An Appetite for Murder (6 page)

He spoke with all the confidence of an advertisement for the issue of shares, and Frances could not help wondering what interests Mr Richardson had in the business, and how important it was to him that his former employer’s reputation and that of Anderson, Walsh and Whibley should be protected.

‘Had he been trying to lose weight, as has been suggested in the newspapers?’ she asked.

Richardson had recovered his earlier composure. ‘I did not observe his dining habits and he never discussed them with me.’

‘Mr Sweetman told me that when he spoke to Mr Whibley recently he thought him a considerably changed man,’ said Frances, ‘chiefly, I think, due to his increase in weight. Of course he had not seen him in many years, but even allowing for that, he thought the change quite shocking.’

‘Mr Whibley was never a slender man,’ Richardson admitted, ‘but his size in recent years was not entirely his fault. About eight years ago, he suffered a bad accident on the railway and he was never quite the same afterwards. His leg was broken in two places and he was unable to leave his bed for several weeks. He made a good recovery and it did not affect his work,
but it was as a result of that period of enforced inactivity that his girth underwent a considerable increase. Yes, I can see that his weight might have affected the action of his heart, but I had never seen him actually ill until after Mr Sweetman called.’

‘And you believe that it was the interview with Mr Sweetman that made him ill?’ queried Frances, realising that her incredulity must be apparent in her voice. Whatever the effect of the meeting on Mr Whibley, it was apparent that something had been said which could be of vital significance to her enquiries. ‘Did you see him immediately afterwards? What was his manner? Please,’ she urged, ‘try and remember anything he said to you, however trivial it might seem.’

Richardson looked less sure of himself. ‘It was either the interview itself or something else that occurred soon afterwards. I did not see him again that day. Mr Whibley went out directly after Mr Sweetman left, and did not advise anyone of where he was going. There was no appointment in his book, and it was unlike him to leave the office in the middle of the day without prior arrangement, or any warning. The following morning he came to the office at his usual time, but he was clearly unwell; his face was almost grey. I advised him to go home at once and rest, and he did. Later that night, he died. I can tell you nothing more.’ The oyster snapped shut again.

‘His doctor wrote to the
Chronicle
but declined to sign his name,’ said Frances. ‘Do you know who he consulted?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I take it you don’t know the identity of the recent correspondents in the
Chronicle
, Bainiardus and Sanitas, who wrote on the subject of Mr Whibley’s death and diet?’

‘I do not. And before you enquire, I can assure you that neither I nor any person here employed would under any circumstances write to the newspapers about a private matter that concerned Mr Whibley.’

‘Perhaps you are acquainted with the handwriting of Mr Whibley’s friends?’ asked Frances. She opened the folder of letters and showed the Bainiardus and Sanitas letters to Mr Richardson. He gazed at them, but his expression did not change. ‘I am afraid I cannot help you with that.’

‘If either of these should look familiar to you and you do not wish to mention the names of the authors for the sake of confidentiality, then might I suggest that you speak to the person or persons concerned, and ask them to write to me?’ Frances presented her card. ‘I have no wish to expose them; I only wish to reassure my clients that the letters will cease.’

He stared at the card on the table but did not pick it up. ‘As I have said, I cannot help you with that.’

‘Do you happen to know what became of Mr Sweetman’s son and daughter? They were called Benjamin and Mary.’

‘No. Mr Whibley never mentioned them to me.’

‘What family did Mr Whibley have? The obituaries said that he was unmarried.’

‘I knew of none, other than his late uncle Mr Anderson. He lived alone, apart from servants. I was at his funeral, which was well attended by business associates and friends.’

‘I am wondering if there is any person he might have spoken to after seeing Mr Sweetman.’ Frances waited hopefully for a response, but Mr Richardson did not feel any need to assist her. ‘I assume that his house has been sold and the servants dispersed?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Do you know the names of his servants or his intimate friends?’

‘They were mentioned in his will.’

‘Who were his executors?’

‘Mr Elliott and myself, although Mr Elliott did the bulk of the work.’

‘What position did Mr Elliott hold when he was employed here?’

‘Junior clerk.’

‘But he married Mr Anderson’s widow?’

‘He did.’

‘And does he still work here?’

‘No, he has his own interests now.’

‘I would like to speak to Mr Elliott. I am sure you would be able to provide me with his address. I would also like to see a copy of Mr Whibley’s will.’

Richardson smiled thinly. ‘I will arrange for a note to be delivered to that effect.’

‘There was a messenger boy at J. Finn Insurance called Timmy. Did he come to work here?’

‘No.’

Frances decided not to ask Mr Richardson how familiar he was with the music hall.

When Frances returned home, she found that Sarah had already made enquiries at the coroner’s court and attended the brief opening of the inquest on Mrs Sweetman. The body had been discovered at her home in Redan Place by a neighbour, who claimed that she had called to see if there was anything Mrs Sweetman needed, but who, Sarah thought, was actually hoping to borrow something. Apart from the neighbour, who had identified the body, and Mr Gillan of the
Chronicle
, the only other people in attendance at the inquest were Mr Sweetman’s nephew, Edward Curtis, and his solicitor Mr Marsden. Despite hopes that Benjamin and Mary Sweetman might attend if only incognito; there was a notable absence of heavily veiled ladies and men with suspicious looking moustaches. No medical evidence had been taken and the inquiry had been adjourned for a week. Since the proceedings had taken barely fifteen minutes, Sarah had gone on from there to Somerset House, where she had been unable to find any marriages or deaths relating to the Sweetman family, although ledgers were unfortunately only available up to 1878. She had, on her own initiative, also looked for the death of Mr Arthur Gibson, the clerk injured in the robbery, but no one of that name and the right age had died in London, which suggested either that he had moved away, died recently or, less likely, that he was still alive.

