A Case of Doubtful Death (11 page)

‘What direction did he go in?’

‘Up the road – north, towards Kensal Green.’

‘Would you know him if you saw him again?’

‘I doubt it very much. It was dark and he was muffled against the cold and the fog. I didn’t see his face, although …’ Trainor paused, thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t swear to it, but now I think about it, he may have been a man I have seen here before, calling on Dr Mackenzie – one of his medical friends, I believe, but I am afraid I don’t know his name. About thirty, well dressed. Very ordinary features.’

‘And this visit on the night of Dr Mackenzie’s death took place just a few minutes after Mr Palmer left?’

‘Yes.’

‘If he comes here again, would you let me know?’ asked Frances, presenting her card. ‘I would like to speak to him because he might have seen Mr Palmer in the street that evening and could give me some clue as to where he went.’

‘Oh, I doubt that he would be of any help,’ said Trainor. ‘He was in a fast cab and Palmer was walking, so they would not have encountered each other.’

‘How do you know he arrived by cab?’

‘I don’t know how he arrived. But he left by cab, I saw him.’

‘It is his arrival that interests me. When this gentleman left he was going towards Kensal Green, but Palmer was travelling in the opposite direction, so I agree, they could not have met then, but if the man came up the road when he arrived he might have seen Palmer walking home.’

Trainor shook his head. ‘No. Palmer walked north when he left here.’

‘But Mr Palmer lives in Golborne Road,’ said Frances, ‘so he would have travelled south from here. Mary Ann saw him go that way.’

‘As to where Mr Palmer lives or what Mary Ann saw, I have no information,’ said Trainor, ‘but I am sure that a minute after the noisy fellow drove off in a cab, I saw Palmer walking north.’

Puzzled, Frances rose, went over to the front window and peered out into the street. ‘Show me where you were standing,’ she said and Trainor obliged.

‘I was looking out as the cab drew away,’ said Trainor, ‘and I suppose I fell to musing about the fog and how changeable the weather had been, first hot then cold and one hardly knew what to expect. And then I saw him, and I thought to myself, oh it’s that young fellow from the Life House coming back again, I hope he has not brought more bad news. And then I thought, but supposing it is good news, that Dr Mackenzie is not dead after all but only thought to be dead – but then he walked past the house and did not come in.’

‘And you are sure it was him?’

‘Oh yes, well I spent a minute or two speaking with him face to face, and as you see there is a lamp immediately outside, and he wore no muffler, so even in the fog I could see his features.’

‘Did he walk straight up the road or make a turning?’

‘Straight, as far as I could see, but after a short way he was lost in the fog.’

‘Have you told the police of this?’

‘No, I was not here when they called, and I did not know until you told me just now that he lives in Golborne Road.’

‘Then I had best go see them myself,’ said Frances. ‘There is a constable who patrols a point near St John’s Church and he may have seen something.’

Frances hurried to Kilburn police station, which stood on the corner of Salisbury Road. She was not well acquainted with the inspector there but found him polite and willing to hear her, especially when she showed him her card. He promised to alert the attention of all his constables to the possibility that Henry Palmer had not, as supposed, walked south but north on the night of his disappearance, and assured Frances that careful searches would be made.

Frances hurried home and composed a note to Walter Crowe, who she knew would be out making his own enquiries almost as soon as he had read it.

While Frances considered what best to do next, she received an unexpected visit from Tom Smith. Tom was constantly on the alert for two things – food and business opportunities, so when he arrived at the apartments, Frances knew that it was not to pass the time of day. He was either foraging for cake or hoping to earn money, or quite possibly both. Tom took off his smart peaked cap with the chemist’s shop emblem, made a brief and unsuccessful effort to smooth his hair down, and let his gaze flicker about the room, beaming with anticipation as he spied a covered dish and lifted off the domed top to inspect what lay within. Finding the contents to his liking he extracted a currant bun, split it, impaled half on a toasting fork and set to work.

‘Any butter?’ he enquired.

Frances went to get the butter.

‘An’ jam if you’ve got any! I bet you ‘ave!’

Frances paused. ‘Now then, Tom, how do you intend to earn your butter and jam, that’s what I’d like to know,’ she said.

‘An’ sixpence.’ Tom stared at the bun and, dissatisfied with the progress of the toasting, munched the other half untoasted just to keep him from starvation while he waited. ‘I’ve ‘eard,’ he said whilst licking crumbs from his lips, ‘that you are looking for a Mr Darscot.’

‘Well so I am, a
Dr
Darscot that is.’

‘Oh, ‘e’s no more a doctor than what I am! But ‘e’s the man you want, an’ I know because I sometimes carry notes for ‘im. An’ I know ‘e’s been to see that Dr Mackenzie, the one what pegged it the other day, so it ‘as to be the same man or ‘is bruvver what is the same thing really as either way you’ll find ‘im out.’

Frances fetched the jam. ‘Describe this Mr Darscot.’

‘About thirty, dresses like a real good ‘un, pays well. Brown hair, nothing special about the phiz, I mean not ‘andsome and not ugly neither.’

‘And what does this Mr Darscot do for a living?’

Tom sniffed the toasted bun with an expression of sublime satisfaction and then applied himself to the process of buttering. ‘Oh, now if I was to ask a customer a question like that my business would disappear faster ‘n a rum-mizzler up Seven Dials.’

‘Really?’ said Frances, having no idea what such a creature might be, but appreciating that it must move very quickly about that notably unsavoury part of London.

