The Poisonous Seed (37 page)

On the first floor a sign directed her to the office, and she entered a large panelled room where numerous people, who all seemed to know exactly what to do, were busily intent on studying large books laid upon ranges of tall, sloping-topped desks. There was a long counter rather like that of a post office, with clerks behind it, attending to customers with their bundles of papers, and other smaller desks where black-suited gentlemen were at work. Large books, the largest she had ever seen, heavily bound in thick boards and marked with letters of the alphabet, were stored in ranges of deep shelves. Frances glanced at the pages of a book that was being pored over by an intent-looking lady with gold-rimmed spectacles, and saw to her surprise that it was not, as she had supposed, a book of certificates. The thick vellum pages were nothing more than long lists of names, each with a set of numbers and letters beside it and the name of a place.

She felt for a moment utterly bewildered, but then decided that if these people could master what was required, then she too could do so. She approached one of the gentlemen working at a desk, selecting one whom she thought looked kindly, and explained that it was her first visit and she was not sure what she must do to find what she wanted. He was not for a moment discomfited at having to put his pen aside, and rose to show her about the room. The books, he said, were divided into three ranges; births, marriages and deaths. Each year was divided into four quarters and within each quarter alphabetically by surname. The books recorded only the names of those registered, the district in which the registration had taken place and the reference number of the certificate. It cost a shilling to search a series of five years. If she found what she wanted then a certificate would cost two shillings and seven pence. Frances’ face fell. She had only a few shillings to spare.

‘Do you know what you are looking for?’ asked the clerk, gently.

‘Yes, a man whose death took place in April or possibly May of 1869. I need to know where he lived and his trade.’

‘You might find what you want in the probate record,’ said the clerk. ‘Did he leave a will?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘Try there first, and if you don’t find what you want, come back here,’ he said, and gave her directions to the Principal Probate Registry. Frances descended the staircase and returned to the courtyard which she now had to cross. Fortunately, a sign showed her where to proceed from there, and she soon found another large panelled room with more ranges of huge books. She walked along the shelves, seeing that the volumes were in year order, and within each year were divided alphabetically. She selected the first book for 1869 and put it on the desk. This was better – much better. Each entry was a brief paragraph about the grant of probate. She hardly hoped that she would find it but suddenly there it was; the entry for Solomon Cotter, who died on 21st April 1869. Probate had been granted to his widow, Marianne, and the value of the estate was £254 10
s
4
d
. This Solomon Cotter, moreover, was a master baker of Irlam Road, Bootle. She stood there for quite a few minutes, almost afraid to shut her eyes in case when she opened them again she would find the words had vanished and the paragraph had been a product of her own wishful thinking. She read it again, and again, her eyes almost caressing the words. There was no mistake. Lewis Cotter’s father had been a baker from Bootle, just as James Keane had claimed his own father was. She took her notebook and pencil from her pocket and carefully made an exact copy of the words. It was not proof, of course, but it was highly suggestive.

She returned to the General Registry Office. It would be worth the search fee to find out a little more about Lewis Cotter and his family. The newspapers had described him as aged twenty-six in April 1869, so she would look in 1843 for his birth. She found the births range, and began with the book marked A to C for the quarter ended March, where she found the birth of a Samuel Cotter listed in the registration district of Liverpool. Without the certificate there was no way of knowing if he was any relative of Lewis. In the quarter ended September 1844 there was the birth, again in Liverpool, of an Eleanor Cotter. Frances decided to go further back, and in the quarter ended December 1841, discovered the birth of Lewis Cotter, in Liver pool. The newspaper had been incorrect about his age, but that was not in Frances’ experience an unusual circumstance. Lewis Cotter would therefore now be thirty-eight years of age. There was one more thing she needed to know. She sought out the clerk who had helped her before and asked if the registration district of Liver pool included Bootle. He consulted a volume, and said that it did. It occurred to Frances that as she had looked in the years 1840 to 1844 for Lewis Cotter she could search the same range of time for the birth of James Keane. If Keane had been telling the truth in that unguarded comment to his wife, and he was living under an assumed name, then presumably there would be no James Keane born in those years. What was her surprise, therefore, to discover the birth of James Keane in Liverpool in the quarter ended June 1843.

