Death in Bayswater

by Linda Stratmann

  Frances then made a brief call on Tom who confirmed that in the last few weeks Mr Freke had dealt with most of Rawsthorne’s minor cases, although one of his agents thought he had seen the man himself recently, sneaking about at a time when it was being given out that he was unavailable.

  When Frances returned home she found a note from Chandler saying that there was no news from Mr Rawsthorne who, he understood, was back at his office, but he had been granted an appointment to see him the following morning.

  She was reminded that Mr Marsden had asked her to report on her visit to Wheelock, and wrote him a short note.

  Sir

  I have received your letter of today’s date and visited your client as requested. I have carried out a small service for him and will not act for him further.

  F. Doughty

  By the time this was done Frances felt more than just physically exhausted. It was only four days before the execution of Jim Price and she did not know if she had done enough.

  Mr Loveridge called to show her some of his recent sketches, but he could see that she was weary and disinclined to talk. He asked if he might read to her instead, and she agreed as long as it was not concerned with the news, which she did not feel able to contemplate. He found Sarah’s copy of Mr W. Grove’s latest story Miss Dauntless Goes to the Ball, in which the intrepid heroine, partnered during an evening of glamour and excitement by a devoted swain wearing a long swirling black cloak and a Venetian mask, and who whispered words of romance into her willing ear, managed to thwart an assassination plot without so much as missing a dance.

  By the time Sarah returned Frances was drowsy and Mr Loveridge quietly slipped away.

  Frances was awoken in the night by a howling screaming noise that intruded into her dreams and which, she only gradually realised, was all too real. She rose from her bed and looked out of the window. A thrumming as if from a thousand drums mystified her until she realised it was produced by every pane of glass in the house rattling in its frame. It was the gale, but a hundred times worse than promised, sweeping along the street, bending trees, some of which had lost their branches, driving showers of leaves and dust before it, overturning handcarts, making high wild eddies in the areas in front of the houses, and battering the ash bins. Lights were going on in the houses opposite as sleepers awoke, and there was the occasional sound of glass or slates shattering. Frances quickly checked her bedroom window and satisfied herself that it was in no danger of breaking, then hurried to the parlour, where she was joined by Sarah, and they busied themselves pushing strips of paper into any crevices where window glass was vibrating dangerously.

  ‘It’s six o’clock,’ said Sarah when they had done all they could, ‘I’ll make some tea.’ They spent the hours before daylight watching the street. As the heavy storm raged it seemed to Frances to be a sign of the end of things, of the end of the world. It was, she thought miserably, the end of part of her world, an end she had brought about. She had liked Rawsthorne and, more to the point, she had trusted him. That was over now. As she sipped her tea she consulted the current Bayswater directory and read without enthusiasm the list of available solicitors.

  As the morning wore on, the wind died until it was no more than a stiff cold breeze. With the immediate danger past, some of the residents of Westbourne Park Road sent their servants out with brooms to sweep up the litter of broken branches, collect the fragments of fallen roofing slates and restore order to the ash bins. Frances hoped that the damage was no worse elsewhere.

  It was three days before Jim Price was to be hanged. Frances, anxiously awaiting the post, was relieved at the arrival of notes showing that her urgent letters of the day before had been received by the proper authorities and were being examined. She wrote to Miss Price to assure her that everything possible was being done. Should she be offering hope of success? Miss Price and her mother wanted hope, they dined off it, it sustained them. Even if Frances had not offered it they would have made their own out of nothing. Without hope they would collapse. Yet hope was a double-edged sword, since it could only last so long and once hope was dashed then their misery would be crueller than if there had never been any hope at all. Frances decided to communicate only the plain facts and not anticipate any result.

  After the previous day’s events Frances could, had she wished to, have secured the services of one of Ratty’s men to keep a constant watch on Mr Rawsthorne’s office and advise her of any developments, but she decided not to. She did not want to reveal her involvement by showing any curiosity about events that she would not have been expected to predict. She had carried out her task, a task for which she would not ask payment, and now she wanted to take a step back and entirely forget her role in that affair, sweep it from her memory as if it had never taken place.

