The Daughters of Gentlemen (21 page)
Read The Daughters of Gentlemen Online
Authors: Linda Stratmann
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General
‘She must have been quite stupid to go walking there at night, alone!’ said Lydia. ‘She was not, I think, a decent person. We encountered her out walking the other day and she was very rude about Horace. I refuse to think of her any more!’
The servant entered at that moment with a note. ‘Message from Mr Paskall, Sir,’ she said, handing it to Matthews.
‘Oh, what is it
now
!’ he said testily, tearing it open.
‘Is there to be an answer, Sir, the boy is waiting,’ asked the maid.
‘I suppose so,’ said Matthews, looking about for a pen and ink. ‘I for one will be very happy when this election is done with.’
‘Come,’ said Selina to Frances. ‘Let us leave my father to his work. We will be more comfortable in the parlour and I will have some tea brought.’
Lydia twitched her nose and gave a sniff of disapproval, but went with her sister, as if appointed to be her personal attendant.
‘I always felt,’ said Selina, when they were cosily settled, ‘that Matilda had some sorrow in her life. You can always tell, even with a servant.’
‘She did have sorrows,’ agreed Frances, ‘but they were long past, and I understand that she was anticipating wedded happiness. Her sweetheart is a very good sort of person. Her only concern was saving enough money to give him a good start in a carpentry business. Had you noticed anything unusual in Matilda’s behaviour on your recent visits?’
‘Yes, the last time I was there I saw that something was troubling her. She had been doing her best to conceal it but a woman always knows, don’t you think? When I heard of the terrible thing she had done, I wished I had said something to Mrs Venn, who might have prevented it. I assume that my fears have been found to be correct?’
‘I do not wish to say anything that might distress you,’ said Frances, awkwardly.
‘We cannot avoid sadness and loss,’ said Selina. ‘Men seek to protect us, but we can be stronger than they. Please tell me.’
‘It appears,’ said Frances carefully, ‘that Matilda did not make away with herself.’
‘She was probably intoxicated with who knows what nasty compound,’ said Lydia.
‘As to that I really couldn’t say,’ said Frances.
Selina seemed relieved. ‘Oh it is such a terrible thing to contemplate another’s agony of mind. Thank you, Miss Doughty. You have comforted me. It was an accident, then, and the girl not suffering at all.’
‘I believe she did not suffer,’ said Frances. ‘But it was not an accident. It appears that another person was involved.’
Selina’s creamy pale visage seemed to bleach white. Lydia took the teacup from her sister’s trembling fingers. ‘And now, Miss Doughty, we will wish you good day,’ she said.
Frances made a wise retreat.
Sarah returned from Somerset House with the news that the registers contained no marriages of a Roderick Matthews from 1873 onwards, and while several ladies named Caroline Clare had married since that date, none had done so in 1874, or in any location in the vicinity of Havenhill. The information in the letter was undoubtedly false.
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
T
he inquest on the stranger found in the ditch opened at the Havenhill Arms on Tuesday morning. Frances had only once and quite against her will entered a public house, the Redan on Westbourne Grove – an incident which still made her blush with embarrassment, and she recalled with some distaste its clamour and alcohol-fumed atmosphere, not to mention the unpleasant headache that had followed. The inside of the Havenhill Arms was, by contrast, like a welcoming inn out of a child’s story book, a place in miniature, with ancient polished wood, brass lamps, low beams suitable only for the easy passage of small folk, and quiet nooks for contemplation. She half expected to see a copper-skinned gnome with a pointed hat smoking a clay pipe in one corner.
Frances and the other witnesses climbed a small winding wooden stair whose treads had been made for finer feet than hers, and reached an upper room where a table had been placed ready for the coroner and rough wooden chairs were assembled in rows. As Frances went to take her place she found that the floor sloped alarmingly on sagging beams, and creaked at points of dangerous weakness, something the villagers regarded with unconcern.
She was first to be called to give evidence and made sure to state only that she had come to Havenhill on a private matter, and had discovered the body because she had been recovering Benjie. Mrs Farrelly told the same tale.
The Havenhill stationmaster was a jovial fellow with rosy cheeks, but was slow to answer questions, and his replies were curiously vague and unhelpful. He could not recall the arrival of any strangers, or the timetable, or how many tickets he had taken, or, it seemed, a great deal of the month of January. There were some hard looks from the coroner and the other witnesses.
