The Secrets of Gaslight Lane

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  A policeman was trying to redirect traffic further up the road, but so many people were ignoring him and pushing into whatever gaps they could find that he served no purpose other than as another obstruction at a chaotic crossroads.

  I could not see the front of the Home Office for we were too close to it, but like all the other government departments there was an unnecessary profusion of stone pillars, no doubt intended to emphasize that the occupants of these buildings ruled an empire that dwarfed that of the Romans and was destined to last at least as long.

  The interior was similarly grandiose with enough marble in there alone to have emptied a good-sized quarry, I estimated, while a doorman escorted us to a desk constructed with enough mahogany to fit out a frigate.

  A young man with flowing sandy locks took our details, and wrote them in the register as carefully and floridly as a monk working on an illuminated Bible.

  ‘You are thwee minutes late,’ he scolded.

  ‘And you have wathted thixth minutes whiting our namth,’ I retorted unkindly. I did not like to be treated as a naughty child.

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’ He looked up through his golden lashes.

  ‘Yeth,’ I said, and he picked up another pen and inscribed in plain block capitals TM.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, and he simpered but did not reply.

  ‘It means Trouble Maker,’ Mr G informed me as we were conducted by a tall, lean, older man down the echoing, arched central hallway, ‘Your name will go on a list now and they will start a file on you. They will investigate your history and note whenever you go to another administrative office or engage in any political activity.’

  ‘Such as wanting votes for women?’ I suggested and the official glided to a halt.

  ‘No loquor hic talia,’ he counselled. ‘Do—’

  ‘Not speak such things in here,’ I translated.

  ‘There are men here who work tirelessly and selflessly to relieve women of the worries of state,’ our guide told me with a tremor in his voice.

  ‘And there are women all around you who dream of being treated as equals,’ I retorted.

  A Sikh came towards us, resplendent in his blue chola, the flared robe and baggy pyjama trousers, his beautifully wound cherry-coloured turban, his ceremonial short curved sword tucked into his belt. He bowed in acknowledgement.

  ‘Sat shri akal,’ I greeted him and he smiled, but I was ashamed that I could not understand his response. Had I forgotten so much in the time since I left India?

  ‘The language of savages,’ the official told my godfather in what he probably fantasized was a discrete manner, and I was about to retaliate when the Sikh said politely, ‘Chitta bander.’ And moved on.

  ‘That was an old Hindoo greeting,’ our guide exposited, and I did not trouble to tell him I thought it meant white monkey. ‘He was probably looking for the colonial office.’

  ‘Ignoramus.’ Sidney Grice rolled his eye towards our guide.

  ‘Quite so,’ the official agreed, then stopped at two enor- mous oak doors, parting them – like Moses at the Red Sea – to reveal an office whose area could probably be best measured in acres. No doubt the view would have been spectacular had the Thames mist not enveloped the windows by which the great man stood.

  ‘Have a seat.’ He ushered us into two chairs and sat in a third. ‘Will you take refreshments? A gin.’

  I perked up at that, hoping to find myself in a similar situation to the one at Euston Station, but Sidney Grice declined, telling the Home Secretary, ‘I am far too busy for that nonsense.’

  Sir William Vernon Harcourt’s puffy eyes widened. ‘If only I had so much to occupy me.’

  ‘The minister was being ironic.’ A young man appeared behind Sidney Grice with a notebook.

  ‘I think not,’ Mr G disagreed. ‘You must supply me with an exhumation order, Sir William George Granville Venables Vernon Harcourt.’

  ‘What a loss you are to the diplomatic service.’ Vernon Harcourt raised his brow languorously. His hair was long, parted near the middle and sweeping out at the back of his head like a fan. Ape had not exaggerated in his depiction of the beard. It hung under but not over his chin like a disguise that had slipped. ‘I take it this is in furtherance of an investigation?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sidney Grice replied and the Home Secretary frowned.

  ‘The Garstang massacre,’ I contributed and he leaned towards me.

  ‘The massacre? The one in Gaslight Lane?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘As opposed to all the other Garstang massacres,’ my guardian mumbled.

