Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  He was followed onto the field by a police van driven by a constable. The crowds rightly surmised that it was for the transport of a body to the mortuary, and groaned horribly as it passed them by, making a half circuit of the cricket pitch like a grim travesty of a fashionable carriage parading around the drive of Hyde Park, before drawing up at the side of the pavilion. The crowds pressed closer hoping to see something dreadful, and were pushed back by the line of police.

  This vehicle was followed by a four-wheeler bringing an Inspector and three constables from Hammersmith, who descended and entered the pavilion. Soon afterwards, two ladies with shawls over their heads were conducted by a constable to the four-wheeler, which quickly drove away. The crowds sighed in sympathy, as it was obvious from the way they bore themselves that they were afflicted by grief, and some onlookers correctly guessed their identity. It was not until both Barraclough and the police van had left that Inspector Sharrock emerged from the pavilion, mounted the platform and took up the speaking trumpet once more. The crowd fell quiet.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sad duty to inform you of the recent death under suspicious circumstances of Miss Clara Hicks.’ He paused for the gasps and exclamations that he knew would follow, then spoke again. ‘I would ask you all to have respect and consideration for the young lady’s family at this terrible time. Police enquiries have already commenced. That is all I can tell you for now. Please remain where you are until you are told that you can leave.’

  Not all of the visitors to the field that day were acquainted with Miss Hicks, and there were some whispered enquiries as to who she might be, but there were more than a few whose shock and grief were apparent. There were some, however, who failed to hide knowing expressions, implying that they had long anticipated that the victim would come to a bad end.

  There was to be no more jollity that day. The bandsmen who had been waiting to play for the tea-drinkers, and deliver musical tributes for the prize giving, were struck silent and sat on the grass, clutching their cherished instruments. Bicyclists stood beside their machines, heads bowed low.

  Mr Toop mounted the podium. ‘Everyone,’ he began, and paused to wipe his forehead. ‘I am so sorry. We must, of course, out of respect and necessity abandon the proceedings.’ A collective groan of dismay arose from the audience, but no one protested against the inevitable. ‘There will be no more races today, and no prizegiving. The results of the contests held so far will be announced in the Wheel World in due course. Thank you.’ He retired from the scene. There was a little gasp and a sob nearby, and Frances saw Rufus Goring standing by Miss Farrow trying to pat her hand, but the lady was petulantly determined not to be comforted.

  Toop was busying himself gathering members of the club and discussing what was to be done next. The stallholders began to crowd around him, anxiously, demanding to know if they were to stop trading, and he was soon inundated with enquiries.

  In the midst of all the confusion and uncertainty, Frances felt frustrated by a lack of purpose. Was her secret mission even to continue? Was she still bound by the rules she had been given? She didn’t know.

  Although Inspector Sharrock did not want her to take any part in the murder enquiry Frances still felt that she might have something of value to offer if she knew more of the facts, and in order to gather those facts she needed to enter the pavilion and learn what enquiries were being made. It occurred to her that while the police might not permit her to act as a detective, they might well approve of her taking on another role.

  She glanced across at Sarah and signed for her to come nearer, then she walked up to Inspector Sharrock, who had just finished issuing orders to Mayberry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sharrock did not look pleased to see Frances approach but she did not allow it to deter her. She took a strong fast stride, going past Mayberry so quickly that he did not have time to react before she reached her quarry. Mayberry knew Frances too well to attempt to do anything more than keep up with her. ‘Now then, Miss, the Inspector is very busy,’ he said gently.

  Frances ignored him. ‘I have a suggestion to make,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Sharrock irritably. ‘And my suggestion is that you wait until you are called to be interviewed. In fact, why don’t I interview you first and then you can go home?’

  ‘I think you should hear my suggestion, and once you have, I can guarantee you will not ask me to leave.’

  He uttered a weary sigh. ‘Very well, say what you have to, and then go and join your peculiar friend, wherever he is.’

