The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 4

  ‘I spoke in the abstract, of course. I have no acquaintanceships in such circles. I expect, however, that they would already be known to the police.’

  Frances thought of Matilda’s hint about Mr Copley. Did the girl really know something or was she simply amusing herself with groundless insinuations? ‘As an artist,’ she said, ‘you are more skilled than most in observation. Is there no one here whose behaviour or expression has seemed different lately?’

  He shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Miss Doughty, it is as much a mystery to me as it is to us all.’

  Frances thanked him, and though he had not been able to help, one comment had led to a thought. While the placing of the pamphlets was not in itself a crime, perhaps the culprit had committed other acts which were of a criminal nature. She determined to pay a visit to Paddington Green police station in the near future. Even if she learned nothing there, it would be an opportunity for some agreeable conversation with Constable Brown.

  Frances rang for Matilda, who did not trouble herself to attend promptly but arrived in her own time, and advised her that Mrs Venn had set aside the common room for the remaining interviews. Matilda then left Frances to make her own way upstairs.

  Mlle Girard was seated comfortably before a good fire warming her toes, which were encased in embroidered slippers. Some papers lay piled on a table nearby, which Frances could see were exercises in translation, and her needlework box was open at her feet. She was engaged in crochet work, which, from her expression of contentment, was a far more pleasurable activity than correcting the clumsy French of girls for whom the language held no charm. Mlle Girard interested Frances because she had not, as far as she could recall, ever met a French person and was curious as to what a French lady’s manners might be. Her father had never spoken a great deal about the French, largely because if the subject ever arose in the newspapers he dismissed it as beneath his contempt.

  Mlle Girard arose and greeted Frances most politely, although Frances thought that the teacher regarded her as not quite an equal. She was a trim young woman with eyes that always seemed to be asking a question.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to me,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh but I am delighted to do anything that might help,’ said the teacher in a softly pretty accent, settling herself again. Her fingers, slim as spider’s legs, moved nimbly as she worked a delicate blue and white scalloped edging around a dainty handkerchief.

  Frances was not an admirer of ornament for its own sake, but knew that there were many who were; ladies who used it to draw attention to their beauty and men who decorated their wives to demonstrate their own prosperity. She sat down, placed her hands on her lap and laced her long fingers. For the briefest of moments Frances wondered if, had she not been fated to grow tall enough to look men in the eye, her life now would be different from the way it was, and if that would be a good thing or bad? She had never longed for beauty, but thought how useful it would be as an enchantment to persuade people to tell her the truth.

  ‘I see you are admiring my craftwork,’ said Mlle Girard with a sweet smile. ‘It is very elegant, is it not? A pattern given to me by my grandmother.’

  ‘How long have you been teaching here?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘And do you have any thoughts as to why someone might have wanted to play this curious trick on the school?’

  The teacher gave a slight shrug. ‘No, it has never crossed my mind. It was upsetting for the girls and of course Mrs Venn, but I imagine it was what you call a practical joke, something from the English sense of humour. I have noticed, especially amongst young men, but sometimes girls as well, a fondness for jokes which can be cruel and cause much unhappiness, and for no other reason than pleasure in the joke itself. I find it very strange, but that is the way.’

  ‘Between midday on Tuesday and nine on Wednesday morning, did you see anything that you thought was unusual – someone in the school who is not normally here – or someone you expected to be here but was not behaving in their usual manner?’

  ‘No, nothing of that kind at all.’

  ‘On the Wednesday morning, when the pamphlets were found, what were you doing?’

  ‘I do not lodge here, you understand, I have my own apartments where I also on occasion take private pupils for lessons in the French language. I came here at nine, and was arranging some displays of the girls’ needlework in the art and music room. I knew nothing of the affair until Miss Baverstock asked me to take charge of the girls in the common room while she spoke to Mrs Venn on an urgent matter. Of course I complied.’

  ‘And how did the girls behave?’

