Dark Dawn Over Steep House

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘Nothing of consequence, miss.’

  ‘No gentlemen friends?’

  ‘Not that I know of, miss.’

  She shuffled her feet.

  ‘Or girlfriends who might lead her astray?’

  Ann-Jane swallowed. ‘We never talked about that kind of thing, miss.’

  I took a step back and walked a quarter way round the maid. It was something I had seen Sidney Grice do many times to unsettle people and it seemed to work rather too well for me, for Ann-Jane emitted a squeak.

  ‘I mean you no harm.’ I hurried back to face her and Ann-Jane was quivering when I put my hand on her arm – a gesture of familiarity that would have appalled my godfather. ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Nothing, miss.’ But a flick of her eyes told me that whatever frightened her was behind that first door, and almost immediately I saw the white porcelain handle turn.

  ‘Who is it, Ann-Jane?’ Mrs Wright poked her head into the hall like a mouse checking if it was safe to venture out of her hole. ‘Oh, Miss Middleton, I thought it must be you. Please come through.’

  Mr Wright was getting to his feet as I went into the cosy pink and blue sitting room. They had been having tea.

  ‘You have a pretty house,’ I began, instantly regretting that my pleasantries might have lulled them.

  ‘All Albertoria’s choice.’ He shook my hand and guided me into one of the two remaining chairs, my back to the hearth, decorated with a fan of peacock feathers. ‘You have news.’ He went to stand behind his wife’s chair.

  ‘Awful news, I fear,’ I began.

  ‘No,’ Mrs Wright corrected me mildly.

  ‘You only fear?’ A ray of hope came from Mr Wright and I wished I had not put it there.

  I reached into my handbag and brought out a white cloth bag. ‘Do you recognize this?’

  Mrs Wright took the locket from me with trembling fingers and fumbled the catch open. She gasped in pain and cupped her hands around it.

  ‘It is Albertoria’s,’ Mr Wright confirmed. ‘We gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ His wife put the gold locket to her cheek.

  ‘If I might ask you first . . .’ I struggled to proceed. ‘You mentioned that your daughter had trouble with a wisdom tooth—’

  ‘Her lower right,’ Mr Wright broke in. ‘What of it?’ He eyed me warily.

  ‘I am very sorry to tell you that we believe a body that was found on the Isle of Sheppey is that of Albertoria,’ I told them as steadily as I could.

  ‘No.’ The word came more sharply from Mrs Wright this time.

  ‘Because of the locket and her tooth?’ Mr Wright pressed me.

  ‘And the dress,’ I brought out the scarp of fabric, as clean as I had been able to get it.

  ‘Somebody could have stolen the locket and dress,’ Mrs Wright said quickly. ‘Describe her.’

  ‘She had long auburn hair,’ I tried.

  ‘Plenty of girls match that description,’ she burst out. ‘Is that the best you can do? We gave you a detailed description of our daughter and that ridiculous little man scribbled it all into his silly little notebook.’

  In happier times I would have laughed to hear my godfather so described, but I was beginning to wish I had let him perform this duty.

  ‘As far as we could tell, she matched every detail of Albertoria that you gave us,’ I said as confidently as I could.

  ‘Did she have a dimple in her chin and a freckle on her nose?’ Mrs Wright asked eagerly.

  For once I knew I could not lie. ‘I am sorry but her skin has deteriorated from being so long in the water.’

  ‘What colour were her eyes?’

  ‘It was difficult to tell.’

  ‘Difficult?’ Mrs Wright’s voice rose. ‘Difficult to tell what colour a girl’s eyes are? You are supposed to be professionals.’

  Mr Wright put a hand on his wife’s shoulder but she shook him off.

  ‘I am very sorry but the body was that of your daughter,’ I insisted.

  Mr Wright made a mask of his hands and took in four rapid shallow breaths. ‘I knew it,’ I heard. ‘I knew it but I still hoped.’ He pulled the mask down to reveal an older man.

  ‘You are hiding something,’ Mrs Wright accused me. ‘You are lying. You have not been to see her or you did not look properly. She has such distinctive eyes you could not mistake them.’

