The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 7

  Frances realised she had uncovered a new part of Percival Garton’s life which could well hold valuable secrets. The world of art was unknown to her, yet she was easily able to imagine that it might conceal rivalries and enmities that could lead to murder. ‘Can you tell me the name of this artist?’

  Cedric shrugged. ‘Fields or Meadows or some such. He exhibits at a gallery on Queen’s Road.’

  ‘Is Mr James Keane also interested in art?’ asked Frances, wondering if the two men had had some falling out on that subject.

  ‘I doubt it. I have met him on one or two occasions and found him insufferably boring. He has no intellect and no conversation. His only amusement is to make cruel comments to his wife, and his only talent is to have grown a beard more interesting than himself.’

  ‘Yet he and your brother were great friends,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Apparently so,’ said Cedric. ‘Their attachment was always inexplicable to me, but they were often in each other’s houses. Henrietta did not like Mr Keane at all but tolerated him for her husband’s sake, although she expressed some sympathy for Mrs Keane, who is a very unhappy lady. That said, I understand from Henrietta that Keane has been acting as a true friend since Percy’s dreadful death, assisting with all the necessary arrangements.’ He sighed. ‘Poor Percy! Poor Henrietta! And the children! The distance between us meant that we could never be as united a family as we might have been, but all the same, it is a terrible blow, and I feel for them.’ He gazed out of the window where the rain was still thudding down, stirring the gritty roadway into a brown, muddy slush. ‘The doctor told me that Percy had suffered terribly in his final hours, yet when I saw his body, he looked so peaceful, just as I had seen him before, sleeping in his armchair after dinner.’ He sighed again. ‘Another drink? Oh – you haven’t touched the first one! Come on, drink up, we may be here a while.’

  Frances uttered a silent prayer as she raised the glass to her lips.

  Some time later – and Frances could never be sure exactly how much later it was – she somehow made her way back home, and fortunately found Sarah there to assist her from the muddy suit, pour various remedies down her throat and put her to bed. Frances was not a person given to headaches, but all the headaches that had not troubled her over the years seemed to have combined into one large headache determined to have its day. Sarah informed Herbert that Frances would not be returning to her duties in the shop, as she had taken a chill from being out in the rain. Fortunately he did not enquire further, although there was an odd hint of satisfaction about him as if he felt that Frances was being suitably punished for her earlier slighting of his wishes.

  Later that evening, Sarah crept up the stairs to see how Frances was, and found her mistress up and dressed. ‘I have no patience for lying abed as you know,’ said Frances, who still looked a little fragile about the eyes. ‘I confess I was obliged to drink brandy as part of the masquerade. It must have been very bad brandy as it made me feel extremely ill.’

  ‘Either that or very good brandy, Miss,’ said Sarah, smoothing Frances’ hair as she had often done when they had both been much younger. ‘Perhaps next time you dress as a man you should profess to be a Salvationist.’

  ‘Oh I hope I may never have to do it again,’ said Frances fervently, ‘although I did learn a great deal I might not have done otherwise. ‘Frances did not mention it but as she had lain in bed, watching the room slowly spin about her head, she had spent some time contemplating the terrible consequences had she been arrested in the street for public drunkenness while dressed in men’s clothing. Her father would probably have turned her out of the house. She might have had to leave Bayswater, or even go abroad to avoid the shame. She felt sure that the images of this potential disgrace would haunt her for the rest of her days.

  ‘If you feel well enough, Miss, you have a visitor. Constable Brown. Will you see him or shall I ask him to come back tomorrow?’

  Frances felt suddenly enlivened. The young constable would surely only have called if he had important news relating to Percival Garton’s death. ‘I will see him, of course. Show him into the parlour, and I will be there straight away. And fetch him tea or coffee or whatever he might like, and a plate of biscuits.’ Frances gazed into the mirror, which told a sorry tale of dissipation. She sighed and went downstairs.

