The Poisonous Seed (15 page)

The last witness of any importance was Dr McPhail. There was, according to the
Gloucester Journal
, a hum of excited chatter in court at his appearance, and he was obliged, almost at once, to deny emphatically that he was the mysterious ‘M’ who had met Mr Wright on his last appointment. Dr McPhail had been the first medical man to see the body, and had later conducted a post-mortem examination. He testified that John Wright had died from a single blow to the back of the head with a heavy blunt instrument. He had not died where he lay, but at some other, unknown location. The body had been taken to the spot where it was found, thrown into the old quarry, and covered with branches. It was his opinion that both the murder and the hiding of the body would require some physical strength, and that the criminal was therefore undoubtedly male.

The jury, after a brief deliberation, recorded the verdict that John Wright had been murdered by some person or persons unknown, but that was not the end of the mystery, for even three weeks after his death no member of his family had come forward to claim him. The newspapers devoted columns of print speculating about his identity, and, there being no portrait of the man, artists were employed to draw his likeness based on interviews with witnesses in the hopes that someone would recognise him. The fact of his hair being dyed was regarded as highly suspicious, and while some artists depicted him with black hair, others shaded their drawings to suggest brown, or even blond. All the pictures showed a slim, clean shaven man, with nothing to distinguish him except youthful good looks, his facial features varying depending on whom the artist had interviewed.

‘Who is to say which of these pictures is most like the man?’ said Frances. ‘Do you think there is any connection between the murder of John Wright and Mr Garton’s death?’

‘Who can say, Miss? It could just be coincidence. But I do find it very interesting, all the same.’

The last cutting, dated a month after the murder, bore the headline ‘Tollington Mill Tragedy: Distressing Family Secret.’ A relative of John Wright had at last come forward and revealed that he was not, as had been supposed, a man of property, but an escaped lunatic whose brain had become deranged after suffering a fever. Although he appeared from both intellect and manner to be of sound mind, he suffered from the belief that he was the heir to a great fortune and that there were enemies plotting to cheat him of his inheritance. The little fortune he did have had been squandered on lawyers’ fees, and his despairing family, afraid that he would plunge them all into debt, had had him declared insane and locked away. It was only in the last few days that they had realised that the murdered man was their unfortunate relative.

‘What a very sad tale,’ said Frances. She looked through the cuttings once more. ‘It doesn’t say in any of the papers why Mr Garton was not called as a witness,’ she observed. ‘It is mentioned that he and Mr Wright were friends, yet he seems not to have been questioned. Also it has been assumed that Mr Wright was murdered on the 30th of July, which, although probable, is far from proven. It could easily have happened on the following day or the day after. I accept that it is most unlikely that Mrs Garton could have murdered Mr Wright, at least not unaided, as she would not have been strong enough, but where was Mr Garton at this time?’

‘You suspect him?’ asked Wilfred in surprise. ‘For what reason?’

‘Only that he himself has been murdered. It could have been a matter of revenge.’

‘But it is nine and a half years since Wright’s murder,’ he reminded her, ‘and Mr Garton has not been hiding himself away. If some relative of Wright suspected Garton, would they have waited so long to take revenge?’

‘They might only now have obtained the proof they needed,’ said Frances. ‘Tell me, did the police ever discover who Mr Wright was supposed to be meeting on the 30th of July? The person whose name begins with M?’

‘No, Miss, never.’

Frances took up her notebook and examined the list of names. The only persons on the list with that initial were Mr Morgan, James Keane’s father-in-law, and Mrs Keane, who was called Mary, but there was now another name to add. ‘Meadows,’ she said.

‘Meadows?’ repeated Wilfred, mystified.

‘The name of the artist of whom Mr Garton was patron. There are pictures of his at the gallery on Queen’s Road, which I believe was owned by Mr Garton. I have been wondering if the clue to the murder of Mr Garton lies in his business interests, and Mr Meadows might be able to tell us something about that aspect of Mr Garton’s life. I am told that Mr Meadows has gone to Paris, but I am afraid I do not have his address.’

She paused to allow Wilfred time to scribble the information in his notebook. ‘I don’t suppose the police have already interviewed Mr Meadows?’

