The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 9

  ‘Mr Keane must be very upset,’ said Frances, ‘what with being such a good friend, and their business must be all at sixes and sevens.’

  ‘Gentlemen in their position are well able to manage their affairs, you’ll find,’ said Harvey.

  So Garton and Keane had been business partners, thought Frances, or Mr Harvey would surely have denied it. She was about to ask what business they were in, when Ellen rushed in. She had changed her dress to a plain workaday garment and donned the apron and cap of a parlour maid. ‘Mr Harvey! Master and Mistress are back!’

  Harvey dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and rose. ‘Well, Miss Liza from the bakery,’ he said to Frances, ‘you’d best be getting back to your employer. And I do hope for your sake that the art of baking has more to interest you in the future than it has done previously.’

  As Frances walked home, she considered what she had learnt by her visit, and as soon as she was able, sat down to record her thoughts in her notebook. Herbert had not yet returned, and her father was still dozing, so she helped Sarah sort linens for the Monday wash. William still had the books he had been consulting on his lap, and it wasn’t until he awoke that she was able to remove them and take them back to the shop. He was still silent, shaking his head every so often, almost as if there was a thought in his mind he needed to dislodge so he could examine it. It might have been no more than one of his strange fancies, but Frances had an increasingly uncomfortable feeling that there was something in her father’s troubled memory which related to Percival Garton’s death.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday 19th January was the day of Percival Garton’s funeral. Frances considered attending but eventually decided that to do so would be highly improper, especially if she was recognised; also her household duties that morning did not permit her to be absent for any length of time. It was washday, and she would be employed for several hours, boiling water, then pounding, rinsing and wringing before everything could finally be hung to up dry. Yesterday’s squally showers had passed on, leaving the day bright and clear, but it was so cold that anything hung outside would have frozen to the line, so all the linens had to be draped over clotheshorses in the kitchen where they dangled, filling the room with vapour. Usually when Frances and Sarah worked together it was a companionable time, when, while never forgetting that they were mistress and servant, they could still talk as two women united by their duties in life. On that day, Frances was largely silent. She imagined the service at St Matthew’s and the interment at Kensal Green, with herself there as an observer, perhaps appearing as a darkly veiled figure of mystery, or even as eager young Mr Williamson the reporter, casting her eyes over the assembled throng. There would be the distraught widow, Henrietta, Cedric Garton, Mr Keane and his wife, and those of the household servants permitted to leave their duties. Perhaps there would be others she knew nothing of, social acquaintances, the artist whose career Garton had been encouraging, or business associates. Any one of the mourners might well be a murderer. Someone, whose outward demeanour was of familial grief or silent respect, was concealing a secret satisfaction at Percival Garton’s death and congratulating him or herself on not being suspected. Whoever that individual might be, Frances knew that he or she was callously indifferent to the distress and possible ruin of the Doughty family. Frances wondered if, had she been present, she would have seen that moment when the murderer dropped his or her guard, and revealed a gloating pleasure underneath the mask of propriety?

  One thing at least pleased her that morning, and she said as much to Sarah. Her father was looking more robust, and needed no urging to take up his duties behind the counter. At midday, when William sat down to a plate of mutton hash with more appetite than he had displayed in some time, Frances, with reddened hands and aching back, returned to the shop.

