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

by Stratmann, Linda

  ‘Frederick could remember being told that she was ill,’ said Frances. ‘He said that there was a sick room.’

  ‘There was,’ said Cornelius. ‘For a time your father entertained the hope that Rosetta would be discovered and brought back so we created the impression that she was still there but was too ill to be seen.’

  ‘He would have taken her back?’ exclaimed Frances in astonishment.

  ‘Oh yes, and the child too, in an instant. He loved her very much. But when all hope of her return had gone he told Frederick that his mother had died. You, of course, were too young to understand. Some months later your father heard through an acquaintance that there had been a child who had died. I found out the burial place in Brompton Cemetery, and we agreed that if ever you or Frederick were to ask to see your mother’s grave you would be taken there.’ He sighed deeply. ‘There you have it. To this very day I don’t know if we did the right thing.’

  ‘I see,’ said Frances. She drew a second certificate from the envelope. ‘Then you knew nothing of this?’ She slid the paper across the table to her uncle, who perused its contents with astonishment. ‘When I saw that the Rosetta who died in 1864 was my sister, I looked in the register for her birth and I discovered that there was another birth in the same district and on the same page; Cornelius Martin Doughty, Rosetta’s twin. That is the certificate of the birth of my brother, and as far as I am aware he is still living.’

  ‘Frances,’ whispered Cornelius, ‘you must believe me – I didn’t know – my heavens, if I had – if I had only known…’

  ‘You would have acted differently?’ said Frances, not at all sure that this was the case.

  ‘I hope so. Not at the time, perhaps, but I think I would have said something sooner. Do you intend to try and find your mother and brother?’ asked Cornelius, anxiously.

  ‘I do,’ said Frances. ‘I don’t yet know how to set about it, but then when I determined to find Mr Garton’s murderer I had no idea at all how to begin, and I think I enjoyed some success with that.’ She was unable to prevent a note of self-satisfaction from creeping into her voice.

  Cornelius shook his head, disapprovingly. ‘My dear – have you thought – your mother may still be in the company of the man for whom she left your father – it would be a most irregular household.’

  Frances smiled. ‘I have entered worse places; and the man, whoever he may be, is of no consequence to me.’

  To her surprise, Cornelius suddenly buried his face in his hands. Then he took a deep breath and looked up at her with an expression of resolve. ‘We have gone this far,’ he said, ‘I suppose you ought to know everything.’

  Frances felt suddenly dry-mouthed with anticipation.

  ‘Frances,’ he hesitated awkwardly, and she saw his fingertips tremble, ‘have you never wondered why it is that you are taller than both your father and brother?’

  She stared at him in bewilderment. She had sometimes regretted her height, but had never wondered about it, supposing that her father had been bent with care, her brother stunted by illness. It she had thought about it, then she would have imagined that her mother was a tall woman, and very like herself. She remembered suddenly her masquerade as Frank Williamson in her brother’s clothes, the trousers that were too short in the leg.

  ‘As you know, Frederick’s features resembled William’s very closely but yours do not, and I can tell you that you do not appear in any respect like Rosetta,’ said Cornelius. ‘I think it is very possible that William was not your true father.’

  For a moment Frances thought he was talking about an impossibility – but then she thought of the unknown man with whom her mother had run away. Could it be that she was the daughter of this man and not William Doughty? It certainly seemed that Cornelius believed so. She should, she reflected, have been grieved at the discovery, but somehow she was not. Her sense of duty towards William was unabated, and she would always, no matter what, think of the man who had done his duty to her as her father, but the ties of blood could not be denied. ‘Did he suspect too?’

  Cornelius nodded. ‘Yes, we spoke of it. It could never be proved, of course, but from the time your mother departed, he thought that you were not his daughter. He once saw Rosetta conversing with a man, a tall man of very distinctive appearance. It all seemed perfectly innocent at the time and he thought nothing of it, but later he suspected that this was the man she had left with, and he sometimes said that he saw the man’s face in yours.’

