An Appetite for Murder (5 page)

Frances clambered up the wooden stairs, which gave under her feet rather more than they ought, and was admitted to the Jennings apartments by a lady of about fifty. At first glance, Frances wondered if she had seen Miss Jennings before, but then realised that she was experiencing recognition of another kind. Miss Jennings, a plain single lady, her life devoted to the care of an elderly parent, was the future that Frances would have had if her father had lived. She was the woman that Frances might be in thirty years’ time; neat, quiet, uncomplaining and unloved.

Jack Jennings was in his seventies, his head and cheeks powdered with white hairs like the snow. He sat in an easy chair in front of a fire, where a large well-blackened kettle stood on the hearth. He was wrapped in shawls, puffing at a pipe, and in front of him was a stool on which rested a mug of tea and a plate with two thick slices of bread and dripping. His expression was amiable, and he looked peacefully content with his lot.

The room was clean and tidy, and though small, escaped clutter by being furnished with only the simplest necessities. A narrow dresser was sufficient for the Jennings’ crockery and linen, and there was a bed with folded blankets in one corner, a washbasin and jug on a table and drying laundry on a wooden clotheshorse. Another door suggested the existence of a second room, a smaller one in all probability, where Miss Jennings could have some measure of personal privacy. Frances hoped so.

‘You have spoken to my sister?’ asked Miss Jennings, offering Frances a chair before the fire. ‘Is she well?’

‘Oh yes, she is very well,’ said Frances. ‘My enquiries concern a Mr Sweetman, who used to live in Garway Road, and has been trying to trace his family.’ She glanced at Mr Jennings who sucked at his pipe, smiled, and nodded to himself.

Nora Jennings brought cups and poured tea from a brown pot of commendable size, and fetched a small jug of milk with a muslin cover from its perch on the chilly window ledge. ‘Yes, father used to make deliveries in Garway Road, but I am sorry to say his memory is very poor nowadays, although he remembers the old times better than he does last week. He did tell me about the robbery and that poor man who was hurt. He said Mr Sweetman was a very quiet gentleman and he would never have believed that he could do such a thing.’

‘He is out of prison now, and called on me yesterday asking if I could find his family, and I agreed to do so,’ said Frances. ‘He has not seen them in over fourteen years. But Mrs Sweetman has just been found dead and the police came to my house and arrested him. It seems she was murdered.’

Nora was astonished and appalled. ‘Oh what a dreadful thing to happen! Do you suspect Mr Sweetman?’

‘No, neither of the murder nor the robbery. I am hoping that his son and daughter may be able to help him, and in any case they will want to attend their mother’s funeral.’

Jack Jennings puffed a small cloud of pungent smoke and chuckled. It was such an inappropriate response that Frances could only assume he was unable either to hear her or understand what she said.

Miss Jennings saw her dilemma. ‘Tell me what it is you need to know,’ she said, kindly.

‘I wondered,’ Frances went on, although not with a great deal of hope, ‘if you might know anything about where the family went after Mr Sweetman was convicted.’

Miss Jennings shook her head. ‘I am afraid not. I do recall father telling me after the robbery that he felt sorry for Mrs Sweetman and the children, although she had good friends who called on her and saw that she had everything she needed.’

‘Did he say who these friends were?’

‘No, and I don’t think he knew, but Mrs Sweetman did once say how grateful she was to the people her husband had worked with for helping her, so I suppose it must have been them. But that all changed after the trial. In those days, but I expect you already know this, if someone was found guilty of a serious crime, the Crown took all their property away, whether it was stolen or not, and that was what happened to Mrs Sweetman. The poor woman had to give up the house and go away.’ She turned to her father, who had taken his pipe from his mouth long enough to gulp tea. ‘Father, do you remember Mrs Sweetman?’

Mr Jennings, who had seemed blithely indifferent to Frances’ presence, responded without difficulty to his daughter’s voice, with a broad smile and a nod. ‘Mrs Sweetman?’ he said in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘Oh yes!’

‘Do you know where she went?’ asked Frances. ‘After her husband was put in prison?’

He gave her a sly sideways glance as if to say that he was not as absent as he looked and she had discovered his secret. ‘No, no, but she did go away.’ He paused. ‘Oh yes. Yes, she went away all right.’

