Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  They saw no other riders as they walked the short way down East Acton Lane and passed through the gates of Springfield Lodge. No one was about, and Toop carefully leaned his bicycle against the wall of the coach house, but on approaching the doors he gave a sudden gasp. ‘Oh! It’s unlocked! Perhaps Farrow is here after all. Or —’ he gave a little groan. ‘I hope he has not been careless and left it unattended! Who knows, we might have had thieves! They could still be inside! Oh dear!’ He turned to face Frances. ‘Stand well back, Miss, you must allow me to deal with this. You too, Jack, you must take care of the lady if there is any danger.’ Slowly and cautiously, Toop pushed the door open and peered inside. ‘Farrow?’ he called. ‘Are you there?’ Moments later he gave a sudden cry, a sound halfway between a sob and a squeal, almost like an animal in pain. ‘Oh no! Oh how horrible!’

  ‘What is it?’ Frances demanded, running forward, but Toop had slammed the door shut and turned around with a stricken look.

  ‘No! I beg of you! Don’t look! This is not for the eyes of a lady. Oh this is too nasty for words! Stay there, both of you, and let me go in. If I call for help, Jack you can come in but on no account must the lady enter.’ Before either of the others could say a word, Toop took a deep breath, pulled the doors open just enough to admit him, and slipped into the coach house.

  Jack nodded, and leaned his bicycle against the wall, then stood ready to defend Frances should the need arise. ‘What do you think, Miss?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But if he has not returned in a few minutes you are to send for the police.’

  There was a brief interval of quiet, in which they assumed that Toop was looking about the place, his eyes becoming accustomed to the change in light. Then there were more sounds from Toop, a gasp of effort followed by a convulsive gulp. Frances darted forward impatiently, determined to enter the coach house, but Jack took care to stand in her way, holding his arms out wide. ‘Oh, Miss, please don’t! Whatever’s in there, it’s not for a lady! Let me take you back to the field and we’ll get the police.’

  Frances could see that running into possible danger was not the wisest thing either of them could do, and had just decided to go and get help when Mr Toop emerged from the coach house. He was unhurt but he looked dreadfully shaken, and leaned against the doorjamb for support. ‘Jack – go at once – get a doctor – a policeman, anyone!’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Frances.

  Toop bent over, breathing hard, and for a moment she thought he was going to be violently ill. ‘It’s Farrow. George Farrow. He’s gone and hanged himself.’

  ‘Is he still hanging?’ asked Frances.

  ‘No, no, I untied the rope and brought him down, I thought – I hoped there might be a chance of saving him, but I’m sorry – the poor fellow is quite dead!’

  ‘I know a little of medical matters,’ said Frances. ‘Jack, you go and fetch Inspector Sharrock, and Mr Jepson if he is still available, and I’ll see what I can do here.’ Jack nodded, and limped away as fast as he was able.

  ‘Do you really think —?’ asked Toop, but Frances ignored him, flung the doors open wide to admit as much light as possible and walked in. All was very much as it had been before. A few of the bicycles had been returned by club members, and she made a quick note of how many there were and where placed. In the middle of the floor lay George Farrow, the slackness of his crumpled body telling its own story. There was a noose about his neck, and a long tail of rope coiled by his side. An overturned chair lay beside him. Frances approached and felt for a pulse, looking carefully to see if there was any movement of the chest, but although the body was still warm it was clear that life was extinct. His neck was not distorted, he had not broken it as a man would have done if hanged from a long drop. Death had taken longer, by strangulation. She decided to touch nothing more, and retraced her steps. Outside, Toop was groaning.

  ‘Mr Toop, I know this is upsetting, but can you describe how you found him? You say he was hanging.’

  ‘Yes. He had put the rope over the beam, and then tied the end to one of the hooks in the wall. He must have stepped off the chair. Oh!’ he wailed. ‘That was my chair, the one I use when I am at my desk. I don’t think I shall ever sit on it again.’

  At that moment, Inspector Sharrock and Constable Mayberry arrived at a run with Jack limping behind them. Toop waved a hand weakly in the rough direction of the coach house and they hurried into the building.

