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

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  Pound chewed on the stem of his meerschaum: I meant that I don’t know who they are.

  I: The only exception to that rule is Mr Pillow, who was the chemist in charge of research and given a portion of the company as a reward and incentive. [Yet again I regretted the absence of my ward as I was obliged to pour my own tea.] Brother Ignatius became Dom Ignatius Hart, the abbot of Claister Abbey.

  Pound whipped his meerschaum out: The monk who was murdered. We thought it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  I: The evidence is weighted heavily in favour of it not being one.

  He puffed on his unlit unfilled pipe: What about that Major Gregory? Have you ever come across him?

  [I agitated my tea. Mobile tea is much to be preferred to static. Most people do not realize that because they stir filth into their drinks.]

  I: Gregory is March’s enemy and therefore mine.

  He frowned: How?

  I: He has applied to have Miss Middleton made his ward, and before you protest that he cannot, he can. I never had myself declared her official guardian in court for I saw no need. She was until recently, as even you must have noticed, an independently minded young woman who, for better or often for the worse, made her own decisions.

  Pound slid the pipe into his outer breast pocket: But what is she to him? I understood she had no relatives until this Travers Smyth emerged.

  I tried my tea. It was four degrees Fahrenheit below optimum temperature: He was a family friend and has lodged a letter with Chancery in which Colonel Middleton expresses his wish that, in the event of his death, Gregory take her into his protection.

  He brought his meerschaum out again: I can certainly give evidence that she would be opposed to the idea.

  I: That might be useful, but I doubt it will come to that. By the by, I am giving consideration to having Gregory killed.

  He: You should not be telling me that.

  I: But I must, for I am hoping you will help me.

  [The mantle clock struck the hour.]

  Pound rearranged his moustaches: I think I will have that cup of tea.

  99

  Sunday Morning, 28 January 1883

  GERRY DAWSON STOPPED in response to my green flag and he greeted us both with undue familiarity. Dawson had been a competent police sergeant (and there are all too few of them) before he became too interested in investigating the contents of whisky bottles.

  Dawson: Still chasing criminals, Inspector? You’ll never catch them all.

  Pound: Still chasing fares, Dawson? The same applies.

  A verminous boy ran alongside: ’Ave they ’anged ’er yet, the looney woman?

  I: You will be dancing on the end of a rope long before she.

  He dropped back and, apart from running over and killing a stray dog, we had an uneventful journey to the New Imperial Hotel.

  Receptionist: I’m afraid Major Gregory is no longer resident at this establishment.

  I: I have ten shillings that says he is.

  Pound: Save your money, Mr Grice. [He gripped his own lapels.] I am a police officer and I must warn you that it is a criminal offence to obstruct me in my duty or to harbour a suspect.

  The receptionist, an unfortunate young man with oily dun hair and retroclined upper-central incisors, went to fetch the manager, an equally unattractive square-jawed man with forestial mutton-chop whiskers and asymmetrically flared nostrils, who issued the same denial.

  Pound glanced about: Are you aware that you are in breach of fire regulations under the 1874 Fire Safety Act, section one hundred and forty-two, subsection five, and, if you do not cooperate with my enquiries, I can close you down immediately.

  The manager ran his tongue inside his lower lip and jutted his mandible: Room 24 up the first flight of stairs on your right.

  I: Is the major afraid of fires?

  Manager: I believe so.

  I: Key.

  The manager clicked his fingers and the receptionist gave him a brass-tagged three-lever key, which he slammed on to the mahogany countertop. I wiped it with a cloth from my satchel and proceeded with the inspector past the closed dining room and along the marbled corridor to the foot of the stairs.

  I: [as we ascended] One of the sixty-nine things I miss about Miss Middleton is her ability and readiness to tell lies. There is no such Act of Parliament.

  Pound: Perhaps I got the year wrong.

  [At the top I paused and printed a message in my notebook.]

  I: I wonder, and I feel confident that you will comply with my request, if you would be so good, when I tap your arm, as to knock very loudly and call out Police: open the door.

  Pound glanced at me sideways: I thought you asked for the key because you wanted to surprise him.

  I: [pausing to reset my eye and tidy my new lime cravat] I think your introduction will achieve that purpose.

  Number twenty-four was at the end of the corridor on the right-hand side, as I knew it would be. When we neared it I trod a little more heavily and, once there, I turned the handle twice.

  I: [in a stage whisper] My father will never open the door to me. Make out you’re a peeler.

  [In response to my signal, Pound hammered on the woodwork and delivered his four words at an impressive volume. I put my finger to my lips and listened.]

  I: [in a faint whisper] Perhaps I could further prevail upon you to read out this small oration which I have thoughtfully prepared for you.

