A Case of Doubtful Death Page 13

  ‘If the business was simply broken up into assets,’ said Barstie, ‘any buyer would either have to convert the mortuary into something else, like a warehouse or a workshop, which most probably wouldn’t be worth their while, or knock it down and build houses. All that trouble and expense would bring the price down.’

  ‘What about the business as a going concern?’ asked Frances. ‘Would it find a buyer?’

  ‘Now that’s an interesting one,’ said Barstie, ‘because the new building around the cemetery has brought many potential customers into the area. I think if we were to see the accounts we might find that business is on the steady up and up. That being the case it might be quite valuable as it is, to the right person, if that person can be found.’

  ‘It’s finding the person that often doesn’t come cheap,’ said Chas. ‘Is it for sale?’ he asked, with a sideways glance.

  ‘Not at present,’ said Frances. ‘I just thought that with Dr Mackenzie’s death, the current owners might think of it.’

  ‘Now you have the inside view,’ said Barstie, smiling, ‘any little hints you feel free to pass on …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Frances, ‘and if you should hear of anything …?’

  ‘Our pleasure!’

  Frances was troubled. For reasons that she was honour bound not to divulge, she knew that Bonner and Warrinder were aware that the business was in danger of imminent collapse, and if they put it up for sale as a going concern, it might be sold to a person quite unaware of the bombshell that was about to explode. She could not decide what she would do if that situation arose.

  Early the following day, Frances returned to Dr Bonner’s house but was told that he was at the Life House, as was Mr Fairbrother. She decided that she might essay another visit and accordingly was soon knocking boldly on the door of the chapel. The door was answered by Mr Fairbrother who greeted her with some surprise but a very welcoming smile. Frances wondered if there was anything of significance in his eyes, but whatever the skill required to read such things it was one she clearly did not have.

  ‘Miss Doughty – is this to be a professional call in connection with Mr Palmer, or are you here for a viewing?’

  ‘I had not appreciated that there was a deceased person here to be viewed,’ said Frances. ‘It is a professional call.’ He stepped aside and she entered.

  There was one coffin laid out on a trestle and in it the body of a lady who had once been rather plump, but whose face was shrunken and fallen, grey and blotched. She was packed about with great swathes of fresh cut flowers, and there were candles burning on the little altar exuding a sickly scent, and a great deal of carbolic. Her jaw was bound in a white cloth, but not so tightly that she would be unable to speak supposing that there was any life remaining, which, as far as Frances could see, there was most decidedly not. As a result the jaw sagged open, revealing a dark cavern of a mouth from which a foetid odour was escaping.

  ‘It is not very pleasant, I am afraid,’ said Mr Fairbrother, ‘and unlike the undertaker we are not permitted to occlude any place where the natural functions of life may be apparent, neither are we to paint the face to make it appear as in life, as that might confuse matters.’

  ‘I think I knew this lady,’ said Frances. ‘She was the daughter of a milliner and had a very bad husband. How did she die?’

  ‘She fell down in a fit. I was told she was in love with her footman and lost her wits. Or some say that she lost her wits and only then did she fall in love with her footman.’

  Frances thought it had been a close run thing. ‘I was wondering how well you knew Dr Mackenzie,’ she said.

  ‘I worked under his supervision a number of times. I have only been in London a month and during that time I have mainly been studying with Dr Bonner.’

  ‘When did you last see Dr Mackenzie?’

  ‘Alive, you mean? The day before he died. I was here with Dr Bonner and he called in. I must say, he looked very unwell but it was not my place to say anything. Even in the short time I knew him I saw a decline in his energy. About a week before he died he arrived here having left his keys on his desk at home and was too exhausted to go back for them. I offered to order him a cab but he wouldn’t hear of it, so I sat him down and gave him some brandy.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor man. At least he took my advice and rested for two or three days before he returned.’

  ‘I regret that I never met him. Can you describe him to me?’

  ‘He was quite tall but walked with a slight stoop, of a moderate build, tending to thinness, and with grey hair and whiskers.’

