The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 5

  At the Christmas of 1874, when Frances was fourteen and Frederick nineteen, their entertainment had been received politely. Uncle Cornelius had laughed at the jokes, and even her father had admitted that it was not without wit. It was their neighbour, an elderly, slightly deaf lady called Mrs Johnstone, a vision in yards of black bombazine wrapped in an Indian shawl, who concentrated most of her attention on the tea and sandwiches and asked afterwards who the ‘other boy’ had been.

  Five years later, the trousers that had been too long were, if anything, a little short in the leg, but no worse than Frances had observed worn by young men who had seen a good thing in the pawnshop and wanted to wear it no matter what. It was as she considered how best to hide her hair in her brother’s best round hat, that she heard a little gasp behind her, and turned to see Sarah in the doorway. It said much for Sarah’s nerves that grasping a pail full of dusters and brushes, she had dropped none of them.

  ‘Oh, Miss, I had such a fright just then!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ said Frances, realising that the sight of a figure dressed in Frederick’s suit would have caused a less sturdily unflappable woman to faint with terror. ‘Come in, I don’t want anyone else to see me in these clothes.’

  Sarah obeyed and shut the door, then stood looking at Frances, round-eyed with anxiety. Questions were quivering on her lips but remained unspoken.

  ‘I hope you don’t think this is just some silliness,’ said Frances, awkwardly. ‘I have decided that I must find out more about Mr Garton, to see if he had any enemies who might have wanted to harm him. If I do not, I am very afraid that the coroner will conclude that there was a mistake in the prescription, and then the inquest will blame his death on my father. I asked Mr Munson if he would pretend to be from the newspapers and ask Mr Cedric Garton some questions about his brother, but he refused, so I have determined to try it myself. I thought I would succeed better if I portrayed myself as a young man.’ She sighed, suddenly realising how dreadfully alone she was in this task. Any member of her family, any of her small circle of acquaintances, would surely have been horrified at what she was about to attempt. Sarah, on the other hand, having got over her initial fright was now gazing at her calmly, as if studying how well she looked.

  ‘I imagined Mr Munson would be a help to me, but I have been disappointed,’ said Frances.

  Sarah set her mouth in a firm line. ‘It’s not my place to say it, Miss, but Mr Munson —,’ she hesitated. ‘Well – it’s not my place to say it.’

  Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘Sarah, I do believe you were about to say something very uncomplimentary about Mr Munson,’ she said.

  Sarah gave a sniff of disapproval, and squared her broad shoulders. ‘Yes, Miss, I do believe I was. ‘There was a smile of understanding between the two women.

  ‘So – how do I appear?’ Frances struck what she hoped was a masculine attitude.

  Sarah took a few moments to look at her critically. ‘It would do well for a pantomime, Miss.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Frances. She sighed. ‘Perhaps it was silliness after all.’

  ‘Well you ain’t got the collar right for a start. Let me see what I can do. I got eight brothers, Miss and none of them could dress like a gent.’

  Sarah put down the cleaning tools and began to work on Frances’ costume in earnest, tugging here, adjusting there, and finally stepping back to survey her work. ‘That looks more like it. Now you need to stand and walk right, or it’ll never do. And let your voice go lower.’ Some minutes of practice ensued. ‘Have you decided, Miss, how you will try to meet with Mr Garton? I don’t think it’ll do to go up to the house.’

  ‘No,’ said Frances, frowning at this new difficulty. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but you are right. I expect anyone from the newspapers will not be allowed in.’

  ‘Why don’t I get Tom to keep a watch and tell you when Mr Garton goes out? Then perhaps you can think up a way of speaking to him.’

  ‘Yes, that is the best plan, I think. And Sarah, there’s something else I need. On the night of his death Mr Percival Garton dined at the home of his friend Mr James Keane, who is a banker. I know nothing of Mr Keane’s household. Can you think of any way that I could speak to someone there?’

  Sarah thought for a moment. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Miss.’

