Mrs Venn looked relieved. ‘You are not going to inform the police?’
‘I will speak to her family first. There may be some simple explanation. If not, then the police must be told.’
‘She may have gone to her mother,’ suggested Mrs Venn. ‘That is my hope.’ She turned to look closely at Frances and for the first time her expression suggested a measure of confidence. ‘I would go there myself, but —,’ she paused and looked uncomfortable. ‘There is something you should know. May I be assured of your complete discretion?’
‘Of course.’
‘Matilda’s family live in Salem Gardens, near Moscow Road. Her mother is a widow and supports herself by taking in lodgers, which is why Matilda has a room here. She has a brother, I believe, and there is a young man, a friend of his called Davey who wishes to marry her. Also —,’ there was the faintest flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, ‘There is a child living with them.’
‘A child?’ said Frances.
Mrs Venn nodded. ‘There is no easy way to say this. Matilda has a child. A little girl about seven years of age. Her mother cares for her.’
‘And – forgive me if this is an indelicate question, but I need to know all the truth – is her sweetheart the child’s father?’
‘No, she has only known him a year or two. It is the old story, I am afraid. Matilda was very young and trusting, and a man who lodged at her mother’s house promised her marriage. When he realised her unhappy position he abandoned her. The world, Miss Doughty,’ said the headmistress with a sigh, ‘is full of such scoundrels, as it is of innocent girls who suffer the blame while the men go free to ruin others.’
‘If Matilda has a child and a sweetheart and £20 in gold,’ said Frances, ‘it is very hard to understand why she should run away.’ She rose. ‘I will go and speak to her mother. Could you supply me with a letter on the school’s notepaper so that I may introduce myself?’
‘I will do that at once,’ said Mrs Venn. She took charge of the sovereigns and they returned to her study, where she locked the coins in her strongbox and penned the required letter. ‘Miss Doughty,’ she said, ‘I would be very obliged to you if you were to remember at all times the importance of the school’s reputation. We rely absolutely on the confidence and trust which our patrons place in us. They send us their best of treasures – their beloved daughters – and they must know that I will care for the girls as if they were my very own. One tiny suggestion of the smallest stain upon the school’s record would be a disaster of the greatest magnitude. I have already told you more than most people know.’
The unanswered questions trembled upon Frances’ lips, but she did not ask them. If she had simply scored a victory over the headmistress, that would have left them still at defiance, but she now had the opportunity to earn the lady’s trust and respect, and with that would come the confidences she needed.
Salem Gardens was a narrow street of small terraced houses. The ‘gardens’ in question were not apparent to the passer-by, and were presumably at the back of each premises, although Frances doubted that a great deal of gardening as she understood it was being carried out. The sounds of hammering nails, sawing wood, and beating of metal, as well as a strong whiff of laundry soap and borax showed that the enterprising denizens had used the space to establish their own businesses. As she sought out the house of Matilda’s mother she passed a chimneysweep carrying his brushes and poles and wearing the grime of his employment like a black greatcoat, a carpenter striding to work with a canvas bag of tools slung across his shoulder, a carrier with parcels on a handcart, and boys taking barrows of vegetables from door to door. Children too young to be in the parochial school were clustered in doorways, but they were decently dressed, and as clean as could well be expected.
Frances knocked at the door of a tidily kept house and it was opened by a woman of about fifty whose compact figure, dark enquiring eyes and the sharp tilt of her nose at once identified her as Matilda’s mother.
‘Mrs Springett – my name is Frances Doughty and I have come from the Bayswater Academy,’ began Frances. She offered the letter of introduction, and Mrs Springett looked at it with a frown. ‘May I come in?’
Mrs Springett spent a great deal of time reading the letter then bit her lip and looked sorrowful, as if the visit was both unwelcome but expected. At last, she nodded and stood aside. ‘Is it about Tilda?’ she said, resignedly.
‘Yes,’ said Frances, ‘is she here? May I speak with her?