  ‘Do you know where I might see a portrait of him?’

  ‘Yes, as it so happens there is one which Dr Bonner has had placed in a frame to be hung here in the chapel as a tribute. It is in the office now – I will fetch it.’

  Frances rather hoped that he might pass through the ward on his way to the office, affording her a glimpse of the interior, but he merely smiled as if he knew what she was thinking. He rapped three times on the connecting door, but did not open it, and left through the side door. The wheeled stretcher was in its usual place, but Frances leaned across it and gently tried the handle of the connecting door. It was locked. Fairbrother returned a minute later with the portrait.

  ‘They do not yet entrust you with keys?’ asked Frances.

  ‘No, I am not employed here permanently. I had to alert Dr Bonner to admit me by the main door just now. In any case, we never open the connecting door while there is a visitor in the chapel. Prying eyes, you know.’

  Frances studied the picture. It was of a man facing the camera, his head set well on his shoulders, his gaze even, and his eyes clear and untroubled. There were a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes but they were not unattractive, and she could imagine how he had smiled them into being. Mackenzie had a full luxuriant beard, moustache and side-whiskers. He looked very much like a man in his late forties, but she thought that he might appear younger if he was clean-shaven.

  ‘I believe it was taken a year ago,’ said Fairbrother. ‘Dr Mackenzie had become thinner of late, but this is a good likeness.’

  Frances felt sure that the shaving materials found in Mackenzie’s bag were items of such cheap manufacture that they could hardly have been intended as a gift. They must, therefore, have been for the doctor’s own use. It now seemed probable that on the evening of his death Mackenzie had been on his way to Aberdeen, intending to shave off his beard and moustache before he arrived as Mr Breck. There might have been money or a ticket in his bag, both of which could have been stolen, either by Palmer or, more probably, a thief who had attacked Palmer and taken the bag. Perhaps the thief had become alarmed at hearing the bag described in sermons all over Paddington and decided to dispose of it.

  ‘And now, if I may, I would like to speak with Dr Bonner.’

  ‘I have already mentioned that you are here – he said he would come and see you in a moment.’ He smiled. Frances smiled back. She hoped it was not a simper.

  Dr Bonner arrived before they ran out of conversation; he was walking with a pronounced limp and leaning on a stick. ‘My old affliction,’ he explained with a pained smile. ‘It is of no moment. What can I do for you, Miss Doughty?’

  ‘I have been speaking to the Kilburn police regarding Mr Crowe’s discovery of Dr Mackenzie’s travelling bag.’

  ‘Yes, extraordinary thing, that. I can’t imagine how it came to be where it was. I took a look at it, and it was undoubtedly his. You may come and see it if you like, before I dispose of it, but there is nothing of any interest in it I assure you.’

  ‘My understanding is that it contained only such items as a gentleman might carry if he was going to be from home for a night, but there was one thing I was told which engaged my curiosity.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Dr Mackenzie was carrying shaving materials, but as I can see from his picture it was not something he had employed for many years, if ever.’

  Dr Bonner paused as if the thought
had never occurred to him. ‘Do you know, Miss Doughty, you are right. Of course, if I am away I carry my shaving things as a matter of course and so did not think when I saw them in Mackenzie’s bag, but now that you mention it, it is very strange. A man might decide to shave his beard for many reasons, to look younger perhaps, or at the whim of a lady.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, maybe there was a lady in the case. He might have been going to see her. We shall never know now.’

  ‘Have you been contacted by a lady about Dr Mackenzie?’

  ‘No, I have not,’ he admitted.

  On her way home, Frances realised to her annoyance that she had missed a valuable opportunity. She had been so eager to confront Dr Bonner on the question of the shaving materials and display her cleverness to Mr Fairbrother that she had not thought it would be better to ask to see the contents of the bag before revealing that she already knew what they were. If Dr Bonner had been complicit in any plan of Mackenzie’s he might have removed the suspicious items before showing the bag to her. Even if he had, and she had challenged him, he would almost certainly have found a way of talking himself out of the anomaly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Frances returned home, a gentleman was waiting to see her, presenting a card that announced him as B.H. Carmichael, MD of Carlisle, and clutching a copy of the Chronicle open at an article about Henry Palmer in which Mr Gillan had announced the involvement of Frances in the search.