  Over breakfast, Sarah, eyeing her almost silent companion, demanded to know what had happened the day before and Frances realised that the friend who knew her better than anyone saw that something was the matter and probably suspected that some tender event had taken place between herself and the young artist. Frances was quick to reassure Sarah that Mr Loveridge had been a model of decorum, and then not without expressions of emotion, described her visit to Mr Wheelock and its results.

  ‘Never liked that Rawsthorne,’ growled Sarah. ‘These professional gents get above themselves. You pay them to do what you want done and then they think they can do what they please. No better than a plain thief who robs you in the street. So what happens now?’

  ‘I am not sure. I will wait and see. It was all so strange that now I think of it, it almost feels as if it happened to another person, or was quite imaginary, like something I have read in a novel or seen done on a stage. When I learn of the outcome I think it will be as much a surprise to me as anyone in Bayswater.’

  ‘You’ve got two new clients coming this morning. Do you want me to see them, or make new appointments?’

  ‘No. If they are able to make their way here to see me I shall conduct business as usual. And I would welcome something to occupy my mind.’

  The newspapers arrived, and with them the claim that the Bayswater Face-slasher had been caught, a circumstance wholly attributed to the intervention of Scotland Yard.

  The first visitor of the day was Dunnock. Frances was surprised to see that the boy appeared to have recovered from his ordeal two days before. She wondered how he had managed to put from his mind the horrible sight of Mrs Wheelock’s disfigured body. Perhaps, she thought, he had not, and the damage was still lurking within, waiting to emerge in night terrors.

  ‘It’s like the last trumpet out there,’ Dunnock panted, scrubbing hair from his eyes. ‘The trees in ’yde Park are all torn up by the roots. One of the big ’oardings on the Bishop’s Road got picked up and blown away like a leaf an’ almost broke the canal bridge, an’ there’s more shops without windows than with. P’lice are all over the place.’

  ‘I hope no one has been hurt.’

  ‘Broken ’eads an’ cuts an’ that, yeh, I seen lots. P’lice are round Rawsthorne’s, too. Dunno why. I went up there with a message this mornin’ an’ was tole ’e weren’t there. An’ then the p’lice took that clerk of ’is, Mr Freke, an’ ’e were very upset, an’ they ’ad to cuff ’im ’cos they thought ’e’d run off.’

  Frances almost regretted her deliberate lack of curiosity and wished she could have found some reason to go there to witness that particular sight. ‘Let me know if you learn any more,’ she said, giving the boy sixpence. Dunnock pocketed the coin and ran off.

  The first client of the morning, the wife of a tailor who had written to complain about a neighbour who threw rubbish into her garden, did not appear. Given the weather that had ravaged Bayswater, Frances was unsurprised; a little rubbish was currently the least of anyone’s concerns. A Mrs Berkeley, a lady of the carriage class, did, however, meet her appointment, arriving half an hour late, complaining bitterly that the streets were full of broken chimney pots and that there were policemen
everywhere warning drivers away from buildings in a dangerous condition, which was making travelling extremely inconvenient. She declared herself to be very annoyed and wished she had not come, and had only done so because her business was urgent. Frances supplied her with a glass of water and when her client felt sufficiently recovered, she said that she had come on account of her darling son Adolphus, who while the very best of young men, was keeping unsuitable company at the Piccadilly Club. He had already been questioned by the police for some small indiscretion, and his father had managed to deal with the matter before it came to court, and given him a good talking to, but she was concerned that he would be led astray by bad companions once more. She described him as a sensitive youth easily influenced by others, but on providing his portrait Frances felt sure she had seen him once before, only on that occasion he had been wearing his hat defiantly askew and was being ejected from Westbourne Hall by Sarah and Professor Pounder. She promised that the matter would be attended to. If young Mr Berkeley was in the company of the Bold Bloods then she would soon discover it.

