Death in Bayswater Read online

  ‘Do you know what time she was killed?’

  ‘The gates are locked at nine, so it was before then. The body was wet above from the rain but dry underneath, and it started to rain at eight. Judging by when she left her family and how long it took her to walk there, we think just before eight o’clock.’

  ‘If the murderer attacked her from behind then there would have been very little blood on his person.’

  ‘I think so. Maybe none at all. On the hands of course, but easily washed off at the nearest horse trough. And seeing as both attacks were after dark, it mightn’t have been noticed even if there had been some on the clothes.’

  ‘What kind of knife was used? The same common sort as was used to kill Martha Miller? Or something different?’

  Sharrock was obviously feeling easier about discussing the finer points of knife murder with Frances, because he answered readily. ‘The surgeon thinks it was long and thin and very sharp. Something like a filleting knife.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances, and the word came from her lips like a little gasp.

  The Inspector frowned, obviously regretting his openness. ‘Are you feeling faint, Miss Doughty? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were.’

  ‘I am quite well, thank you,’ said Frances, quickly, trying to cover the sudden sense of alarm that must have been apparent in her voice and expression. She almost told Sharrock what she was thinking, but decided that she needed to have an urgent conversation elsewhere first. Before she departed, however, there was another idea she wished to explore. ‘Tell me, have there been any reports in west London from women who have been attacked by someone with a knife and managed to escape or have been followed by a suspicious-looking man who did not confront them? Are there any descriptions to be had?’

  ‘There are always reports of shady characters and some of them might even exist, but it’s hard to get a good description, especially of someone who lurks in the dark. We’re looking into all of that, with the vast armies of manpower at our disposal.’

  ‘What you need is an artist,’ Frances advised him. ‘The kind of artist who works for the Illustrated Police News. It is a part of their skill to draw life portraits of people from witness descriptions. If you had pictures like that then you could have copies made and sent to all the police stations in the area.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Sharrock admitted. ‘Where would I –’ his eyes narrowed suddenly, ‘hold on a moment!’

  ‘Where would you find a suitable artist?’ Frances finished the sentence for him. ‘Well as it so happens you have just thrown one down the front steps of the police station.’

  ‘Only because he had the cheek to ask to draw the body in the morgue!’ Sharrock protested. ‘I’m not having anything to do with him!’

  ‘He was only doing what his employers asked, and he may be very useful to you.’ Frances handed Sharrock one of Mr Loveridge’s cards. ‘I have seen his work and it is excellent. Likenesses are his speciality.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll think about it.’ Sharrock looked at the card and was about to toss it on to the heaped papers on his desk, then caught Frances’ look and put it in his pocket instead. ‘Not that the Paddington police will be in charge of enquiries after tomorrow.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because it’s too big for us apparently. So Scotland Yard are sending us two of their best, Inspector Swanson – he’s the same man who arrested the Brighton railway murderer last July – and a sergeant.’ Sharrock smirked. ‘You might know the sergeant. Name of Brown, used to be a constable here.’

  Frances said nothing. She was only glad that the desk sergeant was not in the room to see her blush. Wilfred Brown was an active young policeman with a sympathetic nature and a handsome nut-brown moustache who had been very helpful when her late father had been suspected of poisoning a customer. He was also the first man who had ever made her heart flutter with anticipation at the thought that he might call to see her. Any hope of a closer acquaintance had quickly vanished when she had discovered that he was happily and comfortably married, his wife busy raising a brood of children. His good work on the poisoning case had led to promotion and a transfer to the detective division of Scotland Yard.

  Since then, whatever yearnings Frances might have had for romance or marriage she had tried to put from her mind, not always successfully. She had no fortune to attract the greedy, and lacked beauty to invite shallow admiration. Any man who sought her hand would view her only as a useful wife and not a woman to be loved. If her role in life was to work hard and be useful, as would seem to be the case, then, she thought, she could do so just as well or even better on her own behalf. She had already had more than sufficient experience of unpaid servitude in her father’s shop.

  ‘Right, well if I’m to beat Scotland Yard to the prize I had better get on,’ said Sharrock. ‘I’ll ask Constable Stuckey to call and see you, though I shouldn’t think he has anything new to say. Oh, and Miss Doughty –?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘No chasing murderers if you please, can you leave that to the men?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Frances did not know how many knife-wielding criminals there were in Bayswater but she was unpleasantly aware of one specific individual known only as the Filleter because of the thin sharp blade he carried, and whose occupation appeared to be the collection of debts, at which he was reputed to be highly successful. Blood smears would never have been noticeable on his clothes, which were dark and very dirty. No honest woman would allow him to approach her because of his repellent appearance and rank smell, but he was more than capable of a swift attack under cover of night.

  Two of Frances’ friends, Charles Knight and Sebastian Taylor, or Chas and Barstie as they called each other, business partners and directors of the Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd, had in less fortunate days been so afraid of the Filleter that they had bolted for some considerable distance at the mere mention of his name. She had first met them when they had rushed into her father’s shop to hide from him. Their differences with the Filleter appeared to have been settled without bloodshed, however, and in recent months they had even been known to employ him for his very special services. Now successful, prosperous and anxious to appear respectable, the partners were often approached by the police for advice in cases of company fraud, a subject in which they had considerable expertise. Frances decided that before she mentioned her suspicions to Inspector Sharrock she ought to at least discover if the Filleter might have an alibi for the murders, and if not, warn her friends that police enquiries might well lead to their door.

