Death in Bayswater Read online

  Frances simply nodded. Due to a previous investigation she was better acquainted with the Cooper’s Arms than she was prepared to admit.

  ‘So I went in and looked about, but Jonas wasn’t there. I thought he might come in later, so I had a glass of beer and waited for him, just sitting in a corner with my thoughts, but he didn’t come.’

  ‘Who sold you the beer?’

  ‘A man. The landlord I suppose.’

  ‘Did you see anyone you knew there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The landlord doesn’t remember you. In fact there are no witnesses at all to your being there. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘They can’t have noticed me, sat where I was.’

  ‘Where were you sitting?’

  ‘As you go in there is a place to the right of the door where there are benches and tables, partitioned off. I sat there so I could watch for who came in. No one took any heed of me. There was a man and a woman sat opposite, but they were very close to each other, familiar, if you know what I mean, and talking their own business and never looked up at me.’

  ‘Would you know them again?’

  ‘I might, but I’m not sure they would want to know me. I guessed what they were up to so I made sure not to take any notice. After a bit I thought Jonas wouldn’t be there that night, so I finished up my beer and left. And it was while I was on my way home that I saw the man in the street.’

  Frances started a fresh page in her notebook. ‘Where exactly did you see him?’

  ‘On the corner of Richmond Road and Victoria Place.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Jim gave a wry humourless laugh. ‘You never really think do you; you see a man fallen over in the street and you go to help him on his way and you don’t imagine that one day you might have to find him again and whether you do or not will decide if you live or die. No fortune teller comes along and says “Make a note of that man because you’ll need him”, you just help him up and go.’

  ‘Anything at all,’ urged Frances, ‘any little clue. Try and picture him to yourself. How old was he?’

  Price was silent for a while as he explored his memory.

  ‘Do try,’ said Effie piteously, and Mrs Price gulped her encouragement.

  ‘Well,’ said the prisoner at last, ‘he was quite a bit older than me, I’d say around Father’s age if he had lived. Fifty perhaps. Short grey whiskers, I think, but I wouldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘His height and build?’

  ‘About my height, I think, middling. Fatter, but not very fat.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘Respectable. Clerkish-looking. Not a labouring man.’

  ‘Had he been drinking in the Cooper’s Arms?’

  ‘No, or at least I don’t remember seeing him in there. But he was very drunk – staggering drunk. Mumbling to himself. Then his legs just seemed to go from under him, and he fell forward on to his face. Cut his mouth. So I went and helped him up.’

  ‘He cut his mouth?’ queried Frances.

  ‘Yes. There was a lot of blood running down his chin. He might have lost a tooth.’

  ‘He must have been very drunk indeed to fall on his face and not protect himself with his hands as he fell.’ Frances recalled her days as an assistant in her father’s chemists shop, and the walking wounded being brought in, usually elderly shoppers who had taken a tumble on the Grove. The most common injuries were grazed hands and fractured wrists.

  ‘Oh, he went down very sudden, it was like a tree being felled.’

  ‘Did you have any conversation with him?’

  ‘I asked if he wanted helping home, but he didn’t seem to understand me; he said something but I couldn’t make out what it was.’

  Frances tapped her pencil on the page, trying to think of what other clues might be extracted from the encounter. ‘Were you able to determine what he had been drinking? Beer or spirits? It must have been on his breath. Or could it have been something else? A narcotic? Laudanum, perhaps?’

  Price frowned and there was another long pause for thought. Frances had the impression that this was a question he had not been asked before. ‘I don’t remember a smell of alcohol, or laudanum. I know the smell of laudanum all too well, Father was given it in his last illness.’

  ‘When Father went drinking and he didn’t want Mother to know, he came home smelling of peppermint,’ Effie volunteered.

  ‘Did this man smell of peppermint?’

  Price shook his head.

  ‘Was there any odour about him at all? I am trying to find some detail that might reveal his profession or habits.’

