The rooms to let were on the first floor and consisted of a cosy parlour, a bedroom and another room which might usefully be a second bedroom, dressing room or study. There was even a bathroom and a quite separate water closet on the landing. Mrs Embleton lived in comfortable rooms in the basement, where there was also a large kitchen. She was willing to provide breakfast and plain dinners, although she was not averse to her ‘ladies’ or their servants using the cooking facilities if they so wished, as long as all was kept spotless and tidy. A washerwoman called once a week to deal with the linens for an extra charge, and a woman was engaged to clean the shared portions of the house and would be willing to clean the apartments by separate arrangement.
Compared with the frugally kept rooms beside the shop in Westbourne Grove – which was the only home Frances had ever known and where she had worked behind the counter and in the stockroom from early to late, cared for her dying brother and ailing father and shared the work of the house with Sarah – this snug apartment with its comfortable furnishings and modern fittings made Frances feel that she had never been intended by providence to live in this way. Mrs Embleton mentioned a price which Frances knew was more than she could reasonably afford. It was almost as if in a dream that she agreed, in a voice that sounded like quite another person’s, to move in on the following day.
Sarah went to arrange a carrier and also to visit newsagents and booksellers, while Frances returned to the disheartening reality of her fruitless enquiries at the school, arriving shortly before Mr Copley was about to take his next lesson. He had prepared an arrangement of fans and was carefully draping them in the folds of a silk handkerchief. ‘Miss Doughty, may I assist you?’ he asked.
‘You may,’ she said. ‘I see that your artistic tastes are for drawings of objects rather than persons, but I had wondered if you were also able to do portraiture. I need something very particular.’
He gave an arch little smile. ‘Why, Miss Doughty, whatever can you mean?’
‘I would like you to draw a portrait of Matilda Springett,’ she said. ‘You will be aware of course that she is missing. I would like a picture to assist those looking for her.’
The smile vanished. ‘Well, I should be able to undertake that,’ he said, but without any great enthusiasm. ‘I have to say her sudden departure is not entirely unexpected. I always thought there was something dishonest about the girl. I had it in mind to tell Mrs Venn of my suspicions, although I had no proof, it was all in her manner, which ranged from the negligent to the downright insolent. Why Mrs Venn tolerated her nonsense I cannot say. Are there valuables missing?’
‘Not as far as I am aware,’ said Frances. ‘Why did you say nothing of this before? Did you not think she might have been the person who put the pamphlets in the girls’ desks?’
‘Not unless there was money in it, which I doubt,’ he said. ‘The girl thought of little else. I have heard her boasting of how much she had put by and how she would not be a servant for much longer, but have servants of her own.’
‘To whom did she make this boast?’ asked Frances. ‘Was it to you?’
‘Of course not – I would hardly engage in conversation with such a person as that!’
‘Then who?’
He looked away, awkwardly. ‘I really can’t recall now.’
‘You must try to remember, it could be of some importance.’
He made no reply, but took up a sheet of drawing paper and began to sketch. Frances watched as the strokes of his pencil produced an excellent likeness of Matilda, her face tilted up with a knowing, almost challenging expression.
‘There,’ he said, handing the paper to Frances. ‘I am sure the minx will be found, most probably in police custody, or a — a place I decline to mention.’
Frances took her departure and hurried to the chemist shop, where she was fortunate to encounter Tom as he was leaving with a knapsack full of deliveries. ‘Good afternoon, Tom,’ she said. ‘My word, you are looking very smart today!’ It had always been something of an effort for Sarah to keep Tom clean and tidy, something Mr Jacobs appeared to have achieved almost in an instant.
