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

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  INSPECTOR POUND CAME to see me. I did not trouble to ask how he was. My first eleven casual observations (i.e. unsteady gait, stooped posture, pallor, shallow respiration, weakness of handshake, warmth of epidermis, tremor of limbs, dark patches under eyes, involuntary contractions of the orbicularis oris muscle, enfeebled voice and general lack of vigour) led me to suspect that he was not as healthy as I had instructed him to be, and my next twelve elicitations confirmed that impression.

  He: I discharged myself. [Then, upon entering my study] What on earth is that?

  I: It is the head of a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. I am surprised you could not work that out.

  He: Mrs Prendergast’s dog?

  [He picked up the jar off the onyx pedestal on which I had given it pride of place.]

  I: Albert.

  [Molly entered with a tray and deposited it with elaborate care on the table, but still managed to tip some of the tea into the sugar bowl.]

  And, though I had not invited her to join our conversation, she asked: Can Miss Middleton have visitorers, sir?

  I: No. [I then addressed Pound.] Take a look at its chin.

  She: Oh, because I had an idea. [And oblivious to my lack of encouragement proceeded to explain.] We could swap clothes and she could walk out, and then I could say she had drugged me with an odium pipe like the red-hooded highwayman in The Shade of Merry Murray.

  [Pound chuckled.]

  I: Go away, you hare-brained sluggard and do not tell me that hares are clever.

  [Molly chewed an untied apron string as something resembling a thought churned laboriously around her cerebral swamp.]

  It finally surfaced as: Miss Middleton always says her hair is stupid, so some hair must be clever.

  Pound laughed: There is a certain logic in that.

  I: Do not encourage her.

  Molly: And slag-ruds. I bet they are pretty.

  I: Get out.

  Molly left us with a parting mutter: Most people buy their dogs all in one piece.

  Pound rotated the jar: There is some sort of dye on its chin.

  [I went to the window.]

  I: Though it hardly seems decent to do so, we shall inspect Miss Middleton’s discarded apparel.

  [I removed the sheet to reveal my godchild’s dress still hanging on the borrowed mannequin, and Pound whistled softly.]

  He: That’s a lot of blood. [He walked round it.] But not much on the back, except for the sleeves.

  I: Which would be consistent with Miss Middleton’s account that she had her arms up, trying to push Mrs Prendergast away.

  He: Presumably the lower stains are from kneeling beside the body.

  [Pound examined the hem and I handed him my third-best magnifying glass.]

  I: Have a look at the fabric there… no, there, for goodness’ sake, between those clots. What do you see?

  He: [after some huffing] The stain is much brighter than the blood. [He wiped the lens on his coat.] It is very like the dye on that dog’s chin.

  [I took my glass back, making a note to soak it in Lugol’s iodine solution before I used it again, and told him about the dagger.]

  He: You said the other day that Mrs Prendergast wore two corsets. Why would she do that? [He clicked his fingers annoyingly.] To protect her from the blade.

  I: One corset would do that. The tip of the dagger was rounded.

  More digital snapping ensued before he said: What if she had a bag between the two garments, something waterproof like oilskin, and filled it with red dye so that when she pretended to stab herself it burst to look like bleeding?

  I: Which is exactly why I want you to trot down to the morgue and check her clothing.

  He: [with feigned indignation] I don’t go trotting anywhere.

  Me: Then this is your chance to remedy that situation.

  He eyed the tray: Any chance of a quick cup?

  I: For heaven’s sake, man, Miss Middleton’s life and liberty are at stake.

  He: [reluctantly] Very well, I’ll go straight there.

  I rang for Molly to show him out and settled back to pour myself a tea.

  94

  Saturday Noon

  POUND REAPPEARED ONE hour and forty-two minutes after setting out.

  He: We were right about the bag but I couldn’t bring it. The superintendent is taking a close interest in this case and he doesn’t want any allegations of tampering. [He eyed my tray.] I don’t suppose there’s any tea left in that pot?

  I: None at all.

  [I tapped the drained pot with a spoon to lend weight to my statement.]

  He: Only I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since a very early breakfast.

  [He licked his lips and waited.]

  I: [wondering why we were discussing our diets] I only ate a light luncheon, as is my habit.

  Pound fidgeted: I don’t suppose Molly…

  I: That poor girl is put upon enough as it is by my excessive demands without pandering to your every whim. [I went to my desk upon which my package had arrived from Bohemia that morning.] Besides Molly is out on an errand.

  Pound peered over as I opened the box to reveal six new eyes sitting in a cotton-wool nest. They had been made under the supervision of Professor Goldman by the finest glassblowers of Egeria.

