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

by Stratmann, Linda

  ‘Do you know where Berkeley Castle is?’ asked Frances, hopefully.

  ‘Yes,’ he said confidently. ‘I believe it is somewhere in England.’

  Frances wrote the name in her notebook, and resolved to find the answer when she reached home. ‘Do you know how Mr Keane and your brother first became acquainted? Or indeed when or where?’

  ‘You are full of questions, Miss Doughty,’ said Cedric regretfully. ‘I wish I had the answers.’

  ‘I am sure Mrs Garton would know, but of course it would be most improper of me to enquire.’

  ‘Even you have your limits of daring, I see.’ He smiled. He sipped his tea. ‘But to return to the matter under discussion, this supposed murder, assuming that it was one. The last time I spoke to Inspector Sharrock I was given to understand that the police had accepted the verdict of the inquest and were making no further enquiries. To your way of thinking, not only has the murderer escaped without being suspected of the crime, the police do not even believe that a crime has been committed. That to my mind is a singular achievement. If I was to attempt such a thing – and I am a far cleverer man than Keane, though I try not to let it spoil my enjoyment of life – I would hardly know where to begin. And I am sure I would make many mistakes and be discovered quite easily.’

  ‘That is my difficulty,’ said Frances. ‘I can see that Mr Keane had a motive to commit the crime, but I am unable to prove how it was done.’

  ‘To begin with,’ said Cedric, ‘where would one obtain a sufficient amount of pure strychnine? Surely only a doctor or a chemist could do so easily. I could not walk into a chemists’ shop and ask for such a thing without it attracting some attention and if it was to be stolen that would surely be remarked upon. In fact, and you must forgive me for mentioning it, the only premises in the area which is missing a bottle of strychnine is Doughty’s.’

  ‘We have accounted for that,’ said Frances sternly.

  ‘Two or three grains the doctor said,’ mused Cedric. ‘But of course if the poison was in the medicine bottle, it would have to have been several times that amount, for anyone to take two or three grains in just a few teaspoonfuls.’

  ‘Perhaps as much as thirty,’ said Frances. ‘I agree, it would not be an amount for anyone to obtain easily, and without detection.’

  ‘What about those vermin killers Dr Collin mentioned at the inquest?’ asked Cedric. ‘He thought they could not have been used. Tell me about those.’

  ‘They can be bought by anyone,’ said Frances, ‘but the drug is dyed with Prussian blue or mixed with soot so no mistake can be made in its use. No dye of any kind was found in your brother’s stomach, so he could not have swallowed strychnia from that source.’

  ‘Is it possible to remove the pure strychnine from the dye?’

  ‘Yes, it can easily be done by —,’ she paused, ‘but only a chemist would know how to do it. Having said that, a person of education, able to obtain the right books, could learn what to do, but they would then need the right materials and equipment, and some private place where they would not be observed.’

  ‘You couldn’t just sieve it out or pick it out with a pin, or some such?’

  Frances smiled. ‘I wouldn’t care to try,’ she said.

  ‘And then,’ said Cedric, ‘having somehow obtained the poison, it would have to be introduced into the bottle without disturbing the wrapping or the cork.’ He shook his head. ‘If Keane did all this unseen, while not even in the same house, he is a much cleverer fellow than I had imagined him. I am only surprised, Miss Doughty, that you do not suspect me.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I had thought that I was mentioned in my brother’s will, which gives me ample motive, and of course the fact that I was in Paris at the time of his death, is not, to your method of reasoning, an obstacle to my guilt. Then, of course, my origins must certainly enhance my status as a suspect – born in Italy, the land of the Borgias, where arsenic may be purchased on any street corner and used to dispatch your enemies with impunity.’

  ‘Your brother left a very great fortune. Was the amount a surprise to you?’

  ‘No. I knew he lived well in London, I saw that for myself when I last visited.’

  ‘And the source of his wealth was the business he inherited from his grandfather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Frances looked at him carefully but could find no indication that he was stating other than what he believed to be the truth about his brother’s fortune.

