Death in Bayswater Read online

  Stanley Miller, Martha’s brother, had agreed to speak to Frances on behalf of the family. He was short, square, and about twenty-five, clean and tidy, with hands that looked as though they did hard work. Frances, having spoken to the recently bereaved Mrs Gundry, still shocked but keeping busy with the necessary arrangements, was now faced with someone who had been consumed by the fire of grief and in whom it still burned. There was a dark bleak look in his eyes, which were an open window to the pain within.

  ‘I am very grateful that you have agreed to speak to me,’ Frances began. ‘I assume that Mr Rawsthorne has told you of the reason for my enquiries?’

  ‘He has, yes. Not that hanging Jim will bring Martha back. If it did I would gladly let him swing. She was a kind, gentle girl, the very best. She deserved a good man and a good home, and every happiness in life.’

  ‘I understand that your family is of the opinion that Jim is innocent of the charge?’

  He stared at the table. ‘We’ve all got our opinions,’ he muttered.

  ‘Please, share them with me.’ Frances poured a glass of water and he took it and gulped at it thirstily.

  ‘Well, I thought he might have done it. At the trial, all that stuff the lawyer said made me sure of it. Who else could it have been? Jim can get jealous sometimes, I know that. It was only afterwards, what with the other killings, that I thought maybe there was some madman doing all of this.’

  ‘Did you see Jim on the day your sister was killed?’

  ‘Yes, I work with him so I saw him that day. He asked me if Martha was sweet on another man. I said I didn’t know, but I didn’t think so. I haven’t ever seen her with anyone else. He said Jonas had told him he had, but he hoped it was a mistake.’

  ‘So when you gave evidence at the trial you thought Jim was guilty?’

  ‘Yes. The thing about Jim is that he was always very quiet. I know Martha liked that but it sometimes seemed to me that there was more going on in his head than he was letting on. That’s not right, is it?’ He didn’t appear to expect a reply to that question.

  ‘Was there anything you might have said at the trial but didn’t; or anything that has come to your mind since then that you would like to tell me?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Did your sister know Annie Faydon or Eliza Kearney?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think so. Are those the two women killed in the last weeks? I never heard of them before their names were in the papers.’

  ‘Did she ever say that she had been followed by anyone? Or seen something suspicious or that made her afraid?’

  ‘No. She would have said if she had.’

  ‘Was there anything at all happening in Martha’s life that might have led to her death? Was she in debt? Had she quarrelled with anyone? Was anyone jealous of her? Was there another admirer who she had spurned in favour of Jim Price?’

  ‘We all loved her. No one would think of harming her unless he was mad or wicked.’ He looked hurt and lost. ‘I want the person who did this to suffer. If it was Jim, then let him hang. If not, then you find out who it was, and let me alone with him for five minutes.’ He clenched his fists.

  Constable Stuckey was about thirty and therefore something of a veteran of the beat. He had the solid look of a man who knew his job and knew Bayswater and would be a very dependable and valuable sergeant one day but probably no more than that.

  ‘The Cooper’s Arms?’ he said, as Frances opened the questioning. ‘If you don’t mind my being blunt, it’s all thieves and tarts in there.’

  ‘Be as blunt as you please,’ Frances told him. ‘You were on duty on the day of Martha Miller’s murder, were you not? The day that Jim Price said he was in the Cooper’s Arms.’

  ‘I was, though I had no reason to go in.’

  ‘Did you go down Bott’s Mews?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About half past nine. Saw a man and a woman there up to no good if you know what I mean, and told them to clear off.’

  ‘Did you see Jim Price or Martha Miller that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know a Mr Gundry who lived nearby in Richmond Road? He died last night after suffering a fall.’

  ‘Yes, I remember him well. Little man, about fifty. Liked to complain about things. Noisy drunks on the street at night. Boys upsetting ash bins. I didn’t know he had died.’

  ‘Did you see him that night?’