Tom grinned and puffed out his chest. ‘Afternoon, Miss,’ he said, with a salute. ‘Togged out to the nines, ain’t I? A real tip-topper!’ He was wearing a suit of dark blue cloth, with a neat jacket edged in braid and the words ‘Cyril Jacobs, chemist, Westbourne Grove’ embroidered on the collar, and the same legend around the band of his peaked cap, which made him, thought Frances, into a kind of perambulating advertisement. The jacket sported shiny gilt buttons of which he was obviously very proud, as he inspected them and rubbed them with a sleeve as if they were in danger of losing their brightness if not given special attention. Her father, she thought, would never have thought of such a thing, or countenanced the expense if he had.
‘I have a commission for you,’ said Frances, ‘if you are able to take it. I can pay you sixpence, and Sarah will make a jam tart.’
‘Mmmm!’ he said, licking his lips as if already tasting the treat. Frances showed him the portrait. ‘This is Matilda Springett, who is the maid at the Bayswater Academy for the Education of Young Ladies on Chepstow Road and has not been seen since eight o’clock last night,’ she said. ‘If you should see her, don’t speak to her or you may frighten her away, but come to me at once and tell me where she is. Her mother lives in Salem Gardens, so if she goes there let me know. In any case, once your work is done for the day, come and tell me anything you have learned about her.’
‘I will,’ he said, ‘ ’n tell Sarah to make it raspberry jam, ‘cos that’s the best!’
Frances next determined to interview Mr Paskall, whose office was on Westbourne Grove, not far from Mr Whiteley’s row of fashionable shops. There was a brass plate at the door, a little scratched by insistent shoulders, but buffed to a presentable shine and engraved with the words ‘Bartholomew Paskall & Son, Property Agents, Management and Insurance.’ She ascended a steep narrow stair to the upper floor, where a trim young clerk sat in the outer office trying to look important. Above his desk, and the most impressive thing that anyone would see on entering the room, was a large framed portrait of Bartholomew Paskall, striking a pose that would not have looked inappropriate on a Roman emperor, with bright blue eyes staring down imperiously from under bushy brows, his nose a disagreeably large hook. It was hard to imagine him as Chas and Barstie had described him in his youth, an inky-fingered schoolboy cheeking his masters and cutting class.
‘My name is Frances Doughty,’ she told the clerk. ‘I would like to see Mr Paskall.’
‘Mr Paskall senior is not in the office at present,’ said the clerk. ‘I am not expecting to see him today. Have you come about a property? I could see if Mr Paskall junior is available.’
Frances was giving some thought to this, as she was unsure if Paskall junior would be able to help, when the door to the inner office opened and a young man emerged, a similar yet rather less forbidding version of his father. ‘Bennett,’ he said, handing a large bundle of correspondence to the clerk, ‘could you see these letters are put in the post immediately – they must be delivered today.’
‘Yes, Mr Paskall,’ said the clerk, ‘and there is a Miss Doughty here —’
Young Paskall’s eyes opened wide. ‘Not the famous Miss Frances Doughty!’ he exclaimed.
‘Well, I’m not so sure about being famous …’ said Frances awkwardly.
‘Oh, but I beg to differ! This is quite an honour. I expect it’s my father you want to see, but come into the office and I’ll see if I can be of any help. Bennett – please note that in future this lady is always to be admitted.’
Frances was ushered into a room that succeeded in being both large and cluttered, as if twenty different tasks were all being carried out at once and jostling each other for precedence. ‘Do take a seat,’ said her host eagerly. ‘May I offer you any refreshment?’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Frances, sitting in a creakily overstuffed leather chair,
while young Paskall, pushing a wing of long hair from his forehead, took a seat behind the desk, which was covered in folders stuffed with papers, some of them open, their contents cascading out in such disarray that there was the danger of an unintentional exchange of material. On either side of the room were long tables stacked high with similarly overfull folders, tied up with string. The walls were lined with shelves of law books, some of them of such antiquity that they were thick with dust. Pens, pencils, loose papers that seemed to belong to nothing at all, and bottles of ink were abundant, and there was a litter of printed advertising notices. Frances picked one up. It was describing a property to let and was the product of a local printer. Although it was not a quality item, the paper and print were good enough. Mrs Venn had suggested that the mysterious pamphlet had been a cheap production. Had she merely been expressing an opinion based on its disreputable contents or had this been an accurate description of the work of a less competent printer?
