An Appetite for Murder (27 page)

‘I see,’ said Frances, who now saw where the matter lay. ‘And from your distress I assume that he did not do so?’

‘Oh, but I am sure that he did,’ exclaimed Mr Lathwal fervently. ‘About a year ago he showed me a draft copy of his will and said that he was due to sign it and have it witnessed the very next day. I have no reason at all to doubt that he did as he had promised. But his executors have searched high and low, and it cannot be found.’

‘Who is his solicitor?’ asked Frances. ‘Does he not have a copy of the will?’

‘I am not sure if Mr Outram employed one, or at least none has come forward. The only will that can be found is one he made thirty years ago in which he left small sums to various charities and all the rest of his fortune to his wife.’

‘Do you recall who the executors were for the will that he intended making?’

‘He asked me if I would be willing to act, and of course I said yes. If there was another I don’t recall his name.’

‘This draft you saw,’ said Frances, ‘was it in Mr Outram’s own handwriting or another’s?’

‘It was in Mr Outram’s hand. I am familiar with his writing as we corresponded often.’

‘So it might not have been the final document, but only something he had written out for the guidance of the professional man who would draw up the will for him,’ said Frances, seeing Mr Lathwal’s hopes slipping away.

‘I suppose so,’ said Lathwal, reluctantly admitting the force of her comment. ‘But I cannot believe that Mr Outram would have gone against his promise to me. We had such a wonderful funeral breakfast to honour him. I paid for it all myself,’ he added plaintively.

‘Did Mr Outram mention anyone at all, any person whose advice he might have sought, or who he might have been considering asking to be another executor? Was anything to be left to another organisation such as the Pure Food Movement?’

Lathwal gave this some thought and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’

‘Do you know the source of Mr Outram’s wealth?’

‘Land, I believe. Good farmland that has been in his family for many years. He didn’t farm it himself, but rented it.’

‘So he would have had a land agent, and possibly also a professional gentleman he went to for financial advice?’

‘Yes, he did, and I thought to consult him but the gentleman died very recently.’

Frances had an unpleasant feeling that she knew the identity of Mr Outram’s late advisor. ‘Not Mr Thomas Whibley?’

‘I am afraid so. I went to the office and spoke to another gentleman but he was very curt with me and said he knew nothing of any will.’

Frances did not need to ask the name of the curt gentleman. ‘Mr Lathwal, you mentioned your worry and your suspicion. Tell me, what do you think happened about the will?’

Mr Lathwal looked very uncomfortable. ‘I do not wish to make accusations, especially where I have no proof,’ he said.

‘In that case,’ Frances assured him, ‘you are something of a rarity. But I do not believe that you have come here to consult me without sharing your thoughts. I promise I will not think badly of you for harbouring suspicions, and neither will I repeat anything that could be construed as slander.’

‘That is very kind and understanding of you,’ Lathwal said gratefully. ‘Very well, I will speak freely. I think that Mr Outram did have the will made, and since it was not found amongst Mr Whibley’s papers, he must have kept it at his home. Mrs Outram is not, by inclination, a vegetarian. I know for a fact that while Mr Outram did not permit meat or fish to enter his house, his wife dined on both items when from home. In fact, I am sorry to say that she was wholly opposed to the vegetarian principle.’

‘I see,’ said Frances. ‘You think that after her husband’s death Mrs Outram found the new will and destroyed it?’

‘Yes,’ said Lathwal, almost in a whisper, ‘I do.’

‘You are right to be so hesitant, that is a very serious allegation,’ said Frances. She thought for a moment. ‘Now supposing that the document you saw was not a will, it was merely a plan to make a will. I happen to know that Mr Whibley was something of an expert in wills. It might have been he who drew it up; he might even have witnessed it, but there would have been another witness.’

‘No one has come forward,’ said Lathwal. ‘It might have been some junior employee who was not even permitted to see the terms of the document and would therefore not be a witness of any value. I have thought about it again and again, and I cannot see that there is anything I can do!’

‘I am sorry,’ said Frances, ‘but I must agree that you are in some difficulty. You yourself did not see a valid will so there is no proof that it was ever drawn up, let alone signed, witnessed and subsequently destroyed.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Mr Lathwal, miserably.

‘Have you spoken to Mrs Outram?’

‘Yes. She said she knew nothing of another will and asked me to take away her husband’s library of books on the subject of vegetarianism. When I called upon her –’ he shuddered, ‘I could smell roast beef.’

Frances allowed him a few moments to compose himself, and eventually he thanked her and prepared to leave. ‘How much do I owe you for the consultation?’ he asked, apprehensively.

She smiled. ‘Nothing, since I am unable to act for you. I still have the booklets you supplied on the subject of vegetarianism – do you wish them returned to you?’

‘No, please keep them with my compliments. I fear that you are not –?’

‘I am not.’

‘You would not consider adopting the vegetarian way?’ he asked hopefully.

‘I think it unlikely, although I applaud your efforts to bring peace to the world,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ he said, disappointed, ‘but if you ever consider it, the doors of our society are ever open.’

Sunday promised to be fine, and the morning sun soon burned away any troublesome mist. After church Frances, Sarah, and those inhabitants of Bayswater eager to take the air and enjoy the improved weather, descended upon Hyde Park, still far from spring-like, but holding in its flower beds and the smooth bare branches of its shrubs the promise of a fine colourful display before too long.