‘But do you know where?’ Frances persisted.

He puffed at his pipe, but made no reply.

‘The boy and girl, Benjamin and Mary,’ urged Frances. ‘Do you remember them? Did they find some occupation?’

He chuckled again.

‘I’m afraid father has this idea in his head that he once saw the Sweetman boy and girl at the music hall, actually on the stage, but that can hardly be the case,’ said Miss Jennings, with a smile.

‘I can’t imagine that their mother would have approved,’ said Frances.

‘I am sure of it,’ agreed Nora.

‘I suppose,’ said Frances, ‘that as the children of a convict they might not have had their choice of employment, but it does seem unlikely. Perhaps they went into service.’

Jack Jennings took his pipe out of his mouth and started to whistle. A little light danced in his eyes that had not been there before.

‘Please, father,’ said Nora, gently. ‘Not in company.’

‘That was what
he
did!’ said Jennings. ‘Harold Froy the Jaunty Boy, ‘cos he couldn’t sing, not for nothing he couldn’t sing, so he
had
to whistle. That was his turn. Whistling.’ He took another copious gulp of tea. ‘He was terrible.’

‘Was Harold Froy really Benjamin Sweetman?’ asked Frances.

‘Yes,’ said Jennings, further enlivened by the conversation. ’The lad Sweetman, only he was calling himself Froy.’

‘What about his sister, Mary?’ asked Frances.

Jennings grinned. ‘Oh, yes, he had a sister.
She
was a pretty thing.’ He puffed vigorously on his pipe.

‘And she was on the stage, too?’

The old man took the pipe from his mouth reflectively and to Frances’ surprise, he began to sing. ‘I don’t know how to milk a cow, oh please take pity on me!’ He laughed and stuffed a piece of bread and dripping into his mouth.

Frances waited until he stopped chewing which was quite a while. ‘Was that the song Miss Sweetman sang?’

He nodded and sang the line again.

‘Was she a milkmaid? Was that her “turn”?’

‘No!
Course
she wasn’t a milkmaid!’ he said scornfully. ‘She couldn’t be, could she? She dressed like one, she wanted to be one, but she couldn’t on account of how she didn’t know how to milk the cow!’

‘I don’t think you can place much reliance on what he says,’ said Nora, sadly. ‘He has a lot of memories but they only come out every so often and sometimes they can mix themselves up. I am sure he must have seen these things but whether they were the Sweetman boy and girl must be doubted.’

‘I don’t know how to milk a cow!’ warbled Mr Jennings happily.

‘Which theatre did your father visit?’ Frances asked.

‘It was the Bijou in Archer Street, but that’s all closed up now.’

Frances sighed inwardly. So far everything and everyone who might have helped her was closed, gone away, demolished or dead. She left Miss Jennings with her address and asked her to write if her father should remember anything more, but felt, as her boots carved a path through the slush, that she had merely succeeded in lighting a small torch in Jack Jennings’ mind that had flared brightly for a moment only to vanish forever.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

F
rances’ next call was at the Westbourne Grove office of the accountancy firm of Anderson, Walsh and Whibley. She knew from newspaper reports that the business was in the process of being sold, and thought it as well to make this one of her earliest appointments in case it was about to close its doors. She found, however, that the sudden death of the sole owner had not curtailed its activities in any way. A senior clerk called Richardson was busy meeting prospective buyers but while that matter remained to be settled, business went on. Frances spoke to a junior clerk, introducing herself and explaining the reason for her visit. She was asked to wait while Mr Richardson completed his interview and eventually she was conducted into an office that still had Mr Whibley’s name on the doorplate.

It did not look like the office of a dedicated sybarite. The only female portrait on the wall was of the queen, and while the chair behind the desk was wide and comfortably upholstered this had more to do with the occupant’s weight and girth than his love of luxury. There was an impressive library on the subject of taxation, handsome leather-bound volumes with gold-stamped spines, and on a side table there were bundles of papers tied up with string and piled up in good order, waiting for attention.

‘Ah yes, the unhappy Mr Sweetman,’ said Richardson, taking his late employer’s chair and ushering Frances to the seat facing him. A discreet man of business, he was aged about fifty-five, immaculately dressed with well-trimmed hair and beard, once black but now well-salted with grey. ‘His visit was unannounced,’ he continued, with an acid hint of disapproval in his tone, which Frances ignored, ‘and took place just two days before Mr Whibley died.’

