Mr Rawsthorne had acted for the Doughty family ever since Frances could remember and had been a sympathetic support at the time of both her brother’s and her father’s death. How she wished that her normally parsimonious parent had been prudent enough to entrust his investments to the good care of Mr Rawsthorne and not chase after the fanciful dream that had led to his ultimate ruin. Had he been wiser she would even now be studying to qualify as a pharmacist, with the business flourishing in the safe hands of a good manager, instead of which she had been obliged to sell her inheritance to meet an unexpected mountain of debt. Unable even to obtain an apprenticeship after the association of the Doughty name with a number of sensational murders, she had been faced with a choice of depending on the charitable good nature of her uncle, or embarking on a risky career as a detective. Some months after taking that adventurous step, she felt herself growing towards financial independence but still balancing on the fine margin that lay between success and failure, the outcome far from certain.
Even Mr Rawsthorne was not immune to financial reverses since he had lost funds as a result of the recent crash of the Bayswater bank, an event which, while it would undoubtedly have occurred whatever Frances had done or said, had happened at the time it did because of her enquiries. The last few months might have been good to him, with the excitement attendant on the General Election, but he could not have been unaware that the loss of some important clients had been directly attributable to Frances. Nevertheless, he greeted her with his accustomed good humour, which was more than could be said for his clerk, Mr Wheelock, a grinning, ink-smeared scarecrow with hair like a bundle of brazen bedsprings dipping over his eyes. Frances, who hoped that she would never be so shallow as to judge solely on appearance, found Wheelock’s manner insulting and could not reconcile Mr Rawsthorne’s employment of him with his own solid reputation and pleasant nature. She had never broached the subject with Rawsthorne, but was obliged to assume that the clerk had some talent in the field of arithmetic, or an ability to keep important matters confidential that was out of the common way.
David Mackenzie, who had presumably been thoroughly briefed by Mr Rawsthorne as to Frances’ good name, no longer looked at her as if she was an irredeemably immoral woman, only as someone who might, with very little encouragement, become one. After briefly rising from his chair to greet her, he sat primly, every muscle in his frame tightly tensed, alive with a sense of his virtue, which needed a constant and vigilant defence. Mr Rawsthorne, ignoring the discomfort in the office, sat at his ease behind his desk.
‘Well now, Miss Doughty, say whatever it is you have to say,’ said Mackenzie.
‘I am hoping to find Henry Palmer, your brother’s assistant, who went missing on the same night that he – well as it now appears, collapsed and was thought to be dead. The fact that the two events occurred on the same night cannot be ignored and so I have been trying to learn as much as I can about your brother, who may well have sent Mr Palmer away on some errand. I understand that you were not on cordial terms?’
‘We were not,’ Mackenzie replied curtly. ‘We had not spoken in over twenty years.’
‘Can you advise me of the reason for this?’
His mouth twitched in disgust. ‘It is not a nice subject, Miss Doughty.’
‘I hardly expected it would be anything trivial.’
‘You may speak freely to the young lady,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘She has a strong constitution.’
‘Hmm, well that is as may be,’ said Mackenzie dubiously. ‘If it was just the case of my brother’s memory I would have no compunction about speaking my mind, but another’s reputation is at stake, a fine and very beautiful lady, beautiful not only in her person but in her mind, her very soul.’
‘You speak of Madeleine Carmichael.’
‘I do. Twenty-two years ago she was the ornament of Edinburgh society and I was a junior clerk, working every hour I could to be something better. I knew I did not deserve the lady, but determined to apply myself so that one day I would be able to address her in terms of matrimony.’
‘She knew of this?’
‘She cannot have failed to be aware of my profound and honourable esteem.’
‘And your brother? He knew of it too?’
He looked pained. ‘Oh yes, he knew, but it made no difference to him. He also admired Miss Carmichael and set out to woo her for himself.’
‘With what result?’