  Stuckey gave this some thought. ‘I think I did. Must have been about nine. Not in Bott’s Mews. He walked past me as I was heading up Richmond Road and thanked me for chasing the street boys away.’

  ‘Was he sober?’

  ‘He was always sober.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘Now you mention it, yes. A basket of oranges. Don’t know where he took them.’

  ‘Did you see him again that night?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I did.’

  ‘Where were you at about ten o’clock? Were you near Bott’s Mews?’

  He thumbed through his notebook, and shook his head.

  Frances was now sure that with the evidence of the constable and Mrs and Miss Gundry she could piece together the events of that night, but whether it would be enough to save Jim Price she didn’t know.

  Jonas Strong was a short, thin, dark-haired youth with a narrow face, blotchy skin and a haunted expression. ‘I know everyone thinks Jim had a reason to do it, but I won’t ever believe it.’

  ‘How well did you know them both?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Martha used to do my mending for me after mother died a year ago. That was how I met Jim, when I took my shirts round to her.’

  ‘Did you ever see them quarrel?’

  ‘Not as such, no. I mean, all sweethearts have a falling out sometimes, don’t they?’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘I know he wasn’t happy if another man looked at her. But there was never anything in it.’

  ‘And this story you told him, that you had seen her with another man, what can you tell me about that?’

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘It was a mistake. I said so at the trial.’

  ‘But you must have been sure about it at the time, or you would never have said anything. You knew Jim could be jealous. Why say such a thing, something you knew could start a quarrel, if you weren’t sure of it?’

  He was silent.

  ‘If you really did see Martha with another man you should tell the police and give them a description. Perhaps he is her killer. You wouldn’t want to see Jim hanged for another man’s crime.’

  ‘I said, it was a mistake,’ he insisted stubbornly.

  ‘But you saw the woman afterwards? The one who looked like Martha? Who was she? Who was she with?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know everything. And I am beginning to find something very strange about this story you told Jim, as you are so reluctant to talk about it. I understand that you feel guilty about it, because it makes it seem that Jim murdered Martha out of jealousy. If there was another man, then you have no reason to protect him and every reason to try and save your friend.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t save him! No one can! I wish I’d never said it now. All along of a silly story and now Martha is dead and Jim about to die, and it’s all my fault!’ There were tears in his eyes and he wiped a sleeve across his face.

  ‘What do you mean by a silly story?’ asked Frances, with a sudden suspicion of where the truth lay.

  He sniffled. ‘There weren’t no other man. There never was!’

  ‘You never saw Martha with a man?’

  ‘No!’ he wailed.

  ‘In fact you never even saw a woman who looked like her with a man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You made it all up?’

  Jonas heaved a ragged sigh and nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just said it for a joke,’ h
e mumbled.

  ‘Then it wasn’t a very amusing one. Why would you joke about something like that?’

  He gave an uncomfortable wriggle. ‘It just came into my head.’

  ‘I have spoken to Jim and I cannot believe he laughed.’

  ‘I thought he would know I didn’t mean it serious. Martha would never go with another man. She was true to him, she always was,’ he added wistfully, and his lips trembled.

  And now Frances saw the whole story. ‘Would you have liked it if she had been untrue?’

  Fresh tears began to roll down his cheeks, and he made no attempt to blot them. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen like this! Honest, I didn’t!’

  ‘Only you wanted Martha for yourself and she wouldn’t have anything to do with you? And you knew she wouldn’t believe anything you said against Jim so you invented a story about her in the hope that he would stop seeing her?’

  Jonas blubbed.

  ‘Did you kill Martha? I have a very short list of suspects and your name is at the top.’

  ‘No! I was working late that night. Special order. I got three witnesses to prove it. Ask the police, they know. Didn’t even get out for a beer.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I’d do anything to take it all back.’

