An Appetite for Murder (35 page)

‘I need prove nothing to you.’

‘Humour me, Mr Yeldon. Only provide the certificate and I will trouble you no further.’

Frances well knew the look of someone deliberately creating delay, and Yeldon was showing all the signs. ‘I cannot lay my hand on it at once,’ he said.

‘You surprise me,’ said Frances. ‘Do you keep your papers in such disorder?’

‘Of course not, only –’ he appeared to be casting about for a story.

‘Oh please do not insult me by saying it has been mislaid or destroyed by accident,’ Frances interjected. ‘I have no patience with such crude attempts at evasion. Certificates are readily available at Somerset House and if you could confirm your full name and the year of your birth, it would take very little time for me to see whether or not you are listed in the registers. I could have that information today.’

He looked angry, as any man might be who had been caught out in a lie.

‘You once worked at the Bijou Theatre, where for several years you were employed as a seller of tickets and distributor of notices. Before you left, you took the surname Yeldon after the title of a play that was performed there,’ said Frances. ‘I have recently spoken to a lady who appeared in amateur performances at the Bijou and she remembers you well.’

Yeldon said nothing.

‘She also recalled you and your sister appearing in a variety programme in October 1866. Your performance consisted of whistling, and Mary sang a song about a girl who wanted to be a milkmaid, one that I believe she composed herself, a song that I have heard nowhere else except that Mrs Finn’s nursemaid sings it to the children.’

He remained silent.

‘You are Benjamin Sweetman,’ said Frances.

‘I admit nothing,’ he said.

‘But you do not deny it,’ said Frances. ‘I have been engaged by your father to find Benjamin and Mary, to bring him some comfort in the knowledge that his children are well and happy. I believe that he is innocent both of the crime for which he has served fourteen years in prison, and the murder of your mother. Can you not find it in your heart to see him? If you can, tell me and I will arrange a meeting.’

‘Regarding Mr Sweetman,’ said Yeldon, coldly, ‘I have nothing in my heart. I will not see him or send him any message and I do not want you to mention me to him.’

‘I promise I will not mention you by name,’ said Frances. ‘And your sister, Mary? Is she alive and well?’

He hesitated. ‘I cannot speak of her.’

‘But she is alive?’

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

‘Can your father expect a message from her?’

‘No.’

‘I have also been engaged by your cousin Mr Edward Curtis to enquire into the murder of your mother. It may be that the real culprit is someone she did not meet until after your father’s conviction. If you have any information that could help me in that regard, I would be most grateful.’

‘I can tell you nothing about that,’ said Yeldon.

Alice Finn returned to the room and sensed at once that the interview had not been an amicable one. Yeldon said nothing to her, but turned on his heel and walked out.

‘I hope you did not bring him bad news,’ said Alice.

‘I am not at all sure what I did bring him,’ said Frances.

Mrs Finn handed her an envelope. ‘Your payment,’ she said. ‘And I do hope that now business is done we can be friends. Please come for tea next week. Would Tuesday at three be convenient? We may walk in the park if the weather is fine.’

Frances said she would be delighted to take tea with Mrs Finn. Once home she wrote to Mr Sweetman by way of his nephew to inform him that his son was well and engaged in a respectable occupation, but did not wish to enter into any communication.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

F
rances spent the afternoon dealing with correspondence and speaking to a young man brought to her by Sarah, after Tom spotted him following one of the ladies of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society. It emerged that the culprit was a newspaper correspondent who had been engaged not by the
Chronicle
but by their rival, who were a far less respectable organ of the press. He was to keep a close watch on the ladies in the hope of discovering any scandal that might arise from their behaviour. Had he observed them in a situation that might interest the readership, such as sitting on the lap of a bishop, or patronising a low beer-house, he was instructed to make a sketch of the event, which could be turned into an illustration for the moral instruction of those who amused themselves with such things. Despite his efforts, he had seen the ladies doing nothing more disgraceful than shopping, selling pamphlets and distributing handbills.

‘If you make up stories I shall know who was responsible,’ Frances advised him severely. ‘Your editor will be in court, the paper will collapse and you will find yourself without an occupation. Don’t imagine for a moment that I do not have the power to bring this about.’

The man, who looked hardly more than twenty and had already been admonished by Sarah, looked frightened enough to believe her. Before he left, he asked Frances if he could have an introduction to one of the ladies he had been following, who he thought was very pretty. Frances had Sarah throw him out.

A note arrived for Frances in the elegant script of Mr Elliott informing her that his wife was indisposed and unable to receive visitors, however, he promised that an interview would be arranged as soon as she was once more in good health. Frances was disappointed, but replied wishing the lady a speedy recovery.

The London edition of the
Chronicle
was freshly printed and, as usual, Frances examined it with care. The press had somehow learned of Mr Sweetman’s release and had printed it as a ‘stop-press’ announcement, although fortunately it did not give his address. She was sure, however, that Mr Curtis’ connection with Mr Sweetman was well known and that the young dentist might well find himself deluged with enquiries, to the great displeasure of his wife.

The following morning at ten, a cab drew up outside the apartments and Frances, peering out of the window, saw a now familiar and ungainly figure descend with some difficulty. Mr Finn, swaying with more effort than was usual even for him, laboured up the steps to the front door and was admitted. He was breathing hard as he reached the landing, and it was not entirely from the strain of his ascent. When Frances opened the door, she saw that his face was set and angry, and he appeared to be restraining his emotions only with some difficulty. She invited him in and offered him, not the straight-backed chair at the table, but an easy chair with a firm cushion at his back. This little consideration did not soften his mood.

