Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Ah, well, as long as I’m here to catch you when you fall off, you should be safe enough!’ said Cedric cheerily. Frances was not encouraged.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They followed the path around the side of the building, which sat squarely with venerable dignity despite its crumbling edges, and located the entrance to an old coach house, its double doors wide open and held apart by stones.

  Inside was a row of racks fashioned from bent steel rods occupied for the main part by narrow-gauge high-wheelers, but at the far end and facing the doors were two larger vehicles, a tricycle and the double-seater machine known as a sociable. Both the tricycle and the sociable sported two high wheels, one on either side, the tricycle having a single small front wheel and the sociable a small wheel both at the front and rear. Instead of pedals there was a treadle arrangement, so the feet rotated around an oddly shaped crank to turn the wheels. The seats were flat with a low back, which looked a great deal more comfortable than the hard leather wedge on which solo gentlemen bicyclists were expected to balance.

  In one corner was an assortment of poles of the kind used to mark out tracks for racing, and coils of rope were hung from a series of hooks on the wall. On the opposite side was a rail from which hung a selection of rain capes and woollen wraps, and beside it was a desk at which there sat a short, round bespectacled young man in club uniform in conversation with two other members.

  ‘Some of these machines belong to clubmen, others, including the tricycle and sociable, are available for daily hire,’ Cedric explained. He started to examine the bicycles. ‘Different sizes as you see. The longer the man’s leg the larger the wheel.’

  ‘I hope no one means to measure me,’ whispered Frances anxiously.

  ‘That would be awkward, but I fancy Sir Hugo estimated rightly, the fifty-two inch is for you.’ Cedric extracted a machine from the rack.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the bespectacled young man appearing by his side, plump hands clasped together in a gesture that suggested anxiety to please.

  ‘Ah, Toop, just the fellow. My cousin Frank is all eagerness to enter the world of the wheel and I thought to start him off with this one. Frank, this is Mr Toop, our club secretary. Always busy, always here to help any fellow bicyclist.’

  Frances, inspecting her feet once more, thought it would be rude to enquire what size wheel Mr Toop rode. She could barely imagine him keeping his balance on such a tall, narrow machine, on which he might resemble a rubber ball balanced on a stick, bobbing and bouncing this way and that. In the next moment she felt sorry for him. It was not his fault he lacked inches in height, although he ought not to have compensated by adding more about his waist than was good for him.

  ‘Delighted to meet a new wheelman in the making,’ smiled Toop. ‘This is an excellent choice. Take care now, and you’ll be a champion, yet!’

  Frances merely smiled at her feet.

  ‘He’s a bashful chap,’ explained Cedric. ‘I thought, teach him bicycling and it will improve his confidence no end!’

  ‘It will, it will,’ agreed Toop. ‘Two shillings the afternoon, that one, and if the young gentleman should wish to buy it then we can come to an arrangement with a small weekly payment.’

  Frances patted her pockets and realised to her embarrassment that her money was in her reticule, which she had necessarily left at home, but Cedric smiled and came up with the fee. Mr Toop returned to his desk, put the money in a cash tin and made a note in a ledger. The other club members had now moved away from the desk and were selecting their own machines.

  Cedric took charge of the bicycle and wheeled it outside onto the path, one hand grasping a handlebar, the other on the curved steel back, but after a few moments he stopped and said, ‘You had better get used to the weight of it. Here.’

  Frances approached and took hold of the bicycle, unsure of precisely how she should prevent it from falling over. The immediate answer to that question was that she couldn’t, and it was alarming to discover just how dangerously unstable the machine was. She marvelled that anyone without the skills of an acrobat could ever master it. As soon as Cedric released it into her grip it started to fall away from her. She managed with an effort to pull it upright and, of course, it then began to tilt towards her, and for a moment she thought she would find herself lying on the ground underneath it. Cedric remained on hand in case she needed assistance, but allowed her to get the feel of the machine for herself. Finally, Frances was able to persuade the bicycle to remain vertical and felt ready to wheel it to the front drive, an achievement in itself, as once it was in motion it developed a determined new will of its own, and seemed to be constantly trying to get away from her. At last, and by an eccentric rather than a straight route, they reached the driveway where they paused.

