The Poisonous Seed (11 page)

‘It might not be the chemist’s fault,’ said Frances. ‘Maybe Mr Garton had an enemy who put poison in the medicine.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mrs Grinham dismissively. ‘Mr Garton was a good, kind man, who would want to poison him?’

Frances was hoping to explore this idea further, but the moment was lost when a young woman came in from the yard entrance, her cheeks glowing red with cold. She immediately made for the fire, rubbing her hands to warm them. ‘Oh, is that tea? Just the thing! And what a delicious-looking cake! You
have
excelled yourself Mrs Grinham!’

Ettie stifled a giggle.

‘Please help yourself to a slice,’ said Frances, trying her best to avoid Mrs Grinham’s gaze. ‘I’ve come from the bakery, and there was a bit of an accident about the delivery, and, well, I thought we might as well eat it up.’

‘The bakery?’ said the new arrival, surprised. ‘Well, thank you, I’m sure.’ She was slender and fair, and about the same age as Frances, with slightly protuberant eyes under heavy lids which marred an otherwise pretty face. There was something familiar about her features, and Frances realised that she had seen her in the Grove more than once, though she had never entered the shop. Fortunately the girl did not appear to recognise Frances. She took off her coat and busied herself making a fresh pot of tea and cutting cake.

‘We were just talking about poor Mr Garton,’ said Frances.

‘Oh, yes, that was a very sad thing,’ said the girl through a mouthful of cake. ‘And to think we saw him only about an hour before he died. I can hardly believe it!’

‘Were there many people here that night?’

‘No, just Master and Mistress and Mr and Mrs Garton. It was more like a family dinner than a grand occasion.’

‘I expect it was a very good dinner; better than I’m used to,’ said Frances, wistfully.

‘Artichoke soup, and fried sole, then cutlets and boiled fowls and vegetables, and apple pudding and blancmange,’ said Mrs Grinham, proudly. ‘And that wasn’t all because they were served tea and macaroons and sandwiches in the drawing room afterwards. ‘They all ate very well and there was hardly a crumb left and
no one was took ill
.’

‘I should think a gentleman like Mr Keane can afford the very best wines, too,’ said Frances.

‘He can,’ agreed Mrs Grinham, ‘though I have heard Mr Harvey say that he might save himself a shilling a bottle and not know the difference. But then everyone knows that Mr Keane came from a very low family and only has his wife to thank for his position.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Frances hopefully, ‘Mr Garton wasn’t poisoned at all. He might just have had a spasm on the heart.’

While they considered this, a young Atlas of a man with long brown hair tied back in a switch and a mild expression entered the room. His clothes were rough yet clean, and there was a whiff of the stables about him, but his presence in the kitchen was tolerated.

‘Here, Adam, what do you think of this?’ said Ettie teasingly, showing him the portrait. ‘Would you believe Master has said it is to be burnt?’

He frowned as he looked at it, then, without saying a word, he took the picture from its frame and tore it in half down the middle. The part with James Keane was consigned to the fire, but the other half he rolled up and placed carefully in his pocket. ‘There, and if you tell anyone, it’ll be the worse for all of you!’ he said, his face flushing red.

‘Now then, Adam, we know it’s just your little way,’ said Mrs Grinham. ‘No harm in admiring a lady. Come, have some tea.’ Ettie poured a large cup and Adam sat in a corner taking large noisy gulps, scorning the cake to munch at a piece of coarse bread. Whatever his thoughts he kept them to himself, and when he finished eating and drinking he wiped his hands on his trousers and went out.

Mr Harvey returned, and looked annoyed to see Frances still there. His eyes flickered around the room and Frances realised that he was inspecting its contents. She would not have been surprised had he decided to count the teaspoons. He raised an eyebrow at the fair girl. ‘Ellen, I believe the table is yet to be laid,’ he said curtly. She put down a half-consumed cup of tea and hurried out. Frances cut a slice of cake, put it on a plate, pushed it across the table in Mr Harvey’s direction, and poured more tea. He hesitated. ‘It’s very cold outside, don’t you think?’ she said, innocently. ‘Thank goodness for tea and cake or we would all catch a chill.’

‘That is true,’ he said, and sat down. There were a few moments of appreciative silence as he sipped tea and nibbled cake.