The next to be called was the landlord of the Havenhill Arms, stout and hearty and a fine advertisement for his own ale, who said that on a cold, dull day towards the end of January a stranger, aged he thought about thirty, with a foreign-sounding accent and carrying a small leather gentleman’s handbag, had asked him the way to Havenhill House. He directed the gentleman towards the path and told him to take care as the weather was very misty. He had viewed the body found in the ditch, and while he could say nothing as to the features, he believed the suit looked very like the one worn by the visitor and also thought he recognised the bag found with the remains.
Mr Matthews, looking awkward and uncomfortable in the cramped interior of the little room, told the court that although the body had been found on his land the man was a stranger to him. At the period in question he had been in his house on one night only, that of January 26th, but there had been no visitors, and neither had any been expected.
Mary Ann Dunn, the housekeeper, was a mannish looking woman of about forty with a hard but handsome face, black brows and a figure that looked as if it was encased in steel. She confirmed that no stranger had visited the house on any day in either January or February.
The next witness was Dr Naresby, whose bulk was such that he had to be pushed up the stairs by the substantially lighter coroner’s officer, at no small risk to both of them being the subject of the next proceedings. The doctor’s preliminary examination of the remains had suggested that the cause of death was a fractured skull, which could well have been the result of the man’s stumbling into a trench and hitting his head on the stone foundations. There were no other injuries on the body. A full and detailed report would be available in due course.
The evidence of Inspector Eaves was of most interest since he had made a thorough examination of the man’s clothing and effects. Those garments which bore a manufacturer’s label had been made in the United States of America. The leather bag had also been made there. It contained a clean collar, a change of linen and the usual gentleman’s requisites. There was a pocketwatch of inexpensive make, which did not bear a jeweller’s mark, and a leather pocketbook containing both American and English money, and some receipts from a shop in New York. A letter and a railway ticket and what looked like some business cards were found in the pocket of the coat, but these had been so soaked with water and mud that any writing or printing on them was no longer legible. It was impossible therefore to say who the man was. The inspector said that he would be circulating a description in the hope that someone would recognise him, but the police were working on the theory that the visitor was an American, and quite possibly recently arrived. He might have left a trunk either at a railway station or hotel, but without a name it would take some time to trace.
The coroner adjourned the inquest to the following Monday, expressing his confident belief that by then the identity of the dead man would have been discovered.
Frances spent her train journey to Paddington considering the evidence and what it must mean. The unfortunate man had clearly never been to Havenhill House before, since he had been obliged to ask the way, but there was no doubt that this was his intended destination. It had been assumed by the court and indeed everyone else, that the stranger had gone to Havenhill to see Matthews, but that was not necessarily the case. Had he wanted to see Matthews he would surely have called at the Bayswater townhouse, since Matthews was hardly ever out of town, and any enquiries the stranger had made would have suggested that he should try there first. During the critical period Matthews had only been at Havenhill for one night, and that visit had been arranged for business reasons brought about by the bank crash, something that could not have been anticipated. It was therefore far more probable that the visitor had called to see Mary Ann Dunn or one of the farm servants who lived on the estate.
And yet, Frances reflected, the visitor was carrying business cards. What was he – a seedsman – a dealer in horticultural equipment, or something in the world of finance, property or insurance? If that had been the case, then it was more likely that it was Matthews he wanted to see. Supposing, she thought, the American had called at the townhouse first while Matthews was away and then been redirected to Havenhill?
She decided to call at the townhouse on her way home. The housemaid recognised her at once, and said, ‘Oh, I am very sorry but Master is not in.’
‘As it so happens,’ said Frances, ‘it is you I wish to see.’ She was in the hallway before the maid could recover from her surprise. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to remember a visitor – it would have been towards the end of January, while your Master was away. He was well-dressed and probably called here on a business matter. He was carrying a gentleman’s handbag, and he was from America.’
‘Oh,’ said the maid with some surprise, ‘well, Master has a great many visitors but I can’t say I can remember anyone of that description.’
Frances was disappointed, but there was nothing more to be said, and she went home. It was time to put all her paperwork in order. The only item of furniture she had brought from her old home was her father’s writing desk, and she set about polishing the dark wood and shining the little handles on the drawers, brushing every speck of dust from inside and lining it with clean paper. It was while she did this that she noticed that one of the small drawers seemed shallower than the others. It took some prising with a letter opener, but she was able to remove a false base and there discovered a thin packet of letters. She carried them to the table, separated them carefully and opened them out. There were four, all in the same hand, and were addressed from her mother to her father. Three were little more than notes, dated prior to her parents’ marriage, in which the future Mrs Doughty thanked her betrothed for gifts. The fourth was undated.
Dear William,
I know that I am entirely to blame, and that your actions were correct, my fate well deserved. I accept that in future we must be as strangers to one another. I have only one last entreaty. May I – before our fates are severed forever – see my beloved children one more time? Perhaps Mr Manley might make the arrangements? I promise faithfully that V will not be there.