  ‘They seemed very – unsettled. I saw that Charlotte had gone with Miss Baverstock, and I asked them what had occurred. They said that Charlotte had found something in her desk and was being questioned about it. I asked if they knew what this thing was and they said it was a paper, but they had not seen what kind. I think, although they are girls and have as much mischief in them as any young lady, they were concerned about Charlotte and were wondering if she might be punished.’

  ‘I doubt that one of the girls was responsible,’ said Frances. ‘It is hard to see how a pupil might have come by twelve copies of such a pamphlet.’

  ‘That is what I think,’ said Mlle Girard. ‘It is someone who does not usually come here – you need to look outside the school and not inside.’ Frances suspected that she was right.

  ‘I hope you will not think me impudent, but I would like to ask your opinion of marriage,’ said Frances.

  Mlle Girard smiled. ‘It is not something that may be enjoyed in comfort and happiness without money. A sensible person will take care not to marry before he or she is provided for. There is a gentleman in Switzerland – we hope, in a year from now, to be united.’

  The interview completed, Mlle Girard put away her crochet, took up her papers and departed, to be replaced by Miss Baverstock, a tall lady of about fifty with a severe expression and, as suited a teacher of deportment, a back as straight as a ruler. Her hair, the colour of wet clay, was braided and wrapped about her head in long coils. Frances decided not to ask her about marriage.

  ‘I believe that you have taught at the school since it began,’ said Frances.

  ‘I have. Prior to the opening of the school I took private lessons, here in Bayswater.’ Miss Baverstock studied Frances disapprovingly, and shook her head. ‘May I say, Miss Doughty, that your carriage leaves something to be desired? Do you do a great deal of reading? There is nothing wrong in that, of course, if the material is suitable, but I find that girls who read often have slumped shoulders, and there is almost nothing as bad in a young lady as slumped shoulders.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances, immediately adjusting her posture.

  ‘That is better,’ said Miss Baverstock with a nod. ‘Let us proceed.’

  ‘Can you tell me in your own words about how you discovered the pamphlet in Charlotte’s desk? I would like you to start your account from when the class began.’

  Miss Baverstock briefly pursed her lips. ‘You have a tidy mind, Miss Doughty. I admire that. Very well, I will do as you request. The girls were in their places just before nine, and once I had checked and corrected their postures they began their work. I was engaged in some correspondence. Then one of the girls – Helena Younge – came to ask me about the method of making a decorated garland. We spoke for a minute or two then, as she returned to her place, she must have brushed against the booklet in Charlotte’s hand, and it fell. As it did so, I heard Charlotte give a little gasp and I saw the paper fall to the floor. It looked unfamiliar and I went to look at it. I think you can imagine my feelings on seeing its true nature.’

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Frances.

  ‘I naturally asked Charlotte what this meant and she said she had discovered the paper in her arithmetic book but was at a loss to know how it had come to be there. I decided to take her to see Mrs Venn, and then – and how glad I am that
I did – I wondered if the other girls had received similar missives. I asked them if they had and they assured me that they had not, but it then occurred to me that they might not yet have discovered anything, so I asked them all to go up to the common room.’

  ‘Where they were supervised by Mlle Girard?’

  ‘Exactly. I then took Charlotte to see Mrs Venn and afterwards Mrs Venn and I looked in all the desks, where we were horrified to find an identical pamphlet in every one.’

  ‘Do you recall which books they were hidden in?’ asked Frances, without much hope that she would.

  ‘I am afraid not. Is that important?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps not. But all the papers were very well hidden?’

  ‘Oh yes. It is quite possible that some of the girls might not have found theirs until the next day.’

  ‘Did you at any time from about twelve the previous day to the time the pamphlet was found see anyone in the school who ought not to have been there? Or someone in or near the schoolroom who did not usually go to that part of the house?’

  ‘No one at all.’

  ‘You have not observed anyone behaving in an unaccustomed manner?’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘You lodge here, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, I share a room with Miss Bell. I slept soundly that night as I usually do and noticed nothing unusual or out of place.’

