The Poisonous Seed (25 page)

Cornelius looked uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry. I have done my best, but it has not proved to be possible. But it will be a beautiful spot, I can assure you.’

‘I am not sure that I can pay for it,’ she said, the dreadful prospect of a pauper’s grave suddenly arising before her.

‘Oh, leave that to me, Frances,’ he reassured her.

‘But you have done so much for me already!’ she said, unable to hide her relief and gratitude.

‘You are my only sister’s child,’ he said. ‘I will do whatever I can.’

‘I must visit my mother’s grave again,’ she said wistfully. ‘My father only took me there once and he was so distressed, I never dared ask him again.Will you take me there?’

‘Poor dear Rosetta,’ said Cornelius, with a faraway look. ‘Yes, of course I will.’

Cornelius departed, not before he had observed Frances’ very great interest in the newspaper, and, realising that not purchasing such an item was one of her many economies, he said that she might keep it if she liked.

The editor of the
Chronicle
was clearly in a state of great excitement, doing his best to convince his readers that here, in their very midst, was a crime of such enormity it would be recorded in the annals of the greatest frauds of the century. ‘It is confidently expected that the trial, assuming there to be one, will be a sensation. The crimes of Mr Keane are said to rival even the iniquity of John Sadleir, the cunning of Leopold Redpath and the cruelty of Lewis Cotter.’ Frances had no idea who any of these dreadful persons might be, but felt sure that James Keane must be at least as bad as all three rolled into one. The editor also mentioned that forgery was not as it had once been, a capital crime, something Frances could only regret. The next step in James Keane’s descent into the pit of retribution was the Marylebone Police Court hearing, when the charges would be heard and the decision no doubt made to commit him for trial. Frances was not prepared to wait until then. If only she could persuade the police to charge him with murder she would stop the hated gossips forever.

Frances prepared to go out, but before she did so, and after some thought, she decided that there was at least one thing she must attempt, and perhaps on this occasion it would be best to approach it in a proper manner. She wrote a note to Mrs Keane asking if she could call.

So much had happened to Frances since her first visit to Paddington Green Police Station that it held no terrors for her now. Was there any worse sight to see than the ugly brawl in front of the Keanes’ house, any person less savoury in appearance than the Filleter, anything that could touch her heart more than the death of her father or crush her more than the loss of the home in which she had been born? She approached the sergeant’s desk boldly, and as she waited her turn behind some women wrapped in layers of colourless and threadbare shawls, Inspector Sharrock came out of his office and saw her.

‘Miss Doughty!’ he said, and while it was obvious that he was not pleased to see her, the news of her bereavement clearly inclined him to indulge her a little. ‘Come into my office and sit down. Whatever you want to say, I have a few minutes to listen.’

She followed him into the room and waited by the chair until he removed some papers from the seat and added them to the untidy pile on his desk. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.

‘I am sorry to hear about your father,’ he said bluntly, more for the purpose of disposing of that little politeness than any real expression of feeling, yet in a way it was more honestly spoken than the piteous ramblings of some of her neighbours.

‘Thank you, Inspector. I have come to see you as a result of reading in today’s
Bayswater Chronicle
about the charges against Mr Keane.’

‘Oh dear!’ he sighed. ‘I know what this is about. You
have
got a bee in your bonnet about Mr Keane. Yes, he is a villain, but there is no evidence to say he is a murderer, and without evidence I can’t charge him.’

‘You had no evidence that he was a fraudster and all those other terrible things, yet you found it. I am sure if you looked —’

‘Looked
where
, Miss Doughty?’ he said, wearily.

‘The murder of John Wright in Tollington Mill in 1870. The disappearance of Mr Meadows,’ she declared.

‘I know all about John Wright,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got my constable wasting his time over it. John Wright was murdered by a footpad for his gold watch, and Mr Keane was in London when it happened. As for Mr Meadows, the French police are looking for him, but picking out one artist in France from all the others could be difficult. Please, Miss Doughty, just go home and see to your own business and let the police see to theirs.’