  The name Berkeley was familiar, and Frances recalled that this was the surname of the young gentleman Mr Digby had mentioned who had asked permission to call on his daughter. Was this the same young man or another? She wrote a note to Chas and Barstie.

  A little later, Sarah, once Frances had reassured her that she would be perfectly content to stay at home with her correspondence, left to take one of her ladies’ classes, and thus Frances was alone when there was a knock on the front door. Her visitor was Mr Chandler, who arrived with a desperately troubled expression and the demeanour of a man who had enjoyed little refreshing sleep of late.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Rawsthorne recently?’ he asked.

  ‘I have not spoken to him for more than a week,’ replied Frances, cautiously, ‘why do you ask?’

  ‘Do you happen to know where he is?’

  ‘I am afraid not. I learned from one of my agents just moments ago that he was not in his office as usual this morning. I thought you had an appointment to see him?’

  Chandler flung himself distractedly into a chair, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I did. At ten o’clock. I went to see him as arranged, and I have just come from there. I know he resides above the office so I did not see any difficulty in his being able to see me despite the dreadful weather. To my surprise not only was Rawsthorne absent from the office but so was his confidential clerk, Mr Freke. And there were any number of policemen swarming all over the premises who appeared to be searching for something. A few junior staff were present and I tried to discover what was happening but they knew nothing about it and appeared to be very upset. No one would tell me anything. Is Mr Rawsthorne dead? I have heard rumours that there have been people killed this day, what with walls and trees being blown down.’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘This is very awkward. If I am to pursue my claim on my aunt’s will I will be obliged to stay in London for some little time, and I need to make financial arrangements, since most of my funds are in India. What am I to do?

  ‘Have you given Mr Rawsthorne any of your funds to invest?’ Frances asked, trying to make the question sound no more than idle curiosity.

  ‘Not yet. That was to be the subject of the interview. Under the circumstances I think I had best seek another solicitor.’

  ‘That would be my advice.’

  Something in her tone must have alerted him, and he started and stared at her, suspiciously. ‘You know something, don’t you?’

  Frances felt very uncomfortable. ‘I can only speculate on what might have occurred, but whatever the truth is behind the situation you encountered today I think neither of us will know the full story for several days.’

  ‘And you definitely don’t know where Rawsthorne is?’

  He was clearly dissatisfied with her replies, and Frances thought she ought to learn to dissemble better. ‘I do not, but based on what you have just told me, if I was to hazard a guess, I would say he is most probably at Paddington Green police station answering questions.’

  ‘But I entrusted some of my papers to him! When will I get them back? Are you saying that he is a charlatan?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that. If you speak to the police I am sure that when they have completed their work you will be able to recover your papers. In the meantime, there are several other solicitors in the area, smaller firms than Mr Rawsthorne’s. You would be advised, however, not to employ Mr Marsden since he is acting for Mr Wheelock. Not that he would be averse to acting for both sides of the same dispute.’

  ‘Who is your solicitor?’

  ‘I am sorry to say, Mr Rawsthorne, so I am in much the same position as yourself. He has acted for my family for as long as I can remember, and I have never heard a word against him.’ Frances took the Bayswater directory from the shelf and handed it to her increasingly agitated client. ‘Does Mr Rawsthorne have the documents that you brought with you to establish your identity?’

  ‘No, I still have those. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because your priorities and therefore your requirements have changed. When you arrived in Bayswater your main intention was to prove that your aunt’s marriage to Mr Wheelock was invalid. Now that she is deceased you will want to make a claim under her will, and you will be expected to prove that you are her relative.’

  ‘I don’t see any difficulty about that, at least.’ He studied the list of Bayswater solicitors. ‘Is there a man here you can recommend?’

  ‘They are all unknown to me by reputation.’ She gave him a sheet of notepaper and a pencil. ‘I can only tell you which are the longer established firms.’

  ‘The ones who have got away with their villainy for many years, as distinct from those who are just starting out on that path,’ he said, dispiritedly, ‘I might just as well go to the nearest.’ He began to write.

