‘And where was that kept?’ I ran a hand under the hall table just to prove that my guardian was not the only one searching for clues.
‘On a hook in the housekeeper’s room.’ The footman polished the toe of his right boot on the back of his left trouser leg. ‘It is no use in the night because both locks are on.’
Mr G snatched up an ebony swagger stick and looked along it at the footman like a member of a firing squad. ‘According to the police, an item of Mr Mortlock’s bloodstained clothing was found in your room.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Easterly swallowed. ‘Hi was there when one of the constables found a shirt hin the back hov my wardrobe.’
My fingers came away slightly greasy.
‘Explain its presence.’ Mr G lowered the stick until it touched the flooring – raspberry oilcloth, the surface sheen worn away, but still decorated with hundreds of small shields emblazoned with white lambs bearing gold crosses.
Easterly blinked. ‘Hi cannot, sir. Huntil the policeman brought the shirt out Hi had no idea it were – was,’ he corrected himself, ‘hin there.’
‘When did you last look in that wardrobe?’ Mr G shuffled sideways and the footman’s hand went to the nape of his neck.
‘Hi believe it was the Tuesday morning.’
‘The day before Mr Mortlock died?’ I clarified.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘So where do you hang your clothes?’ Mr G bared his teeth in front of the mirror and tapped an upper incisor with his fingerplate.
Easterly tried to poke a little finger under his plaster, twisting his right hand awkwardly. ‘Hi put them over the back of a chair, miss. The wardrobe is really just ha small cupboard. It has no rail nor hooks hin it. Often Hi put my wash things hin there to keep the room tidy, but Hi was hin a bit hov a rush that morning because Hi overslept.’
I wiped my hand but it was still sticky. ‘Do you share with anyone else?’
My guardian examined a lower canine.
‘No, miss, and nobody has any business going hin there. Hi clean the room myself.’
Mr G picked up a pair of white gloves and tried the left one on, his slender fingers lost inside its bulk. ‘Summon the maid.’ He shook his hand free and Easterly pulled a round white-enamelled handle in the wall. ‘What happened to your predecessor?’ He tossed the gloves back on to the table.
‘Hi believe he was dismissed, sir, but Hi do not know the circumstances.’
There were footsteps and a maid appeared, smartly attired in a crisp white apron and starched hat. She was a pretty girl with discouragingly golden hair and she too wore an armband, though it was hardly noticeable on her black sleeve.
‘Name?’ Mr G rapped and she looked askance at the footman.
‘This is Mr Grice, Veronique—’ he began.
‘Do not attempt to coach the witness on her appellation,’ Mr G warned.
‘Hi am sorry, sir. Hi did not hintend to.’ He turned back to the maid. ‘This is Mr Grice, the private—’
‘Personal,’ Mr G broke in. ‘I am a personal detective.’
‘Oh.’ The maid went a light shade of pink. ‘I am Veronique Bonnay, monsieur.’
‘What is wrong with your accent?’ He stuck his face close to hers and inhaled deeply.
Mademoiselle Bonnay blushed.
‘I think Veronique is French,’ I suggested and my guardian rounded on me.
‘Is it not enough that he tells her what her name is without you telling her where she comes from?’
‘I am from Normandy, monsieur.’
‘The least ghastly part of France,’ Mr G conceded, for he claimed to be descended from Charles Le Grice, who had arrived with William the Conqueror. ‘But cease calling me monsieur. We are not in your unreliable country now.’
Veronique turned puce and seemed about to retaliate but only said, ‘Can I ’elp you wizz anything, sir?’
‘Fourteen things,’ he told her. ‘But for now, tea will suffice. Three cups.’
‘Tree, sir?’
‘Three,’ he emphasized. ‘What is the point of a nation whose inhabitants cannot voice their dental fricatives?’
‘I am sure I do not know, sir.’ The maid curtseyed gracefully and walked briskly away, and I could not help but notice how Easterly’s eyes followed her trim form as she retreated.
There was a footman’s chair to the right of the door as I faced it. It was not the grand arched structure of a stately home, but high-backed, and upholstered to match his livery in red satin with brass buttons and gold cording.
