The Daughters of Gentlemen (18 page)

‘Do you know the name of any such lady?’ asked Frances, but having made the suggestion he was unable to justify it with any useful detail.

‘Daisy Trent,’ said Mrs Farrelly suddenly.

‘Daisy Trent?’ echoed her husband. ‘But she never set her cap at him, and indeed how could she, the daughter of a blacksmith?’

‘No, that was not what I meant, my dear, only that she was the only person ever to say a word against him, and that was because her mind was in a very unhappy state, poor thing.’

‘Tell me more,’ said Frances.

‘Oh it was quite some years ago,’ said Mrs Farrelly, ‘before they went out to Italy for Mrs Matthews’ health. There had been some thieves on the estate, not from round here, but the next village, East Hill so it was thought, boys or young men, stealing and causing damage. It was all very upsetting. So Joshua Jenkins sent one of his men, Daniel Souter – a good, reliable sort of person – to frighten them off with a shotgun.’ She shook her head. ‘It was a very bad business. They must have crept up on him, and he was killed.’

‘The details were very unpleasant,’ said Reverend Farrelly. There were a few moments of silence while husband and wife looked sorrowful, and Frances awaited the unpleasant details in vain.

‘I could of course read about the incident in the newspapers, but it would save me considerable time if you could enlighten me with some more information,’ said Frances at last. ‘I promise I will not faint.’

They looked at each other, and Mrs Farrelly rose to see about more tea with Benjie scampering after her. ‘It was thought there were at least three of them if not more,’ said Reverend Farrelly. ‘One of them came up behind poor Daniel and shot him – a handgun of some kind, it was never found. The inquest said that the shot did not kill him, indeed had that been his only injury then he might well have recovered. But as he lay on the ground he was shot again with his own gun, and after that – it seems that there was further violence done to the body. Sad to say the culprits were never discovered.’

‘And Daisy Trent?’

‘She was sweet on Daniel and it was thought they might be wed. She was angry with Joshua for sending Daniel out alone, and also with Mr Matthews as she said it was for him to see that his men came to no harm. Of course neither of them could have known that the gang carried arms. We did what we could for her of course. If you are interested I might have some cuttings from the newspapers at the time. I know I do tend to keep material about local matters.’

‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’

Mrs Farrelly returned bringing a freshly charged teapot to the table and a plate of fruit buns, and her husband disappeared to his study. ‘Poor Daisy,’ said Mrs Farrelly, ‘I heard her say that she hoped Joshua and Mr Matthews would never be happy after all the misery they had caused her.’

‘I would like to speak to her,’ said Frances.

‘Oh, she went away about five years ago. She said there was too much here to remind her of Daniel.’

‘I hope she found happiness again, wherever she might be,’ said Reverend Farrelly, returning with a small bundle of papers, ‘and peace in her heart that she might forgive.’

‘Does she still have family here?’ asked Frances.

‘No, her father passed away and her mother remarried and moved to another village,’ said Mrs Farrelly, holding a bun so Benjie could gnaw at it. ‘I could try and find out where she went if you like.’

‘That would be very kind of you,’ said Frances and wrote out her address on a slip of paper.

Reverend Farrelly had brought the parish journals for the period in question, which recorded how prayers had been offered for the soul of Daniel Souter and Daisy’s recovery to health. Folded into the journals were cuttings taken from the Middlesex county newspapers. The facts of the murder were as Frances had been told, and she learned that after Daniel had been shot the body had been beaten with the butt of his own gun, an act of quite savage and unnecessary violence. One of the newspapers had a sketch map of the area and Frances studied this with interest and copied it down into her notebook. It was Daisy herself who discovered the body, which was found in a small copse about two hundred yards from Havenhill House. Later that night she had been seen wandering in the village in a state of distraction, weeping and hammering on the doors of the houses as she went. Her mother had been fetched, as the girl had been so hysterical it was impossible to discover what the matter was by questioning her, and it was assumed at first that she had been assaulted, as there was blood on her clothing. She had been able only to point in the direction from which she had come, and some men had been sent to search. The map showed a footpath leading like a narrow thread across the fields from the copse to the village and another breaking off to East Hill, the place from which it was suspected the thieves had come and to where they had fled. The only other thing on the map was a line of small buildings near the manor house and Frances was told that only two had been occupied, one by Daniel and one by Joshua Jenkins, the others being stables and storage barns. Daisy, said Mrs Farrelly, had been placed in the care of her mother and had been too ill to attend the inquest.