  When Frances returned to the shop she knew the moment she entered that there was an unusual visitor. An aroma reached her nostrils of something unsavoury – not exactly dead but in a state of decay – something which had not been pleasant to smell even in that distant time when it had been fresh. A man stood beside the door who seemed at first glance to be very aged, but who, on a further moment’s inspection, could not have been a great deal more than twenty-five. His thin body was clad in black, greasy garments that looked as though they might have been stolen from a corpse, and his hair hung raggedly about a pale, narrow face seamed with grime. He leaned against the wall, head bent over his hands, picking at filthy nails with what appeared to be a filleting knife, a sly grin on his lips. There were, Frances was well aware, parts of London where this man could pass unnoticed, where the streets were no less dark and greasy, and smelt much the same.

  Herbert was not standing at the counter, but cowered as far as he could be from the new arrival, his back pressed against the shelves, his body rigid with fear. ‘Ah … Miss Doughty … perhaps you may be able to assist this gentleman. He is looking for some friends of his.’

  ‘That’s right, Miss,’ said their visitor in an unexpectedly soft voice. ‘Two associates, who, if I could discover their whereabouts, would find it to their advantage.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me their names, or describe them to me,’ said Frances, not sure that anyone could benefit from acquaintance with the person before her.

  ‘Charlie Knight is one; round-faced cove; and t’other is Sebastian Turner, likes to dress as a toff. I’ve heard they were in the Grove today.’

  Frances paused, unsure what to say. She abhorred a direct lie, yet she felt disinclined to offer any information about her recent visitors. She was relieved from her dilemma by Tom’s voice behind her.

  ‘I seen ’em Mister.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’ The stranger uncurled himself swiftly, like a spider darting towards its prey. He wiped the knife on his hip, thrust the blade into a battered leather sheath and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘They was walking down the Grove this mornin’, goin’ to the station. I noticed them partic’lar – couple of fly gents with a sneaking look about ’em. I went after ’em for a yannep but they didn’t have none. I heard ’em say they was goin’ up to Birmingham on business.’

  The man looked at Tom, thoughtfully. ‘Do you know when they return?’

  ‘They di’n’t say.’

  He lunged closer. ‘You’ll keep a lookout for me? Tell me when they come back? There’ll be something in it for you when I get the news. And something for them, too.’

  Tom nodded. He didn’t ask the man where he must go in order to impart the news, and Frances had the uncomfortable feeling that Tom was well aware of where such a man might be found on those occasions when he wished to be. She studied Tom’s face for a moment, trying to see if he was telling the truth. He was the picture of artless innocence, a matter she thought highly suspicious, as that was not his normal expression. When she looked around again, the man had gone, and he had managed to depart without disturbing the shop bell. Wordlessly, Frances polished the counter for a second time that day, and wiped down that part of the wall where the man had leaned, wondering what the ‘yannep’ might be that Tom had wanted, and, like so many of his curious words, solved the mystery merely by sounding it in reverse.

  That afternoon Ada scurried into the shop, looking guiltily around her as if afraid to be seen. ‘Oh Miss, I was just passing and had to come in and speak with you. I can only stop a minute though; they mustn’t know I was here!’

  ‘Come into the storeroom, we can talk there,’
said Frances, deliberately ignoring Herbert’s frown of disapproval.

  Ada followed her behind the counter, and for a few moments stood in awe of the deep shelves of grim brown bottles, giant carboys, and barrels and sacks of raw materials. There was a workbench, which held the larger pieces of equipment, and items such as infusions that needed to be left undisturbed. On that day, there were shining metal suppository moulds, sitting in rows with their glistening gelatinous contents. Everything was spotlessly clean and laid out neatly, and every stock container was labelled with care. Frances hoped Ada was thinking how hard it must be to make a mistake when all was in such good order.

  ‘Well, Miss I expect you know that the police have been at the house for ever so long, asking questions about what Mr Garton ate and drank before he died, and poking about in the kitchen and pantry, not that they ever found anything wrong.’ She paused, breathlessly. ‘The thing is – Mr Edwards – Master’s manservant as was – he remembered something after the police went. Master used to have a flask of brandy in the carriage – just to keep the cold out, you understand – and Mr Edwards said that as he stood on the step when Master and Mistress drove away, he was sure he saw Master take a drink.’