  Chas and Barstie had recently opened a handsome office on the Grove, where the ground floor boasted a small reception area guarded by a youthful clerk, an office for the directors where they could argue and throw buns at each other in comfort, and a shared bachelor apartment. On the first floor a suite of offices was being let out to another business, and on the second floor a small space was occupied by the flourishing firm of ‘Tom Smith’s Men’, the firm that employed Ratty. Tom, a careful and frugal businessman, paid a nominal rent to Chas and Barstie in return for undertaking errands and deliveries on their behalf. Unlike so many masters, Tom cared about the health of his ‘men’ and would not allow any of them to live on the street. An attic room, mainly used for the storage of stationery and therefore quite warm in winter, allowed those boys who otherwise had no homes to sleep indoors.

  Frances was pleased to see that the office of the Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd had been made into a pleasant place for visitors, in that there were comfortable chairs, a side table with a carafe of water and glasses, and a number of framed prints on the walls depicting scenes of Bayswater’s past. Most of the waste paper had reached the basket where it had been thrown, and the splashes of dried tea on the desktop were quite recent. Barstie was poring over some ledgers, following lines of small neat figures with a probing finger, and Chas was reading a financial newspaper while refreshing him
self from a plate piled high with cakes. Both seemed pleased to see Frances as she often brought them lucrative business, and Chas leapt to his feet and announced that she had come at a most convenient moment as it was time for tea. The clerk was sent into the apartment behind the office to provide their requirements, and Frances was ushered to a seat from where she eyed the cakes, which looked very tempting, with anticipation.

  Chas flung himself back into his chair. ‘What may we do for you now, Miss Doughty? What frauds and cheats and embezzlers are poisoning the respectable businesses of Bayswater? Have no fear – we will find them out!’

  ‘I am afraid it is a more serious matter. I am currently acting for Jim Price who is awaiting execution for the murder of his sweetheart Martha Miller. I expect you must have read about the case in the newspaper. I have been engaged by his family to locate a witness who might give him an alibi.’

  The two partners looked suitably solemn. ‘A bad business that, but not our line of work,’ said Barstie, dubiously. ‘If we could have given any evidence we would have done so already.’

  ‘Following the murder of Miss Miller there have been two other murders in Bayswater,’ Frances continued. ‘In both cases the victims were young women, and like Miss Miller they were killed with a knife.’

  Both Chas and Barstie were by now looking alarmed. ‘I hope you are not getting involved with that,’ warned Chas. ‘I would be very unhappy if I thought for a moment that you were placing yourself in danger.’

  ‘No, please be reassured that I am not directly concerning myself with those cases. But I am considering the possibility that the same man might be responsible for all three murders, which would, of course, exonerate my client, who was in custody when the latter two were committed. I have just come from speaking to Inspector Sharrock, and he has advised me that, judging by the injuries, the murder weapon was a long, thin, very sharp knife. Something like a filleting knife.’

  The two men looked at each other and Frances allowed them to consider the implications of this news. Chas jumped up again, clasped his arms across his plump body, and walked up and down as far as the accommodation would allow, while Barstie rose abruptly and went into the apartment. A minute or two later he emerged ushering in the clerk with the tea tray, then once the tray was laid on the desk the clerk was quickly dispatched to his place in the reception area and the intervening door locked.

  ‘I knew we should have had nothing to do with that creature!’ exclaimed Barstie, accusingly.

  Frances had already made her displeasure on that subject very apparent to them, and decided it would be of no value to say any more. ‘If he is to be suspected of murder then I am duty bound to inform the police of everything I know about him, and their enquiry could lead to you. But it may be that you can provide him with an alibi, in which case I need not report him. Do you have any future appointments with him?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a law unto himself that one,’ said Chas uncomfortably. ‘We don’t arrange meetings. He just arrives.’

  ‘Do you have a record of when he was here?’

  Chas gave a questioning glance at Barstie, who nodded. ‘I just put “debt collection officer” in the appointment book since he won’t give his name.’

  ‘If I tell you the dates of the murders, you may be able to help,’ said Frances.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Barstie opened an impressively large leather-bound book. ‘I read about the murders in the newspaper. Two of them that is. When was the third one?’

  ‘Last night, quite late.’

  ‘We usually shut up shop at eight and have dinner,’ said Chas. ‘That’s what we did last night and we didn’t have guests.’ They both looked worried as if they might be considered suspects, although Frances had never thought of that.

  She provided them with the dates of the murders of Martha Miller and Annie Faydon, and while they could not recall in whose company they had been on the first occasion, the second was the night of a banquet for Bayswater businessmen, when they had dined in a company of twenty-five others. Barstie’s notes of the Filleter’s visits showed that there had been two in recent months, neither of which provided him with an alibi for murder.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is to be found?’ asked Frances without any great hope that there was a convenient business card to hand.