‘But if I ‘ad to guess I would say Mr Darscot doesn’t do anythin’. At least not work-wise. ‘e is a gentleman what ‘as a lot of money. ‘e goes to ‘is club and to the races and to the theatre and such like, and is no trouble at all to anyone. But ‘e don’t actually
work
, because ‘e don’t need to. Sounds like a good sort of thing to fall into.’ He sighed and absentmindedly spooned jam into his mouth from the jar.

‘Do you know where he lives? I should like to speak to him.’

‘That I dunno, but I can take a message for you, to ‘is club. It’s the Piccadilly.’

‘He has a club on Piccadilly?’ said Frances in surprise. ‘He must be very well-connected.’

‘Naw – not
on
Piccadilly, they just call it that. It’s on Porchester Road and it’s for Bayswater gents what don’t want the bother of going up to town, or can’t run to the cost, or can’t get into the big clubs with all the lords and dukes and such like, so they call it the Piccadilly ‘cos it sounds good.’

‘Well, that’s not a long step for you, so I will compose a note and ask if the gentleman would care to call. I assume that it would not be possible for me to call on him at his club.’

‘I never get past the ‘all porter meself, and ladies of any type, if you know what I mean, not even the ones what are proper ladies, aren’t to be let in, ever.’

Frances went to her desk and wrote a note, then handed it to Tom with his remuneration. ‘If you could deliver it as soon as you can and bring me a reply.’

Tom gazed at the sixpence. ‘That’s two jobs.
An’
the cost of the information.’

‘You’ll get another when you come back with the message.’

‘Right you are!’ said Tom. ‘You’re a real peach, Miss Doughty.’ He stuffed the last of the toasted bun in his mouth.

‘Are you still working for Mr Knight and Mr Taylor?’ asked Frances, who liked to know the extent of Tom’s expanding business interests.

Tom wiped his lips. ‘Oh yes, more’n ever! Mr Knight says I got promise!’ he added proudly as he made to leave. ‘‘e says that if I go on the way I am goin’ then when I am older I shall be a big captain of industry, whatever that is, but ‘e says I got to learn to speak English, which is a funny thing to say ‘cos I thought that was what I
was
speaking.’

He dashed away and soon afterwards Sarah returned in triumphant mood. Two young men seen spying on lady bathers had been duly delivered to the police station, in a bedraggled and submissive state, although not without some difficulty. They had resisted being apprehended by the policeman Sarah had reluctantly brought along on her mission, and who had suffered a black eye in the conflict. They then unwisely resisted being apprehended by Sarah, only to discover that a burly young woman brought up with eight battling East End brothers was hardly likely to be discomfited by two adolescent shopwalkers. Fresh from her victory, Sarah had gone to Somerset House in search of Biscobys, either the widow Maria, or her three children. She had been unable to find birth records for the children, who might well have been born when the Biscobys were in Germany, and could not, therefore, discover their Christian names. A Peter Biscoby, possibly the son, had died in
1872
aged fifteen. She had been luckier with the marriage registers. A Maria Biscoby had married in Paddington in
1863
, possibly a remarriage for the doctor’s widow. Sarah had ordered the certificates for both events and would call to collect them the following week.

Her next mission was to commence enquiries about Mrs Pearson’s missing maid Ethel, not from her employers, but from her fellow servants who were more likely to know her secrets.

As Frances and Sarah breakfasted next morning they discussed the current position of all their enquiries. Gentlemen might have laughed at them and said that even supposing it was right for ladies to talk of business it was a foolish time and place to do so, but Frances always found that a refreshing pot of tea with an egg or a kipper helped her to order her thoughts, and who knew but that they might start a new fashion? Tom arrived bearing a small gilt-edged card with a note to say that Mr Darscot would be honoured to speak with Miss Doughty at ten o’clock.

Mr Darscot presented himself promptly at ten and what a neat, smart man he was; a little below medium height, active and trim, with the cheerful air of one who was the master of his own time and fate. His clothing showed a refined taste with just enough display to indicate wealth without descending to crude ostentation; a flower bud in his buttonhole, a small pin in his cravat, which might have been a diamond, and a light walking cane with a silver top.

He seemed anxious to ensure that his manners were faultless, paying polite compliments about the charms of Bayswater, the elegance of its inhabitants, the delights of Westbourne Park Road in particular and the arrangement of Frances’ apartments. He was not, he said, usually resident in the capital, preferring the air of the country, but found rooms at the Piccadilly Club convenient when in town to see friends or his solicitor.

As she listened to him, Frances felt quite like one of the chattering spinsters of Bayswater who never made the news, but absorbed it and passed it on across the teacups, with a satirical comment and a little embroidery to make it more interesting.

‘I understand that you were acquainted with the late Dr Mackenzie?’ she asked, after she had decided that ten minutes of polite nothings were quite sufficient.

Darscot’s bright expression was clouded with just the right amount of sorrow. ‘I was, and how shocked and sad I was to hear of his death, at such a young age.’

‘I was told by his landlady, Mrs Georgeson, that you were at his lodgings that evening and created quite a disturbance.’

He nodded, ruefully. ‘Yes, and I have been out of town ever since or I would have called upon the lady to apologise. It was unspeakably rude of me and I am deeply ashamed of my behaviour. I shall go and see her, and humble myself before both the lady and her good husband as soon as I have left here.’

‘Perhaps, Mr Darscot, you could start at the beginning and tell me how you became acquainted with Dr Mackenzie?’