An Appetite for Murder (38 page)

‘Mr Whibley had a confederate, didn’t he?’ she said. ‘Someone you
are
afraid of. Someone cruel and ruthless. Here’s what
I
think happened. Mr Whibley saw Sweetman worrying over the ledgers and realised that he was on the track of his crimes. So he decided to get him out of the way by having him arrested for robbery, and of course get a nice profit himself from the theft. So he established an alibi by going out to dine with the unimpeachable Mr Finn senior, but before he went out, he lent his keys to Mr Minster, a man very keen to get hold of money so he could realise his ambition of opening a public house. Mr Minster carried out the robbery. He expected to find the office empty, but instead he found Mr Gibson working late and silenced him. Then, as arranged, he went to the police and told them he had seen the office lights on at half past nine, so proving that the robbery had happened when Mr Whibley was out dining. Of course he wasn’t to know that Mr Browne would really be there at a quarter past nine.’

Wheelock laughed. ‘Oh you think you’re very clever!’ he said.

‘But I’m right, you
are
afraid.’

He leaned back in his chair, licking ink from his fingers. ‘Look, all I know is about the messages that I took back and forth. I didn’t see what was in them, well, not if they were sealed up, I didn’t.’

‘And when the messages were thrown away? Put into a pile of kindling? Did you collect them up and read them then?’

He shrugged. ‘Anyone might read anything.’

‘But these messages – they were between Mr Whibley and Mr Minster?’

‘Some – a few. But Whibley didn’t trust Minster, hated him, said he was a roughhouse brute and a coward and good for nothing, and wanted rid of him, so he paid him off. You see, Whibley was clever with numbers, but that was
all
he was clever with. And Minster wasn’t clever with anything. Anyhow, it can’t have been Minster who did the robbery. Mr Browne saw the robber and he was sure it wasn’t him.’

‘But Mr Browne must have been mistaken. It was dark and he felt unwell. He thought at first he had seen Mr Gibson, which can’t have been right either. A man doesn’t take a blow like that to the head and then go walking about.’ Frances stopped and suddenly recalled the unfortunate Mr Draper of the Brighton railway who had walked about with what proved after three days to be a fatal injury. ‘Oh, but he does – he can!’ she exclaimed. What had Matthew Gibson said – that his stricken brother had believed there was something of importance he wanted to say to Mr Browne? Supposing, thought Frances, that Mr Gibson, left lying on the floor after the savage attack, had got up, wandered about in a daze, seen Browne looking in and tried to speak to him, but in his confusion couldn’t recall what it was he wanted to say, so turned, went back in and collapsed where he was found. Browne, she realised, had been right from the very beginning – he
had
seen Mr Gibson that night.

‘Did the police never suspect Minster of the robbery?’ asked Frances.

‘Yes, until it turned out he was in a beer house till after nine.’

‘Was he?’

‘Any number of witnesses saw him there.’

‘Then I’m not sure I understand.’

‘That’s because you don’t know what I know,’ said Wheelock with an inky grin.

‘Then you had better tell me,’ she demanded.

‘I’m telling you nothing. And if you are half as clever as you think you are you should be able to work it out for yourself.’

Frances thought. She wished right that moment for nothing more than a big pot of tea, as it always seemed to help. ‘You just said that Mr Whibley was clever with numbers and Mr Minster wasn’t clever with anything. So … if Mr Whibley had a close confederate it must have been someone who was also clever, but with something that
he
wasn’t good at. So who could it have been? Old Mr Finn and Sweetman were skilled in accounts. Mr Browne was a salesman but he had an alibi … oh, but there is another man who is also good at sales and dealing with people.’ She thought of Mr Elliott’s manner with old Mrs Outram, a manner less of the professional advisor than a fawning suitor. Was he the smiling face that invited custom, the mask that concealed criminality, with Whibley as the man who manipulated the figures? ‘Did Mr Elliott have an alibi for the robbery?’

