The Poisonous Seed (17 page)

‘Now,’ said Chas, ‘leaving aside all question of how you came by that information, which I am sure was not in any way demeaning to your reputation, do you recall hearing Mrs Keane say for what purpose she required the money?’

‘I —,’ Frances frowned, trying to recall what Ettie had said. ‘No, I do not.’

Chas raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think, Barstie?’

Barstie nodded. ‘I think I know, Chas.’

‘Well, gentlemen?’ asked Frances, looking from one to the other.

‘The thing is,’ said Chas, pouring more tea, ‘you need to know that a great many things go on in the financial world which never appear in the journals, or if they do they are revealed to the public a very long time after persons who move in those circles have had all the facts in their possession. I can tell you now that Mr Thomas Morgan is one of those tradesmen who has grown his premises to great proportions not on the profits he has made but on the expectation of profits to come. Such men are often disappointed. They have a beautiful shop, a large shop, a shop exhibiting the very perfection of taste and fashion, but what they do not have is the customers to maintain the business. Sooner or later, they will be obliged to admit failure, and then the public, who have seen only the outer show, will be amazed. Men with financial brains, however, will only be surprised that it did not happen sooner.’

‘What my associate is saying,’ said Barstie, helping himself to the potted shrimps, ‘is that Mr Morgan has been on the brink of bankruptcy for several years. In fact it is a curious thing, that he has advanced to the very edge of ruin several times, only to retire from the brink just as he was expected to fall.’

Frances suddenly understood. ‘So Mr Keane has been helping him?’

‘It would seem so. Of course, it is not something that either would speak of. The quarrel you overheard suggests to me that Mrs Keane was begging her husband for money, not for her own expenses, but to save her father from ruin.’

‘That would explain it,’ said Frances. ‘Unhappy lady!’ She looked down at the bun on her plate. It was studded with tiny pieces of cherry and angelica, and sprinkled with crushed sugar. She broke off a piece and nibbled it, Chas and Barstie looking on approvingly. ‘And no wonder Mr Keane felt he needed the inheritance if he has been losing all his money helping Mr Morgan. That is surely a motive for murder. I had been wondering, too, if there had been any business dispute between Mr Keane and Mr Garton. Perhaps you have heard something of the sort?’

‘I don’t know of any interests they had jointly,’ said Chas.

‘Would you be so kind as to try and discover if there was anything in that way? I have been wondering if they were partners in the Bayswater Gallery.’

‘Of course!’ said Barstie. ‘It will be our very next piece of business. And now, I think I would like to propose a toast.’ He raised a teacup. ‘I would like to drink to the very good health and success of Miss Doughty and her family.’

‘To Miss Doughty and family!’ agreed Chas, finishing his tea at a gulp.

At that moment, a small rather grubby but familiar-looking hand sneaked a bun from the plate on the table. ‘Message for you Mr Knight,’ said Tom, with his mouth full. He passed a letter to Chas, who almost tore it in half in his eagerness to see the contents.

‘Right!’ exclaimed Chas, leaping to his feet. ‘Business calls! Miss Doughty, our good wishes to you. No doubt we will meet again before long!’

Chas hurried from the teashop, leaving Barstie to pay the bill and amble after him with a polite smile. Tom sat at the table and rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘Best not to waste this!’ he said, heaping marmalade onto bread and butter, ‘What a feast!’

‘How long have you been working for those gentlemen?’ asked Frances.

‘Since las’ week,’ said Tom. He flashed a sly look. ‘That Mr Knight – ‘e thinks you’re a tasty spot ‘o jam. ‘E wants you to be ‘is Dinah!’

There were times when Frances was truly grateful that she did not fully understand some of the things Tom said. ‘And what
exactly
is Mr Knight’s business?’ she enquired.

Tom was munching shrimps washed down with cocoa. “E never said. I never as’ed. Best thing.’

Frances left him polishing off the remainder of the little tea. It had been a pleasant interlude, but at home she was once again plunged into gloom. Unless something unexpected occurred before the following morning, the inquest on Percival Garton could very well leave her father under a permanent cloud of suspicion. She found Herbert reading the January edition of the
Chemist and Druggist
with an expression of deep concern. Wordlessly he showed her the report of an inquest into the recent death of Lilian Selina Holt, just five years old. She had been given a poisonous powder sold in error by an untrained assistant aged fourteen who had been left in temporary charge of a doctor’s dispensary. The jury had brought in a verdict of death by misadventure, but added that there had been gross neglect. The coroner had been severe. He had called the boy forward and cautioned him as to greater care in future, and said he hoped the incident would be a lesson both to the doctor and his assistant. Had the powder been sold by a chemist, he added ominously, he would hardly have escaped so easily.

