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

by Stratmann, Linda

  Sharrock drummed his thick fingers on the desk. ‘If I tell you, will you go away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He puffed his cheeks out in exasperation. ‘You’ll finish my career one of these days,’ he said. ‘Well, according to the prisoner she asked him for £5 not to tell what he was up to, but he didn’t give it to her. He says he was about to lock away his pictures in a secure place so as to be safe from blackmail, when she went missing.’

  Frances wondered if Mrs Venn had told the Inspector about the £20 found in Matilda’s slipper. There was now surely no reason to withhold the information apart from the difficulty that might ensue from the fact that she ought to have mentioned it before.

  ‘There are places he could get that for each drawing, I have no doubt,’ Sharrock went on. ‘And by the way,’ he grinned, ‘you might not have been sweet on him, but he was certainly sweet on you.’

  It was a moment or two before she realised the implication of his words, and Frances quickly took her leave, her cheeks burning red with embarrassment.

  Next morning the London dailies advertised a public meeting which was to take place at the Great Western Hotel on Thursday at 6 p.m. to discuss the recent events at The Bayswater Academy. Admission was free of charge and all, including members of the press, were welcome. Frances determined to go, and, in view of the fact that the event might occasion some excitement, decided to take Sarah with her.

  Frances returned to Fulham, and was delighted to see Flora out of bed and recuperating by the parlour fire with a cup of cocoa. So far from being in a state of nervous debility as might have been expected, Flora had a new light in her eyes, and a firmer set to her mouth. Both Jonathan and Mrs Gribling were, she knew, inclined to treat Flora as a fragile creature in need of their constant protection, but Frances could not help wondering if the girl was stronger than they realised.

  ‘I recall so little of Monday,’ said Flora regretfully, ‘although the doctor tells me that it may come back in time. There was a man here from the newspapers yesterday and he was so insistent that I told him a made-up story to make him go away.’ She gave a mischievous smile.

  ‘Oh he will not mind if it is not the truth as long as the story amuses the public and sells more copies,’ said Frances. ‘I hope, however, that you will tell me all you know.’

  ‘There is almost nothing,’ said Flora. ‘And what there is seems very confused. There are pictures that come into my head and pass across my eyes and keep changing almost like a magic lantern show, and what happened on Monday and the wedding have got mixed up together and sometimes I can’t tell them apart. Perhaps as the days pass it will all be clearer.’

  ‘The pamphlet, it was a letter to Wilhelmina,’ said Frances. ‘I know that now.’

  ‘You are very clever,’ said Flora.

  ‘But there are a great many things still hidden from me and I know you have the answers. What was it that made you believe that Wilhelmina was about to be forced into a loveless marriage so that her husband could secure her fortune?’

  ‘She will be eighteen soon, and was due to leave school in a month or two.’

  ‘That is the prelude to an entry into society, and not necessarily a forced marriage.’

  ‘There are men who look at her and do not see the young woman. They see only a bank on which they might draw. So many have lost their funds recently with the failure of the Bayswater Bank, and are seeking marriage as an answer.’

  ‘You describe a general anxiety, which I can understand,’ said Frances, ‘but the action you took suggests to me that you knew of a planned wedding and felt you needed to act with urgency. Is that the case?’

  Flora stirred her cocoa carefully, as if hoping that the pause could make Frances forget her question, but she looked up to see no change in her visitor’s expression. ‘Yes, it is,’ she admitted.

  ‘Do you know the name of the man in question?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am surprised that Mr Matthews did not claim her himself, but of course his ambitions were already set on the Duchess.’

  ‘If it is fortune alone that concerns him, she better suits his purpose. The Duchess is fifty and there will be no future obligations as there would be if he married a much younger woman. I was such a child when I married him, and did not understand these things. I really believed that he loved me. Had there been issue of the union, I cannot say what he might have done.’

