At the end of a long day Frances had a note of her own to compose, to Mr Max Gillan, the assiduous reporter of the Bayswater Chronicle, whose articles about her career had given her both an unwarranted notoriety and a satisfying number of clients. There was a discreet arrangement whereby Frances provided Mr Gillan with interesting stories and he gave her information that she might not otherwise have been able to obtain.
Frances’ letter asked Mr Gillan to keep her informed of any interesting developments in the search for Henry Palmer, and she also told him of a rumour pervading Bayswater that Palmer had been given an important secret task to perform by Dr Mackenzie, which he had decided to honour even after his employer’s death. She did not mention that the originator of the rumour was herself. The doctor, she added, was still deeply mourned by his medical friends Doctors Bonner, Warrinder and Darscot, and asked Mr Gillan if he had an address for the last-named gentleman.
A detective, Frances reflected, as she and Sarah sipped their evening cocoa, like the police force needed to have eyes and ears everywhere. She was very fortunate not only to have the advice of Mr Gillan and other friends, but the services of young Tom Smith, a relative of Sarah’s who had once been the Doughtys’ delivery boy and now worked for the new owner of the chemist’s shop, the enterprising and energetic Mr Jacobs. That gentleman had recently disappointed the mothers of all the single girls in Bayswater by announcing his intention to marry a young lady of fortune in the spring. Both the shop and young Tom had prospered and he was already in the process of outgrowing his first uniform.
Tom also carried messages and ran errands for Chas and Barstie, and knew every street and byway in Bayswater. There was no one better to spot anything out of the ordinary; something moved or changed or missing. Sarah had been to see Tom, showing him Henry Palmer’s portrait, and he had said he would set about the task. A fee was of course involved; in fact Frances was unable to recall Tom ever having carried out a commission without one. There were many very unusual words in his vocabulary, but ‘gratis’ was not one of them.
Frances had been intending to go up to Kilburn police station and speak to Inspector Gostelow, but the following morning that journey was rendered unnecessary by an early visit from Walter Crowe, who had just been there himself and found that nothing had yet been discovered. He declared that he would go there every day whatever the weather, until Henry was found. Frances could not help thinking of a time less than a year earlier when she had never set foot in a police station, neither had she anticipated that she would ever do so, and yet now it seemed that they were places where she was often to be found.
She had little comfort to offer Mr Crowe, but reported what she had learned, and put forward her theory that Dr Mackenzie had employed Palmer on some urgent task, the necessity for which even his death could not erase. Crowe said that if there was such a mission he knew nothing of it, but he would speak to Alice in case her brother had confided in her.
Alice, he told her sadly, was no better, but then she was also no worse, and he was grateful to Sarah for calling with little treats to tempt her appetite. Frances nodded and smiled, as if Sarah’s efforts to get nourishing food into Alice were something she already knew about. Walter said that Alice’s friend, Mabel Finch, also liked to call on her, but since Mabel had been sweet on Henry and there had been something approaching an understanding between them, it naturally followed that all the young women ever spoke of was the missing man, and he was not sure if this helped Alice or the reverse. Frances discovered that Mabel would be visiting Alice that evening and said that she would call and speak with her.
Busy as she was with the Palmer mystery, Frances knew that she was not so established in her profession that she could afford to ignore other clients. A note had arrived that morning from a lady who wished to discuss a question of a delicate nature concerning the arrangements at the Paddington Baths on Queen’s Road. Frances was eager to see Dr Bonner and deliver Dr Kastner’s letter, which had been neatly resealed in its envelope and Sarah, seeing that she was torn between the requirements of two clients, volunteered to interview the lady. She did not like to think that females who went for a refreshing bath were being interfered with and thought the complaint ought to be dealt with at once.
Dr Bonner was more than happy to see Frances again. It was with some anxiety that she watched him open the letter, but he seemed not to notice that he was not the first person to do so.
‘Ah, as I suspected, the letter is in German,’ he said. ‘As I mentioned, Mackenzie lived there for many years and was fluent in the language. I don’t speak it myself, I am afraid.’
‘May I see it?’ asked Frances, innocently.
‘Do you speak German?’ he asked with some surprise.
‘No, but I thought I might be able to make out some names.’
‘Well, I can see that the sender is Dr Ervin Kastner. He is the director of a waiting mortuary in Germany, very similar to the Life House. Mackenzie worked closely with him for many years and they were good friends.’
Frances peered at the letter and he hesitated, then handed it to her. ‘What unusual handwriting! It is very hard to make anything out,’ she said. ‘Is that a name? Frederick or something very like it.’
‘Friedrich is a German name, yes that may very well be it. Kastner may be referring to Friedrich Erlichmann.’
‘Is he also a doctor?’
‘No, but he writes and lectures on the subject of suspended animation. I have some of his pamphlets here. Dr Mackenzie translated them into English.’
Bonner rose and went to the bookcase, from which he extracted a slim publication from the shelf and handed it to Frances. She noticed for the first time that he walked with a slight limp. ‘This is his first and best-known work,’ said Bonner, easing himself back into his chair. ‘It still sells well. Please do take it with my compliments.’
The title of the pamphlet was A Recovery from the Disorder of Death.
