‘All of this is very true,’ said Frances, ‘but I expect it did not please him to hear it.’
‘Not at all. He then revealed that he had made enquiries amongst all the printers of his acquaintance to try and discover a copy of the pamphlet, and he had found one that he was sure was the one distributed at the school. He read some passages to me and I could not deny that they sounded very like what Sophia had been saying. The allusion to Miss Baverstock was unmistakable. He then revealed that under normal circumstances he would not choose to make the contents public, however the pamphlet referred to an evil man in the school, one addicted to nameless vices. He felt it his duty to inform the police, if only for the protection of the girls.’
‘But —,’ began Frances and stopped before she revealed more than she ought. ‘But the only man associated with the school is Mr Copley and surely he is not addicted to vice?’
‘Oh, but he is,’ said Mrs Fiske severely. ‘Mr Copley is addicted to seeing the female form in a state of nature. Some call it Art, and I understand that there are many paintings of that sort in the Royal Academy, which is a place where those who wish to indulge themselves may do so without fear of arrest. The police, however, have found pictures in his portfolio purporting to be —,’ she paused, ‘purporting only, you understand, to be of the pupils of the school. It is surmised that he exercises his talents in drawing the forms of dishonest females, and then for his own amusement appends to these filthy things the faces of innocent young girls drawn from memory.’
The tea arrived and fortunately it was accompanied by thin slices of sponge cake. Mrs Fiske ate nothing, but Frances was hard pressed not to devour the entire contents of the plate, which would have been very impolite.
‘That was a most shocking discovery,’ she said, ‘and I can understand your distress, but what has it to do with Matilda’s death?’
‘There was, amongst his other imaginative work, a drawing of the maidservant. Her mother has confirmed that there are certain features which convince her that it was drawn from life. It is suspected that the girl was paid to pose for him. However, the police also believe that being a prying young person, she may have seen the other drawings when visiting Mr Copley at his lodgings, and demanded money in return for not reporting what she saw.’
‘Thus giving him a motive to murder her,’ said Frances.
‘He admits drawing her, indeed he can scarcely deny it, but he denies murder.’
‘One hardly knows what to believe of a person like that,’ said Frances.
‘Precisely,’ said Mrs Fiske.
‘Poor Mrs Venn!’ said Frances, thinking of all the people who had by now seen the dreadful pamphlet and what would ensue when it was realised who the man referred to really was.
‘She employed the man, and as a result her judgement is now seriously in question,’ said Mrs Fiske. ‘I doubt very much that she will be retained.’ She put her cup down. ‘I must not forget – my husband asked me to pass on an envelope to you. I believe it is your account.’ She rose and took the item from a side table and handed it to Frances.
‘I hope Mr Fiske is not too unwell,’ said Frances.
‘A headache only – he does not deal well with upheaval, and I regret to say that there is more to come. Mr Younge has just returned from Malaya, where I understand he is something in rubber, and he has engaged the services of a solicitor. It appears that there will be a public enquiry. They have lost no time and an announcement will be in tomorrow’s newspapers. It should take place very soon.’
‘Before the election?’ asked Frances.
‘Sooner than that – before Easter,’ said Mrs Fiske. ‘Thursday, if they can secure a suitable room. And the formal nomination of candidates takes place on the following Tuesday. I wonder what romance of the imagination Mr Paskall will make of that.’
Frances decided that she would call upon Mrs Venn as soon as that lady felt able to receive visitors. Once home, she relayed all the events of the day to Sarah, who soon saw that Frances had barely eaten and plied her with more cheese and pork pie and cake than she could comfortably manage. Sarah’s detective duties had continued to meet with success, and Frances anticipated that her apprentice might, in time, become so well known for her work amongst the servant class that it would be necessary only for her to enter the door of any establishment to procure the abject terror of the culprit, who would instantly confess.
Frances opened Mr Fiske’s envelope, the contents of which were very satisfactory, but represented, she knew, a dismissal from the case. The payments she had received for her other work had also been more than handsome, and she found herself obliged to visit the bank, although not before she had given Sarah a bonus, which was received with considerable astonishment. Perhaps, thought Frances, one day they would be sufficiently settled that they might think of investing funds to ensure their comfort in old age. But even the most prudent of plans could all come to nothing, as she knew from her father’s example, and to which she now had to add that of Mrs Venn. She wrote a letter to that lady, expressing her sincere condolences and the hope that in due course she would be permitted to call upon her, not in any professional capacity but as a friend.
Tom called to advise Frances that the lady he had been following had kept an appointment with her Hyde Park swain but the tender moment had been interrupted by his arrest on several charges of fraud at the behest of a whole posse of disappointed females. The client, being the only one of the gentleman’s victims to retain possession of her investments, was naturally grateful, if still suffering from the effects of lost love, and was entirely under the impression that the drama she had just seen enacted had been brought about by Frances’ almost miraculous prowess as a detective.