  ‘I was thinking, Inspector, that while people are waiting they might benefit from some tea. Since Mrs Hicks and her sister have departed, poor Mrs Pirrie has no one to assist her in the kitchen. Would you allow Sarah and me to go into the pavilion and help her? If you are interviewing witnesses it will be thirsty work for all, and you and your men might like some refreshment on a warm afternoon.’

  Sharrock grunted and tapped his foot. ‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘but,’ he went on, shaking a warning finger at her, ‘don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Come on in, but don’t interrupt any police work, or I’ll have you escorted out again pretty quick.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘And if you should hear anything of interest, let me know,’ he added reluctantly.

  She smiled. ‘I will.’

  Sharrock indicated to the constable at the pavilion door that Frances should be allowed in, and when Sarah prudently held back, he beckoned her forward. ‘Kitchen staff!’ said Sharrock to the constable, who nodded and opened the door. Frances and Sarah hurried in together.

  Mrs Pirrie was in the kitchen with another lady. Both looked shocked and drawn. They had been standing together in close conversation, and turned and stared at Sarah and Frances as they arrived.

  ‘We have come to offer our assistance,’ explained Frances. ‘Tea is the best comfort at a time like this. The place is full of policemen and they do so like their tea.’

  Mrs Pirrie nodded, and rubbed her palms on her apron. ‘Thank you, it’s been such a strange upsetting kind of day, what with Sir Hugo gone no one quite knows where, and then all that business with Mr Iliffe and Mr Babbit – I wish those two would make their peace, I really do. I didn’t think it could get much worse, but …’ she sighed. ‘You know poor Mrs Hicks and her sister were here helping me out – the police came and asked them to look at the body. Such a dreadful thing.’

  Frances and Sarah looked about the kitchen, which was a good size with a double sink, and ample space for the large numbers of cups, saucers, plates and teapots always required at a cricket match. A long central table was loaded with cakes, pies and tarts ready to be cut for afternoon tea, great hearty loaves of bread, a large crock of yellow butter and enormous pots of jam. At the rear of the kitchen was a door which had been left open, presumably to allow the circulation of fresh air, and Frances saw that it led to a short corridor and the back door she had observed from outside.

  ‘You’ll need clean cups,’ said Sarah, spying a pile of used crockery waiting for attention. She rolled up her sleeves to reveal forearms that any pugilist would have been proud of. No one argued with her and she set to work.

  ‘This is Miss Williamson,’ explained Mrs Pirrie to the other lady, ‘Mr Garton’s cousin. And?’ she glanced at Sarah.

  ‘Miss Smith,’ said Sarah, who had decided that her own surname was disguise enough.

  ‘Well I’m very pleased to have your assistance,’ said Mrs Pirrie. ‘This is Mrs Easton, who very kindly stepped in when Mrs Hicks and her sister had to leave. Mr Easton is very important in these parts, as he manages the cricket ground.’

  Frances refilled the kettle, took it to the range and set it heating. Mrs Pirrie looked on approvingly at how easily she handled the heavy container even when full. ‘Is Sir Hugo returned yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Frances.

  Mrs Pirrie seemed unsure what to do, but picke
d up a knife and began to slice up Bakewell tart. ‘I hope people will want this. I expect there’ll be many who’ll find they have no appetite.’

  ‘It looks delicious,’ said Frances. ‘My cousin Cedric recommended it to me.’

  Mrs Pirrie did not seem to be cheered by the compliment. ‘I wish someone would tell me what is happening,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘All I know is that no one is to be allowed home until they have spoken to the police and at least given a name and address. But I beg you not to worry. Inspector Sharrock appears to be quite rude, but I have the feeling that that is just his manner and he is actually quite kind underneath. In the meantime, I think there will be some demand for refreshments.’

  Mrs Easton scowled as she picked up a long bread knife and started slicing bread with more energy than skill. She was younger and thinner than Mrs Pirrie, and rather sharp faced. She had donned an apron that was intended for a much wider person over a gown with some pretentions to fashion. Her hair was severely parted, scraped back tightly and held with pins that had been thrust through a hard little bonnet. Frances had the impression that Mrs Easton must have her own cook at home and regarded her presence in the pavilion’s kitchen as an act of charity. ‘I know it’s a sad business, but I can’t say I’m all that surprised,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of her, she was not a bad soul,’ Mrs Pirrie protested.