  ‘Did you see the business for yourself?’

  ‘No, I am a great deal younger than Percy, and did not start my travels until after he came to London.’

  ‘It must have been a very large business,’ she ventured, ‘since he seems to have lived very comfortably from the capital ever since.’

  He smiled. ‘Miss Doughty, you are not a lady who asks frivolous questions, just to make a noise. You have reasons of your own, ones which can be mysterious to others.’

  Frances did not feel she could suggest to Cedric that his brother might have been a part of James Keane’s fraudulent schemes. ‘I was wondering if your brother had other business interests in London, perhaps a partnership with James Keane. He may have uncovered Mr Keane’s criminal activities and tasked him about them. Then Mr Keane could have got a confederate to poison him.’

  Cedric leaned back, thoughtfully. ‘Ah – I see – scandal, bribery, corruption, and the love of filthy lucre, all leading to murder most foul. What a mind you have, Miss Doughty! You’ll be suggesting next that my brother had a beautiful mistress, who tried to poison Henrietta to dispose of her rival, only to mistakenly kill the man whose heart she most desired.’ He placed the back of his hand to his forehead in a theatrical pose. ‘She is, even now, declining in an attic room somewhere, just prior to throwing herself into the Thames.’

  Frances looked at him disapprovingly.

  ‘I know you will say these are fanciful ideas, but no less fanciful than the one you have suggested to me,’ he said, more seriously. ‘Sad to say, life is not a work of fiction. Drama is something that happens on the stage, melodrama doubly so.’ He adopted a gloomy expression. ‘How I wish that were not the case.’

  ‘You are mocking me,’ she said.

  He threw up his hands in despair. ‘Oh, what is a fellow to do in this place?’

  ‘I am sure I cannot be the best entertainment London can offer.’

  ‘Better than Mr Marsden with whom I had an appointment half an hour ago. How I dislike the man! My solicitor; who looks upon the world as something he can suck dry. Would you believe, I am deputed by my family to try and overturn Percy’s will, and must remain here until I succeed? Please, Miss Doughty, I beg of you, save me from boredom, it is a fate that harrows my soul.’

  ‘I was unaware that you had pressing business and will keep you from it no longer,’ said Frances, rising. ‘Only brace yourself for the ordeal and think how much brighter the world will look when you emerge from Mr Marsden’s office.’

  She thanked him politely for the tea and he thanked her warmly for the company, but before they parted she extracted a promise that he would try to arrange an interview with Henrietta Garton.

  Frances returned home to find the shop once again crowded and Herbert looking at her resentfully. At the very first opportunity she consulted her Atlas, and was able to discover that Berkeley Castle was in Gloucestershire, within a very few miles of Tollington Mill.

  That evening she was reading through her notes, and thinking that she would go back to the police station as early as possible the following morning, when Wilfred called. She was naturally pleased to see him and hoped, just for a moment, that Keane had at last confessed. His expression as he entered the parlour told her that the news was troubling.

  ‘Miss Doughty, I thought in view of your interest in the matter, you ought to be told – James Keane is dead. He was murdered earlier today.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  He was in the prison hospital,�
� said Wilfred, quite unaware of the effect his words had had on Frances, who had just seen her hope of the reward money she needed to save the business unfold its wings and fly away. ‘The injury to his face wasn’t healing well, and he was in a lot of pain. He was resting in bed, under morphine, very drowsy, and not considered in need of constant watching as he was hardly in any position to attempt an escape. Yesterday he had a visitor, a clerk from Marsden’s solicitors, at least that was how the man represented himself, and he had all the right papers with him to prove that he was from there. And when he came to Mr Keane’s bedside it was obvious that Keane recognised him. The man had a great bundle of legal papers and he laid them over the bed and talked about them to Mr Keane. There was a warder and a nurse in the room at the time, but I suppose they were not as watchful as they might have been. They are being questioned now. When the man left Keane appeared to be sleeping, which was not, in the circumstances, very surprising, but when the nurse next checked him, he was dead. A small thin-bladed knife had been run into his heart. It would have been the work of a moment, and the papers must have hidden what was happening.’