  Pound took the notebook from me: We have your sin—

  I: Son.

  He: It says sin. There is a dot over the i.

  I: That is a smudge.

  He: How am I supposed to know that?

  I: Kindly read it.

  [Another reason I missed Miss Middleton was that I could have scolded her, but policemen tend not to care for being treated like silly girls.]

  He: We have your son and he has told us everything. I have a warrant for your arrest.

  [I banged on the panel five times with the side of my fist and was rewarded with the many sounds of scuffling, e.g. drawers opening and closing, a suitcase being dragged out and dumped on a bed.]

  Pound: Use your key.

  I: When the time comes I shall.

  He: But he might jump out of the window.

  I: He will not need to jump. There is a fire escape outside the window.

  He: So he will get away.

  [I have long thought that the only point of the obvious is for people to state it.]

  I rapped smartly and said: He is taking an unconscionable time in doing so. I shall give him ten seconds more. [A sash window slid and I held up the key.] Would you care to do the honours?

  Pound huffed and put out his hand: For heaven’s sake.

  I: Or shall I? [I unlocked the door.] Are you armed?

  He: You know I am not allowed to be.

  I: You are also not allowed to falsely claim to have a warrant before entering the premises.

  I wondered at his limited repertoire as he huffed again: No, I am not.

  I: I only ask because when Marcello Jones made noises which suggested he was climbing up a chimney, he was really waiting for me with a Samurai matchlock known, I believe, as a tanegashima.

  Pound showed six physical signs of pent-up frustration: Why are we standing here talking while our suspect is absconding?

  [I depressed the handle and stepped aside, extending my cane to push the door open whilst remaining out of the line of fire.]

  Pound charged straight in: Gone. He has gone.

  The room was as dreary as I had imagined, small and poorly lit, and sparsely furnished. The Welsh wool rug was frayed along one edge and pocked with seventeen cigarette burns.

  I: I am disappointed that he was unable to deceive my senses.

  Pound marched to the window: He has wedged it from the outside.

  [I picked up the ashtray from the badly veneered dressing table. The inspector wheeled round. His complexion had adopted a ruddier hue that did not really suit him.]


  His voice took on an accusatory tone: You let him get away.

  [I prodded a cylinder of cigar ash with my left second fingertip and the ash fell apart, still warm.]

  I: Of course I did.

  Pound pushed his bowler back and rubbed his brow: And they say March is mad.

  I: Miss Middleton to you, Inspector. [I replaced the ash tray with a little less care than is my habit and opened the side-table drawer.] Do you not see the position he has put himself into? I had no evidence against him and, until now, no evidence that he even had a son.

  [He rattled at the window again. I handed him my spring-loaded knife, made in Toledo by José Miguel Armando.]

  I: Slide this along the gap.

  [He rammed the blade in and sawed it to and fro without a thought for the craftsmanship.]

  He: That’s done it.

  I watched the wedge fall and said: Besides, I think Dawson will be more than a match for an elderly infirm man.

  Pound wrenched the lower sash up and leaned out: You crafty…

  His last word was inaudible above the hubbub of my city but I did not trouble to ask him what it was.

  100

  Two Minutes Later

  ON THE WAY down Pound asked: How did you know there was a fire escape?

  I: Dawson checked the building for me yesterday.

  Pound: We could do with him back on the force.

  I: He is far too useful to me in his present role.

  But we both knew that a dismissed policeman is never reinstated. We returned to the lobby.

  There I addressed the manager: I am a private citizen and you were ill-advised to give me this. [I placed the key in a shabby leather tray on the countertop.] That is very lax security indeed.

  Manager: But the policeman—

  I: Did not ask for it.

  A door opened at the far end of the hall and Gregory entered with Dawson behind, obligingly carrying a heavy suitcase.

  Pound: Major Bernard Gregory, I presume.

  Gregory tried to adopt a military posture but he was too stooped to achieve his purpose: What is the meaning of this – hammering on my door and frightening me? I thought you were a murderer.

  I spoke very quietly: And so you quite reasonably made your escape, pausing only to pack your calfskin-covered portmanteau.

  Gregory blew and blustered: I thought there might be a fire.

  Pound chuckled: What exactly did I say to make you believe that, sir?

  Gregory: I am partly deaf. It comes from standing too close to a cannon.

  I said softly: How unfortunate.

  Gregory: Yes, it was, and why are you mumbling?

  I: To disprove your lie.

  I watched a young couple enter from the street, arm in arm, the man carrying a new calfskin valise, while Gregory ranted about outrages and how he had fought for the empire.

