A Case of Doubtful Death (18 page)

‘And now, if I may, I would like to speak with Dr Bonner.’

‘I have already mentioned that you are here – he said he would come and see you in a moment.’ He smiled. Frances smiled back. She hoped it was not a simper.

Dr Bonner arrived before they ran out of conversation; he was walking with a pronounced limp and leaning on a stick. ‘My old affliction,’ he explained with a pained smile. ‘It is of no moment. What can I do for you, Miss Doughty?’

‘I have been speaking to the Kilburn police regarding Mr Crowe’s discovery of Dr Mackenzie’s travelling bag.’

‘Yes, extraordinary thing, that. I can’t imagine how it came to be where it was. I took a look at it, and it was undoubtedly his. You may come and see it if you like, before I dispose of it, but there is nothing of any interest in it I assure you.’

‘My understanding is that it contained only such items as a gentleman might carry if he was going to be from home for a night, but there was one thing I was told which engaged my curiosity.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dr Mackenzie was carrying shaving materials, but as I can see from his picture it was not something he had employed for many years, if ever.’

Dr Bonner paused as if the thought had never occurred to him. ‘Do you know, Miss Doughty, you are right. Of course, if I am away I carry my shaving things as a matter of course and so did not think when I saw them in Mackenzie’s bag, but now that you mention it, it
is
very strange. A man might decide to shave his beard for many reasons, to look younger perhaps, or at the whim of a lady.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, maybe there was a lady in the case. He might have been going to see her. We shall never know now.’

‘Have you been contacted by a lady about Dr Mackenzie?’

‘No, I have not,’ he admitted.

On her way home, Frances realised to her annoyance that she had missed a valuable opportunity. She had been so eager to confront Dr Bonner on the question of the shaving materials and display her cleverness to Mr Fairbrother that she had not thought it would be better to ask to see the contents of the bag before revealing that she already knew what they were. If Dr Bonner had been complicit in any plan of Mackenzie’s he might have removed the suspicious items before showing the bag to her. Even if he had, and she had challenged him, he would almost certainly have found a way of talking himself out of the anomaly.

W
hen Frances returned home, a gentleman was waiting to see her, presenting a card that announced him as B.H. Carmichael, MD of Carlisle, and clutching a copy of the
Chronicle
open at an article about Henry Palmer in which Mr Gillan had announced the involvement of Frances in the search.

Dr Carmichael was a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman of about fifty, with auburn hair, a well-trimmed beard and small gold-rimmed spectacles. Like so many of the people who sought Frances’ assistance, he had the reserved, anxious look of someone who was about to speak of things he would rather have spoken of to no one.

He looked worriedly at Sarah, who sat nearby with a stern face like a great immovable brick edifice.

‘My trusted associate, Miss Smith,’ Frances informed him.

He accepted the description without comment and unfolded his newspaper. ‘I read this morning,’ he said in a pleasing, light Scottish accent, ‘that you are looking for Mr Henry Palmer, and I wanted to ask what progress you had made, and whether you believe his fate is connected in any way with that of Dr Mackenzie?’

‘Before I reply to your enquiry,’ said Frances, ‘may I ask what your interest is? Are you acquainted with either Mr Palmer or Dr Mackenzie?’

‘I have never to my knowledge met Mr Palmer,’ he said, ‘but as a young man in Edinburgh I studied medicine with Mackenzie and knew him well. We did not maintain a correspondence and neither did I take any note of his career after he departed for Germany, and I myself have also travelled extensively. I recently learned that Mackenzie has established a Life House here in London and was a man of some moment, held in respect by all.’

Carmichael was silent for a brief interval and appeared to be labouring under some emotion, and then he put his hand in his pocket and extracted a cameo brooch, which he opened. It contained a faded portrait of a pretty young woman and a curl of auburn hair. ‘This is my sweet sister Madeleine,’ he said. ‘Her memory is very dear to me, and I will not have a word whispered against a lady who was when on earth no less a blessed angel than she assuredly is now. I must tell you, Miss Doughty, that Mackenzie behaved towards my beloved sister in a most scandalous and reprehensible way, and his actions hurried her into an early grave.’

