The Poisonous Seed (30 page)

‘Oh Miss, I am sorry I even thought it!’ said Sarah with undisguised relief. ‘But who is the lady you mean?’

Frances hesitated. ‘If I say any more you must promise me to say nothing of it to anyone else. I am sworn to secrecy, and yet I need advice.’

‘I promise, Miss,’ said Sarah, earnestly. ‘I hope I have never given any cause for you to doubt me in that way.’

‘Never, Sarah,’ Frances agreed. ‘Well, I will tell you. Mrs Garton came to London in August 1870 to consult a doctor because she was very delicate and could not become a mother. Happily, her state of health improved greatly, and there are now five children. I was told that their eldest child, Rhoda, was born less than a year after they took up residence in Bayswater, and had assumed that she was born in the summer of 1871, but I have just discovered that Rhoda was born the previous January. Do you think it possible that when she came to London, Mrs Garton could not have known that she was in that hoped-for state?’

‘Yes, I would, Miss,’ said Sarah, emphatically. ‘An ignorant young girl, with no one to advise her, might not know her condition till the pains began,’ she added grimly.

‘I see,’ said Frances.

‘Of course,’ added Sarah, ‘the lady might have been visiting London to see her doctor before she came here to live. Or it could just have happened naturally and the doctor took all the credit. Not that
that’s
ever happened before.’

Somehow, thought Frances, everything always came back to the Gartons’ time in Tollington Mill. She wondered if Garton and Keane had been in touch even then. Perhaps Keane had visited Tollington Mill under an assumed name. The one person who would be able to answer all her questions was Henrietta Garton, a lady she felt quite unable to approach on any pretext whatsoever. As she considered what to do next, she realised that there was another possible source of information. Before the last candle died she took pen and paper and began to write a letter, but no sooner had she begun than she was in a quandary. How should she represent herself? At last she wrote, ‘I am a private detective enquiring into the murder of John Wright in 1870.’ She stared at the sentence. In a sense it was quite untrue but in its component parts it did describe her position exactly. She wrote again. ‘I would be grateful if you were to agree to answer some questions I wish to put to you about Mr Wright and his friends in Tollington Mill. ‘There seemed to be nothing much more she could say at this stage. She signed the letter ‘Frances Doughty’ and deliberately left the ‘e’ ambiguous so that it might be read as an ‘i’ and give the impression that she was a man. It was comforting to know that this time her masquerade would not involve male clothing. She did not know the correct address to which to send the letter, but felt sure that it would reach its destination, assuming the recipient to be still alive. Boldly she wrote,

Mrs Cranby

Tollington Mill

Gloucestershire

and determined to take it to the post office the very next morning.

T
here was no respite from the thick, freezing fog. On the morning of William Doughty’s funeral the sun had disappeared, and the world seemed doomed to an eternal wintry night. Frances, grimly determined to impose the daily routine as usual, opened the shop at 7 o’clock.

Cornelius arrived early, revealing that the chief mourners would, apart from the immediate family, be Herbert, Sarah, Mr Rawsthorne, and two elderly Miss Doughtys, Gertrude and Nora, William’s aunts, who were coming down by carriage from Waltham Abbey. To Frances, the whole proceedings began to take on the aspect of a horrid nightmare. She had sometimes heard people speak of having dreams that repeated themselves, an affliction from which she had never suffered, but this was something far worse. Only three months ago, she had sat by her beloved brother’s deathbed, and witnessed the final fading away of all that was bright and cheering in her life. Until the end, her father had not accepted that Frederick would die, and his howl of agony when faced with the unyielding truth still reverberated in her consciousness. For several days he had been as one struck dead, and only the faint pulse of a vein at his temple had shown that he still lived. It had taken all her energy, all her care, to restore him even to that state in which he could attend the funeral. There had followed the inevitable gathering of blackclad relatives, the arrival of a hearse and carriages, the careful moving of the coffin down the precipitous stairs, the drive to St Stephen’s for the ceremony, and then the journey to Kensal Green Cemetery and a return home to a miserable array of comestibles. On that occasion, too, Cornelius had assisted with the arrangements. Frances had mainly been occupied in attending to her father. That task, exhausting and difficult as it was, had at least given her something to engage her mind other than the unthinkable horror of consigning Frederick’s remains to the ground. Frederick’s death had been a long-expected event, although it was no less of a shock for that, but on the day of his funeral it had seemed to Frances as if, by the time his emaciated body was carried from the house, all her tears for him had already been spent, and the pain of his loss and that final farewell could never be exceeded by the pain of watching him slowly die. On the day of her father’s burial, she found she had nothing to do but be conveyed from place to place, and her grief was suddenly doubled, as if she was feeling her current loss together with all the emotions that had not been released at the time of Frederick’s funeral.

