Death Descends On Saturn Villa (The Gower Street Detective Series)

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I have none.’

  ‘Oh, miss.’ Molly jiggled about. ‘Of course you have. You must of forgotten.’ She leaned forward and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘I can scratch you good and proper before they get the chance to asser-whatever-he-said anything.’

  Quigley whinnied. ‘Are you aware it is a criminal offence to aid and abet a murderer?’

  ‘Good,’ Molly said. ‘Whatever that means. Try to take me in and while you are doing that Miss Middleton can get out the back way and over the wall, like what I do when I sneak off at night.’

  ‘So you are suggesting that while I was asleep, Miss Middleton went out, murdered that woman’s maid, came in, bathed and changed and…’ Sidney Grice’s voice trailed away.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ Molly cried, ‘you’ve gone all orange. Is it a clever disguise like how Flash-Footed Peter dressed up as a person.’

  ‘Parson,’ I corrected, as if it mattered.

  And Molly wiggled her jaw. ‘A parson is a person.’

  Her employer nodded weakly. ‘We shall take tea now… and… tea.’

  ‘We need to get you to bed,’ I said.

  ‘I shall sit a while,’ he decided, swaying like I used to after ladies’ night at the officers’ mess.

  ‘Let me help you, sir,’ the constable offered.

  ‘I shall save you, March, I—’ He sidestepped, ‘swear it.’

  The constable caught Mr G as he collapsed, scooped him up and carried him like a groom with his bride over the threshold, to deposit him tenderly into my armchair.

  Quigley followed us in. ‘Last time I was here you had a corpse laid out on the floor.’

  ‘Mr Green,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Sure you didn’t do him too?’

  ‘As I recall you were adamant that it was suicide,’ I reminded him and he coloured.

  ‘You won’t be so nose-in-the-sky when I have you back at the station,’ he snarled.

  Pound flared up. ‘If you touch Miss Middleton again, I swear to God you will rue your actions for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Threatening a fellow officer?’ Quigley strolled to the desk. ‘You heard that, didn’t you, Bell?’

  Bell shuffled uneasily. ‘I did hear Inspector Pound advising you not to beat up a suspect, sir. Should I put that in my report?’

  Quigley swept a book on to the floor. ‘You would be wise not to make an enemy of me, Bell.’

  ‘And wiser still not to be his friend.’ I picked up the book, but the title did not register in my mind.

  Quigley flicked through a stack of my guardian’s postal deliveries.

  ‘Open one,’ I invited him. ‘Without a search warrant, you will be guilty of interfering with the Royal Mail.’

  Quigley hesitated, unable to decide if I knew as much of the law as I pretended to, and let that too fall on the floor.

  ‘Goodness, you are clumsy today,’ I reproved.

  ‘That’s because his arms is too short for his body,’ Molly explained. ‘I had a young man like that once. He couldn’t not even do his own bootlaces. Can you?’

  ‘Get out,’ Quigley rounded on her.

  Molly jutted her jaw.

  ‘I think it would be best,’ I told her.

  And Molly screwed up her body. ‘I just wanted to say one thing to help you with your enquirings.’ She went up very close to Quigley and for some reason she was no longer comical. ‘If you do hurt Miss Middleton I expect ’spector Pound will smash your face in; I know Mr Grice will put you in prison; but I ain’t not so nice as what they are, Mr Quickly. If you hurt Miss Middleton, I will cut your throat.’

  ‘Now I have you,’ Quigley gloated. ‘We all heard that one, making death threats to a police officer.’

  ‘Yes, it is a lovely day, isn’t it, Molly?’ Constable Bell said conversationally.

  Quigley went puce. ‘I will break you for that, Bell.’ He almost choked on his own words. ‘You will be out of that uniform before this week is done.’

  ‘Not sure I want to be in the same force as you,’ the constable responded in disgust.

  ‘I will stand up for you, Bell,’ Inspector Pound vowed.

  ‘And who will stand up for you, Inspector?’ Quigley mocked. ‘This girl of yours when she’s in the dock? This half-blind, half-dead amateur detective?’

  ‘I shall.’ Even with her long history of bad curtsies Molly did the worst curtsy that I had ever seen.

