The Poisonous Seed (26 page)

‘Yes Miss?’ he said, staring straight ahead.

‘I am Frances Doughty. I have an appointment to see Mrs Keane.’ She tendered the note.

‘Please come in, you are expected.’

He ushered her in. The air was scented with best-quality beeswax polish. So this was the hallway where Percival and Henrietta Garton had entered the house for their last meal together. Frances noted the elegant paper decorated with tasteful designs of tiny beribboned flowers, the gilded glass lamps, a small table covered in trinkets which seemed to have no purpose other than to demonstrate to the world that the owner could afford such things. There was an oil painting on the wall, framed in ornately carved and gilded wood, of a young couple in a classical garden. They wore almost Grecian garments consisting of filmy draperies so voluminous as to be entirely decent. The man looked like a stalwart warrior, tall and handsome with generous whiskers, but seemed to be paying more attention to some imaginary mirror than he was to the bovine lady who stood by his side, gazing at him in adoration, her flowing robes failing to disguise a figure of ample proportions. Beside them were two impossibly cherubic children. Frances had no difficulty in recognising Mr and Mrs Keane portrayed in a less unhappy time. She noticed in passing a slight alteration in the colouring of a rectangle of wallpaper, as if another picture had once hung in the hallway and been too recently removed to be replaced.

Frances suddenly saw herself as a player acting a part. Just as a play is performed many times, so she was now assuming the role of Henrietta Garton arriving with her husband to dine with the Keanes. She tried to imagine the circumstances of that evening. It would not have been Adam in the hallway to greet them that day, but most probably Mr Harvey, and the missing picture, almost certainly the drawing by Meadows that had been ordered for destruction, would have been there.

Adam did not offer to take her coat, and she understood by this that she was not expected to stay longer than the few minutes appropriate to a call. On the night of Percival Garton’s death, however, it would have been different, and she saw a tall cupboard further down the hallway where the cloaks would have been put away for the evening.

‘Mrs Keane will see you in the drawing room, Miss,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

The drawing room, thought Frances, the place where the Keanes and the Gartons had retired on the fatal night to take small digestive drinks and treats after dinner. The room was, as she expected, a model of every kind of comfort. There was a well-tended fire, piled with as much coal as she might have expected to burn in a week, deep carpets, hangings of oriental silk, handsome furniture, and brightly polished lamps. Frances had supposed she might find Mrs Keane seated in the semi-darkness appropriate to her grief, but the room blazed with light, as if the most elegant guests were any minute expected, and the mistress of the house was arranged on a deeply upholstered sofa, her expression giving every appearance of satisfaction. A small table by her side bore a silver tray with a plate of small cakes, dishes of sweetmeats, and a decanter of sherry. As Frances entered, Mary Keane indicated an armchair with a languid sweep of her hand. ‘My dear Miss Doughty, it is a very great pleasure to meet you,’ she said, in that superbly rich voice, no less dramatic for being softly expressed. ‘Will you take some refreshment?’

Frances, still aware of her role, asked for some aerated water, the same item Percival Garton had consumed in that very room on the night of his death. It was not a beverage she normally favoured, but Adam brought her a glass of sparkling liquid with an aroma of lemons, and she was pleasantly surprised by its flavour.

‘Do not leave us, Adam,’ commanded Mrs Keane. ‘Stay by my side in case I require anything.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’ He took up his post by the side of the sofa, his face without any trace of expression.

‘Adam has not been with the household long, at least, not in his present capacity, but I think you will agree that he is an ornament to any room he inhabits,’ said Mrs Keane, admiringly.

‘Indeed,’ said Frances, politely.

Mrs Keane sipped a glass of sherry, and let her fingers hover greedily over the dishes of sweet delicacies, sighing in an agony of indecision. Frances felt sure that the entire contents of the tray would have been consumed by the end of the day. The fingers plunged, and plucked a morsel, which was popped whole into the lady’s mouth. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘And now, Miss Doughty, what can I do for you?’

‘I hope you don’t think it impertinent,’ said Frances, ‘but I have come here to make an appeal to you.’

‘Oh?’

‘We are both in a similar position, and therefore I think we understand each other.’

