There were a few sighs and murmurs. Miss Farrow could hardly have looked unhappier if it had been a close relative whose murder had delayed her betrothal announcement. ‘Please try something,’ pleaded George, who was finding the duty of looking after his sister somewhat irksome. ‘If only a little sip. It would do you good.’
Miss Farrow made a great deal of dramatic play over waving a lace handkerchief before her eyes. ‘It is all just too terrible!’
‘Adela, I know it is inconvenient, but really there will be time enough to make the announcement. It’s not as if the wedding is next week. And it will be in the newspapers very soon.’
Miss Farrow refused to be comforted. ‘But it was my dear Rufus’s special day!’ she wailed. ‘The giving of the sportsmanship cup!’
‘I know, I know,’ said her brother, grimly, patting her hand rather roughly and without any enthusiasm for the process.
‘I will fetch you a nice pot of tea,’ said Frances.
‘Please do,’ said the gentleman, with the implication that sipping tea would at least quieten his sister’s repeated protests.
When Frances returned to the kitchen, Mrs Easton was contemplating a tray of sliced cake for which no one seemed to have an appetite, and Sarah was filling teapots from the kettle. Mrs Pirrie returned, looking worried.
‘I hope that wasn’t too troublesome?’ enquired Mrs Easton.
‘Well it was in a way. The Inspector is a very coarse type, and makes all sorts of insinuations.’
‘Who does he think did it?’
Mrs Pirrie seemed to be struggling to admit what she had learned. ‘It’s too bad, that’s what it is! All they did was ask me about young Jack! Someone must have told them he was sweet on Clara Hicks and that she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Jealousy, that’s what they’re thinking. Young man loves a woman and she don’t love him back and he gets all hot-headed and angry and says well if he can’t have her then no one will, and he kills her. That’s what they’re thinking. But they’ve never met Jack, and I said to them, he’s a good boy. He’d never hurt anyone! I don’t think they listened.’
‘I’m sure Sir Hugo will put in a good word for him,’ said Frances. ‘That will count for a great deal.’
‘Oh I know he will. I only wish he would come back. No, it’s obvious who the murderer is, what with that convict about the place. He must have come here to try and steal food, and she saw him and was going to give the alarm. That’s what happened!’
Frances was not convinced that Mr Coote had been anywhere near the cricket ground that day, but saw that the idea had convinced Mrs Pirrie. She wondered if she ought to speak to Jack again, concerning what Sir Hugo had been doing, but then considered that there was one other person who might just have some useful information. She put a pot of tea with cups and milk and sugar on a tray and took it outside. Not everyone wanted any but George Farrow poured a cup for his sister and tried to persuade her to drink it.
‘Has Sir Hugo returned?’ Frances asked, peering about looking for General Farrow.
‘I haven’t seen him,’ said Farrow.
‘Only I recall you saying that your father had a meeting with him this afternoon.’
‘Yes, well, the man isn’t here, is he?’ said Farrow irritably. ‘I mean, I sent him a note about the meeting as father asked, and he agreed to it, and then when he doesn’t come it’s supposed to be my fault!’
‘That does seem a little strange. Do you know what the meeting was about?’
‘No. He called to see father last week, but he made a mystery of it, apparently. Some invention, I suppose.’
‘Not the side wheels he has been working on? My cousin told me about those. They sound very strange. But he hadn’t perfected them yet.’
Farrow shrugged. ‘I don’t know. And why all the secrecy; I have no idea.’
Miss Farrow sniffled. ‘He said he had to get a patent first.’
‘When did he say that?’ asked Farrow.
‘When father was showing him out. I heard him say he was going to see about a patent and then they would talk about it.’
There was almost certainly more to learn but Frances was under orders to exercise caution, and the last thing she should do was behave as a detective when she was unable to disguise it as gossip. ‘Well, enjoy your tea and let me know if you need anything more.’