Respectfully
Rosetta
Frances read the letter several times. It had been only weeks since she had learned that her mother had not, as she had always been told, died sixteen years ago, but had instead deserted her husband and two children for another man. Frances had been both sad and angry, full of self-pity for the selfish cruelty with which she and her brother had been abandoned. Her mother might well still be alive, and one part of her had wanted to find her, while another had been afraid of what she might discover. It was a path she had hesitated to take. Now it seemed that there was more to the story than her uncle Cornelius, her mother’s brother, had admitted. Perhaps even he did not know all the truth. What actions had her father taken? What was her mother’s fate? Who was Mr Manley? Who was ‘V’? She felt sure that the meeting for which her mother had begged had not taken place, or her brother, who had been five years older than she, would have recalled it. Several times she started to write to her uncle, but the right words eluded her. She was suffused with the knowledge that she had, after all, been loved.
While she considered what to do next, Frances carefully folded the letters and put them away, then she sorted all her materials neatly and assigned them their proper places. She had just completed this task when Tom arrived to report on his findings regarding the two part-time husbands, and Frances thought it best to write to the two mauve-clad wives and arrange a meeting where they might compare notes. It would be a painful interview, and would require the services of a medical attendant, a solicitor and, in all probability, a policeman.
That evening Frances and Sarah arrived in the Grove in good time to attend the meeting at Westbourne Hall, but found the supporters of women’s suffrage standing outside in the street in some dismay, having been denied entry. Miss Gilbert and Miss John were there, as she might have expected, as was Jonathan Quayle, and a smartly dressed lady of mature years who he introduced as Flora’s mother, Mrs Gribling.
There were also a large number of men waiting outside, many of whom, judging by their clothing, represented local trades and it appeared that they too had hoped to attend the meeting and been disappointed. They had formed themselves into groups which new arrivals were swelling in size by the minute, making loud indignant complaints to each other and anyone else who would listen.
‘Oh, Miss Doughty, here is a to-do,’ said Miss Gilbert. ‘Would you believe that entry is by ticket only, and that tickets are only to be had by Conservatives? This is most shameful, as it means the candidates are not to be challenged in any way, but will simply have their own kind about them, and what good is that, and of course it disqualifies ladies entirely.’
There was a sudden rush as Frances heard a familiar voice and saw Tom with bundles of tickets in his hands, offering them for sale. He was no longer in the shop uniform but in a suit of clothes he had been bought by Chas and Barstie some weeks ago when running messages for them. His hair, which would not lie flat without an application of anything less than the greasiest ointment, had been cut short and stuck up all over his head in glistening spikes.
‘Tom, where did you get those tickets to sell?’ asked Frances, when he had disposed of his stock.
He stuffed coins in his pocket and winked. ‘Private business,’ he said, ‘all straight, mind, nothing funny. Wish I’d ‘ad more, now, could’ve sold a ‘undred, there’s that much of a pother.’
It soon turned out, however, that the mere purchase of a ticket was insufficient to ensure entry, and disappointed and increasingly frustrated Liberals crowded about the double doors, forming a solid mass of bodies and arguing that they had a right to be let in, which two stalwart doorkeepers were firmly resisting. Eventually, to howls of execration and language wholly inappropriate to be used in a public street, the doors were swung shut on the crowds and firmly locked. Miss Gilbert sighed. ‘Oh dear, I had really hoped to ask the candidates to make their position known on the suffrage question. But all is not lost; I have some leaflets here which I will give them as they leave.’
The mass of men outside had not, however, given up hope of attending the meeting and kept up their loud and angry demands, while those at the forefront started pounding on the doors, which were not of the stoutest build, having been constructed to match the architecture and not to resist a siege.
‘Do you really intend to remain here?’ asked Frances above the escalating din. ‘It seems to me that there might be a dangerous disturbance.’
‘Ladies,’ said Jonathan Quayle, his eyes bright with anxiety, ‘please, I beg of you, let me conduct you to a place of safety! If I might assist you to a cab, it would be for the best.’ Miss Gilbert, however, a bundle of leaflets in her hands, looked anything but concerned at the prospect of some excitement.
Miss John gave a smile. ‘Oh,’ she said softly, ‘there is nothing to be gained without some risk of danger.’
‘Marianne is right, as ever,’ said Miss Gilbert firmly. ‘I will not stir until I have done what I came here to do.’
