Dark Dawn Over Steep House

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  ‘In marriage?’

  Mr G fought something down and took hold of me, pressing my palm over the word.

  ‘And what do you see?’

  ‘Ample in mirror image on the ball of my thumb.’ I knew better than to ask why he had not used his own hand for the demonstration.

  ‘And quite clearly too,’ he remarked with some satisfaction.

  I rubbed it with my handkerchief. ‘So ink takes longer to dry than you might think.’ I licked the handkerchief and rubbed harder.

  ‘It takes exactly as long as I anticipated.’ My guardian huffed at the very idea of him misjudging anything. ‘Oh, and you need not worry about washing that off. It is indelible.’

  ‘Then you must find a solvent.’

  ‘I am not compelled to do so.’

  ‘I wonder if it is dry now.’ I grasped his wrist and pushed his hand on to the ink, surprised by his lack of resistance.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Mr G shrugged at my childish prank, but I was only disapointed to see that the pig, though printed quite clearly on his palm, was written backwards. ‘Perhaps I shall search for a solvent after all,’ he conceded and handed me his third-best magnifying glass. ‘Scrutinize the verso.’

  I looked at the left-hand page. About half an inch of the top edge was burned away and the page beneath discoloured. The last entry was still clearly visible:

  I hate Steep House and everybody in it. I shall destroy them all.

  And below that nothing.

  ‘The surface has not been abraded,’ I observed. ‘So nothing has been erased.’

  ‘I provisionally accept that interpretation. Regard, if you can, the recto.’

  I held the glass over the top of the page. ‘It is only singed along the rim.’ I screwed up my eyes. ‘There are some very faint smudges on the first four lines, the lower two of which. . .’ I viewed both pages at once, ‘are exactly in line with the previous entry. You don’t think—’

  ‘Do I not?’ He pouted. ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘So, if the book were closed too soon, the top two lines could be a blotting of the missing words.’ I hurried to the window and held the book up, but there was nothing other than the faintest of meaningless marks. ‘If it were pencil we could do a rubbing,’ I said disconsolately.

  Sidney Grice titivated his eyebrows. ‘In what colour was this otherwise tiresome juvenile chronicle inscribed?’

  ‘I would think it was violet originally.’ I gave him back his magnifying glass and he polished it vigorously on his elbow. ‘Though it is turning brown now.’

  ‘Would you violently disagree with me and storm out of our home never to return if I suggested that originally it might have been purple-brown?’ he asked meekly.

  ‘You said our not my, and home not house!

  Mr G blinked. ‘I heard myself.’

  ‘You said our home!

  ‘I am glad to find you paying such close attention to my words.’ He retied his patch. ‘Though your repetition of them might irritate a man not blessed with my saintly patience, and I think it only fair to inform you that the deeds of this property are in my name.’

  ‘I know that.’ I wanted to lean across the desk and kiss the tip of his elegant nose, but I only said, ‘Purple-brown sounds about right to me.’

  ‘Thank heavens we navigated that emotional crisis without being cautioned for affray,’ he said.

  ‘But why would I have argued about it?’

  ‘You argued about the colour of the drapes in the sitting room.’

  I remembered cuddling up to George Pound on the sofa up there and resolved to tackle my guardian on the subject later. For now I satisfied myself with, ‘Only because you wanted to change them for black ones.’

  ‘Charcoal,’ he insisted before resuming his tutorial. ‘Purple-brown inks are sold under the description of Iron gall. They contain – amongst other ingredients – ferrous sulphate, not to be confused with ferric sulphate which is used as a mordent to fix dyes rather than a dye in its own right. A pertinent property of ferrous sulphate is its reaction with sodium carbonate – vulgarly known as washing soda or soda ash – of which I have a bottle here.’ He withdrew an unlabelled green bottle which he had lodged in the mummified claw of Ekriel Coy, the Aspic Killer of Merthyr Tydfil. The resultant exchange of molecules results in the creation of sodium sulphate and, more relevantly, ferrous carbonate, a precipitate and a serviceable sepia pigment.’ He unscrewed the cap and inhaled, though even I know it has no aroma. ‘So if I apply this over these marks I may be able to darken them enough to be legible.’