  Wilfred was warming himself at the parlour fire. Frances saw that he was off duty, as he had removed the striped band from his left cuff. He rose to his feet politely. ‘Miss Doughty, I hope you are feeling better. Your maid told me you had a chill from being caught in the rain.’

  ‘I am entirely well, thank you,’ she said with dignity. She suddenly found herself imagining what might have ensued if it had been he who had found her in a state of inebriation and indecently attired. She sat down and gripped the edges of the table to control her trembling fingers. ‘May I ask if you received the note I sent about Mr Garton and the brandy?’

  He looked at her sympathetically, and was seated, resting his helmet on his knees. ‘I did, and we’re very grateful for your information. In all the search of the house no one thought there might be something in the carriage. I thought I had better come and tell you that the flask has been found, and was given to the analyst, and he has reported to us that it contains only brandy. No poison of any kind. I know you must be disappointed but I thought you would want to be informed.’

  Sarah brought in a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on a tray. Frances was so distracted she did not think to pour the tea, and Sarah, seeing how she was, did what was required. Frances hardly looked at the cup of tea that was placed in her hand. ‘I confess I am disappointed, but I have not altered my opinion that my father was not at fault. I assume that the analyst has by now confirmed the cause of Mr Garton’s death?’

  ‘Yes, he has. It was as we suspected, poisoning with strychnine.’

  ‘And the medicine?’

  ‘We expect his report very soon.’

  Frances put aside her cup, the tea untasted, but Wilfred gratefully drank his and took a biscuit to go with it. After a few moments, Frances took her notebook from her pocket. ‘I have been collecting information about Mr Garton, which may have something to do with the case. I have been wondering if he could have had enemies who might have wanted to poison him. Perhaps there is something here that you might find of value.’

  Wilfred did not, as Inspector Sharrock might have done, admonish her for meddling in police business. He put down his cup and plate and took out his own notebook. ‘Fire away, then.’

  ‘Mr Garton came to England from Italy in 1856 to help his grandfather in his shipping business in Bristol, and lived in a nearby village called Tollington Mill, where I understand he enjoyed an easy, sociable life. He inherited the business on the death of his grandfather, sold it in 1870 and moved to Bayswater. Since then he has had no occupation but has taken an interest in paintings and drawings. If he has enemies they could date from his days as a man of business, although that was many years ago, or there may be something in his connection with the world of art.’

  As she looked up from her notebook she realised that Wilfred was staring at her with an expression of profound interest. She felt a leap of hope. Slowly, thoughtfully, he put the notebook away. ‘Tollington Mill,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  He picked up his cup again, and sipped, thoughtfully. ‘I doubt that it has anything to do with Mr Garton’s death, but—’

  ‘Constable,’ she said eagerly, ‘please tell me what you know.’

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘my father was a policeman and he always took a great interest in unsolved crimes. He used to read about them in the newspapers, and often talked about them. Fair upset my mother, but I used to drink it all in. I think he had a fancy that one day he’d catch a criminal who had puzzled the best heads in Scotland Yard and then he’d make his name. Only he never did.’ Wilfred smiled, sadly. ‘He did think he was close to it once, but it ne
ver came to anything. But I do remember him talking about something – I can’t remember what exactly – but it happened in Tollington Mill. That’s Gloucestershire, isn’t it?’

  Frances nodded.’ When was this?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it was well before I was in the police service, I know that, and I joined in ‘73.’

  ‘So,’ said Frances, ‘it could have been when Mr and Mrs Garton were living there?’

  ‘Yes, it could.’ There were some moments of silence as Wilfred gave the matter some consideration. ‘Let me think about it, Miss, and I’ll see if I can find out some more for you. My father used to keep the newspapers if there were cases that took his eye, and I still have them.’

  ‘And you’ll tell me what you find?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ He finished his tea. ‘Now I must get on. My wife will have supper on the table and I won’t half catch it if I’m late.’

