The Daughters of Gentlemen (20 page)

S
arah had completed her business that morning and returned home with a strong sense of justice done. The thief had been unequivocally revealed as the fashionable lady’s cherished only son, who had pawned the family silver to pay his gambling debts, thus showing that he had a greater sense of responsibility to his bookmaker than his mother. Frances wondered if the client, who was currently too distressed to discuss remuneration, was entirely satisfied with the outcome. Any problem that could be solved by the dismissal of a servant was by definition a trivial one, but one which took the heart out of her own family was a hurt from which she might never recover. Frances decided to wait awhile before she sent a gentle reminder about payment. Before attending the inquest she had sent a note to Mr Matthews’ townhouse asking for an interview, and on her return from seeing Mr Gillan received a reply that he was from home that morning but would be available to speak to her at two o’clock. In the meantime, Sarah was eager for further employment, and so Frances decided to send her to Somerset House to look at the marriage registers. It was something she had felt daunted by the first time she had gone there, as she had had no advisor to explain where she should go and what she must do, so she made sure to instruct Sarah carefully.

There was just time to meet the lady with the Hyde Park romance, who was an unprepossessing spinster of fifty-five with attractive investments. Her devoted swain had told her only that he worked in the City and boasted considerable expertise in finance. Frances discovered when the next tender assignation was to take place, warned the client not to part with a farthing, and sent a note to Tom asking if he could track the ardent gentlemen back to his lair.

After a luncheon of bread and cheese, Frances hurried to Roderick Matthews’ townhouse on Gloucester Terrace and was shown into the study, where she was unsurprised to discover its occupier striding up and down, with a glass of brandy in his hand and very much out of humour.

‘I have just had to go down to Havenhill this morning,’ said Matthews irritably, ‘where I was obliged to look at a most disgusting object and I suppose I have you to thank for that, you and that unpleasant little dog.’ He swallowed the rest of the brandy at a gulp and put the glass down. The thought of offering any refreshment to his visitor did not occur to him any more than he might have offered it to his parlourmaid.

Frances had not warmed to Benjie but was far from terming him ‘unpleasant’, neither did she feel personally responsible for the body in the trench. She could see, however, that Matthews, a man who felt that stirring himself to make an effort was a task best delegated to others, might have been annoyed.

‘Did you recognise the man?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied brusquely, ‘and nor does anyone else.’

‘He must have come there after the workmen had stopped digging but before the fence was built,’ said Frances. ‘That was in the latter part of January. Were you at Havenhill during that time?’

Mathews flung himself into a chair and fidgeted. ‘What is all this about?’ he said. ‘What has all this to do with you? Or me for that matter! Why do I have policemen tramping all over my land, not to mention an artist from the
Illustrated Police News
. He wanted to go into the stables and make a sketch of the body! The impudence!’

‘I know that I am supposed only to be investigating the incident with the pamphlets —,’ said Frances.

‘Yes, how is
that
progressing?’ he said, insolently.

Frances maintained a patient demeanour. ‘I have some clues, which I cannot reveal at present,’ she said, ‘but the issue of the pamphlets may be more complex than at first thought and I have to take into consideration anything unusual connected with the school, its pupils, its staff and its governors. Miss Springett’s death, for example. I attended the inquest this morning, where it was declared to be a case of murder.’

‘Oh, Paskall won’t be happy about that!’ exclaimed Matthews, with a derisive snort.

‘And it is possible that the man found dead on your land was in some way involved with the subject of my enquiries.
Were
you there in January? I understand that the last day on which digging was carried out was Saturday the 24th.’

‘That sounds about right.’ He pulled his cigar holder from his pocket, contemplated it and pushed it back in again. ‘I went down there with Paskall on the Monday after, and we had a look at how much had been done and discussed whether or not we should stop or go on. We decided to stop until we knew more about how the work was to be paid for. The weather was against us in any case.’

‘What was the weather like that day?’

‘Abominably cold, even colder than London. Frost almost as thick as snow, ground solid as a rock.’

‘Do you think, if the body had been there then, you would have seen it?’

‘Yes, I’m sure of it. Paskall had a better look than I did, and he saw nothing.’ Frances had a mental picture of Bartholomew Paskall tramping about the site while Matthews hovered impatiently nearby, muffled up warmly and taking sips of brandy from a flask.

‘And after that visit, did you go straight back to London?’

‘No, Paskall did as he had people to do business with. I stayed at the house that night. There were some estate matters to attend to.’

‘And you had no visitors?’

‘No, nor was I expecting any. Had I been, I would have sent a man with the dog cart to fetch them from the station.’

‘When did you return to town?’

‘Early the next morning. My manager drove me down to the station. It was still dark, and if there had been a body there then it would have been impossible to see it.’

‘And then, I understand, not long afterwards, Reverend Farrelly sent you a letter asking for a fence to be put up so no one could stumble into the open trenches.’

‘Yes, and I gave instructions for it to be done. But what I do not understand, Miss Doughty, is why you were in Havenhill interviewing the Farrellys. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’

Frances prepared herself to introduce a difficult subject. ‘I think we are all agreed that the person who deposited the pamphlets may have done so with the intention of causing some harm to the school. But that may be only one avenue through which this individual will exert his or her malice. It may also be directed at those closely connected with the school. I received a letter recently which alleged that you are a married man, and therefore not free to marry the Duchess of Kenworth.’

‘What?’ he exclaimed, suddenly tense and upright in the chair, small spots of red anger appearing on his cheeks. ‘That is an outrageous libel! Supposing that person had also written in such terms to Margaret!’

‘Have they done so?’ asked Frances, coolly.

