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

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘I needs the privy, squire,’ a merry young man declared.

  ‘No talking,’ the policeman warned.

  ‘But I need—’

  The constable fingered his truncheon. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘Worry not.’ The young man beamed. ‘I have done the deed, indeed the deed is…’ he chuckled, ‘done.’

  The two men on either side tried to edge away.

  ‘You dirty prike.’ The policeman retched. ‘Right, you’re first.’

  The young man rose. ‘Works every time.’ He bowed to the rest of us. ‘I shall bid you all a fond farewell.’ He whistled as he went.

  One by one my companions were called away. A girl who cannot have been more than fifteen burst into tears and tried to hold on to the bench, but she was prised away and dragged off. A tall man in a nightgown rose serenely as his turn came.

  ‘It is all but a beautiful dream,’ he assured us, shuffling out in an odd pair of slippers.

  Then there was only me and the bald woman left. She had handcuffs on and chains round her ankles.

  ‘What on earth does one do to get any service around here?’ she complained. ‘At last,’ she exulted as he read out her name – Ann Smith. I had expected something much more exuberant than that. ‘Do not drink the claret,’ she advised me. ‘It is filthy.’

  And so there was only me and the constable, a flat-faced, well-built man, perhaps a little old for his job.

  ‘Why am I being dealt with last?’ I asked.

  ‘No talking.’ He stood eyes front like a private being inspected by his sergeant major.

  ‘But we’re the only ones here.’

  ‘No talking.’

  ‘Am I allowed to smoke?’

  He glanced about to make sure we were alone. ‘Got a spare one?’ I lit my cigarette and then his with the same Lucifer, and sucked deep into my lungs. I often thought it was only my tobacco habit that stopped them getting clogged. ‘Slide up here a bit.’ I shuffled along the bench and he said something very quietly between clenched teeth.

  ‘Ivanhoe?’ I tipped an ear towards him, feeling like my friend Maudy Glass’s spinster aunt that we always loved to imitate behind her back.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he repeated a little more distinctly, ‘but Inspector Pound kept telling them you had collapsed and were waiting for a doctor to check if you were fit to be seen.’ He blew a series of perfect smoke rings. ‘At least old birch-’em-Bendrix is finished for the day. Mr Cotton is a much jollier cove from what I hear.’

  ‘Well, that’s a stroke of luck,’ I breathed, though I was not sure what difference it would make to me. I was not being tried today, only sent back into custody.

  Something moved under the opposite bench and at first I thought it was a mouse or baby rat, but then I saw it was a toad shuffling along. I drew his attention to it and, before I could stop him, the constable had pulled out his truncheon and battered it.

  ‘That was unnecessary,’ I protested.

  ‘I ’eard that you bashed a dog to death,’ he rejoined indignantly.

  ‘You were misinformed.’

  ‘Anyway, they give you warts.’

  ‘No, they do not.’ I was tired and hungry and more than a little afraid, and I was probably angrier than I should have been. ‘I used to handle them all the time when I was a child and it never did me any harm.’

  He inspected me. ‘Didn’t do much good either,’ he decided.

  A slender young man came in and we both hid our cigarettes. ‘March Miggleton.’ He spoke from somewhere deep in his throat.

  I let it go in the slender hope that, if I came to trial, I could claim they had charged the wrong person.

  ‘Middleton,’ the constable corrected helpfully and the young man sighed.

  ‘Good job you put that straight,‘ the throat speaker told him. ‘It could have given us no end of problems later.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled fleetingly and he propelled me out of the room. The toad was oozing on to the floor.

  It was a large courtroom and I scarcely had time to glance about from the dock I had been directed into before the clerk was calling for order. There was a good-sized audience. Murderesses are always much in demand with sensation-seekers. Mr Cotton did not strike me as an especially jolly cove. He was younger than I had expected, but his mouth drooped like the amphibian I had just seen destroyed and he viewed me sourly as I stood at the barrier to confirm my name. He glowered as the charges were read out.

  ‘I take it there is no application for bail,’ he grunted.

