The Poisonous Seed (10 page)

The receipts book was a leather-bound volume, originally of blank pages, in which Frances, William and Herbert entered the composition and method of manufacture of all mixtures not described in the Pharmacopoeia. Some were copied from professional journals and others, such as the elixir of oranges which had formed the basis of Percival Garton’s prescription, were William’s own adaptation of a basic stock syrup. Frances brought the books to her father, and watched him pore over them. Every so often he would sigh deeply, but he seemed to come to no conclusion.

Sarah, in her Sunday best of a stout brown costume and thick dark coat, and a large brown bonnet with a decoration of ugly roses, her strongest corset creaking with every movement, had scrubbed Tom until his ears were almost raw, forced him into an ill-fitting but clean suit of clothes, then brushed and flattened his hair, plastering it to his head with what looked and smelt suspiciously like lard. As she dragged him towards the door she nodded to Frances, indicating the paper-wrapped package, which contained the cake she had made. ‘I’ll be back before you go out,’ she said, making sure that this information was imparted out of Herbert’s hearing. Herbert left shortly afterwards, to take tea with his family, he said, although Frances’ sensitive nose often detected on his return from such excursions that he had a secret partiality to a glass of beer.

Frances stayed by the fire, reading her bible, and watching her father with anxiety, as he studied the books before him and muttered to himself, but eventually the warmth and the quiet soothed him to sleep. Quietly she laid the bible aside, removed her pocket book from her apron, and read through the notes, then she took up her pencil and began to make a list of everyone she could think of who might have had something to do with Percival Garton’s death. She did not neglect to include those long dead such as his grandfather, whose lives could provide some clue as to the reasons behind his death; and persons as yet unknown – the artist he had encouraged, the gallery owner, or his neighbours in Tollington Mill, who might supply her with valuable information. She would have liked to know why Mr and Mrs Keane had quarrelled, and the reason for Garton’s name being mentioned. Did James Keane suspect his wife of some impropriety with Garton? Was the dinner only a device for him to take revenge on his supposed friend? She suspected that a man who despised and neglected his wife would still feel the blow to his pride should she find solace with another.

On Sarah’s return, Frances put on her coat and bonnet, tucked the wrapped cake under her arm, and set out to walk to the Keanes’ house. The temperature was still hovering below freezing point, and ice puddles crunched under her feet. Normally she would have worn her warm winter coat in such weather, but today, as a part of her carefully planned approach, she had selected an old and much mended coat, quite insufficient to protect her against the cold. She hoped to look poor but respectable. Had she attempted such a thing only a few days ago she would have been trembling with anxiety, but her outing as Frank Williamson had somehow inured her to any feelings of that kind. Instead she occupied her time rehearsing in her mind the part she was about to play.

The villa where Mr and Mrs Keane resided was a handsome Georgian triple-fronted building set back from the street, and protected by thick hedges. The main entrance was a large, double oak door reached by a flight of stone steps and flanked by sturdy pillars. By the side of the house there was a short driveway leading to a coach house and stables, with servants’ rooms above, and a narrow path which she knew must lead around the building to the domestic and trade entrance at the back. Everything was, Frances noted with approval, neat and spotless; the hedges trimmed, paths swept, steps scrubbed, and door handles polished. She followed the path, which brought her to a small, enclosed yard where everything again spoke of neatness and order, and knocked on a stout wooden door at the rear of the house. As she did so, the rain started to descend.

Moments later, the door was opened by a round-faced young woman in her twenties, wearing the plain dress and apron of a general servant. She had been hard at work, for her hands were red and she exuded a distinct odour of soap. Despite that she seemed to be in good humour. From Sarah’s description, Frances knew this must be Ettie. ‘We don’t buy nothing at the door, sorry,’ she said, eyeing the parcel.

‘Oh, I’m not selling nothing,’ said Frances. ‘I’m from the bakery. I’ve got a cake to deliver.’

‘Oh!’ said Ettie, puzzled. ‘Well, I’ll take it then.’ She held out her hands, but Frances had no plans to give up the cake so easily.

‘Please let me in for a moment to warm,’ said Frances, shivering. ‘I’ve been out all day in this weather, and it’s just begun raining again.’

Ettie paused. ‘You poor thing, you look half starved,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Well, come in and sit down, but just for a minute, mind.’

