The Curse Of The House Of Foskett

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It is almost a year since I wrote the introduction to my first memoir of my guardian, Sidney Grice — The Mangle Street Murders — and its modest success in these days of paper shortages has encouraged me to give an account of our next major case, the terrible series of events in the autumn of 1882.

When I last wrote I was sheltering in the cellar of 125 Gower Street with Hitler’s bombs pulverizing London. The Blitz continues, though with less ferocity, and the Nazis have learned the folly of conducting raids in daylight hours. The threat of invasion still hangs over us, though, and the sight of old men and skinny youths training for the Home Guard is a touching reminder of our determination not to be conquered.

This case of which I now write nearly destroyed my guardian, but it marked an important shift in our relationship. Until then I had been present only under sufferance. When Sidney Grice began these investigations, however, we both acted under the assumption that I should accompany him. This I continued to do whenever possible, apart from our great rift, until the day he died.

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