‘What kind of inventions?’ asked Frances, scenting the possibility of work that might make the inventor the target of thieves.
‘In the last few months he has been testing stabilising wheels for older gentlemen or novices who are nervous of riding high bicycles. And he has announced his intention of devising a more comfortable saddle.’
‘Has his industry brought him much success?’
Cedric gave a little sigh of regret. ‘To be truthful, no. I don’t think he has found a manufacturer willing to risk his capital.’
There was a gentle cough from Professor Pounder, who, despite his height and breadth was so quiet that his presence in any location often went unnoticed. ‘When we attend this meeting, what are we to look out for?’
‘A good question,’ Frances replied. ‘I haven’t been told that myself, but I think I can understand why. If my attention is directed in one particular way then I might miss something I am not anticipating. But here are my suggestions. Look for secret conversations, and things changing hands; behaviour that seems to be out of the common way. People at the event who just don’t appear to be part of it, who look as though they might be there on business of their own. Anything you see or overhear that seems suspicious, remember it, and tell me. But write nothing down. The event will be held on a cricket field, so there will be a great deal of ground to cover. Tom, Ratty, I want you to keep your eyes sharp for useful information. Keep moving and looking about you. And please, don’t get into trouble.’
Tom and Ratty exchanged looks again. It was always a little worrying when they did that, but Frances knew that any enquiry as to the reason would not prove informative.
‘It would be best if we didn’t all arrive as one party, which could seem unusual. There should be two groups. Mr Garton and I will travel up together with Ratty. Sarah, you can travel with Professor Pounder and Tom. We will look like families out for the day.’ Frances consulted a directory issued by the London omnibus companies. ‘There is no direct train to East Acton, and the green Bayswater omnibus to Acton does not make an early enough start, so we will make the journey by cab. The two parties must not appear to know each other, and will only communicate when it will not look like a pre-arranged meeting. If other persons introduce us, only then can we talk. Otherwise, Tom and Ratty, you will carry messages by word of mouth only, taking care that no one notices what you are doing. And Sarah and I have our hand signs, too.’
Sarah grinned and signalled agreement. She and Frances had made a study of sign language ever since taking a case involving a school for deaf children. It was an amusing diversion of an evening, and often useful.
‘’Ow much do these bicycles cost, then?’ asked Tom, who was studying an advertisement in the club magazine.
‘That depends,’ said Cedric. ‘A second-hand velocipede for a novice to learn on can be got for a pound or two. But a high-grade bicycle can be £20 or more.’
‘An’ ’ow fast c’n they go?’
‘Velocipedes are heavier, with a much smaller front wheel, so only about seven miles per hour, eight at a pinch, depending on the road. High-wheelers can actually go ten, twelve miles per hour or even more with a strong rider.’
‘And a nice fine for furious driving, if they do,’ Frances reminded him.
‘Gotter catch ’em first,’ said Tom with a grin. Frances knew that Tom had been handing Sarah his business profits to invest, with the intention of buying property when he was old enough, but she could see the way his thoughts were tending; a fleet of bicycles with strong active boys taking messages and parcels about London far faster than any pedestrian or cab. Some firms would pay a premium price for such a service.
‘You take care,’ said Sarah sternly. ‘There was a butcher’s boy knocked off his bicycle and killed the other day when a horse shied. He was your age, too. Nasty business.’
Frances turned to Cedric. ‘Did you ever meet Morton Vance?’ The question took the others by surprise and she pushed her copy of the Bayswater Chronicle with the report of the trial of Sam Linnett across the table so they could see it. They all studied it intently.
Cedric shook his head. ‘No, that was before I joined the club. Horrid business. I heard all about it from the members, of course. Vance was very well thought of. That Linnett must have been a savage type. His son is a good sort, though.’
‘You know him?’ said Frances, surprised.
