Death in Bayswater

by Linda Stratmann

  Hannah arrived very chilly and windswept. ‘I come to see Miss Doughty. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘You have come to the right place,’ Frances reassured her. ‘Come and sit by the fire, and we will warm ourselves with some tea.’

  Hannah cheered up at the welcome. If she was surprised to find Sarah there, she made no comment, but seemed relieved to see a familiar face. ‘I expect you know that I am parlourmaid to Mrs Outram as was, and now poor Mrs Wheelock who was killed.’

  ‘I do.’ Frances said, ‘Sarah has told me about your conversations.’

  ‘I couldn’t say all what I knew then. I was too afraid. We were all afraid, some of us more than others, except Daisy, and she was not a good girl, I could tell. She knew what was going on, and she didn’t care. Only now master is locked up I come here to say what I couldn’t before.’ She cradled her teacup in her hands and shivered, but not with cold. ‘Master – Mr Wheelock – before they were married he used to come and go, calling on Mistress with papers and things, and then one day they went away together in a cab – not the carriage with Mr Nettles but a hired cab, and no one knew where they were going. They came back quite a lot later and Mr Wheelock brought us all together and told us that he and Mistress were married and he was now master of the house. Daisy came back with them. That night Mary Ann packed her box and left and Daisy was lady’s maid after that. We all had our orders. Mr Wheelock said that Mistress was old and unwell and he was going to look after her and do everything for her. He said she was wandering in her mind and got confused. Well she never wandered in her mind, but it wasn’t my place to say so. Everything he did, it was all a pretence that it was for her good, but it wasn’t. She was like an animal in the zoo. Kept in a cage and fed but never let out.’ Hannah gulped her tea. ‘And Mistress never used to drink much before. A sherry or a port, just the one, but then he started giving her more to drink, and she always seem to be a bit – well – under the influence. There was this decanter full of sherry and it was kept beside her all the time and Daisy used to give her glasses of it. Master said it was medicine and would do her good. But it wasn’t and it didn’t. So – I started to water it down. I had to be careful, because sometimes Daisy took a swig. But it meant that Mistress had a clearer head. The day before she was killed she wrote a letter. It was to Mr Rawsthorne. She asked me to post it for her and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to give it to Master and I couldn’t get out of the house to post it, and I didn’t trust anyone else to do it. So I put it in my pocket and waited my chance. Then that morning – the day she was killed, she asked me to take a note to Nettles, so I did. Nettles read it and told me that Mistress wanted to go and see Mr Rawsthorne, but he had been ordered not to take her out. He knew something was wrong though, and I said I thought Master was being cruel to her and she wanted to get away. And he thought so too. Then he said he was inclined to take her out, and not tell Master. I said he should. So that was what he did. Master was working in his study at the time. He didn’t know anything about it until he came downstairs and found she’d gone. Daisy had been at the sherry so he blamed it on her and slapped her face. I never saw anything like it. Then he ran out.’

  ‘And the letter?’ asked Frances.

  Hannah delved into her pocket and took it out. ‘What with all the business when poor Mistress was killed I forgot about it. Then I thought I’d run up to Mr Rawsthorne’s and give it to him but he wasn’t there. I heard later as he’d been took off by the police. So I didn’t know what to do, and then I remembered I had that card with your address on.’ She handed the letter to Frances.

  The envelope was addressed to Mr Rawsthorne in a shaky hand, and so imperfectly sealed that when Frances tried to peer inside the flap gave way. ‘Well, I suppose that is a sign that I should read it.’ She slipped the pages from the envelope.

  The unhappy woman had written that she had never wanted to marry Mr Wheelock but had been forced to do so when he had threatened her. She did not know how to extricate herself from the marriage, but then her nephew James had come from India and he had grown up into such a kind clever young man. She knew he would help her. She asked Mr Rawsthorne to see if the marriage could be annulled. She also said that once she was free she wished to make some changes to her will, as she wanted to make a bequest to the Bayswater Vegetarian Society in her first husband’s name. There was no suggestion that she thought Chandler was a fraud, and every indication that she had believed him genuine. Wheelock, Frances realised, not realising that this letter existed, had simply lied in order to suggest that Chandler had a motive for murder.