  Effie Price called on Frances in response to her note and eagerly wrung from her every detail of her interview with Mrs Gundry. Her mother, she reported, was feeling a little better now that Frances was helping them, and had gone to see Mrs Miller. ‘So you see, they don’t blame Jim, either,’ she said, plaintively.

  Frances decided not to mention Stanley Miller’s views, but reassured Effie that she would continue to press for her brother’s innocence to be established. Although she had found the missing witness, the case was not, in her mind, over, and would not be until she had secured the release of her client. Even if she failed, and he went before the higher judge, the one who saw everything and knew the ultimate truth, Frances felt sure that she would always be looking for the evidence that would give his family peace.

  Effie departed with new hope in her tired eyes, and said that she would tell everyone she knew what a clever and kind lady Miss Doughty was. She took one of Frances’ business cards, promising to show it to anyone who needed a good detective.

  At the end of a long day Frances and Sarah were discussing progress over mugs of hot cocoa when the maid came to the door. ‘A gentleman asking to see you, Miss,’ she said, cautiously.

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’ Frances was disinclined to see anyone else that day unless it was urgent.

  ‘No, Miss. He gave his name as Mr Loveridge.’ She proffered a card.

  ‘Ah,’ said Frances.

  Sarah tilted an eyebrow.

  ‘Please show him up.’

  Sarah’s eyebrow tilted a little more.

  ‘I have met the gentleman,’ Frances explained. ‘He is an artist who works for the newspapers. I am hoping he may be able to assist the police with sketches of suspects in the recent murders.’

  Sarah nodded but made no comment.

  Mr Loveridge arrived and Frances introduced him to Sarah, who gave him her usual suspicious glance, but his manners were so pleasant and open, that even her distrust began to mellow a little. ‘It is an extraordinary thing,’ he said ‘but the Paddington police, who were on the verge of arresting me before, have now asked me to create drawings for them of a man suspected in those dreadful murders. I have just called on two gentlemen, directors of the Bayswater Design and Advertising Company, who reported seeing a suspicious-looking man with a knife lurking about the Grove. I understand that they are friends of yours and they said that you also might have seen him. Not only that, but they have commissioned me to draw likenesses of them to hang in their office! This has been a very successful day, and,’ he paused and gave a shy smile, ‘I believe I know whom I have to thank.’

  ‘No recommendation would succeed unless the work was skilled,’ said Frances. She beckoned Sarah to fetch another mug and pour cocoa for their visitor. They sat around the table and Loveridge produced some pages from his portfolio case. Frances studied the drawings. The face that was before her could hardly be seen without a shudder, with its intense dark eyes and malevolent scowl. ‘Yes, that is he almost exactly, and you might also add rotting teeth. The hair is somewhat longer than in the drawing, unwashed and quite matted.’

  Loveridge produced a pencil and darkened the teeth exposed by the sneering lips, then smeared in a curtain of hair. ‘What an unpleasant-looking person.’

  ‘And there is a foul stench about him,’ Frances added. ‘One might almost imagine he rolls in dirt and other still worse things in order to keep people at a distance.’

  ‘That is a little harder to show in a portrait, however I will indicate it by giving him a more dishevelled appearance.’ He made a few more swift strokes of the pencil, and Frances had to admit that he had the likeness so well it could not be improved upon.

  He selected a clean sheet and began to draw again. Both Frances and Sarah could not resist a glance and as they watched, the parlour took shape on the paper; the comfortable glow of the fire, the easy chairs, and the little round table with its carafe of water and glasses and the silver case that held her business cards, a gift from her friend and near neighbour Cedric Garton on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday only a few weeks before. ‘There, I have abided by my promise not to sketch you, but I do hope you will permit me to do so one day.’ He handed the drawing to her. ‘A present.’

  Frances thanked him. ‘I shall have it framed and put on display.’

  ‘If you enjoy viewing art, some of my fellow students and I are preparing for an exhibition of our work next month. Would you like to come and see it?’

