The Daughters of Gentlemen (15 page)

Frances returned to the school to take her first chemistry lesson, giving herself an hour to make the necessary arrangements. Miss Bell was on hand and advised her that these classes were always held in the schoolroom, and Frances was surprised to learn that her predecessor had not felt it necessary to prepare the room in any way. A careful search of the stationery cupboard and the second floor storeroom revealed nothing that might assist her in imparting any useful information to the girls. She found it hard to understand how she was expected to teach chemistry when there was no laboratory, no equipment and, indeed, no chemicals. ‘Oh it is not as if we are expecting the girls to be chemists and handle all those smelly things,’ said Miss Bell brightly, when apprised of the problem.

‘What did the previous lady teach?’ asked Frances.

‘I really can’t say – does it matter?’ Miss Bell gave a girlish trill of laughter and scurried away.

The class, Frances discovered when her pupils had assembled, had been learning about the elements and where they were to be found and their uses to mankind. The information had been illuminated by a collection of grey pebbles in a box. When Frances opened the box to display the pebbles the girls regarded them with expressions of deep gloom. Frances closed the box and set it aside, deciding to draw on her years of work in her father’s chemist shop and teach something she knew.

Frances told the girls about simple home remedies for common ailments, and how to make soothing skin lotions and preparations for the hair. To her delight, the subject captured the interest of the class, and the girls had a multitude of questions to ask, especially concerning Frances’ professional experiences, and wanted to know how pills and mixtures and ointments were made. Somehow, the lesson developed into a conversation, and the subject turned to poisons. Frances found herself describing the properties of arsenic, strychnine, antimony, chloroform and sugar of lead, and the lethal doses and symptoms of poisoning of those substances. The girls listened eagerly and the sound of their excited chatter and keen questioning must have been clearly audible in the hallway for the door opened and Mrs Venn peered in with a worried expression, but, seeing the girls enthusiastically clamouring for information, she simply smiled, nodded and withdrew. Several of the girls wanted to know if pharmacy was a good thing for women to do and Frances spoke warmly of her idol, Isabella Skinner Clarke, the first woman to be a full member of the Pharmaceutical Society, and how she had pioneered the path that others might follow. There was even, she informed them, a London School of Medicine for Women, where they might learn to be doctors. Before Frances knew it the lesson was over and the class filed out with sighs of regret.

The next lesson was deportment, and the girls marched to the front classroom in straight-backed military fashion, with Miss Baverstock rapping out her denunciation of slumped shoulders. Frances learned that Mrs Venn was at work in her study, and with some concern at what she was about to do, went upstairs.

Her task was made all the harder because this was the first occasion on which the headmistress had appeared pleased to see her, and she had assumed that the visit was simply to report on the success of the chemistry lesson. ‘Mrs Venn,’ said Frances, with as little preamble as possible, ‘I have found a copy of the pamphlet.’

It was fortunate that Miss Baverstock did not view Mrs Venn’s posture at that moment. ‘I suppose we must discuss it,’ she said.

They faced each other in silence for a while, and there was no mistaking the pain of the headmistress or the regret of the younger woman for being the cause of that pain. Frances placed her copy of the pamphlet on the desk between them. Mrs Venn made no attempt to touch it, indeed she recoiled from its presence as if it carried some vile infection. ‘The school described in the pamphlet is this one,’ said Frances at last.

‘I fear you are correct,’ said Mrs Venn.

‘The suffering wife is yourself and the erring husband is Professor Venn.’

‘Oh but so much of the error was mine,’ said Mrs Venn, with great emotion. ‘I thought I could influence him for good, but I was mistaken.’

‘What was the nature of his intemperance?’ asked Frances. ‘Wine, perhaps?’

Mrs Venn gave a dry laugh. ‘I wish it had been. I would have found it easier to blame him. No, it was morphine. You of course will understand the subtle dangers of that drug. He had been given it with good intentions after an operation, but he could never erase the craving from his body. It sapped the goodness from him – what little there had been. I will be frank with you. I married him for companionship, he married me for money. When he was drugged he was at least manageable, but at other times I am sorry to say he showed me violence. His study, where I let it be known that he was writing a great work of scholarship, was little more than a den of indulgence. There was no great work and there never could be. But he was so often charming, and to the world he seemed to be a fine example of scholarship and exemplary propriety, and thus he earned respect and admiration for the thing he only appeared to be. It amused me a little when Mr Fiske said he felt that the school needed the overall guidance of a man, which in truth was something it had never had.’

‘Who knew of the Professor’s weakness?’ asked Frances.

‘Miss Baverstock, of course,’ said Mrs Venn. ‘There have been many occasions when she was obliged to assist me and she has been an invaluable support in times of trial. Dr Montgomery, our physician. I regret that his advanced age made it easier for my husband to persuade him to supply the drug. He is long deceased. And —,’ she paused, ‘Matilda also knew. It was never my intention that she should, but she once found him in a desperate state and saw some of his bottles and syringes. It was impossible to conceal it and she did from time to time help me care for him.’

