Facing the Wall
I WAS READING in the library when my father came back from Southport. There was a grimness in him that I had never seen before and he poured himself a large brandy before he sat at the table with me.
‘It is very bad, March.’ His voice was croaky. ‘Little Daisy had a fit in the night.’ He tossed half the drink down and cleared his throat. ‘She did not survive.’ His breath shuddered. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘Oh, poor Daisy,’ I cried and my father put a hand heavily on mine.
‘Marjory has gone into shock.’ He finished his drink. ‘I do not know if she will ever come out of it.’ He stood abruptly and strode back to the side table.
‘Barney must be…’ I could not think of a word to describe it.
My father had his back to me as he refilled his glass. ‘Barney is very ill, March. They took him to Southport for his weak chest.’
‘But Barney has quite recovered from his fall. He is—’
‘Very ill,’ my father insisted, though Barney had raced me up Sparrow Hill the day before they left. ‘His weakness has turned into consumption.’ The stopper rattled back into the decanter. ‘I am going to arrange for him to be admitted into a sanatorium abroad. The sea air did him no good so we will try the mountains.’
And still my father faced the wall.
43
The Stolen House
AS USUAL SIDNEY GRICE was in the dining room before me the next morning, dipping into his bowl of prune juice sprinkled with charcoal and surrounded by fragments of eggshell.
‘March.’ He tossed aside a copy of the Manchester Guardian. ‘I am afraid you will have to breakfast without the benefit of my jolly banter this morning. I am required in court as a professional witness for a freemason who found someone had painted his study in scarlet.’
‘Sounds serious.’ I helped myself to the teapot.
‘It was.’ He threw his napkin on to a pile of crunched-up and torn newspapers. ‘When he stepped out of the room to find the rest of his house had been stolen.’
I sniffed the tea. ‘I did not read anything about that.’
‘The government is trying to hush it up.’ He ripped out a column of print and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘But I suspect it will be all over London by this evening.’
‘Just as his house may be,’ I suggested.
Mr G gave me an atrophying look and stood up.
‘And you will have a quiet morning in.’
‘Will I?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly and was gone, rattling down the stairs and shouting to Molly for his flask, and how was he supposed to know she had already done it when she never has before?
I poured myself a tea and sifted through the wreckage of his morning’s papers. There was an article about a new hat shop on Regent Street, but he had torn out the middle for a stabbing on the Gray’s Inn Road. I found another about a possible new suspect for the slaughter of the Garstang family in Burton Gardens, but it was easy to see why my guardian had not thought to save it. It was written by Trafalgar Trumpington – a journalist Mr G detested – and padded out with a neighbour’s unfounded conjectures.
Molly trudged upstairs. ‘Letter by special messengerer,’ she announced with a despairing glance at the debris of her employer’s activities.
Even as I took it from Molly I knew whom the letter was from. I had corresponded with the inspector whilst he was in the nursing home and I would have recognized that solid square handwriting anywhere. I unfolded the single sheet of white paper.
My Dear March,
How it cheers me to call you that.
Can I see you alone? There are so many things I want to say to you. Will you come to the El Cabala at ten o’clock? If it is difficult or SG is suspicious do not trouble. I shall wait one hour.
Yours affectionately
GP
I did not need to think twice about it. My guardian could hardly object to my meeting a trusted police officer in a public place. I went back up to my room and changed, saw myself in the cheval mirror and changed again – my blue and white dress from Madame DuPont’s. It was not a new outfit but I did not want to be too dressed up for an informal cafe.
I did battle with my hair, won a Pyrrhic victory and hurried downstairs.
‘I am meeting Inspector Pound at the El Cabala Cafe,’ I told Molly as I raised the flag. ‘Please do not tell Mr Grice unless there is some emergency.’
‘Oh lor’, miss.’ She dropped my umbrella and stepped back as if expecting it to bite her ankle. ‘I don’t not think the master will be very happy when he finds out you’ve gone and went out. He’ll be like flea with a sore head.’
‘Bear,’ I corrected her.
