Dark Dawn Over Steep House

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘We shall need some more details if we are to help you find her,’ I began.

  ‘And a sweet little freckle here.’ Mrs Wright dabbed the left side of her nose and burst out with, ‘Oh, I am so afraid.’

  Mr Wright leaned over and squeezed his wife’s shoulder.

  ‘We must be brave for Albertoria, my dear,’ he encouraged her before turning back to the detective. ‘You see, Mr Grice, we fear—’ His voice cracked but he fought to continue. ‘We fear that our daughter may have been found and lost already.’

  Sidney Grice seemed lost in thought but his face glowed. I never met a man so entranced by the prospect of death.

  15

  The Return of the Detective

  FREDDY DID NOT come out to greet us on our second visit to Amber House but was sitting defiantly with an open book on her lap at Lucy’s side when Aellen, the maid, showed us into another sitting room, across the hall from the blue room.

  Lucy was working on a piece of needlepoint. She was in a high-backed armchair beside the front window, her feet on a circular pompom and her legs covered with a Cameron tartan blanket.

  ‘In deference to your loathing of greenery,’ Lucy greeted us, ‘I thought we would convene in pink today.’ Sidney Grice curled up his nose and her warm green eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘You do not approve?’

  ‘Pink is the colour of dead salmon and under-cooked mammalian flesh.’ My guardian lowered his satchel to the floor, reeling out the strap as if depositing an unstable explosive device. ‘It is in the eyes of strangled rabbits. Pink is a colour of death.’

  ‘It is also the colour of roses, sunsets and flamingos,’ I pointed out and stepped forward to kiss Lucy.

  ‘Even worse.’ He doubled up so suddenly that I feared he had been taken ill. But he was only fiddling with his left bootlace, and I hoped that he was not wearing the pair that had crampons hinged into their soles.

  ‘I should very much like Freddy to stay today,’ Lucy asserted as we sat on two shepherdess chairs.

  Mr G shot up, his hair falling into a long fringe. ‘And so should I,’ he agreed, with such alacrity that Freddy, who had clearly built up a head of steam for an argument, looked all at once deflated.

  ‘You will take tea?’ Lucy enquired as Mr G flopped down again to finish retying the lace.

  ‘No.’ He hinged up in an unnervingly mechanical way and, as Freddy shifted to view his capers, I glimpsed her profile against the bright daylight. It reminded me of a photograph I had seen of the actress, Ellen Terry.

  Oh, Freddy, I thought. You must have been so pretty.

  Freddy caught my gaze and I looked away.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ She trained her hair forward across her cheek.

  ‘Nothing.’ I smiled unconvincingly.

  My guardian smoothed out a wrinkle on his sleeve. ‘If that were true I would find myself compelled to reappraise my motives for coming here.’ He leaped upon a newly created crease. ‘For I was given to believe that a great deal was amiss.’ And, ignoring their perplexity, Sidney Grice lowered his long, slim, elegant nose into the crook of his right thumb, and his elbow on to the armrest cover of his chair. ‘So, Miss Bocking,’ he said, just as I was wondering if he had nodded off, ‘have you prepared yourself to give me an account of your interesting experiences?’

  Lucy’s eyes shadowed. ‘Interesting?’

  ‘You do yourself a grave injustice if you pretend that they were dull.’ Mr G collapsed again, arms dangling, but, instead of doing up his laces, tied his left boot to the right like a wayward child playing a prank on an adult.

  Lucy put down her needlework and picked up an empty lead-crystal posy vase.

  ‘Where shall I start?’ She toyed with the vase, the voile-filtered sunshine glittering off its cut-glass facets.

  ‘We know how you got to the Golden Dragon and how you smoked opium,’ I recapitulated. ‘Can you bring yourself to tell us what happened next?’

  ‘If not I might as well go home.’ Sidney Grice finished an elaborate knot and sat back, exhausted by his endeavours.

  Freddy slammed her book shut. ‘Perhaps you should.’

  And my godfather regarded her coolly. ‘From henceforth I suggest that you speak only when you have something intelligent to say – which is rarely, if ever.’