She entered a small narrow hallway with stairs directly ahead leading to the upper floor. The front room, judging from its lace-curtained exterior, was a small parlour kept for Sunday best and special occasions, and Mrs Springett led Frances to the back room, where there was a fire roaring in the grate, a scrubbed wooden table, plain chairs and a simple dresser with pans, kettles, teapots, crockery and flat irons. An armchair stood by the fire, and there was a workbox and a pile of garments to be mended, all of it male working clothes. A door at the rear led to a small scullery, from which Frances assumed the garden space and outhouse could be reached.
‘She’s not here,’ said Mrs Springett, in answer to Frances’ question. ‘She lodges at the school, but you’ll know that if you’ve come from there. She should be there now.’ She stared at Frances with some anxiety and seemed about to ask a question, then changed her mind. ‘I was about to make a cup of tea. Please, sit down.’
Frances sat while Mrs Springett made tea. It was obvious that the lady was not simply flustered but actually alarmed by the visit. It would have been natural for her to ask what Frances wanted with Matilda, but it was fear, not courtesy that prevented her from enquiring.
‘She’s a good girl,’ declared Mrs Springett, bringing the tea things to the table on a tray. ‘She never gave me any trouble. And if there’s things she has done in the past which she regrets, well, we all make mistakes when we are young, and she never meant to hurt anyone.’
‘When did you last see Matilda?’ asked Frances.
‘On Sunday, at church. She comes here every Sunday and then afterwards she walks out a while with Davey – he’s her intended. He lodges here.’ Mrs Springett poured the tea and then sat down, her eyes full of questions.
‘That was five days ago,’ said Frances. ‘Have you heard from her since then – received a note from her, or sent her one?’
‘No.’ There was a sharp, nervous gasp. ‘Miss Doughty – what has happened? What has she done?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Frances. ‘It may be nothing. She was at the school yesterday as usual during the day, but it seems that she went out at night and has not yet returned. I saw her with a note and wondered if she had an appointment.’
Mrs Springett lowered her cup, the tea untasted. Her hands began to shake. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t come here.’
‘Can you think of somewhere she might have gone? She has a brother who lives here, doesn’t she? Perhaps he knows where she is.’
‘Yes – Jem. But he’s said nothing to me about Tilda, and nor has Davey.’
‘Is there family elsewhere that she might have gone to visit?’
Mrs Springett shook her head. ‘None hereabouts.’
‘I understand she has a child,’ said Frances gently.
Mrs Springett took some time to stare at the table and rubbed her hand over its surface back and forth as if trying to smooth out the grain of the wood. ‘That is true,’ she said at last. ‘A little girl.’
‘Is she here?’ asked Frances, but she could see no signs of a child in the house, and wondered if the girl had been one of the little group playing outside, although none had looked the right age.
Mrs Springett shook her head. ‘At school,’ she said at last.
‘Is she a boarder or a day scholar? Might Matilda have gone to see her?’
‘She won’t have gone there,’ said Mrs Springett, quickly.
‘Can you be sure of that?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Very sure.’
Frances hesitated and chose her words carefully. ‘Mrs Springett, we had a curious incident at the school recently. Quite harmless – someone playing a prank – some pamphlets were put in the girls’ desks. I was asked to find out who did it, and several people have said that it might have been Matilda. If she thought that we suspected her she might have been afraid and run away to hide. I would like to find Matilda; not to blame her or cause her any disquiet, but because Mrs Venn has a high regard for her and is concerned for her safety. If you should happen to hear from your daughter, please could you ask her to write to Mrs Venn and reassure her that she is safe? I am sure that if she was to return the matter could be resolved quite easily.’
A great many contrasting emotions were passing across Mrs Springett’s face, but Frances’ comments appeared to have calmed her initial anxiety. ‘Yes – I will. Pamphlets, you say? What kind of pamphlets are they?’