‘Flea with a sore bear,’ she tried uncertainly as I trotted down the steps.
I saw no reason to take a cab. It was a five-minute walk to Upper Montague Street and a hansom would probably take four times that long in the ever-heavy traffic.
‘Any spare dogs?’ a young lad begged and, seeing my puzzlement, explained, ‘Cats and dogs is pets. Pets is cigarettes.’
‘You might as well say fish,’ I reasoned. ‘Fish get caught in nets. Nets are cigarettes.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah,’ he decided as we crossed the road together. ‘Don’t fink so.’
I flipped open my father’s silver case and gave him two Virginias.
‘Ain’t you got no perks?’ he complained and I gave him a Turkish as well. ‘Got an ’orrible?’ I knew that one – horrible fright/light – and struck a Lucifer for him. He sucked in deep and broke into a raucous coughing fit. ‘Gawd, that cleared the tubes.’ He spat into the gutter and I walked on.
The fog was very patchy, poisonous strands lacing the air and curling around the pedestrian’s legs, while a black-and-white terrier jumped through a stray wisp, trying to snap it up. I was amazed it had the energy for I could see every one of its ribs.
I passed into Upper Gower Street and went left up Francis Street.
‘Missus, come quick.’ A girl, probably no more than eight or nine, with only a few tufts of ginger hair on her enlarged square head, ran up and snatched at my sleeve. ‘Please, missus, it’s my likkle sister and she’s ’urted bad.’
I had not seen this child before. Her cherub eyes looked up at me pleadingly as she trotted bow-legged at my side.
A man in black knee breeches and ivory stockings wobbled wildly on his velocipede and snatched a lamp post to save himself.
‘Where? What happened?’
She had a tight grip on me now. ‘We was muckin’ out and the ’orse kicked ’er. She’s gone all white and funny.’ She pulled me towards a narrow mews.
‘Where did it kick her?’ I asked, allowing myself to be led past a row of closed stables and an inquisitive pony tethered to the wall.
‘In the stomick,’ she told me.
We came to an open door and I squeezed past an old van parked in the alley and almost blocking it.
‘In here?’
She stood, white with fright. ‘She ain’t dead, is she?’
There was a bundle of rags in filthy straw under an empty manger in the gloomy far corner.
‘Where is the horse?’ I wondered, stepping in.
There was a rushing and something swooped from behind, came over my head and swept down my body, rough, opaque and damp.
‘What?’ was all I managed before I was bowled over, crashing on to the cobbles, and I felt a tightness as a rope was tied round my ankles. There were two sharp cracks in rapid succession.
‘Gotcha.’
I screamed and something smashed into my left cheek.
‘One more sound and I’ll cave yer face in.’
‘Who are you?’
My face was struck again.
‘Can’t you ’ear me in there?’
I nodded, uncertain if the man could see my movement inside his sack, and the rope wound around me. He raised and dropped me as he worked it up until it gripped my throat lik
e the noose I had put round other people’s necks. My head fell back on the stones. I yelped involuntary, to be rewarded with a kick in the back.
I felt myself being hauled up by the shoulders and dragged, heels scraping through the mucky straw, back into the street. There was a slight change in the light but nothing more.
‘Grab ’er feet.’
I was lifted at both ends, swung and dumped down on to a wooden floor, and I knew they must be putting me into the van.
‘What you doin’ wiv ’er?’ It was the little girl.
‘Take yer money and scarper,’ a man growled, but not, I thought, the man who had hit me.
‘Get Sidney Grice,’ I called. It was better to risk a beating than to be at their mercy. The doors slammed. ‘I will pay you ten times what they gave you – and a new dress,’ I yelled, though I knew it was unlikely that she could hear me.
44
Harems and Hunting Dogs
WE SET OFF, juddering over stones and potholes, each lurch tossing me about. I tried to sit but only succeeded in bruising myself more as I toppled over, and so I rolled. It was difficult to bend my legs, but I managed a few kicks at the side and shouted as loud as I could and repeatedly. ‘Help. Help. I am in the black van.’
