‘I am afraid I cannot recall it.’
‘Then I had best interview your sister Ellen.’
‘I am sorry to say that she lies dangerously ill, but she has already said all that she knows. I do not wish the family to be disturbed.’
‘You leave me very few avenues of enquiry, nevertheless, the case interests me and I will see what I can do. Should you be approached by someone wanting to blackmail you or offering the journal for sale, you will of course let me know at once. I will require a full description and will then be able to arrange for an unobtrusive person to follow them.’
Frances glanced at Carmichael’s card, which gave only his address in Carlisle. ‘You may reach me through the Piccadilly Club on Porchester Road,’ he said.
Frances had been making enquiries about the Piccadilly Club and learned that it was a place mainly frequented by foolish young men who had too much money and wished to be relieved of it, from which she supposed that a great deal of private wagering was conducted there. Carmichael did not, however, look like a betting man. ‘When did you come to London?’ she asked.
‘I arrived on the 19th of September.’
‘That was two days before Dr Mackenzie died. Did you make any attempt to contact him?’
‘No, my hands were tied as the journal was missing. He was, I believe, unaware that I was even in London.’
‘How long do you intend to remain?’
‘For some little while. I am applying for some medical posts here and if I am successful I will make London my home.’
The financial arrangements having been settled, Carmichael was about to leave when he observed, ‘I must confess when I heard that Dr Mackenzie was dead I did not believe it at first. I thought he might have fled and put another body in his place, to avoid being blackmailed over the journal.’
‘Did you go to view the body?’
‘I did not discover until later that there had been a formal viewing. But when I heard that he had died – the news was all over Bayswater the morning afterwards – I immediately applied to make a tour of the Life House and was able to do so with a group of other medical men on the following day. I thought it wise, however, not to reveal my interest. It was unpleasantly warm and the air was quite foetid. There were three corpses there, I recall; one very elderly female, at least a day past her proper burial date in my opinion; the other two were men in their middle years, but since I had not seen Mackenzie for some time I was unable to assure myself which of those he was, and it was not appropriate to ask.’
When Dr Carmichael had departed Sarah observed that she didn’t like the look of him, but since Sarah did not like the look of any man, this was not unusual. ‘Did you believe his story?’ Frances asked her.
‘Well,’ said Sarah, ‘I don’t think he would ask you to find something that didn’t exist, because there wouldn’t be much of a reason to do that, but if he’s telling you the truth about how his sister was too good to live, then I am an elephant in the zoo – which I am not.’
Frances was used to the fact that clients would come to her and, for reasons of their own, deliberately conceal facts that would greatly assist her in the solution of their difficulties. Often, the conundrum to which they required a solution was not the one they stated, but something else again, something they had chosen not to impart to her. She would commence her enquiries based on what she had been told, but soon enough other facts would emerge which would take her back to the client and demand that she be told what had been hidden. Sometimes this would take several visits. Dr Carmichael was an ineffectual dissimulator, but she felt that she had for the moment extracted from him all that he was likely to tell her.
For some months Frances had been in the habit of retaining copies of the Chronicle, which other persons might have used to light fires, for the valuable information contained therein. She carefully studied all the newspapers that might have mentioned a theft of snuffboxes from a Kensington doctor, but found nothing. This was not conclusive since the crime might have been regarded as too trivial to mention, or indeed have never reached the notice of the press. She had no connections with the Kensington police, who were supposed to be pursuing the thief, but thought it very possible that Mr Gillan did, and composed a letter asking him if he knew anything about it. She was hampered by not knowing the name of the doctor, which Carmichael had been careful she should not know, but she could pursue that aspect if necessary. She had overcome larger obstacles.
More importantly there was the question of blackmail. If the journal existed, and Dr Carmichael’s obvious anxiety strongly suggested that damaging material of some nature certainly did, then, despite Dr Mackenzie’s death, it remained of value to a blackmailer. It was possible that Mackenzie had been approached shortly before his death, adding yet one more reason why he would want to flee London. As yet, Carmichael had not been approached by a blackmailer. Was the journal being held in some secret place, waiting for the moment when it could be used to most advantage? Or was it even now on the market, being passed from grubby hand to grubby hand? Frances wished she might have been able to enter the Piccadilly Club and keep a watch on anyone approaching Carmichael. The only person she knew who was already a member was young Mr Darscot, Mackenzie’s creditor, but he seemed an unsuitable person to engage as an agent, being without the necessary cool head. She smiled to herself as she imagined young Tom a little more grown up and in a smart suit, being dispatched to join the club and act as her eyes. While she waited for him to gain some height, someone else would have to be employed and she at once thought of Chas and Barstie, who would also be well attuned to anything with a scent of money.
Not so long ago they would not have been considered as members of the Piccadilly Club, having no fixed abode in Bayswater or possibly anywhere else, and no attire – at least none un-pawned – in which to make a suitable impression. The recent election and its business opportunities, while not actually making them rich, had elevated them and brought them new friends, and they would see the advantages to be gained by making the acquaintance of men of notable fortune and little sense.