  ‘No, he’s very careful about that,’ said Chas. ‘You don’t find him, he finds you.’

  ‘We will, of course, help the police in any way we can,’ said Barstie, who was looking more assured now that he knew the business dinner provided them both with an alibi. ‘As far as I am concerned the sooner this fellow is in custody the better. Then we may all sleep safer.’

  ‘I suggest that you notify your clerk that should this man come here again then he is to slip out quietly unobserved, and find a policeman or a boy who can send a message to one – or better still several – to come here at once. I will advise the police of my suspicions, and your offer of assistance to them, and also alert my own agents to keep a careful watch and inform the police if they should see him. Even if he has not committed these murders, I feel sure that there are other crimes that could be laid at his door, and it would be to all our benefit if he could be apprehended.’

  ‘Should the police ask us about this fellow what should we say is our connection with him?’ mused Barstie.

  ‘We can hardly say that we have employed him,’ added Chas uncomfortably. ‘Barstie, if there are any papers mentioning him, we had better burn them now.’

  ‘You may determine whatever story suits you best,’ said Frances. ‘I believe in truthfulness, of course, but if a lie may save a life then so be it.’ This scheme being approved to the satisfaction of all, Frances was about to take her leave when she glanced at the prints on the office walls and had an idea. ‘These prints are very good in their own way, but would it not be even better to have portraits of yourselves? If you are considering it, there is an artist I can recommend.’ She handed them one of Mr Loveridge’s cards. ‘He is due to become quite fashionable and his work would make a sound investment.’

  When Frances returned home Sarah was still about her own business, taking a ladies class at Professor Pounder’s academy and following her own suspicions regarding Mr Candy’s missing twenty pounds. Frances was about to send for Ratty, but there was no need as he arrived of his own accord and was clearly very pleased with himself.

  Ratty’s enquiries up and down the Richmond Road had borne fruit. He had discovered a Mr and Mrs Gundry, a respectable tailor’s cutter and his wife who lodged not far from Bott’s Mews and the Cooper’s Arms. Mr Gundry was a sober, slightly portly and grey whiskered man of fifty-four. He had not taken alcohol in twenty years, and most certainly had not done so on the night of Martha Miller’s murder. That evening he had been visiting his sister, who lived in nearby Hereford Road, and who was, so Mrs Gundry said, ‘in bed with her leg’. Mr Gundry’s sister was very fond of oranges and he had taken her some as a gift. He had not been expected home late so when he was not back in their first-floor apartment by a quarter past ten, his wife had gone to look for him and found him collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, with blood coming from his mouth. Assuming that he had fallen down the stairs she helped him up to bed then fetched a doctor who said her husband needed rest and quiet. The next morning Gundry was very much worse, unable to walk or speak or do anything for himself, and when the doctor called again he suggested that the patient might have burst a blood vessel in his head. Only time would tell whether or not he would recover, and if he did, how much progress he might make. Mrs Gundry had read in the newspaper about Jim Price and his encounter with the drunken man, but told Ratty that she had not associated this event with her abstemious husband. Ratty had asked to speak to Mr Gundry but he was asleep and his wife did not want him disturbed, although she thought he might be able to receive a visitor next morning.

  A quick glance at a map told Frances that Mr Gundry’s journey from his sister’s
home to his own would have taken him past the corner of Victoria Place where Jim Price said he had encountered the man he had helped up. While this was very suggestive, as was the gift of oranges, she still needed to positively connect Mr Gundry with Jim Price, to establish that the two were in the same place at the same time, and that Gundry recalled the incident. ‘I will write to Mrs Gundry,’ said Frances, ‘and ask if I might visit her first thing tomorrow and speak to her husband. Even if he is unable to talk to me, I might still be able to find out what I require. I will take a copy of the Illustrated Police News, the one with the drawing of Jim Price at his trial, which is a very good likeness. I am hoping that Mr Gundry can point him out, or at least nod his head and identify him as the man who helped him. If he can I will summon the police at once to act as witnesses to the identification. I will also go to see the sister who should be able to confirm what time he left her. She will recall the gift of oranges. Perhaps he peeled one for her, which would account for the scent. If I can only prove that Jim Price was telling the truth it might create enough doubt to save his life.’ As she composed the letter to Mrs Gundry and the note to Inspector Sharrock concerning her suspicions about the Filleter, Frances had to admit to herself that her chances of saving Jim Price remained slender.

  There was a knock at the front door and after a few minutes the maid, with a very unhappy look, announced that a man calling himself Mackie had come to see Frances but if she wanted him turned away she would do so. Frances said that Mr Mackie could be admitted, and the maid, with an unreadable expression, went about her duties.

  Shortly afterwards, a great deal of wheezing and grumbling up the staircase heralded the arrival of John Mackie, the man who had found the body of Martha Miller. Frances had initially placed him on her list of possible suspects but once he appeared at her door, with bowed legs, watery eyes and gnarled hands, gasping for breath and reeking of stale tobacco and cheap beer, she realised that he could only have been a witness and a poor one at that.