She drew up a chair to face him and sat down. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked.

‘Miss Doughty,’ he said, with no trace of his previous ease and affability, ‘I have been told some very upsetting news by my valet, and as a result I have also been obliged to ask some questions of my wife. I must inform you that my dear Alice, who has never previously kept any secrets from me, has just made a full confession of her transactions with you. I cannot find it in my heart to blame her as she did all with my welfare in mind, but I find it hard to credit that a supposedly respectable woman such as you claim to be, actually countenanced such a scheme and had the effrontery to charge a fee to carry it out. I have found that both my valet and I have been followed about the streets by your spies. You have even trailed me to the home of my friend and medical advisor, Mr Rustrum.’ He took a large handkerchief from his pocket and drew it across his brow, which was bright red and glistening with sweat. ‘May I take it that you have not as yet interrogated Mr Rustrum about my consultations with him?’

‘I have not,’ said Frances, omitting to mention that she had only been prevented from doing so because of that gentleman’s absence from home.

He looked relieved. ‘I also find that you entered my house, uninvited, while neither Alice nor I were present, somehow confusing my unfortunate housemaid into believing that you had permission to do so, which you did not, for the sole purpose of questioning my valet on the subject of a letter he wrote to the newspaper. During this questioning you had the audacity to accuse him of criminal libel.’

‘That issue is now closed and there will be no charges,’ said Frances. She was curious to know what Mr Finn thought about the fact that Mr Yeldon had made unpleasant insinuations against Mr Rustrum, but felt that, on balance, this was a question best left unaired.

‘Not only that,’ added Mr Finn, ‘but I discover that you have committed the offence a second time and questioned Mr Yeldon again, this time about his family connections, which are no business of yours.’

‘This is relevant to a private enquiry of mine,’ said Frances, wondering what Mr Finn would have thought if she had arrived in the manner of Miss Dauntless by climbing through a window. ‘I should reassure you that Mr Yeldon is not suspected of any crime or indeed any dishonourable act. I regret that I was obliged to interview him at your home, but I required a private location in which to do so, and he refused to come to me.’

‘I am about to go away for a month, to Bath,’ said Mr Finn, ‘although since you are so well informed of my affairs I expect that you already know this.’

‘I do,’ said Frances, unashamedly.

‘In my absence I wish you to have no contact of any kind, either by word or in writing, with any member of my family, not my wife or my children or my servants. You are not to come to my house, or see them in the street or in any public place, neither are you to enter my place of business, or speak to any of my employees or clients. In fact, you are not to discuss my affairs, either personal or business, with anyone. Is that clear?’

‘Very clear,’ said Frances.

‘You are not the only private detective in London, and I have already made arrangements to safeguard both myself and my interests from your unwanted attentions while I am out of the capital. Any attempt by you to interfere further will be met with the full force of the law.’ A brief spasm of discomfort crossed his face and he applied the handkerchief to his forehead once more.

‘Are you unwell, Mr Finn?’ asked Frances. ‘May I offer you some refreshment – a cup of water, or tea, or a glass of sherry?’

He shook his head, thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket, and rubbed his considerable stomach. ‘No, no, nothing. Now our business is done and I believe we understand each other. You are a very intelligent and interesting young woman, Miss Doughty, and I am only sorry that under the circumstances it is impossible for us to be friends, or indeed ever to see each other again.’

‘I am sorry for that, too,’ said Frances, ‘but you have my good wishes for your health and that of your family.’

He nodded, and suddenly winced. Frances realised to her alarm that this was the expression of someone experiencing not some trivial discomfort, but concealing actual pain.

‘Are you sure there is no assistance I can give you?’ asked Frances.

He threw his head back and uttered some deep gasping breaths. ‘Only – if I might sit here a minute or two longer before I depart.’

‘Yes, of course. Do you wish me to send for your wife, or Mr Yeldon?’

‘No,’ he gave a dismissive wave of the hand, ‘– it is merely a recurrence of my old digestive trouble which I know will be cured when I take the mineral waters. I will rest quietly for a while until it eases and then I will return home.’

‘You are leaving this afternoon, I believe?’

‘Yes, immediately after luncheon.’ Mr Finn did not look like a man about to enjoy luncheon. Frances watched him carefully, and during the next few minutes was relieved to see his obvious distress gradually abate.

Sarah returned from an errand and was understandably surprised to see Mr Finn in the parlour. He chuckled ruefully when he saw her. ‘Ah, the strong pair of hands that Alice said was needed about our house. Your agents are everywhere, Miss Doughty, you will have spies in every house in Bayswater, eyes on every street corner. No one will be safe from you. Well, I am ready to depart, now, if you would be so kind as to order a cab.’ He made to rise from the chair, but gave a sharp cry of pain and sat down again.

Frances leaped to her feet. ‘Mr Finn, you are clearly unwell and I shall summon a doctor.’

‘No!’ he gasped, with a look of dreadful apprehension on his face. ‘No, I beg you! I do not wish to see a doctor!’

‘Then I will arrange for you to be conveyed straight home where your wife will no doubt know what is best to be done.’

He shook his head very emphatically. ‘No, please,’ he begged, ‘I must not go home.’ He was quite clearly undergoing more than the usual pain that might have been accounted for by indigestion and sweat was once again breaking out on his brow.

‘Mr Finn,’ said Frances sharply, ‘you must know that I am the daughter of a chemist. I worked as his assistant for several years and made some study of medical books. I do not pretend to diagnose what is wrong with you, but you are in such great pain that I suspect it is a disorder of the bowels and not mere indigestion. You must see a doctor without delay.’