The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 6

  As he neared the row of Whiteleys shops, he paused and looked around him once more. He was either an idle individual who had nothing to do with his time but waste it, or else he was waiting for someone. He walked slowly up the parade, then turned and came back again. He sauntered, he strolled, he lounged, he loafed, and finally stopped and looked in one of the windows, every so often glancing out of the corner of his eye at the throng of people who also haunted the Grove. He stared for a while at a display of ladies’ mantles, then seemed to recollect himself with a start and moved to another window of gentlemen’s hats, sticks and whips. Another gentleman, tall with a boyish lick of blond hair and suntanned face, was also walking along the Grove and stopped to gaze into the same window. His elegantly tailored suit of clothes was cloaked in a heavy dark coat with a fur collar, yet he was shivering.

  ‘Damn me, but it’s cold!’ he exclaimed.

  Frances gave a start. No one had ever addressed her in quite that way before. Having seen Cedric Garton walking towards her, she had been wondering how she might approach him, and now found that he had approached her. She swallowed and coughed to try and temper her voice. ‘Indeed,’ she said softly, still staring straight ahead.

  ‘You look like a knowledgeable young fellow. I don’t suppose you know somewhere hereabouts where one might go to keep warm?’

  ‘There are restaurants and teashops on the Grove, and Whiteleys, of course. I have heard they do a very good luncheon, if you don’t mind being bothered by the idle chatter of ladies.’ She smiled to herself at this little characterisation.

  Cedric looked around to check that no one was near enough to hear his words, and leaned towards her. ‘I was hoping you might direct me to somewhere more private,’ he muttered. ‘Somewhere we might go together and become better acquainted.’

  It took a moment or two for his meaning to become apparent, and when it did her heart sank. It was what Frances had dreaded, and worse. Not only had he seen through her poor disguise, he had taken her to be an immoral kind of woman.

  ‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Sir,’ she said, intending it to be a firm reprimand although it came out as a nervous gulp.

  He moved closer still. ‘Come on, lad,’ he whispered, in what he obviously hoped was a persuasive manner. ‘I know what you’re about. I’ve been watching you. You’ve been parading the goods up and down the street for everyone to see.’ He smiled, understandingly. ‘New at the game, I expect. Don’t you worry about that; I know how to be kind to a young man if he can be kind to me.’

  Frances was struck dumb, her mind in momentary confusion. Trying to understand what was happening, she suddenly recalled an incident some years ago when her brother had been sniggering at an article in the newspaper regarding the trial of a man on charges which the paper was able neither to name nor describe, but which involved another man. Her father, sensing from Frederick’s half-stifled amusement that he was reading something indecent, and seeing Frances looking over her brother’s shoulder, had snatched the paper from him. When he saw the article his face went pale with rage and he at once threw the offending item on the fire. Afterwards he had written to the editor to complain about the publication of such filth. Later, Frederick had told Frances that there were such things as ‘lady men’ but all that she could gather was that this was a class of person in whose company a lady could be confident that she would be in no danger of insult.

  One thing at least was clear; by attempting to importune someone he thought was a young man, Cedric was risking arrest and imprisonment. The knowledge made her bolder. ‘I think you should know, Sir,’ she said with great dignity, ‘that you have entirely mistaken me. I was hoping to make your acquaintance, but it was for the purpose of interviewing you for the newspapers. I wished to speak to you about your late brother, but it seems to me now that I shall be writing an altogether different piece.’

  She was pleased to see that this had the desired effect.’ You would not dare!’ exclaimed Cedric, recoiling in alarm.

  ‘If you think that, Sir, then you do not know the Bayswater and Kensington Examiner!’ declared Frances, which was true because no such newspaper existed. ‘We are fearless to print the truth, however shocking it may be.’

  Cedric looked about him as if wondering whether to run away, but thought better of it. ‘I will deny everything,’ he said.

  ‘Better still, Sir,’ she said archly, ‘I might be persuaded not to write of what has just happened here.’

  With a sigh of resignation Cedric reached into his pocket.

  ‘I did not speak of money,’ said Frances, with an offended air. ‘Grant me an interview about your late brother, and we will say no more of it.’

  He groaned. ‘I can’t! Henrietta will never speak to me again!’

  ‘I promise that your name will nowhere be mentioned.’

  There was a long pause, during which they both stared into the shop window and shivered. ‘Oh, very well,’ said Cedric, at last. ‘But let’s get out of this damned cold!’ They started to walk down the Grove together.

  Frances was hoping they might find a teashop which sold the kind of pastries she regarded as a rare treat, but just then it began to rain, heavy cold drops which stung her cheeks. Cedric, brushing the offending water from his luxurious collar in alarm, said, ‘Quickly! In here!’ seized her by the arm and almost pulled her into the Redan public house that occupied the corner of the Grove and Queen’s Road. Frances had never entered this or any other public house before. It was crowded with men in the coarse working clothes of cab drivers, artisans, and labourers, and a few faded-looking women, some without bonnets, whose profession she preferred not to contemplate. A small group of men in threadbare yet better quality attire were probably artists looking for inspiration in the coarse faces around them, or in the liquor bottle, or both. They favoured unusually colourful cravats, and brought flashes of bright green, orange and purple to the otherwise gloomy interior. The air was blue-grey with tobacco smoke, but it was warm, for a hearty fire blazed in the grate, adding the tang of burning coals to the already heady atmosphere.

