‘Is there anything more you wish to tell me?’
‘Oh, Miss Doughty, I wished to tell you none of it! But that is all I have to say. I will remain in London until the inquest is concluded, but I will return to Edinburgh immediately thereafter. My brother’s remains have already been deposited where they were before and that is the end of my interest. Indeed, I am only here at the behest of my mother, who became very agitated when the dreadful story appeared in the newspapers.’
‘Did you view your brother’s body?’ Frances asked.
‘I did.’
‘And you have no doubt that it was indeed his remains?’
‘I have heard that you have made some strange allegations, for what purposes I cannot imagine. I recognised him by an old scar; it was on his temple, just hidden by his hair. I remember it well. It was I who gave it to him. There – enough!’
Frances took her leave and reluctantly felt that she must now accept that the body in the catacombs was that of Dr Mackenzie. As to Carmichael, whatever foolishness he was practising she wanted none of it. She determined to confront him at the earliest opportunity and say that she could no longer continue with the case as she had been asked to chase a chimaera. If his sister Ellen did not exist then it was very probable that the whole story was a lie from start to finish. There was no journal, no snuffboxes, no theft, and no light-fingered maidservant. Which meant that there was now only one candidate for the body in the canal, Mrs Pearson’s missing maid Ethel.
There was a note waiting for her from Chas and Barstie, which left her still less inclined to continue with Dr Carmichael as a client. They had set an agent to follow him and found that while during the daytime he visited hospitals and attended medical lectures, he spent his evenings with a woman of doubtful reputation. Frances knew that she ought to be angry with Dr Carmichael for approaching her under false pretences, but this was ameliorated by the fact that she had always regarded him with suspicion. She was a little curious to know what he had hoped to achieve by engaging her services, but mainly anxious to be rid of him. She would have liked to face him down in the Piccadilly Club and felt annoyed at the sheer number of places that would not admit her on grounds of her sex. Frances recalled, not without some embarrassment, her masquerade as a young man in her late brother’s suit of clothes, claiming to be a newspaper correspondent, in which guise she had first accosted Cedric Garton. It had been a dangerous thing to do and she would never want to do it again, but all the same there was a little voice at the back of her mind that would keep on reminding her how free she had felt without heavy skirts and petticoats weighing her down. She composed a note to Dr Carmichael asking him to come and see her at his earliest convenience.
Sarah returned from her first day as Mr Whiteley’s spy. She had been disappointed to discover that although the task had appeared at the outset to involve a great deal of shopping, something to which she was not averse, Mr Whiteley was unwilling to supply the required funds for her to do this, saying only that she was to look, make a note of the quality of the goods and their price, and report back to him, but not buy. If they were items she might want, then she must pay for them herself, but she must buy at Whiteleys and nowhere else. Frances felt that they had uncovered the secret of Mr Whiteley’s wealth, and wondered how far one might take prudence with money until it became parsimony and then meanness. Sarah was not, therefore, in the best of moods when Mr Horton reappeared in a state of agitation bordering on tears, insisting that Frances capture the alligator at once.
Sarah summed him up with a glance and informed him that she had seen the offending animal in the handbag department of Whiteleys, caught it, and killed it by snapping its neck. The brusque gesture of her fists left him in no doubt that she was thoroughly accustomed to dispatching unwanted livestock in this manner, and he blanched in terror and ran away without offering payment.
‘You won’t see him again!’ said Sarah.
Dr Carmichael arrived to see Frances on the Monday morning with a cautiously hopeful expression and slid into a seat in the little parlour. ‘Have you discovered anything of interest?’ he asked.
Frances faced him across the table and looked at him calmly. ‘Yes, I discovered that you do not have a sister called Ellen.’
‘Oh,’ he said, crestfallen, and fidgeted with his fingers. ‘I suppose,’ he said at last, ‘that it was foolish of me to imagine that I might be able to deceive you. I expect you have been talking to that cold fish David Mackenzie.’
‘Never mind who I have been talking to – do you admit lying to me?’
‘It was not exactly a lie,’ he said grudgingly, ‘it was – a necessary invention.’
‘And the whole story you told me about how the documents had been found was also a necessary invention?’
He looked unhappy. Frances looked unsympathetic. ‘I am afraid so,’ he admitted.
‘Very well.’ Frances placed an envelope on the table. He picked it up and looked at her questioningly. ‘My account,’ she said. ‘For the work I have done to date. Please examine it and finalise matters in due course.’
‘What do you mean?’ he exclaimed.
‘I mean I cannot act for you.’
‘Oh but – what about the journal – I must have it!’
Frances’ undeniable contempt for the slippery and perverted creature before her was tempered by astonishment at his effrontery. ‘Dr Carmichael, are you really telling me that this journal actually exists, because I am far from convinced that it does. I will not waste my time chasing after ghosts when I can act for clients who are able to tell me the truth.’
‘It does exist,’ he assured her, ‘but I was obliged for reasons I cannot divulge to – well – be less than candid about the circumstances of its loss.’
