The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 11

  The manager was far from being what she would have called a gentleman, yet he did have the good grace to be concerned. Approaching her, he said, ‘It is deadly cold today, come nearer to the fire. May I offer you something?’ He reached into his pocket.

  The last thing Frances wanted was a sip of whatever was in the flask. She knew from the professional journals that the public’s belief in alcohol as something that warmed the system was a fallacy, but so popular was the concept that she had quite given up informing people of this, as it often led to ridicule.

  ‘I think I may have a slight touch of influenza,’ she explained, in a faltering voice. ‘I am feeling a little faint. Perhaps if I could sit down for a few moments?’ He glanced around at the high stool, and offered to conduct her to it, but she began to sway alarmingly. ‘Oh no, please, I think I would fall down if I were to sit there.’

  He hesitated. ‘There’s a comfortable chair in the office, but it isn’t very warm.’

  ‘Oh, yes, please’, she gasped, ‘anywhere I might rest and close my eyes.’

  He opened the door at the back of the gallery and, taking her gently by the elbow, led her inside. A small window admitted just enough murky light to make out the interior. It was a small, wood-panelled office room, with a carved desk, two chairs upholstered in leather, and a roll-top cabinet. He tried to steer her towards the chair in front of the desk but somehow she managed to stagger into the chair behind the desk, and flop weakly into it.

  ‘Is there a friend I can send a message to?’ he offered. ‘Or may I call a cab to take you home?’

  Frances, who was now adding ‘indisposed lady’ to her cast of characters, smiled bravely. ‘That is very kind of you, Sir, but I will be well with just a few minutes’ rest.’

  ‘Very well, Miss – er?’

  ‘Williamson.’

  ‘My name is Guy Berenger.’ He paused, and gave her a puzzled look. ‘I don’t suppose we have met before?’

  ‘I do not believe so,’ said Frances, turning her head so the shadows fell upon her face.

  ‘Only, I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, Miss, it’s the artist in me that is talking, but you have very distinctive features and I can’t help thinking that your face looks familiar.’

  At this awkward moment, there was the sound of the shop door opening, and he peered out of the office door.

  ‘Berenger!’ said a commanding voice.

  ‘It’s Mr Keane – I must go.’ He hurried out, and closed the door behind him.

  Frances realised that if she was to find anything of interest in the room she had possibly no more than seconds to do so. She pulled open the top drawer of the desk, finding only ink and pencils. Another drawer yielded notepaper and a few coins. The other drawers contained folders of papers, which she had no time at all to look through. She then saw that the wastepaper basket had some pieces of crumpled paper in the bottom, and quickly took them out and stuffed them into her pocket. Hopefully, it would be assumed that a servant had cleared them away. She had just enough time to flop back into the chair as the door was flung open.

  ‘What is this?’ demanded a voice. James Keane stood in the doorway; his feet planted firmly apart, his chest thrust forward. His hair was dark and glossy and his handsome face was framed by a flamboyant set of side-whiskers and a beard, which curled strangely about its fringes. The intense blue of his eyes was made more so by a piercing gaze. Here was a man who assumed he was in command of any situation of which he was a part, but the artist who had captured his image in the drawing which Adam had consigned contemptuously to the fire, had seen beneath this presumption. There was, Frances knew, something essentially shallow about the man. He was all noise and bluster without, she was sure, the qualities of character or intellect to justify his outward show of confidence. In the gallery behind him, Guy Berenger stood, his hands clasped anxiously in front of him, his face a mask of concern.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir,’ said Frances, ‘I was overcome by faintness and needed a few moments’ rest. I feel I am suffering from a touch of influenza.’

  Keane strode into the room and pulled open the drawer containing the coins, in a manner which suggested he fully expected to discover that they were missing. Seeing that they were still there he said only ‘Hmph!’ slammed the drawer shut, and turned to her. ‘Well madam, I cannot permit you to remain here. You appear to me to be fully recovered and I suggest you take your departure.’

