The Curse Of The House Of Foskett (The Gower Street Detective Series) Page 26

  ‘Chas.’ I gripped my handbag and tried to stop shaking. ‘Charles Sawyer.’

  ‘An acquaintance of yours?’ He closed the book and I nodded weakly. ‘Well, you will be interested to learn,’ Mr G continued, ‘that he survived by hanging on to a mooring rope with his teeth until the river police hauled him out.’

  ‘Oh thank God.’

  ‘What a waste of public resources.’ My guardian piffed. ‘An armless man is nothing but a drain on society.’

  ‘We could do with a few more drains like him.’ I slumped in my chair. ‘He saved me from the man who stabbed Inspector Pound.’

  My guardian wrinkled his brow and opened his book to pencil a note under the cutting.

  ‘Doubtless expecting a large reward,’ he grumbled, ‘like some red-haired man who came round claiming he had helped Pound. I told him to go to Marylebone Police Station if he wanted paying, but he did not seem very keen on the idea.’

  ‘But I promised him. He was the barman at the Boar’s Head who carried the inspector to hospital.’

  ‘And how was I to know that?’ he mumbled as he left the room.

  I took a look at what he had written.

  Memoranda.

  1. Find and compensate red-headed man.

  2. Bring would-be killers of Charles Sawyer to justice.

  And on his blotter I made out, 3 guineas a day + doctors’ fees.

  55

  Chocolates and Seaweed

  After lunch I walked to Huntley Street and the neat house with its green door, and waited for my three quick rings to be answered. A stray dog dragged itself to sit and whimper at me, though I had nothing to give it but a stroke.

  The door was opened a crack and then fully by a slender middle-aged lady in a long red gown. ‘Eve.’ She threw out her arms. We all used false names in those days. An unofficial ladies’ club was viewed with grave suspicion by the authorities and prurience by the masculine public.

  ‘Hello, Violet.’

  She shooed the dog away, shut it out and gave me a kiss, though her arms remained open.

  ‘We haven’t seen you for ages.’ Her stiff black hair rasped my face. ‘You are quite the celebrity since that murder trial.’

  I winced. I never wanted to be well known and certainly not for being associated with so many cruel deaths. I braced myself to peck her cheek. ‘Is Harriet here?’

  Violet had drenched herself in so much eau de cologne that my nose itched.

  ‘I think she is playing Bezique with the Countess of Bromley.’ The Countess owned a tobacco shop in Biggin Hill, her tiara was home-made and she had no more right to a title than I, but no one could begrudge it to a woman who had had fourteen children and lost them all in one winter. ‘Why don’t you step into my parlour and I will let her know you are here?’

  I sat on the chintz sofa and picked up a copy of Myra’s Journal of Dress and Fashion, and was dismayed to see that I needed an eighteen-inch waist to be able to wear anything remotely modern, when Harriet came in. I jumped up and ran into her embrace.

  ‘March, I swear you look more the lady every time I see you. That dress – where did you get it? – could start a colonial war. I thought I turned a few heads in the ticket office at Rugby Station this morning, but I feel positively agricultural next to you in that mantel mirror.’ She poured us both a generous Bombay while I lit two Virginians. ‘Oh, that awful jumped-up woman. It is positively indecent to put that many aces in a pack. Rooked me for three shillings and sixpence, but don’t tell Vi for goodness sake. Gambling on the premises – she’ll have us out on the street before you can say chin chin.’ She raised her glass.

  ‘Cheerio,’ I said and clinked hers, and we settled together on the sofa. ‘I know you usually come on the first Tuesday of the month, so I was not sure I would find you here today.’

  Harriet swallowed a mouthful of gin. ‘Oh, you would find me here every Tuesday of late, and many a day between.’

  ‘Does Mr Fitzpatrick not mind?’