  ‘The police have no objection, Your Honour.’ I knew that voice, but peering across the mass of heads I could only just make out Inspector Pound, so physically diminished by his injuries. Usually he stood a good head above most men.

  The magistrate found his horn-rimmed spectacles and slipped them on to examine the speaker.

  ‘This is most irregular, to let a suspected murderess loose.’

  ‘This is an unusual case, Your Honour.’ Pound’s voice was reedy and barely carried. ‘Miss Middleton is a lady of the highest character, who has been of great assistance to the Metropolitan Police in the past, and is currently assisting us with a major confidential inquiry which would be disrupted if she were in custody.’

  That last information was news to me.

  ‘Who would stand surety?’ Mr Cotton enquired. ‘I want an independent man of good character.’

  ‘I am sure my guardian, Mr Grice, will,’ I said.

  Mr Cotton scanned the crowd. ‘I do not see him here.’

  ‘He is unwell,’ I explained.

  ‘Then what he may or may not do is purely speculative.’

  ‘I will act as guarantor.’ A tall, slim, well-dressed lady jumped up, waving her white-gloved hand.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Mrs Charles Fitzpatrick of Rugby School,’ she proclaimed.

  And there was Harriet, sparkling and elegant.

  ‘Old Fizzy’s wife?’ he asked with interest. ‘We wrote a journal for devotees of Horace together.’

  ‘He still writes it,’ she informed him wearily. ‘I can put my hand on two hundred and thirteen pounds, eight shillings and nine pence,’ she declared. ‘And, fully aware of the scandal that could stain the good old school,’ she spoke with no apparent irony, though I knew she detested the place, ‘I will stake my honour on the accused not doing a runner.’ She coughed, suddenly aware that our shared love of sensational crime stories was being exposed by those last three words. ‘As I believe they say in police parlance.’

  The magistrate changed his spectacles for a larger pair. ‘Very well,’ he ruled. ‘Bail is set at two hundred pounds.’

  I was tired and finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘So I am free to go?’

  ‘For the time being.’ Justice of the Peace Cotton donned an even larger pair of spectacles and intoned dreamily, ‘Adhuc sub iudice lis est,’ which even I knew was something to do with things being still to be judged, and was a quote, I felt fairly confident, from Horace.

  67

  Admiral Nelson’s Hat

  I WAITED ON the seat that Inspector Pound had vacated, while the formalities were gone through. Harriet was talking animatedly to the clerk and telling him how much more presentable he would be without his moustaches, and signing anything he pushed at her.

  ‘And you really should get your hair trimmed.’ She took a document that he was proffering and stuffed it into her handbag without a glance. ‘At first I thought you were the wild man of Borneo.’

  He snatched his pen back from her. ‘Good day, madam.’

  Harriet came hurrying over. ‘March,’ she said urgently. ‘You must do something about your attire – it is as bad as that horse-blanket you arrived in last year – and then you must flee.’

  ‘But you would lose your money.’

  ‘Money?’ Harriet piffed and floated her arm like an actress acknowledging applause. ‘Do not give that a second thought. I sto
le it from the library fund of which I am treasurer.’

  ‘I do not believe that for a moment.’

  Harriet smiled archly. ‘Paris, I think. You can live cheaply there and send me prints of all the latest fashions.’

  ‘Oh, Harriet, you are impossible.’ In spite of all that had happened, I laughed. ‘But how did you know I was here?’

  ‘That dear chunky maid of yours.’ Harriet untangled a bit of my hair. ‘You really must get her a uniform that fits – though I think she is probably one of those unfortunate girls that will never fit into anything. She remembered you said that I was your friend—’

  ‘You are certainly that.’ The words caught in my throat.