Sarah had never been a frequenter of the music halls and had never heard of either the whistling boy or the singing would-be milkmaid, but she promised to look into it.

Frances had also received a letter from Dr Adair, who enclosed a copy of Mr William Banting’s acclaimed pamphlet on diet, another from Mr Lathwal, who supplied an application form to join the Vegetarian Society together with a leaflet about the immorality of eating meat, and one from Mr Rustrum of the Pure Food Society, who enclosed a paper on the pleasures of self-denial. All three confirmed their appointments to see Frances.

‘I am hoping,’ said Frances, ‘that this will prove to be a simple matter, and we will soon have Sanitas unmasked and apologetic.’

‘Well, we haven’t been so lucky on finding out who writes the Miss Dauntless books,’ said Sarah. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want to know.’

The stories had been published locally under the obvious pseudonym W. Grove, and showed, so Sarah believed, a sincere and ardent admiration for the lady detective. The books had caused some disquiet to Mrs Embleton, since one illustration had clearly shown the front of the property in Westbourne Park Road where Frances and Sarah lived, and frightened the other tenants. Frances had written to the author through the publisher and an apology and flowers had smoothed over the trouble. In the next story, it was made plain that Miss Dauntless and her associate, Sally, had moved their home from Bayswater to Hyde Park, but Sarah only commented that if that was the case then Hyde Park had moved and was now a part of Bayswater. ‘I am sure I could find out the author if I wanted to,’ said Frances, ‘but I have no reason to. If Mr Grove wants to make himself known, he knows where I am to be found. Now, I must take a cab to Paddington Green, where I very much hope that Inspector Sharrock will have established that there is no case against Mr Sweetman and has subsequently released him. I am not engaged to discover the murderer of Mrs Sweetman, that is a police matter and I may safely leave it to them.’

‘What if Mr Sweetman asks you to find his wife’s murderer?’ asked Sarah. ‘He might do.’

‘I do not take murder cases,’ replied Frances firmly.

‘No,’ said Sarah, ‘you take cases that turn into murder.’

This, thought Frances, was unfortunately very true.

When Frances arrived at Paddington Green police station, she saw a respectable and rather good-looking gentleman of about thirty in earnest and agitated conversation with the sour-faced Mr Marsden, Bayswater solicitor and bitter professional rival of the far more amiable Mr Rawsthorne. The young gentleman seemed a little startled as she walked up to him; understandably, since a lone woman in a police station who approached men, even if plain and sombrely clad like Frances, was assumed to be of a certain class. Mr Marsden, however, knew Frances by sight having encountered her at inquests and in courtrooms, not that he approved of her any the better for that.

‘Miss Doughty,’ said the solicitor, wrinkling his nose in disdain, ‘you seem to be everywhere. I cannot imagine what legitimate business you might have here.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed his client, throwing up his hands with an expression of relief. ‘Pardon me; if you are Miss Doughty then you will be helping my unfortunate uncle, Mr Hubert Sweetman. I am Edward Curtis. It is my honour to make your acquaintance.’

Frances acknowledged the warm greeting, ignoring not only Mr Marsden’s gibe but Mr Marsden himself. ‘I hope I may be of service, but still more I was hoping that my services would no longer be required. Is Mr Sweetman still here? I had expected him to have been released by now.’

‘I am sorry to say that not only is he still here, but he has actually been charged with the murder of my aunt,’ explained Curtis, despairingly.

‘On what grounds?’ asked Frances.

‘The police believe,’ he said, with some effort, ‘that they argued over my aunt not allowing him to see the children, and he strangled her in his rage. From the nature of the crime and the strength employed it was undoubtedly the work of a man, but anyone who imagines that my uncle is capable of such a thing does not know him!’

‘Does he have no alibi?’ asked Frances. ‘Do we know when the murder took place?’

Curtis shook his head. ‘Her body was found only yesterday but she had been dead for some time. Unfortunately, what with the dreadful weather we have had over the last two weeks, so few people have been about and no one was seen going into her house. And, of course, there were the cold conditions and no fire in the house for some time …’ He left the implications unspoken and ended on a groan. ‘It is impossible even to know the day she died, and therefore quite useless to look for an alibi.’

‘Then they have no proof,’ declared Frances. ‘Neither can they show that your aunt and uncle had had any communication since his release from prison.’

‘Ah, well, as to that,’ Curtis admitted, ‘my uncle put an advertisement in the newspaper, asking if Aunt Susan would write to him via Mr Marsden and a copy of the paper was found in her house with the advertisement circled in pencil. Although no letter was sent, the police think that they might have encountered each other by chance in the street – since their homes are not far distant – and agreed to meet, although uncle denies this. He says he did not know aunt’s address until after she died.’

‘And that is all their evidence?’ exclaimed Frances. ‘Why, it is nothing at all!’

‘It is, although the previous conviction will tell against him, and suggest to the police that my uncle is a man of violence, which he is not. It cannot be brought in evidence against him if he comes to trial, but by the time the newspapers have finished with him everyone will know of it and he will not get a fair hearing. If it had not been for the weather!’ Curtis cried. ‘The police say that uncle might easily have walked to Redan Place from Moscow Road and not been seen or recognised, what with the blizzards and everyone muffled against the cold.’