Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  From this new vantage Frances could now look down into the shadows of the cottage, and saw what at first she took to be a pile of clothing but then with a gasp recognised the shape of a man lying on the floor. ‘There’s a body in here!’

  ‘Oh Lord, no! Is it Sir Hugo?’

  ‘I don’t know – he’s in club uniform, I think. It’s hard to see.’

  ‘Shall we fetch help?’

  ‘Not yet. For all I know this is a dummy figure Sir Hugo is using to test inventions.’

  ‘I’ll help you down and take a look. If we think it is Sir Hugo we will have to break the lock and fetch assistance.’

  Frances knew full well that she had already far overstepped the bounds of her instructions but felt justified to continue if there was a possibility of a life in danger. And she did so want to see how she would manage this adventure in her new divided skirt. ‘No, stay there, I can see where I can get in.’ She climbed onto the window ledge, balancing awkwardly on her toes and holding onto the edge of the eaves with one hand, and began to pull away the rubber sheeting. Fortunately, it came away easily, the nails popping from their holes. Reaching forward she grasped an exposed wooden roof beam and pulled herself up, first with one hand and then both.

  ‘What are you doing?’ called Cedric. ‘Frances, be careful!’

  ‘There’s a hole in the roof. I think I can get in that way.’ Frances wriggled onto the roof, which had very little elevation, bracing her feet on the upper lintel of the window and then the eaves. At last she was able to put her feet through the gap that had appeared, pushing any extraneous skirt material aside, and then, holding onto the beam, she eased herself through, slipping into the building, and, after hanging by her hands for a moment, dropped the short distance to the floor. Outside she heard Cedric’s scrambling efforts to follow her.

  She knelt by the figure on the floor half expecting it to be a thing of wood and cloth, but to her astonishment it was a warm living man, not Sir Hugo, but someone taller and of far more slender build. He gasped and moaned as she touched him, and as her eyes grew used to the dim room she saw that he had a sack over his head, and there was a rag bound tightly over his mouth to prevent speech. His hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were also secured, and she discovered with some alarm that he had been trussed not with cord, but some kind of wire, wound very tightly, the bonds cutting into his flesh. She couldn’t be sure how long he had been there, but she knew he had to be freed as soon as possible if some permanent damage was not to result. As he struggled, using his whole body to writhe, she realised that it was this movement, causing the rough ends of the wire to scrape and tap against the floor, that had made the slight noises they had heard.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Cedric, dropping to the floor beside her.

  ‘I don’t know. Look around. We need something to cut the wire.’

  ‘No! Wait, before we do anything that might be unwise. I mean, for all we know this fellow could be the most horrid villain. Perhaps he was caught committing a crime and has been put here to keep him from escaping while the police are being brought to take him away.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Frances, although another thought was forming. ‘But I think I know who he might be, and I want to question him.’ The room was understandably musty, and there was the harsh smell of a workshop; metal, oil, rubber, grease, but she had detected as she bent over the man a quite different aroma, one that was altogether more familiar to her, that of Gentleman’s Premium Ivory Cleansing Soap, gentler and more masculine than Cedric’s favoured cologne.

  Cedric grunted. ‘Very well. But we must be careful. If he starts any rough business, or calls for his associates, you must let me deal with him.’ He knelt beside the figure. ‘You, fellow. Now listen to me. We will take away the gag so you can answer questions, but if you shout out it will be the worse for you, do you understand?’

  The figure nodded, and Cedric, with noticeable reluctance, untied the knotted rag.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Frances.

  The unknown man blew the sacking from his mouth. ‘Gideon,’ he croaked.

  Frances turned to Cedric. ‘Untie him. You’ll need something to cut the wire. Be very careful. Don’t hurt him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Cedric demanded.

  ‘Yes, I am quite sure. Please, no more delay.’

  ‘Then you know him?’

  ‘I suppose I do, in a way. And he is a friend. That much I am certain of.’

  Cedric shrugged and looked about for the tool he needed. Frances helped the man sit up and pulled the sack from his head. Dark straight hair, worn long, tumbled over his face. ‘You’re Mr Grove,’ she whispered, and he nodded.

  ‘Ah, just the thing,’ said Cedric, returning with a wire cutter and making short work of the metal twined about Grove’s wrists and ankles.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grove. He rubbed life back into his fingers and flexed them cautiously, then ran his hands through his hair, pushed it back from his face and looked up.

  Frances took a step back and clasped a hand to her mouth. Cedric stared. ‘I say – isn’t that – isn’t he —?’

  Mr W. Grove, author of the Miss Dauntless stories, also known as government agent Gideon, gave a rueful smile. ‘The Filleter, yes. And I can see I have a great deal of explaining to do.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Frances could only look on in astonished silence. The man before her was, or had once been, the Filleter, of that she was certain. The resemblance could not be denied; the aquiline face and piercing dark eyes held no doubts for her, but that individual had been dirty and repellent, with blackened teeth, filthy hair, and a softly sneering, threatening voice. Mr Grove was an altogether different man, clean and tidy in his person, any slight disarray in his appearance solely due to the ordeal he had recently suffered. Most importantly, he showed no evidence of ever having been crushed almost to death in a roof fall. ‘I think I understand,’ she said at last.