‘Sit there and lift your left foot.’ Sidney Grice produced a small metal rod and tapped the sole of Easterly’s boot. ‘Now the other.’
‘Hi do not have any false compartments in my heels, sir,’ the footman assured him.
Mr G straightened up. ‘A peculiar confession to make.’
‘Confession?’ Easterly looked baffled. ‘Hi only said it because Hi read how you found one in the Adventure hov the Sleeping Journeyman.’
‘First—’ my guardian stiffened – ‘I do not have adventures: I have cases. And, second, those events oozed from the febrile imagination of a Fleet Street parasite rejoicing in the alias of John Tarantella, an ancient spinster from Barking.’
‘Ho,’ Easterly said uncertainly.
‘Lower your feet to the floor.’ Mr G brought a thin spool of coloured cotton out of his satchel. ‘Hold that end.’ He looped the thread round the back of the chair. ‘Lean back.’
‘What are you doing?’ I asked as he wrapped it around Easterly’s chest.
‘Restraining this minion.’
The footman chuckled. ‘With all due respect, sir, Hi could break that with the slightest hov movements.’
‘Precisely,’ my guardian agreed, ‘but I shall know that you have strayed and you will never find a thread to match this one exactly.’
Sidney Grice went behind the chair and was hidden from view.
Easterly craned his neck. ‘What colour his it?’
‘Grice’s Lilac,’ Mr G declared, and re-emerged.
Easterly shifted apprehensively. ‘Hi am to remain here then?’
‘Until further instructions.’ Mr G dropped the reel back into his satchel. ‘This is a pleasant hallway.’
I thought so too. There was not much illumination through the fanlight over the door and the gas mantles had not been turned up, but even in the gloom I could see the Moresque wallpaper – a little old-fashioned perhaps, but I could easily picture how cheerful the bright greens, reds and blues of stylized flowers in geometric arrangements of swirling leaves would be in the sunshine, or when the five Turkish lamps suspended from the lofty ceiling were lit at night.
‘Apart from the vulgar decorations on the oilcloth and the poorly aligned fourth banister rail.’ My godfather qualified his statement.
A vase of peacock feathers stood on the long table.
‘Shall we look about?’ I asked, but Sidney Grice tilted his head sadly.
‘A magnificent suggestion, Miss Middleton,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately we have an appointment.’ There were footsteps in the hall again. ‘With a pot of Darjeeling, to judge – as I feel compelled to – by the aromas.’ And Veronique emerged more slowly this time, carrying a laden silver tray.
I smelled my fingertips surreptitiously. The stickiness was beeswax, so probably not a vital piece of evidence.
17
✥
The Man Who was Not There
VERONIQUE LED THE way into a large drawing room that would have overlooked the streets had the shutters not been closed. This room too was decorated in an arabesque style, with rectangular Turkish rugs laid on the floor and a square one hanging from a wall that was topped with intricate cornices high above our heads. She placed the tray on an octagonal table, variegated woods inlaid with mother of pearl in curlicue patterns.
‘Shall I serve, monsieur?’
Sidney Grice tutted at being so addressed, but did not trouble to correct her this time. ‘You s
hall.’
The chairs were Chippendale style with ogee curves and finely carved Gothic tracery between the elegantly glazed bars.
‘All tree cups?’
‘Yes, and fill mine to within two-fifteenths of an imperial inch of the brim, and do not attempt to approximate that with your depraved centimetres. I shall not require space to contaminate it with milk or sugar.’
Veronique poured. ‘Will zat be all, monsieur?’
‘Not by any stretch of your limited Gallic imagination.’ He indicated with a flick of the hand. ‘Sit and take tea.’
She looked at him in confusion. ‘You are very kind, monsieur, but it is not my place.’
‘I shall tell you your place,’ he insisted, ‘and I am not in the least bit kind.’
‘He is not,’ I assured her. ‘I think Mr Grice wants to ask you some questions.’
‘Oh.’ Veronique sat on the edge of her chair. ‘What can I tell you, monsieur?’
‘The truth.’ Mr G rotated the pot to point the spout towards her. ‘Where were you throughout the course of the night Mr Mortlock died?’
‘Why, I am ’ere, monsieur.’
‘In that chair?’
