The Poisonous Seed (32 page)

‘Promise you will write nothing about my father except what you know to be a fact,’ said Frances.

He smiled indulgently. ‘But what are facts? And how can we ever hope to know them?’ he said. ‘Facts stare us in the face and we do not see them for what they are, yet so many of us choose to believe the impossible. What we know with all our hearts and souls to be true, even what is plain before our eyes, may still be false. I cannot deal in facts, I can only deal in what the public wish to read, secure in the knowledge that on the morrow my words will be used to wrap fish. I bid you good-day Miss Doughty.’ He collected his hat and coat and departed.

There was just enough hot water for Frances to refresh the tealeaves. She took her notebook from her pocket and opened it, then carefully wrote ‘19 April 1869’, and sat staring at the pages, sipping her tea. Frances thought of a new and useful way of arranging her information. On a sheet of clean wrapping paper she drew a chart of squares rather like an acrostic puzzle. Each row was labelled with a year, and divided into months, and in the relevant month she entered the information she knew. At the end of 1856, and Frances had to guess the month as December, Percival Garton arrived in England from Italy. In 1862 – again she had no precise month, and guessed April – he married Henrietta. Between those two dates he took up residence in Tollington Mill. In October 1864, Percival Garton inherited his grandfather’s business. In 1867, possibly in September, John Wright, who had been exhibiting delusional behaviour for several years, was committed to an asylum. In June 1868, he was released from the asylum and went to live with his sister in Bristol. On 19 April 1869, James Keane first took up residence in Bayswater. In June 1869 John Wright left Bristol for Tollington Mill. In July 1870 Percival Garton left Tollington Mill for London, and the following August John Wright was murdered. A few days later Henrietta Garton followed her husband to London. In January 1871, Rhoda Garton was born. Frances stared at the page for some minutes hoping to find inspiration, but there was none. She closed her eyes and for a moment imagined the squares moving about and forming another pattern, one that would make everything clear. Gillan, she realised, had been right about the power of delusion, the ability of human beings to believe only what they wanted to be true, and reject all else. Had she been guilty of that? She resolved to be firmer in future.

She could now only await the published article with dread. The family history she had given had been correct, and she hoped Gillan could read Mr Pitman’s loops and lines accurately. Pondering briefly on what had been said, a thought came to her. During the interview she had mentioned her mother’s death in 1864, yet could not recall having seen the relevant certificate in the packet that Cornelius had made. She went up to her father’s room and looked though the packet again, but it was not there. Curious now, she examined the other papers in the desk, but it was not amongst them. She resolved to ask her uncle about it the next time she saw him. There was another comment that Gillan had made, something that pricked her memory and puzzled her, but it was probably of no moment.

That night Frances prayed for fine weather but the next day dawned cold and foggy once more. There was a little more custom, mainly servants who had been sent out to fetch cough mixtures and tonics for their employers, and a few prescriptions. People seemed to have taken to Mr Jacobs. He was young, smart and efficient, with the air of confidence that was always required of a man in his position. Some of the younger women simpered as if they found him handsome, which perhaps he was. Frances found her hopes increasing. As soon as the weather cleared a single man with good features could well be an advantage for business. When that afternoon a lady entered and asked for Mr Jacobs most particularly, Frances could not resist a smile. Herbert, who had been stern and sullen since their last interview, darted into the back where she knew he kept a jar of pomade on the shelf, and emerged a few moments later more pungent than ever.

As the darkness closed in, Frances returned to the parlour, lit a candle and took up some mending. She was sleepy, yet a knock at the door roused her into wakefulness. Sarah entered. ‘It’s Constable Brown,’ she said. ‘He’s brought a big parcel of papers with him.’

‘Show him in!’ said Frances, excitedly. She put aside the sewing and composed herself, waiting for the young policeman’s step on the stair. How she wished – but no, it was a thought she must not permit herself. All her attention must be devoted to what was about to be revealed; the truth about Lewis Cotter.

‘I
f you don’t mind my asking, Miss,’ said Constable Brown, as they sat at the parlour table and Frances started to unwrap the parcel he had brought, ‘What is your interest in the Cotter case?’

