Dear William,
I know that I am entirely to blame, and that your actions were correct, my fate well deserved. I accept that in future we must be as strangers to one another. I have only one last entreaty. May I – before our fates are severed forever – see my beloved children one more time? Perhaps Mr Manley might make the arrangements? I promise faithfully that V will not be there.
Respectfully
Rosetta
Frances read the letter several times. It had been only weeks since she had learned that her mother had not, as she had always been told, died sixteen years ago, but had instead deserted her husband and two children for another man. Frances had been both sad and angry, full of self-pity for the selfish cruelty with which she and her brother had been abandoned. Her mother might well still be alive, and one part of her had wanted to find her, while another had been afraid of what she might discover. It was a path she had hesitated to take. Now it seemed that there was more to the story than her uncle Cornelius, her mother’s brother, had admitted. Perhaps even he did not know all the truth. What actions had her father taken? What was her mother’s fate? Who was Mr Manley? Who was ‘V’? She felt sure that the meeting for which her mother had begged had not taken place, or her brother, who had been five years older than she, would have recalled it. Several times she started to write to her uncle, but the right words eluded her. She was suffused with the knowledge that she had, after all, been loved.
While she considered what to do next, Frances carefully folded the letters and put them away, then she sorted all her materials neatly and assigned them their proper places. She had just completed this task when Tom arrived to report on his findings regarding the two part-time husbands, and Frances thought it best to write to the two mauve-clad wives and arrange a meeting where they might compare notes. It would be a painful interview, and would require the services of a medical attendant, a solicitor and, in all probability, a policeman.
That evening Frances and Sarah arrived in the Grove in good time to attend the meeting at Westbourne Hall, but found the supporters of women’s suffrage standing outside in the street in some dismay, having been denied entry. Miss Gilbert and Miss John were there, as she might have expected, as was Jonathan Quayle, and a smartly dressed lady of mature years who he introduced as Flora’s mother, Mrs Gribling.
There were also a large number of men waiting outside, many of whom, judging by their clothing, represented local trades and it appeared that they too had hoped to attend the meeting and been disappointed. They had formed themselves into groups which new arrivals were swelling in size by the minute, making loud indignant complaints to each other and anyone else who would listen.
‘Oh, Miss Doughty, here is a to-do,’ said Miss Gilbert. ‘Would you believe that entry is by ticket only, and that tickets are only to be had by Conservatives? This is most shameful, as it means the candidates are not to be challenged in any way, but will simply have their own kind about them, and what good is that, and of course it disqualifies ladies entirely.’
There was a sudden rush as Frances heard a familiar voice and saw Tom with bundles of tickets in his hands, offering them for sale. He was no longer in the shop uniform but in a suit of clothes he had been bought by Chas and Barstie some weeks ago when running messages for them. His hair, which would not lie flat without an application of anything less than the greasiest ointment, had been cut short and stuck up all over his head in glistening spikes.
‘Tom, where did you get those tickets to sell?’ asked Frances, when he had disposed of his stock.
He stuffed coins in his pocket and winked. ‘Private business,’ he said, ‘all straight, mind, nothing funny. Wish I’d ‘ad more, now, could’ve sold a ‘undred, there’s that much of a pother.’
It soon turned out, however, that the mere purchase of a ticket was insufficient to ensure entry, and disappointed and increasingly frustrated Liberals crowded about the double doors, forming a solid mass of bodies and arguing that they had a right to be let in, which two stalwart doorkeepers were firmly resisting. Eventually, to howls of execration and language wholly inappropriate to be used in a public street, the doors were swung shut on the crowds and firmly locked. Miss Gilbert sighed. ‘Oh dear, I had really hoped to ask the candidates to make their position known on the suffrage question. But all is not lost; I have some leaflets here which I will give them as they leave.’
The mass of men outside had not, however, given up hope of attending the meeting and kept up their loud and angry demands, while those at the forefront started pounding on the doors, which were not of the stoutest build, having been constructed to match the architecture and not to resist a siege.