‘In my bedroom, monsieur, on zuh top floor.’
‘I will thank you to be more truthful and precise with your replies from now on,’ he snapped and her cheeks flushed.
‘Do you sleep alone?’ I asked.
‘Oui, mademoiselle. I share with another maid called Nelly when I come last May, but she leaves and Monsieur Mortlock does not replace ’er. ’E says zere is not enough work for two since Miss Charity is gone.’
Her light blue eyes were ringed darkly as were those of so many domestic servants, including Molly.
‘I imagine you sleep soundly,’ I sympathized and my guardian gazed at me balefully.
‘If I had required your imaginary version of events we could have stayed at home where the tea is better, though not served by such a smart and efficient maid.’
Veronique smiled in embarrassment. ‘Mademoiselle she is correct, though.’ She thrust her tongue over her little white teeth to pronounce that last word precisely. ‘I am very tired when I get to bed. Once I even fall asleep on zuh servants’ staircase.’
‘But not that night?’ I asked and Mr G put a hand to his eye.
‘Shall we dispense with this slavey altogether and let me interview you instead?’
‘It was a question,’ I pointed out.
‘A leading question,’ he retorted.
His eye went out of control.
‘She is not in court.’
Veronique watched in disgust as my guardian struggled to get his lower eyelid over the coloured glass.
‘If you wish to place a wager on it, the odds are that she shall be,’ he advised and she put a hand to her mouth.
‘Mr Grice only means that you will probably be called as a witness,’ I reassured her.
My guardian rammed the eye back into place, exhaling hard as one might extinguish a candle. ‘It is for me to know what I mean.’ He lifted his satchel from the floor and laid it flat upon his lap.
‘Oh, but I ’ave done nutting wrong.’
‘Then how—’ Mr G reached into his satchel and produced a silver box – ‘do you explain this?’
He placed the box on the table, hinging the lid up to reveal the razor. Veronique shrank back and cried, ‘She is Monsieur Mortlock’s?’
‘Answer your own question,’ Sidney Grice invited her coldly.
‘She looks like la même raisor,’ she acknowledged. ‘But she was covered in blood when zuh gendarme showed it to me.’
‘Examine it,’ he invited, but she drew back.
‘I do not like to,’ she whispered.
‘I did not intend to give you pleasure.’ Mr G picked the razor out. ‘Or I would have offered you a slug sandwich.’
Veronique wrinkled her nose. ‘Whatever the English think, zuh French eat snails not slugs, and not in a sandwich. I do not like zem myselve.’
My godfather put his finger to the tang, hinging the blade out forty-five degrees.
‘Oh.’ Veronique made a soft moan. ‘The blade he is ’orrible.’
‘What damaged it?’ he asked and she held her face.
‘I do not like to think, monsieur.’
‘Women rarely do.’ The blade flipped fully out.
‘Veronique,’ I asked gently, ‘do you know how it got into your room?’
The maid blew out between her lips. ‘Per’aps zuh murderer put it in there; per’aps the gendarmes. I know only that I do not.’
‘But it was found under your pillow,’ I reminded her and she looked nonplussed.
‘So zey telled me.’
‘Have you ever used a cut-throat?’ Sidney Grice touched the edge.
‘Not to cut throat,’ Veronique answered defensively. ‘At ’ome I shave my father.’ She fiddled with her collar. ‘And now I ’elp Easterly.’
‘Why?’ He turned the razor this way and that.
‘I like to do it and ’e say I am good.’
‘Did you ever shave Mr Mortlock?’ I asked.
Veronique was transfixed by that blade, her eyes following Mr G swishing it up and down, a careless barber shaving an invisible customer.
‘No, miss.’ She kept her gaze on it. ‘Monsieur Mortlock ’e trusts no one but Monsieur ’Esketh to shave ’im.’
My guardian set to humming – almost the first four notes of Beethoven’s fifth symphony, but flat and repeatedly, with increasing volume.
‘Where did you work before?’ I asked, if only to stop the noise.
‘For Madame York,’ she replied, ‘in number 28. She die.’
‘And what,’ Mr G challenged, ‘induced Mrs York to expire?’