  Harriet put her head back and blew three perfect smoke rings. ‘To tell you the truth, March, I do not think my husband would notice if I stayed here all year round – not until there was a crisis such as not being able to find his copy of Wisden. Do you know, March, I was trapped in the attic last month by a faulty door handle and I was up there all night – and it was the longest, coldest night since the Ice Age – bellowing like a regimental sergeant major and banging like a demented monkey on the floor with his Aunty Helen’s bed brick until Sebastian, the youngest offspring and the only one who looks remotely like me, came to investigate and released me. I hurtled downstairs more encrusted in dust than a collier at the end of his shift and draped in more cobwebs than Miss Havisham’s wedding cake, my hair hanging over my face like seaweed on the rock of the sirens, gibbering and in absolute floods of saline, and Charles tears himself away from his paper and kedgeree and says, “You really must have a word with the neighbours, Harry. Their builders kept me awake half the night with their hammering.” And the really frightening thing, March, is that we share the same bed.’

  She tossed back her drink and I refreshed both our glasses.

  ‘Sometimes we do not notice things, but it does not mean we do not care.’ I took her hand. ‘My father once gave away my favourite chair and it was two days before—’

  ‘That’s it.’ Harriet seized my words. ‘That is exactly it. I am just a piece of furniture to him. I suppose I should be grateful he does not use me as a footstool. Do you know, March, that man pursued and I mean pursued me for two years. He sent me barrow-loads of flowers and crates of chocolates and showered me with thoughtful gifts. He wrote me cleverly crafted poems and love letters that simply steamed with adoration. He cajoled my mother and inveigled my sister into speaking on his behalf, and he positively hounded my father into nervous exhaustion for permission to press his pestering to its inevitable doom. He placed me in a shrine and as soon as I let him in, gave me a housekeeping book with a miserly allowance and disappeared into his study for the next quarter-century, reappearing only to work, eat and, very occasionally, have his not very wicked way with me.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh, Harriet, you are incorrigible, but it cannot really be that bad.’

  ‘I have renovated, emery-papered and put French polish on it.’ She leaned towards me. ‘Listen to the awful voice of experience, March. Do you know why we have never had slaves in this country? Because we have ten million of them here already, only we call them women. If ever a man offers you a ring with one hand and a cup of hemlock with the other, take the poison. The result is the same but less protracted. Why, March, darling, what on earth is the matter? Here I am chattering like a squirrel and you look like you have seen an apparition.’

  I had never told her about my engagement and I did not want to talk about Horatio Green. I had come to Huntley Street to escape such thoughts.

  ‘I am just tired,’ I said. ‘Dear Harriet, you are my one haven of frivolity in this barbaric world.’

  We finished our cigarettes.

  ‘But how is life with the famous Sidney Grice?’ she asked. ‘If the press are to be believed, he has metamorphosed from the avenging angel into the angel of death.’

  ‘He investigates murders,’ I said. ‘He does not commit them.’

  We were quiet for a moment until Harriet perked up and said, ‘Speaking of apparitions – as I was a moment ago – I could have sworn I saw one on Tuesday last week. I was rushing to get on my four thirty – the five fifteen is always packed to the gunnels especially in the smoking compartments – when I saw a very well-dressed lady getting off the train on the next platform, and for one moment I would have sworn it was her.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, but somehow I knew what Harriet was going to say.

  ‘That terrible woman, the murderess. I suppose, after what you told me, I must call her Eleanor Quarrel.’ She ground her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘It was probably what Charles always calls my overexcited imagination and I only go
t a glimpse, but she had a very distinctive profile – didn’t she? – and you know how you get a feeling. Even when I turned away it felt like she was looking at me. I have to say it sent shivers up and down my spine, but when I looked again she was gone – vanished. Perhaps she has come back to haunt us. Oh, and speaking of coming back to haunt people, one of our housemasters had a very unexpected and unwelcome visitor the other day.’

  Her conversation darted to some divorce scandal in Rugby, but I found it difficult to pay attention. My mind was swirling with an image – Eleanor Quarrel rising rotting out of the water, knife in hand, ready to slaughter again.

  56

  The Fox and the Sparrow

  We had just finished what was an unusually tasty dinner of fried potatoes and boiled navy beans in a tomato purée when a telegram arrived for Sidney Grice.

  ‘Good heavens.’ A cord of vein engorged on his right temple. ‘According to Dr Baldwin, my mother is dying and unlikely to last the night.’ He drained his tumbler of water.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you know what is wrong with her?’

