‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to take action against Ross-Fielder?’
‘No, I can’t. He’s a most inoffensive type.’
‘No one with the same initials or a similar looking machine?’
‘No.’
‘What about the man who attacked Ross-Fielder’s father? Robert Coote. I know he’s in prison, but he might have associates.’ Even as she spoke, Frances thought back to her reading of the trial. Coote, it had been said, was an orphan, and he had been brought to court unsupported by any family or friends. It was a curious mystery, but she had no further ideas to offer. Perhaps she would find out more later.
Cedric Garton and his cousin Frank rode west through the village of East Acton, then turned south, past the smithy, a small school, and the outbuildings of Manor Farm. They were soon in the outskirts of Acton proper, turning to head west again, past some enclosed lands, the little railway station, and bumping over the bridge that crossed the North and South Western junction line. The streets were narrow with houses and shops ranged tightly against each other on either side, and there was enough horse traffic to ensure that anyone on a bicycle needed to proceed with caution. The riders took care to slow down when passing any horses, and the animals were only a little unsettled, suggesting that they were beginning to get accustomed to bicycles even if they didn’t precisely approve of them.
Circling around a walled estate they turned north up Horn Lane. This moderately well peopled route bought them to the bridge crossing the Great Western Railway line, and Willesden Lane.
Here they stopped briefly to consult a map. ‘Do any of the club members live along this route?’ asked Frances.
‘I don’t believe so.’ After some study it was agreed that the route most probably taken by Morton Vance on the day of his death did not take him near to the homes or places of work of any fellow members of the BBC.
They remounted and rode on, reaching at last the northern end of Old Oak Common Lane. It was a slow ride from there as Frances was still not skilled enough over the rough pathway, having to take especial care to avoid ditches on one side and the culvert of Stamford Brook on the other, with the added dangers of cast-iron access plates for the drains. It was as they turned into the narrow path over the common that they began to see unusual activity. A number of uniformed men were walking in a line, spreading out, looking in ditches and hedgerows, exploring clumps of trees and prodding suspicious looking bushes with sticks.
‘Well here’s a thing!’ said Cedric. ‘I wonder what’s afoot?’
The dark drab uniforms suggested at first that these were policemen but Frances noticed that they wore peaked caps instead of helmets, and thick key-chains were attached to their belts. ‘Those aren’t police,’ she said. ‘They’re prison officers. They must be from Wormwood Scrubs.’
One of the men approached them, looking rather hot and worried, and signalled that he wanted to speak. They slowed and dismounted.
‘Have you seen anyone behaving suspiciously, sir?’ asked the man.
‘No, my cousin and I were just taking the fresh air on this fine day,’ said Cedric heartily. ‘What should we be on the lookout for?’
‘Prisoner escaped from the Scrubs,’ said the man. ‘Violent type, too, so I suggest you take care. If you see a young man with a shaven head, and wearing a suit with broad arrows on it, don’t approach him. Stay well clear, remember where you saw him, and tell us or the police at once.’
‘We will,’ said Cedric. The guard passed a hand over his sweating brow and trudged away.
Frances and Cedric mounted their bicycles and continued on their way. ‘Poor fellows,’ said Cedric. ‘I mean the prisoners. It’s bad enough to shut them away for their crimes, but they work them like slaves, too. Can’t blame a man for making a break for it.’
They rode south cautiously, looking about them, but saw nothing to alert their attention. ‘Is this a frequent occurrence?’ asked Frances. ‘Was there a prison escape when Morton Vance was killed? I don’t recall seeing anything in the newspapers.’
‘I’m sure it would have been mentioned at the trial. This is the first such incident I have heard of since I joined the club.’
Police officers had come to swell the numbers of prison guards, and the men were fanning out across the fields, which had been recently shorn of their wheat and were dotted with bundles of hay, but there was no sign of a desperate figure leaping out of the hedgerows or outbuildings or from behind a hay bale, and making a sudden run. The two riders reached the turn into East Acton Lane without further incident, and headed back to the lodge. The first thing they saw was the police.