The French maid struggled with his phrasing. ‘Madame York she is an old lady. She go to sleep in ’er sleep. Madame Emmett, zuh ’ousekeeper, she know me a bit and she – ’ow you say? – recommend me. I thinked she is nice but she was not so nice when I come ’ere.’
‘In what way?’ I asked and she crossed her hands on her lap.
‘She always find fault when zere is none. Why, even zuh morning before they find Monsieur Mortlock dead, she shout at me for burning zuh ironing when he is not burned.’
Sidney Grice jumped so suddenly that I thought he must have cut himself as he flicked the blade shut. ‘Why would she do that? Six reasons will suffice.’
Veronique threw up her hands. ‘I am not knowing.’
‘Your ignorance interests me immoderately.’ He replaced the razor in its box, leaving the lid open.
‘Do you do all the ironing?’ I asked.
‘Only zuh beddings,’ she answered. ‘Monsieur Mortlock ’e send zuh vêtements – zuh clothings – to zuh laundry. ’E say zey put starch more nicely on ’is shirts.’
‘You have not had your tea,’ I reminded her and she took a sip uneasily.
The door opened and a tall, well-built man entered, also in sombre attire. He had on a swallowtail coat, buttoned up and topped by a neat cravat, and charcoal trousers. His boots were highly polished, though not new, for the toes were slightly scuffed. He was in his late fifties, I estimated. His heavily lined face was more creased by worry than by age, I decided, for the back of his hands were free of liver spots or wrinkles.
‘Mr Grice?’ His nose was long and Romanesque. ‘I am Hesketh, the late Mr Mortlock’s valet, and in charge of this house pro tempore.’
‘Austin Hesketh,’ my guardian mused. ‘The man who was not here,’ he raised his index finger, ‘on both occasions.’ His arm hinged down to point accusingly.
The valet’s left hand twitched as if he were catching a tennis ball. ‘I have borne a great burden of guilt for the last decade,’ he admitted.
‘If you are about to make a confession,’ Mr G looked at him severely, ‘you had better take a seat. Standing murderers who wish to unburden themselves invariably start to pace the room, which is most irritating. Also, they someti
mes change their minds and decide to effect an escape, and I prefer not to pursue servants along thoroughfares and across the open spaces of Her Majesty’s parks. It is so undignified.’
Hesketh lowered his grey head. ‘My remorse lies not in my deeds but my neglect – in not being here on either occasion to protect the house I served.’
‘Sit,’ Sidney Grice commanded, and Hesketh pulled out a chair.
‘I am sorry for the loss of your master,’ I said.
‘His naked lacerated body lies unattended on a slab,’ Mr G reminded me. ‘If any man is lost, it is not he.’
The valet winced and so did I.
‘You went to see your sick mother in Nuneaton?’ I asked, and my guardian slapped the table with both palms.
‘It is a marvel that you are not a playwright.’ He drummed loudly and arrhythmically with outstretched thumbs. ‘You are so keen to write other people’s scripts for them.’
‘Yes, miss.’ The valet looked at me, and his gaze was direct but deeply troubled.
‘Have you often had to do that?’ I enquired as Sidney Grice completed his recital with a flourish.
‘I visit when I can,’ he replied. ‘I have only been called back urgently on those two occasions.’ He fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. ‘But she is an elderly woman now and I fear there may be more.’
‘The other servants must fear it more than you,’ Sidney Grice observed grimly, ‘given past events.’
Hesketh’s jaw tensed. ‘The police looked very thoroughly into my movements after the massacre of the Garstang family and following recent events, sir. Several independent people attested to my presence in Nuneaton on both occasions.’
‘What I believe the press would refer to as watertight alibis.’ Mr G held up the razor and flipped the blade open, watching the newcomer intently as he did so. ‘But a defence which does not leak bears the hallmark of something which is a whit too well constructed.’
‘Or, in my case, is true.’ The valet struggled to control his emotions.
‘Do you have an identical twin?’ Mr G scooped the blade through the air. ‘Or a brother who could pass as you in an indifferent light? Be sure I shall find out if you are lying.’
‘I have one brother,’ Hesketh admitted. ‘But he is short and thickset, and has a bushy beard.’
The Secrets of Gaslight Lane Page 9