  ‘That would have been at seven o’clock?’ said Frances.

  ‘Yes, Miss. So Mr Edwards asked Mrs Grange if he ought to tell the police what he remembered, and she said he might if he wished, but she didn’t think it signified, as if there had been anything in the brandy then Mr Garton would have been took ill a lot sooner.’

  ‘Which is true,’ admitted Frances. ‘Did Mr Edwards go to the police?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss. I don’t think so. He’s been given his notice so he’s out a great deal looking for another position. The thing is, I was thinking about it and it came to me – even if what Mrs Grange said was right, and it can’t have been anything Master had at seven o’clock – well – it was an awful cold night – he might have had some brandy later, on the way home.’

  There was silence for a moment, as Frances digested this thought. ‘That means that the brandy was uncontaminated at seven o’clock, and if there was anything in it, it must have been put there between seven and eleven that evening. Who would have known that the brandy was there?’

  Ada frowned. ‘I did, Miss, and Mr Edwards, and Mrs Grange, and Mistress of course, and I suppose anyone who travelled in the carriage with him.’

  ‘But surely the carriage cannot have been kept waiting outside Mr Keane’s house all the time your master and mistress were inside?’

  ‘No, Miss, on account of the weather. Master didn’t like the horses to stand in the cold for too long, so Mr Beale brought the carriage back then went out later to bring Master and Mistress home. But it was standing outside Mr Keane’s house for a little while after seven, about ten minutes perhaps. Mr Keane’s cook is very fond of Mr Beale and invited him in for a nip of something. He told us about it later. He got a boy to hold the horses while he was away, but it was that dark, anyone could have sneaked in, and you know what these boys are like, take your penny and run off, most of them.’

  ‘Or of course, someone could have tampered with the brandy when the carriage was in Mr Garton’s coach house.’ Frances paced up and down thoughtfully. ‘What has Mrs Garton said about her husband drinking brandy that evening? Does she remember it?’

  Ada shook her head, sorrowfully. ‘Poor lady hardly knows what day of the week it is, and that’s a fact. She tries to remember, but all she can do is cry.’

  ‘I think this could be very important,’ said Frances. ‘You must go to the police and tell them what you have just told me.’

  ‘Oh no, I daren’t go near them!’ exclaimed Ada, horrified. ‘Everyone in the house has been told not to. I’d lose my place and my character, and I’d miss the children so much! Please don’t make me do it!’

  Frances tried to calm Ada, who hurried away with many a nervous glance over her shoulder, but it was clear that the police ought to be informed, and so she composed a note to Constable Brown. When Tom arrived back to say that Cedric Garton had gone out for a drive, she got hold of him before he could run away and gave him the note to deliver.

  Later that afternoon, Sarah, who had been out buying fish for supper, returned with a brown paper parcel and an expression of quiet triumph. ‘I can tell you all about Mr Keane,’ she told Frances, and they hurried to the kitchen, where the fish was unwrapped and cut in pieces to be fried. ‘Mr Keane is a gentleman of thirty-six or thereabouts, and has lived here more than ten years. By all accounts he’s quite high up at the Bayswater Bank, but when he came here he was no more than a clerk and had no fortune at all. Then he courted Miss Morgan – she’s the only daughter of Mr Morgan the fancy milliner. He’s Thomas Morgan Ltd, now, with that big shop on the Grove. He was none too happy about the match but Mr Keane was a very handsome young man, and Miss Morgan very wilful and she would have him, and her father was very doting, so it came off. But I’ve heard say lately that Mr Keane is indifferent to his wife on account of her having become very fat, and she was no great beauty before, and Mrs Keane is very unhappy and takes wine a little too often, and Mr Keane and Mr Morgan only speak to each other when they have to. It’s a very unhappy place, Miss, and there’s many servants won’t stop there for long. Two weeks ago, Mr and Mrs Keane had a terrible quarrel, a real upper and downer. One of the maids overheard it – she was polishing the keyhole of the study —’

  ‘With her ear, no doubt,’ said Frances, dryly.

