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

by Stratmann, Linda

  Then she was travelling faster than she could ever have imagined possible, with trees and fields and houses going past in a blink of an eye. When they stopped it was always at a station so tiny it was like a doll’s house of a station, hardly a real one at all. There were many such excursions; sometimes they would walk in a wood scattered with flowers, once they saw a water mill, once it was a beautiful large house with a garden, and once a river with all kinds of swimming birds with names she could not possibly remember. Each train ride had seemed like a magical adventure, but now, more than twelve years after her first, she was about to travel, not just a few miles but most of the way across England, quite alone, to meet people who were perfect strangers, while pretending to be a detective, in order to discover the identity of a murderer. Now that was an adventure.

  She was grateful to have started soon after midday, for it would be a long journey. Fortunately the guards did not seem to think it was unusual for a young woman to be travelling alone, carrying only a small bag. She was especially anxious that she should not be taken for a wicked sort of woman, and, if she had been asked, would have told her enquirers that she was journeying to care for a sick relative, but her fellow passengers seemed weary or preoccupied and she did not enter into conversation with them. Before she departed, Sarah had uttered dire warnings about men who might seem to be gentlemen, and offer to assist her, but might in the event turn out not to be gentlemen at all, but a predatory type of person of whom she should beware. She advised Frances to find a carriage populated mainly or even entirely by other females if she could, and this, Frances had taken care to do. She had brought some bread and cheese to eat on the way, but did not feel especially hungry. She read a newspaper that she had found discarded on the platform, and studied her notebook, then stared out of the window at gloomy fields with forlorn-looking animals. Of course, she realised, her childhood excursions had all been in fine weather; no wonder everything had seemed to her to be so bright and colourful. Now it was all in shades of grey.

  The first stop was Bristol, whose station boasted a great iron roof like that of Paddington. She felt that the industrious Mr Brunel must have been at work there, too. Making anxious enquiries, she discovered where she needed to wait for her next train, and after half an hour of shivering on the platform, a small rattling collection of coaches drew up, and she boarded. By now, she was hungry, and ate the bread and cheese. An hour later she was deposited at a country station, open to the elements, with a dreary little waiting room that smelled of something unpleasant. The air was chill, and her coat was no protection against a stiff breeze. Fortunately there was only half an hour to wait and another little train hissed and creaked to a halt and she got on. It was late afternoon when she reached Tollington Mill, and the sky was darkening over, the tiny station encased in a filmy mist. As she stood on the platform with her little bag, no scrap of food to eat, and a few pennies in her purse, waiting for a stranger, she began to think she must be quite mad.

  ‘Miss Doughty?’ said a voice, as a lantern approached. The figure came closer and showed itself to be that of a man in his thirties, dressed in a neat, countrified way, with a stout greatcoat and a weather-beaten hat, large boots and a long muffler wound about his neck. He held up the light. He had a broad smiling face. ‘I’m Will Cranby,’ he said. ‘Mother sent me to take you to the cottage. Here, this is the letter you wrote to her.’

  Frances saw that he was holding her letter. ‘Oh,’ she said in relief. ‘Thank you, that was very thoughtful.’

  ‘The cart’s just outside the station,’ he said. ‘It’s only a mile or so. I’ll take your bag.’

  In the road outside stood a butcher’s cart, drawn by a single horse, the back portion constructed like a box for carrying goods, the front being no more than an open bench for the driver and a passenger, although he had provided some rugs for comfortable seating and warmth. He held out his arm and she placed her hand upon it as she climbed up onto the cart. For a brief moment she thought she knew a little of how Mrs Keane had felt towards Adam, how reassuring it was to have such a strong male arm for one’s support.

  ‘So you’re a detective, Miss,’ he said, as they set off. ‘I never knew there were lady detectives.’

  ‘Ladies are entering into almost every sphere of society nowadays,’ said Frances, but regretted saying it almost as soon as she had spoken. It made her sound like a proud sort of woman and she did not think she was proud.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Of course I suppose it is different in London.’