  ‘We can’t trust this fellow just because he has had a bath!’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘He’s a known assassin! Frances, get some rope or wire, we need to tie him up and fetch the police! Don’t worry, I’ll protect you! And you, sir, stay exactly where you are, don’t move, or you will have to deal with me! I have been trained by Professor Pounder himself!’ He adopted a pugilistic stance.

  Frances placed a firm hand on Cedric’s arm. ‘We must trust him,’ she said steadily. ‘Please believe me. This is Mr Grove. I told you about him. He saved my life once.’

  ‘And now you have saved mine,’ said Grove. ‘For which I heartily thank you.’

  Cedric hesitated, and Grove risked standing up, although he kept a wary eye on Cedric as he did so. As the Filleter he had adopted a crouching posture, but now he stood straight, wincing a little. Recovering his club cap from the floor, he eased it on to his head with some care. There was blood on his wrists and cuffs where the wire had cut into his skin, but the stout bicycling socks had prevented similar damage to his ankles. ‘I think the only reason you found me alive is that the men who trapped me here are intending to return and question me later, and I have little doubt as to how that would have ended. But let us go.’ He glanced at the door. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘We climbed through the roof,’ said Frances.

  Grove smiled. ‘Naturally you did. Then we will leave the same way. If my captors return to check that the building is undisturbed they will see it apparently secure.’

  ‘Who captured you?’ asked Frances.

  ‘I wish I knew. The memory may come back to me.’ He made a quick scan of the interior. ‘You don’t see any books bound in red leather by any chance? Sir Hugo’s notebooks. He does keep them in here.’

  ‘They’re not here now,’ said Cedric sternly. ‘I saw them once, they were on the workbench.’

  ‘As I feared, stolen,’ said Grove. He patted his pockets and frowned. ‘And that’s not all that was taken.’ He set a stool in place under the hole in the roof, and prepared
to climb out. ‘Is Sir Hugo safe?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Frances. ‘He didn’t appear at the race meeting and we were concerned and came here to look for him. He had told his housekeeper that he intended to go London on business this morning, and would be back by eleven. It is past that now.’

  ‘That is very worrying indeed,’ said Grove. ‘He is in grave danger and we must try and find him. There are messengers I can send to London to report what we know, but I must stay here and do what I can.’ He climbed up onto the stool and peered through the hole in the roof. ‘All clear, but we must be quick!’ With great agility he pulled himself up onto the roof then leaned down. ‘Miss Doughty, give me your hand and I will assist you.’

  Frances had no hesitation. She reached up and took his hand, which for all its slenderness was very strong, and, blessing the day that she had adopted the divided skirt, stepped nimbly up onto the stool, and was able to wriggle through the gap in the roof. Cedric followed, and by helping each other, all were able to reach the ground safely. As a last act, before descending from the roof, Grove folded the rubber sheet back over the gap in the tiles, and pushed the nails back in place with his fist, so their method of exit was not obvious.

  ‘Have you looked in the coach house?’

  ‘It’s padlocked, I’m afraid,’ said Frances. ‘The whole house is locked up. We did look in the old kitchen garden, and there was an abandoned velocipede there, with initials scratched on it, EDW. It’s been there for some time. Does that mean anything?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘There was no sign that anyone has been there recently.’

  Grove nodded. ‘The coach house, then. A padlock will not present any difficulty.’ They followed him along the path. ‘Incidentally, I must congratulate you on your costume, Miss Doughty. Both practical and charming.’

  Frances hardly knew what to say, and murmured a modest thank you. She suddenly realised that she was still wearing the trouser fasteners and hastily removed them and put them in her reticule. Cedric still bore an expression of extreme distrust. He was not, fortunately, one of those men who felt that he ought to be the leader of any group, but he continued to regard Grove with suspicion, and the other’s immediate assumption of leadership did not assist that situation.

  Frances knew that she could not tell Cedric about Grove/Gideon’s true status, that he was undoubtedly a government agent; that would be for the man himself to disclose, and she was happy for him to take the lead since he clearly knew more about the mission than she did.

  At the coach house Grove produced a tiny lock-pick from his cuff and made short work of the padlocks. Opening the double doors, they found the machines gone, which was to be expected as they had all been taken to the field, and the secretary’s desk was bare. Frances looked in the desk drawers and found only an older notebook, a record of hire for the previous year. Out of curiosity, she examined the pages to see if any machines had been hired out on the day of Morton Vance’s murder, and found the record blank.

  ‘How did you come to be in the workshop?’ she asked Grove, as the coach house was re-locked.

  ‘I was looking for Sir Hugo, as I wanted to warn him to be on his guard. I heard a voice inviting me in, and thought it was his. I was attacked from behind as I entered. I should have been more careful. It was a serious mistake and I can promise you it won’t happen again.’

  Cedric coughed gently. ‘Frances, my dear, I seem to recall you telling me that you were instructed by whoever it was who hired you for this mission to go home at the first hint of any danger. Now it strikes me that there has been more than just a hint. So I propose that I should now go and hire a cab and take you home.’

