The Curse Of The House Of Foskett (The Gower Street Detective Series) Page 29

  Mr G looked at me closely. ‘More what?’

  ‘Unusual,’ I whispered.

  ‘When you have ceased exhibiting a hitherto unsuspected talent for imitating alabaster statues, perhaps you would like to tell me what you are talking about.’

  ‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’

  ‘I have often asked myself that.’

  ‘Do you know how Hamlet’s father was killed?’

  ‘I was not engaged on that case but I suspect you would like to tell me, preferably before I am too decrepit to care.’

  ‘By poison,’ I said, ‘through his ear.’

  Mr G’s face tightened. ‘You knew that?’

  ‘Of course I did. I have just told you so.’

  He took off his scarf. ‘And yet you did not tell me?’

  ‘You hate it when I talk about poetry or plays. Besides, it may not really be—’

  Sidney Grice flung his cloak and scarf on to the back of his chair and Spirit darted under his desk. ‘What affliction did Green suffer from – apart from obnoxiousness and toothache?’

  ‘Earache.’ I sat up. ‘Do you really think somebody could have put cyanide in his ear?’

  ‘No.’ Sidney Grice looked absently at Spirit as she came out with a ball of paper. ‘I think that Mr Green put cyanide into Mr Green’s ear. Remember he had the vicar with the same ailment to whom he showed his medicine? Remember the boys who came into his shop? I remarked that it was an intriguing incident at the time. The only reason a street creature would ransack a shop and not steal anything is because he was under strict instruction and being paid already. The murderer did not want to risk any of them being apprehended with stolen goods. A captured minion points a finger, no matter how vaguely, towards his master.’

  ‘Speaking of fingers,’ I said. ‘What has happened to yours?’

  The top of his right first finger had a cratered ulcer with dead white edges. He looked down as if interested to find it in that condition. ‘Oh that. I burnt it. Where was I? Oh yes. What could be easier than to slip a poisoned capsule into his pill box in the confusion?’

  ‘But how could anyone know which one he would use the next day?’

  ‘Simplicity itself. The capsules are made of soft wax. You lightly press them so that they stick together and place the poisoned one on top.’ He rang for tea. ‘I called in at St Agatha’s Rectory on the way back from a nightcap with Dr Berry.’

  ‘I bet they were pleased to see you. It is well after midnight.’

  ‘Well, you would lose your wager.’ He sat on the arm of his chair. ‘They were most irate and informed me that I shall fare badly on Judgement Day. But, more relevantly, they were adamant that a Reverend Golding did not and never has resided there.’

  I thought about it. ‘But if a capsule of prussic acid leaked into Mr Green’s ear surely he would have been in agony.’

  ‘I shall verify the point, though rather more articulately, with Dorna, but it is probable that Horatio Green had been using oil of cloves for years in his ear, and that you could smell this rather than his dental treatment.’

  ‘I could also smell nitrous oxide,’ I said more snappily than I had intended. I knew it was unreasonable but I disliked the thought of him discussing our case with another woman, but he resumed, seemingly unaware. ‘In which case the oil would have corroded most of the nerve endings in his ear and Eustachian tube long ago. Also, he had probably administered laudanum to himself before his trip to the late and unlamented Silas Braithwaite, to assuage his anxiety and relieve his pain. On top of this, I believe, some dentists get their patients to rinse with a solution of cocaine for its analgesic effects, so he would not have felt anything much until the acid drained into the back of his throat and down his oesophagus.’ He sat on his scarf in the chair. ‘I am still not sure if the murderer could know that the capsule would melt while Green was here or if it was pure luck,’ he pondered as Spirit, ignoring my warning signals, jumped up beside him.

  I clicked my fingers and he winced. ‘When you told Mr Green to stop talking twaddle,’ I recalled, ‘I think he was trying to tell you that he inserted the capsules after breakfast so…’

  Sidney Grice tickled Spirit’s ear. ‘The first cup of tea he had after that would have been hot enough to melt the wax.’ He dangled his watch on its chain for Spirit to toy with. ‘And, unusually, the pot was steaming that morning.’

