A Case of Doubtful Death (4 page)

‘There are only gentlemen lodgers here,’ said Mrs Georgeson, as she led Frances down the stairs at the rear of the house. ‘That was the position when Mr Georgeson and I chose to supervise the premises and so it has remained. Respectable single gentlemen, preferably those in the professions, they are so much more reliable.’ Mrs Georgeson, while having no ambitions to appear genteel, was determined to be accounted worthy, and revealed that her husband was engaged in work of the utmost importance to society. She was so evasive when Frances politely enquired as to the nature of Mr Georgeson’s occupation that she could only conclude it had something to do with sewage.

Near the foot of the stairs they met the housemaid on her way up, a tall thin girl, with long untidy curls of light hair wriggling from an over-large cap. She looked like a plant that had grown in too little light and was searching for the sun. She observed them gloomily, turned without a word, and went down again. At the bottom of the stairs there was a small, dark parlour, and the maid passed through it and disappeared into the next room, where a loud metallic clatter announced that this was a kitchen where she was busy either scrubbing pans or knocking them together to give the impression that she was. There was a faint odour of overcooked egg.

Frances and the landlady sat at a small table, where a large brown teapot that looked as if it needed a good scouring stood next to some used cups. Mrs Georgeson frowned at them as if she felt something needed to be done about this situation, and glanced at the kitchen door.

‘Please don’t trouble yourself,’ said Frances, quickly. ‘I would like you to tell me all you know of Dr Mackenzie. How long did he live here? Did your other tenants know him well?’

Frances learned that Dr Mackenzie had occupied the uppermost apartment in the building for the last three years, and had been a quiet and largely solitary individual. A Mr Trainor, who travelled in medical sundries, had lived on the ground floor for ten years and was, if anything, even quieter than Mackenzie. Mrs Georgeson did not think either man had visited the other’s apartments. The first floor had been empty at the time of Dr Mackenzie’s death following the departure abroad of the previous tenant, although a new gentleman had since moved in. Mr and Mrs Georgeson occupied comfortable rooms in the extensive basement and Mary Ann, who was sixteen and had worked there for a year, slept on a folding bed in the pantry.

‘Please describe the evening when Mr Palmer called to report Dr Mackenzie’s death,’ asked Frances. ‘This is extremely important, since as far as I have been able to gather you were the last person to see him before he disappeared.’

Mrs Georgeson made a little grimace as if the fact alone brought her closer to tragedy. ‘Of course I’ll tell you all I can but it’s little enough. And I have already said everything to Mr Crowe. Poor Dr Mackenzie had been so unwell, worn down and tired, and I said to him perhaps he ought not to go out as the weather was cold and foggy, and it might get on his chest and then you never know what might happen. But he insisted he had to go, and so I promised to wait up and see that he got a hot drink and perhaps a little sip of brandy when he came in. I was just starting to worry that he was late back when Mary Ann went to answer the door, and the next thing I knew she rushed down here in tears saying there was a man called to say Dr Mackenzie was dead. Of course I went up at once and found Mr Palmer in the hallway talking to Mr Trainor, who had come out of his room when he heard the commotion. I was told that Dr Mackenzie had suffered a fit and was now a customer of his own establishment.’

‘Had you met Mr Palmer before that day?’

‘No, never. None of us had.’

Frances was disappointed. Only someone who knew Palmer well could judge whether his mood and behaviour that night were characteristic of him. ‘Can you describe how he appeared to you?’

‘Well, he was upset of course, as you might expect, but not crying or anything like that. Shocked, I would say, but quiet and dealing with it like a man. He had a message to bring, a duty to do and he did it.’ She nodded, approvingly. ‘He told me there was to be a private viewing for the doctor’s friends and relatives next morning at ten, and I would be very welcome to attend, so of course I went up to pay my respects. Dr Mackenzie was a good man, always thinking of others, never of himself. He was in a little room at the side, laid out very nice with flowers and candles. Poor gentleman,’ said the landlady wistfully, ‘he had looked so ill these last few months; I’ll swear he appeared better once he was dead. Some of them do, you know, more at peace, all their troubles gone.’

‘Did Mr Palmer look like someone who might go away and have too much to drink to steady his nerves, or a man whose mind might break down with grief?’ asked Frances.

