An Appetite for Murder (32 page)

‘Who, out of the people who worked at J. Finn Insurance, had ever been to your house?’ asked Frances, wondering if a seemingly innocuous call had provided someone with the opportunity to make an impression of Mr Sweetman’s keys.

‘Well, Mr Gibson was there about a week before the robbery. That’s when I think he may have dropped his pocket book. I never did discover how it came to be in the drawer.’

‘Yes, I had forgotten about the pocket book,’ said Frances. ‘What about after the robbery and before your arrest? Were there any callers then?’

‘Only that one visit from Whibley, when we talked about Minster.’

‘Ah,’ said Frances. ‘I had been under the impression that the discussion you have just described, the one about Mr Minster, took place at the office.’

‘No, it was at the house. The day after the robbery.’

‘Did any of your other colleagues call on you during that week?’

‘No, he was the only one.’

Whibley, Frances recalled, had been the first man on the premises the next morning and discovered the injured Arthur Gibson. How easy it would have been for him to take the book from the unconscious man’s pocket, and later hide it in Mr Sweetman’s house. But if Whibley had been implicated in the crime in some way, why had he given the alarm and then done everything he could to help Gibson? Why leave the possibility of the man surviving and remembering everything that had happened and revealing the identity of the robber?

In the end, thought Frances, everything came back to Mr Whibley: the fine fellow whom everyone liked; the man who had been kindness itself to his mistresses and children; who had generously supported a worthy charity; the man who was so clever with wills and ledgers; the man who had in all probability embezzled money from his employer and had another man’s life destroyed to cover his tracks; the man who, as his heart failed him and he felt the hand of death on his shoulder, and was asked to present his final set of accounts, realised that on the balance sheet of good and evil the business of his life was bankrupt and that nothing he could do would fool the great Auditor.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

T
homas Whibley, thought Frances. What kind of man had he been? He was undoubtedly clever with law and finance though what other skills he might have had were a mystery. Was he kind, sociable or witty? Did his manner inspire trust? Was his generosity merely outward show to acquire a reputation in the eyes of the world, or was it a product of genuine feeling? Importantly, did he have a conscience? If he had embezzled funds from J. Finn Insurance, and then, in order to avoid discovery, removed Mr Sweetman by masterminding the robbery, probably with the connivance of the unsavoury Mr Minster, it looked as though he had done so with an easy mind. He had lived on, seemingly untroubled by remorse, for fourteen years, until Hubert Sweetman was released from prison, and came to him, not with any question about the robbery, but simply to discover the whereabouts of his family. What was it about this apparently innocuous enquiry that had so disturbed Mr Whibley? Why did he feel a sudden rush of guilt? Or was it not guilt at all, but fright? Was there something Sweetman had said which suggested to Whibley that retribution was on its way? Had Mr Sweetman unknowingly aroused memories of other crimes that Whibley had committed that Frances did not as yet know about?

Frances reviewed the career of Mr Whibley once more. The obituaries stated that he came from humble antecedents and when he first came to work for J. Finn Insurance in 1860, it was with only modest expectations. Later, he determined to better himself by study, undertaken in his own time, with the ambition of qualifying as an accountant. In 1866, Mr Whibley finally and successfully completed his studies, left J. Finn Insurance and went to work for Anderson and Walsh in a junior capacity. The books of that company, too, thought Frances, might well be found to require a close examination. Whibley, at thirty-five, was rising in the world, a man who had worked hard to achieve his position, worked harder to maintain it, and did not stint himself on amusements. The more she read about him and his career the more a picture emerged of a man who spent long hours at his desk, and whose achievements and standing were a product of toil and determination rather than innate brilliance. There were no tributes to him as a sociable man, he seemed to buy his pleasures rather than earn them. There were occasional mentions of his charitable interests, the foundling home to which he made regular donations, and a plan to establish a hospital for the aged poor that had not yet come to fruition. Were these genuinely selfless schemes, or were they also commercial transactions – the purchase of popularity, social acceptance and a place in heaven? He had not initially, thought Frances, been destined for great wealth, since his opportunities for extracting large sums from both firms were limited. The substantial and unexpected turnaround in his fortunes had happened on that fateful train ride.

