‘I am sure it is, but of course I know nothing of it.’
‘I trust he was in his usual excellent health this morning?’
‘I didn’t see him before he left, but he was very well and cheerful last night. He asked me just to put out some bread and cheese and hardboiled eggs for his breakfast, and make the coffee for him to warm up, as he knew I would be busy with the teas and lunches this morning.’
‘Ah, that was thoughtful of him. Has Mr Waterfield gone to London with Sir Hugo, or is he here?’
‘No, Mr Waterfield has been given a day’s holiday to go and see his sister.’
Mrs Pirrie glanced across the field and her expression suddenly darkened. Frances followed her gaze, but it was hard to identify what had caused her disquiet. ‘You appear to be disturbed by something,’ said Frances. ‘May we assist you in any way?’
The housekeeper was noticeably reluctant to respond. At last she said, ‘It’s not my place to say it, but there are some here who in my opinion need to mind their manners. Not that I’m naming any names. And the rest of the family so respectable, too! That’s all I will say on that subject.’
Cedric nodded. ‘I think I know to whom you refer.’
‘Well I hope she doesn’t try her wiles on you, Mr Garton.’
‘Have no fear, Mrs Pirrie, I am immune to persons of that kind.’
Frances, now aware that it was a female who had earned Mrs Pirrie’s displeasure, looked about and soon guessed the identity of the less than reputable visitor.
A buxom young woman was parading around the field unaccompanied. She wore a summer costume in bright pink, with abundant rows of yellow flounces, and a bonnet trimmed with a profusion of yellow ribbons and clusters of pink rosebuds. The ribbons were worn long, forming a cascade that fluttered in the breeze like beckoning fingers. From the manner of her walk it was clear that she knew all too well that she had the power to attract male attention. At the same time, her eyes were looking about keenly, as if there was a specific person she wanted to see.
Taking their leave of Mrs Pirrie, and promising faithfully to return and enjoy a slice of cake, Frances and Cedric strolled on their way.
‘Could that young person be troublesome?’ asked Frances.
‘Possibly, although she should not concern us. She is Clara Hicks, the blacksmith’s daughter. I have heard a whisper that young Jack Linnett finds her interesting but she has no regard for him, because he is merely an apprentice. I am sorry if that is true, but he is young and looks no further than a face and figure and a fine bonnet. I hope in time he will find a more worthy object for his affections. The mother and aunt, who are here assisting Mrs Pirrie, are respectable and industrious people and the father is a good hardworking family man. He does a great deal of business repairing bicycles for the club, but thereby of course many single young men well above the daughter’s station in life will call at the smithy, and I fear she entertains hopes that one day she will secure such a man as her husband.’
‘Is there any real prospect of that?’ asked Frances, concerned that Miss Hicks might find herself in a very unfortunate position if she was not in that position already, and discover that the entire membership of the Bayswater Bicycle Club was unwilling to admit any responsibility towards her.
‘None at all, I would say. Oh it’s not so much her low rank; there are young ladies whose faces and manners, charm and wit, can advance them in society, but – and I am sorry to have to say this – she is known to display certain freedoms of behaviour of the kind that a young gentleman might find diverting in a friend, but would not prize in a wife.’
‘Perhaps if she accepted Jack he might steady her,’ said Frances, hopefully, although she feared that that might only happen if the wayward girl discovered that she was in urgent need of a husband and was not able to make a better match.
Walking on, Frances was amused to see that Ratty had been trying his hand at riding a bicycle and had hired one for the afternoon. He was taking to it extremely well, displaying a natural athleticism and sense of balance. He rode up and dismounted with some style. ‘Tom ’n me, we’ve looked all over fer Sir Yugo an’ we ain’t seen ’im. Not nowhere on the field or roun’ the back or in the pavilion. People ’spect ’im ter be ’ere an’ all, they’re startin’ ter ask about ’im.’
Ratty remounted the bicycle and rode away. Frances saw Mr Toop moving about the field anxiously talking to club members and visitors, and guessed that he too must be looking for Sir Hugo. Toop, after a brief conversation with Jack Linnett, shook his head, and then went to the club tent.