Mrs Keane gave a faint frown of perplexity. ‘Similar? I am not sure to what you can be referring.’

This, thought Frances, was going to be even more difficult than she had supposed. At the risk of giving pain to her hostess she would have to speak more plainly. ‘We have both suffered tragic occurrences in our families. We are both – I am sorry to have to say it in this blunt way – looked upon by society not as we were before.’

‘That is certainly true,’ Mrs Keane conceded, a touch unwillingly. ‘And I was very sorry indeed to hear of your father’s sad demise. Take comfort, my dear Miss Doughty. At least the breath of suspicion cannot touch him now.’

‘He is past all care in this world, but those who remain still suffer,’ said Frances earnestly. ‘It is being rumoured that he – I can hardly say the words – that he took his own life. It is still widely believed that he made a mistake which poisoned Mr Garton!’

Mrs Keane sipped her sherry. The glass was empty and Adam stepped forward and poured another. ‘I still do not see in what way I may assist you,’ she said, calmly.

Frances, wondering now if the lady was deliberately not seeing her meaning, realised that she must be blunter still, and pressed on. ‘Mrs Keane, I am aware of how cruelly your husband treated you, how he coerced you into saying what you did at the inquest. No one, and that includes myself, can possibly blame you for what you did. But now that he is in custody and the world knows his faults, it would surely do no harm to retract what you said.’

Mrs Keane sat back with her glass. ‘That I shall never do,’ she said.

‘You need have no fear,’ Frances reassured her. ‘You can be in no danger of prosecution. The police know you were under your husband’s control.’

Another sip of sherry. The lady pursed her lips and smiled in a way that was not entirely pleasant. ‘Supposing I was to tell you that every word of my evidence was true?’

For a moment Frances shivered with horror, then, on a thought, she recovered. ‘It was not true, you know it was not,’ she said quietly. There was silence. Frances, little used as she was to mixing with the upper echelons of Bayswater society, still realised that to come to a lady’s house by invitation and then accuse her of telling lies in court was not the most acceptable behaviour. She fully expected to be instantly, although politely, ejected.

Instead, Mrs Keane gave a little laugh. ‘Of course, you are right,’ she said. ‘My evidence was a lie from beginning to end. I was never in Westbourne Grove that day, and I have
certainly
never entered your shop.’

‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Frances with intense relief. ‘And it was your husband who made you say what you did?’

‘It was. There are private reasons I cannot discuss here. Suffice it to say that just as you have come to me from a wholly commendable loyalty to your father, so I acted as I did from similar feelings. My husband played upon those feelings in a most unwarranted manner. He left me with no alternative.’

‘If you explain as much to the coroner, I know he will understand,’ said Frances eagerly.

Mrs Keane took a little cake from the selection before her. ‘I have no intention of doing so.’

Frances felt her heart sink. ‘I beg you – for the sake of my father’s good name!’

‘I am sorry for you, I am indeed, but what you ask is quite impossible. Even where he now lies my husband still has power over me and my father. He has not yet appeared in court. He is innocent in law and will remain so until such time as a jury says otherwise. Given the complexity of his crimes, that could be many months in the future. And if he employs a clever man, he may be acquitted. I cannot help you, Miss Doughty. And since you will be blunt, I must be so too. The consideration of my living father must take precedence over yours who is deceased.’

In the midst of that refusal, Frances found one word to which she could cling. ‘You speak of crimes —’

‘Oh yes, there is no doubt that my husband is a villain of the deepest hue. I married him for the good I saw in him, and at one time I believed there to be a great deal. Today, I know there to be none. The world would say that he has many grievous faults, but I disagree. He has but one – he is living. Were he to die tomorrow, he would, in my estimation, be perfect.’ To Frances’ astonishment, Mary Keane threw back her head and laughed out loud.

‘Do you know of any other crimes he has committed?’ asked Frances, as Mrs Keane partook of another sip of sherry. The awful feeling was growing that the lady of the house was more than a little intoxicated, and may have been so before the interview had commenced, the cruelty of her husband having driven her to this sad solace.

