‘He will not talk to anybody,’ Pound insisted. ‘I tried for two hours.’
Sidney Grice pirouetted. ‘He will speak to me.’ And he marched out of the door.
36
Scars, Scraps and Salvage
THE STAGE THAT was interview room three never changed. Only the actors came and went. The long pine table still stood at right angles to the wall, which was still in need of whitewash. The tall grilled window had been boarded over, though, after – as Inspector Pound had told us on the way – being smashed by an inebriated bottle seller with one of her wares.
Prince Ulrich sat at that table, straight as a broomstick, with a constable behind him.
‘Stay seated,’ the constable commanded, but the Prussian snapped smartly to his feet and held out his hand, horizontally as if to kiss mine. I did not offer it in return but sat in one of the three wooden chairs facing him.
The men remained standing, sizing each other up – the prince lazy-eyed and the inspector coolly – and my guardian might have been a referee between two prizefighters.
Sidney Grice stepped back, clipped his pince-nez on the bridge of his long thin nose, and looked the Prussian up and down. ‘I wonder if you are as false as your duelling scar.’
Prince Ulrich tilted his head in acknowledgement of the observation. ‘How can you tell?’
‘For the slash of a sabre to have cut such a straight line it would have to have smashed through your zygomatic arch and you would have a permanent indentation,’ Mr G explained. ‘You have none, therefore the scar was caused by a careful incision.’
‘They were quite the fashion when I was a cadet,’ the prince admitted. ‘But they had to run up to the eye for the correct effect, a dangerous feat and difficult to pull off with a sabre, and zo I haff a bottle of schnapps and my friends perform the operation with a bayonet.’
‘I am glad I do not have such friends,’ I commented.
‘But you haff not introduced me to yours,’ the prince reminded me.
‘Mr Sidney Grice,’ I said shortly.
‘I recognized you at the inquest.’ The Prussian clicked his heels in a way that I had only seen on the stage before. ‘But for us to meet in person is an honour.’ He bowed his head stiffly.
‘It is,’ my guardian agreed.
‘For whom?’ I enquired, but Sidney Grice waved me to be quiet.
‘May I see your hands, Prince Ulrich?’ he asked, a great deal more politely than he would of most suspects, and the prince held them out palms up. Mr G bent until he was almost touching them. ‘Excellent.’
‘I am glad you are approving.’
‘And the backs, if you please.’ Prince Ulrich rotated his wrists.
‘Do you cut your own nails?’ Sidney Grice sniffed them.
‘Do you?’
‘I am not here to be questioned by you.’
‘Nor I by you.’
‘Kindly expose the soles of your boots to my inquisitive gaze.’
The German flared his nostrils but, nonetheless, turned his back to raise his left foot and then his right.
‘Hauenstein leather,’ Sidney Grice observed. ‘And the left again, please.’ He brought out a pencil and scraped a fleck of dried mud on to the cover of his notebook, holding it up to the window and smelling it. ‘Pity.’ He blew it away. ‘Please be seated, Your Highness.’
The prince glided back on to his seat and the other two sat either side of me. ‘Pound,’ Prince Ulrich said thoughtfully. ‘I knew a Herr Pound. He was a vulgar fellow.’
The inspector bristled. ‘If. . .’
But I was used to the prince’s trick by now. ‘I know a Prince Ulrich,’ I put in. ‘Odious specimen. He attacks women.’
The prince sniffed. ‘A gentleman seeks his pleasure vere he can.’
‘So does a street dog,’ Pound told him.
Prince Ulrich raised a hand as if to slap the inspector with the back of it.
‘My Gott, if you spoke to me like that in my country—’
‘Unfortunately for you, this is my country and, if you do not lower your hand immediately, I shall charge you with threatening a police officer in front of three witnesses,’ Pound said angrily.
‘Schweinigel,’ the Prussian hissed, but pulled his arm down.
‘Well, this is jolly.’ Sidney Grice whipped off his pince-nez and jabbed them to within half an inch of the Prussian’s left eye. ‘You were apprehended allegedly in the process of purchasing a woman for the purpose of outraging her against her will.’ My guardian made a quick note in his own shorthand.
