The Mangle Street Murders

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘I ain’t done nuffink wrong,’ she said, and I saw that she was no more than a child, eleven or twelve years old, shoeless, with bowed legs and arms little thicker than her stick. She hardly looked strong enough to support her own body, let alone the heavy wooden tray hanging from a rope around her neck.

  ‘That seems unlikely,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘but we only want to talk to you.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘This is Mr Grice and I am Miss Middleton. We mean you no harm.’

  At some time in the past her left cheekbone had been broken for her face had an angular depression.

  ‘What d’you want then?’

  ‘Just a few questions,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘and I shall pay for your answers.’

  ‘’Ow much?’

  I noticed her upper and lower front teeth were missing and she had red spots around her lips.

  ‘That depends how truthful your answers are.’ He raised her chin with his cane handle. ‘And you may be sure that I shall know.’

  ‘Are you the law?’

  ‘I am a gentleman.’

  She put protective hands over her tray. ‘My sister told me to stay clear of them.’

  ‘Mr Grice is a respectable gentleman,’ I told her.

  She cocked her head. ‘That’s the sort she warned me off.’

  Sidney Grice chuckled. ‘Is this your regular place of business?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘And were you here on Monday, the day before yesterday?’

  The match girl started. ‘You can’t stick that on me.’

  ‘We are not accusing you of anything,’ I said.

  ‘Not yet.’ My guardian leaned forwards to scrutinize her.

  ‘I was sittink there on my patch all day. Ask anyone. Loads of geezers come by all the time. One of them was a peeler. ’E gave me a happle.’

  ‘What colour was the apple?’

  She looked blank.

  ‘That was unkind,’ I said.

  ‘And your patch is usually outside the ironmonger’s shop?’ Sidney Grice asked, unabashed.

  ‘Just where that peeler is now,’ she nodded. ‘He’s sittink on my box what Mr Hashby puts out for me. ’E’s a gent, Mr Hashby is. Lets me sit there all day ’cause it’s sheltered from the rain and my wares don’t get wet. I get beaten if they do. ’E brings me water and bits to eat sometimes. ’E gave me a cup of milk just after the eight o’clock bells.’

  ‘How was his manner?’

  ‘Same as ever. ’E’s a quiet sort. No side to ’im. No airs. No graces. ’E’s a goodun, Mr Hashby is.’

  ‘What was Mrs Ashby like?’ I asked, and Sidney Grice clicked his tongue.

  The match girl sucked in her cheeks one at a time and said, ‘Like a lot of fings, she was.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Like a miserable dung cow mostly. Always movink me on when ’e wasn’t about. ’E caught her pushink me out into the snow once. ’Ad a good old barney about that, they did. ’Ad lots of good old barneys, they did.’

  ‘What about?’

  My guardian groaned. ‘This is not a ladies’ sewing circle.’

  The match girl picked her nose and wiped it on her shoulder.

  ‘Everyfink and nuffink, I should fink.’

  Sidney Grice walked round her.

  ‘So how was business on Monday?’ he asked from behind.

  She half turned her head. ‘I didn’t get nuffink. In fact I got worse than nuffink. Some bleedin’ bleeder pinched one of my boxes and I got a clout and no supper and ’ave to pay for it.’

  ‘Who stole your matches?’ I asked.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ my guardian broke in. ‘I am hardly likely to take up the case. How was business for Mr Ashby?’

  ‘He didn’t get nuffink neeva. Not a soul came in all day or night.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘As sure as catshit.’

  He came back to face her. ‘What time did you finish?’

  ‘’Bout midnight. Bit after.’

  ‘But why do you work so late?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s blokes comink out of the pubs bowf end of this street and there’s some of ’em wants a light.’

  ‘And you heard nothing?’

  The match girl pulled the remnants of a woollen coat tighter about her chicken-bone shoulders.

