Death in Bayswater

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘I would like to make a sketch. You are conferring an honour on Miss Doughty and it will be my very great privilege to record the event.’

  Frances made a decision. She rose to her feet. ‘And it will be mine to attend.’ With that, Mr Loveridge went to procure a cab.

  Mr Candy ordered the driver to take them to Leinster Square, where he resided and where the Committee met.

  ‘I do hope,’ said Loveridge, as the cab drew away, ‘that for once, Miss Doughty, your concerns are misplaced and all the guilty men are under lock and key. Do you really think the scoundrel with the knife killed Miss Miller?’

  ‘I can’t prove it, of course, in fact I believe I never will, and I am very much afraid that Jim Price will still go to the gallows for a crime he did not commit. But I am sure about Mr Ibbitson, who I think was killed because he was trying to bring the man’s crimes home to him. The police theory is that he was killed by the same man who cut his victims’ faces but was interrupted before he could do so. I don’t agree. The police did everything they could to find a witness who might have interrupted the murderer but no one has come forward.’

  ‘It is said that the murderer wanted to kill women,’ mused Loveridge. ‘Why, I cannot imagine. Was it only because they are weaker and therefore easier to overcome? Or was there some other motive? The papers say that Mr Ibbitson was killed by mistake because of his disguise, and the murderer didn’t go on with the face slashing when he realised that his victim was a man.’

  ‘But how would he have known Mr Ibbitson was a man in the dark?’ reasoned Frances. ‘He had a very smooth youthful face, and even in the light, to someone who didn’t know him, disguised as he was, he would have looked very like a young woman.’

  At this point in the conversation a suggestion might have been put forward that the killer had committed other actions that would have alerted him to the sex of his victim. Frances knew that this was not the case, since the clothing had not been disarranged, and fortunately neither of the men was willing to air that particular subject.

  ‘But you identified him at the scene of the crime,’ said Loveridge. ‘Was there much light?’

  ‘Very little, but I identified him because I knew who he was. I recognised him from a bruise on his face.’

  Loveridge was thoughtful. ‘I am still wondering if this Face-slasher person did kill Mrs Wheelock. Perhaps there was a mistake about the time. I know some of the police think that. In fact I was able to find out something today. Now that the case is regarded as closed the police are being more talkative about it. I was told that Mrs Wheelock was disfigured in the same way as the others, although the murderer had more time to do it, and did it more thoroughly. But it was the same method. All the victims apart from Mr Ibbitson and Miss Miller were cut in exactly the same way.’

  ‘Did your informant describe it?’ asked Frances.

  ‘He did, but it is very unpleasant.’

  ‘You are right to hold back,’ interrupted Mr Candy. ‘I am sure that Miss Doughty has no wish to hear about it. It is not for the ears of a lady.’

  ‘But I want to know,’ Frances insisted. ‘I have been trying to discover this information for weeks. Please don’t think to spare me, I am sure I have heard far worse.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Loveridge cautiously.

  ‘Sarah has been reading me the tales of old Newgate. After those, there can be very few horrors I am unacquainted with.’

  The cab reached its destination, and drew to a halt.

  Candy turned to Loveridge with a hard frown. ‘Sir, I beg you not to upset Miss Doughty, whatever she might say. In fact I wish you to take the cab onwards and leave us now. I cannot approve of your attendance at this meeting if this is the way you behave.’

  Frances made for the door. ‘Help me down, Mr Loveridge, and then tell me what you know.’

  She stepped out into the cool quiet. Leinster Square boasted a select terrace of tall houses with handsome pillared porticoes opposite some gated gardens. It lay between Hereford Road and Garway Road, just far enough from the bustle of Westbourne Grove to afford the fortunate resident an elegant retreat. The lamp-lit street was almost deserted apart from a cloaked figure clinging on to some railings, a masked reveller obviously very much under the influence of drink. He waved in friendly fashion at the arrivals, an action that almost caused him to fall, since he needed both hands to keep him upright, then cracked the silence with an attempt to sing a popular ditty in a high tuneless voice. They winced at the noise, but it was reassuring that the inebriate appeared to be of no danger to anyone but himself.

