This book is dedicated to my husband Gary, who learned to ride a pennyfarthing just for me, and Edwin J. Knight, who taught him how.
First published 2018
The Mystery Press, an imprint of The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uks
© Linda Stratmann, 2018
The right of Linda Stratmann to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 7509 8736 3
Typesetting and origination by The History Press
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd
eBook converted by Geethik Technologies
PREFACE
Summer 1881
Morton Vance was riding for his life, and he knew it. The worst of his predicament was that he couldn’t be sure exactly who wanted to kill him, or even how many of them there might be. He had found himself in the miserable and terrifying position of being able to trust no one, even, and in fact most especially, his fellow members of the Bayswater Bicycle Club.
What had started out as a pleasant and healthful exercise on a tranquil afternoon had led him into a nightmare. He had stumbled across the unthinkable, the unimaginable. It had taken time for his mind to accept what he had seen, to recognise that it was a horrible truth, and not a cruel prank or a delusion. Now he could not erase the sight from his mind. All he knew was that he had to get away as fast as possible.
More than ever he was thankful for the smooth and efficient performance of his new mount, the Excelsior, with its hollow front forks, sprung saddle, robust rubber tyres and 50-inch front wheel, so much better than the old boneshaker on which he had first learned to ride. As his feet pounded at the pedals, wheels throwing up little puffs of dust like smoke almost as if they were on fire, he wondered with grim irony if he was breaking a record, or achieving a personal best at least. He was certainly breaking the law, but that couldn’t be helped. For once he actually hoped he might meet a constable on the road who would want to pull him up for furious driving. A stiff fine was the least of his worries.
He was riding south down Old Oak Common Lane, and would normally have turned right into East Acton, but that was now the one place he had to avoid at all costs. He rode on, with broad open fields on either side, his path flanked by ditches and hedgerows, and the long culvert covering the flow of the old Stamford Brook, passing the occasional low stone cottage and sensing from time to time the hot reek of a pigsty. The worst threats here were the dry rutted road that could without warning cause a spill over the handlebars, and a possible encounter with Sam Linnett the pig keeper, who hated all bicyclists and never lost the opportunity of taking his horsewhip to a passing wheelman. Vance fixed his determination on one task; all he had to do was reach the Uxbridge Road and the well-populated route into Hammersmith and he would be safe.
In the warm quiet of the summer’s day, with barely a breeze to cool him, he began to hear what he had most dreaded, a whisper of sound behind, a narrow gauger on packed earth, the faint crunch of dry mud under rubber and metallic singing of turning cranks. He risked a rapid glance over his shoulder, and as he feared it was another bicycle, still too far away for him to recognise the rider, only that he was in the Bayswater club uniform; but whoever he was, he was pedalling fast and gaining.
Vance redoubled his efforts, but he was tiring, and the other man was better, fresher, long legs pumping strongly. He knew that he must be nearing a sharp curve in the road up ahead, and looked for the white marker post that acted as a warning sign, telling bicyclists that it was time to check their speed, but either he had failed to see it in his panic, or it was missing, and now, to add to his woes, he was unsure of exactly where he was and what he should do. It was a risk, but he kept going.
Moments later he saw the overhanging branches that signalled the curve in the road only yards away, and was obliged to put some back pressure on the pedals, to slow as much as he dared so as to avoid a spill. At least he knew his pursuer would have to do the same.
When he saw the new danger ahead it was far too late to avoid it. He tried to slow further, as safely as he could, knowing that too sudden a stop would only propel him forwards, parting him from the machine. He would then be offered the choice of all men who came a cropper from such a height, a broken skull or a flattened nose. The handlebars rocked in his grip as the heavy front wheel juddered and twisted, but his palms were sweating and he had still not come to a halt before he lost control. He made a last desperate swerving skid before the inevitable collision. It was side on, but more than enough to violently dislodge him, and he crashed out of the saddle and onto the rocky path, his stockinged shins cracking against the handlebars, his shoulder driving into the baked mud and collapsing with the unmistakable sound of fracturing bones, a thump on the side of his head following for good measure.
At last he came to rest, the dented frame of his prized Excelsior lying across him, its steel backbone warm like a living thing. Dazed and nauseous, his chest heaving for breath, he gazed up at the bright sun, knowing that this was his last pain-free moment before his shocked body began to register its injuries.
The other rider, perhaps more skilled, and having more time to react, must have avoided a crash, for he heard no sound of violent contact. Instead, there was a brief grinding of rubber on earth, signalling a sudden stop. A few moments later Vance heard footsteps coming towards him. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but despite the heat he began to shiver. A figure stood over him, a black silhouette against the clear bright sky. All hope of help vanished. He thought of his parents; he thought of Miss Jepson and the things he had meant to say to her and never had, and now never would. The figure did not speak. He was holding something, a staff or a cudgel, and raised it up purposefully over the fallen man. Vance closed his eyes.