Frances, aware that it might go badly for her if she was discovered to be a female dressed as a male, gave a little gasp and hesitated, then decided to brave it out. ‘I’ll do the talking,’ said Cedric as they dismounted and rolled the bicycles back to the coach house. A sergeant was talking to Ross-Fielder who was looking distraught, and Sir Hugo and Mr Toop were standing nearby with serious expressions.
A constable approached Cedric. ‘Good afternoon sir? Might I have your name?’
‘Cedric Garton, I am a member of the club and this is my cousin, Frank Williamson. I am teaching him to ride.’
‘Have you been in the area of Wormwood Scrubs at all today?’
‘We were there just now, and saw a number of police and prison officers looking for an escaped convict. I’m sorry to say that we saw nothing that could help you. Is the man still at large?’
‘I’m afraid so. We’re asking all members of the public to look out for him, but not to approach him if he is seen. Just notify the police at once.’
‘We’ll be sure to do that,’ said Cedric. ‘I do hope he is found soon.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the constable and rejoined the sergeant, who closed his notebook and bid Ross-Fielder farewell. Cedric and Frances took their bicycles back to the coach house. Once alone there Frances said, ‘I am not a great believer in coincidences. That is, they may happen occasionally but I do not like it when they occur too often. It is very strange that we have an escaped convict and damage to Ross-Fielder’s bicycle on the same day.’
‘You have such a devious mind, Frank, I commend you for it.’
Frances thought it over and shook her head. ‘Even so, it makes no sense to me. If the escaped man came here, he would surely have been seen in such distinctive clothing. And why damage a bicycle? Why not steal one and make his escape? He could have put on one of those capes as a disguise.’ Frances examined the row of capes at the back of the coach house, but all the hooks were occupied.
Ross-Fielder came in, sighing, accompanied by Toop. ‘I will hire a bicycle to go home, I have not finished checking over mine, but I need to go and see father at once.’
‘Take whichever one you like,’ said Toop. ‘No charge. It’s really the least we can do.’
Ross-Fielder went to fetch a bicycle, while Toop noted the hire of the machine in his ledger.
‘Very bad business, his machine being attacked like that,’ said Cedric. ‘Upsetting. But I am sure it can be mended without any trouble.’
‘Oh yes, young Linnett can see to it, and it will be as good as new in no time,’ said Toop. ‘No, the circumstance that particularly distresses our friend is the identity of the escaped criminal. It’s Coote, the same reprobate who attacked his father; that is why he is hurrying home, to be with him. The police have already advised the Reverend Ross-Fielder of possible danger, but understandably the son wishes to fly to his side to reassure himself that all is well.’
‘Oh my word!’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘Do you think it could have been Coote who damaged the bicycle?’
‘Well now, I hadn’t thought of that. The coach house has been open since this morning with men going back and forth, and one can’t keep an eye open for all possibilities. I know we have not seen a man in convict’s uniform, but he might have had a friend who could have lent him some clothes. Oh dear, oh dear.’ Toop too
k a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and passed it across his forehead.
‘If it is he, then I doubt he’ll be back,’ said Cedric. ‘He’ll want to get away as far and as fast as he can.’
Frances tugged at Cedric’s sleeve and whispered.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Cedric. ‘That’s a thought. Are there any machines missing?’
‘You think he might have stolen one?’ gasped Toop. ‘Yes, of course, so he might. Oh how terrible for this to happen now! I shall have to check and see. But, of course, we won’t know for certain until all the members are back.’ Toop groaned and hurried away.
‘What does the noted detective say?’ asked Cedric.
Frances considered this. ‘It’s like opening a box of puzzles and being told that I am not to try and solve any of them.’
‘And now I am worried,’ said Cedric.