  Frances looked at her notes again, Miss Baverstock observing her calmly. The teacher made no comment on Frances’ youthfulness and lack of experience of the world but she did not need to speak to do so.

  ‘Have you any thoughts you might share with me as to who might have done this – or why?’ asked Frances.

  Miss Baverstock made a sour grimace. ‘I will not name any names, Miss Doughty, but I will say this – there are persons in this world who, unhappily, take a malicious delight in causing upset to other people. They do it for pleasure, Miss Doughty, and it is disgraceful! I will say no more.’

  When Miss Baverstock had departed Frances sat silently for a time wondering if there was anything of importance she had missed, any question she had omitted to ask which might have provided greater enlightenment. It was one thing to ask and learn nothing because there was nothing to learn, quite another to feel, as she did, that she had failed to learn something because she had not explored sufficiently.

  Miss Bell arrived, a lady in her early thirties, who, from her appearance, was still living in hope that she would not always be in the single state. There was too much lace on her bosom, one too many frills on her cap, and a faded flower pinned above her heart. She dabbed at her eyes with a colourfully embellished handkerchief. ‘The poor, poor girls!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen. I see them all as if they were my very own, you know. Not,’ she gave a little laugh, ‘that I am old enough to have such large daughters, but I feel for them as if they were my family.’

  ‘Charlotte must have been very distressed,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh she was! I have never seen a girl cry so. She thought she would be blamed for it all, you see, though why she might think so I really can’t say. The other girls found her distress very alarming.’

  Miss Bell, like Miss Baverstock, had seen nothing at all suspicious during the time when the pamphlets must have been put in the girls’ desks. ‘As to who might have done this thing – I really can’t imagine! Why warn the girls against the married state when it is the pinnacle of a woman’s happiness! I wonder if some lady who hoped to marry but could not find a husband wished to deter her rivals so that she might have a better chance. I can think of no other reason.’

  Frances’ interview with the three Younge sisters was similarly unhelpful. They stood quietly in a row like a set of china dolls, regarding her with large, brown, reproachful eyes, as if her questions were an affront to their merit. None of them had seen or heard anything of note and Helena, while agreeing that her apron might have brushed by Charlotte as she returned to her desk, seemed astonished that anyone should invest this incident with any significance.

  Before she left, Frances spoke briefly to Mrs Venn to advise her that she had completed her enquiries for that day, and would be reporting her conclusions in due course. In fact Frances had no conclusions, nor, on the basis of what she had learned, did she think was she likely to have any, but she was not about to admit it. Mrs Venn showed no interest in the results of Frances’ endeavours, but expressed a hope that her work would be over very soon, and rang for Matilda. The housemaid was looking even more pleased with herself than usual. There was the edge of a paper protruding from her apron pocket which, Frances thought, had not been there before. When the maid saw that Frances had noticed it, she pushed it deep into her pocket, out of sight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On her way home Frances called to see Mr Fiske. On being told by the servant that he was in conference with a gentleman, Frances extracted the information that the gentleman concerned was the aspiring publisher, Mr Miggs, and said that this was very convenient as she wished to see them both. After exercising some firmness, she was admitted to their presence. Mr Miggs, she found, was a man of about twenty-five, impeccably dressed but with the most unattractive set of Dundreary whiskers she had ever seen and an intensely serious expression, as if he hoped that by denying his youthfulness he might thereby command greater respect. He professed himself charmed to be introduced to Frances, about whom he had read in the newspapers, and presented her with a crisp little business card which he extracted from a silver case. Mr Fiske, on seeing Frances, was at first hopeful that she had come to say she had resolved the problem of the pamphlets, then disappointed to find that she had not, then astonished that she wanted to question him, puzzled that she wanted to question Mr Miggs too, and finally alarmed that she also wished to speak to Mr Sandcourt. Frances, who had for many years been used to dealing with the petulant and unpredictable mood changes of her father, had no difficulty at all in managing Mr Fiske. She quickly confirmed that neither he nor Mr Miggs had entered the schoolroom on their visit to the Academy, and secured a letter of introduction to Mr Sandcourt.