The other issue she felt she needed to pursue was more sensitive. Had Dr Carmichael had a sister called Madeleine? Had this young woman of impossible virtue really expired in saintly odour many years ago? If she had, what was the nature of her death? Any questions she might ask on this subject might, however, alert someone like Mr Gillan to the fact that there was more than ordinary interest in the matter and risk exposing the very matters that Carmichael wanted kept private. The records at Somerset House would not assist her as they included only deaths in England and Wales, and not Scotland.
Frances’ other cases were progressing more satisfactorily. The missing husband had been traced sleeping off the effects of overindulgence in beer in a cell at Paddington Green police station, from which Sarah claimed him. She had then carefully explained to him the responsibilities of parenthood, giving him to understand that were further explanations required she would be willing to provide them. He was then returned, in penitent mood, to his wife and offspring, of which there were now eight. Frances did not have the heart to charge for her services and authorised Sarah to provide a gift towards the layette, to be placed in the new mother’s hands only.
Rosie, the puppy dog, was discovered on the following day by Tom, being teased by a gang of street urchins who demanded five shillings for their prize. Tom offered them a shilling and while they debated this disappointing fall in their expectations, he snatched up the dog and ran all the way to Frances’ rooms. Rosie, unharmed but very dirty, was smartly removed by a stern-faced Sarah who washed the protesting animal thoroughly, tied a pink ribbon around its topknot and took it back to its delighted owner.
This activity by Frances’ assistants, for which she ensured they were well remunerated, gave her time to reconsider the position of Dr Mackenzie in some detail. A year ago he had taken £500 from the Life House by deception and borrowed another £500 from Mr Darscot. Frances now thou
ght it probable that the sums were required to pay a blackmailer, who had threatened to expose Mackenzie’s involvement in the Erlichmann fraud, or his unsavoury past in Edinburgh, or both, or even some other transgression of which she had no knowledge. Whatever the reason it was sufficiently sensitive that he had felt unable to ask his friends for help, even assuming that either could have conjured up £1,000. Mackenzie had worked himself to exhaustion in an effort to repay the Life House, but pursued by Darscot for his loan, had tried once again to dupe Warrinder into allowing him to extract funds from the business, and failed. He had then received Dr Kastner’s letters regarding the immediate danger posed by Erlichmann’s illness, and had also quite possibly been threatened by someone with Madeleine Carmichael’s journal. Mackenzie had been facing not only financial disaster, but a catastrophic descent into ignominy and shame. Despite all this, he still felt impelled to protect the reputation of the Life House and would not wholly abandon it. He must have hoped that Erlichmann might rally, or that his letters would not amount to proof of wrongdoing, or that Kastner might be able to suppress them.
Frances had earlier rejected the idea that Dr Mackenzie had feigned death because of the impossibility of fooling all the observers, and the unlikelihood of so many disparate persons being engaged in a conspiracy, but on reflection she could see that there was another much simpler plan. Dr Mackenzie had had an accomplice. All it required was one trustworthy, efficient and loyal helper, and there were only two people qualified for that role – the missing Henry Palmer and Dr Bonner.
Frances went to see Bonner again and this she knew was going to be a difficult interview. It was never a pleasant thing to accuse a person, especially a man in Dr Bonner’s position, of planning or even carrying out an underhand and possibly criminal action, but it was not the first time Frances had done such a thing and she reflected that it was unlikely to be the last.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were, thought Frances, many stages of an investigation that went on for any length of time and they could be measured by the reactions of people she was obliged to interview on several occasions. In some cases initial suspicion and discomfort transformed after a time into hope and then gratitude. Those such as Dr Bonner, however, who anticipated that they would only need to speak to Frances once, were all generosity and good humour at their first meeting, helpful but serious at the second, surprised but polite at the third, irritated though still co-operative at the fourth, openly annoyed at the fifth and frightened at the sixth. This was the sixth time she had interviewed Dr Bonner.
Frances had no proof of what she was about to say and indeed was not sure if she believed half of it herself, rather she had determined to say something as controversial as possible in the hope that she might provoke some reaction and thereby arrive at the truth.
‘Dr Bonner is busy,’ said the starchy maid at the door.
‘I doubt it,’ said Frances. ‘Please don’t be offended, I know you are only saying what you have been instructed to say, but really it is pointless for him to dissemble. I intend to see him today and will not be deflected.’
‘Dr Bonner is busy,’ repeated the maid, tonelessly. ‘I will say that you have called and he will make an appointment when he is ready to see you.’
‘Tell him,’ said Frances, ‘that I know what he did.’
There was a palpable frozen silence.
After a few moments the maid, without a word or even a change in expression, turned on her heel and proceeded upstairs to Dr Bonner’s consulting room. Frances waited and was rewarded a few minutes later by the return of the maid who, staring at some point to the right of Frances’ face, told her she could go up.
Dr Bonner’s normal manner was under some strain and he greeted Frances with forced politeness observing that their interview would, due to extreme pressure of important work, necessarily be brief. Frances looked about her and saw no evidence of any work, important or otherwise.