  ‘Tell me about Tollington Mill,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh, well, not a lot to say, Miss. It used to be a lot bigger than it is now, what with the woollen mill, that’s why we have the railway going up to Bristol, but the mill’s all gone years ago, and we’re no more than a thousand souls, mainly farming.’ They were approaching a row of stone cottages, some of which had diminutive shop fronts. ‘That’s where I live, Miss, the butcher’s shop there. Me and my wife Alice live over the shop. We do the best pork in Gloucestershire, I’ve heard people say.’

  ‘I understand that Mrs Cranby no longer lives at Tollington House?’

  ‘Oh no, not for a year now. After poor Mr Wright was killed, the place was leased by a Mr Armitage, and he engaged my mother as housekeeper. She was very happy to stay, but nowadays she has some trouble with her legs, and can’t get about or manage the stairs as she used to do. So she lives in Ivy Cottage now with my sister Dora.’ Just past the stone cottages was a handsome corner house, clad in creeper and clustered about with bushes. ‘Up ahead there, is Old Mill House,’ he said, ‘where Mr Wright used to go to see his friend Mr Garton.’

  Frances stared at it eagerly, trying to make out its features through the increasing gloom. It was far larger than the cottages of the village folk, and certainly in keeping with a man who owned a successful business, but a great deal smaller and less genteel than the Garton home on Porchester Terrace, Bayswater. ‘We can take you to see Tollington House tomorrow,’ said Will. ‘Mr Armitage has very kindly agreed to show it to you. Now then, here we are!’

  The cart stopped outside a stone cottage very like all the others Frances had seen, and Will helped her down and took her bag inside, calling out, ‘We’re here, Mother!’ before he held the door open.

  Frances peered inside. The door opened directly onto a small parlour. A modest fire blazing in the grate was somehow contriving to heat the room, a tiny oven, a kettle and a flat iron, while simultaneously boiling two pans of savoury smelling food on the iron plates at either side. A stout, elderly woman seated on an easy chair rose with some difficulty and came to greet her, walking with the aid of a stick. ‘Miss Doughty! Oh I am so pleased to see you! I’m Eliza Cranby. You must be tired. Do come in, the kettle has just boiled.’

  There was a curiously lumpy piece of furniture in the room, a kind of backless sofa much piled with rugs and cushions of all colours, and Frances realised that Mrs Cranby, no longer able to climb the stairs to her bedroom, had disguised her bed as quite another article.

  A much younger woman, a slender copy of the first, was tending to the fire and the cooking. ‘This is my daughter, Dora,’ said Mrs Cranby. ‘Now Will, I hope you have been making sure that Miss Doughty had a pleasant drive here, and showed her all the sights. Please take a seat, Miss Doughty. We have our supper almost ready and I know you must want something after so long a journey.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your hospitality,’ said Frances. ‘It’s a very pretty village. Such delightful cottages.’

  ‘I could not be happy anywhere else,’ Mrs Cranby declared. ‘I was sorry to leave Tollington House, but this suits me very well. Dora goes in to do the laundry and cleaning for Mr Armitage, who has it now, and I turn my hand to the mending. And we are very comfortable here, very comfortable indeed.’

  ‘I’ll get on home now,’ said Will, as he departed, ‘but I’ll be here to take you all up to church tomorrow morning. Good day to you Miss Dou
ghty. I hope you have a pleasant visit.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Doughty, you can’t know how grateful I was to have your letter!’ exclaimed Mrs Cranby, easing herself into a chair beside a square, plain wooden table.

  ‘Talked about nothing else since,’ said Dora with a smile, bringing a pot of tea.

  ‘I was only Mr Wright’s housekeeper for a year, but I can honestly say a better employer I could not have wished for. So thoughtful – such manners! And to think he met with a terrible end like that and no one brought to justice!’ Mrs Cranby shook her head. Almost ten years ago it might have been, but Frances saw that the murder of John Wright was fresh in her memory.

  ‘Is it his family who have asked you to enquire into the murder?’ asked Dora.