  Julius Sandcourt was what was popularly called a self-made man, though whether he had constructed himself on humble foundations or from the broken remains of other men, Frances did not know. There had been a pretty society wedding a year before, when Selina Matthews, then just twenty-two, had married Mr Sandcourt, whose wealth and age were said to be greater even than those of her father. The Sandcourts lived in one of the superior premises on Inverness Terrace, and kept six servants and two carriages. Frances had intended to present a note asking for an appointment but Mr Fiske’s letter was sufficient to admit her to the drawing room where Mr Sandcourt, his wife and another young lady were engaged in conversation. Frances might once have been impressed by the evidence she saw about her of wealth; the fine furniture, rich upholstery, paintings and porcelain heavy with the dull gleam of gilding, with which the room was almost oppressively filled, but she had learned that money alone did not make for happiness, and resolved to judge only on what she found.

  Her first impression of Mr Sandcourt was that he was not, despite his name, an Englishman. The cast of his features; the mouth, nose, cheekbones and brows too large for an already broad face; the wiry grey hair and tint of his skin denoted a more exotic origin. As he rose to greet her she saw that he was several inches shorter than she, and rather stout, nevertheless he had a charming smile. Selina’s face – as white and beautiful as a marble statue – was surmounted by a mass of shining, almost black, hair, elegantly arranged, her features and colouring sufficiently like that of one of the school governors in Mrs Venn’s photograph to proclaim her as his daughter. Her gown was of the latest French fashion, something Frances had only ever seen in shop windows, the elaborate trimmings designed more to display wealth than to please the eye. She would, on her husband’s arm, have appeared as a rich jewel pinned to his sleeve. Selina, when she glanced at her husband, which she did infrequently,
did so with a well-practised expression of warm regard.

  Their companion was Lydia Matthews, who was aged about twenty and, despite every artifice, could not boast even one tenth of her sister’s beauty. Her parchment paleness gave her a sickly look, and this was not enhanced by hair of an indeterminate shade between light brown and faded red, swept back from sharply pinched features. While Mr Sandcourt was courteous and friendly towards Frances, and Selina gazed on her with curiosity, Lydia regarded the visitor as if he had been a scullery maid, who had ventured where she had no permission to be.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ said Frances.

  ‘But I am very pleased to see you, Miss Doughty,’ said Sandcourt, with an accent less of Eastern Europe than East London. ‘I read about you in the newspapers, and a very exciting read it was too.’ He signalled to the maid to bring some refreshment. ‘If I ever need the services of a detective, I shall think of you first!’

  Out of the corner of her eye Frances saw Lydia’s mouth twitch.

  ‘I have come on behalf of Mr Fiske,’ Frances began, not sure how to introduce the subject.

  ‘Oh, it must be about those stupid papers at the school,’ said Lydia loudly. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why he troubles himself!’

  Frances realised that Lydia must have heard about the incident from her younger sisters, and thought that Mr Fiske’s hope that the affair might be kept secret was an ambition that had collapsed long ago. It was probably the subject of animated gossip at every tea table in Bayswater.

  ‘Mr Fiske has supported the school for many years,’ said Selina, her voice altogether more soothing than her sister’s. ‘I expect you know, Miss Doughty, that Lydia and I were both pupils there. It is a fine school.’

  ‘Oh, it is good enough, I suppose,’ said Lydia, carelessly, ‘but why should we think of it now?’

  Selina made a slight gesture, the fingertips of one hand curving in lightly to touch her abdomen. ‘Julius intends to become a patron,’ she said. The maid brought a tray with sherry and sweet biscuits. Selina waved it aside, but Lydia nibbled a biscuit and Frances accepted one, while Sandcourt poured himself a large sherry and took a handful of biscuits without troubling himself about a plate.