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

by Stratmann, Linda

  The train gave a great hiss and began to pull out of the station.

  ‘But he cannot be in both places at once?’ said Frances.

  ‘Most assuredly not, but he has given me to understand that when he is a member he will devote all his time to politics and thereafter Paskall & Son will be mine to manage,’ he added more cheerfully. Though he had his father’s hawk-like features Frances thought that his sunnier disposition made the narrow face and prominent nose almost handsome. ‘I have worked for my father since I was sixteen, starting with the humblest of tasks and working my way up until I am very nearly a full partner, and though I am just twenty-four now, I know the business very well and have my own customers and can run things very nicely.’

  ‘And perhaps one day you might follow your father into parliament?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Oh that will be many years from now,’ he laughed. ‘For today I am content merely to have plenty of work to keep me busy, and good prospects.’

  They whiled away the half hour journey with more similarly engaging conversation, Paskall saying that his father was the hardest working man he had ever known, and Matthews the most idle, except for his undoubted devotion to his family. Frances said that she believed a wedding to be in the wind for Miss Lydia and he replied that he knew nothing about it, but hoped for the sake of the groom that he was a deaf gentleman. As the train pulled into Havenhill, Frances thought that if Theodore could advertise himself as he advertised properties he could have written, ‘Pleasing aspect, well situated, suit single lady’.

  As they descended from the train Frances saw that a number of somberly clad passengers had also come expressly for the inquest. They did not include Matthews, and Frances assumed that one of the gentlemen present was his solicitor. Mrs Gribling, heavily veiled and clutching a small wreath was leaning on the arm of a lady of her own years – a neighbourly friend Frances guessed – and was walking with slow, almost tottering steps towards the church. Frances went to offer her condolences.

  ‘He’s buried there,’ whispered Mrs Gribling, gesturing towards the church, ‘and me not here to see it done, never knowing …’ She stumbled unsteadily onwards, her companion patting her arm.

  ‘Is it certain it is he?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she sighed, ‘they showed me his watch. I bought it for him before he went away. A simple thing but all I could afford. He said he would keep it always, and he did.’

  Frances let the grieving woman go on to the church for her own private moment by the grave. Theodore stood by respectfully. ‘I take it that is the mother of the poor fellow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frances. ‘Even though I too have suffered terrible losses, I cannot imagine what she can be feeling at this moment.’

  There was a little while before the inquest was due to begin and so Frances and Theodore walked up the rutted path to the building work, with its broken fences and weather-scarred trenches. He inspected the scene gloomily, while Frances told him how she had come to find the body.

  ‘Father will be very displeased,’ he said. ‘All that expense and nothing to show for it. He told me that he was all for abandoning the work last January. He’d have taken a spade and filled it in himself if necessary, but Matthews wouldn’t hear of it, and now it seems that father was right after all.’

  Frances thought it best not to allude to the expected arrival of new capital once Matthews had secured the Duchess’s fortune. ‘Is there nothing to be done?’ she asked.

  ‘In a few months, if matters improve, we may begin again,’ he said, ‘but for now I will take steps to ensure that no one else comes to grief here.’

  He offered his arm and they walked back to the Havenhill Arms, where Frances was glad of his assistance in negotiating the narrow winding stair and lurching floorboards. The inquest began with Mrs Gribling stating with tearful certainty that the watch found on the dead man was the same one she had given to her son when he left for America. The men of the jury glanced at each other and nodded and it was clear that the court would formally identify the body as that of Harry Clare.

  When Dr Naresby, mopping his face from the effort of climbing the stairs, rose to be questioned, the coroner leaned towards Mrs Gribling and suggested that as there was medical evidence to be heard she might prefer to retire, but she shook her head and stayed where she was. A glass of water was provided.

  Dr Naresby said that he and his assistant had completed the post-mortem examination of the body and found a single wound above the right ear consistent with either a blow or a fall on some hard surface. On removal of the outer tissues of the head he discerned a clear comminuted fracture of the skull. The bones had been depressed inwards and there was considerable effusion of blood. Apart from this injury the deceased had been in perfect health at the time of his death. He had no hesitation in attributing the cause of death to the injury.

