The Poisonous Seed (34 page)

‘Also,’ said Chas, ‘our guess about what was going on at the gallery on Queen’s Road was right! The manager, Berenger, gave evidence —’

‘Looking like he’d just been freshly sobered up for the occasion, and wanting to know where his next bracer was coming from —,’ said Barstie.

‘I think his employers made sure to keep him in liquor all the while so he wouldn’t ask too many questions,’ said Chas. ‘
He
said that there were hardly ever any customers there, but Mr Garton and Mr Keane didn’t mind that. They just told him to be there to keep the place open, and not to look too hard at what was happening. And there were books which he looked at once, and saw that a great deal of money came in and then the same money would go out again the very next day. But just after Mr Garton died, Mr Keane came round and took all the books away.’

‘Mr Keane was very busy destroying things after Mr Garton’s death,’ said Frances. ‘He made away with the picture the artist Meadows drew of himself and Mrs Keane. Was anything said about Mr Meadows?’

‘Keane has made a statement to the police saying that it was Meadows who did all the forgeries,’ said Chas, ‘but he insists that Meadows has gone abroad and he does not know where. He has given the police a description of the man, but it sounds very like a thousand other men, and Berenger said that he had never seen Meadows.’

‘And what was the outcome?’ asked Frances.

‘Keane was sent for trial at the Old Bailey. When it was announced, he fainted and had to be carried out,’ said Barstie. ‘He might have a long wait. There is always a great deal of paperwork in a trial of this kind.’

‘But the evidence is very conclusive, and he will surely be found guilty,’ said Frances. ‘Do you know what his sentence might be?’

‘Harry Benson was a very great swindler and he got fifteen years and his accomplices ten,’ said Chas. ‘That was three years ago. But these types are very clever. They never serve the full amount. These are your superior criminals. They know how to behave themselves. Keane will be out of prison in less than ten years.’

“Well, at least he will not be running away anywhere just yet,’ said Frances. Ten years, she thought. If it was simply a matter of proving him guilty she would have had time enough, but if she was to save the business she had only a matter of weeks. There was a clanging of the bell, and a sudden influx of customers. ‘If you will excuse me —’

‘Of course! Business always calls!’ They tipped their hats and departed.

The late post that day brought a letter, addressed to Mr F. Doughty. Sarah handed it to Frances without comment. Frances felt a great surge of excitement as she unsealed the letter. It was, as she had hoped, a reply from Mrs Cranby, addressed Ivy Cottage, Tollington Mill.

    Dear Mr Doughty

    It was with great pleasure that I read your letter informing me that you were enquiring into the murder of Mr Wright. As you know, I was his housekeeper for the year that he lived in Tollington Mill, and a pleasanter young gentleman one could never hope to meet. He was very well liked in the village and everyone was very distressed when he was so cruelly murdered. If it is possible for you to visit me I would be delighted to see you. My cottage is very comfortable and you would be welcome to stay. I could show you where Mr Wright once lived. I am sure the present owner who is a very agreeable and respectable gentleman would permit you to look inside. If you are able to come, please let me know. My son, Willie can meet you at the station.

    Eliza Cranby

Frances viewed the letter with some dismay. Until now, she had imagined that her enquiries into the events at Tollington Mill would be conducted by letter, and had never dreamed for a moment that she might be invited there. She knew that it was impossible for her to go. She could not keep up the pretence of being a man for very long, and supposing she was asked to share lodgings with a man; that would never do. She could, she reflected, write to Mrs Cranby and explain the mistake, and country folk might well be persuaded that in London it was possible for there to be lady detectives. She shook her head. What could she be thinking of? She could never be spared from her place at the shop, and there were, in addition, all her household duties. Of course, she reminded herself, the Grove was very quiet on a Saturday afternoon, and she could depart at midday and return on Sunday. For the first time in over two years she had no invalid at home to care for, and Sarah could surely manage in her absence. Once again she shook her head. What a foolish, and possibly dangerous, escapade – to travel so far – to a village where there might be a murderer – to see the places where the Gartons and John Wright had lived – to meet with the very people who had known them and hear from their own lips an account of the events that so puzzled her. Horribly tempted, she knew there was only one way to satisfy herself that the journey was out of the question. With business quieter towards the end of the day, she walked up to Paddington Station and made enquiries. The journey to Tollington Mill would, she learned, take several hours and require two changes of train, but it could be done. As she bought her ticket she seemed to be in a dream. She felt the same pleasant dizziness as when she had danced with Frederick or taken her first glass of brandy. The telegraph office in London Street was open until late, and before walking home she sent a telegram signed ‘Miss Doughty’ to Mrs Cranby advising her of the visit. It was settled. She could not change her mind. She had spent several shillings she could ill afford and they would not be wasted. She was going to Tollington Mill.