Frances returned to the kitchen, where Mrs Pirrie was in full flood. ‘And I said to them, before you start making any insinuations about young Jack, just remember there’s an escaped convict you haven’t found yet, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was your murderer, so you should go out and find him instead of bothering innocent folk, or we all might be murdered next.’
‘That was telling them,’ said Mrs Easton, approvingly. ‘But I still say it was her fancy man who did it.’
‘Well either way it wasn’t Jack! People say “like father like son” but young Jack and his father couldn’t be more different. Takes after his mother, poor woman. Old Linnett worked her to death; they say he knocked her about, too. He was a villain and no mistake! Up to all sorts. Drinking and brawling. I heard people say she could have got him hanged ten times over if she’d been allowed to speak out against him. But, of course, she couldn’t, the law won’t allow it, more’s the pity, or the gaols would be full twice over.’
‘At least Clara wasn’t content just to be a fancy woman for the rest of her life,’ Mrs Easton pointed out. ‘She wanted a ring on her finger, all legal. She said she didn’t want to end up like Mrs Cross.’
‘Mrs Cross had a lot of difficulties in her life.’
‘Mrs Cross only had one difficulty and that was Mr Cross.’
‘Well wouldn’t that always be the way,’ said Sarah. ‘So what did he do?’
Mrs Easton launched into her story with relish. ‘Cross was a sneak thief and a burglar. And she knew it. But she didn’t like to tell because she was fond of him. Poor woman. But then he got caught. And it dawned on her all of a sudden that she was better off without him. But he said she couldn’t give evidence against him as they were married. And that was right. Then it turned out he had another wife and he’d married her beforehand so they weren’t really married at all, so she stood up in court and told all she knew. Went to the Scrubs for five years. Good riddance. She got married properly to a better man the week after.’
The four ladies were kept busy serving tea and refreshments for the next hour, after which Sarah set to and cleaned everything in sight.
‘That’s done,’ she said, and Mrs Pirrie and Mrs Easton stared admiringly at the spotless kitchen.
‘I’ll put away the last of these dishes,’ said Frances. ‘You have worked so hard, you deserve a rest.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Pirrie, ‘I have to thank you and you can come to the lodge for a nice tea any day you like. Once we’re all done we’ll close up the kitchen. Perhaps later on I’ll put the last of the cakes out and people can help themselves. I won’t have them go to waste. I’ll take some back for Sir Hugo.’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll be that upset when he finds out about all this. Last year Mr Vance and now it’s Clara.’
‘It’s like a curse,’ said Mrs Easton, frowning and shaking her head. ‘A terrible curse.’
The kitchen was finally locked up and the keys hung on a board in the pavilion office.
Now that Sarah and Frances had shared a kitchen they could deem themselves to be friends, and they took a plate of cakes and found a place to sit in the shade of the veranda. The traders were still at their stalls, but the bicycle club members were dismantling the tents and enclosures and the racetrack had been reduced to a pile of poles and coiled rope. Miss Farrow, bereft of the comforting presence of both her brother and her intended, was taking the air with a group of fashionable ladies. ‘Did you learn anything more?’ asked Frances.
‘Mrs Pirrie won’t have it that Jack Linnett is to blame,’ said Sarah. ‘She said that Sir Hugo was never a truly happy man until he started working with Ja
ck and then he was more cheerful, like he was a boy again; they even played games together.’
‘Really? What kind of games?’
‘Oh, you know, bowling hoops along, as boys do. Only they used to do it with bicycle tyres.’
‘What, those big front tyres?’
‘Yes, she saw them out on the path, running about, and the tyres bouncing about all over the place like they were on springs.’
Frances laughed at the thought of the two grown men playing like children.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘What will you do now? Sarah asked Frances.
‘Inspector Sharrock has told me in no uncertain terms that I am not to look into the murder.’
‘He always tells you that, and you never take any notice,’ observed Sarah. ‘So that won’t stop you.’
