A Case of Doubtful Death (36 page)

As Mr Fairbrother had predicted, the revelation that the body in the pauper’s grave was that of Mrs Templeman had excited some curiosity about who, or possibly what, was in that lady’s coffin, and the cemetery was more than usually busy with sightseers who clustered around the Templeman mausoleum hoping to see something gruesome. The removal of Mrs Templeman’s coffin was to take place at night after the cemetery gates had been shut to visitors, and while Frances was not permitted to view the arrangements, Mr Fairbrother was. Frances awaited his next visit with some impatience. It occurred to her that due to the nature of her enquiries she had been spending more time in his company than she ever had with any young bachelor, and it had been a not unpleasant experience. He was intelligent and ambitious, with good prospects, and, she was forced to admit, very handsome, although that was not something she thought ought to sway her in any man’s favour. Surely a kind man with a good mind might by bad fortune also be very ugly, and she ought not to think less of him for that. Mr Fairbrother’s only fault – and what man did not have faults – was that he had a very shallow understanding of what a clever woman might achieve, but that, Frances thought, could be mended in time. As soon as the idea crossed her mind she tried to dismiss it. She had only to gaze in her mirror to see that she would never be courted by a handsome man.

Frances returned home to find that she had a new client, a Miss Horton. The lady was neatly and respectably dressed, but every thread of her clothing spoke of poverty and making the best of meagre means. Her red fingers and sturdy forearms suggested a lifetime spent as a washerwoman. She was about forty and had the unhappy air of someone who was enduring a long expected tragedy with acceptance, sadness and a pang of relief.

‘How may I help you?’ asked Frances, having established that the lady was indeed the sister of the recently deceased Mr Horton.

‘I have just travelled down from Manchester to see to my poor brother’s affairs. I read in the newspapers last Friday that he had been killed, but I couldn’t come to London till yesterday, as my mother is very ill. A friend of his, a Mr Darscot, has kindly offered to help with the arrangements, but I have been unable to discover where poor Herbert was living. I had a letter from him about six months ago, asking if I could send him some money, and I did send a few shillings, but when I went to the place, it was a lodging house on the Balls Pond Road, and the landlord told me Herbert had left three weeks ago leaving unpaid rent. He had heard Herbert talking about the Piccadilly Club, though he never believed that he was really a member, but I went there, and the secretary came and spoke to me. He was very kind and said that Herbert had been a member, but only for about a month and left without paying his dues, and when he joined he gave a false address.’

‘I am sure that someone will read of the inquest in the newspapers and come forward,’ said Frances.

‘I am afraid he was in the habit of taking lodgings under a fanciful name,’ said Miss Horton, regretfully. ‘It was just his way. Would you be able to find his rooms? I can’t afford to pay you very much but with Mr Darscot’s assistance …’

‘I think you ought to know that Mr Darscot may not be as disinterested as you suppose. He has told me that he lent a sum of money to your brother and he may be hoping to recover it.’

She smiled. ‘Oh, he has been quite open about that. I told him that I very much doubted that Herbert had fifty pence let alone £50, and he said he suspected as much and it didn’t matter.’

‘Of course you will want to be able to find any little mementoes of your brother he might have left.’ Frances thought that since Horton was not likely to have had money to travel by cab, he had probably taken rooms not too far from the Piccadilly Club. The messenger boys who made that part of Bayswater their domain might well have noticed him. ‘I think I may be able to help,’ she said.

Had Frances been asked to predict the outcome of the examination of Mrs Templeman’s coffin she would have said that she hoped to find stolen goods, but she knew and Fairbrother knew what they were both dreading. She had tried not to think about it, but the idea would keep coming back like an angry spirit that obstinately refused to stay dead. When Fairbrother came to see her, his face told her everything before he even spoke.

‘It is very bad news, I am afraid. There is a body in Mrs Templeman’s coffin, and it is, without a shadow of a doubt, that of Henry Palmer. Fully clothed and with his keys still in his pocket. The police have been notified and will be informing the family. It will be a terrible shock to them.’

Frances thought of Mabel Finch and her simpering love, and Palmer’s honest and reliable nature, and his shy affection. How she had wanted them to be united and happy as far as any couple could be in life. She did not want Palmer to be a mouldering corpse in a coffin with his future stolen from him. She thought of Alice and Walter, and wondered how they would fare.

‘His poor sister, she was quite ill with worry,’ said Frances. ‘And there was a young lady he was interested in who returned his esteem. Such a tragedy for them both. I am sorry that I was not able to help more, but it seems that when I was first consulted he had already been dead for some time.’

‘But you did help them, Miss Doughty. You found him, and I think without you he would never have been found. They will be able to say their farewells and it will be a great comfort to them. At least —’ he paused. ‘There is, I am afraid, another possible source of pain for those who knew him.’

‘You are referring to the cause of death?’

‘I will be assisting Dr Collin at the examination tomorrow and cannot of course express any official opinion before then.’

‘But an unofficial opinion?’

He smiled, ruefully. ‘I knew you would press me most directly to say what I think.’

‘And will continue to do so if necessary.’

‘Very well, but it is always possible I could be mistaken. I believe Palmer was attacked with a weapon of some kind, a cudgel, perhaps, or even a hammer; it was hard to tell, but it will become clearer later. He was struck several times on the back of the head. His skull was broken.’

‘Murder, then,’ said Frances.

‘I fear so.’

‘Which explains the reason for the substitution. It was done in order to conceal a body that had clearly met with a violent death, while disposing of one where death had occurred through natural causes. But where can the crime have taken place? There would be blood splashes, would there not?’

