The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries)

by Stratmann, Linda

  The main street of spruce little homes would, thought Frances, be quite a bustling place during the week, and there were recently constructed lanes leading from it with newer cottages, so the village was growing outwards from the high road, like the roots of a tree.

  At the centre of the village was a public house, the Havenhill Arms, with a sign depicting a cornucopia of fruit and flowers, and a small church with a square tower, a pretty arched gate and well-kept graveyard. The sign named the incumbent as the Reverend Charles Farrelly, and the paint was sufficiently weathered that Frances felt hopeful that this was the same man who had officiated at the wedding in 1874.

  The Reverend Farrelly was a bespectacled man of about forty who looked out from the pulpit upon his congregation with the benevolent expression of a fond father. The people, she judged, were all folk from the village and estate, since there was a sociable ease about them that came of long acquaintance, family ties, and shared toil. There was no hint, as she had often detected in Bayswater, of attendance merely from a sense of duty, of obligation not to church and community but to outward show. The congregation came willingly, almost eagerly. The sermon was on the subject of the weather, the variability of nature, the gladness that came with the lifting of the cold hand of winter, and the promise of spring, that brought hope to all their hearts. There were hymns sung lustily, and a final closing address, then everyone rose and strolled out into the cool, cloudy lane, where a pale sun was making a loyal effort to add to the warmth of the Reverend’s sentiments.

  Frances stayed by the door as he spoke to members of the congregation, and it was clear that he knew them all well, as he asked after their health and that of relatives unable to be present. As soon as he was free Frances approached.

  ‘Good-day, and welcome to Havenhill,’ he said. ‘You must be new to the village.’

  ‘I am Miss Frances Doughty, and a visitor only,’ said Frances, ‘but I would like to say that I find your church most delightful, and your sermon very uplifting after the recent chills.’

  ‘I hope we may see you again,’ he said, obviously curious as to the reason for her visit.

  ‘I would like to consult the marriage register for October 1874,’ said Frances, ‘would you be so kind as to allow me to look at it?’

  ‘Oh, please come in, I have all the registers to hand.’ He led the way back into the church, where a side door admitted them to an office the size of a linen cupboard with a small desk, a chair, and shelves of books and papers.

  ‘Were you officiating here at that time?’ asked Frances, hopefully.

  ‘Yes, I have been here since 1871,’ said Farrelly, peering at the leather spines of the registers and lifting one off the shelf. He placed it on the desk.

  ‘Then I am sure you will remember the wedding in question,’ said Frances, opening the book. She turned the pages, trying to look as if it was the simplest enquiry in the world, yet could not help but feel a strange little thrill of excitement as she anticipated the discovery that was to come. She found the page, as Reverend Farrelly stood by quietly on hand to assist her if required, but when her eyes scanned down the paper, she found a clearly written entry for October 1st and then no more until a week later. She took the letter from her pocket and studied it in case she had made a mistake, but the writing was very clear and said 6th October 1874.

  ‘Is there some difficulty?’ asked the Reverend.

  ‘I have the date written here, but there was no marriage then,’ said Frances. ‘Of course the writer may be in error.’ She looked further on in the month and then earlier, but without result. ‘That is very curious.’

  ‘Sometimes people recall the day and month but are mistaken as to the year,’ said Farrelly. ‘I keep an index of names that may help you. Who were the celebrants?’ He lifted another volume from the shelf.

  ‘The groom was Mr Roderick Matthews,’ said Frances.

  Farrelly had opened the book but in his astonishment allowed it to fall shut again. ‘Mr Matthews of Havenhill House?’ he exclaimed. ‘There must be some mistake. Mr Matthews has not been married here. Mr Matthews is a widower. He was married in London I believe, some years before he lived here, and his wife, who was afflicted with consumption, died in Italy. But you are right in one thing. Had he been married here I would certainly have remembered it.’

  ‘Do you know the date of his wife’s death?’ asked Frances.

  ‘It was in 1873. There is a plaque to her memory in the church.’

  Frances re-read the letter. ‘In your index, is there a marriage of a person with the surname Clare?’

