Death in Bayswater Read online

  Visitors who dared to come to the front door and ask to see Frances were not invited in unless they had an appointment or were known to the maid, but were made to wait on the doorstep. Any cases of doubt were carefully scrutinised by Sarah before being admitted, and all those without legitimate business were firmly sent away.

  There were two new clients for Frances to see. The first was a Mrs Underwood, who wished her husband to be followed during his regular weekly walks which he had told her were necessary for the preservation of his health. Frances had many such clients, ladies who feared that their husbands had mistresses or were calling on women of a less refined character. These wives did not, as a rule, fear desertion. They feared that their husbands were draining household finances on selfish pleasure, and carrying back a hideous disease with which he was infecting them, a disease that they felt unable to discuss with a medical man. Frances always thought that the sooner there were more medical women the better for these nervous souls who had been brought up to believe that there were some things that should never be a subject of conversation between the sexes, even at the risk of one’s health or life. Some of the wives who consulted Frances were more sanguine about their husband’s activities. They were quite sure that their husbands had mistresses, and did not mind that, as the men were consequently better tempered when at home, and less troublesome. All the wives wished to know was where their husbands might be reached in the event of a domestic emergency. They could simply have asked, of course, but they knew that they were unlikely to receive a truthful reply. In any case, the men enjoyed the supposed secrecy and deception; it added seasoning to their activities. Frances wondered about such marriages, which she assumed had not been contracted out of mutual affection. She could not imagine herself paired with a husband whose absence she preferred to his presence or one who liked another woman better than his own wife.

  With Mrs Underwood, however, there was another train of thought occupying her mind, one that she dared not even hint at to Frances. Still, Frances felt sure she knew what it was, and was able, by consulting the dates in her notebook, to reassure her client that Mr Underwood, whatever his numerous faults, was not the Bayswater Face-slasher.

  Her next client was the worried father of a youth who was neglecting his studies, and he wanted to discover what occupation it was that so demanded his son’s attention that he was in danger of failing to qualify as a surgeon. Before supplying the details that Frances required in order to undertake the commission he tried to extract a promise from her. Should she discover that his son was committing a criminal offence then she was to communicate this to him in preference to the police, and he would deal with it privately. Frances told him that if she obtained actual proof of serious criminal activity as distinct from mere suspicion – a commodity, she thought although she did not say it, with which Bayswater was currently full to capacity – and then did not report it, then she herself might be deemed to have committed an offence, one which he would be inciting her, indeed paying her to commit. The prospective client paled a little. She allowed him some time to consider his options, which were to depart and find a less honest detective, or employ Frances on her own terms. At length, he agreed to the latter course of action. ‘I just hope he isn’t – I mean – it would be terrible for our family if he turned out to be – well –’

  ‘I understand. But if he is, you will want to know as soon as possible.’

  Frances was now feeling frustrated and impatient at having received no note from Mr Rawsthorne since her visit six days before. She did not count the brief missive from Mr Carter Freke as a useful communication. This could, of course, mean that there was no news to be sent, however she hoped that the excitement produced by the press reports had resulted in the receipt of fresh information and she decided to pay the solicitor a visit. This time she would wait until he was available to see her no matter how long it would take.

  While Sarah went to see Ratty about the new clients, Frances took a cab to Rawsthorne’s office. The weather had turned very cold indeed, and the air was biting and blustery, the sky overcast with grey clouds, which shed short and frequent rain showers. The streets were slippery with thin mud and piles of rotting leaves, as well as all the usual fallen trash, an accumulation that the sweepers were having some trouble keeping at bay. It was the kind of weather the newspapers termed ‘unsettled’ which, thought Frances, meant that their forecasts would always be correct.

  At Mr Rawsthorne’s office, Frances took a seat in the waiting room and looked about her. Mr Rawsthorne had a great many clients in Bayswater and those she had observed waiting to see him always appeared as calm as anyone might do who was about to consult a solicitor. The two people with whom she shared the waiting room were anything but calm. One was a respectable-looking woman in late mourning weeds showing that she had been widowed at least a year before. Her face was fallen with grief, and she was trying her best to restrain tears. Frances could not help wondering what her story was. The other was a man of middle years, a shopkeeper she guessed, who was unable to remain still, but constantly shifted his position in an agitated manner, and every minute or two, took a large kerchief from his pocket and blew his nose very noisily.

  After a wait of about ten minutes, Mr Carter Freke glided in with his usual smile. The impatient man rose to his feet expectantly but Freke simply shook his head. ‘I am sorry, but Mr Rawsthorne did make it very plain at your last interview, you must wait another two weeks.

  ‘But I can’t wait any longer!’ the man exclaimed. ‘Where is Rawsthorne? I want to see him!

  Freke made a gesture of regret, an expression that was wholly in his hands and did not reach his eyes. ‘I am very sorry. Two weeks.’

  ‘Then I am ruined!’ bellowed the man, jamming his hat on his head and stamping out.