  ‘Dear God, what kind of place is this!’ exclaimed Cedric.

  ‘It is not the kind of establishment a respectable gentleman would frequent,’ said Frances, faintly. ‘I suggest we leave.’

  Cedric glanced out of the window, where the rain was intensifying. ‘It’s got a good fire. The roof doesn’t leak. Any port in a storm, as the sailor boys say.’

  There was a row of compartments in front of the long bar with benches and a table in each. All were occupied, but Cedric stepped up to a morose-looking man who sat hunched in a corner by himself, smoking a pipe. ‘My nephew and I wish to converse alone, Sir,’ he said. ‘We would take it as a great favour if you would seat yourself elsewhere.’ The pipe smoker did not move apart from his mouth, which opened for an imprecation. ‘And you may have a drink for your trouble,’ Cedric added. Coins flashed, there was a mumbled ‘thank you, Sir’ and moments later Cedric and Frances had the compartment to themselves. Cedric wiped the benches with a large pocket handkerchief and they sat down.

  ‘I would order something to drink, but I think this is the kind of establishment where I would prefer not to sample the spécialité de la maison,’ observed Cedric. Frances hastily agreed. Cedric produced a silver case from his pocket, which he opened, and offered Frances a cigar.

  ‘No thank you,’ she said, not prepared to carry her performance quite so far. She took out her notebook and pencil, and Cedric gazed at her in amusement as she laid them neatly on the table before her. He lit his cigar and settled back. Having recovered from his shock he was now the more relaxed of the pair.’ I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr—?’

  ‘Williamson,’ said Frances.

  He leaned forward with what he probably hoped was an engaging smile.’ You can call me Cedric if you like.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Frances curtly.

  He shrugged and settled back.’ Let the question
ing begin.’

  Frances opened the notebook and took up the pencil. ‘I would like to know something of your brother’s early life and character.’ She was somewhat concerned that Cedric would be instantly afflicted with grief, but he seemed more regretful than anything.

  ‘Well he was born in Italy, as we all were. Father was a wine merchant. Percy came to England around the end of ‘56.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘Grandfather ran a small shipping business out of Bristol. When his partner died he needed a man to assist him. Percy was the man.’

  Frances became aware that behind the bar, a middle-aged man, probably the landlord from the cut of his clothes, and a woman almost certainly his wife judging by the number of flounces on her costume, were standing side by side, pretending to polish glasses, their gaze fixed firmly on Frances and her companion. She pushed her hat more firmly down on her head. One of the barmen was ordered by his employer to come and hover expectantly by their table but Cedric waved him away casually, as if swatting a fly.

  Frances realised her face was reddening. Cedric had noticed, and smiled at what he saw. Nevertheless she pressed on with her questioning. ‘Why did he select your brother?’

  ‘There was really no other choice. Father had his own business to attend to, I was too young, and he could hardly send one of the girls.’

  ‘Was he pleased to come to England?’ asked Frances, wondering if Percival Garton had resented the enforced uprooting.

  ‘Oh yes. Not so much for the business – he found that rather dull – but he had always fancied himself as the English country gentleman. He bought a house in some out of the way village in Gloucestershire – what was the name, now – Tollington Mill, that was it – and I believe he enjoyed the life there. He used to write to us a great deal, and he never said much about trade, it was all about the house and the countryside and how they amused themselves.’

  ‘How did your brother amuse himself?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Oh the usual kind of thing one does in that part of the world,’ said Cedric, airily.’ Reading, walking. I’m not sure what else. It sounds dreadfully dull to me, but Percy liked it well enough. I remember he had a great fancy that he could be an artist, and he and another gentleman used to go on walks to view the countryside and make sketches. He sent us some of his drawings.’

  ‘Did he have great talent as an artist?

  Cedric looked thoughtful. ‘I would say – none whatsoever. But it pleased him.’

  ‘Did he have many friends there? And in Bristol?’

  ‘There were business acquaintances, of course, and the more gentrified of the village folk.’

  Frances hesitated. After the opening enquiries, which had given her a picture of the man and his mode of life, the next question was going to be the difficult one. ‘Was there anyone with whom he was on bad terms?’

  Cedric reacted with surprise. ‘Great heavens, no! Percy was never the sort one could take exception to, if you know what I mean. He was good company, undemanding on the intellect, a friendly, confiding sort of fellow, and from what Henrietta has said, the best of husbands.’

  ‘When did they marry?’

  ‘’62, I think. Henrietta was a relative of Grandfather’s old partner. That was how they were first introduced.’

  Frances looked back at her earlier notes. ‘So they were married quite some years before they came to Bayswater. That was in 1870, I believe. Are there older children away at school?’

  Cedric paused, and spent a few moments tapping out the ash on his cigar. ‘No, there are not.’ There was something in his manner, the way he had suddenly dropped his voice and avoided her gaze, that told Frances it was a question he found uncomfortable.