‘I have not seen them but I have been told they were a discourse addressed to young women on the subject of marriage,’ said Frances, deliberately avoiding further description so as to judge Mrs Springett’s response. ‘Have you seen any such pamphlets in Matilda’s possession? Has she ever mentioned them to you?’
Mrs Springett shook her head. ‘I suppose someone might have given her something on the subject as she is due to be married soon, but I have not seen one.’
‘I expect Matilda is looking forward to the wedding,’ said Frances, now confident that Mrs Springett had not seen any pamphlets. ‘When is that to be?’
‘In April. There’ll be lodgings coming free in Moscow Road, and they’ll live there. Davey’s a good young man; he’s a carpenter and has worked up quite a nice little business in the area.’
‘I think I ought to speak to your son and also to Davey. They may have heard from Matilda since last night. And if you could let me know the name and address of the school your granddaughter attends —’
‘No. I’ve said. Tilda won’t have gone there.’
‘How old is the little girl?’
‘She’s —,’ Mrs Springett appeared to be struggling to remember. ‘Seven – yes, seven.’
‘And her name?’
‘Edie.’ She suddenly leaned forward. ‘Miss Doughty – we never mention the child in front of Davey. It upsets him.’
Frances, knowing that Davey was not the child’s father, suspected that he had not even been told of Edie’s existence, and guessed that Mrs Springett was understandably concerned that should he learn of it, a cloud might be cast over the forthcoming wedding. She wondered what was being hidden and if it had any connection with Matilda’s disappearance. There were, she knew, places which did not deserve the name of schools where unwanted children could be minded for a fee. Had the child been sent to such a place and was Mrs Springett ashamed to admit it? Perhaps the little girl was one of those sad mites born with some disease or deformity yet which nature had somehow kept alive, and was being kept from the eyes of the world? She knew that it would be hopeless to press Mrs Springett further at this juncture but thought it possible that she might have to do so in future. She would very much have liked to search the house and garden, to see if there were any signs that Matilda had been there recently, but did not feel that this was something she was in a position to insist upon.
‘I will abide by your request, of course,’ said Frances, finishing her tea. She wrote her address on the letter of introduction. ‘If you should hear anything at all, or if you should discover one of the pamphlets in the house, please send me a note. I will return this evening to speak to your son and to Davey.’
Mrs Springett nodded dolefully.
Frances wondered if she might ask Chas and Barstie to keep a lookout for Matilda, but it seemed improbable that they would recognise her, as their substantial memories only extended to persons with rather more capital than £20.
‘I don’t suppose,’ Frances asked Mrs Springett, ‘that you have a portrait of Matilda?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Springett, ‘we’re going to have one done special, for the wedding.’
That was a disappointment, but Frances suddenly thought where she might obtain an image to assist in the search.
She returned to Westbourne Grove via the imposing terraces of Kensington Gardens Square, and sat and looked at her notebook again. Not only was there still a long list of people to whom she had not yet spoken, but the pamphlet itself was eluding her, forever out of her grasp, like something that had existed only in storybooks. What, she wondered, if the copies Mrs Venn had burnt were the only ones ever to be printed, and the answers to all her questions lay in ashes?
CHAPTER SIX
Sarah, who had been hunting for apartments with all the determination of a sportsman out for a good kill, returned in a state of some satisfaction as she had found one that she felt sure would suit in Westbourne Park Road. She described its merits and extracted a promise from Frances that they would go together and see it without any delay, but recognised with some concern that Frances’ introspective mood was not a happy one. A hard stare was all that was required to induce Frances to reveal what she would have told no other person, that she was far from confident that she would be able to succeed in solving what had seemed at first to be such a simple problem, and was afraid that their entire future would depend on her ability to do so.
Sarah’s first instinct was to deal with difficulties by the liberal application of food, especially as she knew that Frances could sometimes be too preoccupied to eat, even when hungry. She ensured that Frances sat at the parlour table and prepared fried eggs and ham, with relish and buttered toast for them both, then sat down to eat, with the unspoken expectation that Frances do the same.