  ‘You wish to disinter the Garstangs?’ Sir William’s eyes widened.

  ‘I did not say so.’ Mr G rubbed his wounded shoulder.

  ‘He did not, Minister,’ the young man concurred from his notes.

  ‘It is the body of a man that we think picked the pocket of Mr Nathan Mortlock, the man who was murdered recently,’ I answered.

  ‘Do we?’ my guardian exclaimed, reaching for his pencil. ‘This is a fresh development.’

  I modified my statement. ‘Mr Mortlock’s watch was found on his body.’

  ‘And what is the name of this man?’ Sir William’s eyes protruded.

  ‘We do not know,’ I admitted.

  ‘Yet,’ Sidney Grice qualified.

  The Home Secretary’s eyes drifted back as he assessed the situation.

  ‘Four minutes to your next meeting, Sir William,’ the young man reminded him.

  ‘But you are convinced this is necessary?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sidney Grice said impatiently, ‘or we should not be here wasting my time.’

  The minister looked at his subordinate quizzically.

  ‘This is most irregular,’ the young man said. ‘There are channels of procedure to be gone through.’

  ‘And no doubt channels within those channels.’ Vernon Harcourt patted some papers together and I wondered how many lives would be affected if he were to thrust them into the fire.

  ‘I hear that you are destined for the Exchequer,’ Sidney Grice stated. ‘Which means I shall have to waste time training your successor.’ My godfather turned to the secretary who was just about to announce that our time was up, and said, ‘You may not record those remarks.’

  ‘But how could you know about the chancellorship? I only found out myself an hour ago.’ The Home Secretary dabbed at his beard, as if trying to stop it slipping any further, before answering his own question. ‘Your charming mother.’

  ‘I do not have a charming mother.’ Mr G rested his right ankle on his left knee.

  ‘Would you not like to quit office as the man who brought such a notorious murderer to justice?’ I proposed.

  Vernon Harcourt did not need to ponder that question very long.

  ‘And you are convinced that this will provide the evidence you need to do that?’

  ‘No.’ Mr G returned to monosyllables. ‘But you owe me four favours.’

  Sir William’s lips worked against each other. It seemed he did not like to be reminded of that. ‘Very well,’ he decided.

  ‘We are one minute late,’ the young man announced in despair.

  ‘Make a note, Henry.’ The Home Secretary rose majestically. ‘Exhumation order on my desk as soon as Mr Grice supplies the details. And now I must deal with some trade unionists.’

  ‘To have them imprisoned?’ Sidney Grice enquired hopefully.

  ‘Dear Mr Grice,’ Vernon Harcourt said mournfully. ‘How you must miss the like of Viscount Castlereagh.’

  ‘At least he knew how to deal with insurrectionists.’ Mr G referred wistfully to the Peterloo Massacre.

  ‘Best not record that either, Henry.’ The Home Secretary ushered us so skilfully that I was hardly aware we were being shown out.

  ‘I am not sure I liked him,’ I commented as we rejoined the crowds.

  ‘He will not harm you.’ Sidney Grice turned a cigar butt over with his toe before sending it into the gutter.
‘It is the nice people who are the most dangerous.’

  He waved his cane.

  ‘Then you must be a perfect lamb.’ I put my fingers in my mouth, but a cab pulled over before I had the chance to blow.

  52

  ✥

  The Gates of Hell

  I HAD BEEN to Highgate Cemetery once before. It was early morning and I was running away, unsure if I had killed a man or whether I would be killed. I had been drugged with alkaloids and did not really know where I was. This visit promised to be even less informative.

  I could hardly see the massive gates, and I doubted that hell had any more sinister an entrance than that tunnel disappearing into the night between the towering turrets of the gatehouse. It was a cloudy, moonless night, not one star puncturing the sky.

  Sidney Grice lit two lanterns and handed me one, the smell of paraffin seeping over me. A light appeared at the far end from inside the cemetery, swaying towards us.

  ‘Miss Middleton.’ The tall figure approached.