‘But this
is
my business!’ she insisted. ‘People are saying that my father killed Mr Garton and then took his own life! But Mr Keane had ample motive to commit murder!’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Motive is not proof, Miss Doughty. Besides which, I should like to know how Mr Keane managed to put poison into a bottle of medicine which as far as anyone can see he never even came near.’

‘Perhaps he bribed one of Mr Garton’s servants to do it,’ said Frances desperately.

‘Oh? And which one of them do you suspect?’

‘All of them! None of them! I don’t know!’

He sighed heavily. ‘You see Miss Doughty, it is all very well to throw out accusations like that but police work needs a logical brain, which, as I am sure you will agree, is not the
forte
of the fairer ones amongst us. That is why police and judges and lawyers are men, and always will be. Pharmacy is different, I will admit. Tending to the sick, making up a little mixture, tying up a pretty package, now that might well be ladies’ work, but not this.’

‘But you have never even considered that the servants might be involved in the crime,’ said Frances.

‘Which is where you are very wrong,’ he said. ‘We always consider the servants and in this case we took the precaution of looking in their rooms to see if there was anything of a suspicious nature.’

‘And what did you find?’ she asked.

‘Well, nothing actually criminal,’ said Sharrock, pulling a face, ‘dubious yes, but criminal, no. Not a suggestion that one of them might have had a hand in killing Mr Garton.’

‘Will you tell me what you found?’ she demanded.

He stared at her. ‘You
astound
me, Miss Doughty. Do you think I would show you a confidential police document?’

‘Since, as you say, there is nothing criminal in it, I don’t see how it can do any harm,’ she said boldly. ‘And if someone had the means to introduce poison into the bottle without disturbing the seals, I might be able to recognise it.’

He paused and she saw his eyes flicker to the desk. His fingers drummed the edge. ‘It would be highly irregular. Even if you were to agree that in return you would go home and not trouble me again, which, would, I admit be a tempting thought; even then, I doubt that I could allow it.’

‘Inspector, please —,’ she begged.

‘No, no, don’t entreat me; I am immune to all persuasion. There are female persons who come into this station – I will not call them ladies – more adept at persuasion than you will ever be, and I have hardened myself against all blandishments of that nature. I am sorry if my decision distresses you, but so be it.’ He frowned, and looked at her keenly. ‘I hope you are not feeling unwell, Miss Doughty.’

‘I am perfectly well, thank you,’ she said, coldly.

‘Only, it seemed to me that you might be in need of a glass of water, in which case I would go and fetch one for you.’

‘I —’ she stared at him.

‘Glass of water, Miss?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Last chance to refuse.’

She understood. ‘Yes please.’

‘Wait there. I might be a minute or two.’ He rose and left.

Hardly believing what had just happened, Frances hurried to the desk and quickly sifted through the papers, fortunately finding what she wanted near the top. She took her notebook from her pocket and quickly began to write. When she had done she replaced the paper on the desk in what she hoped was its original position, and sat down. Only a moment later Sharrock appeared with a glass of water.

‘There you are, Miss Doughty, and it is not every lady who receives refreshment here without the preliminary of being locked up, something I hope you never come to.’

‘You are very kind,’ she said, sipping the water.

‘I trust that you can now promise me that you will in future confine your energies to pursuits more, shall we say, appropriate to a young lady.’

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said coolly, ‘but I regret that I am forced by circumstances to be my own judge of what is appropriate.’

He shook his head. ‘I am sorry to hear it. You are, may I say it, very young and very inexperienced to be without a guide in life. I see many an individual go astray for that very reason.’

She put the glass down. ‘One thing I
will
promise you. I will not trouble you again until I have in my hands proof positive of the identity of the murderer of Mr Garton.’ She rose. ‘And now I wish you good-day.’

He showed her to the door, and she sensed that her dignity and determination had at the very least earned his respect.

When she returned home, Sarah, in accordance with Frances’ instructions, was preparing a frugal meal of grilled herrings and rice pudding with tea. Frances cared little what she ate as long as it was wholesome and nourishing, but Herbert looked at the arrangements with alarm, though he clearly felt unable to complain. Frances was able to find a little private time to study her notebook and wonder what, if anything, it told her. The servants’ rooms naturally contained their own small personal effects such as clothing, toilet articles, family letters and a few gewgaws of cheap jewellery. None of the other items listed suggested that any one of them had received a bribe, though she could see why some might have been considered dubious.

