‘Mrs Sandcourt chanced to meet Mrs Gribling at the Christmas bazaar and asked if she could write to Flora. Flora said she hoped that because Mrs Sandcourt was so often there as a patron she could give her news of her cousin Wilhelmina, who is still there.’
Frances recalled that at the bazaar Mrs Venn had approached Mrs Gribling under her previous name of Clare. Selina must have overheard this and taken the opportunity to make her acquaintance. But why, she wondered, had Selina wanted to start a correspondence with Flora? Was she trying on her father’s behalf to trace the elusive Caroline Clare? Had she known of the secret wedding? And while Frances knew why Flora would want to distribute the pamphlets she could not understand why Selina, as a patroness of the school, would connive at any action that might bring the establishment into disrepute.
As they reached the hotel it appeared that the prospect of the meeting had excited all the citizens of Bayswater – either that or they had sensed that some free entertainment might be on offer – and the street was almost choked with carriages and cabs, while omnibuses were being brought to a halt and men on laden dreys with goods to deliver were rapidly losing patience with the crowds and each other. Anyone who had an opinion on anything had decided that this was a good place to be. There were groups of Liberals and Conservatives getting up little meetings, and the temperance society was trying to persuade passers-by to sign the pledge. A small party of anti-vivisectionists were carrying placards and shouting out their appeals, and one had a large board with a chalked message urging people of the good sense of vegetarianism. A lady was scurrying about pushing pamphlets into people’s hands, denouncing the dangerous practice of vaccination, while a lone man paraded grimly up and down with a placard complaining about Mr Whiteley’s new building in Queen’s Road, which was obscuring its neighbour’s light.
Frances and Quayle left the cab and somehow inserted themselves into the throng, looking about for Flora, but it was hard to discern anyone in the great crush of people.
Vendors were everywhere, with newspapers, pamphlets, matches, flowers, buns, pies, and fruit. As the crowd grew so it attracted still more people, who swarmed like flies around a nutritious piece of meat; singers, jugglers, beggars, people with some novelty to display. They appeared to come out of nowhere but most probably spent a great deal of their day lurking around Paddington station, and they had all suddenly seen the excitement and descended on the one spot. Tom was there, his buttons so shiny they almost glittered, offering to carry messages and parcels, and Frances also spotted Chas and Barstie, who appeared to be doing nothing at all other than watch the scene with enormous satisfaction. She greeted them and they doffed their hats with great gallantry.
‘Are you overseeing Mr Paskall’s interests?’ asked Frances.
‘His and others,’ admitted Chas.
A cab drew up at speed and Theodore, looking very anxious and so engrossed in his own concerns that he noticed no one else, jumped out and hurried into the hotel.
‘Now that is curious,’ said Barstie. ‘Son not minding the shop for his father. I wonder what he’s about?’
‘Running from the amorous designs of Lydia Matthews, perhaps,’ said Frances. ‘If the fathers hope to make a match there, I think they will be disappointed.’
‘Oh I found out that that was never a match,’ said Barstie. ‘Something else was in the wind, but I never heard what.’
A person in motley danced by to the tune of a tin whistle. ‘Well,’ said Frances, ‘it is quite a carnival. It lacks only a brass band.’
The words were no sooner spoken when she heard the rhythmic thudding of a drum, coming from the direction of Craven Road. There were three firm beats, a pause, then three more, followed by a regular continuous pounding which, judging by its increasing volume, was drawing closer. As she looked about for the approaching musicians, there began a sound that Frances had never heard before, like a hundred insects all loudly buzzing in tune, to be joined almost immediately by the voices of women raised in song. Marching towards her down the middle of the street were the ladies of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society, arrayed in their purple sashes. Some were singing a rousing melody called ‘Women of England Unite!’ – some, with puffed cheeks and red faces, were blowing heartily on instruments like flattened metal pipes. Miss John had outdone herself with a new banner, a pure white silken flutter almost the width of the street, with the name of the society stitched in glowing scarlet and she and Miss John supported it on either side with tall poles, so it paraded almost ten feet above the ground. Leading the company, her bandaged head held high, was the proud and valiant figure of Flora Quayle, beating a drum.