Mackenzie struggled with his memories. ‘I cannot prove it, Miss Doughty, no one can, but I am convinced that he – prevailed – won her love, persuaded the innocent girl that to succumb to his crude desires was no sin – and to be blunt – ruined her.’
Frances nodded. ‘Was there any result of this connection?’
‘If you mean did she bear a child, she did not. Worse than that, far, far worse.’
‘You mean her condition was a direct cause of her death?’
‘Alastair caused her death!’ he exclaimed with a little wail of distress. ‘My own brother killed the finest woman who ever breathed!’
Frances was about to speak, but Mackenzie raised his hand for silence and took a few moments to regain his accustomed composure. ‘Oh please do not ask me for proof, he was very clever and although we suspected him and tried every means at our disposal to bring the crime home to him, it was impossible. She died of septicaemia in the most terrible agony that nothing could relieve, following what can only be described as the work of a butcher. The case went before the Procurator Fiscal, but while the cause of death was never in any doubt the identity of the culprit was. Alastair gave evidence that he had never had any criminal connection with Miss Carmichael, and indeed that she had only visited him once, shortly before she died, telling him of her shameful plight and asking him for advice. He claimed that he had told her that her best course was to confess all to her father and throw herself upon his mercy. The court believed him. Some weeks later I learned that a lady who matched Miss Carmichael’s description had visited him many times in his lodgings. I think, and Carmichael also thought, that my brother lied in court, and not only had he ruined a dear sweet girl, but in trying to escape the consequences of his infamy he brought about her death. Many people in Edinburgh thought the same and the feeling against him was such that eventually he decided to leave the city. A post came up in Germany about then and he left. I have not seen him since, nor have I wished to.’
‘Dr Carmichael recently learned of some evidence that came to light which he thought might have enabled him to have your brother brought to justice,’ said Frances.
‘Oh? What evidence was this?’
‘I believe it is in the form of a journal which his sister found amongst Miss Carmichael’s papers. Unfortunately it was stolen, possibly by a blackmailer, before Carmichael himself saw it.’
Mackenzie looked puzzled. ‘His sister? I am afraid I do not understand you.’
‘His older sister. Her first name is Ellen, I believe.’
Mackenzie shook his head. ‘Impossible. Carmichael only ever had one sister. Are you sure you are not mistaken?’
Frances consulted her notebook. ‘I wrote it down as he spoke. Ellen, married to a doctor, living in Kensington —’ she paused. ‘Yes, he was very evasive about that – no surname, no address, and the lady is said to be too ill to be troubled. So ill that it seems she does not exist. Well, I have been lied to before.’
‘So Carmichael had no proof. Well, it’s all one, now.’
Frances wondered why, if the journal did not exist, Carmichael was so eager to have it returned, unless of course he had employed her for quite another purpose. ‘You expressed a very unflattering opinion of Dr Carmichael,’ she said. ‘What can you tell me of him?’
‘Only that he too was obliged to leave Edinburgh under a cloud a few years after my brother. He has spent a great many years languishing in some out of the way practices, most recently in Carlisle, although he does come to London from time to time to sample its more vicious entertainments.’
‘I think I understand your meaning,’ said Frances. ‘Why did he leave Edinburgh?’
‘He was accused by a lady patient of committing a criminal assault upon her person while she was under the influence of chloroform which he had administered for a minor operation. The lady had been confused, as patients often are following a period of unconsciousness, and it was not until she reached her home that she confessed to her husband that she thought something untoward had taken place. Carmichael was tried, but he told the court that chloroform has an unusual effect upon the memory and can provoke quite scandalous dreams and imaginings, especially in females. He was acquitted.’
‘Do you think that was the right verdict?’
‘All I can say is that I have been told privately that there were incidents involving other ladies who were too ashamed to make a complaint. And —’ he paused. ‘There are some things, Miss Doughty, that cannot be spoken aloud, even before men, let alone a young unmarried woman.’
Frances proffered him her notebook open at a clean page, together with a pencil. He stared at her, both surprised and affronted. ‘Really, I —’
‘If you write it down, it is set in stone, but only say it and it will disappear as if it was never spoken and then you and Mr Rawsthorne may, if you wish, pretend that it was never said.’
