An Appetite for Murder (21 page)

Frances understood now that Miss Rose had been reserving this information all along. ‘The young girl, she was Mary Sweetman, wasn’t she?’

Miss Rose fluttered her scarf. ‘I didn’t know her name. She sang a vulgar song about farm animals, and her brother whistled popular tunes. It was a very low kind of entertainment. But later, when I saw them together, I could see that they were devoted to each other, and very unhappy. The boy, although he was the elder of the two, was the more despondent, and his sister was comforting him. I asked if there was anything I could do, but they only said that they had suffered a great disappointment and could not go back to their family but were obliged, young as they were, to make their own way in the world.’

Frances showed Miss Rose the portrait that Edward Curtis had provided and she declared that while it had been many years since she had seen the pair, it depicted nothing to suggest that the boy and girl she had encountered at the Bijou were not Benjamin and Mary Sweetman.

‘Did no one try to help them?’ asked Frances. ‘Surely the charitable ladies could have done something?’

‘I offered to make enquiries on their behalf, to see if there was some respectable occupation that could be found for them, but I was assured that they had both obtained suitable means of earning their bread. The girl had some talent in song, and might have done well in that line, but she could not endure the unsavoury persons who sometimes frequented the theatre and paid her unwanted attention, and had determined to give it up. I assumed that she was to go into service. The brother had no talent at all, or if he did, it was not apparent on the stage. But he was a well-looking and active boy, and the theatre had offered to employ him in selling tickets and distributing notices. He could earn sufficient to keep himself, but not both, and so they were obliged to part, which was a great source of distress to them, that and the fact that their family had once been respectable and their present situation was a great fall in their expectations.’

‘Did you ever see either of them again?’ asked Frances, hopefully. She offered the biscuits again and Miss Rose absent-mindedly took one and nibbled it.

‘I did not see the girl, but from time to time I saw the boy going about his business. He was there for six or seven years. I don’t know what became of him after that.’

‘Did he ever say what had become of his sister?’

‘I did enquire after her once and he said she had found a good situation and was happy.’

Frances questioned Miss Rose further, but she knew of no one living in Bayswater who had been associated with the Bijou Theatre at the time that Benjamin Sweetman had worked there. Still, she had made some progress.

‘I believe that the variety nights were discontinued in 1866,’ said Frances.

‘Oh dear me, yes,’ said Miss Rose, throatily. ‘Did you know about the scandal concerning that despicable creature Mr Hatfield who produced the varieties?’

Frances pretended ignorance and Miss Gilbert and Miss John leaned forward and breathed a little faster in anticipation. ‘A scandal, how exciting!’ said Miss Gilbert, with a little squeal.

‘It transpired,’ confided Miss Rose, warming to her audience, ‘that the profits from the variety nights were going in his pocket and not to charity as he claimed. Gambling debts. I once saw him in conversation with that coarse moneylender person, the one who –’ she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Well, it was all rather horrid.’

‘He had his throat cut,’ said Miss John, with relish, and Frances half expected her to take a scissors from her bag to demonstrate. ‘Perhaps Mr Hatfield did it?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ said Miss Rose, ‘because the moneylender was a tall man and Mr Hatfield was very short.’ The ladies spent a few moments pondering the practicalities of throat cutting. ‘Someone said the murderer must be a cabdriver, because it happened near a mews and the police questioned all the men who lived nearby, but nothing ever came of it.’

‘Oh, Miss Doughty, here is a fine mystery,’ exclaimed Miss Gilbert. ‘I am sure that if you were to look into it, with your wonderful brain, you could easily find out the murderer.’

‘Is there a reward offered?’ asked Frances, not because she thought there was one, but to make a point of the fact that she rarely gave her services gratis.

Miss Gilbert was unsure.

‘And think of the
danger
!’ said Miss John, although her tone suggested that this was not a bad thing, indeed both ladies appeared to be of the opinion that Frances pursued criminals not as a profession but for amusement, in the same way as Miss Rose offered her services as an actress.

‘I would very much like it,’ said Miss Gilbert, ‘if you were to address the society next Monday. We have some very distinguished gentlemen visitors, who I know will be impressed with you and this will add to our campaign to convince them that we women can manage our own affairs as well as or better than men. One day, Miss Doughty, ladies will enter parliament – not just to watch men making such turmoil in the world, as they do now, but actually putting their mistakes right. If women ruled, then I am convinced we would have no conflicts and no wars, and how wonderful that would be!’

‘What subject do you wish me to choose for my address?’ asked Frances.

‘Oh, anything you please! I know it will be interesting.’

While Frances considered this, the conversation turned to the drama, in which Miss Rose was still active, being a leading member of the Bayswater Ladies’ Artistic Society, who often performed interludes at Westbourne Hall. There was even talk of reviving ‘The Happy Sisters’, and Miss Rose revealed that this time the Society had asked her to portray the oldest, most accomplished sister, because with her experience of the stage she now merited a larger role than before.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

A
s Frances bid farewell to her guests and tidied away the tea things, her ruminations on the subject of Matthew Gibson’s letter promoted another thought. She opened the drawer of her desk and extracted the folder of anonymous letters that had been sent to her over the course of the last year. Jealous wives and cast-off mistresses, rival businessmen, unhappy servants, vengeful employees; they were all here in moods of various shades of green and purple. The first trial at which she had appeared as a witness and which had established her reputation as a discoverer of hidden crime, had resulted in a small deluge of letters, the contents of which varied from proposals of marriage to insults, while a few correspondents simply expressed their undying admiration and said that if they ever wanted a murder investigating they would call on her at once, all of which she found equally disturbing. As she sifted through the rest, her mind was telling her that the idea that had suddenly come to her was the result of pure confusion, and that she had examined so many letters and notes that they had somehow all started to look the same, but she persevered and finally lighted on a letter she had received some eight months previously:

Dear Miss Doughty

You are a very clever detective and I know the newspapers cannot be lying when they say how you have caught so many murderers and helped ladies who have been cruelly ill-used. I am sure that if you were to look into the affairs of Alfred Thorpe who works at the Westminster Bank, you would find something to his detriment.