‘Do you really intend to remain here?’ asked Frances above the escalating din. ‘It seems to me that there might be a dangerous disturbance.’
‘Ladies,’ said Jonathan Quayle, his eyes bright with anxiety, ‘please, I beg of you, let me conduct you to a place of safety! If I might assist you to a cab, it would be for the best.’ Miss Gilbert, however, a bundle of leaflets in her hands, looked anything but concerned at the prospect of some excitement.
Miss John gave a smile. ‘Oh,’ she said softly, ‘there is nothing to be gained without some risk of danger.’
‘Marianne is right, as ever,’ said Miss Gilbert firmly. ‘I will not stir until I have done what I came here to do.’
The frustration and anger of the crowd was rapidly boiling into rage, a position from which retreat was no longer possible. The men had given up hammering on the doors with their fists and were now attempting to enter by the expedient of charging them down with weight of numbers, loud cheers and exhortations accompanying their efforts. ‘Let me at least place you under my protection!’ urged Quayle above the pandemonium. As he spoke there was the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass and the doors burst inwards, the hapless doorkeepers were swept aside, and the mob charged into the hall with roars of victory.
‘Well,’ said Miss Gilbert, appreciatively, ‘it seems that we may enter after all.’
Before anyone could say another word, she hurried in on the heels of the mob, followed closely by Miss John and Mrs Gribling. Quayle waved his arms in despair and ran after them. Frances held back for a moment then, emboldened by example, joined the crowds, with Sarah at her side.
The meeting, thought Frances, if its object was the dissemination of information, was unlikely to be a success since the hall was too crowded and noisy for any voices to be heard. She wondered if election meetings were always conducted in this way. Every seat was occupied and there were more patrons standing at the back, their numbers increasing with the sudden violent incoming crush of Liberal supporters. Frances’ height enabled her to see the platform, on which there were a number of men seated behind tables, amongst whom were Bartholomew Paskall and Mr Matthews. A man she did not recognise was on his feet attempting to make a speech. Someone in the body of the hall was calling out for the intruders to be ejected, but the doorkeepers were in no position to do so as they were lying dazedly on the floor with bloodied noses, and even when they managed to stagger to their feet a hostile crowd made it impossible for them to move. Mr Paskall rose up and, judging by his arms, which were moving in a jerky semaphore, seemed to be appealing for calm, but to no effect. Miss Gilbert, realising that there was no chance that her prepared questions might be heard, was taking the opportunity to throw leaflets into the air, scattering them like seeds in the wind, in the hope that they might alight on a fertile mind and take root, while Miss John, whose normally timid expression had achieved a quite alarmingly determined aspect, was preparing to defend herself with a bodkin. At the front of the hall, a man jumped from his chair, climbed onto the platform and started to speak, but the crowd roared for him to leave and as he did so, someone picked up a table and flung it at his retreating figure. There was a loud and unified shout of disapproval and the next moment the crowd surged into motion. Chairs and tables, both whole and in pieces, were flying through th
e air and there were outbreaks of arguing and pushing and fisticuffs all over the hall, with not a Queensberry Rule in sight. The candidates and their friends, led by Bartholomew Paskall, ran from the platform and made for a side exit, and those members of the crowd not engaged in their own private confrontations, pushed forward and tried to go after them. Frances, cushioned from much of the shock by Sarah’s large form at her side, felt a firm hand on her arm. ‘Time to go,’ said Sarah, in the sort of voice that had once made a bookish young girl clear her dinner plate, and Frances at once complied. They squeezed through the surging crush of humanity, heading back towards the Grove, Sarah swatting aside over-excited Liberal voters with the back of her hand. On the way they encountered Jonathan Quayle, helpless in a pack of bodies and gasping for air. Sarah extricated him but he was too weak to stand so she draped his limp form over her shoulder and marched grimly on.
At last the little party reached the street, where they saw Mr Paskall, his fellow candidate and their supporters hurrying away as fast as they could go, desperately trying to attract a cab, while a mob of Liberals ran after them hooting in derision.
They moved away from the broken doors to allow the crowds to emerge and Sarah sat Quayle on the pavement, propping him against the wall where he drooped like a wilting flower.
‘Oh dear, we must take him home at once!’ exclaimed Mrs Gribling, mopping the poet’s brow with a handkerchief.
‘I’ll fetch a cab,’ said Tom, appearing from nowhere.
‘But are there any to be had?’ asked Mrs Gribling anxiously.
‘Sixpence says there are,’ said Tom with a wink.
The sixpence was provided and he hurried away, returning a minute later with an empty cab.
Mrs Gribling was putting the handkerchief into her pocket when Frances realised that she had seen something like it before. Even in the gentle glow of the street lamps she recognised the pattern – the little scallops of blue and white that Mlle Girard had assured her was of her grandmother’s invention. How had Mrs Gribling obtained it? Was it the same one that Mlle Girard had been making or another?
Frances could think of nothing to do except snatch at the item and when Mrs Gribling turned to stare at her in astonishment, said, ‘Oh, I am so sorry, I thought it was about to fall to the ground.’ She handed it back, but had seen enough to satisfy herself it was indeed the same design. ‘How delightful,’ she said, ‘where did you obtain it?’ Frances knew that she sounded like a thoughtless girl, concerning herself with a trifle in the midst of more serious matters. It was a part she had played before, and would no doubt play again.
‘I really cannot remember,’ said Mrs Gribling impatiently and she took the handkerchief back a little too quickly for politeness. Quayle, who had partially recovered, was being helped into a cab and Mrs Gribling followed him. As they drove away Frances found Tom.
‘Another sixpence for you if you follow the cab,’ she said. ‘I need to know where the lady lives and anything else you can learn about her.’
He nodded and scampered away. It was late that night when he returned to report that Mrs Gribling lived in Fulham, not far from her daughter, and was the widow of a coffee-house proprietor who had once owned a flourishing business in Soho.
Frances determined to consult Mrs Venn’s directory as soon as possible, but also looked in her father’s old volume, and thus learned a valuable lesson; that new was not always best for her purposes. Ten years ago there had been a business called Gribling’s Coffee House in Dean Street, just three doors from the Soho Printworks.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning Frances returned to the school, where she at once sought out Mlle Girard. The teacher of French was poring over some translations and shaking her head with little sighs of regret. She at once greeted Frances, who suspected that few visitors who distracted her from this unrewarding task would have been unwelcome. ‘I would very much like to see the handkerchief you were working on the other day,’ said Frances.
‘Ah, the one you admired so much,’ said Mlle Girard with a smile. ‘It is not yet complete I am afraid.’ She took it out of her workbox and Frances could see that while a great deal of progress had been made, it was unfinished.
‘I saw a lady only yesterday with one very like it – in fact, identical, but I had imagined that this was the only one,’ she said.
‘There was another,’ said Mlle Girard. ‘I made it for the Christmas bazaar, and it was sold to a lady there.’
‘How interesting,’ said Frances. ‘The lady I met yesterday was a Mrs Gribling. What is her connection with the school?’
‘I do not know,’ said Mlle Girard, ‘but Mrs Venn will tell you. She knew the lady and greeted her by name, not, I think, Gribling, but I do not recall what it was.’
Frances went to see the headmistress at once. Mrs Venn, who was preparing some papers for a history lesson, seemed to have aged since they had first met. Her face was worn, like old wood that had lost its varnish, and it was an effort for her to maintain her dignity and composure. Frances wondered if she had even eaten breakfast, something Sarah always insisted she do, and took the liberty of sending for tea and buttered toast.
‘Mrs Venn, I believe I may have made some progress towards solving the mystery,’ said Frances, when they were settled more comfortably. ‘What can you tell me about Mrs Gribling?’
‘Why, I do not know anyone of that name,’ said Mrs Venn.
