An Appetite for Murder (28 page)

Inspector Sharrock gave evidence about the scene of the crime, which furnished no clues as to the identity of the attacker apart from the newspaper with Mr Sweetman’s advertisement circled. He had made enquiries about the brandy bottle which it was thought had been brought by the murderer, but it was a very common type, on sale all over London. One of the jurors asked if it was known whether Mr Sweetman had purchased a bottle of brandy between leaving prison and the date on which his wife’s body had been found, and Inspector Sharrock was obliged to admit that there was no evidence to suggest he had.

Mr Curtis was allowed to give evidence but said that he had not seen his aunt for many years and knew nothing of her associates. He said that his uncle was a kind and gentle man who had never been known to be violent and he did not believe him ever to have committed a crime. He added that he did have brandy in both his home and his surgery for medicinal purposes, but it was not the same kind of brandy as the bottle found at the scene of his aunt’s death. His uncle never drank brandy; indeed, he had never seen him under the influence of alcohol.

The inquest jury had no difficulty in delivering a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown.

‘Of course I had heard rumours of how my aunt was found,’ said Mr Curtis, dolefully, when Frances spoke to him afterwards, ‘but to hear it in that detail, discussed so calmly … Naturally, in my profession one hears stories of all sorts of medical disasters, although fortunately I have not yet had any patient suffer injury through an anaesthetic, but when it is one’s own aunt who is being spoken of, it is hard to listen to, very hard indeed. Do you have any clue as yet to who the murderer might be?’

‘I am afraid not,’ said Frances, ‘although I feel sure that the police are not convinced that your uncle was responsible, so there is good hope for him. I have made progress in other areas, however, which might well lift the cloud of suspicion from him in the matter of the burglary.’

‘If this lady can’t solve the mystery no one can!’ declared Mr Gillan, enthusiastically. ‘And now, Mr Curtis, might I trouble you for an interview? I know the readers of the
Chronicle
would be very interested to hear about what a kind, sober and gentle soul your uncle is.’

‘Oh, yes, by all means!’ said Curtis, and Gillan grinned at his rivals before ushering Mr Curtis away. Frances only hoped that her meeting with Mr Matthew Gibson that afternoon would clear some of the dense mystery that surrounded Mrs Sweetman’s latter years.

Over a simple luncheon, Sarah told Frances that she had called again to see the Finn family servants, and had asked in a careful way about the songs sung to the children. It transpired that both Mary Ann and Mrs Finn like to sing, although Mrs Goswell professed to have no voice that anyone might care to hear. Teased into singing, Mrs Goswell amply demonstrated that she had no talent for the art, and there was much amusement. While they talked, Mary Ann came down to the kitchen to fetch a pudding for the children, and there was some light and pleasant talk about nursery songs.

‘I think either Mary Ann learned the song off Mrs Finn or Mrs Finn learned it off Mary Ann,’ said Sarah, ‘but I didn’t want to push it too much because if they suspected what I wanted to know they might have took fright.’

‘What I am not sure of,’ said Frances, ‘since this is not an entertainment I am familiar with, is whether the song is well known, which would make it a matter of coincidence that Mary Ann sang it to the Finns’ children, or whether it appeared only rarely, or if Mr Curtis was right and the only person ever to sing it was Mary Sweetman.’

‘One of my brothers likes the music hall, at least I think he likes the girls and their costumes and doesn’t take too much notice of what they do, but he doesn’t know the song,’ said Sarah. ‘He said if it was sung all those years ago and didn’t catch on then no one would remember it.’

‘Someone did,’ said Frances, ‘but who?’

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

M
r Matthew Gibson, who was a gentleman of modest but sufficient means, was staying at a small hotel just off Bayswater Road, where a faded though clean dining room served a simple tea. Frances asked to be shown to Mr Gibson’s table, and found that she was expected and tea had already been ordered. The attendant, while assuming a practised expressionless demeanour, nevertheless allowed himself a sideways glance of frank curiosity, and Frances hoped that he had not assumed that she was there for a quite different kind of appointment. The room was mainly occupied by elderly ladies, either alone or in pairs, and one rather younger couple who sat in a corner facing away from the door as if they did not wish to be observed. A single gentleman who appeared to be above eighty years of age, rose from a table to greet her. His hair was perfectly white and rather long, as was his beard, and he was dressed in a suit of clothing that had long passed out of fashion, which made him look like a portrait of a great personage that should hang in a museum. This, Frances thought, must be his London attire, as he did not look at ease in it. Doubtless, when in Shoreham, he would dress as he pleased for comfort. He moved very slowly with the aid of a stick, but showing a game determination not to allow weak legs and stiff knees to impede him in anything he wished or was obliged to do.

‘Miss Doughty,’ he said, ‘I am much obliged to you for agreeing to see me. Please be seated and we will have our tea, and I will tell you everything I can.’

London, he said, as the sandwiches and cakes arrived, was a necessity he preferred to endure as infrequently as possible. It was too noisy and the traffic too dense and the people impolite. He had a little property, however, not far from Paddington Station, and it fetched a good rent, so he was obliged to keep it on. He sighed at the cruelty of a world that valued houses in uncongenial places.

‘Tell me about your brother,’ said Frances, once the tea was poured and the waiter had departed. ‘Of course I never met him, but everyone who did has spoken very highly of him.’

‘Yes, he had worked for Finn’s for many years and was a model of diligence and reliability. It was so very like him to stay on late to ensure that his work was complete.’ Mr Gibson raised his cup with a shaky but firm hand and sipped the near boiling liquid without blinking. ‘After that terrible attack he was never the same man. He was forgetful, and sometimes flew into rages for no reason. His decline was terrible to watch. I took him to live with me and cared for him as best I could, but he died less than a year after the robbery. The only mercy was that he had no memory of the terrible thing that had happened to him.’