  She was surprised to see a familiar figure there, deep in conversation with Herbert. During the worst times of her father’s illness, Mr Ford had been responsible for supervising the dispensing of medicines. He was a man of about forty-five, broad and stocky with a bald pate, fringed with crisp dark hair. He was knowledgeable and experienced in his profession, courteous towards the customers, polite and helpful to both Frances and Herbert, yet she had disliked him almost at once. It had taken her a while to understand why this was so, but she eventually realised that it was the way he moved around the shop, and looked about him. Mr Ford did not see himself as a mere salaried individual, employed by the business for a few short months. Mr Ford was, in Mr Ford’s mind, the future proprietor. He surveyed the premises as if he already owned it; saw the customers as his patrons, and Frances and Herbert as his staff, whom he could afford, from his lofty position, to treat with magnanimity. Mr Ford, when running his plump white fingers along the perfect shine of the mahogany display case, did so caressingly, as if it was already his. He had two sons, pharmacists in the making, to whom he wanted to leave an empire of shops, and the illness of William Doughty and the possibility of a sale made quickly and cheaply out of necessity had excited him. Every so often he would ask questions which Frances thought impertinent and intrusive, about how the business was stocked, who were the best customers, what weekly profits were made, and, most tellingly, the amount of the rent and when the lease was due for renewal. These questions were largely directed at Herbert, even those which Frances could best answer. Though women could now qualify as pharmacists and even open their own businesses, this to Mr Ford’s mind was an aberration he preferred to ignore. Frances had once mentioned to him the inspiring example of Isabella Skinner Clarke, who after years of fighting for recognition had been admitted to full membership of the Pharmaceutical Society only a few months previously. He had gazed at her in cold disdain, and indicated that, in his mind, the Council’s decision had been ‘inappropriate’.

  Mr Ford had pretended to be overjoyed when William Doughty’s improved health had enabled him to return to work, but his disappointment had not been well concealed. Recent events had clearly raised his hopes.

  As Frances entered, the two men looked around, and there was no mistaking a trace of guilt on both their faces.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Doughty,’ said Ford, politely, ‘I was just passing and called in to enquire after your father’s health.’

  ‘That is very thoughtful of you,’ said Frances, with cool dignity, ‘he is greatly improved.’

  ‘I trust that he has not been unduly distressed by the terrible rumours that have been pervading the area. I must assure you that I, of course, do not believe a word of them. Mr Doughty would be incapable of making such an elementary error.’

  ‘I am most gratified by your confidence,’ said Frances.

  Whatever had been said before her arrival, the remaining conversation dwindled into a matter of exchanging politenesses and Ford soon removed himself as graciously as he could. Herbert bustled about, pretending to be busy. ‘I suppose,’ said Frances, ‘you have no intention of telling me why he was really here?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you can mean,’ said Herbert, his tone indicating astonishment. ‘He stated quite plainly the reason for his visit.’

  ‘He did not state it to me,’ said Frances. ‘I believe he came to find out if the business was for sale. He imagines that the recent difficulties will enable him to buy at a favourable price. His approach has the subtlety of a vulture seeking carrion, but he will have a surprise, for we are very much alive and can repel him.’

  Herbert was silent, and Frances wondered if Mr Ford’s visit had been a matter of chance or whether Herbert had had something to do with it. Later that afternoon, William joined them in the shop, where he obtained a joyless gratification by complaining about how things had been run in his absence. He supervised Herbert in the making of a batch of pills, leaning over his apprentice’s shoulder as he worked, making, as was his habit, little ‘Um-hum’ noises at each stage of the procedure, which meant it took twice as long as it should have and was no better done. He then turned to fussing over the accounts, tryi
ng to find mistakes. Disappointed by the absence of mistakes, he was obliged to pretend that Frances’ handwriting was unreadable, and assumed imaginary errors in order to have the satisfaction of taking her to task.

  A note arrived from Mr Rawsthorne, stating that in view of the impending inquest proceedings he wished to visit the shop and see for himself where items were kept and how things were done. He arrived on the stroke of three with a bundle of papers under his arm, and a clerk to take notes.

  He first shook hands with William. ‘My dear old friend,’ he said soothingly, ‘do not worry yourself. I am here to learn what I can and promise you we will find out what happened. I have every confidence that the inquest will clear you of blame.’ He turned to face Herbert and Frances with a beaming smile. ‘Now, to make a start, I need to see the items which formed the ingredients of the mixture made for Mr Garton.’

