An Appetite for Murder (11 page)

‘Now gentlemen,’ Frances began, ‘I have called you all together not because of your differences, which I realise are substantial, but because you are all concerned in the same question: the identity and activities of the person calling him or herself “Sanitas”. This, I must warn you, is not the time or the place to argue about diet. I have read many books on the subject and find that there are hardly any principles on which all are agreed, apart from the fact that excess corpulence may in some cases be deleterious to health. As to how it comes about and how it may be cured there are as many opinions as there are authors. So, we will leave that aside for today. Do you agree?’

They all looked surprised and not a little disappointed, but they agreed.

‘Your letters conveniently supplied me with examples of your handwriting, and when I visited the offices of the
Bayswater Chronicle
I was able to compare them with the letters written during the correspondence that followed the death of Mr Thomas Whibley. I observed that all three of you wrote to the
Chronicle
under your own names, none of you wrote under the name Bainiardus, and neither is any one of you Sanitas.’

The men glanced at each other. ‘But it is possible,’ said Adair, ‘that this Sanitas fellow, being a conniving underhand type, might have disguised his hand.’

‘I have given that some consideration,’ said Frances, ‘but the Sanitas correspondence is written with an ease that does not suggest disguise, and is consistent in form, though not speed, throughout the letter. I am inclined to believe that it is that person’s natural hand.’

‘If you have the letter in your possession, I insist on seeing it,’ Adair demanded.

‘You will all have that opportunity, I promise,’ said Frances. ‘May I take it, gentlemen, that you are now able to accept that whoever it is you are in dispute with over the letter from Sanitas, it is not each other?’

There was something of a pause and then, with a small measure of reluctance, they assented.

‘The editor of the
Chronicle
has told me that correspondence on the subject is now closed, so even if further letters should arrive at his office, he will not publish them,’ said Frances. ‘Before we continue, I would like an assurance from all of you that while I am engaged by yourselves to look into this matter, you will refrain from taking any legal action which might complicate my investigation?’

Adair looked disgruntled, but joined the other two men in granting that assurance.

‘One of the correspondents was Mr Whibley’s doctor, who declined to give his name,’ said Frances. ‘If any of you know his name, I should like to know it, as I would very much like to interview him.’

‘Well, I was not Whibley’s doctor, although there were many who suggested I was,’ said Adair. ‘I do not think I ever met the man, neither do I know who advised him.’

Mr Lathwal and Mr Rustrum similarly did not have the information and said that they had never met Mr Whibley.

Frances gave a clean sheet of paper and a pencil to each of the men. ‘Kindly write your names at the top of the sheet,’ she said. ‘When you have done so I will ask you to look at some correspondence and make a note of your conclusions.’

While her visitors were thus occupied, looking comically like a row of overgrown schoolboys at their lessons, Frances took a letter from the folder and laid it on the table in front of her, the salutation and signature concealed by pieces of card. It was a test, since the document was not a letter that the
Chronicle
had chosen to publish, probably because it was wholly innocuous in content. The writer stated only that the sad demise of Mr Whibley must serve as a warning that any course of weight reduction should be undertaken very gradually. Frances simply wanted to see how the three gentlemen reacted to an item of neutral import so that she might compare this to their later behaviour.

‘I am going to ask you to examine a number of letters. In each case, I wish you to come forward one by one and view but do not touch what is on the table. Say nothing, but if you recognise the writing or the notepaper, or anything that tells you who the author might be, please record the name of that person. If you do not know, then write down that fact.’

Each of the men came to look at the first letter, and as they did so, Frances studied their expressions. Only Mr Rustrum seemed to show any sign of recognition. There was no displeasure on his face, just a small tilt of the eyebrow.

The next letter Frances showed them was written by Mr Whibley’s medical man. She did not wish to give her visitors any clues by showing them text that had already appeared in the newspapers, but fortunately, the correspondence had been so extensive that the
Chronicle
had been obliged to edit some of the duller passages and Frances was able to select for viewing a few lines that had not been printed.

This time a brief change in Dr Adair’s expression told her that he had seen something with which he was familiar.

The next letter was by Bainiardus. Frances felt sure that none of the three men recognised the hand, although once they had returned to their seats, Mr Lathwal returned to the table for a second glance.

There followed another test, a letter written to Frances by her own doctor, Dr Collin, and finally there was the letter from Sanitas.

Frances closed the folder and addressed her visitors. ‘Please consider what you have seen and written, and if you wish to see any of these letters again, you need only ask,’ she said. ‘When you have written all that you can, please hand me your papers.’

The gentlemen had gone very quiet and meek, as if they enjoyed being lined up and treated as scholars and were sorry that it would have to end. One by one they delivered their papers to Frances, who took them without examining them and slipped them into the folder.

‘The third letter,’ said Mr Lathwal, hesitantly.

‘Yes,’ said Frances, opening the folder and looking at the item signed ‘Bainiardus’. The other two visitors leaned forward and stared at Mr Lathwal expectantly.

‘I do not know the hand, but I would observe that the paper is of a kind very similar to, although not the same, as that which you have given us to write upon. It is not letter-writing paper, but small cut sheets which are sold in bulk, the kind lawyers use to make notes.’

Frances took one of the sheets written on by her visitors and compared it with the paper of the Bainiardus letter. ‘Yes, it is very like,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mr Lathwal.’

With instructions that all three were to inform her at once should they learn anything of relevance, she dismissed the visitors so that she could examine their papers at leisure and promised to send a weekly report on her findings.