  He examined the book and shook his head. ‘No. But the Clares are connections of Mr Matthews’ late wife. There was a ward who he placed at school in London, and later he brought her here to look after the house following Mrs Matthews’ death. But the country life did not suit her.’

  ‘When did she leave?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Oh, I doubt that I could recall the date. She came here after Mr Matthews returned from Italy, which was at the start of 1874 I believe.

  ‘Was she living here in October 1874?’

  ‘Possibly, yes. In fact, yes, I am sure of it. She was here when Mr Frederick – that is Mr Matthews’ eldest son – came of age, and we had a very pretty little celebration for him. I recall it well because his birthday is at Christmas. He was quite a favourite of Miss Clare’s, and I did wonder if they might make a match, but he went to look after some family business in Florence soon afterwards. I think it was not long after that that Miss Clare went away.’

  ‘This letter says that she lives abroad,’ said Frances. ‘Perhaps she is in Florence, too.’

  ‘May I see it?’ asked Farrelly. Frances handed over the paper and he studied it carefully, then shook his head. ‘I do not recognise the hand,’ he said, ‘but the contents are clearly false and may, I fear, be inspired by malice. Someone wishes to prevent Mr Matthews from marrying the Duchess of Kenworth, and has made up this story to place doubt in her mind. They have quite probably written to her, too.’

  ‘What of Mary Ann Dunn and Joshua Jenkins, the supposed witnesses?’

  ‘Mary Ann Dunn was then maidservant at the house, and she lives there still, as housekeeper. Joshua Jenkins managed the estate, but he died – hmm, let me see …’ Farrelly found a burials book. ‘Yes, Jenkins was buried here on the 9th of October 1874, and I always make a point of recording the date of death as well as burial. He died on the 6th of October.’

  ‘So according to the letter he witnessed the wedding on the day that he died,’ said Frances. ‘Was his death unexpected?’

  ‘Oh no, far from it. Jenkins – and I recall this very well – fell down in a fit some two weeks before his death, and had to be carried to his bed, from which he never stirred. The man was unable to walk or speak, let alone come to church and witness a wedding. I was sent for early on the morning of his death. Mrs Dunn used to call in on him several times a day, and that morning she found that he had taken a turn for the worse during the night and was quite clearly dying. I sat with him, but he passed away peacefully very soon afterwards. I think the person who wrote to you knew enough of the locality to give the man’s name, but was ignorant of his condition, and has now been caught out in a lie.’

  ‘I expect that anyone living in Havenhill at the time would have known he was unwell,’ said Frances.

  ‘Indeed, I said prayers for his recovery two Sundays in succession.’

  ‘So, we are agreed that no such wedding took place and the letter is false and designed to injure Mr Matthews,’ said Frances.

  ‘It is a very serious matter,’ said Farrelly. ‘You should show this letter to Mr Matthews, who may decide to consult a solicitor. But why was it sent to you?’

  ‘I am a private detective,’ said Frances, who was still finding the words unfamiliar and like something more out of a novel than reality. ‘I have been undertaking some work for some friends of Mr Matthews.’

  ‘I see,’ said Farrelly, ‘well
that is quite extraordinary!’ He pondered the matter for a moment, then said, ‘I will ask my wife if she knows of any person who bears ill-will against Mr Matthews, although I think it most unlikely.’ He put away the books and they returned to the church, where a lady was refreshing an arrangement of flowers. On the way he pointed out the plaque in memory of Agnes Matthews, deceased in Florence Italy, on 10th August 1873, much missed by her sons, Frederick, William, Edwin and Horace, her daughters Selina, Lydia, Dorothea and Amelia and wards Wilhelmina Dancroft and Caroline Clare.

  ‘My dear,’ said Farrelly to the lady who turned around with a smile, ‘allow me to introduce you to Miss Frances Doughty, who has an interesting mystery to discuss.’

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Mrs Farrelly. She was a small round lady, with a plump, almost circular face, framed by crisp brown curls like the crimped pastry edging around a pie. ‘I am all attention. We are very quiet here, not that I am averse to that, but a mystery sounds very engaging. How may I help you?’