  Rawsthorne examined everything minutely, both smelling and tasting the contents of the bottles, and looking at the Pharmacopoeia and the receipts book, questioning William until he was certain that he understood the matter thoroughly. ‘So,’ he said at last, ‘two teaspoonfuls only of tincture of nux vomica went into the bottle, which was then made up to six ounces with elixir of oranges.’ Rawsthorne’s clerk, a pasty-faced youth with ink-blackened fingers, unrolled a paper on the counter. He had listened to the conversation, his eyes flickering back and forth about the shop as if fearful that at any moment someone might emerge from the shadows and offer him a deadly poison. Possibly having no suitable pocket for pens and pencils, he favoured keeping them clamped between his teeth, although they also provided a suitable barrier against harm. Removing his sharpest pencil from this convenient holder, he began to write, rapidly, as if his entire future career depended upon it. ‘And how much strychnine would you say was in each dose?’ asked Rawsthorne.

  William started to leaf through the Pharmacopoeia, and Herbert began to scribble numbers on a scrap of paper, but Frances had already done the calculations. Referring to her notebook, she said, ‘The dose is one or two teaspoonfuls of the mixture. There is approximately one hundred and sixtieth part of a grain in each teaspoonful.’

  ‘But we now know,’ said Rawsthorne, nodding at Frances approvingly, ‘that Mr Garton was very imprecise as to how much he took. He disdained teaspoons and drank from the bottle. This fact is very much in our favour as the habit may well have contributed to his death, in which case, it is his own negligence that is to blame, and the court can do no more than issue a stern warning to the public against similar behaviour. Now, assuming Mr Garton to have been only careless and not foolhardy, let us say that he may have taken as much as four teaspoonfuls. That would suggest he ingested one fortieth of a grain of strychnine. And, before we do any more arithmetic of this nature, I need to know the fatal dose of strychnine.’

  ‘For a man in good health, between one and half and three grains,’ said Frances. ‘Half a grain has been known to be fatal, but only in very rare cases.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Rawsthorne, his eyes twinkling, ‘I can see that Miss Doughty has all the answers, and I shall certainly apply to her first if I require any information!’

  Herbert frowned.

  ‘Now I have it from Mr Garton’s medical attendant that there was no reason to suppose that he had an idiosyncrasy for strychnine, and that his indigestion was not a serious condition, and would not have made him more susceptible than the average man. Of course,’ added Rawsthorne with a knowing smile, ‘since Dr Collin was the man who prescribed the mixture for Mr Garton, he will be more than usually eager to assure us that, properly made up, it could have done him no possible harm. So, assuming that a minimum of one and a half grains would be fatal to Mr Garton, let us continue. How much strychnine is there in the entire bottle of mixture?’

  ‘Six twentieths of a grain,’ said Frances promptly.

  ‘Which we know is not enough to slay even the most debilitated of men. So the mixture as properly made up could not have caused his death. Now let us move on, and it is necessary that we do so to consider what the police are saying they believe happened. They have suggested that a more concentrated article, extract of nux vomica, was used in error for the tincture. First, can you show me where it is kept?’

  They all moved into the storeroom where the bottle of extract was pointed out. Rawsthorne examined it carefully, and smelled the contents. ‘Is it safe to taste a little?’ They all nodded, and he cautiously dipped a finger into the bottle, and placed a touch of the thick liquid on his tongue, then grimaced. ‘Very bitter,’ he said. He held the bottle up to the light. I see also that it is almost full. Is this as it was on the date Mr Garton’s prescription was made up?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Herbert. ‘It is used only as the base extract from which to prepare the more dilute tincture, and we have prepared none in the last week.’

  ‘And it is always kept here, and not in the shop?’

  ‘It is,’ said Herbert firmly.

  ‘Hmm. You see, it is my experience that when mistakes are made it is because a bottle of poison has been placed on a shelf next to something innocent, and the two things look very similar, or a bottle has been improperly labelled, or not labelled at all. Many an individual would be alive today had these elementary matters been properly attended to. But here we have two bottles, one large and one small, two liquids which both look and smell distinctively different, especially to a man of experience, and are in different rooms. Clearly also, the tincture is the more commonly used article.’

  Everyone assented.

