The Poisonous Seed (3 page)

‘What did Inspector Sharrock have to say while I was fetching my father?’ she asked.

Herbert shuddered. ‘He wanted to see everything we have which contains
strychnia
. When I showed him the pot of extract of nux vomica in the storeroom he was very interested indeed. I told him that was where we always kept it, but he didn’t believe me. He tried to imply that we usually kept it on the shelf amongst the shop rounds, and only moved it into the stockroom after Mr Garton’s death to make it look less likely it could have been used in error.’

‘What an unpleasant man,’ said Frances.

‘Miss Doughty, I want you to know that I have the most perfect belief in your father!’ exclaimed Herbert. ‘He is the kindest and cleverest of men!’

‘Thank you Mr Munson. I value your support, and if, as you say, you observed the mixture being made, then that settles any question I might have of an error occurring here. We must wait to hear the public analyst’s report, and hope that it reaches some firm conclusions. The constable informed me that most of the medicine was spilled, which is very troubling. If the inquest was to leave the matter open, it might never be resolved in the public mind.’

‘What if Mrs Garton poisoned him?’ suggested Herbert. ‘Have the police thought of that? Perhaps she put poison in his medicine and then blamed it on your father! Wives do murder their husbands, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Frances dryly, casting Herbert a pointed look, ‘I am sure they do.’ She paused, thoughtfully. ‘But if the Inspector is determined to find my father at fault then he will not be looking for other explanations of Mr Garton’s death. It is easy for us to form theories, of course, but we know almost nothing of the Gartons, their household and their circle, and only a very little of what happened on the night he died.’

‘That is true,’ admitted Herbert, ‘But there is nothing to be done about that. It’s not as if you can turn detective.’

‘I think,’ said Frances, with a sudden resolve, ‘that is exactly what I may have to do.’

H
aving decided to become a detective, Frances soon realised that she had no idea of how to go about it. She was naturally anxious that detective work might lead her into areas inappropriate for both her sex and class, but with the reputation of the business at stake, decided that considerations of propriety might have to be cast aside. She knew that there were private detectives who advertised their services in the newspapers, but recoiled from the idea of entrusting family business to a stranger. Even had she been able to find a reliable, recommended man, her father, parsimonious to a fault, would never have sanctioned the considerable expense involved.

At the breakfast table next morning she sat deep in thought, reviewing all that she knew about Percival Garton, mainly what had been learned from the local gossips, who had flooded into the shop on the previous after noon with rumours eagerly transmitted over their teacups. A wealthy man of independent means, and in his late forties, Garton had lived in Bayswater for more than nine years. Seized with violent convulsions at about midnight on Monday 12th January, he had expired an hour afterwards, in great agony. Garton had been born in Italy where his parents and sisters still resided, but his younger brother Cedric had been visiting Paris and was travelling to London to represent the family at the funeral. Frances took out her notebook and jotted down all the facts she knew. So engrossed was she that she quite forgot to take breakfast. A looming shadow at her side was Sarah, with a disapproving look, and Frances, feeling suddenly shrunk to the size of a nine year old, hastily helped herself to a boiled egg and bread and butter.

Frances then turned to her father’s collection of books, relying principally on the
British Pharmacopoeia, Squire’s Companion to the Pharmacopoeia
and
Taylor’s Manual of Medical Jurisprudence
. She did not believe for one moment that her father could confuse the concentrated extract of nux vomica with the more liquid tincture, and the fact that Herbert had observed the making of the mixture put any error of that kind beyond possibility. Despite Inspector Sharrock’s insinuations, the extract had always been kept in the back stockroom, and to use this instead of the tincture would have been a deliberate act, not a moment of inattention to detail. Even if by some incomprehensible mischance, the extract had been used, one or two teaspoonfuls of the resulting mixture would still not have contained a fatal amount of
strychnia
, but Frances knew too well that people often took additional doses of medicine in the mistaken belief that if a teaspoonful did them good, then four would be four times as beneficial.

