Death in Bayswater Read online

  Mr Rawsthorne greeted her with genuine warmth and she thanked him for his assistance in authorising her visit to Jim Price. ‘I felt quite sure the case would engage your sympathies, as it did mine. I need hardly say that I asked no fee for my work but I could not turn them away. Whatever Price has done, I do feel for the family, who are undergoing an ordeal little short of torture. Their belief in him was very touching.’ He gave a sad little shake of the head. ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘He was bearing up well, although I think he shows courage only so as not to distress his mother and sister. I am sorry to say he looked on me as his only hope. I feel it as a terrible responsibility. I will, of course, do everything in my power to help him, but there is so little time. I assume that you have already tried to find this witness, the man who fell in the street?’

  ‘I have, if he even exists, which to be perfectly frank with you I am not at all sure about. But yes, I did employ an agent to make some enquiries and he found nothing. It is unfortunate that no one at the beerhouse seems to recall either this person or Mr Price being there, but then the Cooper’s Arms does not attract the most law-abiding men in Bayswater, and those females who frequent it are not there for an innocent purpose. The result is that few of those who were there that night, even when they were not engaged in criminality, are prepared to admit it.’

  ‘Even to save a man’s life?’ asked Frances despairingly, yet even as she spoke the words, she recalled how little it took for a certain type of man to kill. Such a man would not trouble himself to save another if it meant a brush with the law. ‘Can the police not promise witnesses that they will not be prosecuted for any small offence they might reveal if they come forward? Has no one offered a reward for information?’

  ‘The family has no means to offer a reward, and no private benefactor has come forward.’

  ‘In the circumstances, it was very good of you to act for them.’

  He smiled. ‘I cannot claim entirely altruistic motives. Having one’s name attached to an Old Bailey trial is payment of a sort.’

  ‘Saving an innocent man from the gallows is payment enough for me.’ Frances gave the matter some thought. ‘Perhaps I might offer a reward? Or start a public subscription?’

  ‘The public believes the man guilty, so I doubt you would attract many subscribers, although they might be prepared to send funds to the distressed family after Price is hanged. But my advice to you is: keep hold of your money. A reward would produce a dozen witnesses all with a different story. And to be honest with you, Miss Doughty, I think that finding both the drunken man and a witness in the beerhouse would not help our client. The Shakespeare and the Cooper’s Arms are barely five minutes walk from each other, and we know the time the murder took place almost exactly. There was more than ample opportunity for Price to murder Miss Miller, leave the scene, have a drink at the Cooper’s Arms to steady his nerves and then help this unknown man.’

  ‘I had already come to that conclusion, which suggests to me that he is telling the truth. Had be been lying he would have invented a better alibi, or perhaps drawn attention to himself at the Cooper’s Arms so that someone would remember him. But if I can find the man he helped, it will suggest that the blood found on him was not Miss Miller’s.’

  Rawsthorne held up a warning finger. ‘Ah, yes, you say “suggest” which shows that you see, as I do, the flaw in that evidence. Even supposing Mr Price’s story is true, and he did help this injured man, then the blood on his clothes could still have been that of two people, the drunken man and Miss Miller – how can one tell the difference? The two incidents, if there were two, were so close together, that both sets of stains were about the same age.’

  Frances, with some regret, was forced to accept what the solicitor said. Her case was weak, and it seemed probable that nothing she could achieve would strengthen it sufficiently to save her client. ‘At least if I can prove that the man exists it would demonstrate that Mr Price is a truthful man,’ she said, knowing that it was a poor hope at best, and uttering a despondent sigh as soon as the words were said.

  Rawsthorne leaned back in his chair and Frances thought that his sympathetic expression was more for her evident unhappiness than the fate of his client. ‘I fear that will not advance us. He has been honest and truthful until now, there has been no argument about that.’

  ‘There is no prospect of a higher intervention? Miss Price told me you have written to the Home Secretary asking for clemency.’