‘I’ve met him, yes. Numerous times. In a strange kind of way losing his father did him a good turn. He never wanted to be a pig farmer but didn’t have much choice. The father deliberately kept him ignorant and useless for any better kind of work, so he could keep him on as a labourer. After the trial the pigs were sold off, the farm closed down, and the boy did what he had always wanted to do, got himself apprenticed to a blacksmith called Hicks in East Acton. He repairs bicycles and helps Daffin with his work, so you often see him around the lodge.’
Frances remained astonished. ‘Isn’t that awkward for the members, given his history? Do they not regard him as a sprig of his father? Does he bear no grudge against bicyclists?’
‘You would think so on both sides, but no. The boy is quiet, intelligent and hard working. Nothing like the sire. He’s sure to be at the races, helping to keep the machines in good trim.’
‘It will be very interesting to meet him,’ said Frances. She studied the club newsletter. ‘It says here that the club rooms are open in the summer from four in the afternoon until seven on weekdays, nine a.m. to seven p.m. on Saturday, and from noon to seven on Sunday. So, I think it might be an idea if I made a preliminary visit quite soon, just to look about and get an impression of the place. Would you be willing to accompany me?’
‘Certainly,’ said Cedric. ‘Whatever day you wish. The weather is fine, and we can have quite a jolly little outing.’
The meeting was done. Sarah cleared away the remains of the supper and she and Professor Pounder went down to the kitchen for a private talk over the dishes, while Tom and Ratty hurried away on fresh business. Frances was quietly thoughtful as she saw Cedric Garton to the door.
He paused in front of the hall mirror to check his grooming. ‘You have something on your mind, dear lady. Are you permitted to tell?’
‘You know me too well. Yes, there is another very particular thing you can assist me with, but I didn’t want to mention it until we were alone.’
‘Oh, mention away! My pleasure, as always.’
Frances took a deep breath. ‘I want you to teach me how to ride a bicycle.’
CHAPTER FIVE
At four o’clock the following afternoon, a cab which had followed a circuitous route from Bayswater through Notting Hill and Holland Park and along the Uxbridge Road, brought Cedric Garton and his young companion to East Acton and the gates of Springfield Lodge. Mr Garton was jauntily dressed in the bicycle club uniform, which comprised a short coat and knee britches of dark grey, light grey stockings, black shoes well-shined, a flannel shirt with collar and cuffs of celluloid to avoid the ravages of excessive perspiration, and a light grey polo cap with a handkerchief attached to the back by dress hooks to protect the back of the neck from the sun. The cap was embellished with the Bayswater Bicycle Club badge, depicting a spring of water and the letters BBC entwined.
His companion, a tall slender youth, was conventionally dressed, yet despite this, appeared to be more self-conscious about his appearance. In particular he made regular adjustments to the position of his hat, which was perched awkwardly on his head and looked ready to fall off at the slightest provocation, an eventuality he took very seriously indeed.
There were two previous occasions on which Frances had, in her role as a detective, adopted male attire. She had been masquerading as a newspaper correspondent in her late brother’s suit of clothes when she had first met Cedric Garton, an event that often stimulated a misty-eyed reminiscence in that gentleman. For her second impersonation she had purchased a better-fitting suit, and Cedric had instructed her how to stan
d and walk so as to avoid being discovered as a female. Frances had found that if she spoke as little as possible, and did not display the smoothness of her face too closely or under a revealing light, she could carry off the deception rather well. She was aware, however, that women who dressed as men often did so for a criminal purpose and found themselves in court accused of theft or fraud, and it would cause serious harm to her reputation if she were found out. The private cab kept her safe from risk of exposure and enabled useful conversation.
‘I shall introduce you today as my cousin Frank Williamson,’ said Cedric. ‘That will avoid any difficulty later on when you attend the race meeting under your nom de guerre, and the resemblance is noticed. You will then simply be Frank’s sister, and that will explain everything. This afternoon, however, you will be taken for a handsome boy.’
‘That is the best plan,’ agreed Frances, pushing stray strands of hair under her hat.