Frances dared not answer that question, and could not help but feel ashamed of herself. To her utter mortification, she realised that she was, for the first time in her life, motivated by money, the reward for the capture of Lewis Cotter. If she voiced her suspicions to the police the chance of saving the business might be lost. ‘Constable, I am very grateful for all the assistance you have given me,’ she said awkwardly, ‘and I know it ill-repays you not to be perfectly open, but would you forgive me if I was not to reveal my motives? After my last interview with Inspector Sharrock I have resolved to make no declarations to the police until I have evidence.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘I can see that would be very wise.’

‘Inspector Sharrock would regard anything I said as the ramblings of an hysterical female unless I was to bring him Mr Garton’s murderer in chains together with a signed confession.’

He chuckled. ‘Something I believe you to be capable of, Miss Doughty. I should like to see that, I really should! Of course, I have read the newspaper with the report of Mr Keane’s arrest which does compare him to Mr Cotter, and I was wondering —’

Frances fell silent, and lifted the newspapers from their wrappings.

‘What I
can
say,’ said Wilfred, after a thoughtful pause, ‘is that Cotter’s a Liverpool case, and not for us to look into. And I’m sure the Inspector has got quite enough on his plate what with Paddington criminals.’

Frances smiled, appreciatively, and unfolded a copy of the
Illustrated Police News
of 17th April 1869, which depicted, amongst other things, an unseemly fracas at a Methodist chapel in Batley, and an unfortunate clergyman being pounced upon by a large and hungry-looking tiger. Inside the newspaper Frances found a report headed ‘Shocking Murder in Liverpool’, and there were other papers which elaborated on the story. She felt a sudden thrill of excitement. The disappearance of Lewis Cotter had taken place only days before the arrival of James Keane in Bayswater. There was no obstacle to their being one and the same man.

Cotter’s victim was forty-year-old Thomas Truin, a clerk in the Liverpool & County Bank. On the evening of Saturday 10th April, the bank had closed its doors as usual, but Truin, who was a punctual and orderly man, and not given to drink, did not return home. His wife, frantic with worry, had called the police, who at first assumed that Truin had been waylaid on his journey, but no reports having been received of anyone being robbed in the street, and no injured person or body having been found, it was next supposed that he might have become insane and be wandering in the city. Truin, it appeared, had ample reason to lose his mind. His salary was only one hundred pounds a year, his wife was in poor health and there were ten children, of whom several were very sickly. His eldest son was fourteen, and Truin had been doing his best to educate him for a good position in life, but the unequal task had, it was thought, been too much for him, and affected his brain.

On the morning of Monday 12th April the bank opened its doors, and, to the horror of everyone present, Thomas Truin’s body was found in one of the offices. He was slumped across a desk, and the back of his head had been crushed with a heavy instrument. It was clear that he had been killed on the previous Saturday. There was no sign of a struggle, and it was assumed that Truin had been in the company of someone he knew or trusted, someone who had walked behind him on some pretext and committed the murder. By the end of the day it had been possible to name a suspect. The police had asked to interview all the staff of the bank, but one man was missing. He was Lewis Cotter, aged twenty-six, the son of a respectable tradesman, who had worked as a clerk in the bank for the last three years. Enquiries made at Cotter’s home revealed that on the Saturday evening he had told his family he was quitting his post at the Liverpool bank for a better position in another city, only it was imperative that he pack his bags and leave at once. He had promised to write as soon as he was settled, but they had heard nothing further from him. His father and brother had been unable to agree on what city had been mentioned, but in any case the police were of the opinion that Lewis Cotter’s story was untrue, invented to account for his rapid departure, and as the days unfolded, this was confirmed as no bank could report having offered him employment. Notices had been posted with a description of the fugitive, but no response had been received. Lewis Cotter had disappeared. His family was adamant that he would not have committed so dreadful a crime, but as the bank investigated its books, further facts were revealed.

Cotter and Truin had, it seemed, been in collusion to commit a fraud upon the bank. The
Liverpool Journal
asserted that both men were the most desperate villains, the
Daily Post
stated that the older, more experienced, man had led the younger into crime, but the
Mercury
believed that Cotter had been the instigator, and had tempted the impoverished Truin to assist him. Whatever the case, enormous loans had been obtained from the bank in assumed names, based on forged title deeds, forgeries of such excellence that it required careful examination by experts to declare them to be false. Share certificates had also been forged and sold to unsuspecting customers, and where genuine share transactions had been recorded in the books, the number sold had been falsified and additional amounts transferred to Cotter. Truin, it eventually appeared, had made very little from the crime, but there was a large and undisclosed amount missing from the bank’s coffers. For a time it had been thought that the bank would have to close its doors, and there were scenes in the street of customers clamouring to withdraw their funds. Ultimately, however, the bank survived, although its operations were more modest than before.