  ‘I have, although it was more as a favour to the family than with any hope of success. It is usual in such cases to provide convincing arguments showing why the prisoner should be granted a commutation of the ultimate sentence, and I did all I could for him. I pleaded his youth, his formerly blameless life, his honest but poor family. I described the murder as an action committed in a moment of near insanity and then regretted as soon as done. He has not helped himself by refusing to confess, or I could have added his sincere repentance before God.’

  ‘You did not suggest that he was innocent of the crime?’

  Rawsthorne looked slightly surprised at this suggestion. ‘No. I had no grounds on which to do so. The evidence was not in doubt, there were no other suspects, and the judge’s summing up was very fair to the prisoner.’

  Frances was thankful that her own letters had addressed this possibility. ‘You will let me know as soon as you receive a reply?’

  ‘Of course.’ In the moments that followed Rawsthorne regarded her carefully. He could obviously see that she remained deep in thought and made no effort to end an interview which from her manner he could see was far from over.

  Frances took a deep breath. ‘Another possible argument in Mr Price’s favour has occurred to me. One that has not previously been advanced.’

  ‘Oh? I must say Miss Doughty, that a visit from you always produces something of interest. Please share your thoughts with me.’

  ‘Did you know that the body of a young woman was found in Norfolk Square last night?’

  ‘I had heard rumours of a new tragedy, yes.’

  ‘I have been told that the police are of the opinion that she was killed by the same person who murdered Annie Faydon.’

  ‘Well that is very interesting, especially to the family of the unfortunate Mr Agathedes, who was thought to have been responsible. Poor fellow. Mad he may be, but not it seems, a murderer after all.’

  ‘Both of those murders occurred while Jim Price was in custody.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, with a puzzled expression, ‘but I still don’t see …’

  ‘It might be argued that the man responsible for those crimes is also the man who murdered Martha Miller.’

  Rawsthorne opened his eyes very wide in astonishment. ‘Do you really think so?’

  Frances could not in all truth say that she did. ‘I have not yet come to a firm conclusion, but I would like to make others think so, or at least entertain the possibility. Will you help me?’

  He gave her request some thought, but she could see he was sceptical. ‘I don’t see that there is a great deal I can do. I can put your theory forward in the right quarters, of course. It will certainly do no harm.’

  ‘Then that is all I can hope for. There is one more thing I must ask of you. I do not wish to intrude on a family’s mourning but would you be able to discover if the Millers might permit me to speak to them? I am not sure if there is anything for me to learn from them, but I must be thorough.’

  ‘I expect nothing less of you. I will write to them on your behalf and I am sure they will agree to a meeting. For what it is worth I can tell you that they, like yourself, are far from convinced that Mr Price committed the crime, although they cannot suggest who might have done so. They believe it was a passing stranger, a maniac, and Miss Miller was just unfortunate to be there.’ His tone suggested that he believed this to be no more than a wild theory born of a blind refusal to admit the truth.

  Rawsthorne’s expression suddenly mellowed into a b
road smile, and he gazed on Frances as a proud parent might. ‘I don’t know what your poor father would have thought of your progress and position in society but if I might be permitted I would like to take this opportunity to say how much I admire what you have achieved. “Thorough” yes, that is the word for you, also clever and determined. I wish I knew a dozen men with your dedication and energy in pursuit of what is right.’

  ‘You flatter me, but I thank you for your sentiments. My father, I am sorry to say, would not have approved of my current course of life, although he was in a way responsible for it.’

  An expression of pain and regret passed across the solicitor’s face. ‘My poor foolish friend,’ he sighed. Nothing more needed to be said. When her father died, Frances had expected to inherit his business and savings and go on to study pharmacy, but discovered to her distress that bad investments had taken all his liquid resources and plunged him into debt. She had been obliged to sell the remaining assets and had only narrowly avoided bankruptcy. Her uncle Cornelius had offered her a home, and a more sensible young woman placed in such an insecure position would have gratefully accepted his charity, but Frances had instead dared to remain independent and launch herself on an amazed Bayswater as a detective.

