An Appetite for Murder (12 page)

Frances touched her tongue to her wisdom teeth, which had, fortunately for her, grown in without trouble. Mr Curtis was not a man of great bulk but she could easily imagine his strong hands on a pair of dental forceps.

‘The late Mrs Cowan had been an invalid for many years and they had no children, so when Mr Cowan died, he left the practice to me. Yes, I am a man of some substance, now, but I have never forgotten what it is to be poor.’ He smiled, but it was a curiously thin smile, tired and drawn out, with hollow eyes.

‘What can you tell me about your uncle’s arrest for the robbery?’ asked Frances.

‘Only that it was a terrible shock when I heard of it, and I did not and have never believed him to be guilty. A less violent man could not be imagined.’

‘But he was in want of money,’ observed Frances, ‘and that told against him. The stolen funds were never found, and the police believe he used it to repay his creditor. Did you ever discover more about that?’

‘No, never. I was granted leave of absence from school to be with my mother, whose illness was made still worse by events. She never believed in uncle’s guilt. I found myself suddenly obliged, as a mere schoolboy, to try and assume the role of the man of the family, a role for which I was ill-equipped. I went with uncle’s solicitor to see him while he was awaiting trial, and he told me that aunt had refused to see him, and he missed her and his children very much. I knew that he had been constrained to borrow in order to help us, but, strangely enough, there were never any documents to show that the loan even existed. I can’t believe that he obtained the money dishonestly, so I assume that he fell victim to a private lender who demanded an exorbitant rate of interest.’

‘Did you see your aunt and cousins during that time?’

‘I went to visit Aunt Susan once, but she was not very cordial. I think she held me partly to blame for what had happened – uncle putting my ambitions ahead of his own children’s education. She said that she had never seen a penny of what she believed he had stolen.’

‘Were your cousins there?’

‘No, they had gone to seek employment.’

‘What was the nature of the employment?’

Curtis considered this for a moment. ‘I don’t think aunt told me. I was left with the impression that it must have been domestic service, but now that I think about it, she didn’t say. I only gathered from her manner that it was not something she would have wished for her children, but that pressing need had driven them. She did her best to make me feel very guilty about that, and I believe she succeeded,’ he added despondently.

‘Why do you think she was so certain that your uncle was guilty? Did she say anything which suggested that she had any information on the matter?’

‘No,’ he sighed, in a tone of great melancholy. ‘That was the hardest thing. It was all statements without explanation. She was adamant about it, but when I asked her for reasons, she just said that I was too young to understand. She only said that he had betrayed her in a way that she could never forgive, and she did not want to see him again. I went back to school and the next thing I heard was that uncle had been convicted and my aunt had gone away. We heard nothing more from her. I was terribly shocked, not only by her death, but finding out that she had been living in such poverty. I was unable to do anything for her while I was a student, but once I was earning a salary, I could have helped her. Perhaps she thought, as she had been less than kind to me, that I would turn her away, but I would never have done such a thing.’

‘Even though she did not help you when you were in need?’ asked Frances.

‘I would have done it for the sake of my uncle if nothing else.’

‘And all these years you knew nothing of how she lived? I ask because it is possible that whoever murdered her might be someone she met during that time. If I can find out where she was and who her associates were then I might be able to discover the guilty person.’

An expression very like pain passed across her visitor’s face and he glanced at the carafe. Frances gestured for him to help himself to more water, which he did. ‘There were rumours, of course …’ he said, awkwardly.

‘What rumours were they?’

‘Oh,’ he gave a mirthless little laugh of embarrassment, ‘some of them very indelicate.’

‘We must forget delicacy if I am to help you,’ said Frances. ‘There are places where delicacy is a hindrance to progress such as a doctor’s surgery, or a court of law. This is such a place.’

‘But there are some things it is hardly proper to speak of before an unmarried lady, or any respectable lady for that matter,’ he protested.

‘Then kindly forget my sex,’ she instructed, with a little dash of impatience.

‘Oh, I fear that would be most difficult,’ he assured her.

‘Try harder, Mr Curtis, or we will get nowhere,’ said Frances, inserting a thin sliver of steel into her voice.

There was a short silence. ‘I heard several rumours,’ he said at last, ‘but of such a nature that they could not all be true at once. Perhaps none of them were true and in any case it was beyond our resources to pursue them. The mystery only seemed to encourage ill-natured persons to invent vile stories for their own amusement. What pleasure it gives these people to say such cruel things is beyond my understanding. We were told that she was living as the mistress of a robber, that she had been seen in prison, or in the workhouse, or – walking along a street in Whitechapel. One person actually came up to us and whispered that he had learned that she was living in a house of a certain nature, a house to which no gentleman who valued his reputation should go. Another told us that she had been found dead in the gutter.’

‘You are certain, are you not, that your uncle is innocent of any crime?’

‘I am, although my wife, who does not know his nature as I do, is less sanguine.’ He gave a little grimace.

Frances recalled how, when a well-respected Bayswater gentleman had died of poisoning just over a year ago, the blame had seemed to fall on a prescription her father had composed, and valued customers whom he had served impeccably for many years had immediately deserted the business for a rival chemist. She wondered if Mr Curtis, in addition to his undeniably genuine concern for his uncle, was suffering professionally as a result of the connection with a sordid crime, and was having his ear burned by the observations of his disapproving wife.