Tragedy followed upon tragedy. Cotter’s father, Solomon, on receiving incontrovertible proof of his son’s villainy, had suffered a great spasm of the heart and expired in minutes. Truin’s eldest son was withdrawn from education and found some honest employment, and a sixteen-year-old daughter sent into service, but their mother and the eight youngest children were obliged to remove to the public workhouse. A newspaper cutting dated six months later revealed that Mrs Truin and five of the children had fallen victim to an outbreak of typhoid, though it was hinted that Mrs Truin might have died of grief after hearing that her eldest son, disdaining to be apprenticed to a cheesemonger, had run away, and was appearing on stage with a travelling troupe of entertainers.

‘How dreadful!’ Frances exclaimed. ‘And it seems that the murderer was never caught.’

‘It is thought that he fled abroad with the proceeds of his crimes,’ said Wilfred. ‘It was two days before he was even suspected, so he had more than enough time. He could have sailed to America.’

Frances read on, and learned that passenger lists of transatlantic vessels had been examined, and the American police alerted by cable, but searches of incoming ships had not revealed anyone resembling Lewis Cotter. But Cotter, she reasoned, was a clever man who must have known that to take a ship to America was the obvious thing to do. In many ways to be on board ship was to be trapped, with no hope of escape if suspected. Better surely to lie low for a while, and then slip away undetected some time later.

‘I wonder why he killed poor Mr Truin,’ she said. ‘Such a cruel and unnecessary thing to do.’

‘It seems that Truin was an honest man led astray for want of money,’ said Wilfred. ‘I think he regretted his crimes and told Cotter he would not help him again. Cotter might have feared that Truin would confess and, being a heartless individual, decided to remove him.’

Frances noticed that the newspapers had not said if it was Cotter or Truin who had committed the forgeries, but if Cotter had indeed become James Keane, the pattern that was now emerging was of Cotter masterminding the crimes and employing other men such as Wright and Meadows for their artistic ability. Whether or not Truin was the actual forger, the newspapers did not reveal. ‘It says here that Solomon Cotter was a respectable tradesman,’ she observed. ‘Do you know what trade he followed, or where he lived?’

Wilfred shook his head. ‘No, Miss. Is that important?’

She avoided his gaze. ‘It is something I would very much like to know.’

‘It might be in the Liverpool police records,’ said Wilfred.

‘Oh, I should not like to trouble them,’ said Frances, quickly.

‘Well, his death certificate would say.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Frances. She knew that certificates were kept at Somerset House, but did not know how one might go about getting one. She imagined that there would be large books of certificates and clerks employed to search them. There would, she thought regretfully, inevitably be a fee.

The expense could, however, be well worth her while. The newspapers confirmed what Chas had said, the Liverpool & County Bank had offered a reward of five hundred pounds for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Lewis Cotter for his crimes, and an additional amount of one per cent of any missing funds recovered up to a maximum of five hundred pounds. Later editions of the
Illustrated Police News
and the
Police Gazette
had portraits of the wanted man, copied from family photographs, and therefore considered to be excellent likenesses. For some moments she was silent, studying the face of a murderer. Three deaths, she thought, three murders; Thomas Truin, John Wright and Percival Garton; all unsolved, and the last two with undoubted connections to James Keane. In the case of Truin and Wright, the method of murder had been the same. Add the missing Mr Meadows and that was a possible four murders and another man who knew Keane. Both Wright and Meadows were artists, and both the Truin/Cotter plot and Keane’s crimes at the Bayswater Bank had involved forgery. There
had
to be a connection! But how, she wondered, had Keane succeeded in poisoning Garton’s medicine? There was only one conclusion – he had an accomplice in the Garton household. Recalling what Mr Gillan had said, she wondered if Henrietta was as loving a wife as she appeared to be.