But I could hardly hear myself above the crashing of wheels and the squeal of a rusty axle, and I knew there was little hope that my voice would carry through the sacking and the planks over the roar of the traffic and shouts of the sellers.
We had swung to the left, stopped, and then jolted to the right, and I judged we must be making our way along Tottenham Court Road. But I was thrown about so much I could not tell if we were taking another street or going round obstructions.
As the bustle gradually decreased and our speed picked up, I ceased my attempts. The rope was digging into my ankles and every move I made tightened it round my throat. I would save my energy, I decided, and lay still and quiet. A clock struck ten. Inspector Pound would be at the table, waiting to greet me. My guardian would be in court. I did not know where I was now, and then we stopped and I listened. The bolts were being knocked back and the two back doors squealed reluctantly open.
Somebody took a fistful of sack tangled with my dress and hauled. When we were young, Maudy Glass and I used to read stories about girls being kidnapped and sent to harems. It did not seem so romantic now. I had also heard of girls being dropped in the river when they were with child and wanting support, and it occurred to me this might be a case of mistaken identity.
‘I am March Middleton,’ I said as steadily as I could, steeling myself for a blow which did not come. ‘If this is a mistake, take me back and leave me and you will hear nothing more about it. I have no idea who you are.’
I was being lifted at both ends again.
‘Blimey, she’s ’eavy for a scrawny one.’
‘If you expect a ransom, I have some money,’ I tried again.
‘That’s ’cause she’s a dead weight.’
‘She don’t sound dead to me.’
‘It’s an expression.’
‘If you kill me, Mr Sidney Grice will hunt you down and have you both executed,’ I warned, my voice rising as they lumbered along.
We were inside again, I judged, going along a passageway, because the man at my feet was shuffling backwards and once I was bumped against a wall.
‘Open the frebbin’ door then.’
There was a struggle to hold me in one arm while he rattled at a handle.
‘It’s locked.’
‘No, it ain’t.’
More rattling. ‘Oh no, it’s open.’ He readjusted his grip and we went on. Then another door and more fuss.
‘Blimey, I’m fit to drop.’ I could hear wheezing.
‘No far now.’ More shuffling. ‘Here it is.’
Another door opened. ‘There you are, gov.’ And I was deposited on the floor.
‘What is it?’ a man asked. I knew that voice.
‘It’s the girl.’
‘Uncle Tolly,’ I yelled. ‘Is that you?’
45
Dogs and the Art of Persuasion
A CHAIR SCRAPED back.
‘Dear God! Dear God!’ Uncle Tolly cried out. ‘What have you done?’
I heard a throat clear. ‘You told us to bring ’er ’ere.’
‘Not like this, like this.’ Uncle Tolly’s voice was shrill. ‘Have you hurt her? Have they hurt you, March?’
‘Just knocked ’er abart a bit to keep ’er quiet.’
‘You hit her? My God, if I were thirty years older I would thrash you to within an inch for that, half an inch.’
‘Just give us the money and we’ll go.’
‘Money?’ Uncle Tolly repeated incredulously. ‘You were told to persuade her to come here, not bundle her up like a sack of kittens.’
The two who had brought me grunted something then. ‘But that’s what p’saude means where we comes from.’
‘Get out!’ Uncle Tolly screeched. ‘Get out now before I summon the police. If my niece is injured in any way you will be punished, punished with the full severity of the law, the law. Get out.’
More mumbling. ‘Don’t think you can get out of payin’ us that easy.’
‘Out!’ Uncle Tolly howled. ‘Before I set the dogs on you.’
‘We’ll be back.’
‘Then I shall greet you with my shotgun.’
A long hesitation. ‘Right then.’ Heavy feet, the sound of a door being flung open, and then another one slammed.
‘Can you get me out of here, Uncle Tolly?’ I asked.
‘Out?’ I could picture him twiddling with his beard. ‘Out… Yes, of course, of course.’
‘The knot is tied round my ankles.’
