As soon as she was able, she sent Tom with a note to Dr Collin, and, as a result, was granted an interview with him later that day. When Dr Collin showed her into his surgery it was with an expression of frank curiosity. ‘I assume from your note that this is not a professional consultation,’ he said.
‘That is correct,’ said Frances, ‘and you must believe me I would not have spoken to you on this subject at all had it not been of the very greatest importance.’
He raised his eyebrows and sat back in his leather chair but said nothing, waiting for her to go on.
‘I understand that you are Mrs Keane’s doctor,’ Frances began.
‘I am,’ he said cautiously, ‘but of course you must realise that I can say nothing at all to you about her medical condition.’
‘It was on another matter that I wished to speak,’ Frances assured him. ‘I appreciate that it may be some time before the lady can be questioned, but I hoped that you could tell me if she has said anything to you on the subject of her evidence at the coroner’s court.’
‘She has not,’ said Collin, ‘and I wouldn’t consider it a suitable subject for her to be troubled with.’
‘And neither would I expect you to,’ said Frances, quickly, ‘but if she should volunteer anything…’
‘Even if she did,’ said Collin, ‘I am not sure that anything she said would be much attended to.’
Frances saw that it was time to be frank. ‘I called upon her before Mr Keane’s death. She freely admitted to me that her testimony was untrue and that she had never even entered our shop. But I cannot find it in my heart to blame the lady; I think she was forced to do it by her husband.’
Dr Collin looked sympathetic, but shook his head. ‘Believe me, Miss Doughty, I can do no more than listen to what she says. I can hardly induce a lady who is very unwell into making an admission that she gave false testimony.’
‘I have no desire for her to be punished,’ said Frances. ‘I would be quite content if she was simply to admit to someone other than myself that she made an innocent mistake. It would mean so very much to me,’ she pleaded. ‘Just a mistake that is all; nothing that she can be blamed for. Anyone may make a mistake; you yourself did so at my father’s inquest.’
‘I did?’ said Collin sitting up straight in astonishment.
‘Indeed you did, which shows how easily and blamelessly it may be done.’
‘I am not aware of any error in my testimony,’ said Collin a little stiffly. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me.’
‘You said that my father suffered from both headaches and toothaches,’ explained Frances. ‘He certainly did have headaches, but toothaches, never.’
‘I was quite sure that he did,’ said Collin, mystified.
‘He never complained of them to me,’ said Frances firmly, ‘and I think it is safe to say that if he did not complain of them, then he did not have them.’ She rose. ‘Please think of what I have said. One word from Mrs Keane, one expression of regret for the slightest of errors, and my father’s reputation would be restored.’
She took her leave, observing a touch of strain in Dr Collin’s noted affability of nature.
On the following morning, Frances’ mind was occupied in the necessary task of composing a letter to Mrs Cranby. How guilty she felt at raising that lady’s hopes that an answer might be found to the mystery of the death of Mr Wright, and how impossible it now seemed that she would ever find it. She could do no more than assure the Cranbys that the man who was probably responsible for the death of Wright had gone to find his punishment in some place beyond human retribution. Before she could find time to put pen to paper, however, a letter was delivered to her. It was from Clara Simmons, Alice Cranby’s sister, who had once been a maid at Tollington House and was now married to a carman in Bethnal Green.
Dear Miss Doughty
Alice has written to me all about your visit, and how you are looking to find who killed Mr Wright. I have often thought about this as he was a very fine gentleman, and I was very sad when he was murdered. On Saturday morning I will be taking the children to the Museum in Cambridge Road, and if it would be convenient we might meet there, and I will tell you what I remember of Mr Wright, and hope that it will help you. We may meet by the fountain at 10 a.m.
Clara Simmons
Frances read the letter and sighed. Only a few days ago the words would have filled her with great excitement at the prospect of uncovering new clues, but now, how useless it all seemed. Nevertheless, she thought it only polite to go. The cost of the omnibus would only, after all, bring her a shilling or so nearer to ruin. She wrote back to Clara agreeing to meet her as requested.