  Freke sighed and shook his head, then he approached the weeping lady and took her by the hand. ‘I am sorry, but there is no further news. Believe me, everything possible is being done.’ The lady said nothing, but nodded regretfully, rose and took her leave.

  Mr Freke turned to Frances. ‘Miss Doughty? This is an unexpected pleasure, I am sure that you do not have an appointment for today. Is there some way I can be of assistance? I do hope you received my recent message.’

  ‘I did receive it, for which I thank you. But I would like to see Mr Rawsthorne. Is he available? I am content to wait here until he is.’

  ‘Oh, I am afraid he is not in the office at all. He has a very serious matter on his hands which has taken him out of town.’

  ‘When do you expect him back?’ asked Frances anxiously. ‘Will he be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Not as soon as that. In fact he gave me no firm date, but I would say that he is unlikely to be here again until at least a week today.’

  Her anxiety escalated into alarm. ‘A week today? Surely not! That is only a few days before the date set for Jim Price’s execution.’

  ‘Is it? Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Freke as if the date was of no consequence to him.

  Frances stared at him in astonishment and dismay. She might almost imagine that Mr Freke had somehow done away with Mr Rawsthorne in order to take over the business, and the delay was providing him with the time he required to dispose of the corpse. She pushed the thought aside. ‘Has anything been heard from the Home Office?’

  ‘No, nothing at all, but as Mr Rawsthorne advised you when you last saw him, I would not entertain any hope in that area.’

  ‘While the man still lives there is hope,’ Frances retorted, unable to prevent a justifiable annoyance creeping into her tone. ‘I will not give up my efforts.’

  ‘I would expect as much from you,’ said Freke, soothingly.

  Frances, seeing that any further interview would be a waste of her time, rose to her feet. ‘You will inform me at once if you should receive any news.’

  ‘Oh, I will, of course. I do, however, have one fragment of information for you on another matter. Before Mr Rawsthorne went away he rec
eived a message to confirm that Mr James Chandler, the nephew of Mrs Wheelock, has arrived in London and has taken lodgings in Bayswater. Mr Rawsthorne has advised Mr Chandler that you are acting in the case and he will no doubt call on you very shortly.’

  Frances left the office with considerable feelings of disquiet. If Mr Rawsthorne, who she was quite sure had not been murdered by his clerk, was absent on some urgent matter then he had left the Price family to the mercies of Mr Freke, who obviously cared nothing at all about the fate of the condemned man, and had effectively consigned him to his doom. She wondered what work he was actually doing on Jim Price’s behalf and suspected little or nothing. Neither did she think that she could rely upon him to keep her properly informed. It was only twelve days to the execution, little enough time for information to move through official channels. She could only hope that the urgent business that had taken her solicitor away from his office was connected with her efforts to save her client. There was, however, one more thing she could do.

  Frances hastened to Westbourne Grove and the office of Tom Smith’s Men, where Tom, Sarah’s young relative, ran his own business, organising a small army of boy messengers, whose bailiwick covered all of Bayswater and extended out over most of west London. Tom, who was intelligent, active and alert to every chance of making money, employed only those boys who were prepared to work hard, and in return he treated them well, and made sure that none of them ever had to live on the streets but always had somewhere warm to rest their heads at night, and as much tea and bread and cheese as they could consume. They were the eyes and ears of the district, and often provided Frances with valuable information as soon as it came to light. Tom, who had once been the delivery boy for her father’s business while running an additional enterprise carrying notes and parcels for anyone else, had long ceased to think in terms of pennies or even sixpences, but nowadays had his eyes on guineas. From time to time he would pass a bag of coins to Sarah to place in some safe investment for him. Sarah had once revealed that Tom’s ambition was to accumulate enough funds so that one day he might buy a property. His plan was to let the property and make enough money to buy another one and so on. ‘He’ll end up owning half Bayswater,’ she had mused, with a shake of her head. ‘I don’t know where he gets his ideas from.’

  Frances found Tom at his desk, poring over a sheaf of papers, a mug of tea and a half-eaten meat pasty by his elbow. His usually spiky hair was flattened down with something that smelt very like pomade. He had grown out of the smart blue suit with shiny brass buttons that Mr Jacobs the chemist had had made for him when he had first started working for that business, and now wore a more manly attire in grey with a striped waistcoat, and a clean collar. Despite this he still looked no more than his age, which was probably about thirteen.

  Tom smiled the smile he always gave when he saw Frances, as he saw the prospect of earning a good commission.

  ‘What c’n I do fer you today Miss Doughty?’

  ‘Tom, I expect you do a lot of business for the local solicitors.’

  ‘Oh yes, messages out, messages in, things that won’t wait for the post, things they don’t want to go in the post.’ He winked.

  ‘Can your men keep a lookout for anything arriving at Mr Rawsthorne’s from the Home Office? Or if they should see something or overhear anything about Jim Price, would you let me know at once? The thing is, Mr Rawsthorne has had to go away on some urgent business and has left a great deal of his work with his new clerk Mr Carter Freke, who I do not feel I can trust.’