T
he day of the resumed inquest on Percival Garton dawned cold and grey. William Doughty seemed blissfully unaware that his future existence as he knew it hung in the balance. Frances, both saddened and relieved at this observation, was not about to enlighten him. She opened the shop as usual at seven, but no one came in. Customers who had once been pleased to idle there over small purchases, anxiously beg William’s advice, or just exchange the gossip of the day, now hurried quickly by, with furtive glances and whispered words. At half past nine, by mutual agreement Frances and Herbert put up the closed sign and locked the door. William protested, but Frances pointed out gently that as all three of them were to attend the inquest, there was no one to mind the shop.

‘I don’t see why
you
can’t stay, Frances,’ he grumbled. ‘I am sure you know how to sell cough lozenges and blood mixture by now. We will lose customers if we are closed!’

Frances usually deferred to her father’s wishes, but on this occasion she stood firm. She had no intention of not being present at the inquest. ‘I must attend in case I am required to give evidence,’ she said, ‘and who is to look after you and ensure you are comfortable if not myself?’

William muttered something about losing money, almost as if he had not observed how far the business had declined in the last week, but as Frances fussed about him, making sure he was warmly dressed for the chill, he grudgingly accepted her attentions, and allowed himself to be bundled into the four-wheeler where Frances and Herbert joined him. Frances felt grateful that it was only a short journey, not so much because of the cold but because Herbert, intent on making a good impression, had freshly pomaded his moustache, and the pungent scent soon filled the interior of the cab. As they reached Paddington Green and turned into Church Street, Frances looked out of the window and gasped, and Herbert exclaimed, ‘Dear Lord!’

‘What is it?’ asked William. ‘Why have we stopped? Who are all these people? Has there been an accident?’

Despite the inclement weather, the street outside Providence Hall was choked with crowds of men and women, all eager to get inside. Some of the men were waving press tickets, but the rest were simply trying to push or argue their way through the doors. Frances felt her heart sink. The court had not been busy on the day the inquest had opened, but since then Percival Garton’s death had been the subject of sensational articles in the newspapers, and even letters to
The Times
about the safety of chemists’ shops, the agitation further fuelled by the recent tragic death of little Lilian Holt. From now on, thought Frances, with sudden dread, William Doughty’s plight would not be a private affair, but a public scandal, like a play to be acted out in front of an audience hungry for excitement.

‘How will we get inside?’ said Herbert in dismay.

Just then, they saw Mr Rawsthorne and his clerk emerge from the hall. The two men pushed their way through the throng and ran up to the carriage. ‘Ah, you are here – splendid,’ exclaimed Rawsthorne, breathlessly. ‘Pray do not be concerned with this dreadful situation, we will be allowed in, the court officials have been instructed to admit us.’

As they descended from the carriage Frances felt grateful that the unruly crowd was so intent on getting into the building that they had not realised that some of the central persons in the affair were only yards away. As Rawsthorne led them towards the door, policemen and ushers created a path and they began to pass quickly through the mob.

‘Oi oi oi!’ yelled the clerk, who had stuck his pens into his hair and had decided to draw attention to the new arrivals from sheer devilment. ‘Make way, make way! Important witnesses for the inquest!’ He flashed a grin of sheer insolence at Frances.

Frances, her arm fast folded in her father’s, was grateful for the thick dark veil she wore, but she could hear voices around her suddenly say, ‘Look! That’s the chemist!’ and ‘Here – let me see!’ One even cried out ‘Murderer!’ and there were jeers and groans. All around she was stifled with the crush of bodies, then she received a great push in the side, and almost fell, but before she could be pushed again, she stuck out her thin, sharp elbow like a shield, so when the man who had pushed her tried again, he ran upon it, clutched his ribs and howled.

‘Did you see that?’ he yelled, ‘Did you see that?’ but no one had seen it, and the police moved forward and they at last emerged from the crush into the foyer of the court, and the police were able to hold back the crowds.

