The Secrets of Gaslight Lane
Page 45
‘It is not that,’ he replied.
From the corner of my eye I saw the vicar start towards us, lifting his cassock clear of the dirt.
‘What then?’ My right hand clutched his shoulder.
‘You know what it is.’
The vicar approached behind the inspector, caught sight of my face, hesitated and hurried away.
‘For the love of God!’ I cried out. ‘Do I have to fall on my knees in the mud and beg you?’ He looked down, but I dipped to hold his gaze. ‘What does it take to make you follow your heart, George Pound?’
The diggers had stopped their work and were leaning on their shovels to watch the entertainment, but I do not think that Pound was even aware of them any more. He pulled off his glove to touch my cheek and I felt him tremble. His eyes darkened and his face paled.
‘I don’t know, March,’ he said desolately and it was not just our hands that fell away.
104
✥
Judgment Day
ONE DAY I will have to meet them again, all the people whose lives I took, when I wasn’t me. And I shall have to tell them why they died, though I can’t remember now. Was it really for this rotting house that became my prison or the allowance policed by sanctimonious vicars nosing over my shoulder all the time? Or was it for the wife I couldn’t keep or the daughter who loathes me?
She told me once. ‘I love you, Daddy, but not as much as I hate you.’
They will all hate me.
Mr and Mrs Garstang will preach at me.
Mrs Emmett will give me a good ticking off.
Brian will ask for a rematch, a fair fight this time, and beat the innards out of me.
What of the maids, Angelina, who might outlive me, and poor Kate, whom I hurt the most? I can’t even begin to imagine how they will be.
How will Danny greet me – my friend, who tried to protect me in a fight I started, whose last night was one of torment because he was terrified of being trapped – my friend, whom I throttled and lowered into that cesspit because he saw Sergeant Horwich letting me back in?
And how will I face Lionel, whom I brought back into the world when he was shut away? Lionel will still love me. He will want to hug me and forget all about it and I could not stomach that.
And Mrs Samuels, whom I brained and mashed with a rolling pin, I had quite forgotten about her.
Hell will be a release after all this.
And Fortitude, my sweet Forty, as I used to call her. She put up the biggest fight of them all. She kept saying, ‘Don’t do this, Natty. Think of Charity.’
And I scream back, ‘But you are trying to take her away from me.’
And afterwards I do think of my darling little Cherry, still tucked up in her bed, so lovely, and I can’t help but wonder. Will there ever come a day when I am forced to murder her?
105
✥
Crumpets and Catmint
THE FOG LAY heavier than ever, suffocating the city. It seeped into the house, making everything cold and damp, but at least we had a blazing fire to huddle beside and hot crumpets with butter melting into the holes of mine.
‘Is it not wonderful how the symmetry of fourteen encompasses recent events?’ Sidney Grice took a box of safety matches from the hearth as a connoisseur might an objet d’art.
‘How?’ I asked blankly.
‘Beginning with the three major non-lethal criminal violations I have solved.’ He slid the box open. ‘Crepolius Snushall’s illegal disposal of corpses, the corruption of Sergeant Horwich and the withholding of evidence by Dr Ottorley Critchely.’
For every offence Mr G listed he laid a match on the edge of the table.
‘And what about our sheltering of Hesketh?’ I demanded.
‘You cannot harbour a dead man and Austin Hesketh was all but dead the moment I exposed him.’
‘Was Angelina’s attempt to assassinate you not a crime?’ I was surprised he did not mention it first, but my guardian was busy marshalling his fragments of food.
‘Under the rules formulated in the wake of the M’Naghten case in 1843, a person certified as being insane cannot be guilty of a criminal offence.’ My guardian delved into the box. ‘Add to those the deaths that can be laid at Nathan Mortlock’s door – Holford and Augusta Garstang, Brian Watts, their footman; Kate Webb, their maid; Lionel Engra, their godson; Daniel Filbert, Nathan’s friend; Mrs Samuels from number 4 Burton Crescent, Angelina Innocenti—’
‘He was already dead when she had her accident,’ I objected.
