The Daughters of Gentlemen (7 page)

The meal done, Sarah and Frances took the short walk to Westbourne Park Road, where Frances was introduced to Mrs Embleton. Mrs Embleton was a breed of person with whom Frances had never previously been closely acquainted – a lodging-house keeper, and it was her character as much as the rooms which interested Frances. Mrs Embleton, who was a widow of about forty-five, was friendly and obliging without being intrusive, and respectable without any false pretentions to being genteel. She made it clear in the nicest possible way that the apartments were let only to single ladies of good reputation. Gentlemen callers were permitted ‘within reason’. She did not explain what this meant and Frances guessed that if one had to enquire then it would be a sign that the enquirer was not the kind of person Mrs Embleton wished to have in her apartments.

The house was the property of a gentleman who had worked in the City, and had prospered so well that he had retired to live in the country. It was beautifully appointed both inside and out. When her employer had lived there, Mrs Embleton had been the housekeeper, and he had since engaged her to let the accommodation, collect the rents and generally provide simple services to the ladies who took the apartments, of which there were three.

The ground floor had already been let to two elderly ladies who were sisters, and their maid, who, said Mrs Embleton, lived very quietly, and almost never went out except to church. The second floor, which consisted of only two rooms, was occupied by a spinster, who spent her days engaged in works of a charitable nature. Frances quailed in the face of such uncompromising virtue and wondered what Mrs Embleton would say if she realised that her prospective tenant was a private detective.

The rooms to let were on the first floor and consisted of a cosy parlour, a bedroom and another room which might usefully be a second bedroom, dressing room or study. There was even a bathroom and a quite separate water closet on the landing. Mrs Embleton lived in comfortable rooms in the basement, where there was also a large kitchen. She was willing to provide breakfast and plain dinners, although she was not averse to her ‘ladies’ or their servants using the cooking facilities if they so wished, as long as all was kept spotless and tidy. A washerwoman called once a week to deal with the linens for an extra charge, and a woman was engaged to clean the shared portions of the house and would be willing to clean the apartments by separate arrangement.

Compared with the frugally kept rooms beside the shop in Westbourne Grove – which was the only home Frances had ever known and where she had worked behind the counter and in the stockroom from early to late, cared for her dying brother and ailing father and shared the work of the house with Sarah – this snug apartment with its comfortable furnishings and modern fittings made Frances feel that she had never been intended by providence to live in this way. Mrs Embleton mentioned a price which Frances knew was more than she could reasonably afford. It was almost as if in a dream that she agreed, in a voice that sounded like quite another person’s, to move in on the following day.

Sarah went to arrange a carrier and also to visit newsagents and booksellers, while Frances returned to the disheartening reality of her fruitless enquiries at the school, arriving shortly before Mr Copley was about to take his next lesson. He had prepared an arrangement of fans and was carefully draping them in the folds of a silk handkerchief. ‘Miss Doughty, may I assist you?’ he asked.

‘You may,’ she said. ‘I see that your artistic tastes are for drawings of objects rather than persons, but I had wondered if you were also able to do portraiture. I need something very particular.’

He gave an arch little smile. ‘Why, Miss Doughty, whatever
can
you mean?’

‘I would like you to draw a portrait of Matilda Springett,’ she said. ‘You will be aware of course that she is missing. I would like a picture to assist those looking for her.’

The smile vanished. ‘Well, I should be able to undertake that,’ he said, but without any great enthusiasm. ‘I have to say her sudden departure is not entirely unexpected. I always thought there was something dishonest about the girl. I had it in mind to tell Mrs Venn of my suspicions, although I had no proof, it was all in her manner, which ranged from the negligent to the downright insolent. Why Mrs Venn tolerated her nonsense I cannot say. Are there valuables missing?’

‘Not as far as I am aware,’ said Frances. ‘Why did you say nothing of this before? Did you not think she might have been the person who put the pamphlets in the girls’ desks?’

