The Daughters of Gentlemen (26 page)

O
n the Monday morning Frances again took the train to Havenhill to attend the resumed inquest on the man found in the ditch, and was surprised to see Theodore Paskall on the platform at Paddington station boarding the same train.

‘Surely you are not going to Havenhill, Mr Paskall,’ she said after they had exchanged greetings and settled themselves in a carriage.

‘I am my father’s messenger boy,’ he said ruefully, ‘and until I encountered you, Miss Doughty, I was thinking how much rather I would be at my desk renting properties and arranging insurances, but now I have such good company on my journey,’ he smiled, ‘I feel I may have a pleasant morning after all.’ Frances took his comment as a polite gallantry.

‘I presume you will be inspecting the foundations of your father’s cottages?’ she enquired.

‘That, and attending the inquest on the poor man found there.’

‘I understand that the police now believe him to be Harry Clare, a relative of Mr Matthews’ late wife,’ said Frances. ‘Did you know him?’

‘No, I am not acquainted with that family,’ said Theodore, ‘and Matthews is not convinced that the man is Clare at all. My father, I am afraid, has got a strange fancy in his head that some enemy of his has conjured up a body from somewhere and put it in the foundations of his cottages to cast a slur on him, and has ordered me to come and watch the proceedings.’ He gave a troubled shake of the head. ‘The election has been a great strain on him, that and the fact that in these difficult times we need to attend to business almost night and day, and I for one will be very pleased when he is safely in parliament, as he is bound to be soon.’

The train gave a great hiss and began to pull out of the station.

‘But he cannot be in both places at once?’ said Frances.

‘Most assuredly not, but he has given me to understand that when he is a member he will devote all his time to politics and thereafter Paskall & Son will be mine to manage,’ he added more cheerfully. Though he had his father’s hawk-like features Frances thought that his sunnier disposition made the narrow face and prominent nose almost handsome. ‘I have worked for my father since I was sixteen, starting with the humblest of tasks and working my way up until I am very nearly a full partner, and though I am just twenty-four now, I know the business very well and have my own customers and can run things very nicely.’

‘And perhaps one day you might follow your father into parliament?’ asked Frances.

‘Oh that will be many years from now,’ he laughed. ‘For today I am content merely to have plenty of work to keep me busy, and good prospects.’

They whiled away the half hour journey with more similarly engaging conversation, Paskall saying that his father was the hardest working man he had ever known, and Matthews the most idle, except for his undoubted devotion to his family. Frances said that she believed a wedding to be in the wind for Miss Lydia and he replied that he knew nothing about it, but hoped for the sake of the groom that he was a deaf gentleman. As the train pulled into Havenhill, Frances thought that if Theodore could advertise himself as he advertised properties he could have written, ‘Pleasing aspect, well situated, suit single lady’.

As they descended from the train Frances saw that a number of somberly clad passengers had also come expressly for the inquest. They did not include Matthews, and Frances assumed that one of the gentlemen present was his solicitor. Mrs Gribling, heavily veiled and clutching a small wreath was leaning on the arm of a lady of her own years – a neighbourly friend Frances guessed – and was walking with slow, almost tottering steps towards the church. Frances went to offer her condolences.

‘He’s buried there,’ whispered Mrs Gribling, gesturing towards the church, ‘and me not here to see it done, never knowing …’ She stumbled unsteadily onwards, her companion patting her arm.

‘Is it certain it is he?’ asked Frances.

‘Oh yes,’ she sighed, ‘they showed me his watch. I bought it for him before he went away. A simple thing but all I could afford. He said he would keep it always, and he did.’

Frances let the grieving woman go on to the church for her own private moment by the grave. Theodore stood by respectfully. ‘I take it that is the mother of the poor fellow?’

‘Yes,’ said Frances. ‘Even though I too have suffered terrible losses, I cannot imagine what she can be feeling at this moment.’

There was a little while before the inquest was due to begin and so Frances and Theodore walked up the rutted path to the building work, with its broken fences and weather-scarred trenches. He inspected the scene gloomily, while Frances told him how she had come to find the body.

‘Father will be very displeased,’ he said. ‘All that expense and nothing to show for it. He told me that he was all for abandoning the work last January. He’d have taken a spade and filled it in himself if necessary, but Matthews wouldn’t hear of it, and now it seems that father was right after all.’

Frances thought it best not to allude to the expected arrival of new capital once Matthews had secured the Duchess’s fortune. ‘Is there nothing to be done?’ she asked.

‘In a few months, if matters improve, we may begin again,’ he said, ‘but for now I will take steps to ensure that no one else comes to grief here.’

He offered his arm and they walked back to the Havenhill Arms, where Frances was glad of his assistance in negotiating the narrow winding stair and lurching floorboards. The inquest began with Mrs Gribling stating with tearful certainty that the watch found on the dead man was the same one she had given to her son when he left for America. The men of the jury glanced at each other and nodded and it was clear that the court would formally identify the body as that of Harry Clare.

When Dr Naresby, mopping his face from the effort of climbing the stairs, rose to be questioned, the coroner leaned towards Mrs Gribling and suggested that as there was medical evidence to be heard she might prefer to retire, but she shook her head and stayed where she was. A glass of water was provided.

Dr Naresby said that he and his assistant had completed the post-mortem examination of the body and found a single wound above the right ear consistent with either a blow or a fall on some hard surface. On removal of the outer tissues of the head he discerned a clear comminuted fracture of the skull. The bones had been depressed inwards and there was considerable effusion of blood. Apart from this injury the deceased had been in perfect health at the time of his death. He had no hesitation in attributing the cause of death to the injury.

‘I think we are agreed on that point,’ said the coroner, ‘but the remaining question is whether the injury was accidental or the result of some criminal act.’