  The cab drew away, and Frances looked expectantly at Mr Loveridge.

  ‘I was told that the cuts were made as if the killer wished to obliterate the women, cancel them, cross them out. Large crosses like letter Xs. And then – and this is the thing I really cannot understand – he cut their noses off.’

  No wonder, thought Frances, that the police had concealed that extraordinary detail. ‘How remarkable! I wonder what it can mean?’

  ‘It is fortunate that you stopped him in time, or he would have gone on killing, I am sure.’

  Frances wondered why a man would hate women so. Why would he be impelled to kill them one by one? Why cut off their noses? Did he think that women were prying and poking their noses into areas they should not and wanted to stop them? There were many men who said women were doing just that – she had often been accused of it herself – but from disapproval to murder was a very long step. The killer was undoubtedly insane, but she could now see that there was a pattern to his insanity although it was something she could not fathom, a kind of – what was the word – monomania.

  Monomania. She had read about it in one of her father’s medical books. A passion, a frenzy concerning a single subject in someone who otherwise appeared sane. Perhaps, therefore, he did not want to kill all women, but only one woman; one who had aroused his anger and frustration and he was, by using the same method, killing her over and over again.

  There was a pattern forming in her mind. A killer who was known and trusted by Mrs Wheelock. A killer who would have recognised Mr Ibbitson by his bruised face. And then there was the portrait of Miss Digby, the supercilious glance, the upturned nose that seemed to be tilted in scorn, how Mr Candy had once said that his betrothed had turned her nose up at him; the large crisscross markings he had made on the list of candidates for the Guardians of Virtue. She had not seen him arrive at the hall for the meeting, and had assumed that he had been there from the start, but there had been such a great crush of people. There had been time, she realised, ample time for him to carry out the murders, go to his home or his office, both of which were within a minute’s walk of the hall, check himself for bloodstains, put on clean cuffs if necessary, and then arrive at the meeting as if nothing had happened.

  Frances spoke very cautiously. ‘I fear that I should not have asked for those details after all. I confess that thinking about it has made me feel very faint.’

  ‘There, what did I say?’ exclaimed Mr Candy. ‘Mr Loveridge you should not have complied with Miss Doughty’s request, she is more delicate than she might like to admit. Please leave us now before you upset her further.’

  Loveridge was suitably contrite. ‘Oh, please accept my apologies! I did not want to distress you, but you were so very sure you were equal to it.’

  ‘Then it is my fault alone,’ Frances reassured him. ‘And now, I think that I would like to return home. Perhaps Mr Candy we will have the meeting of the Vigilance Committee on another occasion.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Candy. ‘Really, Mr Loveridge, you have done quite enough for one evening. Now please go. I will conduct Miss Doughty safely home myself.’

  Frances felt a prickling sensation like ants crawling through the roots of her hair. ‘Would it not be best if you were to go and advise the members of the Committee that I will not be there tonight? Mr Loveridge can accompany me home.’

  ‘Oh, but I insist on taking you
to your home,’ retorted Candy, and there was a steely note in his voice that Frances had not heard before. ‘I do not trust you to be alone with Mr Loveridge. Why he did not even qualify as a Guardian of Virtue.’

  ‘I had letters from a clergyman and a judge, but the man was caught before I could send them to you,’ Loveridge protested.

  ‘So you say, but am I to believe it? Now then, Miss Doughty, if you will permit me –’ Candy went to take hold of her arm, but she flinched away from him. It was a horrible mistake, but she could not help it. She saw a sudden flash of anger in his eyes.

  ‘It is very obvious that Miss Doughty does not wish to accompany you,’ said Loveridge, placing himself between them. ‘Really, I might almost think –’

  It happened too fast to see. Candy struck Loveridge hard in the chest, and the young artist gasped as if the breath had been knocked out of his body and to Frances’ horror he crumpled silently to the ground.

  Candy turned to Frances. ‘Oh you are far too clever for your own good. I am very sorry, Miss Doughty, I had grown to like and admire you.’ He moved towards her and she saw that he had drawn a knife. There was no help to hand. Loveridge lay winded on the ground. The only other figure in the street was too drunk to assist. She screamed as loud as she could, turned and ran.

