The Secrets of Gaslight Lane Page 2

  ‘How dare you discuss my health with strangers?’

  ‘But there aintn’t not no one else to discuss it with,’ she answered reasonably. ‘Miss Middleton is too – oh, what’s the word?’

  ‘Discreet,’ I suggested.

  ‘Boring,’ she decided.

  Her employer slid the card off, covering it with his hand like a cagey poker player. ‘Miss Charity Goodsmile – what a depressingly cheerful name – of 28 West Grundy Street.’ He grimaced. ‘Not the most prestigious of addresses. I hope she does not imagine that I will lower my fees, though she looked well-enough attired to afford them.’

  ‘She don’t talk poor,’ Molly put in.

  ‘My memory must be failing.’ Her employer rubbed his brow. ‘I have no recollection whatsoever of soliciting your vacuous conjectures.’

  ‘Dontn’t not worry, sir,’ Molly reassured him. ‘I’m always forgetting to ask for your change in the grocer’s or pass on important messages, and there aintn’t not nothing wrong with my brain.’

  ‘Except that it has never been activated,’ my guardian told her. ‘Show my caller in.’

  I closed my journal and stood up as Molly went to collect our visitor.

  ‘Miss Charitable Goodsmell.’ Her voice rang out proudly as a slim young woman followed her into the study.

  ‘Smile,’ she corrected mildly and Molly bared her teeth uncertainly.

  ‘Get out,’ Mr G snapped. ‘And fetch us tea.’

  Molly flushed, bobbed jerkily and left.

  ‘Mr Grice,’ the lady said softly. She was dressed entirely in sable with a gauze veil folded back over her hat. ‘It is good of you to see me.’

  ‘Please do not mistake my curiosity for kindness.’ Mr G took her hand and bowed, not from courtesy but to examine it closely. She was a striking woman, a good four or five inches taller than either of us, her raven hair and ebony dress contrasting with the pallidity of her skin. Her face was white and unblemished, the only colours being her pale pink lips, the dark thin lines of her eyebrows and long lashes and the lightest wash of cerulean in her almond-shaped eyes.

  ‘Do take a seat, Miss Goodsmile.’ He guided her to my armchair and she sat upright on the edge of it.

  ‘My friends call me Cherry.’

  ‘I am saddened to hear that.’ He deposited himself into his armchair opposite her. ‘This other woman –’ he indicated vaguely – ‘is my assistant, Miss Middleton.’

  I took her hand. ‘How do you do, Cherry? Please call me March.’

  I fetched myself an upright walnut chair from the round central table and sat to face the fire with them to either side.

  ‘It must be hard to have lost your father so recently, especially as he was estranged from your mother and you have no brothers or older sisters,’ my guardian commented and our visitor stiffened.

  ‘You have done your homework, Mr Grice.’ A double row of waves furrowed her brow. ‘But how could you have known that I was coming?’

  Mr G smiled tightly. ‘Until two minutes and fourteen seconds ago I was unaware of your existence.’

  ‘It does not take a detective to see that I have been bereaved.’ She touched her veil. ‘I am puzzled by the rest of your remarks, though.’

  ‘That is a man’s signet ring.’ Mr G pointed to the silver chain around her neck with a band of gold bearing a shield hanging on it.

  ‘It could be my late husband’s,’ Cherry Goodsmile objected and he sniffed.

  ‘You do not wear a wedding ring and, if you had removed it to advertise your re-entry into the marital market – which would be in impoverished taste since you are still in deep mourning – it would also be on that chain.’ He watched her closely. ‘And if you had a brother or an older sister the ring would have gone to one of them.’

  She nodded slightly. ‘And my mother?’

  Mr G ran his left thumb over his left fingerplates. ‘If she had been living with your father, she would have taken it. If she were dead, you would sport her ring as well.’

  Cherry Goodsmile looked at him. ‘You have a keen eye, Mr Grice.’

  My guardian shrugged. ‘I see nothing that others cannot. It is paying attention to what I see that makes me observant. My immense genius lies in knowing what to make of such information.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can tell me why I am here?’ she challenged, and he inclined his head.

  ‘I can read books, street signs and journals in eight languages, but not minds in any of them.’ He sat back. ‘Obviously I could speculate that it concerns your father’s death, but I dislike being obvious and I hate guessing.’