Frances followed her into a large kitchen where a substantial range blazed with heat, and a delicious-looking joint turned on the roasting jack, exuding a savoury scent. Saucepans bubbled with soup and puddings, and at a long table, a rotund woman of about forty was kneading pastry, while a bowl of eggs, a jug of cream and a sugar loaf at her elbow spoke of custard tarts in the making.

‘Delivery from the bakery, Mrs Grinham,’ said Ettie, as Frances put the package on a chair and hurried over to the fire to warm her hands.

‘I don’t know of no delivery,’ said the cook, pounding the pastry as if it was an unruly malefactor that needed to be flogged into submission. ‘What is it then, and who ordered it?’

‘It’s a cake, that’s all I know,’ said Frances. She showed Ettie a piece of paper on which she had scribbled the address. ‘This is the right house, isn’t it?’

Ettie showed the paper to Mrs Grinham, who grunted. ‘That’s this house, right enough, only if anyone had ordered a cake I would know about it, and I don’t know anything about it. If Master and Mistress want a cake they ask me to make one. Someone wrote it down wrong.’

Frances took hold of the paper and made a great show of studying it. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said, ‘I was told it was wanted today, urgent! Even if I took it back and got the right address it’ll be too late. I’ll get into such trouble!’ Sighing, she sat down, and then suddenly jumped up with a little scream. ‘Oh no! The cake!’

Ettie came up to peer at the damage. Frances had sat squarely on top of the cake, which for all its wrappings was not looking as deep as it had once been. ‘Oh dear!’ said Ettie. Frances held her hands to her face and uttered a wail of misery. She was a little shocked to find that her main difficulty was preventing herself from laughing.

‘Oh, there, there, maybe it isn’t as bad as all that,’ said Ettie quickly. ‘Here, let me open it up and have a look.’

Ettie lifted the substantial parcel onto the kitchen table, untied the string and pulled aside the wrappings. It was pound cake, glistening with butter, scented with cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon, speckled with caraway, and frosted with powdered sugar. Sarah’s burly arm could mix a cake which, however rich its ingredients, always turned out pleasingly light and digestible. Its very lightness had, however, been its downfall, and it was quite obvious that it had met with some accident.

‘I can’t take it back like that!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘Master will stop it out of my wages, and Mistress will beat me!’ She sank into the now empty chair, shoulders shaking.

Ettie looked around at Mrs Grinham. ‘What do you think we should do?’ she said.

‘It ain’t nothing to do with us,’ said the cook, with a derisive laugh. ‘
We
don’t have to do anything. Let her take it back and catch the consequences.’

‘Oh, but look at the poor creature!’ exclaimed Ettie. ‘I can’t help but feel sorry for her.’

Frances sniffled into a handkerchief. ‘What if I was to say it was stolen in the street? Do you think they would believe me?’

‘They might,’ said Ettie gently, although she hardly sounded convinced.

‘If they asked, you could say I came in here all upset,’ said Frances, dabbing her eyes.

‘Well, that would sort of be the truth, wouldn’t it?’ agreed Ettie.

Frances blew her nose. ‘I can’t take the cake back like that. I’m sure it would taste very good, even if it is all squashed. You’re welcome to have it. I never want to see it again!’

Mrs Grinham looked at the cake, critically. She seemed like a lady who would enjoy cake, but only if she made it herself. ‘I’m sure it isn’t half as good as one
you
would make,’ said Frances.

Mrs Grinham looked up at Frances then back to the cake again, then she wiped the flour from her arms. ‘Put the kettle on, Ettie, the pastry needs time to rest before I roll it out.’

‘Will you stay and have tea?’ asked Ettie. Frances quickly assented. A knife and plates were brought, and the kettle was soon boiling and a pot of tea made. Mrs Grinham ate a slice of the cake, and said it tasted better than it looked, but it ought to have been baked a little less, then she ate another slice just to make sure.

‘I expect your Master and Mistress are great admirers of your baking,’ said Frances.

‘They are,’ said the cook proudly, ‘especially Mistress.’

‘It is a great comfort to her, poor lady,’ said Ettie, with a mouthful of cake.

‘Now then, no gossip!’ said Mrs Grinham, sharply.

‘Oh but I love a bit of gossip!’ said Frances, gulping her tea. ‘Is it ever so shocking? Come now, I promise I won’t tell!’