‘Oh – my – good – Lord!’ exclaimed that lady’s adoring husband. ‘My darling girl! Oh, she is a miracle!’
Carriages continued to arrive, and Frances saw in quick succession Cedric handing down an auburn-haired youth, a sunburnt gentleman she guessed was Mr Younge, then Mr Miggs, swollen with his own importance, brandishing his silver case which clicked and snapped as he distributed his little white cards to anyone who would take one. It was as she watched him that the unresolved thought that had been sitting at the back of Frances’ mind came up polished and complete, and she determined that as soon as the meeting was over she would write to Inspector Eaves of the Hillingdon police.
Miggs was soon flanked by his supporters; Mr Younge, Reverend Day – the chaplain of St Stephens Church – Dr Collin a respected Bayswater physician, and Inspector Sharrock. Frances suspected that Sharrock was there as much to see that order was kept and the law observed as any great liking for Mr Miggs. Mr Rawsthorne arrived with his clerk, and since he greeted everyone with great friendliness it was not immediately apparent for which side he was acting. Four of Sharrock’s largest constables strode up, and he quickly gave them their orders before they went inside.
The great phalanx of women halted outside the hotel, the buzzing instruments – which Quayle said were an American novelty called a kazoo – continuing to accompany the song, the drum beat thumping away while the banner danced on its poles. The end of the song was met by wild cheers and a scattering of leaflets.
Quayle rushed up to Flora. ‘Oh my darling, I have been so afraid for you!’ he exclaimed.
Flora looked him in the eye. ‘I shall never be afraid again,’ she declared.
He touched her hand appealingly. ‘And will you come home, now, my dear?’
‘When the meeting is over we will march home together,’ she said.
Quayle, who would have denied her nothing she asked at that moment, nodded and kissed her flushed cheeks. Frances felt sure that he would remain outside with her.
She turned to see if Chas and Barstie were about to join the crowds who had started flowing into the hotel for the meeting, but found that they had both vanished. She looked about her and saw something – a shadow at the corner of the street – a stain of dark grease by the wall, the flash of a knife and the hint of a broken-toothed grin. It was the Filleter. In the next moment, he was gone.
Frances hurried indoors, where anxious commissionaires were directing everyone through a handsome high ceilinged foyer past large rooms from which the scent of tea and coffee wafted tantalizingly, and the murmur of polite conversation muffled by pastries and self-satisfaction told of another life that might be lived. They were shown to a room with seating for about a hundred persons, which soon became uncomfortably packed. At one end was a row of three tables. Miggs and his supporters sat on one side of the room and Mrs Venn and the three governors on the other. Between them was Mr Flood, an auctioneer by trade, whose extensive experience on the Paddington vestry – a group of gentlemen whose discussions often led to some conflict and comments of a personal nature – it was hoped would enable him to keep the meeting civil. Nevertheless, Sharrock was taking no chances and had stationed his constables about the perimeter of the room.
With the chattering assembly in their places, some seated and some being obliged to stand at the back, Mr Flood ga
ve a firm and authoritative tap of his gavel and called the meeting to order. There was an obedient hush and he proceeded to introduce those on either side of him. ‘I also see in front of me many ladies who have been pupils at the school, and are now pleased to be its patrons, as well as parents of past and present pupils, and the current teaching staff.’
‘Not all of the teaching staff,’ said Miggs pointedly, and a titter went around the room.
‘Everyone who wishes to make a statement will have ample opportunity to do so,’ said Mr Flood. ‘I would like to begin by calling upon Mr Miggs to say a few words about the reasons for his dissatisfaction with the arrangements at the Bayswater Academy.’