  Molly returned and put a tray on the table between us.

  ‘That’s true,’ she told our visitor. ‘He wouldn’t not play “Who’s in the Coffin?” last Christmas Day when Miss Middleton was pretending to be what’s-his-name Bones-Apart.’

  ‘Napoleon,’ I informed her.

  ‘I’m sure it was Bones-Apart,’ she mused. ‘You did that funny Irish voice.’

  ‘Go,’ her employer barked and she left.

  ‘Your guess would have been correct,’ Cherry said quietly. ‘My father was murdered, Mr Grice, savagely in his bed.’

  ‘Excellent,’ my guardian cried, clapping his hands together.

  5

  ✥

  Hezzuba Grebe and the Battle of Ruspina

  CHERRY GOODSMILE STARED at Sidney Grice and her lips blanched.

  ‘I am glad you think so,’ she remarked bitterly.

  ‘I suspect you are being ironic,’ Mr G said as our visitor grasped the sides of her chair and braced her arms ready to rise. ‘But I must tell you that I am immune to sarcasm and sympathy is not included in my bill of charges.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Human feelings are – as you have probably calculated – Miss Middleton’s department,’ he declared unabashed. ‘And, if you want tears, any competent undertaker can provide a team of mourners. The Irish have a reputation for wailing to great effect.’

  ‘I have not come here to be mocked.’ Cherry Goodsmile jumped to her feet and I stood to let her pass.

  ‘However,’ my guardian continued smoothly, ‘if you want your father’s murderer discovered – and I think it fairly safe to assume that you do – so long as you have the money, I can guarantee to do it.’

  Our visitor paused. ‘How can you possibly make such a promise?’

  ‘Because I never fail,’ he said simply.

  Cherry Goodsmile hesitated. ‘I do not like your manner.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ I assured her, ‘but he is telling the truth. I have only been here twenty months—’

  ‘It feels like eternity,’ Mr G mumbled but I ignored him.

  ‘But in that time,’ I pressed on, ‘he has captured six murderers and a number of other criminals. What he lacks in charm he more than makes up in ingenuity.’

  ‘Have I left the room?’ he muttered. ‘I do not believe that I have.’

  ‘At least stay for a cup of tea.’ I put a hand to Cherry Goodsmile’s arm. ‘I am sure we can help.’

  She looked at me. ‘You are the main reason I came. This is the only private detective I could find who has a female assistant.’

  ‘Personal,’ Mr G snapped. ‘I am a personal detective.’

  ‘But not personable,’ I whispered and she offered a half-smile.

  ‘Nor deaf,’ he retorted as she rejoined her seat. He looked at her coolly. ‘Now, if Miss Middleton has finished chattering, perhaps you could tell me what has happened.’

  I reached for the teapot. ‘When was your father murdered, Cherry?’

  Our visitor swallowed. ‘Three weeks ago, on the fourth of January.’

  ‘The one thousand eight hundred and thirty-eighth anniversary of the Battle of Ruspina and the one thousand and thirteenth of the Battle of Reading,’ Mr G interlocked his fingers as if in prayer, ‘but generally a quiet day here. There were only four murders reported in London that Friday. Jessie and Jerme
y Unwin who may well have managed to kill each other with spikes, Paul Devine who was injected with quicksilver and Nathan—’

  ‘Mortlock,’ Cherry broke in. ‘Nathan Mortlock was my father. He resided in—’

  ‘Gaslight Lane.’ Sidney Grice sat up.

  ‘Is that not the site of the Garstang massacre?’ I remembered reading an account of the murders when I lived in Parbold and a later version by Trafalgar Trumpington, the unscrupulous hack who had smeared my reputation after our first meeting.

  ‘Garstang,’ my guardian breathed, his face alight like the painting of a visionary. ‘A name that is hallowed in the chronicles of felony most foul.’

  ‘You will understand why I use another surname.’ Cherry lowered her head. ‘Though you might as well call me Mortlock now. I doubt there is one man in a hundred who has not heard what befell my great-uncle’s household.’

  ‘And if the press are to be believed – which they are occasionally – your father met a similar fate.’ Sidney Grice happily stirred his unsugared milkless tea six times clockwise and then in reverse.

  ‘He was found in bed with his throat cut,’ Cherry’s voice was scarcely audible, ‘and strangled.’

