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

by Stratmann, Linda

  Thursday was as cold as before, with dense fog and hoar frost fringing everything with feathery spikes, yet the shop’s custom had increased again. Frances calculated that takings were almost at a level with expenses, and likely to improve. The reason was not hard to deduce. Sarah revealed that talk was going around the Grove that young Mr Jacobs was a single gentleman, without a sweetheart, and that his father owned several chemist shops in various parts of London. Frances fervently hoped that her relatives did not get to hear of this, as they would have her married off to him in their imaginations ten times over before the month was out and very likely drive him away.

  That afternoon Frances was in the back of the shop mixing up a batch of camphorated chest rub when Herbert approached cautiously. They had spoken very little since she had made it clear that his attentions were unwanted and he still regarded her with some anxiety, as if she was an unguarded dog who might snap at him any moment. ‘There is a young person asking to see you,’ he said. ‘She is called Ellen, and has requested you most particularly. She will speak to no one else.’

  Frances wiped her hands. ‘I’ll see her at once,’ she said, and followed Herbert into the shop. Ellen, the Keanes’ housemaid, was warming herself at the stove. She looked up and smiled as soon as Frances appeared. ‘Miss Doughty, I’m so glad you could see me.’ She paused, and a sympathetic look clouded her eyes. ‘I want to say how sorry I was to hear about your father. I didn’t ever meet him myself, but everyone who did says as how he was a very kind man.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Frances, and it was true, ever since her father’s death, everyone had been telling her that he had been a kind man, but only now was she beginning to see that he had never been kind to her. ‘How may I help you?’

  Ellen drew nearer to the counter. ‘I want to talk about something in private. Is there somewhere we won’t be overheard?’

  ‘Of course.’ Frances had a strong suspicion that Herbert would want to know what they were talking about and would sneak around the door of the storeroom if they went in there. ‘Let us go up to the parlour.’

  ‘I should only really stop five minutes, as I’m out on an errand,’ said Ellen, ‘not that I think I’ll be missed, things are that bad.’

  They climbed the stairs to the parlour, and sat at the table. Ellen looked about her, and she smiled, in an approving sort of way, seeing the small efforts at neatness and respectability rather than the vulgarity of show. ‘I said I would come if there was any news, and there is. It’s been such a to-do, with Mistress in hysterics and the doctor coming and dosing her, and I’ve been sent out to get her favourite smelling salts and a pound of Lumps-of-Delight.’

  ‘Is this because of Mr Keane’s arrest?’ asked Frances. ‘I called upon her not long afterwards and she did not seem distressed.’

  ‘Oh no, Mistress was quite calm after that. It might not be right to say it, but I’d not seen her so happy in a very long time. Of course there were other reasons, but it’s not the sort of talk I like to hear. No, this is all about her father, Mr Morgan, who has the fancy millinery shop on the Grove, and we all supposed to be very rich. He came to visit her last night, and they had a long talk and then I heard them both crying, and now she has taken to her bed and is shouting out a lot and saying all sorts of dreadful things what I can’t repeat. I have been looking after her as best I can, but she won’t be comforted.’ Ellen shook her head sorrowfully. ‘It seems that Mr Morgan is ruined, and it’s all to do with Master’s situation, in some way that I don’t really understand. Mistress blames it all on him, and keeps saying about the bank – I think she said “freezing his accounts”, whatever that signifies. But I can’t see what that has to do with Mr Morgan.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances, to whom these events were not wholly unexpected. ‘I think I can. I have heard that Mr Morgan was not so successful in business as the world supposed, and Mr Keane, as a favour to your mistress, has been lending him money to help him, and has saved him from ruin many a time. I think —,’ Frances hesitated, not wanting to say too much. She could see that Ellen was touched by her mistress’s plight, and it would serve no purpose to accuse the lady of lying in court. ‘I think that Mr Keane gave Mr Morgan some money very recently. But when Mr Keane was arrested, of course the bank must have suspected that the money in his accounts was all stolen, and so won’t allow any more to be taken out. If Mr Keane gave Mr Morgan a cheque, then the bank will have sent it back and not given Mr Morgan his money.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Ellen in dismay. ‘Then Mistress is ruined also. She has been crying and saying that she won’t give up the house, but I had just taken that to be her hysterics, Miss, I never thought it would happen. We – I mean all the servants – we’d been thinking that Mr Morgan would be able to help, but now, of course …’ Her heavy lidded eyes were bright with sadness. ‘If Master is put in prison than I expect it will all be sold up.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Frances. ‘And – I am sorry to say it – probably much sooner than that. There will be bills to pay, and with Mr Keane under arrest I doubt that tradesmen can be persuaded to wait.’

