The Mangle Street Murders Read online

  ‘Apparently he was very petulant at being disturbed and told them just to get on with it. When the news came back, Ashby’s nerve broke. So at seven fifty-five, almost two hours after the prescribed time, he was dragged struggling and screaming on to the trap to fall so far that his head was ripped clean off his body. The hangman’s assistant fainted and several other officials were unwell.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Sidney Grice clapped his hands.

  ‘How so?’ Inspector Pound asked quietly.

  ‘He got a taste of his own medicine,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘Where is the deterrent or the punishment if the guilty man does not suffer?’

  ‘What kind of people are we protecting if he does?’ I asked, and Sidney Grice smirked and said, ‘I have warned you already about reading philosophy books. They fill the head with ideas, and ideas in the feminine head can all too easily upset her mental equilibrium. This is not my opinion but the result of many years of scientific research by doctors in the Bedlam Royal Hospital for the Insane.’

  ‘Then they are more in need of treatment than their patients,’ I said, and my guardian sniffed.

  ‘The strange thing is,’ the inspector said, ‘that Ashby was still insisting his wife’s death was an accident.’

  ‘Forty accidents.’ My guardian snorted. ‘But I see you are a little disturbed by the experience, Inspector. What you need is an intoxicatingly strong drink – of tea.’

  29

  The Pity

  A week had passed since the execution and Sidney Grice seemed somewhat subdued. He spoke to me even less than usual at mealtimes and immersed himself in his files in between times. He was called out once to deal with a fraudulent insurance claim and took me to the scene of the alleged burglary, but other than that our lives became very dull indeed.

  It was on the Tuesday morning that Inspector Pound called on us next. I took him into the study and explained that my guardian was at the funeral of a friend but that he should be home shortly.

  ‘I did not know he had any friends,’ Inspector Pound said, standing by the window to the street.

  ‘Are you not his friend?’

  ‘I have a good opinion of his forensic skills.’ The inspector peered round the fretwork screen. ‘Look at that.’

  I joined him at the window to see a landau pass, with a heraldic shield on the door, and the solitary passenger, a haughty young man with a weak chin and a tall silk hat.

  ‘That is Edwin Lord Worlington. He is probably the most eligible bachelor in England and, therefore, the world, but he has still not settled upon a wife.’

  ‘I do not suppose his amphibian eyes have helped.’

  Inspector Pound laughed and said, ‘An income of over forty thousand pounds would make most women overlook that.’

  ‘But what about you?’ I asked. ‘I think you said you live with your sister. Do you not have a wife?’

  ‘No.’ He turned and surveyed my profile. ‘And it is a pity you are so poor and plain. And a shame you have such intelligence and spirit, Miss Middleton. You might otherwise make a man an acceptable spouse. Even Mr Grice might be improved by having one.’

  I laughed. ‘I cannot imagine him ever taking a wife.’

  ‘But,’ the inspector raised his eyebrows, ‘I have heard it said that he was engaged once to be married.’

  ‘Really? But who was she and what happened?’

  Inspector Pound shrugged. ‘I know nothing else about it. She probably fled the country.’

  I laughed and asked, ‘Am I very plain then?’

  ‘I will wager you have never even been kissed.’

  ‘You would win your bet,’ I said, and the inspector leaned towards me. At that moment we heard the front doorbell ring and, shortly afterwards, my guardian came in to find us sitting primly by the fire. He had a black suit on and his hair was plastered down.

  ‘Did you get caught in the rain?’ I asked.

  ‘It would take more than rain to catch me out,’ he said. ‘I was fully expecting it.’

  ‘But not prepared by taking an umbrella,’ Inspector Pound said.

  The two men shook hands and my guardian shuddered.

  ‘I have a horror of umbrellas – great black things flapping over my head. They are one of the four things that truly frighten me.’ He tugged the bell rope. ‘Well, Inspector, you would hardly want to visit Miss Middleton so I assume you are here on police business.’

  Inspector Pound nodded.