  ‘Well done,’ said Cedric. ‘Now, before you try and mount, just a lesson in the construction of this fine machine.’ He gestured like a connoisseur of art describing his favourite classical sculpture. ‘Notice its elegant simplicity, the solid firmness of the tyre surrounding the delicate spokes. This long curved part we call the backbone. Then there are the front forks, leading to the cranks, and pedals. The front wheel drives it; the back wheel is only for balance. Your feet go on the pedals, and one turn of the cranks means one turn of the wheel. The bigger the wheel, the further it goes. The handlebars – hold on tight, best not to let go – they control the direction. And it’s a bit of a bother if you fall off head-first, so try not to do that.’

  ‘How do I get on?’ asked Frances, since the saddle was shoulder height.

  Cedric pointed. ‘See here – there’s a little step jutting out just to the left of the back wheel. You start by standing behind the bicycle, reaching out and holding onto the handlebars, then you put one foot on the step and start it moving along by pushing against the ground with your other foot. Once it’s well and truly going, you straighten the leg that’s on the step, and give a good pull to bring yourself up into the saddle. After that you have to be quite smart about getting your feet onto the pedals, as it will go over if it isn’t moving fast enough. It’s the moving that keeps it upright.’

  ‘And how does it stop? I assume Sir Hugo’s method is not the most usual – or is it?’

  ‘Sir Hugo is not unique, but have no fear, I will demonstrate. Some bicycles have brakes to slow them down, but for a beginner they can be more trouble then they’re worth, so I selected one without.’

  Frances looked at the machine with some dismay while Cedric smiled encouragingly. ‘I have no doubt you can achieve it. But let me show you first.’

  He took the handlebars from Frances and positioned himself behind the bicycle, and then, placing his left foot on the little step, he began pushing along hard with his right. It was not the most graceful movement, especially viewed from the rear, but it did get the machine moving along, and after a few moments Cedric was able to raise himself up into the saddle and find first one and then the other pedal with his feet. Frances began to run alongside him, holding her hat onto her head in case it flew off to reveal her long hair. ‘You’ll find,’ said Cedric, a little breathlessly, ‘that when you turn the crank with the right foot the wheel wants to go left and when you turn it with the left, the wheel wants to go right. You use the handlebars to adjust the direction.’

  Frances thought it looked like an uneasy contest between man and bicycle, as if the man could only ride the machine if it allowed him to, like a lion tamer performing a show with an animal that he could not fully trust and which might turn and bite him at any moment.

  ‘When you want to get off,’ puffed Cedric, ‘it’s like getting on, only the other way about. Slow down gradually, using a little backward pressure on the pedals, but not too much so it falls over; just wait till you can get your foot down onto the step again and then hop off.’ It was a little uncertain, but Cedric managed it, and he gave a smile of triumph. ‘There! The first few times I did it I just fell off. You probably will too. We all do.’

 
‘I think I see,’ said Frances, wishing she had bandaged her elbows and knees before setting out. She was just contemplating the prospect with some concern, and wondering if she ought after all to forget what had been a foolish idea and go home, when one of the other members of the club walked past wheeling a gleaming new machine. A tall, handsome, athletically built fellow with wavy hair and a marvellous moustache, he made a brisk salute to Cedric, vaulted smoothly and effortlessly into the saddle and rode away.

  ‘Rufus Goring, club captain,’ said Cedric. ‘Now, are you ready? Or perhaps you might prefer not?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Frances.

  ‘All right. Tuck your trouser bottoms into your socks first. I’ll walk along beside you.’