  Frances felt ashamed at having to be less than candid with these kindly and honest folk. ‘I am afraid I am not permitted to say,’ she said.

  ‘His family!’ said Mrs Cranby contemptuously. ‘What do they care about him, whoever they are! There is a fresh posy on his grave every Sunday, Miss Doughty, and do you know where it comes from? From me. I put it there, because someone who knew him ought to do so, and never a member of his family have I ever seen tend that grave. I used to keep it tidy, when I could get about better, and now Will does it for me.’

  ‘Mr Wright had a sister, I believe,’ said Frances.

  ‘Yes, and if I caught hold of her I would give her a piece of my mind!’ said Mrs Cranby. ‘Do you know, she told everyone that Mr Wright was mad?’

  ‘And what do you believe?’ asked Frances.

  ‘That he was as sane as any of us sitting round this table!’ Mrs Cranby exclaimed. ‘All that talk about how she cared for him and she has never been seen here to so much as pull one weed from the grave. And those stories she told about how he was supposed to imagine he owned great estates and said he went out for meetings when he stayed indoors. Well, I can tell you, I was shocked when I heard about that because I saw no sign of it at all.’ She gave an emphatic nod, followed by a quick glance in Dora’s direction as if she expected her daughter to say something, but Dora tended to the cooking and was silent.

  ‘Did he have many visitors?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Only what one might expect. There was Mr and Mrs Garton from Old Mill House, and Reverend Jessup, and Mr Mullin the land agent, and Mrs Tate who used to collect for charity – she’s gone, now, poor soul – but that was all.’

  Frances suddenly realised that here at last was someone who she did not have to persuade to answer questions. Her hostess had probably been bursting to do so since receiving the letter. She took out her notebook and pencil and saw Mrs Cranby beam with pleasure. ‘No one came to see him from outside the village?’

  ‘Never, that I know of.’

  ‘I understand he used to write a great many letters,’ said Frances, scribbling.

  ‘Oh yes, and posted them himself.’

  ‘And you saw on one occasion that he wrote to a Mr Keane in London?’

  Mrs Cranby was clearly impressed that Frances knew this. ‘Yes, so I did. I don’t know what came of that.’

  ‘But this Mr Keane, he never visited Mr Wright as far as you know?’

  ‘No, Miss, as I said, I don’t think anyone came there who I didn’t already know.’

  Frances nodded, thoughtfully. ‘He must have received letters, too.’

  ‘Oh yes, very regularly. I can’t say who sent them, but I believe they came from London.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to them? I suppose the police must have taken them away?’

  ‘I didn’t find any for them to take,’ said Mrs Cranby. ‘I think he burnt them all before he went away. Some gentlemen don’t trouble to keep their letters.’

  Frances wondered if those last hours before John Wright left Tollington Mill could hold a crucial clue to his death. ‘Before he left – the last time you saw him – did he give any reason for his absence?’

  ‘No, only that he would be going away on business. It was all done in a great hurry, and he didn’t really have time to say much about it.’

  This was, thought Frances, the first she had known that John Wright’s departure was a sudden one. ‘How much warning did you have that he was going?’

  ‘Just a few hours. He told me, and he was gone the same day.’

  ‘How did he seem – I mean his mood? Was he worried, or excited, or – did he seem to be afraid of anything?’

  ‘He was not in his usual state of mind,’ said Mrs Cranby, thoughtfully. ‘He was always a very calm gentleman. The sort you’d think wouldn’t be easily upset. He was flustered, I would say, rushing about a great deal. Like he’d had some troubling news. And —,’ she paused. ‘There was one thing I thought was strange.’

  ‘Yes?’ Frances held her breath.

  ‘I’m sure you know he was a very clever artist, and he had a sketch book he used to take with him, and draw the countryside and houses hereabouts. The thing is, when he was getting ready to go, he took it and threw it on the fire. Burnt it up, Miss, quite deliberately. And I do remember thinking to myself at the time, why would he do such a thing? And the more I thought about it, the more the idea came into my head that he wasn’t expecting to come back.’