T
he Great Western Railway. To Frances, those few words could never fail to conjure up the prospect of adventure. When Frances was seven and had entered the great rail terminus of Paddington for the first time, her uncle had looked at her with an expression of concern, and said, ‘Now Frances, there is nothing to be afraid of,’ and Frederick had said, ‘I’ll look after her, Uncle,’ and held her hand tightly. It would never have occurred to Frances to be afraid. To her childish mind the station, with its lofty columns and ornate traceries of ironwork, was a palace of wonders. The great vaults and arches above her head seemed to be as high as the sky itself, while the shining globe-like lamps hung like as many moons. Cornelius told her that the station had been built by a great man called Brunel, and she had wondered how one man could make such a very large thing all by himself.

And the trains – how her heart had fluttered with anticipation at the great green and gold monsters, gleaming with oil, uttering shrieks and blowing clouds of hissing steam like dragons. She was helped into a carriage, and found herself in something like a little house on wheels, with windows and beautiful padded seats, and polished wood and even curtains. Other people crowded in – two gentlemen with suitcases and a woman with a fretful baby – and she felt affronted by their impertinence at entering what she thought was for herself and Frederick and her uncle alone, but Cornelius explained that anyone who could buy a ticket could get on the train. There were more shrieks and whistles, then Frederick held her hand again, and the carriage lurched, and they started to move. Frances watched in astonishment as the station slid away, and she stared out of the window at the backs of houses, and maids running out to take in the washing. She was told that the Queen used to take the train when she went to Windsor and back, and Frances wondered if the Queen was on her train – she still thought of it as hers, despite the invasion – and if she would meet the Queen, and what she would say when she did.

Then she was travelling faster than she could ever have imagined possible, with trees and fields and houses going past in a blink of an eye. When they stopped it was always at a station so tiny it was like a doll’s house of a station, hardly a real one at all. There were many such excursions; sometimes they would walk in a wood scattered with flowers, once they saw a water mill, once it was a beautiful large house with a garden, and once a river with all kinds of swimming birds with names she could not possibly remember. Each train ride had seemed like a magical adventure, but now, more than twelve years after her first, she was about to travel, not just a few miles but most of the way across England, quite alone, to meet people who were perfect strangers, while pretending to be a detective, in order to discover the identity of a murderer. Now that
was
an adventure.

She was grateful to have started soon after midday, for it would be a long journey. Fortunately the guards did not seem to think it was unusual for a young woman to be travelling alone, carrying only a small bag. She was especially anxious that she should not be taken for a wicked sort of woman, and, if she had been asked, would have told her enquirers that she was journeying to care for a sick relative, but her fellow passengers seemed weary or preoccupied and she did not enter into conversation with them. Before she departed, Sarah had uttered dire warnings about men who might seem to be gentlemen, and offer to assist her, but might in the event turn out not to be gentlemen at all, but a predatory type of person of whom she should beware. She advised Frances to find a carriage populated mainly or even entirely by other females if she could, and this, Frances had taken care to do. She had brought some bread and cheese to eat on the way, but did not feel especially hungry. She read a newspaper that she had found discarded on the platform, and studied her notebook, then stared out of the window at gloomy fields with forlorn-looking animals. Of course, she realised, her childhood excursions had all been in fine weather; no wonder everything had seemed to her to be so bright and colourful. Now it was all in shades of grey.

