The Poisonous Seed (40 page)

‘Mrs Simmons? I am Frances Doughty.’

‘Oh,’ said the young woman, her face brightening in a becoming smile, ‘I am so happy to meet you – Alice told me all about how you had gone all that way to see Mrs Cranby. Did you have a pleasant visit?’

‘Very pleasant indeed, everyone could not have been kinder.’ Frances smiled at the children, who looked up at her with distrust and clung to their mother’s skirts.

‘Now then, Eddie and Johnnie, you say hallo to Miss Doughty,’ said Clara. The boys mumbled what might have been a greeting and turned their heads away.

‘They can be a little shy, sometimes,’ said Clara, apologetically. ‘Would you like to go into the museum?’

‘I would like to very much,’ said Frances, wondering how much it might cost, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was free. The interior reminded her of a railway station, with a high arching roof graced, and indeed probably supported, by slender iron columns. There were two galleries running the length of the building with decorative iron railings, and a very handsome marble mosaic floor.

‘The museum itself is a thing worth seeing,’ said Frances.

‘I come here when I can,’ said Clara. ‘There are lots of pretty pictures and nice furniture and china. And there is an exhibit all about food, but most people find that very dull.’

Frances stopped by one of the many glass cases ranged along the floor to look at some delicately crafted oriental porcelain. ‘I would like to hear all that you can remember about Mr Wright,’ she said.

‘Oh, he was a very fine looking young man,’ said Clara. ‘Very clever with all his drawings. Beautiful drawings, Miss, all kinds of things, he could make them look just like the real thing. Better than a photograph.’

‘Did you ever hear him say anything about where he had lived or what he had done before he came to Tollington Mill?’ asked Frances, hopefully.

‘No, never, Miss. He never spoke about his life before.’

Perhaps, thought Frances, the villagers of Tollington Mill were used to wealthy gentlemen who liked to come there so they could forget the world of commerce and obligation. ‘Did he ever entertain visitors from outside the village? People you didn’t know?’

‘No, Miss, nothing like that.’

‘He posted his own letters, I believe?’

‘Yes, always. He said he enjoyed the walk, even if the weather was very bad. I said I didn’t mind going, but he wouldn’t have it.’

‘And he received many letters, too?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know who sent them. I thought —,’ Clara paused.

Frances felt a leap of hope. ‘Yes?’

‘I thought that whoever wrote to him it was always the same person, the same writing.’

Such a tiny clue, thought Frances. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’

‘Oh, no, Miss, and if I had known such a thing, I would have told the police straight away.’

Frances was finding it hard to hide her disappointment. Had she really come all this way to speak to a woman who knew nothing?

‘What is your opinion of the statement made by his sister that John Wright was insane? Did you think him to be so?’

‘Not at all, Miss, I never saw any sign of it,’ said Clara indignantly. ‘All that nonsense about him being afraid of an enemy and dyeing his hair, I never heard such a story in all my life! If you ask me, it was the sister who was not right in the head.’

‘Well, it seems he did have an enemy,’ said Frances.

‘Maybe, but he never dyed his hair. It was natural black.’

Frances had been staring at a carved jade snuff-bottle, but this suddenly lost its attraction. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because it’s true,’ said Clara firmly. ‘I never saw a hair dye that didn’t leave marks on the pillow cases, and his were always white as white.’

‘But the police found the bottle of hair dye in his cabinet,’ Frances reminded her.

‘They may have done, Miss, but that was after he was dead and the house had been closed up for over a month. I cleaned that bathroom many a time, and turned out all the cupboards regular, and I never saw a bottle of dye anywhere. And I gave the house a good clean before it was closed up and there was no bottle of dye there then.’

‘Did you tell this to the police?’ asked Frances.

‘I did, but they never believed me. They said that it was there as plain as plain could be, and I must have missed it. I’ll tell you now, if I was to go into a court and swear on the bible, I would say just the same.’

Frances wondered what that could mean, if indeed it meant anything. It was, she thought regretfully, easy enough to prove a fact, that something had been present, but very hard to prove its absence.

