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

by Stratmann, Linda

  ‘Yes, and I gave instructions for it to be done. But what I do not understand, Miss Doughty, is why you were in Havenhill interviewing the Farrellys. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’

  Frances prepared herself to introduce a difficult subject. ‘I think we are all agreed that the person who deposited the pamphlets may have done so with the intention of causing some harm to the school. But that may be only one avenue through which this individual will exert his or her malice. It may also be directed at those closely connected with the school. I received a letter recently which alleged that you are a married man, and therefore not free to marry the Duchess of Kenworth.’

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, suddenly tense and upright in the chair, small spots of red anger appearing on his cheeks. ‘That is an outrageous libel! Supposing that person had also written in such terms to Margaret!’

  ‘Have they done so?’ asked Frances, coolly.

  ‘She has said nothing of it to me,’ he said, ‘but she is a highly prudent lady and might have reserved her comments until she had made her own enquiries.’ He favoured Frances with a dark stare. ‘I hope you have not spoken to her?’

  ‘No. I have taken the view that if the matter is a libel I should not spread it. But I did go to Havenhill and examined the marriage registers and was able to satisfy myself that the allegation is false.’ Frances in fact was not yet satisfied, and would not be until she received Sarah’s report, but did not feel it wise to expose all her thoughts or methods to Matthews or anyone else. Nevertheless, she could see from his reaction that while he was understandably angry about the accusation he was not threatened by it. He clearly did not fear the discovery of any obstacle to the forthcoming wedding.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have a motive to stop the wedding, or delay it, or indeed to harm your interests in any way?’

  Matthews slumped back in the chair pensively. ‘Margaret has had other admirers, of course, although she entertained no man’s addresses but mine. She is an excellent woman in every respect and highly esteemed. There have been many who hoped to deserve her, and they must envy me my good fortune. But this foolish libel makes no sense, since it can be disproven by the easiest of methods, as you have found. May I see this letter?’

  Frances handed it to him and he read it without a change of expression. ‘Were you at Havenhill at that time?’ she asked. ‘The date of the supposed wedding is the day of Joshua Jenkins’ death. I understand that for two weeks prior to that he was too ill to stir from his bed.’

  ‘Yes, I recall that was the case, and I was there then.’ He handed back the letter. ‘The hand is not familiar to me.’

  ‘And your ward, Miss Clare – she was living there at the time?’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘She must therefore have known of Jenkins’ illness?’

  ‘Indeed. I recall she used to carry him hot soup.’

  ‘Where does she reside now? The letter claims that she is abroad, and Mrs Venn has confirmed this. If this libel is spread further then it may be necessary to interview her, and of course she may be able to suggest the identity of the person who wrote the letter.’

  He gave a scornful grunt. ‘I really have no knowledge of where she is. She left my house and told no one of where she was going. I did my best for her but was poorly repaid for my generosity.’

  ‘How did this come about?’ asked Frances.

  He looked ill at ease and Frances suspected he would have liked a cigar or another brandy or even both. ‘Miss Clare, as you probably know, is a relative of my late wife, and I promised that I would care for her and also for her cousin, Miss Danforth. Miss Clare has no fortune – her mother made a most inadvisable marriage and was living in very reduced circumstances after her husband died in debt – but Miss Danforth will one day come into a very handsome legacy. Miss Clare, I am sorry to say, was envious of her cousin, and unhappy with her position in life. I had promised her mother that she would receive a good education and hoped she might become a governess but that, it seemed, was not to her liking. I thought then that she might stay here as housekeeper and assist with the care and education of my youngest, Horace, but that too she declined to do. No, she had set her sights on a loftier prospect; she wished to marry my eldest son, Freddie. They had always been on affectionate terms, much as brother and sister, and I confess I had not realised where her ambitions lay. For his part, Freddie, who is a gentle and affectionate boy, loved her as a brother might, but had no wish for any closer alliance. Freddie became enamoured of Italy when we were there in ‘73, and as soon as he came of age he departed for Florence and now has a flourishing business there. I anticipate that in time he will advise me that he has courted and won a Florentine lady of good family with wealthy connections.