‘He had a good one for half past nine, that’s for sure. The time when Minster said he saw the lights on. But he didn’t have one for earlier.’

‘But he and Whibley hardly knew each other.’

Wheelock pointed up at a shelf. ‘There’s a bundle of paper scraps up there that says different.’

‘So it was Whibley and Elliott you ran the messages for?’

‘That’s all I can prove and it doesn’t prove anything else. I know they were planning to set up a business together. Elliott as the charmer and Whibley as the brains.’

‘So Minster wasn’t anything more than a hired man?’

‘That’s all he was good for. Of course, he wouldn’t have been so helpful, even for the money, if he’d known the rest of what was going on.’

‘The rest?’

‘Mrs Minster. You wouldn’t think it now, but in those days she was pretty as a picture.’ He leered.

Frances went home, brewed enough tea for several people and drank it all. She could see it now, Whibley the financial man and Elliott with good looks and manners uniting their very different talents in a variety of moneymaking schemes. When Whibley had gone to work for his uncle, he had recommended Elliott for the first available vacancy. With his new skills and status, Whibley was set fair to make the fortune he had then spent on good living. Was it really Elliott who had broken into the office and battered Mr Gibson? If so, he was a very dangerous man. Had he also murdered Mr Walsh? If Whibley knew the importance of the reciprocal wills, then Elliott, his partner, would have known it also. Frances had deduced that Elliott, who had suffered a crushing injury of the left arm and been immobile, had been trapped in the railway carriage on the side farthest from where Mr Walsh was seated. Draper had said he saw Elliott trying to free himself, so the other arm had been free and uninjured, but even so, if Mr Walsh had stayed in his seat Elliott would not have been able to reach him. But Walsh had not stayed in his seat, he had moved about, helping to rescue his sister, and then, according to Richardson, getting behind Whibley to push, which would have placed him on the far side of the carriage from the rescuers, Elliott’s side, where dagger-like splinters of wood were within reach. That must have been when the murderer took his chance.

She thought again of Mr Elliott’s office, how pleasant and uncluttered it was, the lack of application and energy which she would have expected to see on the premises of any successful commercial firm. Was that because the day-to-day property work was only a shield for other illegal business? But Wheelock had been right, what could she prove? Scribbled notes did not make a conspiracy, and suppositions did not make a case.

Frances was thinking about making a second pot of tea when Sarah, who had been out helping Professor Pounder with the final arrangements for the ladies’ calisthenics nights, returned and they discussed the new information and speculations.

‘What about Mrs Elliott?’ said Sarah. ‘Did she not see anything?’

‘Almost certainly not, since she was taken out of the carriage while Mr Walsh was still alive,’ said Frances.

‘But when they got married he might have told her all his secrets,’ said Sarah, ‘and she might not mind if he was rich.’

‘I have never met the lady,’ said Frances, ‘so I am not sure what she minds. All I really know about her is that she is a devotee of Mr Rustrum’s Pure Food Society. Dr Jilks told me that after the Sanitas letter was published several of his patients came to him very anxious, and Mr Elliott was one of them, worried about his wife’s health. I was hoping to interview her but Mr Elliott wrote to me saying that she was unwell.’ It was a moment or two before the implications of what Frances had said sank in.

‘Perhaps we ought to call on Mrs Elliott,’ said Sarah.

‘Yes,’ said Frances. ‘I am not as confident about the state of her health as Dr Jilks was. Mr Elliott will be at the office still. Let us go and see his wife.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
IX

T
he cab was not long in taking them to Mr Elliott’s home in Westbourne Terrace, but even that short journey seemed too slow for Frances, whose anxiety and impatience grew with every passing moment. She could only hope and pray that her suspicions were unfounded and that she would find the lady to be in no danger. She mounted the front steps at a pace that would have startled any passer-by, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a competent looking maid of about twenty.