Frances obediently picked up her knife and fork, and as they ate, told Sarah the full story of what she had found so far, which she realised could be described in précis as: the pamphlet was missing, Matilda was missing, and everyone she spoke to was either hiding secrets or telling lies.
‘The thing is,’ said Sarah, thoughtfully, ‘you’ve asked me to be a lady’s companion, and I would like that more than anything, but I’m not really sure what it means. It has to at least mean helping you, doesn’t it?’
‘We will make of it what seems best to us,’ said Frances with a smile.
‘Well, as it looks like in the new place I won’t have half the work I did before, then I wondered if I could be a sort of detective apprentice. And I could go out and about and do the things you might be too busy for. And if you directed me, then I’d know what questions to ask.’
Frances felt some of the weight of duty lifted from her shoulders, although none of the anxiety. ‘I can think of nothing I would like better,’ she said. ‘Consider yourself my trusted assistant in all things!’
‘Well, first off,’ said Sarah, ‘why not get Tom to look for that maid what’s run off, because if he can’t find her no one can!’
Tom Smith was a relative of Sarah’s who had been the errand boy at the chemist shop when it was owned by the Doughtys and now worked for Mr Jacobs. With quick feet, sharp eyes, natural cunning and a keen sense of opportunity, he was, at the age of about ten, clearly a lad who would go far in the world. No one better than he knew all the by-ways and alleyways of Bayswater, and he could worm his way into the hearts and confidence of servant girls with an innocent look and a boundless appetite for pastry.
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ said Frances. ‘He will be paid for his work, of course.’
‘Jam tart and sixpence,’ said Sarah, who knew Tom’s price. ‘And the next thing – only – I expect you’ve already thought of this, but —’
‘Yes?’ asked Frances eagerly.
‘Well, this pamphlet – do you know if it was done special to be put in the school or is it just one you can go into a bookshop and get?’
Frances stared at Sarah. ‘Do you know, I had been thinking it must have been printed specially, but you’re right, it might be one that anyone could buy if they knew where to get it.’
/> ‘Well then,’ said Sarah, ‘why don’t I go to all the newsagents and booksellers hereabouts and ask if they know about it. I might even find one.’
‘That will be your first commission as my assistant,’ said Frances. ‘And see if you or Tom can discover anything more about Matilda Springett than we already know that might help us find her. If I can find Matilda and the pamphlet, then I think I have the answers to everything.’
The meal done, Sarah and Frances took the short walk to Westbourne Park Road, where Frances was introduced to Mrs Embleton. Mrs Embleton was a breed of person with whom Frances had never previously been closely acquainted – a lodging-house keeper, and it was her character as much as the rooms which interested Frances. Mrs Embleton, who was a widow of about forty-five, was friendly and obliging without being intrusive, and respectable without any false pretentions to being genteel. She made it clear in the nicest possible way that the apartments were let only to single ladies of good reputation. Gentlemen callers were permitted ‘within reason’. She did not explain what this meant and Frances guessed that if one had to enquire then it would be a sign that the enquirer was not the kind of person Mrs Embleton wished to have in her apartments.
The house was the property of a gentleman who had worked in the City, and had prospered so well that he had retired to live in the country. It was beautifully appointed both inside and out. When her employer had lived there, Mrs Embleton had been the housekeeper, and he had since engaged her to let the accommodation, collect the rents and generally provide simple services to the ladies who took the apartments, of which there were three.
The ground floor had already been let to two elderly ladies who were sisters, and their maid, who, said Mrs Embleton, lived very quietly, and almost never went out except to church. The second floor, which consisted of only two rooms, was occupied by a spinster, who spent her days engaged in works of a charitable nature. Frances quailed in the face of such uncompromising virtue and wondered what Mrs Embleton would say if she realised that her prospective tenant was a private detective.
The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 6