  As he departed Frances was filled with a new excitement. Perhaps she had, after all, found a clue to the reasons behind the death of Mr Garton. She also felt a little stab of disappointment, although she could not readily identify its cause.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  No anxious mother with a brood of unruly children to feed, wash and dress in time to look their best for church on Sunday could have been put to more trouble, thought Frances, than she and Sarah were over her father. Coaxing him from his bed was an art in itself, for there seemed to be nothing that was sufficiently interesting or improving to tempt him from his preferred state of almost torpid melancholy. The simple acts of washing and dressing were, on his unhappier days, mountainous tasks too exhausting for him to contemplate, and Frances was often driven to despair that he would ever complete them, for she knew that once they were done he would feel more like his old self, relish his favourite breakfast of haddock poached in milk, enjoy the service at St Stephen’s and even talk sociably with acquaintances as the congregation filed out.

  Choice of clothing was a fraught matter as the weather was still dangerously frosty, with a chill wind, patches of ice underfoot, and precipitation threatened at any moment. All of William’s garments had to be carefully aired in front of the fire before he put them on, and once he was dressed Frances wrapped woollen shawls about him, helped him into his overcoat, and added a favourite muffler, all despite his feeble protests, and to the utter neglect of every other person in the house who had to fend for themselves as best they could. When everyone was ready, Herbert called up a four-wheeler and William was tucked inside under layers of blankets. No new-born babe could have been better protected against the cold air.

  One mercy, thought Frances, as they entered St Stephen’s Church, her arm firmly linked in her father’s, was that they would not encounter any member of the Garton family, who lived in the adjoining parish and therefore worshipped at St Matthew’s. Nevertheless, the parishioners of St Stephen’s included many persons of quality, some of whom might well have been acquainted with the Gartons, all of whom could not have failed to know of Percival’s death and William Doughty’s supposed involvement, since the rattling of after noon teacups in the Grove carried messages faster than any device of Mr Morse. As they took their places, she sensed a coolness in the air which was more than just the temperature. There were odd little half-glances from persons on either side, some frankly curious, some wondering, some with a hint of pity. The inclement weather had resulted in the recent death from lung disease of some of the frailer members of the congregation, as well as two youths who had ignored warnings not to skate on a frozen pond. Reverend Day, in his sermon, understandably said kind words about the departed, regretting especially the loss of those still in the prime of life, and took for his text Romans chapter 6 verse 9, ‘death shall have no dominion over him.’ To Frances’ dismay, and Herbert’s embarrassment, although Percival Garton was not mentioned, William seemed to think he had been. ‘Poor Garton!’ he exclaimed, all too audibly, shaking his head, ‘Poor fellow!’ Frances tried to soothe him into quiet, without success. All around her, shocked looks were exchanged, and there were silent mouthed conversations, and more flickers of eyes in William’s direction from under Sunday bonnets.

  William was too wrapped in his own thoughts to be aware of the attention. Herbert, in his best dark suit and stiffest collar, his moustaches pomaded to a pungent gloss, squared his narrow shoulders and adopted a dignified air. When the congregation rose for a hymn he stared straight ahead and sang with what he fondly imagined to be a manly baritone. He actually reminded Frances in more ways than one of a seal she had once seen in the zoo. When time came for prayer and contemplation, Frances closed her eyes, and implored with all her heart for God to aid her father, for his name to be washed clean of suspicion, to inspire confidence and respect as it had always done, and for peace to enter his soul.

  There was, in the Doughty household, a difficulty concerning Sundays, since William insisted on having a hot dinner on his return from church, a requirement incompatible with Sarah being able to attend service. She had to be content to say her prayers alone in the morning, between clearing away the breakfast things and starting to boil the joint. William, whose mind had in recent weeks only been able to focus clearly on the mundane, remaining curiously vague about anything of importance, would roundly insist each Sunday that the piece of mutton or beef about to be cooked was far too large for the household, and rail against the crimes of extravagance and waste. Every Sunday it would be patiently explained to him that the leftovers would be thriftily transformed into pies and hash and potted meat, and the bones into soup for the week ahead. Even when he appeared to be briefly mollified, it was clear that he did not believe what he was being told. He would mutter under his breath about the expense all through dinner and would not depart from the point until he was settled with his newspaper, and found something in its pages about which he might complain. He was especially troubled by the decline in trade, the war in Afghanistan and the state of Ireland. In the last two weeks, it had been nothing but Tay Bridge.

