Terror by Gaslight by Edward Taylor Page A

shrill shriek of terror. All three reacted with shock. ‘What was that?’ said Mason.
    Clare rose swiftly. ‘It sounded like Harriet. I must go to her.’ She hurried to the door.
    ‘Can we assist?’ said Steele.
    ‘No. No. She sometimes has hysterics, and does not welcome witnesses. I’ll call if your help is needed.’ And with that she was gone.
    Steele went to the open door. ‘That didn’t sound like hysterics. It was too sharp and sudden. Something bad has happened.’
    ‘It won’t be the Heath Manic,’ said Mason. ‘He’s never struck in daylight.’
    ‘And never indoors,’ said Steele, ‘as far as we know. But there’s always a first time. Anyway, the young woman’s obviously in distress. You have the smelling salts?’
    Carrying the phial of reviving chemical was one of Mason’s tasks, a throwback to his medical orderly days. The salts had often proved valuable to witnesses at crime scenes. He patted his waistcoat pocket. ‘Yes, guv’nor. They’re here.’
    From the hall came the sound of female voices, one sobbing, the other attempting to give comfort. ‘Have them ready,’ said Steele. ‘I think they will be needed.’
    Then, through the door came the two sisters. Clare had her arm round Harriet’s shoulders. Harriet, with tears flooding down her cheeks, was carrying a pet’s basket, from which protruded pieces of bloody fur and mangled flesh.
    ‘Ella!’ she cried. ‘Somebody’s butchered my Ella!’

4
    T HE NEXT HOUSE along the Highgate Road, fifty yards to the west of the Austin home, was Dunblane. A grey building, slightly more austere and sombre than its neighbour, it had been built eighty years earlier for a wealthy Scottish entrepreneur, and reflected a lingering puritan streak which he had never quite managed to shed. By the same token, though he kept a succession of mistresses, he always insisted they go to church regularly. Not with him, of course.
    Dunblane was a little larger than Hillside. In fact, it seemed a little too large for its four permanent occupants: Dr Otto Frankel, his secretary, and two servants.
    But the doctor had made good use of at least one of the extra rooms, turning the one at the rear of the first floor into a laboratory. Here he had installed enough equipment and resources to carry out the research which appeared to be his main preoccupation.
    He was in there now; a tall, powerful man, with a face like a medieval gargoyle, he was pounding at some hard matter with pestle and mortar. The substance was reluctant to crumble and he paused, from time to time, to relax and look out of the window. This, like the Austins’ south-facing windows, enjoyed a panoramic vista of Hampstead Heath. Dr Frankel’s window also offered a good view of his neighbour’shouse and garden. Standing on a footstool, he could even see into Clare Austin’s bedroom, if she forgot to draw her curtains.
    He had just resumed his work when there was a knock at the laboratory door. ‘Come in!’ barked Frankel, and his secretary entered. Charles Stone was a thin man of medium height, forty-five years of age. But he was made to look older by his grey complexion and thinning hair. His lean body was held stiff and upright and his thin lips were clearly not much accustomed to smiling. His words came quickly but precisely.
    ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Doctor. But I wonder if you know where the boy is. Prosser needs his help in the kitchen.’
    ‘I sent the boy on an errand to the City,’ said Frankel. ‘Prosser will have to manage on his own for once.’
    ‘Very good, sir,’ said Stone. ‘I’ll tell him.’
    ‘You can also tell him that if he serves up any more meat as tough as last night’s, I’ll rub it in his face.’
    ‘I will inform him, sir.’ Stone turned to go, but Frankel stopped him.
    ‘Another thing, Stone.’
    ‘Yes, sir?’
    ‘The incident that took place next door last night. You’ll have noticed that police have been at Hillside all morning.’
    ‘Yes,