  Price leaned forward, his chin on his hands, deep in thought. Frances found herself imagining what would happen to him in just eighteen days time, the coarse hemp rope, the pinions, the white hood, the sudden fall through the trapdoor, the violent jerk snapping his neck, all of this would happen if she could not prevent it.

  ‘Orange peel,’ he said, sitting up suddenly. ‘I didn’t think of it before, but yes, there was a smell of orange peel.’

  Frances’ busy pencil raced across the page. ‘After you helped him up, what direction did he go in?’

  ‘Up Richmond Road.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I went home and went to bed.’

  ‘Did you go to the Shakespeare that evening?’

  ‘No. I never went down the Grove at all.’

  ‘Is there a witness to when you came home?’

  He shook his head. ‘Mother and Effie were in bed asleep.’

  ‘We were in our beds by half past nine,’ said Effie. ‘We didn’t hear Jim come in.’

  Mrs Price sniffed and sighed, as if she wished she could say something to help.

  ‘Did you go straight to sleep?’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘No. I lay there awake for a while, first, thinking about things, but at last, I did sleep. Then the police came in the morning and said that Martha had been found dead, and arrested me.’

  ‘Do you own a knife?’

  ‘Any number. I use them in my work. I don’t carry one about with me.’

  ‘I don’t think the weapon was ever found,’ said Effie, ‘and the police looked at Jim’s knives and there were none missing and none with blood on them. They said he must have had another one and thrown it away, but they couldn’t prove it.’ She gazed at her brother, and pushed her hand across the table, clearly aching to touch him, and comfort him.

  Frances read over her notes. ‘Is there anything else you can remember that has not already been presented at your trial?’

  After a minute’s thought he shook his head. ‘No, but if I think of something I’ll be sure to let you know.’

  ‘We are allowed to come every day,’ Effie told Frances. ‘I’ll let you know the moment Jim thinks of anything new that can help you.’ She gave her brother an encouraging smile, and despite his situation he smiled back bravely.

  Frances nodded, and drew aside to allow the little family group to sit more privately together. She was already planning how to start her enquiries, and an idea had occurred to her, one that might help discover the man who was Jim Price’s alibi.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Frances finally arrived home, having taken Mrs and Miss Price back to their cottage, and received their grateful thanks, she found young Mr Ibbitson of the Chronicle and Sarah sitting at the parlour table on which a number of newspapers were laid open. Both were bent over the pages studying the tiny print with great concentration. A teapot and cups were nearby and there was much evidence of biscuit crumbs but no evidence of biscuits.

  Sarah looked up, grave-faced. ‘There’s been another murder. Body of a young woman found in Norfolk Square.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last night,’ said Ibbitson, with all the enthusiasm of a newsman, and Frances had to remind herself that what was bad for the public was good for the newspaper trade. ‘The inquest opened this morning. I’ve just sent my account in to
the paper.’

  ‘What are we coming to?’ Frances exclaimed in dismay. ‘That is the third murder in just a few weeks.’ She peered into the teapot, and found it disappointingly empty.

  ‘I’ll freshen the pot,’ said Sarah. She gave Frances a hard look before she left for the kitchen as if to warn her that she was not to agree to go running about looking for murderers while her back was turned.

  Mr Ibbitson was a pink-cheeked youth who had not yet acquired the skill of growing whiskers. Frances had first encountered him during her researches at the Chronicle offices when he had been in awe of her and so eager to please that onlookers had insinuated he had developed romantic feelings. Whether or not this was true Frances had never sought to discover, although she thought it unlikely. His efforts to assist her were, however, speedy, effective and much appreciated. Frances suspected that just as she had a number of friends who advised her during her enquiries, so she in turn was being cultivated by Mr Ibbitson to become one of his friends who would be useful to him during his future career. He had a thoroughly disarming and very likeable manner, however, and she thought that he would go far.

  ‘The deceased was a parlourmaid at one of the houses in the square, and her name was Eliza Kearney,’ said Ibbitson. ‘That was all I learned at the inquest which was adjourned for the post-mortem report, but –’ here he made a significant pause, and looked very pleased with himself, ‘I found out more later on.’