Frances had never visited the museum at Bethnal Green, but had heard people say it was a very fine thing, and provided a wholesome diversion and salutary education for persons of all walks of life. There were maps of London on her father’s bookshelves which told her where it was located, and pamphlets from the omnibus companies which she studied so as to find her way.
On Saturday morning, Frances took the yellow omnibus as far as Cheapside and was then able to hail the chocolate brown which would go to Bethnal Green Road. It was not a part of London she knew, except that it had had at one time a reputation for unhealthy dwellings and criminal activities of every kind, and for all she knew, still did. She comforted herself with the thought that any robber who took her bag would be ill-rewarded for his trouble.
The omnibus kept to the larger public thoroughfares, and, by doing so, Frances suspected that she was being protected from the sight and smells of the dirt and misery in which she knew some persons passed their lives. Whatever circumstances she might be reduced to, she thought, she knew that such abject distress would never be hers. She would be dependent upon her uncle, but at least her home would be warm and clean and she would not go without food. Alighting on the corner of Cambridge Road, she found a not unpleasant commercial street, thronged with people who, while far from the most elegant of persons, had some pretensions to being well-dressed. It was in many ways reminiscent of Westbourne Grove, though not, of course, of the same class. There were drapers, milliners, bakers, coopers, tin plate shops, booksellers, and even to her amazement a dairy, where the owner thought nothing of keeping his cows in what should have been his front parlour, and offering to draw off a pint of milk into the customers’ own jug as if he was a tapster drawing beer.
In a few minutes she found herself outside the museum, a handsome building of warm red brick, with decorative murals representing the worlds of art, science and agriculture, suggestive of the educational nature of its contents. Outside was the largest fountain Frances had ever seen. Some thirty feet in height and still larger across, it was faced with ornamental pottery tiles and topped with a statue of St George slaying a dragon. Frances thought it utterly splendid. There were crowds of people of every rank of society all wanting to be admitted to the museum, but a young woman was standing waiting by the fountain, with two neatly dressed children of about seven and eight years of age. She looked similar enough to Alice Cranby to be her sister, but as Frances approached she saw with some concern how thin the children were, and the fragile, troubled look of their mother, and a fading yellow bruise on her cheek.
‘Mrs Simmons? I am Frances Doughty.’
‘Oh,’ said the young woman, her face brightening in a becoming smile, ‘I am so happy to meet you – Alice told me all about how you had gone all that way to see Mrs Cranby. Did you have a pleasant visit?’
‘Very pleasant indeed, everyone could not have been kinder.’ Frances smiled at the children, who looked up at her with distrust and clung to their mother’s skirts.
‘Now then, Eddie and Johnnie, you say hallo to Miss Doughty,’ said Clara. The boys mumbled what might have been a greeting and turned their heads away.
‘They can be a little shy, sometimes,’ said Clara, apologetically. ‘Would you like to go into the museum?’
‘I would like to very much,’ said Frances, wond
ering how much it might cost, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was free. The interior reminded her of a railway station, with a high arching roof graced, and indeed probably supported, by slender iron columns. There were two galleries running the length of the building with decorative iron railings, and a very handsome marble mosaic floor.
‘The museum itself is a thing worth seeing,’ said Frances.
‘I come here when I can,’ said Clara. ‘There are lots of pretty pictures and nice furniture and china. And there is an exhibit all about food, but most people find that very dull.’
Frances stopped by one of the many glass cases ranged along the floor to look at some delicately crafted oriental porcelain. ‘I would like to hear all that you can remember about Mr Wright,’ she said.
‘Oh, he was a very fine looking young man,’ said Clara. ‘Very clever with all his drawings. Beautiful drawings, Miss, all kinds of things, he could make them look just like the real thing. Better than a photograph.’
