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

  By the time Frances arrived at Paddington Green Police Station, it was dark and the glow of the tall gas lamp that stood outside was curiously comforting. The building was square and heavy, a four-storey fortress with a deep basement, and a series of pointed crenellations on the roof. As a child she had imagined it to be a castle like those in Frederick’s history books, and wondered if a king lived there. Frances had never entered the station, or imagined she would ever do so, but any concern at encountering the criminal classes of Paddington was necessarily thrust aside. She took a deep breath and ascended the steps to the front door. Inside she found what she assumed to be a waiting area. There was a tall deep counter, manned by a sergeant, with shelves of books and ledgers behind it. In front, there were wooden benches, where a few individuals were seated, some slumped over and dozing, others holding an animated conversation as to which of two persons had struck the other first. Voices dropped as she entered, and she realised that she was the only woman there, and the only person apart from the sergeant with any claim to neatness and cleanliness of dress. Ignoring the stares, Frances marched straight to the counter and asked the sergeant if she might see Constable Brown.

  Eyebrows were raised. ‘Not a personal matter, is it?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ she exclaimed, blushing. Really, what had he taken her for? ‘It is a police matter.’

  The sergeant looked dubious, and went through a door at the back, and a few moments later, Wilfred appeared. Without his helmet, the constable looked younger than Frances had at first supposed, no more than twenty-five, with deep chestnut hair and whiskers that needed no pomade. ‘Good evening, Miss Doughty. Inspector Sharrock is out, we can talk in his office.’ He conducted her to a small and dingy room, with a greatly worn desk and chairs, and shelves reaching up to the ceiling stuffed higgledy-piggledy with papers, parcels and boxes of every size and description. Frances saw with some dismay that Sharrock’s desk was piled high with assorted papers in no particular order, and wondered if his mind was in similar disarray.

  ‘I was hoping that you might have some further information about Mr Garton’s death,’ she said. ‘I believe —,’ Frances hesitated as she did not want to reveal that she had interviewed Ada, ‘— this is only local gossip, you understand – that Mr and Mrs Garton dined with some friends shortly before he was taken ill.’

  ‘They did, yes, they dined with Mr James Keane, the banker, and his wife, who have been good friends for many years.’ He smiled, anticipating her next question. ‘You can be sure that we looked very closely at everything that was served to him there. We found that he did not eat any dish that was not also eaten by another person, and there was no drink that only he tasted.’

  ‘I see,’ said Frances, disappointed. How naïve she had been to think that any idea of hers had not already been thought of and addressed. ‘And are you able to tell me Mrs Garton’s account of the events of that night?’ She saw him hesitate. ‘Come, now, it will all be made public at the inquest next week, it will do no harm to tell me now.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he conceded. ‘Mrs Garton told us that she and her husband returned home at about eleven. The bottle of mixture was then on the night table where the maid had left it.’

  ‘Was it still wrapped and sealed?’

  ‘Yes, it was. Mr Garton didn’t take any immediately, but some time after he had retired to bed, he complained of indigestion, and decided to take a dose.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About midnight, or shortly before. He got out of bed, unwrapped the bottle, and drank some of the medicine.’

  ‘Did she say how much he took?’ asked Frances, anxiously. ‘One teaspoonful? Two?’

  ‘It seems that Mr Garton was a gentleman who did not like teaspoons,’ said Wilfred, ruefully. ‘He found them too awkward to use. He drank it straight out of the bottle.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said pointedly, ‘the mixture is quite harmless even if he had overdosed himself.’

  ‘Yes, and I can tell you that the assay of the samples you provided from the shop has found nothing out of the ordinary. However —,’ he paused, unsure if he should go on, then took pity on her. ‘I suppose you will hear of it soon enough. Dr Collin has said that on the basis of preliminary tests he believes it will be proved that Mr Garton died of poisoning by strychnine and that the medicine was responsible.’

  She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. For a moment her throat was constricted with emotion and she dared not try to speak.

  ‘Would you like to sit down, Miss?’ Wilfred cleared some papers from a chair. It was not like Frances to admit weakness, yet she was suddenly very grateful to take advantage of that seat and recover her composure.