Frances returned to the offices of the
Chronicle
to see if there was anything further she might learn about the chance that had made Mr Whibley a wealthy man. The
Chronicle
had lengthy reports on the accident, the inquest and official enquiry that had followed, but Frances was unable to learn a great deal more than she already knew. She wondered if there was a newspaper for Keymer or Brighton that might give more detailed information.

The section of the Brighton line where the collision had occurred was well known to suffer misty weather at all seasons of the year. The train had been approaching the station known as Keymer Junction, where the line passed over a steep embankment, when it ran into a patch of mist, and slowed down to five miles an hour. The stationmaster had sent warning messages by telegraph and the signalman had attempted to alert an approaching express, but neither he nor the signals were visible until it was too late. The driver of the express had seen the danger and made desperate attempts to throw the train into reverse to avoid an accident, but without success. The express was still going at some forty-five miles an hour when it plunged into the rear carriage of the slow train, which was badly crushed, left the rails, and toppled half way down the embankment. The engine of the express was thrown across the line and several of its carriages were smashed while others slid down the embankment. In all, four people were killed and twenty injured. As the shattered carriages came to rest, shocked passengers began to crawl from the debris and help free those who were trapped. The injured were carried to the station waiting rooms, where a clergyman offered comfort to the victims and ladies volunteered to act as nurses. The most extraordinary escape was that of Mr Draper, the conductor of the express, who, immediately before the impact, had just come out onto the platform of the front carriage. Draper was thrown bodily down the embankment, rolled down to the bottom and picked himself up, shaken but uninjured apart from a bruised forehead. He had at once given assistance to those in the rear carriage of the slow train, where a heavy fall of wood from the collapsing roof had caused serious injuries, and was praised for both his courage and quick thinking.

Company officials later brought up a special train from Brighton to take the injured, most of whom had suffered fractures, to a Sussex hospital.

As Frances wrote in her notebook, Mr Gillan appeared, always keen to see what she was about. ‘Ah, the Brighton excursion accident,’ he said. ‘Nothing suspicious about that, though … or since you are reading about it, perhaps there was?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Frances, ‘but the gentleman I would really like to speak to is Mr Draper, who must surely have a story to tell. Do I have to travel to Sussex to learn more, or are you able to enlighten me?’

‘We do keep cuttings from other papers where they have Bayswater interest,’ said Gillan. ‘But come now, share and share alike, why are you so concerned with this?’

‘I am trying to learn all I can about the late Mr Whibley, who was injured in the accident,’ said Frances. ‘Whether it would benefit either myself or my client I am not sure, but I have a feeling that he might be guilty of some of the crimes laid at Mr Sweetman’s door.’

‘Oho, now that sounds interesting!’ cried Gillan. He hurried away and returned very soon with a folder of cuttings from
The
Times
, the
Illustrated
Police
News
and the Sussex newspapers. ‘Have you found Sweetman’s son and daughter yet?’ he asked.

‘I am continuing my enquiries,’ said Frances, carefully. She opened the folder and extracted the papers.

‘Ah, so the answer is yes,’ he declared triumphantly.

‘I have said no such thing!’ she retorted.

‘But I can see that you have found something out. It will be a touching story I am sure.’ He grinned.

‘I can give you nothing for publication. Not, I suppose, that that will stop you from making it all up. May I ask you not to print anything on the subject?’

‘Now, you know that’s not your decision or even mine, but the editor.’

‘The editor may only print what he is given,’ said Frances. ‘And an incautiously worded item in the newspapers now may harm my efforts, and then you will have no story at all. Oh!’ she exclaimed, picking up a sheet of paper from the file. A few names were scribbled on it but this was not what had drawn her attention. Plain as it was, she knew it well. It was cheap paper used for rough notes, sold to offices by weight, and it was identical to the paper used for both the Bainiardus letter and the anonymous accusation against Mr Thorpe that Frances had received.

‘Mr Gillan,’ she said, ‘do you happen to be acquainted with a Mr Alfred Thorpe of the West London Bank?’