  ‘I never said she was bad,’ snapped Mrs Easton, pausing to scoop butter from the crock with a table knife. A blob of butter, softened in the heat of the afternoon, slid onto the table as she waved the knife for emphasis. ‘Not as bad as some others I could name, but it was all those young men on bicycles that turned her head. I said to her once, don’t you be fooled, you won’t find one man among them who’ll marry you; but no, she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Of course, we don’t rightly know what went on,’ said Mrs Pirrie, ‘so I wouldn’t like to judge.’

  ‘I can tell you one thing that went on,’ persisted Mrs Easton. ‘I heard it from Mrs Hicks herself, so there’s no mistake. That poor woman, what troubles she has had with that girl! It seems that young Clara has been giving away more than just saucy looks and kisses. Only last week she told her mother that there’s a young man who will have to pay for his entertainment or better still, make her an honest wife. I said to her straight out, your Clara has been taken in by the oldest trick there is, and she’s too young in the ways of the world to know it. And Mrs Hicks half agreed with me, although she did say the young man in question had promised to meet his obligations, though he didn’t say how.’

  ‘Oh, how terribly shocking!’ Frances exclaimed, careful to give the impression that while she deplored salacious gossip she was still eager to hear it. ‘Do you know the young man’s name?’

  Mrs Easton shook her head and applied butter to a bread slice as if she was trowelling mortar onto a brick. ‘Either Clara wouldn’t say or Mrs Hicks didn’t ask. All she knew was that it was one of the bicycle men.’

  ‘Not Jack Linnett, then,’ said Mrs Pirrie, with some relief. ‘Not that I would have thought it of him.’ She left the Bakewell tarts and went to help Mrs Easton, whose bread slices would have done for an army of giants.

  ‘No, not him!’ said Mrs Easton. ‘He was sweet on her, well we all knew that, but she wouldn’t even look at him. Thought he wasn’t good enough for her.’ She gave a contemptuous snort. ‘If you ask me, she wasn’t good enough for him.’

  ‘And this bicycle man was going to marry her?’ asked Mrs Pirrie. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Neither do I. But you can’t be telling young girls that. They believe all the sweet promises.’

  ‘So they do,’ agreed Mrs Pirrie. ‘And if a young woman has got a bad name then even if she points a finger at the man to blame, he can always say it was another man’s fault, and how can she prove otherwise?’

  ‘They say mud sticks,’ said Mrs Easton. ‘Some young men can just laugh it off or call the girl a liar, but there’s some who can’t or won’t. She thought she could bring him to heel, but she was wrong, and I think that’s what got her killed.’

  ‘You’re not saying it’s a bicycling man who killed her to escape his obligations?’ exclaimed Mrs Pirrie.

  Mrs Easton shrugged. ‘Who can tell? She might have had a dozen men all thinking they were responsible, and she just pushed the wrong one too far.’

  ‘Poor Sir Hugo,’ sighed Mrs Pirrie, ‘he will be so upset when he finds out what has happened. He has a lot of respect for Mr Hicks, he always does for those who work hard, whatever their station in life.’

  ‘Where is Sir Hugo?’ asked Mrs Easton. ‘I expected to see him running about and making speeches but he has been nowhere to be seen all day.’

  ‘Business of some sort in London,’ said Mrs Pirrie. ‘Gentlemen and their meetings, they always take longer than they expect.’

  The door of the kitchen opened and a constable peered in. ‘Mrs Pirrie? The Inspector would like a word.’

  Mrs Pirrie wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘Of course, I’ll tell him all I know.’