  Ellen hung her head. ‘Now I understand something else,’ she said unhappily. ‘There was a gentlemen came to see Mistress two days ago, and when I was dusting the bedroom yesterday I saw that some of her jewels were no longer there. I thought she might have been having them cleaned, but now …’

  ‘Pawned or sold,’ said Frances. ‘It seems probable.’

  ‘Poor lady!’ said Ellen, sighing deeply.

  Frances noted that Ellen, surely about to lose her place in a matter of days, felt sympathy only for her mistress. It was a trait she appreciated. ‘Perhaps,’ said Frances, ‘Mrs Keane will be able to remove to a smaller establishment, where she will be more content. Better alone in humble lodgings than with Mr Keane in a grand house.’

  ‘You might be right, at that, Miss,’ agreed Ellen. ‘He is a very bad man.’

  ‘He is worse than anyone supposes, I am sure of it!’ said Frances. ‘Ellen, I don’t suppose you ever heard your master and Mr Garton quarrelling? Did they ever fall out over money or business matters?’

  Ellen frowned. ‘No, Miss, as far as I could see they were always on the best of terms.’ She paused. ‘You can’t think —,’ her eyes opened wide with shock, ‘Miss, you don’t think Master poisoned Mr Garton, do you?’

  ‘We know that he is a criminal,’ said Frances. ‘Moreover, he is cruel and unfeeling and, I believe, would do anything for money. I think he killed Mr Garton to get his legacy, and escaped detection by letting my father be blamed. So he must bear some responsibility for my father’s death. I do not and cannot believe that my father would ever have taken his own life as people are saying, but his distress caused an illness, a shaking in his hands, which led to his dosing himself excessively with chloroform.’

  ‘You know, Miss, now I think about it, I reckon you’re right about Master,’ said Ellen. ‘Of course he had to pretend to be Mr Garton’s friend or he would never have been left such a great fortune. I know you want so much to prove it wasn’t your father’s mistake that killed Mr Garton, and it’s sad, but now that he’s gone to his rest, I suppose you won’t ever be able to find out the truth.’

  ‘I still hope to,’ said Frances. ‘I still must. Even though my father is gone, and can no longer suffer from unkind words, there is still my family’s good name to consider.’ And, thought Frances, the one thousand pound reward.

  ‘At least Mr Keane is where he deserves to be,’ said Ellen, soothingly.

  ‘In police custody, you mean?’ Frances smiled derisively. ‘Oh he deserves far worse in my estimation. And if he was to be found guilty of the crimes he has been charged with, which I am sure he will be, what would be his sentence? Eight, ten, twelve years? I have no knowledge of these things. And would he even serve all those years? I doubt it. One hears in the newspapers all the time of the most dreadful criminals being let free before they have served all their sentences. No, unless I pursue
him, Mr Keane will never get what he deserves.’

  Ellen looked at her, sorrowfully, and Frances wondered what there was in her manner, what distraction or pathetic clinging to false hopes, that had evoked such pity. ‘Will you help me?’ she asked. ‘I need proof that Mr Keane is guilty of murder. Any little remark that you may overhear may be of importance.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss. I promise I’ll do whatever I can.’

  The following day was the police court hearing of the case against James Keane. Frances would very much have liked to be there, but she was needed both at home and in the shop. To travel to Marylebone Road and perhaps wait hours for the case to be heard, and then sit for half the day listening to the witnesses, was quite impossible. The day was suddenly brighter, the crisp whiteness of the frost gone, the air almost balmy. Those people of Bayswater who had not dared the stifling fogs and chills of the last few days emerged from their homes and enjoyed the sunshine, and the Grove came back to life. The shop was crowded again, with demands for tonics and lozenges, inhalers, syrups, and capsicum plasters. Prescriptions were pouring in, too, and Mr Jacobs and Herbert were kept almost continuously busy while Frances was stationed behind the counter, wrapping little parcels as fast as her fingers would go, and Tom was running errands two at a time.