  ‘’Course I ’eard somefink. I may be blind but I ain’t deaf. You’d better make this worf my while, mister.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I pushed open the door to put the empty milk cup back inside like I always do, when I ’eard Mr Hashby screamink. Oh my Gawd, Sarah. ’Elp! Murder!’

  ‘And then what?’ Sidney Grice asked.

  ‘Nuffink.’ The match girl spat at her feet. ‘I scarpered and that’s it.’

  Sidney Grice reached into his trouser pocket and produced two coins.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you may have both these coins if you can tell me what they are.’

  The match girl picked something out of her hair and crushed it between her forefinger and the black broken nail of her thumb.

  ‘’Ow am I s’posed to do that then?’

  ‘Use your eyes,’ he said.

  ‘How cruel you are,’ I said.

  ‘Just as you used them when you walked round that dead rat without even touching it with your stick.’

  The match girl shook her head. ‘It was there when I came up the road.’

  ‘I had moved it several inches with my cane.’

  ‘I smelled it.’

  Sidney Grice laughed and tossed the coins high in the air, and the match girl caught them deftly.

  ‘It is not she who is blind,’ he told me. ‘It is our friend in uniform over there. I think we have finished here, Miss Middleton.’

  ‘But why play games with her?’ I asked as we walked back along the passage. ‘If people realize she is not blind she will lose her trade, and she is half-starved as it is.’

  ‘I wanted to see how good a liar she is,’ Sidney Grice prodded with his stick at a tramp sleeping on the roadside, ‘and, unusually for a member of the crueller sex, she proved herself to be a poor one.’

  We walked past one of the public houses the match girl had spoken of, the Duke of Marlborough. The fumes of beer and gin were overpoweringly delicious.

  ‘What now?’ I asked as he flicked a broken pot out of the way.

  ‘Well, March. How about some liquid refreshment? I believe that we have earned ourselves a good strong drink today,’ he said, ‘of tea.’

  I wish I could say it was love at first sight. You came in bleeding from a head wound, having tried to smash a champagne bottle over it for a wager. It was three o’clock in the morning and I was cross. Not only had you disturbed me, you had dragged my father out of bed when he had a long day and an early start before him. He had to stitch your scalp. I held the kerosene lamp with one hand and tried to hold you still with the other and I told you off for making a fuss, and then you vomited over your mess kit and I told you off again.

  You came to apologize the next morning, very pale and sorry for yourself, more of a contrite boy than a warrior of the Empire. I could not even pretend to be cross when you presented me with a wilting white rose, stepped backwards, tripped over a box of bandages and opened up your wound again. It was the start of love at second sight and love at second sight is love eternal. You told me that so it must be true.

  13

  Marylebone Police Station

  Marylebone police station was much quieter than I had expected, with just one ragged family sitting resentfully on a bench. The police would have already dealt with the drunks and assaults from the night before, Sidney Grice explained, and most of the policemen would be out patrolling the streets or cadging refreshments from hotel kitchens.

  The desk sergeant put his pen down and gazed at us with watery eyes.

  ‘Hotels is a valuable source of information, Mr Grice,’ he said, ‘and even amateurs as like yourself must s
ee the necessariness of that.’

  ‘If it were a crime to murder the English language you would be unpicking ochre even now,’ Sidney Grice told him. ‘I am here to interview one William Ashby.’

  ‘On whom’s authorityization?’ He dipped his pen in an inkwell and wiped the handle clean.

  ‘Mine.’ I turned to see the speaker of that word coming into the hall. It was a tall man, in his early thirties I guessed, slim and dark-haired with a rule-straight side-parting. He had neatly trimmed moustaches and a smart charcoal suit. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Grice.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘Inspector Pound,’ my guardian said. ‘May I introduce Miss Middleton, my assistant on this case?’

  Inspector Pound put his thumbs into his pockets. ‘Since when have you needed assistance from a girl?’ His eyes were powder blue, iced with contempt.

  Sidney Grice said, ‘I am training her to be of help in dealing with more delicate feminine cases.’

  This was news to me, but I returned that cold gaze and said, ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Inspector Pound, especially after following so many of your investigations in the newspapers.’

