The Poisonous Seed (6 page)

At the Christmas of 1874, when Frances was fourteen and Frederick nineteen, their entertainment had been received politely. Uncle Cornelius had laughed at the jokes, and even her father had admitted that it was not without wit. It was their neighbour, an elderly, slightly deaf lady called Mrs Johnstone, a vision in yards of black bombazine wrapped in an Indian shawl, who concentrated most of her attention on the tea and sandwiches and asked afterwards who the ‘other boy’ had been.

Five years later, the trousers that had been too long were, if anything, a little short in the leg, but no worse than Frances had observed worn by young men who had seen a good thing in the pawnshop and wanted to wear it no matter what. It was as she considered how best to hide her hair in her brother’s best round hat, that she heard a little gasp behind her, and turned to see Sarah in the doorway. It said much for Sarah’s nerves that grasping a pail full of dusters and brushes, she had dropped none of them.

‘Oh, Miss, I had such a fright just then!’ she exclaimed.

‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ said Frances, realising that the sight of a figure dressed in Frederick’s suit would have caused a less sturdily unflappable woman to faint with terror. ‘Come in, I don’t want anyone else to see me in these clothes.’

Sarah obeyed and shut the door, then stood looking at Frances, round-eyed with anxiety. Questions were quivering on her lips but remained unspoken.

‘I hope you don’t think this is just some silliness,’ said Frances, awkwardly. ‘I have decided that I must find out more about Mr Garton, to see if he had any enemies who might have wanted to harm him. If I do not, I am very afraid that the coroner will conclude that there was a mistake in the prescription, and then the inquest will blame his death on my father. I asked Mr Munson if he would pretend to be from the newspapers and ask Mr Cedric Garton some questions about his brother, but he refused, so I have determined to try it myself. I thought I would succeed better if I portrayed myself as a young man.’ She sighed, suddenly realising how dreadfully alone she was in this task. Any member of her family, any of her small circle of acquaintances, would surely have been horrified at what she was about to attempt. Sarah, on the other hand, having got over her initial fright was now gazing at her calmly, as if studying how well she looked.

‘I imagined Mr Munson would be a help to me, but I have been disappointed,’ said Frances.

Sarah set her mouth in a firm line. ‘It’s not my place to say it, Miss, but Mr Munson —,’ she hesitated. ‘Well – it’s not my place to say it.’

Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘Sarah, I do believe you were about to say something very uncomplimentary about Mr Munson,’ she said.

Sarah gave a sniff of disapproval, and squared her broad shoulders. ‘Yes, Miss, I do believe I was. ‘There was a smile of understanding between the two women.

‘So – how do I appear?’ Frances struck what she hoped was a masculine attitude.

Sarah took a few moments to look at her critically. ‘It would do well for a pantomime, Miss.’

‘Oh!’ said Frances. She sighed. ‘Perhaps it was silliness after all.’

‘Well you ain’t got the collar right for a start. Let me see what I can do. I got eight brothers, Miss and none of them could dress like a gent.’

Sarah put down the cleaning tools and began to work on Frances’ costume in earnest, tugging here, adjusting there, and finally stepping back to survey her work. ‘That looks more like it. Now you need to stand and walk right, or it’ll never do. And let your voice go lower.’ Some minutes of practice ensued. ‘Have you decided, Miss, how you will try to meet with Mr Garton? I don’t think it’ll do to go up to the house.’

‘No,’ said Frances, frowning at this new difficulty. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but you are right. I expect anyone from the newspapers will not be allowed in.’

‘Why don’t I get Tom to keep a watch and tell you when Mr Garton goes out? Then perhaps you can think up a way of speaking to him.’

‘Yes, that is the best plan, I think. And Sarah, there’s something else I need. On the night of his death Mr Percival Garton dined at the home of his friend Mr James Keane, who is a banker. I know nothing of Mr Keane’s household. Can you think of any way that I could speak to someone there?’

Sarah thought for a moment. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Miss.’

When Frances returned to the shop she knew the moment she entered that there was an unusual visitor. An aroma reached her nostrils of something unsavoury – not exactly dead but in a state of decay – something which had not been pleasant to smell even in that distant time when it had been fresh. A man stood beside the door who seemed at first glance to be very aged, but who, on a further moment’s inspection, could not have been a great deal more than twenty-five. His thin body was clad in black, greasy garments that looked as though they might have been stolen from a corpse, and his hair hung raggedly about a pale, narrow face seamed with grime. He leaned against the wall, head bent over his hands, picking at filthy nails with what appeared to be a filleting knife, a sly grin on his lips. There were, Frances was well aware, parts of London where this man could pass unnoticed, where the streets were no less dark and greasy, and smelt much the same.

Herbert was not standing at the counter, but cowered as far as he could be from the new arrival, his back pressed against the shelves, his body rigid with fear. ‘Ah … Miss Doughty … perhaps you may be able to assist this gentleman. He is looking for some friends of his.’

‘That’s right, Miss,’ said their visitor in an unexpectedly soft voice. ‘Two associates, who, if I could discover their whereabouts, would find it to their advantage.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me their names, or describe them to me,’ said Frances, not sure that anyone could benefit from acquaintance with the person before her.

‘Charlie Knight is one; round-faced cove; and t’other is Sebastian Turner, likes to dress as a toff. I’ve heard they were in the Grove today.’

Frances paused, unsure what to say. She abhorred a direct lie, yet she felt disinclined to offer any information about her recent visitors. She was relieved from her dilemma by Tom’s voice behind her.