  ‘Yes, I would like that very much,’ she replied, but her expression must have revealed her inner anxiety, and thoughts about what that passage of time might bring.

  ‘Does that prospect make you sorrowful?’ he enquired, mystified.

  ‘No, it isn’t that, not at all, only every time I think even a few weeks ahead, all I can think of is the condemned man I am trying to help, and how little time he has. I wish I could do more for him.’

  Sarah grunted. ‘You’re doing more than anyone else is. Everyone but his family and you have given up.’

  ‘I wish you every success,’ said Loveridge. ‘From all I have heard, he is fortunate to have you working so hard for him.’ He gazed at Frances admiringly, and then suddenly remembered the reason for his visit, and rose to his feet. ‘I must take my leave of you now, as this sketch is required by the police. They will have it copied and circulated to all their constables and other stations too and I trust we will see this unpleasant fellow behind bars very soon.’

  When he had departed, Frances looked at Sarah, who was clearing away the mugs and the cocoa jug.

  ‘I know you would like to say something. So please say it. What do you think of Mr Loveridge?’

  Sarah gave the question careful thought, then she shrugged. ‘I don’t mind him.’ Frances was pleasantly surprised as, apart from Professor Pounder, who was a special case, it was the most praise Sarah had given any man.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sarah enjoyed reading about famous murder trials from history, an activity she always carried out with the kind of comfortable smile usually associated with the consumption of cake. She had recently taken to entertaining Frances with stories from a book entitled Tales of Old Newgate, a compilation of blood-curdling adventures, which proved if nothing else that the current criminals of Bayswater had achieved levels of refinement in their methods, if not their ambitions, which were previously unthought of. There was a time, not so very long in the past, Frances had learned, when convicted murderers were executed within days of their trial. John Bellingham, for example, had assassinated the prime minister in 1812 and, following a trial only four days after the crime, was hanged three days later. Frances thought it a breathlessly hasty proceeding, which had no doubt emerged from a need for swift rev
enge and also to discourage other disgruntled citizens from repeating the process until they got a prime minister they liked. Bellingham, however, was undoubtedly guilty, as he had been seen committing the act, and then remained at the scene waiting to be arrested. Granting him more time for a defence would not have assisted his case or changed the outcome.

  Judges of that era saw little point in delaying the inevitable. A criminal, they believed, required just a few days to repent and make his or her peace with God, and after that should be allowed to meet the Almighty without further unnecessary ado. But what, argued some reformers, if more evidence could be found to mitigate the case? What if granting more time enabled new witnesses to come forward and exonerate the condemned person? Was it not more humane to allow the prisoner’s representatives to exert themselves to that end, and the chaplain to perform his duties, or was it less so, promoting false hope and doing little more than give additional gloomy hours for the guilty to dwell upon the approach of a violent death? In recent years three Sundays had been allowed to elapse between sentence and execution and, for Jim Price – as Frances was very well aware, as she prayed for him in St Stephen’s church – this Sunday was the first one.

  Sunday afternoon was a time for reading and reflection. Frances reread all her notes, and the newspaper coverage of the trial, hoping to find something that could give another direction to her efforts, but without success. Meanwhile there were letters to write and papers to tidy. Sarah had made progress in the case of Mr Candy’s missing twenty pounds and needed only to trace one individual to question, although she felt sure she knew what the answers would be, and then she would unmask the culprit.

  Next morning Frances was scarcely out of bed and dressed when there was a loud and very insistent knocking at her front door accompanied by a commotion in the street. Fearing some dire emergency, she looked out of the window and saw a crowd of people, many of them waving newspapers, all of them very agitated, and a few of whom she recognised. They included Mr Candy, and Miss Gilbert and Miss John, leaders of the Bayswater Ladies Suffrage Society. A police constable approached the gathering and tried to calm them, but they only pressed around him in a circle, chattering with great vigour, so that it was impossible to make out what any one of them was saying.