  ‘So, if you had not interrupted—’

  ‘What a charming creature,’ Mr G interrupted and allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘Get rid of it.’

  62

  Stallions, Sticks and Sandwiches

  I went back to my room and lay on the bed, and looked at the spidery cracks radiating from an old lamp hook in the ceiling, much too tired to even think about sleep.

  You rode a black stallion. It reared and I was afraid it would throw you or bring its great metalled hoofs crashing on my head, but you laughed and steadied it and reached down to pull me up, lifting me as if I weighed nothing, almost floating me into the saddle behind you, and I put my arms round your waist and my face against your broad back. I could feel your sword handle dig into my thigh and the roughness of your woollen tunic damp on my cheek, and I could smell it too, like freshly scythed hay. Your horse reared again but I was safe now. I held on tight and knew that you would never let me fall. But even in my happiness I knew that I would betray you and that any moment you would turn, a faceless horror, towards me and that the nightmare would start all over again because the nightmare was always true, but the stirrup was very tight on my boot and it was tugging quite hard. I called out.

  ‘Edward!’

  But Molly was shaking my foot and saying, ‘Wake up, miss, or his nibs will go without you.’

  I stretched. ‘Go?’

  ‘Without you,’ she repeated.

  I forced my eyes open. ‘Go where?’

  ‘Baryness Fostick.’

  I sat up. ‘Give me five minutes and do not let him go without me. Hang on to his ankles if necessary.’

  Molly looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure he would like that, miss.’

  I climbed off the bed. ‘Just tell him I am coming.’

  Sidney Grice was winding down the flag and Molly was dashing along the hall with his flask as I trotted down the stairs. He looked up at me. ‘March.’ He had reinserted his eye and his face was fresh and clear. ‘I thought you were planning on spending the whole day in bed.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I glanced at the clock as I reached the bottom step. ‘Why, it is very nearly seven o’clock.’

  He took out his watch. ‘Six forty-eight and fifteen seconds.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  He dabbed his lips as if expecting to find crumbs. ‘I made do with toast and prune juice and a very good pot of tea, but there was no time for eggs, I am afraid.’

  I grabbed my coat. ‘But I have had nothing.’

  He looked along his cane. ‘You have only yourself to blame, if you must slumber your life away.’ He dropped his stick back into the rack and chose another, swishing it, handle down as if rehearsing a golf shot.

  ‘I have had less than three hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Three hours!’ Molly hugged herself. ‘What luxurousness. He had me up half the night boiling kettles and making bread sandwiches.’

  Sidney Grice hummed atonally as he slipped his arms into his Ulster.

  ‘But we always breakfast at eight.’ I grabbed my cloak and shook myself awake. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘There was a possible sighting at about six o’clock.’ He selected a bowler.

  ‘Primrose McKay?’ I fastened the clasp and he nodded.

  ‘The driver could not be sure, but he thought he spotted her going north from Richmond.’

  ‘Do you think she could be heading for Kew?’

  He smacked some dust off the rim with his gloves. ‘What I think is irrelevant. It is what might happen that matters.’ His face was grim. ‘Presumably th
e baroness is taking my telegraphed report seriously, for she has agreed to see us immediately.’

  There was a hammering on the door and Molly opened it to a corpulent blotchy-faced cabby in a long coachman’s coat. ‘Did you want this cab today or next year?’

  ‘That is a fatuous question if you care to consider it, which I do not,’ my guardian told him. ‘If you are quite ready, Miss Middleton…’ He slipped the flask into his satchel. ‘You may sate your epicurean excesses when we return. In the meantime, we have a murderer to catch.’

  *

  Cutteridge was waiting for us and we were much in need of his lantern for, though the sun had risen to the left of us as we travelled through the city, there was another pea-souper and even the snarls of the mastiffs were dampened in the choking air.

  ‘They have been very restless,’ he said, ‘especially as you instructed me not to feed them, sir.’

  ‘They will be fed soon enough.’ Sidney Grice lit his safety lantern. ‘How quiet it is. The whole world might be listening to us.’