‘Of course you are far too young to remember, but Mr Erlichmann was quite a celebrity a number of years ago and intimately associated with the foundation of the Life House here. He was a very young man, no more than twenty, when in 1862 he suffered a grave illness and was to all purposes apparently dead. Mackenzie was studying in Germany at the time and of course made a point of interviewing him. Erlichmann told him that he had actually been certified dead and placed in his coffin, and was on the point of being lowered into his grave when, fortunately for him, the signs of life appeared and he was revived just in time.
‘When Mackenzie returned to England and was trying to establish the Life House he initially met with very little interest. The project is an expensive one as you can imagine, the land had to be purchased, and the house built to a very specific design. The Paddington vestry would not countenance the matter and Mackenzie exhausted all his savings, but it was not sufficient and his efforts at raising funds produced very little. I came in with him as a partner, but we were still short of what we needed when Mackenzie thought of bringing Erlichmann over to England to lecture about his experiences. You have never seen him but Friedrich Erlichmann is a man of excellent address and is, so many of the ladies have told me, considered to be extremely handsome. His command of English at the time was somewhat wanting, but Mackenzie was able to write his speeches for him. The lectures were very successful and Erlichmann became quite the lion of Bayswater; no elegant dinner was complete without him and the stories he told of his experiences both chilled the blood and opened the purses of our patrons. I understand – and this is only a rumour, of course – that he was summoned to a private audience with the Queen. Perhaps she hoped that Prince Albert might not be beyond recovery. If so, she was undoubtedly disappointed.’
‘Do you think Mr Palmer might have gone to Germany?’ asked Frances.
‘Whatever for?’ exclaimed Bonner.
‘He might have gone in connection with some business of Dr Mackenzie’s.’
Bonner looked doubtful. ‘If Mackenzie had any business in Germany in recent years, I am unaware of it. He has friends there still and there may be some exchange of medical information, but that is all.’
Frances perused the opening lines of the pamphlet. ‘Is death merely a disorder,’ she asked, ‘like the influenza; a condition from which one may recover with the correct treatment?’
Bonner smiled and nodded sagely. ‘That is what Mr Erlichmann believes. You are aware of course of the work done for so many years by the Royal Humane Society on the recovery of those drowned?’
‘I am,’ replied Frances, ‘but I had always imagined that those who recovered were not in actual fact dead but in a state of suspended animation, and therefore alive and wanting only warmth and other treatments to restore them. Does Mr Erlichmann claim that he was indeed dead?’
‘He undoubtedly showed every sign of death recognised by medicine: the body cold, the eye flaccid, no sensibility to pain, and respiration and pulse both arrested. Every sign that is, except one. The one, to my mind, infallible sign of death – putrefaction of the tissues. But in so many countries those early signs are seen as certain proof, and so men and women are hurried to their graves still living.’ Bonner leaned forward with an intense stare, like a storyteller who had reached the most dramatic part of his narrative. ‘Imagine, Miss Doughty, the plight of young Erlichmann. Fully sensible of all that went on around him; unable to move, unable to speak, yet he could feel the hands of the attendants placing him in his grave clothes, feel himself being lowered into his coffin, hear the lamentation of his friends as they gazed upon his face. Imagine the horror of hearing one’s own funeral dirge and seeing the approach of the coffin lid as it descends, sealing you from the world forever, knowing that you are about to be placed in your grave.’
‘I cannot imagine such a thing,’ said Frances. ‘How was he able to make his plight known?’
‘He believes that the violent emotions which he experienced had the effect of starting the heart and blood moving again. The coffin lid had actually been fastened down and he felt himself being lifted and carried to his grave when at last he found that he was able to move, and he knocked and knocked until his hands bled. His friends tore off the lid amidst great exclamation, and,’ Bonner concluded triumphantly, ‘found him rosy faced and warm.’
‘A most fortunate escape,’ said Frances.
‘But just think how many others have not been so fortunate – how many living persons who might have been recovered but have actually been coffined and buried, and how frightful a fate befell them when the warmth of the earth restored them to life only to perish alone and confined in the terrible darkness, in a situation of the most appalling horror.’
‘But surely,’ said Frances thoughtfully, ‘if a person is placed in a coffin while still alive and the coffin is then sealed they might not come to themselves at all, but perish in a very short while, and never be conscious of their plight?’
‘Ah, I understand your thoughts, Miss Doughty. You are suggesting that the amount of life-giving air in a coffin is insufficient to support the human frame for very long, and this is true if the unhappy individual is fully awake. Indeed, if he struggles to escape and gasps a great deal he will suffocate in a very short while. But a person who has been inadvertently coffined in a state of suspended animation will not be in want of so much air and might live a great deal longer.’
‘And once buried he or she would be unable to escape or alert others,’ said Frances, ‘and would die in the dark, alone, afraid and struggling for breath. How cruel!’
‘There you have it!’ said Bonner. ‘That is why the Life House supplies the service it does. And for the greater comfort of our customers, those who wish it may have additional assurances. For those buried beneath the earth we can, for an extra fee, provide a breathing tube through which they may both suck air and call for help, and a bell so they may give the alarm. For those in vaults or catacombs there is a small air vent and a lever is placed by the hand, which may be operated by even the weakest individual, which will at once open an aperture for more air and sound a bell to alert the attention of an attendant. This, for reasons of hygiene, will only be the case for a short while, no more than two weeks. After that, we do accept the fact of death, and as is required by the cemetery, the inner shell is sealed in lead and placed inside a heavy coffin. One of the vaults in All Souls cemetery is reserved for the sole use of customers of the Life House.’