  ‘Two methods for the price of one death.’ Mr G made a brisk note.

  ‘Who found him?’ I asked and, when she touched the ring, I instinctively put a hand to where I used to hang one beneath my dress.

  Cherry Mortlock raised her head. ‘His valet.’

  ‘And his name is?’ My guardian shook his spoon dry.

  ‘Austin Hesketh.’

  ‘That name sounds familiar.’ At Cherry’s assent I poured milk into her cup and mine.

  ‘He was Great-Uncle Holford’s valet.’ Our visitor picked at her sleeve.

  ‘And on the night of the massacre he was allegedly visiting his sick mother in…’ Mr G flicked through his encyclopaedic brain, ‘Nuneaton.’

  ‘I do not think there is much allegedly about it.’ Cherry brushed her sleeve as if there were a wasp on it. ‘The police investigated him thoroughly and a great many independent witnesses testified that he was away from London all that night.’

  Mr G lifted his cup and looked at her over it. ‘All facts are alleged until I have confirmed them.’ He sipped his tea appreciatively. ‘Suspicion fell upon your father too, as I recall.’

  ‘I have never understood why.’ Cherry’s cup rattled in its saucer. ‘Admittedly he came into the Garstang fortune, but he spent that entire night locked in a police cell and you cannot have a stronger alibi than that.’

  ‘I can think of fourteen.’ Mr G put his cup down, carefully aligning the handle. ‘But six might not apply.’

  ‘The Spanish maid survived too,’ I recollected.

  ‘Angelina Innocenti.’ Sidney Grice put his fingertips together.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Cherry confirmed bitterly. ‘She may have escaped justice by pretending to be mad, but never was a girl so inappropriately named. She was no angel and she was certainly not innocent. There is no reasonable doubt that that she-devil committed those crimes and now she idles her life away in Broadmoor.’

  ‘I trust they keep a closer eye on her than they did on Miss Grebe.’ Sidney Grice fluttered his long eyelashes.

  ‘Who?’ Cherry asked automatically.

  ‘Hezzuba Grebe, the pigeon poisoner of Primrose Hill,’ I explained. ‘She escaped just before Christmas and the authorities have no idea what has become of her.’

  ‘The average policeman could not find himself in a footlocker,’ my guardian scoffed.

  ‘If all she did was kill birds, why is she in Broadmoor?’ Cherry enquired abstractedly.

  ‘Under normal circumstances she might have been commended for reducing a pestilence.’ Mr G wound up his watch. ‘But Hezzuba Grebe was a cook by profession and fed the birds to her employers. Once might have been an unfortunate mistake, but when twenty-five members of six households which employed her died in less than three years’ suspicions were raised.’

  Cherry groaned. ‘Does any of this have anything to do with my father’s death?’

  ‘Probably,’ the great detective listened to his hunter watch ticking, ‘not.’

  ‘Why are you so convinced that Angelina Innocenti was guilty?’ I asked. ‘As I recall she never stood trial.’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ our visitor challenged. ‘Even before my father took extra precautions, that house was impregnable. Nobody could have got in or out that night.’ She tipped half a spoon of sugar into her tea. ‘But I have not come to rake over old ground.’ Her voice rose. ‘My father has been murdered and the police are getting nowhere with their investigations. I want justice, Mr Grice; I want to bury my father and come into my inheritance.’ She took a drink. ‘I am sorry if that last reason sounds vulgar.’

  ‘Money is never vulgar,’ my guardian declared, ‘only the people who do not have it.’

  This was not the time to argue that I had met some very vulgar people with a great deal of money in our capital city.

  ‘He has not been laid to rest yet?’ I reiterated. ‘After three weeks? How dreadful for you.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Sidney Grice tutted. ‘But how wonderful for me.’

  ‘Wonderful?’ Cherry echoed in disbelief.

  ‘Indeed,’ he concurred. ‘There are only fourteen things I hate more than investigating a murder without sight of the corpse.’

  Cherry Mortlock inhaled sharply. ‘You are talking about my father.’

  ‘We can discuss the weather if you prefer,’ he suggested. ‘My time is your money, speaking of which...’ He pulled out a drawer and handed her a sheet of paper. ‘I have standardized my fees and they are listed here.’