  For an instant I thought that Harriet might cry, but she patted my hand and said, ‘Anyway, while I was clipping her hair back for her and explaining that she must ask her employer for time off to have a shave, she told me about your problem and how the famous Mr Grice is incapacitated by what she called Jumbled Fever, and how Inspector Pound was in hospital – why does every man in your life seem to be so enfeebled? You must be wearing them out.’ Harriet took a breath. ‘So I went straight to his ward – oh, my dear, the drabness of those nurses, whoever told them they look good in white? Somebody with no taste or conscience, I’ll be bound. And I appraised him of your plight. I was all prepared to harangue him for malingering, but he was calling for his clothes and a screen before I had the chance.’ She leaned towards my ear. ‘Obviously he is a bit seedy at the moment, but those eyes! Oh, March, I could go boating in them if he would only take them off you for one moment. And such good manners. What a pity he is not rich, for he is absolutely devoted to you.’

  ‘I know he cares for me.’ I did not tell her about the ring.

  Nettles hurried across the floor and said something into the inspector’s ear.

  ‘Cares?’ she repeated scornfully. ‘Why, the man is head over heels – though I never understood why the expression is not heels over head, which would make much more sense, would it not? – in love with you.’

  ‘Shush, Harriet. He will hear.’

  Inspector Pound came over. ‘We must leave now. I have just heard that Quigley is coming and we do not want him opposing bail before it has been processed.’

  The next prisoner arrived, a huge man with a tarred pigtail and dressed in a navy frock coat with epaulettes. He sported a wild black beard and his left hand was a steel hook. He entered the dock with a swaggering, rolling gait.

  ‘You are Jake Boatswain of Dry Dock Lane?’ the clerk read from a register.

  ‘Aye Aye, skipper.’ His accent was heavy West Country.

  ‘Occupation?’

  The prisoner tossed his head proudly. ‘I be a milliner, cap’ain.’ The court erupted in hoots of derision and he waved his hook angrily. ‘Why, even Admiral Nelson needed an ’at.’

  We made our way out.

  ‘You should be in hospital,’ I told the inspector.

  ‘You saw what the food was like and it has not improved.’ Pound was shuffling in an effort not to pull at his wound. ‘What would I eat if you were not able to visit me?’ We went into the lobby. ‘If you could wait here a moment, I just need to have a word with Constable Nettles.’

  He went into a side room.

  ‘Well-well-well, what have we here?’ I knew that voice and the young man in his checked green suit and bright yellow polka-dot cravat. ‘Famous Detective’s Female Companion On Trial for Murder.’ He painted the headline with a thumb and first finger.

  ‘Hello, Mr Trumpington,’ I greeted him coldly.

  ‘Mr Trumpington?’ He slapped his heart. ‘It used to be Traf.’

  ‘That was before you printed lies about me and Mr Grice,’ I retorted.

  ‘Lies?’ Trafalgar Trumpington echoed in wounded tones. ‘Show me just one dickey bird that wasn’t God’s truth.’

  ‘You are clever at telling the truth in a deceitful way,’ I told him.

  ‘Deceitful?’ He tipped his matching green bowler hat with the handle of his silver-topped cane.

  ‘He is very good at repeating things,’ Harriet observed. ‘I bet he knows his tables all the way up to ten.’

  She too had seen the articles in the Evening Standard, implying an improper relationship between my guardian and me.

  ‘And who have we here?’ He raised his hat, revealing his perfectly trimmed black Macassar-oiled hair. ‘Beautiful mysterious consort of the famous Inspector Pound.’

  ‘You are right,’ Harriet admitted, ‘in some respects. I am beautiful and mysterious. But I do not consort with anyone, and if you so much as imply that I do in one of your grubby corruptions of the English language, I must warn you that my husband is a very good friend of Mr Charles Prestwick Scott, the editor of the Manchester Guardian.’

  Trumpington eyed her in amusement. ‘So?’

  ‘So they will print an article which I shall compose, denying that you are a regular visitor at the Blue Boy, and I am sure you do not need me to tell you what kind of gentleman frequents that establishment.’ Harriet twirled her umbrella under his nose.

  ‘Fink you can gag the press?’ Trumpington sneered.

  ‘Fink you can?’ she challenged and he grimaced.

  ‘You’re wasted as a woman,’ he told her. ‘By the way, that fret will only work once and even then only ’cause I ain’t got much of a story on you.’ He primped up the white carnation in his buttonhole. ‘Yet,’ he gave me a wink, ‘I’ll be seein’ you again, March, if only in court.’