‘Mr Whibley,’ said Frances, examining her notebook, ‘was found dead in bed on the morning of Thursday the thirteenth of January, so Mr Sweetman must have called on the Tuesday.’

‘He did,’ said Richardson.

‘Do you know what was said at that meeting?’ asked Frances.

‘No, I was not present, and Mr Whibley did not discuss it with me afterwards.’ He closed his mouth, like an oyster snapping shut, and waited for the next question.

Frances felt that Mr Richardson was a man who knew exactly what he ought and ought not to know. She was also sure that he must have similar opinions on what she ought and ought not to know, opinions with which she might not concur.

‘How long have you worked for the partnership?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-seven years,’ he said, as if announcing it to a meeting, with a proud tilt of the chin.

‘It would have been just Anderson and Walsh then?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Mr Anderson was Mr Whibley’s uncle, I believe?’

‘That is the case.’

‘And Mr Walsh? Was Mr Whibley related to him?’

‘He was not.’ Richardson looked quite at his ease, and there was no hesitation in making his replies.

‘Do you recall the robbery that took place at J. Finn Insurance where Mr Whibley once worked? It was in 1866.’

‘I do. It was in all the newspapers,’ said Richardson, his tone implying that this was his sole source of information on the subject.

‘How long after the robbery did Mr Whibley come to work here?’

‘Not long afterwards. Six months, perhaps.’

‘And Mr Elliott, who had also worked there, he came here too. Was that at about the same time?’

‘I think it was a little after.’

‘So the robbery and Mr Sweetman’s trial would still have been very fresh in people’s memories,’ said Frances. ‘I am sure that Mr Whibley and Mr Elliott would have been asked about them.’

‘That is only human nature, of course. People like to pry.’ His lip curled in distaste. Clearly prying was a contemptible activity and something he never did.

‘Did Mr Whibley say who he thought was guilty? I know he didn’t think it was Mr Sweetman.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t recall. In fact, I don’t believe I ever discussed it with him.’ Richardson paused. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Doughty, are you trying to prove that Mr Sweetman was innocent of the crime?’

‘He has not asked me to do so,’ said Frances, ‘although he has assured me of his innocence, but he did come to me yesterday and engaged me to find his family from whom he had become estranged. I am interviewing everyone he knew in case they have heard anything of them.’

‘I don’t believe anyone currently working here had ever encountered Mr Sweetman before his recent visit,’ said Richardson, ‘and no one will know his family.’

‘I came here in the hope that Mr Whibley might have said something about them after he saw Mr Sweetman,’ said Frances. ‘Perhaps he did have some information but for some reason of which I am unaware, did not wish to reveal it. I should tell you that while Mr Sweetman was in my home, he was arrested on suspicion of murder. It appears that Mrs Sweetman has been killed. At present I know no further details.’ She watched Mr Richardson carefully, and it was clear even through his shell of carefully studied calm that the news had astounded him.

‘I think …’ he said, after taking a few moments to absorb the information, ‘that had Mr Whibley been alive to hear this, he would have been very distressed.’

‘Then he did speak of the Sweetmans?’

Richardson hesitated, and it was clear that he thought he had said too much. ‘He might have done, it was a long time ago, but he knew the family and I believe he had a good opinion of them.’

‘And had he mentioned them recently?’

There was another thoughtful silence, and then he took a deep breath. ‘No. As I have said, I know nothing of the interview that took place between Mr Whibley and Mr Sweetman, but I do think it is possible that it may indirectly have led to Mr Whibley’s death.’

‘In what way?’ asked Frances, both surprised and dubious at this extraordinary allegation. ‘I had understood that he suffered from a weak heart due to his unusual size.’

‘There are a number of things that have been said about Mr Whibley in the press and not all of them are true,’ said Richardson, severely. ‘He is represented as a gourmand and a libertine. That is a cruel distortion of the truth. Of course, he enjoyed the good things his wealth brought him, but he was also a generous man who would never do an unkind thing, knowledgeable in his profession and diligent in his work. We mourn his death, and we also appreciate his life and dedication, which has left the business in such a thriving and well-ordered state.’