‘Did you ever hear him say anything about where he had lived or what he had done before he came to Tollington Mill?’ asked Frances, hopefully.
‘No, never, Miss. He never spoke about his life before.’
Perhaps, thought Frances, the villagers of Tollington Mill were used to wealthy gentlemen who liked to come there so they could forget the world of commerce and obligation. ‘Did he ever entertain visitors from outside the village? People you didn’t know?’
‘No, Miss, nothing like that.’
‘He posted his own letters, I believe?’
‘Yes, always. He said he enjoyed the walk, even if the weather was very bad. I said I didn’t mind going, but he wouldn’t have it.’
‘And he received many letters, too?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know who sent them. I thought —,’ Clara paused.
Frances felt a leap of hope. ‘Yes?’
‘I thought that whoever wrote to him it was always the same person, the same writing.’
Such a tiny clue, thought Frances. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘Oh, no, Miss, and if I had known such a thing, I would have told the police straight away.’
Frances was finding it hard to hide her disappointment. Had she really come all this way to speak to a woman who knew nothing?
‘What is your opinion of the statement made by his sister that John Wright was insane? Did you think him to be so?’
‘Not at all, Miss, I never saw any sign of it,’ said Clara indignantly. ‘All that nonsense about him being afraid of an enemy and dyeing his hair, I never heard such a story in all my life! If you ask me, it was the sister who was not right in the head.’
‘Well, it seems he did have an enemy,’ said Frances.
‘Maybe, but he never dyed his hair. It was natural black.’
Frances had been staring at a carved jade snuff-bottle, but this suddenly lost its attraction. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s true,’ said Clara firmly. ‘I never saw a hair dye that didn’t leave marks on the pillow cases, and his were always white as white.’
‘But the police found the bottle of hair dye in his cabinet,’ Frances reminded her.
‘They may have done, Miss, but that was after he was dead and the house had been closed up for over a month. I cleaned that bathroom many a time, and turned out all the cupboards regular, and I never saw a bottle of dye anywhere. And I gave the house a good clean before it was closed up and there was no bottle of dye there then.’
‘Did you tell this to the police?’ asked Frances.
‘I did, but they never believed me. They said that it was there as plain as plain could be, and I must have missed it. I’ll tell you now, if I was to go into a court and swear on the bible, I would say just the same.’
Frances wondered what that could mean, if indeed it meant anything. It was, she thought regretfully, easy enough to prove a fact, that something had been present, but very hard to prove its absence.
Clara sat down on a bench facing a display of small paintings, and the children clustered at her side. ‘I brought something for you to look at Miss,’ she said, and drew a small parcel from her bag. Frances sat by her and watched in curiosity as the string was untied and the paper opened to reveal a book. It was bound in dark red leather, and the covers and the edges of the pages were very badly charred. It took a moment or two before she guessed what it was. ‘This is Mr Wright’s sketch book,’ said Clara proudly.
‘I was told he burnt it up!’ exclaimed Frances.
‘He did put it in the fire, just before he left, and he said to me, “now Clara, be a good girl and make quite sure that it is all burnt to ashes,” but as soon as he was out of the room I got the tongs and pulled it out. I felt a bit guilty afterwards, I suppose in a way it was stealing, so I didn’t tell anyone I had it, but I just couldn’t bear to see all those beautiful pictures gone forever. Do you think I was wrong?’ she said anxiously.
Frances opened the book, and stared at a drawing of Tollington House. ‘No,’ she said at last, ‘I think you did just the right thing.’ As she studied the picture, the deft workings of the artist’s pencil, which had, with just a few strokes, created an unmistakable image, she suddenly felt a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. She turned the pages, and saw a view of the village street, a farmer driving past in his dog-cart, and some young women in their Sunday best walking up to the church. What she was seeing was, she knew, impossible. The subjects of the drawings were unimportant, except that they showed the artist’s taste, but the style was most strangely familiar. Could it really be that the missing Mr Meadows and the long-dead Mr Wright could be the same man? But if that was the case, Guy Berenger – who would have been no more than fourteen when the drawings were done – could not possibly be Meadows.