‘And you believe that his attacker was Mr Sweetman?’

‘I do, yes. Who else could it have been?’

‘I have read the report of the trial, and when your brother gave evidence he said that the last thing he could recall that night was looking at his watch at half past eight and noting that his work would be complete in half an hour. Was there no other detail, however small, that he was able to remember later?’

Mr Gibson attempted a scone, which was unusually tough, and gave up. ‘No, nothing else. There was something he kept trying to remember, but I don’t know what it was; he kept saying that he had something of great importance to tell Mr Browne. But when I asked him what it was he couldn’t say.’

‘Mr Browne? The same man who said he had passed by the office that night? Were they very friendly?’

‘Not especially.’

‘And Mrs Sweetman visited your brother?’

‘Yes, poor woman. It was as much a shock to her as anyone. I was so very sorry for her. The man she had loved and trusted with her happiness, the father of her children, had betrayed her most terribly. She could not even bear to see him. And of course, if Arthur had died then her husband would undoubtedly have hanged.’

‘And she never for one moment thought he might be innocent?’

‘Only in the first moments after hearing of his arrest. The police had come to the office and taken him away, and the managers, out of kindness, went to see her to tell her what had happened, rather than have the police come to her door. At first she had wanted to defend his good name, as a wife should, she even offered to give him an alibi for the time of the robbery, in case his sister was not believed, although she knew that he had been away from home that night. But then they told her about other things he had done.’ Gibson spooned jam onto a slice of sponge cake and manoeuvred it past his beard. ‘She wouldn’t tell me all the details. She said the company had suffered enough without more scandal.’

Frances examined a scone, which appeared to be a day old, and resisted the temptation to test it by tapping it on the plate. At least the tea was fresh and hot. ‘Who were these “managers”?’ she queried.

‘She didn’t tell me their names. Mr Finn must have been one of them, I suppose. She felt sorry for him, as he was a very good-mannered and considerate gentleman.’

‘Was it ever suggested,’ Frances ventured, ‘that Mr Sweetman had been taking money from the company?’

‘Not only suggested, but proved beyond doubt,’ asserted Gibson. ‘They found the proof after his arrest, but it had to be kept secret or the company’s reputation would suffer. It was bad enough that they had harboured a criminal, they did not want to be seen as negligent. Did you know of Sweetman’s financial hardships? After his arrest some evil individual began plaguing his unfortunate wife for payment of debts the size of which she had never suspected.’

‘Yes, he was in need of money, he has freely admitted that to me, for his sister’s care and his nephew’s education, and he had unwisely borrowed from a moneylender,’ said Frances. ‘The police assumed that he stole the money to repay his debts, but if the lender continued to apply to Mrs Sweetman then this cannot have been the case. But I am not at all sure that it was Mr Sweetman who stole money from the company.’

‘It was his business alone to write in the books, and he had the key to the safe,’ said Mr Gibson, as if that put the matter beyond doubt. Frances saw that she was unlikely to sway him from his well-entrenched opinion of her client.

‘The thing that I wish to know is why Mrs Sweetman refused to see her husband again,’ said Frances. ‘She thought him a robber, and a desperate man who had committed violence to escape detection, but many wives will forgive anything up to and including murder.’

Gibson stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘If it had been only that, she might have found it in her heart to forgive him,’ he said, ‘but, as you have guessed, there was more. Much more. As you have correctly deduced, Mr Sweetman did not steal to pay his debts. Neither did he steal to help his sister or his nephew. No, he had formed a wicked plan to abandon his family, his wife and his children, and leave them all to starve; he needed the money to make his escape and start a new life.’

‘I can scarcely credit that,’ said Frances, wondering if they were even talking about the same man.

‘Neither could his poor wife at first. But it was true.’

‘You are sure the lady you spoke to was Mrs Sweetman? You had met her before?’

‘Yes, once before the robbery, in the company of her husband.’

‘But how did she learn of this plan?’

‘After his arrest a friend told her all the story.’

‘What friend was this?’

‘She wouldn’t tell me the name.’

‘Surely,’ said Frances, ‘however much she trusted the friend, she would still have gone to her husband and confronted him with such a terrible accusation?’

‘Yes, that was her intention, but then –’ he glanced at her, studied her.

‘I know I am young, but I have seen a great deal. You must tell me everything.’

He dropped, almost threw, his teaspoon in the saucer with a clatter. It was a gesture of disgust. ‘There was a young woman. A pretty young thing, barely twenty, and soon to become a mother. She went to see Mrs Sweetman and there was an interview of a most painful nature. She said that on some of the evenings when Sweetman was supposed to have been at the bedside of his sister he had been in her company instead, and her situation was the result of their connection. He had professed himself to be in love with her, said that he could not be happy with any other. He wanted to go away with her so they could live together as husband and wife, but, without funds, it was impossible. He said he had a plan to obtain the money. He actually told her that he no longer cared for his wife or what became of her and the children. That is not an address to which any honest woman should have listened. And her story was not only words, she brought proof, letters in Sweetman’s own hand, blotted with his tears. Now you see the kind of man you are trying to help. But he is cunning and can put on the face of innocence.’ Gibson pushed his cup and plate away. He had no more appetite.

‘What was the name of this woman?’ asked Frances.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘Did you see Mrs Sweetman after her husband’s trial? Did you ever discover how she lived and where?’

‘I only saw her once more, a few weeks after the trial and she was in a bad way. She said her children had found employment, and she was no longer being troubled for her husband’s debts, but she could barely support herself. A gentleman had offered to be her protector, and she thought … well, I suppose there was no other course for her. She wanted to stay in London to be near the children. I was unable to do anything for her; I had my brother to care for. We must all look to our own first. That is what Mr Sweetman should have done.’