  We made our way slowly along the path, Cutteridge leading and my guardian to the rear, following the paraffin glares and placing our feet carefully into the shadows.

  ‘I saw a dead adder there last time,’ I said and Sidney Grice stopped.

  ‘How did it die?’

  ‘I do not know. It was rotten and its head had been chewed off.’

  ‘Dear God,’ he said softly as we reached the gravelled clearing.

  Mordent House was half-hidden from us that morning, lost in the heavy fog and only breaking through it into darkness. At the top of the steps Cutteridge paused. ‘Have you come to save her ladyship, sir?’

  My guardian took off his hat. ‘If the baroness can be saved then I shall do it this day, but I fear I may be too late.’

  The old butler looked alarmed.

  ‘Has anybody else called?’ I questioned him. ‘A lady with long golden hair and a mark on her face?’

  ‘No one, miss.’ He glanced anxiously at Sidney Grice.

  ‘Is there any way she could have got past you?’ I asked as we entered the hall. It was gloomier than I had ever known it.

  ‘Not whilst I have life,’ Cutteridge vowed, and we stood in the dank oppressiveness, listening to him make his way up the crooked stairs as the house groaned forbiddingly.

  Mr G went to the window, pulled back the curtain and crouched as if to peer out of the lower pane. ‘Not only has the lacewing been removed but the entire web has been replaced.’

  ‘What an astonishing turn of events.’

  ‘Do you not understand?’ He traced the web with his finger. ‘I said replaced not rebuilt. This web was constructed by a different spider – the same species but with structurally sound legs.’

  ‘Perhaps its leg healed,’ I suggested as he scrabbled about in the dust on the floor. ‘It might have just sprained it sliding down the banister with a tray of drinks.’

  ‘No. Here it is.’ He held up the squashed remains for my inspection.

  ‘I did not realize you were so fond of it.’

  But Sidney Grice was not listening. He had shuffled back to the window and was busily pulling the web apart. ‘Dear God,’ he said again as he crammed his pince-nez on to his nose. ‘I fear the murderer is already in the house.’

  He let the mildewed satin flop back over the glass and got to his feet.

  ‘Then we must go upstairs immediately.’

  Mr G stood and stared out into the garden. ‘On the contrary, we must wait.’

  ‘For what?’ I thought about my own question. ‘But surely the baroness could not have killed them?’

  ‘I have been a fool, March.’ He spun round, his lantern almost going out. ‘Baroness Foskett is the kindest, most gentle woman I have ever met.’

  I coughed. ‘That is not the Baroness Foskett I know.’

  He turned his back on me. ‘Then perhaps you do not know her at all.’

  ‘Perhaps you are seeing her as she was,’ I challenged him. ‘Perhaps she became embittered by her bereavements.’

  He banged his cane on the floor, the impact travelling through the empty hall and passageways, to the masked ceiling and through the faded rooms. ‘Lady Foskett’s heart was broken by the disappearance of her son and her husband’s death, but she turned to good works. She spent her fortune on the charities that you only witter about and, when her fortune was gone, she wrapped herself in mourning so deep that the eye of man could not penetrate it.’

  ‘But why are we discussing this rather than trying to protect her?’

  ‘The numbers are against us,’ my guardian said.

  Cutteridge returned. ‘Her ladyship will see you now, sir, miss.’ And my guardian sighed. ‘Oh, Cutteridge, good and faithful, I only hope that you are telling the truth.’

  The old man stiffened. ‘I would never lie to you, sir.’

  And Sidney Grice patted his arm just once. ‘And I have never doubted your integrity.’

  ‘I must ask you to put your light out, sir.’

  Mr G did as he was bidden and slipped it into its pouch before we crept, well apart and close to the wall, up the swaying staircase, not able even to see the floor of the great hall so far below us, while the corridor was filled with a blackness so heavy that Cutteridge’s lantern, as he placed it on the boards, could scarcely break through it.

  My guardian stopped and crouched so suddenly that I almost toppled over him.

  ‘Fun,’ he whispered.

  ‘What is?’

  Cutteridge knocked once before pushing the door open to reveal the room, wavering in the candlelight, with the gauze box and the two chairs to which he directed us.