‘I also have orders regarding the mission that brought me here that I am to do nothing except observe. But that was before this murder. Maybe that has changed things; I don’t know. I am supposed to go home at the first sign of danger, but the police are not letting anyone leave. If I have to stay I might as well be useful.’
Sarah nodded. It was the kind of nod Frances had seen before, when she had determined on a course of action and Sarah, realising she could not be deflected, accepted that all she could do was be on hand to help and make sure that Frances did not miss meals.
‘What I am wondering is, suppose the murder is linked in some way to the reason we are here? Is there any connection with what Mr Iliffe and Mr Babbit are up to? Do we have three sets of crimes, or two, or only one? Is the man who killed Miss Hicks also the traitor?’
‘You’re not saying she was involved?’
‘No, but it might come down to money. Was Miss Hicks asking for more than he could pay? Did he get involved in crime in order to meet her demands?’
‘If a man can afford a bicycle and all the things that come with it, then he can afford to pay off the likes of Miss Hicks,’ said Sarah matter of factly.
‘Unless he has debts we don’t know about. A gambling habit. Drink. Mistresses. All three? Perhaps he has some secret and is being blackmailed. On the other hand, it might have been subtler than that. Did the murderer fear an attack on his reputation, and killed Miss Hicks in order to maintain a semblance of a good name, and it had nothing to do with the other crimes?’
‘The thing about Miss Hicks and her kind is that they only want one of two things. Money or a husband. Either will do, but both is better.’
Frances nodded. ‘Whatever she was about it was something obvious and simple. Let us look at it from the man’s viewpoint. If he gives her money he risks being asked for more over and over again, always with the threat that he might be exposed. If there is a child involved then he might have to pay for its keep until it reaches the age of sixteen. He hasn’t, and never has had, any intention of marrying Clara Hicks. If he’d had any imagination he’d have found someone else to marry her, and he wouldn’t have had to look far. A nice pay-off and a husband, that ought to have been enough. So why wasn’t it? It shouldn’t have been necessary to murder her. And it was no accidental killing, as so many men like to claim. They say they clasped a woman’s throat to quiet her and suddenly find she is dead, and then they get away with manslaughter when it was really murder all along. This man meant to kill, there’s no doubt about that. So why murder? Was that really the only way out?’
‘Well, there’s other suspects,’ said Sarah. ‘That escaped convict. Nasty type, kicking a reverend gentleman. Suppose Miss Hicks happened to see him lurking about and he had to stop her from reporting him to the police?’
‘Perhaps, although I can’t imagine why he would want to come here instead of getting as far away as possible.’
‘Then there’s your Mr Grove.’
‘What do you mean? He isn’t my Mr Grove.’
‘He isn’t anyone else’s. Isn’t he the one what used to be the Filleter?’
‘Yes, but that’s not who he really is.’
‘He sneaks about, all secret like, disguising himself as who knows what.’
‘Well of course he does – he’s —’
‘A spy. That what he is.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Where is he now, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Exactly. And didn’t he once tell you he’d killed people?’
‘Well, yes, he has, but as a soldier might kill on the battlefield. Not an unarmed young woman. He works for the government. The British government. The Queen. I expect he has special permission.’
‘Hmm,’ said Sarah.
‘I’d rather trust him than someone like Mr Hopper. Perhaps he is the killer? Or ordered his man to do it more likely. That Peters looks like someone who would kill a man – or a woman – without giving it a second thought.’
Sarah picked up the last of the cakes, took a big bite and munched thoughtfully.
‘And Grove’s the man who writes the Miss Dauntless stories?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s the same man who saved you from being killed by the Face-slasher?’
‘He is, yes.’
Sarah nodded and sniffed. ‘Reckon he’s all right, then.’
Frances was just contemplating this when there was a disturbance on the field occasioned by a group of ladies. Some of them were simply standing and giggling but the objects of their amusement were Miss Vance and Miss Farrow, who were having something of a contretemps, and it was not hard to guess the subject of their disagreement. There were shouts of ‘It’s not true!’ and ‘Yes it is!’ as the two faced each other. Miss Vance’s features were distorted in fury, and Miss Farrow looked about to crumple in fear.