  Miss Clare left Havenhill not long after Freddie’s departure without so much as a letter or a word. I feared at first that she had pursued him to Florence, but that, he assures me, is not the case. She was eighteen at the time, and I still therefore had a guardian’s duty of care. I wrote to her mother to discover her whereabouts but my letter was returned, stating that the occupant had gone away.’

  ‘Where did her mother live?’

  ‘It was a most insalubrious lodging house in Dalston. I sent a servant there to make enquiries and while Mrs Clare had lived there for a time, she had departed leaving no address to which letters could be sent.’

  ‘Is there any other family?’

  ‘None for whom I have an address.’ He shrugged. ‘I did what I could, but Miss Clare is now of full age and her own mistress. I therefore take no further interest in her.’

  ‘What about Daisy Trent?’ asked Frances.

  He stared at her in astonishment then gave a rueful smile. ‘You know of all my family ghosts,’ he said. ‘I suppose Mrs Farrelly has told you about that. I feel guilty of course, young Souter was a good employee, but neither Jenkins nor I had any idea of the danger we sent him to. But Daisy Trent felt that she needed to hold someone to account, and since the criminals were never found it was Jenkins and myself who were blamed.’

  ‘Might she have sent this letter to revenge herself?’

  ‘Assuming a mind unhinged with grief, perhaps. But that was many years ago and I cannot say where she is to be found now.’

  The door opened and Selina and Lydia entered. The transformation in her languid host took Frances by surprise. She could see that he was lazy, selfish and irritated about anything that disturbed the smooth running of his life, but the arrival of his daughters at once moved him to action. He rose from his chair and became at once concerned and attentive. For all his faults, he appeared to be a dutiful and affectionate father.

  ‘I had heard that you were here, Miss Doughty,’ said Selina, as her father took her hand and drew her to a chair. ‘I was hoping you could tell us what transpired this morning.’

  ‘Selina, my dear, are you sure this is quite appropriate?’ asked Matthews. ‘There are some things you really ought not to ask about.’

  ‘It is the most ridiculous fancy I ever heard!’ said Lydia. ‘I have done my best to dissuade her, Papa, but she will not listen. Miss Doughty may think that it is prudent for a female to go to such places, but I cannot agree. There may be things said, expressions used that it would be quite wrong for any respectable person, whether man or woman, to hear.’

  ‘You forget,’ said Selina gently, ‘I have visited the school many times and take a great interest in it. I am anxious to know what became of the poor girl.’

  ‘She must have been quite stupid to go walking there at night, alone!’ said Lydia. ‘She was not, I think, a decent person. We encountered her out walking the other day and she was very rude about Horace. I refuse to think of her any more!’

  The servant entered at that moment with a note. ‘Message from Mr Paskall, Sir,’ she said, handing it to Matthews.

  ‘Oh, what is it now!’ he said testily, tearing it open.

  ‘Is there to be an answer, Sir, the boy is waiting,’ a
sked the maid.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Matthews, looking about for a pen and ink. ‘I for one will be very happy when this election is done with.’

  ‘Come,’ said Selina to Frances. ‘Let us leave my father to his work. We will be more comfortable in the parlour and I will have some tea brought.’

  Lydia twitched her nose and gave a sniff of disapproval, but went with her sister, as if appointed to be her personal attendant.

  ‘I always felt,’ said Selina, when they were cosily settled, ‘that Matilda had some sorrow in her life. You can always tell, even with a servant.’

  ‘She did have sorrows,’ agreed Frances, ‘but they were long past, and I understand that she was anticipating wedded happiness. Her sweetheart is a very good sort of person. Her only concern was saving enough money to give him a good start in a carpentry business. Had you noticed anything unusual in Matilda’s behaviour on your recent visits?’