  In truth I had never even heard of the inspector, but it seemed to me that the frost of his gaze melted a little as he adjusted his tie and said, ‘As long as she doesn’t go swooning at the first hint of bad language.’

  ‘I won’t if you don’t,’ I said, and the inspector sniffed.

  ‘I shall answer for her composure.’ Sidney Grice tucked his cane under his arm.

  ‘You are in good time,’ Inspector Pound said. ‘We are just about to question the prisoner again.’

  ‘Has he said anything yet?’ Sidney Grice asked as we passed down a long echoing corridor.

  ‘Just what you would expect.’ The inspector had a long easy stride and I had to walk quickly to keep up with him. ‘He loved his wife. He was asleep. He doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘And what do you make of him?’ Sidney Grice was limping quite badly as he struggled with the pace.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the inspector said over his shoulder. We stopped at an end door and I saw that he was troubled. ‘The devil of it is, Mr Grice, he seems such a nice chap, very gentle and unassuming.’

  ‘Remember Libby Jacobs.’ Sidney Grice took a breath. ‘As sweet a girl as ever trod this earth. She garrotted her four sisters with a cheese wire in order to have a bed to herself, though.’

  ‘All the same,’ Inspector Pound said, ‘you get a nose for these things and mine tells me he is an innocent man.’

  ‘With all due respect to your nostrils’ – Sidney Grice flicked his hair back – ‘I think I shall see what the man has to say for himself before I make any judgements.’

  ‘You may mock.’ The inspector put his hand to the door. ‘But it is not often wrong.’

  ‘Before we go in,’ Sidney Grice reached into his satchel to bring out two pieces of white card, tied with a string bow which he tugged open. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

  The inspector glanced over.

  ‘It is the letter Ashby wrote to ask for your help.’

  ‘Did you see him write it?’

  ‘Yes, and I saw him put it in the envelope and write on that and hand it to his mother-in-law.’

  ‘And how was her demeanour?’

  ‘Very upset, sobbing, at one point she fainted.’

  ‘How did she fall?’ I asked.

  ‘Downwards, of course.’ The inspector rolled his eyes.

  ‘No, I meant…’

  ‘I had her down as much more self-contained than that,’ Sidney Grice broke in, and Inspector Pound snorted.

  ‘She had just lost her daughter and been told that her son-in-law was accused of the murder.’

  ‘But she took his side. Did she not?’

  ‘Most definitely. She told him not to worry. She would get the best help available.’

  ‘And here I am,’ Sidney Grice said as the door swung slowly open.

  14

  The Hounds of Hell

  The man was seated at a table, head on hand and eyes closed. He was under a tall grilled window, side on to us, in a shabby grey suit with a collarless open-necked shirt. A portly constable stood behind him.

  ‘Hello, Ashby,’ Inspector Pound said, and the man opened his eyes. ‘You have a visitor.’

  The prisoner looked at us and seemed to light up a little. He half stood but the constable put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down again.

  ‘Mr Grice,’ the prisoner said. ‘I recognize you from your photograph in the newspapers. You must have received my letter. Thank you so much for coming.’

  ‘I am Miss Middleton,’ I said. ‘I am here to help.’

  His face lit in a brief strained smile. ‘I am much in need of that.’

  It would have been difficult to guess his age for his face was darkened by stubble and paled by distress, but there was still something boyish about it. Perhaps it was the dark yellow mass of hair falling into a long fringe over his forehead or the eyes so big and brown, though slightly reddened now. Had I not known differently, I would have judged him to be in his late twenties.

  ‘Fetch two chairs,’ Inspector Pound told the constable.

  ‘And a cup of tea would be welcome,’ Sidney Grice called after him, and then stood surveying the prisoner for a while.

  ‘Let him stand for a moment,’ he said to the inspector. ‘It is not right to shake hands with a seated man.’

  William Ashby rose stiffly to his feet.

