Read The Daughters of Gentlemen Online
Authors: Linda Stratmann
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General
The Daughters of Gentlemen (25 page)
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
O
n the following day Frances called upon Mr Fiske to report her progress. She was unsure of what to say since she had effectively solved the mystery she had been engaged to undertake but not to her own satisfaction. She had found a copy of the pamphlet, and discovered the culprit, and could reassure the governors that the incident was not an attack on the school, but she was unwilling to show them the pamphlet or divulge the reason for its composition, and was quite unable to guarantee that a similar event would not occur in the future.
Mr Fiske was in a state of very great distraction. He hesitated for a time about seeing Frances at all, even though they had an appointment, but eventually he consented.
‘It is really too bad, too bad!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tell me, Miss Doughty, have you had any communication with Mr Miggs? You recall that he is the young man who has been about to publish a book by Mrs Venn.’
‘As a matter of fact he did write to me,’ said Frances. ‘It was a most unusual request. He sent me a review of a book of poetry that he had published, not a very complimentary one I must admit, and wanted me to discover the identity of the writer, who has adopted the name
Aquila
.’
‘Did you tell him?’ demanded Fiske with an alarm that almost approached severity.
‘No, I declined the commission,’ said Frances. ‘I have not read the poems in question but I take the view that an opinion is merely that, an opinion.’
Fiske sank into a chair. He was perspiring and drew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it across his brow. ‘I wish I knew how he discovered it,’ he said. ‘It is no secret now, he has made enquiries and found that
Aquila
is myself, in fact very often
Aquila
is my dear wife, who does not mince words when she dislikes something. I have spoken to Edith and she assures me that had she been entirely honest about the volume her words would have been even more distressing to the author than they were. Of course, she has my entire support. But the result is that Mr Miggs is very unhappy – no, not unhappy, I would say enraged would be a better description. You might almost imagine that
he
is the author.’
‘I expect he is,’ said Frances. ‘They do have the same initials.’
Fiske paused and stared at her, then he clasped a hand to his head and groaned.
‘Surely this is not as bad as you suppose,’ said Frances. ‘I assume that Mrs Venn’s book will have to find another publisher, but with the lady’s reputation there should be no difficulty about that. I can also reassure you that Mr Miggs has no grounds for a case of libel, if that is what you fear.’
‘Oh, it is far worse than that!’ said Fiske. ‘Miggs demanded that I print an apology for the review and indeed substitute another one that pleases him, but that I told him I can never do. And now he has taken his revenge. Of course he had heard the rumours about the pamphlets and until now he has been pleased to dismiss them, as I personally assured him that the matter was a trivial thing blown up by foolish gossips and rivals envious of the school’s success, but now all that has changed. Following our disagreement, Mr Miggs has started listening to and believing the rumours. He is an ambitious young man and so he wishes it to be known to everyone that he is the very model of moral rectitude, which of course he may well be, and he has printed a pamphlet of his own, saying that he has severed his business connection with the school because of the scandal. He is sending this terrible paper to everyone he knows and is even taking it to election meetings, where there are hundreds of people. I have seen one, and shown it to Mr Rawsthorne, but he tells me that Miggs has been very careful to stop short of actual libel and there is nothing we can do. I am besieged with parents demanding to know the truth, and the worst of it is that we have no copy of the pamphlet to reassure them.’
‘But supposing you did find one and it was not reassuring?’ asked Frances.
He sighed. ‘I really do not know what to do!’
‘What is Mrs Fiske’s opinion on the matter?’ asked Frances.
‘She has suggested that a quiet meeting between the parties with solicitors present might result in some amicable arrangement.’
‘That sounds very sensible,’ said Frances.
‘And if all else fails, a public meeting.’
‘At which you may ask Mr Miggs to read some of his poetry and let the public judge for themselves,’ said Frances.
‘Do you know, I never thought of that,’ said Fiske, his brow clearing. ‘It is quite dreadful, you know, all affectation and no substance.’ He shook his head. ‘But there – we must turn to the reason for your visit. Have you discovered who placed the pamphlets in the school and why?’
‘You will appreciate that this is a very delicate matter,’ said Frances. ‘I have made considerable progress but I cannot tell you all that I have found without causing unnecessary pain and embarrassment to others.’
‘I understand, of course, but we do need reassurances.’
‘Those I can freely give,’ said Frances. ‘The incident was not and was never intended to be an attack on the school. It was simply the work of a misguided individual, to whom I have spoken, and I am doing everything I can to ensure that it will not happen again.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘A misguided person – but what of that poor girl – the maidservant?’
‘I have discovered no evidence that her death was associated in any way with the school.’
‘Well of course, we would not expect you to try and find her murderer; that is a question for the police.’ He nodded. ‘I will speak to the other governors. We have a meeting first thing on Monday morning, and I think we can agree to settle your account and say that you have been successful in your endeavours. In the meantime,’ he added mournfully, ‘I shall have to see what I can do about Mr Miggs.’
As Frances left, she thought there was a matter of significance that she had missed, and it had been the mention of Mr Miggs’ name that had brought it to mind. She puzzled over it all the way home, but without result.
