The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 12

  ‘No, Miss, never.’

  Frances took up her notebook and examined the list of names. The only persons on the list with that initial were Mr Morgan, James Keane’s father-in-law, and Mrs Keane, who was called Mary, but there was now another name to add. ‘Meadows,’ she said.

  ‘Meadows?’ repeated Wilfred, mystified.

  ‘The name of the artist of whom Mr Garton was patron. There are pictures of his at the gallery on Queen’s Road, which I believe was owned by Mr Garton. I have been wondering if the clue to the murder of Mr Garton lies in his business interests, and Mr Meadows might be able to tell us something about that aspect of Mr Garton’s life. I am told that Mr Meadows has gone to Paris, but I am afraid I do not have his address.’

  She paused to allow Wilfred time to scribble the information in his notebook. ‘I don’t suppose the police have already interviewed Mr Meadows?’

  ‘No,’ confessed Wilfred, ‘the police have only just this minute found out that Mr Meadows exists.’

  After he had left, Frances reflected that it was too much to hope for that Meadows could be the M whom Mr Wright had been meeting. After all, her own uncle had a surname beginning with M and her aunt was called Maude, but she was hardly going to suspect them of involvement.

  She had been so interested in the details of Mr Wright’s murder that she had all but forgotten the scraps of paper in her pocket. Now she removed them and smoothed them out on the table. They were receipts for expenditure, and looked as if they had been kept crumpled in a pocket, possibly for some time. She wondered why they had not been put on the fire. It might have simply been a moment of carelessness. The thing that puzzled her was why anyone would dispose of a receipt for expenditure, to her mind an item of vital importance in any business or household account. One, with a November date, was for artists’ materials, pens, paper and coloured inks. The other, also dated November, was for three months’ advance rent of an address in Maida Vale. The landlord had helpfully provided the name of the person renting the property. It was Meadows.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The following morning, Frances wrote a note to Constable Brown advising him of the Maida Vale address where she believed the artist Meadows had lived. The rent receipt showed that on 1 December Meadows had fully intended to remain at the lodgings for three months. She doubted very much that Mr Keane had told the truth when stating that Meadows had gone Paris. Much as she would have liked to go to Maida Vale, her duties did not permit such an excursion, and in any case, she felt that the police were best placed to demand information from the landlord. It was when she began seeking Tom to deliver the note that she realised she had not seen him for the last two days. After a brief search she discovered him in the kitchen, gazing wistfully at the locked door of the larder. Frances had every confidence in Sarah’s honesty with the household stores but her father distrusted all servants and in Tom’s case was certainly right. To her surprise, Tom was wearing a suit of clothes which, while obviously not brand new, was of more recent vintage than even his old Sunday best, and better she thought than any family hand-me-down might be.

  ‘Well, Tom, those are splendid new clothes,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ he said, puffing out his chest with a grin. ‘Don’t I look spruce? Don’t I look just the gen’leman?’

  ‘Not too grand to deliver a letter, I hope,’ she said. ‘To Constable Brown at Paddington Green Police Station.’

  Tom’s eyes widened.

  ‘Not afraid of the police, are you Tom?’ she teased.

  ‘I ain’t afraid of no copper!’ he exclaimed, taking the note. He smirked. ‘Partic’lar friend of yours, this Constable Brown?’

  ‘That’s none of your business, Tom,’ said Frances sharply, realising to her dismay that she was blushing. ‘Now set about it quickly!’

  ‘Best message carrier in London, that’s me!’ he said, and sped away.

  Frances wondered whether the unpleasant Mr Keane had ever visited the address in Maida Vale. She was sure that he had something to hide. Mrs Keane would probably be the very last person to know of any doubtful business he might be transacting, but the servants could well have information about his comings and goings. With the adjourned inquest due to take place the next morning, she had little time to gather more facts. As she considered how she might do this, a new plan formed in her mind.