  Frances decided not to appear in too much of a hurry to leave in case that aroused further suspicions. She began to carefully ease herself from the chair. Berenger rushed forward and helped her up. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ she said, gratefully. ‘I feel very much refreshed by my brief rest.’

  Keane scowled at her. There were gentlemen whose hard hearts would melt at the sight of womanly weakness. Clearly James Keane was a man who regarded such an affliction as an insufferable personal inconvenience.

  She favoured him with a polite smile. ‘Before I go, Mr Keane, would you be so kind as to inform me how I might obtain an interview with Mr Meadows? The purpose of my visit here was to commission him to paint a portrait.’

  ‘Meadows has gone to Paris, and is not expected to return,’ said Keane, curtly.

  ‘I am sorry to hear it, good evening.’ As Frances made a dignified exit from the premises, she became aware of the smell of charring paper, and turned to see that Keane had walked over to the fireplace, taken some crumpled slips from his pockets, and thrown them onto the dull red coals.

  She was eager to look at the papers in her pocket as soon as she was able, but found on her return that Constable Brown was waiting for her in the shop. Herbert was regarding him coldly. Frances realised that, unaware that the young policeman was a married man, Herbert saw him as arival for her affections, and was alert to the danger of either the business as it stood, or its value should it be sold, slipping away from him. She did not feel inclined to relieve Herbert’s anxiety by informing him that Constable Brown had not come to court her, and greeted the policeman in a friendly manner. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the moustache tips quiver like the strings of a violin.

  Wilfred had a large scrapbook tucked under his arm. ‘I brought this Miss,’ he said. ‘Some of my father’s papers. I think you’ll find them very interesting.’

  As they settled in the upstairs parlour with tea, Wilfred opened the book on the table. ‘I’ve got the Illustrated Police News here, and all sorts of cuttings from the local papers. I think he must have written to the police in Gloucestershire or someone he knew there to have all these things. It was a murder in 1870, a Mr John Wright who lived in Tollington Mill, and the Gartons were living there at the time, in fact Mrs Garton gave evidence at the inquest. One thing – I’m afraid the Illustrated Police News can be a bit – er – well the artist gets carried away sometimes, I think. I hope you won’t be offended. I know some ladies who would be very upset by it. You’re not upset, Miss?’

  Frances gazed at the pictures on the front page, dated 27 August 1870, which included a gruesome murder in Kensington, a tragic drowning near Swansea, a scene of battle near somewhere called Metz, and a man strangling his wife in Manchester. ‘It’s a very unusual style of journalism,’ she said. ‘It reminds one of tales told to schoolchildren to frighten them into good behaviour. I shall certainly avoid all of these places in future.’ Turning the pages she discovered an account of the inquest on John Wright held on the 22nd. Cuttings of varying sizes from other publications were enclosed in the leaves of the scrapbook, and she unfolded them and laid them out on the table.

  As Frances read the reports of the inquest in all its different guises, she thought how much like a jigsaw puzzle it was. Each writer had a different style, and had been permitted a different number of words, and each publication had its own ideas as to what the important facts were, or what their readers might want to know. Therefore no account of the proceedings contained all the facts, and even the wordiest sometimes omitted what was included in oth
ers. Each supplied a number of pieces which she had to put together, not in order to see the final picture, but to see where the places were that still needed to be filled.

  The first and most important witness was Mrs Cranby, John Wright’s housekeeper. She had been engaged by Wright when he had first leased Tollington House in June 1869. She knew nothing of his family, or any friends he might have had before his arrival, as he had never spoken to her of them, nor would she have expected him to do so. He was a quiet young man, with pleasing manners, who had at once made himself agreeable in the neighbourhood. As far as she knew, he had no business interests but was of independent means. His chief amusement appeared to be country walks, and drawing, which two he usually combined, often in the company of Mr Garton, who was a near neighbour at Old Mill House. Mr Wright, she recalled, had only one peculiarity, he used to dye his hair black. She knew this because after his death a partly used bottle of dye had been found in his bathroom. Not that other gentlemen did not also dye their hair, but in her experience, it was done by gentlemen of more advanced years who wished to appear younger. Mr Wright had no reason of that sort as she estimated his age to be less than thirty.