  ‘From her friends? Surely not from the police?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, of course, as you know, the police must never give away anything to pressmen, and I dare not say who it was.’

  ‘The police, then,’ Frances concluded and he didn’t contradict her.

  ‘He couldn’t tell me much, because they are being very secretive and my informant said it would be more than his job was worth to give any more away, but what I can say is that the victim’s face was cut with a knife and it was in exactly the same way as Annie Faydon.’

  He pushed a newspaper towards her, which was open at the report of the inquest on Miss Faydon. Frances was familiar with the case, although not with the progress of the investigation, and no one had sought to consult her on the matter, which was a relief. She reread the account to refresh her memory. ‘Cause of death, a single cut to the throat, face mutilated after death. There has, as far as I am aware, been no arrest in that case.’

  ‘No, and that’s because the police thought they knew the guilty man, a Greek called Agathedes who went mad and was locked up only a few days later. But now they aren’t so sure. In fact, I have been told that the police surgeon intends to report that in his opinion whoever killed Miss Kearney killed Miss Faydon as well.’

  Sarah arrived with the teapot and slices of pound cake, and there was a pause for refreshment and thought.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Frances observed, cautiously, ‘criminals will copy a crime that they have read about in the newspapers. Of course I don’t suggest for a moment that someone who is not already a criminal will be turned into one just by reading about crimes. Many people do believe this, but I think they are mistaken.’

  ‘There’s folks wanting to ban the Illustrated Police News,’ said Sarah. ‘Pictures of men with knives and dead folk lying in their own gore,’ she added with relish.

  ‘We both read it and I don’t believe either of us has been corrupted by it,’ Frances pointed out.

  ‘That’s true,’ Sarah agreed. ‘There’s people I’d like to hurt if I got half a chance but I wanted to hurt them long before I ever read the Illustrated Police News.’

  ‘And just think how many crimes there are in the Bible,’ added Frances. ‘Everybody reads that.’

  ‘It’s not just that it’s two stabbings,’ said Ibbitson. ‘It’s the cutting of the faces afterwards, and the way they were cut. The papers didn’t print the exact details of what was done to Miss Faydon because we were never told, so the only people who know are the killer and the surgeon and a few police.’

  ‘So there must be something similar about the two cases that cannot be put down to mere chance,’ Frances concluded, ‘which means that Mr Agathedes is innocent. I am sure his family will be pleased to know it, but the police now have a very bad situation on their hands. Logically, of course, it is far more probable that there have been only two knife murderers in Bayswater and not three.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Jim Price and the face-slasher.’

  Mr Ibbitson’s eyebrows darted up so high they almost disappeared into his hair, and he scribbled rapidly in a notebook, his lips mouthing the words ‘Face … slasher.’

  ‘Of course,’ Frances emphasised, ‘you must understand that such serious crimes are a police matter and not something I can be concerned in.’

  Sarah gave a snort that might have been a laugh, and Frances recalled how many times she had said just that in the past and how many times she had willy-nilly been plunged into the dark world of murder.

  ‘Oh, you could solve them quick as a blink,’ teased Ibbitson, ‘only I would never ask you to, of course.’

  ‘But you are here for some purpose,’ said Frances, with a smile.

  ‘I am, yes. I know that you have a little army of boys who go everywhere and are the eyes and ears of west London. Could you ask them to keep a lookout for anything they think might be connected to the murders? The killer might think himself very safe, and be careless and give himself away. Of course they shouldn’t put themselves in any danger – they could just make a note of what they see and report to you. The police think the man will kill again, and the sooner he is caught the more lives will be saved.’

  ‘I can see the argument for that. Very well, I will be seeing Ratty later on another case, and will instruct him.’

  ‘And what case might that be?’ asked Ibbitson eagerly, pencil poised.

  ‘The case of Jim Price. You were in court for the trial, I believe.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I was, but I don’t see what can be done for him other than praying for his repentance before he hangs.’