  Frances suddenly understood a great deal. She recalled a life in which her needs had always been not merely secondary to Frederick’s but of virtually no consequence, and in which, now she thought about it, she had been valued only in respect of her usefulness, much as one might have regarded a servant. She had never resented this or thought of it in any way other than this was the usual way of families, since she was a daughter. Many other girls, she was quite sure, were treated the same, or even worse, an afterthought in the affections, always subservient to their brothers; but perhaps in her case there had been a little more to it. Then there was the slightingly small legacy, hardly more than one might have left a housekeeper.

  Cornelius looked wistfully at the certificate before him. ‘This youth, who will be sixteen now, will be your full brother, and my nephew,’ he said.

  ‘All the more reason why I should find him,’ said Frances.

  Diffidently, and with more than a trace of apprehension, he reached across the table towards her and took her hands. ‘I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me,’ he said. ‘We did what we thought was best.’

  ‘It is forgiven,’ said Frances, and she meant it.

  The following morning, Frances was enjoying a frugal breakfast of bread and jam, when Sarah brought her two letters. One was from Mr Rawsthorne, saying that the papers for the sale of the business to Mr Jacobs senior had been prepared and it only remained for her to present herself at his office that morning to append her signature. She set the letter aside with regret, but knew that she would have to complete the sale, and there was no point in any delay.

  The second letter was from Dr Collin.

  Dear Miss Doughty

  I apologise for not writing to you sooner on this subject as I have been out of town. I have given some thought to your suggestion that I may have inadvertently made an error in my evidence at the inquest on your father, and as a result have re-examined my notes. I accept that Mr Doughty did not complain of toothache either to yourself or to me, but he had most certainly been treating himself for that ailment with the usual remedy, oil of cloves. When I examined the bottle of chloroform found by his bedside, there were fingermarks on it in an oily substance which smelled most distinctly of clove oil. I trust that you can now agree that I did not make an error,

  I remain, your most obedient servant

  Arthur Collin, M.D.

  Frances stared at the words, trying at first to push aside their full meaning. For a moment she was almost paralysed with shock. If she could have gone through her life ignorant of that letter and its import, then she thought she would have preferred to do so, and yet what an appalling ignorance it would have been, leaving her at the mercy of everything that was vile. As the emotions broke through her defences, and flooded her body, the distress and rage and sense of deep betrayal were enough to make her feel violently ill. Her hands shook, and she dropped the letter on the table as if it had been a venomous snake. It was impossible to keep still; she rose and began to pace about the room, clenching her lips together, making little whimpering sounds, clutching at her stomach to try and stop the hideous heaving. She was breathing so hard she felt dizzy and faint, and went to the window overlooking the Grove and held onto the frame to support herself. Outside, people were walking about as if nothing had happened. There was a soft tinkle of the shop bell. Someone had come in to ask for a cough syrup or an aperient, someone with no concept of the horror that was now hers. The very normality of it all almost persuaded her that she was dreami
ng, and she breathed gently for just a moment before the agony began again.

  She heard a footfall behind her, and thinking, with a great sense of relief that it was Sarah, turned around and saw Herbert at the parlour table, about to help himself to a slice of bread. His moustache was freshly pomaded, and as the unmistakable scent of oil of cloves reached her nostrils she was unable to control a physical recoil of sheer revulsion. Hot tears of grief and rage suddenly welled into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. He looked up at her, and was startled by what he saw, then noticed the letter on the table. He picked it up, and read it, then he slowly raised his eyes to her again, and as she saw his expression she knew that the unthinkable thought was right.

  ‘You monster!’ she cried, hardly knowing where the power to speak had come from. ‘How could you! A defenceless old man! A man you thought of as a second father!’

  Herbert said nothing, but crumpled the letter and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Please don’t say you did it for the business!’ she raged, ‘and please, above all, don’t say that you did it for me!’