  ‘Yes, the last time I was there I saw that something was troubling her. She had been doing her best to conceal it but a woman always knows, don’t you think? When I heard of the terrible thing she had done, I wished I had said something to Mrs Venn, who might have prevented it. I assume that my fears have been found to be correct?’

  ‘I do not wish to say anything that might distress you,’ said Frances, awkwardly.

  ‘We cannot avoid sadness and loss,’ said Selina. ‘Men seek to protect us, but we can be stronger than they. Please tell me.’

  ‘It appears,’ said Frances carefully, ‘that Matilda did not make away with herself.’

  ‘She was probably intoxicated with who knows what nasty compound,’ said Lydia.

  ‘As to that I really couldn’t say,’ said Frances.

  Selina seemed relieved. ‘Oh it is such a terrible thing to contemplate another’s agony of mind. Thank you, Miss Doughty. You have comforted me. It was an accident, then, and the girl not suffering at all.’

  ‘I believe she did not suffer,’ said Frances. ‘But it was not an accident. It appears that another person was involved.’

  Selina’s creamy pale visage seemed to bleach white. Lydia took the teacup from her sister’s trembling fingers. ‘And now, Miss Doughty, we will wish you good day,’ she said.

  Frances made a wise retreat.

  Sarah returned from Somerset House with the news that the registers contained no marriages of a Roderick Matthews from 1873 onwards, and while several ladies named Caroline Clare had married since that date, none had done so in 1874, or in any location in the vicinity of Havenhill. The information in the letter was undoubtedly false.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The inquest on the stranger found in the ditch opened at the Havenhill Arms on Tuesday morning. Frances had only once and quite against her will entered a public house, the Redan on Westbourne Grove – an incident which still made her blush with embarrassment, and she recalled with some distaste its clamour and alcohol-fumed atmosphere, not to mention the unpleasant headache that had followed. The inside of the Havenhill Arms was, by contrast, like a welcoming inn out of a child’s story book, a place in miniature, with ancient polished wood, brass lamps, low beams suitable only for the easy passage of small folk, and quiet nooks for contemplation. She half expected to see a copper-skinned gnome with a pointed hat smoking a clay pipe in one corner.

  Frances and the other witnesses climbed a small winding wooden stair whose treads had been made for finer feet than hers, and reached an upper room where a table had been placed ready for the coroner and rough wooden chairs were assembled in rows. As Frances went to take her place she found that the floor sloped alarmingly on sagging beams, and creaked at points of dangerous weakness, something the villagers regarded with unconcern.

  She was first to be called to give evidence and made sure to state only that she had come to Havenhill on a private matter, and had discovered the body because she had been recovering Benjie. Mrs Farrelly told the same tale.

  The Havenhill stationmaster was a jovial fellow with rosy cheeks, but was slow to answer questions, and his replies were curiously vague and unhelpful. He could not recall the arrival of any strangers, or the timetable, or how many tickets he had taken, or, it seemed, a great deal of the month of January. There were some hard looks from the coroner and the other witnesses.

  The next to be called was the landlord of the Havenhill Arms, stout and hearty and a fine advertisement for his own ale, who said that on a cold, dull day towards the end of January a stranger, aged he thought about thirty, with a foreign-sounding accent and carrying a small leather gentleman’s handbag, had asked him the way to Havenhill House. He directed the gentleman towards the path and told him to take care as the weather was very misty. He had viewed the body found in the ditch, and while he could say nothing as to the features, he believed the suit looked very like the one worn by the visitor and also thought he recognised the bag found with the remains.

  Mr Matthews, looking awkward and uncomfortable in the cramped interior of the little room, told the court that although the body had been found on his land the man was a stranger to him. At the period in question he had been in his house on one night only, that of January 26th, but there had been no visitors, and neither had any been expected.