‘And what will Frank’s charming sister be called?’
‘Rose,’ said Frances, almost without thinking, her mind still dwelling on her recent reunion with her mother Rosetta. Having been estranged for so many years it was curious to think that she had a mother at all, but the process of growing close had been and continued to be one that gave both of them great comfort and pleasure.
‘And whichever sex you may choose to be on any such visit, you must address me as Cedric. In fact,’ he paused and gave her a serious yet affectionate look, ‘I would be honoured if Miss Doughty was to call me Cedric also, and if I might be permitted to address her as Frances. We are practically cousins in reality after all!’
Frances smiled her agreement. ‘Of course!’
‘Since we last spoke I have been working my poor brain half to death with the list you have asked for, but it is almost done and I promise to deliver it to you this evening. In the meantime, I will endeavour to answer any questions you might have.’
It was Frances’ first venture into that part of Middlesex. Her map, which she had studied carefully, told her what she could not see, that just north of the dwellings and old inns that lined the Uxbridge Road there was a bleak row of brick yards and clay pits and beyond those an expanse of farmland, bordered to the west by Old Oak Common Lane, which was almost unpopulated at its southern end. At its furthest northern extreme, the lane was flanked with cottages, and curved east to meet the open public common of Wormwood Scrubs with its military exercise field and rifle range. Just south of the common was a prison, which had been in the process of enlargement by the hard labour of its own convicts for some years.
The cab turned north up the narrow lane, rattling and lurching over the uneven track, and for a while there were no more houses to be seen. Frances knew that before reaching the turn into East Acton they would pass the spot where Morton Vance had met his end at the hands of Sam Linnett, and she stared out of the window, but given the anonymous long green hedgerows, it was hard to make it out. ‘Can you point out the location of Morton Vance’s murder?’ she asked.
‘I don’t really know this path very well, I’ve only ever ridden it once or twice, but I think that’s the old pig farm, coming up on our right,’ said Cedric, helpfully.
They were past it too quickly for a good look. Frances only saw the ungated entrance to a farmyard, and then it was behind them. Not very far ahead the cab turned left into East Acton Lane, a village street with a smoother surface to its roads. This was a quiet place of well-behaved people who took pride in their surroundings. On their right was a stud farm and orchards, to the left the sprawling estate known as The Grange. Large handsome houses stood contentedly in their own grounds and there were smaller but equally well-kept cottages. A little further on, just where the roadway divided in two with a long central green between its branches, was a long stone wall clearly announcing that a private estate was within, and an opening ahead that must surely lead into a carriage drive.
‘Is this the place?’ Frances asked.
‘It is indeed,’ said Cedric. Frances was expecting the cab to turn into the carriage drive, but to her surprise Cedric asked the driver to stop short of the entrance in the village street. She wondered for a moment if there had been a mistake, but then reminded herself that her companion was a frequent visitor.
The masquerade proper had begun, and the first part was when Cedric, deeming it unnecessary to help his boyish cousin Frank descend from the cab, obliged Frances to make her own trousered way down the steps. Cedric paid the driver and the cab drew away, leaving them standing in the deserted street. ‘And now the fun will begin!’ said Cedric, striding away. Frances followed.
Springfield Lodge was not at all what Frances had imagined. The perimeter wall was so ancient and ivied it looked like the entrance to a mythical castle where one might expect to find the occupants in an enchanted slumber. The gates, however, were open; indeed, they appeared to have been wedged in that position for some years, the curls of ironwork being so brown with rust that they looked like plant stems with roughened bark growing out of the soil. The house, which must have been young when there were kings called George on the throne, was comprised of two storeys of aged and weathered stone, bounded by well-worn paths dotted with weeds. In front of it was a circular carriage drive bordered by some miserably neglected trees, surrounding a ragged patch of grass.
It wasn’t until they had passed through the gates that Frances saw the answer to the mystery of the cab.
