‘Are any of the cells occupied at present?’ Sidney Grice peeped at the register but the sergeant slapped it shut.
‘Not even Nettles having his afternoon nap,’ Horwich assured him.
‘Good.’ Mr G twirled his cane. ‘Then you can show us round.’
‘I’m not a bleedin’ tour guide,’ Sergeant Horwich objected.
‘Indeed, you show no visible signs of haemorrhage,’ my guardian agreed.
Horwich rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, I thought Harris did that the other week.’
‘But not as nicely as you can,’ I told him and he preened a little more. ‘I cannot imagine anyone is so knowledgeable about it as you.’
It is a myth put about by men that only women are dupes for flattery. Everybody is. Tell any man how dashing he looks in his uniform, or how you love a man with a few extra chins and no teeth, and he will be fresh clay in your hands. I have never met a man yet who did not believe that he was handsome if you told him so. I know a great many beautiful women who are knotted with self-doubt because their hair is not straight or curly or dark or blonde enough, no matter how ardently a beau may seek to give reassurance.
‘You must have had some fascinating experiences here.’ I poured some honey on the flattery and Horwich almost visibly lapped it up.
‘I suppose I could spare a couple of minutes,’ he conceded, and bellowed over to the back office, ‘Nettles. Come and look after the desk.’
Constable Nettles appeared, fumbling with the top button of his collar.
‘Arrested each other, ’ave you?’ he greeted us.
‘Steal my joke once more and I’ll have you patrolling Berkeley Square for the rest of your short career.’ Horwich pushed back his chair. I was so used to seeing him sitting that I had almost forgotten what a massive man he was, keg-chested and a good eight inches taller than my godfather or me.
‘But that is a lovely area,’ I objected.
‘Too lovely,’ Nettles complained. ‘I’d spend my days telling sweet old ladies the time and helping them across the road. Not much chance of promotion for me there.’
‘Or anywhere else,’ Sidney Grice put in unkindly. ‘Do not forget your keys, Sergeant Ezekiel Trueblood Horwich.’
Few men dared address the sergeant by his full name but Mr G was not easily intimidated. Horwich took a key out of his outer breast pocket to unlock a wall cupboard behind him, snatched the ring off a hook and clipped it on to his belt, then marched out from behind his desk, along the corridor to the stairs.
Despite it being empty, the lights were turned up. I supposed that one would not want to be fiddling with gas mantles when there was a troublesome prisoner. All the doors were opened outwards.
The sergeant pouted. ‘What do you want to see?’
‘I am especially interested in cell one.’ Sidney Grice ambled towards it. ‘You cannot imagine how ungrateful I would be if you could show me how you lock it.’
Horwich chuckled and not for the first time I marvelled at the façades we all construct. Nobody – not even my godfather – could have known, from his manner, the distress the sergeant must have been suffering.
‘Ungrateful?’ He unclipped the bunch of keys. ‘Got your words a bit muddled there.’
‘Why so many keys?’ I asked.
‘One for each door.’ He rattled them. ‘And, in case they get taken off an officer by somebody wanting to let all his pals out, they are in a jumblificified order.’
‘So how do you know which is which?’ I asked, restraining myself from saying that he must be very clever, in case he thought I was mocking him.
‘The biggest one is for the outside door.’ Horwich held it up. ‘The next is cell two, then one, then four, then three and so on.’
‘So you finish with nine and ten?’ I forced myself to say, and the sergeant smiled benevolently.
‘You nearly got it.’ His hand reached out and I resolved, if he tried to ruffle my hair, to do the same to him, but Horwich’s fingers came to a halt just an inch above my bonnet. ‘Ten and nine. I bet Mr Grice could have worked that out.’
‘It would have taken me an inconsiderable time,’ Sidney Grice said drily.
‘Tricky, isn’t it?’ the sergeant commiserated.
‘You must be very clever,’ skipped shamelessly off my tongue.
‘All the men think so.’ Sergeant Horwich preened his moustaches. ‘But that’s not for me to say.’ He put the second key in the lock.
‘Kindly execute your half-witted stratagem, Miss Middleton,’ my guardian directed, ‘before my cerebro-spinal fluid needs remagnetizing.’