  ‘I hope they don’t ask me to go in. I don’t think I can look at it again,’ said Toop.

  ‘The Inspector will need to talk to you,’ said Frances. ‘Your evidence could be very important.’

  Toop sighed and hid his face in his hands. ‘Oh, what an abominable day this has been!’

  Frances wondered about the terrible secret Farrow had been about to confess. Had he murdered Miss Hicks? Had he made away with himself through remorse, unable to live with his crime, or the shame of having sold government secrets, preferring death to the prospect of bringing disgrace to his family? People had taken their own lives for far lesser reasons.

  Sharrock emerged. ‘Well, he’s gone, that’s for sure. And it was you who found him Mr Toop?’

  Toop nodded. ‘Yes, just now. I had hoped to find Farrow here looking after the bicycles, and when I saw the door left open I was worried that he had been careless, and we had had thieves, so I went in.’

  ‘That was very courageous of you, sir, you might have confronted some dangerous men.’

  ‘I suppose I wasn’t thinking,’ admitted Toop.

  ‘But there was no one else in there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well we’ll have to get the names of all the men who we know have been here this afternoon,’ said Sharrock.

  ‘Did you find my keys on the body? If so, I should like to have them back.’

  ‘We did, and don’t trouble yourself about them Mr Toop, the police will keep all secure. Now I know that Mr Farrow didn’t say what it was he felt unhappy about but did you suspect anything? Did he hint at what troubled him?’

  Toop uttered a sigh of abject misery. ‘I’m sorry to say it, Inspector, but I did have my suspicions.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Toop glanced at Frances. ‘It’s not for the ears of a lady.’

  ‘I think you’ll find this lady has very strong ears,’ said Sharrock.

  ‘Well, if I must. It is my belief that Farrow was responsible for the murder of Miss Hicks. She had been insinuating that she expected him to marry her. Claimed that she was —’ Toop glanced at Frances ‘— in a certain situation. I know that Mr Goring and Miss Farrow had been about to announce their engagement after the prizegiving, and Miss Hicks might have hoped that she and Farrow would do the same. Perhaps when she made her demands he suddenly lost control of himself and killed her.’

  ‘But you’ve no proof of this?’

  ‘None at all. But he seemed very contrite and whatever he had done I truly believed that he would make a full confession.’

  Sharrock looked unconvinced. ‘Why do you think Farrow confided in you?’

  ‘He could hardly have told his father! I suppose I was his closest friend. He knew he could come to me if he had any worries. I try to be helpful to all the club members.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘I’m sorry Mr Toop, but I am going to have to ask you to come into the coach house and show me how you found the body. We have covered it over, so you won’t have to look at it.’

  Toop groaned but complied, and Frances followed. Sharrock gave her a hard look. ‘I have already seen it uncovered,’ she said.

  They re-entered the coach house where Mayberry had draped the body in a rain cape. ‘So,’ said Sharrock, ‘where would Mr Farrow have got the rope?’

  ‘We keep some in here,’ said Toop. ‘We use them to rope off areas where races are being held. They are kept on those hooks.’

  ‘And all the members would have known there was rope here?’

  ‘Well, yes
.’

  ‘And how was the body when you first found it?’

  ‘Um – the rope had been thrown over the beam,’ Toop indicated a thick wooden beam across the width of the coach house. ‘And then it was tied to a hook in the wall. Of course I untied it and brought the body down in case there was hope, but it was too late.’

  Frances glanced up at the beam, which was about three feet above her head. It was a roughly sawn piece with a square section, and was certainly robust enough to suspend a body. Studying the scene, she saw nothing of any note, and then it came to her mind how often that day she had berated herself, not for failing to observe what was actually there but for not appreciating what was not there and ought to be.

  She stared up at the beam once more. ‘Where was the rope? In the middle portion of the beam?’