  That Sunday, however, he was silent on the journey home from church, and throughout dinner. He seemed to be thinking deeply about something. What it was, Frances could not imagine, but she dreaded the time when his thoughts would suddenly burst out into some strange fancy born of his confused brain that would set the household out of sorts for the rest of the day.

  When dinner had been eaten Sarah cleared away the dishes, then prepared and laid out the tea things for later, so she and Tom could visit her family in the afternoon. Frances saw her father settled comfortably before the fire with a blanket over his knees and, in an effort to calm him, gave him the dullest book she could find from his small collection of dull books, which she expected he would make a desultory effort to read before falling asleep. To her consternation, however, he was unusually restive. The sermon and its memories of those recently deceased had unsettled him, and he turned and said, ‘Frances, bring me the Pharmacopoeia, the prescription book and the receipts book.’

  Frances glanced at Herbert. He seemed unwilling to say anything and it was left to her to reply, ‘I am afraid the police still have the prescription book, but I will bring you the others.’

  ‘Still?’ He seemed puzzled, then suddenly frowned and leaned forward. ‘How have you recorded the prescriptions? I hope you have not been neglectful.’

  Frances did not like to tell William that since the news of Percival Garton’s death had become general, there had been no prescriptions. ‘We have recorded everything, I assure you’, she said, and before he could question her further, she went to fetch the other books, ignoring Herbert’s protests that this was unsuitable literature for a Sunday.

  The receipts book was a leather-bound volume, originally of blank pages, in which Frances, William and Herbert entered the composition and method of manufacture of all mixtures not described in the Pharmacopoeia. Some were copied from professional journals and others, such as the elixir of oranges which had formed the basis of Percival Garton’s presc
ription, were William’s own adaptation of a basic stock syrup. Frances brought the books to her father, and watched him pore over them. Every so often he would sigh deeply, but he seemed to come to no conclusion.

  Sarah, in her Sunday best of a stout brown costume and thick dark coat, and a large brown bonnet with a decoration of ugly roses, her strongest corset creaking with every movement, had scrubbed Tom until his ears were almost raw, forced him into an ill-fitting but clean suit of clothes, then brushed and flattened his hair, plastering it to his head with what looked and smelt suspiciously like lard. As she dragged him towards the door she nodded to Frances, indicating the paper-wrapped package, which contained the cake she had made. ‘I’ll be back before you go out,’ she said, making sure that this information was imparted out of Herbert’s hearing. Herbert left shortly afterwards, to take tea with his family, he said, although Frances’ sensitive nose often detected on his return from such excursions that he had a secret partiality to a glass of beer.

  Frances stayed by the fire, reading her bible, and watching her father with anxiety, as he studied the books before him and muttered to himself, but eventually the warmth and the quiet soothed him to sleep. Quietly she laid the bible aside, removed her pocket book from her apron, and read through the notes, then she took up her pencil and began to make a list of everyone she could think of who might have had something to do with Percival Garton’s death. She did not neglect to include those long dead such as his grandfather, whose lives could provide some clue as to the reasons behind his death; and persons as yet unknown – the artist he had encouraged, the gallery owner, or his neighbours in Tollington Mill, who might supply her with valuable information. She would have liked to know why Mr and Mrs Keane had quarrelled, and the reason for Garton’s name being mentioned. Did James Keane suspect his wife of some impropriety with Garton? Was the dinner only a device for him to take revenge on his supposed friend? She suspected that a man who despised and neglected his wife would still feel the blow to his pride should she find solace with another.