The Poisonous Seed (44 page)

‘You monster!’ she cried, hardly knowing where the power to speak had come from. ‘How could you! A defenceless old man! A man you thought of as a second father!’

Herbert said nothing, but crumpled the letter and put it in his pocket.

‘Please don’t say you did it for the business!’ she raged, ‘and please, above all, don’t say that you did it for me!’

He was about to speak but she suddenly held out her palm towards him. ‘No – stop! Don’t move! I want to hear you admit you did it!’

He licked his lips, thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I looked in on him. It was already in my mind that it had to be done. Everything he had built in the last twenty years was being destroyed, and there was only one way to stop it. Yes, I admired and venerated him – that was what made it so hard, but I thought – if I do it, then he will feel no pain, he will be at rest. He had the handkerchief over his face and he was asleep; deep stertorous breathing – maybe he had already had too much – maybe if I had done nothing at all he would still have died.’

‘If you had removed the handkerchief he might have lived,’ said Frances, bitterly.

‘Yes, I think so,’ he admitted. ‘But I did not. I added more chloroform to the handkerchief.’

She closed her eyes for a moment. It was almost a relief to hear it. She wiped the tears from her face. ‘If you have one shred of decency left in you then you will go to the police at once and confess what you have done.’

He shook his head. ‘Oh no, I will not do that. The letter is not evidence against me. It is only important to you, because only you can see its significance. Dr Collin obviously cannot.’

‘Then
I
will go to the police!’ said Frances, boldly.

‘And what will you tell them? That I am a murderer because I pomade my moustache? They will hardly arrest me for that. It will seem like the wanderings of an hysterical female mind. I will say that you have been afflicted with melancholy. The death of your brother, the death of your father, and now the loss of the business have all been too much for you to bear. And then of course, there is your disappointment in love.’

‘My – what are you talking about?’

He puffed out his chest with a smile. ‘Your ambition to become my wife; your unhappiness and jealousy on learning that I have set my heart on winning another.’

There was a loud snort from the doorway. ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Sarah. She had, as Frances knew, been standing there long enough to hear all that had been said. Frances’ order to remain still had been directed at Sarah and not Herbert.

He spun around and his face paled with fright. ‘I’ll deny everything!’ he squeaked.

‘We’ll see what the police have to say,’ said Sarah, calmly. ‘I’ve already sent Tom for a constable.’

Herbert yelped and made a grab for the bread knife, but was hardly able to hold it for trembling. ‘Get out of my way – let me pass!’ he ordered, holding the wavering blade inches from the broad front of Sarah’s apron.

‘You want to watch that, Mr Munson, you might cut yourself,’ said Sarah. What followed took only seconds. Her large fist closed around the hand that held the knife and gave a violent outward twist. There was a loud cracking sound and Herbert screamed, but only for a moment, as her other fist collided with his jaw, stretching him unconscious on the floor.

Frances gasped, in mixed horror and admiration, and staggered back against the window, clutching the sill for support. Sarah shrugged. ‘I got eight brothers, Miss, I had to survive somehow.’

To Frances, everything suddenly seemed to happen very slowly. The room gradually darkened, as if night was drawing in and a series of increasingly drab curtains were being pulled across her eyes. What she was still able to see started to move about her in a strange, sickening waltz. Sarah came towards her as if she was wading through mud, yet still managed to reach her before she fell, and Frances found herself, as she had sometimes been as a child, enfolded in the maidservant’s stout arms. The strength had gone from her and without that support she would have fallen. Sarah smelt of starch and polish and dust and sweat. It was, Frances knew, the best smell in the world. She found herself floating effortlessly upwards, as if on a cloud; Sarah had picked her up as easily as one might a baby, and she was carried to her room, and laid upon the bed with such gentleness that the transition between the warm strength of the maid’s arms and the firm but familiar support of the mattress was almost imperceptible.

She looked up at that plain but comforting face. ‘When I saw you standing there,’ she whispered, ’I knew that I would be safe.’

Sarah smiled. ‘You know, Miss, don’t you, that I’d die before I let anyone hurt a hair on your head.’ Nothing more was said, and she watched over Frances as a mother might watch her child until the police arrived.

Two days later, Frances gave evidence at the police court hearing which concluded with the committal of Ellen Truin for trial at the Old Bailey on a charge of murdering Lewis Cotter, otherwise known as Percival Garton. To Frances it was merely a matter of duty, but as the hearing proceeded she became aware of two things; first of all the enormous public sympathy for Ellen which would, she felt certain, ensure that the girl would not hang, and secondly a distinct and unexpected interest in herself. It was not necessary for Frances to reveal more than a small fraction of what she had done in order to uncover the mystery, and yet that part which she was obliged to describe brought gasps of astonishment from the packed courtroom. As she left, people pressed about her; some tried to shake her hand and there were even some cheers. One face she recognised was that of Mr Gillan, the
Chronicle
reporter who succeeded in extracting from her the promise of an interview.