‘According to Dr Bonner,’ Frances told Sarah, as they enjoyed a simple luncheon of bread and butter with boiled eggs, ‘there is only one true way to be sure that a man is really dead.’
Sarah thought for a moment. ‘Chop his head off?’
‘That would certainly be effective, but imagine a case in which you might wish to preserve the man alive, but cannot. No, the one sure sign of death is putrefaction. Until that starts there may be some hope of recovery.’
‘Well that’s not right,’ said Sarah. ‘My uncle Albert had a leg that went rotten and they cut it off, and he has a wooden one now but no one tried to tell him he was dead.’ She snorted. ‘I should like to have seen them try!’
‘You may have something there,’ Frances admitted. ‘Dr Bonner has lent me a book by a Reverend Whiter and he refused to believe that anyone was dead until the entire body was completely dissolved. He says that the more serious a disease the longer it takes to cure, and since people who have revived from death have often done so very quickly, this proves that death is only a slight disorder after all. Even the waiting mortuaries attract his criticism since many do no more than leave the bodies to decompose, so as to be sure that they are dead, and do nothing to try and re-animate them. I think Dr Mackenzie’s principle, whereby his patients are regarded as living until proven dead, does address that concern. It seems, however, that the worst offender is the undertaker, who stops the mouth and nose and binds the body in linen, so if there is any chance of recovery he makes it quite impossible.’
‘You’re not to have me laid out with people poking and prodding,’ said Sarah. ‘Dead is dead and I’d rather be done and finished with it. And don’t them who come back go mad? What good is that?’ She paused. ‘And I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not to think it. I’ve seen enough dead to know it, and your father was gone to his maker and no doubt about it.’
Frances didn’t want to admit it, but her thoughts had been tending that way. Her father had died in the cold winter and his body laid out in his room with no flicker of reviving warmth. None had seemed necessary. Suppose she had lit a fire and rubbed his limbs, would he have come back to her? She would never know.
Sarah’s interview with the new client that morning had revealed that ladies who used the private bathing pools and slipper baths in Queen’s Road had been complaining to the manager that young men had been using the vantage points of nearby tall buildings to spy on them through the glass roof. Gentlemen who heard of the menace treated it as a joke and ladies who objected had been told it was all in their imagination. Sarah, who thought that ladies’ imagination was a product of men’s imagination, which became most apparent when men were faced with something they wished to ignore, said that she would deal with the nuisance.
The luncheon plates were being cleared away when Frances received a visit from Mr Gillan of the Bayswater Chronicle and was able to expand on her theory that Palmer’s disappearance and Dr Mackenzie’s death were in some way related. Gillan, who had some mysterious way of his own of extracting information from the police, which Frances suspected involved beer, reported that Palmer’s absence was now being taken very seriously, and patrolling constables had made thorough searches, but found no clues.
‘I have had a very interesting conversation with Dr Bonner, who told me about how the Life House was first established,’ Frances told Mr Gillan. ‘Apparently, it was partly due to an extraordinary young man called Friedrich Erlichmann, who had the most horrible experiences and came here to lecture about them.’
‘Oh the public like a good tale of the ghastly and the gruesome,’ said Gillan, ‘even when they pretend they don’t. That was a while back, I was a very young correspondent then, just starting to learn the business, but I do remember him. Did Dr Bonner mention the scandal?’
‘The scandal?’ Frances sighed and asked herself why people never told her the important things. ‘No, curiously that was a detail he omitted. What happened? And please avoid delicacy, it wastes so much time.’
Gillan smiled. ‘Oh all sorts of accusations being flung about, and openly, too.’
‘About Mr Erlichmann?’
‘Oh yes. Suggestions of fraud. And then, all of a sudden it stopped. Not because the public had moved onto some new sensation, not a bit of it. It just – stopped. I never did get to the bottom of that.’ He looked thoughtful and Frances suspected he had scented a story. ‘I won’t have the time to look into it myself, I’m covering the Monmouth Club affair, but if you could come to the office one day I could get you in and you can have a look through the old copies of the Chronicle.’
‘I shall go there immediately,’ said Frances, and rose and went to get her coat.
Mr Gillan saw her expression and decided not to argue.
‘I thought the Monmouth Club affair was settled?’ enquired Frances. The Monmouth Club was the site of a recent scandal in Bayswater. It had claimed to be a respectable organisation where young gentlemen could enjoy wholesome amusements. The Chronicle had with some relish, denounced the club as a gambling hell, where betting and card playing and billiards went on all hours of the day and night, not excepting Sundays. The club had also not hesitated to supply its members with alcoholic beverages at times that completely disregarded the licensing laws. Several young men had got into debt and robbed their employers and were in prison as a consequence, and one had committed suicide. The manager of the club had taken grave exception to the exposure and tried to bring the force of the law down upon the Chronicle, but the affair had been absent from the newspapers for some little while, and Frances had thought the case abandoned.
‘Settled? Not a bit of it,’ said Gillan, shaking his head, but would not be drawn further.
They departed together and Sarah put on her fiercest bonnet and went out.