  ‘Very likely, Miss.’ Sarah paused. ‘Miss, I hope you don’t think that I—’

  ‘Please, go on,’ said Frances.

  ‘Well she didn’t exactly hear what the quarrel was about, but she said that Mr Garton was mentioned a number of times.’

  ‘What is this maid’s name?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Ettie, Miss. Her brother Harry is a friend of John Scott who drives a delivery cart for Whiteleys who is the sweetheart of my cousin Mary what works on the fish counter.’

  Frances decided not to try and follow these convolutions. ‘I think I should like to speak to Ettie,’ she said. ‘I wonder how that might be arranged?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Miss and it would need a bit of play acting which I know you won’t mind, and a cake.’

  ‘A cake?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. Ettie likes cake, and so do the other servants, only they don’t often get much in the way of leftovers as Mrs Keane is very fond of cake as well.’

  Frances nodded in sudden understanding. ‘So if there’s a cake in the kitchen …’

  ‘Yes, Miss. They’ll all come for a slice.’

  ‘Then,’ said Frances, ‘it should be a large cake, and made with best butter.’

  Saturday morning’s Bayswater Chronicle contained only a short paragraph about Percival Garton confirming that he was forty-eight years of age, had lived in Bayswater since 1870 and was the father of five children, the eldest of whom was eight. The weather remained cold, and there was a stiff breeze, with a dull sky threatening rain. Herbert was behind the counter with half his attention on the Pharmacopoeia, and Frances was trying to coax the stove into giving out a little more warmth when Tom appeared in the doorway. ‘That gentleman you want to talk to, ’e’s left the ’ouse and is walkin’ up the Grove,’ he said.

  Frances gave a sudden shiver of terror. Having planned and rehearsed her role as a young reporter, she found herself giving in to a moment of weakness. She now saw that the imposture was both foolish and fraught with peril, and decided that she should not attempt it after all.

  ‘What gentleman is this?’ asked Herbert, suspiciously.

  ‘That is not something you need to know,’ said Frances, briskly dusting the stove-top.

  ‘If it concerns the business then I should know,’ he said firmly, putting the book down. ‘I insist you tell me at once.’

  Irked by his manner, Frances found a new resolve. This might be the only chance she would ever have of interviewing Ced
ric Garton. She must not allow fear to stop her from doing what was necessary. Her hands shook as she folded the duster. ‘Kindly mind the shop. I will not be out long.’ Herbert looked deeply affronted at this snub to his masculine authority, but before he could reply she had put on her coat and left. He did not see her hurry to the family apartments where Sarah was waiting to transform her. The masquerade was about to begin.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That morning, a passer-by on Westbourne Grove who saw a young man emerging cautiously from the private door beside William Doughty’s chemist’s shop might have thought him a queer sort of person. He first peeped out, turning his head this way and that, and then eased himself from the doorway like a butterfly squeezing from its pupal case. On the street, he again looked around him, as one familiar with the Grove who was, nevertheless, seeing it for the first time. Above middling height, he was thin, yet pleasingly broad of shoulder, with a strong jaw which would have looked out of place on a woman, but lent his masculine face an air of authority and determination. He was perhaps less than twenty, and must have grown too fast for his suit which was a little short in the leg. Setting off, he began at first with odd, short, almost girlish steps, which he lengthened to a self-conscious stride, moving up the Grove in the direction of Queen’s Road. The walk seemed to do him good. He had appeared at first to be a young man with more cares pressing upon him than was appropriate for someone of his age, but as the perambulation continued, his body straightened, his shoulders moved back, and he breathed deeply, his confidence growing with each moment. When he crossed over the road, he dodged the carriages with alacrity, and smiled as if the act of running was a pleasure in itself.