‘I would prefer it if my account was settled in cash before the end of the month,’ said Frances.
He put the envelope back on the table. ‘I will be honest with you, Miss Doughty.’
‘That would be refreshing, but I am afraid it is a little late to start now. You need not trouble yourself to say more. Miss Smith will conduct you to the door.’
Sarah folded her arms and gave him a hard look, so that he might be in no doubt as to how this might be achieved.
He glanced nervously at Sarah, but he made no move to go and instead pushed the envelope closer to Frances. When Frances did not pick it up he pushed it closer. Still Frances ignored it. ‘I do not, as you say, have a sister called Ellen,’ he said. ‘I found the journal myself when looking at some of my sister’s things.’
Sarah rose to her feet.
‘If you don’t mind, this is all very distressing for me,’ he said, ‘and I am feeling a little faint. Might I trouble you for a drink of water?’
‘Please, help yourself,’ she said, indicating the carafe, and he seized upon it eagerly and poured a drink. ‘I can scarcely credit that this journal, assuming it to exist, was not found until recently,’ she observed.
He gulped at the water. ‘I know how this must seem. I did examine Madeleine’s letters and diaries shortly after her death, and have them in a safe place, but she also left some garments, which I have treasured, untouched. About a year ago – I don’t know why – I looked at them and found the journal folded in amongst them. Possibly so that it should remain hidden. The journal revealed that poor Madeleine had visited Mackenzie often and that she feared she was in a delicate state of health. I realised that I had the evidence I needed that would finally result in Mackenzie paying for his terrible treatment of my dear sister.’
‘I see,’ said Frances, seeing that the appearance of an incriminating document and Dr Mackenzie’s sudden need for £1,000 might not be unconnected. ‘So you came to London to confront him with this journal and demand money from him?’
‘No – no not at all! That would have been a secret revenge, but what I wanted was a public exposure. I decided to hand the journal to the police. It so happened that I had to come to London in any case as I was app
lying for a medical position here, and so I brought it with me.’ He sipped at the water again. ‘I also brought with me a letter, one that Madeleine had written to me when I was away at my studies, so that the police could compare the writing and be sure that it was hers. But before I could approach the police both the letter and the journal were stolen under circumstances I do not wish to describe. They were in a pocketbook which also contained some banknotes.’
‘You may be obliged to describe this event in future,’ observed Frances.
‘I know, but I prefer not to at present. I was concerned, Miss Doughty, because there were some notes in my sister’s journal which expressed her unhappiness at certain behaviours of mine. Nothing that broke the law, you understand, but matters that reflected poorly on my honour, things that I was most anxious should not be made public as it would be detrimental to my medical career. I waited with considerable trepidation to be contacted by a blackmailer, but that did not happen. Eventually, after being unsuccessful in my application for the position, I was obliged to return to my practice in Carlisle. I assumed that whoever stole the pocketbook was only interested in the banknotes and had thrown away the other items thinking them to be valueless. Recently I returned to London, once again hopeful of obtaining a position here. I was walking along Porchester Road when a messenger boy ran up to me and asked me if I was Dr Carmichael. I said I was and he gave me what I thought was a note and then ran away.’ Carmichael put the glass down, wiped his hands carefully on a clean handkerchief, then took a small leather case with a brass clasp from his pocket and opened it, extracting a folded sheet of paper. ‘This is what he gave me. It is one of my sister’s letters – the very one that was stolen this time last year together with the journal.’
‘May I see it?’ asked Frances.
Hesitantly, he handed it over, and Frances gently unfolded the sheet. It was a very brief note, advising the recipient that their mother was almost fully recovered from a bad cold, and expressing the hope that his studies were progressing well and that he would be able to return home soon. The date, in 1857, the signature and the sentiments showed it unequivocally to be a letter from Madeleine Carmichael to her brother. ‘Why do you think this was returned to you?’ she asked.
‘As proof that the journal was in someone’s possession. As you see, the contents of the letter are quite innocuous,’ he said, recovering the paper and putting it away reverentially, ‘but of course the journal is not. Even though Mackenzie is beyond the reach of a blackmailer, I am vulnerable, and all the more so for having hopes of gaining a new and prestigious post.’
‘Have you been approached by someone demanding money for the journal’s return?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And what do you expect me to do?’
‘Why, recover it, of course!’
‘But you offer me no clue as to who might have it or where it might be found.’
‘No, but I thought —’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought that in the profession of detective one often meets persons who are known for their criminal activities. I had hoped that you would easily be able to discover who is harbouring material of this nature.’
There was a long silence. Frances pushed the envelope back across the table. ‘I really do not think I can help you.’
‘But I must have the journal!’ he exclaimed, with such a burst of emotion that Frances could not doubt that it existed and that his predicament was acute.
‘Is it certain from its contents that you are the person named?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘Was the letter handed to you without an envelope?’
‘It was.’
‘Can you describe the messenger boy?’
‘No, by the time I realised what the paper was he had run away. But there are a number of them who seem always to be about Porchester Road. The boy may even know where the journal is being held. He may be a confederate of the criminal.’