‘Knot? Oh yes, knot.’ He crouched beside me. I heard his knees click twice and felt them press into my shins as he struggled with it. ‘Goodness, it is complicated.’
‘Do you have any scissors?’
‘Did I hear somebody at the front door, sir?’ Annie asked. ‘Oh my goodness!’
‘It is Miss Middleton.’ Uncle Tolly rested a hand heavily on my knee.
‘Is she doing a novelty escape act?’
‘No, I am damned well not.’ I was very hot and cramped. ‘Just untie this sack.’
‘Why don’t I have a go, sir, while you ring for Colwyn?’
‘An excellent idea.’ The pressure on my knee increased as he got up, and I heard Annie’s dress rustle.
‘Don’t you worry, miss. We’ll soon have you out of there.’ More poking and pulling about. ‘It’s very tight.’
‘Just rip the sack then.’
More wrenching around. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’ Yet more and then, ‘Oh no, I’ve chipped a tooth.’
‘Get some scissors or a knife.’
I knew I was not but I felt like I was suffocating. Footsteps approached and stopped.
‘Good heavens,’ Colwyn exclaimed.
‘It is Miss Middeltone,’ Annie told him.
‘Ton,’ I corrected. ‘Middleton.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Uncle Tolly twittered helplessly.
‘Let me have a go,’ Colwyn said. ‘I’m good with knots from helping my mum save string.’ Annie moved away and was replaced. ‘Now, let me see. The trick is to find the end and work it backwards.’
‘Just cut the bloody rope,’ I bawled.
‘Mr Travers Smyth does not like bad language,’ Annie told me.
‘And I do not like being tied up in sacks,’ I retorted. ‘I will swap places if he likes. He can be tied up and I will listen to the curses.’
‘Here we go,’ Colwyn said. ‘Now that I’ve got that first bit through it’s just a question of untwisting this, so, and working that… so… and…’ And then triumphantly, ‘Yes!’ And the tightness was released from my ankles and then my legs, and I found myself being sat up. ‘If you could be so kind, sir.’
‘What? Oh yes, of course.’
And then there were two of them hauling me to my feet.
‘Do not let go,’ I begged. My legs were paralysed with pins and needles and could not support me.
‘Close your eyes,’ Annie instructed, though I did not know why until she added, ‘I’m going to pull the bag up and her dress will be disarrayed.’ More fussing about and I felt the sack rising and my dress – as she had predicted – partly with it. ‘Let go of that arm for a minute. Hold tight, Colwyn. Now, you take her please, Mr Travers Smyth. Can you hold her?’
‘I shan’t let her fall,’ he announced valiantly, as if defending a bridgehead, and his fingers dug into my arm.
‘Nearly there,’ she announced and whipped the sack off as my hair collapsed around my face. ‘Keep those eyes closed, you two.’ It was only then I realized I had shut mine as well, and I opened them to see Uncle Tolly and Colwyn supporting me on either side and Annie kneeling to arrange my dress over my ankles. ‘You can both open your eyes now.’
‘Goodness!’ Uncle Tolly viewed me in shock.
‘Perhaps you would like to sit, miss,’ Colwyn suggested and guided me into the nearest upright chair.
‘Call the police,’ I said.
‘The police? Oh dear, oh dear.’ Uncle Tolly had his red smoking cap on, but it had been dented on top.
‘First things first,’ Annie said firmly. ‘You men leave the room while I make Miss Middleton more presentable.’
Colwyn bent to pick up the sack and rope.
‘Leave those,’ I said. ‘They are evidence.’
‘I do hope…’ Uncle Tolly tightened the belt of his red silk smoking jacket and started again. ‘I do hope they won’t want to trespass in my house again.’
‘The police and a cab,’ I called as they left the room.
‘My carriage is always at your disposal.’
‘A cab,’ I insisted.
Uncle Tolly gripped his shawl collar like a man about to make a speech. ‘I really…’ But his voice trailed away and so did he.
‘Now.’ Annie crouched at my feet. ‘Let’s get you straightened up properly.’
Death Descends On Saturn Villa (The Gower Street Detective Series) Page 14