‘No,’ confessed Wilfred, ‘the police have only just this minute found out that Mr Meadows exists.’

After he had left, Frances reflected that it was too much to hope for that Meadows could be the M whom Mr Wright had been meeting. After all, her own uncle had a surname beginning with M and her aunt was called Maude, but she was hardly going to suspect them of involvement.

She had been so interested in the details of Mr Wright’s murder that she had all but forgotten the scraps of paper in her pocket. Now she removed them and smoothed them out on the table. They were receipts for expenditure, and looked as if they had been kept crumpled in a pocket, possibly for some time. She wondered why they had not been put on the fire. It might have simply been a moment of carelessness. The thing that puzzled her was why anyone would dispose of a receipt for expenditure, to her mind an item of vital importance in any business or household account. One, with a November date, was for artists’ materials, pens, paper and coloured inks. The other, also dated November, was for three months’ advance rent of an address in Maida Vale. The landlord had helpfully provided the name of the person renting the property. It was Meadows.

T
he following morning, Frances wrote a note to Constable Brown advising him of the Maida Vale address where she believed the artist Meadows had lived. The rent receipt showed that on 1 December Meadows had fully intended to remain at the lodgings for three months. She doubted very much that Mr Keane had told the truth when stating that Meadows had gone Paris. Much as she would have liked to go to Maida Vale, her duties did not permit such an excursion, and in any case, she felt that the police were best placed to demand information from the landlord. It was when she began seeking Tom to deliver the note that she realised she had not seen him for the last two days. After a brief search she discovered him in the kitchen, gazing wistfully at the locked door of the larder. Frances had every confidence in Sarah’s honesty with the household stores but her father distrusted all servants and in Tom’s case was certainly right. To her surprise, Tom was wearing a suit of clothes which, while obviously not brand new, was of more recent vintage than even his old Sunday best, and better she thought than any family hand-me-down might be.

‘Well, Tom, those are splendid new clothes,’ she said.

‘Yes, Miss,’ he said, puffing out his chest with a grin. ‘Don’t I look spruce? Don’t I look just the gen’leman?’

‘Not too grand to deliver a letter, I hope,’ she said. ‘To Constable Brown at Paddington Green Police Station.’

Tom’s eyes widened.

‘Not afraid of the police, are you Tom?’ she teased.

‘I ain’t afraid of no copper!’ he exclaimed, taking the note. He smirked. ‘Partic’lar friend of yours, this Constable Brown?’

‘That’s none of your business, Tom,’ said Frances sharply, realising to her dismay that she was blushing. ‘Now set about it quickly!’

‘Best message carrier in London, that’s me!’ he said, and sped away.

Frances wondered whether the unpleasant Mr Keane had ever visited the address in Maida Vale. She was sure that he had something to hide. Mrs Keane would probably be the very last person to know of any doubtful business he might be transacting, but the servants could well have information about his comings and goings. With the adjourned inquest due to take place the next morning, she had little time to gather more facts. As she considered how she might do this, a new plan formed in her mind.

After the breakfast things had been cleared, Frances and Sarah worked together on starching shirts and aprons, which Sarah would iron later in the day. ‘Young Tom looks very smart in his new suit,’ Frances observed, ‘I hope you have not been to too much expense.’

Sarah frowned. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss,’ she said awkwardly, ‘but what with the business here being a bit quiet Tom has found some extra work with two gentlemen who have provided the clothes themselves. I am not sure who they are or what their business is, but I think he takes messages for them.’

‘Well, if he is able to, then it shows an enterprising spirit, but I do anticipate that when the inquest is over we will be vindicated and then the unfortunate death of Mr Garton will not be laid at our door, and the customers will return,’ said Frances, with more confidence than she felt. ‘No doubt they will say that they believed in my father’s innocence all along, and will try to gloss over their absence with some feeble and unconvincing excuse. We will be bustling again soon, especially at this season, and Tom will be much required.’

‘Yes, Miss, I’ll make sure to tell him,’ said Sarah, loyally.

The work done, Frances rinsed the starch from her hands, and began a curious process of making her hair look a little dishevelled, as if she was a young woman in distress. Throwing on her old coat in a suitably careless manner, she set off to walk to the Keanes’ house again. She was not concerned that there was any risk of encountering Mr Keane, as she doubted that he had ever set foot in his own kitchen, but hoped she would not fall under the supercilious suspicions of Mr Harvey. The kitchen was a haven of warmth as before, but only Ettie was present.