  ‘Inspector Sharrock believes,’ said Wilfred uncomfortably, ‘that when the mixture was prepared, your father, quite by accident, used extract of nux vomica and not tincture.’

  ‘Ridiculous, of course!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘I will never forgive him for his cruel treatment of my father!’

  ‘I think it was a bit too much, though I shouldn’t say so,’ Wilfred admitted. ‘Inspector Sharrock isn’t so bad as you think, though, he’s hard pressed right now, six little’uns at home and Mrs Sharrock none too well.’

  ‘Then I sincerely hope that she is soon fully recovered so her husband can attend to his duties in a proper manner,’ said Frances, sharply. Anger had given her renewed energy, and she rose to her feet. A new thought had crossed her mind, that while the Gartons were out, someone had removed the innocent bottle dispensed by her father and substituted one with poison in. ‘I would like to see the medicine bottle,’ she demanded.

  He was surprised, but after a moment, said, ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. The bottle isn’t here, and even if it was…’

  ‘Then what about the wrapper? Do you have that?’

  His look of alarm told her what she needed to know. He hesitated. ‘I suppose I can show it to you, just so long as you don’t touch anything.’ He brought a box down from a shelf and placed it on the desk.

  Frances peered in at the contents. The box contained the envelope enclosing the original prescription, the pink string, and the sheet of plain white wrapping paper. ‘Where did you find these?’ she asked.

  ‘They were in the waste paper receptacle.’

  Ignoring the instructions to touch nothing, Frances lifted all the items from the box. This was probably the only chance she would ever have to examine them and she wanted to make the most of it. Wilfred almost jumped, and quickly glanced over his shoulder to check if Sharrock was in the vicinity, which he was not. ‘Please!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re not allowed to do that, Miss! Put them back!’ He was in a terrible quandary, wanting to snatch the articles from her but realising that this might make matters worse.

  ‘I’ll only be a moment,’ she said. ‘They won’t come to any harm and you can watch what I do.’ He accepted her terms, but was clearly unhappy.

  The prescription was exactly as recorded in the shop’s book by her father. The wax, which bore the undeniable impression of the Doughtys’ own seal, was intact, and still adhered to the string and wrapping paper. The string had been cut either with scissors or a pocket-knife, and the paper was creased but undamaged. Gently, she opened out the wrapper. Pushing aside some heaped documents – they could scarcely be less tidy for her actions – she laid it flat on the desk, scanning it minutely.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Wilfred.

  ‘Evidence of tampering,’ said Frances. She sighed. ‘Of which I find none.’ Regretfully she watched Wilfred return the items to the box and guiltily make them look as much as possible as if they had not been disturbed. ‘Thank you,’ she said at last. He looked at her with a sympathetic expression and she thought of asking him if she would see him at the inquest, but could not think of any reason why she would want to know this.

  The following morning, the early post at the Doughtys’ shop brought two letters, one each for Herbert and William, requi
ring them to attend the adjourned inquest to give evidence.

  Time was short. If, as Constable Brown had said, the tests would support the police theory of a prescription error, Frances had only six days to identify some previously unknown enemy of Percival Garton who might have been his murderer. Even if there was no definitive proof that her father was at fault, the suspicion alone could mean the ruination of everything he had worked for, and a blot upon his reputation that nothing could ever remove. The only person she could talk to was Cedric, and if Herbert was afraid to pass himself off as a newspaper reporter she was not. There remained the difficulty of convincing Cedric that she was a lady reporter; it was something that could only be addressed in one way. It was a desperate and dangerous proceeding, but she must gather her courage and take the chance. Half afraid and half excited, Frances considered that it had, after all, been a good thing that they had not given her brother’s clothes to charity.

  CHAPTER THREE

  With business still distressingly quiet, Herbert took the opportunity to retire to his room and study, leaving Frances to mind the shop. The only customers she saw were those openly touting for gossip, after which they shamefacedly purchased a tin of Holloway’s Pills or a bottle of hair lotion. She busied herself with stocktaking and the accounts, and diverted Tom from his preferred state of idleness by asking him to dust, which he did with very ill grace.

