An Appetite for Murder (10 page)

E
veryone Frances had questioned about the robbery had slightly differing opinions, but that was only to be expected. It was probable to the point of certainty that the intervening years had affected memories, altering not only the witnesses’ perceptions of what had actually happened and been said, but also of how the events should be interpreted.

Even though it was not part of Frances’ remit, from either her agreement with Mr Sweetman or his nephew, to prove him innocent of the 1866 burglary and wounding of Mr Gibson, she could not help thinking that only by extracting the truth about that crime from the tangle of rumour and supposition would she know precisely why Mr Sweetman’s family had deserted him, and thus have a better chance of finding his son and daughter. Why had Mrs Sweetman found her husband’s position so heinous as to refuse to see him again, when other wives had forgiven far worse? Or was Mr Sweetman guilty of other crimes, unknown to the police, of which he was so ashamed that he had failed to mention them at their interview? Even if Mr Sweetman had not murdered his wife, was it a coincidence that Mrs Sweetman had been killed so soon after his release? Frances could hardly imagine that someone might hate Mr Sweetman so much that they would murder his wife for the sole purpose of having him hanged. Evil of that kind did, she thought sadly, probably exist in the world, but if that had been the plan some more incriminating clue than a newspaper would have been placed at the scene, something like Mr Gibson’s pocket book which had been such strong evidence in 1866. Perhaps Mrs Sweetman had information that, with her husband recently out of prison, it had become necessary to suppress. Or perhaps, thought Frances, it was, as so many things were, far simpler. Mrs Sweetman had fallen on hard times, got into bad company, strayed from the path of honesty and been killed, either for debt or informing on her criminal friends.

Frances decided on an early return to the
Chronicle
offices, this time to study the bound copies of the 1866 newspapers, and read for herself what evidence was given at the trial. She might even find out something about productions at the Bijou Theatre, and the careers of a whistling boy and a forlorn milkmaid.

She was preparing for her interview with the three enemies of Sanitas when Sarah returned from her visits with a catalogue of disappointing news. Mrs Sweetman, she had found, had only been living in Redan Place for a few months and had not made any close friends in the neighbourhood. No one knew her previous address, and neither was anyone able to say if she had received any visitors other than ladies who brought her needlework or washing. As far as anyone knew she had had no callers at all during the great frost, not that anyone Sarah had interviewed had lingered on the streets during that time. Most, if they had ventured out at all, had been closely muffled with heads down so as not to face the bite of the icy wind. The upper floor of the house was let to an elderly lady who was deaf, and whose grandson called once a week to see that she had everything she needed, but he had his own key and neither of them had thought to look in on Mrs Sweetman. The last certain sighting of her alive was on Sunday, 16 January, in church. The body had been found on 26 January, the day before Mr Sweetman had been arrested. Between those two dates, the freezing weather meant that it was very much a matter of guesswork as to when she had been killed.

It was now, thought Frances, more than ever important that she question Edward Curtis closely about his family. Fortunately, a note arrived saying that he would call upon her that evening if convenient, after he had seen the last patient of the day, and she sent a reply to the effect that this would be very convenient indeed.

Sarah had also visited all the agencies for the supply of servants in the vicinity of Westbourne Grove, but none of them knew anything of Mr Pennyforth. She had left them with Frances’ card in case he should call on them in future. There was better news about Mr Whibley’s cook and housemaid, both of whom were still employed in Bayswater. Sarah had spoken to them and they agreed that after Mr Elliott’s last visit to Mr Whibley on 11 January their employer had looked decidedly unwell. The cook was unable to say if Mr Whibley had received any further visitors, but the housemaid recalled that on the following day Mr Whibley had come home from his office very much earlier than expected, saying that he felt tired. That afternoon Mr Pennyforth had gone out on an errand, and she felt sure that when he returned he was accompanied by another gentleman.

