An Appetite for Murder (29 page)

Mr Gibson’s repugnance and Mrs Sweetman’s sense of betrayal were all too apparent, but Frances knew better than to equate the strength with which a belief was held with the probability of its being correct. Neither did she think that she had unequivocally established her client’s innocence, and it might still transpire that it was she who was the dupe. Although she believed that an act of fraud had been committed and Sweetman made the scapegoat and removed from the scene when it looked as though it was about to be discovered, there was not one shred of proof for this theory. All the accusations, deductions and insinuations in the world would not help her.

Frances decided to do what Mrs Sweetman ought to have done; call on Mr Sweetman and confront him with the accusation of infidelity. She was saddened to see by his expression when she came to his cell door that he anticipated that she had arrived bearing good news. Instead, she was obliged to tell him the outcome of her meeting with Matthew Gibson. His reaction was utter bewilderment, and he made her repeat the story more than once as he seemed unable to grasp it the first time.

‘Is there any foundation at all in this allegation?’ asked Frances.

‘None whatsoever. Are you sure that I was not being confused with another person?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘The only thing I can think of is that the young woman who went to see Susan must have been suffering from a delusion.’

‘Can you suggest who she might have been? Was there at the time someone of your acquaintance who meets that description? Young, pretty and about to become a mother?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I can think of no one. But why would a stranger come to Susan and say such a thing of me?’

‘She was said to have brought proof – letters.’

‘Letters? I wrote no private letters to any woman other than my sister. Oh my poor dear Susan, she was such a simple trusting soul! What pain she must have felt!’

‘Mr Sweetman, I believe that you were accused of the robbery because you were about to uncover evidence that another man had embezzled money from the company. Mr Matthew Gibson told me that your wife was considering giving you an alibi if you needed one, and was only dissuaded when she was led to believe that you had betrayed her with another.’

‘But – I don’t understand – who could be so cruel?’

‘I think it was the late Mr Whibley. He had the skill and the knowledge to do it. The young woman might have been a relative of his or a mistress.’

‘But he was a friend of mine! He told the police he thought I was innocent! He told me he suspected Minster of the robbery!’ Sweetman put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘But if this is true how can any of it be proved? I am a dead man, Miss Doughty, or I might as well be.’ He sat up and a strange calm settled over him. ‘The magistrates will consider my case next week, and I will be at the Old Bailey this spring, and then they will hang me and that will be an end to my troubles. Then at least I can see Susan again and tell her that I never stopped loving her and was never untrue.’ He gave a sudden smile. ‘So perhaps I may be content at last.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

T
hat evening Frances was to appear at Westbourne Hall in the Grove to address the ladies of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society. The subject she had selected was how every woman could be her own detective in the home. Ladies had already learned how to be nurses and doctors and teachers and cooks and accountants and needlewomen and musicians and just about everything else in the home, so the only profession that seemed to remain unconquered on the domestic hearth was that of detective. Frances often wondered why women, supposedly the weaker sex, were expected to be several things at once while men were only ever directed towards a single profession. The subject might appear be a difficult one on which to give useful instruction, although fortunately she knew that most of her audience would only be there to sit in the warm and enjoy tea and bread and butter and cake, and not in order to learn how to be a detective.

Many of the ladies in the society were concerned about dishonest servants, but Frances was well aware that some of her audience were of the servant class themselves, and would take offence at the assumption that they were not to be trusted and should be under close observation. She decided therefore to talk about vigilance in general. Most puzzles, Frances knew, were of a mundane and everyday nature, but the secret was to be alert to the possibilities of what might occur before it did. This was not only in regard to actual criminal behaviour, such as theft of valuables or household supplies, but vigilance on all matters relevant to the good management of the home; the possibility of waste, and signs of approaching illness or of unspoken discontent. Detection, Frances told her audience, was not only about finding thieves, but about living a better and more useful life.

Miss Gilbert and Miss John naturally applauded Frances with great energy and enthusiasm, and the rest of the audience followed suit, some of them having to be elbowed into wakefulness to do so. The talking over, there was a noisy outbreak of conversation, and tea flowed in abundance, a near magical fluid without which Frances was sure she could not think as clearly as she did. It was good, too, she thought, to see that some of her listeners were men, who, as long as they were sincere supporters of the society and its principles, were welcome to attend provided they behaved themselves decently. Not all the women members approved of permitting men at the meetings, and some, Frances felt sure, had every reason to want to avoid the company of men altogether, but Miss Gilbert had pointed out that since men currently wielded legislative power it was only by convincing them of the cause of female emancipation that victory might be won.

Sarah was as usual attending to the business of ensuring order, and casting a suspicious eye on anyone – male or female – who looked as though they had come not to listen but disrupt the meeting. Many women did not want the vote and some had actually spoken out deriding their strident sisters, but Frances had observed that those ladies who lacked the determination to fight for the right to have some say over their own lives were the ones least likely to do anything adventurous to prevent others from doing so. That evening there were two men in particular who Sarah thought should be closely observed. Both were strangers, and there was something in their demeanour which suggested that they were there on some business of their own and not in order to listen to the speakers, none of whom they applauded. They spent the entire meeting lurking at the back of the hall, occasionally indulging in whispered conversation.

‘I don’t like the look of them two,’ said Sarah, ‘not that they’ve caused any trouble, but they need watching.’

‘Press, perhaps?’ suggested Frances. The two individuals, both in their twenties, were clad in rough greatcoats and boots, with hats that sat rather too low over their eyes. One was a thin lanky figure with a soiled scarf twisted round a scrawny neck, and a tangle of long yellow hair, the other shorter and broader, exhibiting a bristly black unkempt moustache.