  He deposited his napkin on the floor. ‘It appears she has taken an exorbitant quantity of heroin.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I pushed my plate aside. ‘What condition did she have to take it for?’

  ‘Boredom.’ He stood up. ‘She has so little to do with her time since she came out of prison.’

  I listened to him in disbelief. ‘Your mother went to prison?’

  ‘She was chairwoman of the Corporal Punishment Society.’ He untied his patch. ‘But she resigned when they refused to introduce branding of repeat pilferers.’

  ‘I hope she is all right.’ I tried to sound more sincere than I felt after that information and he contemplated me with disdain.

  ‘Even with your ragged medical knowledge, I would have thought you would know that people who are dying are not all right.’

  ‘I meant—’

  ‘Did you, indeed?’ He ran a hand over his brow. ‘Well, really. This is most inconvenient.’ He limped down the stairs to summon a cab. ‘Try not to set fire to the cherry tree,’ he said as he left and I went outside to light a cigarette.

  I had hardly settled to enjoy it when Molly stumbled out.

  ‘Oh, miss, I wish I could smoke cigarettes and—’

  ‘Would you like one?’

  Molly crossed her feet. ‘Not for me, thank you, miss. I meant I wish I could smoke cigarettes and not worry about it being unladylike.’ And she beamed as if expecting me to concur.

  ‘Have you come to tell me something?’ I asked, as patiently as I could, and leaned back to watch the machinery of her mind operate.

  ‘There is a cabby at the door,’ she told me at last.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Funny you should ask that.’ Molly reclined against the door frame. ‘We had a bit of a chat and he wants to retire and buy a little public house by the sea. He wants a little vegetable plot and a little—’

  ‘Why is he here?’

  ‘He…’ She wriggled her nose. ‘He has a message to convoy.’

  I stubbed out my cigarette, slipped it back into the case to hide the evidence and went to investigate. Gerry was standing on the top step when I opened the door.

  ‘Miss Middleton.’ He tipped his leather peaked cap. ‘Molly tells me Mr Grice isn’t here,’ he said.

  ‘Can I take a message?’

  Gerry hesitated. ‘While we were waiting for you at the docks we were talking about that McKay – excuse my language – bitch. I was on a case against her five or six years ago. I thought he might be interested to know that it looks like she is doing a flit. Her carriage is on Monday Row round the back of her place and the servants were packing all her worldly goods into it when I went by twenty minutes ago.’

  I reached for my cloak. ‘Take me there, Gerry.’ But Gerry held up his hands.

  ‘Not me, miss.’

  ‘I will double your fare.’

  Gerry turned his hands palms up. ‘It isn’t a question of the tin, miss. Old Pudding would kill me if I did.’

  Despite my frustration I laughed. ‘Why do you call him that?’

  ‘G-rice Pudding,’ Gerry explained. ‘We all call him that on the ranks, only don’t tell him for gawd’s sake.’ He looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry, miss, but Mr Grice did me proud when I was chucked and he’d blow his boiler if I took you into danger.’

  ‘I quite understand.’ I hung my cloak up again. ‘Thank you, Gerry.’

  I waited two minutes, then turned the handle to raise the flag, and I was still turning it when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Sorry abart the smell,’ the driver called as I climbed aboard his hansom and he swung up on top. ‘Last gent ’ad four grey’ounds and they weren’t particular where they did it. I swilled it awt but it do linger, it do.’ It certainly did but I had come to accept that I was living in a city of stinks. I almost envied Mr G his blocked nose.

  The streets were still busy, countless pleasure seekers heading for the West End. I would have loved to see The Corsican Contessa at the Criterion and I had heard some of the songs being bawled out by song-sheet sellers on the street, but my guardian would never have countenanced me attending such an establishment. I might have been in grave peril of enjoying myself.

  Monday Row was a narrow street at right angles to Fitzroy Square. We went along slowly, our horse picking its way through the shadows. A solitary flame glowed in the distance.