Yours faithfully

A sincere friend

Three things were very apparent to Frances on reading this letter. Firstly, whoever the writer was a sincere friend of, it was not Alfred Thorpe. Secondly, the author was in all probability female, and had been passed over in romance by Mr Thorpe, but, most importantly, the writer was none other than that supposed friend of the late Mr Whibley – Bainiardus. The paper, while of a common type, had the same irregularity on one edge as the Bainiardus letter, showing that not only was it the same paper, but it had been cut at the same time and was part of the same batch. The writing was identical.

This information placed Frances in something of a quandary. She had not been engaged to find Bainiardus but Sanitas, and there was no suggestion that by identifying one she would thereby unmask the other. Showing Mr Thorpe the letter and asking if he knew the writing might well result in the exposure of Bainiardus, but also distress to the gentleman and his family, the prosecution of Bainiardus and painful scenes in a public court. She could show him the opening lines of the letter, or even just the envelope, but on what pretext might she do so?

For some months Frances been in the habit of retaining copies of the
Chronicle
for professional purposes and she now consulted her collection, and very quickly found what she was looking for. The letter was, inconveniently, undated, but she felt certain that she had received it last May. In that same month, Mr Alfred Thorpe had announced his engagement to a Miss Lambert.

Frances looked through all the other letters in her folder of anonymous missives, and found to her relief that there were none others from ‘a sincere friend’, nor any on the subject of Mr Thorpe. The newspapers also told her that Mr Thorpe had conferred marital happiness on Miss Lambert last September. The fact that this event had not provoked another letter on that gentleman’s supposed defects suggested that the lady he had either jilted or ignored had recovered from her disappointment. No one would wish the distasteful incident to be exposed, and worse still, supposing Bainiardus was actually Miss Lambert, who had dashed off a bitter missive in the heat of a quarrel that had been quickly made up to end with a joyous result? Mr Thorpe would know his wife’s handwriting at once and the consequences would be terrible indeed. Frances could do no more than note the discovery before she set off for Paddington Green.

Inspector Sharrock’s expression when he saw her was at first, unreadable. He did not lose his temper, or order her to leave, which was a promising start, but neither did he speak to her, he simply went to get a bunch of keys and returned. Standing before her, with a belligerent twist of the mouth, he rattled the keys with a jerky movement indicating insufficiently suppressed anger and frustration.

‘So now I am to do your bidding,’ he blurted out at last. ‘Here’s a fine thing. I suppose you will be lady commissioner next and command the police force.’

‘I am sorry if you have been offended,’ said Frances, ‘but I do hope we can resolve our differences. We both act in the interests of justice, and if we could work in harmony that would be so much the better for everyone. I would never have chosen to be a detective; it was circumstances that made it my profession.’

‘Humph!’ Sharrock snorted.

‘Now then, before we proceed to the cells, I wish to show you two letters and ask if you can identify the writers.’

‘Libel, is it now?’ said Sharrock. ‘Oh well, at least that’s better than murder. But we get hundreds of letters here. Most of the writers want locking up.’

Frances showed him the Sanitas and Bainiardus letters and he nodded. ‘Oh I know what these are, they’re the ones sent to the
Chronicle
after that Whibley died. What a lot of rumpus about nothing!’

‘Do you know the hand?’ asked Frances.

He shook his head. ‘No, but that’s not to say these aren’t from the regular types who make it their business to complain about everything.’

‘I don’t suppose you keep letters of this kind?’

‘We might if they’re of any interest and not obviously from a lunatic.’ He paused and tapped the Bainiardus letter. ‘Now you come to mention it, this one does look like something I’ve seen. There was more than one as well, about a Mr …’ he scratched his head. ‘No, I can’t think of the name, and I wouldn’t know where to find them, even if we still had them, which I doubt.’

Frances decided not to prompt him by naming Mr Thorpe. ‘I have seen something similar concerning a bank,’ she suggested.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Sharrock, ‘I remember now, he was a bank clerk. He’d been getting letters threatening to expose him for some crime, and we got sent them, too. In view of the seriousness of the allegations, and the prospect of a criminal charge, we showed the letters to him.’

‘Did he know who the writer was?’ asked Frances.

‘He said he did, it was a lady who had taken a fancy to him and mistaken a kindness for something more and wanted to get back at him when she found out he was to be married. He didn’t want to press charges, and offered to speak to her about it. The letters stopped.’ He shook his head. ‘The trouble is, there are too many single ladies about with nothing to keep them busy. These ladies ought to find husbands, and then they’d not be idle and get silly ideas in their heads, or involve themselves in things they ought to leave alone.’ He gave Frances a meaningful stare.

‘Well, that is very helpful, thank you,’ said Frances. ‘And now, if you please, I would like to see Mr Sweetman.’

‘That nephew of his seems like an eligible type,’ hinted Sharrock.

‘He has a wife,’ said Frances.

‘My brother doesn’t. You could meet him if you like.’

‘The cells, Inspector, please.’