‘And what a poor purchase she was,’ Schlangezahn sneered.
‘I haff seen better scraps thrown to the butcher’s cat.’
Inspector Pound drew a sharp breath but I touched his sleeve quickly.
‘You thought you had paid for me?’ I enquired. ‘You have not begun to pay for me yet, Prince Ulrich – nor any of those you have abused.’
The Prussian half lowered his eyelids and he tilted his head back. ‘I haff not been charged with any others.’
Sidney Grice snapped his notebook shut. ‘You have an excuse.’ And the prince eyed him indolently.
‘I do not make excuses.’
‘Whatever you call it.’ Mr G flapped his hand irritably. ‘Let us hear it and then we can all go home for a nice cup of tea.’
Prince Ulrich curled his lip. ‘Only the English could regard leaves soaked in water as the height of sophisticated pleasure.’ He yawned behind the side of his fist. ‘Very vell. I too am appalled by the accounts of the fates of your vomanhood. Your police have proved to be impotent and incompetent—’
‘This had better be good,’ Pound warned. ‘For you won’t have a comfortable night if we put you in the cells.’
‘And zo,’ the prince continued, ‘I decided to set my own trap, use the services of a. . .’ His long fingers combed the air for a word. ‘Procurer. And, once he had taken my money, to hand him over to the authorities. I voz no more to know that the procurer was trying to catch the villain than he voz to know I was doing the same.’
‘But you pulled my hair,’ I remembered.
‘I played my part as you played yours.’ The prince batted my accusation away like an annoying bluebottle.
Mr G slipped his notebook away and stood up. ‘Good day, Oberst.’ He nodded.
‘You will wait in my office, Mr Grice?’ Pound’s voice was icy.
‘I shall,’ my guardian concurred. ‘But not today. Farewell, Inspector.’
‘That was not a question.’ I had never known George Pound to exhibit such bottled anger.
‘I beg to differ.’ With a swish of his Ulster overcoat, Sidney Grice was gone, his ward trailing sheepishly back up the corridor.
37
The Feet of Friends and the Power of Steam
LIMEHOUSE DID NOT seem so menacing in the light of day. It bustled with dock life and there was even the consoling sight of a policeman ambling through a group of black sailors, who, to judge from their reeling gaits, had not long been on dry land and, from the way they swayed along in straight lines, had not yet visited a bar.
Gerry Dawson guided Meg up a street leading away from the water and we negotiated a series of sunlit alleys, barely recognizable as those that we had edged along at night.
‘’Ere we are.’ We stopped by the loading bay.
Five urchins tumbled through a doorway across the court. I gave them a penny each and they loitered nearby, watching us curiously.
‘Lost yer nosebag, missus?’ one called, to his friends’ hilarity, making me very glad indeed that I had been kind to them, especially as I could not be so cruel as to mock their wretched appearances. Every one of them had the bow legs and bulging brows of rickets.
‘Shove off.’ Gerry waved a threatening fist and they backed a pace or so but did not scatter.
‘The little rascals,’ my guardian said, with a benevolence that he reserved almost exclusively for people who were rude to me.
T
he bay was no more than a tumbledown rotting wooden shelter, attached by one long side and one short to a crumbled brick wall, the other corner once supported by a post which was now snapped and hanging loose, so that the roof sagged from about eight feet high at the wall to three feet at the unfixed corner. Old soiled straw on the cobbles indicated that a pony or donkey must have been housed there sometimes.
‘Well, he ain’t here now,’ Gerry observed.
‘If only I had an opening for another assistant,’ Mr G muttered, ‘I could reject you for it without an interview.’
‘Not so pretty as your present one,’ Gerry said, more gallantly than truthfully.
‘Miss Middleton’s unfortunate appearance is none of your concern,’ my guardian scolded.
The ground was trampled with a jumble of bootprints and hoof marks.
‘I suppose it is too much to hope you are capable of recognizing your friend’s impressions.’ Mr G ran the ferule of his stick round the smudged outline of a heel.
‘Would you recognize yours?’ I challenged.