  ‘Would you like me to leave?’ I asked, but Inspector Pound said, ‘This may interest you too, though I hope it is of no interest at all.’

  ‘How so?’ Sidney Grice said, pulling up a chair to face the fire.

  ‘It is probably nothing,’ Inspector Pound said, ‘but you remember William Ashby’s description of the Italian who bought the knife?’

  Sidney Grice’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forwards.

  ‘Of course,’ he said quietly as Molly came in.

  ‘Where is my tea?’

  ‘I was just about to bring it when you rang, sir.’

  ‘Then why did you not bring it with you?’

  ‘I thought it might be urgent.’

  My guardian snapped his fingers in her face. ‘I do not pay you to think, lumpen girl. If I did I would want my money back. From now on I shall use a code. One ring means come instantly. Two rings – bring tea. Three rings – fill my flask. Got that?’

  ‘I think so. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Go and get the tea.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but what happens if you ring four times?’

  ‘Now.’

  Molly ran out and I said, ‘You are so unreasonable to her,’ and my guardian flapped his hand.

  ‘I am always a reasonable man,’ he said. ‘Unfair, unkind and rude, I grant you, but my powers of reasoning have never failed me yet.’ He tidied the black handkerchief in his breast pocket and turned back to our visitor.

  ‘We had a report from Paddington,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘A trivial matter on the face of it, but apparently a street urchin went into a pawnbroker’s shop off Star Street, trying to sell him a wig.’

  ‘But—’ I began.

  ‘What of it?’ Sidney Grice broke in.

  ‘Probably nothing, but the broker was suspicious as to how the lad had come into possession of such an expensive item, and summoned a policeman.’ Inspector Pound hesitated. ‘It was a very curly wig with bright red hair.’

  ‘And you think this somehow substantiates Ashby’s fantastical tale?’ Sidney Grice asked.

  ‘It is a thought,’ Inspector Pound said.

  ‘And an absurd one. Where’ – my guardian’s eye fell out and he popped it back without a pause – ‘is this ragamuffin now then?’

  The inspector looked queasy. ‘We have him at the station.’

  ‘Well, I have nothing else to do.’ He swivelled his eye around with one finger. ‘Let us pay him a visit.’

  Molly returned a little shakily with a laden tray.

  ‘Have you ever heard of the saying better late than never?’ my guardian asked her.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It is a lie put about by indolent servants and you are too late. Take it away.’

  Molly’s lip quivered. ‘Yes, sir.’ And Sidney Grice snatched up his cane.

  ‘You had better come too, March. All this sitting about moping is making you very plain indeed.’

  30

  The Boiling of Bones

  It was the same interview room and the same constable stood behind the same chair, but this time the occupant of that chair was a skinny boy in a filthy grey shirt.

  ‘Stand up when the gentlemen and lady come into the room,’ the constable said, and the boy got up warily. His cut-down short trousers were much too large for him and tied around his jutting hips with a length of frayed rope, and his legs were badly bowed by rickets. His head too was characteristically large and square.

  ‘Sit,’ the policeman prodded him.

  ‘Stop bullying him,’ I said
and the constable prodded him again.

  The wig lay on the table like a dead animal. Sidney Grice went straight over and picked it up.

  ‘Where did you come across this?’ he asked and the boy sniffed.

  ‘I told the prawnman and I told the peeler. I found it in the canal.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Round the back of Factory Street. If you can’t find it use your snout. It don’t ’arf pen when they boil up the bones. There’s a bit sticks out near an old coal boat. I fought it might be worth somefink. I din’t know it was part of the crowned jewels.’

  Inspector Pound laughed and said, ‘And that is as much as we got out of him this morning.’

  Sidney Grice looked at him and said, ‘Ever been in trouble with the law before?’

  ‘Didn’t know I was in it now,’ the boy said. ‘I’ve never done nuffink but fish a old syrup out and, if there’s a reward, it’s mine by rights but you’ll be keeping that yourselfs I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Sidney Grice asked, and the boy shrugged but did not reply.

  ‘I am Sidney Grice. Do you know who I am now?’