‘She has said nothing of it to me,’ he said, ‘but she is a highly prudent lady and might have reserved her comments until she had made her own enquiries.’ He favoured Frances with a dark stare. ‘I hope you have not spoken to her?’

‘No. I have taken the view that if the matter is a libel I should not spread it. But I did go to Havenhill and examined the marriage registers and was able to satisfy myself that the allegation is false.’ Frances in fact was not yet satisfied, and would not be until she received Sarah’s report, but did not feel it wise to expose all her thoughts or methods to Matthews or anyone else. Nevertheless, she could see from his reaction that while he was understandably angry about the accusation he was not threatened by it. He clearly did not fear the discovery of any obstacle to the forthcoming wedding.

‘Do you know of anyone who might have a motive to stop the wedding, or delay it, or indeed to harm your interests in any way?’

Matthews slumped back in the chair pensively. ‘Margaret has had other admirers, of course, although she entertained no man’s addresses but mine. She is an excellent woman in every respect and highly esteemed. There have been many who hoped to deserve her, and they must envy me my good fortune. But this foolish libel makes no sense, since it can be disproven by the easiest of methods, as you have found. May I see this letter?’

Frances handed it to him and he read it without a change of expression. ‘Were you at Havenhill at that time?’ she asked. ‘The date of the supposed wedding is the day of Joshua Jenkins’ death. I understand that for two weeks prior to that he was too ill to stir from his bed.’

‘Yes, I recall that was the case, and I was there then.’ He handed back the letter. ‘The hand is not familiar to me.’

‘And your ward, Miss Clare – she was living there at the time?’

‘She was.’

‘She must therefore have known of Jenkins’ illness?’

‘Indeed. I recall she used to carry him hot soup.’

‘Where does she reside now? The letter claims that she is abroad, and Mrs Venn has confirmed this. If this libel is spread further then it may be necessary to interview her, and of course she may be able to suggest the identity of the person who wrote the letter.’

He gave a scornful grunt. ‘I really have no knowledge of where she is. She left my house and told no one of where she was going. I did my best for her but was poorly repaid for my generosity.’

‘How did this come about?’ asked Frances.

He looked ill at ease and Frances suspected he would have liked a cigar or another brandy or even both. ‘Miss Clare, as you probably know, is a relative of my late wife, and I promised that I would care for her and also for her cousin, Miss Danforth. Miss Clare has no fortune – her mother made a most inadvisable marriage and was living in very reduced circumstances after her husband died in debt – but Miss Danforth will one day come into a very handsome legacy. Miss Clare, I am sorry to say, was envious of her cousin, and unhappy with her position in life. I had promised her mother that she would receive a good education and hoped she might become a governess but that, it seemed, was not to her liking. I thought then that she might stay here as housekeeper and assist with the care and education of my youngest, Horace, but that too she declined to do. No, she had set her sights on a loftier prospect; she wished to marry my eldest son, Freddie. They had always been on affectionate terms, much as brother and sister, and I confess I had not realised where her ambitions lay. For his part, Freddie, who is a gentle and affectionate boy, loved her as a brother might, but had no wish for any closer alliance. Freddie became enamoured of Italy when we were there in ‘73, and as soon as he came of age he departed for Florence and now has a flourishing business there. I anticipate that in time he will advise me that he has courted and won a Florentine lady of good family with wealthy connections.

Miss Clare left Havenhill not long after Freddie’s departure without so much as a letter or a word. I feared at first that she had pursued him to Florence, but that, he assures me, is not the case. She was eighteen at the time, and I still therefore had a guardian’s duty of care. I wrote to her mother to discover her whereabouts but my letter was returned, stating that the occupant had gone away.’

‘Where did her mother live?’

‘It was a most insalubrious lodging house in Dalston. I sent a servant there to make enquiries and while Mrs Clare had lived there for a time, she had departed leaving no address to which letters could be sent.’

‘Is there any other family?’

‘None for whom I have an address.’ He shrugged. ‘I did what I could, but Miss Clare is now of full age and her own mistress. I therefore take no further interest in her.’

‘What about Daisy Trent?’ asked Frances.

He stared at her in astonishment then gave a rueful smile. ‘You know of all my family ghosts,’ he said. ‘I suppose Mrs Farrelly has told you about that. I feel guilty of course, young Souter was a good employee, but neither Jenkins nor I had any idea of the danger we sent him to. But Daisy Trent felt that she needed to hold someone to account, and since the criminals were never found it was Jenkins and myself who were blamed.’

‘Might she have sent this letter to revenge herself?’

‘Assuming a mind unhinged with grief, perhaps. But that was many years ago and I cannot say where she is to be found now.’

The door opened and Selina and Lydia entered. The transformation in her languid host took Frances by surprise. She could see that he was lazy, selfish and irritated about anything that disturbed the smooth running of his life, but the arrival of his daughters at once moved him to action. He rose from his chair and became at once concerned and attentive. For all his faults, he appeared to be a dutiful and affectionate father.

‘I had heard that you were here, Miss Doughty,’ said Selina, as her father took her hand and drew her to a chair. ‘I was hoping you could tell us what transpired this morning.’

‘Selina, my dear, are you sure this is quite appropriate?’ asked Matthews. ‘There are some things you really ought not to ask about.’

‘It is the most ridiculous fancy I ever heard!’ said Lydia. ‘I have done my best to dissuade her, Papa, but she will not listen. Miss Doughty may think that it is prudent for a female to go to such places, but I cannot agree. There may be things said, expressions used that it would be quite wrong for any respectable person, whether man or woman, to hear.’

‘You forget,’ said Selina gently, ‘I have visited the school many times and take a great interest in it. I am anxious to know what became of the poor girl.’