  After the breakfast things had been cleared, Frances and Sarah worked together on starching shirts and aprons, which Sarah would iron later in the day. ‘Young Tom looks very smart in his new suit,’ Frances observed, ‘I hope you have not been to too much expense.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss,’ she said awkwardly, ‘but what with the business here being a bit quiet Tom has found some extra work with two gentlemen who have provided the clothes themselves. I am not sure who they are or what their business is, but I think he takes messages for them.’

  ‘Well, if he is able to, then it shows an enterprising spirit, but I do anticipate that when the inquest is over we will be vindicated and then the unfortunate death of Mr Garton will not be laid at our door, and the customers will return,’ said Frances, with more confidence than she felt. ‘No doubt they will say that they believed in my father’s innocence all along, and will try to gloss over their absence with some feeble and unconvincing excuse. We will be bustling again soon, especially at this season, and Tom will be much required.’

  ‘Yes, Miss, I’ll make sure to tell him,’ said Sarah, loyally.

  The work done, Frances rinsed the starch from her hands, and began a curious process of making her hair look a little dishevelled, as if she was a young woman in distress. Throwing on her old coat in a suitably careless manner, she set off to walk to the Keanes’ house again. She was not concerned that there was any risk of encountering Mr Keane, as she doubted that he had ever set foot in his own kitchen, but hoped she would not fall under the supercilious suspicions of Mr Harvey. The kitchen was a haven of warmth as before, but only Ettie was present.

  ‘Well, Liza, I didn’t expect to see you again!’ exclaimed Ettie. She looked tired and flustered, but not displeased to see the unexpected visitor. The scullery door was open and Frances could see that the breakfast pans were still heaped in the sink. ‘Oh, we have had such a morning! Master and Mistress have been shouting loud enough they could be heard all over the house, and there has been best china smashed to pieces, and Mistress has got her hysterics again.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful!’ exclaimed Frances, picturing in her mind’s eye a small knot of open-mouthed servants clustered about a door, ears pressed close to the panelling.

  ‘Mr Harvey went up to try and calm them, and has done what he can, which is not as much as he had hoped, and he is still with them now. He wanted to call the doctor to Mistress but Master wouldn’t hear of it. And Mrs Grinham is laid up with the lumbago and not fit to move, and the new scullery maid has said she won’t work in such a madhouse and has packed her bags and gone. We’re lucky to have Ellen; she’s been in service since she was twelve and can turn her hand to anything.’

  ‘Oh, Ettie – I’m sorry if I have come at a difficult time for you,’ said Frances.

  ‘We have had our ups and downs here and no mistake,’ said Ettie. ‘And what about you, Liza; I hope you didn’t get into trouble over the cake.’

  Frances sat down and clasped a handkerchief to her face. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t credit it, Ettie, Master as good as accused me of stealing it. I was lucky he didn’t call the coppers! And now I’ve no place and no character! I came here to see if Mrs Grinham would see me about getting some work. I’ll do the rough work, Ettie, I don’t mind!’

  Ettie patted her shoulder sympathetically. ‘I tell you what, Liza, I’ll put in a word for you as soon as she’s up and about.’

  ‘Oh, thank you Ettie, that’s so kind.’ Frances made a great show of wiping her eyes. ‘Why don’t I give you a little hand now?’ There was a coarse apron, cap and sleeve protectors hanging up behind the
door of the scullery, and Frances removed her coat and bonnet and transformed herself into a scullery maid, then set about seeing what there was in hot water, scouring cloths and soda. The polite injunction not to trouble herself about it trembled on Ettie’s lips but remained unspoken. There was no mistaking the maid’s look of profound relief.

  Ellen emerged from the larder, her arms laden with bowls and jars which she set down next to some wrapped parcels on the table. She stood back and surveyed the produce. ‘Luncheon will be cutlets, kidneys, potatoes and stewed leeks followed by a raisin tart,’ she said. ‘Only I don’t know if they’ll even want anything to eat.’

  ‘The last time I saw Mistress she was crying and saying that Master thought she was a burden on the family and no morsel of food would ever pass her lips again,’ said Ettie.

  ‘In that case,’ said Ellen, thoughtfully, ‘I’d better make a sweet custard sauce to go with the tart.’ She looked up and saw Frances in the scullery. ‘Why it’s Liza – I didn’t see you there!’