CHAPTER ONE
Summer 1882
‘Good afternoon, Miss Doughty.’
On a clear and sunny afternoon, Miss Frances Doughty, often hailed in the popular press as London’s premier lady detective, was taking the air in Hyde Park, when as if by chance, she met a middle-aged gentleman of respectable demeanour.
As every government agent knows, if secrecy is essential there is no better place to hide oneself than in a teeming and diverse crowd of persons all earnestly devoted to their own individual business. The great undulating space of parkland, dotted here and there with clumps of craggy trees, was crossed by many paths along which groups of strolling visitors were strung like beads on silk, inhaling the grassy perfume, admiring clusters of flowering shrubs and whispering words of scandal, intrigue or romance. The more drably clad males of the species were accompanied and outshone by their ladies, who greeted the sun in brightly coloured dresses and straw bonnets garnished with ribbons. If the park was a little scant of shady woodland in which to linger, this was more than compensated for by small forests of parasols. There were solitary figures, too, artists with their sketchbooks and pencils trying to capture the refinements of nature, and idle youths lying on the cool thick grass and contemplating nothing at all.
At that hour of the day all the public gates we
re open, and far more persons were eager to enter the park than were prepared to depart. It was time for the fashionables to make themselves known, and promenade around the carriage drive in the kind of elegant equipages that most Londoners could only inhabit in their dreams. So profuse were they that vehicles slowed with every new arrival and occasionally even stopped altogether, giving the strolling crowds the chance to pause and speculate on which noble personages might be within. There were other carriages, too, a little brighter and smarter, the horses coiffed to perfection, which, it was believed, were occupied not by the higher ranked ladies of society but by the female gentility of quite another world, who attracted many curious eyes. Their smiles, at least, were offered gratis.
The early morning bathers had long departed the grey waters of the Serpentine, and their places had been taken by boats, both of the narrow variety propelled by diligent oarsmen and the miniature wooden sailing vessels of children, adding laughter and ripples to the atmosphere. Later that evening, as the sun declined and the hour of dinner approached, the park would be quiet, almost deserted, the carriages gone, the horses gone, the hire boats drawn up onto the banks of the Serpentine like beached dolphins, and new inhabitants would arrive, those for whom the turf was the only soft place where they might lay their heads, and others whose only thoughts were of mischief.
That afternoon, however, a lady and a gentleman who had important business to discuss without anyone taking particular notice, might well use Hyde Park for a secret meeting.
Frances took the gentleman’s arm, and after strolling for a few moments they found a bench and sat side by side, looking for all the world like a modestly clad niece enjoying the pretty scene with her favourite uncle. In all their meetings, Frances had never learned his name, or even asked for it, but he was a pleasant looking silver-haired man approaching sixty, who inspired both confidence and respect.
‘I trust you are well?’ he asked. There was a note of caution in his voice, and the creases around his eyes deepened with concern. It was more than just the usual polite enquiry.
Frances’ reply was strong and confident, yet calm. She knew that she often sounded and looked more confident than she felt, but her profession required it, and the deception had become easier with time. ‘I am, thank you, very well indeed.’
‘Last year we had some fears for your health.’
‘As did I, and my friends, but I am fully restored now,’ she assured him. ‘There were some terrible times, tragedies, actions on my part that I regret, and always will, and I still mourn those who are lost, but life continues, as it must. I continue.’
His expression eased and he nodded approvingly. ‘I am glad to hear it, because we have a new mission for you, and I wanted to be sure you could undertake it. It is,’ and he permitted himself a pause, ‘a little different from what you have been asked to do before. You may refuse it if you wish.’
‘Tell me,’ said Frances. ‘I am ready.’
A cluster of young women walked past, deep in conversation, stabbing the air with little trills of laughter. The gentleman was silent until they were out of earshot. ‘In two weeks’ time, the Bayswater Bicycle Club will be holding its annual summer meeting. There will be a large gathering of spectators, races, displays, sales of goods, a band, prizegiving, light luncheon and afternoon tea. You will attend.’
‘That sounds very pleasant. Where will the event be held?’
‘At Goldsmith’s Cricket Ground, East Acton. The club’s chief patron is Sir Hugo Daffin, a long-time enthusiast of the wheel who lives in Springfield Lodge nearby. The club members use rooms in his house for meetings and social events, and those who are unable to keep their bicycles at home in town can store them in his coach house together with the machines that are owned by the club and kept for hire to the public.’
‘And what must I do?’
He gave her a searching look softened by a slight smile. ‘As little as possible. Observe. Listen. Take great care not to draw attention to yourself. If you notice anything that strikes you as unusual, or suspicious, make a note of it. Remember, but write nothing down. As ever on these occasions, if your true intentions are suspected we will not admit to having sent you. And at the first hint of danger, you must leave at once.’