‘If I ever had a friend I most certainly would.’
‘Wouldn’t recognize my own in all that mess,’ Gerry contributed.
And Mr G dropped his eye into his hand and straight into his waistcoat. ‘Yet another reason why I shall not be offering you the imaginary position.’
He raked about in the straw with the ferule of his cane, uncovering nothing other than more muck. ‘If you were to kneel and sift through it with your fingers, Miss Middleton—’
‘Perhaps you would like to show me what you mean,’ I broke in, but neither of us seemed inclined to follow the other’s suggestion.
Sidney Grice leaned in as far as he could and puddled his stick around.
‘Found anything?’ Gerry asked over my shoulder.
‘I have found almost innumerable things,’ Mr G answered testily, ‘most of them being the end products of equine digestive processes, though at least two canine and four feline visitors have made generous contributions, not to mention a difficult to ascertain number of Mus Musculus—’
‘Who?’ Gerry queried.
‘Mice,’ I translated.
‘And Rattus Norvegitus visitors.’
‘I can guess that one.’
‘And,’ Mr G’s voice rose indignantly, ‘the young of a species unworthy of classification as Homo Sapiens, indeed scarcely describable as Homo.’
If the children knew that he was disparaging them they showed no sign of it, merely calling out helpful suggestions to my godfather not to slip, along with a toothless boy’s insistence that any tin dropped in there must have been his.
Sidney Grice pulled his head out and straightened up. ‘Got a rag, Miss Middleton?’
The filth began to steam and, in places, bubble, slurping and popping with his vigorous stirring.
‘I have this.’
‘It will have to do.’ He wiped his cane clean on my pink silk handkerchief. ‘Want it back?’
‘No.’
He dropped it in the gutter and leaned in sideways to scrutinize the brick wall to his side.
‘Ummm humph,’ he said – or words to that effect before repeating the sounds backwards. ‘Aha.’ He took hold of the corner and leaned in sideways. ‘Interesting.’ He re-emerged. ‘Possibly.’ And fiddled with the handle of his cane.
‘Is that the cane with your clockwork fingers?’ I asked.
They had not been a great success at picking up biscuits.
‘A similar but manual device.’ Mr G pressed a button, the ferule retracting to expose two flattened prongs which, when he twisted the handle, closed together like miniature fingers, hinging apart with a counter-twist.
‘Excellent,’ he grunted, and reached in and upwards to something just under the roof. ‘Steady,’ he instructed himself. ‘And . . . Got you.’ He emerged triumphantly with what looked like a piece of fur in the grip of his prongs. ‘What colour would you say Lieutenant Peter Lewis James Hockaday’s hair was or – to cut to the chase – would you say it matched this?’
I looked over and saw a clump of yellow hairs.
‘Very similar,’ I said with a sinking feeling. ‘Oh dear Lord.’
As Sidney Grice rotated his find I saw that attached to the underside was an area – about the size of a postage stamp – of scalp.
‘Looks like he had his head banged good and hard on the wall,’ Gerry contributed.
‘If we could find a board I can get a proper look without soiling my boots,’ Sidney Grice mused. ‘It is quite dark in there but I am fairly certain that there are another three pieces and, lower down,’ he indicated with his stick, ‘are twenty-six stains, six of which bear seven striking resemblances to blood.’
‘A violent struggle,’ Gerry pronounced gravely.
‘I appear to have a new professional rival.’ My guardian dropped his sample into a wide test tube.
‘Thruppence to the boy who brings us a wide plank,’ I called across the court and there was an immediate stampede.
‘And a free night in Commercial Road Police Station if I discover that it is stolen,’ Sidney Grice called after them.
‘Well, they ain’t gonna go to the plank shop and buy one,’ Gerry Dawson snorted.
‘No, but they might be able to borrow one from a carpenter,’ I said hopefully.
‘’Ere you come back wiv that, you likkle bleeders,’ a woman shrieked over the clatter of clogs returning at full pelt.
38
The Dancing Needles
MRS FREVAL WAS cheerier when she answered the door that morning and I wished that I could share her mood. ‘Ooh, ’e reeely reeely loves ’is noo cap.’ She swirled her skirts.