CHAPTER TWELVE
During the next few days, as Frances prepared for her visit to the race meeting of the Bayswater Bicycle Club, she made a further study of the circumstances of Morton Vance’s murder. She had often observed that some newspaper reports were better than others. The time available, the column space, the skill of the correspondent, and the vagaries of shorthand all led to slightly differing accounts of the same event. Vital information included in one description could be entirely omitted from another. Additionally, she had found that small details might only be mentioned once, at the inquest, or the subsequent committal proceedings, or the trial, so for the fullest possible picture she needed to gather all available information from all sources, and put them together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Her main concern was to discover whether another member of the club could have been riding down Old Oak Common Lane at the same time as Morton Vance. None of the witnesses could be precise about any of the timings, except that a lady who had been tending her garden at the very northern end of Old Oak Common Lane had told the inquest that she had seen a bicyclist who resembled Morton Vance pass her by, going south, and it had then been a little after five o’clock. He had been going at a leisurely speed, and gave no signs of anxiety. A few minutes later she had returned indoors to prepare for visitors, and it was for that reason she had glanced at her mantel clock, which she knew to tell the correct time. The clock showed ten minutes past five. She had not seen another bicyclist.
Frances, having ridden the route, knew that if that rider had been Morton Vance he would have reached the place where he was murdered about five minutes after being seen, assuming that he had not paused on the way.
Henry Ross-Fielder had told the inquest that he could not recall exactly what time he had left his home in Holland Park for his ride, but he thought it would have been after five o’clock. He had not been intending to go to East Acton at all, but take a circular route that did not go through the village, and return home. When he had found the body, no one else was in sight. He had stopped to see if there was any assistance he could give, but it had taken him very little time to realise that there was no hope for Vance, and he had ridden as hard as he could to arrive in East Acton, where he arrived just as the clock of St Dunstan’s Church was striking the half hour.
It followed, thought Frances, that Morton Vance must have been killed between five o’clock and half past, and most probably during the fifteen minutes between ten past and twenty-five past the hour.
Frances turned to other accounts of where the club members had been that afternoon. They had assembled at Springfield Lodge at half past three, and after a brief meeting set off in line for the club ride at about a quarter to four. The only members who were not with them on that run were Ross-Fielder, Morton Vance who, they were told, had been delayed at his office, and Mr Toop, who had remained at the lodge in charge of the coach house. Phineas Vance had said that he didn’t think his brother would be joining them for the ride so they didn’t wait, and had gone without him. In the event, Morton Vance had arrived at the coach house unexpectedly at about a quarter past four and taken his bicycle out, saying that he expected to be back within the hour. This, thought Frances, fitted well with the sighting of the rider thought to be Vance at the top of Old Oak Common Lane shortly after five.
The club riders had returned to the lodge at about five o’clock. After putting their bicycles away, they had gone indoors to wash their faces and enjoy a light tea, which was prepared for them by Mrs Pirrie. There were two exceptions to this. Mr Toop, whose mother was unwell, had left to visit her as soon as the others returned, and the club’s professional racer, Paul Iliffe, saying he needed to make some adjustments to his bicycle, had volunteered to look after the coach house in his place. Mrs Pirrie had sent Waterfield out to him with a cup of tea and sandwiches. She hadn’t made a note of the time, but it would have been about the same time as the other young men sat down to their tea, perhaps ten or at most fifteen minutes past five o’clock.
Waterfield confirmed that he had taken tea and a plate to Iliffe and had a brief conversation with him before returning indoors. Not long afterwards, Ross-Fielder had ridden up to the lodge, found Iliffe in the coach house, and given the alarm.
All the club members who had been on the weekly ride were therefore in the lodge having tea at the time of Vance’s murder, apart from Iliffe, who had been in the coach house where he was seen by both Waterfield and Ross-Fielder. Toop had told the inquest that he could not recall whether or not he had mentioned to Iliffe that while they were on their ride Morton Vance had arrived and taken his bicycle out, but on the whole he thought that in his eagerness to get home he might have forgotten.