Mrs Finn was walking in the company of Mary Ann, the nursemaid, who was pushing a handsome twin perambulator of the modern four-wheel design, in which the youthful Finns, aged perhaps two and four, sat swaddled against the elements and distracted with dolls. It was of course a necessary fiction that Mrs Finn and Frances had never met, so it was up to Sarah to greet Mary Ann as if they had met there by chance. A conversation ensued in which Sarah, who had never been noted for a fondness for children, expressed her intense admiration for the two little Finns, and asked so many questions as to their feeding and clothes that the nursemaid, glancing at Sarah’s bulky form, seemed from her expression to have made an incorrect conclusion as to the reason for her interest. The distraction did, however, enable Mrs Finn and Frances to move aside and engage in a private conversation.

‘Miss Doughty, I am so very grateful to you for setting my mind at rest,’ said Mrs Finn. ‘I hope you will not be offended but it seems as though I will not be requiring your services any further.’

‘I am not at all offended,’ Frances reassured her. ‘All my commissions must reach a conclusion and I am happy that you are satisfied. I will arrange for Sarah to bring you a note stating the fees due.’

‘Of course, and I promise that they will be settled without delay.’

‘I hope that your husband is well? I was passing his office yesterday when I was notified of the attempted burglary. Since I have been making enquiries about Mr Sweetman, I went in to see what was amiss, and I observed that Mr Finn seemed very weary.’

‘It was a terrible ordeal for him and he was very shaken by it,’ said the anxious wife. ‘Once the police had gone, he came straight home to rest, but the outcome was that at last we had a long and very frank talk on the question of his health, and he has finally admitted to me that he is far from well and in constant pain from his back. He has now agreed to go to Bath very soon to take the waters, and expects to be there for a month. Mr Yeldon will go with him so he will be in good care. Perhaps when he is away you could call and take tea. I would like that so much!’

‘That would be delightful,’ said Frances, and it was agreed that an appointment would be made very soon.

Sarah and the maid were busy making cooing noises over the children, and playing a game in which a doll was made to dance to amuse them. As it capered prettily, Mary Ann provided it with a voice, so it seemed that the doll was singing for the children. ‘I am a farmer’s daughter, and a milkmaid I would be,’ she trilled, ‘but I don’t know how to milk a cow, oh please take pity on me!’ There were cheerful giggles from the perambulator.

Frances hoped that her reaction as she suddenly froze in place was not immediately obvious. She glanced at Mrs Finn, whose attention at that moment was fortunately taken by the sight of her children being amused. ‘What a curious little song,’ said Frances. ‘I don’t believe I have heard it before.’

‘Oh, there are a dozen like it that Mary Ann sings to the children,’ said Alice Finn, innocently. ‘I believe they are well known.’ Frances, however, remembered Edward Curtis telling her about his cousin Mary Sweetman singing for the family and his impression that she had made up the songs herself. But was his recollection correct? He had, after all, been only a child himself at the time and might have misunderstood what he was told. Had Mary really composed the songs or had she simply claimed to have done so?

It was not, thought Frances, the best time to question the nursemaid about the song, which she might have heard from a relative or a friend or anyone in the Finn household. That should be done at a subtle and private interview. Neither should she question Mrs Finn about the maid and her antecedents, which would at once arouse suspicion and perhaps unfairly lose the young woman her place. Frances walked over to the perambulator supposedly to admire the children, who, she saw sadly, would if they were too much indulged grow to resemble their father more closely than their mother, but in actuality, her object was to take a closer look at the maid. There was nothing remarkable about the appearance of the young woman, who was perhaps about twenty-five, and the usual height for a female. She had a round pleasing face with a pretty smile as she looked at the children, and light brown hair gathered smoothly into her bonnet. Mary Sweetman, it had been rumoured, had gone into service. Could this be she? Judging by her age and appearance it was certainly possible.

Once home, Frances stared again at the photograph of the Sweetman children, but Mary’s face was too unremarkable for a certain identification. There was, all the same, something about the expression; an intelligent, watchful look, that she had seen somewhere before.

On Monday morning promptly at ten, Frances arrived at Providence Hall, Church Street, to attend the resumed inquest on Susan Sweetman, with Dr Hardwicke, that wise and experienced coroner for Central Middlesex, presiding.

Dr Collin, Frances’ own medical man, was there to give evidence, exuding the urbane and satisfied air of a respected practitioner who was kindly to all and never made a mistake, in both of which latter opinions, Frances knew, he was unjustified.

The little court was crowded with the usual pressmen with their notepads and pencils, including Mr Gillan, who took care to sit beside Frances, as if to announce to the others that she was his own very special informant and should not be questioned by anyone else. The other men, from their hard glances, were more than a little jealous. Inspector Sharrock was there, as was Edward Curtis.

The circumstances of Mrs Sweetman’s death were now very clear. It appeared that she had entertained a visitor, since there were two glasses on the table, both of which had contained brandy. Mrs Sweetman’s stomach also showed that while she had eaten bread and jam and tea for her last meal, this had been followed about an hour or so later by a significant amount of brandy, the absorption of which had not proceeded for very long before her death. Dr Collin was of the opinion that Mrs Sweetman had been tipsy, but not incapable, when attacked. She had been struck on the right side of the head, in all probability by the brandy bottle, which had been found on the floor where it had rolled behind a chair. The blow, which might have come from either the front or the back, would have rendered her dazed, even unconscious, but not killed her. The attacker had then knelt on the unfortunate woman’s chest, and strangled her. There were deep dark bruises on her throat from the imprint of two powerful thumbs. When he had been brought to see the body, it was actually frozen and it was therefore impossible to say how long she had been dead.