Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Read online

  ‘I do.’

  The gentleman had a folded newspaper under his arm, which he handed to Frances. ‘You will find the information you need in there.’

  Frances took the newspaper. She knew better than to unfold it in public. There was an envelope lying between the pages and she would open it and study the contents when she was alone.

  On the other side of the Serpentine music began to play, a lively tune emanating from the bandstand that nestled amongst the trees of Kensington Gardens.

  ‘I must leave you now,’ said the gentleman, rising to his feet and taking a packet of cheroots from his pocket. ‘I have one more word of advice. If you should meet a man called Gideon, he is your friend.’ He stuck a match and lit the cheroot. ‘We have never met. This conversation never happened.’ He walked away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dainty ladies who valued their pale complexions might have taken a cab home, but Frances, whose overly tall angular figure could never be thought dainty, liked the sunlight, and enjoyed a walk in fine weather. When her father, William Doughty, had been alive, and she had been little more than an unpaid servant in his chemist’s shop on Westbourne Grove, his extreme parsimony had required Frances to walk almost everywhere, and even now that she could afford to travel by cab, she often chose not to. Long walks cleared her mind, as well as exercising her body. A mystery that might have puzzled her as she sat by her own fireside could sometimes be brought to a clear and obvious solution as she walked. The worries and frustrations of daily life were eased by her brisk vigorous stride, and she would arrive home refreshed rather than weary.

  After the gloom and distress of last autumn and winter, the warm weather had brought Frances a kind of rebirth. Weeks of suffering that might have crushed another person had only served to prove to her that she could endure terrible trials and they would not weaken her; in fact, in a way that she did not fully understand, she felt stronger than before.

  In the spring she had at last shed the grey demi-mourning she had worn in memory of her father and older brother, and found new shades of quiet blue and subtle violet, restrained yet pleasing. Her mirror showed her a new woman, one who, while still very young, had a world of experience behind her eyes, and was eager for more. Not only had she healed and flourished, there lay in the deepest recesses of her mind another thought, a tantalising possibility that she could be better still, in ways that she was yet to discover.

  The detective business was doing well. Frances tried to avoid fame and drama, although she was not always successful in this, especially since her natural curiosity and instinct to solve a puzzle prompted her to pursue enquiries even when unasked. Her clients, who included some of the most respectable denizens of Bayswater, valued her industry and discretion. She was careful, however, never to allow her portrait to appear in any publication. Her government missions made it imperative that her face was not widely known.

  Frances had not encountered any cases of serious crime for some months. Small thefts, missing persons and pets, suspicious behaviour connected with love and marriage, disputes with neighbours; these were the humdrum events by which she earned her daily bread. Swiftly dealt with, usually without unhappy traces remaining. Sadly, one could rarely draw a line under felonies; catastrophes whose spreading stain of loss and shame reached determinedly into the future. Her work had left her with few enemies. Those criminals she had brought to justice had received the penalty of the law; others whom she merely suspected but whose guilt could not be proved had fled to new lives.

  There was one remaining anxiety; the evil and malodorous criminal known as the Filleter due to his sharp knife and lack of restraint in using it. It was Frances who had apprehended him during the widespread terror in the autumn of 1881 caused by the horrible murders of the Bayswater Face-slasher, indeed for some time he had been suspected of actually being that shadowy figure. The Filleter had been confined at Paddington Green Police Station, but before he could be charged, a destructive storm had swept through London, and the station roof had collapsed into the cells. The prisoner, his body horribly crushed, was taken to hospital where he lay close to death for some weeks before his foul associates came to remove him. Months later, he remained too broken to prowl the streets, and in any case, Bayswater had become a little too dangerous for his liking. He was now, so Frances had been informed, conducting his nefarious business south of the Thames, where he controlled a youthful gang of criminals. If he held her responsible for his infirmity, and meant to exact his revenge, he would have agents who would know where to find her, and might be waiting their moment.