  Frances was silent for a while. ‘I disliked the man very much,’ she said at last, ‘but I would not have wanted this. Much that I needed to know will now be forever obscure. Has the murderer been identified?’

  ‘No, Miss. He was a tall young man, in his twenties, and appeared to be a respectable clerk of the type employed by a solicitor. He spoke well, seemed quite sane, and addressed Mr Keane by name. Naturally we spoke to Mr Marsden, who stated that he had not sent a clerk to see Mr Keane, and did not recognise in the description of the young man any employee of his.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Frances, resignedly, ‘that there is no reason now why I should not tell you that I believed James Keane to be Lewis Cotter, the murderer of Mr Truin in 1869. I discovered that Mr Keane first came to London only days after the murder, and I have proof, which I obtained only today, that he was living under an assumed name.’ Frances showed the constable the information she had gleaned from Somerset House. ‘Mrs Keane will, I am sure, confirm that her husband had once told her of his humble connections, and also confided to her that James Keane was not the name he was born with. I hope now that she will be able to re-think the evidence she gave at the coroner’s court, and admit her mistake.’

  ‘But who wanted to murder Mr Keane?’ said Wilfred. ‘Someone took a great deal of trouble to remove him.’ He hesitated. ‘Um – since you have taken an interest in his affairs – can you suggest what might have been the motive?’

  ‘That,’ said Frances, ‘is very difficult, as I believe that so many people were eager to see Mr Keane’s demise as to be sufficient in number to form a Society. Mrs Keane had every possible motive, as did her footman, with whom, I believe,’ Frances lowered her gaze briefly, but it needed to be said, ‘she is in a most irregular association. Mr Keane’s employers at the bank will be glad to hear the news, as will any persons who assisted him in his frauds. Mr Meadows, for example, if he should still be alive. Then, of course, there are the relatives of poor Mr Truin, who, if they suspected Mr Keane of the murder, might, in the absence of any proof they could show to the police, have decided to take the law into their own hands. The man who actually committed the crime may have been someone hired for the task.’

  Wilfred scribbled rapidly in his notebook. ‘We are employing an artist to draw a portrait from the impressions of those who saw the murderer,’ he said. ‘When I have it, would you come to the station to look at it?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Frances. She could not help but be flattered. Whether they liked it or not, all of a sudden, the police required her help and not the other way about.

  That evening she sat down with the shop and household accounts, totalling with a guilty horror what she had expended on the now useless visits to Tollington Mill and Somerset House. Even with the business prospering, it was impossible to accumulate in just a few weeks what was required to pay the current bills and renew the lease. Several notes from creditors had arrived that morning. She had funds to meet the most pressing, but the others would have to wait.

  On the following day she went to Paddington Green police station, where Inspector Sharrock was looking more than usually harassed. ‘I understand you wished to see me?’ she asked, unable to repress a slight smile.

  ‘If you would come into my office, Miss Doughty, I will show you the portrait we have had made of the murderer of Mr Keane,’ said Sharrock brusquely, leading the way.

  Frances sat at the desk, and he dropped two pictures in front of her, then plumped down into his chair, which creaked loudly at this unwarranted treatment. ‘Do you recognise the man?’ he asked, then suddenly leaned forward, ‘and let me add, Miss Doughty, that if you were a gentleman, you would now be at the very top of my list of suspects, and possibly already under arrest!’

  ‘I assure you, Inspector,’ said Frances, with great dignity, ‘that though I would have been pleased to hear of Mr Keane’s death, it would only have been if he had died at the end of a hangman’s rope, after being found guilty in a court of law of the murder of Mr Garton. His death at this juncture gives me no satisfaction.’ She perused the pictures. One was a full-length portrait of a slender young man, clean-shaven, with hair cut very close to his head, and wearing a sombre dark suit and spectacles. The second picture was a head and shoulders view.