‘They didn’t write anything down or draw any pictures. Looking for something to steal more like,’ said Sarah.

Despite the temptation of ladies’ reticules and pockets, however, the men did nothing but look about them, and eventually they left the hall together.

The night was warm under a blanket of cloud that did not threaten rain, and the sharp breeze had dropped, so Frances and Sarah walked home arm-in-arm like sisters and talked about what the world would be like when women had the vote. Sarah thought an experiment should be tried where things were turned about and only women should be able to vote and be in parliament, and then the men would find out what it was like to have no say in things. Frances thought that this might not be entirely fair although it would be amusing to try it out for a while.

They were walking along the narrow passage that linked Newton Road with Kildare Gardens, a quiet and respectable location, when they heard footsteps behind them. This was not entirely unexpected, as the way was very much used, but both women felt that the steps were hurrying a little more than was normal. They glanced at each other, stopped, turned around and found themselves facing the two suspicious-looking loiterers they had observed at the meeting. Had the men been going about some honest business they would have tipped their hats and continued on their way, but instead, they too stopped. The lane was not well lit, and a distant gas lamp provided only a sickly glow, but it was enough to see that their expressions were neither friendly nor respectful.

‘What is it you want, gentlemen?’ asked Frances.

‘You were at Westbourne Hall just now,’ said Moustache.

‘I was, yes, but if you wish to discuss my lecture this is not the best time and place.’

He smiled. ‘No, I just had something for you, that’s all.’ One hand had been behind his back, and he now brought it forward with something white clutched in it. For a moment, Frances thought it was a paper, then she saw that it was a handkerchief and before she could ask what he was about, he suddenly darted towards her and pressed it over her face.

She at once recognised the sweet, pungent, stinging smell of chloroform. She coughed and held her breath, turning her head to one side, reaching up and grasping his wrist with both hands, backing away and pulling the cloth as far from her face as she could. This was not the reaction he had expected and there was something of a struggle. He grunted hard, grasped her shoulder with his other hand, and used his weight and strength to push her against a wall, all the time trying to force the cloth over her nose, but with her head turned away he was in some difficulty. He was panting hard and there was the reek of bad teeth and tobacco from his open mouth.

Frances used the last of her breath to give a loud scream for help, then kicked her attacker’s shins as hard as her skirts would allow. She tried to wriggle away from him, but he grabbed a handful of her hair, put his legs one on either side of her, slammed her back violently against the wall and tried to pull her head around. The solidity of his body and the pressure of his thighs appalled and disgusted her. Frances held her breath, hung determinedly onto his wrist – digging her fingers hard into his flesh – and tried to push her elbows into his chest. He cursed in frustration. How long the tussle might have lasted had she been alone it was impossible to say, how long her strength would have held out against his she did not know, but the loathsome weight of his body against her was suddenly released as he was seized from behind and dragged away by Sarah.

Frances gasped for breath, shaking at the brutality of the attack and fury at the insult. No man had ever touched her like that before, and while she knew that most were far stronger than she, it was frightening to realise that even a man not as tall as herself was endowed with a muscular power far superior to her own. Had he chosen to do so he might easily have struck her with his fists and dazed her into submission.

The force of being wrenched aside had caused Moustache to trip over his own feet, and he went sprawling onto the ground, but quickly scrambled up again. He looked around quickly for his companion, and saw the lanky man stretched out on the path groaning, with blood streaming from his nose.

Astonished at the two women’s apparent immunity to chloroform, and with the uncomfortable knowledge that the odds had suddenly turned to his disadvantage, Moustache, with rather less confidence than before, held out the cloth towards Sarah’s face. She balled her fists. ‘Try it and you’re a dead man!’ she roared. He then did the first sensible thing he had done that evening, which was to turn on his heels and run away.

Sarah at once went to Frances’ side. ‘He’s not hurt you, has he, ‘cause if he has, I’ll find him and I’ll break him.’

‘I am unhurt,’ Frances quickly reassured her, ‘which is more than one can say for this other fellow.’ Sarah watched Frances carefully as her breathing slowed to something approaching normal, concerned that she was about to collapse with fright and waiting to catch her if she did. Frances took out a clean handkerchief and wiped her face in case any of the chloroform should have touched her skin, and found that her hands were still trembling. She attempted an encouraging smile.

Lanky was choking on his own blood and trying to sit up. He rolled over and got onto his hands and knees, moaning, then tried to stand, but Sarah went over to him and casually kicked him on the rear of his anatomy and he made a strange gurgling sound and fell forward.

‘Who are they?’ asked Sarah. ‘I’ve never seen ‘em at the Hall before.’

‘Nor I,’ said Frances, who was beginning to recover her calm, ‘but whoever they are I can say two things about them for certain, they are not supporters of women’s suffrage, and have clearly never read Dr John Snow’s excellent volume
On Chloroform and Other Anaesthetics
.’

Ever since the introduction of chloroform as a surgical anaesthetic, the newspapers had published stories concerning supposedly respectable gentlemen, who had been discovered in infamous houses in a state of undress and in the company of women to whom they were not married, and their explanation was always that they had been chloroformed and carried there against their will. These stories were invariably exposed as nonsense by doctors, but despite this, the public as a whole had somehow acquired the wholly erroneous impression that it was possible to render an unwilling victim unconscious with a chloroformed pad in a matter of seconds instead of the substantially longer time actually required. Dr Snow, who had administered chloroform to Queen Victoria during the birth of her two youngest children, and was the pre-eminent expert on the subject, had recounted several stories of attempts to chloroform victims for the purpose of robbery or worse offences, which had failed because of that misunderstanding and resulted instead in the apprehension of the criminal.