The timing of the attack also interested her. The symptoms of poisoning by
strychnia
could be apparent within minutes of it being taken, but only if it was present in its pure form. When taken as tincture or extract, onset could sometimes be delayed by an hour or two. She would have to wait for the analyst’s report to confirm what, if anything, had been found in the medicine.

Her thoughts led her into darker waters. If the medicine had been correct when it left the shop, then poison might have been introduced into it later. This could scarcely be an accidental act. Self destruction did not appear likely in a man of Garton’s obviously contented demeanour, and even if he had possessed some terrible secret which had led him to take his own life, he would surely have chosen something like Prussic acid rather than endure the long agonies of death by
strychnia
. Could it be possible that Percival Garton had been murdered? Wealthy men often had enemies, or friends and relatives jealous of their wealth. Supposing Garton had had an enemy who wished to poison him, someone closely enough acquainted with his habits to know that only he drank from the medicine bottle, someone whose presence in his house would not have been remarked upon, and who was therefore able to gain access to the bottle long enough to tamper with it. Frances realised that it was vital she follow the journey of the bottle from its leaving the shop to reaching Garton’s bedside; who handled it, who knew where it was located, where and for how long it might have been left unattended, where and when it was opened; and discover, if possible, how much of the mixture he had taken.

A policeman or a real detective would have had no difficulty in finding the answers to these questions, but Frances knew that she was not in a position even to make enquiries. Still, she felt that by addressing the situation she had made some progress, and decided to start by questioning the one person she felt able to approach – Herbert. She joined him in the shop, and found him gloomily surveying the empty premises. Frances felt suddenly chilled with anxiety. Surely the loyal customers would have returned by now.

‘It was one of the maidservants who brought the prescription,’ said Herbert, in answer to her question. ‘She waited, and took it away with her. I don’t know her name, but it’s always the same one they send.’

Frances nodded. ‘That would be Ada. She’s been with the family for many years, and has always struck me as very sensible. I shall have to speak to her.’ Frances knew Ada to be a simple, honest young woman who had held a touching respect for William Doughty ever since he had provided a remedy for some trifling but painful ailment. She would now prove to be a valuable connection with the Garton household.

Herbert looked astonished. ‘Do you think any person from that house will agree to an interview? It would be highly irregular.’

‘I think Ada would be willing to talk to me, but I don’t know any of the other servants. I have been thinking – there are some important questions that need to be asked, and I was wondering if
you
would consider approaching them. You could say that you are from the newspapers.’

Herbert gaped at her in undiluted horror. ‘That is quite impossible! I flatter myself that I am well known in this neighbourhood, and I would be recognised at once. Supposing the Pharmaceutical Society was to find out that I had done such a thing? My prospects would be quite gone, and the business damaged beyond repair.’

Frances said nothing, but had to admit that Herbert was right. It was a ridiculous and dangerous idea. Despairingly she realised that the two people whom she would most have liked to interview were, in any case, utterly beyond her reach. It would have been highly improper to approach Mrs Garton, and Dr Collin would tell her no more than she could glean from the newspapers.

After some further thought she composed a note to Ada and sought out Tom, the errand boy, to deliver it. Tom had worked for the Doughtys for three months but in that time had made himself entirely at home. His predecessor in the post had ended a brief and undistinguished career by being arrested for thieving, and Frances had scarcely formed the resolution to find a replacement, when Tom appeared, looking as if he had been born to the job. A small boy in that indeterminate period of life between nine and eleven, he resembled Sarah sufficiently to make it obvious that he was a member of her family, though in what way he was related to her the Doughtys had never liked to enquire. They were aware that Sarah came from a substantial brood, a family whose tendrils spread across most of the East End, and found it convenient to assume that he was a nephew. Tom shared Sarah’s room and made himself generally useful at little cost, since he seemed to be able to feed himself more than adequately by scavenging. Mindful of his need to appear clean and neat in the service of a chemist, Sarah would every so often seize him by his collar, dunk him to his shoulders in a tub of water, and scrub him till his face glowed brightly enough to put Messrs Bryant and May out of business, a process that always elicited some unusual verbal expressions which Frances found both amusing and educational.