Mr Miggs rose and surveyed his audience with an unattractive smile and Frances thought for an unpleasant moment that he might begin by reciting a poem, but, fortunately for the assembled company, he did not. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I have brought you all together to address a matter of very grave concern. It will not have escaped your notice that there have been rumours afoot lately that reading matter of an unsuitable nature has been distributed to the innocent young girls of Mrs Venn’s academy. Many of us who know and respect the lady will have dismissed the charge as the fiction of a jealous rival. Some will have satisfied themselves that the report was in error, or that the material, if it existed at all, was not as dangerous as supposed. I have to inform you that I, through my own efforts, have succeeded where all others have failed and obtained a copy of this item of literature, and today I can advise you that it is very much worse than even I had feared.’
There was the sound of a number of gasping intakes of breath. ‘But I do not ask you to accept my unsupported word.’ He took a copy of the pamphlet from his pocket and placed it on the table before him. A few heads on the front row craned forward to try and read the words. ‘I hope you will be able to make your own judgement. I propose to read it aloud.’
Mr Flood cleared his throat and tapped his gavel again as the audience muttered excitedly. ‘While I cannot prevent Mr Miggs from reading the item, I would like to remind him that Inspector Sharrock will be exercising his judgement as to the legality of the proceeding. I also suggest that any ladies present, if they do not wish to be offended, should now take the opportunity to retire.’
There was a brief pause during which the ladies had to decide whether they were motivated more by the need to demonstrate their moral superiority or by curiosity. It was a difficult choice, and apart from one or two venerable matrons regaled in fur and Parisian hats, who rose from their chairs and made a great show of leaving the room with self-conscious dignity, curiosity won.
‘Very well,’ said Miggs, ‘I will proceed.’
Frances saw Mrs Venn grow pale. Her hands were resting on the table in front of her and one was very tightly gripping the other. Frances thought that this ordeal was too much for any individual to bear, and decided that before anything was said, she must appeal to the meeting and ask if at the very least the pamphlet could be studied in private.
‘The title of the pamphlet —,’ began Miggs as Frances was preparing to rise to her feet and make her plea, but both were interrupted by the loud boom of a drum from inside the hall. While every eye had been turned towards Miggs two more people had entered the room; Jonathan Quayle, who was now carrying the drum, and Flora, who was holding the two poles of the Suffrage Society’s banner, one in either hand. Such was the length of the strip of silk that it might have trailed on the floor behind her so she had wound it about her slim waist, and held the two poles so that the white fabric with its red embroidery rose from her high on either side. Her long golden hair was streaming loose and the bandage was a halo around her head. She looked like an angel with bloodstained wings.
As Jonathan stayed at the back of the room, Flora, marching to the beat of the drum, advanced down the aisle between the rows of seats to the front, and so startling was her appearance that the occupants of the room, mesmerized by the apparition, said and did nothing until she paused in front of Mr Flood. The drumbeat stopped.
Sharrock rose from his seat, his eyes upon his constables, ready to instruct them if required.
Matthews gazed on Flora with some discomfort, and then he leaned to one side and had a whispered word with Flood, who nodded. Beside him, Paskall, paralyzed with horror, stared at the angelic figure as if she was a demon conjured up from the depths on purpose to torment him.
‘Young lady,’ said Mr Flood kindly, ‘I am afraid you may not be in the best place to make your exhibition. Might I ask you to withdraw?’
‘No,’ said Flora, ‘because I have something to say, and I will be heard!’
Flood glanced at Sharrock and shook his head. ‘I really think, Inspector —’
‘This can have nothing to do with our business here,’ said Miggs. ‘I suggest she be removed and her family advised to look after her better.’
It was the moment in which the game could be lost or won. As Sharrock made to signal his constables, Frances stood up. ‘Allow me to ask that this lady be permitted to speak. Inspector – you know I would not lightly make such a request.’
‘Let her speak!’ came a voice from the back of the hall, which sounded like Cedric’s.
‘Yes, let the lady speak!’ came another voice and then another, and eventually by popular demand, Flora faced the crowd. Sharrock shrugged and sat down. Matthews was staring at the floor, his expression dark as a thundercloud, while Paskall squirmed in his seat and looked as if he was about to run away.
‘This man,’ said Flora, pointing a wing at Matthews, ‘was once my guardian. I was entrusted to his care by a cousin, and he repaid that honourable duty by making an assault on my virtue!’