When Mr Gillan introduced Frances to his colleagues in the offices of the Bayswater Chronicle, she was surprised to find herself treated with some deference. She felt sure that in due course his lively mind would produce a highly decorated report of her visit for the amusement of the Chronicle’s readers. There was a large storeroom with heavily bound volumes of the newspaper going back to its inception and Frances thought what a pleasure it would be on an idle day, if she was ever to have such a thing, to come here and read through the newspapers of yesteryear. It also amused her to imagine others coming to do the same and it struck her as strange that someone might one day, perhaps in a hundred years’ time, read Mr Gillan’s colourful accounts of her exploits and wonder what kind of person she had been.
The Chronicle was a weekly publication, which was fortunate, or she might have had many hundreds of editions to look at, and it was very much taken up by advertisements and national or foreign news. The most interesting part of the paper for Frances was page five, a treasure trove of local information: the often controversial incursions of Mr Whiteley’s shopping empire into the life of Bayswater, the arguments in the Paddington vestry, reports of meetings and speeches, charitable organisations, public health, the antics of thieves, dreadful accidents, obituaries, police court news, and the many clubs, societies and entertainments to suit every taste and interest. It was possible, she reflected, for a person to live a full, interesting and profitable London life without ever going east of Paddington station.
Frances soon learned that in 1863 Friedrich Erlichmann had given lectures at many different locations in the capital, one of which was Westbourne Hall on the Grove, speaking movingly of his miraculous recovery from death. He had been introduced by Dr Bonner as the wonder of the age, and each lecture had been crowded, especially, it was said, by members of the fairer sex. Frances sometimes despaired of her sex, since they seemed so often to pay attention to a gentleman’s looks and not to the sense, or otherwise, of what he was saying. She hoped that she would never be so shallow. The Chronicle reported the lecture given in Bayswater in some detail and here Frances learned little that was new, since the wording was essentially the same as had later been published in pamphlet form. Dr Mackenzie was briefly mentioned as having assisted as translator and interpreter. Erlichmann had been greatly applauded and was afterwards entertained to a grand dinner.
There had been, she found, only one small difficulty. All the lectures had passed off to universal acclaim except for the one at Westbourne Hall. As Erlichmann began to speak, a woman in the body of the hall had risen to her feet and loudly denounced him to be a fraud, although she offered no reason why she thought so. She was quickly but gently removed. Erlichmann had later been questioned by the Chronicle and said that the woman was of unsound mind, and had been pursuing him ever since he had arrived in London. He believed that she had been driven insane by the fear that her late husband, Arthur Biscoby, a Bayswater physician who had died a year previously, had been buried alive. This explanation was accepted and the objector was not heard from again.
Frances decided to look through the death notices and found the demise in October 1862 of Dr Arthur Biscoby, aged forty-three, who had left a wife, Maria, a son and two daughters. The eldest child was just seven. An inquest had been held, which supplied some useful information. Dr Biscoby had held a post in Germany at about the same time that Mackenzie was there, although there was no indication that the men had ever met or that Biscoby had shown any interest in waiting mortuaries. In 1861, Biscoby had returned to Bayswater to start a general practice, but unfortunately he had become addicted to strong drink and his mental capacity, moods and income had all gone into a sharp decline. After a bout of excessive drinking he had been found dead in bed, a victim of alcohol poisoning. Evidence was given that he was bankrupt and had been suffering from melancholia. There had been great sympathy for his destitute widow, and a kindly coroner’s jury had declared the death to be an accident. Given the inquiry, which must have involved opening the body, no one but an insane person could have been under the illusion that Dr Biscoby had been buried alive.
The Chronicle office had copies of the Paddington postal directories and the one for 1862 included an entry for Dr Biscoby, but there had been none subsequently for his widow. Eighteen years later the unhappy Mrs Biscoby was, thought Frances, either in a workhouse or an asylum, or, more likely, dead. Despite the suggestion that her outburst had been the product of some mental distraction, it was possible that she had known something that might cast some light on the letters Dr Kastner had written to Mackenzie. It was a very long chance, but Frances decided to ask Sarah to go to Somerset House first thing the next morning and see if she could find out if and when Mrs Biscoby had died and if any of her children had married.
Sarah had been keeping a close watch on the area around the Paddington Baths, and reported on her return home that she had been rewarded by paying particular attention to the activities of young male shop workers who lodged nearby. They were, she discovered, beguiling the few minutes of their allotted luncheon time with a little Alpinism, finding windows and ledges from which they could obtain a frosted-glass view of female forms. She had, without drawing attention to herself, discovered an ideal place where she might wait to intercept their activities, and planned to return there the next day. Any young man descending from his eyrie would feel a firm hand on his collar and be able to view a rather less lissom and more muscular female form than he usually favoured, and very much closer than he might wish. Frances prudently suggested that Sarah might undertake that errand in the company of a policeman, but her eager assistant, who had undoubtedly been experiencing the pleasurable anticipation of seizing the miscreants, took some persuading. Frances explained that Sarah was to undertake a very important enquiry at Somerset House, and would be pressed for the time to do so if she was also obliged to drag wriggling malefactors to the police station. Once Frances had described the tale of Mr Erlichmann and Mrs Biscoby, however, Sarah, who enjoyed a good mystery, especially if it involved a vengeful female, was obliged to admit that it was interesting.