‘I read about your exploits in the Bayswater Chronicle,’ said Paskall, with an admiring look.
‘It was very much exaggerated,’ said Frances, modestly.
‘Sensational if only half of it was true, and now I understand that father has engaged you in some detective work regarding that strange matter at the school.’
‘Yes, I was hoping to ask him if he might have visited the school on either Tuesday or Wednesday, when we think the pamphlets were put there, and if so, whether he saw anything that could be important.’
‘Hmm – let me see if I can help you.’ Paskall picked up a large leather-bound book, which Frances assumed was an appointment diary, and studied it. ‘Ah yes, Tuesday – he met with clients in the morning and was here in the afternoon, then he was at the Conservative club in the evening. On Wednesday he was in the office all day. So – nothing at the school by prior arrangement. In any case, I believe Mr Fiske is the man who deals with all matters relating to the school. Father is rarely there.’
‘Have you ever been there?’
‘No, I have no involvement with the school at all. Father might bring me in as a governor if his parliamentary duties become too arduous – you know, don’t you, that he is a prospective Conservative candidate for Marylebone?’
‘So I understand.’
‘In fact, it is father’s belief that this whole pamphlet business is a plot by his political enemies.’
‘Really?’ said Frances. ‘But the pamphlets were found two days ago. These enemies have been very quiet since. In fact they have failed to make any capital out of it.’
Paskall was silent for a moment then nodded. ‘An excellent observation.’
‘Do you have an opinion as to the culprit?’
‘I’m afraid not. But if, as you believe, there is no political motive, it must surely be a quite trivial affair.’
Frances decided to say nothing about the twenty sovereigns which suggested otherwise. ‘That may be the case, but since I began my enquiries the maidservant at the school has run away. Either she was responsible or she is afraid that she will be blamed, but there must naturally be concerns about her safety.’
‘Of course,’ he said, solemnly. ‘Is she a young person?’
‘She is.’
‘Then we must hope that nothing scandalous is involved. Have you been engaged to find her?’
‘Not explicitly, but I hope that if I do she will admit that she was the agent of the person who wished the pamphlets to be put in the school, and give me a name. I am sure that with kind questioning she will tell me the truth.’ Frances was not in fact confident of this, but thought that a combination of gentle persuasion with Sarah’s strong and inflexible presence behind her might be just what was needed.
‘Another triumph for Miss Doughty!’ exclaimed young Paskall. ‘Please do not hesitate to apply to me for any help you may require. After all, father has a lot to occupy him at present, and if I could relieve just one of his concerns it would make his life less exhausting. When I next see him I will be sure to ask about his last visits to the school and if he saw anything of importance there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Frances. She rose. ‘I will take up no more of your time for today.’
‘Please do return if you have any more questions,’ he said courteously ‘After all,’ he added with a smile that held no detectable hint of satire, ‘it is not often we entertain a Bayswater celebrity in our offices.’
Frances returned to the school in the hope that Matilda might have reappeared, but no one had heard anything from her. She then went back to her apartments in case there was a message but there was none. Wearily she made some tea, and found that Sarah had provided a fruitcake, a slice of which was very welcome. Sarah came back in time to share the tea and cake, and reported that none of the local newsagents had heard of a pamphlet called ‘Why Marry?’ ‘One did say that it was the sort of thing what would have been written by what he called “bluestocking ladies”, whatever they may be. I don’t think he approved of them very much.’
‘Men do not care for females with minds of their own,’ said Frances. ‘But we do have minds and can think and reason and learn if we are allowed to. We have different ways, that is all, different spheres of thought. Who is to say which is preferable? Both are of advantage to society.’