  Dr Carmichael was a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman of about fifty, with auburn hair, a well-trimmed beard and small gold-rimmed spectacles. Like so many of the people who sought Frances’ assistance, he had the reserved, anxious look of someone who was about to speak of things he would rather have spoken of to no one.

  He looked worriedly at Sarah, who sat nearby with a stern face like a great immovable brick edifice.

  ‘My trusted associate, Miss Smith,’ Frances informed him.

  He accepted the description without comment and unfolded his newspaper. ‘I read this morning,’ he said in a pleasing, light Scottish accent, ‘that you are looking for Mr Henry Palmer, and I wanted to ask what progress you had made, and whether you believe his fate is connected in any way with that of Dr Mackenzie?’

  ‘Before I reply to your enquiry,’ said Frances, ‘may I ask what your interest is? Are you acquainted with either Mr Palmer or Dr Mackenzie?’

  ‘I have never to my knowledge met Mr Palmer,’ he said, ‘but as a young man in Edinburgh I studied medicine with Mackenzie and knew him well. We did not maintain a correspondence and neither did I take any note of his career after he departed for Germany, and I myself have also travelled extensively. I recently learned that Mackenzie has established a Life House here in London and was a man of some moment, held in respect by all.’

  Carmichael was silent for a brief interval and appeared to be labouring under some emotion, and then he put his hand in his pocket and extracted a cameo brooch, which he opened. It contained a faded portrait of a pretty young woman and a curl of auburn hair. ‘This is my sweet sister Madeleine,’ he said. ‘Her memory is very dear to me, and I will not have a word whispered against a lady who was when on earth no less a blessed angel than she assuredly is now. I must tell you, Miss Doughty, that Mackenzie behaved towards my beloved sister in a most scandalous and reprehensible way, and his actions hurried her into an early grave.’

  ‘It is rare to hear anyone say a word against the honour of Dr Mackenzie,’ said Frances, surprised.

  ‘None of his associates in London know what kind of creature he was,’ said Carmichael, ‘and of course he severed all his ties in Edinburgh when he went abroad. There was nothing I could do. I had not one shred of proof against him, or I would have had him pilloried or hanged or even called him out, since I care nothing for myself in this matter. But without evidence, I was helpless.’

  ‘Such is sometimes the case with immoral persons or malefactors,’ said Frances. ‘Most are very foolish and careless, and leave evidence that can easily be found and brings about retribution, only a very few are clever and can avoid blame. But Dr Mackenzie, assuming that your suspicions are correct, cannot now suffer for any harm he has done. Take comfort from the fact that he can never again cause such unhappiness. Also, since what he did was so long in the past – the actions perhaps of a thoughtless youth – it seems that he may have learned to repent them and tried to make amends by selflessly serving others. He may, if one takes his life as a whole, have done more good than harm.’

  ‘But what is that to me?’ said Carmichael. ‘These people to whom Mackenzie has been a benefactor are not my kin, not even my friends; they are strangers to me. I can think only of my poor sister.’

  ‘I am sorry that you continue to feel such pain,’ said Frances, who naturally wished to learn what it was Mackenzie was supposed to have done, but knew that Carmichael was unlikely to tell her, at least on a first interview, ‘but can you advise me what it is you wish me to do? You have, as you say, no evidence against Dr Mackenzie and what profit would it give you now even if you could damage his reputation? He is beyond all punishment and your sister’s name would be defiled. You might also harm the Life House, which is managed by gentlemen with whom you have no quarrel.’

