The Mangle Street Murders

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It is sixty years since I first met Sidney Grice. He was still quite young — though he did not seem it at the time — and already well known in England. But he had yet to achieve the international fame that a series of hilariously inaccurate Hollywood films was to bring upon him.

He was a vain man and loved the limelight, but even he baulked at some of the more outrageous stories that were circulated. He never, for example, climbed the Niagara Falls in pursuit of a werewolf. He was neither as glamorous nor so athletic as that. But also he was not the sadistic monster that recent biographers have portrayed. It was only ill health that stopped him from suing E.L. Jeeveson for his scurrilous and scrappily researched book claiming that Sidney Grice had murdered his own father.

It was the fear of hurting the innocent and of legal (or illegal) action from the guilty that constrained my first accounts of Sidney Grice’s investigations in the Monthly Journal but, with almost everybody dead now and my own life nearing its natural conclusion, I thought it time to set the record straight.

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