  Frances had found fresh milk and extra butter stored in a cool larder. She prepared a tray, and loaded it with a large pot of tea, cups, milk and sugar, while Mrs Easton added a plate piled high with thickly buttered bread and a pot of jam, and Mrs Pirrie added a whole Bakewell tart. ‘I’ll take that,’ said the constable, eagerly.

  ‘Best put the kettle on again,’ said Mrs Easton, and went to cut more bread and butter.

  As Mrs Pirrie departed for questioning Frances glanced through the briefly open door of the kitchen and noticed young Mr Farrow on his way out of the pavilion. His expression was one of acute unhappiness, and he stared dispiritedly at the floor as he shuffled out. She set about making more tea, reflecting that it was a drink of which it was impossible for there ever to be too much.

  ‘Wasn’t it you found the body?’ said Mrs Easton. ‘Only I heard someone say it was Mr Garton’s cousin.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘You’re calm enough about it, I’ll say that. Some young ladies faint at the sight of a drop of blood.’

  ‘They think the gentlemen expect them to,’ said Frances.

  Mrs Easton gave a humourless laugh. ‘Well isn’t that right! So, tell me, how was it done?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The murder. How was she killed?’

  ‘I didn’t look closely enough,’ said Frances, well aware that any information she revealed would be all over Middlesex before the day was out. ‘I only saw that she was dead.’

  ‘Stabbed?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘If there was a lot of blood the man would have it on him.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Frances, ‘and I am sure the police will be looking for that.’

  Sarah finished the last of the washing up, her burly arms reddened by the hot water, and Frances went to help her dry the chinaware and stack it ready for the next round of tea. As she did so, a thought struck her. There was one person who had been very upset at the death of Miss Hicks, and it was probably about the last individual she might have expected to be distressed at the news. She needed to know more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Mrs Easton,’ Frances asked, glad to be able to divert the conversation away from the method of Miss Hick’s demise, ‘do you know if Miss Farrow was a particular friend of Miss Hicks?’

  Mrs Easton was amazed at the question. ‘Miss Farrow? No, she’d have nothing to do with any of that sort. Nose in the air, that one.’

  ‘I ask because I saw her very upset a little earlier, when the Inspector said that Miss Hicks had been killed. So I guessed that they might have been friends.’

  ‘Well take my word for it; it wouldn’t have been on account of Clara Hicks. If I had to guess, it was because the meeting was stopped. There was going to be a special announcement after the prize giving, and I feel sure I know what it was. I shouldn’t think they
’ll do it at all now.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Toop mentioned something of the sort.’

  ‘It wouldn’t sit well to be talking about betrothals and that young woman lying dead.’

  ‘Miss Farrow and Mr Goring?’ asked Frances.

  ‘That’s right. It’s a good match. He has the looks and the prospects, and she has any amount of money to come. No love in it, of course, but then you don’t expect that.’

  ‘I had heard that he once showed an interest in Miss Vance.’

  ‘So she liked to think, only he wouldn’t agree. And even if there had been something, that all stopped when Miss Farrow came back from her school in Switzerland, just turned eighteen and finished off nicely, her hair newly curled, and a dowry that would buy half the county.’

  ‘Young Mr Farrow must have prospects as well.’

  ‘Oh him!’ said Mrs Easton contemptuously. ‘One of those idle young men – good for nothing.’

  ‘Was he a special friend of Miss Hicks?’

  ‘He’s young with a rich father, so I expect she flirted with him same as the others. So she wasn’t stabbed then?’

  The great kettle was almost ready for the next supply of tea. ‘I wonder if the ladies could do with some refreshment?’ said Frances, changing the subject.

  Sarah peered out of the window. ‘They’re out on the veranda sitting about fanning themselves and waiting to be questioned. They look thirsty to me.’

  Frances hurried out before Mrs Easton could make any further attempts at prying information from her. There was a little cluster of ladies gathered about the tables in varying states of misery and impatience. Miss Farrow was being comforted by her brother. The prospective bridegroom was not in evidence, but presumably he was assisting Mr Toop with the arrangements for closing the meeting. ‘I am making tea if anyone would like some,’ said Frances brightly.