The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Read online

‘He says he is very sorry to intrude at such a time, only he had no idea until he saw the notice in the window, and he would be happy to come back again if you think it better,’ explained Sarah.

  ‘No, please, do show him in, I am very anxious to hear his news,’ said Frances.

  Wilfred looked very awkward as he entered. ‘Please do accept my condolences, Miss Doughty. I’m very sorry to trouble you and would not have come today if I had known.’

  ‘Please do not apologise.’ She ushered him to a seat, and Sarah, unbidden, went to make more tea, and brought out such sandwiches and cakes as had not somehow fallen into Mrs Scorer’s bag. ‘Visitors are a welcome distraction at this time. Your arrival reminds me of a far happier occurrence, yesterday’s arrest of Mr Keane, which I know will clear my father’s name.’

  ‘It will?’ He looked surprised. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. How can that be?’

  ‘Because he will be charged with the murder of Mr Garton, of course,’ she said, astonished that he had not realised this.

  ‘Oh!’ he raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, at present he has only been charged with fraud and other financial offences. And I have to say, Miss Doughty, that it is very much down to you that he was.’

  ‘Really? You do surprise me! How can that be?’

  ‘It was your note about the address in Maida Vale which led directly to his arrest,’ said Wilfred. ‘One day I hope you may be able to tell me how you came by it.’

  Frances decided not to take that particular bait. ‘But I thought you found nothing there!’ she said, offering the plate of food to the constable, and helping herself to a sandwich. He took a cake, and looked pleased as Sarah brought the fresh pot of tea.

  ‘We found a great deal there, but I have not been allowed to talk about it until now. It was the key to the whole case. I know you will not be happy to hear it but Inspector Sharrock is to take much of the credit, although I have heard,’ he added, unable to stop himself beaming modestly, ‘that there is a smart and deserving young constable who may find himself made up to sergeant a little sooner than he had hoped.’

  She smiled. ‘I am pleased to hear that last news at least.’

  ‘Yes, Miss, another three pounds eight shillings a year, that will be very welcome, what with the new baby.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances. She returned the sandwich to her plate. ‘Your first child?’

  ‘Second one, Miss Susanna, a little sister for Robert. He’s just turned two.’

  ‘I can see that you are very proud of them,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I am.’

  Frances suddenly felt very old. She could not have felt older if she had been a sixty-year-old spinster looking back on a dreary and unfulfilled life. The constable seemed to her to be very young to have the responsibilities of a wife and two children, and a long, hard and dangerous working day. She hoped that his wife was a good woman. When Sarah poured the tea, she accepted only half a cup.

  ‘So,’ said Frances, ‘are you able now to tell me what you found in Maida Vale?’

  ‘Well one of the neighbours remembered seeing a man of Mr Keane’s description entering the house, and when we searched we found a number of items that suggested it had been used as a forger’s den. Mr Keane was either a careless man, or in a very great hurry. He had tried to clear out anything that could incriminate him, but had not destroyed all that he hoped he had.’

  Frances was reminded of Keane’s appearance at the gallery, the half-burnt papers, the few items tossed into the wastebin. A careless man, indeed.

  ‘Of course we knew about his position at the Bayswater Bank, and we spoke to the managers. The bank was alerted and his papers were examined. It looks as if he has been selling forged share certificates and also forging property deeds as security for loans. There could be many thousands of pounds missing.’

  ‘And what of the bank,’ asked Frances, ‘and its customers?’

  ‘The doors are closed until further notice. There’s a crowd of angry investors outside and rumours that the directors are in hiding. There have been some ugly scenes. Quite a few local businesses and charities had accounts there.’

  ‘Oh my word!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘Has he confessed to his crimes?’