  ‘I think we are agreed on that point,’ said the coroner, ‘but the remaining question is whether the injury was accidental or the result of some criminal act.’

  ‘I have,’ said Dr Naresby, ‘seen many injuries caused by a variety of implements and have observed that each implement, be it a hammer or a spade or an iron bar, will leave a very characteristic mark. That was not so in this case, where the wound was very irregular. I came to the conclusion that the object that caused the injury was a stone. Had the deceased been struck by a stone and then thrown into the ditch I would have expected to find the stone nearby as people almost never carry away such items with them, but I found none. I therefore concluded that the object that had caused the injury was the stone of the partly constructed foundations, which no individual could have wielded. Of course the passage of time and the muddy conditions meant that any traces of blood have been washed away, all the same, it is my opinion that death was due to an accidental fall when the deceased, no doubt confused by the misty conditions, stumbled into the trench and struck his head.’

  ‘Was death immediate or would he have been able to call out for assistance?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘I believe that initially he would have been stunned by the injury. He might have regained consciousness but by then he would have been confused and might not have been able to cry out.’

  ‘So the actual cause of death might have been exposure?’

  ‘I believe the primary cause of death to be hemorrhage and injury to the brain. The freezing temperatures would have hastened matters.’

  The jurors conferred, the court very quiet apart from the sound of Mrs Gribling’s sobs.

  Frances looked around at the others present and saw that Mary Ann Dunn was silent and rigid, yet her eyes slowly turned to look at the distraught mother and just for a moment the hard exterior softened and a look of compassion passed across her face.

  As expected, the jury found that the deceased, Harry Clare, aged twenty nine of New York City, had died from a fracture of the skull and injury to the brain caused by an accidental fall. They deplored the fact that the open trenches had not been fenced off earlier, and the coroner, who, unlike many of the residents of Havenhill, had no reason to be in awe of the landowner, concurred, and made some very pointed comments. Frances, with her new commission from Jonathan Quayle, determined to question Mary Ann Dunn and, as the hearing ended, hurried over and introduced herself.

  Mrs Dunn, who was not discomfited by the approach, asked Frances to take a turn with her about the churchyard. ‘I had expected you sooner,’ she said. ‘Master said that you would want to speak to me, although I am sure I don’t know how I can help you. I know nothing at all about the poor young gentleman.’

  ‘He has never been to the house?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, and I have been here twelve years. And we had no visitors at all in January apart from the usual tradesfolk, all of whom I know very well.’

  Frances heaved a great sigh and touched a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘His poor mother!’ she said. ‘What she must be suffering!’ In truth the masquerade required very little i
n histrionic ability, since Frances had only to think of her own family, those she had lost and those she had never known, to produce a genuine tear or two.

  Mary Ann nodded and there was an answering moisture in her eye. ‘We have all had sorrows,’ she said, ‘some worse than others. My sister’s boy was just twenty two when he was killed, and that was seven years ago, but the pain is as bad now as the day it happened.’

  ‘Do you mean Daniel Souter?’ Frances enquired.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve been told about it. A fine, handsome, honest, hardworking boy, and no one called to pay the price, and my poor sister dead of grief within the year. I tell you, Miss Doughty, if ever they found out those who did it and gave them the sentence they deserved, I’d stand on the scaffold and pull the lever myself!’

  There was a sudden flare in her dark eyes and Frances was left in no doubt that she meant what she said. ‘I believe he was going to be married to Daisy Trent,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, and the lass almost lost her wits for a time.’

  ‘Almost?’ queried Frances. ‘For a time? Do you mean she is well again?’ Flora’s description of Daisy’s behaviour had led Frances to think it very possible that the girl had been confined to an asylum, possibly permanently, but if she was recovered and could be found, then she and Flora might meet, and then the misunderstanding would be dispelled.