Next morning Frances was busy interviewing several new clients, the most promising of whom was a gentleman of means who wanted her to discover the family connections of a prospective business partner, but in a very careful and discreet manner that would not alert the object of his interest. Frances had the strong impression that should she succeed in this delicate task, further valuable recommendations might follow and was anxious that this enquiry should be carried out promptly and successfully. She at once composed a letter to Chas and Barstie, who knew everyone of note in Bayswater involved in any endeavour that concerned money.
Her next visitor was banker’s wife Mrs Pearson, a lady of considerable dignity who spent the first ten minutes of the interview explaining to Frances that consulting a private detective was something far beneath her usual mode of behaviour. She could scarcely imagine how a young woman, who she had been given to understand came from a respectable if impecunious family, could have thought to enter such an unsavoury profession; it was something she found profoundly shocking. There was a long silence during which Mrs Pearson, as if watching a sideshow entertainment, waited for Frances to provide evidence of her degraded status. Frances saw before her a stout woman of fifty-five dressed in the most recent fashion, resplendent with fur and lace, and a festoon of pearls and garnets about her throat. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked quietly.
The client explained that her maid, who went by the name of Ethel Green, was nowhere to be found and she feared for the girl’s safety. The maid, who had been in the house some six months, was twenty-three, a girl with rather greater personal attraction than was entirely good for her, who had learned to dress well and copy the manners of her betters and so present herself almost as a lady. This attainment had gone far beyond the bounds of what was appropriate for her humble position and had put the girl in some danger. She thought that as a result the girl had been stolen away. The maid had last been seen going out smartly dressed on Sunday 12th September. Frances knew that ladies sometimes made gifts of discarded gowns to favoured servants and asked the lady if she had done so, as this would have afforded her a very good description of what the maid was wearing. The client said that she had not given any of her clothing to the maid, as it would not have suited her. She said nothing more on the subject but from her manner, Frances gained the impression that the maid was considerably more slender than her mistress. Mrs Pearson said that she had now employed a new maid, one that would not give herself such airs, but she wished to be assured of the safety of the missing girl.
Frances agreed to take the commission, but could not help wondering why a lady so proud as Mrs Pearson should feel such concern about a maid, one who was not a long serving and valued retainer but who had been with her for only a few months. There was, thought Frances, more to the matter than the lady was willing to say.
Mrs Pearson departed in her carriage and Frances was then obliged to spend an hour comforting a tearful Mrs Chiffley, while reporting a complete lack of success in locating her missing parrot.
Sarah had still not returned from her duties when it was time for Frances to call at Mrs Georgeson’s lodging house, where she was pleased to find the ground floor tenant, Mr Trainor the surgical traveller, at home and willing to be interviewed.
Mr Trainor was a small man dressed in dark grey, which matched the colour of his hair and inexpertly trimmed whiskers. He smelled of gutta-percha and the burnt rubber scent of dead sap was the liveliest thing about him. He presented such a desiccated appearance, his body bent like a hollow shell from which all soft living matter had been scooped, that Frances suddenly thought with a shudder that were he three days cold and laid out in that grey suit in his coffin, he might not look very much different. He was, he explained, a salesman who had for some years enjoyed a position of some responsibility with a company that manufactured dental supplies. He lived alone, a situation that suited him perfectly and had, he assured Frances, a great many friends who came to see him or whom he visited in order to enjoy a game of chess, in which he admitted to some skill. He was, he said proudly, a founder member of the Bayswater Gentleman’s Chess League. Frances received the impression that this was his only recreation, which he found more than sufficient for his amusement.
He offered Frances a seat by the fire, which produced more smoke than heat. There was a piece of bread and cheese set nearby ready to be toasted for his supper.
Trainor recalled very well the evening on which Henry Palmer had called to report Dr Mackenzie’s death. ‘I heard the doorbell of course, but I would never have thought to pry, it is not my habit to come out of my room to intrude on visitors, only I heard such loud exclamations in the hallway that I knew something was very amiss and – I freely confess it – I put my head out of the door to see what the matter was. There was a young fellow standing on the front step and Mary Ann was crying, but before I could say anything she turned around and ran to get Mrs Georgeson. I thought it would be wise not to leave the messenger alone at the door, so I came out into the hall and asked him what the trouble was. The young fellow said he was very sorry to be bringing bad news, but Dr Mackenzie had just fallen down in a fit and died. Of course I was very shocked to hear it, as Dr Mackenzie was by no means an old man, though he had been looking very unwell of late. I think he had something on his mind, as he always looked preoccupied as if a great weight was pressing on him.’
‘Was there anything especially remarkable in Mr Palmer’s manner,’ asked Frances, ‘beyond what one might expect of a man in those unfortunate circumstances?’
‘No, nothing. He was upset, of course, but he seemed perfectly sane and collected. Mrs Georgeson came and he explained to her what had happened, and that Dr Bonner would be calling in due course to deal with Dr Mackenzie’s effects. He said that if friends of Dr Mackenzie wished to go up to the Life House and pay their respects, Dr Bonner had taken it upon himself to ensure that his associate was decently laid out in the chapel there, and they would accept visitors from ten the next morning. Well, there was nothing I could do so I went back into my room.’
‘Mr Palmer came into the hall, I believe?’
‘Yes, it was a terrible foggy night and very cold, and Mrs Georgeson invited him in and closed the front door, but he only came in a short way.’
‘He wasn’t invited down to the parlour – or to look in Dr Mackenzie’s room?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Did you see him leave?’