‘And whose spikes killed her?’ And, seeing that I was not going to reply, my guardian recited, ‘Nathan himself and Austin Hesketh.’ And dealt out two more matches.
‘You must be very proud to have solved so many crimes in one case.’ I did not trouble to ask him for the eleventh death, for that came to light in the last entry of Nathan Mortlock’s journal.
‘One of my fourteen finest achievements.’ Sidney Grice nodded happily as he aligned the last match. ‘In fact there have been so many fourteens in this case.’ He sliced open a plain muffin. ‘If ever you come to write it up, why not entitle your account The Sign of Fourteen?’
‘That is a dismal title.’ I spooned out some cherry jam.
He nibbled round the edge of his muffin thoughtfully. ‘For once you are right.’
I thought again about that last death.
‘Why were you surprised that Fortitude Garstang’s letters were written in the same hand?’ I asked, and Sidney Grice put his ragged muffin back on the plate.
‘I was not.’ He trimmed the rim with the point on his knife. ‘I observed that it was remarkable how identical they were. Every word common to two or more missives was written in exactly the same style and size on every occasion. Nobody’s hand is consistent. It varies according to which pen one uses, one’s temper, whether one is sitting at a bureau or writing in a railway carriage, et cetera, et cetera. If you add to this the knowledge that Signor Agostino Cristiano Montanari is a notorious forger—’
‘You said you admired his work,’ I remembered.
‘And so I do.’ He reassembled the muffin. ‘I have never seen so good a counterfeiter of Dürer.’
‘So Nathan’s drawing—’ I began.
‘A skilful fake, which would doubtless deceive a lover of so-called art, but one who loathes such nonsense views it with a more dispassionate eye.’ Sidney Grice tapped his glass prosthesis to imply that he had used it to view the picture. Absorbed in his thoughts, he poked at his muffin and told me, ‘One of Montanari’s favourite ways of getting a work on the market was for one accomplice to lose it to another in an illegal game. How else could Nathan explain his ownership of a valuable work of art? And a greedy collector is not going to look too closely at the provenance of a work acquired in such an illicit manner.’
‘Then why did Nathan never sell it?’
‘Montanari was greedy. He produced too many Dürers in too short a space of time and aroused suspicions. He fled and would have been grateful for any commissions, including forged letters purportedly from dead wives.’
‘Artwork at twenty pounds a time,’ I remembered. ‘So that was why the last letter said that they were moving. The money has dried up and poor Cherry will wait for ever for another communication.’
Sidney Grice stabbed his muffin and held it up like a speared fish. ‘Unless Montanari decides to send begging letters in Fortitude Garstang’s name.’
Spirit came out from under the desk.
‘Roll over.’ Mr G twirled his fingers and she lay down at his feet. ‘At last a trainable female in this house,’ he declared triumphantly.
‘She is just resting,’ I objected.
‘Nonsense. Watch this.’ He curled his fingers and commanded, ‘Sit up and beg.’
And Spirit, I was proud to see, merely yawned and closed her eyes.
‘That reminds me.’ I wiped my fingers dry and delved in my handbag for the catnip mouse. Something glinted underneath, the silver lo
cket that I had picked off the pavement. I had forgotten about it with all the other events. It was beautifully worked in interlocking hearts, with a tiny catch on the side, and when I unclipped it there was an oval photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful young woman.
‘What the devil!’ Sidney Grice exclaimed.
‘I thought she had dropped it,’ I whispered, more to myself than him.
My guardian stood up, his plate clattering on to the hearth, his muffin depositing into the ashes.
‘This is what you were looking for when you were leaning over the railings complaining that you hated going into the moat,’ I accused, and I suddenly realized that the locket was so small because it was designed to hang on a watch chain.
There was a message engraved in the left hand. The letters were tiny and intertwined but legible: To my darling Siddy with all my heart. The glass was cracked, but I did not need to read the signature Constance to know that the picture was of my mother and – not for the first time – I wondered that I did not look like either of my parents.