Clara sat down on a bench facing a display of small paintings, and the children clustered at her side. ‘I brought something for you to look at Miss,’ she said, and drew a small parcel from her bag. Frances sat by her and watched in curiosity as the string was untied and the paper opened to reveal a book. It was bound in dark red leather, and the covers and the edges of the pages were very badly charred. It took a moment or two before she guessed what it was. ‘This is Mr Wright’s sketch book,’ said Clara proudly.

‘I was told he burnt it up!’ exclaimed Frances.

‘He did put it in the fire, just before he left, and he said to me, “now Clara, be a good girl and make quite sure that it is all burnt to ashes,” but as soon as he was out of the room I got the tongs and pulled it out. I felt a bit guilty afterwards, I suppose in a way it was stealing, so I didn’t tell anyone I had it, but I just couldn’t bear to see all those beautiful pictures gone forever. Do you think I was wrong?’ she said anxiously.

Frances opened the book, and stared at a drawing of Tollington House. ‘No,’ she said at last, ‘I think you did just the right thing.’ As she studied the picture, the deft workings of the artist’s pencil, which had, with just a few strokes, created an unmistakable image, she suddenly felt a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. She turned the pages, and saw a view of the village street, a farmer driving past in his dog-cart, and some young women in their Sunday best walking up to the church. What she was seeing was, she knew, impossible. The subjects of the drawings were unimportant, except that they showed the artist’s taste, but the style was most strangely familiar. Could it really be that the missing Mr Meadows and the long-dead Mr Wright could be the same man? But if that was the case, Guy Berenger – who would have been no more than fourteen when the drawings were done – could not possibly be Meadows.

‘They are lovely pictures,’ said Clara, breaking a long silence. The children huddled close to her, making little whimpering noises. Frances suspected that they were hungry. She groped in her purse and found two pennies she could hardly spare, and gave them one each. ‘Oh thank you, Miss, I’m sure that’s very kind. Say thank you to the kind lady!’

The children mumbled their thanks, and looked at Frances with less suspicion than before. Frances turned another page and found a picture, which was undoubtedly that of Mrs Garton. Younger and very slender then, it showed a woman of great beauty and grace, with a tender smile on her lips. Frances wondered what Henrietta had been gazing at. She had seen the look before, she recalled, when the Gartons had walked together on the Grove, and Henrietta had smiled up at her husband, but her husband was not present in the portrait and she seemed to be looking directly at the artist. She turned another page. This was a street scene, and Henrietta was walking arm in arm with a gentleman who Frances did not recognise. He was thin, aged about forty, with a narrow face, short side whiskers, a well-trimmed beard and a serious expression.

‘This is another very good likeness of Mrs Garton,’ said Frances. ‘Who is the gentleman with her?’

‘Why, that is Mr Garton, of course,’ said Clara.

‘Surely not,’ said Frances. ‘Some friend of his, perhaps. This does not resemble him in the slightest.’

Clara looked at the picture. ‘No, that is Mr Garton, and I would say it was very like.’

Frances could only stare at the page before her. Try as she might, imagining the passage of time that could have changed his features, and the accumulation of flesh which had come with good living, even allowing for those things, it was clear to her now that Percival Garton of Bayswater, the man who had died in an agony of poisoning with
strychnia
, was not the same Percival Garton who had lived with Henrietta in Gloucestershire. For a moment she felt utterly confused, wondering which of the two men could be the real Garton, then she reflected that it must be the London man, for Cedric Garton had identified the body of his dead brother. Then she recalled something that Cedric had told her, and finally she knew the answer. She was obliged to stifle the urge to laugh.

‘Are you feeling well, Miss?’ asked Clara, with a worried frown.

‘I – yes – I am just surprised at these portraits. May I borrow this book? I think it contains some important information and should be shown to the authorities.’

Clara opened her eyes wide. ‘Really, Miss? Well I never! Yes, of course, you may take it and welcome. Will it help discover who killed Mr Wright?’

‘I hope it may,’ said Frances. ‘At any rate, I am now sure that I know who killed Mr Garton.’