Frances had not planned to go and see Flora until she had something more tangible to report thal her own suspicions, but in the dying light of the evening she took up the pamphlet again, as there was an expression she had heard recently that was an echo of something in its pages, and she wanted to be sure that it was no more than coincidence. There was an awkwardness of phrasing at its centre as if there was something the writer wanted to say that she could not place comfortably, but it sat there, standing out as if it had been underlined, and was, perhaps, the most important part of the document. Frances saw now that Flora had not been entirely honest with her, and that the pamphlet had not after all been prompted by a desire to warn all girls against the dangers of marriage without love. She determined to go and see her immediately after breakfast the next morning.
Frances had sent a note to the Quayles to announce that she would be calling, although she knew that Flora would be at home as she almost always was. To her surprise, the knock at the door of the little Fulham home was answered by Jonathan, and he was utterly distraught. ‘Oh, Miss Doughty, come in, it is the most terrible thing in the world, my darling has been cruelly attacked – someone has tried to kill her!’
Frances, knowing that poets were often by their nature inclined to embellish the truth, was suitably sympathetic but kept her doubts about the seriousness of the situation to herself. She was conducted to the bedroom where Mrs Gribling sat by the bed holding her daughter’s hand. Flora lay white and still, her head bound about by bandages, her secrets inaccessible and possibly even lost forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘She is sleeping now,’ said Mrs Gribling softly, ‘the doctor says that it is best for her. We hope she may heal.’ Jonathan hovered in the doorway with a look of anguish, torn between the desire to be at Flora’s side and fear of disturbing her rest. At last he came in and sat by the bed, staring intently at the face of the unconscious woman.
‘What happened to her?’ whispered Frances.
Mrs Gribling rose and drew Frances from the room. ‘We think that she may have surprised a thief in the house. A neighbour who was passing heard my poor girl screaming and knocked at the door. That may have saved her life, as it seems the thief heard the knocking and ran away. When the neighbour went t
o the back of the house she found the door open. That must have been how the thief got out because Flora would never have left it like that. Flora was lying on the parlour floor – she had been struck on the head with a poker. It seems that she had the presence of mind to pick up a cushion and tried to shield herself with it, and that may have saved her from the worst. There are bruises on her head and arms, but no broken bones. She is very fortunate to be alive.’
‘Has she been able to describe what occurred?’
Mrs Gribling shook her head. ‘She has spoken, but can recall nothing, not only of the attack itself, but, strange as it may seem, for several hours beforehand. The doctor told me that that is sometimes the case with such injuries.’
‘What was the time of the attack?’ Frances asked.
‘It was about two o’clock. She was quite alone. I was at home and Jonathan at his office.’
‘Did the neighbours see any strangers in the area?’
‘The police have asked everyone hereabouts and there were the usual delivery boys and men putting up election posters, but that was all.’
‘Your daughter would not have admitted a stranger to the house,’ said Frances. ‘Was there any sign to show how the thief broke in?
‘There were no locks or windows broken,’ said Mrs Gribling. ‘I can’t account for it.’
‘Was anything stolen?’
‘Not as far as I know. The police asked Jonathan to look around the house but nothing had been either taken or disturbed. There is little enough here to tempt a thief.’
‘Then perhaps he was not a thief,’ said Frances. ‘Your daughter has secrets and there are those who would prefer her not to tell them. I will be open with you, Mrs Gribling, please be open with me. Mrs Quayle has told me of the clandestine wedding in 1874 and has confessed all to Mr Quayle, who stands by her. I am a private detective and he has engaged me to discover the truth so that they will be free to marry.’
‘Oh I do so pray that it will happen!’ said Mrs Gribling with a great gush of relief. ‘My poor girl has been living in fear. But who would know where to find her? Who would know that Flora Quayle is really Caroline Matthews?’
Frances thought about this. ‘Apart from ourselves, only those persons present at the wedding knew of it.’
‘Mr Matthews may have engaged spies to find her out,’ said Mrs Gribling. ‘What with his betrothal to the Duchess, he is the one most afraid of what she has to tell.’
‘Perhaps someone came here appearing to be bringing a packet in the post, and then forced his way into the house,’ Frances suggested, ‘but surely then she would have cried out sooner.’
‘Even my poor dear Harry did not know Flora’s address as she had not long been living with Mr Quayle,’ said Mrs Gribling. ‘He used to send his letters to my house.’ Tears trickled down her face at the thought of her son and she made no attempt to dry them. ‘He called on me last January – I have found that out, now. I had told my servant to admit no one from Mr Matthews. It seems that when I was away from the house Harry called and asked to see Mrs Matthews – meaning Flora. As soon as the girl heard the name she became alarmed and declared that there was no one called Matthews at that address and shut the door on him.’
‘I wondered at the fact that you were not expecting him,’ said Frances. ‘You did not receive a telegram announcing his arrival?’
Mrs Gribling shook her head. ‘I questioned my maid to see if there was anything at all that he had said at the door, and she thought that there was some mention of a telegram, and an apology, but she could not recall exactly what was said.’
Mrs Gribling peered into the bedroom again, where Flora looked peaceful, her devoted lover by her side.