Mrs Scorer arrived in the full mourning she had worn for her husband, crisp and rustling like a great black meringue, her throat and fingers glittering with jet. The two great-aunts drew up in a carriage, and bustled quickly into the house, chattering to each other with excitement, as if a funeral was the only entertainment they now enjoyed, which may have been the case. They were so wrapped in cloaks, hoods, shawls and gloves, as to be almost spherical. Frances had rarely met them, but knew they shared a small cottage, with a very put-upon general maid of about their own years, between sixty-five and seventy. Mr Rawsthorne next appeared, and, with a great expression of dismay, went to each person in turn and pressed their hands, nodding and muttering something inaudible, as if he was too drowned in emotion to speak.

Before they departed, Cornelius suggested that Frances should have a small glass of brandy, but she declined, although Herbert gratefully gulped one down. The aunts twittered with anxiety about the advisability of such a draught, and decided after much debate to accept a small glass between the two of them, so as not to put anyone to too much trouble, by which time Mrs Scorer had finished her second.

The Grove was shrouded in a dull, yellow-grey twilight as they departed. Frances wondered, as the carriages followed the hearse, if there would be any marks of respect for the man who had served the citizens of Bayswater for twenty years. Blinds should have been lowered, shop windows festooned with crêpe and black ribbon, and people should have lined the way, with grim faces, hats removed, holding flowers to throw on the hearse as it passed by; but she doubted that this would be the case. To Bayswater, William Doughty was the pathetic invalid who had poisoned a man and then taken his own life. It was almost a relief not to be able to see.

The church was bitterly cold within, and only about twenty people shivered on the pews. Frances recognised some of her father’s regular customers, who had not seen fit to patronise the shop for the last two weeks. A few had the temerity to approach the family with oily condolences. Frances would have very much liked to say, ‘I trust we will see you back in the shop now that my father is dead?’ but felt obliged to be icily polite. The aunts huddled close to each other for warmth, opened a box of herbal cough sweets and sucked them loudly, whispering audibly throughout the service, with comments on everything from the floral tributes to the reverend’s complexion. Reverend Day did his duty. He had known William personally and spoke well of him, especially his learning and industry, which had set an example to all. He spoke of the death of Frederick, which had marred an otherwise contented life. ‘As you all know, recent events have been distressing to William and his family,’ he said. ‘This is not the place to speak of them except to say that they should not be allowed to cloud the memory of a life spent in dutiful service to the community.’

As they made their way back to the carriages to go to the cemetery, Cornelius took Frances by the hand, and patted it sympathetically. ‘It will be over soon,’ he said, ‘the poor fellow will be at rest. We might imagine him with Frederick, now, happier than he has been, happier than those he has left behind.’

‘Far happier,’ said Frances. She climbed into the chill interior of the waiting carriage and drew a rug over her knees, wanting more than anything for the day to end. As they reached the main gate of Kensal Green Cemetery, she saw that a brougham waited outside, the groom in place, his greatcoat wrapped with heavy shawls, the horse breathing white plumes of vapour into the frosty air. Through the great arch she could just see tombstones looming out of the shadowy mist, and then a spectral figure appeared, a moving black ghost in the cloudy air, the form of a woman. As she neared, Frances saw that it was a lady dressed in the deep mourning appropriate to the recent loss of a close relative, and thickly veiled. She looked neither to the right nor left, and took no notice of the approaching cortège, but hurried from the cemetery, and stepped briskly into the brougham which drove away immediately.