Mrs Georgeson considered this for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘I would say not. He just sighed and said he would go off home to his bed, but he didn’t think he would be able to sleep after what had happened. He said Dr Mackenzie had collapsed right into his arms and he would never forget it.’

‘Did you see Mr Palmer out?’

‘I did.’

‘And did you see where he went – what direction he walked in?’

‘Oh I couldn’t say – it was that bad out I just saw him to the bottom of the steps and then shut the door. Mary Ann might know, as she was back and forth.’

‘In that case, I had better speak to her.’

Mrs Georgeson called the servant from the kitchen, and Mary Ann emerged, peering about her as if short-sighted.

‘This is Miss Doughty, the detective,’ said Mrs Georgeson.

The transformation was immediate. The girl suddenly straightened from her miserable slouch, her mouth forming a dark circle of surprise. ‘Oh, are you the lady in the stories?’ she exclaimed.

‘Stories?’ said Frances. ‘You mean in the newspapers?’

‘No, I mean the halfpenny books.
The Lady Detective of Bayswater
. They’ve got pictures and everything.’

Frances gulped, having no idea that anyone had seen fit to illustrate her adventures and sell copies to impressionable young people. Her immediate instinct was to deny any connection, but then she realised that it was a situation she might turn to her advantage. ‘I have not seen the stories you mention, but they may very well be about me,’ she said.

Mary Ann beamed with excitement. ‘Oh you are
very
brave, Miss!’ she said, admiringly.

‘Thank you,’ said Frances, a little worried at what it was she was supposed to have done. ‘Now, I would like you to sit down and tell me everything you can remember about Mr Palmer who called here to say that Dr Mackenzie had died.’

Mary Ann sat at the table, and stared at Frances as if she was a lady of very great moment.

‘He was a nice-looking young man,’ she said, ‘very tidy and clean, with good manners; and sad. He said that Dr Mackenzie had fallen down all of a sudden, and he and the other doctor had done what they could to help him, but they were sure he was gone. I went to fetch Mrs Georgeson and then came back up the stairs because – to see if I was wanted for anything.’

Mary Ann’s milky face went a little pink and Frances realised she had crept up to the hallway to get another look at Henry Palmer. ‘But Mrs Georgeson said I should go back down to the kitchen, so I did. Has he still not been found, Miss?’

‘No, I am afraid not. Did you see where Mr Palmer went after he left here?’

‘Yes, I was in the area, and he came down the steps. He stopped for a while, like he was thinking about something, and then he turned and walked down the road.’

‘Did he turn the corner and go down Telford Road?’

‘No, I think he crossed over and went on walking. But it was very foggy and I didn’t see him after that.’

Frances nodded. ‘Thank you Mary Ann, you have been very helpful. I had better speak to Mr Trainor, now.’

‘He’s away on business,’ said Mrs Georgeson. ‘I expect him back on Thursday afternoon. I’ll let him know you called. I’m sure he would be more than willing to tell you all he knows.’

‘Then I will return to see him on Thursday. And now I would like to examine Dr Mackenzie’s room. Has it been re-let?’

‘Not as yet,’ said Mrs Georgeson with an air of disappointment, ‘but the room has been emptied, so there’s nothing for you to see.’

‘All the same,’ said Frances, ‘I will see it. Who disposed of the doctor’s effects?’

‘Dr Bonner. He and Dr Warrinder are the executors, but I think it’s Dr Bonner who does all the work. Not that there was a great deal for him to take. Medical books, mainly. Business papers. He asked me to give the clothes to charity. Come with me.’

They ascended two flights of thinly carpeted stairs where Dr Mackenzie’s apartments consisted of two small, comfortless rooms, a parlour and bedroom both with the simplest and plainest of furnishings. There was a sour, dusty smell as if the floor had been roughly swept but not assiduously cleaned.

‘If you know of any single gentlemen looking for respectable lodgings …’ said Mrs Georgeson, hopefully. ‘They get a boiled egg and tea every morning.’

‘I will be sure to mention that you have rooms available,’ Frances promised. She had always assumed that medical men lived in some affluence, but it was clear that Dr Mackenzie had subsisted on a very small income. ‘Did he have many visitors?’ she asked.

‘Some yes, his medical friends. No ladies – never any question of it. Dr Bonner called and Dr Warrinder, and young Dr Darscot.’

‘Dr Darscot? I don’t know that gentleman. Does he work at the Life House?’