Frances presented her card. ‘I regret that I do not have an appointment,’ she said, ‘but I am on an errand of great importance and must therefore appear to be impolite.’

The maid glanced at the card and returned it. ‘Mr Elliott is at his office,’ she said. ‘You will have to call there, or leave a message.’

‘It is not Mr Elliott I wish to see,’ said Frances, ‘but Mrs Elliott. I would not intrude upon her unless it was a matter that cannot possibly wait.’

The maid shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but Mrs Elliott is unwell and does not receive visitors. Master has ordered that she is to be kept very quiet. Good day.’ She made to shut the door, but Sarah moved forward and it was suddenly impossible to do so.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Frances. ‘Please advise me how long Mrs Elliott has been unwell.’

‘About three weeks,’ replied the maid, struggling with the door. ‘Please, I must ask you to leave. If you wish to visit in future you will need to write to Mr Elliott for an appointment.’

‘Three weeks?’ said Frances. ‘You surprise me. Less than a fortnight ago I was assured that your mistress was in good health. Is Dr Jilks the family physician?’

‘He is,’ said the maid reluctantly.

‘And has he called on Mrs Elliott?’

The girl hesitated and glanced up and down the street. ‘I am not sure, Miss, that I ought to be talking to you about this.’

‘We will talk either on the doorstep or in the hallway,’ said Frances. ‘Which would you prefer?’

The maid was clearly unsettled by both these options.

‘
Has
Dr Jilks called in the last three weeks?’

The girl lowered her eyes and bit her lip. ‘No, Miss.’

‘What is the nature of Mrs Elliot’s illness?’

‘I am sure I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps Mr Elliott called in another more eminent man for a second opinion,’ said Frances. ‘Please let me know who has attended your mistress.’

There was a worried pause. ‘All I know is that Mr Elliott went to see Dr Jilks for advice, and he said that Mistress is not to be moved.’ She tried to close the door again, without success. Sarah wore an increasingly thunderous expression, and the girl began to look frightened.

‘I want to see her,’ said Frances.

‘I really can’t allow that, it’s Master’s express orders. He said any excitement might put her in danger.’

‘I think that Mrs Elliott may already be in danger and I insist on seeing her,’ said Frances.

The girl was trembling, but she found a shred of courage and drew herself up straight. ‘And I have to insist you leave.’

‘What will happen if I refuse?’ asked Frances. ‘Will you summon the police?’

‘I –’

Frances narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh I rather wish you would.’

The maid’s only response was another attempt at closing the door, but Sarah stepped forward and shouldered her way in. Frances followed her into the hallway.

‘Where is she?’ Frances demanded.

The maid backed against the wall looking about her for help, but there was none in sight. She shook her head.

‘Take me to her
now
.’

‘I can’t!’ said the girl with a terrified sob in her voice. ‘She’s very bad, and she might die, and Master said he knew best what was to be done and I wasn’t to interfere.’

Sarah took her firmly by the arm. ‘Where is she?’

‘Upstairs. Only it’s kept locked, so she isn’t disturbed. Master said if she was to be upset then it would kill her, and I’d be to blame!’

Sarah mounted the stairs, dragging the maid up with her. The girl stumbled up the steps, barely keeping her feet and wriggling ineffectually in the clasp of Sarah’s substantial fist. There was a corridor on the upper landing with a series of doors. ‘Which room?’

‘The last one, but you can’t go in!’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Sarah marched up to the door, still with the maid in tow, and tried the handle. ‘Who has the key?’

‘Master has the key.’

‘No one else?’ A shake of the head. Sarah released the girl. ‘Stand back,’ she said. The maid hurried to the head of the stairs, but she was by now so thoroughly frightened that on encountering Frances she cowered away and made no attempt to escape. Sarah eyed the door as if it had done her a personal injury, then backed to the furthest width of the landing, and charged. It was a stout door, but not one designed for such an assault, and it burst open with a loud crash. The maid screamed.