  Mary Ann Dunn, the housekeeper, was a mannish looking woman of about forty with a hard but handsome face, black brows and a figure that looked as if it was encased in steel. She confirmed that no stranger had visited the house on any day in either January or February.

  The next witness was Dr Naresby, whose bulk was such that he had to be pushed up the stairs by the substantially lighter coroner’s officer, at no small risk to both of them being the subject of the next proceedings. The doctor’s preliminary examination of the remains had suggested that the cause of death was a fractured skull, which could well have been the result of the man’s stumbling into a trench and hitting his head on the stone foundations. There were no other injuries on the body. A full and detailed report would be available in due course.

  The evidence of Inspector Eaves was of most interest since he had made a thorough examination of the man’s clothing and effects. Those garments which bore a manufacturer’s label had been made in the United States of America. The leather bag had also been made there. It contained a clean collar, a change of linen and the usual gentleman’s requisites. There was a pocketwatch of inexpensive make, which did not bear a jeweller’s mark, and a leather pocketbook containing both American and English money, and some receipts from a shop in New York. A letter and a railway ticket and what looked like some business cards were found in the pocket of the coat, but these had been so soaked with water and mud that any writing or printing on them was no longer legible. It was impossible therefore to say who the man was. The inspector said that he would be circulating a description in the hope that someone would recognise him, but the police were working on the theory that the visitor was an American, and quite possibly recently arrived. He might have left a trunk either at a railway station or hotel, but without a name it would take some time to trace.

  The coroner adjourned the inquest to the following Monday, expressing his confident belief that by then the identity of the dead man would have been discovered.

  Frances spent her train journey to Paddington considering the evidence and what it must mean. The unfortunate man had clearly never been to Havenhill House before, since he had been obliged to ask the way, but there was no doubt that this was his intended destination. It had been assumed by the court and indeed everyone else, that the stranger had gone to Havenhill to see Matthews, but that was not necessarily the case. Had he wanted to see Matthews he would surely have called at the Bayswater townhouse, since Matthews was hardly ever out of town, and any enquiries the stranger had made would have suggested that he should try there first. During the critical period Matthews had only been at Havenhill for one night, and that visit had been arranged for business reasons brought about by the bank crash, something that could not have been anticipated. I
t was therefore far more probable that the visitor had called to see Mary Ann Dunn or one of the farm servants who lived on the estate.

  And yet, Frances reflected, the visitor was carrying business cards. What was he – a seedsman – a dealer in horticultural equipment, or something in the world of finance, property or insurance? If that had been the case, then it was more likely that it was Matthews he wanted to see. Supposing, she thought, the American had called at the townhouse first while Matthews was away and then been redirected to Havenhill?

  She decided to call at the townhouse on her way home. The housemaid recognised her at once, and said, ‘Oh, I am very sorry but Master is not in.’

  ‘As it so happens,’ said Frances, ‘it is you I wish to see.’ She was in the hallway before the maid could recover from her surprise. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to remember a visitor – it would have been towards the end of January, while your Master was away. He was well-dressed and probably called here on a business matter. He was carrying a gentleman’s handbag, and he was from America.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the maid with some surprise, ‘well, Master has a great many visitors but I can’t say I can remember anyone of that description.’

  Frances was disappointed, but there was nothing more to be said, and she went home. It was time to put all her paperwork in order. The only item of furniture she had brought from her old home was her father’s writing desk, and she set about polishing the dark wood and shining the little handles on the drawers, brushing every speck of dust from inside and lining it with clean paper. It was while she did this that she noticed that one of the small drawers seemed shallower than the others. It took some prising with a letter opener, but she was able to remove a false base and there discovered a thin packet of letters. She carried them to the table, separated them carefully and opened them out. There were four, all in the same hand, and were addressed from her mother to her father. Three were little more than notes, dated prior to her parents’ marriage, in which the future Mrs Doughty thanked her betrothed for gifts. The fourth was undated.