‘Oh, that I couldn’t say. But he must have been a very great friend of Dr Mackenzie. He was very upset that night.’

Frances turned to her. ‘That night?’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you mean the night Dr Mackenzie died? Dr Darscot was here?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Georgeson, unaware that she had said anything of interest. ‘He came knocking at the door saying he wanted to speak to the doctor and it was very important and he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I had to tell him; I said Dr Mackenzie has just died.’

‘So Dr Darscot called quite late – after Mr Palmer had gone.’

‘No more than five minutes after, I would say. When I told him the doctor was dead he went into quite a state, wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t believe it, said it couldn’t be true, and demanded to go up to the rooms and see for himself. I told him, the body isn’t there, it’s at the Life House. Then he says he
still
wants to see in the rooms as the doctor had borrowed something from him and he wanted it back. I said I couldn’t let him up there – that the only person I
would
let up there was Dr Mackenzie’s executor, and once he had the papers to prove it was him he could do as he pleased. Then Mr Georgeson comes along and wants to know what the matter is and I told him. And he said the rooms were locked and would stay locked. And Dr Darscot looked very unhappy and ran out, calling for a cab.’

‘Did he return?’ asked Frances.

‘No, I’ve not seen him since.’

‘Do you have his address? I should like to speak to him.’

‘No, but I expect Dr Bonner will know.’

‘Very well, I shall be seeing him soon. And those were the only callers?’

‘As far as I know, yes. Those nights when Dr Mackenzie wasn’t at the Life House he was usually here working. He used to write medical papers and sometimes he gave talks to other doctors. And I think he had started to see patients again. Live ones, that is, only he didn’t see them here. I don’t know where he saw them. It was all work with him,’ she said sighing. ‘All work.’

‘Did he get many letters?’

‘Yes, from time to time.’

‘Who wrote to him?’ Mrs Georgeson bridled at the question and Frances paused, realising that in her eagerness to know the answer she had phrased the enquiry somewhat insultingly. ‘Forgive me; of course you could not possibly have known that unless he told you. What I meant to say was did he ever tell you who wrote to him?’

Mrs Georgeson accepted the apology with a nod. ‘He didn’t say, but there were letters posted in London, and from Scotland, and from somewhere abroad.’

Frances had seen all that she wished, but asked Mrs Georgeson to write and advise her when Mr Trainor was available. She returned home to find visitors in the parlour; Chas toasting currant buns before the fire and passing them to Barstie, who was covering them liberally with strawberry jam spooned from a jar.

‘Only the best, Miss Doughty,’ said Chas with a smile and a wink, as Sarah brought tea and plates. He was looking comfortable and prosperous, and Frances hoped fervently that he was not about to make a declaration of affection. He had once hinted that her expertise in maintaining the account books of her father’s business had excited his esteem, something he would not be able to acknowledge openly until he felt financially settled. While she wished him every success, she would be perfectly happy if he found another lady with which to share it. ‘Now then, you wanted to know all about the late Dr Mackenzie and his associates. I’m sorry to say there isn’t really a lot to tell.’

‘A very peculiar place, the Life House,’ said Barstie, thoughtfully. ‘I shouldn’t care for it myself.’ Barstie, a slender individual lounging casually opposite his plumper friend, had, Frances knew, spent the last two years in the amorous pursuit of an heiress who had so far remained immune to his attentions, a situation which gave him a permanently mournful air.

‘It’s one business I can think of where the customers don’t complain,’ said Chas. ‘If they’re dead why they can’t, and if they sit up again and take notice, well that’s all to the good. And families will pay any amount for peace of mind and a decent disposal of the remains. Death is the one certainty in life. There’s good money in death.’

Barstie sighed as if he could already see Chas making plans to open a new business.

‘Dr Mackenzie was not a prosperous man,’ said Frances. ‘I have seen his lodgings and they were very modest.’

‘He was a man of high principles,’ said Chas, ‘at least he always represented himself as one, and such men never prosper. He first promoted the idea of a Life House in
1862
, although it was three years before he could open it. It was partly paid for with his own money, part came from Dr Bonner and the rest was collected by public subscription. He was paid the smallest salary he felt the business could afford, but it has not made a good profit yet, although it may well do in future. Funerals, on the other hand – you could name your price. We could start small, Barstie – lap dogs and kittens, pet monkeys and such like.’ Barstie’s despondency increased, but Chas breezed on.