‘Who? Oh yeah.’ The flower girl sniggered. ‘Comes wiv-art ’is cart this morning. Lor’ but ’e’s gotta nerve. Gotta fearful drought in me, I ’ave, he says. See if I can’t p’suade a friendly skivvy t’give me a bit of a cuppa and bit more of the uvva’ She cackled and nudged the chief inspector. ‘Bold as brass straight to the front door, ’e was. And ’e must be gettin’ plenty of the uvva the lengf of time ’e’s been in there.’
‘Did you notice which house he went in?’ Pound asked casually.
‘Vat one,’ she pointed.
‘Amber House,’ I said in alarm.
86
The Shattering
CHIEF INSPECTOR POUND was off, coat flapping behind him. He was a tall man but not particularly fast – especially since his injury – and I soon caught up. But Sidney Grice, dipping wildly, was ahead of us both. He was slightly built and no taller than I, but I never knew a man with faster reactions and acceleration. By the time we reached the opposite pavement he was already at the front door, but instead of ringing the bell, my godfather stopped and brought out his gold cigarette case.
‘Three lever,’ he scoffed. ‘You might as well use a ribbon in a bow.’
He flipped his case open and selected half a dozen slender steel picks, inserting them one at a time into the keyhole and giving each a tiny twist.
‘Ever thought of ringing the bell?’ Pound asked a little breathlessly.
‘Certainly.’ Mr G slipped what looked like a blank key between the picks. ‘But I dismissed the idea as reckless. We only have four advantages – our numbers, your brutish bulk, my ingenuity and, I hope, the element of surprise.’
Even in our hurry I reflected that the only merit of my presence seemed to be in making up numbers.
The inspector watched uneasily – fully aware that he was witnessing a criminal act – as Sidney Grice made a few tiny adjustments and twisted the key anticlockwise. There was a click, and he bfffed in satisfaction before extracting his instruments and replacing them in the same order.
‘Hurry, man,’ Pound urged quietly.
‘Hurry is a bent fork,’ Mr G told him cryptically.
‘Then unbend it,’ I suggested, not at all sure what either of us meant now.
‘Stop shouting.’ He turned the handle and, standing to one side, pushed the door open with his cane.
The hallway was deserted as we stepped inside. I closed the door carefully.
‘Slide your feet,’ my guardian instructed, and we shuffled along, me lifting my heel to stop the nail scraping along the floor. ‘If only you had taken such care in my house.’
‘I thought you said it was our house.’
‘Our home. My house.’
Sidney Grice held up his hand and we stopped to listen. Nothing. He shook his head and we edged down the corridor alongside the stairs. The doors to either side were shut, but the sun came through the fanlight and a stained-glass window at the far end. And, as my eyes accustomed themselves to the relative shade, I noticed a brighter patch running across the floor behind the back of the stairs and bending up on to the bamboo-patterned wall. We stopped just before it and Mr G opened his satchel, taking a four-inch circular mirror and slipping it over the ferule of his cane, stretching it outwards to view round the corner.
‘Well, he has certainly been here.’ He pulled the cane back, dipped into his bag again and, when his hand emerged, it was holding his ivory-handled revolver. He pulled back the hammer with great care but the click, as it locked, shattered the silence. ‘Bother,’ he breathed and stepped out.
The door facing him now was ajar. He took two swift paces and flung himself through.
‘Oh, dear God.’ I clamped a hand over my mouth.
Aellen and Muriel were sprawled on the kitchen floor, the shimmering pools of deep red oozing from their stomachs merging into a thickening pool under the table that separated them. Aellen’s face was turned away but Muriel had a large lambda gouged into her forehead.
‘Examine them, Chief Inspector,’ my guardian commanded.
Sidney Grice was skirting that pool and using his mirror to check the room off to the left, before he revealed it as the pantry – unoccupied, with a back door bolted. He hurried through to what I judged at a glimpse to be the bootroom.
Chief Inspector Pound was bent over the bodies, his face as grey as when he had lain on the brink of death in the London Hospital. Was that really only just over a year ago?