  ‘If I use one of the other ropes, I can show you how it was,’ said Toop, helpfully, going to fetch one.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Frances. ‘If you will allow me, I would like to take a closer look.’ She took a large toolbox, placed it on the floor beside the desk, and using it as a step, nimbly mounted the desk, silently thanking the ingenuity of the dressmaker who had crafted her divided skirt. She glanced at Constable Mayberry whose lanky form was several inches taller than the Inspector’s. ‘Constable, would you be so kind as to join me up here. Inspector, please hand up the toolbox.’

  ‘Oh well now we’ve had everything,’ exclaimed Sharrock, but both the policemen complied with her request. Frances first examined the upper edge of the beam, and then climbed up onto the toolbox. After a few moments, she stepped back down onto the desk and asked Mayberry to take her place. ‘Constable, look at the edge of the beam and also at its upper surface. What do you see?’ she asked.

  Mayberry peered as well as he could. ‘I don’t see anything, just some dust.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Frances. ‘If Mr Farrow really had hanged himself from the beam there would be the marks of a rope. But all we can see is dust, and it is quite undisturbed.’

  ‘It might not have left a mark,’ Toop protested. ‘How can you know?’

  Frances glanced down. ‘And I can see one other thing – there, lying on the floor behind the desk. It’s a flower.’

  It was a little pale patch on the dark earth and Sharrock picked it up.

  ‘I think it’s one of the ones Miss Hicks was wearing in her hat,’ said Toop. ‘Farrow must have had it.’

  ‘Miss Hicks’s flowers were pink, this is cream colour,’ said Frances. ‘It’s the flower you were wearing in your buttonhole earlier today.’

  ‘It’s been crushed as if torn off in a struggle,’ said Sharrock. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain that, Mr Toop?’

  Toop clapped a hand to his buttonhole. ‘I must have dropped it when I lifted the body down.’

  ‘No,’ said Frances, ‘because I noticed that you were not wearing it earlier, before the body was found.’

  ‘I – er …’ said Toop, and then, abruptly, he turned and ran.

  Sharrock charged after him while Mayberry and Frances got down from the desk as quickly as they could, only to see Toop disappearing around the side of the lodge on his bicycle and heading for the road.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Sharrock cursed. ‘Mayberry – go after him!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said the constable, and began to run after Toop.

  ‘Not on foot, you fool – take the other bicycle, man!’

  ‘Oh! Yes sir!’ gasped Mayberry and ran to get the machine that Jack had been wheeling.

  Toop was not the speediest of riders, but he had youth, experience, weighty stability, and a good start. Mayberry looked understandably alarmed at the Inspector’s orders, but seized the bicycle with grim determination.

  Frances pulled the trouser fasteners from her reticule and held them out. ‘Here – take these.’

  Mayberry had already tried to climb onto the bicycle, but it now became obvious that he had never done so before. Not realising that there was a little step that would project him into the saddle, he had grasped the handlebars and tried to vault up from the side by putting his foot on the curved backbone. The result was that the bicycle tilted over and he was sent sprawling on the ground with the machine following. Jack limped up to offer assistance, picking up the bicycle. Mayberry, fortunately unhurt, scrambled to his feet.

  ‘You get on from behind, sir, putting your foot just there,’ said Jack, pointing out the step, ‘and you hold onto the handlebars, like this, and push with the other foot and pull yourself up. Try again.’

  ‘Right!’ said Mayberry, adopting the position as demonstrated, one foot on the step, and hopping valiantly along on the other. This time he was almost able to make contact with the saddle, Jack hobbling along beside him with one steadying hand on the frame, but unable to establish control, he failed to reach the pedals. Once again the machine lurched over, but this time Jack was there to avoid possible injury.

  ‘Don’t worry, I think I can do it this time,’ gasped Mayberry. With Jack’s help he finally managed to mount the machine and got one foot on to a pedal, but steered a violently erratic path into the grass of the carriage drive, where he took a spectacular header.

  There was really only one thing to do. Frances attached the trouser fasteners to her own skirts. They didn’t enclose all the material, but they were good enough to hold the bulk of it away from the spokes. She ran up, seized the bicycle by the handlebars, pulled it upright, and began pushing it along.

  ‘Miss Doughty, what in the name of blazes do you think you are doing?’ shouted Sharrock, ‘You shouldn’t – you can’t —’

  Frances vaulted into the saddle and began pedalling harder than she had ever done before.