There seemed to be nothing more to learn, so Frances finished her tea and rose to take her leave. ‘Oh let me come some of the way with you!’ said Mrs Farrelly. ‘It’s time for Benjie’s walk, and he does so enjoy his walks!’

Frances and Mrs Farrelly set out for the railway station, with Benjie, so far from enjoying healthful exercise, being carried by his owner, who explained that this would ensure he did not get dirty. ‘He is so naughty sometimes, aren’t you my darling?’ she said, nuzzling her face into the dog’s hairy coat. ‘He will try to get into rabbit holes and ditches and then he is all over mud and I have to bathe him.’

Frances said she imagined that must be a difficult task and Mrs Farrelly was kind enough to regale her with all the details of Benjie’s daily toilet. ‘Charles had to expressly ask Mr Matthews to place a fence around the foundations of his new buildings as Benjie
would
try to play there and he was so dirty and smelly I thought he would never be clean. You can see it there,’ she added, pointing to a pathway that climbed uphill between some fields. ‘That is the way to Mr Matthews’ manor house, although it is really no more than a large cottage but very well-appointed and comfortable.’

Frances saw part way along the path a sizeable rectangular area with boards around it. ‘What is being built?’ she asked.

‘Oh at the moment nothing at all,’ said Mrs Farrelly. ‘The intention was to build a fine row of model cottages for the men who tend the hothouses, and we all thought it would make a handsome and sanitary addition to the village, but no work has been done on it for some weeks. I have heard,’ she added, ‘that it was an arrangement between Mr Matthews and Mr Paskall, whereby Mr Matthews provided the land and Mr Paskall the cottages, and there were men hard at work, even in the cold weather, digging the foundations, but then quite suddenly they stopped. It is rumoured that Mr Paskall lost a great deal of money with that terrible business of the Bayswater Bank, and there is no more money to be had to finish what has been started. Oh Benjie!’ she suddenly exclaimed, as the dog began to squirm in her arms with fierce determination, and before she could secure him he leapt down to the ground and ran up the pathway as fast as his little legs could take him.

Mrs Farrelly held onto her bonnet and ran after him, calling out ‘Benjie! Benjie! Oh you
bad
child!’ and Frances decided to follow.

The path was crushed gravel well stirred with dried mud, and rutted with cart tracks so as to be very hard to traverse without accident. There were sturdy and ancient hedgerows on either side, protecting fields tilled into ridges, the nature of the crop being as yet a mystery. Frances quickly caught up with Mrs Farrelly and helped her along as she stumbled over the treacherous ground. Benjie had got as far as the wooden fencing and was trying to jump up, barking loudly, but it was far too high, so he began to scrabble in the dirt at the base of the fence. Mrs Farrelly finally reached him, panting hard, and had just bent to scoop him up when a section of wood that must have split in the recent cold weather came away and left just enough space for Benjie to slip through.

‘Oh no! What can I do?’ wailed Mrs Farrelly. ‘Benjie! Come here!’