  ‘God bless you, Molly,’ I said as she toppled over against the doorpost.

  73

  Prejudicial Handling and the Steel Rule

  INSPECTOR QUIGLEY SURVEYED us all. ‘There’s not one person in this house who I couldn’t arrest if I wanted to and make the charges stick.’

  ‘Let me see that.’ Pound held out his right hand and Quigley slapped the paper into it. ‘It seems to be in order,’ he admitted.

  ‘That’s because it is in order,’ Quigley smirked.

  ‘How and where was Gloria Shell killed?’ Pound supported himself against the back of the armchair.

  ‘Why don’t you ask the accused that?’

  ‘Because I do not know the answers,’ I insisted.

  ‘She was killed with a claw hammer.’ Quigley picked up the section of mallet on Mr G’s desk. ‘It was a messy job, to put it mildly.’

  ‘And what grounds do you have for thinking Miss Middleton did it?’ Pound ran his thumb and first finger under his moustaches.

  Quigley tapped the desk like an auctioneer.

  ‘Please let me out.’ Sidney Grice sat up, looked blearily about him and promptly fell asleep again.

  ‘A number of reasons.’ Quigley put the paperweight down. ‘Motive – the accused knew that the maid was the only person to have seen her commit the crime.’

  ‘That is not true,’ I protested.

  ‘A witness,’ Quigley continued, ‘heard the screams and a man shouting.’

  ‘Definitely a man’s voice?’ I clarified.

  Quigley nodded. ‘And a tall dark-haired man was seen by that same witness and another running away from the scene.’

  ‘So how does Miss Middleton fit into this?’ Inspector Pound was very still.

  Quigley picked up a steel rule. ‘Because of what the man shouted: That will keep your mouth shut about March Middleton, you slut.’

  ‘So you are suggesting that Miss Middleton had an accomplice?’ Pound was poised like a cat waiting to pounce.

  Quigley tossed the rule down and picked up a pen. ‘That she hired or somehow persuaded an as yet unknown person to commit the murder, which makes her an accessory before the fact and therefore a murderess herself,’ he confirmed.

  ‘If that is all you’ve got it sounds a bit flimsy to me.’ Pound rubbed the back of his neck. ‘A good barrister could demolish that in ten minutes unless you find the killer and get him to turn Queen’s evidence, and can show that Miss Middleton met him. I’m surprised you obtained a warrant on those grounds.’

  Quigley brought out a battered silver cigarette case and I was about to tell him that Sidney Grice did not permit smoking, when he flipped it open to reveal a scrap of paper. ‘Is that your handwriting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what does it say?’

  ‘I will pay one hundred pounds to have her killed,’ I read out. ‘But I was writing about Jennifer the—’

  ‘Don’t say any more, March,’ Pound interrupted.

  ‘Donkey,’ I ended weakly.

  ‘First-name terms.’ Quigley crowed in delight. ‘The men said you were sweet on that cod face.’

  ‘Why, you—’ Pound stepped forward, but I jumped in front of him and gave him my best warning look. I was quite proud of that look, though Mr G was always immune.

  ‘Shielding behind a woman,’ Quigley taunted him.

  ‘That is exactly what you are doing.’ I whirled to face him, nearly tripping on the edge of the rug. ‘If I were not between you and him—’

  ‘One punch and his guts would
spill out,’ Quigley jeered.

  Bell ambled across the room, his bulk impressing me even more as he towered over us all.

  ‘I can promise you one thing, sir.’ His voice was a fine baritone. ‘If Inspector Pound ever tries to strike you, he will have me to deal with.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear it.’ Quigley smirked. ‘Though I’m not sure it will save your career.’

  ‘Because I will be busily beating you myself,’ Bell said.

  Quigley breathed out hard. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He snapped the cigarette case shut. ‘You, Bell, will report to my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I shall arrange an appointment for you, Pound, to discuss your prejudicial handling of this case and you, Middleton, will come with me to the station.’

  ‘At least you got my name right,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Miss Middleton.’ Quigley dropped the pen on to the floor, splaying the nib. ‘I have got much more right than that.’

  ‘I shall marry whom I please,’ Sidney Grice shouted.