  ‘My dear,’ Mr Wright said softly, and I knew that he understood, but Mrs Wright was up, her dress sweeping her half-drunk cup and its saucer on to the circular Indian rug, the remaining tea set vibrating on the table.

  ‘I do not believe you, and I shall not believe you, until I have seen her with my own eyes.’

  I stood to face her. ‘I really do not think that is wise.’

  She screwed her body up in a furious grief. ‘I am not interested in what you think. You are paid to know and you do not seem to know anything.’

  ‘Her body is being sealed in a lead casket,’ I tried desperately and a rage burst out of her.

  ‘You dare? What? I am not allowed to chose my own daughter’s casket now.’

  ‘It can be placed inside one of your choosing,’ I assured her.

  Mr Wright was swaying worryingly. He grasped the back of the chair.

  ‘And how will I know it is her and that I am not paying to bury another woman and mourning at a stranger’s grave?’

  ‘It is Albertoria,’ I insisted. ‘I promise you, Mrs Wright.’

  ‘And what is your word to me?’ She waved the locket in my face. ‘You are grubby professionals feeding off the grief of others. No doubt you are off now to tell some other unsuspecting parent that you have found their daughter too.’ She threw her arm out blindly, catching my throat. I stepped back, choking. ‘For all I know the casket could be empty.’ Mrs Wright stepped clear of the table, cracking the saucer underfoot. ‘I shall see my beautiful Albertoria. What mother does not know her own child?’

  I rubbed my neck and caught my breath. ‘She is in no condition to be seen. I am sorry,’ I tried desperately.

  But Mrs Wright’s fury did not so much cool as become an icy rage. ‘If you can see her, why cannot I?’ she reasoned. ‘Do you think I have not seen a body before? I must have seen a dozen, probably two. Albertoria, if it is indeed her, cannot be laid to rest in wet rags. I must put her new chiffon dress on her and her matching pink slippers with buttons and, after I have punished Ann-Jane, she shall help me put up my little girl’s hair.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said gently and put out a hand, but another swing of her arm swept it away and the rage exploded.

  ‘Stop it!’ she shouted. ‘Stop saying that you are sorry.’

  ‘My dear,’ was still all Mr Wright could manage.

  ‘I shall see her and if it is her, I shall say goodbye to my daughter.’ She leaped forward, pushing me aside so violently that I toppled, sprawling with my elbow into the table, narrowly missing sending the whole tea tray flying after that cup.

  ‘Wisporia.’ Mr Wright rushed after his wife and grabbed her sleeve as I struggled to my feet. ‘Listen to what Miss Middleton is telling you.’

  ‘Let me go.’ Mrs Wright wrenched herself free but her husband got hold of her again. ‘Albertoria needs me.’

  ‘You cannot help her now, Mrs Wright.’ I straightened myself up.

  ‘How dare you?’ Mrs Wright made towards the door, dragging her husband with her. ‘Who in damnation do you think you are to tell me I cannot see my own daughter?’

  ‘Please listen, Wisporia,’ he begged. ‘Albertoria has gone and there is nothing we can do except to put her in the earth.’

  Wisporia Wright seemed to weaken and her husband tried to turn her to him.

  ‘I shall see her,’ she said firmly.

  ‘No,’ he insisted.

  ‘And you shall not stop me.’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’ Mr Wright closed his eyes, unable to look at the effects of his words. ‘She has
been three weeks in that stinking river, Wisporia.’

  ‘Then I will take things to wash her clean.’ She raised her chin. ‘Soap and those flannels with her initials.’

  ‘For the love of God, woman,’ her husband shouted, fists clenched against his temples. ‘She is in a lead casket because she is rotting.’

  Mrs Wright stopped and was all at once calm. Her fingers went to her right cheek and then to her husband’s left. They bent and blanched at the tips as they drew down, nails raking deep into his flesh.

  *

  ‘Pour two large brandies,’ Sidney Grice instructed after I had described what had happened.

  ‘But you do not take alcohol.’

  ‘I will nurse mine whilst you drink yours.’ My guardian finished stacking his correspondence into three piles. ‘And then we shall swap and I will stare into the empty glass.’