‘No, he was still talking to Mrs Georgeson when I returned to my room. But I heard Mrs Georgeson bid him goodnight, and then the front door opened and closed again. That was just a minute or two later.’
‘And I believe there was another visitor who came to see Dr Mackenzie that same night?’
‘Ah yes,’ said Trainor with some indignation, ‘and what a commotion he made! Banging on the front door as if he would break it down. I thought it very impolite. And I could hear the conversation in the hallway quite clearly without any need to open my door. Mrs Georgeson told him Dr Mackenzie was dead and he absolutely refused to believe it. He seemed hysterical. I was about to go and offer Mrs Georgeson my assistance, but then her husband came and spoke to the man and sent him packing. The next thing I knew the fellow was in the street calling out. I looked out of the window to see what sort of type he was, but I was surprised to see him very respectably dressed. It turned out that he was shouting for a cab, and I was just wondering if he would have any luck in finding one when, as it so happened, one came past and he jumped into it and off he went.’
‘What direction did he go in?’
‘Up the road – north, towards Kensal Green.’
‘Would you know him if you saw him again?’
‘I doubt it very much. It was dark and he was muffled against the cold and the fog. I didn’t see his face, although …’ Trainor paused, thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t swear to it, but now I think about it, he may have been a man I have seen here before, calling on Dr Mackenzie – one of his medical friends, I believe, but I am afraid I don’t know his name. About thirty, well dressed. Very ordinary features.’
‘And this visit on the night of Dr Mackenzie’s death took place just a few minutes after Mr Palmer left?’
‘Yes.’
‘If he comes here again, would you let me know?’ asked Frances, presenting her card. ‘I would like to speak to him because he might have seen Mr Palmer in the street that evening and could give me some clue as to where he went.’
‘Oh, I doubt that he would be of any help,’ said Trainor. ‘He was in a fast cab and Palmer was walking, so they would not have encountered each other.’
‘How do you know he arrived by cab?’
‘I don’t know how he arrived. But he left by cab, I saw him.’
‘It is his arrival that interests me. When this gentleman left he was going towards Kensal Green, but Palmer was travelling in the opposite direction, so I agree, they could not have met then, but if the man came up the road when he arrived he might have seen Palmer walking home.’
Trainor shook his head. ‘No. Palmer walked north when he left here.’
‘But Mr Palmer lives in Golborne Road,’ said Frances, ‘so he would have travelled south from here. Mary Ann saw him go that way.’
‘As to where Mr Palmer lives or what Mary Ann saw, I have no information,’ said Trainor, ‘but I am sure that a minute after the noisy fellow drove off in a cab, I saw Palmer walking north.’
Puzzled, Frances rose, went over to the front window and peered out into the street. ‘Show me where you were standing,’ she said and Trainor obliged.
‘I was looking out as the cab drew away,’ said Trainor, ‘and I suppose I fell to musing about the fog and how changeable the weather had been, first hot then cold and one hardly knew what to expect. And then I saw him, and I thought to myself, oh it’s that young fellow from the Life House coming back again, I hope he has not brought more bad news. And then I thought, but supposing it is good news, that Dr Mackenzie is not dead after all but only thought to be dead – but then he walked past the house and did not come in.’
‘And you are sure it was him?’
‘Oh yes, well I spent a minute or two speaking with him face to face, and as you see there is a lamp immediately outside, and he wore no muffler, so even in the fog I could see his features.’
‘Did he walk straight up the road or make a turning?’
‘Straight, as far as I could see, but after a short way he was lost in the fog.’
‘Have you told the police of this?’
‘No, I was not here when they called, and I did not know until you told me just now that he lives in Golborne Road.’
‘Then I had best go see them myself,’ said Frances. ‘There is a constable who patrols a point near St John’s Church and he may have seen something.’
Frances hurried to Kilburn police station, which stood on the corner of Salisbury Road. She was not well acquainted with the inspector there but found him polite and willing to hear her, especially when she showed him her card. He promised to alert the attention of all his constables to the possibility that Henry Palmer had not, as supposed, walked south but north on the night of his disappearance, and assured Frances that careful searches would be made.
Frances hurried home and composed a note to Walter Crowe, who she knew would be out making his own enquiries almost as soon as he had read it.
While Frances considered what best to do next, she received an unexpected visit from Tom Smith. Tom was constantly on the alert for two things – food and business opportunities, so when he arrived at the apartments, Frances knew that it was not to pass the time of day. He was either foraging for cake or hoping to earn money, or quite possibly both. Tom took off his smart peaked cap with the chemist’s shop emblem, made a brief and unsuccessful effort to smooth his hair down, and let his gaze flicker about the room, beaming with anticipation as he spied a covered dish and lifted off the domed top to inspect what lay within. Finding the contents to his liking he extracted a currant bun, split it, impaled half on a toasting fork and set to work.
‘Any butter?’ he enquired.
Frances went to get the butter.
‘An’ jam if you’ve got any! I bet you ‘ave!’
Frances paused. ‘Now then, Tom, how do you intend to earn your butter and jam, that’s what I’d like to know,’ she said.
‘An’ sixpence.’ Tom stared at the bun and, dissatisfied with the progress of the toasting, munched the other half untoasted just to keep him from starvation while he waited. ‘I’ve ‘eard,’ he said whilst licking crumbs from his lips, ‘that you are looking for a Mr Darscot.’