  ‘But, if the ink should be made of another chemical, what will the soda do?’

  ‘There is a chance that it will do what it is purchased in vast quantities to do and remove the stains,’ Mr G told me lightly and, before I could object that he might try to think of another means, commanded me: ‘Seek and find 19 January, then seek and find the inscription skating.’

  I did as I was bade and the word sprang immediately, darker and clearer than the preceding we went and the succeeding on the pond.

  ‘You tested it,’ I realized.

  ‘I am not quite the simpleton you portray in your published accounts,’ he declared with a toss of his thick, black, backswept hair.

  ‘But I have always emphasized your cleverness,’ I protested.

  ‘A performing flea may be described as clever.’

  He took the book back from me and I sniffed. ‘I shall try to do you justice in future.’

  ‘You will fail,’ he predicted. ‘Pay close attention for there is a chance that it will be washed away and there are occasions when three eyes are better than one.’

  Sidney Grice dipped a flat brush into the soda solution, wiping the excess liquid off on the neck of the bottle, and painted it sparingly over the top third of the last page. Nothing much happened. He re-wet the bristles and tried again and, this time, the effect was instant.

  ‘Your head is in the way,’ I complained.

  ‘My head is where it always is,’ he snapped. ‘Firmly, though not rigidly, attached to my first cervical vertebra.’ Nonetheless he edged to the side.

  And, reading right to left, we narrated in unison: ‘he told me, “I hate Steep House and everybody in it. I shall destroy them all”’

  ‘So that was why Eric was in the cellar,’1 realized.

  The pigment was watery and starting to trickle down the page.

  ‘I find myself ill-equipped to refute your premise.’ Sidney Grice tried to blot the words, but they had already floated away.

  66

  Footfalls on the Stairs

  GERALDINE HOCKADAY LET me in.

  ‘I thought it might be Peter.’ She secured the door.

  ‘Geraldine—’

  ‘Do you like my costume?’ She had a pretty new dress on, dark pink with a lace trim on the cuffs and around the collar. ‘This is the first time I have ever worn it. Papa bought it for me before . . . all this.’

  ‘It is very pretty and you are looking brighter too.’

  Geraldine’s face was almost as pink as her clothes and there was renewed life in her eyes. ‘I wanted to look nice for Peter. And see – I have set his pipe and tobacco by his chair.’

  ‘Geraldine,’ I tried again, ‘there is something I have to say. You must prepare yourself for the possibility—’

  ‘What is that?’

  There was a scuffling noise. I went over to listen and heard growls and bumping. It came from downstairs.

  ‘Peter.’ Geraldine jumped up.

  ‘I do not think so,’ I said and opened the door a crack.

  ‘You can’t leave it ’ere,’ Mrs Freval was saying, ‘blocking the entry. Come back ’ere you crebbed-up bleedin’ bleeders.’

  ‘Wait here and lock the door,’ I told Geraldine and hurried down.

  ‘I told them they can’t just leave it ’ere,’ Mrs Freval yelled up at me. ‘Bleedi
n’ cruck-faced Prikes – not that I could see their poxy faces – silly scrabs with their mufflers on in this wevver. It aint ’xactly snowin’.’ She held out her hand to demonstrate the absence of flakes. ‘Is it?’

  There was a big laundry basket half-filling the hall when I made my way down and I did not like the way Turndap was sniffing it excitedly. ‘Perhaps you had better take your dog inside,’ I said.

  ‘Your dog?’ she parotted in disgust. ‘Your dog? ’E’s gotta name as you well know.’

  ‘Please,’ I said nervily. ‘Please take Turndap away.’

  Mrs Freval made several gargling noises and picked her pet up. ‘It was a rubbish ’at anyway,’ she muttered, though she was the one who had chosen it.

  I pushed on the basket but could not shift it. There were two pegs through loops and I pulled them out.

  ‘Is it Peter?’ Geraldine was coming down the stairs. ‘He might not be able to breathe in there.’