She thought about this for a time. She had assumed that Keane’s name was made up, yet reflected that if a man wished to live a full life under another name he needed documents such as a birth certificate. It was possible to forge one, she imagined, but how much better it would be to use one that already existed and that could therefore be checked and verified if required. Had Cotter perhaps known the real James Keane, and if so, how would he have felt secure that the man would never appear and contest the identity? There was, she reflected, one way. The real James Keane must be dead.

She looked into her purse. It was worth the risk. She found the Deaths section, started at 1868 and began to work her way backwards. She found what she wanted in 1866. In that year, in the quarter ended March, James Keane had died in Liverpool aged twenty-two. The age and the place were right, although to be certain the certificates were required. She now had enough, however, to go to the police. They could ignore her suppositions but not facts such as these. She felt sure that even if Inspector Sharrock laughed her out of the station, the very same day he would send someone to order the certificates. Frances then realised that the same range of five years would also contain her mother’s record of death. It was not hard to find. The books prior to 1866 did not trouble to record the age at death, yet there could be no mistake. Rosetta Jane Doughty had died in the quarter ended March 1864.

Frances was too young to recall her mother’s death, but Frederick had sometimes talked about it, her long illness, how a house once filled with light and laughter had become sombre, his father solitary and withdrawn, sometimes in tears. Aunt Maude had come to live with them, and their parents’ bedroom had for a time been a sick room, which the children were not permitted to enter. The nature of the dreadful disease, from which their mother had suffered bravely and in silence, had never been spoken of. Frederick also remembered the day when his father had told him that his mother had gone to live in Heaven. He had felt sad and angry. No one had explained to him why this had happened. He was only grateful that Aunt Maude had not tried to take the place of his mother in any respect other than the provision of material necessities.

As Frances gazed at the impersonal entry in the register, she suddenly realised that there was something strange about it. Westbourne Grove, she felt sure, would have been part of the Paddington registration district, yet according to the book, her mother had died in Chelsea. Could this be an error? Or had her mother been removed to a convalescent home, and died there and not at home? Was this why she had not been buried at Kensal Green? But if that was the case, why had Cornelius not told her about it? She was obliged to trouble the clerk once more, who confirmed that Westbourne Grove was indeed in the Paddington registration district. ‘If someone died in the Chelsea registration district, where might they be buried?’ asked Frances.

Another volume was carefully perused. ‘I visited the grave as a child,’ she said, ‘and all I can recall is a very beautiful chapel with a domed roof.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he smiled, ‘that would be Brompton.’

Frances resolved to ask her Uncle Cornelius about the circumstances of her mother’s death at the earliest opportunity. Then she considered again. Her uncle, she thought, a man whom she had learned to admire and trust, had not been perfectly candid about family matters she felt she had a right to know. She looked into her purse again. There was just enough if she walked home. She ordered her mother’s death certificate. She would have to return in a week to collect it.

It was a long walk but she was more than equal to it, up Drury Lane to Oxford Street, across Oxford Circus, then on to the corner of Hyde Park, and up Edgware Road to Paddington Green and the police station. She composed herself before she went in so as to seem as calm and sensible as possible, and not like some beggar who had walked the streets without a penny to her name. ‘I would like to see Inspector Sharrock,’ she said to the sergeant at the desk.

‘You’ve just missed him,’ said the sergeant, who clearly recognised her. ‘He went tearing out of here in a very great hurry about five minutes ago. I can’t say when he’ll be back.’

‘I suppose Constable Brown is not here?’

‘He is with the Inspector.’

