A Case of Doubtful Death (2 page)

They occupied a first-floor apartment on Westbourne Park Road, rooms which would, in the days when the house had been the home of a gentleman with offices in the City, have been family sleeping accommodation. There was a large front room, which made a comfortable parlour where they dined and received visitors. A smaller room at the back of the house was where Frances slept and where she also kept her late father’s writing desk and all her papers and books. The compartment which connected the two must once have been a dressing room, and Frances had hesitated, because of its small size and Sarah’s imposing width, to suggest that she might like to make it her sleeping quarters, but Sarah, anticipating Frances’ concerns, had at once appropriated it to her sole use, firmly declaring it to be the cosiest bedroom she had ever known.

The furnishings throughout were plain and practical, since Frances liked to be surrounded by things that were useful and easily kept clean. Ostentatious decoration, she believed, was something that should be reserved for important public buildings. She had been in too many homes where the acquisition of pretty trinkets had disguised a discontented household. When her friends, Miss Gilbert and Miss John, leading lights of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society, had first called upon her, they had gazed upon the simple austerity of the parlour with expressions approaching panic, although they would not have dreamed of offering any comment or suggestion. Soon afterwards Frances had been sent, almost as one sends a parcel of food to a starving family, two large cushions made of maroon velvet with heavy gold fringes, one embroidered with the figure of Britannia and the other with Boadicea. Frances made a special point of always placing these on display whenever the ladies called for tea.

As to the matter of family portraits, an essential in any parlour, Frances was in some difficulty as she had only one, a study of her late brother Frederick taken on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday, and that she had placed in a prominent position. She had no pictures of her father, and if there had been any of her mother or of her parents’ nuptials, those she felt sure had been destroyed long ago. Sarah had a photograph of her eight brothers, but it was felt best to place this in another room, so as not to alarm visitors.

During the day, Frances and Sarah saw clients and pursued their enquiries. In the evenings, they sat in easy chairs before the fire, enjoying a princely feast of cocoa and hot buttered toast, and while Sarah wielded her needles, Frances read aloud from the newspapers. This was not merely for the entertainment they had to offer; as Bayswater’s busiest detective she must make sure to know everything she could about recent events and notable people in that bustling part of Paddington. Sarah’s tastes were for the more sensational items of news, anything that might make her open her eyes wide or even declare ‘well I never!’ She often laughed heartily at the reports in the
Bayswater Chronicle
of the sometimes unseemly quarrels between the men of the Paddington vestry, and commented that if
she
was there she would bang their silly heads together and then perhaps they would attend to their business more and there would be fewer holes in the macadam on Bishop’s Road.

Frances’ first venture into her new profession had not been without some anxiety. For several weeks she had worried less about solving cases than keeping herself and Sarah fed and housed. Fortunately the success of her first case, which was not unconnected with the recent General Election, had been followed by a secret meeting with a parliamentary gentleman as a result of which she had since been in receipt of a modest salary, on the understanding that her services would always be available to the government. It would not make her a rich woman, but it provided a measure of financial security.

That summer she had been entrusted with a mission of great delicacy. An eminent gentleman had asked her to deliver a message to a lady, a message of such sensitivity that it could not be committed to paper. Tact and discretion were required. Frances had duly delivered the message, but finding that tact and discretion were insufficient to achieve the desired result she had added a few firm and well-directed words of her own, thereby avoiding a scandal. Her probity and discretion had been appreciated in the form of a very handsome honorarium, and Prime Minister Mr Gladstone, who was torn between a natural compulsion to save her from an unsuitable life and his awareness of her usefulness, had made her the gift of a prayer book in which he had been kind enough to inscribe his signature. That item, too, occupied a place in the parlour, although modesty forbade Frances to show the dedication to visitors unless specifically requested.

For the most part, however, Frances’ commissions had been of a more mundane nature – discovering the whereabouts of erring husbands, enquiring after the honesty of ardent suitors, or recovering letters written in the heat of a passion that had since cooled.

The only case in which she had failed was a quite trivial one, and yet it remained on her mind. Mrs Chiffley was the wife of a prosperous tea merchant, and some months ago her husband had presented her with the gift of a parrot. Unfortunately, while her husband was away on business, Mrs Chiffley had carelessly allowed the bird to escape. She did not wish to advertise in the newspapers for its return in case her husband came to know of her error, neither was there the option of buying a replacement as the bird had very distinctive markings which Mr Chiffley had commented upon. Mrs Chiffley, in desperation, had come to Frances, offering a substantial reward for the safe recovery of her pet, but Frances could do no more than make discreet enquiries and ask her trusted associates to keep their eyes well open. The bird could have flown back to India or even China for all she knew, although she did occasionally submit to the fear that she would discover Mrs Chiffley’s parrot in the windows of Mr Whiteley’s emporium, its sapphire feathers enhancing a fashionable hat.

Frances could not help wondering if there were other private detectives who experienced failure. It seemed unlikely that she was the only one. Unfortunately, she did not know any other detectives and even if she had it would have been impertinent to say the least to ask them about their unsolved cases. She suspected that other detectives did not take their failures to heart as she did, but cast them aside without a trace of guilt and forgot them in a moment.