On Frances’ return she found Jonathan Quayle waiting for her. He looked tired and strained, and as he rose from the parlour chair she thought for a moment that he might fall. ‘Flora has told me everything,’ he whispered.
Frances sent Sarah out to fetch brandy. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
It was a moment or two before he could say more. ‘Oh, Miss Doughty, I do so hope you can help us! My poor, poor darling girl, what she must have been suffering all this time! When I first asked if she would consent to make me the happiest of men, she told me that she could not be my wife, because she had an aversion to the married state. Of course I respected her wishes and as it was plain that we were both entirely devoted to one another we determined on a course that I know many would disapprove of, but we could not bear to be apart. And all this time, my dearest love wanted to marry me, wanted it as much as I did, but was too afraid to tell me.’
Frances felt a great sense of relief. She had feared that Flora’s revelation might alter Quayle’s feelings, but it gave her great pleasure to see that he remained true. How many lawfully wed people might envy them now?
‘I assume that what you both most desire is to be free to marry,’ she said.
He was too moved to speak but nodded vigorously.
‘And you are both convinced that the wedding at Havenhill took place as —,’ she hesitated, ‘Mrs Quayle has described?’
Although Flora was not Jonathan Quayle’s wife in law, Frances reflected, the affection and constancy of the young couple merited her the respect of that status and name.
He applied a handkerchief to his eyes, unembarrassed by his display of emotion. ‘Oh, yes, Flora is quite adamant on that. She could hardly be otherwise. Miss Doughty, I have heard so much of your prowess as a detective, indeed Miss Gilbert has hardly spoken of anything else since she met you. We have a little money and we would like to engage you to find the papers we need so we may be united under God’s holy law. Flora has told me of Mr Matthews’ great wickedness, and how he is even now seeking to ensnare a good and virtuous woman for the sake of her fortune.’
‘When I first received Mrs Quayle’s letter,’ said Frances, ‘I made some enquiries but so far I have not found any document which would prove that the marriage took place. But I will persevere. Can you tell me if, apart from those who were present, any other persons knew about the marriage at Havenhill?’
‘Flora told Mrs Gribling, although since it was a matter of great secrecy she made her promise most faithfully not to tell anyone, and I believe she has kept that promise. And she also told her brother Harry, imposing a similar condition.’
‘I will have to speak to them both,’ said Frances.
Jonathan readily supplied Frances with Mrs Gibling’s address. ‘Harry is in America, where he has been these ten years,’ he said. ‘Flora was hoping he would visit and help resolve matters, and he did write to say he was coming but she has heard nothing from him for some weeks. He may have been detained by business.’
‘Oh,’ said Frances. She did not want to alarm anyone without good reason but was wondering if the man whose body had been found at Havenhill was Harry Clare.
Quayle soon departed, saying he did not like to leave Flora alone for long, and Frances tried to fit together what she knew. If the unfortunate man was Harry Clare he might well have sailed from New York, where, she recalled, the deceased stranger had made some purchases, but she did not know where he might have disembarked. Once on English soil it would surely have been natural to send a telegram to his family to advise them of his arrival, but this he had failed to do. Had he forgotten to do so or had there been some urgency about catching the train that had prevented him? Supposing he had then arrived in London, at which terminus she could only guess, she thought he would in all probability have deposited his travelling trunk at the left luggage office and gone to visit his family. This, too, he had not done. So far the failure to either telegraph or visit his family argued against the man being Harry Clare, but there remained the visit to the Matthews’ townhouse claiming to be Matthews’ brother-in-law, something only Harry Clare could have had reason to believe. On being told that Matthews was at Havenhill he had taken the next train there, and, if he was Harry Clare, his intention must have been to confront Matthews about his sister’s marriage.
Frances wrote a note to Inspector Sharrock, informing him that she believed that the man found dead in Havenhill was called Harry Clare and that they might well find his trunk at a left luggage office.
Having determined to see little Horace for herself, and not feeling able to insist upon it, Frances devised a plan to do so by underhand means, which she would be able to carry out on the Sunday. The Matthews family lived in the parish of St James, and would, she surmised, worship at the church of St James the Less. As soon as the service at her own parish church of St Stephens was over, Frances hastened to where St James’ lay, at the meeting of Gloucester Place and Grand Junction Road, just north of the gates to Hyde Park, and placed herself where she might see the family as if by chance, as they left the church. As groups of friends formed outside the church doors and sociable interaction took place, Frances saw Bartholomew Paskall having a long and animated conversation with Matthews, and it was plain that whatever information Matthews had imparted was causing Paskall considerable displeasure. Theodore approached them, but Paskall distractedly waved his son away, an action that occasioned him both surprise and annoyance. He didn’t leave but turned aside and waited for his father. Eventually, however, Matthews went to speak to Mr Fiske, then Paskall and son conversed together, Theodore shaking his head in some dismay at whatever he was being told. The two then hurried away furtively. Frances felt certain that despite the fact that it was a day of worship they were headed towards the office.