  He was about to speak but she suddenly held out her palm towards him. ‘No – stop! Don’t move! I want to hear you admit you did it!’

  He licked his lips, thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I looked in on him. It was already in my mind that it had to be done. Everything he had built in the last twenty years was being destroyed, and there was only one way to stop it. Yes, I admired and venerated him – that was what made it so hard, but I thought – if I do it, then he will feel no pain, he will be at rest. He had the handkerchief over his face and he was asleep; deep stertorous breathing – maybe he had already had too much – maybe if I had done nothing at all he would still have died.’

  ‘If you had removed the handkerchief he might have lived,’ said Frances, bitterly.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ he admitted. ‘But I did not. I added more chloroform to the handkerchief.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment. It was almost a relief to hear it. She wiped the tears from her face. ‘If you have one shred of decency left in you then you will go to the police at once and confess what you have done.’

  He shook his head. ‘Oh no, I will not do that. The letter is not evidence against me. It is only important to you, because only you can see its significance. Dr Collin obviously cannot.’

  ‘Then I will go to the police!’ said Frances, boldly.

  ‘And what will you tell them? That I am a murderer because I pomade my moustache? They will hardly arrest me for that. It will seem like the wanderings of an hysterical female mind. I will say that you have been afflicted with melancholy. The death of your brother, the death of your father, and now the loss of the business have all been too much for you to bear. And then of course, there is your disappointment in love.’

  ‘My – what are you talking about?’

  He puffed out his chest with a smile. ‘Your ambition to become my wife; your unhappiness and jealousy on learning that I have set my heart on winning another.’

  There was a loud snort from the doorway. ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Sarah. She had, as Frances knew, been standing there long enough to hear all that had been said. Frances’ order to remain still had been directed at Sarah and not Herbert.

  He spun around and his face paled with fright. ‘I’ll deny everything!’ he squeaked.

  ‘We’ll see what the police have to say,’ said Sarah, calmly. ‘I’ve already sent Tom for a constable.’

  Herbert yelped and made a grab for the bread knife, but was hardly able to hold it for trembling. ‘Get out of my way – let me pass!’ he ordered, holding the wavering blade inches from the broad front of Sarah’s apron.

  ‘You want to watch that, Mr Munson, you might cut yourself,’ said Sarah. What followed took only seconds. Her large fist closed around the hand that held the knife and gave a violent outward twist. There was a loud cracking sound and Herbert screamed, but only for a moment, as her other fist collided with his jaw, stretching him unconscious on the floor.

  Frances gasped, in mixed horror and admiration, and staggered back against the window, clutching the sill for support. Sarah shrugged. ‘I got eight brothers, Miss, I had to survive somehow.’

  To Frances, everything suddenly seemed to happen very slowly. The room gradually darkened, as if night was drawing in and a series of increasingly drab curtains were being pulled across her eyes. What she was still able to see started to move about her in a strange, sickening waltz. Sarah came towards her as if she was wading through mud, yet still managed to reach her before she fell, and Frances found herself, as she had sometimes been as a child, enfolded in the maidservant’s stout arms. The strength had gone from her and without that support she would have fallen. Sarah smelt of starch and polish and dust and sweat. It was, Frances knew, the best smell in the world. She found herself floating effortlessly upwards, as if on a cloud; Sarah had picked her up as easily as one might a baby, and she was carried to her room, and laid upon the bed with such gentleness that the transition between the warm strength of the maid’s arms and the firm but familiar support of the mattress was almost imperceptible.

  She looked up at that plain but comforting face. ‘When I saw you standing there,’ she whispered, ’I knew that I would be safe.’

  Sarah smiled. ‘You know, Miss, don’t you, that I’d die before I let anyone hurt a hair on your head.’ Nothing more was said, and she watched over Frances as a mother might watch her child until the police arrived.