  She was thus engrossed when the door of the shop burst open violently and two men dashed in at a run. Frances looked up in alarm, but they seemed to be taking no notice of her. They were both just on the favourable side of thirty, and one, a plump, pink-faced individual dressed in venerable tweeds, began pacing briskly back and forth, blowing noisily through pursed lips, arms swinging at his sides. His shirt seemed to have lost its collar, though whether this was a recent development in its history was unclear, as was the tendency of its tail to escape the restraint normally acceptable in public. His bowler hat, a size too small, was dusty and crumpled at the brim.

  ‘It won’t do, Barstie, it just won’t do!’ he exclaimed. ‘No, I know what you’re about to say, but I won’t do it! I won’t give in!’

  His companion, tall and slender, leaned against the doorjamb and gazed out into the street. His attitude was casual, but there was no mistaking a certain anxiety in his observation of passers-by. ‘No need to get in a panic, Chas,’ he said, soothingly. He was neatly dressed, but the coat, trousers and waistcoat had all seen better days and other partners, the shirt collar was frayed, and the crown of his silk hat was losing its bid to stay attached to the sides.

  Chas was far from pacified. He seemed hardly to know which way to walk, turning first this way and then that, chewing his knuckles, and then when that didn’t afford any relief, waved his hands wildly in the air. ‘He’s a thief, a crook! He’s cost me money!’ he exclaimed.

  Barstie turned and smiled at Frances and touched the brim of his hat. ‘Excuse my friend, Miss. We’ve had a nice day out on the town, but unfortunately my friend met an associate who advised him that he had suffered a reverse in business, and it’s rather upset his temper.’

  Frances did not know what to make of the two men, except that they reminded her of a class of gentleman who often appeared in the works of Mr Dickens. At least she felt sure that they had not come to rob the shop, not that there was a great deal to take. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you Sirs?’ she asked.

  Chas seemed to notice Frances for the first time, and abruptly changed the direction of his stride, darted over to her, and leaned heavily on the counter. ‘Yes – you’re to remember that we haven’t been here!’ then he dashed away, trailing a scent of tobacco and beer.

  ‘I am very sorry to hear of your recent difficulties,’ said Frances with controlled politeness. ‘May I ask what line of business you are in?’

  He whirled around to face her. ‘Money,’ he said. ‘That’s all there is. Money. Look at all your other businesses and whatever they say and do, be they a butcher or baker or —,’ he looked around him having just noticed where he was, ‘or a chemist – and there’s only one commodity – money. See that?’ he pointed to a bottle of Elliman’s Universal Embrocation. ‘If you know your business, Miss – and you look to me like someone who does – you would know to the farthing exactly how much that bottle cost and how much you can sell it for. And if you’re clever enough – and I’m not saying you aren’t because I know a great many ladies who are very clever with the shillings and pence, and there’s many a house would be bankrupt without them – then you will know how much this premises costs, in rent and gas and coal, and then you will know exactly how much profit you will sell that bottle for, to the last tiny part of a farthing. That, Miss, is not a bottle of embrocation. It is money.’

  ‘Would you care to purchase it?’ asked Frances, sweetly.

  Chas put his hands in his pockets, but seeming to find nothing of value there, frowned, and took them out again.

  ‘We’ve had expenses,’ said Barstie, regretfully. ‘Tomorrow we may be men of millions, but today – we’re a bit short.’ He pressed his nose against the cold glass of the door. ‘All quiet,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time we were off.’

  Chas rushed to the door, looked out, rushed back, and passed a sleeve across his forehead, staring at Frances. ‘Right – got to go now – urgent business – not a second to waste!’ Nevertheless, as he opened the door he paused, and looked back, almost as if he was treading water, arms flapping at his sides. ‘You’re … an uncommon-looking girl, if you don’t mind my saying it!’ He turned and hurried down the street so fast that he was obliged to hold his bowler to his head to prevent it sailing away. Barstie, with a shrug and a smile, touched the brim of his hat politely before he followed.