  As the evening drew in, and business slowed, Frances could not help examining the takings for the day so far. They were good, and had she not had debts to pay and the lease renewal to come, they would have been more than adequate to keep the business running. With a sinking heart she knew that unless she had a very great stroke of good fortune, the business could not survive more than another two months.

  ‘Well, my dear Miss Doughty,’ said Chas as he and Barstie entered the shop with sunny smiles. ‘I expect you will be very pleased to hear our news!’

  ‘We were at the police court to see Mr Keane’s case,’ said Barstie. ‘And didn’t he look green in the face! Someone has pounded his nose flatter than a pancake!’

  ‘Very interesting evidence!’ said Chas.

  ‘Chas took a great many notes,’ added Barstie.

  ‘I was told that Mr Keane is a very clever fellow and he might never have been caught but for Inspector Sharrock finding the house in Maida Vale where the forgeries were done,’ added Chas.

  ‘Really,’ said Frances dryly. ‘I am sure that Inspector Sharrock was very pleased with himself.’

  ‘All puffed up and proud,’ said Barstie, ‘especially when Mr de Rutzen, the magistrate, said the police had carried out some very smart work, but he was not so complimentary about the bank, and the manager was very shamefaced that he did not find out what was happening any sooner.’

  ‘And,’ said Chas, ‘now here is something which was a very great shock to many people, though not so much to those like ourselves, in the know; Mr Keane had obtained loans from the bank for his father-in-law, giving forged title deeds as security. And Mr Morgan was in court saying that he thought the loans were all bona fide, and, who knows, he might even be arrested as well.’

  ‘People are saying that Mr Morgan, being a man of business, could not have been ignorant of the fact that he seemed to be getting loans for nothing, and was shutting his eyes to Mr Keane’s villainy,’ added Barstie.

  ‘Also,’ said Chas, ‘our guess about what was going on at the gallery on Queen’s Road was right! The manager, Berenger, gave evidence —’

  ‘Looking like he’d just been freshly sobered up for the occasion, and wanting to know where his next bracer was coming from —,’ said Barstie.

  ‘I think his employers made sure to keep him in liquor all the while so he wouldn’t ask too many questions,’ said Chas. ‘He said that there were hardly ever any customers there, but Mr Garton and Mr Keane didn’t mind that. They just told him to be there to keep the place open, and not to look too hard at what was happening. And there were books which he looked at once, and saw that a great deal of money came in and then the same money would go out again the very next day. But just after Mr Garton died, Mr Keane came round and took all the books away.’

  ‘Mr Keane was very busy destroying things after Mr Garton’s death,’ said Frances. ‘He made away with the picture the artist Meadows drew of himself and Mrs Keane. Was anything said about Mr Meadows?’

  ‘Keane has made a statement to the police saying that it was Meadows who did all the forgeries,’ said Chas, ‘but he insists that Meadows has gone abroad and he does not know where. He has given the police a description of the man, but it sounds very like a thousand other men, and Berenger said that he had never seen Meadows.’

  ‘And what was the outcome?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Keane was sent for trial at the Old Bailey. When it was announced, he fainted and had to be carried out,’ said Barstie. ‘He might have a long wait. There is always a great deal of paperwork in a trial of this kind.’

  ‘But the evidence is very conclusive, and he will surely be found guilty,’ said Frances. ‘Do you know what his sentence might be?’

  ‘Harry Benson was a very great swindler and he got fifteen years and his accomplices ten,’ said Chas. ‘That was three years ago. But these types are very clever. They never serve the full amount. These are your superior criminals. They know how to behave themselves. Keane will be out of prison in less than ten years.’

  “Well, at least he will not be running away anywhere just yet,’ said Frances. Ten years, she thought. If it was simply a matter of proving him guilty she would have had time enough, but if she was to save the business she had only a matter of weeks. There was a clanging of the bell, and a sudden influx of customers. ‘If you will excuse me —’

  ‘Of course! Business always calls!’ They tipped their hats and departed.