  ‘Both the nurse and the warder have agreed that the pictures are a very good likeness,’ said Sharrock. ‘Well? Is it anyone you know?’

  Frances frowned. Her first impression was that she had never seen the man portrayed, and yet there was something familiar about him, a sleepy look about the eyes, and she wondered if she had once seen him dressed very differently. ‘This man,’ she said, ‘may have disguised himself to commit the crime. He might have had whiskers which he shaved off and longer hair, and did not wear spectacles. Is the artist still here?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then give me a piece of clean paper and a pencil and I will see what I can do.’ She saw him hesitate. ‘I promise you I will not draw on what your artist has done.’

  Sharrock looked doubtful, but after a search through the mound on his desk found what was wanted and pushed them across to her. He watched, puzzled, as Frances tore little strips of paper and used the pencil to colour them. It was hardly the right shade for hair as it was a bluish-purple, but it did well enough. She then rolled the strips like pieces of quill-work, and laid them on top of the larger portrait to resemble a moustache and side whiskers. After a moment’s thought she added another piece for a beard. It was the flash of purple at the throat that decided her. ‘I know who this is!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is Guy Berenger, the man who managed the gallery.’

  Sharrock leaped out of his chair as if shot by a catapult, then leaned across the paper and stared at it intently. ‘Well done, Miss Doughty,’ he said excitedly. ‘I see it now!’

  ‘Has he been questioned?’ asked Frances.

  ‘He was not at his lodgings when we went to see him, and I suspect will not be there again. Clearly we must redouble our efforts to find him.’

  ‘That does explain how he was able to obtain papers from Mr Keane’s solicitor,’ said Frances. ‘Mr Keane had an office at the back of the gallery. He was careless with his documents and Mr Berenger was in a good position to take what he needed.’

  ‘But the motive?’ Sharrock suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Why yes, of course! It must have been Berenger who did the forgeries for Keane! It was Berenger who was Meadows all along, and under our very noses! He must have been afraid that Keane would peach on him in return for a reduction in sentence.’

  ‘And he was much cleverer than he pretended to be,’ said Frances. ‘I suspect that the failed artist with a taste for alcoholic beverages was just as false a personage as the sober clerk.’ A new thought struck her, about the real identity of Guy Berenger, but she did not voice it. She had no proof, and S
harrock would only dismiss it as one of her wild fancies.

  ‘Well, I won’t trouble you any longer, Miss Doughty,’ said Sharrock, bustling, ‘we have to do our best to find Mr Berenger, or whatever name he is using now.’

  She rose to leave. ‘Inspector, I must ask you one more thing. Will you be interviewing Mrs Keane again? In view of recent events she now has no reason to protect her husband or her father. I am hoping that she will admit at the very least that she made an error in her evidence at the inquest on Mr Garton. My father’s memory is tarnished by this whole affair and I would have it bright again.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sharrock. He paused, awkwardly, and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I am sorry, Miss Doughty, but I think it will not be possible to interview Mrs Keane for some very considerable time, and perhaps never.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Frances, seeing yet another hope being dashed to pieces.

  Sharrock pulled a fat and battered watch from his pocket and studied it briefly. ‘You’ll have the news soon enough. Mrs Keane caused a great commotion when she was told of the death of her husband, and said a great many things which were found to be very shocking. A servant was involved, I believe, and I will say no more. Dr Collin took the view that the lady’s mind had quite broken down and I believe that even as we speak she is being removed to some establishment which will provide her with the safe and secure place that she now requires.’

  Frances uttered a small groan of despair. ‘How then will I clear my father’s name?’

  He gazed at her, and even in his coarse face there was a faint tinge of sympathy. ‘Well, I must get on to Mr Berenger’s trail. Perhaps he will have something to say.’

  Frances walked home, her eyes misting over with misery, but her mind would not let the matter alone, and at last she had a new idea. There was, she thought, just one more person to whom she might appeal for help.