  She continued the gentle probing. ‘What brought your brother to Bayswater? Was it business?’

  The trace of awkwardness in his manner remained. ‘Oh no, the business was sold just before they came here. Grandfather died in ’64 and left everything to Percy. He did well, by all accounts, and by the time he came to London he had means enough to live off his principal.’

  ‘But he had lost his desire to be a country gentleman?’ she persisted. ‘Given his tastes in that regard, I cannot understand why he came to live in London when there was no pressing need.’

  Cedric drummed his fingertips on the table. ‘There are private family matters which have no relevance here and I would not see anything published that would add to Henrietta’s distress.’

  ‘Would you accept my promise that I would publish nothing to distress a lady, especially one already labouring under such a burden of loss?’

  ‘Ah, a promise of discretion from a newspaper man,’ he said with a humourless smile, ‘how that inspires me with confidence!’

  Whatever she had uncovered, Frances could not let the moment escape. She leaned forward suddenly. ‘I am not the only person who will ask you these questions,’ she said. ‘Do you know that many people in Bayswater are wondering if your brother’s death could have been something more sinister than an accident? Anything unusual in his past life might come under scrutiny.’

  His expression told her that this was not an eventuality he would relish. ‘That is, of course, an outrageous suggestion, but then I suppose we cannot control low gossip. What do you believe, Mr Williamson?’

  She looked him firmly in the eye.’ I believe that every effort should be made to uncover the truth, whatever that may be.’

  He favoured her with a wintry smile. ‘But if a lie is more sensational then you will print the lie.’

  Frances closed the notebook with a snap, and put the pencil down. ‘There. There will be no record of what you say.’

  He looked at her closely. ‘So young, and yet so forceful. Well there was nothing irregular about the move to Bayswater. It was entirely a personal matter. A question of some delicacy, not for the public prints.’ He stubbed out the cigar. ‘I think I will have something to drink after all.’ He looked around and waved an arm at one of the potmen. ‘You! Brandy to this table! Two glasses, and mind they are clean. And bring a fresh bottle!’ He turned to Frances. ‘Not that viewing the label will be any guarantee of what is within.’ There was a certain amount of scurrying about and whispering behind the bar before someone went down to the cellar. Brandy was not a commonly ordered drink, being more expensive than the other spirits, and the prospect of a sale aroused some excitement.

  Frances decided not to protest, in the hope that the liquor would loosen his tongue. She had occasionally sampled wine and sherry but never brandy, and found alcoholic drinks a little heady.

  The bottle arrived, and Cedric cleaned the dust off the label and nodded. ‘I expect I have had worse than this, though I can’t recall exactly when.’ He poured two glassfuls and pushed one across the table to Frances, then took a good pull from his own. ‘Oh my blessed aunt!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I can’t say I would recommend this as an after-dinner digestive, but it reaches all the right places on the way down.’

  ‘You were about to tell me the reason why your brother came to London from the countryside,’ said Francis.

  ‘I was,’ said Cedric, staring into his glass. He took another drink. ‘I don’t suppose you have met Henrietta?’

  ‘No, I have only seen her in the Grove.’

  ‘Well, you might not believe it to look at her now, but in her younger days she was considered to have a delicate constitution. If you were to see her engagement portrait you would hardly think it was of the same woman. She had that fragile look you see in females you would swear are not long for this world. When Percy and Henrietta had been married a number of years and were still without a family, they consulted a doctor who said that her health would never permit her to be a mother. After that they saw a great many more doctors, the best men in the country, and all of them said the same thing. And then they heard about a new man, with a clinic in London, who was reputed to be able to cure ladies with a similar complaint. Percy had been intending to give up bus
iness in any case, and they sold their house and came to London. So now you know. I can assure you that it is not something either of them chose to discuss except with immediate family.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the doctor or the clinic?’ asked Frances.

  ‘No, I can’t say I do, in fact I’m not sure Percy ever mentioned them. But the move bore fruit – quite literally. Less than a year after they came to London little Rhoda was born, and a miraculously robust child too, when one considers the poor health of her mother.’

  ‘And, as I have observed myself, there are now five children.’

  ‘Indeed. All in the very pink. I can especially testify to the new baby’s splendid lung power. And motherhood has suited Henrietta. Percy used to say that she grew stronger with each one.’

  ‘And what of your brother’s health? Did he ever dose himself with proprietary medicines?’ asked Frances, hopefully.

  ‘No, apart from his indigestion he was always in excellent health. The last time I saw him alive he looked very well. And the only medicine I have ever known him take was that infernal mixture he got from the chemist.’ Cedric was a little heated by this, and Frances changed the subject.

  ‘Did they never consider a move back to the country?’

  He shook his head and poured another brandy. ‘I don’t believe so. London to my mind was the making of Percy, although sadly it also meant his destruction. He was a less dull fellow here. I think he found more to engage his interest.’

  ‘How did he occupy himself?’

  ‘Well thankfully for the world of art, he gave up all claims of any personal prowess in that field, and began to encourage the works of others. He visited galleries and exhibitions, collected paintings and drawings, and became patron to a new artist who he said had considerable promise.’