  Frances adopted the awkward position as demonstrated, and uttered a silent prayer, convinced that she was on her way to broken bones and severe embarrassment. Then she began to push. And it was not quite as difficult as she had thought. The machine began to bowl along, and then, with a great effort, she drove off hard with her left foot, and pulled herself into the saddle. There were a few moments of panic as her feet sought the pedals, and the machine wobbled violently and threatened to tip over, but then, almost by chance, first her right foot and then her left found their places, and gasping with relief, she began to turn the cranks. It was only then that she became fully aware of just how high above the ground she was, and between that and the struggle to keep the machine going ahead, she began to perspire in alarm. ‘How do I turn the corner?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Use the handlebars!’ called Cedric, trotting along beside her. ‘Not too much. Smoothly. Don’t pull! You’re doing well. Keep going.’

  Frances, thankful for the hours of walking that had given strength to her long legs and exercises with Indian clubs that enabled her to direct the handlebars, rode on, doing her best to steer carefully around the curve of the carriage drive. The bicycle was, despite Cedric’s claims, a large, ungainly, heavy beast that constantly fought against Frances’ best efforts at control. A number of times the wayward machine threatened to career off the drive into the trees, and once this was corrected, it decided rebelliously to try veering off in the other direction into the long grass, but each time she managed to persuade it to do as she asked, and eventually she began to feel more comfortable and was able to make the small adjustments necessary to follow the centre of the path. The saddle, creaking on its springs, was an uncomfortable ridge of hard leather where she might not have wanted it, but she supposed that she could get used to it.

  Gradually she became more accustomed to the ride, and began to find the rhythm of the pedals, the grind of metal and the crunch of dry earth under the tyres almost calming. The sensation was like nothing else she had ever experienced; she was facing directly into the world ahead, with nothing before her; it was as if she was floating in the air like a cloud, or flying like a bird. She risked glancing about her, and saw Cedric trotting by her side, grinning broadly.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  This was it, Frances realised, the freedom that men talked about, riding the steel beast that needed little stabling and no feed, such a simple machine but one that held the promise of the open road, the delights of the countryside, clean fresh air to invigorate the body, and, most importantly, independent travel. So, ladies couldn’t ride the high-wheeler, could they? Miss Dauntless could and now Miss Doughty could, too.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ she declared.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Frances continued her unpredictable ride around the circular carriage drive, she found that every moment in which she was able to advance without actually falling off the bicycle served to increase her confidence. She felt sure that with sufficient practice she could manage to tame it, and create a willing servant out of a creature that was currently planning mutiny.

  She had still to achieve the art of dismounting, an exercise that was a hard blow to her new-found assurance. On her first attempt she was unable to find the step with her foot, and the machine tilted over. She would have crashed to the ground if Cedric had not moved up and caught her, supporting the bicycle so it did not fall on top of her. ‘You were almost there,’ he said, as she paused to get her breath back.

  She could see that he was waiting for her to say she would like to end the lesson for the day but something, she hardly knew what, made her go on. She nodded. ‘Thank you, I think I know what I did wrong.’ She took hold of the bicycle, pushed off again and mounted, moving off with an alarming display of instability that nearly sent her into the trees before she managed to gain control. A second failure to dismount safely only added to her determination, and once again Cedric was there to save her from injury. This time, no sooner had she got her feet to the ground than she dragged the recalcitrant machine upright again and propelled it forward for another try. On her third attempt she finally found the little step, and dismounted without assistance.

  ‘Oh bravo, Frank, well done!’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘I’ll swear you are a wheelman born and bred. Might I perhaps suggest that that is sufficient for the first lesson?’

  ‘Just a little longer,’ she said. ‘I want to be sure that I can do it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Frances repeated the mounting and dismounting twice more without accident, upon which Cedric clapped her on the shoulder in brotherly fashion, and they both laughed with happiness and relief.

  Frances was allowing herself a brief rest when a thought occurred to her. She had brought the map of East Acton with her and now she took it from her pocket and unfolded it. Having already noted the site of the murder of Morton Vance, she knew that it was a short walk or an even quicker bicycle ride away. ‘As I am here, I want to go and look at the place where Morton Vance was killed,’ she said.