  Frances hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I want to leave just yet,’ she said. ‘And as for danger – didn’t they mean danger to me?’

  ‘Any danger at all, I would have thought,’ said Cedric earnestly. ‘Please let me take you home. If anything happened to you I would never forgive myself.’

  ‘It’s a matter of interpretation,’ said Frances, stubbornly. ‘And we still haven’t found Sir Hugo. Three of us will search for him better than one. Mr Grove, I assume the locked doors of the lodge will be no obstacle to you?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Grove. They walked on, and Cedric, sighing with frustration but clearly unwilling to abandon Frances, brought up the rear.

  Frances had the slightly heady feeling of being in an unreal situation, as if she was wandering in a strange dream, or taking part in a play where she was obliged to act out a role that was not herself. How could she be talking so calmly to this man, rather a tall man she happened to notice, and quite handsome in an unusual kind of way, who had been both her bold saviour and the one person she had always wanted to avoid? At least the fact that Mr Grove did not have the Filleter’s characteristic stench of the dung heap, and his teeth appeared to be both sound and white, was a great help in her acceptance of his true identity.

  She decided that she would find it easier to keep her equilibrium if she tried not to look at him and devoted all her attention to the current emergency. All the same there were too many memories of their last encounter, both good and bad, and they were hard to suppress altogether.

  As she had expected, Grove had no difficulty in opening the side door of Springfield Lodge, and they entered the house, finding a set of stairs down to the basement kitchen and a narrow corridor. The kitchen door was open, showing that it was empty. It was well kept and tidy, but only modestly stocked with foodstuffs. The room yielded no further information and they passed along the passage, which opened into a large hallway.

  ‘Not all of the rooms in the house are in use,’ said Cedric. ‘About half of them, I think. Sir Hugo uses the breakfast room for all his meals, and then there is the drawing room where the club members meet and we have tea after the club rides.’ He pointed to two doors on the other side of the hall, both of which were glazed. They peered inside, but both rooms looked unoccupied. The drawing room was comfortable in the way that an old cracked and familiar chair was comfortable, cosy with faded draperies and antiquated lamps.

  In the breakfast room was a long plain table with a set of old dining chairs and a sideboard. One of the chairs was out of place, set back from the table, as if recently vacated by someone who had not troubled to put it back in line with its fellows. On the table was an unused plate, and a tray covered with a cloth. Frances drew back the cloth to reveal a half loaf of bread, a round of cheese, and two hardboiled eggs. ‘This is Sir Hugo’s breakfast,’ said Frances. ‘Mrs Pirrie told me she had put it out for him so he could eat before he went to London, but she also said that she had made a pan of coffee and left it ready for him to warm. There is neither pan nor cup to be seen either here or in the kitchen. And his breakfast is uneaten. I don’t know if Sir Hugo ever meant to go to London but even if he planned to, I don’t think he did.’

  The remaining ground-floor rooms held only old furniture covered in dustsheets, and yielded no more clues. The little party progressed up a wide set of carpeted stairs. Frances noticed that Cedric was still keeping a wary eye on Mr Grove, and knew it was for her sake. She had endured a great deal in the last two years, and he was a kind friend who had always been there to help and support her. To see her ally herself with a man he was only familiar with as a wanted murderer must have been disturbing to say the least.

  They arrived at a long landing with a series of solid closed doors. ‘These rooms are always kept available for visiting members of the Bicycle Touring Club,’ said Cedric, ‘but if there are any members staying here at present they will be at the race meeting.’

  Grove turned to Frances and spoke softly. ‘Please stand back. Unless, of course, you have a gun.’

  ‘Really,’ muttered Cedric, ‘whatever would Frances be doing with a gun?’

  Frances had once held the Filleter captive with a gun she had borrowed from Miss John, enabling Sarah to pin him to the ground with her knee and tie him up with a Women�
�s Suffrage ribbon. She suspected that Grove was gently teasing her, and smiled. ‘I don’t have one,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘A pity, they have stolen mine. Well, let me go first. Mr Garton, please be on hand if there are any surprises.’ Without pausing to see Cedric’s response, Grove very quietly opened the first door, peering in cautiously to establish that it was unoccupied before entering. Once he knew it was safe, he beckoned the others, and they followed. It was a plainly furnished bedroom with the usual amenities, and a travelling bag and a set of pyjamas showed that it was currently being used by a gentleman visitor. They made a brief search, but there was nothing to discover. One by one the rooms were examined in this manner. All were unlocked and provided no useful information except for the last, which was locked.

  Grove listened at the door. ‘Can you hear anything?’ asked Cedric.

  Grove shook his head. ‘All the same, why should this one be locked and not the others?’ He produced his lock-pick and after few seconds a soft click told them they could enter. ‘And now we must all be very careful.’ He turned the handle slowly and it gave noiselessly, without resistance. He pushed the door open just enough to look inside, and gave a sharp intake of breath. Carefully, he swung the door open, until it was certain that no one could be lurking behind it, then he entered the room.

  It was a simply furnished gentleman’s bedroom. Stretched across the bed, fully clothed, his face deathly pale, mouth agape, was Sir Hugo Daffin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN