Death in Bayswater Read online

  There was another knock at the door and Frances, hoping it was not the press again, looked out of the window and was pleased to see that her caller was Mr Loveridge. He had been hurrying, and arrived a little breathless.

  ‘I came to tell you Miss Doughty, that there was a great crush outside the offices of the Chronicle. Unfortunately I arrived there too late to see a great deal of what was occurring as the police had been called out to clear away the crowds who were blocking traffic on the Grove. I was able to make only a very rough sketch. But someone mentioned your name, and that you were intending to solve the murders. Is that true?’ To his credit he was anxious rather than excited.

  ‘It is not true,’ Frances reassured him. ‘It is all an alarm produced by an unwise announcement in the press.’

  Loveridge sat down with an expression of profound relief, then glancing about him with an artist’s eye said, ‘Oh what remarkable cushions! They must be new.’

  ‘They were being cleaned when you were last here,’ said Frances, quickly. ‘But if you are looking for a subject for the newspapers might I suggest you make a drawing of Mr Candy? He is promoting a new enterprise to protect the ladies of Bayswater from the creature that menaces us.’

  Mr Candy readily assented and made much of determining which his best side might be for the portrait, although from what anyone else could see he did not seem to have one.

  Frances had had another idea to assist Mr Loveridge in his career. Once Mr Candy and the lady suffragists had departed about their business she produced her copy of the Bayswater directory and together they studied the lists of notable residents, while Frances, from her personal knowledge, was able to advise of any individuals who might recently have announced a betrothal or an addition to the family circle, and might therefore be persuaded to have such an important event recorded in a drawing. One name did stand out, that of the Outrams. With some hesitation Frances mentioned the recent wedding and her concerns and he saw at once how his observations might prove useful to her and promised he would seek an interview. Frances thought with some pleasure that her little band of helpers, friends and associates – who could multiply her efforts and go to places where she would not be admitted – was growing, and Mr Loveridge would make a very welcome addition.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Frances decided to carefully assemble all the information in her possession concerning the three recent murders, reminding herself as she did so that her purpose was not to identify the murderer but to compare the three crimes to see whether it was really possible that the same person could have perpetrated all three. Her client was Jim Price, and she did not, could not and must not act for the families of Annie Faydon and Eliza Kearney. Somewhere in the maze of information there was an answer, and her best guide was Sarah, who, when Frances felt overwhelmed by facts, often saw the clearest way.

  Assembling a platter of bread, cheese and pickles for a simple luncheon, Frances and Sarah sat at the table, on which they placed all the newspapers and notebooks relating to the murders, and with a large clean sheet of paper and a set of pencils, wrote down what they knew. All three victims were respectable and good-looking females of similar age, between twenty and twenty-five. But was that merely chance or the murderer’s choice? After much cogitation a large question mark was added to the paper. The women had all been killed with a knife after dark, on a weekday and within a few minutes’ walk of their homes. None had enemies that anyone knew of. That was where the resemblance ended.

  The face-to-face attack and the many stab wounds that had pierced the chest and abdomen of Martha Miller suggested a personal motive, a frenzy of anger that had evaporated once her lifeless body had slid to the ground. The killer of the other two victims had not, as far as was known, faced them at all, but had simply come up quietly from behind and dispatched them in one stroke with swift cold deliberation. Frances would not in the normal way have wanted to see the wounds that were then made to the faces of the dead girls, but thought that if she did, she might learn something about the man who had inflicted them. Had he been angry or calm as he carried out his evil work? Was there an order to the cuts – a pattern even – had he carved letters that could give a clue to his identity or motives – or had they been simply random slashes? Frustratingly, no one would say.

  The locations of the crimes were also very different in nature. Martha’s murder, even though shielded by night and the shadows of a shop doorway, was in a place fraught with the danger of discovery since it was on a main thoroughfare. The other two girls had been killed in secluded and quiet areas. This inevitably led to the conclusion that Martha had been killed for some reason that was peculiar to her, and the place itself was unimportant. The other two girls had been slain because they had been somewhere quiet where the killer was unlikely to be disturbed and from where he could make a swift escape. This suggested that any other young woman, had she been there instead, would have fallen victim to the knife.

  Thus far, everyone who had considered the three murders was certain that the second two were perpetrated by the same person, and that that person had not killed Martha Miller. Frances, who was also of that opinion even after going through the facts again, wondered if it was possible to look at the killings in a different way.

  ‘Let us start by supposing it was the same man who killed all three women. Can the facts support this idea?’

  ‘Might do,’ observed Sarah after some thought. ‘The man who killed the last two had done it before. The man who stabbed Martha – that might have been his first. Doesn’t mean it was different men, though.’

  ‘That is very true.’ Frances tried to envisage a man who was simply looking for a victim to satisfy his blood lust. Inexperienced in murder, he would have made some mistakes when he killed Martha, mistakes that he did not want to repeat. When he approached her from the front, Martha might have panicked and struggled, and he would have had difficulty in preventing her from crying out. The marks of his fingers on her face were proof of that. Perhaps he had intended to cut her face but was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps or a carriage. Although no one had seen the murderer leave the scene of the crime, he might well have had a narrow escape. Had he learned from this experience and chosen places for his next murders where he was less likely to be interrupted? Did he determine that when the passion came on him again, he would choose another approach, this time taking the victim from behind, making it easier to kill in silence?

  Sarah left Frances to ruminate on their discussion and went to tackle one of her own cases. A lady in the twilight of her life, who deserved after many years of honest labour to enjoy a measure of comfort in the care of her loving family, had been complaining that some of her property was disappearing. Her son and his wife, who shared her home, had tried to persuade her that it was the failing memory of old age that was responsible and that she must have lost or sold the items herself long ago. Sarah was about to interview the lady and her family, but with the apprehension that it would end unhappily for them all.

  Despite her earlier scepticism, Frances now found herself entertaining the real possibility that the three murders were all the work of one person. Although she was still far from convinced, the new theory gave her fresh confidence with which to promote Jim Price’s case. She was just committing her thoughts to paper when the maid announced two visitors. To Frances’ great surprise they were Inspector Swanson and Sergeant Brown.

  Inspector Swanson was a hearty-looking man in his thirties, with eyes that stared keenly from under hooded lids, and a prominent brush of a moustache overhung by a long thrusting nose. He arrived with the bold stride of an active and busy investigator. Frances had not seen Wilfred Brown in almost two years. Life on a police constable’s beat was a hard one, with long hours spent walking in all weathers, and despite his youth, Wilfred had often looked worn and tired. As Detective Sergeant Brown, although with the air of man who had much to do, he was obviously content and confident in his new position, his complexion fr
esh and healthy, his moustache glossy and well groomed. He was nicely suited as a plain-clothes detective, and the watch chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket was draped over a stomach that had become generously rounded.

  The two men shook hands with Frances, who asked after Mrs Brown and the family, to be told that she was in the pink of health and anticipating another addition to her domestic happiness.

  ‘It is an honour to meet you Miss Doughty!’ said Swanson, in a light lilting Scottish accent. ‘Your fame has reached Scotland Yard and further, too. It seems you have the mind of a detective! The stories I have heard of you are so remarkable that I wouldn’t have credited them as true unless I had heard all about you from Sergeant Brown.’

  ‘All of it is true, and more, according to Inspector Sharrock!’ said Wilfred with a grin. Frances invited them to sit, and offered refreshments, which they politely declined. ‘Thank you, but we have been making enquiries all over Bayswater and have drunk more tea in two days than I would have thought possible.’

  Swanson, with an expression of regret, pulled a copy of the Chronicle from his pocket and held it up to Frances. ‘I am sorry to say that I am obliged to speak to you about this. Have you really been asked to advise the police? If so, neither we nor Inspector Sharrock know anything about it. There have been people coming to Paddington Green police station asking to see you, and expecting to find that you have an office there.’

  ‘That is none of my doing, I assure you,’ said Frances, making it very plain from her voice and expression that she did not approve of Mr Ibbitson’s efforts. She was only thankful that Swanson had not got hold of the Miss Dauntless stories. ‘It is the work of an enthusiastic but misguided young newsman hoping to increase sales, nothing more, and there is not a word of truth in it. Please take no notice. If clients wish to consult me they know where to come.’

  ‘This whole article has set Bayswater on its heels, that’s for sure,’ said Wilfred. ‘All this talk of knife-wielding maniacs. Come this evening it will be in The Standard, and tomorrow The Times, The Telegraph and The Post. Only add the Illustrated Police News and the Pall Mall Gazette and your name will be on the lips of every Londoner.’

  Frances spoke calmly and with great dignity. ‘And a week later every one of those papers will be kindling. The sooner the better. I know that people should take care of their own safety and need to be warned of danger, but it doesn’t do to frighten them with stories of monsters. I have had a very strong word with the young man concerned and I trust he will be more careful in future.’

  Swanson pushed the newspaper back into his pocket. ‘I realise that Inspector Sharrock has already said this to you, but you must be advised that certain work is necessarily reserved for men. Irrespective of what stories the newspapers might like to make up, I hope you are not thinking of going about trying to catch murderers on your own, that is far too dangerous, especially in such a case as this.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so. My only commission has been to discover the witness who could provide an alibi for Mr Price, and this I have done. The man is deceased but I have uncovered enough information about his movements to show that Jim Price was in Richmond Road at the time of the murder of Martha Miller. All the facts are in the hands of Inspector Sharrock and Mr Rawsthorne the Price family’s solicitor.’ Frances expressed more confidence than she felt, since the times were not exact and the two locations very close. ‘Is there any news about this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Swanson, ‘and I doubt that there will be. As far as I am aware Mr Price is due to hang next Monday week.’

  Frances glanced at Sergeant Brown but he was nodding in agreement. Both, she thought, in common with all the police, assumed that Jim Price was guilty and did not give any serious consideration to the possibility of saving him. ‘I am very sorry to hear it, since I believe him to be innocent. I have been looking at the facts, which I may easily do from the safety of my own parlour, and it is my opinion that the murderer of Martha Miller is the same person responsible for the murders of Annie Faydon and Eliza Kearney.’ Her assured tone was designed to get the attention of the two policemen and in this she undoubtedly succeeded.