  Frances took the sad interlude as her cue to depart, and rose to her feet. She was just about to take her leave and Rawsthorne had risen to say his farewells, when her natural curiosity asserted itself and she sat down again.

  ‘I have just heard that Mr Wheelock was married recently.’

  Mr Rawsthorne’s expression darkened abruptly, and he took his seat, grasping the padded arms with unnecessary firmness. He was not merely concerned but, and this was very plain, actually angry. ‘That is so.’

  Frances caught the scent of something very interesting, and pressed on. ‘It was strange that I read nothing of it in the newspapers. If there had been an announcement I would surely have seen it.’

  ‘You would, but he took very great care not to have it announced. In fact I know neither the place nor the date when this wedding occurred. Clearly it was very recent but as to the location all I have been able to discover so far is that it was not in London. The whole affair was kept very quiet indeed – I would say secret – for fear that the lady’s family would find out and try to prevent the wedding taking place. But I have my spies, of course, and they told me the news.’

  ‘Who is the lady?’

  ‘I am not sure if you know her other than by repute. She is a widow of some means. Her name is Mrs Outram.’

  The name was immediately familiar to Frances, and the news was shocking indeed.

  ‘Surely not?’ she gasped. ‘There must be some mistake!’

  ‘I wish it was, but I am very much afraid it is true.’

  Frances gathered her thoughts, ‘But Mr Wheelock is a young man in his twenties, and Mrs Outram, if she is the lady I am thinking of, must be …’

  ‘She has just turned seventy-two,’ said Rawsthorne, heavily. ‘Of course such marriages are not unknown, indeed we have had the recent example of Lady Burdett-Coutts, but her husband is a highly respected and well-connected gentleman, and I am sure,’ he added generously, ‘that despite the thirty-seven years that lie between them they have much in common, as well as great mutual esteem.’

  Frances had seen Mrs Outram only once in passing and had noticed then that she was susceptible to the flattery of a younger man, but even so, there had to be limits, and the pasty-faced ink-smeared scarecrow of a clerk was surely beyond any woman’s limit. ‘Mrs Outram is mistress of a very substantial fortune. Has Mr Wheelock secured it all?’

  ‘I am afraid he has. It was open to her, had she wished to do so, to place a legal protection on some part of her fortune to preserve it for the use of her heirs but it appears that she chose not to do so.’

  ‘Were there children of her first marriage?’

  ‘A son, who died very young. But,’ and here Rawsthorne permitted himself a brief smile of triumph, ‘Mr Wheelock does not know everything. I have my methods, too. Shortly after Mr Outram passed away leaving his widow a very rich woman, she made a will. After providing substantial bequests to a number of excellent charities, the residue of her fortune she left to be divided equally between the surviving descendants of her late sister, who died in India some years ago. There was a time when finding those descendants might have been a very difficult and lengthy proposition, but now that London and Calcutta may speak to each other by electric telegraph, our task is much simpler. As soon as I heard of the planned wedding I set my agents to work, and they discovered that there is just one descendant alive, in fact most probably her only living relative, a great-nephew, Mr James Chandler, who holds a minor government post. As soon as he was apprised of the situation he prepared to travel to London. Just before setting out he telegraphed his aunt, telling her to delay the wedding at least until his return, but this instruction she chose to ignore. He undoubtedly anticipated this, since he also engaged me to try and convince his aunt not to marry, and should she do so, to set in motion an action to invalidate the marriage on the basis that the lady was either coerced or not in her right mind. He then took the first steamer out of Calcutta. He is expected in Southampton within the week.’

  ‘I think the lady is foolish, and easily flattered, but I would not say she has lost her mind.’

  ‘I have spoken to her, and I must agree. I did consider engaging a doctor to judge whether or not she was compos mentis, but I found her remarkably sharp and sure of herself. Short of abducting her, which Mr Chandler had not authorised, there was little I could do. Foolishness is not the same thing as insanity or the asylums would be full to bursting. She can hardly be unaware of Wheelock’s low origins, but many a woman of sense will cast that consideration aside if the husband is young enough. I feel sure, however, that he has not told her all his story.’ There was a significant pause.