‘It was you who arranged for the printing of the pamphlet “Why Marry?”, was it not?’ said Frances. ‘The printer was near where you once lived. You were not afraid of being recognised there?’
‘I sometimes visit the area to see a sister-in-law, and saw that the printers had a new manager, so I knew that I was safe as long as I gave a false name.’
‘And you took them to the school?’
‘No, I —,’ she paused uncertainly. ‘You will excuse me but although I do know who put them there, the recent scandal suggests to me that it would be unwise to reveal the truth. I have seen a publication by a Mr Miggs and I cannot say more.’
‘Was it not Matilda you engaged to place the pamphlets in the girl’s desks?’
‘No, it was not. But I think that under the circumstances it would be as well to allow people to believe that.’
‘Your daughter told me that she wrote the pamphlet to warn young girls against a loveless marriage,’ said Frances, ‘but I feel sure that it was more than that. The pamphlet mentioned the reader being dearer than a sister. That was her cousin Wilhelmina, wasn’t it – I understand that they were very fond of each other. The pamphlet wasn’t a general warning at all, it was a letter to Wilhelmina, in disguise.’
There was a long moment. ‘Flora and Wilhelmina were very devoted,’ said Mrs Gribling. ‘People misunderstood it; they thought that Flora was only friends with Wilhelmina because of her expectations. She will come into a fortune of £40,000 when she is twenty-one or when she marries, whichever is the sooner. But Flora cares nothing for money and anyone who claims she is jealous of her cousin is probably jealous themselves and does not understand true affection. Wilhelmina is a very timid girl and will do as she is told. Flora feared that she might be hurried into a marriage for which she had no inclination so that her husband could acquire her fortune for his own purposes.’
‘Was there any such marriage planned?’
‘Flora thought so; indeed, she had been told that her poor cousin was due to be affianced to a man who cared nothing for her. It was out of the question for her to go and see Wilhelmina. She wanted to write to her with a warning but knew that any letters might be intercepted. Also, she did not wish to reveal that she was still in London. So she devised the idea of writing a pamphlet, something that would seem to be a general address to unmarried girls but which Wilhelmina would recognise as coming from her loving cousin.’
‘As soon as Mrs Quayle is well enough, I would like to speak to her,’ said Frances. ‘When she first told me of the wedding in 1874 I confess I thought it might all have been a dream, but I am now convinced that it did occur.’
‘Have you found the documents?’ asked Mrs Gribling excitedly.
‘No, and there may be none to find. It is my belief that the wedding may have been a sham. If I can find the man who conducted the ceremony then I might be able to prove it, and I am hoping that Mrs Quayle might recall something that would provide a clue.’
‘Come tomorrow,’ said Mrs Gribling. ‘I am sure she will be a great deal better then.’
There was a sigh from the bedroom, and Frances saw that Flora had opened her eyes and was smiling up at Jonathan, who was caressing her hand. Mrs Gribling went to her daughter, and Frances quietly slipped away.
Frances next called at Paddington police station to find if Inspector Sharrock was willing to part with any information about Mr Copley. To her annoyance the desk sergeant greeted her with a snigger more appropriate to a schoolboy than a grown man in uniform. He waved her towards Sharrock’s office with a smile that threatened at any moment to break out into a chortle.
‘Your sergeant has been most impertinent!’ said Frances, walking into the office before she could be announced. Sharrock was at his desk with a pile of papers clutched in his hands, and his young constable was leaning over his shoulder staring at the contents, his eyes standing out of his head like marbles. Both men started in alarm when Frances entered the room and the papers were very quickly turned over on the desk and a ragged blotter moved on top. Sharrock indicated the door with a jab of his thumb and the constable hurried away.
‘Evidence,’ he said. ‘And how may I help you today? We’ve got the murderer of Miss Springett so that’s one up to us.’
‘I can see your
cold is improved,’ said Frances, ‘did you try the Friars Balsam?’
‘No, I tried brandy.’
She looked at the papers on the desk. ‘Are those Mr Copley’s drawings?’
Sharrock placed his hands on the pile. ‘And why would you want to know?’
‘I want to know everything, Inspector.’ She removed a large pair of mud-encrusted shoes from a chair, wiped the seat with a handkerchief and sat down. ‘What evidence do you have against him?’
‘Well he deserves to be locked up for his pictures alone. Disgusting.’
‘Does he admit to murder?’
‘Not yet, but a few days in the cells might lead him along the right path.’
‘Was Matilda blackmailing him?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Miss Doughty, you seem to think that it is a part of my job to answer your questions about private police matters. Well I have to inform you that it is not. What possible interest can you have? The murder is solved.’
Now that Frances came to think of it, she could have no possible interest. She had not been engaged to find Matilda’s murderer, and had nothing other than a feeling that Copley was not guilty of that crime at least. Despicable as he was, he did not deserve to die for a crime he had not committed.
‘Not sweet on him, are you?’ insinuated the inspector.
‘Of course not!’ she said angrily. ‘I just need to know, in connection with another matter, whether he ever gave Matilda money.’
The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 26