Frances was too concerned about her father to care much about herself. She saw him to a seat that was out of the draught, and listened sympathetically to his grumbles about the rudeness of common folk. Herbert paced up and down, clenching and unclenching his fists, and appeared, as far as she could see, to be rehearsing his evidence.

‘Well, the good news is,’ said Rawsthorne, when he had regained his breath, ‘that I am confident the inquest will be over today. Once it is done then I think in a short while the whole matter will be forgotten.’ He smiled down at William, encouragingly. ‘Please do not worry yourself, my dear Mr Doughty. I have known you long enough to realise that you are never happier than at the dispensing desk, and I trust that you will be at your post for many years to come.’

As they filed into court, Frances saw that the crowds were still milling about outside the door, staring and gossiping, still hopeful of gaining admittance in a moment of inattention. She made sure that William was comfortable, then, taking her seat, she gazed about her and saw a number of familiar faces. James Keane was there, his body stiff with pride. It was impossible to read his expression, for his face was a mask of propriety. Beside him, a bulky figure in a sombre dress with a substantial veiled hat was undoubtedly his wife Mary. Inspector Sharrock was also in court, as was Dr Collin, a tall, lean figure with mild eyes and silver-grey hair and whiskers. Mr Marsden, the Gartons’ solicitor, was present, seated beside Cedric Garton. Towards the back of the court, a flash of purple told her of Guy Berenger’s presence, and she could also see Ada. There was one important person she could not see.

‘Mr Rawsthorne,’ she asked, ‘is Mrs Garton not here?’

‘Oh yes,’ he assured her, ‘she will give evidence later, but she will sit in a side room during the medical testimony, which it is thought would be far too distressing.’ Frances nodded understandingly. For Mrs Garton to be present at her husband’s horrid death was one thing, to listen to a cold discussion of the contents of his intestines quite another.

The jury took their places, and Dr William Hardwicke, Coroner for Central Middlesex, entered and was seated. He looked about the court with a critical eye, as if gauging the quality of those attending. ‘Before we begin I wish to point out to those in attendance that this court will not tolerate the kind of exhibition that has taken place in the street outside,’ he said sternly. ‘Anyone behaving in an unseemly manner will be held in contempt, and liable to prosecution. I hope that is understood.’ The pressmen scribbled rapidly. ‘We will begin with the adjourned inquest on Mr Percival Garton, aged forty-eight, who died at his home in Porchester Terrace on the morning of Tuesday 13th of January. This court has already heard evidence of identification from the brother of the deceased, Mr Cedric Garton, and I wish now to proceed to the evidence of his medical attendant, Dr Collin.’

Dr Collin rose and took his place by the coroner’s table.

‘Dr Collin,’ said the coroner, ‘in your own words, please relate the events of the night of 12th to 13th of January last and the subsequent events concerning the death of Mr Percival Garton.’

Collin had a soft, drawling voice. At the bedside of a patient those calming tones would utter gentle reassurances that all would be well, and had soothed many a fretful sufferer into much needed repose. Here, he spoke easily and convincingly. ‘I was called to attend Mr Garton shortly after midnight. I had already retired for the night, but on being told of the seriousness of the case, of course I dressed and came at once. It would have been about half past twelve on the morning of the 13th of January when I reached him. He was then between fits, and lay in bed exhausted, his body bathed in sweat. He was able to speak, and said that he was thirsty. I called for a carafe of water to be brought, but before it came, he suffered a fit in which the convulsions were so violent that it was with very great difficulty that Mrs Garton and I were able to keep him on the bed. Mrs Garton, I have to say, showed enormous courage in her very obvious distress. My first impression was that her husband was suffering from tetanus, and I asked Mrs Garton if he had any recent injuries but she said he had not. I soon observed, however, that the jaw was not affected as one might expect in tetanus, and I began to suspect poisoning with
strychnia
. All doubt was removed when the next fit supervened, his body adopting the characteristic posture in which it arched backwards, head and heels alone touching the surface of the bed. His face was livid, the eyeballs staring, his pulse almost too fast to count, his expression contorted in
risus sardonicus
. Throughout this ordeal, Mr Garton was, I may add, fully conscious, in great pain, and most dreadfully aware of his predicament. I attempted to treat him with an emetic, but the slightest touch brought on new spasms. I was about to apply chloroform on a handkerchief, but he suffered another violent fit during which he was unable to breathe, and he expired.’