  ‘Sidney,’ the speaking horn hissed. ‘To what do we owe this allegedly urgent intrusion?’

  ‘The time has come,’ my guardian said. ‘This great dynasty is swaying on its rotten foundations and is about to come crashing down.’

  ‘Are you presuming to threaten me, you ill-bred—’

  ‘The Grices go back a thousand years,’ Sidney Grice interrupted, ‘and, should I choose to continue the line, it will survive another millennium. The Fosketts are drowning in their own filth.’

  ‘How dare you—’

  ‘I cannot hear you.’

  ‘I said—’

  ‘I heard what was said,’ my guardian broke in. ‘Loud and clear. But I cannot hear the voice behind it.’

  The smell of incense was even stronger today.

  ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  Sidney Grice leaned forward. ‘When somebody talks through a speaking tube you hear their voice and the magnified sound. I can only hear the sound.’

  ‘You are not making yourself clear.’ There was a long pause. ‘My acid-corroded vocal cords are very weak.’

  ‘Fifteen point two-two-five-nine-six-six,’ my guardian said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ The voice shook a little.

  ‘The logarithm of today’s date to the first six decimal points. You must have got up very early to have scratched that on the window, Baroness’ – his tone became mocking – ‘Lady… Parthena… Foskett.’ And as he spoke Sidney Grice undid the straps of his satchel.

  ‘Mr Grice,’ Cutteridge said, ‘I must ask you not to address her ladyship so disrespectfully.’

  ‘Nor shall I.’ There was a slight scuffling noise and Sidney Grice sprang up. Cutteridge snatched the air behind his shoulder, flinging the chair aside as my guardian rushed for the gauze box.

  ‘Save me, Cutteridge.’

  Sidney Grice whipped round and I saw in the candlelight that he had his revolver in his hand. ‘Stand where you are.’

  Cutteridge stopped in his tracks. ‘I do not know why you are doing this, sir – I can only assume that you have gone quite mad. But you must know that the threat of death will not deter me from doing my duty.’

  Sidney Grice took two steps back and the old servant took two forward. My guardian took aim. ‘Do not make me do it, Cutteridge
.’ And Cutteridge regarded him wonderingly. ‘I pushed you on a swing, Master Sidney. I gave you rides on my shoulders.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ my guardian said and tossed the gun on the floor. I leaped off my chair but Cutteridge was at it first. It looked so small in his great left fist, that tiny metal bringer of death.

  ‘Move away, please, sir.’ He raised the gun and my guardian took one more step back. He was level with the box now. ‘Move away.’

  ‘Shoot him, Cutteridge,’ the metal voice commanded. ‘He will kill me if he can.’

  My guardian reached out slowly and grasped the curtain as the major-domo pulled back the hammer. I ran at Cutteridge but he flung me aside with his right arm. ‘Please excuse me, miss.’

  ‘Have a care. I am not wearing any protective clothing,’ Sidney Grice told him and I thought I saw him tremble. And the gun was pointing straight at my guardian when Cutteridge pulled the trigger.

  The flash almost blinded me, but I still saw the impact on Sidney Grice’s coat, directly over his heart, and his hand jump convulsively to the hole. And the explosion all but burst my eardrums, but I still heard the curtain rip in his clenched fist and the crash as he toppled over on to the table, sending it flying, and the candle snuffing out mid-air. And I still heard the thin cackle through the speaking trumpet, drowned out by the scream that came from me.

  63

  The Darkness

  The darkness was complete.

  ‘You have killed him!’

  From behind and above me. ‘I did my duty. He understood that.’

  ‘Oh dear God!’ I crawled towards where I saw my guardian fall and felt the tumbled table. ‘Get a light. He may still be alive.’

  ‘I fear not, miss. I have always been an excellent shot.’

  ‘Get a light!’

  There was a scratching and the flare of a Lucifer was thrown up on Cutteridge’s gaunt face as he stooped for the candle and lit it shakily.

  ‘My lady…’ He stopped in confusion, shielding the dancing flame with a cupped hand.