  ‘He claims to be innocent.’ Frances saw that even at his young age, Ibbitson, from his reaction to this statement, had developed a mature cynicism. ‘Oh, I know most condemned men and women do so in the hope of receiving a last-minute reprieve,’ she added quickly, ‘but there is a witness to his movements that night who has never come forward. I have been engaged to find that man.’

  ‘Do you think you can do it?’

  ‘I know; there is so little time, but I must try, and the Chronicle could assist me. I am looking for a respectably dressed man of middle height, perhaps a little plump, about fifty with short grey whiskers, who fell and cut his mouth in Richmond Road on the night of the murder and smells of orange peel. Can you publish that? All enquiries to me.’ Ibbitson nodded and noted the description. Frances, observing his diligence and energy with approval, paused for thought. ‘Miss Price was very grateful to you for assisting her mother when she felt faint in court.’

  The youth looked a little pinker about the cheeks, and it was not from the warmth of the tea. ‘I am sure the family are blameless.’

  ‘Miss Price is a kind and dutiful daughter, and a loving sister. She could tell an affecting tale which if it was printed in the newspapers would move your readers to sympathy.’

  ‘The family won’t speak to the Chronicle,’ said Ibbitson, with a regretful shake of the head.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. I think they would speak to you. Why don’t I write to them and ask on your behalf?’

  He brightened. ‘Would you? That is very kind!’

  Sarah had been perusing the newspapers again. ‘I suppose there’s no chance that whoever killed Miss Faydon and Miss Kearney also killed Martha Miller?’ she said suddenly. ‘I mean if two killers are more likely than three then surely one is more likely than two.’

  ‘That is true as far as likelihood goes,’ Frances agreed, ‘but there is a world of difference between a man who cuts throats and faces and a man who st
abs in the body.’

  ‘Is there? They both use knives.’

  The room was suddenly very quiet, and then there was a fierce rustling as everyone picked up the newspapers and reread the inquests on Martha Miller and Annie Faydon and the trial of Jim Price. At last Frances put the papers back on the table with some regret. ‘Based on what I have read here I don’t think Miss Miller was killed by the same man who killed Miss Faydon.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Ibbitson. ‘Which is a great pity because it would make a good story.’

  ‘And save a man’s life,’ Frances reminded him. ‘I am sure that the police are taking another look at the murder of Miss Faydon in the light of recent events, but I doubt very much that it will prompt them to reconsider the murder of Miss Miller.’

  ‘No, well that would mean admitting that they and the judge and the jury and all the lawmen were wrong, and an innocent man is in Newgate about to be hanged,’ said Sarah, dryly. ‘No one likes putting his hand up to a mistake like that.’

  There was a reflective silence, and Frances, recalling something Miss Price had said, drank deeply of her tea. ‘Supposing,’ she began thoughtfully, ‘supposing I was to suggest to the police that they ought to re-examine the death of Miss Miller in the light of the two later murders. I could put the same idea to Mr Rawsthorne, as well. I have an appointment with him later today.’

  ‘Then you do think the same man did all three?’ asked Ibbitson in surprise.

  ‘No, I don’t, but it doesn’t matter what I think, or even what I can prove. What I need is time, time to find the missing witness, or anyone else who might have information that could exonerate Jim Price. It would be a miracle if I could prove him innocent in the little time we have, but what I might be able to achieve is to cast doubt on the verdict, enough to have the execution delayed, or even commuted to life in prison.’

  Ibbitson nodded, and there was a little gleam of anticipation in his eyes. ‘What a story that would be! The only thing our readers like better than demanding the blood of a villain is being champions of the innocent. It gets them very excited. If there was a public call for a respite it might carry some weight. Miss Doughty, if you could write to Miss Price then I will go and see her and promise to write something to be published that could help save her brother. I know I am very green in these things, and the Chronicle wouldn’t let me write my own piece, but I do have more experienced men to advise me. ‘