  ‘She wrote this on the day before she died?’ Frances examined the letter carefully and there was a scrawl that might well have been the date.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hannah, I am very grateful that you have come to me. This letter is of vital importance, and I need to take it to the police. They will know what to do with it. In time, you will probably have to answer some questions, but if that means bringing Mr Wheelock to justice, I know you will be brave enough to do it.’

  ‘If it means putting that awful man in prison, then I promise I will be.’

  Sarah had a gleam in her eye. ‘The police will want to talk to Daisy. I think I’ll go round there and see she gets delivered to the right place.’

  ‘She’s run off,’ said Hannah despondently, ‘I don’t know where to.’

  Frances smiled comfortingly. ‘Oh, I think I can guess where she might be found. With her former employer, Mrs Mary Wheelock of Lambeth. I’ll make sure the police know where to go.’ She poured more tea. ‘Do you remember Mrs Outram’s first husband?’

  ‘Oh yes, very nice old gent, he was. She was very sorry when he died, though he was quite ancient.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know if he made a will just before he died?’

  ‘I never saw any will. Not that I’d know what such a thing looked like.’

  ‘You weren’t asked to sign anything?’

  ‘There was a paper I signed. Cook and me, we both did, but we didn’t see what was on it. There was a gentleman – I don’t know his name – very portly gent, he was, but he put a piece of paper over the writing and we signed at the bottom.’

  ‘And you didn’t see the paper again?’ asked Frances, feeling sure that the portly man was the late Mr Thomas Whibley.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mrs Outram ever burn papers? Especially after her husband’s death.’

  ‘Oh yes, she burned quite a lot. Mainly to do with vegetables. There were some books she had us bundle up and send to the vegetarian society, but everything else of that sort she just burned. And then she ordered a roast dinner.’

  Frances decided to deliver the murdered woman’s letter to Paddington Green police station in person. An idea had formed in her mind. Thus far the Filleter had confessed to nothing, but she wondered if the reason for this was the kind of harsh questioning he had been facing from the Scotland Yard men. Perhaps with her quieter less policeman-like ways she might be able to persuade him to make a confession. She decided to offer her services. The police might laugh at her, or doubt her, but she thought that she could win them over.

  As soon as she walked into the station she knew that something was different. The interior was quieter than it had been of late, and while Sharrock was not there, she could see through his office window that the debris of papers that had accumulated over the last weeks had been stacked high against one wall clearing sufficient space to move about.

  After a brief wait she was interviewed by a sergeant she had not seen before, but who knew her by name and reputation. She learned that Mr Chandler had appointed a new solicitor, a Mr Bramley, who had been gathering evidence to prove that his client was exactly who he said he was. Bramley was confident that this would be achieved with little further delay and there would soon be no reason to detain Mr Chandler any longer. Frances handed over the letter, which was both evidence against Mr Wheelock and in favour of Mr Chandler.


  ‘Is Sergeant Brown here?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘No, both he and Inspector Swanson have returned to their duties at Scotland Yard. There’s the Mapleton trial coming on soon at Maidstone so they’ll be fully occupied with that.’

  ‘But I thought they would remain here until they were able to establish that their suspect should be charged. Or have they already charged him?’

  ‘No, there won’t be any charges for a while, Miss Doughty. The suspect hasn’t confessed but they are as sure as anyone can be that they have their man. Inspector Swanson thinks that in his condition it could be several days, perhaps even weeks before they can question him again.’

  ‘Weeks? I hope not. How serious are his injuries? I was going to suggest that I try questioning him. He might talk more openly to me.’