  Cedric was clearly surprised by this announcement. ‘Oh? Have you been asked to investigate that? Surely not? Or is this just your curiosity getting the better of you?’ He tilted a warning eyebrow. ‘It has been known.’

  ‘I admit it is the latter. I can never keep away from cases of murder however hard I try, and I thought – as we are so near – I would like to see for myself where it happened.’

  Cedric grinned. ‘Wait here, I’ll get my bicycle and we’ll ride there together. It’s a bumpy track, not nearly as forgiving as the driveway, and you’ll need someone with you.’

  He was back soon, with a shiny new machine of which he was clearly extremely proud and regaled Frances in some detail on the subject of patented adjustable ball bearings before taking the lead on their ride. ‘I won’t go too fast, stay close, and I’ll call out first if I mean to stop.’

  They rode out through the gnarled brown gates and turned east, travelling along East Acton Lane in the direction of Old Oak Common Lane. Although it was worrying to be elevated to some seven feet or more in height while perched on top of a barely controllable machine, Frances found that her position also enabled her to appreciate her surroundings in a way that a carriage ride could never allow. She could see over walls into the flower gardens of the manor houses, past cottages to open fields of wheat ripe for harvest, and into orchards where rows of trees promised an abundance of autumn fruit. Every view was a new and unexpected pleasure, with the notable exception of the waving expanse of tall faded weeds in what had once been Sir Hugo’s kitchen garden.

  ‘There’s a sharp right up ahead,’ called Cedric, ‘just after this row of cottages. We’ll be passing over the culvert of Stamford Brook; that’s the old waterway, it was covered over when they made it part of the drainage system, so take extra care as that’s a difficult ride; you’ll need more weight on the pedals to get over the bump, then we turn south down the lane. After that it’s just a mile or so to the farm entrance.’

  Frances had to concentrate far harder than before to steer her bicycle over the uneven track. It was some time before she dared look around her again and was rewarded with a wonderful view over a hedgerow and across open fields. It was near enough a year after
the death of Morton Vance and she thought the weather had then been much as it was now, a bright and sunny August after a cool wet July.

  ‘Slow down!’ called Cedric.

  They both gradually slowed. Cedric dismounted and Frances followed suit. As they wheeled their machines forward all was quiet apart from the sound of rubber on earth and the creak of rotating cranks. ‘See there,’ said Cedric. He was pointing to a wooden stake painted white driven into the edge of the ditch on the left. ‘The club had that put in specially to warn members against the approach to a blind corner.’

  ‘Was that there when Morton Vance was killed?’

  ‘Good question. It ought to have been. I was told that when it was first put in old Linnett used to uproot it and throw it away, but the members kept putting in a new one. He stopped doing it after the police spoke to him. But I understand that it wasn’t there on that day so maybe he had started up his old tricks again.’

  ‘And the entrance to the farm is near? It certainly can’t be seen from here.’

  ‘Yes. Just around the corner. It’s not used for pigs any more. I think pig farming is going out of fashion in the area, there used to be several farms but there’s only the one left now, a mile or two further north, near Wormwood Scrubs. Linnett only rented his.’

  Frances wheeled her bicycle forward. The hedgerows were thickly grown, but she thought the new occupant of the farm must have given them enough of a trim for vehicles to go past unimpeded. ‘I wonder if the hedgerows were like this last year?’

  ‘I don’t think Linnett ever cut them. He wasn’t about to trouble himself for passing bicyclists; in fact, he enjoyed contributing to a nuisance. Anything he could do to hinder the wheelmen, he did. The club members had to trim the hedges back just to be able to ride past.’

  As they moved forward, they found the bend in the lane, too small to trouble a mapmaker, which concealed the farm entrance. Here the road was marked by wheel prints leading through an open gateway into a yard surrounded by low outbuildings, a ramshackle cottage, stables and sagging barns. ‘It doesn’t look occupied. Does anyone live here now?’