The Poisonous Seed (28 page)

‘Unless he was a gambler or a speculator, these fraudsters often are penniless,’ said Chas. ‘Look at Sadleir. He could have lived like an Eastern potentate on what he took, but he lost it all on bad investments.’

Frances began to write earnestly in her notebook. ‘I am making a plan,’ she explained. ‘I must find out more about Mr Cotter and his crimes. I have been too hasty running to the police and making accusations without evidence. I must have facts. And if the facts do not agree with my theory then I must accept that I am wrong, and look for more facts.’

There was an urgent knocking at the front door, which Chas and Barstie took as their cue to leave, repeating their condolences, and assuring Frances of their loyal service to her at all times. Sarah entered. ‘It’s Ada Hawkins,’ she said, ‘Will you see her, Miss? She seems very upset.’

A
da arrived in a great state of distress. She looked at Frances half afraid, as if she was about to confess to a terrible sin for which she knew she would be punished. Frances sat her down at the parlour table and calmed her, while Sarah brought a cup of water.

‘Miss Doughty – I want to say – I was so sorry to hear about your poor father, ‘Ada exclaimed, ‘he was such a good man, and so clever and kind.’

‘Thank you, Ada,’ said Frances. Her father had always, she thought, been a well-meaning man, but a stranger would never have observed the lack of warmth in his benevolence.

‘I wanted to come sooner, but Mrs Garton’s had us all turning out the house and not even an errand to run until now. And everyone’s so upset, especially poor Miss Rhoda.’

The Garton’s eldest child, Frances recalled. ‘Is she very unwell?’

‘As well as is possible, Miss, but you see, today is her birthday. And there was such a pretty little tea party planned, and of course Mrs Garton gave instructions that it was not to happen, and I know Miss Rhoda is quite old enough to understand, but still it has made what should have been a happy day into an unhappy one, if you see what I mean. And it means that every year her birthday will be unhappy because it will always remind her of losing her papa, who doted on her, and of course everyone is making a great fuss and bother about it which is making it harder for her, I think. ‘Ada, who had probably never had a birthday party in her hard-working life, was close to tears. Frances, whose birthdays had usually been marked by the gift of a shilling and a lecture on the importance of thrift, was less moved.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ she said patiently.

Ada wiped her eyes. ‘Oh but that isn’t what I came to say. It’s about the inquest. What Mrs Keane said.’ Her lips trembled. ‘I have thought and thought about it, Miss, but as much as I think, I just can’t remember that the lady was there. I think what the coroner said was right, that if she
had
come in then the bell would have rung, and I
know
it was working because it rung when I came in. But I know as a court would sooner believe a lady like Mrs Keane then they would me. I don’t know what to do, Miss! ’Tears threatened again.

‘Ada, please don’t distress yourself,’ said Frances, soothingly. ‘I am quite sure in my own mind that Mrs Keane was mistaken.’

‘Are you, Miss?’ exclaimed Ada, her face brightening. ‘Oh that’s such a relief! I was so worried you might think me a liar, and I would never tell a lie.’

‘I believe you to be very truthful,’ Frances assured her.

‘And I thought very hard about what Mrs Keane said about Mr Doughty going into the back of the shop, because I could see that that was very important,’ Ada went on, ‘and whether the lady was there or not, I am sure that he didn’t. Not him or Mr Munson either. They just stood behind the screen, and after a minute or two Mr Doughty came out and gave me the package.’

For a moment, Frances pictured her father as he had been, the heart of the business, the symbol of all that was correct and trustworthy. His best moments were when he handed over the wrapped medicines to the customer; his manner and words always inspiring confidence. ‘Did he say anything to you?’ she asked.

Ada nodded. ‘He smiled at me very kindly and said I was to hurry home as the night was so cold.’

But William Doughty had been on the brink of recalling something about that day. Herbert could not imagine what it might be, but could Ada, without realising it, have the answer? ‘Ada,’ said Frances earnestly, ‘Do you remember anything else my father said, either to yourself or to Mr Munson when the prescription was being made up?’

Ada thought hard, but shook her head. ‘I can’t call anything to mind. I think Mr Doughty may have read out what was on the paper, not that I would have understood it. After that, all I heard was a sort of little sound. Not really talking, Miss. Just a sound, like in his throat.’

Frances had a sudden horrible feeling what that sound might have been. If she was correct then it would change forever her understanding of what had happened that evening. She tried to retain at least an outward appearance of calm. ‘Can you describe the sound?’ she asked.

‘It was a kind of “um-hum, um-hum” just a few times,’ said Ada, innocently.

For a few moments Frances’ throat was too dry for her to speak. She felt as if ice-cold insects were crawling up her spine and over her scalp. The very roots of her hair seemed to shiver. ‘And – that was my father’s voice? You’re quite sure?’ she said at last. Her voice sounded strange to her, but Ada seemed not to notice.

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘And you recall nothing more?’ asked Frances.

‘No, Miss. I’m very sorry, and I have tried so hard,’ said Ada sadly.

But that was enough, thought Frances. More than enough. When Ada had departed Frances sat by the dying fire, lost in thought, wondering about the meaning of what she had just learned and what, if anything, she should say and do about it. But there were more important things to consider, the inquest on her father tomorrow morning, and the reopening of the shop – on which her future hopes depended. Before she retired for the night, she prayed for the kind of crisp, bright day which would tempt people to come and shop in the Grove.

On Monday morning Frances awoke early, her face pinched with cold. Temperatures had fallen sharply overnight, the windows were thick with frost and outside everything was blanketed with heavy yellow fog. Sarah was already up and about making up the fires, and Frances quickly rose and made tea and lit the shop stoves, then gave the surfaces an extra polish. Mr Jacobs arrived promptly at seven, a soberly dressed and serious young man, who at once began meticulously to acquaint himself with the business. To Frances’ relief he did not look upon it as his own, or even something that he might buy, but as a happy state to which he might one day aspire.