The conversation between Matthews and Fiske was altogether lighter in content but while they paused, Selina, Lydia, Mr Sandcourt, the nursemaid and little Horace strolled amicably together in the direction of Hyde Park. Cautiously, Frances followed, but realised that to satisfy her curiosity she would have to engineer a chance meeting for a closer look.
Fortunately, the little group stopped near the Magazine while Mr Sandcourt engaged Horace with a flamboyant tale of soldiers and battles, which passed on to the child the quite inaccurate idea that most of the major conflicts in history and several others that had never happened, including an encounter with Napoleon himself, had occurred on that very spot.
‘Good afternoon!’ said Frances, approaching with what she hoped was a pleasant smile. ‘The weather is very refreshing today!’ She had never had the skill or the inclination for the small talk of polite society, and realised as soon as the words left her lips that this was, at best, a weak effort, since the weather was cold, dull and hazy, with a biting wind nipping cruelly at the spring flowers. There was a moment of silence during which Frances began to doubt that the little group would even acknowledge her presence, then Lydia and Selina, in deference to the requirements of the situation, turned to look at her and inclined their heads, while Mr Sandcourt beamed broadly and raised his hat. ‘Well if it isn’t Miss Doughty!’ he exclaimed.
Lydia twitched her mouth and wrinkled her sharp nose. ‘Oh, and I suppose it is
you
we must thank for sending that nasty policeman to our house. He actually dared to come to the front door! The impudence! And he did nothing but sneeze all the time – it was positively unsanitary!’
‘Well that is very interesting,’ said Frances innocently. ‘I wonder what he could have wanted?’
Lydia snorted. ‘Only to ask about a very distant cousin who none of us has seen in ten years and who we don’t care twopence about in any case. It seems that he has been found dead in a ditch but
you
should know all about that. I have been told the story is in all the penny papers.’
‘Mr Harry Clare,’ said Frances. ‘Are the police sure it is him?’
‘It’s a bad business, but yes,’ said Sandcourt. ‘Matthews told me all about it.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Promising young fellow with a nice line in neckties and cravats, so I understand.’
‘Really, that police person spoke to my father as if he were some sort of
criminal
,’ said Lydia. ‘I am pleased to say that Papa is going to make a complaint to someone
very
senior.’ She gave a satisfied smirk.
‘It seems,’ said Selina softly, ‘that the police called upon my father because a letter was found in Mr Clare’s luggage, in which his mother asked him to pay a visit when he came to London.’
‘To borrow money, I expect,’ said Lydia, derisively. ‘The Clares have done nothing but live off my father’s charity, and have ill repaid his generosity.’
‘You were at school with his sister Caroline, I believe,’ said Frances.
Selina frowned, a brief dimpling of her milky skin. ‘We have not seen her for some years.’
‘You were not close friends at school?’
‘The Clares were to be tolerated, not made friends of,’ said Lydia contemptuously. ‘We had no time for them. They had no fortune and were jealous of those who do. Such gratitude! I pitied poor Wilhelmina – she is our Danforth cousin – Miss Clare made a great pretence of doting on her, said she loved her dearer than a sister, made her into a plaything, a puppet, the poor child would do anything she wanted. It was disgraceful!’
‘So, tell me, Miss Doughty,’ interrupted Sandcourt, ‘have you found out who wrote those pamphlets and put them in the school?’
‘I believe I am making some progress,’ said Frances, who was not prepared to reveal anything of moment to someone who not only had not employed her, but did not have an alibi for the night of Matilda’s death, ‘but the matter is far from resolved, and I fear it may never be.’ She glanced at the child, who had been standing silent and motionless beside his sister. There could be no doubt that the boy was Roderick Matthews’ son. Tall for his age, and with the dark eyes and hair of his father, the child had a solemn very serious look, as if he was watching the world very carefully and recording everything he saw with the intention of producing a treatise just as soon as he could afford to buy enough ink. He did not, thought Frances, see the world with any great optimism, the lugubrious mouth seemed incapable of smiling. He was clutching a small wooden boat but did not seem to care much for it. She wondered who the mother could be. There was something about the child’s features which was familiar, something she had seen very recently in another face, but she could not recall where or whose.
Later that day Frances dined with her uncle Cornelius and regaled him with an account of her new career as a teacher. Alarmingly, she felt not one quiver of guilt at the slight deception. She was unable to resist broaching the subject of her mother’s letter, but Cornelius, who assured her that he had never seen it, or even known that it existed, was able to enlighten her upon only one of her many questions. Mr Manley had, until his death in 1864, been her father’s solicitor, Mr Rawsthorne then being only a junior partner, albeit one with expectations since he was affianced to Manley’s eldest daughter, whom he later married. Cornelius did, however, have in his library a Westminster directory even older than her father’s dating from 1862, and said that Frances could have it as a gift.
On her return home she examined the directory and made a list of every name which began with the letter V. It did not include the Venns who, she had been informed, hailed from Oxfordshire and had first arrived in Bayswater in 1867. No insight followed and she put the list in the drawer with the letters. As it closed she felt that she was finally shutting away her past, a past that she was perhaps never intended to understand.