‘
I
seen ’em Mister.’

‘Oh? Where?’ The stranger uncurled himself swiftly, like a spider darting towards its prey. He wiped the knife on his hip, thrust the blade into a battered leather sheath and slipped it into his pocket.

‘They was walking down the Grove this mornin’, goin’ to the station. I noticed them partic’lar – couple of fly gents with a sneaking look about ’em. I went after ’em for a yannep but they didn’t have none. I heard ’em say they was goin’ up to Birmingham on business.’

The man looked at Tom, thoughtfully. ‘Do you know when they return?’

‘They di’n’t say.’

He lunged closer. ‘You’ll keep a lookout for me? Tell me when they come back? There’ll be something in it for you when I get the news. And something for them, too.’

Tom nodded. He didn’t ask the man where he must go in order to impart the news, and Frances had the uncomfortable feeling that Tom was well aware of where such a man might be found on those occasions when he wished to be. She studied Tom’s face for a moment, trying to see if he was telling the truth. He was the picture of artless innocence, a matter she thought highly suspicious, as that was not his normal expression. When she looked around again, the man had gone, and he had managed to depart without disturbing the shop bell. Wordlessly, Frances polished the counter for a second time that day, and wiped down that part of the wall where the man had leaned, wondering what the ‘yannep’ might be that Tom had wanted, and, like so many of his curious words, solved the mystery merely by sounding it in reverse.

That afternoon Ada scurried into the shop, looking guiltily around her as if afraid to be seen. ‘Oh Miss, I was just passing and had to come in and speak with you. I can only stop a minute though; they mustn’t know I was here!’

‘Come into the storeroom, we can talk there,’ said Frances, deliberately ignoring Herbert’s frown of disapproval.

Ada followed her behind the counter, and for a few moments stood in awe of the deep shelves of grim brown bottles, giant carboys, and barrels and sacks of raw materials. There was a workbench, which held the larger pieces of equipment, and items such as infusions that needed to be left undisturbed. On that day, there were shining metal suppository moulds, sitting in rows with their glistening gelatinous contents. Everything was spotlessly clean and laid out neatly, and every stock container was labelled with care. Frances hoped Ada was thinking how hard it must be to make a mistake when all was in such good order.

‘Well, Miss I expect you know that the police have been at the house for ever so long, asking questions about what Mr Garton ate and drank before he died, and poking about in the kitchen and pantry, not that they ever found anything wrong.’ She paused, breathlessly. ‘The thing is – Mr Edwards – Master’s manservant as was – he remembered something after the police went. Master used to have a flask of brandy in the carriage – just to keep the cold out, you understand – and Mr Edwards said that as he stood on the step when Master and Mistress drove away, he was sure he saw Master take a drink.’

‘That would have been at seven o’clock?’ said Frances.

‘Yes, Miss. So Mr Edwards asked Mrs Grange if he ought to tell the police what he remembered, and she said he might if he wished, but she didn’t think it signified, as if there had been anything in the brandy then Mr Garton would have been took ill a lot sooner.’

‘Which is true,’ admitted Frances. ‘Did Mr Edwards go to the police?’

‘I don’t know, Miss. I don’t think so. He’s been given his notice so he’s out a great deal looking for another position. The thing is, I was thinking about it and it came to me – even if what Mrs Grange said was right, and it can’t have been anything Master had at seven o’clock – well – it was an awful cold night – he might have had some brandy later, on the way home.’

There was silence for a moment, as Frances digested this thought. ‘That means that the brandy was uncontaminated at seven o’clock, and if there
was
anything in it, it must have been put there between seven and eleven that evening. Who would have known that the brandy was there?’

Ada frowned. ‘I did, Miss, and Mr Edwards, and Mrs Grange, and Mistress of course, and I suppose anyone who travelled in the carriage with him.’

‘But surely the carriage cannot have been kept waiting outside Mr Keane’s house all the time your master and mistress were inside?’

‘No, Miss, on account of the weather. Master didn’t like the horses to stand in the cold for too long, so Mr Beale brought the carriage back then went out later to bring Master and Mistress home. But it was standing outside Mr Keane’s house for a little while after seven, about ten minutes perhaps. Mr Keane’s cook is very fond of Mr Beale and invited him in for a nip of something. He told us about it later. He got a boy to hold the horses while he was away, but it was that dark, anyone could have sneaked in, and you know what these boys are like, take your penny and run off, most of them.’

‘Or of course, someone could have tampered with the brandy when the carriage was in Mr Garton’s coach house.’ Frances paced up and down thoughtfully. ‘What has Mrs Garton said about her husband drinking brandy that evening? Does she remember it?’

Ada shook her head, sorrowfully. ‘Poor lady hardly knows what day of the week it is, and that’s a fact. She tries to remember, but all she can do is cry.’

‘I think this could be very important,’ said Frances. ‘You must go to the police and tell them what you have just told me.’

‘Oh no, I daren’t go near them!’ exclaimed Ada, horrified. ‘Everyone in the house has been told not to. I’d lose my place and my character, and I’d miss the children so much! Please don’t make me do it!’

Frances tried to calm Ada, who hurried away with many a nervous glance over her shoulder, but it was clear that the police ought to be informed, and so she composed a note to Constable Brown. When Tom arrived back to say that Cedric Garton had gone out for a drive, she got hold of him before he could run away and gave him the note to deliver.