  So many things passed through her mind as she raced along the street. Would help come in time? Who would hear her screams? Could she run faster than the man who wanted to kill her? Frances was young and strong, with long legs, but hampered by her heavy skirts she knew that she could not outrun a man for long. Should she dare to turn and confront him and take her chances with the knife, or should she just run and run? How she wished Sarah was with her. She felt her heart thudding in her chest, so hard that it was starting to hurt, and she had no more breath left for another scream, only running. She prayed that she would not stumble and fall. Behind her she heard the harsh panting and pounding steps of Mr Candy, and the sound was gradually getting closer. Soon he would be able to reach out and grasp her, perhaps by the hair, and then he would pull her head back and expose her throat to his knife. She would fight him, she was determined on that, she would fight with fists and feet, she would claw and bite like a wild beast, using every ounce of her strength, but she would not submit to the knife.

  The figure when it came seemed to appear from nowhere. She was aware only of a tall man, his dark cloak swirling about him like a whirlwind, and the stark white shape of a Venetian mask. Frances staggered and fell against a railing panting with exhaustion, her legs trembling and weak, almost unable to support her. She hoped her saviour would not suffer for his intervention, all too strongly aware that the drunken reveller was all that lay between her and a horrible death. But the reveller was not drunk. He had never been drunk. He was swift and strong. There was a calm, ruthless and practiced efficiency with which he disarmed the murderer, and then with a single movement smacked Mr Candy’s head against a gatepost. Candy slid to the ground unconscious.

  For a moment, Frances thought she would join her attacker on the pavement. Then the masked man turned to her, holding out his hands. She managed to stumble forward, and somehow, she was never able afterwards to decide just how it had happened, she found herself enclosed in his arms, and pressed against his chest. She flung her arms about his neck, and felt the smooth line of his jaw lie against her forehead, and for a few intoxicating moments they clung together like lovers. ‘You’re safe now,’ he said, ‘you’re safe.’ And she was safe. If she knew nothing else, she knew that.

  A police whistle sounded from the direction of Garway Road, and running footsteps approached them. Her rescuer drew back, and held her gently at arm’s length. ‘I think we can let the police deal with this fellow,’ he said.

  Wordlessly, she nodded.

  He released her – she sensed that it was with some reluctance – and began to move away.

  With an effort, Frances found her voice. ‘Please! I don’t know your name!’

  He paused and turned back to face her. How she wished he would remove the mask. ‘The name is Grove,’ he said, ‘W. Grove. Good night, Miss Doughty.’ Then he was gone.

  Her ordeal seemed to have taken minutes but in reality it must only have been seconds before her screams had alerted both the patrolling police and the residents of the square. Windows were going up and frightened faces were peering out at the scene below.

  She looked around and saw Constable Mayberry and another constable hurrying up behind him.

  ‘Miss Doughty!’ Mayberry gasped, as he reached her. ‘Was that you screaming? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Thankfully, I am unhurt, but you must arrest this man at once. It is Mr Candy. He has just tried to murder me, and I believe that he is the Bayswater Face-slasher.’

  ‘Oh, but I thought – well never mind, I know you are always right about these things.’

  Candy began to groan and Mayberry quickly secured him with handcuffs, dragged him to his feet, and took the fallen knife in charge.

  ‘Where is Mr Loveridge?’ asked Frances, peering up the long terrace. ‘He was with us but I fear he may be injured.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him on my beat.’

  Constable Cross arrived, out of breath.

  ‘Right,’ said Mayberry, ‘we have a dangerous man here so we need to get him back to the station to be charged with attempted murder and that’s just for a start.’

  ‘There’s a body up there,’ Cross told him. ‘Stuckey is with it.’

  Frances felt suddenly very cold. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. A man.’

  Exhausted as she was, Frances began to run again, retracing the path of her flight from Mr Candy to where she had last seen Mr Loveridge crumple to the ground.