‘Hardly more than girls.’ George Pound crossed himself. ‘God rest you both.’ He straightened up and touched an empty cake tin on the table, and then all the pots and pans on the range, as if it were some kind of ritual.
‘And God damn the man who did this,’ I added.
Pound doubled over the sink so low that I thought he was going to be sick, but he turned back with a puzzled expression and ran a finger under the tap.
‘I have hopes that we shall damn him ourselves before this day is out.’ My guardian took in the room.
‘The strange thing is—’ Pound began.
‘There are many strange things. Tell me later,’ Mr G rapped.
‘Oh, poor Lucy and Freddy,’ I said fearfully.
‘Indeed.’ My guardian looked lost. ‘Good servants are difficult to replace.’
Sidney Grice went back along the hall and was at the foot of the stairs when he stopped again. I listened too and heard something – a stifled cry, I thought.
‘Through there.’ The chief inspector pointed.
‘The pink room,’ Mr G said, with more loathing than he had greeted the murdered maids. ‘I think I can safely say that we have lost the element of surprise.’
He went over and struck three times with the handle of his cane before opening the door.
87
Blood on the Steel
FREDDY SAT SIDE-ON, twisting towards us.
‘Good afternoon,’ Sidney Grice called out cheerily, as George Pound followed him in with me close on their heels. ‘I do not suppose that you ever thought you would be pleased to see me, Miss Wilde.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Her wrists had been tied with blue wool to the arms of her cherry-wood chair.
‘God must be at the very pinnacle of fashion from the number of times he has been invoked this day,’ Sidney Grice chatted as he turned his back on her.
‘Freddy.’ I hurried over.
‘Leave her.’
I spun round to see that the voice came from the bootmaker. He was standing behind Lucy who was also in her chair, manacled to it with red wool, a knife held under her chin.
‘I have been looking for you,’ I told him. ‘That repair you did was hopeless.’ I went towards him. ‘Listen. You can hear the nail scratching the floor.’
‘It has done reparable damage to my Hampshire oak floor,’ my godfather confirmed.
‘Stop right there,’ the bootmaker commanded. ‘Now go and stand by the ugly sow.’
‘There is only one pig in this room,’ I told him.
‘Not so close,’ he said, and I moved a couple of feet away.
‘You – the famous Mr Grice – point that gun towards your friend in the flashy suit . . . lower the hammer gently . . . Now put it on the floor.’
‘Don’t do it,’ Pound urged. ‘You can put a bullet in his brain before he can move a muscle.’
‘Had your eyes checked recently?’ the bootmaker asked mockingly, and put the tip of his knife to a silver line on Lucy’s throat.
‘Cheesewire,’ I realized.
There was a loop of it round Lucy’s neck and the bootmaker held up a length behind her.
‘The other end is tied through my belt,’ he explained with great satisfaction. ‘So, if I should fall over, it will slice her head off like a ball of cheddar. Put the gun down.’
‘Please do as he asks.’ Lucy trembled and Sidney Grice obeyed.
‘Now . . .’ The bootmaker smirked with milky-coffee lips. ‘Kick it towards me.’
‘This is most embarrassing.’ Mr G
took off his Ulster overcoat and put it folded on to the occasional table beside him. ‘For I am forced to admit that I am hopeless at kicking and I always have been. I was never selected to play in any games at school.’
‘Just do it.’
‘Very well.’ My guardian placed his soft-brimmed hat on top, rubbed his hands, leaned heavily on his cane, swung his right foot back and let fly. The revolver rose a few inches, clattered down and shot across the floor to stop at the side of Lucy’s chair.
‘Actually, that was not bad, was it?’ Mr G tossed his head proudly.
‘Well done you,’ Pound said tersely. ‘I suppose you couldn’t have accidentally put it out of reach?’
‘I do not have accidents, Inspector.’ Mr G expanded his chest and flexed his shoulders like a weightlifter warming up for a new challenge. ‘You should have known that by now.’
‘And now that silly satchel.’ The bootmaker stroked Lucy’s cheek with his free hand and she shrank back.
‘This is chrome-tanned Highland doeskin,’ Mr G retorted indignantly but skimmed it over to stop just by the bootmaker’s feet.