Frances wondered what had brought the lady out on such a gloomy and inclement day as this, simply to visit a grave, when she might have waited for better weather rather than risk a chill. They descended from the carriage, Cornelius gave her his arm and she walked through the gate to the prepared gravesite. The day of Frederick’s funeral had been dry and not too cold. Then, the cemetery had had the air of a formal garden, a place of quiet and repose, where one could visit and reflect, sad for the loss sustained, but with some comfort also for a life that could be remembered with joy, and with hope of being reunited in future. This day it was a grim and comfortless place, cold and dreadful, where hope was abandoned and only grief remained.

The service around the graveside was quickly done, out of deference to the ladies in view of the weather, and the attendants with frozen fingers managed with difficulty to lower the coffin into the ground. Frances scattered a handful of earth, and it was over.

‘Come, my dear, let us get you back into the warm,’ said Cornelius.

‘If I may have a few moments, I would like to visit Frederick’s grave,’ said Frances. ‘It has been too long, and I would like to see that it is in order.’ Cornelius assented, and Frances took a small wreath from the hearse, and walked with him. As they did so they passed a row of recent graves, piled with hot-house flowers that had lain there for several days and were blackened with the cold. Frances stopped and stared, then looked closely at the tributes. Many of them had small cards attached, and she glanced at the messages. On one grave, she read, ‘In eternal friendship, James’ and ‘To my dearest husband, until we meet again, Henrietta’. It was the grave of Percival Garton, and on top of all the shrivelled and wilted wreaths of eight days before was a single fresh posy that must have been placed there that day. Frances wondered if it had been left by the lady she had seen departing the cemetery. If so, then she could not imagine who the lady might be. To the best of her recollection the figure had been above medium height and of slender build, far too slender to be the widow, yet the mourning garments were appropriate to one who had been close to the deceased. A sister, perhaps – but Frances was sure that all the family lived in Italy – or even a mistress.

Cornelius waited patiently for her, then she took his arm and they walked on. She placed the wreath on Frederick’s grave, and stood there for a few moments. ‘He should have been with me,’ she said. ‘We had such happy times, and would have done again.’ She tried to imagine life as it would have been with Frederick alive and the mourning period for their father over; the shop bustling again, with Frances working by her brother’s side; Frederick meeting a young woman, who would be both a friend and a sister to Frances. Then a wedding, with herself as chief bridesmaid, and before long, a host of delightful children, and the house filled with laughter. She sighed. ‘Uncle, could you take me to see where my mother is buried? Is it near?’

He hesitated. ‘Oh, I thought you knew, my dear. Your mother is not buried at Kensal Green. But I promise faithfully as soon as the weather improves I will take you there. Now, I think we really should go. Your poor aunts are quite frozen. Any longer in this air and it will scarcely be worth our while to take them home.’

Frances nodded. Of course she had been so young when she had seen her mother’s grave, and had gone there in a cab. She had assumed the burial was in Kensal Green, though now she thought about it she could not recall the imposing gates. There had been, she remembered, a beautiful chapel with a domed roof. There was another cemetery in Paddington, and she supposed it must be that one.

At home, the small gathering sat around the parlour table while Sarah brought a satisfying repast of cold fowl, ham, pork pie, potted beef, bread and butter, cake and as much hot tea and coffee as anyone could want. Frances suspected that not all of the food bought for the event would appear on the table, and that anything uneaten would supply the family’s needs for several days to come, while any partially used coals then blazing in the grate would be swiftly removed with tongs as soon as their visitors had left.

To Frances’ discomfiture the conversation, now that everything regarding William appeared to have been settled, was on only one subject – herself.

‘The question is,’ said Mrs Scorer, piling more food on her plate than was normally considered polite, ‘What is to be done with Frances?’