  ‘Stay there, Geraldine,’ I warned. But she was hurtling down the last steps and flying into me, flattening me against the wall.

  ‘Peter.’ She had hold of the lid.

  ‘Don’t,’ I cried, but she had flung the lid up and back.

  Geraldine Hockaday was all at once frozen, bending down, her face still mixed in concern and joyous expectation. I just managed to catch her as she fell and dragged her on to the one bit of clear floor at the foot of the stairs. She was as light as a child.

  I had known in my heart that Peter Hockaday, the brave, tall, fresh-faced young man I had left under that shelter in Limehouse, would be dead. I had feared but did not know that he would be squatting in that basket, his face beaten out of shape. I looked in his open mouth and wished I had not. And never, for one moment, had I imagined that he would be cradling his intestines, long shimmering tubes and folds of white membranes, in his lap.

  67

  The Ice Houses

  I PUT THE back of my fingers to Peter’s bruised brow. It was still warm.

  ‘Oh, Peter,’ I breathed uselessly.

  I shut the lid and told Mrs Freval as little as I could. She took Geraldine in, sat her on the one pine chair and wrapped her in a moth-eaten and very smelly blanket. Turndap got up on his hind legs and pawed her for it back, but I do not think Geraldine knew that either of them was with her. I do not think she even saw them or anything beyond what was in that basket.

  I found a policeman just about to finish his shift, but his weariness vanished at the prospect of a good murder.

  There was an undertaker’s round the corner. I had noticed it before but not paid much attention. I hoped it was not like the last undertaker with whom I had dealings, and was pleasantly surprised at their professional manner and reasonable rates. They would pick up Peter from the morgue as soon as the coroner released his body and they would make sure he had a good coffin at a good price. I gave them my card for the bill.

  The basket was already being dragged on to the back of a wagon when I returned. It left a long brown streak on the pavement.

  Geraldine rejected my offers to stay with me in Gower Street or for me to stay with her. She had no friends whom she wanted me to contact. She hardly spoke except to say that she needed to be alone.

  ‘I’ll check on ’er,’ Mrs Freval promised as Turndap licked the floor. She touched my arm. ‘Oh and that ’at – it’s a dandy one really.’

  *

  ‘Cadavers warm up as decomposition sets in,’ Sidney Grice told me. ‘I hesitate to ask since I know that you are incapable of keeping your feminine emotions in check and it is an unpleasant question.’ He put down his book – The Life Cycle and Mating Rituals of Cornishmen – open but upside down on his lap. ‘Did he—’

  ‘No,’ I broke in. ‘He did not smell decayed.’

  ‘Hagop Hanratty,’ Sidney Grice pronounced the name with great precision, ‘has the use of a number of ice-houses. They enable him to provide fresh eels and oysters at a premium price long after the seasons have finished.’ He closed the book. ‘It is possible that he kept Lieutenant Hockaday’s cadaver preserved in one of those until he decided what best to do with it.’ He stretched up.

  ‘But what was there to think about?’ I queried.

  ‘Hanratty is in the habit of displaying his victims’ remains in public as a caveat to others who might be considering infringing upon his territory.’ He reached back and dropped the book over the back of his chair, letting it thud to the floor and startle Spirit, who was curled up on his desk. ‘In this case he may have decided that the gruesome condition of the cadaver would attract too much attention and frighten his customers away.’

  I slumped in my chair. ‘You do not think. . .?’

  Sidney Grice looked at me with something approaching feelings. ‘Hanratty is a pragmatic man. What would be the point in disembowelling a corpse?’

  I held my head. ‘I cannot hope to stop a gang the size of his,’ I said eventually. ‘But I can try to stop the man for whom we entered such a world.’

  Sidney Grice took off his pince-nez and watched me. ‘You will not do anything foolish?’

  ‘When?’ I demanded. ‘When have you ever known me not to?’

  And Sidney Grice’s lips moved. I knew it would not be, because he did not believe in God, but it was almost like he was praying.

  68

  The Windows of the Soul

  THE STREET WAS almost deserted except for a gawky young man in a brown cotton coat, rolling tar-saturated strands of tobacco into a spill of newspaper.