‘Ooh, nasty,’ Horwich sympathized. ‘My missus gets a touch of that in this cold weather. It’s the damp what gets deep into you.’
‘Strange how the dark plays tricks,’ I mused. ‘I imagined the cell was quite small but that must be at least eight paces long even for a big man.’
I went in to demonstrate, in baby steps, eight in and eight out again, and Horwich chortled.
‘Why, bless you, miss. A grown man could do that in half as many.’
I decided that asking him what half of eight was might be going a bit too far, but only dissented dogmatically. ‘I think not.’
The sergeant bristled. ‘Right then.’ And he strode into the cell. ‘Three,’ he declared triumphantly. ‘What the—?’
Sidney Grice slammed the door and I turned the key.
‘Very funny, I don’t think,’ Horwich fumed. ‘Which of the men put you up to this? If any one of them dares come down to look he’ll be digesting his truncheon for a week.’ He put his face to the observation hatch. ‘I’m very surprised at you, Mr Grice, indulgifying in pranks like this.’
He hammered on the door.
‘It puzzles me when people do that,’ Mr G pondered. ‘He must know that we know he is in there and wanting to be let out.’
‘I think he is venting his frustration,’ I conjectured as Horwich grasped the bars and wrenched at them.
‘If I call for help, you could both be arrested for illegally holding me prisoner and obstructifying a police officer in the course of his duty,’ the sergeant threatened. ‘Both those charges carry stiff sentences.’
‘And you would live it down in a matter of moments,’ I forecast. ‘Shall I call the men down for you?’
Horwich fought down his mounting anger. ‘Right then. What’s your game?’
‘I would have thought you’d know by now that I do not play games, Sergeant.’ Mr G removed the key as Horwich made a hopeless attempt to squeeze his hefty arm through to grab it.
Sergeant Horwich extricated himself. ‘What then?’
‘I wish to consult you, as an experienced detention officer, to learn how you intend to get out of that cell.’ My godfather stepped sideways and unlocked the back door.
‘I do not imagine that even you could break that door down, even if you used the bed as a battering ram,’ I debated.
Sidney Grice opened the back door on to a large high-walled courtyard.
‘Of course I bleedin’ can’t,’ Horwich retorted.
A Black Maria stood, its harness empty. I liked to think the horse was having a rest.
‘Do you know how to pick locks?’ I asked.
‘No, I do bleedin’ not.’
‘It would take a long time to tunnel out,’ I remarked.
‘With what?’ he demanded. ‘My granny’s arse?’
‘I have not witnessed what a coarse man you are before this moment.’ Mr G closed the door and relocked it. ‘I am rapidly reaching the conclusion that the only way out is with these.’ He held up the ring.
‘You’ve had your fun,’ Horwich wheedled. ‘Just hand them over and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘But how will you persuade me to do that?’ Sidney Grice rattled the bunch. ‘Shall we go for tea, Miss Middleton?’
‘That would be jolly,’ I agreed readily.
‘I’m warning you,’ Horwich stormed.
‘He does not say w
hat he is warning us about,’ my guardian noted.
‘Probably to take care crossing the road,’ I speculated. ‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’
If Sergeant Horwich could, he would have ripped that door out of its frame and battered us to death with it at that moment, but the door held firm no matter how hard he kicked at it with his scuttle-sized boots. He walked back and launched a fling kick with both feet, landing heavily on his shoulder.
‘Bloody damn and piss it,’ he raged. ‘Open the fropping door, you soddened gits.’
Sidney Grice leaned back on his stick like a holidaymaker admiring a mountain view. ‘You cannot appreciate yet – though you shall shortly – how encouraged I am to hear you say that. It confirms my belief that I am steering a steady course towards the truth and that our incarceration of you was fully justified.’
‘You might have to get used to it,’ I warned and Horwich scowled.
‘You won’t get me to fall for that trick again.’
‘Probably not,’ I agreed.
‘For some time I have been vexed by the problem of Nathan Mortlock’s alibi on the night of the Garstang massacre.’ Mr G leaned sideways to take some pressure off his right leg. ‘It puzzled me that the man who had everything to gain by their deaths went out of his way to get himself arrested for the first and only time in his life on that particular occasion.’