  I: By all means come in, but I feel it only fair to warn you that there is a suspected murderer in this building.

  He: Oh.

  She: Oh my goodness.

  [They hurried away.]

  Manager: You cannot do that.

  I: If you do not wish me to make a habit of the practice, I suggest you grant us the use of a chamber where we can conduct our business in private.

  [He coughed without covering his mouth and I hastily shielded mine.]

  Manager: [flapping limply] Through there. You can use the Green Lounge.

  I: And we shall have tea.

  Manager: [spluttering] You most certainly— [the front door opened] will [he added hastily as a tall lady entered, wrapped in the outer membranes of Canadian beavers].

  I: You have done sterling work this day, Dawson. And, if you take a seat, these gentlemen will arrange for you to be brought tea and Dundee cake.

  [Gerry Dawson grinned. He had lost eleven teeth arresting a mathematician on Sunday the ninth of July, 1871.]

  Manager: [appreciatively] My favourite.

  Dawson took a copy of the Sporting Times from his overcoat and settled down to peruse it.

  I had no great trouble calculating why the Green Lounge was so named. Everything from the wall hangings to the large square rug to the upholstered armchairs and sofas had been garishly painted or stained the colour of bile. Pound closed the door behind us.

  Gregory: Where is your warrant?

  Pound: You must have misheard me. Shame about that cannon.

  [We settled round a table near the incinerating coal fire.]

  I: Where is your son, Gregory?

  Gregory cast his gaze down and his shoulders rounded: I have no son. Barney died at the age of fourteen of consumption.

  I: And your daughter when she was five.

  Gregory nodded miserably: Daisy was born with a weak heart. It failed her, the doctor said.

  I: And that doctor’s name was?

  Gregory discovered an undone button on his waistcoat: What exactly is all this about, Grice?

  I: Colonel Geoffrey Charles Pemberton Middleton examined your dead daughter.

  Gregory fumbled with the button: He wrote the death certificate. So much is public knowledge.

  A waitress came to the door: Is it all right to come in, sir?

  Pound beckoned her over: Just leave it on the table, thank you.

  [He slipped her tuppence and she fluttered her eyelashes before quitting the room.]

  I: You lived in Parbold at the time.

  Gregory: Have you dragged me here to recount my life’s history?

  I: No. [I set to work straightening the contents of the tray.] That would be ghastly. You were on holiday at the time of your daughter’s death in Southport. Why not call a local doctor?

  The major gripped the arm protectors of his chair: Middleton was a close friend. Daisy was dead so there was no urgency, and Parbold is only a twenty-minute train journey away.

  I: Not at one o’clock in the morning. Middleton also diagnosed your son Barney’s illness, did he not?

  Gregory crumpled the protector: Yes.

  I: Two days later.

  Gregory: I assume March told you all this.

  I: If she did I was not listening and, as you are aware, she is in no condition to discuss anything at present. [I was not entirely happy with my rearrangement but decided to let it stand for the moment.] For all her vices, Miss Middleton has one great virtue, i.e. she is an inveterate chronicler. There is hardly a day of her life since she entered her second decade which she has not recorded in minute, often tedious, but rarely turgid detail. One of my eighteen greatest virtues is that I am incurably curious.

  [I felt the pot, took off the lid and stirred, and was depressed to discover how little steam escaped and how few leaves swirled as I did so.]

  Gregory: So you read her diaries. Is that why I am being chased down fire escapes?

  Pound poured out three dismal, cloudy cupfuls: Your actions were not those of an innocent man.

  I: Miss Middleton is also a prolific letter writer and she makes copies of a great deal of her correspondence. She wrote to Barney at least six times.

  [Gregory steadied his right hand with his left to pour the milk and I covered my cup to stop any splashing into it.]

  He: They were great friends when they were children.

  I: She never received a reply.

  Gregory helped himself to the sugar, showering some into the spilled milk: He was probably too ill to write.

  I: Or not allowed to. Miss Middleton’s letters were addressed to the Friedrich Abbing Hospital, Rotschau, Bern, Switzerland.

  Gregory mopped at the mess he had created: Then there is your explanation, not that I can see how it matters since it is not yet a crime to fail to answer letters. She sent them to the wrong place. Barney was at the Rotschau Respiratory Clinic for the fresh mountain air.

  I repeated firmly: The Friedrich Abbing Hospital, Rotschau, Bern, Switzerland. Please do not embarrass us all with any more prevarications. I have telegraphed Dr Abbing and he has confirmed that your son was a patient there.


  Gregory had lifted his cup an inch and three-quarters but he put it back on the saucer: I remember now. Barney was at the clinic for a while, but we transferred him to Abbing’s because they had more advanced treatments.