Flush made a helpless gesture. «Mr Miracle is unable to provide us with a witness for his activities between half-past nine and ten o’clock. He could have strangled her and left her in the convenience until later.»
«And carried on an entire class without turning a hair?»
«Some killers are exceptionally cool.»
I gave an exasperated groan. «But where’s the motive, man!»
Flush gave a satisfied smile and produced a long, cream-coloured envelope from his coat. He held it before me like a lure.
«What’s this?» I asked.
«It’s a copy of Mrs Knight’s will. Amongst numerous small bequests is the sum of five hundred pounds to her dedicated art-master, Mr Christopher Miracle.»
«What? Well, what of it? Miracle’s filthy rich.»
«Many have killed for less, sir.»
I took the envelope from him and examined the contents. «Hmm. By that argument, it could look blacker against the husband.»
«The husband?»
«Yes. She leaves him the sum of two thousand pounds, an annuity from her previous husband which… it seems… he was unable to control during her life-time.»
«Mr Knight was seen to drive away from the Mechanical Institute.»
«Then he could have employed someone to do it for him.»
«Mr Box»
«You’ve met the man, Flush. Even if money wasn’t the motive, it’s obvious he disapproved of his wife having any kind of social life. When she began to grow more confident and independent he found he couldn’t tolerate it and strangled her!»
Flush gave me a hard look. «You’re running away with yourself, sir. What about the glove?»
I waved my hand impatiently. «Easy enough to steal a lady’s glove! And where did this blood come from? The coroner says she was strangled, I believe.»
Flush seemed to consider this for a moment. «Well, well. I’ll bear your theories in mind, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, I have rather a lot to be getting on with. I’m afraid this isn’t the only case I have on hand.»
I was shown out into a dreary corridor. I thrust my hands into my pockets and walked disconsolately towards the exit, glancing halfheartedly at the walls, scarcely taking in the bills tacked to cork boards, the ugly illustrations of wanted felons, the sooty smears that marked the walls above the cracked gas-lamps. I was utterly stumped as to my next move. It was imperative I get to Naples forthwith, yet how could I leave Miracle in such peril? Would I have to put myself further into Joshua Reynolds’s debt by asking him to use his influence? My musings were suddenly interrupted.
«Oh Lor!» came a hoarse shriek. «Don’t ’urt me! Don’t ’urt me, please!»
I turned to the left to see a constable «escorting» a woman from the premises. She appeared to be little more than a heap of dirty electric blue skirts, a grisly-looking drudge, hair all askew.
«You can’t just sling me art!»
«You just watch me,» said the policeman.
«But what about me friend?»
The policeman pushed open the door and warm air rolled inside. «Cor, you’re sweating gin, woman! I told you. We got more important things to do than go chasing after your imaginary pals. Now, gertcha!»
He slung the creature through the doorway. As the door swung back, I just caught her croaking call. «’E done ’er in, I know that! That miracle man!»
My ears pricked up and I walked swiftly to the door, which the constable held open for me.
«Evening, sir.»
I gave him a nod and then walked out into the night.
The woman was stumbling to her feet on the steps of the station.
«Forgive me, my dear,» I said, offering my arm. «Would you like some help?»
She shot me a suspicious glance, then grabbed at my sleeve and hauled herself up.
«We haven’t been introduced.» I smiled. «Lucifer Box.»
«Kitty,» she said, swallowing nervously. «Kitty Backlash.»
«I couldn’t help overhearing you. Something about a miracle?»
She nodded feverishly. «It’s that Mr Miracle. I read the story in the papers. ’E done ’er in!»
«Mrs Knight?»
«No! Mrs Frenzy!»
«Who?»
What was this?
Kitty Backlash blew air noisily from between her lips, making an unpleasantly blubbery sound. «Couldn’t stand us a drink, could you, sir? It’s a ruddy long and strange tale I ’ave to tell and I’ve been tramping ’alfway across town today.»
«Of course. Come on.»
We found a suitably bright and rowdy pub only a street away. I lined up two glasses of gin for my guest, just enough to show I could be generous but also to ensure I got her story while she was still sober.
«Now, Miss Backlash,» I said, sitting down next to her in a corner seat. «Pray continue.»
She sank a draught of gin and rubbed at her face with a shaking hand.
«It’s ’ard to think straight, sir. Honest it is. But I’ll start at the start, if you takes me meaning.»
I watched her closely, her ugly face reflecting back even uglier in the shining mirrors of the pub.
«My friend, then, is called Abigail Frenzy. She’s a parlourmaid, or was. Worked for a foreign gent over Barnes way. Anyway, one day she says to me, Kitty, I’ve come into some good fortune. I says, ain’t you a maid no more? And she laughs — I’ve got it easy now. A fiver just for sitting about and scribbling all day.»
I sat up at this. «What did she mean by that?»
Kitty Backlash scratched at her chin. «Well, I’ll tell you, sir. Seems her employer comes up to her one day, months back and says how would she like to earn proper money? Now Abigail’s no slut and I’m sure she thought the gentleman had improper notions, even though she ain’t no spring chick, her face must’ve been a picture, but he says, no, it’s nothing like that. Fact is, there’s a lady he’s sweet on but her ’usband’s a terrible brute and he can never get near ’er. Only time she’s left on ’er own is when she goes to an art lesson down in Chelsea.»
I leant forward, all attention. «What is the name of your friend’s employer?»
«Don’t recall the name.
«Is he, by George?» A little shiver ran through me.
Kitty Backlash drained her second glass of gin. «Well, anyways, I’ll give you a fiver a week, he says, if you’ll only swap places with this lady for an hour or two. She says, well, is she my twin? ’cos otherwise people is going to notice and he smiles and says not to worry because the poor soul’s all hidden behind a veil on account of terrible burns she got when she was a gel.»
«And what did your friend Abigail say to this curious request?»
«At first she was having none of it, but then she got to thinking what a lot of money it was for so little a thing. It’s always down to lucre, sir, and that’s a fact.»
«I have heard it said. Go on.»
«Well, sir, she went ahead with it. Her master ’ad it all worked out. The lady in question would be dropped off by ’er ’usband. She always wore the same violet dress and veil. Soon as she was inside, she went to the lavs — pardon me for speaking so, sir — and out of the other lav would come my friend Abigail in another dress just like ’ers. One in, one out.»
«Like figures on a weather-house,» I said quietly.
«Yes, sir! Just like the pair on them little houses. Abigail’d go in and ’ave ’er lesson and the lady’d sneak away for an hour or two with her lover.»
«Miss Backlash,» I said. «I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have met you. Now, tell me slowly, what happened next.»
The crone took a big breath and held out her empty glass. «Difficult to talk, so parched I’m gasping!»
«All the grog you want, just go on with your fascinating story.»