  Two days later, Frances gave evidence at the police court hearing which concluded with the committal of Ellen Truin for trial at the Old Bailey on a charge of murdering Lewis Cotter, otherwise known as Percival Garton. To Frances it was merely a matter of duty, but as the hearing proceeded she became aware of two things; first of all the enormous public sympathy for Ellen which would, she felt certain, ensure that the girl would not hang, and secondly a distinct and unexpected interest in herself. It was not necessary for Frances to reveal more than a small fraction of what she had done in order to uncover the mystery, and yet that part which she was obliged to describe brought gasps of astonishment from the packed courtroom. As she left, people pressed about her; some tried to shake her hand and there were even some cheers. One face she recognised was that of Mr Gillan, the Chronicle reporter who succeeded in extracting from her the promise of an interview.

  The next edition of the Chronicle carried a paragraph stating that the police had decided not to prosecute Henrietta Garton. There were many things that only she could explain, but she had remained close-mouthed under police questioning. It was, of course, impossible to prove that she had known that her lover had murdered her husband, and only if she had known could she be charged as an accessory. Of one thing Frances remained in no doubt; Henrietta Garton and Lewis Cotter had loved one another. Frances pictured the dying man, his mind alert and lucid in the midst of his pain, his one thought, to protect the woman he loved. Cotter knew he had been murdered, and that the poison could only have been in the bottle, but had the police suspected a crime, his life would have come under close scrutiny, and had his true identity been revealed Henrietta might have been accused of the murder of her husband. Cotter’s last agonised words would have been to urge her to do everything she could to ensure that his death appeared to be an accident, a chemist’s error. Henrietta’s insistence that there had been a mistake with the prescription, her lies about when the bottle had been unwrapped, her deliberate concealment of the fact that her supposed husband had taken the medicine in the carriage on the way to the Keanes’ house, had further misdirected enquiries. The one difficulty was that after Cotter’s first dose in the carriage, the spillage in his cloak, and the second dose at home, the bottle contained only an ounce or two of medicine. Henrietta, thought Frances, must have dropped it deliberately as she handed it to Ada so it might seem that only one dose had been taken, and later poured water from the carafe onto the stain to make it larger. The lady, still in possess
ion of her secrets, had already left Bayswater with her children for an unknown destination.

  The other notable piece in the newspaper was headed ‘“My Remarkable Career” by a Lady Detective as told to our own reporter.’

  It was some moments before Frances realised that this was a sensation-alised version of the interview she had granted Mr Gillan. She comforted herself with the thought of how much worse it would have been had she refused to be interviewed.

  Time was running out. The business was effectively sold. In another week she would remove to her uncle’s house, and Sarah would have to find a new place. Tom also was looking for employment. The Filleter, who had recently been entertained for a month at one of Her Majesty’s more secure establishments, had returned to his old haunts, and Chas and Barstie had abruptly closed down their London business. Tom had last seen them running full tilt down Bishop’s Road in the direction of Paddington Station while pelting each other with bread buns. Despite this, Frances couldn’t help feeling that she would see them again before long.

  Cedric Garton had decided to remain in Bayswater. The complexities of his family’s inheritance could take years to unravel, and he had decided to make the best of it and had taken an apartment on Westbourne Park Road, employing Mr Harvey as his personal servant. Frances had an open invitation to call and take tea whenever she liked.

  Frances was still intending to try and qualify as a pharmacist, and had applied for a number of apprenticeships but had been unsuccessful in each instance. She suspected that despite her considerable experience she was being passed over for other less knowledgeable but male candidates. Her association with several murders also gave her the kind of notoriety that a respectable business could well do without. Herbert’s arrest had created a vacancy in Mr Jacobs’ employ for which she considered applying, but she soon learned that young Mr Jacobs had a brother eager for the position.

  Herbert was currently awaiting the police court hearing that would no doubt commit him for trial, and Frances felt sure that in the fullness of time, he would achieve, albeit briefly, a long hoped-for ambition, an increase of some two inches in his height.