‘I have,’ said Dr Naresby, ‘seen many injuries caused by a variety of implements and have observed that each implement, be it a hammer or a spade or an iron bar, will leave a very characteristic mark. That was not so in this case, where the wound was very irregular. I came to the conclusion that the object that caused the injury was a stone. Had the deceased been struck by a stone and then thrown into the ditch I would have expected to find the stone nearby as people almost never carry away such items with them, but I found none. I therefore concluded that the object that had caused the injury was the stone of the partly constructed foundations, which no individual could have wielded. Of course the passage of time and the muddy conditions meant that any traces of blood have been washed away, all the same, it is my opinion that death was due to an accidental fall when the deceased, no doubt confused by the misty conditions, stumbled into the trench and struck his head.’

‘Was death immediate or would he have been able to call out for assistance?’ asked the coroner.

‘I believe that initially he would have been stunned by the injury. He might have regained consciousness but by then he would have been confused and might not have been able to cry out.’

‘So the actual cause of death might have been exposure?’

‘I believe the primary cause of death to be hemorrhage and injury to the brain. The freezing temperatures would have hastened matters.’

The jurors conferred, the court very quiet apart from the sound of Mrs Gribling’s sobs.

Frances looked around at the others present and saw that Mary Ann Dunn was silent and rigid, yet her eyes slowly turned to look at the distraught mother and just for a moment the hard exterior softened and a look of compassion passed across her face.

As expected, the jury found that the deceased, Harry Clare, aged twenty nine of New York City, had died from a fracture of the skull and injury to the brain caused by an accidental fall. They deplored the fact that the open trenches had not been fenced off earlier, and the coroner, who, unlike many of the residents of Havenhill, had no reason to be in awe of the landowner, concurred, and made some very pointed comments. Frances, with her new commission from Jonathan Quayle, determined to question Mary Ann Dunn and, as the hearing ended, hurried over and introduced herself.

Mrs Dunn, who was not discomfited by the approach, asked Frances to take a turn with her about the churchyard. ‘I had expected you sooner,’ she said. ‘Master said that you would want to speak to me, although I am sure I don’t know how I can help you. I know nothing at all about the poor young gentleman.’

‘He has never been to the house?’

‘Not to my knowledge, and I have been here twelve years. And we had no visitors at all in January apart from the usual tradesfolk, all of whom I know very well.’

Frances heaved a great sigh and touched a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘His poor mother!’ she said. ‘What she must be suffering!’ In truth the masquerade required very little in histrionic ability, since Frances had only to think of her own family, those she had lost and those she had never known, to produce a genuine tear or two.

Mary Ann nodded and there was an answering moisture in her eye. ‘We have all had sorrows,’ she said, ‘some worse than others. My sister’s boy was just twenty two when he was killed, and that was seven years ago, but the pain is as bad now as the day it happened.’

‘Do you mean Daniel Souter?’ Frances enquired.

‘Oh, so you’ve been told about it. A fine, handsome, honest, hardworking boy, and no one called to pay the price, and my poor sister dead of grief within the year. I tell you, Miss Doughty, if ever they found out those who did it and gave them the sentence they deserved, I’d stand on the scaffold and pull the lever myself!’

There was a sudden flare in her dark eyes and Frances was left in no doubt that she meant what she said. ‘I believe he was going to be married to Daisy Trent,’ she said.

‘Yes, and the lass almost lost her wits for a time.’

‘Almost?’ queried Frances. ‘For a time? Do you mean she is well again?’ Flora’s description of Daisy’s behaviour had led Frances to think it very possible that the girl had been confined to an asylum, possibly permanently, but if she was recovered and could be found, then she and Flora might meet, and then the misunderstanding would be dispelled.

‘Oh she had wits enough when I last saw her, although the burden on her heart will never be gone.’

‘Do you know where she is now? I should like to call on her.’

Mary Ann shook her head. ‘No, she went away, and never said where.’

‘Surely her mother knows where she is?’

‘I expect she does, but no one here knows where her mother went.’

Frances tried her best to conceal her disappointment. She felt sure, however, that Mary Ann, a loyal housekeeper, would always be concerned about the interests of her master. A good, useful and discreet servant was an asset who could prove her worth in a quiet way every day of her life, and expect a comfortable pension when she was too old to work.

‘Daisy said some hard words about your master after Daniel’s death,’ said Frances.

‘As I said, she had lost her wits. We all knew it was her sorrow speaking.’

‘But people still remember what she said. There are even some who believe that Daisy was telling the truth, and that your master
was
to blame for Daniel Souter’s death. I am sure that now some time has passed and Daisy is well again, she would welcome the chance to admit that she was mistaken. No one would blame her for what she said in her grief and they would applaud her honesty. Mr Matthews, I am sure, would be very much relieved if that were to happen.’

‘That may be,’ the housekeeper admitted.

‘If you were ever to learn where Daisy Trent is living, would you write to me and let me know? I could arrange for her to meet your master’s accusers and tell them that they are in error.’ Frances wrote her address on a page of her notebook and handed the paper to Mary Ann, who nodded thoughtfully and put it in her pocket. ‘But I think you know what it is I have come to talk to you about,’ she went on.

’A letter, I was told,’ said Mary Ann, contemptuously, ‘with some foolish lies in it, by someone who dared not sign their name.’

‘The letter said that your master was married to Caroline Clare at St Mary’s on the 6th of October 1874 and that you were there as a witness,’ said Frances.

Mary Ann folded her arms and looked immovable. ‘As I said, lies plain and simple.’

‘It claimed that Joshua Jenkins was also a witness, but of course, that cannot be right as that was the day of his death.’