A Case of Doubtful Death (5 page)

‘Dr Bonner, now he
is
financially comfortable, but it’s not because of the Life House. Did well out of his medical practice, did even better by marrying a widow with property but no standing in society. Better still, she ignores him and spends all her time on ladies’ committees. He amuses himself nowadays by seeing rich patients with troublesome ailments who pay for his discretion, and elderly persons with something in the funds who he can persuade to become customers of the Life House.’ Sarah poured tea and handed him a cup, and he smiled and helped himself to a bun. ‘You are very kind, Miss Smith.’ Sarah did not look especially kind, but then she so rarely did.

‘Dr Warrinder,’ said Barstie, ‘is not a man of wealth, but neither is he poor. He used to be a consultant at the Hospital for Diseases of the Throat and Chest in Golden Square. Then there was that unfortunate occurrence three years ago, when a lady died after an operation. Words were said and Dr Warrinder thought it best to retire – from tending to the living at any rate. He lives quietly and modestly now.’

‘And Dr Darscot?’ asked Frances. ‘Does he work at the Life House?’

The two men glanced at each other with surprised expressions and shook their heads. ‘No, the only men employed at the Life House are the three directors and the two orderlies. No one called Darscot.’

After they had left Frances examined a local directory, but that too was silent on the subject of Dr Darscot. That was not in itself suspicious; Mrs Georgeson had described him as a young man and he was probably a recent arrival in Bayswater. Whoever he was, he was a close associate of the late Dr Mackenzie and as such she would need to find and speak to him.

Early the next morning as the mist began to lift Frances took a cab up to the Life House, the place where Henry Palmer’s last-known journey had begun. As she crossed the bridge over the Great Western Railway with Kensal New Town to her right and the gasworks to her left, she recalled being told that not so many years ago none of the houses and streets she had just driven past, including the northern part of Ladbroke Grove Road, had existed; all had been farmland and Portobello Lane had wound its lazy way through the countryside towards the cemetery. Then an enterprising gentleman had decided to build a great estate, and the farms had been dismantled and the land covered with houses. He had declared this to be progress, but there was some disagreement as to whether this was really the case. Frances had read in the newspapers of men in politics who called themselves ‘progressive’, and she had sometimes heard them denounced as dangerous fellows who only wanted to take a man’s property away and change everything for the worse, but she could not help thinking that progress might also do good. It was one of those difficult questions she needed to reserve for the time when she would be permitted to vote. She was not, she thought, so naïve as to imagine that men held the right opinions on everything, even though this was something she had often been told.

The cab passed some dingy yards crowded with broken carts and wagons, like graveyards for abandoned vehicles, then crossed the bridge that spanned the murky waters of the Grand Junction Canal, a watercourse that some humorous person had once dubbed ‘the River Styx’ since it bordered the General Cemetery of All Souls Kensal Green. Frances saw to her left the roof of the non-conformist chapel inside the perimeter wall, then the cab turned right down Harrow Road and took her down Church Lane, which lay opposite the church of St John the Evangelist. The lane, which led down to the canal bank, was flanked on its western side by cottages that had once formed part of old Portobello Lane and predated the recent building in the area, and on the other side by newer houses. The eastern side of the lane had once consisted of plots of open land with gardens and smallholdings. It was here that Dr Mackenzie, anxious to find a location for the Life House near to the great cemetery, had been fortunate enough to secure a small parcel of land at a reasonable price. Tucked out of the way, and with the occupants of the rented cottages having little say in the matter, the Life House had been built, and so discreet was its operation that despite the fact that its purpose was generally known, its presence there had become accepted. This was due in part to the respect in which Dr Mackenzie was held in Bayswater, but mainly to his care in ensuring that the business did not create a public nuisance.

The Life House was a great deal smaller than Frances had imagined – a square, one-storey building with small windows just below the level of the roof to dissuade prying eyes. A single chimney wafted a coil of grey smoke into the greyer sky, but there were other brick protrusions, which Frances suspected were for the purpose of ventilation. The building presented a plain wall to the street, with no obvious entrance, but a path, which was just wide enough to admit six men bearing a coffin, wound about its corner. Frances followed the path and found a door on the eastern side of the building which faced away from the street, looking upon some walled yards and the back of a warehouse. It was a simple, but very solid-looking door with a heavy lock and neither bell nor knocker. A brass plate was inscribed
PRIVATE
–
VISITORS PLEASE USE CHAPEL ENTRANCE
with a little arrow pointing the way. The south side of the building faced the canal although separated from it by a railing and some stout trees, and here Frances found a smaller door with a knocker, and a brass plate inscribed
CHAPEL
.

It was possible she noticed, for anyone leaving the Life House and intending to walk south, to avoid going up Church Lane and along Harrow Road, and instead cut through a small passage between the houses on the west of the lane to reach Ladbroke Grove Road. Frances assumed this must have been the start of Henry Palmer’s walk home and would also have been the easiest route for the coffins to take, just a short step to the east entrance of the cemetery.

Frances knocked at the chapel door and after a few moments it swung inwards a few inches, and she was faced by a bored-looking young man with tousled hair wearing a medical orderly’s overall. The odour that crept from the doorway was a powerful suggestion of carbolic mixed with the flowery sweetness of scented candles.

‘Do you have an appointment Miss?’ asked the young man.

Frances presented her card. ‘I do not,’ she said, ‘but I have been engaged by Mr Henry Palmer’s sister to enquire into his disappearance. Are you Mr Hemsley?’

He stared at the card, ‘Yes, I am, but visits are by appointment only, and there are no burials waiting in any case, so I oughtn’t by rights to let you in.’ Despite this he looked as though he might be persuaded without difficulty.