‘No, though I would not be surprised to hear that there were many before I met him. I was so young then,’ she went on, wistfully, ‘younger than you are now, I suspect, just eighteen. It was in the spring or summer of 1869. I was out walking with my cousin Lydia. He was quite the handsomest man I had ever seen. A tiny flower fell from my hat, just in his path. I say ‘fell’; it may have had a little assistance. He was gallant enough to restore it to me, and spoke to us very respectfully. I learned that it was his habit to refresh himself with a walk in that neighbourhood, and it was not hard to contrive to meet him again. I went out as often as I could in the hope that I would encounter him, and, before long, we met by appointment. Soon, a confidence arose between us. My father opposed the match since James had no fortune and was a mere clerk in a bank. Indeed, he once confessed to me that he was the son of a baker from Bootle. I remember being very glad my father did not hear of
that
. But I was in love, Miss Doughty; do you understand what that means?’

‘I am afraid I do not,’ Frances confessed.

‘It is like a pain!’ exclaimed Mrs Keane. She clutched a hand to her enormous bosom, her eyes opening wide and seeming almost to start out of her head. ‘A pain in the heart that you think will never leave you unless you possess and are possessed by the thing you love. He could have told me anything – that he had ten other wives – that he was a juggler in the circus – I would not have cared. He did once, in an unguarded moment, reveal that James Keane was not his real name, but as soon as the words fell from his lips he regretted them. He said he wished he had never spoken of it, and begged me to entirely forget what he had said, and of course …,’ she paused dramatically, ‘I did.’

Frances felt a great flood of excitement. If she could discover another identity and perhaps a criminal past for Keane, might that not direct the police to make further investigations? ‘Did you ever learn his real name?’ she asked.

‘No, never.’

‘Or what he did before he came to London?’

‘He was a bank clerk before.’

Frances paused. She hardly dared go on, but she knew she must. ‘Mrs Keane, you have said that you believe your husband to be capable of any villainy?

‘I think he is.’

‘Even capital crimes?’

Mrs Keane frowned. ‘I am not sure I understand. What crimes are these?’

Frances plunged on recklessly. ‘Do you think it is possible that he could have been responsible for the death of Mr Garton?’

Again that disturbing, almost maniacal laugh. ‘My word, no! James is not an emotional man, but he admired Garton and was most distraught at his death.’

Frances was unconvinced. ‘What was
your
opinion of Mr Garton?’

‘Oh, he was a man of great personal presence, handsome, of course, with the most captivating smile, he reminded me of how James had been in his youth – but I am done with all that, superficial charm cannot move me now; an honest worthy man is what I admire.’ Her eyes swivelled to look at Adam, who had the decency to blush. ‘Another sherry, Adam.’

Frances decided to take her leave before she witnessed anything more. She rose. ‘I am afraid I must return home, now,’ she said. ‘But if anything should occur in the future which causes you to change your mind about retracting your evidence …’

‘Those are circumstances I do not wish to contemplate. You understand of course that if you were to speak of this conversation to another person I will deny that it ever took place.’ Frances glanced at Adam, whose face was stony. ‘Adam hears or does not hear what he is told to. See Miss Doughty to the door. I wish you good-day.’ As Frances left the room she saw Mary Keane sink back onto the sofa, clutching her sherry with a smile of satisfaction.

As Sunday dawned, Frances found it hard to believe that so much had happened in a week. On the previous Sunday, her morning had chiefly been engaged in getting her father ready for church, and now his coffined body lay cold in his room. A week ago, she realised, her absolute certainty that he was free from blame in Percival Garton’s death had been a matter more of faith than absolute proof. Now, she was certain that she was right, but still a very long way from convincing anyone else. Once breakfast was done – bread, marmalade and tea – she devoted her time to helping Sarah get the shop ready for opening the next day, and the arrival of the new man, Mr Jacobs, who she had been assured was well qualified and industrious. There were floors to be mopped, the stove to be cleaned and prepared for lighting, counters polished, and glassware dusted. Everything had to gleam, everything had to appear most beautifully like a repository of all that was healthful and healing and good. With that done and the laundry sorted, it was time to dress for church. Sarah, now no longer required to spend her Sunday morning cooking a hot dinner for the family’s return, was able to accompany Frances and Herbert, as was a sulkily unwilling Tom.