Frances reflected. With James Keane safely under lock and key there was no great urgency to her news. ‘In that case, I will return tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but you may remind the Inspector when you next see him, that I promised not to trouble him again unless I had facts of importance.’

Frances proceeded along Bishop’s Road and then to Westbourne Grove, where she could not resist stopping to look into the windows of Thomas Morgan Ltd, crammed with bargains of every kind, none of which she could afford, and notices pasted everywhere declaring ‘Closing Down Sale! Everything Must be Sold!’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Williamson, we meet again!’ said a hearty voice by her side.

She looked up in alarm. Cedric Garton stood beside her, a broad smile on his face.

‘I’m afraid I don’t —,’ she murmured, turning her head aside in embarrassment.

‘Now don’t deny it, please,’ he taunted, gently. ‘I never forget a face.’

Frances blushed deeply.

‘I have to admit I did suspect you at the time,’ he went on. ‘Oh don’t mistake me, it was well done, you might have convinced many, and with a little coaching you would have convinced me, too. So,’ he added conspiratorially, ‘not so much a Mary Ann as a Tom.’

Frances did not know to what he was referring in his last comment and made a firm decision not to enquire. ‘Please accept my apologies, Sir,’ she said.

‘None necessary,’ he said airily, ‘and don’t worry,’ he lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘your secret is safe with me!’

Frances felt relieved. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ she said, ‘and I promise you it will never happen again.’

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed with a toss of the head, ‘how many times have I heard those words! Now then, as I have nothing to do at present, I suggest we have some tea. No brandy and cigars for you this time, eh? Unless of course, you prefer —?’

She shuddered and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, I do not want such things.’

‘Well, off we go then!’ He linked his arm in hers and to her astonishment she found herself walking down the street beside him. He was so jolly that she suddenly felt guilty about deceiving him and resolved to do so no more.

‘Mr Garton, I feel I ought to tell you —’

‘The reasons you accosted me in that very fetching attire? I really wish you
had
been a boy, you were quite a handsome youth.’

‘But you ought to know my name.’ She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Before we say any more, I must tell you that I am Frances Doughty, daughter of William Doughty of the chemist’s shop on the Grove. I have been trying to clear my father’s name of any imputation that he made an error in your brother’s prescription. And I may have done some reckless and foolish and quite improper things but I regret none of them; except possibly the last glass of brandy.’

She waited for his reaction. His eyebrows had risen in surprise, and he stared at her silently for a few moments. She half expected him to utter a sharp remark and walk away, but instead he said, ‘Well, what a girl you are, to be sure! Can’t fault you on loyalty to your pa. Not sure you’re right about him, of course, but – I must say you don’t
look
the adventurous sort.’

Frances felt relieved at making the confession. Now it only remained for her to withdraw from his company with as much dignity as possible. ‘I am very sorry I tried to deceive you. Of course, I understand that you will want to have no conversation with me ever again.’

She was about to walk away, but he stopped her. ‘Please don’t leave, Miss Doughty, I beg you!’ he appealed. ‘I have come all the way from Italy to this miserable climate, to a house full of screaming babies and a sister-in-law who can’t speak for crying. I was hoping to return home where I am sure my sisters are pining away most dreadfully for my company, but now I suddenly find I have to attend long, tedious meetings with the most boring fellows on earth, and read all sorts of legal papers I don’t understand. It is a nightmare from beginning to end. I
like
you, Miss Doughty. You interest me. Let us go and have that tea.’

To her astonishment, he linked arms with her again, and before she knew what had happened they were once again walking down the Grove.

For a few moments she was too startled by this development to speak, then she realised that one of his comments was of importance. ‘Your sisters have not accompanied you here?’ she said.

‘Oh dear me no, they have a horror of the English climate and will not stir from home.’

Which meant, thought Frances, that the lady at Kensal Green Cemetery who had placed the posy on Percival Garton’s grave could not have been a sister.

‘So, Miss Doughty, or I could call you Frank if you were to prefer it,’ he added with a sly smile.