The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries)

by Stratmann, Linda

  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?’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t think this is the time to talk about that,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘No better time, in my opinion,’ said Mrs Scorer, firmly. ‘We are all together, and who knows when we will be again. It had better be settled soon.’

  Herbert looked alarmed, took his plate and cup and fled, with muttered apologies.

  ‘Well we have neither money to spare nor any room for her,’ said Gertrude. She shook her head with a great show of regret. ‘It is very sad, but that is the case and there is no use pretending otherwise.’

  ‘What I want to say on the subject,’ said Mrs Scorer, ‘is that I feel, and I am sure you will all agree, that I have more than done my duty already.’ She looked around her for a hint of dissention. There was none and she nodded in a self-satisfied way, and bit into a slice of cold chicken.

  ‘No one has asked you to do anything, Maude,’ said Cornelius, gently. ‘It is agreed that Frances can come and live with me as soon as the business is sold. I have more than enough room, and I confess it has been a lonely existence since dear Phoebe passed away. I would welcome the company.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ said Frances. ‘I do hope to be able to make my own way in the world.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Nora helpfully, ‘you might try the drapery trade. I have heard it can be almost genteel nowadays. That nice Mr Whiteley is very kind to the young girls who work for him.’

  ‘I have several years’ experience in the dispensary,’ Frances reminded her. ‘Surely that should not be wasted. I intend to take my examinations and seek an apprenticeship.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Gertrude. ‘Such a nasty smelly business. I think the best thing for you, Frances dear, is to marry, and do it as soon as you can.’

  ‘That might be the answer,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘A young woman without a fortune may still make a good marriage if she is an active, useful person. It so happens that I have a client, a widower with three small children, perhaps I could arrange an introduction?’

  ‘In a year or two, Mr Munson would be an excellent prospect,’ said Cornelius, ‘and I do believe he admires you.’

  ‘I am more concerned about Sarah,’ said Frances, changing the subject. ‘She has been a good, dependable servant for ten years, and as you know my father did intend to provide her with a small legacy. I would very much like to see her settled in a good place.’

  ‘The servant?’ said Mrs Scorer, witheringly, ‘what concern is she of yours? Really Frances! If you think so well of her, then give her a good character and let her go, and that is all you need to do about that.’

  ‘Frances, dear, I have just recalled that I know a gentleman looking for a governess,’ exclaimed Nora. ‘It might suit you very well. I don’t think he can pay a great deal, but of course that is all to the good as it means he is not seeking anyone with many accomplishments. And his wife is very sickly and may not live long, and he is not so very much over forty as really matters.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Frances, rising abruptly to her feet. ‘I think I can feel the approach of a headache and it would be best if I retired to my room.’

  The aunts made sympathetic noises, Cornelius nodded and rose to assist her, Rawsthorne uttered a woebegone sigh, and Mrs Scorer shrugged and helped herself to Frances’ portion of pork pie. ‘Shall I bring you up anything to drink Miss, or a cold compress?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Thank you, Sarah, no, I just need peace and quiet.’ Frances fled upstairs, but instead of going to her bed, she found herself entering her father’s room, and, though it held the same furniture as when he had been alive, found it cold, spare and empty. She sat at the little desk where he had
kept his papers, and began idly to look through them. Cornelius had been thorough and everything was neatly sorted into little packets. One packet held family documents and Frances looked though them with interest. There was the certificate of the marriage of William Henry Doughty to Rosetta Ann Martin on 10th January 1855, a date which caused her a moment of surprise. She already knew Frederick’s date of birth, but it was interesting to see it on his certificate, 2nd July 1855, and she had always been led to believe that her parents had married in 1854. She raised her eyebrows. So many things were known only by word of mouth, so many things were discreetly hidden, yet these innocent-looking pieces of official paper told a story of their own. To her surprise she saw that there had been another child, a sister called Emilia born in November 1857, who had died only three months later from scarlet fever. Then there was the certificate showing her own birth on 15th September 1860. The last paper in the packet was Fred’s death certificate, 4th October 1879.

  Sarah peered around the door. ‘They’ve gone, Miss,’ she said. ‘Is your headache better?’

  Frances nodded with relief. ‘Yes, Sarah, and it is about time I made myself useful. This room needs a thorough turning out and airing, so let us get started, and when that is done the linens can be starched.’

  Much later, as they were enjoying a cup of tea with some of the leftover cake, there was a knock at the front door. Sarah answered it, and Frances wondered if it might be Constable Brown, although it was early for him. She was disappointed when Sarah returned, a small card held in her hand which she regarded with a certain air of distaste. ‘It’s a Mr Gillan,’ she said. ‘He’s from the Bayswater Chronicle. I’ll send him away, shall I?’

  Frances considered this. Mr Gillan had no doubt been told to write a certain number of words in the newspaper. If she refused to see him, this would not, she thought, prevent him from doing so, but only encourage him to include suppositions and rumour in the absence of the facts. Worse still, he might already have interviewed persons who strongly believed her father to be guilty of error, and it was this point of view which would then prevail. ‘No, show him up to the parlour, and make a fresh pot of tea,’ she said.

  Sarah looked surprised but complied. If young Mr Frank Williamson ever needed to appear in the Grove again, which Frances fervently hoped would never be necessary, she would, she thought, at least have more information on how he might best conduct himself.