  ‘In full, but he has been most adamant that Mr Garton was not a partner in his criminal activities and knew nothing of them. The only connection seems to be that it was through knowing Mr Garton that Mr Keane met the artist Meadows, who he employed to make the engravings. He says that Meadows has fled to France, and the police there have been alerted, but we think there is little hope of ever finding him. He has probably changed his appearance and his name by now, if Meadows ever was his real name, which we doubt.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ demanded Frances, ‘If Mr Garton found out about Mr Keane’s crimes, and Mr Keane thought he would be denounced to the police, that would be a motive for murder!’

  ‘It would, Miss,’ admitted Wilfred, cautiously, ‘but it’s hard to know how we might prove it.’

  ‘You will I am sure,’ said Frances, confidently. ‘If, as you say, Mr Keane is a careless man, there may yet be other clues. Mr Garton may have confided the details of private conversations to his wife or other associates. What of Mr Berenger, the manager of the picture gallery, has he been able to assist?’

  ‘Mr Berenger has been in the habit of taking a little more drink than is good for him. We found him in the Redan in a very fuddled state. He was not able to cast any light on Mr Keane’s activities. But there is,’ he added, ‘one strange connection between this affair and the murder of Mr John Wright in Tollington Mill.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances, ‘I had quite forgotten about poor Mr Wright. And I recall now that I asked you to discover why Mr Garton was not questioned in the case, when it seemed to me that he might be a suspect.’

  ‘I have had a letter from the Gloucestershire police and it is simple enough. Mr Garton was in London at the time of Mr Wright’s murder. He left Tollington Mill by train early on 28th July, before Wright was murdered. He was preparing to move his household there, and he was busily engaged in appointments with house agents, and viewing properties. Scotland Yard made some discreet enquiries at the time and were able to confirm his movements. Mrs Garton joined him there on 10th August. All the evidence suggests that by then Mr Wright was dead.’

  ‘I see,’ said Frances, disappointed. She wrote the details carefully in her notebook. ‘But what was the connection you spoke of?’

  ‘When the Gloucestershire police were trying to identify Mr Wright they asked his housekeeper Mrs Cranby if he ever sent any letters, and if so, who they went to. She said that Mr Wright, being a gentleman who liked country walks, used to take his own letters to the post office, and she never saw who he wrote to except in one case. He sent a letter to a Mr James Keane of Bayswater. Naturally the Paddington police questioned Mr Keane at the time, and he admitted that he had received a letter from Mr Wright but he did not know the gentleman or how he came by his name and address. He had not kept the letter but recalled that Mr Wright had introduced himself and said that he wished to open an account at the Bayswater Bank and wanted Mr Keane to transact some business for him. Mr Keane thought this approach to be highly irregular and wrote back to Mr Wright saying he could not assist him personally and suggested he address his enquiries directly to the bank. He said he heard nothing more.’

  ‘But that is an extraordinary coincidence!’ said Frances. ‘When Mr Garton was living in Tollington Mill he had never even met Mr Keane.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ theorised Wilfred, ‘Mr Keane was recommended to Mr Wright by another gentleman, and then Mr Wright mentioned him to Mr Garton and when Mr Garton came to Bayswater he saw Mr Keane as being something of a mutual acquaintance.’

  ‘And what of Mr Wright’s family? Did the police learn anything from them?’

  ‘About a month after Mr Wright’s death, a lady came forward who said she thought that he might be her brother. She was a Miss Mary A
nn Wright of Bristol, and said that her brother John had been committed to an asylum about three years before. Since he was twenty-one he had suffered from delusions that he was a wealthy man, and the heir to vast fortunes. He was personable and convincing and was able to persuade a great many people of the truth of his claims. Legal men agreed to represent him, and a great deal of money was spent on searches for documents that existed only in his imagination. His family realised that he was squandering such little fortune as he had, and decided to have him sent to an asylum. But his sister, being an exceptionally kind lady and very fond of her brother, especially as she had no other, thought that she could care for him at home and keep him from harm. So she persuaded his doctor to release him and she and her brother lived together in Bristol very comfortably for a year. Sometimes he would tell her that he had been meeting with important men about his inheritance, even though she knew he had never stirred from the house. He also conceived the idea that he owned all of Hertfordshire, and often told her he had been there and back to pursue his claims, even though he had only been out for a short walk.’