‘They are lovely pictures,’ said Clara, breaking a long silence. The children huddled close to her, making little whimpering noises. Frances suspected that they were hungry. She groped in her purse and found two pennies she could hardly spare, and gave them one each. ‘Oh thank you, Miss, I’m sure that’s very kind. Say thank you to the kind lady!’
The children mumbled their thanks, and looked at Frances with less suspicion than before. Frances turned another page and found a picture, which was undoubtedly that of Mrs Garton. Younger and very slender then, it showed a woman of great beauty and grace, with a tender smile on her lips. Frances wondered what Henrietta had been gazing at. She had seen the look before, she recalled, when the Gartons had walked together on the Grove, and Henrietta had smiled up at her husband, but her husband was not present in the portrait and she seemed to be looking directly at the artist. She turned another page. This was a street scene, and Henrietta was walking arm in arm with a gentleman who Frances did not recognise. He was thin, aged about forty, with a narrow face, short side whiskers, a well-trimmed beard and a serious expression.
‘This is another very good likeness of Mrs Garton,’ said Frances. ‘Who is the gentleman with her?’
‘Why, that is Mr Garton, of course,’ said Clara.
‘Surely not,’ said Frances. ‘Some friend of his, perhaps. This does not resemble him in the slightest.’
Clara looked at the picture. ‘No, that is Mr Garton, and I would say it was very like.’
Frances could only stare at the page before her. Try as she might, imagining the passage of time that could have changed his features, and the accumulation of flesh which had come with good living, even allowing for those things, it was clear to her now that Percival Garton of Bayswater, the man who had died in an agony of poisoning with strychnia, was not the same Percival Garton who had lived with Henrietta in Gloucestershire. For a moment she felt utterly confused, wondering which of the two men could be the real Garton, then she reflected that it must be the London man, for Cedric Garton had identified the body of his dead brother. Then she recalled something that Cedric had told her, and finally she knew the answer. She was obli
ged to stifle the urge to laugh.
‘Are you feeling well, Miss?’ asked Clara, with a worried frown.
‘I – yes – I am just surprised at these portraits. May I borrow this book? I think it contains some important information and should be shown to the authorities.’
Clara opened her eyes wide. ‘Really, Miss? Well I never! Yes, of course, you may take it and welcome. Will it help discover who killed Mr Wright?’
‘I hope it may,’ said Frances. ‘At any rate, I am now sure that I know who killed Mr Garton.’
As she travelled home, trying to erase the sight of the two boys with their pinched frightened faces, and their anxious mother, Frances reviewed the notes she had made. In the last weeks she had learned a great deal, but each succeeding fact had been no more than another piece in a great puzzle which she had been quite unable to assemble. Something had been missing from the heart of the puzzle and its absence had meant that none of the other pieces would fit together. The new information was acting as a catalyst in her mind, and everything was starting to draw together to form a picture. She took out her notebook, and began to write, and by the time she reached home, had almost completed composing an account of what she now felt sure had occurred.
As she passed by the shop on her way to the front door, she glanced in, seeing that there were numerous customers within, and hurried up to the parlour, determining to finish her notes and then go to the police. Wilfred was waiting for her, and seemed relived when she entered.
‘Constable Brown,’ she exclaimed. ‘I am so glad you have called, I have some information of very great importance.’
‘Miss Doughty,’ he said seriously, ‘I have been sent to bring you to the station at once.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
As Frances was ushered into Inspector Shar rock’s office, a man seated there rose and greeted with her a slight bow. She had not met him before, but saw that he was of middling years, and respectably dressed in a dark suit, with the air of formal deference appropriate to a very superior class of servant.
The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 31