  The late post that day brought a letter, addressed to Mr F. Doughty. Sarah handed it to Frances without comment. Frances felt a great surge of excitement as she unsealed the letter. It was, as she had hoped, a reply from Mrs Cranby, addressed Ivy Cottage, Tollington Mill.

  Dear Mr Doughty

  It was with great pleasure that I read your letter informing me that you were enquiring into the murder of Mr Wright. As you know, I was his housekeeper for the year that he lived in Tollington Mill, and a pleasanter young gentleman one could never hope to meet. He was very well liked in the village and everyone was very distressed when he was so cruelly murdered. If it is possible for you to visit me I would be delighted to see you. My cottage is very comfortable and you would be welcome to stay. I could show you where Mr Wright once lived. I am sure the present owner who is a very agreeable and respectable gentleman would permit you to look inside. If you are able to come, please let me know. My son, Willie can meet you at the station.

  Eliza Cranby

  Frances viewed the letter with some dismay. Until now, she had imagined that her enquiries into the events at Tollington Mill would be conducted by letter, and had never dreamed for a moment that she might be invited there. She knew that it was impossible for her to go. She could not keep up the pretence of being a man for very long, and supposing she was asked to share lodgings with a man; that would never do. She could, she reflected, write to Mrs Cranby and explain the mistake, and country folk might well be persuaded that in London it was possible for there to be lady detectives. She shook her head. What could she be thinking of? She could never be spared from her place at the shop, and there were, in addition, all her household duties. Of course, she reminded herself, the Grove was very quiet on a Saturday afternoon, and she could depart at midday and return on Sunday. For the first time in over two years she had no invalid at home to care for, and Sarah could surely manage in her absence. Once again she shook her head. What a foolish, and possibly dangerous, escapade – to travel so far – to a village where there might be a murderer – to see the places where the Gartons and John Wright had lived – to meet with the very people who had known them and hear from their own lips an account of the events that so puzzled her. Horribly tempted, she knew
there was only one way to satisfy herself that the journey was out of the question. With business quieter towards the end of the day, she walked up to Paddington Station and made enquiries. The journey to Tollington Mill would, she learned, take several hours and require two changes of train, but it could be done. As she bought her ticket she seemed to be in a dream. She felt the same pleasant dizziness as when she had danced with Frederick or taken her first glass of brandy. The telegraph office in London Street was open until late, and before walking home she sent a telegram signed ‘Miss Doughty’ to Mrs Cranby advising her of the visit. It was settled. She could not change her mind. She had spent several shillings she could ill afford and they would not be wasted. She was going to Tollington Mill.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Great Western Railway. To Frances, those few words could never fail to conjure up the prospect of adventure. When Frances was seven and had entered the great rail terminus of Paddington for the first time, her uncle had looked at her with an expression of concern, and said, ‘Now Frances, there is nothing to be afraid of,’ and Frederick had said, ‘I’ll look after her, Uncle,’ and held her hand tightly. It would never have occurred to Frances to be afraid. To her childish mind the station, with its lofty columns and ornate traceries of ironwork, was a palace of wonders. The great vaults and arches above her head seemed to be as high as the sky itself, while the shining globe-like lamps hung like as many moons. Cornelius told her that the station had been built by a great man called Brunel, and she had wondered how one man could make such a very large thing all by himself.

  And the trains – how her heart had fluttered with anticipation at the great green and gold monsters, gleaming with oil, uttering shrieks and blowing clouds of hissing steam like dragons. She was helped into a carriage, and found herself in something like a little house on wheels, with windows and beautiful padded seats, and polished wood and even curtains. Other people crowded in – two gentlemen with suitcases and a woman with a fretful baby – and she felt affronted by their impertinence at entering what she thought was for herself and Frederick and her uncle alone, but Cornelius explained that anyone who could buy a ticket could get on the train. There were more shrieks and whistles, then Frederick held her hand again, and the carriage lurched, and they started to move. Frances watched in astonishment as the station slid away, and she stared out of the window at the backs of houses, and maids running out to take in the washing. She was told that the Queen used to take the train when she went to Windsor and back, and Frances wondered if the Queen was on her train – she still thought of it as hers, despite the invasion – and if she would meet the Queen, and what she would say when she did.