  Waterdale Assurance Co. Ltd, I read on a top envelope.

  I went to the sideboard to fetch the decanter. ‘Do you never get upset about death?’ I pulled out the stopper.

  ‘Only life disturbs me,’ he declared. ‘Death is nothing.’

  ‘Dear God, when we catch the man who drove her to such despair . . .’ I burst out.

  ‘There are almost innumerable unproven assumptions in that truncated display of emotion.’ My godfather crossed his ankles. ‘But we shall content ourselves with a brace of them, the first being your need to substitute the adverb when with the conjunctive if. The second being your unspoken assumption that somebody must be punished for her death.’

  ‘But he—’

  ‘That was your fourth error of logic. We cannot even be certain that a man was involved.’ He flexed his feet one at a time.

  I ran silently through my words. ‘Very well,’ I challenged. ‘What were the other mistakes?’

  Mr G checked the list off on his long slim fingers. ‘We do not know that God exists. We do not know that he is dear. We do not know if there is anyone to be caught, or if he or she or they will be, or if we will be the ones to entrap that person or persons. We do not know that anybody did anything untoward to Miss Wright. She might have been a fantasist. She might have willingly engaged in or even have initiated acts of which she later became ashamed. We do not know that she intended to self-immolate.’ He took a breath. We do not even know if that pasty-faced Father Seaton was telling the truth and that he did not murder her himself.’

  He took a breath.

  ‘That will do for now.’ I jumped into the pause and the door flew open.

  ‘Dinner is swerved,’ Molly announced and, for the first time, I was glad that it was vegetarian.

  24

  Crook and the Tilbury Typewritist

  LIMEHOUSE POLICE STATION was as dreary inside as out, with three rows of backless wooden benches facing the desk. I had met the duty sergeant once before when we had captured the Tilbury Typewritist. The policeman had taken exception on that occasion to a female pointing out that he had released the same criminal only a fortnight previously, and he did not seem any the more thrilled to see me this time.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Crook,’ I greeted him. I occasionally wondered if the mockery his surname must arouse had made him such a sour person and, if so, why he had not changed it or his profession. ‘We have an appointment with—’

  ‘I know.’ The sergeant glowered at us. ‘Sit over there, girl.’

  I had been about to settle exactly where Sergeant Crook was directing me but I immediately straightened up. ‘You have a vivid imagination, Sergeant, to think that you see any girls here.’

  ‘Well, you ain’t a bloke.’ Crook snickered at his own wit.

  ‘I would have thought all your years of experience in the force would have taught you to recognize a lady when you see one,’ I retorted. ‘I have no difficulty whatsoever in identifying an obnoxious oaf.’

  ‘’Ere,’ my good friend bristled. ‘Who you calling a noaf?’

  ‘There are three people in this room.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘So I shall give you four guesses.’

  Sidney Grice ambled to the desk. ‘From where have you acquired additional income, Crook?’ he demanded.

  ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ abart.’ The sergeant touched his moustaches.

  ‘You have just put your finger on it,’ my guardian told him. ‘Literally.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your ridiculous and over-exuberant facial disfigurement has been waxed with Bowtree’s Preparation and your sparsely thatched parasitized scalp dressed with Sniff’s Macassar Oil, neither of which is to be had legally for under a guinea a bottle, scarcely affordable on your meagre though undeserved salary. Even Miss Middleton is unlikely to indulge in such extravagance.’

  I was about to point out that I had no use for either product, especially the former, when a door to my left opened.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Grice.’ I did not need to turn to recognize the voice as Inspector Pound stepped in.

  He took my hand gravely. ‘And Miss Middleton.’ His clear blue eyes met mine uneasily, I thought.

  I had been March and even his Dearest at one time, but I tried to push that memory aside and returned his greetings politely.

  ‘You are looking very well,’ I commented, for George Pound had improved markedly in the nine months since I had last seen him. His posture, which had become stooped under the weight of his injuries, was upright again and he had regained some of the weight he had lost. His once-sallow complexion had taken on a healthier glow. Admittedly his black hair was lightly peppered with grey, but that only made his always-dignified appearance all the more distinguished.