‘I was mystified by the message you sent to me via my maid, which I feel must have become somewhat muddled in the repetition,’ he said, sinking into his chair with a slight wince of pain and propping one foot on a cushion.
‘That is possible,’ said Frances, generously. ‘What I would like you to tell me is where is Dr Mackenzie?’
Bonner’s head jerked back in astonishment and after a bewildered moment, he gave a short laugh. ‘Miss Doughty am I hearing you correctly? Dr Mackenzie is dead and in his coffin.’
‘Is he?’
‘I can assure you he is. Whyever would you think differently?’
Frances maintained her composure. ‘It is my belief, indeed I am certain of it, that Dr Mackenzie intended to leave London and assume another identity, not only that, but he made arrangements to have people believe him to be dead. He cannot have achieved this alone.’
Bonner continued to treat her words with amusement. ‘On that point at least we are agreed. It would be impossible to achieve alone.’
‘Precisely.’ Frances allowed a few moments to pass. ‘How interesting. I mentioned that he had reasons to want to falsify his death, but you have failed to ask me what they might be. Is that because you already know?’
Dr Bonner opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it, as if there was no response he thought he might safely make. He made an effort to maintain his mask of merriment but failed, and his expression slid into a frown.
‘I think,’ said Frances, ‘that he came to you as a friend and a respected and knowledgeable man, and asked for your help. He needed to leave, but to protect the reputation of the Life House he had to make it appear that he was dead. I think you instructed Mr Palmer to assist in the deception. There was a masquerade at the viewing the next day, but thereafter the place where his body should have been was taken up by a wax model or stones or some such thing. Whatever was coffined and buried was not a body. Dr Mackenzie has gone away and Palmer may also have been sent away to ensure his silence.’
Bonner, serious now, shook his head. ‘This is quite astounding, Miss Doughty. I suggest that you contact the undertakers, who will be able to confirm that they did indeed bury a body and not some waxen object or a heap of stones. I will provide you with the name and address of the firm, and a letter of introduction authorising them to tell you what you need to know.’
That was quite a challenge and he may have expected her to back down, but she simply nodded and said, ‘Thank you, that is very kind. Of course, the assurances of the undertaker will only go to show that a body was buried – not whose.’
Bonner was momentarily speechless and then threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Whose else would it be?’
‘I can’t say. Another of your customers? An unidentified body from a mortuary … or …’ Frances hesitated as the worst possible thought came from the back of her mind where it had been lurking for some days. ‘There is one man missing and unaccounted for – Mr Palmer.’
Bonner stared at her, aghast. ‘I have seen and heard many things in my career, but the things that come from your imagination horrify me.’
‘What horrifies me,’ said Frances, ‘is that so many of the terrible things I imagine I later find out to be true. Where is Dr Mackenzie’s coffin interred?’
‘It was deposited in the catacombs at All Souls, Kensal Green.’
‘Excellent. That makes our task easier, as there is no digging to be done. We may go and view it, assuming that it is still there.’
‘Of course it is still there!’ exclaimed Bonner. ‘Where else would it be? Do you think I spirit away coffins on my back in the middle of the night?’
‘Has it been sealed in lead?’
Bonner paused. ‘Not yet. Life House customers, providing certain hygienic requirements are met, are allowed to remain coffined without lead seals for two weeks in case signs of life appear. Dr Mackenzie’s coffin will be sealed very soon.’
‘Then there is no time to waste.’
It was some moments before Dr Bonner understood
her meaning. ‘Are you suggesting that we open Dr Mackenzie’s coffin?’
‘I am.’
‘You will need an order from the Home Office,’ he advised, smiling at her naivety.
‘I see no difficulty over that,’ Frances replied.
‘Do you not?’ Bonner chuckled.
She stared back at him confidently. ‘None at all. I could have one in my hands in a matter of days.’
There was a long silence, during which Bonner’s attempt at humouring her drained away.
‘Miss Doughty,’ he said wearily, ‘you have my word as a man of honour that Dr Mackenzie did indeed die at the place and time notified, and is interred in the coffin that bears his name. Is that not enough for you?’
‘I would be failing in my profession as detective if I was to accept as truth without question any fact that I was able to check for myself, even one attested to by a man of honour,’ said Frances.
Bonner shifted in his chair, showing some unease, only a part of which may have been due to the discomfort in his foot. Frances watched him, but said nothing. He looked up at a framed portrait on the wall – a recently hung picture of Dr Mackenzie, a copy of the one that had been put on display at the Life House. ‘Poor fellow!’ he said shaking his head. ‘Miss Doughty, I really wish you were right in all your strange fancies. I wish he was in some place where he could be content and useful and not lying in his coffin. But he died that night, died in my arms, and there was nothing I could do. A man not yet fifty and worn out with care and work.’
‘What happened?’ asked Frances.
‘I have already told you what happened.’
She shook her head. ‘I think there is more.’
There was a quiet space of time long enough to take two breaths and then he capitulated. ‘If I was to tell you, would you promise not to make your peculiar allegations public? Do you know what damage that could do?’
A Case of Doubtful Death Page 14