  On 3 July 1870, Mr Wright had told her that he planned to be absent on business for a month, and the house was to be shut up and the servants placed in rented accommodation until his return. He did not reveal the nature of the business and she did not enquire. All was carried out according to his instructions and he left that same evening. At the time of his departure he was wearing, as he usually did, a gold watch and chain. She also recalled that he carried a pocket book in which he kept banknotes, and a small memorandum book, and shortly before he departed she saw him placing these items in the inside pocket of his coat. She heard nothing more from him until 29 July, when she received a letter from Mr Wright postmarked Bristol. He said that he would be passing through Tollington Mill on the following day, as he had an appointment of some importance in the vicinity, and if the opportunity presented itself he would call upon her to give her further instructions. If he was not able to call that day, he promised to call in one week’s time. Mrs Cranby had obligingly waited in for her employer but he did not call on 30 July, nor did he call the following week. Shortly afterwards the servants discovered that the rent of their accommodation, which had been paid by Mr Wright until the end of July, had not been renewed. Mr Wright had always been the most considerate of masters, and Mrs Cranby, unable to believe that even a man who dyed his hair would abandon his servants in that manner, had become anxious for his safety. She had made enquiries in the neighbourhood and found only one person who had seen Mr Wright recently, Mrs Garton, who had encountered him by chance on 30 July. After waiting another week and hearing no more from her employer, Mrs Cranby decided to go to the police. Her thought at that time was that he might have met with an accident.

  The next time she saw Mr Wright was on 17 August, when she was asked to identify his body. Those newspapers with room for such details reported that when recollecting this event, Mrs Cranby became very distressed and was furnished with a glass of water.

  Police Constable Alfred Cooper testified that he had been present when the body of John Wright was discovered on 17 August. On receiving information that a gentleman was missing, and being informed of his last known whereabouts, he and other constables had proceeded on foot along the country roads where the gentleman had most likely travelled, examining ditches and fields along the way. They had spoken to a passing shepherd who had informed them that his dog had become unusually excited when close by an abandoned quarry in the area, but he had not troubled himself to investigate the matter. On examining the quarry they had found, hidden under branches torn from some nearby bushes, the body of a man, who had clearly been dead for at least two weeks. Constable Cooper had searched the man’s pockets to discover his identity and found a pocket book and a memorandum book with the name John Wright and the address Tollington House. There was nothing of value on the body.

  The coroner asked the constable if he had in his possession the items found on the body of the deceased, and these were at once produced, creating, according to the Daily Bristol Times and Mirror, a ‘sensation in court’. Of particular interest were the pages in which John Wright had kept a diary of his appointments. These revealed that Wright had spent the weeks between his departure and 29 July in Hertfordshire, though no addresses were given, and there were no clues as to whom he had met there. The Hertfordshire police were currently making enquiries. On 29 July, Wright had recorded the word ‘Bristol’ and on 30 July ‘Tollington Mill, appointment with M 3 o’clock’. No one had as yet discovered where he had stayed in Bristol, or the identity of the person he had arranged to meet.

  The next to give evidence was Mrs Henrietta Garton. She and her husband had become acquainted with Mr Wright on his arrival in Tollington Mill. He had made a favourable impression on them, and had dined with them at their home, Old Mill House, on several occasions. He had never spoken to them, either of his family or any business interests, and they had assumed that he was a man of independent means. Wright and her husband had a mutual interest in painting and drawing, and the two men would often go on walks in the countryside where they would make sketches of the landscape and houses, before returning to Old Mill House for tea. At the beginning of July – she could not recall the date – Mr Wright had mentioned that he would shortly be away on business for a month. He did not say where he was going. On 30 July – and she was sure of the date as it had coincided with the village fancy goods bazaar – she had met him in the street quite by chance. He was on foot, walking briskly, going, as far as she could see, in the direction of Thornbury. He had stopped for only a moment, greeted her politely, and apologised for not being able to remain longer, but he was hurrying to an appointment of very great importance. She had said only that she would not detain him further, but hoped that he would have the leisure to call on another occasion. She never saw him again. She did not think it especially unusual for Mr Wright to be on foot as he was a man who thought nothing of long walks, and the weather was very fine that day. At the time, she and her husband had been preparing to move to London and this they did on 10 August. She did not hear of Mr Wright’s death until she read of it in the newspapers.