‘There would indeed, but it was a very foggy night and there was a misty rain that would have quickly washed away any traces.’

‘What if he was killed indoors? We don’t know where he went after leaving Mrs Georgeson’s. Several people concerned in the business of the Life House live close by – but the simplest solution is that he went back to the Life House, to help Dr Bonner, from a sense of duty. Any other location would mean the murderer had to transport the body through the street, not an easy thing to arrange, even in the fog. Could he have been killed there? And who changed over the bodies? And when?’

‘There is no note in the record book of him returning to the Life House and he was very meticulous about signing it,’ Fairbrother objected. ‘The walls of the wards are whitewashed and would easily show any traces of blood. Hemsley cleaned regularly and has said nothing about any bloodstains.’

‘But suppose that Palmer did go back, who would have been there when he arrived? Dr Mackenzie, but he had already injected himself and was unconscious, and in any case he had been taken into the chapel. Then there was Mr Darscot – he was travelling by cab and would have got there before Palmer, who was on foot, and Dr Bonner let him into the chapel. But Palmer had the keys and would have let himself in at the main door, and he would quite possibly have been on the wards, alone while the others were all in the chapel. Could someone have entered and killed Palmer without the men in the chapel hearing anything?’

‘I must doubt that,’ said Fairbrother. ‘The wall between the chapel and the wards is not very thick.’

‘But the outer walls, I suspect, are thicker.’

‘They are, very much so. I assume you agree that Dr Bonner cannot have been involved. He is very lame and quite incapable of carrying bodies around.’

‘The road around the Life House is very secluded,’ said Frances. ‘Mr Palmer may have been killed just outside the building by someone who followed him and then struck him down, used his keys to enter, and carried the body indoors. That would explain why he didn’t sign the book, and why there were no blood splashes inside and why the men in the chapel heard nothing.’

Fairbrother nodded. ‘And of course the murderer would have had his cudgel in his pocket and taken it away with him.’

‘But who put the body in Mrs Templeman’s coffin? And why throw Mrs Templeman into the canal at all, when the two bodies might have been fitted into the same coffin and buried together?’

‘That would be indecent!’ exclaimed Fairbrother.

‘More indecent than murder?’ Frances turned to Sarah, who was looking at them with an expression of extreme scepticism. ‘Do you have a comment, Sarah?’

Sarah’s fingers didn’t pause in her knitting. ‘What I want to know is, if nothing of Mr Palmer’s was stolen, why did anyone want to kill him?’

Neither Frances nor Fairbrother could answer that.

A
s expected, the opening of the inquest on Henry Palmer’s death the next morning was a brief formality in which evidence was taken of identification and the proceedings were adjourned to await the results of the post-mortem examination.

That morning’s newspapers brought an interesting announcement. The Life House would formally close its doors in four days’ time, when the last body was removed for burial. The property had been sold to an investor and once the business ceased, the building would be torn down and the land used to construct dwellings.

Frances realised that if she wanted to look inside the Life House she had very little time in which to achieve it. Dr Bonner had left London, and Dr Warrinder and Mr Fairbrother would not permit any infringement of the rules. She thought about trying to talk her way in when the new orderly, Renfrew, the only man who had not met her, was in charge, but entry was allowed only by application to a director, and entrants must be medically qualified or be medical students.

There was only one way she might achieve her object, she must persuade a doctor to take her into the building and vouch for her, and the only man she could reasonably ask to do this was Dr Carmichael. She would have to avoid any objections that might be raised to her sex by doing something she had promised herself she would never do again. Frances composed two letters, which were duly delivered, and then she and Sarah went shopping.

That afternoon, Frances, accompanied by Sarah who, with her features determinedly devoid of all emotion, was clutching a large parcel, called on Cedric and explained what she had been unable to put in writing.

‘Let me understand this,’ said Cedric, making little effort to conceal his amusement. ‘You wish me to instruct you in the art of appearing masculine.’ Joseph tilted an eyebrow in their direction. ‘I have told you the story, have I not, Joseph, of my first meeting with Miss Doughty, or should I say Mr Frank Williamson, as she seemed to me then.’

‘Many times,’ Joseph murmured.

‘It was not something I did willingly and I do not do it willingly now,’ said Frances firmly. ‘I know it is a grave risk, but I am driven by necessity. I am aware that if I am to do it, I should do it the best way I can, which is why I have asked your advice. I suspect that at my first attempt I was a very feminine boy.’

‘Oh, you were, you were,’ said Cedric nostalgically, ‘but really I can’t imagine why you feel you need lessons in being the man. You have obviously been practicing it since, and you already have the art.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘But I espied Mr Williamson only the other day and I thought he cut a very masculine figure. I decided not to hail you as I thought you might be about some secret task, but you were very convincing.’

Frances stared at him. ‘You are mistaken. I have never, since the time we first met, donned gentlemen’s clothing.’

‘Oh? But I was quite sure it was you! The features, the walk, it was so like. If it was not you it must have been a relation.’

Frances was suddenly dry-mouthed and spoke with an effort. ‘And – what was this man doing when you saw him?’

‘Boarding a train at Paddington station.’

‘To what destination?’

‘I couldn’t say. My dear Miss Doughty, you look quite unwell. Please be seated and Joseph will bring you a glass of sherry.’

Frances told him then – not all that there was to tell, as there were some things she could hardly bear to speak of. She said that she had not long ago discovered that her mother, whom she had supposed to be long dead, was quite possibly still alive, and that she had a younger brother, Cornelius Doughty, whom she had never met.

‘Of course, I would like to know my family, but I am so afraid that they might not wish to know me that I have as yet made no attempt to discover where they are living. You will think me a coward, now.’