Frances looked about, but Phineas Vance was not in the immediate vicinity and neither were the General or George Farrow; however, someone had pointed out what was happening to Rufus Goring and he began to hurry over to the scene.
Before he could reach the quarrelling pair, however, Miss Vance, with a cry of angry despair, launched herself at Miss Farrow and seized her bonnet. Miss Farrow shrieked and tried to clasp the article to her head, but Miss Vance was the larger, stronger woman and after a brief struggle the bonnet was wrenched away and flung to the ground. For one dreadful moment it looked as though Miss Vance in her rage had actually pulled Miss Farrow’s head clean from her shoulders, but then it became apparent that she had actually removed the beautiful golden curls, which were now revealed to be a wig. Miss Farrow, who was as bald as a newborn baby, clasped her hands to her pink scalp and screamed. It was a high-pitched scream like a whistle, and it seemed as if it would never stop. Miss Vance who had been about to tread on the bonnet, stopped, and began to laugh, and the other ladies joined in.
Phineas Vance was now running over from across the field, but it was Rufus Goring who was closest. He stood quite still, gazing at his soon-to-be betrothed, thunderstruck with horror. After a moment or two of silent contemplation, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Sarah stood up, intent on action, and Frances did not attempt to dissuade her. She marched over to Miss Farrow and took her in charge, wrapping her huge arms protectively about her. A glare at the giggling girls ended their merriment and they backed away, although one of them had the good grace to pick up the bonnet and wig and hand it over. Sarah snatched it from her, then took Miss Farrow into the pavilion, away from the stares of the crowds.
Phineas Vance embraced his sister and succeeded in calming her, then led her aside to re-join their mother. This done, he hurried after Rufus Goring, who was still walking away. ‘Goring!’ he snapped. Goring stopped and turned around. Vance, for all that he was the slighter of the two, looked more dangerous, his fists clenched in anger. For a moment the staring crowds thought that Vance might actually strike the popular captain of the Bayswater Bicycle Club, but instead he controlled his emotions. Goring did not speak but Vance did. He spoke too softly to be heard, but it was clear that his words were firm and to the point. By now,
someone had alerted the General, who came striding purposefully across the field. Without a pause in his pace he marched into the pavilion as if he owned it, and no one tried to stop him. A few minutes later he emerged conducted his weeping and freshly bewigged daughter away. He took no notice of Rufus Goring, and once Vance had had his say, neither did anyone else.
Soon afterwards Sarah returned to sit with Frances. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ she said. ‘Miss Vance had heard the rumours about Mr Goring and Miss Farrow, and if they had announced their betrothal this afternoon she was going to make a public accusation of breach of promise. I’d say that wedding was off.’
There was a thread of movement near the entrance to the field as a young constable, bicycling in at speed, circled around the cricket area before pausing in front of the pavilion. The constable standing guard at the front came down the steps and a note was passed from one to the other, then the messenger turned and rode away.
The note, which appeared to be a plain folded sheet of paper, was taken into the pavilion. The constable re-emerged without it and took up his duty again. Frances and Sarah waited to see what, if anything, would ensue.
After two or three minutes Inspector Sharrock reappeared and mounted the platform, taking up the speaking trumpet.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. I have just received a message to inform me that the prisoner Coote who recently escaped from Wormwood Scrubs has been found. I know that many of you who live in the vicinity have been very worried to know that the man was at large, and I am happy to say that you can now put your minds at rest on that point.’
‘Inspector,’ called out a member of the crowd, ‘does that mean we can all leave now?’
‘No, it does not,’ said Sharrock. ‘Now I have heard some of you speculating that the prisoner Coote was the man responsible for the unfortunate death of Miss Hicks. We have good reason, however, to believe that he had nothing to do with it. Our enquiries on that matter are therefore continuing.’
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 21