  ‘His origins?’ prompted Frances. ‘His story? You deliberately incite my curiosity. You know you cannot hint at information without my enquiring further.’

  He gave her a knowing look, not untrammelled with embarrassment. ‘It is only rumour, of course, and you must exercise due caution with what I am about to tell you, but his mother is said to be the mistress of a – house. A house of a certain kind, you understand. It is a profession for which she is said to be well suited having lived in such a house before. I have never met her or any member of Wheelock’s family, but I strongly suspect that they are coarse individuals with little regard for the law. The one thing I would like to know is how Wheelock succeeded in this mercenary enterprise. He must have some hold over the lady, but I cannot imagine what it might be, as she always seems to have led such a virtuous life.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Frances, ‘I might be able to assist you there.’

  ‘Oh?’ There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and then he leaned back in his chair with an air of comfortable anticipation and laced his fingers. ‘Do please tell.’

  ‘Mrs Outram’s first husband was, as I am sure you know, a dedicated vegetarian. She, on the other hand, was not of that persuasion. Shortly after Mr Outram’s death I was approached by Mr Lathwal, the secretary of the Bayswater Vegetarian Society, who was very upset. He informed me that Mr Outram had intended to make a new will leaving a substantial property to the society, and had even showed him a copy of the proposed will, which he had drafted in his own writing. When Mr Outram died, however, the only will that could be discovered was an old one in which he had left all his property to his wife. Mr Lathwal was hoping that I could discover what had happened to the new will but there was no evidence that it had even been drawn up, let alone signed, and Mr Outram’s advisor, Mr Thomas Whibley, was recently deceased. Mr Lathwal believed that Mrs Outram must have found and destroyed the new will, but of course it would have been highly dangerous for him to say so without proof.’

  Rawsthorne looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think Wheelock had some knowledge of this?’

  ‘M
r Wheelock, as you know, is a collector of information which can be damaging to others and therefore profitable to himself. He does not necessarily use what he has at once but is content to conceal it until the right moment presents itself.’

  Rawsthorne gave a grunt of displeasure. ‘What an abominable scoundrel.’

  Frances could not help but give him a keen look. ‘I am sure he has proved very useful to you over the years.’

  ‘Oh, he has, I admit it, but in truth, I am relieved to be rid of him. If he has employed blackmail on Mrs Outram then he would be well housed in prison and I shall make it my object to see that he goes there. I am sure he must have a great many enemies who will share my view.’

  Frances suspected that Wheelock was more dangerous than anyone, including even Rawsthorne, knew. Wheelock was no mere collector of curiosities and was far from being a crusader against wrongdoing. He had no moral sense and cared nothing as to whom he damaged, but did so for his own gain, or sometimes merely for the pleasure of it.

  At the end of a long day, Sarah reported to Frances on her visits to the two public houses. She had also commenced enquiries regarding Mr Candy’s missing twenty pound note and was confident of success, although for the time being was remaining smugly silent as to her suspicions. Her other news was that she had traced Mr Seaton, the rent collector who had seen the quarrel between Jim Price and Martha, and he was willing to spare a few minutes of his valuable time to answer questions.

  The landlord of the Cooper’s Arms had told Sarah that nothing would please him more than to assist both the police and detectives concerning the comings and goings of his customers on the night of Martha Miller’s death, but regretted that he was unable to do so. He had his regulars, of course, but he wasn’t able to identify any of them owing to the unfortunate fact that he had a terrible memory for names and faces. He had a similar difficulty regarding days of the week. One night was to him very much like any other and even if he could remember selling someone a glass of beer, which was not an unusual occurrence given the nature of his trade, he could not say exactly when this event had taken place or to whom he had sold it. His wife and potman, by a curious coincidence, suffered from precisely the same affliction. All was not lost, however, since he intimated that certain sounds, like the chink of gold or the rustle of banknotes were often very helpful in improving both vision and memory.