  ‘You have a strong grip and a direct gaze,’ my guardian told him, ‘but I have seen many a villain with as honest a face.’

  ‘The world knows me for a decent man.’ William Ashby’s voice was firm and clear. ‘I don’t think you will find anyone to disagree with that.’

  Sidney Grice paused. ‘Why did you write that letter?’

  William Ashby looked puzzled. ‘To ask for your help, Mr Grice.’

  My guardian scoffed. ‘You will have to do better than that.’

  ‘I cannot do better than the truth.’

  ‘What are you?’ Sidney Grice surveyed him head to toe. ‘Five foot six?’

  ‘I should say so.’

  ‘And are you left- or right-handed?’

  ‘Left.’

  ‘In everything?’

  ‘Pretty well.’

  ‘So you write with your left hand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Somebody was whistling as they walked along the corridor.

  ‘And you hold a knife with your left? When you are eating, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. Always.’

  The whistling got louder, then faded.

  ‘Please be seated.’

  Sidney Grice put his satchel on the floor, hung his coat carefully over the back of a chair and sat to face the prisoner, placing his notebook on the table between them.

  ‘How old are you, Mr Ashby?’

  ‘Thirty-five in July.’

  Sidney Grice wrote something in his notebook, but crossed it out immediately.

  ‘If you wish to celebrate that birthday you had better answer truthfully.’

  ‘You may rely upon that, sir.’ He glanced at me.

  ‘Unfortunately for you, I cannot,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘for you have already told me at least one untruth. You are not a fraction over five feet and five inches.’

  William Ashby looked aghast.

  ‘But I have not measured myself for years, Mr Grice.’

  ‘It is such a small detail,’ I said.

  ‘It is the small details that decide whether a man walks free or to the gallows,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘I do not suppose you told a deliberate lie, but an inaccurate fact is misleading whatever the motive behind it.’

  William Ashby put his hands on the table palm down and inhaled deeply.

  ‘I shall try to be more accurate.’

  ‘You are not from round here originally.’

  ‘No. I come from Lancashire.
’

  ‘Wigan,’ I said, and William Ashby looked surprised. I added, ‘I know the accent even though you have learned not to drop your H’s. I was—’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Middleton,’ Sidney Grice broke in.

  The constable returned, struggling with two chairs and kicking the door shut behind him.

  ‘No tea then?’ Sidney Grice asked and the constable huffed.

  ‘I only have two hands.’

  ‘Even without your police training I had observed that,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘but I also note that they are both free now.’

  Inspector Pound nodded to the constable.

  ‘Nice and hot,’ Sidney Grice said as the constable lumbered off.

  Inspector Pound sat at the end of the table and I between my guardian and the wall.

  ‘And how old was your wife?’

  ‘Sarah was just turned nineteen.’

  ‘So young,’ I said, and Sidney Grice asked, ‘Did you celebrate her birthday?’

  ‘I bought her a pair of cotton gloves.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Brown. I do not see—’

  ‘It is not for you to see.’ Sidney Grice’s voice flashed with anger. ‘The barrister who uses all his professional cunning to try to propel you to your grave will not explain the purpose of his questioning. How long had you been married?’

  William Ashby met my eyes again in a silent plea.

  ‘I am sorry… one year in April just gone.’

  ‘Happily?’

  William Ashby cleared his throat. ‘Very.’

  ‘Never a cross word?’

  ‘Many a cross word,’ William Ashby said, ‘and all of them regretted then forgotten. Have you ever been in love?’

  ‘With my work,’ Sidney Grice said, ‘and I have an ivory-handled revolver which I am quite fond of. Was this your first marriage?’

  The constable returned with a mug of tea.

  ‘Yes. Though I was engaged to be married when I was twenty-three.’ William Ashby hung his head for a moment. ‘She died of the fever.’

  ‘And no one could save her,’ Sidney Grice mocked.

  ‘That is a horrible thing to say,’ I told him.

  ‘And was your wife’s life insured?’ my guardian asked, as if I had not spoken.