The Poisonous Seed (43 page)

Frances suppressed a shudder.

I
t was a day, if not for celebration, then for a quiet expression of pleasure. Two weeks after the arrest of Ellen Truin, Frances received a letter from the directors of the Liverpool & County Bank stating that her enquiries had enabled them to discover a hidden account in which Lewis Cotter had concealed funds, undoubtedly the bank’s, and enclosing a cheque for £200. It relieved her most pressing financial needs, and enabled her to give Sarah her £10, although it was not, alas, sufficient to prevent the sale of the business. Young Mr Jacobs’ father had already made enquiries on his son’s behalf which Frances was inclined to view favourably, since the price would be sufficient to settle her debts and leave her with a modest sum. That day, however, with the late February gloom hanging over the Grove, Frances had other matters on her mind. She was sitting at the parlour table. In front of her was a cup of tea, untasted, a large jam tart, uncut, and a manila envelope. There were footsteps on the stairs and her uncle Cornelius was admitted.

‘Frances, dear, you wanted to see me,’ he exclaimed. Cornelius’s emotions were always transparent if one knew what to look for and there was a trace of anxiety behind his smile. ‘I hope all is well.’

She smiled faintly. ‘Yes, Uncle, I require only information.’ She poured tea and cut a slice of tart. He settled himself across the table with an expression of anticipation. Sarah’s powerful hands had a well-known lightness of touch when it came to pastry. He glanced at the envelope on the table, but Frances rested her fingers upon it and made no reference to its contents.

‘I was examining the family papers in my father’s desk,’ said Frances, calmly, ‘and I could not help but notice one item that is missing – my mother’s death certificate.’

‘I see,’ said Cornelius, thoughtfully, ‘well it might be amongst my papers. I did assist your father at the time of Rosetta’s death. I promise I will look for it as soon as I am home. But surely it is not something you require urgently?’

‘Uncle,’ said Frances, with a pained expression, ‘I know that you have always had my interests at heart, but don’t you think I am now old enough to be told the truth?’

The slice of tart in his hand never reached his mouth. It trembled and dropped to the plate. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘When I was nine years old my father took me to place flowers on my mother’s grave,’ said Frances. ‘He found the visit so distressing I never spoke to him of it again. Until recently all I knew about her death was the date on the tombstone: 1864. So I went to Somerset House and purchased the certificate.’ She opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper.

‘Oh dear,’ said Cornelius, terrified not only by what Frances now knew, but by the coolness of her manner.

‘And here it is,’ said Frances. ‘The death of Rosetta Jane Doughty, 10 March 1864, at an address in Chelsea. I have made enquiries and the place is a lodging house. Cause of death: fever and convulsions; age – two months. I see also that there is no father’s name given but the mother’s name is Rosetta Ann Doughty. I have been foolish and unobservant. My only excuse is that my mind was otherwise engaged. But I see from my parents’ marriage certificate that my mother’s middle name was indeed Ann. Uncle —,’ she leaned forward to Cornelius who was ashen-faced with shame. ‘This is not the death certificate of my mother; it is that of my mother’s daughter. So – this is what I wanted to ask you – is my mother still alive?’

Cornelius bowed his head and ran the fingers of both hands through his greying locks. He was almost afraid to speak and yet, Frances suspected, relieved to be obliged to speak after so long.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking up at last, ‘I haven’t seen her in sixteen years.’ He groaned with regret. ‘You are right; you are old enough to know. Frances, I am so very sorry, there is no way to put it delicately – there was a man. When your mother knew that a child was due she went away in this man’s company and left your father a letter to explain her actions.’

Frances had already guessed at what had happened, but even so, to hear the truth cut deeply at her heart. She had always thought that she would have loved her mother dearly if she had known her, but it was painful now to find that both she and Frederick had been abandoned by her. ‘Who was this man?’ she asked.

‘Please believe me, Frances, I don’t know – no one does,’ said Cornelius, unhappily. ‘Naturally your father was distraught and deeply ashamed. He was also most anxious to protect both yourself and Frederick from the knowledge of your mother’s disgrace. We talked and decided that it was best for you to believe that she had died.’

‘Frederick could remember being told that she was ill,’ said Frances. ‘He said that there was a sick room.’

‘There was,’ said Cornelius. ‘For a time your father entertained the hope that Rosetta would be discovered and brought back so we created the impression that she was still there but was too ill to be seen.’

‘He would have taken her back?’ exclaimed Frances in astonishment.

‘Oh yes, and the child too, in an instant. He loved her very much. But when all hope of her return had gone he told Frederick that his mother had died. You, of course, were too young to understand. Some months later your father heard through an acquaintance that there had been a child who had died. I found out the burial place in Brompton Cemetery, and we agreed that if ever you or Frederick were to ask to see your mother’s grave you would be taken there.’ He sighed deeply. ‘There you have it. To this very day I don’t know if we did the right thing.’

‘I see,’ said Frances. She drew a second certificate from the envelope. ‘Then you knew nothing of this?’ She slid the paper across the table to her uncle, who perused its contents with astonishment. ‘When I saw that the Rosetta who died in 1864 was my sister, I looked in the register for her birth and I discovered that there was another birth in the same district and on the same page; Cornelius Martin Doughty, Rosetta’s twin. That is the certificate of the birth of my brother, and as far as I am aware he is still living.’

‘Frances,’ whispered Cornelius, ‘you must believe me – I didn’t know – my heavens, if I had – if I had only known…’

‘You would have acted differently?’ said Frances, not at all sure that this was the case.

‘I hope so. Not at the time, perhaps, but I think I would have said something sooner. Do you intend to try and find your mother and brother?’ asked Cornelius, anxiously.