As the morning wore on so the gloom obstinately refused to lift, and temperatures remained below freezing. Frances wiped condensation from the windows and stared out onto a landscape so desolate she hardly recognised it. The sun was barely visible, and, across the way, only the steel-blue glitter of the Jablochkoff candles illuminating Whiteleys could be seen. From time to time, shadowy figures draped in heavy cloaks and shawls hurried past, and carriages brought a few determined shoppers, but the Grove was only a dull copy of what it ought to have been, and very few customers ventured into the chemist’s shop. After a despondent hour, Frances went to help Sarah with the linen wash. They carried out the work almost in silence, Sarah respectfully supposing that Frances’ mind was absorbed in thoughts of the inquest, whereas this was only a part of what troubled her.

Herbert came upstairs to get a hot cup of tea, and Frances decided that she could wait no longer to ask what she needed to know. He was about to return to the shop, cup in hand, when she asked him if he would go into the parlour. He was surprised, but agreed, and sat at the table. Frances followed him into the room, took the family bible from the bookshelf and placed it on the table in front of him. He stared at it in alarm.

‘I know that you are a devout person, and therefore I believe that anything you swear on the bible will be true,’ she said, and sat to face him.

He put the cup down, nervously. ‘I tell the truth in any case,’ he said.

‘I think you do not,’ said Frances, coldly. ‘Now, place your hand on the bible.’

He was shaking visibly, the tips of his moustaches, pomaded to a fault, like little trembling wires. He obeyed. She looked directly into his eyes, saw fear, and knew that she was right. She too, was shaking, but with anger. She put her hands on her lap to conceal them.

‘Now tell me,’ she said. ‘What did you do with the phial of
strychnia
?’

There was a brief moment of startlement, and almost a suspicion of relief in his expression, as if he had been expecting quite another question. He collected himself, quickly.

‘As I told Mr Rawsthorne —,’ he began carefully.

‘I care nothing for what you told Mr Rawsthorne,’ she retorted. ‘Tell me.’

He licked his lips, and squirmed in his chair. She stared at him, accusingly, and eventually an expression of guilt spread across his face and he capitulated. ‘How did you know?’

‘That doesn’t matter for now. Tell me the truth, Mr Munson.’

‘I swear there was nothing wrong with Mr Garton’s medicine!’ he blurted out.

‘That was not the question I asked,’ she said firmly.

He heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. ’I was afraid,’ he said. ‘The first time the police inspector was here he was asking me all about what we had containing
strychnia
, what was stored in the shop and what in the back, and I told him about the tincture and the extract of nux vomica, and he seemed satisfied with that. But I thought he might come back and search.’

‘So you
did
know the phial was in the box?’ demanded Frances. ‘You lied to the inquest, to Mr Rawsthorne, to the police, and to me.’

He hung his head. ‘Yes’ he admitted, his voice so quiet it was barely audible.

‘And how did you know?’

He seemed surprised by the question. ‘Your father showed me the contents of the box when I first came here.’

Her father, Frances reflected, had never shown his own daughter the contents of the box, but then, he had left her a paltry two hundred pounds in his will. ‘And has the box been opened since then? Has any of the
strychnia
been used? Please think carefully, this is of very great importance.’

‘It was about six months ago,’ he said, promptly. ‘A prescription came in for
pilulae strychniae
; it was most unusual, and your father supervised me very carefully, the titration is very —’

‘I know all about the titration!’ snapped Frances. ‘Did my father get the phial from the box?’

His body wavered back from her intensity. ‘No, I did. He lent me his keys. We only used half a grain for a hundred pills,’ he added plaintively.

‘They weren’t for Mr Garton?’ said Frances, anxiously.

‘No, nor anyone connected with him or his household.’

She nodded. ‘And how much remained when you had done?’

‘About thirty grains. The phial was half full. That was why I had to destroy it! Had it been full, then of course no suspicion could have attached to us, but as it was not —’

‘You destroyed it,’ said Frances grimly. ‘I suppose you took my father’s keys while he was asleep.’

He stared at the table. ‘I know now it was wrong, but at the time, I am afraid I panicked,’ he said. ‘I poured the contents down the drain, crushed the phial and threw it on the fire.’

‘So,’ said Frances, trying to remain calm, ‘between the making up of the pills six months ago and the day on which you destroyed the phial, none of the contents were unaccounted for.’

He paused. ‘Yes.’

‘A circumstance which would have greatly assisted us, and on which you might have given evidence!’ she said, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

‘I suppose so, yes, but of course they might not have believed me.’ He spread his hands and gave her a wide-eyed helpless look, as if to say, what else could he have done?

‘Instead of which …’, she paused and compressed her lips.

‘I can see
now
why it might not have been the best thing to do,’ he said weakly, ‘but at the time – I really thought – and of course I didn’t think that your father would remember that we even had such a thing. If he had not then we would have been in the clear.’

‘It was only for recent events where his memory failed him, as you well know,’ said Frances sternly.

‘True,’ he admitted.

‘And what of Mr Ford? Did he know of the box and its contents?’

‘I believe not,’ said Herbert. He sighed. ‘I am really very, very, sorry.’ He withdrew his hand from the bible and went to take up his cup, but Frances suddenly reached forward, seized his hand and put it back where it had been, so hard that he blinked.

‘One more question, Mr Munson,’ she said intently. ‘Precisely when had you planned to tell me that it was you and not my father who made up Mr Garton’s prescription?’