‘It is rare to hear anyone say a word against the honour of Dr Mackenzie,’ said Frances, surprised.

‘None of his associates in London know what kind of creature he was,’ said Carmichael, ‘and of course he severed all his ties in Edinburgh when he went abroad. There was nothing I could do. I had not one shred of proof against him, or I would have had him pilloried or hanged or even called him out, since I care nothing for myself in this matter. But without evidence, I was helpless.’

‘Such is sometimes the case with immoral persons or malefactors,’ said Frances. ‘Most are very foolish and careless, and leave evidence that can easily be found and brings about retribution, only a very few are clever and can avoid blame. But Dr Mackenzie, assuming that your suspicions are correct, cannot now suffer for any harm he has done. Take comfort from the fact that he can never again cause such unhappiness. Also, since what he did was so long in the past – the actions perhaps of a thoughtless youth – it seems that he may have learned to repent them and tried to make amends by selflessly serving others. He may, if one takes his life as a whole, have done more good than harm.’

‘But what is that to me?’ said Carmichael. ‘These people to whom Mackenzie has been a benefactor are not my kin, not even my friends; they are strangers to me. I can think only of my poor sister.’

‘I am sorry that you continue to feel such pain,’ said Frances, who naturally wished to learn what it was Mackenzie was supposed to have done, but knew that Carmichael was unlikely to tell her, at least on a first interview, ‘but can you advise me what it is you wish me to do? You have, as you say, no evidence against Dr Mackenzie and what profit would it give you now even if you could damage his reputation? He is beyond all punishment and your sister’s name would be defiled. You might also harm the Life House, which is managed by gentlemen with whom you have no quarrel.’

‘I have abandoned any thought of Mackenzie, who has gone to his just punishment,’ he reassured her. ‘I admit that it angered me greatly when I learned that he was so well regarded and I wanted more than anything to drag him into the mud where he belonged. I thought that if I could only prove what I knew then I might be able to manage things in a way that showed my dear Madeleine to be the spotless victim that she was. But I was powerless.’ There was another long silence. ‘My older sister, Ellen, is the wife of a medical man who lives in Kensington, and she is the guardian of some treasured mementoes of Madeleine. These are not items of anything more than sentimental value, trinkets and some prettily bound books.

‘Three weeks ago Ellen wrote to me in the most terrible distress. Her health has been declining in these last few years and she has often sought comfort in Madeleine’s books. Her husband is frequently from home and she is cared for by a nurse. Unfortunately, she discovered one morning that the nurse had gone and so had a set of silver snuffboxes and Madeleine’s books, including a journal. I can only imagine that the girl thought because of the bindings they were of some antiquity and therefore valuable. I hurried down to see Ellen at once. It was then that she confided in me that Madeleine had written in her journal of certain matters that were so hideous that she had never discussed them with me or anyone else. Her one concern was to keep the memory of our sister pure, but the thought that this dreadful material had found its way into the hands of criminals was so upsetting that she was almost too ill to speak.

‘The snuffboxes were recovered from a nearby pawnshop, but there is no trace of the books or, most importantly, the journal. If only Ellen had told me of it before! If I had had the management of the journal I would have ensured that it was used with great care to secure an action against Dr Mackenzie while my sister’s name remained without a stain, but a crude blackmailer would have no such concerns.’

‘But surely now that Dr Mackenzie is dead a blackmailer can have no further use for it?’ said Frances.

‘I hope not. But I want to ensure that it is found and placed in my keeping. It was my sister’s, something she has touched and where she has revealed her soul, and that alone makes it precious to me. And of course, I have no wish for another person to see it, a person who never knew Madeleine and will judge her harshly. I intend to lock it away safely and so preserve her character.’

‘And you want me to find it?’

‘Yes. I will go to any trouble, any expense!’

‘You do appreciate, Dr Carmichael, that if I discover that a blackmailer has been plying his or her unpleasant business, I will have uncovered a crime. Do you expect me to say nothing about it?’