  ‘Oh, the poor lady! I do feel for her!’ sighed Frances. Although Frederick’s illness had been very different, she knew that in Mary Ann Wright’s circumstances she would have done as much.

  ‘Indeed, it was a very sad case,’ Wilfred agreed. ‘Most of the time he was in good spirits but sometimes he became very despondent, and said that he thought there were people sent to murder him for his money. But he always recognised his sister and was very affectionate.’

  ‘But how did he come to Tollington Mill?’ asked Frances. ‘And why did his sister not visit him there?’

  ‘In June of 1869 he suddenly appeared very distressed, saying that his life was in danger and he needed to hide away for safety. His sister thought it was only one of his strange ideas which he would soon forget, but the next day he was gone, and some items of family silver were also missing. She didn’t tell the police because naturally she didn’t want him arrested as a thief. She hoped that in time he would come back of his own accord. It is believed that he sold or pawned the silver and used the money to lease Tollington House, where he masqueraded as a man of wealth.’

  ‘But in the following year,’ said Frances, ‘there was a month,’ – she looked at her notes – ‘July 1870, when he was absent from Tollington Mill. Is it known where he was?’

  ‘Yes. He returned to live with his sister in Bristol. She was very shocked to see the change in his appearance. He explained to her that there were assassins sent to look for him, and as his hair was a distinctive shade of red he had dyed it black to escape detection. She did not press him about the stolen silver, or even ask where he had been, but simply accepted him back into her home with gratitude for his safe return.’

  ‘That is touching loyalty, and I can well understand it,’ said Frances. ‘But was it certain that the John Wright who died at Tollington Mill was this lady’s brother?’

  ‘Of course the lady could not look at the body, but she saw the notebook and said it was in her brother’s writing, also she recognised the clothes as the ones he had worn when she last saw him. Then she remembered that one day, while brushing his coat, she had seen a tear in the lining and mended it. Sure enough, when the coat was opened, there were her stitches.’

  Frances nodded. ‘But why did she wait some weeks before going to the police?’

  ‘Poor lady, she felt that as long as she was not sure if he was alive or dead then at least she would have some hope. It was a relative who insisted she report the matter.’

  Frances thought about the consequences of what she had just learned. ‘So when Mr Wright reappeared in Tollington Mill and said he was going to an important meeting —’

  ‘There may have been no such meeting,’ agreed Wilfred. ‘The mysterious M in his notebook may have been imaginary.’

  ‘Or his murderer,’ said Frances.

  ‘We know that the money and watch he carried on his person were stolen. The police have always assumed he was killed by a footpad, and there is no reason now to amend that belief.’

  ‘And yet the coincidences!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘The fact that Mr Keane has been associated with two men who have met a violent end and another who has disappeared! The fact that Wright and Meadows were both artists! What if Mr Keane had been employing Mr Wright to carry out his forgeries for him and killed him when he thought Mr Wright would give him away? Suppose Mr Meadows has not gone to France after all but Mr Keane has murdered him?’

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Wilfred, alarmed at Frances’ eager theorising.

  ‘Just think,’ said Frances, encouragingly, ‘if you were to uncover those crimes you would be made up to Inspector on the instant!’

  He smiled. ‘Well, Miss, as you have been so helpful to the police, I will certainly think of what you have said when we are questioning Mr Keane.’

  The parlour door opened, and Cornelius appeared, looking tired and strained. He was naturally startled to see Wilfred there, being regaled with tea, cake and sandwiches, and the young constable rose awkwardly.

  Frances introduced the two men, and mentioned only that the constable knew her father and had called to give his condolences. Cornelius looked unusually relieved at this assurance, and Wilfred expressed his good wishes and hastily departed.

  ‘I think there is still some tea, if you would like some,’ said Frances. The cakes had been consumed and she offered her uncle the sandwich plate. ‘Or I could ask Sarah to make a fresh pot.’