‘Well so I am, a Dr Darscot that is.’
‘Oh, ‘e’s no more a doctor than what I am! But ‘e’s the man you want, an’ I know because I sometimes carry notes for ‘im. An’ I know ‘e’s been to see that Dr Mackenzie, the one what pegged it the other day, so it ‘as to be the same man or ‘is bruvver what is the same thing really as either way you’ll find ‘im out.’
Frances fetched the jam. ‘Describe this Mr Darscot.’
‘About thirty, dresses like a real good ‘un, pays well. Brown hair, nothing special about the phiz, I mean not ‘andsome and not ugly neither.’
‘And what does this Mr Darscot do for a living?’
Tom sniffed the toasted bun with an expression of sublime satisfaction and then applied himself to the process of buttering. ‘Oh, now if I was to ask a customer a question like that my business would disappear faster ‘n a rum-mizzler up Seven Dials.’
‘Really?’ said Frances, having no idea what such a creature might be, but appreciating that it must move very quickly about that notably unsavoury part of London.
‘But if I ‘ad to guess I would say Mr Darscot doesn’t do anythin’. At least not work-wise. ‘e is a gentleman what ‘as a lot of money. ‘e goes to ‘is club and to the races and to the theatre and such like, and is no trouble at all to anyone. But ‘e don’t actually work, because ‘e don’t need to. Sounds like a good sort of thing to fall into.’ He sighed and absentmindedly spooned jam into his mouth from the jar.
‘Do you know where he lives? I should like to speak to him.’
‘That I dunno, but I can take a message for you, to ‘is club. It’s the Piccadilly.’
‘He has a club on Piccadilly?’ said Frances in surprise. ‘He must be very well-connected.’
‘Naw – not on Piccadilly, they just call it that. It’s on Porchester Road and it’s for Bayswater gents what don’t want the bother of going up to town, or can’t run to the cost, or can’t get into the big clubs with all the lords and dukes and such like, so they call it the Piccadilly ‘cos it sounds good.’
‘Well, that’s not a long step for you, so I will compose a note and ask if the gentleman would care to call. I assume that it would not be possible for me to call on him at his club.’
‘I never get past the ‘all porter meself, and ladies of any type, if you know what I mean, not even the ones what are proper ladies, aren’t to be let in, ever.’
Frances went to her desk and wrote a note, then handed it to Tom with his remuneration. ‘If you could deliver it as soon as you can and bring me a reply.’
Tom gazed at the sixpence. ‘That’s two jobs. An’ the cost of the information.’
‘You’ll get another when you come back with the message.’
‘Right you are!’ said Tom. ‘You’re a real peach, Miss Doughty.’ He stuffed the last of the toasted bun in his mouth.
‘Are you still working for Mr Knight and Mr Taylor?’ asked Frances, who liked to know the extent of Tom’s expanding business interests.
Tom wiped his lips. ‘Oh yes, more’n ever! Mr Knight says I got promise!’ he added proudly as he made to leave. ‘‘e says that if I go on the way I am goin’ then when I am older I shall be a big captain of industry, whatever that is, but ‘e says I got to learn to speak English, which is a funny thing to say ‘cos I thought that was what I was speaking.’
He dashed away and soon afterwards Sarah returned in triumphant mood. Two young men seen spying on lady bathers had been duly delivered to the police station, in a bedraggled and submissive state, although not without some difficulty. They had resisted being apprehended by the policeman Sarah had reluctantly brought along on her mission, and who had suffered a black eye in the conflict. They then unwisely resisted being apprehended by Sarah, only to discover that a burly young woman brought up with eight battling East End brothers was hardly likely to be discomfited by two adolescent shopwalkers. Fresh from her victory, Sarah had gone to Somerset House in search of Biscobys, either the widow Maria, or her three children. She had been unable to find birth records for the children, who might well have been born when the Biscobys were in Germany, and could not, therefore, discover their Christian names. A Peter Biscoby, possibly the son, had died in 1872 aged fifteen. She had been luckier with the marriage registers. A Maria Biscoby had married in Paddington in 1863, possibly a remarriage for the doctor’s widow. Sarah had ordered the certificates for both events and would call to collect them the following week.
Her next mission was to commence enquiries about Mrs Pearson’s missing maid Ethel, not from her employers, but from her fellow servants who were more likely to know her secrets.
As Frances and Sarah breakfasted next morning they discussed the current position of all their enquiries. Gentlemen might have laughed at them and said that even supposing it was right for ladies to talk of business it was a foolish time and place to do so, but Frances always found that a refreshing pot of tea with an egg or a kipper helped her to order her thoughts, and who knew but that they might start a new fashion? Tom arrived bearing a small gilt-edged card with a note to say that Mr Darscot would be honoured to speak with Miss Doughty at ten o’clock.
Mr Darscot presented himself promptly at ten and what a neat, smart man he was; a little below medium height, active and trim, with the cheerful air of one who was the master of his own time and fate. His clothing showed a refined taste with just enough display to indicate wealth without descending to crude ostentation; a flower bud in his buttonhole, a small pin in his cravat, which might have been a diamond, and a light walking cane with a silver top.