‘How the hell would I know?’ Horwich gave the door another kick. ‘All I know is that he turned up D and D. I booked him and unbooked him on his way to court.’
‘The problem is,’ I explained, ‘that he could not possibly have got out of here, committed the atrocity and returned in the time available to him.’
‘Of course he couldn’t,’ Horwich rumbled. ‘I’ve told you that until I’m blue in the face.’
I refrained from remarking that he was actually puce and said, ‘Unless.’
‘Unless what?’ the sergeant shouted.
‘Unless he was let out by the man with the key,’ I concluded.
Horwich closed his eyes, inhaled and opened them. ‘For the last time – I was the only one with the keys and I don’t let anybody else lay a finger on them while I’m on duty. They stay locked in that cupboard – and I keep the only key for that – or on my belt. Nobody could have let him out without me knowing.’
‘My knowing,’ Mr G corrected and unbuckled the flap of his satchel.
‘Oh, Sergeant Horwich,’ I sighed, ‘that is exactly what I was afraid you would say.’
74
✥
Dead Men’s Dreams
HORWICH BLINKED.
‘For once you’re speaking more riddles than your guardian,’ he complained.
Sidney Grice brought out the ultramarine book, opened it on the page he wanted without a glance, held it out in front of him and read out:
The military man comes. His face is framed in the window, divided by bars, big with bristling moustaches. He—
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘It is a diary of Nathan Mortlock’s dreams,’ I informed him.
‘So you have falsely imprisoned an officer of the law with twenty-five years of service on the strength of a dead man’s dreams?’ Horwich threw back his head in disgust.
Mr G read on:
He puts a finger to his lips. I cannot hear the key go in or the lock turn or the well-oiled door open. He does it all so slowly. Twice he stops to check behind him. I hear my friend. He is sobbing. He is saying, ‘Please. It’s all closing in. Please. I can’t breathe.’ He is panting and I want to go and comfort him. But I know I can’t and he can never know the reason why. The big man signals for me to stop. He walks silently like a dead man, this, this—
‘This, this what?’ Horwich interrupted. ‘This is just rubbish. If you are trying to make some accusation of derelictionment of duty, you will be laughed out of court.’
This sergeant major.
‘Well, there you are,’ Horwich cried. ‘Military man – sergeant major. I’ve never been neither of those.’
‘One can quite understand why somebody would describe you in that way,’ I reasoned.
‘I won’t even start on how the men describe you,’ Horwich mocked, ‘but it doesn’t make you guilty of anything.’
My guardian read on.
He opens the back door. I hesitate but he motions me to hurry. ‘Get a fropping move on,’ he whispers and half pushes me out. It is windy and wet and, when I remember what I am out there for, I turn to go back but he has shut the door. I can feel the cold even in my dream. It chills my bowels and sets a block of ice in my heart.
‘Is that it?’ Horwich struck his temple with the ball of his hand. ‘A dead man’s dreams about a sergeant major? You must have been infected with Miss Middleton’s madness, Mr Grice, or maybe you gave yours to her.’
‘Fropping,’ I quoted to the shock of both men. ‘I have only ever heard three men use that word – you, and Constables Nettles and Harris, who must have picked it up from you.’
‘You move in much more gentile circles than what I do,’ Horwich said.
In happier times I would have found his Mollyism amusing, but there was precious little to laugh about now.
‘Dear Sergeant Horwich,’ I said. ‘Nathan Mortlock goes on to give accounts of the murders with details that were never made known to the public or even the family.’
‘Perhaps he had a vivid imagianation,’ Horwich proposed, ‘or met the real murderer.’
‘It goes on.’ Mr G leafed back. ‘The dreams were not in chronological order and I would have been highly sceptical if they were.’
I run. I run all the way along the street, miles and miles of them. My legs are heavy and the air syrup. I can hardly make any progress. Sometimes I am drifting backwards.
‘This is all very interesting,’ Horwich broke in, but my godfather read on without a pause.
At last I reach the door. I scratch on it four times. That is our signal. But there is no answer. I wait a lifetime and try again but still nobody comes. A wave of panic crashes over me for I know, if I can’t get back in, I am as good as dead. I scratch again and I whisper as loud as I dare, ‘Sergeant Horwich, let me in.’