‘Help me,’ Lucy beseeched, and her captor grinned. He had good teeth, I noticed, regular and clean.
‘I am the only one worth begging, darling.’ He combed his fingers through her hair, lifting it back to show her scarred brow.
‘What do you want?’ George asked.
‘That is for me to know.’
‘If you were going to kill them, you could have done it well before now.’
‘And spoil the fun.’ The bootmaker grinned. ‘Who are you anyway?’
‘I am Chief Inspector Pound of the Metropolitan Police and I must warn you—’
‘No, you must not,’ the bootmaker shouted. ‘The only thing you must do, Officer, is to keep quiet and do as I say.’
‘Those are two things,’ Sidney Grice pointed out.
‘And you can shut your soapy mouth too.’ He pulled the knife back, forcing Lucy’s chin up, and she gasped.
It was a terrible-looking instrument, a good eight inches long, similar to those that the knacker’s men used to dispatch horses in the street, and there was blood already on the steel.
‘You speak very well,’ I commented.
‘When I choose to,’ he agreed.
‘For a man who has spent some time in Uckfield,’ Mr G observed.
‘I told you to shut your mouth,’ the bootmaker snapped.
‘You told me that I could, not that I should,’ Sidney Grice differed.
‘Well, shut it then.’ But curiosity was already getting the better of the man. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I made many studies of accents.’ Sidney Grice smiled modestly. ‘And the dialect in the south-western quadrant of High Weald is unpleasant but quite distinct. However, you were not raised there. You did not, exempli gratia, pronounce only as oany, which those indigenous to that area of Sussex never quite manage to mask. I must confess, however, that I am struggling to isolate all the ingredients of your speech.’
‘You are too damned clever for my liking,’ the bootmaker snarled.
‘I cannot deny it.’ Mr G raised his cane. ‘Would you like me to transmit this to you too?’
‘Well now.’ The bootmaker allowed Lucy’s head to drop a fraction. ‘Why would you be offering that?’ He toyed absently with a bow at the front of Lucy’s dress. ‘I have read about your trick canes.’ He tugged the button open. ‘How do I know it is not one of those dynamite walking sticks you had in The Red-Handed League?’
That adventure was a Fleet Street fantasy by one of the many journalists who Sidney Grice was taking to court.
‘You may also have read that I never tell a lie,’ Sidney Grice told him, ‘and you have my word that it is not.’
‘He is infuriatingly truthful,’ George affirmed. He had edged perhaps six inches along the wall but was standing bolt upright.
‘Hold it up.’
Mr G did so with the flourish of a drum major. Most of his sticks had globe tops, but this had a handle at a right angle to the shaft.
‘What does that catch on the side do?’ The bootmaker squinted. ‘Show me.’
Sidney Grice pressed it and the top of the handle sprang open to reveal a brass lever with each end rounded into a disc.
‘What the hell did you bring that for?’ Pound demanded furiously. ‘Honestly, Grice, I know you have a reputation for eccentricity to live up to, but a Morse code key! When exactly were you planning on using it?”
‘Mr Grice to you, Pound.’
‘Chief Inspector Pound to you, Mr Grice.’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ I scolded. ‘Mr Grice often has trouble finding a telegram office,’ I explained. ‘He can connect this to any convenient telegraph wire and send his own message.’
‘Which is a criminal offence,’ Pound pointed out in disgust. ‘And that’s on top of illegal entry.’
‘I shall not press charges,’ Lucy promised.
‘Would you rather I had brought my musical cane or the one with the built-in periscope?’ Mr G queried.
‘As this gentleman implied, a weapon might have been a good idea.’ Pound groaned despairingly. ‘A swordstick, for example.’
‘It’s a long time since a policeman called me that.’ The bootmaker looked slightly mollified.
‘I had my revolver,’ my guardian protested, ‘and I saw no reason to bring a bomb.’
‘Point it towards your girl and let me see your thumb.’ The bootmaker screwed up his eyes. ‘Now push the lever.’
My guardian was expressionless as he complied. Nothing happened.
‘I still don’t trust you.’ The man pondered. ‘It could be on a timer.’
‘Shall I take it outside?’ I offered.