Mr Rustrum, with great good humour, complimented Frances on her sagacity, and said before he departed that he hoped he might see her in future at meetings of the Pure Food Society. Frances realised that he had mistakenly assumed from her appearance that she was a devotee of restraint in her dining habits. She was glad that he could not see the cheese tart and apple pudding that were to be her supper. Dr Adair only gave a formal, somewhat curtly spoken valediction, and Mr Lathwal took the opportunity to mention that he must hurry away to organise a vegetarian funeral breakfast for a gentleman who was to be buried on Monday. Seeing Dr Adair’s look of disdain he only smiled and added with quiet pride that the gentleman concerned, Mr Outram, a confirmed vegetarian for the last forty years, had passed away peacefully at the age of ninety-two.

When Frances read the notes she saw that the first letter had not been recognised by either Dr Adair or Mr Lathwal, but Mr Rustrum believed it had been written by a friend of his, a fellow member of the Pure Food Society, who had stated only what was eminent good sense.

Neither Mr Lathwal nor Mr Rustrum could identify Mr Whibley’s doctor, but Dr Adair had written ‘I know the hand and will advise the writer of your enquiries.’

Unfortunately, none of the three had recognised the handwriting of Sanitas.

Frances was writing an account of the interview for her records when she received a letter, hand-delivered by a neat, quiet maid who stood in a corner and waited politely to bear back her reply.

The missive was in a dainty little envelope, the kind often used for invitations to a tea party. The ink was a delicate shade of violet, the script much decorated with artistic embellishments, as if the writer had more time on her hands than she knew what to do with and so employed her idle moments in taking five times as long as was really necessary to write a letter. The paper hinted at scent, not the romantic libations of a lover but the faint waft exuded by someone who wore sweet perfumes as a matter of habit. The author was Alice Finn, wife of Mr Finn the younger, and she asked if she might call on Frances the following day regarding a matter that required the utmost discretion.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

B
efore Mr Curtis arrived, Frances refreshed herself with a cup of tea, and spent a few minutes with the fount of so much that was useful, the Bayswater street directory. The young dentist had more than realised all his uncle’s hopes, doing very well for himself in a remarkably short time, for his home and practice were in fashionably expensive Elgin Crescent. Earlier editions of the directory showed that the address had previously been the practice of a Mr Cowan, a long established and well-respected resident of Bayswater who, she recalled, had passed away about two years previously. In view of the straitened finances of the Curtis family during her client’s education, she wondered how he had been able to acquire such a lucrative practice so early in his career. She then recalled that Mrs Curtis had been a widow with two daughters by her previous marriage, and therein must lie the answer. His looks, good manners and excellent prospects had secured a wealthy wife whose fortune had made the purchase.

While she mused on the way of the world, a message was delivered from her solicitor, Mr Rawsthorne, saying that he doubted very much that he could assist her concerning Mr Sweetman’s history, nevertheless he would examine his papers and would be delighted to see her on Monday morning.

At their first brief meeting at Paddington Green police station, Edward Curtis, an excitable young man not given to concealing his emotions, had been visibly distressed at the plight of his uncle. On a second meeting, he was calmer, but still strained and anxious. He sat shifting in his chair as if it lacked comfort and he needed to constantly change his position to achieve anything like repose. Frances offered him water from the carafe on the table and he gulped down a glassful rather too quickly and coughed, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth.

When he was sufficiently recovered, Frances reported her failure to learn anything from his aunt’s neighbours in Redan Place, observing that he was at present the only person she knew who might be able to offer a clue as to Mrs Sweetman’s movements after she left the family home. He looked less than confident about his ability to help, and she suggested that he should begin by telling her his history.

‘I will do my best,’ he responded, somewhat surprised at the request. ‘Where should I start?’

‘Tell me about your parents,’ she advised.

He assented, and the nervous attitude of his body eased a little. Whether or not she would learn anything of value from Mr Curtis talking about his parents, Frances did not know, but by persuading him to start gently she hoped he would feel able to let his thoughts flow more freely into subjects of greater importance.

‘My father was a senior medical orderly,’ he said. ‘He died when I was twelve, and we were left in greatly reduced circumstances, but my mother was determined to ensure that I completed my education, and worked long hours and went without comforts and even necessities to achieve this. She was the kindest, sweetest tempered lady I have ever known, and the most devoted mother imaginable, and I have always striven to be a credit to her. When she became very ill, I thought I would never be able to qualify, but my uncle was kind enough to assist by paying our doctors’ bills, and supplying my wants. My gratitude to him knows no bounds.’ He paused. ‘This is hard for me to say, but I always felt that Aunt Susan was unhappy that uncle had placed himself in debt to help my mother and me, but she never said so openly, at least she never did so in my hearing. I promised uncle that I would repay his generosity as soon as I was able, and I would have done so, but then of course he was arrested for that horrible robbery. I was only fifteen and still at school – there was nothing I could do. I know that uncle’s employers gave my aunt some assistance, and he wrote to her asking if she could help us, but we received nothing. Somehow, we managed, but it was very hard for us. Later I made a little income assisting a dentist, but that was all. Then when my mother died a small insurance policy enabled me to finally complete my studies.’

‘And you have established a thriving practice in a very short time,’ said Frances.

‘I worked every hour there was, and qualified first in my year,’ Curtis said modestly. ‘As a result I was recommended to Mr Cowan, who was kind enough to employ me as his junior in the practice. He was a fine gentleman, with an impeccable reputation and great skill and knowledge, but of advanced years, and his grip was not so strong as it used to be. There are some procedures where a younger more vigorous man is needed.’