  Mr Gillan was about thirty, of respectable appearance, and neatly dressed, although Frances suspected that his clothes had been worn and refreshed for many years. Such thrift and diligence spoke of a careful wife or a fond mother. He knew that he was fortunate to be admitted, and bore the humble and sympathetic air of an undertaker, putting the best face on an unfortunate business. ‘Miss Doughty, I am sorry to trouble you at such a sad time,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I expect you would not have troubled me at any other time,’ said Frances, tartly. ‘Do be seated, Mr Gillan. The maid will be bringing tea directly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He had been relieved of his coat and hat by Sarah, and sat, shivering a little. He glanced at the parlour fire, where a few small coals glowed feebly, and rubbed his hands to warm them, before taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

  ‘How may I help you, Mr Gillan?’ Frances asked. ‘And please do not hesitate to ask whatever questions you wish. If I did not want to answer them I would scarcely have agreed to speak to you.’

  ‘I am very grateful indeed for that permission,’ he said, ‘and I would like very much to hear what you have to say on the verdict of the coroner’s court on Mr Percival Garton?’

  ‘I do not agree with the verdict,’ said Frances, firmly. ‘The court did not take into account the fact that Mr Munson was a witness to the making up of the prescription. There was no error, and my father did not at any time go into the back storeroom.’

  ‘But Mrs Keane’s evidence?’ said Gillan, scribbling.

  ‘The lady was mistaken,’ said Frances, promptly.

  ‘Oh?’ said Gillan, raising his eyebrows. He examined some notes made earlier. ‘In what respect?’

  She looked at him resolutely. ‘In every respect. I do not wish to be unkind, but I can only assume she confused that day with another occasion.’

  Gillan frowned and was about to speak when Sarah arrived with the tea things. He gazed at the teapot longingly, and Frances, who was fortunate not to mind the cold, furnished him with a steaming cup and a biscuit.

  ‘I have spoken to Mrs Keane,’ said Gillan, when Sarah had gone, ‘and she has assured me that she has only ever entered the shop once. And at the inquest she correctly described the maidservant waiting for the prescription, even to how she was sitting staring at her feet. So she could not have been in error either about the time or the place.’

  ‘Mrs Keane, in common with every other person in court, knew that Ada was there because she only spoke after she had heard her evidence,’ said Frances.

  Gillan stared at her. ‘Are you accusing Mrs Keane of making up her testimony?’

  Frances hesitated. She had effectively done just that, yet realised it might be unwise to say so explicitly and without explanation. ‘I suggest only that her memory was at fault. She may have been confused. I feel that this is far more probable than that the three other persons present were telling untruths,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Keane has informed me that you have paid her a visit,’ he said. ‘That you begged her to change her testimony.’

  ‘I asked her to acknowledge her error but she would not,’ said Frances. ‘I remain hopeful that one day she will think better of it, and do so.’

  He made some notes. ‘And – I know this is a painful subject, but…’

  Frances felt that she was gaining some expertise in dealing with painful subjects. ‘Please do not spare me.’

  ‘The inquest on your father,’ asked Gillan, ‘what is your opinion on that verdict?’

  ‘I agree with it entirely. My father had long been in the habit of using chloroform on a handkerchief to relieve pain and procure sleep.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes: headaches and toothaches, Dr Collin said. You believe that your father made a simple error with the dose?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But he did not make an error with Mr Garton’s prescription?’ he asked, slyly.

  Frances saw how his questioning had led her on. ‘The two things are quite distinct in character,’ she said coldly. ‘The excess dose of chloroform, a matter of a few minims, could have been due merely to a tremor of the hand, something he did suffer from in the last few months. As regards Mr Garton’s medicine, there was the addition of a wholly foreign substance to the mixture. That is not something which can happen in a moment of distraction, or be caused by a trembling hand.’

  ‘Are you saying that the strychnine was put there deliberately – that Mr Garton was murdered?’

  Frances knew she must not be drawn into wild allegations which would find themselves in the newspapers, and alert any confederates Keane might have had. ‘I make no suggestion of the sort,’ she said. ‘Without evidence, I can say nothing, and the Chronicle might deem it wise to say nothing also. In the case of my father, what I say is based on my personal knowledge of him, something other people cannot have.’

  ‘But it is very clear,’ said Gillan, ‘that the strychnine must have been introduced into the medicine before it left your shop. It was wrapped and sealed, right up to the moment when Mr Garton opened it and took a drink. There was no opportunity for anyone to introduce the poison.’

  ‘I only know that my father could not have put it there,’ said Frances, firmly. If her determination sounded like the blind faith of a doting daughter, then so be it.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, more kindly, ‘you would favour me with a brief account of your father’s life.’

  ‘Yes, of course. He was born in 1830, and resided many years in Kilburn. He opened this shop in 1860. The Grove was not then the prosperous shopping promenade that
you see today, but the area was genteel, and he thought the prospects good. My mother was the former Rosetta Martin. She died in 1864. My brother Frederick was to have been my father’s partner in the business but he died last October after a long illness. Mr Gillan,’ she added impulsively, ‘my father has always enjoyed the respect and confidence of his many customers. All who knew him have only kind words to say, both of his character and ability in his profession.’

  Frances suddenly felt a creeping of cold horror at the weak, pleading creature she must seem to be. She clasped her hands firmly together for a moment, willing herself to be strong. As she watched the reporter write, she wondered how many others he had interviewed; the police, perhaps, and what of Mrs Garton, or Cedric? She craned her head as far as was commensurate with politeness, to peer at his notebook, and saw to her disappointment an indecipherable collection of dots, lines and curlicues.

  ‘Are you reporting also on the case against Mr Keane?’ she asked.

  He looked up with a smile. ‘I am indeed; I will be at the police court on Friday to hear the case. That will be sensational reading!’

  ‘What a terrible man he must be,’ said Frances, ‘and how he has fooled us all into believing him to be such a respectable individual.’

  ‘Do you know him, Miss Doughty?’ asked Gillan, pencil poised.

  ‘I have met him only once, in the picture gallery, I thought his manners very unpleasant.’

  Gillan smiled. ‘Do you know he was a near neighbour of yours at one time?’