  74

  Pork Pies and Votes for Women

  IT WAS NIGHTFALL when we left the house.

  ‘Take good care of Mr Grice,’ I instructed Molly, though I knew she would. ‘And, when he awakes, tell him what has happened.’

  ‘What has happened?’ Molly screwed her apron into a ball.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ I said. ‘Just tell him I have been arrested.’

  ‘He won’t not be delighted,’ she warned.

  ‘I do not suppose he will.’

  ‘Have a nice time,’ she called, and waved from the step.

  ‘What?’ Pound snapped in disbelief.

  ‘I was talking to Fanny,’ Molly said, and we turned to see next-door’s maid whisk by in her best dress.

  We could easily have gone in two hansoms but we waited – at Quigley’s insistence – for a Black Maria. Inspector Pound gave his word of honour to accompany me in a cab but Quigley did not believe in honour. And so I was loaded into the cell on wheels with nothing for company but the sourness of vomit, stale urine and old sweat.

  Almost immediately we came to a halt. I could not see what was causing the delay and I did not much care. The streets of London could not cope with modern traffic, the tens of thousands of carriages, waggons and omnibuses and the millions of people crammed into one small space, and all trying to go in different directions.

  I heard a cry. ‘Pork pies fresh as yer eyes, nice fick pastry ever so tastry, swimmin’ in gravy ’nough to float the navy.’ Sidney Grice would have been revolted, but it sounded good to me and reminded me that I was hungry. I remembered what Mrs Prendergast had pressed on me and, despite the smells, I brought the greaseproof paper packet out of my cloak pocket and opened it up. It was another slice of fruit cake, a little dried out but still quite tasty, and I consumed it ravenously, picking the crumbs and raisins from the wrapping before tossing it amongst the other detritus that littered the floor.

  I wished I had brought my father’s hip flask. If Mr G had been with me he would have had his patent insulated flask of tea, but he would not have shared any with me. We moved a few yards and jolted to a halt again, and I stood at the small barred window staring back along Gower Street and the children playing leapfrog on the street. A boy broke away and jumped on to the back running board.

  ‘’Ere, I know you.’

  ‘Hello, Tommy.’ I had bandaged his leg once when he had gouged it on a rusty spike.

  ‘You taking a murderer in?’ He raised himself to the opening and tried to peer past me.

  ‘No, Tommy. They are taking me in.’

  ‘Streuf!’ His big eyes dilated. ‘You ain’t killed old Puddin’?’

  ‘I have not killed anyone.’

  Tommy winked wisely. His left ear was weeping pus. ‘You stick to that story,’ he advised.

  The van started off again and he jumped down, waving his arms excitedly as he skipped back to his friends, shouting, ‘Guess what, Old Plankface ’as gone an’ shot old Grice Puddin’ stone dead and they’re takin’ her off to the Tower.’

  They stopped their game, but we were making steady speed now and rounded the corner, and soon we were on Tottenham Court Road and stationary again. The rain started, spraying through the bars. At first it was refreshing but then it was wet and cold. I sat down.

  Somebody had carved on the bench Geezuz Loves you and I hoped the sentiment was truer than the spelling. I did not feel very loved at that moment, but I closed my eyes and opened my heart and prayed. I prayed for myself and those that I cared for, living and dead, and thought about Molly’s last question. What had happened? Why did Uncle Tolly and Mrs Prendergast kill themselves? What on earth could have persuaded or terrified them into doing that? And who had murdered Gloria Shell? And again, when I needed him most, why did my guardian have to be incapacitated? I tried to pray but my mind was jumping in every direction.

  Sidney Grice sat on the bench opposite, smoking a clay pipe and dressed in rags.

  ‘I killed your mother, March.’ His eyes glowed like hot coals, red then white-hot, lighting up the whole van, almost dazzling me. ‘I took her by her lovely white throat and strangled her slowly, just like this.’

  His arms grew longer and longer as the hands came towards me.

  ‘You are not real,’ I protested, though I was not convinced.

  ‘Indeed I am…’ The lights went out with a pop that might have been ‘not’.

  We pulled up outside Marylebone Police Station and we must have beaten Pound’s cab to it, for there was no sign of him.