‘Not unless there was money in it, which I doubt,’ he said. ‘The girl thought of little else. I have heard her boasting of how much she had put by and how she would not be a servant for much longer, but have servants of her own.’

‘To whom did she make this boast?’ asked Frances. ‘Was it to you?’

‘Of course not – I would hardly engage in conversation with such a person as that!’

‘Then who?’

He looked away, awkwardly. ‘I really can’t recall now.’

‘You must try to remember, it could be of some importance.’

He made no reply, but took up a sheet of drawing paper and began to sketch. Frances watched as the strokes of his pencil produced an excellent likeness of Matilda, her face tilted up with a knowing, almost challenging expression.

‘There,’ he said, handing the paper to Frances. ‘I am sure the minx will be found, most probably in police custody, or a — a place I decline to mention.’

Frances took her departure and hurried to the chemist shop, where she was fortunate to encounter Tom as he was leaving with a knapsack full of deliveries. ‘Good afternoon, Tom,’ she said. ‘My word, you are looking very smart today!’ It had always been something of an effort for Sarah to keep Tom clean and tidy, something Mr Jacobs appeared to have achieved almost in an instant.

Tom grinned and puffed out his chest. ‘Afternoon, Miss,’ he said, with a salute. ‘Togged out to the nines, ain’t I? A real tip-topper!’ He was wearing a suit of dark blue cloth, with a neat jacket edged in braid and the words ‘Cyril Jacobs, chemist, Westbourne Grove’ embroidered on the collar, and the same legend around the band of his peaked cap, which made him, thought Frances, into a kind of perambulating advertisement. The jacket sported shiny gilt buttons of which he was obviously very proud, as he inspected them and rubbed them with a sleeve as if they were in danger of losing their brightness if not given special attention. Her father, she thought, would never have thought of such a thing, or countenanced the expense if he had.

‘I have a commission for you,’ said Frances, ‘if you are able to take it. I can pay you sixpence, and Sarah will make a jam tart.’

‘Mmmm!’ he said, licking his lips as if already tasting the treat. Frances showed him the portrait. ‘This is Matilda Springett, who is the maid at the Bayswater Academy for the Education of Young Ladies on Chepstow Road and has not been seen since eight o’clock last night,’ she said. ‘If you should see her, don’t speak to her or you may frighten her away, but come to me at once and tell me where she is. Her mother lives in Salem Gardens, so if she goes there let me know. In any case, once your work is done for the day, come and tell me anything you have learned about her.’

‘I will,’ he said, ‘ ’n tell Sarah to make it raspberry jam, ‘cos that’s the best!’

Frances next determined to interview Mr Paskall, whose office was on Westbourne Grove, not far from Mr Whiteley’s row of fashionable shops. There was a brass plate at the door, a little scratched by insistent shoulders, but buffed to a presentable shine and engraved with the words ‘Bartholomew Paskall & Son, Property Agents, Management and Insurance.’ She ascended a steep narrow stair to the upper floor, where a trim young clerk sat in the outer office trying to look important. Above his desk, and the most impressive thing that anyone would see on entering the room, was a large framed portrait of Bartholomew Paskall, striking a pose that would not have looked inappropriate on a Roman emperor, with bright blue eyes staring down imperiously from under bushy brows, his nose a disagreeably large hook. It was hard to imagine him as Chas and Barstie had described him in his youth, an inky-fingered schoolboy cheeking his masters and cutting class.

‘My name is Frances Doughty,’ she told the clerk. ‘I would like to see Mr Paskall.’

‘Mr Paskall senior is not in the office at present,’ said the clerk. ‘I am not expecting to see him today. Have you come about a property? I could see if Mr Paskall junior is available.’

Frances was giving some thought to this, as she was unsure if Paskall junior would be able to help, when the door to the inner office opened and a young man emerged, a similar yet rather less forbidding version of his father. ‘Bennett,’ he said, handing a large bundle of correspondence to the clerk, ‘could you see these letters are put in the post immediately – they must be delivered today.’