Turndap had something that might have been an old paisley pincushion tied with a tartan ribbon under his chin, and I never believed that a dog actually felt embarrassment until Mrs Freval’s mongrel proved me wrong.
‘You look very smart,’ I said, but he avoided my gaze and backed shamefacedly away.
I climbed to the top floor.
‘Is that you, Peter?’ Geraldine called in response to my knock.
‘It is March.’
‘I am coming.’
A floorboard creaked and the door came open a crack.
‘Oh, it is you.’ Geraldine let me in, locking and bolting the door after me. ‘I have been knitting,’ she announced, as if she did anything else.
‘What will it be?’
‘A scarf for Peter for when the winter comes.’ She settled back into her armchair and picked up the wool. ‘He feels the cold more after his time abroad.’
‘That is a kind thought.’ I sat in the only other armchair.
The drapes were drawn as they often were, especially if Geraldine were alone. She felt safer in a cocoon.
‘He is very good to me.’ She slid a needle through and looped her brown yarn around it. ‘He does not like to wear bright things.’
‘A lot of men do not.’
‘Mr Grice is very—’ Geraldine Hockaday struggled for the right word. ‘Colourful.’
‘In more ways than one.’ I hesitated. ‘Geraldine—’
‘I have not asked you,’ she admitted, ‘because I can tell by your face something is wrong.’
‘It did not go well,’ I confessed as she watched me with her quick nervous eyes. ‘We caught Schlangezahn as he was about to assault me.’
‘But that is exactly what you hoped to do,’ Geraldine cried, her triumph mixed with consternation.
‘But we had to let him go,’ I said flatly. ‘The police were under a lot of pressure and I had no real proof.’
‘But you had Peter as a witness, surely, and Peter is an officer and a gentleman. He has three medals.’
I took a breath. ‘I am afraid that we do not know where Peter is.’
Geraldine’s eyes flickered wildly as if searching for her brother in that stuffy, dark room. ‘Why not?’
‘We had to leave him in Limehouse.’
‘Alone?’
‘I am afraid so.’
Geraldine hunched over her work, needles dancing around each other but the scarf not noticeably any longer. ‘It is I who am afraid. Have you heard nothing from him?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, and Geraldine curled herself deeper over.
‘Then you must find him,’ she said. ‘It is as simple as that. Find him.’ Her voice rose in pitch but was still low in volume as the words rattled out of her. ‘Find-find-find-him.’
‘We will do everything we can,’ I vowed. But I had no idea what we could do.
39
Snakes, Teeth and Castles in the Air
SIDNEY GRICE SPRAWLED diagonally in his armchair, his feet on the coal scuttle. He was browsing through a thick document. Booking v. Booking I read on the cover.
‘Scrutinize this,’ he greeted me, delving in a waistcoat pocket to show me something like a small biscuit for a good dog.
‘Is this the button you took from Lucy?’
‘About which you have shown a singular and eldritch absence of curiosity,’ he confirmed accusingly.
I refused to admit that I had forgotten all about it. ‘Can I see?’
My guardian spun the button high in the air and I caught it in one hand – cream ivory with some symbols carved on it in cameo.
I squinted. ‘It looks like a beer barrel tied in a rope.’
Mr G held out his pince-nez. ‘Perhaps you should consider getting a pair of these.’
I got up and helped myself to his silver-handled third-best magnifying glass on the desk and went to the window for the better light.
‘Rotate it ninety degrees anti-clockwise,’ my guardian advised. ‘Where is that slattern? She went up twenty minutes ago.’
‘Perhaps she did not hear the bell,’ I suggested.
‘She heard it. There was a three-second pause in her activities.’
‘A castle.’ I moved the glass out to sharpen the focus. ‘With a snake wrapped around it.’
‘In which era and at what location have castles been constructed with twin roots?’ He let his pince-nez dangle on its pink cord. ‘It represents a lower molar.’ He put his fingertips together. ‘How is your German?’
Dark Dawn Over Steep House Page 16