  ‘I am,’ he assured me.

  ‘I am very glad to hear it.’

  George Pound released his grip.

  ‘Mr Grice.’ They shook hands.

  ‘I see you have taken up transporting yourself on at least one of John Kemp Stanley’s so-called safety bicycles.’ My godfather wiped his hand on a white rectangle of cotton. Often he seemed more squeamish about touching the living than the dead.

  The inspector glanced down. ‘Do I have oil on my trousers?’

  ‘Not visibly to the naked eye,’ Mr G assured him. ‘But the faint stretching and traces of a crease above each ankle indicate the wearing of clips to prevent one’s apparel becoming entangled in the chain.’

  ‘Come through.’ Pound laughed. ‘I had a lesson from a salesman who tried to convince me that my constables should ride them.’ The office he led us into was cramped, floored with cracked linoleum, and gloomy, as the gas mantle was broken and the window frosted and barred. ‘He reckoned that my men could travel much more quickly than on foot and get down alleys too narrow for a mounted policeman to pass along.’

  He directed me to the only chair, a simple pine upright behind his desk, but I remained standing with the two men.

  ‘You were not impressed,’ I gathered from his manner.

  Sidney Grice was leafing, uninvited, through a stack of paperwork.

  ‘A policeman should look dignified.’ Pound whipped a file out of my guardian’s hands. ‘Not like a child on a hobbyhorse.’ He went behind his desk. ‘Besides which, I don’t need to tell you two how potholed the back streets can be.’

  ‘Then kindly do not trouble to do so.’ Mr G eyed the file like a boy hoping for a gift.

  ‘And, as one constable proved painfully to another, it just takes a kick at the wheel or a stick between the spokes to send the rider sprawling.’ He slipped the file into the middle drawer and locked it, and Sidney Grice made a tiny disappointed noise.

  ‘Miss Albertoria Wright.’ My guardian tapped the floor with his cane like a magician I saw once, but, unlike Monsieur Magico, Sidney Grice did not disappear in a puff of yellow smoke.

  Pound grimaced. ‘Have you seen her body?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Mr G said cagily. ‘The corpse matched her description in nine ways – sex, approximate age, build and height; hair length and natural colour; what limited dental information we have; clo
thing and jewellery – though, of course, those last two are easily changed.’ He let the papers he had picked up fall back on the desk. ‘I would need at least nine more corroborating factors to make a completely confident positive identification.’

  ‘Have you any idea who drove her to this act?’ I asked, and my guardian opened his mouth. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said hastily, ‘that I have made a hundred unsubstantiated assumptions such as that it was Albertoria and that she did commit suicide and that she was driven to it by somebody.’

  Sidney Grice yawned. ‘You are too hard on yourself, Miss Middleton. You have only made forty-eight errors.’

  Inspector Pound scratched his chin. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can think of a couple more.’

  Mr G considered the statement. ‘I assume you are not including any of the ninety-three subdivisions. Oh, I see—’

  I was not the only one who had caught what she had never thought to see again, a brief but very welcome twinkle in the inspector’s eyes.

  ‘A joke,’ Sidney Grice said glumly.

  25

  The Axminister Axeman

  SOMEBODY KNOCKED ON the door.

  ‘Go away,’ Sidney Grice called and we listened as the heavy footfalls faded.

  ‘That might have been important,’ Inspector Pound objected.

  ‘But not to me,’ my guardian pronounced, which, to his way of thinking, should satisfy everyone.

  ‘Actually,’ Inspector Pound held up the key to taunt Sidney Grice, ‘we do have information about a man she was seen leaving the White Unicorn with.’

  ‘With whom,’ my guardian corrected automatically.

  ‘A number of witnesses saw her arguing with him at the bar,’ the inspector ploughed on.

  ‘How many?’ Mr G demanded.

  ‘We spoke to five.’

  ‘A small but prime number then,’ my godfather muttered.

  ‘Enough for us to piece together a reasonable description. It was generally agreed that he was a tall man, a foreigner with military moustaches, middle-aged, close-cropped hair and a scar on his left cheek.’