‘I understand that Mr Palmer is a very good sort of person,’ said Frances. ‘Everyone is terribly worried about him and his poor sister is making herself quite ill. I am sure you would do anything in your power to help find him.’

‘Well, Palmer is a good sort, there’s no doubt about that.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in letting you see the chapel. But not the wards, mind, I’d lose my place if I let you in there.’

He stepped back and opened the door fully. Frances entered and found herself in a small room, with plain coffin shells and lids and trestles propped against the walls. A crucifix and two candlesticks stood on a small table covered with a white lace-edged cloth, forming a kind of altar. She had quite hoped to glance inside the ward, if only out of curiosity, and had to admit that there was a challenge in gaining admission to places where she was not allowed, but there was a wheeled stretcher placed across an inner door which she was sure must connect the chapel with the ward, a guardian to dissuade prying eyes.

‘What can you tell me about the night Dr Mackenzie died? I understand you arrived for duty at midnight?’

He scratched his head. ‘That’s right. I got here at the usual time, expecting to see Palmer just about to leave, but instead it was Dr Bonner who told me what had gone on. He said there was to be a viewing the next morning, and he and Palmer had already carried the doctor into the chapel, so we got him laid out properly with flowers and such, and then Dr Bonner went home, but he was back soon after seven o’clock. Then Dr and Mrs Warrinder arrived a little later; they’d been sent a telegram.’

‘Who else came for the viewing?’

‘Mrs Bonner, she never misses one, and then a middle-aged person, I think she was Dr Mackenzie’s landlady, and Mr Fairbrother, he’s a young surgeon come up to London to study, he’s been assisting Dr Bonner, and there was a young man, only he hadn’t come for the viewing at all, in fact he didn’t even know Dr Mackenzie had died, he came to ask if Palmer was there. I think Palmer’s sister is his sweetheart. That was the first we heard he’d not been home the night before.’

‘What about Dr Darscot? I had heard he was a friend of Dr Mackenzie.’

Hemsley shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know a Dr Darscot, but there are any number of doctors who come to look around the wards, so he might have been one of those.’

‘You were on duty here until midday, which would be the time that Mr Palmer would normally arrive. Did you wait here for him?’

‘Yes, well we all hoped that he would come, we thought perhaps he had had something urgent to do that had kept him from home, and maybe he had sent a message and the message got lost, and he would be here as usual. You could rely on him like that. There had only ever been the one time when he hadn’t come and that was when he was too ill to get out of bed, but he’d still made sure to send a note so that we knew and could get someone in.’

‘But he never came back.’

‘No, and there was no note or anything. I stayed on for a little longer, and saw the fire was properly tended and then Dr Warrinder came in, as they couldn’t get anyone else in a hurry. The next day they got some medical students to take care of the place, and now there’s a new man, Renfrew, he started a few days ago.’

Frances looked at the connecting door. Hemsley followed her look and gave a little knowing smile, but made no comment. ‘I see that visitors for a viewing must knock at the chapel door, but how do the doctors and orderlies gain admission? Do you all have keys?’

‘All the doctors have a set. I have one and so does Palmer.’

Frances wondered if someone might have waylaid Palmer to steal his keys, for what purpose she could not imagine, but it was a possible motive for an assault that could have ended in the missing man’s injury or death.

‘Has anyone ever tried to steal your keys?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Or asked to borrow them?’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been asked by press-men to let them in to take a look around. One wanted to borrow my keys and I’m sure he meant to have copies made. Been offered good money, too. But I didn’t take it.’

‘So, if Palmer is missing then his keys are too?’

‘Yes, Dr Bonner had to order the locks changed and new sets of keys made.’

Frances made a note of Hemsley’s address; he was lodging with a family in St Charles Square, off Ladbroke Grove Road. He confirmed that he walked to and from the Life House along the main road, using the side alley that led to Church Lane and assumed that Palmer would have done the same, as it was the fastest way.

Frances left the Life House, following the path that Palmer must have taken. She was not afraid of walking, and recalled the long journeys she had undertaken on foot through rain and mud, when her father had been alive and grumbled at every small expense.

Reaching the upper end of Ladbroke Grove Road, she passed the walled perimeter of All Souls and the gates of the eastern entrance to the cemetery, then crossed the bridge which afforded her a fine view of the canal on either side, with its tugs and barges. The gasworks, she was obliged to admit, was not an attractive sight, although of undoubted utility, as was the bridge over the lines of the Great Western Railway. In all it took some ten minutes for her to reach Dr Mackenzie’s lodgings, and there she stood for a few moments at the bottom of the steps, where Palmer had paused. Why had he done so? Was he thinking about something, or had he seen something or someone that had attracted his attention? Frances gazed about her but could see nothing of importance.

She turned left as Palmer had done and started down the road again, crossing Telford Road, and reaching the junction with Faraday Road. Had Palmer turned left here or had he gone on to Bonchurch Road? Either way he must have reached Portobello Road, walked a short distance and then taken a right turn into Golborne Road, with its rows of shops and lodging rooms above. All the routes would have been well lit, although the yellow lamps might have found it hard to penetrate the enveloping fog that had persisted on the night of Palmer’s last known walk. Both Faraday and Bonchurch Roads were entirely residential, whereas Portobello and Golborne were busy commercial streets where even late at night one might have expected to find many people about. If Palmer had lost his way he might have stumbled into a basement area, yet had he done so he would have been found soon enough. A trapdoor above a cellar might have been left carelessly open, but Frances felt sure that Walter’s enquiries had covered that possibility. He had been very thorough. All the houses looked well-kept and occupied, and the residents would have noticed something amiss.