  ‘Stop here,’ I called out in a stage whisper.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I made out a covered four-wheeler with two horses in harness about thirty feet down the alley, in the glow of a lamp post, and the shape of a groom sitting up at the front. A doorway opened, casting a corridor of light on to the scene, and what looked like a woman and a girl came carrying a trunk out.

  ‘Dunno what you’re up to,’ my driver said quietly. ‘But best we go back now.’ His horse shifted uneasily.

  ‘I rarely do what is best,’ I declared – how Mr G would have agreed with me there – and clambered down to walk towards the scene.

  The road was cobbled unevenly, carpeted with old straw and horse droppings, with wide gutters running along either side. I slithered and splashed through an unexpectedly deep puddle and the pair looked up. As I approached I saw that they were a man and a boy with aprons protecting their servants’ uniforms. They balanced the chest on top of four tethering posts and rested their arms.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ the man enquired but even as he spoke I saw them – Thurston coming out of the door, carrying two bulging carpet bags, followed by Primrose McKay in a long fox-fur coat, lifting her skirts and exposing enough calf to have sent Mr G into an apoplexy.

  ‘Miss Middleton,’ she greeted me as she drew near. ‘Is your master not with you?’

  ‘I have no master,’ I said, ‘but Mr Grice has been called away on an urgent matter.’

  ‘If you are touting for business you might do better outside King’s Cross,’ she advised, ‘though you would be best to stand in the shadows.’

  Thurston guffawed. ‘With a sack over your head.’

  ‘To avoid recognizing your mother?’ I asked and he raised the back of his hand.

  ‘It is all right, Thurston,’ Primrose promised him. ‘I shall let you hurt her very badly one day.’

  ‘His very existence hurts me,’ I murmured. ‘Are you taking a holiday, Miss McKay?’

  Primrose waved a bored hand. ‘Life is a holiday for me, Miss Middleton.’

  There was a scuttling in the gutter. A rat? I moved sideways.

  ‘May I ask where you are going?’

  The man and boy struggled to heave her trunk on to the already laden carriage roof.

  ‘What an inquisitive child you are.’ She clicked her tongue in reprimand. ‘But I am afraid your curiosity will have to go unsatisfied.’ She put the fingertips of her right hand together. ‘Your master did not seem very impressed by m
y plan to sit it out and so I have devised another. It is also simple but even cleverer. Take a good look at me, Miss Middleton, and enjoy my gorgeousness. It may be the last you will see of it for quite some time; for tonight I am going’ – she blew on her nails and her hand sprang open, revealing nothing inside – ‘to disappear.’

  ‘Disappearing is quite an easy trick,’ I told her. ‘The poor manage to do it all the time. You may find reappearing a little more difficult.’

  The scuttling grew louder and she glanced down. ‘What is that?’

  The boy darted over and went down on his haunches. ‘A bird, miss.’

  ‘Give it to me.’ He scooped it up and she took it from him. ‘A sparrow,’ she said. ‘It appears to be injured.’ She cradled it in her right hand, its head poking between her circling thumb and first finger and its feet dangling out at the bottom. ‘Poor little thing.’ She blew it a kiss and the bird opened its beak, but the beak stayed open and the feet curled tight and it squeaked, and I saw that she was clenching her fist.

  ‘Stop it,’ I cried out but she only smiled sweetly, and its eyes bulged as her fingers blanched, and I heard a sickening crunching sound and a black liquid was expelled from the sparrow’s mouth before its head flopped.

  ‘There,’ Primrose McKay opened her hand and let it fall back into the gutter.

  ‘You disgust me,’ I railed at her.

  ‘Find me a rag,’ she told the boy, ‘to clean the blood and excrement from my hand. No, do not worry, I have one.’ She reached out and wiped her palm down the front of my cloak. ‘Why have you come, Miss Middleton?’

  She walked past me to the open carriage door.

  ‘I like to know what our suspects are up to,’ I said.

  ‘Suspect?’ she repeated scornfully. ‘Well, you may tell your master this, girl. When the Last Death Club closes its accounts there will only be one person left alive and that person will be me, and he may draw whatever conclusion he likes from that but he will never prove a thing.’