‘Well, Liza, I didn’t expect to see you again!’ exclaimed Ettie. She looked tired and flustered, but not displeased to see the unexpected visitor. The scullery door was open and Frances could see that the breakfast pans were still heaped in the sink. ‘Oh, we have had such a morning! Master and Mistress have been shouting loud enough they could be heard all over the house, and there has been best china smashed to pieces, and Mistress has got her hysterics again.’

‘Oh, how dreadful!’ exclaimed Frances, picturing in her mind’s eye a small knot of open-mouthed servants clustered about a door, ears pressed close to the panelling.

‘Mr Harvey went up to try and calm them, and has done what he can, which is not as much as he had hoped, and he is still with them now. He wanted to call the doctor to Mistress but Master wouldn’t hear of it. And Mrs Grinham is laid up with the lumbago and not fit to move, and the new scullery maid has said she won’t work in such a madhouse and has packed her bags and gone. We’re lucky to have Ellen; she’s been in service since she was twelve and can turn her hand to anything.’

‘Oh, Ettie – I’m sorry if I have come at a difficult time for you,’ said Frances.

‘We have had our ups and downs here and no mistake,’ said Ettie. ‘And what about you, Liza; I hope you didn’t get into trouble over the cake.’

Frances sat down and clasped a handkerchief to her face. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t credit it, Ettie, Master as good as accused me of stealing it. I was lucky he didn’t call the coppers! And now I’ve no place and no character! I came here to see if Mrs Grinham would see me about getting some work. I’ll do the rough work, Ettie, I don’t mind!’

Ettie patted her shoulder sympathetically. ‘I tell you what, Liza, I’ll put in a word for you as soon as she’s up and about.’

‘Oh, thank you Ettie, that’s so kind.’ Frances made a great show of wiping her eyes. ‘Why don’t I give you a little hand now?’ There was a coarse apron, cap and sleeve protectors hanging up behind the door of the scullery, and Frances removed her coat and bonnet and transformed herself into a scullery maid, then set about seeing what there was in hot water, scouring cloths and soda. The polite injunction not to trouble herself about it trembled on Ettie’s lips but remained unspoken. There was no mistaking the maid’s look of profound relief.

Ellen emerged from the larder, her arms laden with bowls and jars which she set down next to some wrapped parcels on the table. She stood back and surveyed the produce. ‘Luncheon will be cutlets, kidneys, potatoes and stewed leeks followed by a raisin tart,’ she said. ‘Only I don’t know if they’ll even want anything to eat.’

‘The last time I saw Mistress she was crying and saying that Master thought she was a burden on the family and no morsel of food would ever pass her lips again,’ said Ettie.

‘In that case,’ said Ellen, thoughtfully, ‘I’d better make a sweet custard sauce to go with the tart.’ She looked up and saw Frances in the scullery. ‘Why it’s Liza – I didn’t see you there!’

‘Liza has come to help us out, seeing as we’re in such a state,’ said Ettie.

‘Oh that’s very kind of you!’ said Ellen rolling up her sleeves.

‘Come,’ said Ettie to Frances. ‘We’ll do the pots together and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea when we’re done.’

Frances and Ettie began to scour pans, while Ellen made pastry. As she scrubbed with a will, Frances saw Ettie glancing at her approvingly. Years of wielding a heavy pestle and working thick ointments with a spatula had given her the strength to make nothing of the encrustations on a few saucepans.

‘It’s very upsetting when Master and Mistress quarrel like that,’ said Frances, shaking her head. ‘In the place I was before I used to brush the carpet outside the drawing room door and you couldn’t help but hear all they said.’

‘And then they accuse you of listening at keyholes,’ said Ettie indignantly, ‘something I would
never
do!’

‘Nor me, neither,’ said Frances, hoping that her grammar was suitably incorrect. ‘Master was always going out all times of the day and night and he told Mistress it was on business, but do you know, it turned out he was seeing some fancy woman, and when she found him out, oh the things that were said, I couldn’t repeat them!’