  Frances showed her the letter and explained the possibility that an enemy of Mr Matthews wished to prevent the planned marriage, and Mrs Farrelly listened with wrapt attention and gave it considerable thought. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘that is an interesting conundrum, to be sure. While I think about it, Miss Doughty, you would be very welcome to walk with me to the vicarage. I must hurry back to make sure that my dear little dog Benjie doesn’t get hungry. He can get quite cross if I neglect him!’

  The Reverend Farrelly smiled indulgently as if to say that the likelihood of his wife neglecting their pet was somewhat remote.

  Frances would have liked to go up to Havenhill House and ask Mrs Dunn about the fact that she was named as a witness to a wedding that had never taken place, but there was just a possibility that the writer of the letter had been partially correct, and a wedding had occurred elsewhere. If Matthews was concealing the connection then the servant he had entrusted to keep his secret would simply maintain her silence. Frances decided that her best course of action if she wished to pursue the matter was to go to Somerset House and look at the registers.

  The vicarage was a pleasant cottage close by the church, its garden showing abundant evidence of loving attention having been lavished upon it. Mrs Farrelly looked about her with pleasure and glowed at Frances’ compliments, gently touching the faces of the flowers as if greeting a cluster of children come to welcome her.

  They were met at the door by a small but determined dog, who had obviously spent his moments of captivity attempting to paw a ribbon from his long-haired coat, and who leaped up at his mistress with enthusiasm, barking loudly. ‘That’s my darling boy!’ said Mrs Farrelly. ‘Isn’t he quite the best dog in the world?’

  Frances, who lacked acquaintanceship with dogs and found it hard to warm to them, thought it polite to agree that Benjie was both handsome and intelligent. Despite this accolade, Benjie did not approve of the stranger in the house and turned to Frances, quivering like an angry mop, setting his little feet firmly on the ground, arching his back and setting up a sharp insistent rhythmic yap, almost as if someone was at his back working him with a pump.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that, once he is used to you, you will be friends in no time!’ smiled Mrs Farrelly. ‘Now then, I will see that Susan brings us some refreshments. Our dinner will be at three and we would be very pleased if you could join us.’

  ‘That is very kind,’ said Frances, ‘but I have promised to return home by this afternoon.’

  Susan, who was a plain young woman of about thirty, brought tea, bread and butter, a pot of jam, and a little dish of scraps. Benjie sat at Mrs Farrelly’s side, confident that he would be included in the arrangements, and was soon allowed to jump up onto her lap.

  ‘Oh he is such a naughty boy, but he knows I can’t deny him,’ exclaimed the lady, feeding him titbits of ham. Frances glanced about her at the portraits on display, photographs of a very much younger Reverend and Mrs Farrelly at their wedding, and posed groups of venerable persons, probably relatives. There were no pictures of children.

  ‘I cannot imagine,’ said the Reverend Farrelly, who had been very thoughtful, ‘anyone who might wish to cause any harm to Mr Matthews. He is not perhaps here as often as he might be, as I believe he prefers the town to the country, but his managers have always looked after his affairs here very diligently and with great fairness. I am wondering if the writer of the letter is some lady who is in love with him and wishes she might marry him herself and hopes to deter a rival.’

  ‘Do you know the name of any such lady?’ asked Frances, but having made the suggestion he was unable to justify it with any useful detail.

  ‘Daisy Trent,’ said Mrs Farrelly suddenly.

  ‘Daisy Trent?’ echoed her husband. ‘But she never set her cap at him, and indeed how could she, the daughter of a blacksmith?’

  ‘No, that was not what I meant, my dear, only that she was the only person ever to say a word against him, and that was because her mind was in a very unhappy state, poor thing.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh it was quite some years ago,’ said Mrs Farrelly, ‘before they went out to Italy for Mrs Matthews’ health. There had been some thieves on the estate, not from round here, but the next village, East Hill so it was thought, boys or young men, stealing and causing damage. It was all very upsetting. So Joshua Jenkins sent one of his men, Daniel Souter – a good, reliable sort of person – to frighten them off with a shotgun.’ She shook her head. ‘It was a very bad business. They must have crept up on him, and he was killed.’