  ‘Liza has come to help us out, seeing as we’re in such a state,’ said Ettie.

  ‘Oh that’s very kind of you!’ said Ellen rolling up her sleeves.

  ‘Come,’ said Ettie to Frances. ‘We’ll do the pots together and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea when we’re done.’

  Frances and Ettie began to scour pans, while Ellen made pastry. As she scrubbed with a will, Frances saw Ettie glancing at her approvingly. Years of wielding a heavy pestle and working thick ointments with a spatula had given her the strength to make nothing of the encrustations on a few saucepans.

  ‘It’s very upsetting when Master and Mistress quarrel like that,’ said Frances, shaking her head. ‘In the place I was before I used to brush the carpet outside the drawing room door and you couldn’t help but hear all they said.’

  ‘And then they accuse you of listening at keyholes,’ said Ettie indignantly, ‘something I would never do!’

  ‘Nor me, neither,’ said Frances, hoping that her grammar was suitably incorrect. ‘Master was always going out all times of the day and night and he told Mistress it was on business, but do you know, it turned out he was seeing some fancy woman, and when she found him out, oh the things that were said, I couldn’t repeat them!’

  ‘Oh, there’s many a gentleman looks respectable enough but goes out visiting that sort,’ said Ettie scornfully. She paused. ‘Now Mr Keane, we’ve never been sure what he does, but I’ve always suspected there’s a woman in it somewhere. He often takes the gig and goes out alone, and Lord only knows where he goes or what he gets up to.’

  Frances felt it appropriate to give a little gasp at this point. ‘Does your Mistress suspect him?’

  Ettie gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think Mistress cares one way or another. All their quarrels were over money.’

  ‘Surely not?’ exclaimed Frances, ‘what with Mr Keane being such a wealthy man? Or perhaps he is one of those misers who keeps all his money for himself and grudges his wife if she wants to dress in the latest fashion.’

  Ettie gave a rapid glance over her shoulder then leaned closer. Frances held her breath, feeling sure that she was about to receive a confidence. ‘Mistress was saying how Mr Garton had left Master £50,000 in his will’ – Frances thought it right to give a slightly larger gasp than before – ‘and she said he ought to be able to spare something, and Master said he had thrown away quite enough money in the past and was not going to waste any more.’ She pursed her lips with disapproval.

  ‘How dreadful!’ exclaimed Frances.

  ‘Then she cried a great deal and said something about being ruined, and he said that the Garton family wanted the will overturned, so even if he wanted to part with the money, which he decidedly did not, he couldn’t lay his hands on it until everything was settled and that could be months or even years. And Mistress cried so hard I thought she would burst.’

  ‘Well,’ said Frances, ‘fancy that!’ She frowned. ‘Does Mr Garton have a very big family, for I never heard of any?’

  ‘Oh they are all in Italy, except for his brother Mr Cedric who visits from time to time.’ Ettie paused again, and Frances was silent in anticipation. ‘I heard Mr Harvey saying that the family in Italy are not as prosperous as they once were, and Mr Garton has left them not a penny piece in his will. Last year, Mr Cedric wrote to his brother on purpose to ask him to provide a pension for their father who is very aged and infirm and has had to retire from business. But apart from what was left to Master, everything has gone to Mrs Garton.’

  Frances puzzled over how Mr Harvey could have acquired such an intimate knowledge of the Garton family’s financial affairs, but the information was detailed enough not to sound fanciful. ‘But Mr Garton was such a kind man, by all accounts,’ she said. ‘Why would he be so cruel to his own father?’

  ‘Well he might have been just about to change his will before he died,’ said Ettie.

  Frances pondered this. If true, and the new will would mean a serious loss for James Keane, this gave him a clear motive for murder.

  The breakfast things done, and put away, and a refreshing cup of tea consumed, Frances started to peel potatoes and cut up leeks while Ettie took dusters and brushes and went upstairs to clean the bedrooms. Work progressed in a companionable silence until Frances asked politely, ‘Have you been here long, Ellen?’