  ‘Oh she had wits enough when I last saw her, although the burden on her heart will never be gone.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now? I should like to call on her.’

  Mary Ann shook her head. ‘No, she went away, and never said where.’

  ‘Surely her mother knows where she is?’

  ‘I expect she does, but no one here knows where her mother went.’

  Frances tried her best to conceal her disappointment. She felt sure, however, that Mary Ann, a loyal housekeeper, would always be concerned about the interests of her master. A good, useful and discreet servant was an asset who could prove her worth in a quiet way every day of her life, and expect a comfortable pension when she was too old to work.

  ‘Daisy said some hard words about your master after Daniel’s death,’ said Frances.

  ‘As I said, she had lost her wits. We all knew it was her sorrow speaking.’

  ‘But people still remember what she said. There are even some who believe that Daisy was telling the truth, and that your master was to blame for Daniel Souter’s death. I am sure that now some time has passed and Daisy is well again, she would welcome the chance to admit that she was mistaken. No one would blame her for what she said in her grief and they would applaud her honesty. Mr Matthews, I am sure, would be very much relieved if that were to happen.’

  ‘That may be,’ the housekeeper admitted.

  ‘If you were ever to learn where Daisy Trent is living, would you write to me and let me know? I could arrange for her to meet your master’s accusers and tell them that they are in error.’ Frances wrote her address on a page of her notebook and handed the paper to Mary Ann, who nodded thoughtfully and put it in her pocket. ‘But I think you know what it is I have come to talk to you about,’ she went on.

  ’A letter, I was told,’ said Mary Ann, contemptuously, ‘with some foolish lies in it, by someone who dared not sign their name.’

  ‘The letter said that your master was married to Caroline Clare at St Mary’s on the 6th of October 1874 and that you were there as a witness,’ said Frances.

  Mary Ann folded her arms and looked immovable. ‘As I said, lies plain and simple.’

  ‘It claimed that Joshua Jenkins was also a witness, but of course, that cannot be right as that was the day of his death.’

  The housekeeper gave a satisfied smile. ‘Then that just goes to prove it.’

  ‘And Reverend Farrelly says he knows nothing about it.’

  ‘Of course not, because he wasn’t there,’ said Mary Ann firmly.

  There was a moment of deadly silence, then Mary Ann coloured deeply and said, ‘What I meant to say was, he couldn’t have been there because it didn’t happen!’

  Frances, the consequences of what she had just heard flooding her mind, stared keenly at the woman before her. ‘Mrs Dunn, in all our interview you have been very precise. I think that precision has not deserted you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’ said Mary Ann defiantly, but there was a break in her voice, a note of panic. ‘If that is all, I will take my leave!’ She turned and almost ran away, heading towards the little lychgate but Frances pursued her with some determination, her long legs striding across the grassy mounds of the burial ground, gathering her skirts to leap over a row of little stones that sprouted from the earth like ancient teeth, and finally overtaking and facing the housekeeper at the gate, blocking her way.

  ‘How dare you! Stand aside and let me go!’ gasped Mary Ann. ‘I will call for assistance!’

  Assistance, Frances knew, was not far away, so she spoke quickly. ‘Listen to me first. I think that the wedding did take place. I think that you were there and that somehow you fooled Miss Clare into believing that Joshua Jenkins was there as well. Reverend Farrelly is innocent in this matter, indeed I never suspected him to be guilty, so some other clergyman must have conducted the ceremony. All I now require is the name of the man. Give me that and I will stand aside.’

  Mary Ann recovered her breath and, with that, her composure. ‘It never happened, and you can’t prove that it did,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t prove it now,’ said Frances, ‘but one day, I promise you, I will. Very well, if you will say nothing today, I will return home, but when you feel ready to tell me the truth, please do so.’

  ‘I have nothing more to say to you,’ said Mary Ann obstinately, ‘not today or at any time!’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Frances, ‘you have my address.’ She stood aside, and the housekeeper hurried away.