  Freddy flung her book on to the floor, where it landed face down, and its spine cracked. Sylvia’s Lovers, I read sideways on the cover. ‘And might I suggest that you leave? I think Miss Bocking has had enough of your outrageous behaviour, Mr Grice, and so have I.’

  There was a clatter and I turned to see Lucy picking her vase off the table, mercifully unbroken.

  Mr G sipped his tea, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘You are here under sufferance, Miss Wilde, and what you might suggest is of only peripheral interest to me.’

  Freddy kicked the book and it skimmed under a lacquered dresser. ‘Tell him to go, Lucy,’ she urged.

  Lucy Bocking touched her friend’s wrist and said quietly, ‘That might be best.’

  ‘It certainly might be,’ Sidney Grice agreed, ‘if you wish to spend the rest of your life in suffering from the insult that has been offered to your person, and in ignorance of the identity of your violator, but as long as there is breath in my body and money in your coffers I shall do almost everything within my powers to save you.’

  16

  The Peacock Weeping Blood

  THE SILENCE WAS broken by Freddy. ‘Fine words,’ she mocked. She had put some ointment on her face and it glistened.

  ‘I do not have to convince you’ Sidney Grice responded pleasantly.

  ‘He will do it,’ I assured them.

  ‘Your loyalty is touching,’ Freddy sneered and Lucy patted her wrist.

  ‘Freddy is very protective of me,’ she said. ‘I only wish you would not keep distressing her.’

  ‘Surely that cannot be your only wish.’ Mr G rubbed his wounded shoulder. ‘And Miss Wilde has exhibited a great deal of hostility towards me.’

  Freddy bristled. ‘If you tried to be a bit nicer...’

  ‘One cannot be nicer if one is not nice to begin with.’ Sidney Grice balanced the notebook to stand vertically on the arm of his chair. ‘And, since I am not, your exhortation to make an attempt is in vain.’

  ‘In that case...’

  ‘If you two are going to squabble all morning I might as well have stayed at home,’ I scolded, taken aback at how much like my godfather I sounded, and Freddy and Mr G froze like naughty children. ‘But, since we are here, shall we try to progress with the investigation?’

  Lucy Booking passed the needle up through her work, a peacock on an open-weave rectangle of canvas, his fan yet to progress beyond a saffron skeleton.

  ‘What happened that night?’ I urged.

  Lucy looped the thread down and up again. ‘I was very swimmy,’ she said at last and Mr G leaned sharply towards her.

  ‘Define swimmy.’

  ‘It was like being intoxicated.’

  ‘Is it an American word?’ He clicked his fingers and his notebook fell into his hand.

  Lucy touched her damaged cheekbone. ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘What a relief.’ He conjured up his Mordan mechanical pencil. ‘Spelled with two M’s?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Sidney Grice regarded her dubiously. ‘Proceed with your fascinating account.’

  ‘I fell into a kind of stupor.’

  TWO M’s he printed in block capitals. ‘What kind of stu-por?’

  ‘I was almost asleep but still aware of what was going on.’

  ‘Like an evening at the opera.’ He shuddered. ‘So what was going on?’

  It was as if Lucy had not heard the question. She turned her attention to her sewing.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I commiserated, ‘but we must know if we are to help.’

  At that moment Lucy Bocking became fragile and vulnerable. Her hand was unsteady as she continued with her work. Freddy push
ed the table aside and kneeled before her friend.

  ‘You can do it, Lucy,’ she reassured her, ‘and you must. Is that monster to go free and repeat his crimes with other young women?’

  ‘Stop.’ Lucy took a long unsteady breath. ‘I felt myself being pushed backwards,’ she continued at last, ‘and my skirts being pulled up.’ She spoke low and quickly. ‘And a man got on top of me.’

  ‘Did you struggle?’ Sidney Grice asked and Lucy flared.

  ‘I did not encourage him,’ she retorted bitterly.

  ‘Sometimes women are too frightened to resist,’ he explicated, ‘and the men have believed or pretended to believe this signifies consent.’

  ‘And you think that justifies their actions?’ Freddy snapped.

  Mr G put a finger to his eye. ‘I would not be here if I did.’

  ‘Perhaps you just want the money,’ she jibed.