  ‘Now, allow me to guess the answer you will give to my next question, and I hope I may be wrong,’ said Frances. ‘I must ask you for the name of the person who told you of the wedding that was being planned for Wilhelmina, and you will refuse to tell me.’

  Flora smiled.

  ‘Can you at least tell me who took the pamphlets to the school and put them in the desks?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say. Does it matter?’

  ‘I can hardly know that until I have the answer,’ said Frances with some frustration. ‘One thing I have discovered, however, is that it appears Daisy Trent has recovered her wits. I do not know where she is, but I am hopeful that if I can find her she will clarify her account of Daniel Souter’s death.’

  ‘She was not mad, Miss Doughty. People thought her mad because she was distraught at the loss of the man she loved, and angry that those who murdered him walked free. If she had been calm and shed a quiet tear when her man was killed so brutally, then she should have been locked away as a dangerous lunatic. I spoke to her and though her manner was strange she was very clear in her mind about what had happened, but she was doomed not to be believed. Too many people in Havenhill rely on the market gardens for their livelihood, and would never speak out against Roderick for fear of losing their income and being thrown out of their cottages.’

  ‘I know she accused Mr Matthews and Jenkins when you spoke to her, but that was more than a year after the murder – did she do so at the time?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Yes, she did, over and over again, but people said it was the grief speaking. Even Mary Ann, who is Daniel’s aunt, is, I believe, a little bit in love with Roderick, and would not hear a word against him.’

  ‘But don’t you think that what Daisy really meant was not that that they had actually committed the crime, but were responsible because they had sent him into danger.’

  ‘That is the story that was told in the village. That is why Daisy was not believed. Everyone thought they knew what she had said, and when she did speak her manner was such that people found it easy to dismiss her as a mad woman. Even her own mother used to apologise for what she had said. I was the only person who sat with Daisy and talked to her, and when she saw that I believed her she was calmer and her mind was as clear as anyone’s. But there was nothing I could do, so I ran away.’

  Frances was impressed by the earnestness of Flora’s address, but knew that allegations fell a long way short of proof. ‘Do you know where Daisy Trent is now?’ she asked.

  ‘I am afraid not.’

  ‘The difficulty is that it is so well known that she was distracted in the past, that even if she is well now, her words will not be seen as having any value.’

  ‘So you are set against her, too?’

  ‘I perceive that there are difficulties, but I will try not to be prejudiced if there is more you can tell me. Is there more?’

  Flora set her cup aside and smoothed her dress. ‘On the night of Daniel’s death he and Daisy were due to meet and walk together, but Daniel was told by Joshua Jenkins to take his shotgun and go and look for the young men from East Hill who had been causing damage to the estate. He met up with Daisy as arranged but told her that their walk must necessarily be cut short as he had his duty to perform and did not want to put her in danger. She agreed and after a while they parted company, and he walked on. She was returning home down the footpath to the village. It was night, but there was a full moon. All was quiet but then she heard Daniel’s voice. She could not tell what he was saying but it sounded as if he was challenging someone. Then th
ere was a shot – but it wasn’t Daniel’s gun, it was something more like a pistol, and she thought she heard a cry. A few moments later there was another shot, and this sounded like a shotgun. She was terrified as you can imagine, but she hoped that all that had happened was that Daniel had seen the men and frightened them away. She walked back up the path hoping to see that he was safe, and waited for him at the door of his cottage. Then she saw two men emerge from the woods and walk towards her. They were Roderick Matthews and Joshua Jenkins. Roderick was holding a pistol and, as he drew closer, she saw the expression on his face and it frightened her.

  He stopped, and Jenkins spoke to him. “Have courage, Sir,” he said. “The —” he used a word which Daisy declined to repeat, “scoundrel” is perhaps the nearest, “the scoundrel is dead and he deserved what he got. And if the East Hill crew get the blame and hang for it, I won’t lose any sleep!”