Mr Gillan looked undeniably alarmed. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said sharply. ‘What has he been saying?’

‘Mr Thorpe, as you are obviously clearly aware, has had reason to complain about anonymous letters accusing him of unnamed irregularities. Some of these letters were sent to the police and one was sent to me. It was on paper identical to this sheet.’

‘But that kind of cheap paper is all over London,’ he protested.

‘Not all have this uneven edge where the batch was imperfectly cut. What do you have to say?’

Mr Gillan capitulated. ‘I should have known there is no fooling you,’ he said ruefully. He glanced over his shoulder, pulled up a chair and sat down beside Frances. ‘I’ll tell you all about it, but you must promise it is not to go any further.’

‘Really?’ asked Frances. ‘You surprise me. It sounds like a promising story. Will you not be publishing it in the
Chronicle
?’

Gillan sighed. ‘You have me there.’

‘I shall require a reciprocal promise.’

‘Oh very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I promise to write nothing about the Sweetman boy and girl until you tell me. Yes, this is paper bought in bulk for our office use some years ago, and I took some of it home. My sister uses it for shopping lists and such like. Well, she’s thirty now and single, and I suppose she felt that time was passing her by on the romance front, and whenever she spoke to Mr Thorpe at the bank he was nice and polite and she thought he was in love with her, but then she found out that he loved another. I didn’t find out until too late that she had been sending those foolish letters. Anyhow, I was able to smooth it over, and she has since met a deliveryman who seems like a decent sort of fellow, so she has another interest now. I made sure that all the letters I could find had been destroyed, but I didn’t know you had had one, too. There, that is all the story.’

‘Not all,’ said Frances. ‘There is another letter I am interested in, signed Bainiardus. It uses the same paper and is in the same hand. Your sister’s hand, but not, I think, her sentiments. I think
you
composed it and sent it here for publication. Of course in the
Chronicle
office your handwriting would be recognised, so you had to employ your sister as secretary.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘what sharp eyes you do have, Miss Doughty. I can see there would be little point in my denying it. Well, you must admit it was a good story and it led to some very interesting correspondence.’

‘And it terrified perfectly healthy people who rushed to see their doctors and wasted a great deal of time and expense,’ said Frances sternly.

He shrugged. ‘No real harm was done.’

Frances was not so sure of that.

When Mr Gillan had gone away to further enlighten the news-hungry population of Bayswater, Frances studied the folder of newspaper cuttings and read all about Mr Draper of Brighton, who was being touted as the hero of the hour. There was even an engraving from the
Illustrated
Police News
, which loved to champion the achievements of the common man, showing Mr Draper rolling down the embankment, then leaping up energetically to rescue the injured from the crushed carriage. Mr Draper had made the most of his brief fame, describing in some detail what he had found. The rear coach of the train had been crushed to splinters, and the first thing he had seen when he looked in at what had once been a window was a very distressed and rather attractive young lady, trying vainly to move a portly gentleman who had been thrown on top of another, who she said was her husband. The portly gentleman was bleeding from a head wound and his leg was badly broken. He appeared to be unconscious. An elderly gentleman was also at the window calling out for assistance, saying that he was unhurt and begging that his sister, a lady of similar age, who was in a bad way, should be rescued quickly. The roof had come down in a great cascade of broken wood, and a younger man was on the other side of the carriage, out of immediate reach, trapped under its weight, his arm badly crushed and bleeding. He was groaning in pain and trying unsuccessfully to free himself. The elderly lady who sat opposite was buried under a heap of wood. She was clutching her chest and seemed dazed and confused. Draper saw at once that the whole structure was unstable and a further collapse was imminent. He managed to draw out the young woman who was sobbing but unhurt, and laid her to one side so she was out of danger. He then returned and at some risk to himself rescued the elderly lady. Another gentleman who had been in the next carriage then came to help, and the portly gentleman was brought out with considerable difficulty, but as they tried to reach the other occupants, a further shift in the unstable material brought down more shards of wood. Work had gone on for some time clearing the debris, and it was found that the elderly man, who had been unhurt by the initial impact, had died in the aftermath.