‘Oh it’s no great secret that Master and Mistress are very unhappy in each other’s company,’ said Ettie. ‘He spends almost all his time away from home, and when he is here they have terrible quarrels.’

‘I was once in a place where Master and Mistress quarrelled,’ said Frances. ‘He was a very jealous man, and thought that she was – well, I can’t say the word, it wouldn’t be polite.’

Mrs Grinham laughed scornfully. ‘If you were to see Mistress you wouldn’t think her a lady with many admirers.’

‘Except one,’ said Ettie, unable to resist a sly smirk.

‘Oh, that’s just a silly boy’s fancy,’ said Mrs Grinham. ‘We won’t talk of that.’

‘So what do your Master and Mistress quarrel about?’ asked Frances, pouring out another cup of tea and cutting more cake.

‘I think it was all about money,’ said Ettie.

‘Oh?’ said Frances, surprised.

‘I know that when Master makes his remarks – the ones that upset Mistress – it’s always about money.’

‘What sort of remarks?’ asked Frances, wondering how far she could go with her questions.

Mrs Grinham flashed her a suspicious look but Ettie continued innocently, ‘I once heard him say that money could make a man seem to be great when he was not, but it could also destroy him.’

‘That doesn’t seem
very
cruel,’ said Frances.

‘Oh, but you should have heard the way he said it,’ said Ettie, meaningfully.

Frances wondered if the man who Keane said might be destroyed was Garton. Perhaps, she thought, Garton and Keane had been partners in a business which had failed, or one had lent funds to the other which had not been returned, or still worse, one had cheated the other and been found out. All these were situations which could lead to murder.

Just then the inner kitchen door opened, and both Mrs Grinham and Ettie rose guiltily from their seats, licking cake crumbs from their lips. Frances thought it best to stand up too. She saw a dignified man of about thirty, impeccably dressed and looking every inch the better class of servant. He was carrying a framed portrait.

‘If you are without employment, I suggest you busy yourselves with this,’ he said, severely. ‘Ettie, Mr Keane has asked that this drawing be removed from the frame and burnt. Then make sure the frame is well cleaned.’

‘Yes, Mr Harvey,’ said Ettie, taking the portrait.

Noticing Frances, Harvey tilted his head and looked at her severely down a long, tapering nose.’ Who is this?’

‘Liza, from the bakery,’ said Frances. ‘I – had an accident with a cake.’

He glanced down at the plate. ‘Several slices worth of accident, I see,’ he said.

There was a pause, then Mrs Grinham, who had returned to kneading pastry, said, ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Harvey, you’ll be saved a piece.’

His eyelids fluttered briefly. ‘I certainly hope so,’ he said, and swept out.

Frances had a look at the picture. It was a cleverly executed pen and ink drawing of James and Mary Keane. James was standing beside his wife’s chair, a tall man with abundant side-whiskers flaring to unusual proportions and framing a deeply bushy beard. Even that heavy growth was inadequate to conceal his expression of slightly stupid self-regard. The representation of his wife was less unkind. Corpulent, without a doubt, her face creased with unhappiness, yet it could be seen that had she been more slender, her appearance would have been pleasing if not actually pretty. Frances wondered why Keane would have ordered the picture to be burnt. She realised that up to that moment she was not, in her role of Liza the bakery girl, supposed to know the name of the family living there, but now she seized her chance.

‘This is Mr and Mrs Keane!’ she said. ‘I didn’t know this was
their
house!’

‘How do you know Master and Mistress?’ asked Ettie, surprised.

‘They have been pointed out to me in the street as persons of very great quality,’ said Frances. ‘Oh!’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘that means that it was here that —,’ she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear!’ Ettie and Mrs Grinham stared at her. ‘Only – I heard all about it, and – this is the house where Mr Garton dined the night he died!’ There was a moment of frigid silence and Frances realised that Mrs Grinham was not best pleased by any suggestion that her cooking had been involved in Garton’s death. ‘Oh, please believe me,’ said Frances hurriedly, ‘I know that his dying couldn’t have been anything to do with what he had here.’

‘No, it was all down to that medicine he had from the chemist,’ said Mrs Grinham. ‘And if you ask me, the man what made that terrible mistake ought to be put in prison, or at least thrown out of business!’