Sarah’s next task was to scale the narrow stairs to the offices of the Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd, which occupied a single room above Mr Beccles’ watchmaker’s shop. She was surprised to find not only that the proprietors, Chas and Barstie, were not there, but her young relative, Tom, was effectively using the office for his own enterprise, running a busy team of messenger boys.

Tom, though hardly more than twelve, was a businessman in the making, always looking for an opportunity of making money. He had once been the delivery boy for William Doughty, but had quickly developed a sideline in transporting messages and parcels for anyone who would pay him. He was fast and trustworthy and knew every street in Paddington. More recently he had worn the uniform provided by the Doughtys’ successor at the chemists shop, Mr Jacobs, and still worked for him on busy days as he liked the smart cap and shiny buttons, but in recent months most of his time was spent directing others. Several businesses in the Grove now used his services exclusively.

During the worst of the January weather, Tom’s band of ‘men’ as he called them had kept the wheels of Bayswater commerce turning by dashing about with improvised snowshoes made from the soles of discarded boots lashed to their feet with string. Fragments of broken carriages and packing cases had provided them with enough kindling to keep a fire burning, so they could come up to the office for a warm and a pint of tea and slice of bread. Tom was a regular caller at Frances’ apartments, and rarely left without scrounging half a cake or some cold pudding and crumbs of cheese, which she could hardly begrudge him. His ability through the agency of his numerous and well-drilled subordinates to have sharp eyes all over Bayswater at once had solved many a tricky case for her.

Sarah found him sitting behind the desk in the chair usually occupied by Chas, his face alight with energy, hair in spiky disarray, handing out a parcel of leaflets to his best ‘man’, who went by the name of Ratty. This youth, who was about the same age as Tom, resembled a bundle of clothing of all sizes and conditions of wear that had by some magical spell become animated and moved about of its own accord. He had not long ago been bought a new suit of clothes by Frances as a reward for supplying useful information, but he had probably pawned them in favour of his customary ill-fitting rags. ‘It weren’t me,’ said Ratty to Sarah, and dashed downstairs before she could open her mouth.

‘What’s the job, then?’ asked Tom, leaning back in his chair, with an air of authority that would have sat well on a company director three times his age.

‘Information,’ said Sarah. ‘Where are the other two? Miss Doughty has some work for them.’

‘Oh I ‘aven’t seen ‘em for a day or two, now. They got a letter and off they went, said they was goin’ to Afriky where the weather was warmer, and would I look after the bus’ness till they come back.’

‘It’s not that Filleter up to his tricks, is it?’ said Sarah, with a scowl.

She was referring to the repellent young man, so called because of the thin sharp knife he carried, whose mere presence in Bayswater had once been enough to frighten Chas and Barstie away for weeks. He had recently given them to understand that he had no further designs upon their safety, although they felt that this might only be a temporary situation.

‘Nah, ‘e’s not been seen round ‘ere for a month at least,’ said Tom, airily, ‘an’ I don’t give ‘im no mind, in any case!
I’m
not afraid of ‘im! No, the gents ‘ave got bus’ness elsewhere – not Afriky, that was jus’ a joke, though I think Ratty believed ‘em. They’ve gone east.’

‘What? China?’ Sarah exclaimed.

‘Nah – Essex. Mr Knight, ‘e’s a sharp cove and no mistake, ‘e sez it’s a good place to go when you want do somethin’ quiet where you won’t get bothered, ’n put things where they won’t get found.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a grubby forefinger. ‘’Nuff said if you know what I mean.’

‘Well, when they come back, tell them Miss Doughty wants to see them,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s not your line of work.’

‘‘ow much for the message?’ Tom demanded.

‘It’s just telling them, there’s no work in that!’

‘I c’d choose not to if I want! ‘Ow much?’

She snorted. ‘No result, no money!’

‘No money, no work!’ retorted Tom.

‘No work and a clip round the ear!’ Sarah gave an angry growl and stamped downstairs.