Frances found Tom in the stockroom, munching at a piece of bread almost as large as his head, and sent him off to the Gartons’ house in Porchester Terrace with the note.

The next idea to occupy her thoughts was how the medicine bottle might have been tampered with. When the bottle had left the premises it had been sealed with a cork, which had first been mechanically compressed to ensure a secure fit. The bottle had then been wrapped in a sheet of white paper, the original prescription placed in a special envelope which was laid at the side of the bottle, and the whole tied with pink string. The knots of the string had then been sealed with wax, and an impression of William Doughty’s own business seal.

‘How easy do you think it would be for someone to introduce poison into the bottle before it was unwrapped, but without Mr Garton noticing?’ Frances asked Herbert. She felt sure she knew the answer but wanted his opinion to confirm what she was already thinking.

He frowned. ‘I would have thought that anything done in that way would leave some signs. How would they re-tie and re-seal the package? And once the cork was taken out it would be very obvious that the bottle was not as it left the shop.’

‘Could someone have injected poison with a syringe? Then they wouldn’t need to unwrap the bottle.’

There was a pause as Herbert thought about this. ‘That’s the kind of thing one reads about in sensational novels. Not that
you
read such things, of course. I suppose it is possible for a person of experience, but it would need a very strong needle, and would leave a hole in the paper and the cork.’

Tom returned about half an hour later with a reply in one hand and a corner of piecrust in the other. Frances unfolded the paper, and perused the contents. Ada would be able to speak to her at five o’clock. She decided to say nothing of this to Herbert.

Business remained slow and Frances could easily be spared to attend the opening of the inquest at Paddington coroner’s court, William and Herbert’s attendance not being required on this occasion. Providence Hall was a meeting house on Church Street near Paddington Green. Wearing her winter coat and black bonnet with a demure veil, she travelled there alone, and on foot. It was not a long walk for an active young woman, and Frances had grown too used to her father’s insistence on frugality to even consider taking a cab. The hour that would be required on her return to brush mud and worse debris from her skirts, was of no concern to him. The air was cold, and heavy clouds threatened snow, but the brisk journey warmed her. There was a vestibule outside the main hall where Frances waited to speak to Mr Rawsthorne. Hovering there was a thin gentleman with a sour expression whom she recognised as Mr Marsden, a local solicitor. He was deep in conversation with a handsome, overly mannered man in his early thirties, whose pale hair and tawny skin suggested a life spent in warmer climes, and Frances wondered if this could be Cedric Garton. To her relief, Mr Rawsthorne appeared, and she at once greeted him.

‘My dear young lady!’ exclaimed Rawsthorne, a middle-aged man with kindly eyes who had been her father’s advisor for as long as Frances could remember. He pressed her fingertips sympathetically. ‘And how is Mr Doughty?’

‘Improving daily,’ Frances reassured him.

Rawsthorne spread his hands wide with unfeigned delight. ‘I am so
very
pleased to hear that! He has given me a great deal of anxiety, and I am vastly relieved at your good news.’

‘Tell me,’ said Frances, ‘the gentleman talking to Mr Marsden, is that Mr Garton’s brother?’

‘I believe that is Cedric Garton.’

Frances cast another look at Cedric, who seemed to be so enamoured of his own profile that he constantly posed to show it off to its best advantage. It suddenly occurred to her that since Cedric Garton did not know her by sight, he was her best and probably only source of reliable information about the personal life of the dead man. She could approach him under a pseudonym and ask questions, and after the inquest he would return to Italy none the wiser. But what pretext could she use? The idea she had suggested to Herbert, that of posing as a newspaper reporter, was, she felt, barred to her. It was most unlikely that she could convince Cedric that she was engaged in such a profession. She was aware that there were lady journalists for she had often heard her father speak of them disparagingly. They were, as far as she knew, mainly concerned with writing articles on literary matters, or subjects in the feminine sphere of life. Frances did not know of any lady who wrote about murder, and, if there was one, suspected that she would not be a girl of nineteen. Had she been a young man, thought Frances, she might have succeeded in such a deception.