The Poisonous Seed (33 page)

‘Are you feeling well, Miss Doughty?’ asked Wilfred anxiously.

Frances realised that she had been trembling. ‘Yes, I —, I am disturbed that there can be such evil men in the world.’

‘Perhaps it’s not the best kind of reading for you Miss,’ said Wilfred guiltily, ‘I know Lily – that’s my wife – wouldn’t even want to think about such things let alone read them in the papers.’

‘I expect she has a very kind nature,’ said Frances.

‘She does, Miss,’ he said, smiling.

‘I am not kind,’ said Frances, ‘I am upset and angry at what has happened to my father. Sometimes my emotions overcome me, but that is the lot of a female and I know I must resist it. I have work to do, and if some of it means I must read about dreadful crimes and suffering then I will not shrink from it.’

He hesitated. ‘And you think that the case of Mr Cotter is connected with your father?’

‘Am I mad?’ she asked him. ‘Am I distracted? Is that what you think?’ He stared back at her and after a moment, slowly shook his head. ‘You don’t seem it, Miss. You are one of the most collected ladies I know. But you have had great trials to bear.’

‘And I will go on bearing them,’ she said. ‘Yes, I feel there may be a connection, but I need to clear my head and think about it. Someone said to me very recently that it is the habit of all people to see only what they want to be true. You know too well that I want my father’s name to be cleared, but I must try very hard to put aside all thought of how I want things to be and see only what is. That is my struggle. I am fighting myself, my own imagination, my frailties. When a man sees the truth he wants to see, he is said to be courageous, bold and determined, but a woman with such thoughts is weak and deluded, and in need of guidance. Why should that be?’

Constable Brown was obviously unused to conversation of this nature. ‘I am sure I don’t know, Miss.’

Frances stared once more at the pictures of Lewis Cotter. Young, yes, handsome, yes. Slender of build, and tall, with dark hair and richly curling whiskers. Was this the face of James Keane? She might almost be prepared to believe that it was, certainly there was nothing in the image that suggested it could not be he, or was this belief due to no more than a similarity of feature and wishful thinking?

When Constable Brown had gone, Frances turned to her notebook again, and drew up a chart of all the connections between the four possible murders, and tried, tried very hard indeed, to see only what was actually there. Wilfred had left the papers with her, and she studied them again. How she pitied the poor Truin children – how she felt for them – a father disgraced and dead, a mother gone, the family plunged into want, and the villain who had brought them to this, heaven only knew where. How much more bitter even than her own plight.

Thursday was as cold as before, with dense fog and hoar frost fringing everything with feathery spikes, yet the shop’s custom had increased again. Frances calculated that takings were almost at a level with expenses, and likely to improve. The reason was not hard to deduce. Sarah revealed that talk was going around the Grove that young Mr Jacobs was a single gentleman, without a sweetheart, and that his father owned several chemist shops in various parts of London. Frances fervently hoped that her relatives did not get to hear of this, as they would have her married off to him in their imaginations ten times over before the month was out and very likely drive him away.

That afternoon Frances was in the back of the shop mixing up a batch of camphorated chest rub when Herbert approached cautiously. They had spoken very little since she had made it clear that his attentions were unwanted and he still regarded her with some anxiety, as if she was an unguarded dog who might snap at him any moment. ‘There is a young person asking to see you,’ he said. ‘She is called Ellen, and has requested you most particularly. She will speak to no one else.’

Frances wiped her hands. ‘I’ll see her at once,’ she said, and followed Herbert into the shop. Ellen, the Keanes’ housemaid, was warming herself at the stove. She looked up and smiled as soon as Frances appeared. ‘Miss Doughty, I’m so glad you could see me.’ She paused, and a sympathetic look clouded her eyes. ‘I want to say how sorry I was to hear about your father. I didn’t ever meet him myself, but everyone who did says as how he was a very kind man.’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Frances, and it was true, ever since her father’s death, everyone had been telling her that he had been a kind man, but only now was she beginning to see that he had never been kind to her. ‘How may I help you?’

Ellen drew nearer to the counter. ‘I want to talk about something in private. Is there somewhere we won’t be overheard?’

‘Of course.’ Frances had a strong suspicion that Herbert would want to know what they were talking about and would sneak around the door of the storeroom if they went in there. ‘Let us go up to the parlour.’

