‘More than twenty years,’ said Collin.
‘And had you noticed any change in his mental state in the last months of his life?’
‘Mr Doughty’s only son died after a protracted illness in October of last year,’ said Collin. ‘He took it very badly, as one might imagine. For a time he was too unwell to work, but in recent weeks his condition had improved.’
‘Was he very despondent?’ asked the coroner. ‘You understand the reason for these questions. It is distressing to the family, but unfortunately necessary.’
‘He was, of course, greatly afflicted by grief, but not, in my opinion, in such a state as to give rise to any anxiety that he would take his own life,’ said Collin, confidently.
Hardwicke nodded. ‘As you are aware, in the last two weeks it has been suggested that Mr Doughty made an error in a prescription which cost the life of one of his customers, Mr Percival Garton. On the very day of his death, Mr Doughty attended the inquest on Mr Garton, which found that he was at fault in the matter. Clearly, this could have affected his mind. Do you believe that to be so?’
‘No, I do not,’ said Collin. ‘Mr Doughty suffered from a defect of the memory in which he was able to recall perfectly events which took place in the distant past and also all his skills as a chemist, but on recent matters he was vague. I do not think the death of Mr Garton, tragic as it was, preyed upon his mind at all.’ A whisper of comment flowed through the body of the court. Hardwicke peered at the onlookers and they fell silent.
‘What is your opinion of the practice of inducing sleep by dropping chloroform on a handkerchief and placing it over the face?’
‘I believe it to be extremely dangerous,’ said the doctor, ‘and always advise my patients against it. Unfortunately many do not heed that advice, and this is not the first inquest I have attended of someone who has expired from this practice. The lay public is quite unable to judge how to use chloroform. They are lulled into believing it safe because it is pleasant to take, but in fact nothing can be further from the truth. It is extremely easy to administer too great a dose.’ Frances saw the jurors glance at each other, and nod, and one or two of them scribbled notes.
‘To your knowledge, how long had the deceased been using chloroform in this way?’ asked Hardwicke.
‘About two years, I believe. Occasionally at first, and then more frequently. He suffered greatly from headaches and toothache and found it brought him relief.’
‘In your opinion, therefore, Dr Collin, do you believe Mr Doughty administered the chloroform to himself solely with the intention of procuring a refreshing sleep, or is there any evidence that he deliberately took his own life?’
‘It is my opinion,’ said Collin very firmly, ‘that there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Mr Doughty intended to take his own life.’
‘Very well, you may stand down.’
Sarah was the next to give evidence. She stated that on his return from attending Mr Garton’s inquest, William Doughty had been tired and complained of a headache, and she had helped him up to his room. The last time she had seen him alive he had been lying on his bed fully clothed. About twenty minutes later she had gone in to see how he was and found him with the handkerchief over his face. She had removed it, and as soon as she did so realised that he was dead, and sent for Dr Collin. She and Mr Munson had both made valiant efforts to revive her employer while waiting for the doctor, even though they had been certain that the situation was hopeless.
Frances was next to be called, and found herself under the sympathetic gaze of Dr Hardwicke. ‘Miss Doughty, I will keep this as brief as possible, and must apologise in advance for any distress it may cause you. Can you tell the court about your father’s state of mind in the weeks prior to his death?’
‘He was greatly grieved by the death of my brother, but in the last few weeks he was well enough to return to his work, something that meant a great deal to him. I saw many signs of improvement,’ said Frances. ‘I agree with Dr Collin that my father felt no personal guilt concerning the death of Mr Garton. There was nothing at all wrong with the medicine when it left our shop.’
‘I must remind you and the court,’ he said gently, ‘that you were not present when the prescription was made and cannot therefore give evidence on that point.’
‘Mr Munson said as much at the inquest, and he was present,’ insisted Frances.
Hardwicke raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you, Miss Doughty,’ he said. ‘You may stand down.’
There were no more witnesses, and Hardwicke was just completing his notes prior to making his closing address, when, after a certain amount of conferring in the jury box, the foreman announced that they had come to a decision.