  The boy perked up. ‘You’re that geezer what ’unts people down.’

  Sidney Grice’s mouth twitched.

  ‘I am indeed that geezer,’ he said, ‘and if I find out that you have been lying to me it will be your bones they are boiling in that factory next.’

  ‘I ’aven’t been lyink. Straight up, Mr Grice.’

  ‘If I find out that you have,’ Sidney Grice repeated slowly, fixing him with his eye, ‘I shall track you down, however far and fast you run, whatever continent you flee to, whatever drain you hide in – be sure of it – I always get my man.’

  The boy looked impressed but only said, ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Albert, miss. Named for our dead Prince.’

  ‘You need milk,’ I told him and put a shilling in his hand.

  ‘God bless you, miss,’ he said as the inspector caught him by the wrist.

  ‘Give the lady her brooch back, Albert.’

  ‘It must ’ave fell orf.’

  Albert opened his fingers to reveal my mother’s cameo in his grubby palm.

  ‘You have two choices,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘Either you stay here and get arrested or…’

  ‘I’ll take the second choice,’ Albert said, and was out of his chair and through the door in an instant.

  ‘Perky little chap,’ Inspector Pound commented.

  ‘He will die in the gutter or on the gallows,’ Sidney Grice said, and looked at the wig again. ‘There is a label in the lining here. It is quite faded but I think I can make it out.’ He held it up to the light. ‘Simon Grave, Wigmaker. Can I borrow this, Inspector?’

  Inspector Pound flicked his hand in the air.

  ‘As long as you like, Mr Grice.’ His lips struggled to stay straight. ‘But I should not have thought it was your style.’

  ‘I have no style, Inspector,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘You should know that by now.’

  It was starting to rain, great plashing drops, when we went outside and there was not a hansom to be seen.

  31

  The Wigmaker’s Shop

  The Wigmaker’s shop was difficult to find. There were no street signs or numbers on the doors, and the window of the shop was boarded over so that we passed it twice, thinking it was derelict, before we realized what it was.

  ‘They keep smashing them and Mr Grave cannot keep re-glazing them,’ Mr Grave, the owner, explained.

  Sidney Grice showed him the wig.

  ‘How could Mr Grave forget this one?’ Mr Grave asked, picking it up and tidying the curls. ‘The biggest head I have ever come across. Wanted a pair of matching moustaches as well. Fussy gent he was too. Well, you know what they are like.’

  ‘Who?’ Sidney Grice asked.

  ‘These theatrical folk.’

  ‘He was an actor?’ I asked.

  Mr Grave shook the wig and tutted. ‘This has not been treated well at all. Drop it in a muddy puddle, did he? Criminal what—’

  Sidney Grice rapped his stick on the counter. ‘Do you have his name?’

  ‘No.’ Mr Grave picked at the wig sulkily.

  ‘It is a great shame about the wig,’ I said. ‘It must have been beautiful when you made it. Do you have any idea who the man was?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Grave certainly knows who he was.’ Mr Grave smelled the wig and pulled a face. ‘He just does not know his name.’

  ‘Oh, for…’ Sidney Grice threw up his hands.

  ‘Who was he, Mr Grave?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Grave told you. He was one of those theatrical dagos.’

  ‘What do you mean by dago?’ I asked. ‘Spaniard or Italian?’

  Mr Grave snorted. ‘A dago is a dago. What’s the difference?’

  ‘The Spanish speak like theees,’ I said, ‘whereas the Italians speaka lika thisa.’

  ‘That was almost as bad as your cockney,’ my guardian muttered.

  ‘The last one,’ Mr Grave said. ‘He was in that dago musical just off Drury Lane. The one with the stupid name.’

  ‘Rigoletto,’ I said.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘And you are sure he was Italian?’

  ‘’Course he was,’ Mr Grave said. ‘No Englishman would wear a wig like that. Speaking of which, hope you won’t mind Mr Grave saying, but that hairpiece of yours does not look very natural, sir. Mr Grave could do you a very nice one for twenty guineas.’