The frustration and anger of the crowd was rapidly boiling into rage, a position from which retreat was no longer possible. The men had given up hammering on the doors with their fists and were now attempting to enter by the expedient of charging them down with weight of numbers, loud cheers and exhortations accompanying their efforts. ‘Let me at least place you under my protection!’ urged Quayle above the pandemonium. As he spoke there was the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass and the doors burst inwards, the hapless doorkeepers were swept aside, and the mob charged into the hall with roars of victory.
‘Well,’ said Miss Gilbert, appreciatively, ‘it seems that we may enter after all.’
Before anyone could say another word, she hurried in on the heels of the mob, followed closely by Miss John and Mrs Gribling. Quayle waved his arms in despair and ran after them. Frances held back for a moment then, emboldened by example, joined the crowds, with Sarah at her side.
The meeting, thought Frances, if its object was the dissemination of information, was unlikely to be a success since the hall was too crowded and noisy for any voices to be heard. She wondered if election meetings were always conducted in this way. Every seat was occupied and there were more patrons standing at the back, their numbers increasing with the sudden violent incoming crush of Liberal supporters. Frances’ height enabled her to see the platform, on which there were a number of men seated behind tables, amongst whom were Bartholomew Paskall and Mr Matthews. A man she did not recognise was on his feet attempting to make a speech. Someone in the body of the hall was calling out for the intruders to be ejected, but the doorkeepers were in no position to do so as they were lying dazedly on the floor with bloodied noses, and even when they managed to stagger to their feet a hostile crowd made it impossible for them to move. Mr Paskall rose up and, judging by his arms, which were moving in a jerky semaphore, seemed to be appealing for calm, but to no effect. Miss Gilbert, realising that there was no chance that her prepared questions might be heard, was taking the opportunity to throw leaflets into the air, scattering them like seeds in the wind, in the hope that they might alight on a fertile mind and take root, while Miss John, whose normally timid expression had achieved a quite alarmingly determined aspect, was preparing to defend herself with a bodkin. At the front of the hall, a man jumped from his chair, climbed onto the platform and started to speak, but the crowd roared for him to leave and as he did so, someone picked up a table and flung it at his retreating figure. There was a loud and unified shout of disapproval and the next moment the crowd surged into motion. Chairs and tables, both whole and in pieces, were flying through the air and there were outbreaks of arguing and pushing and fisticuffs all over the hall, with not a Queensberry Rule in sight. The candidates and their friends, led by Bartholomew Paskall, ran from the platform and made for a side exit, and those members of the crowd not engaged in their own private confrontations, pushed forward and tried to go after them. Frances, cushioned from much of the shock by Sarah’s large form at her side, felt a firm hand on her arm. ‘Time to go,’ said Sarah, in the sort of voice that had once made a bookish young girl clear her dinner plate, and Frances at once complied. They squeezed through the surging crush of humanity, heading back towards the Grove, Sarah swatting aside over-excited Liberal voters with the back of her hand. On the way they encountered Jonathan Quayle, helpless in a pack of bodies and gasping for air. Sarah extricated him but he was too weak to stand so she draped his limp form over her shoulder and marched grimly on.
At last the little party reached the street, where they saw Mr Paskall, his fellow candidate and their supporters hurrying away as fast as they could go, desperately trying to attract a cab, while a mob of Liberals ran after them hooting in derision.
They moved away from the broken doors to allow the crowds to emerge and Sarah sat Quayle on the pavement, propping him against the wall where he drooped like a wilting flower.
‘Oh dear, we must take him home at once!’ exclaimed Mrs Gribling, mopping the poet’s brow with a handkerchief.
‘I’ll fetch a cab,’ said Tom, appearing from nowhere.
‘But are there any to be had?’ asked Mrs Gribling anxiously.
‘Sixpence says there are,’ said Tom with a wink.
The sixpence was provided and he hurried away, returning a minute later with an empty cab.
Mrs Gribling was putting the handkerchief into her pocket when Frances realised that she had seen something like it before. Even in the gentle glow of the street lamps she recognised the pattern – the little scallops of blue and white that Mlle Girard had assured her was of her grandmother’s invention. How had Mrs Gribling obtained it? Was it the same one that Mlle Girard had been making or another?
Frances could think of nothing to do except snatch at the item and when Mrs Gribling turned to stare at her in astonishment, said, ‘Oh, I am so sorry, I thought it was about to fall to the ground.’ She handed it back, but had seen enough to satisfy herself it was indeed the same design. ‘How delightful,’ she said, ‘where did you obtain it?’ Frances knew that she sounded like a thoughtless girl, concerning herself with a trifle in the midst of more serious matters. It was a part she had played before, and would no doubt play again.