It seemed likely, thought Frances, that all the club members apart from Toop had assumed that Vance was not out riding at all. Even if someone had known, it was unlikely that he would have set out on purpose to intercept him, since no one could possibly have known precisely where he would be at any moment, and an individual’s absence would have been noticed. If Vance had encountered another rider, either a bicyclist or a horseman, it was most probably pure chance. She wondered briefly if there had been some prior agreement between Vance and another man to rendezvous in secret, and Vance’s supposed lateness had simply been a device to allow time for the meeting, a meeting that had ended with a race, or even a flight, down Old Oak Common Lane. Whoever that unknown pursuer was, he could not have been a member of the club. There was insufficient time for Iliffe to leave the coach house unattended and go out to meet Vance, Toop was not a racing man, and all the other members were together having their tea.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
During the days that followed there was no further news of the escaped convict Coote. The newspapers carried reports of the incident, recalling the circumstances of his crime and conviction, and offered words of sympathy for the Reverend Ross-Fielder. He replied graciously that he had already forgiven his attacker, and declined to make any further comment.
Interviews with those who resided near to the prison revealed only mystification. No one claimed to have seen the escaped man, neither had anyone loaned any form of transport to a stranger. Coote had simply disappeared.
Cedric informed Frances that a careful survey by the members of the Bayswater Bicycle Club had confirmed that no machines had been stolen from the Springfield Lodge coach house, from which he assumed that if Coote had been there he must have left on foot. The prevailing point of view in the club was that the damage to Ross-Fielder’s machine was nothing to do with the escaped convict.
There was one other fact that Frances needed to check with Cedric – Mr Toop’s excuse for leaving the coach house early on the day of Morton Vance’s murder. All that Cedric could say was that he could quite believe this since Toop’s mother had passed away some four months ago after a long illness.
The newspapers included one paragraph that Frances found extremely disturbing.
The betrothal has been announced of Mr Timothy Wheelock, to Leonora, eldest daughter of Henry Marsden the well-known Bayswater solicitor. Mr Wheelock has recently completed his articl
es and after taking the Law Society examinations has been admitted to practise as a solicitor. He has also become a junior partner of his future father-in-law’s practice, which will be formally changing its name to Marsden and Wheelock. Mr Wheelock is 25 and Miss Marsden 16. The wedding will take place next spring.
Frances’ concerns were all for the unfortunate Miss Marsden, almost certainly an innocent pawn in a very calculated game. Timothy Wheelock had been the confidential clerk of her former solicitor Mr Rawsthorne, who was currently serving a prison sentence for the embezzlement of his clients’ funds, including those of her own father. On the death of William Doughty, Frances, his only surviving child, had been expecting to inherit the chemist’s business on Westbourne Grove, however, it was not to be. Rawsthorne, who William had trusted and counted as a personal friend of many years standing, had brazenly informed Frances that her fortune was gone. He had blamed the situation on her father’s previously unsuspected habit of gambling on the stock exchange, which had proved disastrous. She had always believed Rawsthorne to be an honest guardian of the family finances, and it had never occurred to her that he was telling her anything other than the facts. It was only recently, and through information supplied by Wheelock that she had discovered the horrible truth.
It had been a devastating blow to lose her inheritance, but it was the circumstance that had set her life on its present course. The business had been sold to pay debts and she had been left with almost nothing. Faced with the options of accepting the charity of an uncle, making a grim loveless marriage, or becoming a professional detective, she had made the hardest choice and had never regretted it. In a curious way the disaster had been the making of her. Rawsthorne’s descent into disgrace and bankruptcy had given her no pleasure, but she did feel a great sense of satisfaction in knowing that all she currently possessed she had earned herself.
Wheelock was a thoroughly unpleasant young man who sailed so close to illegal practice and blackmail that he was frequently in danger of falling over the edge, yet always found himself able to escape what would have been a well-deserved fate. The secret of his advancement was the careful preservation of information that he could use against others. He did not care for Frances but neither did he dislike her, and regarded her with wary respect. It was due to her that he had avoided being charged with the murder of his former wife, and to his way of thinking he was in her debt. Frances usually tried to have nothing to do with him, but their fortunes collided with uncomfortable frequency.
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 9