  Swanson and Brown looked at each other. ‘Miss Doughty,’ began Swanson, awkwardly, ‘I don’t know how much you know about these murders, and I wouldn’t want to go into the details with you, but I can assure you that from what is known of the last two they cannot have been committed by the murderer of Martha Miller.’

  She faced him boldly. ‘I probably know more than you think. Inspector Sharrock has been very open with me.’

  They glanced at each other again, and Wilfred could not resist another grin.

  Before either man could say more, Frances explained her theory that after the first murder the killer had realised that his mistakes had almost led to him being caught, and he had then changed his methods, giving rise to the false impression that there were two murderers involved instead of one. Her visitors listened politely, but looked sceptical. ‘He probably intended to leave his calling card – I refer to the pattern of wounds on the faces – on the first occasion, but he just didn’t have the opportunity.’

  ‘But these injuries to the girls’ faces, they –’ began Wilfred.

  ‘Are not something we discuss with members of the public, however well informed, even if they happen to be celebrated detectives,’ interrupted Swanson sternly.

  Frances tried not to look disappointed and Wilfred, realising that he had very nearly been duped into giving away a secret, shook his head. ‘You nearly had me there, Miss Doughty! What did I say, Inspector? This lady can get information out of a bank vault.’

  ‘I understand that you must do what you can for your client, however hopeless his case,’ said Swanson, ‘nevertheless Jim Price is not the reason we are here. We would like to be informed at once if you or any of your agents should see the man who is our main suspect in the Faydon and Kearney murders.’ He showed Frances the picture of the Filleter created by Mr Loveridge. ‘There have been other men whose names have been put forward, but so far all have been cleared of suspicion. This man is known to carry a sharp knife and to exist almost wholly on the wrong side of the law. If you or any of Tom Smith’s boys should chance to see him, do not approach, but make a note of the time and the place, what he is doing and who he is with, then tell the nearest policeman.’

  ‘We have decided not to post a notice to the public with his picture since he is at present only someone we wish to interview, and if he sees he is wanted he will take flight,’ added Wilfred. ‘Also we don’t want members of the public trying to arrest him or we will have more murders done.’

  ‘I will do whatever I can,’ Frances promised. ‘Whether or not he has committed those murders I think the world will be a safer place when he is in custody.’

  With this settled the policemen left to continue their enquiries, but not before Swanson had emphasised that Frances was to take very great care, and Wilfred had complimented her on her recent successes.

  Frances was completing her memorandum when a note arrived asking her to attend Paddington Green police station at once, and she took a cab. It was rare for her to receive such a summons and it usually involved identifying a suspect. All the way there she hoped that Inspector Sharrock had got the Filleter in the cells at last.

  Sharrock met her with a scowl. ‘I have a gentleman here being questioned who says you can supply him with an alibi for the night of Annie Faydon’s murder. I have met him once before, and if he is a close friend of yours I suggest you choose them better in future. His name is Cedric Garton. Very suspicious type if you ask me.’

  Frances was astonished. ‘Mr Garton is a friend of mine, and I am not ashamed to say so. He may be a little unorthodox in some of his ways but he is a true gentleman who enjoys my complete trust, and would never even think of injuring a woman.’ She examined her pocket diary. ‘Yes, on the night of Annie Faydon’s murder Miss Smith, Professor Pounder and I were enjoying a ligh
t supper and poetry reading at Mr Garton’s apartment. The supper was served by his manservant, Joseph. Some friends of his were there, too, notably a Mr Wilde, a most respectable young gentleman and I am sure he would be happy to confirm what I have told you.’

  Sharrock was disappointed but it was the reaction of a man who had been clutching at a particularly slender straw and was not, therefore, surprised to see it break. ‘Humph! No that won’t be necessary, I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why you would suspect Mr Garton of committing murder,’ said Frances severely.

  ‘No? Well someone is killing women, and Mr Garton has been pointed out to me as a man who dislikes women.’

  ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. He has many lady friends, who are all very fond of him. He is good company and courteous to a fault.’

  Sharrock signalled to a constable who went to fetch Cedric from the interview room. Moments later Cedric appeared, elegant as ever in a fur-collared coat with a fresh hothouse flower in his buttonhole, carrying a walking cane and calfskin gloves. ‘My dear Inspector, I am happy to find that sanity has prevailed at last. Miss Doughty you are an angel come to my rescue,’ he took her fingers and placed a kiss a mere whisper away from the back of her hand. ‘I am so sorry to have given you this trouble, but when the Inspector arrived to conduct me here he would not take my man’s word, although Joseph would have been of little use in any case, as he has been in a perfect state over a poached trout all morning.’

  ‘You can go,’ said Sharrock, brusquely, ‘but don’t give me cause to see you again. I don’t want you getting up to any – any –’ he waved his arms about vaguely, ‘anything.’

  ‘As if I would,’ exclaimed Cedric looking very shocked.

  ‘Please leave now before I think of another reason to arrest you,’ said Sharrock gruffly.