As she travelled home, trying to erase the sight of the two boys with their pinched frightened faces, and their anxious mother, Frances reviewed the notes she had made. In the last weeks she had learned a great deal, but each succeeding fact had been no more than another piece in a great puzzle which she had been quite unable to assemble. Something had been missing from the heart of the puzzle and its absence had meant that none of the other pieces would fit together. The new information was acting as a catalyst in her mind, and everything was starting to draw together to form a picture. She took out her notebook, and began to write, and by the time she reached home, had almost completed composing an account of what she now felt sure had occurred.

As she passed by the shop on her way to the front door, she glanced in, seeing that there were numerous customers within, and hurried up to the parlour, determining to finish her notes and then go to the police. Wilfred was waiting for her, and seemed relived when she entered.

‘Constable Brown,’ she exclaimed. ‘I am so glad you have called, I have some information of very great importance.’

‘Miss Doughty,’ he said seriously, ‘I have been sent to bring you to the station at once.’

A
s Frances was ushered into Inspector Shar rock’s office, a man seated there rose and greeted with her a slight bow. She had not met him before, but saw that he was of middling years, and respectably dressed in a dark suit, with the air of formal deference appropriate to a very superior class of servant.

‘Miss Doughty,’ said Sharrock, briskly, ‘this is Mr Robert Edwards, who was formerly manservant to Mr Percival Garton. I think you should hear what he has to say, and then I will ask you to examine the item he has brought.’

On the desk Frances saw a large gentleman’s winter cloak, of the best quality, folded neatly on its wrapping paper.

‘Miss Doughty, I wish first of all to express my deepest sympathies at the many tribulations you have suffered recently,’ said Edwards. ‘I hope that it may be my lot to bring some alleviation to your distress.’

Frances secretly thought that the best alleviation at that moment would be about three thousand pounds, but she merely thanked him politely.

‘When my poor Master died so tragically, Mrs Garton was too distraught to attend to anything in the way of household business, but in recent days she has been seeing about disposing of certain items to deserving charitable causes,’ explained Edwards. ‘I have been pleased to assist Mrs Garton in going through the Master’s possessions. In recognition of my services over the last several years, Mrs Garton has very kindly told me that I could have Master’s cloak as a gift. It is this that I have brought here today. As you see the cloak is new, in fact Master wore it only once, on the night he died. It seemed to me in perfect condition but when I examined it I discovered something unusual, and at once saw that it had some significance.’ He unfolded the cloak, and showed Frances the interior of a pocket, which was crusted with a whitish crystalline substance.

Frances drew nearer and stared.

‘Miss Doughty, I would ask you not to touch whatever is on the cloak,’ said Sharrock, ‘but if it is what I think it is, you are better placed than most to express an opinion as to what it might be. Of course, we do intend to send it to the public analyst this afternoon.’

‘It appears to be dried syrup,’ said Frances, who had often had to clean encrustations from the necks of the stock syrup bottles in the shop. She leaned forward and sniffed. Even days later the pungent aroma was still in evidence. Oil of oranges, cardamom, cassia, and a hint of nux vomica. ‘It is Mr Garton’s digestive mixture,’ she said. ‘I have no doubt of it. The syrup is our own blend. Yet how did it come there? The bottle is supposed never to have left his bedside after it was brought home. He is not supposed even to have unwrapped the bottle until after he returned from dining with Mr Keane.’

‘My thought exactly,’ said Sharrock.

Frances sat down and considered the implications of what had just been revealed. Inspector Sharrock, Wilfred and Mr Edwards were all silent until she spoke again. ‘The fact that the syrup leaked from the bottle at all shows that it must have been opened’ she said. ‘When we dispense a mixture the cork is first mechanically compressed so when it is put in the bottle it ensures a tight fit. Once the bottle has been uncorked for its first use it will never fit as well. Do you have the original wrapping? I would like to examine it.’ Frances could not resist a glance at Wilfred, who was staring very determinedly at his shoes.

Sharrock complied without a murmur, and watched her carefully as she unfolded the paper.

‘Yes,’ said Frances, who knew the answer but was not about to reveal that she had seen the paper on an earlier visit. ‘See – there is no staining anywhere. The medicine leaked from the bottle after it was unwrapped. You realise what this means?’