The Poisonous Seed (21 page)

‘Constable Brown,’ she said.

He looked at her, curiously. ‘Miss Doughty – what brings you here?’

‘I came to see Mrs Keane – though of course – circumstances – I was not able to speak to her. You know about what happened at the inquest this morning, I suppose?’

‘I do, Miss,’ he said, sympathetically.

‘It is my belief that Mrs Keane was forced by the cruelty of her husband to lie to the court,’ said Frances, earnestly. ‘I do not blame her, she could not help herself.’

Wilfred smiled. ‘I’ll tell you a little secret, Miss. The police think so, too.’

‘You do?’ cried Frances, almost overcome with a great sense of relief. ‘Oh and I had thought you would believe her and I would never be able to clear my father’s name!’

‘Miss Doughty – I know I shouldn’t say it and it might seem an impertinent question, but – does your family have an account with the Bayswater Bank? Only, in view of what has happened here today —’.

‘I understand entirely, and thank you for that thought,’ said Frances. ‘Neither we nor anyone we know banks with them, as far as I am aware. We are London & Westminster.’

Inspector Sharrock had been ensuring that his new charge was settled in the carriage. Keane, crumpled and half sobbing in one corner, was now utterly bereft of the manly bravado he had shown earlier. ‘Miss Doughty,’ said Sharrock, approaching Frances, a quick tilt of his head telling the constable to go and mind the prisoner, ‘this is quite a coincidence finding you here. I hope you have not been attempting to do police work again, you will get yourself quite a peculiar reputation.’

Frances was unrepentant. ‘Inspector, I have been almost driven distracted with worry, and I will do whatever I believe to be necessary. Now please tell me that you will not be arresting my father!’

‘I should think that very unlikely,’ said Sharrock.

‘I am happy to hear it. He is a much injured man.’

‘I must say, Miss, your family feelings do you credit. Now my advice is, go home, and see to your father’s dinner.’

Frances watched them drive away. It was not yet over, but she was so near. The police would look into all of James Keane’s business affairs and somewhere, she was certain, they would find the evidence of how and why he had murdered Percival Garton. Then her father would be cleared of blame, and everything could go back to what it once was. She walked home, idling a little in her happiness. Though it was still cold and grey, it seemed to her now that the worst of the winter chills had gone, ushering in a calmer season.

When she reached home, she saw Dr Collin’s gig outside and wondered if he had called to discuss the inquest. Dr Collin had always had a great regard for her father and she looked forward to giving him the good news. As she mounted the stairs, there were rapid footsteps above, and Sarah appeared on the landing, her eyes filled with distress. ‘Oh Miss!’ she said, stifling a sob. ‘It’s your father!’

Afterwards, Frances could never recall how she had climbed the stairs to her father’s room. The horror of those words lent her a strength she did not think she had, and she seemed to fly to where she was needed. The tall figure of Dr Collin was bent over the bed, and he looked up as she entered. ‘Miss Doughty – I am very sorry,’ he said.

She came forward, dreading what she would see, but her father looked the same as he had looked before, careworn and grey, the hair always needing her hand to tend it. He was fully clothed, dressed as he had been at the inquest, and had, as was his usual habit, lain down upon the covers to sleep a little. She sat by him, and touched his hand. It was warm, and she could not for a moment believe that this was anything other than a living man, but as she gazed at his face, so calm and peaceful, she saw that quality of unnatural stillness that showed her that life had fled. Dr Collin stood by her silently. He had stood by many such a bed, seen daughters, wives and mothers sit quietly beside the departed one, seen the last farewell touch and the lingering caress of the loving eye, and he gave her the time she needed to accept and understand.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she said at last.

‘He lay down to take a rest, as I believe he often did. After a time the maid came in to see how he was and found him with the handkerchief over his face. She recognised at once that something was wrong and called me. I know he liked to make use of a few drops of chloroform to ease him to sleep, and we have both cautioned him against the practice, but —’

Frances noticed that there was a slight reddening of the skin of her father’s lips and nose. Dr Collin saw her peering at the marks and said, ‘That redness is caused by the chloroform. It can burn the skin if one is not careful. Of course it is impossible now to know how much he used, and I have yet to ascertain if that was the cause of his death.’

