A Case of Doubtful Death (10 page)

The
Chronicle
was a weekly publication, which was fortunate, or she might have had many hundreds of editions to look at, and it was very much taken up by advertisements and national or foreign news. The most interesting part of the paper for Frances was page five, a treasure trove of local information: the often controversial incursions of Mr Whiteley’s shopping empire into the life of Bayswater, the arguments in the Paddington vestry, reports of meetings and speeches, charitable organisations, public health, the antics of thieves, dreadful accidents, obituaries, police court news, and the many clubs, societies and entertainments to suit every taste and interest. It was possible, she reflected, for a person to live a full, interesting and profitable London life without ever going east of Paddington station.

Frances soon learned that in
1863
Friedrich Erlichmann had given lectures at many different locations in the capital, one of which was Westbourne Hall on the Grove, speaking movingly of his miraculous recovery from death. He had been introduced by Dr Bonner as the wonder of the age, and each lecture had been crowded, especially, it was said, by members of the fairer sex. Frances sometimes despaired of her sex, since they seemed so often to pay attention to a gentleman’s looks and not to the sense, or otherwise, of what he was saying. She hoped that she would never be so shallow. The
Chronicle
reported the lecture given in Bayswater in some detail and here Frances learned little that was new, since the wording was essentially the same as had later been published in pamphlet form. Dr Mackenzie was briefly mentioned as having assisted as translator and interpreter. Erlichmann had been greatly applauded and was afterwards entertained to a grand dinner.

There had been, she found, only one small difficulty. All the lectures had passed off to universal acclaim except for the one at Westbourne Hall. As Erlichmann began to speak, a woman in the body of the hall had risen to her feet and loudly denounced him to be a fraud, although she offered no reason why she thought so. She was quickly but gently removed. Erlichmann had later been questioned by the
Chronicle
and said that the woman was of unsound mind, and had been pursuing him ever since he had arrived in London. He believed that she had been driven insane by the fear that her late husband, Arthur Biscoby, a Bayswater physician who had died a year previously, had been buried alive. This explanation was accepted and the objector was not heard from again.

Frances decided to look through the death notices and found the demise in October
1862
of Dr Arthur Biscoby, aged forty-three, who had left a wife, Maria, a son and two daughters. The eldest child was just seven. An inquest had been held, which supplied some useful information. Dr Biscoby had held a post in Germany at about the same time that Mackenzie was there, although there was no indication that the men had ever met or that Biscoby had shown any interest in waiting mortuaries. In
1861
, Biscoby had returned to Bayswater to start a general practice, but unfortunately he had become addicted to strong drink and his mental capacity, moods and income had all gone into a sharp decline. After a bout of excessive drinking he had been found dead in bed, a victim of alcohol poisoning. Evidence was given that he was bankrupt and had been suffering from melancholia. There had been great sympathy for his destitute widow, and a kindly coroner’s jury had declared the death to be an accident. Given the inquiry, which must have involved opening the body, no one but an insane person could have been under the illusion that Dr Biscoby had been buried alive.

The
Chronicle
office had copies of the Paddington postal directories and the one for
1862
included an entry for Dr Biscoby, but there had been none subsequently for his widow. Eighteen years later the unhappy Mrs Biscoby was, thought Frances, either in a workhouse or an asylum, or, more likely, dead. Despite the suggestion that her outburst had been the product of some mental distraction, it was possible that she had known something that might cast some light on the letters Dr Kastner had written to Mackenzie. It was a very long chance, but Frances decided to ask Sarah to go to Somerset House first thing the next morning and see if she could find out if and when Mrs Biscoby had died and if any of her children had married.

Sarah had been keeping a close watch on the area around the Paddington Baths, and reported on her return home that she had been rewarded by paying particular attention to the activities of young male shop workers who lodged nearby. They were, she discovered, beguiling the few minutes of their allotted luncheon time with a little Alpinism, finding windows and ledges from which they could obtain a frosted-glass view of female forms. She had, without drawing attention to herself, discovered an ideal place where she might wait to intercept their activities, and planned to return there the next day. Any young man descending from his eyrie would feel a firm hand on his collar and be able to view a rather less lissom and more muscular female form than he usually favoured, and very much closer than he might wish. Frances prudently suggested that Sarah might undertake that errand in the company of a policeman, but her eager assistant, who had undoubtedly been experiencing the pleasurable anticipation of seizing the miscreants, took some persuading. Frances explained that Sarah was to undertake a very important enquiry at Somerset House, and would be pressed for the time to do so if she was also obliged to drag wriggling malefactors to the police station. Once Frances had described the tale of Mr Erlichmann and Mrs Biscoby, however, Sarah, who enjoyed a good mystery, especially if it involved a vengeful female, was obliged to admit that it was interesting.

Next morning Frances was busy interviewing several new clients, the most promising of whom was a gentleman of means who wanted her to discover the family connections of a prospective business partner, but in a very careful and discreet manner that would not alert the object of his interest. Frances had the strong impression that should she succeed in this delicate task, further valuable recommendations might follow and was anxious that this enquiry should be carried out promptly and successfully. She at once composed a letter to Chas and Barstie, who knew everyone of note in Bayswater involved in any endeavour that concerned money.

Her next visitor was banker’s wife Mrs Pearson, a lady of considerable dignity who spent the first ten minutes of the interview explaining to Frances that consulting a private detective was something far beneath her usual mode of behaviour. She could scarcely imagine how a young woman, who she had been given to understand came from a respectable if impecunious family, could have thought to enter such an unsavoury profession; it was something she found profoundly shocking. There was a long silence during which Mrs Pearson, as if watching a sideshow entertainment, waited for Frances to provide evidence of her degraded status. Frances saw before her a stout woman of fifty-five dressed in the most recent fashion, resplendent with fur and lace, and a festoon of pearls and garnets about her throat. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked quietly.