‘Place it on the table pointing at your girl,’ the bootmaker decided. ‘But if I hear so much as a click . . .’ He brandished the knife and Lucy cried, ‘No, please.’
‘I like it when they beg.’ He smiled grimly. ‘So what have you got in your sack, girl?’
‘Shall I show you?’ I went to the table, unclipped my handbag and brought out the wad of seat stuffing.
‘What’s that? Your spare wig?’ The bootmaker guffawed.
‘No, that is at the laundry.’ I put it down beside Sidney Grice’s cane. ‘My gin flask and cigarette case followed – handkerchief, notebook and pencil, bottle of sal volatile, parma violets, perfumes, my purse. When I had constructed a small mountain, I held my bag upside down and gave it a shake. ‘Happy?’
The bootmaker laughed. ‘You are worse than my—’
‘Mother?’ I suggested, and his face stiffened.
‘Just put it all away.’
‘In the Golden Dragon you called your captor a fool, Miss Bocking,’ Sidney Grice declared. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain why.’
The bootmaker laughed – not the jolly chuckle he had used in the square, but two sharp yips like an excited puppy.
‘That is an excellent idea, Miss snout-in-the-air Bocking,’ he sneered. ‘Tell them.’
Lucy’s head went back and she exhaled through her mouth.
‘Tell them.’ The bootmaker raised his right elbow.
‘All right.’ Lucy gasped and I could hardly hear her words, much less believe them. ‘Because I arranged to have Freddy assaulted.’
88
The Order of Death
FREDDY DOUBLED UP, winded by shock. ‘Lucy!’ She breathed fast. ‘That cannot be true. Why are you making her say it?’
‘The man I hired was just supposed to kiss and cuddle you,’ Lucy protested. ‘I thought you might enjoy it, but he sent this man instead.’
‘Naughty.’ The bootmaker tweaked the wire and Lucy sobbed as he continued. ‘That’s not what Johnny the Walrus told me.’
‘All right.’ Lucy choked and he ran his forefinger under the wire to loosen it, exposing a vivid red mark. ‘I paid him to violate her.’
The noose might have been round Freddy from
the noise that escaped her.
‘And tell her why you chose to approach Wallace,’ I challenged.
‘I went to the trial because I thought it might be fun.’ Lucy forced an odd air of lightness. ‘It didn’t last very long because the case collapsed, but it was obvious that he did those things.’
‘Why him especially?’ I insisted.
‘I do not know what you mean.’ Lucy adopted as haughty a manner as she could muster.
‘We have a photograph of Eric,’ I said flatly, and Lucy tapped her chair with a flapping hand.
‘All right, he was older than my brother would be if he were still alive, but he looked a bit like Eric,’ she admitted sulkily. ‘But that was just a bit of silliness.’
‘Oh, Lucy, you cannot mean that.’ Freddy was aghast.
‘I did not think he would use violence.’ Lucy looked blankly ahead. ‘I thought you might want to know what it was like – to have a man – and that way there would be no guilt on your part.’
The bootmaker cocked his head. ‘That might be true,’ he conceded pleasantly. ‘All I know is Wallace boasted he was to be paid to have a woman. I got him blind drunk and took his place.’
‘Animal,’ Pound breathed. He had moved another few inches towards the man.
‘We are all animals,’ the bootmaker retorted. ‘Only some of us have the sense to know it.’ He wrapped a rag around his left hand to give a better grip on the wire.
‘How quickly and smoothly the conversation moves from molestation to philosophy.’ My guardian leaned on the table. ‘And, since we are seeking the deeper truths, and Miss Bocking has failed to demonstrate any affection for them, perhaps I could be of assistance in our quest.’
‘Go on,’ the bootmaker said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Inspector Pound assured him. ‘He will.’
Mr G ignored him. ‘I wrote a letter of complaint to each of thirty-one insurance companies about the unconscionable delay in settling the claim for the destruction of Steep House.’
Freddy spoke wearily. ‘My solicitor has been doing so for years, but I do not have the means to take them to court.’
Sidney Grice did not even glance at her. ‘Two lies in one sentence.’
Dark Dawn Over Steep House Page 35