Perambulating slowly around the drive balanced precariously atop a high-wheeler was a gentleman of advanced years and broad burly frame. He was having some difficulty in grasping the handlebars, which were hidden from his view by the protrusion of his stomach. As he laboured to turn the cranks and steer the machine along the path, he grunted and puffed with effort, his face bright red and glistening with perspiration. The rider wore the club uniform, with the same colours and badge as Cedric, although he preferred an elderly top hat to the polo cap, and sported a monocle. The picture was completed by a wildly flowing mane of grey hair, exuberantly lengthy beard and an expression of steely determination.
Limping along beside him was a youth of about eighteen, in working clothes, offering anxious guidance and prepared at any moment to save the rider from harm. Although of slender build, there was a wiry strength to him especially about the shoulders, and his sleeves, which were rolled to the elbow, revealed strong tanned forearms.
The bicycle, Frances noticed, had been provided with an extra set of wheels, each no more than four inches across, and attached by a metal rod to the centre of the back wheel. The intention of this novel device was presumably to prevent the machine tipping over, although the effect actually being produced was to restrict the speed, especially when the attachments ground into the earth, which they did often, thus making the ride harder.
‘Good afternoon, Sir Hugo!’ said Cedric, as if the sight was the most natural thing in the world. Frances now understood that the carriage drive must often be used in such a manner, and it was not therefore a place where a cabdriver would be advised to take his horse. Sir Hugo, too breathless to talk, nodded a greeting. ‘How is it going, Linnett?’ added Cedric.
Young Jack Linnett dared not take his eyes off the rider. ‘Not as well as we might like, sir.’
Sir Hugo wobbled dangerously, but struggled on and managed to make it as far as a small tree, where he flung his arms around its slender trunk and clung on. Linnett hurried up to help and was able to assist his exhausted master from the machine before man, tree and bicycle collapsed in one heap together. The fact that Sir Hugo did not seem to be alarmed by this outcome to his ride suggested to Frances that it was a frequent occurrence. ‘I think the side wheels might be made larger, what do you think, Jack?’ he gasped, labouring to regain his breath.
‘We might try that, sir,’ said Jack obligingly, though he didn’t sound convinced that this would be an improvement.
‘So, what do we have here?’ asked Sir Hugo, brushing himself down, roughly. ‘A new votary to th
e art of the wheel?’ He adjusted his monocle and stared intently at Frances, who looked at her feet.
‘My cousin Frank,’ said Cedric heartily. ‘A bashful lad, I’m afraid; we can hardly ever get a word out of him. But he would like to try it.’
‘No better way of making a man out of a boy!’ exclaimed Sir Hugo, beaming with delight. ‘Go to it. He’s a good height. There’s a fifty-two incher might suit him. Take a few turns around the drive and then put him on the road. We’ll have him in the novices’ race if he’s game.’
‘I’ll make a wheelman of him in no time,’ said Cedric.
‘That’s what I like to hear.’ Sir Hugo clapped his young assistant on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Jack, work to be done!’ He marched away pushing his unwieldy machine, with Jack limping along by his side.
‘He has a workshop where he devises all his inventions,’ Cedric explained. ‘I think it used to be the gardener’s cottage. He spends more time in there than he does in the house.’
Frances glanced around. ‘I assume there is no gardening done around here now.’
‘Not for many a year, no. There used to be a wonderful kitchen garden once,’ he added, nodding to a weather-beaten door in the perimeter wall, ‘but it’s a veritable jungle nowadays. The place is badly neglected, but still sound.’
‘Sir Hugo has no family?’
‘None that I know of. But he’s taken young Jack Linnett under his wing recently. You’d think they were grandfather and grandson sometimes. But let’s get you on a bicycle, if you still think it’s a good idea?’
Frances was having second thoughts but dared not say so. ‘I’m here now, so I had better try. After all,’ she said, making an effort to sound confident, ‘what is the worst that can happen?’
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 4