That bit knocked Horwich backwards. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘I have read it too,’ I told him.
Horwich opens the door. ‘Shut your stupid fropping mouth,’ he hisses. ‘Your friend has been making a fuss again and I’ve only just got him settled.’
The sergeant paled. ‘It was just a dream. Maybe he had it but it doesn’t mean anything. I dreamed I stole the Crown Jewels last night but my missus wasn’t wearing a crown this morning.’ He looked about him. ‘Maybe he made it all up to spite me for writing down his real name. He asked me not to. I remember that now.’
‘After eleven years?’ I watched a bead of sweat roll down the side of his nose.
‘My Old Mum,’ Sidney Grice declared loudly.
‘What?’ Horwich looked genuinely confused. ‘What about her?’
‘Surely you have not forgotten My Old Mum?’ Mr G flipped his stick to point a foot away from our prisoner’s face. ‘My Old Mum changed your life, Ezekiel Trueblood Horwich. You had ten shillings on the first three places in the two thirty at Newmarket, and it was all going wrong for you until the final furlong when Brian Boru stumbled and My Old Mum came in by half a nose ahead.’
‘I remember hearing about that race.’ I frowned. ‘Brian Boru was such a hot favourite and My Old Mum so unfancied that there was a stewards’ enquiry. Boru’s jockey was exonerated, but he was never given a good ride again.’
‘But lucky old Ezekiel made one hundred and eighty-two pounds out of that race,’ my guardian marvelled. ‘An absolute fortune for a young sergeant who had only just sewed the stripes on his sleeve.’
‘Many men would have been tempted to buy a cosy pub by the seaside.’ I saw the sweat snowball and, by the time it reached Sergeant Horwich’s splendid moustache, a dozen more had sprung u
p to replace it.
‘Coincidentally, it was exactly the amount he was in debt,’ Mr G revealed.
‘Goodness,’ I expostulated, ‘that must have been an intolerable burden for a young sergeant who had only just sewed the stripes on his sleeve.’
‘All right.’ Horwich held up his hand. ‘You’ve had your fun. Yes, I did used to be a gambler and I did get myself heavily in hock. I expect Gerry told you that, though I told him in confidence over a drink once. But I had a lucky break and I learned my lesson and I’ve never bet a penny since.’
‘You must be very proud of yourself,’ I told him. ‘Most people would have taken that as the start of a lucky streak and got themselves back into debt.’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Horwich admitted, ‘but I’d been living in fear of my life at that time.’
‘Bookie Joe,’ Sidney Grice said. ‘He bought up all your debts.’
‘Lucky for you he took that last bet then,’ I remarked.
‘Only Bookie Joe does not remember it that way.’ My guardian held his cane out steadily. ‘He remembers being very surprised and disappointed that you managed to pay him off. Hagop Hanratty was offering him two hundred and fifty to take over your debt. An obliging police sergeant, especially one in charge of the station book and keys, would have been worth his weight in aluminium to a man in his position.’
‘I never done anything to help scum like that,’ Horwich declared with a passion that could only have come from the heart. ‘It was me who arrested his brother, Aram.’
‘You will not have heard of Drake, Frick, Garrard and Leaf.’ Mr G lowered his stick until it was a foot above the stone slabs. ‘But, to summarize, they are a company of auditors, that is, accountants who scrutinize company and personal finances, especially if there is a suspicion of irregularities. Miss Charity Clair Caroline Mortlock does not know it yet, but she will be paying them a considerable number of guineas – the exact number of which is none of your concern – to draw up a detailed analysis of her father’s affairs.’ He tapped the floor three times like a magician performing a trick. ‘Nathan’s record-keeping was exemplary and Mr Harold Tewkesbury of the aforementioned Drake, Frick, Garrard and Leaf was able to account for almost every penny of Mortlock’s expenditure since the day he inherited the Garstang estate, excepting two things: first, a payment of ten pounds, increasing to thirty pounds in cash on the first day of every month; second, in October 1872, when there was an unlisted withdrawal of—’
The Secrets of Gaslight Lane Page 34