‘That is a disappointment,’ said Frances, when Sarah reported back. ‘Mr Knight and Mr Taylor would have known every underhand thing happening in both businesses, or at least know where to find it out.’

She had no time to devise further plans because the arrival of the three warring gentlemen was imminently expected.

Frances had read the letters sent to the
Chronicle
several times and had made a close examination of their appearance. The Sanitas letter was written on plain, pale blue notepaper of a very common type; a foolscap sheet, folded in half in the usual way. The hand was firm and legible, but was not that of an individual occupied in any profession where superior clarity and neatness of script was essential. The last paragraph, while undoubtedly in the same hand, seemed to have been written in a faster, more flowing manner than the earlier part, perhaps expressing its more emotional content. The letter from Mr Whibley’s medical man was a thready scrawl, which looked as though it had been done by someone careless of appearances. Little spots of ink suggested an indifferent pen, and the pressure on the paper expressed irritation. The paper was good quality and plain white, slightly smaller than foolscap, and the upper right corner of the top fold had been torn away, indicating that it had been printed with the sender’s address, which he had decided to conceal. The Bainiardus letter was neatly written, in a rounded hand, its execution slow and studied. If, as the writer claimed, he had suffered distress at the illness and death of a friend, it was not apparent in his handwriting. It was on a small, plain unfolded sheet, the paper inferior in type to the two others, and imperfectly cut on one edge. All three letters used standard black ink. None had any notable scent.

Dr Adair was the first to arrive. He was a vigorous looking man of forty-five, who, if the size of his moustache and length of his stride were anything to judge by, liked to cultivate an air of authority. There was a rounded bulge about his belly, causing noticeable strain to his waistcoat buttons, which he seemed quite proud of and he had no hesitation about thrusting it forward to lend weight to his words. Frances could not help wondering if he was one of those medical men, of a type she knew to be all too common, who was very free with his advice to others, but disdained to take that good advice himself. He was followed almost at once by Mr Lathwal, a slender and very young man of Indian extraction, who, as he had already advised Frances in his letter, was lodging in Bayswater while studying the law. The two were understandably astonished to see each other.

‘There must be some error!’ exclaimed Dr Adair in a voice altogether too loud for the small parlour. ‘I had not expected to see Mr Lathwal here, especially in view of our dispute!’

‘I too am somewhat mystified,’ Mr Lathwal admitted.

‘There is no error,’ Frances assured them. ‘Please be seated gentlemen, we are awaiting a third party.’

Adair was lowering himself into a chair with very ill-grace when Frances’ words made him leap to his feet. ‘That wouldn’t be that dangerous lunatic Rustrum, would it?’ he said. ‘If so, I shall depart at once!’

‘It is Mr Rustrum, and you may do as you please,’ said Frances, coolly.

‘The impudence!’ boomed Adair.

Frances remained uncowed. ‘Please moderate your voice, sir, there are ladies of a nervous disposition in the house and I do not wish them to be disturbed.’

At that moment Mr Rustrum arrived, a tall, spare gentleman with a lively gait. Contrary to the popular prejudice that those who restrained themselves from excess at the dinner table must therefore be unhappy individuals, he was abundantly cheerful in demeanour, indeed his smile seemed to be permanently fixed to his face. His initial letter to Frances, in which he advised her that he was an architect by profession although retired for many years, had made a great point of stating his age, which was seventy-four, and on meeting him she could see why he chose to mention it, since he looked about twenty years younger, and clearly knew it. His present occupation was writing books and pamphlets about the Pure Food diet and promoting them by travelling about the country and lecturing on the subject to anyone willing to listen, and most probably to a great many more who were not. ‘How extraordinary!’ he said, with an expression of great pleasure, on seeing the other two gentlemen. ‘That is very clever of you Miss Doughty. At last we might get something done.’ He sat down. The other two men, Dr Adair with a scowl and Mr Lathwal with a bland expression, did the same.