  ‘Inspector Pound, I did not know you would be here,’ I greeted him.

  And I felt very reassured that he was. My guardian would protect me to the death, I was certain, but then so would the inspector and he would be a great deal less cross about it.

  ‘Your good friend Quigley didn’t want to come,’ he announced, and I found myself slipping my arm naturally through his while Mr G hurried ahead, his light swinging wildly, like a man trying to stop a train. ‘He says it is nothing to do with his case and, quite honestly, he wants to distance himself from that too. He does not want to be remembered as the man who couldn’t catch the Mortlock murderer. And –’ he steadied me as I slid on the wet cobbles of the turning circle inside the gates – ‘since I am the most senior surviving officer from the Garstang case, I have some interest in this case. I believe they are all buried here. I think Mortlock paid for the servants’ plot.’

  We turned down a narrow path. Mr G’s light was disappearing round a corner.

  ‘A guilt payment?’ I said.

  ‘I heard about you checking on his night in the cells.’ He lowered his lantern to help me see my feet. ‘But I could have saved you the trouble. I saw him myself that morning and his clothes were not bloodstained.’

  Sidney Grice appeared from behind a yew tree. ‘And you are certain it was him?’

  I jumped but George Pound was not so easily rattled.

  ‘Saw him again at the inquest,’ the inspector confirmed. ‘He’d smartened himself up – lost a bit of weight around the middle and had a proper shave – but it was definitely the same man.’

  ‘Plus Horwich checked on him a few times,’ I added as my guardian sped into the darkness again.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Pound said and scratched his jaw. ‘Perhaps the grave was guilt money.’

  I looked up at his face glowing in our united pools, the shadows being chased wildly with every footstep.

  ‘How could that be?’

  ‘Perhaps he felt guilty about not being there to share their fate, or possibly save them,’ he said carefully.

  We both stumbled on a low kerb, but we kept a tight hold of each other.

  ‘My father told me that men who survive battles sometimes kill themselves, often years later,’ I agreed.

  ‘I am sorry for the way Colonel Middleton died,’ George Pound said. He had never mentioned it to me before. ‘But at least you brought his killer to justice.’

  ‘Some justice.’ I still could not hide the rage in my voice.

  ‘He will answer to God one day.’

  ‘Then I hope God will not forgive him.’

  We turned round a sleeping man, his top hat on his chest, his whiskers beautifully chiselled in marble, his prominent nose covered in pigeon droppings. There were a few lights ahead of us now.

  ‘Don’t become bitter, March.’ I hardly heard his words at first.

  I had killed the man I loved, my father had been murdered and the man I had come to love had rejected me for my money. I wanted to shake George Pound and scream it in his face.

  You promised me, George Pound. You promised. You made me choose and when I chose you, you threw me aside.

  But I only said, ‘I try.’

  I could hear low voices now and the unmistakeable slice of spades into clay.

  Two men were in the grave, shovelling the soil out. They were bent over but if they had stood straight their heads would hardly have reached the surface. The gravestone had been laid on a piece of sacking. Cut into the still-white marble were four words:

  GOD

  SHALL

  KNOW

  YOU

  Sidney Grice stood at the foot of the grave, with two men to either side holding lamps on sticks out over the workers. The ground was boggy underfoot after all the rain and they had all rested their coats on a nearby raised vault.

  A blade hit something hard and one of the men grunted in satisfaction.

  ‘Have a care,’ one of the lamp holders advised. ‘You don’t want to split it.’

  They held their spades nearer to horizontal now, scooping the wet clay out. One stopped and kneeled to wipe away the earth at his feet.

  ‘Found the plate,’ he announced.

  The shadows thickened to the far side. A shape formed and grew, solidifying into a man, his great height exaggerated by a high top hat and a long black cloak.

  ‘Show me.’ He leaned over while they lowered a lamp. ‘Unknown but not unloved. That is the one.’

  ‘How could he doubt it?’ I kept my voice to a whisper.

  ‘Sometimes unscrupulous undertakers will put two or more coffins into one grave,’ Pound explained.