There were little cries of horror from the crowded room. ‘The woman is obviously mad,’ growled Matthews.
‘But were you her guardian?’ asked Flood and Matthews grudgingly gave a sharp nod. Flood motioned Flora to continue.
‘When I resisted him, he offered me marriage,’ said Flora, ‘and as I was young and ignorant, I accepted. A wedding took place, one which I believed at the time to be lawful, but I have since found that it was a sham, devised only that he might achieve his reprehensible purpose, and that the clergyman was no clergyman at all, but a friend of his who connived at the foul plot.’
‘You can’t prove that,’ said Matthews. ‘Really, how long must I tolerate this attack on my character?’
Theodore, who had been lurking at the back of the room, hurried forward and addressed Mr Flood. ‘I beg of you, stop this charade at once! Can you not see that this unfortunate young woman has suffered a violent injury to her head? If she was to be examined by a physician it would be apparent that her memory is disarranged, and nothing she says is to be trusted. Dr Collin, please could you see that this unhappy female is removed to some secure place where she can be cared for. It would be the kindest thing.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Dr Collin, drily, ‘that your father does not also require some attention.’
Bartholomew Paskall was cowering in his seat, his whole body shaking in fright. ‘That is the man!’ cried Flora. ‘The false clergyman. I did not know who he was until today, when I saw his portrait in the newspaper, and now I see him again in the flesh, I know him without any doubt.’
The room erupted with exclamations and Flood hammered with his gavel. At last the tumult subsided.
‘Mr Paskall?’ said Flood, but the aspiring Member of Parliament, looking as though he was about to suffer a fit, was unable to speak. ‘Young lady,’ said the chairman, ‘do you have any proof of these allegations?’
‘Of course she doesn’t,’ said Theodore. ‘Would you believe her unsupported word against that of my father? A poor lunatic who has had her brains stirred with a poker and no more memory of what happened to her than a new-born baby?’
Flora gazed at him calmly. ‘Oh, but my memory is clear again. I remember everything. I remember when you came to my door last Monday and I admitted you because your
face looked familiar to me. I thought at first that you were the man who had performed the marriage and you would be able to answer all my questions, but then I saw that you were too young. And that was when you struck me down.’
In the middle of a fresh tumult, Jonathan Quayle threw his drum aside, bunched his fists, and ran up to confront Theodore, but two burly policemen seized the anguished husband before another crime could be committed, and Frances got to Theodore first. He was backing away from the struggle, sweating with agitation and there was a dangerous light in his eyes. Theodore, thought Frances, who would do anything to protect his father, who had been alerted to Flora’s disappearance by Jonathan Quayle’s frantic searches and who had abandoned his work to hurry to the meeting and prevent just such a scene as this.
‘Perhaps you would like to explain how you know that Mrs Quayle was struck with a poker?’ she asked.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ demanded Theodore. ‘Everyone knows it. It was in the newspapers.’ There was another outburst of discussion in the hall, and Frances took the folded copy of the Illustrated Police News from Jonathan Quayle’s pocket and handed it to Mr Flood.
‘No one knew it except the police and the family and the man who attacked her,’ said Frances. ‘You wanted to silence her, didn’t you, so she would not reveal your father’s crime.’
‘It wasn’t a crime!’ squeaked Paskall. ‘It was a joke, that was all, a masquerade. We had many a jape when we were schoolboys together. I thought he would tell her afterwards and then do the honest thing, but …’
‘You fool!’ bellowed Matthews.
‘I suggest,’ said Inspector Sharrock, holding up his hands for quiet, ‘that this is a discussion best continued at the station.’ He signaled two more constables to apprehend Theodore. ‘Best to come quietly, Sir,’ he advised.
Theodore stared about him and as the ponderous officers of the law advanced towards him, he made a run for the door. The men holding Quayle dropped the poet and charged after him, but he was slender and fleet of foot, dodging around chairs, and pushing startled people aside, until suddenly he tripped and fell headlong, his legs tangled in Cedric’s best silver-topped walking cane. He was at once seized and hauled to his feet.
The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Page 29