  As Frances approached the exit from Hyde Park on that delightful afternoon she found the Italian water gardens more alluring than ever, and paused to admire them. The white marble urns gleamed in the sunlight, and the delicious spray of the fountains cooled the air. She had once been told that this beauty had been created by love, a gift to the Queen from Prince Albert, her adored and adoring consort. Frances, wondering if the Queen herself had stood on this very spot and found peace and pleasure, could not help but reflect on the Queen’s married happiness and how tragically it had been cut short. Was it better to be so beloved only to be left cruelly alone, or never to have found love at all?

  Frances dismissed those difficult musings from her mind and walked on; all her wits would be needed when crossing the teeming thoroughfare of Bayswater Road. Safe at last in the shadow of the lofty white villas that faced the park, she devoted her thoughts to those she would ask to accompany her on her new mission. Happily, she had no difficulty in identifying her most trusted allies.

  Sarah Smith had once been the Doughtys’ maid-of-all-work, when the family had lived in apartments above the chemist’s business on Westbourne Grove. More than that, however, she had been the closest female companion of Frances’ childhood, her friend, her support in times of trouble, and the nearest she had ever known to a sister. When Frances launched her career as a detective Sarah had proved to be both an invaluable assistant and strong right arm. She was the only one of Frances’ associates who was aware of the occasional government missions, and often felt concerned that she had not yet been asked to play a part, if only to ensure her friend’s safety. Brought up by the East London dockside as the only girl in a family of nine siblings, Sarah was forthright and practical, stood no nonsense from anyone, male or female, and seemed to fear nothing. Her brother Jeb, a boxer known as the Wapping Walloper, had been heard to say that if Sarah had ever gone into the ring, there were many men she might have left the worse for wear.

  Cedric Garton was Frances’ near neighbour and friend, who lived in a beautifully decorated apartment with his faithful and attentive manservant, Joseph. Cedric had been born in Italy, where his family was engaged in the export of wine, but after visiting London for the inquest on his brother, a Bayswater art dealer, he had been obliged to remain to deal with the complicated issues that had arisen from that loss. Cedric liked to adopt the air of a languidly idle aesthete, which concealed a fine brain and a strong active physique. Bicycles were his new passion.

  Tom Smith had once been the Doughty chemist shop’s delivery boy, and was said to be Sarah’s cousin. Frances had long suspected that the family relationship was far closer, and most probably the reason behind Sarah’s glowering contempt for most men, whom she liked to instruct, sometimes quite forcefully, on the correct way to treat women. Sarah would have been fourteen when he was born, the same as Tom’s present age, and as he grew to young manhood the resemblance between their facial features became increasingly obvious. An enterprising youth, Tom spent every waking moment considering how to make money, and had built up a thriving business, a message and delivery service known as ‘Tom Smith’s Men’, with nothing but hard work, dedication and careful conservation of his resources. He had a clear ambition in life, to own property, become very rich and marry Miss Pearl Montague, the niece of the chemist shop’s new owner. No member of Miss Montague’s family, least of all the enchanting maiden, suspected
that she was the object of Tom’s silent and respectfully distant adoration. Tom, and anyone who knew him well, had no doubts that in time all his ambitions would be realised.

  ‘Ratty’ was the nickname of a fifteen-year-old boy who had spent much of his early life without a home following a family tragedy that had deprived him of his parents. He was Tom Smith’s best agent, and since meeting Frances had developed ambitions to become a detective. He currently assisted her enquiries, managing his own group of boys whose eyes and ears were all over Bayswater. Fast on his feet, Ratty knew West London as if he had an unrolled map in his head. His courage and initiative were beyond question.