  He shook his head, and sat down heavily on one of the parlour chairs. ‘Frances,’ he said quietly. ‘Please sit down.’ There was something in his tone that at once commanded her attention, and she obeyed. ‘There is something I need to tell you and – my poor dear niece – I am afraid it is very bad news indeed.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Is this something to do with the Bayswater Bank?’ asked Frances, faintly. For a moment she feared that, unknown to her, the Doughtys’ business funds had been transferred there, in which case the bank’s collapse would have had disastrous consequences.

  He frowned. ‘No.’

  She breathed easily again. ‘I am relieved to hear it. The constable told me there have been dreadful scenes outside the bank today, which has closed its doors. Many people are ruined. But I know we did not have an account there.’

  Cornelius sighed. ‘You might just as well have done.’

  Again, she felt a chill of fear. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  He shook his head in despair. ‘There is no easy way to tell you. As you know, I have been trying to arrive at the value of your father’s estate by examining his bank accounts. He has always been a careful man, and it seems that only a year ago there were several thousand pounds in the safest of investments. Today – and I am grieved to say it – there is almost nothing. It has all gone.’ He turned his head away. He was unable to look into her eyes.

  Frances stared at him. ‘I don’t understand. Gone? But where can it have gone? And how? Surely there has been a mistake. Uncle, you must go to the bank and make enquiries. He may only have placed the money in another account.’

  ‘No, Frances,’ he groaned, ‘I am afraid there can be no mistaking what has occurred. It appears that your father was tempted into making some very unwise investments. By whom I cannot say. He began to withdraw funds, in small amounts at first and then greater, sometimes several hundred pounds at a time. It seems that the heavier his losses the more he withdrew to try and recover them, but as is so often the case with these things, his position became increasingly desperate. He threw good money after bad, as the saying goes. The stockbroker’s accounts have told me the whole tale, and it is a very sad one.’

  Frances felt hope draining away, leaving only a cold sensation in her stomach. ‘And there is nothing at all?’

  He gestured, helplessly. ‘I think one account may have fifty pounds in it.’

  There was a long silence. At first Frances thought she had become inc
apable of any emotion, as if she had been suddenly and sharply struck upon the head, and was sitting there in an icy and unfeeling trance. Then, just as suddenly, a jumbled mass of feelings began to flood though her mind – anger, despair, bewilderment, and a sudden insane desire to laugh hysterically. She realised that Cornelius was speaking to her. ‘My dear, I pray you will calm yourself. It is a hard thing to bear, but I promise I will assist you in any way I can, and I know Maude will do her duty by you.’

  The mention of her aunt was like a dash of cold water that restored her thoughts. At the back of her mind there was a voice telling her that it was not true, that it was a cruel joke, a dream, something said only to test her mettle, that in a moment she would awake, or Cornelius would tell her that the money was not gone after all, and beg her forgiveness. She pushed all of that aside. She had only to look at her uncle’s face to know that it was true. ‘Maude will only be grieved by the loss of her two hundred pounds,’ said Frances, bitterly. She took a deep breath, and clenched her fists in determination. ‘I must not give way. I must be practical. There must be things that I can do,’ she said.

  ‘My dear,’ said Cornelius. ‘I know it is a shock. Perhaps you should call Dr Collin.’

  ‘No, please, I am well. I only need to order my thoughts. There are bills to pay but we can put them off a little. We must obtain the services of a qualified man so that we can open the shop again. Then there is the lease which is due to be renewed in two months’ time. There is no hope of paying that. But I do think, if you were to help me, I could go to a bank and show them the accounts and borrow enough to see us through this time. There. All is not lost.’

  Cornelius gazed at her pityingly. ‘Frances, I am not sure if I have made the position clear to you. There is no possibility of your being able to borrow sufficient to recover. Quite apart from the business debts you have mentioned, there are others; to stockbrokers, to banks. These people will not wait for their money. You cannot borrow to pay them for you have no security to offer.’