‘It’s nearly time to start and Sir Hugo is still not returned,’ said Frances.
A young man in club uniform hurried up to speak to Cedric, his naturally pale features reddened by the sun and an anxious expression in deep-set grey eyes. ‘Ah, Garton, there you are. I was just asking Linnett about Sir Hugo and he told me you had been asking, too. Where can he be?’
Cedric quickly introduced Frances to the youth who was George Farrow, son of the General. ‘Yes, my cousin was so looking forward to meeting him, but I have been told that he has had to go to London on business.’
‘Really?’ said Farrow, with a yelp of dismay. ‘Today? When is he expected back?’
‘No one seems to know.’
‘That is very strange. Sir Hugo is due to have a meeting with my father immediately after he delivers the speech opening the event. I don’t know the subject of the meeting, but I gathered that it was of some importance.’ He sighed dejectedly. ‘I suppose I have to go and tell father. He will be very displeased.’
With unwillingness in every step, he crossed the field to where a gentleman of mature years with a military bearing stood with his watch in his hand, surveying his surroundings. As he did so the clock on St Dunstan’s church struck eleven.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Frances turned to Cedric. ‘As you know, I have been asked to look out for and make a note of anything unusual. I think we would both say that Sir Hugo not being here to open the competition qualifies perfectly for that description.’
‘I suppose it does,’ Cedric admitted. ‘We would all expect him to be here. He’s never happier than when he is surrounded by bicycles and bicyclists, and the summer competition is the highlight of his year.’
‘So only something of extreme importance would have induced him to be anywhere else this morning?’
‘Yes. An emergency, some business that could not wait.’
‘It was a planned absence, as we know, although an emergency or extra business could have arisen while he was away. According to Mrs Pirrie, he intended to go to London, but he has been very secretive about his reasons, so much so that I am not even confident it is true. Not only that but I can find no one who has seen him since last night. I feel extremely anxious about that.’
‘Anxious? You mean for his safety?’
‘Well, I hardly like to say it, but in my experience people who go mysteriously missing … Cedric, you know the cases I have undertaken —’
He looked solemn. ‘Ah. I see. Yes. They are usually found deceased.’
‘They are.’
‘But would you say he is actually missing? He might just have been delayed.’
For a moment Frances wondered if she was being over-anxious, but concluded that even if she was it was better than lack of caution. ‘We don’t know where he has gone; we don’t know who he intended to see and why; we don’t know when he left or how he travelled. All we know is that he has not returned. To me, that means he is missing.’
Cedric nodded. ‘He has not told Jack what he is about, which suggests personal business rather than anything to do with his work on the bicycles. A solicitor perhaps? Maybe he is signing a will? That would explain the early start, to get into London in time for the office to open, transact any business and then return in time to enjoy the race meeting.’
‘Which is due to start now. He ought to be here making his speech. And the longer he is not here t
he more worried I am.’
Frances saw Mr Toop having a word with the bandsmen, who obligingly took up their instruments, selected a sheet of music and prepared to play. ‘I think Mr Toop is hoping to delay the start until Sir Hugo arrives.’ She linked her arm in Cedric’s. ‘Come, let us go for a stroll. The weather is fine and I doubt we will miss anything of significance here.’
‘Of course.’ They moved off. ‘Where are we strolling to?’
‘We are going to look for Sir Hugo Daffin.’
‘Really? So you know where to look?’
‘No, but when a man cannot be found, the obvious place to start looking is the place where he was last seen. We are going to Springfield Lodge. We might find a clue there.’
Cedric stopped. ‘Forgive me if I am wrong, but don’t I recall you saying that you were under strict orders to do nothing except observe?’
‘That is true, but I don’t believe I was ordered not to take a pleasant walk in the sunshine with a friend. And, of course, while my cousin Frank has viewed the lodge, I have not. It is natural curiosity, that is all.’