  For some months, Sarah had been walking out with Professor Pounder, the proprietor of a high-class sporting academy that taught the gentlemanly art of pugilism. Cedric exercised there, and regarded his instructor with considerable respect. Sarah had begun teaching female-only classes, demonstrating to Bayswater ladies how to exercise themselves for health and take care of their safety, preferably with a concealed weapon. It was there that Frances had learned the art of the Indian club, a practice of rhythmic manipulation that helped her strength and dexterity and brought peace to her mind in times of trouble. The Professor was tall, athletic, good-looking, calm and quietly spoken. His devotion to Sarah was tangible in a way that did not need to be expressed. Although Frances had not known him for long she could recognise that he was utterly dependable when any kind of danger was present. She also knew that for a man to earn Sarah’s trust he had to be truly exceptional.

  Before plunging into the long terraces of Bayswater proper, Frances studied the traffic of cabs, carriages and delivery carts, and the surging mass of shiny-flanked labouring horses. In amongst them, daring and darting, were young men on bicycles. Now she thought about it, the bicycle was starting to appear on the London streets with increasing regularity. Barely four or five years ago one almost never saw a high-wheeled bicycle in town. It was a youthful novelty, and so fraught with risk that it was seen almost entirely as a countryside touring vehicle. The earlier invention, the velocipede, often referred to as a ‘boneshaker’ with, she had been assured, very good reason, was by comparison a heavier but slower and safer vehicle, whose wheels were more similar in size. Difficult to steer and a desperately uncomfortable ride on all but the smoothest of surfaces, it had nevertheless earned many dedicated adherents, principally for want of something better.

  The velocipede, according to Cedric Garton, could never be the ultimate in wheeled rider-propelled vehicles. It had only ever been a promise of what might be possible in future. That future, Cedric had enthused, with all the verve of a recent convert, had come to its full flowering in the high-wheeler. It was fast, it was light, it was elegant, it was a beautiful design that brought pleasure to the senses and would last forever. There was the small matter of the danger of catching one’s legs in the handlebars when taking a header on a sudden stop – a not infrequent occurrence – but great minds were working on that difficulty, and in the meantime one could always drape one’s legs over the bars when running downhill.

  The secret of the bicycle’s speed was the enormous front wheel, which quite dwarfed the trailing wheel, and could reach heights of sixty inches, the choice depending on the leg length of the rider. The recent innovation of tubular steel for many of its parts had resulted in a machine that was both strong and light, and skimmed along with ease.

  Despite Cedric’s predictions, Frances could not imagine that bicycles could ever be truly useful in town, where riders balancing high on a slender wheel would have to try and steer a safe path between horse-drawn carriages, omnibuses and careless pedestrians. A stray dog, a stone or a nervous horse was all that was needed to cause a dreadful accident, and there had been several of late, resulting in grave injuries and even the deaths of both pedestrians and riders. It was unsurprising that from time to time bicyclists avoided muddy, crowded roads by taking to the pavement, much to the annoyance of those on foot. Newspapers were frequently bombarded with irate letters from citizens who declared bicycles to be a menace, and urged that they should be banned altogether. Occasionally frustrated waggoners would deliberately drive into bicyclists and knock them down.

  On reaching Westbourne Grove, the vibrant heart of fashionable Bayswater and West London’s leading shopping promenade, Frances left a message for Tom and Ratty at the office of Tom Smith’s Men, and continued to Westbourne Park Road, where she left a similar message for Cedric Garton before taking the short walk to her home. Sarah had not yet returned, but was expected back for supper. Professor Pounder’s whereabouts would not be hard to discover since he lived in the ground floor apartment of the same house in which Frances and Sarah occupied the first floor. The Professor often joined the ladies for supper, although there were also evenings when Frances was left alone with her thoughts and her reading and Sarah and her beau kept company.

  The top floor of the house was home to a spinster lady who was engaged in works of charity, but she had recently announced her intention of quitting London at the end of the month, and going to those parts of the country where she felt her energies could be better applied. The landlady, Mrs Embleton, was already looking for a new tenant. Frances could not help wondering if Mrs Embleton might be concerned that prospective tenants would be anxious about sharing an apartment house with a private detective and a professor of pugilism, a house, moreover, which had once been the scene of a violent death for which one of the occupants had been responsible. Mrs Embleton, although a kind and understanding lady, had seen a great deal of upset both in the house and immediately outside it since Frances had taken lodgings there, and more than once it had been touch and go as to whether the troublesome tenant might be asked to leave. Although Frances took great care never to be late with the rent, and had once been of service to Mrs Embleton in a small matter of some stolen washing, for which she had made no charge, she still felt her situation to be precarious.