Frances absorbed this, but had to admit that there was little enough to absorb. ‘Can you tell me nothing more? For what am I looking or listening?’
The gentleman considered this question for a while, and she guessed that he was debating with himself how much he might safely tell her. At length he spoke again. ‘We believe that the club is being used by unscrupulous and traitorous persons to carry secret messages and stolen documents to anti-government agents. The bicycle is a fast and silent mode of transport unimpeded by the usual vagaries of horses or weight of traffic. The club structure and current enthusiasm for the bicycle, the many informal and recreational journeys taken at all hours of the day, and even at night, are the perfect concealment for this activity. We don’t know who is organising this, it could be anyone, not necessarily even a member of the club, perhaps a relation or an associate, but the club is somehow at the centre of it. We know this because of a message intercepted by one of our agents, but the messenger himself could not or would not tell us any more except that he had been paid for his services in the usual way. We kept a watch on him, but he managed to elude us and we have not been able to trace his whereabouts.’
Frances was thoughtful. ‘I seem to recall reading that a member of the club was murdered last year.’
‘Yes, the club secretary Morton Vance. He was killed by a pig farmer who had a grudge against bicyclists.’
‘Do you think there was a connection between the murder and the traitorous activities?’
‘Naturally we considered it, but on the whole, we think not. The farmer, Sam Linnett, was an illiterate brute, and a thoroughly untrustworthy type. Not a man one could rely upon to keep secrets. A criminal agency wishing to conceal its activities would not employ him for choice, and there is no evidence that he was paid for what he did. As for Vance, we have made careful enquiries and discovered nothing against him. A member of a respectable family, he had no unsavoury associates, and left a modest estate all accounted for by his salary and a small inheritance.’
‘I see,’ said Frances. The murder and subsequent trial had been fully reported in the Bayswater Chronicle, and she resolved to refresh her memory on the subject when she returned home.
‘We have sent a male agent to join the club, and participate in its activities,’ the gentleman continued, ‘but it would be useful to have a lady present as she might learn something from conversation that a man might not. But don’t be deceived – the people concerned may appear reputable, but they will be ruthless and dangerous. For that reason you must not go alone. Take a small party of friends, and it must be composed of people you trust above all others. They, too, must be subject to the same rules as yourself. Quiet observation, no more. Reveal to them only that you are watching for criminal behaviour, although I understand that your associate Miss Smith knows more of your affairs than most. You must confide your true purpose to no one else.’
Frances was surprised. ‘Not even the police?’
His gaze hardened. ‘Most especially not the police, as we hope our mission will proceed without anyone suspecting what is occurring. If they should need to be informed, it is we who will take that decision, and not you.’
Frances sensed a difficulty. ‘These events attract a substantial crowd. What if I encounter someone who knows me, and guesses that I am there for work and not recreation? That is a possibility.’
‘We have every confidence that you will be able to deal with that eventuality.’
There was no point in contradicting him. ‘I suppose even a detective can enjoy a day of leisure. Very well, the first person I shall consult is a good friend who took up bicycling last spring, and is a member of the club. He assures everyone who he meets that it is the finest sport in the world.
Often at some length – and in very great detail.’
The gentleman smiled. ‘Yes, we know. Mr Cedric Garton. He is your introduction to bicycling.’
‘Ah, now I see why you have offered this task to me.’ Frances’ mind inevitably drifted to a story she had read not long ago, a penny publication called Miss Dauntless Rides to Victory, by W. Grove, in which the valiant heroine had leaped onto a bicycle on which she had pursued and captured a criminal. Miss Dauntless was an invention of the writer, a lady detective who dared do all a man might do and far more. Some of Frances’ clients assumed that this fictional Amazon was a thinly disguised portrait of herself, and she was obliged to disabuse them of that belief very firmly. She might have been annoyed with Mr Grove, except for what had transpired at their one and only meeting. He had then been rather dashingly and mysteriously arrayed in a long black cloak and Venetian mask, and had proceeded to save her from certain death. So relieved was he to find that she was unhurt that he had then clasped her warmly in his arms, a familiarity which under the circumstances it would have been churlish for her to refuse. Frances could still recall the pleasing aroma of his Gentleman’s Premium Ivory Cleansing Soap. She wondered where he was now, and what he might be doing.
‘Miss Doughty?’
Frances realised that she had been daydreaming. ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking … I was thinking … er … do I need to learn to ride a bicycle?’
To her surprise the gentleman laughed gently. ‘Oh, dear me no. The bicycle is not for the female sex. Well, not unless they are persons of a certain kind – in a circus and therefore improperly dressed – or possibly French. Ladies, and older gentlemen, married gentlemen who do not wish to risk life and limb, prefer the tricycle, or indeed the ‘sociable’, that is a machine which permits two persons to ride side by side.’
‘Well that sounds very pleasant. I should like to see that.’
‘Then you accept the mission?’
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 1