  He: They’re a bit gruesome staring up at us like that. Why are they all different colours?

  [The front door opened.]

  I: It is a trick of the light. [I shut the box quickly to protect them from dust.] It appears that Molly has failed in her task.

  Pound’s moustaches vacillated as he tried not to but eventually he had to enquire: How can you tell?

  I: When Molly is triumphant she skips like a spring buffalo. When she is dispirited she scrapes her feet like a deep-sea diver on dry land.

  [Molly dragged herself into the room, head drooping and arms dangling uselessly.]

  She: I’m ever so sorry, sir, but none of those people ain’t not heard nothing about her and that’s the third list what I’ve been through.

  I: This is excellent news and to show that I am not angry I would like you to have a good long rest [her eyes became fractionally less dull as I spoke], as soon as you have finished your chores.

  She: Oh but, sir [her arms revived], that will never be.

  I: [sympathetically] Then you had better get to it.

  [Molly did not even attempt a curtsy as she trudged off. Pound took up the cage.]

  He: You are very hard on that girl.

  Me: It is her job to please me and not vice versa.

  [He gave the cage a little shake.]

  He: This mouse looks dead.

  I: It is what it appears to be.

  He: But why are you keeping it?

  I: To show you.

  He: Why should I be interested in a dead house mouse?

  [He put the cage down completely out of alignment.]

  I: It is not the fact of its demise that interests me so much as the manner of its death.

  He: How so?

  I realigned the cage and said: Use your limited detective skills.

  [Pound grumbled to himself about something. He took up the cage again and peered between the bars. The creature lay supine but fell on to the roof prone when he inverted the cage.]

  He: Rigor mortis has certainly set in. [He selected my second-best magnifying glass without permission.] The limbs are bent at very odd angles and… good Lord, the paws and eyes are bright green.

  I: Let us go for a ride, Inspector.

  I rang for my flask, gained access to the hall and ran up the flag.

  95

  Saturday Afternoon

  SEVEN STREET URCHINS were cavorting round our hansom as we climbed aboard. They knew better than to beg for coins from me and amused themselves by lustily rendering a song that attempted to utilize rhymes of my patronym with ‘Twice’ and ‘Nice’.

  Pound smirked stupidly: Lively little fellows, aren’t they?

  [I refrained from commenting
about the poor scansion of a stanza accusing me of having a heart of ice and a head crawling with lice.]

  I: But not lively enough to work for their livings.

  He: There isn’t much work around for them.

  [As we pulled away I mused on how I seemed to have a knack of accumulating social reformers.]

  I suggested mildly: Then they should be rounded up and shipped to the colonies.

  He: Miss Middleton hasn’t made much progress with melting that heart of ice.

  [He seemed to find his own remark amusing, which it was not.]

  I: I fed that mouse with twelve crumbs that I had discovered in the pocket of Miss Middleton’s cloak.

  Pound: What sort of crumbs?

  I: Cake crumbs.

  He: Do you know where they came from?

  I: Yes.

  He: Are you going to tell me?

  I: Yes.

  He: Where then?

  [He seemed a little tetchy. Perhaps his wound was troubling him for he had made a great fuss settling into the cab and was taking up more than his share of the seat, doubtless under the misapprehension that his greater bulk entitled him to do so.]

  I: From Mrs Prendergast’s house.

  He: How do you know? Did Miss Middleton tell you?

  [I extracted my Grice Heat Retentive Bottle from my full-grain leather satchel.]

  I: I shall answer those two questions in reverse order. No. And because my visit to Mrs Prendergast’s house revealed the cake from which those crumbs almost certainly came. The confection was stained the same rustic hue as the crumbs.

  [Pound sat a fraction more stiffly whilst I was granting him that information.]

  He: Hold on a minute.

  I: You wish me to bring our transport to a halt?

  He: No. I would like to know when you were in Mrs Prendergast’s house.

  I: [unclipping the tinplated steel cup from my flask] Thank you for your concern. I was in her residence from one thirty-three on Thursday night, for one hour and forty-six minutes.

  He: And who let you in?

  I: Why, I let myself in and, in order to abbreviate this conversation, I shall donate the following pertinent information. I gained access through the rear pantry window by committing criminal damage to it with a small crowbar known in some circles, many undesirable, as a jemmy.

  [Pound appeared unaccountably surprised at this information, though he must have known that you cannot open a window with a lock pick and that smashing it would have been too noisy.]

  He: I did not hear that.

  I: [slowly and loudly] I gained access through the rear pantry window with a crowbar.

  [Pound flopped his hands about as if there were an angry wasp in the cab.]