‘I should only really stop five minutes, as I’m out on an errand,’ said Ellen, ‘not that I think I’ll be missed, things are that bad.’

They climbed the stairs to the parlour, and sat at the table. Ellen looked about her, and she smiled, in an approving sort of way, seeing the small efforts at neatness and respectability rather than the vulgarity of show. ‘I said I would come if there was any news, and there is. It’s been such a to-do, with Mistress in hysterics and the doctor coming and dosing her, and I’ve been sent out to get her favourite smelling salts and a pound of Lumps-of-Delight.’

‘Is this because of Mr Keane’s arrest?’ asked Frances. ‘I called upon her not long afterwards and she did not seem distressed.’

‘Oh no, Mistress was quite calm after that. It might not be right to say it, but I’d not seen her so happy in a very long time. Of course there were other reasons, but it’s not the sort of talk I like to hear. No, this is all about her father, Mr Morgan, who has the fancy millinery shop on the Grove, and we all supposed to be very rich. He came to visit her last night, and they had a long talk and then I heard them both crying, and now she has taken to her bed and is shouting out a lot and saying all sorts of dreadful things what I can’t repeat. I have been looking after her as best I can, but she won’t be comforted.’ Ellen shook her head sorrowfully. ‘It seems that Mr Morgan is ruined, and it’s all to do with Master’s situation, in some way that I don’t really understand. Mistress blames it all on him, and keeps saying about the bank – I think she said “freezing his accounts”, whatever that signifies. But I can’t see what that has to do with Mr Morgan.’

‘Oh,’ said Frances, to whom these events were not wholly unexpected. ‘I think I can. I have heard that Mr Morgan was not so successful in business as the world supposed, and Mr Keane, as a favour to your mistress, has been lending him money to help him, and has saved him from ruin many a time. I think —,’ Frances hesitated, not wanting to say too much. She could see that Ellen was touched by her mistress’s plight, and it would serve no purpose to accuse the lady of lying in court. ‘I think that Mr Keane gave Mr Morgan some money very recently. But when Mr Keane was arrested, of course the bank must have suspected that the money in his accounts was all stolen, and so won’t allow any more to be taken out. If Mr Keane gave Mr Morgan a cheque, then the bank will have sent it back and not given Mr Morgan his money.’

‘Oh!’ said Ellen in dismay. ‘Then Mistress is ruined also. She has been crying and saying that she won’t give up the house, but I had just taken that to be her hysterics, Miss, I never thought it would happen. We – I mean all the servants – we’d been thinking that Mr Morgan would be able to help, but now, of course …’ Her heavy lidded eyes were bright with sadness. ‘If Master is put in prison than I expect it will all be sold up.’

‘I think so,’ said Frances. ‘And – I am sorry to say it – probably much sooner than that. There will be bills to pay, and with Mr Keane under arrest I doubt that tradesmen can be persuaded to wait.’

Ellen hung her head. ‘Now I understand something else,’ she said unhappily. ‘There was a gentlemen came to see Mistress two days ago, and when I was dusting the bedroom yesterday I saw that some of her jewels were no longer there. I thought she might have been having them cleaned, but now …’

‘Pawned or sold,’ said Frances. ‘It seems probable.’

‘Poor lady!’ said Ellen, sighing deeply.

Frances noted that Ellen, surely about to lose her place in a matter of days, felt sympathy only for her mistress. It was a trait she appreciated. ‘Perhaps,’ said Frances, ‘Mrs Keane will be able to remove to a smaller establishment, where she will be more content. Better alone in humble lodgings than with Mr Keane in a grand house.’

‘You might be right, at that, Miss,’ agreed Ellen. ‘He is a very bad man.’

‘He is worse than anyone supposes, I am sure of it!’ said Frances. ‘Ellen, I don’t suppose you ever heard your master and Mr Garton quarrelling? Did they ever fall out over money or business matters?’

Ellen frowned. ‘No, Miss, as far as I could see they were always on the best of terms.’ She paused. ‘You can’t think —,’ her eyes opened wide with shock, ‘Miss, you don’t think Master poisoned Mr Garton, do you?’