  The last witness of any importance was Dr McPhail. There was, according to the Gloucester Journal, a hum of excited chatter in court at his appearance, and he was obliged, almost at once, to deny emphatically that he was the mysterious ‘M’ who had met Mr Wright on his last appointment. Dr McPhail had been the first medical man to see the body, and had later conducted a post-mortem examination. He testified that John Wright had died from a single blow to the back of the head with a heavy blunt instrument. He had not died where he lay, but at some other, unknown location. The body had been taken to the spot where it was found, thrown into the old quarry, and covered with branches. It was his opinion that both the murder and the hiding of the body would require some physical strength, and that the criminal was therefore undoubtedly male.

  The jury, after a brief deliberation, recorded the verdict that John Wright had been murdered by some person or persons unknown, but that was not the end of the mystery, for even three weeks after his death no member of his family had come forward to claim him. The newspapers devoted columns of print speculating about his identity, and, there being no portrait of the man, artists were employed to draw his likeness based on interviews with witnesses in the hopes that someone would recognise him. The fact of his hair being dyed was regarded as highly suspicious, and while some artists depicted him with black hair, others shaded their drawings to suggest brown, or even blond. All the pictures showed a slim, clean shaven man, with nothing to distinguish him except youthful good looks, his facial features varying depending on whom the artist had interviewed.

  ‘Who is to say which of these pictures is most like the man?’ said Frances. ‘Do you think there is any connection between the murder of John Wright and Mr Garton’s death
?’

  ‘Who can say, Miss? It could just be coincidence. But I do find it very interesting, all the same.’

  The last cutting, dated a month after the murder, bore the headline ‘Tollington Mill Tragedy: Distressing Family Secret.’ A relative of John Wright had at last come forward and revealed that he was not, as had been supposed, a man of property, but an escaped lunatic whose brain had become deranged after suffering a fever. Although he appeared from both intellect and manner to be of sound mind, he suffered from the belief that he was the heir to a great fortune and that there were enemies plotting to cheat him of his inheritance. The little fortune he did have had been squandered on lawyers’ fees, and his despairing family, afraid that he would plunge them all into debt, had had him declared insane and locked away. It was only in the last few days that they had realised that the murdered man was their unfortunate relative.

  ‘What a very sad tale,’ said Frances. She looked through the cuttings once more. ‘It doesn’t say in any of the papers why Mr Garton was not called as a witness,’ she observed. ‘It is mentioned that he and Mr Wright were friends, yet he seems not to have been questioned. Also it has been assumed that Mr Wright was murdered on the 30th of July, which, although probable, is far from proven. It could easily have happened on the following day or the day after. I accept that it is most unlikely that Mrs Garton could have murdered Mr Wright, at least not unaided, as she would not have been strong enough, but where was Mr Garton at this time?’

  ‘You suspect him?’ asked Wilfred in surprise. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Only that he himself has been murdered. It could have been a matter of revenge.’

  ‘But it is nine and a half years since Wright’s murder,’ he reminded her, ‘and Mr Garton has not been hiding himself away. If some relative of Wright suspected Garton, would they have waited so long to take revenge?’

  ‘They might only now have obtained the proof they needed,’ said Frances. ‘Tell me, did the police ever discover who Mr Wright was supposed to be meeting on the 30th of July? The person whose name begins with M?’