‘I was just saying that poor Mr Garton must have been a very unwell man when he came here,’ ventured Frances.

He stared at her. ‘And what concern is that of yours?’ he observed, sharply.

‘None, only I thought it was a shame that some people think he ate something here that was wrong, when after all the gentleman was probably very poorly. I expect he came here with lots of medicines and pills.’

‘None that I saw.’ He paused. ‘You seem to be taking a very particular interest in the matter.’

‘Well it has created no end of a sensation in our household.’

‘Perhaps you would do well to amuse yourself with more wholesome diversions than considering what Mr Garton may have had on the night he died,’ said Harvey coldly. ‘I believe that is a matter for the police.’

‘The police must have been very troublesome to you, and very upsetting for Mr and Mrs Keane,’ said Frances sympathetically.

‘They were, but of course they have their job to do, as have we all.’ Frances refused to take the hint. She poured herself another cup of tea.

‘Poking their noses in everywhere!’ exclaimed Mrs Grinham with more than a touch of outrage. ‘Asking all sorts of questions – do we have medicines in the house, do we have vermin killers – hmph! I run a clean kitchen and we have nothing of that sort here!’

‘I believe,’ said Harvey, more for Mrs Grinham’s temper than for Frances, ‘that the police are now entirely satisfied that Mr Garton was poisoned because of a mistake by the chemist, and that is what the inquest will show.’

‘Mr Keane must be very upset,’ said Frances, ‘what with being such a good friend, and their business must be all at sixes and sevens.’

‘Gentlemen in their position are well able to manage their affairs, you’ll find,’ said Harvey.

So Garton and Keane had been business partners, thought Frances, or Mr Harvey would surely have denied it. She was about to ask what business they were in, when Ellen rushed in. She had changed her dress to a plain workaday garment and donned the apron and cap of a parlour maid. ‘Mr Harvey! Master and Mistress are back!’

Harvey dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and rose. ‘Well, Miss Liza from the bakery,’ he said to Frances, ‘you’d best be getting back to your employer. And I do hope for your sake that the art of baking has more to interest you in the future than it has done previously.’

As Frances walked home, she considered what she had learnt by her visit, and as soon as she was able, sat down to record her thoughts in her notebook. Herbert had not yet returned, and her father was still dozing, so she helped Sarah sort linens for the Monday wash. William still had the books he had been consulting on his lap, and it wasn’t until he awoke that she was able to remove them and take them back to the shop. He was still silent, shaking his head every so often, almost as if there was a thought in his mind he needed to dislodge so he could examine it. It might have been no more than one of his strange fancies, but Frances had an increasingly uncomfortable feeling that there was something in her father’s troubled memory which related to Percival Garton’s death.

M
onday 19th January was the day of Percival Garton’s funeral. Frances considered attending but eventually decided that to do so would be highly improper, especially if she was recognised; also her household duties that morning did not permit her to be absent for any length of time. It was washday, and she would be employed for several hours, boiling water, then pounding, rinsing and wringing before everything could finally be hung to up dry. Yesterday’s squally showers had passed on, leaving the day bright and clear, but it was so cold that anything hung outside would have frozen to the line, so all the linens had to be draped over clotheshorses in the kitchen where they dangled, filling the room with vapour. Usually when Frances and Sarah worked together it was a companionable time, when, while never forgetting that they were mistress and servant, they could still talk as two women united by their duties in life. On that day, Frances was largely silent. She imagined the service at St Matthew’s and the interment at Kensal Green, with herself there as an observer, perhaps appearing as a darkly veiled figure of mystery, or even as eager young Mr Williamson the reporter, casting her eyes over the assembled throng. There would be the distraught widow, Henrietta, Cedric Garton, Mr Keane and his wife, and those of the household servants permitted to leave their duties. Perhaps there would be others she knew nothing of, social acquaintances, the artist whose career Garton had been encouraging, or business associates. Any one of the mourners might well be a murderer. Someone, whose outward demeanour was of familial grief or silent respect, was concealing a secret satisfaction at Percival Garton’s death and congratulating him or herself on not being suspected. Whoever that individual might be, Frances knew that he or she was callously indifferent to the distress and possible ruin of the Doughty family. Frances wondered if, had she been present, she would have seen that moment when the murderer dropped his or her guard, and revealed a gloating pleasure underneath the mask of propriety?