  ‘Some of that sentence was true,’ my godfather agreed pleasantly. ‘I do want the money but I do not just want it, for I do not need it and, if that were my only motivation in life, I would be better off murdering my father who has a great deal of it. Forgive your acquaintance’s digressions, Miss Lucinda Sephora Bocking, and react appropriately to my enquiry.’

  Lucy grimaced. ‘I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong and heavy and I was confused. I did not really believe it was happening at first.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ The needle was being worked furiously now. ‘As I was trying to explain, my skirts were up over my head.’

  ‘Did he speak?’

  ‘Not then.’ Lucy pricked herself and Freddy flinched.

  ‘Did he smell of anything – soap, cologne, tobacco, alcohol, coffee, rendered fat, fish, fresh or stale sweat?’ Sidney Grice curled his nose as if being assailed by all those aromas at once.

  ‘No.’ A red teardrop welled on to her fingertip and the two women watched it in fascination. ‘I do not think so... cologne perhaps.’

  ‘I cannot think of a delicate way to phrase this,’ I began.

  ‘Did he violate you?’ Sidney Grice broke in, ‘I assume you know what violation means.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Freddy said in disgust and the drop quivered.

  Lucy jerked her head briskly and the drop broke free, fell and burst on to her tapestry. ‘Yes, I do, and yes, he did.’ A bright stain flooded over the peacock’s wing.

  ‘Completely?’ Mr G pressed and I could hardly hear Lucy’s response. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘Yes.’ She dropped the needle and let it hang by its crimson thread. ‘Completely – and I know what that means too – but even that was not enough for him, Mr Grice. He beat me.’

  ‘Was this before or during the act?’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘What the hell does that matter?’ Freddy demanded fiercely and Mr G cocked his head away from me.

  ‘Before might have been to subdue his victim,’ I explained. ‘During indicates a pleasure in the act of violence itself.’

  ‘Dear God, what a world you live in,’ Lucy said, with something approaching pity.

  ‘We all live in it,’ I told her, ‘but Mr Grice and I are trying to do something about it.’

  I glanced across and my guardian printed TRYING.

  ‘It was during and after,’ Lucy replied.

  ‘Open hand or closed fist?’ Sidney Grice held out both hands to demonstrate the alternatives.

  ‘Open at first – slapping my legs, then my arms, but only two or three times – and then my face with the front and back of his hand many times.’

  ‘In what manner did he strike you?’ He ran the end of his pencil across his lower teeth like a stick on railings.

  ‘I do not know what that means,’ Freddy protested.

  ‘You do not need to.’ Sidney Grice twisted the handle of his cane six times to wind up whatever mechanism it contained. ‘Miss Bocking comprehends and will respond accordingly.’

  Lucy collected herself. ‘Not wildly at first,’ she answered. ‘Slowly and deliberately like a parent chastising a child.’

  ‘An interesting simile.’ Mr G made a note and overlined it.

  ‘Did he pull your skirts down to hit your face?’ I asked and Lucy’s shoulders shook.

  I half rose to go to her, but my godfather raised an arm to halt me.

  ‘Yes.’ She motioned Freddy away as if feeling suffocated, and Freddy slid back but stayed on her knees. ‘But I still could not see him properly. The lamps had been extinguished.’

  ‘And then?’ I pressed as gently as I could.

  ‘Then he started to punch me – in the body, on my breasts and on my face while he was still—’ Lucy stroked the peacock’s head to brush away its tears but her action only resulted in smearing them. ‘Then, after he had finished with me and I thought everything was over, he became angry and more violent, hammering at me with his fists and, while he was doing it, he spoke – more of a whisper with his mouth close to my ear.’

  Lucy looked at the floor.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked at last.

  ‘Dirty. He said dirty dirty girl.’

  ‘Describe his voice and accent.’ Sidney Grice pressed a button and his cane whirred, and a pair of curved calipers emerged through the ferule.

  ‘Angry, quite deep, foreign – perhaps German or Dutch -German, I should say.’

  ‘Indeed you have.’ Mr G prodded the plate of biscuits with his device. ‘Do you know any citizens of Das Deutsche Reich?’

  ‘I have met a few.’

  ‘You did not recognize the voice?’ I asked.

  ‘I did not.’