Closer to her inner soul was her indecision as to whether she should try to find her mother. Frances had been brought up to believe that her mother had died when she was three years old, and had not long ago found that the abandonment was of a more earthly nature, and in the company of a man. Early in
1864
, her mother had given birth to twins, a girl and a boy, of whom her husband William had suspected he was not the father, but the girl had died very young. It was possible that Frances’ mother was still alive, and also her brother – perhaps, it had been hinted, a full brother – who would now be sixteen. Frances felt sure that she was equal to the quest, but still she hesitated. She was afraid not of what she might find, but that her efforts would be met with a cruel rejection. She had lived above her father’s chemist’s shop on Westbourne Grove for many years after her mother’s departure, and even now that she had quit the Grove, everyone there knew her new address, so if her mother really wished to see her she could easily discover where she might be found. Supposing her father to have been the obstacle to a reunion, her mother could hardly be ignorant of William Doughty’s death, a tragedy which had exercised the gossips of Bayswater for some weeks, and whose aftermath was still unresolved. It was the strongest possible indication that her mother, for reasons of her own, did not wish to be discovered. All the same, every time Frances pushed the idea aside it returned, and she tormented herself with the thought that her mother might have come into the shop as a customer, and never revealed who she was, and she might have seen and spoken to her and never known it. The only other place that she and her mother held in common was Brompton cemetery where her father, older brother and sister were buried. Frances went regularly to tend the graves, but saw no signs of another visitor, and no one could tell her if another lady came there.

With the hour approaching for the arrival of Miss Palmer, Frances peered out of the window. Although it was only September the weather had been shockingly inclement, and the early days of what had promised to be a delicious autumn had suddenly declined into a misty gloom and whole days of smoke-laden fog. A cab paused outside and a gentleman alighted, helping a frail-looking lady descend. Her head was bent and she was muffling her face with a woollen shawl. Frances watched them as they approached her door and then waited for them to be shown upstairs.

Frances supposed that other detectives must have offices where they saw clients across a desk, but she, having none, used the parlour table, which was always furnished with a carafe of water and a glass, so that nervous clients could moisten their throats, also a discreetly folded napkin which was often pressed into service as a handkerchief. A notebook and a number of sharp pencils were essential for recording what was said, but just as valuable to Frances was Sarah’s no less sharp observation and opinions.

Alice Palmer was twenty-two but she seemed faded like a portrait badly painted and left in the sun. Anxiety lay upon her, a deadly unseen canker that consumed her energy. Frances suspected that the young woman had barely eaten since her brother’s disappearance. Miss Palmer’s gentleman companion, who was scarcely older, helped her to be seated and introduced himself as Walter Crowe, saying that he and Alice were engaged to be married. Frances did not normally provide nourishment for her clients, but in this case, sent for tea and sponge cake. Mr Crowe smiled sadly as if to say that nothing could tempt Alice to eat until her brother was found.

Frances knew that asking timorous clients to talk about themselves often helped ease them into a frame of mind where they could talk more freely about the things that troubled them. She invited both Alice and Walter to tell their stories, and learned that Walter was the son of a journeyman carpenter, and, seeking to better himself, was now a joiner with his own business. Alice’s mother had died when she was seven, and she and her three brothers, of whom Henry was the eldest, had been left orphans when their father died in a railway accident four years later. Henry, who had been just fifteen at the time, had been the mainstay of the family, ensuring that all the children were kept clean and decently clothed, received an education and, in due course, found respectable employment. Her brother Bertie was now eighteen and worked in a butcher’s shop on the Grove, living above the premises, and sixteen-year-old Jackie was apprenticed to Walter and lodged with him. Alice worked in a ladies’ costume shop on the Grove, and she and Henry shared lodgings in Golborne Road.

The tea and cake arrived, and Sarah stared at Alice with an expression of savage determination, which Frances knew very well, realising that the young woman would not be permitted to leave the house without having accepted some nourishment. Alice, moved almost to tears of terror at Sarah’s look, sipped milky tea and put a fragment of cake into her mouth.

The Life House, Frances was told, was situated in Church Lane not far from the eastern entrance of All Souls Cemetery, Kensal Green. Henry’s duties lasted from midday to midnight every weekday after which the other orderly, a Mr Hemsley, was there for the next twelve hours. Henry had never complained about the nature of his work, or his long hours, or made any suggestion that he might seek other employment. He invariably walked home, but was careful to creep in quietly so as not to wake Alice, who was always in her bed by
11
p.m. He was a sound, reliable man, a man you might set your watch by and know that once he had promised to do a thing it was as good as done. He was the very last man to run away and put his family to worry and distress.

Tuesday the
21
st of September had started showery, but as the day wore on the streets had gradually become occluded by a cold, grey fog. Alice had gone to her work that morning as usual, leaving Henry’s breakfast and some food for his luncheon on the table, and returned to find that the breakfast had been eaten, the dishes cleared, and the luncheon taken. She had gone to bed at her usual time, but when she awoke the next morning she saw, to her surprise and concern, that Henry’s bed had not been slept in. She was obliged to go to her work, but as soon as she was able, she sent an urgent message to Walter to say that Henry had not come home. From that moment Walter’s efforts to find her missing brother had been both determined and tireless.

Walter’s first action was to go to see Alice’s brother Bertie at the butcher’s shop, who confirmed that he had not seen Henry that day. Walter then sent Jackie to Golborne Road to see if Henry had returned home, but the boy came back with the news that Henry was not there.

Walter next called on Alice at her place of employment, hoping that Henry might have gone to see her or at least sent a note, but she had still heard nothing from her brother and was now almost out of her wits with worry. Walter then took a cab up to the Life House and found that while he was not permitted to enter the wards, which were the preserve of staff and medical men, he could be admitted to the side chapel, which he found crowded with visitors; friends of the recently deceased Dr Mackenzie who had come to pay their respects. The doctor’s remains were in an open coffin, surrounded by floral tributes and sad faces. There was nothing unusual about the corpse, which looked very peaceful.