  ‘About a year. Longer than most.’ She smiled. ‘Servants don’t stay here, what with all the goings-on.’

  ‘Doesn’t it upset you, all the quarrelling?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t take any notice of that.’ Ellen started the vegetables cooking and arranged the cutlets in a large frying pan, then turned to Frances. ‘Miss Doughty?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frances automatically, and then, ‘Oh!’

  Ellen laughed, but in a pleasant way. ‘I thought it was you. I saw you once or twice in the shop. I would have liked to have worked in a chemist’s – all those pills and potions, it looks really interesting – only I never had the right schooling for it.’

  Frances felt a great impulse to put on her coat and bonnet and leave at once. ‘Have you told the others who I am?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘No,’ said Ellen, softly. ‘I think I can guess why you come here, and I understand, I really do.’ There was a sympathetic sadness in her eyes.

  ‘I need to find out the truth about Mr Garton’s death,’ exclaimed Frances. ‘My father is unwell and he can’t look after himself and he is being destroyed with unfair allegations, and the inquest is tomorrow, and —,’ she broke off, hardly able to speak with distress.

  ‘That must be very hard for you, Miss, but what can you do?’

  ‘I talk to people; I try to learn everything I can. Maybe someone will tell me something that will show the police that my father couldn’t have caused Mr Garton’s death!’

  ‘You mean like a detective, Miss?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frances. She was sure by now that the girl would not give her away. ‘Ellen, is there anything that you know which might help me – you may have heard something by chance – what are people saying about Mr Garton?’

  Ellen thought about it and gave a little gesture of helplessness. ‘Only that it’s a great shame he is dead and how upset Master is.’

  ‘And do they say that it was my father’s mistake that killed him?’

  Ellen bent her head in regret. ‘I’m sorry, but what else is there to think?’

  Frances sighed. She took her leave soon afterwards, not before asking Ellen to make sure and tell her if she heard anything of interest, which Ellen solemnly promised to do, though she did not leave Frances with any great hope that there was much to learn.

  That afternoon, Frances received a note from Wilfred.

  Dear Miss Doughty

  Thank you for the address you sent me. I cannot imagine how you came by it, and I think it would be by far the best thing if I did not ask you, but if they were ever to appoint lady police officers then I would be sure to recommend you.
The address was searched this morning, and there was no sign of Meadows or anybody else. The landlord said that the house was rented by a person of that name, but as he does not live on the premises he was unable to tell us who stayed there. We think that the rent was paid by Mr Garton. We did find some paint and ink stains, which suggest that the house could have been used as an artist’s studio. After our conversation yesterday, I wrote to the Gloucestershire Police asking what they know about where Mr Garton was at the time of John Wright’s murder. I will write to you or call when I have a reply,

  Wilfred Brown

  Frances and Herbert were making the best of a quiet time in the shop when, to her surprise, the door opened admitting two gentlemen whom she had not expected to encounter again.

  ‘Good afternoon, good afternoon my dear Miss Doughty!’ exclaimed Chas, tipping his hat, and Barstie did likewise. Frances saw that not only were both in exuberant good spirits but they were dressed rather better than the last time she had seen them and Chas had a folded copy of a financial newspaper protruding rather ostentatiously from his pocket. ‘We must apologise for not introducing ourselves properly at our first meeting. My name is Charles Knight, and this is my good friend and business associate Sebarstian Taylor. Both at your service!’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I think I should mention that shortly after you called a few days ago a – er – friend of yours came looking for you.’

  They exchanged glances. ‘Oh, Miss Doughty, I do hope you don’t think for one moment that the Filleter is any friend of ours,’ said Barstie, mournfully.

  ‘A rogue and a villain!’ declared Chas. ‘An individual best avoided.’

  ‘He seemed very anxious to find you,’ said Frances, mischievously.

  ‘Ah, well, perhaps we should explain,’ said Barstie. ‘The person in question was labouring under an unfortunate misapprehension at the time. He was of the belief that we were indebted to him in some way.’ The two men threw back their heads and laughed as if the very idea was ridiculous. ‘Quite incorrect, of course.’