‘We know that he is a criminal,’ said Frances. ‘Moreover, he is cruel and unfeeling and, I believe, would do anything for money. I think he killed Mr Garton to get his legacy, and escaped detection by letting my father be blamed. So he must bear some responsibility for my father’s death. I do not and cannot believe that my father would ever have taken his own life as people are saying, but his distress caused an illness, a shaking in his hands, which led to his dosing himself excessively with chloroform.’

‘You know, Miss, now I think about it, I reckon you’re right about Master,’ said Ellen. ‘Of course he had to pretend to be Mr Garton’s friend or he would never have been left such a great fortune. I know you want so much to prove it wasn’t your father’s mistake that killed Mr Garton, and it’s sad, but now that he’s gone to his rest, I suppose you won’t ever be able to find out the truth.’

‘I still hope to,’ said Frances. ‘I still must. Even though my father is gone, and can no longer suffer from unkind words, there is still my family’s good name to consider.’ And, thought Frances, the one thousand pound reward.

‘At least Mr Keane is where he deserves to be,’ said Ellen, soothingly.

‘In police custody, you mean?’ Frances smiled derisively. ‘Oh he deserves far worse in my estimation. And if he was to be found guilty of the crimes he has been charged with, which I am sure he will be, what would be his sentence? Eight, ten, twelve years? I have no knowledge of these things. And would he even serve all those years? I doubt it. One hears in the newspapers all the time of the most dreadful criminals being let free before they have served all their sentences. No, unless I pursue him, Mr Keane will never get what he deserves.’

Ellen looked at her, sorrowfully, and Frances wondered what there was in her manner, what distraction or pathetic clinging to false hopes, that had evoked such pity. ‘Will you help me?’ she asked. ‘I need proof that Mr Keane is guilty of murder. Any little remark that you may overhear may be of importance.’

Ellen nodded. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss. I promise I’ll do whatever I can.’

The following day was the police court hearing of the case against James Keane. Frances would very much have liked to be there, but she was needed both at home and in the shop. To travel to Marylebone Road and perhaps wait hours for the case to be heard, and then sit for half the day listening to the witnesses, was quite impossible. The day was suddenly brighter, the crisp whiteness of the frost gone, the air almost balmy. Those people of Bayswater who had not dared the stifling fogs and chills of the last few days emerged from their homes and enjoyed the sunshine, and the Grove came back to life. The shop was crowded again, with demands for tonics and lozenges, inhalers, syrups, and capsicum plasters. Prescriptions were pouring in, too, and Mr Jacobs and Herbert were kept almost continuously busy while Frances was stationed behind the counter, wrapping little parcels as fast as her fingers would go, and Tom was running errands two at a time.

As the evening drew in, and business slowed, Frances could not help examining the takings for the day so far. They were good, and had she not had debts to pay and the lease renewal to come, they would have been more than adequate to keep the business running. With a sinking heart she knew that unless she had a very great stroke of good fortune, the business could not survive more than another two months.

‘Well, my dear Miss Doughty,’ said Chas as he and Barstie entered the shop with sunny smiles. ‘I expect you will be very pleased to hear our news!’

‘We were at the police court to see Mr Keane’s case,’ said Barstie. ‘And didn’t he look green in the face! Someone has pounded his nose flatter than a pancake!’

‘
Very
interesting evidence!’ said Chas.

‘Chas took a
great many
notes,’ added Barstie.

‘I was told that Mr Keane is a very clever fellow and he might never have been caught but for Inspector Sharrock finding the house in Maida Vale where the forgeries were done,’ added Chas.

‘Really,’ said Frances dryly. ‘I am sure that Inspector Sharrock was very pleased with himself.’

‘All puffed up and proud,’ said Barstie, ‘especially when Mr de Rutzen, the magistrate, said the police had carried out some very smart work, but he was not so complimentary about the bank, and the manager was very shamefaced that he did not find out what was happening any sooner.’

‘And,’ said Chas, ‘now here is something which was a very great shock to many people, though not so much to those
like ourselves
, in the know; Mr Keane had obtained loans from the bank for his father-in-law, giving forged title deeds as security. And Mr Morgan was in court saying that he thought the loans were all
bona fide
, and, who knows,
he
might even be arrested as well.’

‘People are saying that Mr Morgan, being a man of business, could not have been ignorant of the fact that he seemed to be getting loans for nothing, and was shutting his eyes to Mr Keane’s villainy,’ added Barstie.