Molly sucked thoughtfully. ‘I dontn’t not think he does,’ she decided. ‘Because he said you’d say no but to tell you to say yes. And please stop crying, miss, I dontn’t not like to see you looking so . . .’ she struggled for the bon mot, ‘ugly.’
‘Tell Mr Grice I shall be down in five minutes,’ I decided.
‘Why cantn’t I not tell him now?’ Molly was enjoying her thumb enormously. ‘Before I forget.’
I tried again. ‘Tell him now that I shall be down in five minutes.’
‘That dontn’t not make sense,’ she decided. ‘I shall go and see if he understands.’ And she trudged down the stairs, telling herself, ‘No wondrous he’s always muttoning on about lumpy wrenches.’
I went to the bathroom and washed my face and hands, then back in my room pinned my hair whilst sucking on two parma violets at once. The least I could do would be to explain in person that I was not going to see any more clients. The very thought of dealing with another death tore at my shredded heart.
Sidney Grice was pacing restlessly when I went down. A young woman sat in my armchair and half rose when I came in, but I ushered her down.
‘Mrs Peters, this is Miss Middleton,’ my guardian introduced us. He turned to me. ‘I should like very much to take on her case. It is intriguing and – better yet – she is extremely wealthy. But I must go to Madrid, of all places.’
‘Another sighting?’ I hardly dared ask, for he had made six wasted journeys throughout Great Britain so far.
‘A man with a scarred nose,’ my guardian confirmed, and squeezed my hand before he addressed his visitor again. ‘I am obliged to leave in—’ He flipped open his hunter and checked it against the mantle clock, poking his head into the hall to double-check against the grandmother clock. ‘Ten and nineteen minutes.’
He declaimed that last number with great relish and propelled me towards his client.
‘I am so sorry,’ I began and held out my hand.
The visitor grasped it, as if to save herself falling down a cliff, and rose. She was a tiny lady and quite plain with mousy hair, and I liked her instantly for that.
‘Oh, Miss Middleton,’ she wept, and I saw that she must have been crying as much as I had. ‘Please make him change his mind. It is my little girl. She has gone missing and the police can find no trace of her. I have been to twelve private detectives, including that charlatan Cochran.’ I saw my godfather beam approvingly at this description of his rival. ‘I have thirty men combing London,’ Mrs Peters continued, ‘and put up posters for a thousand pounds reward. And now I am besieged by blackmailers and idiots, but there has been no trace of her.’
‘I am truly sorry,’ Sidney Grice stole the words from my mouth. ‘But I have given my word and lives may depend upon it.’ He put his watch away and slipped his third finger through the jackal ring hanging on the chain. ‘But Miss Middleton will be able to help you.’
‘Miss Middleton,’ Mrs Peters looked at me uncertainly and I shook my head.
‘I—’
‘But of course,’ Sidney Grice assured her breezily. ‘After all, she is London’s premier female personal detective.’
I pulled up a wooden chair and sat beside but facing the lady, and took her hands in mine. ‘What is your daughter’s name?’ I asked.
‘I have much to do,’ Sidney Grice said and left the room, but not before he had tugged the bell cord twice for fresh tea.
Epilogue
I WENT EARLY TO the grave for I had no wish to see anyone or to be seen. The headstone had been erected, simple white marble with the words in black – a rank, a name and two dates – and the space for two more entries.
I had always believed what I read in Deuteronomy, Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. But I wrested that right from God’s fingers when I swore my oath. If it took my life, if I lost my soul, George Pound would be avenged.
It was four years, however, 1888, before I was to come across ‘Jack’ again.
The sun was only just showing over the rooftops as I came away, and it would be a bright crisp winter morning. But that light would never penetrate to the death and depravity buried beneath those burned ruins on Abbey Road. There would forever be a dark dawn over Steep House.
*
I was young again last night. I climbed up to look at the stars and saw George on the roof of the Anatomy Building across the street, so strong and handsome and kind. He held out his arms to me and I started to run but, of course, I fell and, as I hit the ground, I awoke with a jolt, knowing that I was dead. And I would have given anything for it to be true.
There are so many things that I should say, but I am sorry; it hurts too much. I cannot write any more.
M.M.
On George Pound’s birthday, 1944
DARK DAWN OVER STEEP HOUSE
Pegasus Books Ltd
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by M. R. C. Kasasian
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition December 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
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ISBN: 978-1-68177-564-7
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Dark Dawn Over Steep House Page 41