  ‘Did you tell the police this?’

  ‘I did,’ said Mrs Cranby, ruefully, ‘but you know what the police are like; they thought it was just my fancy.’

  ‘Did he take very much with him in the way of luggage?’

  ‘One bag, that was all.’

  Frances was astonished. ‘When he expected to be gone a month?’

  ‘He told me he would send for his other things, but he never did.’

  Frances stared at her notes, wondering what it could all mean. ‘How often did Mr and Mrs Garton visit?’

  ‘Oh several times a week, or else he would go there. What would you say, Dora?’

  Dora was bringing a platter of boiled ham and potatoes to the table. ‘Oh yes, very friendly they all were,’ she said. ‘I used to do laundry and cleaning for Mr and Mrs Garton, so I was often there, and sometimes they asked me to help with the cooking, too. When Mr Garton and Mr Wright went off drawing together I used to put out a cold supper for when they came back.’

  ‘Is it true, Miss, that Mr Garton died recently?’ asked Mrs Cranby. ‘I have heard talk in the village that he did.’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid so,’ said Frances.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything of them since they left,’ said Dora, slicing the ham onto plates. ‘Mrs Garton – do you know – did she have a little boy or a little girl?’

  Frances stared at her for a moment. ‘You knew her condition?’

  Dora smiled. ‘Well it wasn’t that hard to see. She kept saying she was bilious, but it was plain enough to me.’ She piled potatoes beside the thick slices of ham and pushed the plate over to Frances. ‘You start on that before it gets cold. Don’t wait on us.’

  It was the best ham Frances had ever tasted, and she said so. ‘You were quite right about Mrs Garton’ she added. ‘She gave birth to a baby girl in the January after she left here, and since then she has had four more children, all healthy.’

  It was Dora’s turn to look surprised. ‘Well, that is remarkable,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you mean you knew there had been some – medical complication.’

  ‘Yes, well it was obvious that there was something the matter, what with all the time they had been married, and no family,’ said Dora. ‘Dr McPhail used to come round and there were visits to doctors in Bristol, and then they went to see someone in London, and I think there was a man in Edinburgh, but they always came back looking very despondent so I expect they had been told there was no hope. Then Mr Garton took a sea voyage in the hopes that the air would do him good. He’d been looking very weary before, what with the business causing him a lot of worry, but when he came back he looked so much better, the very picture of good health, and it wasn’t so long after that I noticed the signs of a child on the way.’

&nb
sp; It was a few moments before Frances understood the import of what had just been said, and she gulped down a piece of ham almost unchewed. ‘Mr Garton took a voyage?’

  ‘That’s right, away for three weeks he was.’

  ‘Not Mrs Garton?’

  Dora looked puzzled. ‘No, Miss.’

  Frances chose her words carefully. ‘You see – I had been told that Mrs Garton was a lady in very delicate health, and that the doctors had said she could never be a mother.’

  Dora shook her head. ‘Oh no, you’ve been told wrong. Mrs Garton was a very slim young lady but she was never unwell.’ She paused. ‘I hope you don’t think I ever listen to private conversations …’

  ‘I am sure you cannot be blamed for overhearing something by accident,’ said Frances, with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Only I once heard Mr Garton telling Dr McPhail that he had been took very bad when he first came to England, and his doctor had told him then it could mean that he might never be a parent.’

  Frances thought that she could see the reason for the error. She had been told about Henrietta’s poor health by Cedric, who in turn had had the story from his brother. Percival must quite understandably have been sensitive on the subject and preferred to let his family believe that the fault lay with Henrietta and not himself. She wondered if the sea voyage and Garton’s improved health had indeed been the reason for the arrival of the longed-for family. Suppose, however, that Garton was not Rhoda’s father. He could have suspected this himself, but the birth of four more children after the family’s removal from Tollingon Mill, and everyone they had known there, would have reassured him. Had there, Frances wondered, been an intrigue between Henrietta and James Keane? And if so, how would she ever prove it?