  He still lay there, stretched upon the pavement, his position unchanged. Stuckey was standing beside him but making no attempt to assist, he just wrote in his notebook. ‘Help him!’ Frances begged, but Stuckey only looked at her pityingly as she fell on her knees beside the young artist, and saw the spreading stain of blood on his shirtfront, directly over his heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After the inevitable interview at the police station, an event that passed with the torment of a waking nightmare, a note was sent at Frances’ request and Cedric arrived. Waving aside all Sharrock’s objections he put her in a cab, and took her back to his apartments where he and his manservant Joseph coddled and fussed over her. When she was finally able to sleep from a combination of brandy and sheer exhaustion, they wrapped her in a warm quilt, and laid her on Cedric’s handsome wide bed while Cedric slipped away to sleep elsewhere.

  Next morning, Sarah came to take Frances home and she did not stir from the house or see any visitors for several days. Prospective clients were firmly turned away, letters remained unopened, and newspapers unread. Sarah gave her the kind of quiet companionship that demanded nothing, and supplied a watchful and reassuring presence. From time to time little gifts would arrive from friends; hothouse flowers, little cakes and baskets of fruit. The flowers Frances admired, but she had very little appetite even for her favourite treats. One day Sarah went out and bought two picture frames for the sketches made by Mr Loveridge, which were placed on display.

  One matter had at least been resolved. On Sarah’s visit to ‘Mrs Jones’ she had discovered the young woman in the throes of a fit, and had at once summoned a surgeon. It had taken the vigorous efforts of both, but they had managed to save the life of the unfortunate woman and also preserve that of the child she carried. When the patient was finally able to speak she said that she had been given something to drink by her betrothed, Mr Pargeter. It had smelt of almonds and tasted strange but he had told her it was a medicine that would do good to herself and the child and she had trusted him. There was no doubt in the mind of the surgeon that she had been given a deadly poison and Pargeter, who had clearly hoped that his mistress would be thought to have taken her own life, had been arrested and charged with
attempted murder. This revelation was too much for the Bold Blood fraternity who promptly disowned their leader and disbanded.

  Following the removal of her beloved suitor into the hands of the police, Miss Digby had managed to swallow her disappointment and was about to consider the offer from his rival Mr Berkeley, but had then been shown the evidence that he had only wooed her for a wager. Since her last remaining beau was now known to be a dangerous lunatic, her father had decided to send his unfortunate daughter abroad for a long holiday.

  The arrest of Mr Candy had naturally created considerable disarray in the three charities he had managed, but all was soon settled when Mrs Hullbridge and a committee of ladies arrived to take charge with an energy and determination that was gratefully received by all concerned.

  If Frances reflected on Mr Candy at all, it was to berate herself for not realising that he was a killer. The charity work, which had given him a false front of benevolence, his lack of any proper feeling which had appeared to be no more than the natural reticence of a shy young man, and his quiet ordinariness had fooled everyone. Despite this, Frances still felt that she should have been able to see him for what he was. She began to doubt if she was fit to be a detective.

  A week after the tragedy of Leinster Square a note arrived, addressed to Frances, hand delivered by a constable from Paddington Green. Sarah said she thought it should be opened, and Frances, after some hesitation, was reluctantly obliged to agree. It was an invitation for them both to take tea with Inspector and Mrs Sharrock.

  Frances had little stomach for anything, but she knew she ought to go. ‘It is unusually thoughtful of the Inspector not to demand my presence at the police station. I assume that this is not primarily a social event, and he wishes to ask me some questions, yet he has taken care that I should feel comfortable.’

  An affirmative reply was sent and later that afternoon a cab delivered them to the Inspector’s cottage. The parlour was warm and light, and a tea table was amply furnished with everything that Frances might have wanted to eat had she had any appetite. Mrs Sharrock was pouring boiling water from a giant kettle into a large brown teapot, and looked at Frances with some sympathy, not liking to mention how pale and thin she appeared. The older Sharrock children, all scrubbed and brushed for the visitors, sat around the table, gazing hopefully at an array of large tea plates the heaping contents of which were covered in snowy napkins, while the youngest and most impatient sat on her father’s lap, squeezing bread and butter tightly in her fists so it emerged like pastry between her fingers.