Tom came past with a fresh bundle of leaflets, and Frances asked him to tell Sarah that she was taking a walk to view the lodge. He nodded and dashed away. Sarah looked quizzical at the news, and Frances signed that she was looking for Sir Hugo. Since Sarah’s reaction was not one of alarm followed by an order to immediately desist, Frances felt confident to press on.
Leaving the cricket ground, which was permitted as they still retained their tickets, Frances and Cedric passed onto East Acton Lane, where cabs were still drawing up and discharging occupants, and bicycles and tricycles were flowing in. Apart from the visitors there was no other traffic.
‘It’s such a quiet little hamlet in the ordinary way,’ said Cedric. ‘That is one reason we like it. We don’t have to ride through town to get here and risk falling under the wheels of a cab. And the cost of taking a bicycle on a train is outrageous.’
As they walked, the noise of the crowds retreated until they became a part of the air, like the sound of a distant breeze. Then came the loud booming of a big drum, as the Acton Brass Ensemble struck up its own variety of music, and started pumping popular melodies into the air in a bold burst of energy.
‘They played for the spring races, too,’ noted Cedric, in a voice that lacked enthusiasm. ‘Not easily forgotten.’
They arrived at the gates of the lodge, which, without the presence of Sir Hugo and the club members, looked as if it had been long abandoned and left to dissolve into a ruin in its own good time.
Frances went up to the front door and tried the handle, but it was locked. ‘I suppose with Mrs Pirrie and Mr Waterfield away the house has been secured,’ she said. ‘Is there another way in?’
‘There is a side entrance that leads to the kitchen and basement, but when the club is in residence it’s usually open and the members use it freely. There is a connecting passage to the hall and the library where we meet.’
They walked around the perimeter path but the side entrance, too, was locked up, as were the double doors into a drawing room. Frances peered through the windows but on the shadowy side of the house hardly any light pierced the interior. All was dull and quiet, and there was no movement within. ‘Let’s try the coach house and the cottage,’ she said.
The coach house doors, which had been open on her previous visits, were now closed and fastened with two padlocks. Frances examined the locks but all was secure. She pressed an ear to the door but could detect no sound from within. ‘I think they added the second padlock after that business with Ross-Fielder’s bicycle,’ said Cedric. ‘I hope you don’t mean to break in,’ he added nervously.
‘I usually employ Sarah for breaking down doors,’ said Frances, ‘but only in emergencies. I shall send for her if required.’ They walked on, still with the distant squeals of cornets and the groans of euphonium and tuba in their ears, punctuated by the deep thud of side and bass drums. The cottage workshop was also closed up and padlocked. Frances tried to peer through the window, but it was mostly occluded by a curtain. All she could see inside was darkness.
‘I don’t think anyone is here,’ said Cedric. ‘And if Sir Hugo was still at home, I think this is where he would be.’
Frances continued around the exterior of the lodge, reaching the entrance to the disused kitchen garden. She pushed at the door, and while it was clearly unlocked, it seemed reluctant to open. ‘Can we go in?’ she asked.
Cedric tried the door, which continued to resist any attempts to move it. ‘I doubt that this has been opened for a very long time,’ he said. He was about to walk away but Frances did not like to give up, and pushed again harder. Cedric came back and assisted her, until at last the door, its base wrapped in clinging weeds, opened with a grinding screech, wrenching long, thickly growing stems from their roots.
Frances gazed into what must once have been a well-cultivated garden, but if there had been rows of lettuces and asparagus once, they were no more. A meadow of tall coarse grass had choked the life from what had once been a pleasure and an ornament to a gentleman’s table. A gardener’s shed must have leaned against the wall, but its weathered planks were now half collapsed into the ground, and its appearance suggested that it had long been in that position. Some broken seed trays were piled beside it, together with a few rusted and useless tools, many of which had long parted company with their handles, and there was a heavily dented spade whose wooden shaft had snapped clean through.
‘How little effort it would take to make this good again,’ said Frances. She was about to go, but took one last look around; something was puzzling her, and then she realised what it was. ‘When we rode past, I could see over the wall, I could see the tops of the weeds. But look here. The weeds that are just inside the door – yes they are well grown, but not nearly as well grown as those in the centre.’