‘But I am given to understand by Mlle Girard that this lady attended the Christmas bazaar where she purchased a handkerchief and that you greeted her and addressed her by name.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Mrs Venn. ‘Of course there were many ladies there, aunts or parents of former pupils to whom I spoke, but none are called Mrs Gribling.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I do remember the table where Mlle Girard and Mrs Sandcourt were selling fine lace and needlework, and I stopped to admire it. Oh yes, I do recall now, and it was quite a surprise. I encountered Mrs Clare, Caroline’s mother, and spoke to her, and she did purchase a handkerchief, but I hardly recognised her at first, and she seemed quite taken aback that I knew her at all.’
‘Had she changed so much?’ asked Frances.
‘The Clares had been living in very humble conditions, and were dependant on Mr Matthews’ kind charity. Mrs Clare, on the one occasion I had previously met her, was not fashionably dressed and neither was her hair quite so beautifully arranged, or so – dark. But I have a good memory for features and after a moment I realised that it was she. Of course I was careful to make no allusion to her altered circumstances. She did advise me, however, that she had married again, to a person with a business in Soho, but had since been widowed.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I remember now – Soho – that was the location of the printer.’ Sudden comprehension made her almost drop the cup. ‘Was it Mrs Clare who was responsible for the pamphlets?’
‘I am not sure,’ said Frances cautiously. She looked again at the photograph on the wall, the one of the governors presenting the key of the school to Professor and Mrs Venn. When she had first seen it the faces of the girls standing on the steps had seemed identical, unrecognisable, but that was only because she had not then met some of them. She studied the picture again, counting eleven girls, and was able to distinguish the promise of pale beauty that was Selina’s face, the sharp nose and cheekbones of Lydia and one other, the sweet calm features of Flora Quayle. ‘This must be Caroline Clare,’ she said, and Mrs Venn agreed.
‘Was Mrs Gribling, that is, the former Mrs Clare, at the dance display?’ asked Frances, ‘because that is when I think the pamphlets were left here.’
‘No, I have not seen her since the bazaar. She has not been here since, I am quite sure of that.’
Frances, feeling that she was drawing closer to the answer, took a cab to Fulham and called again at Flora and Jonathan Quayle’s home. She knew she went to fetch away the truth but did not know what it was she might be bringing with her. There was a very great risk that sh
e carried unhappiness and discord. The truth, as she was well aware, was not always a source of contentment. It would be best to speak to Flora alone.
She knocked at the door, and a moment later saw a curtain creep carefully aside and a face glowing like an opal within, then, after a pause, the door opened. ‘Miss Doughty,’ said Flora timidly, ‘I had not expected you. But you are very welcome, please do come in.’
Frances entered and Flora conducted her to the parlour, where she busied herself with the kettle.
‘Mrs Quayle,’ began Frances.
‘Yes?’
‘You may know that I have been teaching at the Bayswater Academy, where you were once a pupil.’
Flora stopped what she was doing and her shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn to face Frances and remained silent.
‘In Mrs Venn’s study there is a photograph of the governors handing over the key to the premises, and you are there. I am told you were once called Caroline Clare. Is that correct?’
Flora looked around, and she was clearly afraid. ‘I had forgotten about the picture,’ she said. ‘I suppose I cannot deny what you say. Yes, I was once Caroline Flora Clare.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Have you told anyone else of this?’
‘No. I assume you would prefer it if I did not?’
‘I must beg you not to!’ she said earnestly.
‘Very well, I will respect your wishes, but in return you must answer my questions. Do you agree?’
She nodded.
Frances took out her notebook. ‘First of all I would like to know when you were married.’
Flora began darting about with teacups and saucers and plates and spoons. ‘Oh, my dearest Jonathan and I were united less than a year ago,’ she said lightly.
Frances, concerned that she could not see Flora’s expression, said, ‘Please, do not trouble yourself about refreshments; I would like just to sit with you at the table and talk.’
The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 21