‘He did give me this,’ said Sarah, handing Frances a small printed sheet. ‘He said it might help me find the sort of lady I was looking for, only I’m not sure I liked the way he said it.’
The paper was headed ‘Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society’, and read:
Join us, sisters, to agitate for the granting of female suffrage and an end to the gross injustice under which your countrywomen have long suffered. Give women the vote, that a valuable host may be added to the electoral body, so the country may be wisely, economically, and mercifully governed. Let the distaff become a sceptre!
The paper was attributed to a Miss E. Gilbert and gave an address in Chilworth Street, which was not far distant and which Frances knew to be a terrace of handsome and lofty buildings, many of which were highly respectable lodging houses. Such a lady, thought Frances, might well be opposed to the idea of marriage, or at the very least believe that it was not the only role in life a woman might seek. ‘Did you learn anything about Matilda?’ she asked.
‘Only that she has a sweetheart who is kind and hardworking and amenable to being under her thumb. She is a small person but I was told she has a very large thumb.’
‘Perhaps they have gone away together and married in secret,’ said Frances hopefully. ‘If she felt in any danger she might think it would give her some measure of protection.’
Later that day, Tom came to report on what he had found. He had not seen Matilda and neither had she returned home. Her mother, brother and Davey had all been out looking for her.
‘That is all very well, but have they told the police?’ asked Frances.
‘There’s no coppers been to the ‘ouse,’ said Tom. ‘Not today and not before.’
Frances shook her head. ‘If they don’t tell the police soon, then I will,’ she said.
Tom sat down to a large jam tart and a mug of cocoa, while Sarah stood staring in wonder at his new uniform and scrubbed face.
Frances, meanwhile, had a letter to write. It was addressed to Miss E. Gilbert of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society, and requested the pleasure of an interview.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The carrier came early next morning when the Grove was coming to life. Delivery carts rumbled along the roadway, and the carriages of early customers were already prowling. Shutters went up with a rattle and a bang, and shop assistants in neat uniforms scurried to take their places. The sweepers were already out and the swish of their busy brushes and the footsteps of passers-by were like the background refrain of an orchestra, to which the clank of harness, the snorting of horses in the cold air, and the shouts of drivers added a contrasting measure. Frances, who had grown up with this morning chorus, had no idea of how she migh
t feel to leave it. To the rooms of her old home, now bare, she had already said her farewells, and concluded that while she ought perhaps to have shed some tears, that she had rarely been happy there. The recent discovery that her father had lied to her, as indeed had her Uncle Cornelius, about the loss of her mother, although both with her interests at heart, had meant she was leaving her past behind with even less regret than she might have done.
Sarah looked at her with a worried expression but Frances smiled reassuringly and said only that they had better get the boxes. Between the carrier and the two women, assisted by Chas and Barstie, they soon loaded the cart and it was a matter of minutes to reach their new home.
Leaving Sarah to unpack their possessions, Frances hurried to Salem Gardens, where she found a neglected pot of broth cooling beside the fire and Mrs Springett sitting at the table with two young men, all deep in conference. The dark haired muscular man with intense brooding eyes was similar enough to his mother to be identified as Jem Springett, while the other, taller and more slightly built with yellow hair who sat anxiously twisting and untwisting his fingers, was undoubtedly the sweetheart, Davey.
‘Miss Doughty – do you have any news of Matilda?’ asked Mrs Springett jumping up, her face bright with anticipation.
‘I am sorry, I have learned nothing,’ Frances admitted. ‘I was hoping when I came here that she might have returned.’
The unhappy mother wrung her hands in distraction and paced back and forth. ‘Davey and Jem have been out and about day and night looking everywhere they can think of, and I have asked all the neighbours if they have seen her, but no one knows where she can have gone.’ Jem got up to comfort her with a rough but affectionate hug, but tears started in her eyes and she had neither the energy nor the will to mop them away.
The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 7