  ‘Go ’ome,’ a voice yelled. ‘Filfy foreigners coming over and stealin’ our jobs and our women and our…’ His voice tailed off uncertainly, ‘…fings.’

  Quigley appeared and propelled me into the entrance hall. It was packed with women wearing an assortment of hats with pink bows.

  ‘What d’you want sufferage for, anyway?’ the desk sergeant was shouting above the general chatter. ‘Ain’t there enough sufferin’ as it is?’

  ‘We want the vote,’ a tall haughty woman replied.

  ‘Well, I can’t give it to you,’ the sergeant reasoned.

  ‘You are an instrument of the government that withholds it from us,’ she informed him, ‘and we intend to stay in this room until the newspapers pay attention.’

  ‘Let us through,’ Quigley snarled, pushing past a young lady who was trying to make a speech. ‘This woman is a dangerous murderess.’

  There was a gradual silence as word got about.

  ‘Did he oppress and abuse you?’ a little old lady quavered.

  ‘She has killed two women.’ Quigley elbowed his way past her. ‘And she’s thirsty for more blood. Got the strength of ten men when the fit is upon her.’

  A space appeared around us and it grew as the crowd melted away.

  ‘Oh Lord.’ Sergeant Horwich picked up his pen wearily. ‘Not you again.’

  75

  The Picnic at Jacaranda House

  TRADITIONALLY, THE WOMEN and children and a great many of the men went to the hills for the summer months. Even the government relocated to Simla to take advantage of the cool mountain climate. But India could not be left deserted. Our garrison did not decamp and my father was needed more than ever after the exodus of some of his staff from the camp hospital. If he was needed, so – I insisted – was I, and, ignoring his objections, I stayed put.

  It was the hottest summer I had ever known and so humid that the walls dripped, my books went mouldy and the bedding was soggy even before I lay on it. We dared not open the windows for the plagues of moths and bugs that would enter, and the bats that swooped in after them, and the punkas – flapping ceiling fans pulled to and fro by exhausted boys – did no more than waft hot air around the room.

  Edward came up with the idea of a picnic. We might as well suffer outside as keep ourselves shut in our tin-roofed ovens, and so Cook packed a hamper and we lugged it through the long grass until we arrived wearily at Jacaranda House.
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  The house was unusual for the district in having two storeys and being constructed of stone rather than wood like the bungalows we all occupied. It had been built by Mr Rawlings, a tea merchant, we were told, to remind his wife of their Cotswold home. But after she died in a cholera epidemic, he closed the place up and returned to England. We settled on the veranda and I poured us each a warm glass of lemonade and set out our food on the blanket.

  ‘You can see why he chose this spot,’ Edward commented when he had swallowed the last sandwich, and I certainly could.

  There was a faint but very welcome breeze and, if we turned our backs on the camp, we could see the hills rise until they shimmered and became one with the air.

  ‘Someone has broken in.’ Edward pointed and I saw that the front door was fractionally ajar and the hinges were damaged. ‘Probably thieves, though there can’t be much to steal.’

  ‘A trinket to us may be a treasure to them,’ I remarked.

  We decided to take a look. The door was warped, but Edward managed to push it open just enough for us to peer into a square entrance hall with a tumbled staircase to one side.

  I sniffed. ‘Dry rot.’

  Edward prodded the floor with his walking stick and the board gave easily. ‘The structure looks sound, though.’

  Through an open doorway at the back of the hall we could see a large room, the sun streaming between the planks over the windows.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be perfect?’ I said.

  ‘For what?’ Edward asked blankly.

  ‘Our school,’ I explained, dismayed that I had to.

  Edward looked nonplussed. ‘Oh, that.’

  I rammed our things back into the basket. ‘I should like to go now.’

  Edward shrugged but said nothing, not even when I left him to carry our hamper unaided. I marched on through the long grass, but it was not easy to keep up a pace in those temperatures.

  ‘Stop,’ Edward puffed, and I was about to make a cutting remark about him being weaker than a girl when he added, ‘You are limping, March, and you know as well as I do that you mustn’t get blisters.’ We both remembered Mrs O’Neil, who had lost her left leg up to the knee because she got an infection. ‘Sit there.’