  ‘Not in my cemetery,’ the stranger declared.

  ‘Indeed not, Sir Grigsby,’ the inspector agreed, and I realized that this must be Sir Grigsby German, the director of Highgate Cemetery.

  The lamp holders were throwing ropes and the diggers attaching them and climbing up short ladders to the surface. All four men took an end each.

  ‘Will the handles hold?’ I asked.

  I did not suppose timber would take long to rot in such wet conditions.

  ‘If I know my caskets, that is best English oak,’ Sir Grigsby lectured me. ‘It sails the seven seas for decades. I think it can last a few weeks in the ground.’

  The men began to heave and the thin crust of earth broke as the coffin started to rise.

  ‘Blimey,’ one said. ‘It’s heavy.’

  ‘Lead-lined,’ my guardian spoke for the first time, ‘if Crepolius or his fictional sons have not cut any corners.’

  ‘Snushall’s of Gordon Street?’ Inspector Pound asked, but Sidney Grice did not trouble to reply.

  The top of the coffin was at ground level now, the men grunting and heaving for all their worth, one of them wrapping the rope around his waist, and I dreaded to think what would happen to him if the others lost their grip.

  ‘It would be a good idea to stand clear.’ Pound led me two paces back and it was only then that I realized our arms were still interlinked.

  ‘Right, men, on the count of three,’ one of their number, a stocky man, ordered. ‘One two three. Pull.’

  Every man strained every sinew in that final effort as the coffin rose just over the edge.

  ‘Over to me… sway… sway, darn it.’

  And, with one collective groan and final wrench, they swung the coffin over the far side of the grave, dumping it on to the heap of freshly dug clay.

  ‘Hold it,’ the stocky man shouted urgently as the coffin began to slip. Two of the men dug their heels into the grass in a bizarre tug-of-war, while the other two rushed round to help, and between them they dragged it on to solid ground.

  It was a splendid coffin. Even in the patchy illumination of the lanterns placed round it I could see the varnish still intact, apart from a few scratches and gouges from the spades. The sides had been carved into an apron of oak apples and leaves along the base and the top into a simple bevelled cross ab
ove the brass plate. The handles were brass too, solid, beaded and hinged into fleur-de-lis brackets.

  ‘We’ll need more men and a cart to carry this weight away,’ the stocky man predicted.

  ‘You can keep the coffin.’ My guardian spoke for the first time. ‘I am only interested in its contents.’

  Sir Grigsby pondered the problem. ‘It would be easier,’ he conceded. ‘We will never find a suitable vehicle at this time of night and there is an interment three plots away in the morning.’

  Sidney Grice looked at his hunter. The stocky man brought out a screwdriver and set to work – sixteen screws shone gold in the flames, each one carefully placed in his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Best keep back,’ he advised as he and the other three took hold of the lid and lifted.

  From the splaying of their neck muscles, the lid alone was quite a weight. They shuffled to one side and bent their knees to put it down. Sidney Grice was first at the foot of the coffin, lantern raised to illuminate the interior.

  ‘Good lord.’ His right eye wriggled free and clinked unheeded into the casket.

  ‘What is it?’ I freed myself and hurried round with George Pound in close pursuit.

  Sidney Grice said nothing. He was transfixed by the sight that greeted him. The unknown man was not lying peacefully back, arms crossed, as I had anticipated. His arms were lifted, palms up, fingers hooked with torn ends, and his head was raised from its silk pillow. But the worst of it was his face. I had never seen such a look of terror. His eyes bulged, white and staring madly. A bandage had been wrapped over and under his jaw to keep it closed and his lips had been sutured, but the stitches had been ripped out when the lips had pulled apart.

  ‘Oh dear God above,’ I gasped. ‘He was buried alive.’

  53

  ✥

  The Shadow of an Angel

  INSPECTOR POUND WAS the first to break the silence.

  ‘But that is not possible. This man was long dead when he was found.’

  ‘Are you sure it is the same man?’ I could not tear my eyes from the nightmare before me.

  ‘I have never seen him before, but I can get my constable to confirm it.’