  ‘Right you are. Jim Price – that’s the man going to swing at Newgate, isn’t it?’

  ‘I am hoping for a reprieve.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Best’ve luck with that.’

  Frances was comforted to know that even though Tom cared nothing for the fate of Jim Price, he would not neglect his commission.

  Next morning, Frances was pleased to see that the Illustrated Police News had utilised some of Mr Loveridge’s elegant sketches for its new edition, although it had also devoted a significant part of its front page to an impression of a simian-looking murderer with pointed fangs carrying a knife dripping gore, who, it stated, was at loose on the streets of Bayswater. She only wished that the killer did look like the creature in the picture as it would have made him so much easier to apprehend.

  In the meantime, even though the fate of Jim Price occupied most of her thoughts, Frances could not neglect the other cases that were her daily bread. Accordingly she paid a visit to the Bayswater Ladies’ Reading Room, a place of peace and refinement, except that one of the members was defacing the material. The manageress, a dignified bespectacled lady of about forty with a troubled expression, apologised profusely before showing Frances some newspapers and pamphlets which had been marked in blue pencil with messages of a profoundly irreligious and almost blasphemous nature. ‘If it was not for the fact that membership is only open to ladies, I might have suspected a man of trying to hinder what we do. There are men who cannot abide the mere idea of ladies educating themselves and taking an interest in the world. They think we should all be at home sewing buttons on their shirts.’

  Frances studied the defacements, which were in an educated feminine hand, but one that betrayed the distraction of the author. ‘When did you first notice this?’

  ‘One of the members drew my attention to it a few days ago. I did hope it was a simple aberration, perhaps brought about by a moment of distress, but when I looked through some of the other material here I found that several items were similarly defaced. It is all in the same hand. I do, of course, oversee the room, but I cannot keep a watch on all the ladies. I have other duties, too.’

  ‘Of course. I can spend some time watching here and I also have a lady assistant. Between the three of us, we will find the culprit. I am sorry to say that the nature of the messages suggests a disturbed brain. This is not genuine devoutness passionately expressed. To suggest that the recent murders are a punishment from God for the transgressions of dishonest women is far too extreme, and of course the deceased were all beyond reproach in their behaviour. And there are words here that no lady ought to use. Have any of your members attempted to distribute pamphlets or accosted other members with religious messages?’

  ‘Nothing of that nature has been reported. I could make discreet enquiries, of course, but I don’t wish to upset anyone, or spread the impression that something is amiss.’

  ‘I understand. Discretion is best in matters of this kind. You do not know on which day or days the defacement occurred?’

  ‘I am afraid not. In any case we do not keep a note of which members are here on which dates.’

  Frances examined the damaged newspapers and periodicals. None was more than a week old. ‘Are these all of them?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it best to retain them.’

  ‘And you do not recognise the handwriting? Do the members not make a written application?’

  ‘All I have is a list prepared by the previous secretary.’

  ‘The writer has been very cunning not to be observed or draw attention to herself. So she has some restraint. But something might have happened in her life to bring this about. She may need help and sympathy, not punishment.’

  ‘That is my thought,’ said the manageress with some relief, ‘which is why I would like it resolved with as little fuss as possible.’

  ‘May I see the list of members, please? And I would like to borrow one of these periodicals.’

  Frances spent the next hour in the reading room, carefully watching all that went on. There were desks where ladies might sit and read, and these were in full view, but there were also some stands designed to take newspapers, which, tilted away from the eyes of any observers, offered an opportunity to carry out defacements unobserved. The list of members included many ladies who were known to her, or were known by reputation, many of whom, including Miss Gilbert and Miss John, were members of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society.

  Frances deci
ded to call on Miss Gilbert and Miss John, and found them busy preparing pamphlets to distribute at the forthcoming meeting of the Bayswater Vigilance Committee. There were bundles of publications being parcelled up and tied with string, works with titles such as ‘Give Women Votes’ and ‘Women Cast Off Your Chains’ while a more recent publication on the alarm in Bayswater was called ‘Save Our Women’. Miss Gilbert, as usual, was in a great flurry of energy, dashing about like a young girl, while Miss John followed mildly in her wake like a small vessel nudging along in the rear of a mighty ship, tidying and arranging everything that was disturbed by the great craft.

  There was a new product of Miss John’s busy needle, whose creations were growing ever larger and more imposing – a sturdy banner in purple with gold fringes for the lady suffragists to carry on their marches. It depended from two stout poles with gold painted finials, which could serve either as supports or weapons of war, and was draped across the parlour in fine style. The room, a small burgundy-coloured, be-fringed, cushioned and tasselled palace of embroidery, was nevertheless well arranged and supremely comfortable. As Frances looked about her she began to feel a little ashamed that she usually placed Miss John’s gift cushions with their magnificent portrayals of Britannia and Boadicea out of sight unless the ladies were due to call. The articles were not to her taste but then, she thought, who was to say that her taste was superior? She decided to leave them on display.