  Daisy hid in the shadows and saw them go past. Joshua went back to his cottage and Roderick returned to the house. Daisy knew that something terrible had happened, something a man might hang for, and she was afraid that Daniel was involved, but it never occurred to her that someone might want to murder him. So she waited by the cottage, but all was silent. At last she decided to go and look for Daniel. She found his body amongst the trees.’

  ‘How long did she wait after seeing the two men?’ asked Frances.

  ‘A few minutes only.’

  ‘And she saw no one else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And heard only the two shots?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Frances took out her notebook and looked at the map she had sketched from the newspapers. ‘I should have noticed this sooner,’ she said. ‘Why was it when Daisy found the body she did not run to the nearest house for help, which would have been Jenkins’ cottage or the manor house, but instead went along the path to Havenhill, which was much further away?’

  ‘People said she did it because she wanted to go to her mother,’ said Flora. ‘But of course she would hardly run for help to two murderers.’

  ‘The pistol that Daisy saw Mr Matthews with – where did he obtain it? What did he do with it afterwards?’

  ‘It may have been the ornamental one that usually hung in a glass case on the wall of his study. I suppose he put it back.’

  ‘And his son Freddie – he saw nothing?’

  ‘I told him what Daisy had seen, and I did feel that he knew something, but he would never speak of it. But he, too, left home as soon as he came into his money.’

  Frances felt certain that any case against Matthews was lost almost before it was begun. Daisy, even if she could be found, would not be a believable witness, while the accused would be able to cite the activities of the East Hill gang in his defence. And there was another issue. A prosecution did not, she understood, have to prove motive but any defence would make the very sound point that there was none.

  ‘What reason does Daisy give for Daniel’s murder?’ asked Frances. ‘If he had been found stealing, for example, and I don’t suggest that he had, the usual consequences would be dismissal. Why go to such lengths?’

  ‘I don’t know, and Daisy doesn’t either. Perhaps Joshua had a reason.’

  ‘No, if Joshua had some reason to murder Daniel he would have done it by himself. Mr Matthews is not a man who undertakes other people’s tasks for them, in fact he hardy likes to undertake his own. If he did kill Daniel there is some reason why it gave him a very particular satisfaction.’ She thought carefully. ‘Who was living at the manor house at the time of the murder?’ She consulted her notebook. ‘It was on the 14th of March 1873. That cannot have been long before the family went to Italy.’

  ‘No, they went later the same month. Only Roderick and Freddie were at Havenhill then, and Mary Ann, of course. Freddie was there because Roderick wanted to instruct him in the business, but he didn’t take to it. Selina and Lydia and Wilhelmina were at school, as was I, and the younger boys and girls were at the townhouse. Mrs Matthews was at a resort on the South Coast for her health.’

  ‘So the family went to Italy in March, where Horace was born and Mrs Matthews died there the following August.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  Frances recalled the wasted consumptive Cedric had seen in Florence and an unpleasant thought crossed her mind. It shocked her that she could have entertained such an idea and she wondered if she had over the last few weeks been so exposed to evil that the most depraved imaginings were now commonplace to her. There was, she felt sure, just one thing that could have stirred the normally indolent and apathetic Roderick Matthews to commit murder. ‘When is Horace’s birthday?’

  ‘In the summer – July, I think – his mother died just weeks after he was born.’

  ‘Did you or Mrs Sandcourt or the other children spend much time at the manor house?’

  ‘Very rarely, why?’

  Frances did her best to grapple with her horrid thoughts. ‘Was there a harvest festival or something very like it in the village, which all the family attended in the October before they went to Italy?’

  Flora, puzzled by the question, gave it some consideration. ‘Yes, there was, I remember it now. There were church services and a great gathering, and a merry dance. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Was Mrs Matthews there?’

  ‘No, she was too weak to travel. She had been at the South Coast for some time.’