  I tried again. ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Yes, later.’

  ‘Then tell us when you reach that point.’ Sidney Grice pressed the button again and the claws closed smoothly on a Marie biscuit.

  ‘He stopped for a while,’ Lucy said wonderingly, ‘and I thought he had really finished, but it was only to take his belt off and to whip me with the buckle.’ Lucy recoiled at the memory of the blows. ‘And then he stopped again.’

  ‘Bother.’ The biscuit snapped, showering crumbs over the tray. ‘What next?’ he asked absently, his attention seemingly fixed on retracting the calipers.

  ‘He put his belt back on.’ Lucy hesitated. ‘I think. But even then he was not done. He kneeled astride me, his knees pinning my arms.’

  ‘And do you have contusions on both limbs?’ My guardian’s voice boomed.

  ‘Yes.’ Lucy’s voice was weak in comparison. ‘Mainly on my shoulders.’

  ‘I should very much like to see those.’

  ‘You shall not.’

  ‘I might.’

  I spoke when it was apparent that nobody else intended to do so. ‘What happened next?’

  Lucy held her right arm protectively across her as if it were in a sling. ‘He grabbed hold of my hair.’

  ‘Front, back and/or sides?’ Sidney Grice asked eagerly. ‘One hand or two?’

  ‘His left hand near the front at the top.’ Lucy touched the spot. ‘He forced my head back and I saw the glint of metal and I thought—’ Lucy covered her mouth.

  ‘Do you wish to stop?’ I asked and she shook her head.

  ‘I need to say it while I have the strength. I thought he was going to cut my throat.’ She put up a protective hand. ‘But he dug the tip of the blade into my forehead and cut me.’

  Sidney Grice brought his folding magnifier out of his satchel.

  ‘I am sorry to press you,’ I said. ‘But again, was this a frenzied act or—’

  ‘It was not a wild slash,’ Lucy replied flatly. ‘He did it slowly – deliberately, like an incision.’

  ‘I shall take this opportunity,’ Mr G got up and slid his feet cautiously as if testing for thin ice, his laces still tied together, ‘to examine the laceration, the creation of which you so vividly recollect.’

  ‘Lucy is hardly likely to forget it,’ Freddy objected, and Mr G twisted his body, feet fir
mly planted on the spot.

  ‘Do I have to expel you from this disappointing house before I can get some peace from your incessant jibber-jabber?’ He flipped open his magnifying glass. ‘You may wish to expose your own brow,’ he advised Lucy. ‘Rather than give me free rein to rummage through your coiffure.’

  Lucy parted and raised her fringe. The scar was in the form of a rough X, the top right arm being foreshortened, wide and white with red, raised edges.

  Sidney Grice bent over, his nose almost touching hers as he stared through his glass.

  Lucy’s lips parted. ‘I feel like a butterfly pinned on a collector’s board.’

  ‘The resemblance is superficial and fleeting.’ Sidney Grice inhaled. ‘You do not, per exemplu, have any visible wings or antennae. In what directions did this disagreeable man draw his blade?’

  ‘My top right down and then the top left down,’ Lucy recalled, and Sidney Grice traced the directions on her skin with his thumb like a priest anointing her for the last rites.

  ‘You are certain of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Certain enough that a man’s life might hang upon your remembrance?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucy repeated firmly.

  Mr G ran his forefinger over the scar again and Lucy closed her eyes, seemingly comforted by his touch.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ He reversed directions.

  ‘Not when you do that.’

  ‘It is closing cleanly,’ he decided, ‘and may well heal completely.’

  He brushed his finger along the lines a fourth time.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Lucy sank back, mesmerized.

  ‘I have a minuscule quantity of doubt of it.’ My godfather scratched a tiny crust with his fingerplate from where the two lines intersected. ‘Though, of course, you shall always be scarred.’

  He pulled away and Lucy opened her eyes and, to my surprise, merely nodded.

  ‘What else did he say?’ I asked, and whatever spell she was under was broken.

  ‘Remember who did this’ her voice rasped huskily.

  ‘Prior, simultaneous or subsequent to him cutting you?’ Mr G shuffled backwards to his chair like a flunkey taking leave of his monarch.