Frances peered over the fence, which was very roughly and unevenly constructed from wooden boards of different sizes. The ground within had been laid out and well dug with the foundations of four cottages, and some of the walling was already in place. Benjie was nowhere to be seen, but from one of the ditches came the sound of excited barking, and sprays of dry earth showed where he was digging furiously. ‘There must be a gate so we can enter,’ said Frances, and she walked around the fence until she found one with rope hinges on one side and secured with a padlock and chain on the other. Mrs Farrelly, who was very much shorter in stature than she, was unable to see over the fence and stood by, helplessly wringing her hands. ‘I am sure he will come out again when he is hungry,’ said Frances, deciding not to add that she did not think they would have long to wait. ‘Perhaps if you could bring one of his favourite titbits he might be tempted out.’

Benjie was growling now and Frances could see his tail waving like a pennant caught in a gale as he backed out of the ditch with something clamped between his jaws.

‘What is he doing? Can you see?’ asked Mrs Farrelly. ‘Is he hurt?’

‘No, he seems to have found something – a glove I
think
,’ said Frances, unsure because if the object, which was undoubtedly glove-shaped, really was a glove he was having unusual difficulty with it. It was a few moments before Frances realised two things – the object in Benjie’s jaws was a glove, and the reason he was obliged to tug on it so hard was that there was something to which it was attached, a bundle of clothes that someone had flung into the ditch, or even an old scarecrow.

Whether or not it was recent events that had led her imagination into unexpected areas she did not know, but she was suddenly struck with an unpleasant thought, and knew that at the very least she had to satisfy herself that she was mistaken. Briefly, she considered fetching some men from the village to help, but then she decided that if she thought herself capable of exercising the vote she was certainly capable of scrambling over a fence.

‘What are you doing, Miss Doughty?’ exclaimed Mrs Farrelly as Frances moved a lump of abandoned building stone to give herself a step up. It was a lot heavier than she had anticipated but having started she was not about to admit defeat and managed with some effort to drag rather than carry it near to the fence. ‘I’m going to fetch Benjie,’ she declared, and started to haul herself over the top of the fence, which was not, she discovered, as robust as it looked. The boards sagged alarmingly, and creaked as if they were about to snap and impale her on splinters. Mrs Farrelly watched her with alarm.

‘Oh, Miss Doughty, do you think that is really advisable? I think we may need a man to assist us. Perhaps I should fetch my husband!’

The Reverend Farrelly, while undoubtedly a man, was, Frances had observed, shorter and stouter than she and twice her age, but she declined to mention this. One advantage he did have was the wearing of trousers and she thought, as she struggled to manoeuvre her heavy skirts over the fence, that the sooner a more rational mode of clothing for women became acceptable the better. There was a brief moment of difficulty as her skirt caught on a protruding fence post and Mrs Farrelly hurried up and released it, then Frances swung her long legs to the ground.

Benjie had temporarily stopped pulling at the glove and was standing barking at it. Frances took the opportunity to pick him up, surprised to feel how tiny his body was under the matted and muddy hair. She carried him to Mrs Farrelly, who received him with sighs of gratitude, then returned to what had captured his attention.

The neglected foundations had been considerably damaged by the bad weather of the last two months. Heavy rains, snow, and frost had caused the earth to collapse in places, and most of the trenches were filled with a heavy mud, much dried and caked about the edges, but treacherously soft in the middle. The object that Benjie’s sensitive nose had detected would have lain underneath the top layer, and he had succeeded only in dragging out what Frances was now sure was a gentleman’s leather glove, albeit thickly slimed with mud. As she approached, a stench of decay reached her nostrils and she was obliged to place a handkerchief over her nose, the scent of laundry soap affording some relief. Even under the thick dark crust there was no doubt that the glove contained something solid, and she thought she could make out the cuffs of a shirtsleeve and coat, and the flesh of what could have been an arm, very much discoloured. Frances had seen death before and was not afraid, but had never encountered it like this.

‘Mrs Farrelly,’ called Frances. There was no reply and she returned to the fence and peered over it to see that lady absorbed in cooing over Benjie, who was quivering with indignation at being thwarted of his prize. ‘If you would be so kind as to assist me, I think we need to send for a constable.’

As Frances struggled back over the fence, she realised that she was now very unlikely to be home by teatime.