  ‘He can’t talk to anyone. Cracked skull, smashed ribs, punctured lungs. To be honest with you, it’s very doubtful he’ll recover.’

  Frances stared at the sergeant, hardly knowing how to react. At last she said, ‘And the murder of Martha Miller? What of that?’

  ‘Solved and closed. We don’t think that man had anything to do with it.’

  It was a very foolish thought, but Frances realised that had she not effected the arrest of the Filleter when she did, he would not be in his current position, and unable, due to his injuries, to save the life of Jim Price.

  Later that day, Chas and Barstie called with good news. They had succeeded in gaining the trust of young Mr Berkeley, and found him to be susceptible to alcohol, cigars and gambling. He was also less close-mouthed than his friend Pargeter and when plied with his favourite pleasures, and allowed to win some trivial wagers, he had admitted paying court to Enid Digby. He had done so, Berkeley revealed, not because he cared anything for her, as there were other girls he far preferred; indeed he had not the slightest desire to marry Miss Digby, not even for money, but because he had undertaken a substantial bet with Pargeter that he could win the maiden’s affections. Chas had suggested that they make a bet on the subject too, and Berkeley had readily agreed, taking a notebook from his pocket and entering the details. Copious quantities of champagne were then consumed, after which Chas extracted Mr Berkeley’s betting book from his pocket, and brought it to Frances. It was in the hands of Mr Digby within the hour.

  Throughout the next day the news that the dreaded Face-slasher was in hospital and likely to die filtered through Bayswater. It was not as satisfying as a hanging, but all the same, there was a very tangible sense of relief, although a few nervous souls still felt unwilling to venture out. For some, however, the damage had been done and the streets would never feel safe again.

  Mrs Embleton had let the ground-floor apartments very quickly and without the need to advertise. The rooms had been taken by Professor Pounder. It had formerly been the policy of the house to accommodate only ladies, but since the threat of violent crime had thrown the district into a state of terror, having a champion pugilist on the premises was not without its appeal. The Professor was gentlemanly and respectful and said he would move into the accommodation in one week’s time.

  Frances paid a visit to the Price family. Greatly cheered by the respite, they had visited Jim, whose execution day that should have been, and found him in good spirits. All were clinging to the hope that the full truth would come out in time to save him and he would be free, and were confidently expecting that the agent of his salvation would be Frances.

  That evening Frances was at home alone. Sarah had gone to visit ‘Mrs Jones’, the young woman who was being maintained by the faithless Mr Pargeter, and had intended to be home in time for supper, but instead Frances received a note from her assistant saying that Mrs Jones had been taken very ill and she was staying to look after her. Depending on how the patient did, she might not be back until the following morning.

  Frances was therefore left idle with her thoughts, and the more she thought about it the more she found herself unable to agree with the official view of the murders. The Filleter, whatever one might like to say about him, and there was a great deal to be said, was the kind of individual who killed for a reason, albeit that reason was usually money, and not from some senseless love of slaughter for its own sake. He had killed George Ibbitson to avoid capture. If he had killed Martha Miller then there had been a motive for it, a motive that had yet to be discovered. It could hardly be a coincidence, she told herself, that these were the only two murders where the victim’s face had not been mutilated. Wheelock, she thought, had either killed his wife or paid a man to do it for him, but on re-examining all the details she held of the young female victims, Frances could see no reason why anyone would pay an assassin to remove any of them. The cutting of the faces spoke of some dreadful mania, a sickness in the mind of the killer. If she was right then the Bayswater Face-slasher was still at large.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Frances could do nothing but start another round of letter-writing on behalf of Jim Price. She was feeling somewhat dull, and it was a welcome relief when there was a knock at the door and Mr Loveridge arrived. He was a little shy, but asked if he might make a sketch of her for a portrait. Frances agreed, and they sat quietly by the flickering fire as he studied her features, and there was the gentle whisper of his pencil on paper. It was a simple companionship, and she wondered again what his origins were. He had told her almost nothing about himself, and she had begun to think that this was a deliberate omission. At last he put the pencil down.