  There was another knock at the front door, followed a minute later by the sound of heavy feet on the stairs, a familiar tread which Frances knew could only herald one person.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ah, Mr Chandler,’ said Sharrock throwing the door open, ‘I thought I might find you here. I was told that you had been to Mr Rawsthorne’s office this morning.’ Sharrock was not the most smartly attired man in Bayswater at the best of times, but that morning his clothes looked crumpled and dishevelled as if he had not been to bed all night, and there was brick dust on his shoulders.

  ‘Yes, for a business appointment which never took place,’ said Chandler, bitterly, folding the paper and putting in his pocket. ‘Where is Mr Rawsthorne?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’ll know soon enough, he’s under arrest. His big rival Mr Marsden has a face on him like a Cheshire cat – not a pretty sight. Under the circumstances we are currently interviewing all of Mr Rawsthorne’s clients.’

  ‘What offences has he been charged with?’

  ‘That is being determined as we speak, but based on the evidence to hand, I’m expecting a nice long list.’

  ‘This is very unfortunate, but of course I will assist you in any way I can. Perhaps if I was to come to the police station this afternoon?’

  ‘You’re to come now, Mr Chandler,’ said Sharrock, mildly.

  ‘But I have important business to attend to!’ Chandler protested.

  ‘Not as important as mine.’

  Chandler rose, looking both annoyed and disheartened. ‘And, of course, now I have no man to advise me. This is really too bad!’

  ‘This must be a busy time for you today, Inspector,’ ventured Frances, hoping to provoke him into revealing some useful titbit of information.

  ‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it! The station chimneys came down a few hours ago, fell right into the cells. I’ve got men hauling out the rubble now.’

  ‘Is anyone injured?’

  ‘I hope not, there’s questions need asking. Still, we have to get on and do our best. Come on, Mr Chandler.’

  ‘I assume you will want me
also, Inspector,’ said Frances, rising to her feet and going to fetch her cloak.

  ‘And why would that be?’ demanded Sharrock with a frown.

  ‘Because I too am a client of Mr Rawsthorne.’

  Sharrock looked awkward and Frances saw that this was something he had not taken into account. But there was more to it than that, she suddenly realised. If Wheelock had accused Chandler of being not only a fraud but a potential suspect in the murder of his wife, the true purpose of Sharrock’s arrival was not to find a witness he could question about Rawsthorne’s affairs, but to take a possible savage knife-murderer into custody. The motive he had provided was simply a ploy to get the man to the police station quietly and without arousing his suspicions. Sharrock had left her door slightly open and this belief was confirmed when she saw a constable on the landing outside.

  ‘Very well, both of you then,’ said Sharrock grudgingly.

  Chandler glanced at Frances, thoughtfully. ‘In any case, I would like Miss Doughty to be present at my questioning since I now have no solicitor and require a competent witness who has some familiarity with my affairs.’

  Frances found her natural curiosity reasserting itself with full force. This was the perfect excuse to accompany Sharrock and Chandler to the police station and learn more about Mr Rawsthorne’s downfall without revealing her part in it. Chandler, drowned in his own feelings of vexation, headed for the door where he was taken aback on being unexpectedly confronted by the constable who looked disinclined to step aside for him.

  ‘Oh, just one little formality,’ added Sharrock, casually. Sharrock was no expert in appearing casual, and a polite request from him always sounded as if it would be followed by force if not complied with. ‘It’s a quirk of our English police stations. We always take care to check that civilians are not carrying any weapons before we allow them in.’

  Chandler submitted to a search with increasing bad grace. This revealed the presence on his person of a folding pocketknife. Sharrock took immediate charge of the find, disappointingly affording Frances no opportunity for a close look. Chandler was faultlessly neat about his person, but she knew that even the most careful of men could miss a spot of blood trapped in a crevice between blade and handle. They boarded a waiting cab in which Sharrock made sure that Frances was as far from Chandler as possible with the constable placed solidly between them.