  ‘We don’t want no more deliveries today.’ Mrs Freval viewed me suspiciously. ‘Turndap was in a right old state after the last one. ’Ad nightmares all night, ’e did, and now ’e’s gottanedache.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘but I did not bring the body here. In fact I arranged to have it removed.’

  Mrs Freval prodded a bristle on her neck, apparently trying to push it back in. ‘Bring? Remove? It’s all to do wiv draggin’ bodies round my ’ouse.’

  ‘I shall just leave it here next time, shall I?’

  I could hear Turndap snoring inside.

  ‘Oh!’ His mistress squalled. ‘It’s coming back, is it? Well, let me tell you—’

  But I never found out what I was going to let Mrs Freval tell me for there was a racket outside of two women fighting, and she hurried away to watch through her net curtain.

  I headed upstairs, but there was no reply at Geraldine’s door. I knocked again and listened. No doubt Sidney Grice would have heard something significant, but I could only hear the caterwauling outside and Turndap yapping excitedly. There was a dead rat in the middle of the floor, I noticed, and wondered if Mrs Freval would blame me for that too. I rapped harder.

  ‘Geraldine.’

  No reply.

  I raised my voice and hammered on the bare pine panel with the side of my fist, and rattled the handle, and, to my surprise, the door came ajar.

  ‘Geraldine?’

  I pushed it in and stood back. If there was one thing my guardian had taught me – though I did not always remember – it was not to rush blindly into rooms. I could hear a clicking.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Geraldine Hockaday sat in her usual chair knitting frantically. She did not glance at me.

  ‘Your door was not locked,’ I told her but she did not respond.

  I tried again. ‘What are you making?’

  The needles whirred against and around each other. ‘I am finishing the scarf that I promised to Peter.’

  I crouched to try to look into her eyes but they were not focused on me. ‘You do understand what happened?’

  Geraldine wriggled her nose like the child she often seemed to be. ‘I understand what,’ she said quite calmly – too calmly, it seemed – ‘but I do not understand why.’

  ‘We will catch the people who did it,’ I vowed and touched her knee.

  Geraldine started another row. ‘Just as you caught the man who did this to me?’ she asked with chilling p
oliteness. Then her voice sharpened. ‘Have you forgotten already that my brother died trying to do your job for you?’

  ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am,’ I said uselessly, and could not bring myself to add that I had been trying to stop Peter committing murder.

  Geraldine carried on knitting. It was then I noticed that there was a dried brown crust on the lace sleeve of her pale blue dress.

  ‘Have you tried to sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘And what would I dream of?’

  ‘I can get you some laudanum,’ I suggested.

  ‘Opium?’ Geraldine spat out the word. ‘You think that will help?’ She jabbed a needle so close to my cheek that I twisted my head away and edged backwards. ‘It was opium that got us into this mess.’

  Mess seemed a very tame way to describe any of what had happened. I paused. ‘Did you go to a den, Geraldine?’

  ‘The Golden Dragon.’ Her needles clacked again. ‘I was on my way back from it,’ she admitted. ‘That is why I made such a poor witness. I did not really know what was happening.’

  ‘But nothing happened to you while you were there?’

  ‘The owner would not have let it.’ Geraldine puckered her lips. ‘He was very worried for me being alone and advised me the safest route to walk back.’

  We would have another chat with Jones/Chang, I decided.

  ‘Why did you not tell Mr Grice?’ I went down on my haunches, just clear of her boot swinging up and down.

  ‘Do you think he did not disapprove of me enough already?’

  ‘It might have helped his investigations,’ I steadied myself on the arm of Peter’s chair, ‘if you had told him what you saw.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I have seen?’ Geraldine put down her knitting but picked it straight up again. ‘I have seen my beautiful brave brother, my only support and comfort, made into something disgusting.’ She wrenched the knitting off and threw it on the floor. ‘And that is all I see now. I see him more clearly than I see you. He is trapped inside my eyes, March.’

  ‘I shall send my doctor to give you something,’ I resolved. ‘He is a very kind—’