  Driver: Next time you lock yourself out get my bruvva, Dave from the White ’Orse. ’E’ll have your door open in a jiffy.

  I: The last time David P. Kirk tried to access my house in a jiffy he got six months at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Pentonville. Also, you may join in our intercourse when I may climb up and drive this grubby vehicle.

  The driver closed his hatch with more force than was necessary to overcome the frictional forces opposing its movements.

  Pound decreased the volume of his voice: I shan’t insult you by reminding you what I do for a living, Mr Grice, but you must be aware that you are confessing to a crime.

  I: I was searching for evidence and you were not so particular about how it was collected when we investigated the Norwood plumber.

  [Pound puffed and was silent for the next two streets.]

  He: But I thought Miss Middleton was poisoned by the cacti.

  I: Miss Middleton was also of that opinion. I considered the theory but found myself incapable of subscribing to it.

  [A blackbird trilled malignantly beyond my line of vision.]

  He: So the drug was in the cake?

  I: Most likely. [I reflected upon the unequal sizes of our steed’s ears.] One day I shall invest in another mus musculus and feed it particles from Mrs Prendergast’s toothsome gift. Without prejudging the outcome, I am fairly confident that the creature will also exhibit eccentric behaviour before having a convulsive seizure and expiring.

  He: Crikey.

  I ignored the coarseness of his expression and concerned myself with a fresh assault upon my olfactory organs.

  96

  Later Saturday Afternoon

  THERE IS NO better way of experiencing London than from the comfort of a hansom cab. One is raised above the unwashed herd yet not removed from it, as one is in a sealed carriage. One might still enjoy all the sounds and smells of the city and there is no shortage whatsoever of the latter. Today they were particularly malodorous as a large lorry trundled in front of us, opaque brown fluid trickling under its tailgate. Pound sprinkled camphor oil from the little blue bottle he always carried into his handkerchief.

  I: I read about this. Apparently a load of horses was sent to the knackers, but the company ceased trading that night and the load sat in the yard forgotten about for five months until this morning.

  He: And we had to get stuck behind it.

  I: I was not aware that we were under any compulsion to do so.

  [Pound crushed his handkerchief over his nose.]

  I produced my own and asked: Any of that to spare?

  His voice came slightly muffled: Did you spare me any tea when I was in hospital or when I came to your house today?

  I: You know I did not.

  [The top of the lorry was steaming, its fetor drifting over us.]

  He: And will you give me any from your flask?

  I: Certainly not.

  He: Then why should I share my camphor?

  I: To prove that Miss Middleton is not a liar.

  He: How will it do that?

  I: Because she has told me on three separate occasions that you are a decent man and twice that you are kind, but your current behaviour is as mean and petty as my own.

  Pound laughed and said: You’ve got me there.

  [I held my breath whilst he deposited some of the clear liquid into my handkerchief.] And, once the vapours had invaded my nostrils and subdued the stenches, I said: We must concern ourselves with four incidents: the imagined death of Travers Smyth, the actual death of Travers Smyth, the death of Prendergast, and the possible death of her maid.

  He: Possible?

  I: Are you happy to accept the identification of a corpse with an unrecognizable face?

  He: But she was in her uniform in the kitchen. [He paused to consider the matter.] I take your point though. [He paused again.] But, if it wasn’t Gloria Shell, who was it?

  I: The fact that I do not know the identity of a cadaver which I have not been allowed to scrutinize does not mean that it must be the mortal remnants of the absent Miss Shell. She could be alive and giving glockenspiel recitals in the foulest corner of Guildford for all the evidence I have about her whereabouts.

  He: I’ll go and see her body.

  I: Be thorough.

  We stopped at Marylebone, he to call at his place of employment, I to the more urgent task of finding refreshment at Sisson’s cafe, where I stationed myself by the window.

  A snub-nosed waitress approached purposefully: I am sorry, sir, but this is a table for four people.

  I: It is not necessary to apologize.

  She: Can I ask you to move to a smaller table, sir?

  I: You most certainly can. Indeed, you just have. If you are expecting me to do so, your confidence is misplaced. I shall have a pot of tea for two assembled with freshly boiled water and previously unused leaves, and I shall have it at my earliest convenience.

  I watched a young man trying to put his hand in a woman’s red handbag as she entered the premises, and I was going to warn her when she wheeled about and struck him on the ear with her umbrella. He reeled back, clutching it, before following her in.

  The waitress recorded their order, which occupied four more minutes than it should have whilst they agonized o
ver the selection of cakes. Pound arrived, his inside coat pocket slightly stiffened by the paper he had inserted into it, and the tea was delivered the moment he had hung up his hat.