The first stop was Bristol, whose station boasted a great iron roof like that of Paddington. She felt that the industrious Mr Brunel must have been at work there, too. Making anxious enquiries, she discovered where she needed to wait for her next train, and after half an hour of shivering on the platform, a small rattling collection of coaches drew up, and she boarded. By now, she was hungry, and ate the bread and cheese. An hour later she was deposited at a country station, open to the elements, with a dreary little waiting room that smelled of something unpleasant. The air was chill, and her coat was no protection against a stiff breeze. Fortunately there was only half an hour to wait and another little train hissed and creaked to a halt and she got on. It was late afternoon when she reached Tollington Mill, and the sky was darkening over, the tiny station encased in a filmy mist. As she stood on the platform with her little bag, no scrap of food to eat, and a few pennies in her purse, waiting for a stranger, she began to think she must be quite mad.

‘Miss Doughty?’ said a voice, as a lantern approached. The figure came closer and showed itself to be that of a man in his thirties, dressed in a neat, countrified way, with a stout greatcoat and a weather-beaten hat, large boots and a long muffler wound about his neck. He held up the light. He had a broad smiling face. ‘I’m Will Cranby,’ he said. ‘Mother sent me to take you to the cottage. Here, this is the letter you wrote to her.’

Frances saw that he was holding her letter. ‘Oh,’ she said in relief. ‘Thank you, that was very thoughtful.’

‘The cart’s just outside the station,’ he said. ‘It’s only a mile or so. I’ll take your bag.’

In the road outside stood a butcher’s cart, drawn by a single horse, the back portion constructed like a box for carrying goods, the front being no more than an open bench for the driver and a passenger, although he had provided some rugs for comfortable seating and warmth. He held out his arm and she placed her hand upon it as she climbed up onto the cart. For a brief moment she thought she knew a little of how Mrs Keane had felt towards Adam, how reassuring it was to have such a strong male arm for one’s support.

‘So you’re a detective, Miss,’ he said, as they set off. ‘I never knew there were lady detectives.’

‘Ladies are entering into almost every sphere of society nowadays,’ said Frances, but regretted saying it almost as soon as she had spoken. It made her sound like a proud sort of woman and she did not think she was proud.

‘Is that a fact?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Of course I suppose it is different in London.’

‘Tell me about Tollington Mill,’ said Frances.

‘Oh, well, not a lot to say, Miss. It used to be a lot bigger than it is now, what with the woollen mill, that’s why we have the railway going up to Bristol, but the mill’s all gone years ago, and we’re no more than a thousand souls, mainly farming.’ They were approaching a row of stone cottages, some of which had diminutive shop fronts. ‘That’s where I live, Miss, the butcher’s shop there. Me and my wife Alice live over the shop. We do the best pork in Gloucestershire, I’ve heard people say.’

‘I understand that Mrs Cranby no longer lives at Tollington House?’

‘Oh no, not for a year now. After poor Mr Wright was killed, the place was leased by a Mr Armitage, and he engaged my mother as housekeeper. She was very happy to stay, but nowadays she has some trouble with her legs, and can’t get about or manage the stairs as she used to do. So she lives in Ivy Cottage now with my sister Dora.’ Just past the stone cottages was a handsome corner house, clad in creeper and clustered about with bushes. ‘Up ahead there, is Old Mill House,’ he said, ‘where Mr Wright used to go to see his friend Mr Garton.’

Frances stared at it eagerly, trying to make out its features through the increasing gloom. It was far larger than the cottages of the village folk, and certainly in keeping with a man who owned a successful business, but a great deal smaller and less genteel than the Garton home on Porchester Terrace, Bayswater. ‘We can take you to see Tollington House tomorrow,’ said Will. ‘Mr Armitage has very kindly agreed to show it to you. Now then, here we are!’

The cart stopped outside a stone cottage very like all the others Frances had seen, and Will helped her down and took her bag inside, calling out, ‘We’re here, Mother!’ before he held the door open.