  Flora seemed to find nothing strange about this and Frances realised that, as she had mentioned in the pamphlet, the school taught the girls everything they did not need to know and nothing that they did. She was thankful that her years of toil in the chemist shop had given her a more realistic understanding of the experience of women.

  ‘You seem very troubled,’ said Flora.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Frances, ‘I know I am tiring you with too many questions. And sometimes I find that the most tiring thing is the answers.’ She rose to leave.

  ‘But Miss Doughty, you haven’t told me —,’

  ‘And there are things that you have not told me,’ said Frances, ‘so I know that you will understand.’

  There was, thought Frances, as she made her way home, only one circumstance that explained both the abrupt removal of Selina abroad for several months and the impossible fiction that Horace was the son of Agnes Matthews. Horace was undoubtedly a Matthews, but not, as she had at first supposed, because Roderick was his father but because Selina, who had inherited her father’s height and colouring, was his mother. In March 1873, sixteen-year-old Selina, knowing that she could not hide her shameful plight much longer, must have confessed all to her father, and named the author of her shame as Daniel Souter.

  Matthews would not have countenanced for a moment the public exposure that would have resulted had the culprit been arrested and brought to trial, but neither could he have tolerated leaving the crime unpunished, and the criminal free to tell his secrets. Frances could picture the stricken and agitated father, a man unused to physical confrontation, holding the ornamental pistol in trembling hands, shooting Daniel Souter in the back, wounding but not killing him, and Jenkins coolly finishing the task.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Frances had by now become a regular reader of the Illustrated Police News and the town edition issued that Thursday did not disappoint her. Engraved across the front page in large letters were the words ‘Disgraceful Scenes at Election Meeting in Bayswater’, and there was a very detailed picture of the turmoil inside Westbourne Hall with broken furniture sailing through the air, and a surging mass of bodies. Much comic effect had been produced by featuring a stout lady brandishing a women’s suffrage poster in one fist and giving a man a black eye with the other. Frances especially admired the excellent likenesses of Bartholomew Paskall and Mr Matthews, both looking very afraid and running down the street away from the angry mob. A small and less well executed picture at the bottom of the page was captioned ‘Cowardly Attack in Fulham’. Flora, whose bosom as imagined by
the artist was rather more prominent than it was in life, was shown cowering on the parlour floor, while a hideous scoundrel hovered over her wielding a cudgel. The accompanying article consisted of short paragraphs copied from the daily papers, saying simply that a woman had been found unconscious after surprising a burglar, and could recall nothing of the incident.

  What edifying pictures might she anticipate in future editions, Frances wondered. Roderick Matthews ruminating on his sins in a police cell. Matthews in the dock of the Old Bailey. Matthews on the scaffold. Somehow she doubted it. It was not so much that she felt unable to find proof of his guilt, but that the proof itself might not exist. She consoled herself with the fact that if he was, as she suspected, guilty, he would eventually pay for his crimes, and in a more terrible place than Newgate Prison enduring ministrations far less humane than those of Mr Marwood.

  Frances tried to imagine the terrible scene in which Selina had confessed her shame. A girl in such a situation would not, she thought, as a first instance ever consider going to her father, even if eventually driven by necessity to do so. A mother would have been the natural choice, but for Selina that was not possible, and she had no older sister. That led Frances to wonder if Selina had confessed to another person first, someone she might have regarded in a similar light as a mother, someone who might offer sympathy, advice and help. There was one obvious mother figure – Mrs Venn. And there was another person who might have known, not by being told, but who might have guessed because she was a mother herself and would have recognised the early signs – Matilda. Had Matilda been blackmailing Selina? The maidservant had not seen Selina since she had left the school, but Selina’s new position as patroness and her visits to award prizes and sell lace at the bazaar had brought them back into contact. Was it Selina who had provided the £20 as the price for Matilda’s silence? Whatever Selina’s youthful failings, Frances did not see her as a murderess, especially as she was protecting an unborn child.