  ‘The details were very unpleasant,’ said Reverend Farrelly. There were a few moments of silence while husband and wife looked sorrowful, and Frances awaited the unpleasant details in vain.

  ‘I could of course read about the incident in the newspapers, but it would save me considerable time if you could enlighten me with some more information,’ said Frances at last. ‘I promise I will not faint.’

  They looked at each other, and Mrs Farrelly rose to see about more tea with Benjie scampering after her. ‘It was thought there were at least three of them if not more,’ said Reverend Farrelly. ‘One of them came up behind poor Daniel and shot him – a handgun of some kind, it was never found. The inquest said that the shot did not kill him, indeed had that been his only injury then he might well have recovered. But as he lay on the ground he was shot again with his own gun, and after that – it seems that there was further violence done to the body. Sad to say the culprits were never discovered.’

  ‘And Daisy Trent?’

  ‘She was sweet on Daniel and it was thought they might be wed. She was angry with Joshua for sending Daniel out alone, and also with Mr Matthews as she said it was for him to see that his men came to no harm. Of course neither of them could have known that the gang carried arms. We did what we could for her of course. If you are interested I might have some cuttings from the newspapers at the time. I know I do tend to keep material about local matters.’

  ‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’

  Mrs Farrelly returned bringing a freshly charged teapot to the table and a plate of fruit buns, and her husband disappeared to his study. ‘Poor Daisy,’ said Mrs Farrelly, ‘I heard her say that she hoped Joshua and Mr Matthews would never be happy after all the misery they had caused her.’

  ‘I would like to speak to her,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh, she went away about five years ago. She said there was too much here to remind her of Daniel.’

  ‘I hope she found happiness again, wherever she might be,’ said Reverend Farrelly, returning with a small bundle of papers, ‘and peace in her heart that she might forgive.’

  ‘Does she still have family here?’ asked Frances.

  ‘No, her father passed away and her mother remarried and moved to another village,’ said Mrs Farrelly, holding a bun so Benjie could gnaw at it. ‘I could try and find out where she went if you like.’

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bsp; ‘That would be very kind of you,’ said Frances and wrote out her address on a slip of paper.

  Reverend Farrelly had brought the parish journals for the period in question, which recorded how prayers had been offered for the soul of Daniel Souter and Daisy’s recovery to health. Folded into the journals were cuttings taken from the Middlesex county newspapers. The facts of the murder were as Frances had been told, and she learned that after Daniel had been shot the body had been beaten with the butt of his own gun, an act of quite savage and unnecessary violence. One of the newspapers had a sketch map of the area and Frances studied this with interest and copied it down into her notebook. It was Daisy herself who discovered the body, which was found in a small copse about two hundred yards from Havenhill House. Later that night she had been seen wandering in the village in a state of distraction, weeping and hammering on the doors of the houses as she went. Her mother had been fetched, as the girl had been so hysterical it was impossible to discover what the matter was by questioning her, and it was assumed at first that she had been assaulted, as there was blood on her clothing. She had been able only to point in the direction from which she had come, and some men had been sent to search. The map showed a footpath leading like a narrow thread across the fields from the copse to the village and another breaking off to East Hill, the place from which it was suspected the thieves had come and to where they had fled. The only other thing on the map was a line of small buildings near the manor house and Frances was told that only two had been occupied, one by Daniel and one by Joshua Jenkins, the others being stables and storage barns. Daisy, said Mrs Farrelly, had been placed in the care of her mother and had been too ill to attend the inquest.

  There seemed to be nothing more to learn, so Frances finished her tea and rose to take her leave. ‘Oh let me come some of the way with you!’ said Mrs Farrelly. ‘It’s time for Benjie’s walk, and he does so enjoy his walks!’

  Frances and Mrs Farrelly set out for the railway station, with Benjie, so far from enjoying healthful exercise, being carried by his owner, who explained that this would ensure he did not get dirty. ‘He is so naughty sometimes, aren’t you my darling?’ she said, nuzzling her face into the dog’s hairy coat. ‘He will try to get into rabbit holes and ditches and then he is all over mud and I have to bathe him.’