  ‘Well blow me down!’ exclaimed Sharrock.

  Toop had by now left the lodge estate through the main gates, and after taking a left turn was heading in the direction of Old Oak Common Lane. When Frances made the turn she could see him well ahead of her, and about to go south. She gripped the handlebars hard, and got up a good rhythm. She had never ridden in the skirts before, but thankfully the fasteners avoided accident, and her long legs sent the machine, which had a much larger wheel than Toop’s, bowling along faster than she could have imagined possible.

  He was having to slow down to pass over the culvert onto the lane, and she was gaining on him. Behind her she heard the yells of the policemen, running along the street behind her. A fast running man might have been able to keep pace with Toop for a while, but she knew that only a bicyclist had the stamina to catch him.

  Toop reached the junction with the lane and began to make the turn south. As he did so, he saw Frances’ machine coming up behind him. He looked once and then twice, astonishment spreading over his features as he saw that his pursuer was a woman. Reaching the rougher track of Old Oak Common Lane, he wobbled violently and fought for control. The bicycle careered off the road, bumped over some stones and overturned, propelling its rider onto a thick grassy verge. Toop rolled over, gasping. He whimpered at the sight of his fallen bicycle, some of its more refined attachments having come away or bent out of shape. Frances soon reached the spot and dismounted, having no real idea how she might apprehend him and hoping that the running police would arrive soon.

  He clutched at his shiny machine, panting, and Frances saw that one of the ebony handles had become detached, revealing a roll of papers hidden in the hollow steel beneath. ‘Mr Toop,’ she said, standing over him, ‘be sensible, the police will be here soon. You must give yourself up!’

  ‘Never!’ he snarled with unexpected savagery. Toop reached into his coat and now it was Frances’ turn to be astonished as she found herself facing a gun. There was no time to think, she kicked out as hard as she could, and luckily her boot met his hand, sending the gun flying out of his grasp.

  She ran forward to where it had landed on the verge and made a grab for it, but before she could reach it, she felt a surprisingly powerful grip enclose her ankle and jerk
her back, and she fell forward onto the grass. She looked around and saw that Toop, his face red, sweating and distorted with anger, had lunged forward and seized her with both hands, and was pulling her away from the weapon. She made a desperate snatch for the gun, but it was just out of her reach. Slowly, tugging fiercely on her ankle, he pulled her bodily towards him. She kicked out hard with her free foot, and felt the heel of her boot make contact with his face. He cried out, but did not let go, and she kicked again and again, each time finding a target, and hearing him scream with pain and rage. One more kick, as hard as she could, and this time there was a crack of breaking bone. To her relief, the grasp on her ankle loosened, and she was able to crawl forward, seize hold of the gun and stand up. Toop was clasping his mouth and nose, blood streaming down his chin. With a howl of desperation, he lunged forward again, his eyes on the gun. She levelled it at him and he paused, wide-eyed with amazement.

  ‘One more move and I will shoot!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Who are you?’ he gasped. ‘What are you?’

  Frances took a deep breath and straightened up to her full height, squaring her shoulders and holding the gun firmly so that he could be in no doubt that she would use it. ‘I am Miss Dauntless,’ she announced, ‘and you, sir, are a prisoner of Her Majesty’s Government.’

  Behind her, running footsteps approached and there was the sound of a bicycle coming to a halt. Frances dared not take her eyes off the man before her, a man she now knew to be both a killer and a traitor.

  ‘What a wonder you are!’ said a familiar voice. It was Mr Grove, who had ridden up on his bicycle, closely followed by Mayberry on foot, with Sharrock bringing up the rear.

  Sharrock, stooping to get his breath back, waved a pointing finger at Mayberry, who understood at once what was needed and pulled Toop to his feet and secured him in handcuffs.

  ‘Aaron Toop,’ said Sharrock, between gulps of air, ‘I am arresting you for the murder of George Farrow.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything!’ shouted Toop. ‘You should be arresting her! She threatened me with a gun! And look what she did,’ he added, pointing to his bloody face.