‘I had wondered,’ said Frances, ‘at Matilda being allowed more liberty than I would have expected. Your kindness in not dismissing her when you discovered her condition, her familiar manners and your tolerance of her sweetheart frequenting the premises. I take it that was the price of her silence. Did she demand money too?’

‘Sometimes, yes,’ the headmistress admitted reluctantly.

‘The money found in her room? Was that from you?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Venn, with an emphatic shake of the head. ‘I never at any time paid her such a sum. And if I had, why would she hide it from me?’

‘It is easy to see why Matilda concealed from you the fact that her child had died.’

‘Yes, sometimes she would tell me the child was ill and I would allow her an afternoon visit, and I admit I sometimes gave her money for medicine. I see now that my kindness was abused. You must think me a foolish, credulous woman.’

‘Far from it,’ said Frances. ‘You have more than the ordinary sympathy for young girls who have been led astray by the selfishness of men.’ There followed a long silence, as Mrs Venn fought and defeated the ghosts of past memories. Frances wondered what those memories might be, but let it pass.

‘But tell me, what of the girls who were pupils at the school at the time of your husband’s illness. Did any of them know about his condition?’

Mrs Venn touched a folded handkerchief to her palms. ‘I don’t believe so. I did my best to protect them. They were given to understand that his absences were due to his work, and they were carefully supervised at all times.’

‘The nurses at the sanatorium would have known.’

‘I asked the supervising physician to be discreet for the sake of the school, and I know he was. The nurses worked under his direction. My husband’s case was not the first of its kind there.’

Frances understood now. Not the first or indeed the only case. It was for the treatment of such cases as Professor Venn’s that the sanatorium existed, and discretion was its most valuable service.

‘What prompted you to have your husband removed there?’

Mrs Venn struggled to speak, but eventually, and it was almost a relief, she did so. ‘One night,’ she said, ‘I found him wandering in the house in a state of —’ her voice declined almost to a whisper, ‘semi-undress.’ Her bosom heaved convulsively and for a moment it was an effort to get her breath. ‘I was able to take him back to his room, but I knew then that it was not safe for him to remain on the premises. I was only glad that there were no girls boarding at the time.’

Frances fetched the water carafe and served them both. ‘Mrs Venn, this is a delicate matter, but the pamphlet made other allegations – it suggested the possibility of another kind of intemperance.’

Mrs Venn closed her eyes and tears escaped from below her lashes and streaked her pale cheeks. She pressed the handkerchief to her face. Frances went to pour more water but Mrs Venn, recovering, shook her head. ‘Thankfully there is no proof – no suggestion even – that any of my girls was subjected to an insult, or witnessed anything that might have caused her distress. The writer talks of a locked door, and is therefore giving in to conjecture only. It is very unpleasant to consider the kind of imagination that might conjure up such a thing. But the allegation alone will give great pain to any parent whose girls attended the school during my husband’s lifetime, and the mere fact that I endured his presence here when I knew his faults will call my judgement into question. The scandal could well ruin me.’ She dried her eyes. ‘Have you shown the pamphlet to the governors?’

‘No, I have only just located it, and have not yet told them I have done so,’ said Frances. ‘It may not be necessary to show it to them. You have said that the matter it contains is libellous, and I appreciate that it would cause unnecessary distress, and arouse suspicions where none is warranted. I have not, after all, been asked to do anything other than discover the person who placed the copies in the school, and their motives for doing so, and reassure the governors that it will not happen again. I may do all of those things without letting them read the item in question.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Venn gratefully.

‘The document itself has provided few clues,’ said Frances. ‘I have found only that it was printed by a company called the Soho Printworks in Dean Street. Do you know anything of that company?’

Mrs Venn shook her head. ‘No, the name is not familiar to me, and I do not know of anyone connected with that part of London.’ She paused. ‘Unless …’

‘Yes?’ asked Frances.

‘No – there may have been something mentioned to me recently concerning Soho, but I can’t recall it now. My mind is very confused and preoccupied. It may mean nothing.’

There was a Westminster directory on Mrs Venn’s bookshelf, a recent edition, unlike the one in Frances’ father’s library, which was ten years old. He used to complain bitterly that it listed businesses that no longer existed, but refused to go to the expense of a new one. ‘With your permission,’ said Frances, reaching for the directory. Mrs Venn nodded. Frances soon found the Soho Printworks on Dean Street, but saw nothing else that caught her eye. She replaced the book. ‘You will be sure to let me know if you remember anything?’

‘Yes – yes of course.’

With that assurance Frances took her leave, and though she now knew a great deal more, felt that she was still no closer to identifying the author of the pamphlet.