‘I should have been here,’ she said. ‘This is my fault. If I had only gone in to look at...’

‘Chloroform used incautiously can kill almost in an instant,’ said Dr Collin. ‘You might not have been able to help if you had been standing by his side. Please do not blame yourself.’

‘His hand sometimes shook,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Tell me you believe his death to be an accident.’

‘I think that an accident is very probable, but I regret I will not be able to state my final conclusions without an examination,’ said Collin. ‘It will not be possible for me to provide a certificate today.’

Frances felt her heart lurch with dread. ‘There must be an inquest?’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Oh, and I came home with such joy!’ she exclaimed. ‘They have arrested James Keane for fraud and I know my father was to be cleared of all blame over Mr Garton!’ She looked up at Collin, and saw an expression of pity pass over his face. She suddenly realised that she must sound distracted – Dr Collin knew nothing of her suspicions of James Keane, nor was there any reason he should.

‘My dear Miss Doughty,’ he said, softly. ‘My advice to you is to send at once to some relative who may assist you; an uncle, perhaps, or a male cousin. There is always a great deal to do at such times, and you should not be alone.’

She nodded. ‘Yes – my Uncle Cornelius.’

‘I am afraid that there is nothing more I can do here today,’ added Dr Collin. ‘I will go at once and find a reliable man to assist me and return tomorrow morning at ten. I believe I shall be able to conclude my examination within the hour. I have no doubt that the inquest will be brief. It is a painful matter I know, and I will do all in my power to ensure that you are spared as much as possible.’ He picked up the chloroform bottle carefully by the base, looked at it, sniffed it cautiously, and raised his eyebrows. ‘It may help if I were to examine this further. Accidents sometimes happen where the bottle is at fault. I am sure you can provide me with an empty pill box.’

‘Oh yes, of course!’ Frances rose and called Sarah, who soon brought what was wanted.

Dr Collin put the bottle in the box. The handkerchief was folded and wrapped in a sheet of paper, and both items stowed in his bag. ‘At least by tomorrow I will be able to arrive at the cause of death, and I very much hope that my findings will confirm that it was an accident. In cases where there may be doubt, inquest juries will always take into account the reputation of the deceased and the family, and will shy away from any verdict that will cause unnecessary pain. I can assure you that if circumstances require I will encourage them to do so.’

‘Thank you doctor,’ said Frances, gratefully. She fell silent, lost in thought. The memories of her brother’s deathbed were so fresh in her mind that it seemed to her that it had happened the day before, and her father had expired from the sharp and poignant grief of his loss. Perhaps, she thought, in a way, he had, as his pain could hardly have lessened in time. Perhaps it might even have been for the best if he had joined her brother sooner rather than live in misery and confusion for only three more months.

‘Until tomorrow, then,’ said Dr Collin.

‘Oh!’ she rose. ‘I’m so sorry, I —’.

‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Miss Doughty. Your maid will see me out.’

He departed and she sat once more at her father’s side. After a few moments she became aware of someone behind her. It was Herbert, his eyes bright with tears. ‘Miss Doughty – what can I say! This is too terrible for words! I can hardly believe what has happened!’

‘When did you see him last?’

‘Just before he came up for his rest. He was his usual self. If it is any consolation, I think he cannot have suffered. He must simply have fallen asleep.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘There must be something I can do to assist you.’

‘I need to send some telegrams, but apart from that there is nothing to be done until after the inquest.’

‘Inquest?’ He seemed shocked.

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Oh Miss Doughty,’ he exclaimed, sobbing, ‘how I wish you might be spared such a thing.’ Frances concluded that as a tower of male strength to whom she could look for guidance and support Herbert, was somewhat wanting.

She spent a few minutes arranging the bed more tidily, straightening the pillow underneath her father’s head, smoothing the covers, and placing the spare quilt over him, as if he was merely resting and needed a little additional warmth. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I will leave him now.’

Frances and Herbert descended to the little parlour. Sarah brought in a tray of tea things. ‘I thought —,’ she said.