He seemed anxious to ensure that his manners were faultless, paying polite compliments about the charms of Bayswater, the elegance of its inhabitants, the delights of Westbourne Park Road in particular and the arrangement of Frances’ apartments. He was not, he said, usually resident in the capital, preferring the air of the country, but found rooms at the Piccadilly Club convenient when in town to see friends or his solicitor.
As she listened to him, Frances felt quite like one of the chattering spinsters of Bayswater who never made the news, but absorbed it and passed it on across the teacups, with a satirical comment and a little embroidery to make it more interesting.
‘I understand that you were acquainted with the late Dr Mackenzie?’ she asked, after she had decided that ten minutes of polite nothings were quite sufficient.
Darscot’s bright expression was clouded with just the right amount of sorrow. ‘I was, and how shocked and sad I was to hear of his death, at such a young age.’
‘I was told by his landlady, Mrs Georgeson, that you were at his lodgings that evening and created quite a disturbance.’
He nodded, ruefully. ‘Yes, and I have been out of town ever since or I would have called upon the lady to apologise. It was unspeakably rude of me and I am deeply ashamed of my behaviour. I shall go and see her, and humble myself before both the lady and her good husband as soon as I have left here.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Darscot, you could start at the beginning and tell me how you became acquainted with Dr Mackenzie?’
‘Yes, of course. I have known him for about a year. There had been some talk at the club about the Life House, and some fellows thought it a good thing and others felt differently. Well, I could see the sense of it, and so I thought it might be something to invest in, maybe pay a small sum every month and then when the time came – well, hopefully that would not be for many years, but then I would enjoy – although that is not quite the right word – the benefits. So I went up and spoke to the man there – he was an orderly and he told me where I should go if I wanted to speak to Mackenzie, which I did.’ Darscot toyed with the cane. ‘This is where the story becomes – well, the thing is that Mackenzie confided in me that he was in desperate need of funds, not just the little tip I could send him each month, but a substantial amount. He asked me for a loan.’
‘How much did he want?’ asked Frances.
‘£500.’
Frances was astonished. ‘That is, as you say, a very substantial sum. Did he say why he needed it? And was it for his own personal use or for the Life House?’
‘I was given to understand that it was for the business. Of course,’ added Darscot sadly, ‘I appreciate now, on giving it further thought, that might not have been true.’
‘Did you lend it to him?’
‘Yes, I did, and he promised that he would repay it in six months, but I am sorry to say that he did not. He asked for more time to pay, and as I was not especially pressed myself and respected the man, I agreed, but three months later he said he wanted more time again.’ Darscot hesitated. ‘The thing is – well, it’s private business so I would appreciate your discretion – just recently I er – found myself in some temporary embarrassment over a slow-running horse and needing to find some funds very quickly. I don’t believe in holding liquid cash in too large an amount, just a thousand or so for emergencies, I like my money to work for me.’ He paused again and Frances believed he was trying to judge if she understood his meaning.
‘I am familiar with the financial world,’ she said. ‘Please go on.’
‘Well, not having the time, or indeed the desire, to sell shares or mortgage one of my properties, the best means I had of acquiring the money quickly was getting that loan repaid. So I asked Mackenzie for it again and he said he would pay me at the end of the week, but the days passed and the matter became more pressing and still he did not pay. I started to think he was intending never to pay. In fact I had the impression that he was deliberately avoiding me. So I was already somewhat agitated when I went up there and when Mrs Georgeson told me he had died I didn’t believe her – I thought he had instructed her to say that to put me off, to give him time to run away. So I went up to the Life House in a cab and found that it was true; the man was dead. Of course I was very ashamed of myself, then. And as it so happened the very next day I had a windfall …’
‘A fast-running horse?’ asked Frances.
‘Oh yes, a real corker! So that was alright.’
‘Mrs Georgeson thought you were a doctor,’ Frances pointed out.
‘I know, well I didn’t want to explain I was calling on Mackenzie to collect on a loan. It was a delicate fiction.’
‘May I ask if Dr Mackenzie ever mentioned his orderly Henry Palmer?’
‘No, but there was more than one orderly wasn’t there? I can’t remember which one I spoke to when I went up there last year.’
‘When you went to Dr Mackenzie’s house that night, how did you travel?’
‘By cab, it was a filthy night. My cabman had a horrid cough, wheezed like an old engine, and when I got down he drove off so I had to get another when I left.’
‘Did you see anyone walking along the street, either when you drove up or when you left?’
‘Not that I recall, I mean it was dark and foggy and even if there had been anyone I might not have seen them, or even recognised them if I had. This is about Palmer disappearing, isn’t it? I read about it in the newspapers. Strange business. Have the police looked in the cellars? A lot of careless folk about – leave their trapdoors open all hours.’
‘I believe they have done so.’
It was clear that Darscot could offer no useful information about Palmer, but now there were new questions to be answered; what financial hardships had induced Dr Mackenzie to borrow £500, and had Palmer been involved either in the transaction or the circumstances that had required the funds?
Frances also wondered if Doctors Bonner and Warrinder had learned of Mackenzie’s financial difficulties either before or after his death, and decided between themselves that it had no connection with Palmer’s disappearance and had made a compact to conceal it from her. She determined to tackle them on that point and be blunt about it. There was a time and a place for delicacy, but she felt that this was long past. Perhaps Mackenzie, desperate for money, had applied to dubious, even criminal sources for further loans and used Palmer as a messenger, and it was that errand which had led to the young orderly’s fate.