  ‘By the way,’ Harriet called as he strolled away, ‘those spats went out of fashion five months ago.’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘You never cease to surprise me,’ I said.

  Inspector Pound reappeared.

  ‘If only I could surprise Mr Fitzpatrick,’ she said with a twinkle. ‘I tried the other night but he fell asleep.’

  ‘Something funny?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘No.’ I composed myself. ‘Just us being silly women.’

  Pound’s eyes crinkled. ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said.

  68

  The Hoop and the Snail

  THE SUN WAS shining when we stepped outside – not in the way it would blaze in India and not even like the crisp January mornings we had in Lancashire, but the smoke-filtered ashy-ness that passed for brightness in London.

  ‘I must desert you now,’ Harriet said. ‘My children will not recognize me and there is a serious risk that Charles might notice I am gone.’

  ‘I will see you soon?’ I stepped over a dead sparrow, a long fat worm projecting from its gaping beak.

  ‘Try keeping me away,’ she threatened and gave her hand to our companion. ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

  ‘March is lucky to have you as a friend,’ he told her.

  ‘It is I who am lucky.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and hugged her.

  ‘Try not to get into any more trouble.’ She kissed both my cheeks. ‘On second thoughts do. I have not had so much fun in years.’

  We watched her go, the crowds parting as she passed through, graceful and packed with more spirit than a brigade of guards.

  ‘Will you get into trouble for helping me?’ I asked.

  ‘I have been in trouble since the day I was born, if my sister is to be believed.’

  I had met the unlovely Lucinda when Inspector Pound was in hospital after his stabbing. She was a sharp-chinned, sharp-mannered woman with capillaried cheeks, her hair scraped back in a style almost as severe as her manner.

  ‘I think I was trouble before I was born, being born and ever since,’ I told him. ‘But what you have done was quite legal, was it not?’

  A boy in a sailor suit dashed past, spinning his hoop with a stick, shouting huzzah huzzah, and followed by an exasperated nanny.

  ‘Little bleeder,’ she cursed as she drew alongside.

  ‘I think Mr Collins or his clerk might have told me if it were not.’ He whistled for a c
ab and one pulled over.

  ‘Gower Street,’ I instructed.

  I climbed in and Pound twisted in distress as he tried to haul himself up after me. I held out my hand and he grasped it, and I noticed with shock how cold and wet it was. I pulled and between us he got up, dropping on to the seat with an involuntary groan.

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ our driver called. ‘She’d ’ave ’ad a battle to get me in too.’ He cracked his whip very loudly but harmlessly over his steed’s head. ‘She’s a bit deaf, poor critter,’ he explained, ‘and ’er ’indquarters is gettin’ stiff, but I ain’t got the ’eart to send ’er to the knackers.’ And I decided that I liked him after all.

  Our cabby was not joking about one thing – his horse was very slow. But that was probably just as well for every bump and dip sent a deep tic running up Pound’s cheek.

  ‘I am taking you straight back to the hospital,’ I told him.

  He clutched his side. ‘I need to talk to Mr Grice, if he is able to.’

  ‘You need to go to bed with proper medical care.’

  He bent over a little more towards me. ‘Mr Grice first and then, I promise, I will go to hospital.’

  ‘Very well,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘But how did Molly know where you were?’

  A snail was hitching a ride on the inside of my window.

  ‘Constable Nettles.’ Inspector Pound shifted in a futile effort to get comfortable. ‘He thought Mr Grice should know what was going on, but of course Mr Grice was ill as well.’

  ‘He was rambling when I saw him,’ I said. ‘Something about love.’

  ‘Must have been thinking about money then,’ Pound remarked and cleared his throat. ‘When you were alone with Quigley, did he hurt you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, not as much as I hurt him.’

  ‘I know I can rely on your discretion.’ He gripped the flap. ‘There have been a number of complaints about him recently – a Member of Parliament’s son who got intoxicated claims to have been beaten by him. The men are not happy. They say Quigley struck a new recruit.’