‘Yes, Sarah,’ said Frances, gently. ‘It was a good thought.’

Herbert, declaring manfully that he would do anything to be useful, was sent to get some telegram forms. Frances barely tasted her tea, but held the cup in her hands, taking some reassurance from its familiar shape.

‘Mr Keane was arrested today,’ she told Sarah. ‘The charge was fraud but I am certain he will eventually be charged with Mr Garton’s murder. That is the only thing that brings me some comfort. Imagine if the public were still to think my father had poisoned Mr Garton. Imagine what they would now suppose; that feelings of guilt and shame might have led him to —,’ she shook her head. ‘It is too horrible to think about.’

‘Miss,’ said Sarah cautiously. ‘I hardly like to say it, but there is something you should know.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, just before Mr Doughty went up to his room he seemed to remember something.’

Frances sat up. ‘What was it?’

‘All of a sudden he turned round and said, “Mr Garton’s medicine, it wasn’t,” and then he stopped.’

‘Was that all he said?’ demanded Frances.

‘Yes,’ said Sarah regretfully. ‘Mr Munson tried as hard as he could to get him to remember more, but it was no use. It was like as soon as it was said it was all forgotten again. I said as how if he took a rest and slept on it then maybe it would come back to him. So I took him up, but he never said anything more about it.’

Frances uttered a groan of regret. Had there indeed been something of importance her father had glimpsed before he died, or had it just been an irrelevant fancy? She would never know. Herbert’s well-meaning efforts to try and get her father to remember might well have had the opposite effect to that intended.

The telegrams were written, and for a time Frances was busy with visitors, and Sarah made more tea. Mr Rawsthorne was the first to arrive, deeply shocked at the death of a man he had seen only a few hours before. He spent a few moments paying his last respects at the bedside, then offered Frances such help and advice as he could. It was agreed that the will would be read on the following day.

Uncle Cornelius arrived soon afterwards, and as always spread his particular kind of calm. As executor of William Doughty’s will, he proceeded to take upon himself all necessary duties, which Frances was grateful to give up to him. He sensed that the most important thing for him to do that day was to talk to Frances, and so they sat together amiably and exchanged stories of how things had been in better times. She told him of James Keane’s arrest and her expectation that this would put an end to any imputations against her father, and he expressed his great hope that this would be so. The last to arrive was Mrs Scorer, who looked upon the body with an expression which revealed no emotion of any kind, and then glanced about the house taking note of any little items she thought ought to come to her.

Herbert was there, silent, strained and polite. He, like Frances, declined anything to eat, and eventually retired to his room. In the quiet little parlour there remained, towards the end of the day, only Frances and Sarah, and both sat together almost like friends, taking up a little mending to while away the time, until the moment came when Frances put down her work, and wept.

T
he next morning, Sarah and Frances were about early. Lack of sleep was a part of both of their lives and they took it in their stride and set about fearlessly cleaning as if royalty itself was about to descend upon them. Frances very much doubted that anyone coming to wait for the outcome of her father’s post-mortem examination would wish to eat either during or afterwards, but it would be impolite not to offer anything, and so Sarah prepared several plates of small sandwiches and little cakes. Herbert took himself away unhappily to his room. The business, bereft of qualified supervision, could not open, and a notice was placed in the window announcing the death of the proprietor.

With the work done, Frances changed from her everyday clothes into mourning. Elegant ladies, she knew, might have many sets of mourning, the sombreness of the attire depending on the closeness of the relative, or the time elapsed since bereavement. She had but one, and that would have to do. For the first three months after her brother’s death she had worn no adornment, and only lately had she begun to wear the brooch with his portrait. Now she appeared in plain black, her hair simply dressed, her face more starkly pale than ever.

Shortly before ten, Frances inspected everything, and finding it to her satisfaction, entered her father’s room for a final farewell. There had been a mad hope in her heart that it had all been a mistake, and she would see him stir and open his eyes, and declare what a refreshing sleep he had had, but his face was sunken and greyer than before, and the still cold of death could not be denied. Looking at him she could not help but recall Frederick’s face after the long months of his decline, shrunken and aged with weariness, for the two had been very alike in features, if not in character.