  ‘I have abandoned any thought of Mackenzie, who has gone to his just punishment,’ he reassured her. ‘I admit that it angered me greatly when I learned that he was so well regarded and I wanted more than anything to drag him into the mud where he belonged. I thought that if I could only prove what I knew then I might be able to manage things in a way that showed my dear Madeleine to be the spotless victim that she was. But I was powerless.’ There was another long silence. ‘My older sister, Ellen, is the wife of a medical man who lives in Kensington, and she is the guardian of some treasured mementoes of Madeleine. These are not items of anything more than sentimental value, trinkets and some prettily bound books.

  ‘Three weeks ago Ellen wrote to me in the most terrible distress. Her health has been declining in these last few years and she has often sought comfort in Madeleine’s books. Her husband is frequently from home and she is cared for by a nurse. Unfortunately, she discovered one morning that the nurse had gone and so had a set of silver snuffboxes and Madeleine’s books, including a journal. I can only imagine that the girl thought because of the bindings they were of some antiquity and therefore valuable. I hurried down to see Ellen at once. It was then that she confided in me that Madeleine had written in her journal of certain matters that were so hideous that she had never discussed them with me or anyone else. Her one concern was to keep the memory of our sister pure, but the thought that this dreadful material had found its way into the hands of criminals was so upsetting that she was almost too ill to speak.

  ‘The snuffboxes were recovered from a nearby pawnshop, but there is no trace of the books or, most importantly, the journal. If only Ellen had told me of it before! If I had had the management of the journal I would have ensured that it was used with great care to secure an action against Dr Mackenzie while my sister’s name remained without a stain, but a crude blackmailer would have no such concerns.’

  ‘But surely now that Dr Mackenzie is dead a blackmailer can have no further use for it?’ said Frances.

  ‘I hope not. But I want to ensure that it is found and placed in my keeping. It was my sister’s, something she has touched and where she has revealed her soul, and that alone makes it precious to me. And of course, I have no wish for another person to see it, a person who never knew Madeleine and will judge her harshly. I intend to lock it away safely and so preserve her character.’

  ‘And you want me to find it?’

  ‘Yes. I will go to any trouble, any expense!’

  ‘You do appreciate, Dr Carmichael, that if I discover that a blackmailer has been plying his or her unpleasant business, I will have uncovered a crime. Do you expect me to say nothing about it?’

  He stared at her. He was clearly so focused on his own dilemma that he had not considered other facto
rs and, thought Frances, cared nothing for them. ‘It is not a crime simply to possess a journal,’ he said, ‘only to use it for a wrongful purpose. It would be very hard to prove that the person who has it now is the thief, or that any attempt at blackmail has taken place, especially as the victim is now deceased. It would be best if the journal was simply found and passed to me, and no more said.’

  ‘We may of course find that the journal has been destroyed, unless the blackmailer finds something else of value in it, such as the means of extracting money from another person.’ Carmichael looked aside as if embarrassed. ‘Is there anything else in it?’ pressed Frances. ‘Is there something that perhaps has a bearing on another individual? Yourself perhaps?’

  ‘I have committed no crime, my conscience is clear upon that point,’ said Carmichael stiffly. ‘I do not, as so many do, claim to have led a perfect life. Men are the morally weaker sex, and there may be things I have said and done which I cannot in all honesty be proud of, things which my dear sister, too pure to understand, may in her innocence have mentioned. I assume that I do not appal you and hope you will not judge me for my weaknesses. You are, it has been said, the very epitome of sympathy and discretion.’

  ‘Do you know who might have the journal?’ asked Frances.

  Dr Carmichael looked faintly shocked. ‘Oh Miss Doughty, I have no connection with persons of that sort.’ It was apparent that he thought Frances did.

  ‘Very well, I will make some enquiries. On what date did the theft occur?’

  ‘It would have been on the 14th of September, but it was not discovered until the next morning. The maid had departed overnight.’

  ‘Has the thieving nursemaid been apprehended?’

  ‘The police are pursuing the case, but she has vanished like a spectre in the fog. We are sure that the name she gave was false.’

  ‘And that name was …?’ Frances enquired, pencil poised over her notebook.