‘Give that back.’
I hardly heard the words but, when I looked up, I saw the curl at the corner of his mouth that I had seen in our twin reflections.
‘Dear God in heaven,’ I cried. ‘Are you my father?’
Postscript
✥
I SWORE AN oath to Sidney Grice, and he reminded me of it before he died, that I would not tell a living soul what he told me over that broken plate for at least sixty years, and so I must wait – if God spares me – until 1944 before I am relieved of that vow.
*
Shortly after this I had a letter from George Pound. He was being transferred to Ely in Cambridgeshire. They needed reorganization and a more sedentary job with fresh air might benefit the inspector’s health. He would like to say farewell before he left.
*
I never saw Cherry Mortlock again. The following year she married Fabian Le Bon and they went to live in France where his genius might be appreciated better. It has yet to be recognized.
They were visiting his brother in Belgium in August 1914 when the Germans invaded. Fabian fled, leaving Cherry, who had gone to meet her niece from school, to fend for herself. He got a boat to England. She stayed behind to help in a clandestine hospital for wounded British soldiers trapped behind enemy lines. In 1917 she was denounced by a neighbour, arrested by the Germans and shot as a spy.
There is a small memorial to her in what is now Cartwright Gardens. Sidney Grice paid for it and decided upon the words.
CHARITY ‘CHERRY’ MORTLOCK
1859–1917
A SEEKER OF TRUTH
And once a year I tend it. Two years ago I saw an elderly man step out of Gethsemane with an easel under his arm. He did not glance at the plaque and I do not suppose for one moment he understood the little old lady, who looked into his sallow soul as he shuffled past, when she whispered, ‘Murderer.’
I almost added Just like her father, but by then I was the only person alive who truly knew the secrets of Gaslight Lane.
M.M., 1 September 1943
125 Gower Street
We hope you enjoyed this book!
The next instalment in the Gower Street Detective series is coming in June 2017.
For more information, click the following links:
About M.R.C. Kasasian
About the Gower Street Detective Series
An Invitation from the Publisher
About M.R.C. Kasasian
M.R.C. KASASIAN was raised in Lancashire. He has had careers as varied as a factory hand, wine waiter, veterinary assistant, fairground worker and dentist. He lives with his wife, in Suffolk in the summer and in Malta in the winter.
Find me on Twitter
About the Gower Street Detective Series
London, 1882
March Middleton, born 5th November 1862, was raised by her widowed father, a doctor, in Lancashire. She accompanied him on postings to India and Afghanistan, working as a nurse. Following his death she went to live with her godfather, Sidney Grice, at 125 Gower Street.
Sidney Grice, born 26th September 1841, attended Trinity College, Cambridge. Following a mysterious personal tragedy he disappeared for a number of years. After losing his right eye foiling an assassination attempt on Crown Prince Wilhelm, Grice returned to London to establish himself as its foremost Personal Detective.
With her sharp tongue and even sharper mind, March is sure she could help her guardian solve his cases – if only he did not think women too feeble for detective work. But even Grice must admit some puzzles are too great for even him to solve alone…
Set between the refined buildings of Victorian Bloomsbury and the stinking streets of London’s East End, The Gower Street Detective is for those who like their crime original, atmospheric, and very, very funny.
Find out more
Find out more
Find out more
Visit Head of Zeus now
An Invitation from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of book-lovers.
We will keep you up to date with our latest books, author blogs, special previews, tempting offers, chances to win signed editions and much more.
Get in touch: hello@headofzeus.com
Visit Head of Zeus now
Find us on Twitter
Find us on Facebook
Find us on BookGrail
First published in the UK in 2016 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © M.R.C. Kasasian, 2016
The moral right of M.R.C. Kasasian to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB) 9781781859759
ISBN (XTPB) 9781781859766
ISBN (E) 9781781859742
Cover illustration: Jim Tierney
Head of Zeus Ltd
Clerkenwell House
45-47 Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.headofzeus.com