‘I see,’ said Frances thoughtfully.
Carmichael took a wallet from his pocket and placed a banknote on the table. Had it been a Scottish banknote she might have shown him the door at once, but she saw that it was a good English one.
‘Very well,’ she said reluctantly, ‘I will make some enquiries. In the meantime, you must be alert and tell me if you see the boy again. If anyone does approach you for money for the return of the journal you must agree to their demands, make an appointment to meet them and then inform me at once.’
‘I don’t want the police involved!’ he said quickly.
‘That is understood. I take it that all you want is the journal and you will not press charges against the thief.’
‘Exactly so.’
Frances picked up the money and the envelope. ‘You must be truthful in future or I can do nothing for you.’
With a nod Carmichael departed, and Frances and Sarah looked at one another. ‘He is undoubtedly afraid,’ said Frances, ‘but for myself I am not convinced that he was not the person who blackmailed Dr Mackenzie. He is unaware, of course, that I know of Mackenzie’s need for money and that it coincides with his first visit to London. The journal has probably been stolen by a criminal associate. I think he knows who has it, but not where it is.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will ask Tom to make enquiries amongst the messenger boys who work around Porchester Road. Mr Knight and Mr Taylor will continue to keep watch on Dr Carmichael. It is possible that my discovery of his lies may rattle him into doing something incautious.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Frances despatched a note to Tom, and then spent a little time tidying her papers, an activity that always seemed to produce order in her mind and which she found very calming. She had just completed a simple luncheon when she received an unexpected visitor, a very serious looking Inspector Sharrock of Paddington Green police station. Sharrock, a stocky man with a face that looked as though it had been rubbed red with a nutmeg grater, often evinced a stern, almost fatherly concern at Frances’ activities. He called on her from time to time, under the guise of supervising her and checking that she had not been murdered or worse, but also hoping to learn if there was anything of note she had discovered about some of the hidden crimes of Bayswater. This time there was no preamble.
‘It might interest you to know,’ said Sharrock, ‘that I have come here at the very special request of a Mr Horton, who wishes me to place Miss Smith under immediate arrest for murder.’
Frances glanced at Sarah with some concern since the possibility of Sarah committing an act of violence was not a remote one. Sarah, who was doing some mending, continued her work without so much as a pause. ‘Might I ask who the supposed victim is and when this event is said to have occurred?’ asked Frances.
‘You may. It happened last Christmas, and the victim is an alligator which Mr Horton assures me was a very particular friend of his. He says he witnessed the crime with his own eyes and it has caused him very great distress, and he will testify to it in a court of law if required. He also claims that Miss Smith has freely admitted, and indeed gloried in the fact that she strangled the unfortunate creature with her bare hands. Do you deny this, Miss Smith?’
‘I will refrain from mocking a gentleman who I believe is more deserving of sympathy than censure,’ said Frances, ‘but I think it has not escaped your notice that Mr Horton is not exactly in his right mind.’
‘Just so,’ said Sharrock. ‘It will be necessary to inform his friends and relatives, when we can find anyone to take responsibility for him, that he is the subject of delusions and they should have him properly looked after. I assume that the alligator incident is a fable?’
‘Ah, not precisely,’ said Frances and was obliged to mention the strategy for ridding herself of Mr Horton’s presence. ‘I have no doubt, however, that the animal in question does not exist.’
‘I hope Mr Horton did not make any payment to you for this service?’
‘The remuneration
was as substantial as the animal,’ said Frances. ‘How he acquired that particular obsession I cannot say.’
Sharrock, who had clearly had no intention of arresting Sarah, threw himself into a chair. ‘No chance of a cup of tea, I suppose?’ The tea duly appeared and Sharrock gulped it almost boiling hot, without a wink of pain. ‘I have spoken to Mr Horton and he has the type of mind which will seize on any incident and make it into a story. It seems that a lady whose parrot was missing has been telling all her friends about your success in finding the creature and he believed you might have similar powers over other animals. I have been told by members of the Piccadilly Club, where he is sometimes to be seen, that he once owned a leather travelling bag which somewhat resembled alligator hide, which he mislaid, and to him the item and the animal have become one and the same, and it has been haunting him. He seems to have a similar delusion about a fox. He has also accused Professor Pounder of assaulting him, and indeed he does have a recent abrasion on his face, but Horton is not a member of the professor’s academy and none of the students have ever seen him there.’
‘Perhaps he read about Professor Pounder in the Chronicle,’ suggested Frances. ‘It is interesting that Mr Horton does not create his ideas from nothing. He is a puzzle, but I do not intend to try and solve him.’
‘Miss Smith is not the only person he has accused of murder,’ said Sharrock. ‘I am afraid in his unhappy brain all of Bayswater is peopled with individuals who wish to do him harm.’
Sarah grunted as if to imply that not all of these threats were improbable.
‘But to other matters. I have been told that you are trying to discover the whereabouts of Mr Palmer and have been spreading a variety of rumours.’
A Case of Doubtful Death Page 21