  ‘Then if any mistake were to be made it is far more likely that a commonly used item would be mistaken for one more rarely used, and in this case it is the commonly used tincture which was the correct ingredient. The theory that the extract was mistaken for the tincture therefore runs entirely counter to our natural intuition. Still, this is the official theory so we must test it. If we consider only the strychnine content, how much more concentrated is the extract than the tincture?’

  ‘It is twenty times more concentrated,’ said Frances, immediately.

  ‘So, Miss Doughty, I am sure you will be able to tell me how much strychnine there is in four teaspoons of this mixture, had it been made with extract and not tincture.’

  ‘Half a grain,’ said Frances. ‘The entire bottle would have contained six grains.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Rawsthorne, ‘Mr Garton would have had to consume at least a quarter of the bottle, and possibly up to half, to obtain a fatal dose. All this is, of course, on the assumption that only two teaspoons of the extract was used to make the mixture, but as we have seen the bottle is almost full so it is hard to see how any more could have been used. Frankly, I think the police theory is a very poor one. First of all, we have the evidence of both Mr Doughty and Mr Munson that it was the tincture that was used, and secondly the mistaking of extract for tincture seems so very unlikely. I would also venture to say that had the extract been used, the resultant mixture would have been so bitter that he would never have consumed it in any quantity likely to be dangerous. The first sip would have told him that something was the matter. There is another theory, which has not been mentioned, that the mixture was made using the tincture, but contained a very much greater amount than two teaspoonfuls. Let us suppose therefore that the mixture was made up not with two teaspoonfuls of the tincture but two ounces. I’m sure Miss Doughty will be able to do the arithmetic if she has not already done so.’

  ‘Two ounces is eight times as much as in the prescription. Even if he took four times the correct dose he would only have taken two fifths of a grain of strychnia,’ said Frances.

  Rawsthorne nodded. ‘Still less than a fatal dose. So here we have it in a nutshell: whether tincture or extract was used, any mixture which Mr Garton might have found palatable enough to consume in any quantity would not have supplied a dose of strychnine sufficient to kill him.’

  ‘Then we are in the clear!’ exclaimed Herbert.

  ‘Poss
ibly,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘Although I see this as the point where the difficulties begin.’

  There were a few moments of silence. Frances, who knew that behind the avuncular manner and cheerful smile, the solicitor was a clever man, realised that the entire conversation had been carefully steered by him to this very point. Only one piece of information was wanting.

  ‘Mr Rawsthorne,’ said Frances, ‘what does the analyst say about how much strychnia Mr Garton consumed?’

  Rawsthorne nodded. ‘Ah, I wondered who would ask me that. Obviously it is not possible to be precise about these things, but he believes that Garton took at least two grains and probably as much as three.’

  ‘Dear Lord!’ exclaimed Herbert.

  ‘To take that quantity in the form of any medicine containing nux vomica, he would have had to consume a large amount of an unpleasantly bitter mixture. Now as we all know, many medicines are bitter to the taste, and some people believe that the more unpleasant the taste, the more effective the medicine, but Mr Garton had had this medicine before, and was familiar with its flavour.’

  Frances recalled something Ada had said. ‘When Mr Garton took his medicine, did he make any comment about how it tasted?’

  Rawsthorne nodded. ‘He did. He told Mrs Garton he believed that it was more bitter than he was used to.’

  Herbert hid his face in his hands and groaned.

  ‘But not, I think, so bitter he could not drink it,’ said Frances.

  ‘That seems to be the case,’ agreed Rawsthorne.

  ‘Has the analyst said anything about the presence of the other constituents of nux vomica?’ she asked. ‘You should know that it contains another, less poisonous alkaloid, brucia. If, as the police suggest, the extract had been used, or if, as you have said, too great an amount of tincture, then not only would the strychnia content of the medicine be increased but the brucia also.’

  Rawsthorne unrolled the bundle of papers under his arm, and examined them carefully, but the answer to this question was obviously not there. ‘Thank you, Miss Doughty, I will make enquiries on this point,’ he said.