‘I am very anxious to trace your cousins, who may know something that could assist my enquiries,’ said Frances. ‘Even if they cannot help me, it would be a great comfort to your uncle to see them again. I recently spoke to a man who recalled seeing them on stage at the Bijou Theatre. That would have been many years ago. I was told that Mary sang a song about wanting to be a milkmaid, and Benjamin, who could not sing, whistled. Do you recall ever going to the Bijou Theatre or hearing it mentioned? Did your cousins ever show any inclination to sing or whistle?’

‘What a curious question! When I was very young we did sometimes go as a family to the charity performances, but the theatre was never something any of us ever considered as a way of life. I have heard Mary sing, and she had a sweet voice, but Benjamin, as you say, had no talent for music.’

‘When was the last time you saw them?’

‘Before uncle was arrested. It was during a school holiday and we all dined together, and …’ his voice drifted away.

‘Yes?’

‘It is strange how memories lie buried, and only come back when a comment brings them to the front of the mind. I recall now that Mary sang for us that day, after we had dined. She talked about the pretty dresses of the ladies at the Bijou. I can see her now, she wore a scarf as if it was an evening wrapper and put a paper flower in her hair. I remember thinking that she was more beautiful and charming than any of the ladies at the Bijou.’ He sighed. ‘I hope, I do so hope that she has led an honest life and not fallen into bad ways.’

‘Do you remember what songs she sang?’ asked Frances.

‘No, it was so long ago. But she had a talent for music and rhymes, so I think she may have made them up herself.’

‘Anything you can tell me about your cousins would be very useful,’ said Frances.

He nodded. ‘I do have a portrait,’ he said. ‘I was going through my aunt’s papers and discovered this.’

He reached into his pocket and took out a card-mounted photograph. ‘I remember this being taken,’ he said. ‘I am not sure if there was any particular occasion, but my uncle mentioned his new position so it must have been when he was appointed manager at the insurance company. This lady in mourning is my late mother, before her last illness bore her down. You will recognise my uncle, of course, and the lady beside him is my late aunt. This serious looking boy is myself in my Sunday best suit, and beside me are Benjamin and Mary. They would have been about eleven and nine, I suppose.’

Frances gazed at the picture, of a kind that had been common when sitters had been obliged to remain perfectly still for several minutes at a time. Understandably, all the persons depicted looked unnaturally rigid, but she could see that Susan Sweetman had been a woman of considerable personal attractiveness, with the kind of buxom rounded figure that men seemed to admire so much. Mary, with a small face and delicate chin, more closely resembled her mother than her father and might grow to look like her. Benjamin, although two years older than Mary, was the same height, with darker hair, and his father’s features.

‘Were brother and sister close?’ asked Frances. ‘If I was to find one, would I thereby find the other?’

Curtis considered the question carefully. ‘Benjamin and Mary were different in character,’ he said at last. ‘Mary seemed to have more energy, and did better at school than her brother; in fact, she did better than him at almost anything she tried. But she was very kind to him, and there were no jealousies that I could perceive. They were extremely fond of one another, I am sure of it. I think that if you found one, then even if they were not actually residing together, he or she would be sure to know where to find the other.’

The next day was Sunday. Frances and Sarah attended St Stephen’s church, where she had learned long ago to ignore the whispers of gossips and commune only with her own private thoughts. The Sabbath was meant to be a day of rest, so why was it that her busy mind could find no peace? Every hymn she sang, every nuance of the sermon, which appealed for charitable assistance for victims of the recent cold weather, seemed to harbour a meaning that kept her turning again and again to the mysteries she had been asked to solve. Although the weather was becoming milder, there was still considerable distress in London caused by the freezing conditions earlier in the month, not the least, thought Frances, the misery caused to Mr Sweetman by obscuring the time and even the day of his wife’s death.

She wondered where the Sweetman children might be, and prayed that she might find them; alive and healthy and happy and forgiving. Tomorrow morning, Mrs Sweetman would be buried at All Souls’ Kensal Green, and Sarah was to attend and take careful notice of who appeared. Tom and Ratty would wait nearby for her signal, and any person of the right age and appearance to be either Benjamin or Mary would be stealthily followed home.

Frances had advised Mrs Finn that she would be available to interview her at three o’clock on Monday afternoon, and that morning received, again from the hand of the discreet maidservant, a little note confirming that her new client would call at the appointed time.

It was all very elegant and tasteful, like an arrangement for two chattering ladies to meet for tea and sugar-topped biscuits, to exchange views on the latest fashions and disseminate scandal. Mrs Finn had thus far given no hint as to why she wished to consult a detective, but Frances’ experience told her that when a married lady sent letters via a trusted maid, and asked for a private interview without mentioning the subject to be discussed, there was usually only one reason.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

W
ith Sarah on her way to Kensal Green, Frances’ first call of the day was to the offices of the
Bayswater
Chronicle
. Seeing the busy clerks bent over their desks, working, it seemed, in a disorganised litter, she was reminded of Mr Lathwal’s comment about the paper used to write the Bainiardus letter. She went to examine the blocks of cheap paper on the clerks’ desks, and a young man offered her some with a smile. Being plain bulk paper it naturally had some similarity to that used for the Bainiardus letter, but it was not the same; being smaller and more neatly cut.