‘I see what you mean. The door has been used – but not very recently, surely?’
‘No, not for some time.’ Frances took a few steps forward, the thick grass catching at the hems of her skirts. She picked up a hoe, whose gnarled metal head promptly dropped off, and used the shaft to explore the ground.
The search turned up only a few dropped copper coins, but as she persevered, moving around the heap of dry wood that that had once been a shed, she saw something else. Lying on the ground with weeds growing vigorously through the spokes of its wheels was a velocipede.
‘Look at this!’
Cedric came forward and stared at the machine.
‘Do you recognise it?’
‘No, I don’t. No one in the club uses them. We are all devotees of the high-wheeler.’
Frances examined the fallen machine. ‘Is it damaged or useable? How long do you think it has been here? Many months I would say.’
‘Yes, I agree.’ Cedric pulled the machine upright and examined it. There were dry dead weeds marking out its shape where it had lain. ‘No damage, just the usual wear. Give it a clean and it would be quite rideable.’
There was a small leather bag strapped behind the seat but it was gaping open and empty. Frances found some scratches on one handlebar, and cleaned away dust and dirt with a handful of grass to reveal some roughly incised letters. ‘EDW,’ she said. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
‘No. The initials of the owner, perhaps? But I don’t know anyone that would fit.’
Frances looked about her again. The small area of less overgrown soil, which, now she looked back on it, precisely matched where the door opened inwards; the abandoned velocipede; the open bag; the dented spade with the snapped handle. ‘Whatever happened here it wasn’t recent.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope,’ said Cedric.
‘Who can say? Well, all I can do is keep my eyes and ears open for clues.’
The Acton Brass Ensemble, which had paused, briefly, broke into a strident marching tune, with much vigorous thumping of the drum. It seemed to be coming from another country, another time, whi
le all that existed in the abandoned garden stood still and quiet.
Frances walked back to the path, brushing dried grass from her hands and shaking it from the hems of her skirts, and looked about her once more. The door to the kitchen garden was in a shaded area, not in clear sight of either the roadway, the carriage drive or any entrance to the house. It was not a secret place but it was secluded.
‘Shall we return?’ asked Cedric.
‘I’d like to take just one last look,’ said Frances, reluctant to tear herself away before she could be certain she had seen all she could. She began to retrace her steps around the house, peering more closely through the windows into gloomy rooms filled with antiquated furniture, rubbing at grimy glass to get a clearer view, and testing door handles again, none of which granted her entry.
The band finally blared into silence, leaving a breathless shimmer in the air. The only sound was the distant chatter of crowds and their own footfall, until another slighter noise broke in. Frances paused. ‘Did you hear that?’
They both listened, and detected a faint scratching. ‘It’s coming from the cottage,’ said Cedric. ‘I hope they don’t have rats.’
Frances hurried to the cottage and made a great effort to look through the window, but the curtain had been drawn across, protecting the secrets within. There was a small sliver of a gap just above her eyeline, and she stood on tiptoe. All she could see was the surface of a workbench, with some unidentifiable shapes of tools and metal parts. She pressed closer, trying to block the external light and accustom her eyes to the inner gloom. The noise came again, almost like a tapping now, and not at all the kind of sound a rat would make.
‘A machine of some kind, maybe; Sir Hugo’s latest invention?’ she mused. ‘Cedric, let me have a step up so I can see better.’
‘But wouldn’t it be easier if I —’
Frances took the trouser fasteners from her reticule and put them on. ‘There! I came prepared.’
‘You are a wondrous girl,’ he said. ‘You have destroyed my argument entirely.’ Cedric linked his hands as if assisting Frances to mount a horse, and she raised herself up to get a better view, grasping the window ledge. The cottage was only one storey, and sufficiently low that she was almost on a level with the eaves. She saw that the roof, that might once have been thatched, judging from the dry tufts that remained, had been mended over the years with slates, which were now much broken, their deficiencies partly covered by a sheet of rubber held down by nails.
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 12