‘Yes, Mr Paskall,’ said the clerk, ‘and there is a Miss Doughty here —’

Young Paskall’s eyes opened wide. ‘Not the famous Miss Frances Doughty!’ he exclaimed.

‘Well, I’m not so sure about being famous …’ said Frances awkwardly.

‘Oh, but I beg to differ! This is quite an honour. I expect it’s my father you want to see, but come into the office and I’ll see if I can be of any help. Bennett – please note that in future this lady is
always
to be admitted.’

Frances was ushered into a room that succeeded in being both large and cluttered, as if twenty different tasks were all being carried out at once and jostling each other for precedence. ‘Do take a seat,’ said her host eagerly. ‘May I offer you any refreshment?’

‘Thank you, no,’ said Frances, sitting in a creakily overstuffed leather chair, while young Paskall, pushing a wing of long hair from his forehead, took a seat behind the desk, which was covered in folders stuffed with papers, some of them open, their contents cascading out in such disarray that there was the danger of an unintentional exchange of material. On either side of the room were long tables stacked high with similarly overfull folders, tied up with string. The walls were lined with shelves of law books, some of them of such antiquity that they were thick with dust. Pens, pencils, loose papers that seemed to belong to nothing at all, and bottles of ink were abundant, and there was a litter of printed advertising notices. Frances picked one up. It was describing a property to let and was the product of a local printer. Although it was not a quality item, the paper and print were good enough. Mrs Venn had suggested that the mysterious pamphlet had been a cheap production. Had she merely been expressing an opinion based on its disreputable contents or had this been an accurate description of the work of a less competent printer?

‘I read about your exploits in the
Bayswater Chronicle
,’ said Paskall, with an admiring look.

‘It was very much exaggerated,’ said Frances, modestly.

‘Sensational if only half of it was true, and now I understand that father has engaged you in some detective work regarding that strange matter at the school.’

‘Yes, I was hoping to ask him if he might have visited the school on either Tuesday or Wednesday, when we think the pamphlets were put there, and if so, whether he saw anything that could be important.’

‘Hmm – let me see if I can help you.’ Paskall picked up a large leather-bound book, which Frances assumed was an appointment diary, and studied it. ‘Ah yes, Tuesday – he met with clients in the morning and was here in the afternoon, then he was at the Conservative club in the evening. On Wednesday he was in the office all day. So – nothing at the school by prior arrangement. In any case, I believe Mr Fiske is the man who deals with all matters relating to the school. Father is rarely there.’

‘Have you ever been there?’

‘No, I have no involvement with the school at all. Father might bring me in as a governor if his parliamentary duties become too arduous – you know, don’t you, that he is a prospective Conservative candidate for Marylebone?’

‘So I understand.’

‘In fact, it is father’s belief that this whole pamphlet business is a plot by his political enemies.’

‘Really?’ said Frances. ‘But the pamphlets were found two days ago. These enemies have been very quiet since. In fact they have failed to make any capital out of it.’

Paskall was silent for a moment then nodded. ‘An excellent observation.’

‘Do you have an opinion as to the culprit?’

‘I’m afraid not. But if, as you believe, there is no political motive, it must surely be a quite trivial affair.’

Frances decided to say nothing about the twenty sovereigns which suggested otherwise. ‘That may be the case, but since I began my enquiries the maidservant at the school has run away. Either she was responsible or she is afraid that she will be blamed, but there must naturally be concerns about her safety.’

‘Of course,’ he said, solemnly. ‘Is she a young person?’

‘She is.’

‘Then we must hope that nothing scandalous is involved. Have you been engaged to find her?’

‘Not explicitly, but I hope that if I do she will admit that she was the agent of the person who wished the pamphlets to be put in the school, and give me a name. I am sure that with kind questioning she will tell me the truth.’ Frances was not in fact confident of this, but thought that a combination of gentle persuasion with Sarah’s strong and inflexible presence behind her might be just what was needed.