  Frances made the journey home alone. If Flora’s account was true, she thought, then Matthews, after failing to make the girl his mistress, had arranged a secret marriage in order to possess her. No reputable clergyman would have agreed to take part in such an underhand proceeding, and Frances wondered if there was such a person as a disreputable clergyman. She rather feared there might be – one addicted to drink perhaps, or with debts to pay. Even if she was able to find this man, and she had to admit that without Mary Ann’s unwilling testimony she could not imagine how she might do so, he would hardly confess to what he had done. Supposing, however, he was not even a genuine clergyman, but had been defrocked for whatever sin might result in that unsavoury situation. If that was the case, then the marriage was not lawful and Flora would be free to marry Jonathan Quayle. The more Frances thought about it the more she believed that this was the answer. If Matthews had indeed contracted a lawful marriage with Flora, would he have dared to court the Duchess? The perils of discovery were far too great. The mere fact that not one scrap of paper existed to say that the wedding had ever taken place led Frances to conclude that it had been a sham.

  That afternoon Frances was due to teach a chemistry class at two o’clock, and with no time even to return home or refresh herself with a biscuit, presented herself at the school at a quarter to the hour. To her surprise, however, there was no answer to the bell. She waited for a while and tried again, but the house was silent. Mystified, she went to see Mr Fiske, but the maid said that he was unwell and could not be disturbed. ‘In that case, I wish to see Mrs Fiske,’ said Frances.

  ‘Mistress is not at home to visitors,’ said the maid, as if chanting a nursery rhyme.

  ‘Then I will wait inside until she is,’ said Frances.

  ‘Mistress says she can’t see anyone at present, but if you were to send a note —,’

  ‘Rose,’ said a quiet voice from the hallway, ‘you may conduct Miss Doughty into the parlour.’

  ‘Yes Ma’am,’ said Rose without turning a hair, and stood aside to let Frances in. ‘This way, if you please.’

  Frances and Mrs Fisk
e made themselves comfortable and tea was sent for. Mrs Fiske looked weary and troubled.

  ‘I have come from the school,’ said Frances. ‘I was due to teach a class but it is all closed up.’

  ‘And may well remain so,’ said Mrs Fiske. ‘There has been a disaster of the greatest magnitude.’

  ‘I hope no one is injured?’ Frances asked anxiously.

  ‘No, it is nothing of that nature.’

  ‘Where are the pupils and the teaching staff? Have they all gone away?’

  ‘I have sent Charlotte and Sophia to stay with my sister. The Younge girls, who have no female relative, have gone to a boarding school in Kent. The others I believe are with their families. Those of the staff who reside on the premises remain there, but as you have discovered, they are not answering the door to visitors. I don’t know where Mlle Girard is and I don’t particularly care. Mr Copley the art teacher is in the custody of the police. He has been charged with murdering the maidservant.’

  Frances gaped in astonishment. ‘I have spoken to him on only two occasions and I cannot say that I held him in any esteem, but I cannot imagine that he is a murderer.’

  ‘I assume,’ said Mrs Fiske dryly, ‘that your experience of murderers, while greater than mine, is necessarily limited.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Frances. ‘I have known murderers, and somehow they seemed outwardly to be little different from anyone else. But what evidence do the police have against Mr Copley?’

  ‘I am afraid it all stems from the activities of the pretentious Mr Miggs,’ said Mrs Fiske. ‘He came here the other day in a great state saying that I had insulted Mr Mellifloe’s mother. I pointed out that I had said nothing to the detriment of that lady, but he replied that he did not appreciate the tone of my comments, and I ought not to have mentioned her at all. I was blunt with him and said that Mr Mellifloe had brought odium upon himself by having the effrontery to publish under the guise of poetry lines utterly devoid of merit, and then expect the public to part with money for them. As to Mr Mellifloe’s mother, if he did not want her mentioned then he ought not to have dragged her into the matter himself.’