  Frances had therefore decided to put a suggestion to her landlady that Tom Smith and Ratty should take the upper lodgings. They had been living in cramped circumstances in a corner of their office space on Westbourne Grove, but the rapid and profitable expansion of their business had made this situation increasingly difficult. Tom was always looking for talented and hardworking boys to employ, and he often found them living on the street in miserable and unhealthy conditions. He offered them regular paid work, somewhere warm and safe to lay their heads, as much day-old bread as they could manage, and copious libations of hot tea. Now that their ablest lieutenant Dunnock had reached the advanced age of thirteen, he was considered mature enough to supervise the more junior agents in the absence of the main men. Tom and Ratty at last felt able to enjoy their success by luxuriating in their very own bachelor apartment, and were eager to move in.

  Although Frances had been advised that the murder of a member of the Bayswater Bicycle Club in the previous year was not thought to be connected with the subject of her mission, she could not help but reflect on it, while reminding herself that this was one occasion when she did need to keep her curiosity in check. If she was to attend a race meeting, however, she ought first to find out all she could about the club, its members and its history. Frances was a close reader of the Bayswater Chronicle, copies of which she saved for reference, and determined that once she was home she would search her collection for the trial report. Still more than the murder of the unfortunate wheelman, however, there was something else on her mind, an insistent provoking little idea that no matter how hard she tried, she could not control.

  In her own cool and quiet parlour she might have opened the large brown envelope she had been handed by the silver-haired gentleman she had officially never met at a meeting that had never happened, or brought out her editions of the Bayswater Chronicle, but instead she made a nice pot of tea and sat down to consult her copy of the penny story Miss Dauntless Rides to Victory by W. Grove. She had not misremembered it – that annoyingly impossible Miss Dauntle
ss really had sprung valiantly onto a high-wheeler and not a velocipede, and bowled along the road like a champion racer in pursuit of her quarry. Unfortunately, the engraving on the front cover did not offer any clues as to how the redoubtable heroine had actually achieved this feat, as it only showed the top half of the lady’s unnecessarily buxom figure, and left the rest to the imagination. Now that Frances thought about it, from a practical point of view any woman who attempted to straddle such a vehicle would be unable to do so with any measure of decency or safety when encumbered by long heavy skirts and petticoats.

  That conclusion ought to have been the end of any thoughts Frances might have entertained of learning to ride a bicycle, yet she remained unwilling to abandon the idea. She had noticed that Mr Grove’s stories sometimes seemed to hold messages for her. Sarah had suggested that they were really thinly disguised love notes, but Frances was sure that they were something more. Before Mr Grove had appeared before her in his rather fetching cloak and mask, he had written a story in which Miss Dauntless was romanced by a man clad in exactly that way. It was as if he was preparing her to recognise and trust him. Was this story of Miss Dauntless and the bicycle a suggestion that she should learn to ride? Or was it simply a challenge to her determination, energy and ingenuity, to see if she could overcome the obstacles? If so, it was a challenge Frances felt she would like to accept.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Frances finished her tea and opened the envelope she had received in confidence. It contained a map of East Acton and the surrounding area, the last quarterly newsletter of the Bayswater Bicycle Club, and a notice of the arrangements for the annual meeting. There was to be a special parade of new vehicles, a competition for the best turned-out bicycle, and a busy programme of races over varying distances and for all classes of riders. This included a contest reserved for professional wheelmen, a competition for boys, novices’ races, and a tricycle race for ladies. The prizes took the form of medals and cups generously donated by the club patron, Sir Hugo Daffin. The most sporting wheelman of the year, an award voted for by the committee, would have his name engraved on the Morton Vance memorial cup.