One thing at least pleased her that morning, and she said as much to Sarah. Her father was looking more robust, and needed no urging to take up his duties behind the counter. At midday, when William sat down to a plate of mutton hash with more appetite than he had displayed in some time, Frances, with reddened hands and aching back, returned to the shop.

She was surprised to see a familiar figure there, deep in conversation with Herbert. During the worst times of her father’s illness, Mr Ford had been responsible for supervising the dispensing of medicines. He was a man of about forty-five, broad and stocky with a bald pate, fringed with crisp dark hair. He was knowledgeable and experienced in his profession, courteous towards the customers, polite and helpful to both Frances and Herbert, yet she had disliked him almost at once. It had taken her a while to understand why this was so, but she eventually realised that it was the way he moved around the shop, and looked about him. Mr Ford did not see himself as a mere salaried individual, employed by the business for a few short months. Mr Ford was, in Mr Ford’s mind, the future proprietor. He surveyed the premises as if he already owned it; saw the customers as his patrons, and Frances and Herbert as his staff, whom he could afford, from his lofty position, to treat with magnanimity. Mr Ford, when running his plump white fingers along the perfect shine of the mahogany display case, did so caressingly, as if it was already his. He had two sons, pharmacists in the making, to whom he wanted to leave an empire of shops, and the illness of William Doughty and the possibility of a sale made quickly and cheaply out of necessity had excited him. Every so often he would ask questions which Frances thought impertinent and intrusive, about how the business was stocked, who were the best customers, what weekly profits were made, and, most tellingly, the amount of the rent and when the lease was due for renewal. These questions were largely directed at Herbert, even those which Frances could best answer. Though women could now qualify as pharmacists and even open their own businesses, this to Mr Ford’s mind was an aberration he preferred to ignore. Frances had once mentioned to him the inspiring example of Isabella Skinner Clarke, who after years of fighting for recognition had been admitted to full membership of the Pharmaceutical Society only a few months previously. He had gazed at her in cold disdain, and indicated that, in his mind, the Council’s decision had been ‘inappropriate’.

Mr Ford had pretended to be overjoyed when William Doughty’s improved health had enabled him to return to work, but his disappointment had not been well concealed. Recent events had clearly raised his hopes.

As Frances entered, the two men looked around, and there was no mistaking a trace of guilt on both their faces.

‘Good morning, Miss Doughty,’ said Ford, politely, ‘I was just passing and called in to enquire after your father’s health.’

‘That is very thoughtful of you,’ said Frances, with cool dignity, ‘he is greatly improved.’

‘I trust that he has not been unduly distressed by the terrible rumours that have been pervading the area. I must assure you that I, of course, do not believe a word of them. Mr Doughty would be incapable of making such an elementary error.’

‘I am most gratified by your confidence,’ said Frances.

Whatever had been said before her arrival, the remaining conversation dwindled into a matter of exchanging politenesses and Ford soon removed himself as graciously as he could. Herbert bustled about, pretending to be busy. ‘I suppose,’ said Frances, ‘you have no intention of telling me why he was really here?’

‘I’m not sure what you can mean,’ said Herbert, his tone indicating astonishment. ‘He stated quite plainly the reason for his visit.’

‘He did not state it to me,’ said Frances. ‘I believe he came to find out if the business was for sale. He imagines that the recent difficulties will enable him to buy at a favourable price. His approach has the subtlety of a vulture seeking carrion, but he will have a surprise, for we are very much alive and can repel him.’

Herbert was silent, and Frances wondered if Mr Ford’s visit had been a matter of chance or whether Herbert had had something to do with it. Later that afternoon, William joined them in the shop, where he obtained a joyless gratification by complaining about how things had been run in his absence. He supervised Herbert in the making of a batch of pills, leaning over his apprentice’s shoulder as he worked, making, as was his habit, little ‘Um-hum’ noises at each stage of the procedure, which meant it took twice as long as it should have and was no better done. He then turned to fussing over the accounts, trying to find mistakes. Disappointed by the absence of mistakes, he was obliged to pretend that Frances’ handwriting was unreadable, and assumed imaginary errors in order to have the satisfaction of taking her to task.