‘You’re coming with me.’ The policeman yanked at my handcuffs, able to vociferate at last.

  59

  The Woman from Over the Beacon

  I HAD TRAVELLED IN the back of a Black Maria before but never as a suspect. The constable hauled me inside and shoved me roughly on to the bench seat.

  ‘Have you any idea what will happen to your career when I make a complaint?’ I threatened and he flopped his shoulders.

  ‘Not much.’ He smirked. ‘I’m leaving next week to join the Royal Ballet.’

  I tried but failed to hide my incredulity. He was a chunky, ungainly man with all the natural grace of a pantechnicon.

  ‘As a night watchman,’ he added and slammed the door.

  ‘’E’s nice in’t ’e?’ the woman on the parallel bench remarked without any obvious irony. ‘The last bluebottle wot picked me up wanted a knee trembler. I made ’im tremble with my knee, no mistake.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked and she tilted her head back.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘It’s just that you have a south-west Lancashire accent but you aren’t from Wigan.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘You a police spy?’

  ‘No,’ I reassured her. ‘I’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘Freckin’ Norman.’ She was greatly impressed. ‘’Ow d’you do it?’

  ‘Allegedly with a knife.’ I clung to the bench to stop myself sliding off.

  ‘’Legedly,’ she mused. ‘That’s a good word.’ She stuck her boots next to me on the seat and I saw that she had no soles but rags wrapped around her feet. ‘’Cause fer all you know I could be a spy myself.’

  ‘Appley Bridge,’ I guessed and she seemed impressed but only said, ‘Naaah.’

  ‘Gathurst,’ I tried again.

  ‘Getting cold.’

  ‘Skelmersdale.’

  She cracked her knuckles. ‘Third time lucky. ’Ow did you know that?’

  ‘I come from Parbold,’ I told her.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘About five miles away, the other side of Ashurst Beacon.’

  ‘Oh.’ She picked a scab on her lower lip. ‘I always wondered what were there.’ And she ate it with obvious enjoyment.

  *

  It was not far to Marylebone Police Station but the journey took the best part of an hour, though we could not see why.

  The main hall was surprisingly quiet. An old woman lay on her back on the floor, her mouth opening and snapping closed like a puppet. Two youths stood with bruised faces and an enormous bald woman holding them by the scruffs of their necks.

  ‘Miss Middleton.’ The desk sergeant looked up from his register in surprise.

  ‘Sergeant Horwich.’ I acknowledged him. He had been of great help in the Ashby case.

  ‘What the hell is she in for?’ He glared at the arresting policeman. ‘And this ’ad better be good, Nettles.’

  Constable Nettles came to attention. ‘Murder of a Mrs Philida Prendergast.’

  ‘Did you do it?’ The desk sergeant picked up his pen. He was a massive man, past his prime and gone to fat, but still an imposing physical presence with a military air about him which generally gained the respect of the men and their prisoners.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Take the cuffs off her,’ Horwich ordered. ‘She’s ’ardly goin’ to beat you up, a scrawny wisp like that.’

  ‘She was found over the body with a knife in ’er ’and, covered in blood.’ Nettles searched for the key in six pockets, then found it when he went
back to the first.

  ‘Bound to be some innocent explanation,’ the sergeant predicted confidently as the constable unlocked the manacles.

  ‘There is,’ I assured him and he grinned, though the act was largely camouflaged by his walrus moustaches.

  ‘There you are.’ He put down his pen. ‘Told you there would be.’

  ‘And she was attackin’ a dog,’ the constable continued.

  ‘What sort of a dog?’ Sergeant Horwich perked up.

  ‘A likkle ’un.’

  ‘A likkle ’un?’ The sergeant went dreamy. ‘They’re my fave-rit.’

  ‘It was a black-and-tan Cavalier King Charles spaniel called Albert,’ I informed him, ‘and I only tapped him with a magazine.’

  ‘It yelped,’ the constable said and the sergeant swallowed.

  ‘Don’t suppose it takes much of a tap to kill one of them,’ he pondered and puffed out his chest. ‘We shall need to detain you for the magistrate tomorrow.’

  A group of Irishmen came in, singing a sad song about wide oceans and pretty girls at home, and the policemen paused to listen.

  ‘Is Inspector Pound on duty?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ the sergeant said stiffly. ‘And he ain’t likely to be. He’s back in hostibal with his wound gone poisoned.’ He sucked air through the gaps in his lower teeth.

  ‘Oh dear God.’

  ‘You was there when he got stabbed as I recall.’ The sergeant leaned over and his breath smelled of fish.

  ‘I must go and see him.’

  ‘No,’ the sergeant said. ‘You must be booked and taken down to the cells.’

  ‘Get Mr Grice,’ I said. ‘He has done you more than a few favours in the past.’

  ‘I’m not a man what feels gratitude,’ the desk sergeant told me cheerfully.

  ‘He is also in the same club as the chief constable.’

  The sergeant flicked his head at Nettles. ‘Go and get him.’ And the constable strolled off. ‘Now then.’ He dipped his pen. ‘Name.’