The next edition of the
Chronicle
carried a paragraph stating that the police had decided not to prosecute Henrietta Garton. There were many things that only she could explain, but she had remained close-mouthed under police questioning. It was, of course, impossible to prove that she had known that her lover had murdered her husband, and only if she had known could she be charged as an accessory. Of one thing Frances remained in no doubt; Henrietta Garton and Lewis Cotter had loved one another. Frances pictured the dying man, his mind alert and lucid in the midst of his pain, his one thought, to protect the woman he loved. Cotter knew he had been murdered, and that the poison could only have been in the bottle, but had the police suspected a crime, his life would have come under close scrutiny, and had his true identity been revealed Henrietta might have been accused of the murder of her husband. Cotter’s last agonised words would have been to urge her to do everything she could to ensure that his death appeared to be an accident, a chemist’s error. Henrietta’s insistence that there had been a mistake with the prescription, her lies about when the bottle had been unwrapped, her deliberate concealment of the fact that her supposed husband had taken the medicine in the carriage on the way to the Keanes’ house, had further misdirected enquiries. The one difficulty was that after Cotter’s first dose in the carriage, the spillage in his cloak, and the second dose at home, the bottle contained only an ounce or two of medicine. Henrietta, thought Frances, must have dropped it deliberately as she handed it to Ada so it might seem that only one dose had been taken, and later poured water from the carafe onto the stain to make it larger. The lady, still in possession of her secrets, had already left Bayswater with her children for an unknown destination.

The other notable piece in the newspaper was headed ‘“My Remarkable Career” by a Lady Detective as told to our own reporter.’

It was some moments before Frances realised that this was a sensation-alised version of the interview she had granted Mr Gillan. She comforted herself with the thought of how much worse it would have been had she refused to be interviewed.

Time was running out. The business was effectively sold. In another week she would remove to her uncle’s house, and Sarah would have to find a new place. Tom also was looking for employment. The Filleter, who had recently been entertained for a month at one of Her Majesty’s more secure establishments, had returned to his old haunts, and Chas and Barstie had abruptly closed down their London business. Tom had last seen them running full tilt down Bishop’s Road in the direction of Paddington Station while pelting each other with bread buns. Despite this, Frances couldn’t help feeling that she would see them again before long.

Cedric Garton had decided to remain in Bayswater. The complexities of his family’s inheritance could take years to unravel, and he had decided to make the best of it and had taken an apartment on Westbourne Park Road, employing Mr Harvey as his personal servant. Frances had an open invitation to call and take tea whenever she liked.

Frances was still intending to try and qualify as a pharmacist, and had applied for a number of apprenticeships but had been unsuccessful in each instance. She suspected that despite her considerable experience she was being passed over for other less knowledgeable but male candidates. Her association with several murders also gave her the kind of notoriety that a respectable business could well do without. Herbert’s arrest had created a vacancy in Mr Jacobs’ employ for which she considered applying, but she soon learned that young Mr Jacobs had a brother eager for the position.

Herbert was currently awaiting the police court hearing that would no doubt commit him for trial, and Frances felt sure that in the fullness of time, he would achieve, albeit briefly, a long hoped-for ambition, an increase of some two inches in his height.

One afternoon, as the last of the February chills departed giving way to a balmier March, Frances was completing the last of the packing together with Sarah, who was leaving it to the very last moment before she sought another place. Frances felt humble to see how very few possessions she actually had. One small trunk would take her effects and there were some books in a bundle and that was all. Unexpectedly, there was a knock at the front door and Sarah answered it. She brought back a card, with the name of Algernon Fiske, M.A.

‘He wants to see you on a personal matter of express importance,’ she said.

‘I do not know Mr Fiske, but you may show him into the parlour,’ said Frances.

Mr Fiske was a respectable-looking man of middle age, who swiftly removed his hat and shook Frances warmly by the hand.

‘It’s an honour to meet you Miss Doughty. You are quite the sensation in these parts!’ he said.

‘I expect that will pass,’ said Frances politely. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Fiske?’

‘I am here on behalf of the Board of Governors of the Bayswater Academy for the Education of Young Ladies. Our school provides instruction appropriate for the daughters of professional gentlemen.’

‘Oh,’ said Frances, hopefully, assuming that she was to be offered a post. ‘I have no experience of teaching young ladies, but I am more than willing to do so if you wish.’

‘Ah, no, that is not the reason I am here,’ said Fiske in embarrassment. ‘The fact is, there is a matter of some delicacy, a strictly private matter, which needs to be looked into, and we feel it requires a lady’s touch.’

Frances was quite taken aback. ‘Am I to understand, Mr Fiske,’ she said at last, ‘that you wish to employ me as a detective?’

He nodded emphatically. ‘That is exactly it!’ he exclaimed. ‘The reputation of the school is very much at stake, but it would not, we feel, be appropriate to allow male detectives to question our girls.’

‘I really don’t know what to say,’ said Frances, ‘I have never even thought of—’

‘You would be paid a generous daily rate,’ he interrupted, ‘with all necessary expenses, the first week payable in advance.’

The more Frances thought about it, the more impossible it seemed, but he was so engaged by the idea that she felt she had to find a gentle way of sending him away disappointed. ‘I am truly sorry, but—’

He mentioned a figure. Frances was shocked into silence.

‘Of course, if that isn’t enough, it could be increased,’ he added.

Frances suddenly saw stretching ahead of her two quite distinct lives, one of genteel idleness in which she was dependent upon the kindness of her uncle, and one of diligence and even danger, in which she was answerable to no one but herself. The advance fee offered by Mr Fiske would be more than enough to pay a month’s rent of a small but comfortable apartment sufficient for a single lady and her maid. She settled back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘if you were to begin at the beginning.’