He stared at her. He was clearly so focused on his own dilemma that he had not considered other factors and, thought Frances, cared nothing for them. ‘It is not a crime simply to possess a journal,’ he said, ‘only to use it for a wrongful purpose. It would be very hard to prove that the person who has it now is the thief, or that any attempt at blackmail has taken place, especially as the victim is now deceased. It would be best if the journal was simply found and passed to me, and no more said.’

‘We may of course find that the journal has been destroyed, unless the blackmailer finds something else of value in it, such as the means of extracting money from another person.’ Carmichael looked aside as if embarrassed. ‘
Is
there anything else in it?’ pressed Frances. ‘Is there something that perhaps has a bearing on another individual? Yourself perhaps?’

‘I have committed no crime, my conscience is clear upon that point,’ said Carmichael stiffly. ‘I do not, as so many do, claim to have led a perfect life. Men are the morally weaker sex, and there may be things I have said and done which I cannot in all honesty be proud of, things which my dear sister, too pure to understand, may in her innocence have mentioned. I assume that I do not appal you and hope you will not judge me for my weaknesses. You are, it has been said, the very epitome of sympathy and discretion.’

‘Do you know who might have the journal?’ asked Frances.

Dr Carmichael looked faintly shocked. ‘Oh Miss Doughty, I have no connection with persons of that sort.’ It was apparent that he thought Frances did.

‘Very well, I will make some enquiries. On what date did the theft occur?’

‘It would have been on the
14
th of September, but it was not discovered until the next morning. The maid had departed overnight.’

‘Has the thieving nursemaid been apprehended?’

‘The police are pursuing the case, but she has vanished like a spectre in the fog. We are sure that the name she gave was false.’

‘And that name was …?’ Frances enquired, pencil poised over her notebook.

‘I am afraid I cannot recall it.’

‘Then I had best interview your sister Ellen.’

‘I am sorry to say that she lies dangerously ill, but she has already said all that she knows. I do not wish the family to be disturbed.’

‘You leave me very few avenues of enquiry, nevertheless, the case interests me and I will see what I can do. Should you be approached by someone wanting to blackmail you or offering the journal for sale, you will of course let me know at once. I will require a full description and will then be able to arrange for an unobtrusive person to follow them.’

Frances glanced at Carmichael’s card, which gave only his address in Carlisle. ‘You may reach me through the Piccadilly Club on Porchester Road,’ he said.

Frances had been making enquiries about the Piccadilly Club and learned that it was a place mainly frequented by foolish young men who had too much money and wished to be relieved of it, from which she supposed that a great deal of private wagering was conducted there. Carmichael did not, however, look like a betting man. ‘When did you come to London?’ she asked.

‘I arrived on the
19
th of September.’

‘That was two days before Dr Mackenzie died. Did you make any attempt to contact him?’

‘No, my hands were tied as the journal was missing. He was, I believe, unaware that I was even in London.’

‘How long do you intend to remain?’

‘For some little while. I am applying for some medical posts here and if I am successful I will make London my home.’

The financial arrangements having been settled, Carmichael was about to leave when he observed, ‘I must confess when I heard that Dr Mackenzie was dead I did not believe it at first. I thought he might have fled and put another body in his place, to avoid being blackmailed over the journal.’

‘Did you go to view the body?’

‘I did not discover until later that there had been a formal viewing. But when I heard that he had died – the news was all over Bayswater the morning afterwards – I immediately applied to make a tour of the Life House and was able to do so with a group of other medical men on the following day. I thought it wise, however, not to reveal my interest. It was unpleasantly warm and the air was quite foetid. There were three corpses there, I recall; one very elderly female, at least a day past her proper burial date in my opinion; the other two were men in their middle years, but since I had not seen Mackenzie for some time I was unable to assure myself which of those he was, and it was not appropriate to ask.’

When Dr Carmichael had departed Sarah observed that she didn’t like the look of him, but since Sarah did not like the look of any man, this was not unusual. ‘Did you believe his story?’ Frances asked her.