  Cherry brought a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles out of her satin handbag and, as my guardian had observed, perched them on the tip of her nose. ‘You are very expensive, Mr Grice. Charlemagne Cochran does not charge half that amount.’

  My guardian blenched at the mention of his hated and despised rival. ‘And my cook would not charge you a fourteenth,’ he agreed, ‘but the result would be the same. If you want to be charmed and flattered, then I suggest you engage him immediately, but Charlatan Cochran would have arrested Adam and Eve for the death of Abel.’

  Cherry Mortlock took her spectacles off. ‘He apprehended the Regent Street suffocationist.’

  My guardian huffed. ‘Christopher Focton was no more guilty than you, Miss Mortlock – and I take it you have an alibi for each of those crimes. If he had possessed the means to employ me, I could have saved Mr Focton from the gallows in an afternoon. The real culprit is a Peruvian phrenologist who still wreaks havoc undisturbed in the thoroughfares of Glasgow. But nobody cares much who dies in that city, least of all me.’

  She listened to him uncertainly. ‘Very well,’ she decided at last. ‘I will make you an offer, Mr Grice. I shall pay your fees plus ten per cent the day my father’s murderer is pronounced guilty in the dock. Otherwise you shall not get a brass farthing.’

  ‘You have appealed to the better side of my nature.’ Sidney Grice tugged at his scarred ear. ‘My greed.’

  ‘Then we have a deal?’

  Mr G pulled out a document. ‘You have your Great-Uncle Holford’s flair for commerce. Let us hope you do not share his fate.’

  ‘I cannot believe you said that,’ I scolded.

  ‘You would rather I hoped that she did?’ My godfather tossed the document on to our visitor’s lap. ‘That is my unorthodox contract. I would particularly draw your attention to the conditions for terminating our agreement as outlined in clause five, and the strict rules of confidentiality.’

  ‘I am sure I can rely on your discretion,’ Cherry said generously.

  ‘So am I.’ Sidney Grice polished a thumbplate on his lapel. ‘And, to ensure yours, the contract forbids the client to discuss anything that transpires between us for fourteen years.’ He shut the drawer.

  ‘I shall read it at home.’ Cherry Mortlock folded the contract into her han
dbag.

  ‘Do so, then sign it neatly and return at my earliest convenience.’ Mr G leaned towards her. ‘One more thing, Miss Charity Mortlock. Be under no misapprehensions. If I discover that you are a patricide I shall not hesitate to inform the police.’

  Cherry flared furiously. ‘Why on earth would I come to you if I were guilty?’

  My guardian shrugged. ‘I have referred three clients to the hangman and they all protested the same thing. I should not like you to be the fourth.’

  ‘I should not have thought that you would care,’ she retorted sourly.

  ‘I should care intensely.’ Mr G’s eye slid outwards. ‘It is very bad for business.’ He leaned back. ‘But drink your tea. There are fourteen questions I must ask you.’

  ‘Do all your thoughts come in fourteens?’ she demanded.

  ‘They do today,’ he replied serenely.

  6

  ✥

  The Old Wound and the Beast

  CHERRY MORTLOCK CLIPPED her handbag shut and huffed heavily and, for a moment, I thought she would go.

  ‘Tell us about your father,’ I urged.

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’ I topped up her tea to encourage her to stay, but she did not glance at it.

  ‘On Christmas Day.’ She sucked her lower lip. ‘I called on him to try to make amends.’

  ‘For what?’ Sidney Grice reached over and selected a maroon leather-backed notebook from the smallboy at his side.

  Cherry clutched her handbag. ‘I have such happy early memories of my father. When he was young, he would chatter and laugh for hours. We never had a penny but then – as he would tell us – we never had a care.’ She fiddled with the catch. ‘All that changed when we moved into Gethsemane. We became rich but the circumstances under which he came into his fortune led to him being ostracized by society. Rumours abounded that he had paid to have his uncle’s household killed, and the only attention he received was from sensation seekers. He became nervous and morose. He suffered terrible headaches and would fly into frightening rages.’ She hesitated. ‘Eventually my mother found living with him intolerable. Her name is Fortitude and heaven knows she needed it to survive in that marriage. Three years ago she left him.’ Cherry placed her handbag on the floor. ‘She eloped with an Italian sculptor and illustrator by the name of Montanari.’