‘I do,’ said Frances. ‘I don’t yet know how to set about it, but then when I determined to find Mr Garton’s murderer I had no idea at all how to begin, and I think I enjoyed some success with that.’ She was unable to prevent a note of self-satisfaction from creeping into her voice.

Cornelius shook his head, disapprovingly. ‘My dear – have you thought – your mother may still be in the company of the man for whom she left your father – it would be a most irregular household.’

Frances smiled. ‘I have entered worse places; and the man, whoever he may be, is of no consequence to me.’

To her surprise, Cornelius suddenly buried his face in his hands. Then he took a deep breath and looked up at her with an expression of resolve. ‘We have gone this far,’ he said, ‘I suppose you ought to know everything.’

Frances felt suddenly dry-mouthed with anticipation.

‘Frances,’ he hesitated awkwardly, and she saw his fingertips tremble, ‘have you never wondered why it is that you are taller than both your father and brother?’

She stared at him in bewilderment. She had sometimes regretted her height, but had never wondered about it, supposing that her father had been bent with care, her brother stunted by illness. It she had thought about it, then she would have imagined that her mother was a tall woman, and very like herself. She remembered suddenly her masquerade as Frank Williamson in her brother’s clothes, the trousers that were too short in the leg.

‘As you know, Frederick’s features resembled William’s very closely but yours do not, and I can tell you that you do not appear in any respect like Rosetta,’ said Cornelius. ‘I think it is very possible that William was not your true father.’

For a moment Frances thought he was talking about an impossibility – but then she thought of the unknown man with whom her mother had run away. Could it be that she was the daughter of this man and not William Doughty? It certainly seemed that Cornelius believed so. She should, she reflected, have been grieved at the discovery, but somehow she was not. Her sense of duty towards William was unabated, and she would always, no matter what, think of the man who had done his duty to her as her father, but the ties of blood could not be denied. ‘Did he suspect too?’

Cornelius nodded. ‘Yes, we spoke of it. It could never be proved, of course, but from the time your mother departed, he thought that you were not his daughter. He once saw Rosetta conversing with a man, a tall man of very distinctive appearance. It all seemed perfectly innocent at the time and he thought nothing of it, but later he suspected that this was the man she had left with, and he sometimes said that he saw the man’s face in yours.’

Frances suddenly understood a great deal. She recalled a life in which her needs had always been not merely secondary to Frederick’s but of virtually no consequence, and in which, now she thought about it, she had been valued only in respect of her usefulness, much as one might have regarded a servant. She had never resented this or thought of it in any way other than this was the usual way of families, since she was a daughter. Many other girls, she was quite sure, were treated the same, or even worse, an afterthought in the affections, always subservient to their brothers; but perhaps in her case there had been a little more to it. Then there was the slightingly small legacy, hardly more than one might have left a housekeeper.

Cornelius looked wistfully at the certificate before him. ‘This youth, who will be sixteen now, will be your full brother, and my nephew,’ he said.

‘All the more reason why I should find him,’ said Frances.

Diffidently, and with more than a trace of apprehension, he reached across the table towards her and took her hands. ‘I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me,’ he said. ‘We did what we thought was best.’

‘It is forgiven,’ said Frances, and she meant it.

The following morning, Frances was enjoying a frugal breakfast of bread and jam, when Sarah brought her two letters. One was from Mr Rawsthorne, saying that the papers for the sale of the business to Mr Jacobs senior had been prepared and it only remained for her to present herself at his office that morning to append her signature. She set the letter aside with regret, but knew that she would have to complete the sale, and there was no point in any delay.

The second letter was from Dr Collin.

    Dear Miss Doughty

    I apologise for not writing to you sooner on this subject as I have been out of town. I have given some thought to your suggestion that I may have inadvertently made an error in my evidence at the inquest on your father, and as a result have re-examined my notes. I accept that Mr Doughty did not complain of toothache either to yourself or to me, but he had most certainly been treating himself for that ailment with the usual remedy, oil of cloves. When I examined the bottle of chloroform found by his bedside, there were fingermarks on it in an oily substance which smelled most distinctly of clove oil. I trust that you can now agree that I did not make an error,

    I remain, your most obedient servant

    Arthur Collin, M.D.

Frances stared at the words, trying at first to push aside their full meaning. For a moment she was almost paralysed with shock. If she could have gone through her life ignorant of that letter and its import, then she thought she would have preferred to do so, and yet what an appalling ignorance it would have been, leaving her at the mercy of everything that was vile. As the emotions broke through her defences, and flooded her body, the distress and rage and sense of deep betrayal were enough to make her feel violently ill. Her hands shook, and she dropped the letter on the table as if it had been a venomous snake. It was impossible to keep still; she rose and began to pace about the room, clenching her lips together, making little whimpering sounds, clutching at her stomach to try and stop the hideous heaving. She was breathing so hard she felt dizzy and faint, and went to the window overlooking the Grove and held onto the frame to support herself. Outside, people were walking about as if nothing had happened. There was a soft tinkle of the shop bell. Someone had come in to ask for a cough syrup or an aperient, someone with no concept of the horror that was now hers. The very normality of it all almost persuaded her that she was dreaming, and she breathed gently for just a moment before the agony began again.

She heard a footfall behind her, and thinking, with a great sense of relief that it was Sarah, turned around and saw Herbert at the parlour table, about to help himself to a slice of bread. His moustache was freshly pomaded, and as the unmistakable scent of oil of cloves reached her nostrils she was unable to control a physical recoil of sheer revulsion. Hot tears of grief and rage suddenly welled into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. He looked up at her, and was startled by what he saw, then noticed the letter on the table. He picked it up, and read it, then he slowly raised his eyes to her again, and as she saw his expression she knew that the unthinkable thought was right.