‘Please write it down,’ said Hardwicke, and a note was quickly scribbled and conveyed to him by an officer of the court. He glanced at it and nodded. ‘Very well, please indicate your verdict.’
‘We find that the death of Mr William Doughty was due to an overdose of chloroform administered by accident. And we further state that the public should be warned of the danger of the practice of sprinkling chloroform on a handkerchief to procure sleep.’
‘I concur,’ said Hardwicke. ‘The verdict of this court is death by misadventure.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Scorer, as they left, ‘Thank goodness that is over! I am, of course, as distressed as anybody about poor William’s death, but it seems to me that the indignity of an inquest and having one’s private business discussed in the newspapers is almost as upsetting. Now let us have him decently buried and be done with it.’
On the way home, Cornelius advised Frances of the arrangements for the following day, the service at St Stephen’s and the interment at Kensal Green Cemetery.When she confessed that she had nothing in the house suitable for refreshments after the burial, he instructed her to buy what was necessary and send him the bill.
On arrival at Westbourne Grove, Frances politely invited her aunt and uncle in, but Mrs Scorer turned up her nose at the cold sausage and bread and butter that was to be the midday meal, and Cornelius took her home. It was almost a relief for Frances to be able to turn to rinsing out the boiling linens. As she worked, she listed in her mind all the things she felt she needed to know, and at the earliest opportunity transferred these thoughts to her notebook. When at last she was able to rest with a cup of tea she spread out the newspapers on the table and re-read them. One item that her eye had skipped over when she had first read it, suddenly stood out. When Garton’s death had first been reported it had been said that his oldest child was aged eight. Assuming the newspaper to be correct – a very great assumption, Frances knew – that could have meant anything between just eight and nearly nine. It had been Rhoda’s birthday the previous day, and, assuming it was her ninth, she was born on 25 January 1871, but Frances suddenly realised that this made no sense. According to Cedric, the Gartons had left Tollington Mill to consult a doctor about Mrs Garton’s inability to become a mother.They had come to London in August of 1870 and the treatment had been successful, Rhoda, said Cedric, being born within a year of their arrival. Yet if what he said was true, her birthday would have been between May and July. Frances puzzled over this, unsure if it meant anything. Had it been Rhoda’s eighth and not ninth birthday? Yet that made no sense either, as the interval between the Gartons’ arrival and her birth would have been far greater than a year. Had she misheard what Cedric had told her? As soon as she was able to find Tom, she sent him to see Ada, and ask how old Rhoda was. He was also instructed to deliver a note to Constable Brown. Surely, thought Frances, there must be amongst his father’s scrapbooks, some information about the criminal career of the infamous Lewis Cotter.
At the end of the day, Mr Jacobs departed, too polite to mention that there had been very little business. The fog still hung heavily over everything, and promised to continue to do so for some days. As Frances tried to do her mending by the light of a guttering candle, and Sarah rolled sheets of old wrapping paper into spills,Tom returned. ‘Nin
e,’ he said.
‘She is quite sure?’
‘Oh yes, remembers it like it was yesterday. No mistakin’.’ He hurried away.
Frances put down her mending. She could only conclude that the child had been expected before Henrietta left Tollington Mill. She looked at Sarah, realising that on such matters the maid was possibly the only female she could consult.
‘Sarah,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I know you have a number of nieces and nephews.’
‘Oh yes, Miss, any number, can’t count ‘em sometimes,’ said the maid, with a smile.
‘Because I need the answer to a question on a delicate matter.’ Frances took a deep breath, recalling a certain personal event in her life. She had been thirteen, and terrified. It was Sarah to whom she had run, crying, and not her aunt, Sarah who had comforted her and explained the common lot of women. ‘Is it possible,’ she asked, ‘for a lady to be expecting to become a mother in less than six months and not to know it?’
Sarah suddenly dropped her work and gaped at Frances in horror, and Frances suddenly realised what the maid must be thinking. She felt her face flush hotly. ‘No, Sarah, please be assured it is not myself I am talking of – that is quite impossible.’
‘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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There 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 crê
pe 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.
The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 23