The client explained that her maid, who went by the name of Ethel Green, was nowhere to be found and she feared for the girl’s safety. The maid, who had been in the house some six months, was twenty-three, a girl with rather greater personal attraction than was entirely good for her, who had learned to dress well and copy the manners of her betters and so present herself almost as a lady. This attainment had gone far beyond the bounds of what was appropriate for her humble position and had put the girl in some danger. She thought that as a result the girl had been stolen away. The maid had last been seen going out smartly dressed on Sunday
12
th September. Frances knew that ladies sometimes made gifts of discarded gowns to favoured servants and asked the lady if she had done so, as this would have afforded her a very good description of what the maid was wearing. The client said that she had not given any of her clothing to the maid, as it would not have suited her. She said nothing more on the subject but from her manner, Frances gained the impression that the maid was considerably more slender than her mistress. Mrs Pearson said that she had now employed a new maid, one that would not give herself such airs, but she wished to be assured of the safety of the missing girl.

Frances agreed to take the commission, but could not help wondering why a lady so proud as Mrs Pearson should feel such concern about a maid, one who was not a long serving and valued retainer but who had been with her for only a few months. There was, thought Frances, more to the matter than the lady was willing to say.

Mrs Pearson departed in her carriage and Frances was then obliged to spend an hour comforting a tearful Mrs Chiffley, while reporting a complete lack of success in locating her missing parrot.

Sarah had still not returned from her duties when it was time for Frances to call at Mrs Georgeson’s lodging house, where she was pleased to find the ground floor tenant, Mr Trainor the surgical traveller, at home and willing to be interviewed.

Mr Trainor was a small man dressed in dark grey, which matched the colour of his hair and inexpertly trimmed whiskers. He smelled of gutta-percha and the burnt rubber scent of dead sap was the liveliest thing about him. He presented such a desiccated appearance, his body bent like a hollow shell from which all soft living matter had been scooped, that Frances suddenly thought with a shudder that were he three days cold and laid out in that grey suit in his coffin, he might not look very much different. He was, he explained, a salesman who had for some years enjoyed a position of some responsibility with a company that manufactured dental supplies. He lived alone, a situation that suited him perfectly and had, he assured Frances, a great many friends who came to see him or whom he visited in order to enjoy a game of chess, in which he admitted to some skill. He was, he said proudly, a founder member of the Bayswater Gentleman’s Chess League. Frances received the impression that this was his only recreation, which he found more than sufficient for his amusement.

He offered Frances a seat by the fire, which produced more smoke than heat. There was a piece of bread and cheese set nearby ready to be toasted for his supper.

Trainor recalled very well the evening on which Henry Palmer had called to report Dr Mackenzie’s death. ‘I heard the doorbell of course, but I would never have thought to pry, it is not my habit to come out of my room to intrude on visitors, only I heard such loud exclamations in the hallway that I knew something was very amiss and – I freely confess it – I put my head out of the door to see what the matter was. There was a young fellow standing on the front step and Mary Ann was crying, but before I could say anything she turned around and ran to get Mrs Georgeson. I thought it would be wise not to leave the messenger alone at the door, so I came out into the hall and asked him what the trouble was. The young fellow said he was very sorry to be bringing bad news, but Dr Mackenzie had just fallen down in a fit and died. Of course I was very shocked to hear it, as Dr Mackenzie was by no means an old man, though he had been looking very unwell of late. I think he had something on his mind, as he always looked preoccupied as if a great weight was pressing on him.’

‘Was there anything especially remarkable in Mr Palmer’s manner,’ asked Frances, ‘beyond what one might expect of a man in those unfortunate circumstances?’

‘No, nothing. He was upset, of course, but he seemed perfectly sane and collected. Mrs Georgeson came and he explained to her what had happened, and that Dr Bonner would be calling in due course to deal with Dr Mackenzie’s effects. He said that if friends of Dr Mackenzie wished to go up to the Life House and pay their respects, Dr Bonner had taken it upon himself to ensure that his associate was decently laid out in the chapel there, and they would accept visitors from ten the next morning. Well, there was nothing I could do so I went back into my room.’

‘Mr Palmer came into the hall, I believe?’

‘Yes, it was a terrible foggy night and very cold, and Mrs Georgeson invited him in and closed the front door, but he only came in a short way.’

‘He wasn’t invited down to the parlour – or to look in Dr Mackenzie’s room?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Did you see him leave?’

‘No, he was still talking to Mrs Georgeson when I returned to my room. But I heard Mrs Georgeson bid him goodnight, and then the front door opened and closed again. That was just a minute or two later.’

‘And I believe there was another visitor who came to see Dr Mackenzie that same night?’

‘Ah yes,’ said Trainor with some indignation, ‘and what a commotion
he
made! Banging on the front door as if he would break it down. I thought it
very
impolite. And I could hear the conversation in the hallway quite clearly without any need to open my door. Mrs Georgeson told him Dr Mackenzie was dead and he absolutely refused to believe it. He seemed hysterical. I was about to go and offer Mrs Georgeson my assistance, but then her husband came and spoke to the man and sent him packing. The next thing I knew the fellow was in the street calling out. I looked out of the window to see what sort of type he was, but I was surprised to see him very respectably dressed. It turned out that he was shouting for a cab, and I was just wondering if he would have any luck in finding one when, as it so happened, one came past and he jumped into it and off he went.’