  Frances shook her head and went back to the accounts. When she looked around to give Tom another task, she found that he had slipped away, though when and where to she could not be sure. He did not come back for another hour, and when she tried to ask him where he had been, he scampered quickly out of the way.

  When Herbert returned to the shop Frances was able to excuse herself, saying that she had household duties. After seeing that her father was resting, and reassuring him that his presence at the counter was not required, she entered the room where her brother had slept and studied and died.

  As Frances touched the sleeve of her brother’s suit she felt, for a moment, too full of emotion to move. Grief had been something she had not permitted herself to show openly. It was bundled and knotted tightly inside her, bound hard lest it break out and render her incapable of function. Merriment, too, was a thing of the past. She felt sure she would never be merry again. Her life was determined by duty; duty to her sick father, duty to the household, keeping the accounts correct to the last farthing and grain of rice, and the never-ending cycle of work in which she assisted Sarah where two pairs of hands were needed, battling the constantly encroaching London grime, boiling and pounding and starching and drying what seemed like acres of linen; and duty to the business, her father’s one remaining treasure, the thing that gave meaning to his years of study and toil. From the earliest moment of the day, when she polished the mahogany counter, something that had been her task since the age of seven, to the last piece of mending as she sat by the parlour fire, her eyes beginning to close with sleep, it was her efforts and her attention that ensured the smooth running of home and business. Had Frances succumbed to her emotions, and neglected her duties, she would have despised herself, as being no more use than one of those elegant ladies who professed themselves exhausted after a little shopping, and called for a smelling bottle when in two minds over the best way to trim a hat.

  She reassured herself that it was not disrespectful to her brother’s memory to use his clothes for a masquerade to save the business from ruin. He would, she knew, have heartily approved. She had worn his clothing once before, some five years ago, as a delightful prank they had devised together. It was a Christmas entertainment, and they h
ad copied some poems, jokes and comic dialogues from the newspapers and invited a modest audience to take tea. Some of the wittiest exchanges were between two gentlemen, and it had been Frederick’s idea for Frances to play the part of a young man, and he had helped to dress her in his suit. It was a little long in the leg and wide at the hip but a few pins corrected that, and he laughed at her efforts to swagger like a boy. ‘Now then, you must hold your body like this, and take a good long stride, not little trotting steps, and try and imagine yourself a fine fellow, a real roistering Jack, with all the girls sweet on you.’ They invited a neighbour, and their father’s sister Mrs Scorer, who had looked after Frances and Fredrick after their mother died, also their mother’s brother, Cornelius Martin. Mrs Scorer, the former Miss Maude Doughty, had managed the household until Frances was thirteen, when much to the disgust of William, who had thought that this useful and thrifty arrangement would last forever, she insisted at the age of forty-five on marrying the first man who asked her, a coal merchant twenty years her senior who died two years later, leaving her £4,000 the richer. Mrs Scorer was a calm, organising sort of woman who seemed to despise tender affection – at least, she had never shown any to her niece and nephew. She was neither harsh nor kind, but believed in attending to practical wants in the way of food and clothing, without thinking very much about the individual concerned. Frances was very fond of her Uncle Cornelius. She recalled gloomy visits that must have happened after her mother’s death, when he and her father had sat together for hours at a time and talked in low voices. As he departed, he had smiled at her and Frederick, and given them pennies and peppermints, so she thought he was not a sad person in himself, rather a man made sad by circumstances. Cornelius’ wife, Phoebe, had died some years ago. He often spoke of her with affection and said how much he missed her company, and how he regretted that they had had no family. Occasionally he had taken Frederick and Frances out for the day, excursions which she had always anticipated with great excitement. She had never been disappointed. Sometimes they had ridden in a carriage, sometimes they had gone to Paddington Station and taken a train, always they had explored places that seemed foreign and wonderful, and then they had had tea. Her father had grudgingly allowed these adventures on the condition that they were educational in nature, with admonitions to Cornelius not to allow the children too much freedom. Aunt Maude had never attempted to conceal the fact that she viewed the absence of her charges with some relief.