In Mr Garton’s house, an article of gentleman’s underlinen, thought to belong to Mr Beale the coachman, had been found in the room of Mrs Grange the cook, while Mr Beale, a single person, with, Frances recalled, a fondness for ladies who knew their way about a kitchen, was the owner of a pamphlet entitled ‘Sanitary Practices for the Married Man.’ Flora, the nervous kitchen maid, had concealed under her mattress a collection of newspaper cuttings on the subject of burglaries in the neighbourhood, while Susan, the ladies’ maid whom Ada had said was able to sleep through any amount of noise, had hidden away a small medicine bottle, empty but thought to have once contained laudanum. Ada’s one secret possession was a photograph of a small boy – the police note had added ‘(very ugly)’ – with ‘Harold’ written on the back. Mr Edwards, Mr Garton’s manservant, would have been mortified to find that others now knew he possessed an elastic apparatus for the control of protruding ears.

The servants’ rooms in the Keane household also revealed an interesting, though not incriminating, assortment of possessions. Ettie’s secret vice was a small collection of dolls made from clothespegs and scraps of knitting wool. Mrs Grinham, whose lumbago must have been worse than anyone had suspected, owned a large bottle of horse liniment, and a box of blue pills. At least Frances could now guess how Mr Harvey had gained such intimate details of the financial affairs of the Gartons. Hidden amongst his socks were some pictures of classical Greek statues and two postcards from Italy signed ‘Affectionately, Cedric’. Mr Shilling the coachman had a collection of recipes for horse medicines, and Frances wondered if Mrs Grinham had been consulting him as more appropriate to her condition and a great deal cheaper than Dr Collin. Ellen had a neat little box of pretty seashells and a spectacle lens, and Adam had concealed under his pillow a dried corsage of flowers and a scrap of ribbon. Frances did not have to guess which lady had once discarded those items.

Tom arrived with a note from the Keane house. ‘I got a message from Mr Knight and Mr Taylor as well,’ he said. ‘They say as how they’re very sorry to hear about Mr Doughty and can they call on you to condole – or was it console?’

‘I am happy for them to call, of course,’ said Frances. She took the note. The writing was a looped elegant sweep, the letters ‘i’ not dotted, but ornamented with decorative whorls. ‘Tom, I don’t know if Sarah has told you about the new position, but there may be a difficulty with your wages.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, Miss,’ he said, puffing out his chest with a grin. ‘I’m a businessman, now. I c’n wait.’

When Tom had gone she opened the letter. It took a few moments for her to take in what it said. Against every expectation, Mrs Keane had said she could call at 4 o’clock that afternoon.

A
s Frances approached the Keanes’ house again, she could not help but consider the difference between the outward show of respectability it presented and the dreadful reality within. She could feel only sympathy for Mrs Keane, the victim of a cruel husband who cared nothing for her, and indeed seemed rather to think of his wife with contempt more than anything else. To the residents of Bayswater it must have appeared that Mary Keane had an enviable existence. A fashionable journal might have held her up as an example of something to which every young woman might aspire, yet her situation was no less unhappy than that of Frances. A father on the brink of bankruptcy, a husband disgraced, she must even now be consumed with a dread of her own imminent ruin, and had probably agreed to see Frances more for some sympathetic female company than any other reason. It might even be, thought Frances, that no lady of quality would now wish to call upon her.

Clutching the note in her gloved hand, Frances rang the doorbell. It had already occurred to her that she could well be confronted with a servant who would know her under another name, but she would just have to make the best of that. When the door opened, she did not at first recognise the figure standing before her. Adam had the good sense, beneath his air of rigid dignity, to appear embarrassed. Whoever had chosen his costume had raided the worst excesses of the previous century’s bad taste, and supplied him with an embroidered coat and braided waistcoat in burgundy and gold, burgundy knee britches and silver grey stockings, with shiny buckled shoes. If the object of the transformation had been to reveal to the world his exceedingly muscular calves then the exercise had succeeded admirably.