  ‘This is my own hair,’ Sidney Grice said.

  ‘You may fool your young lady but you will not fool a professional.’ Mr Grave held a magnifying glass up to Sidney Grice’s forehead. ‘Mr Grave has been observing it sliding about since the moment you came in.’

  ‘I do not wear a wig.’

  ‘Let Mr Grave pull it then.’

  His hand shot out but Sidney Grice whacked it aside with his cane. ‘If you touch my hair…’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Grave,’ I said. ‘We had better leave you to your work.’

  ‘Mr Grave understands,’ he said. ‘You are trying to make yourself look more youthful for the benefit of your young lady. Come back without her and Mr Grave can do you something much more realistic.’

  Sidney Grice snatched the wig back.

  ‘Good day,’ he said and spun away.

  ‘Would you like me to have it cleaned?’ Mr Grave said and Sidney Grice turned on him.

  ‘I should like you to go to your namesake. Come along, Miss Middleton.’

  Sidney Grice glared at me when we got outside.

  ‘This is certainly no laughing matter,’ he said, but it seemed like one to me.

  32

  Broken Wings

  The new Gloucester theatre was anything but new. Its most modern feature was the paintwork, which showered brown-red flakes when Sidney Grice rapped three times with the Face of Tragedy knocker.

  ‘It looks deserted,’ I said, and a panel in the door was opened by a very short man, so plump as to be almost spherical.

  ‘You are late,’ he said, admitting us through the opening into a large dusty foyer.

  ‘We are not expected,’ Sidney Grice said, and the round man looked him up and down.

  ‘So you are not the comedy cow?’

  My guardian raised his cane. ‘How dare—’

  ‘Neither comedy nor cow,’ I said hastily. ‘May we have a word?’

  ‘So who are you?’

  My guardian stepped forward. ‘I am Sidney Grice, the personal detective. Are you the manager of this establishment?’

  ‘If you have come to arrest me, I am not. Otherwise I might be.’

  My guardian opened his satchel and brought out a brown paper bag.

  ‘I am looking for the owner of this.’ He produced the wig. ‘And I have reason to believe that he played a part in your recent production of Verdi’s dreary melodrama.’

  ‘N
ot a part.’ The manager took out a brilliant yellow handkerchief. ‘The part. This hairpiece was worn by Rigoletto himself. He was our greatest success before he ran off and left us in the lurch.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’ I asked.

  ‘How could I forget?’ he replied, wiping his hands on the handkerchief.

  ‘What was it?’ Sidney Grice snapped.

  ‘James Hoggart.’

  ‘Hoggart does not sound very Italian,’ my guardian said.

  ‘Nor does it,’ the manager agreed, leaning his shoulder against a mock marble pillar but pulling away when it wobbled.

  ‘So he is not Italian,’ I said.

  ‘He was no more Italian than I, and I am not Italian,’ the manager said. ‘He did tend to talk like one, though – said it made it come more natural on the stage.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘Enough not to want to know him better.’ The manager picked up a broom. ‘He was a deuced fine Rigoletto – his voice could blow the buttons off your shirt – and he could act the eyebrows off the rest of the cast, but was he ever happy?’ He propped the broom, unused, against an autographed photograph on the wall.

  ‘I imagine not,’ I said.

  ‘You have a good and accurate imagination then, miss,’ the manager said. ‘Not is the very word. James Hoggart was not a happy man. His dressing room was too cold and he must have a fire lit. Then the fire is too smoky and we must have the chimney swept. Then he must have lilies brought in fresh every day. Then the pollen makes him sneeze and they must be removed and a bowl of lavender water put on his dressing table. And would he learn his lines like anybody else? Well, would he?’ He threw out his arms.

  ‘I would guess not,’ I said, and he picked up the broom again and put it down.

  ‘You are an exceedingly fine guesser, miss. Any tips for the two thirty?’

  ‘Broken Wings might be worth a shilling each way at six to one,’ I told him, and Sidney Grice shot a glance at me and said, ‘Do you know where James Hoggart is now?’