  ‘Is it complete?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not yet. It’s just that – I had something I wished to say to you. I hope you won’t be offended, as we have only known each other for a very short time.’

  Was it a trick of the firelight, wondered Frances, or was he blushing? ‘Please, tell me what it is.’

  ‘I suppose it’s – in the nature of a confession.’ There was a knock at the front door that startled him. ‘Oh, are you expecting a visitor?’

  ‘No. It might be for Mrs Embleton,’ she said hopefully. ‘Go on with what you were saying.’

  He was about to, but they heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and the maid appeared to announce Mr Candy.

  That gentleman seemed surprised and a trifle disappointed to see that Frances already had company, nevertheless he greeted them both. ‘Miss Doughty, I have come on behalf of the Bayswater Vigilance Committee to thank you for all you have done in apprehending the criminal. Miss Gilbert and Miss John have apprised me of the circumstances, which are quite astonishing. You are a very courageous lady, and we are all extremely grateful to you.’

  ‘That is most kind, but I am sure I do not deserve such gratitude. I am only relieved to have played some small part in the capture of such a dangerous man. I do hope, however, that you will not be disbanding the Committee or the Guardians. Their work is still necessary.’

  ‘Oh, but surely the danger is over, now,’ said Loveridge, innocently.

  ‘I suspect that in the usual way of these things both those organisations will fall into obscurity,’ Candy advised them. ‘But they served their purpose when they were needed, and I am proud to have been a part of them. I know there were other murders while they existed, but who knows how many more there might have been which were avoided.’

  Frances could not hide her concern. ‘But I think they are still needed, and urgently. Please promise me you will keep them alive for a while at least.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Loveridge asked. ‘Is there some new danger? I have not heard of any.’

  ‘I am sorry to say it but I feel that there is still the old one.’

  Candy looked bemused. ‘I am afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is my belief that the man who has recently been captured only committed two of the murders, those of Martha Miller and Mr Ibbitson. The rest were the work of at least one other person.’

  The men were both silent and thoughtful for a time. ‘People are saying that Mrs Wheelock was murdered either by her husband o
r her nephew,’ said Loveridge, at last. ‘They are both under arrest. Poor lady, she was said to be a great friend to charity. I called at the house once to offer to make a sketch and left my card, but I was never able to see her.’

  Candy shook his head. ‘I still think that ruffian was responsible.’

  ‘Mrs Wheelock was killed in a closed cab,’ Frances pointed out. ‘She allowed her killer to enter. She would never have admitted someone of that man’s unpleasant appearance. He was, in any case, in police custody at the time she was killed. But if any such ruffian had tried to get in she would simply have ordered her driver to move off.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Candy, ‘one of the men the police already have in custody is her killer. Probably the husband. I have heard no good of him. As to the other murders, I and my friends on the Vigilance Committee are all of the opinion that the culprit has been caught.’ He looked about him. ‘Is Miss Smith here? I may have some business for her.’

  ‘No, she is caring for a sick friend. You will be able to see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Then I shall return. But the main reason I am here tonight is that the Committee has arranged a small reception for you. We have prepared a memorial to show our appreciation and hope that after the presentation you will join us for dinner.’

  ‘That is very kind, but I am not sure I can accept that honour.’

  ‘But it is all arranged. We are even now awaiting you. You need not worry that you have to make a speech, I will do all that.’

  Frances had no great wish to go out that evening and much preferred to sit by the fireside with Mr Loveridge and listen to what he had to say. She wondered how she might politely refuse, but it seemed churlish to do so.

  ‘I will quite understand if you do not wish to disappoint the Committee,’ said Loveridge. ‘Would you permit me to accompany you?’

  ‘Mr Loveridge, you are not a member of the Committee,’ Candy reminded him, sternly. ‘You are not even one of the Guardians.’