‘It is too hideous and disgusting,’ he protested. ‘That any man would —’ he compressed his lips in a tight line of distaste. ‘Very well. I know for a fact that the lady who brought the case against him bore a very close resemblance to Miss Carmichael. I have also been told as regards the other ladies that there were strong points of similarity. There. That is Dr Carmichael’s story and you may make of it what you wish. I do not say that his love for his sister was ever expressed in ways other than those of the very deepest brotherly affection and respect. That terrible crime I do not lay at his door. But his mind was, and is, unclean and drives him to do loathsome things. I have no doubt that he spends a great deal of his time visiting females of the lowest character, and that amongst persons of that class his tastes are well known.’
‘Is there anything more you wish to tell me?’
‘Oh, Miss Doughty, I wished to tell you none of it! But that is all I have to say. I will remain in London until the inquest is concluded, but I will return to Edinburgh immediately thereafter. My brother’s remains have already been deposited where they were before and that is the end of my interest. Indeed, I am only here at the behest of my mother, who became very agitated when the dreadful story appeared in the newspapers.’
‘Did you view your brother’s body?’ Frances asked.
‘I did.’
‘And you have no doubt that it was indeed his remains?’
‘I have heard that you have made some strange allegations, for what purposes I cannot imagine. I recognised him by an old scar; it was on his temple, just hidden by his hair. I remember it well. It was I who gave it to him. There – enough!’
Frances took her leave and reluctantly felt that she must now accept that the body in the catacombs was that of Dr Mackenzie. As to Carmichael, whatever foolishness he was practising she wanted none of it. She determined to confront him at the earliest opportunity and say that she could no longer continue with the case as she had been asked to chase a chimaera. If his sister Ellen did not exist then it was very probable that the whole story was a lie from start to finish. There was no journal, no snuffboxes, no theft, and no light-fingered maidservant. Which meant that there was now only one candidate for the body in the canal, Mrs Pearson’s missing maid Ethel.
There was a note waiting for her from Chas and Barstie, which left her still less inclined to continue with Dr Carmichael as a client. They had set an agent to follow him and found that while during the daytime he visited hospitals and attended medical lectures, he spent his evenings with a woman of doubtful reputation. Frances knew that she ought to be angry with Dr Carmichael for approaching her under false pretences, but this was ameliorated by the fact that she had always regarded him with suspicion. She was a little curious to know what he had hoped to achieve by engaging her services, but mainly anxious to be rid of him. She would have liked to face him down in the Piccadilly Club and felt annoyed at the sheer number of places that would not admit her on grounds of her sex. Frances recalled, not without some embarrassment, her masquerade as a young man in her late brother’s suit of clothes, claiming to be a newspaper correspondent, in which guise she had first accosted Cedric Garton. It had been a dangerous thing to do and she would never want to do it again, but all the same there was a little voice at the back of her mind that would keep on reminding her how free she had felt without heavy skirts and petticoats weighing her down. She composed a note to Dr Carmichael asking him to come and see her at his earliest convenience.
Sarah returned from her first day as Mr Whiteley’s spy. She had been disappointed to discover that although the task had appeared at the outset to involve a great deal of shopping, something to which she was not averse, Mr Whiteley was unwilling to supply the required funds for her to do this, saying only that she was to look, make a note of the quality of the goods and their price, and report back to him, but not buy. If they were items she might want, then she must pay for them herself, but she must buy at Whiteleys and nowhere else. Frances felt that they had uncovered the secret of Mr Whiteley’s wealth, and wondered how far one might take prudence with money until it became parsimony and then meanness. Sarah was not, therefore, in the best of moods when Mr Horton reappeared in a state of agitation bordering on tears, insisting that Frances capture the alligator at once.
Sarah summed him up with a glance and informed him that she had seen the offending animal in the handbag department of Whiteleys, caught it, and killed it by snapping its neck. The brusque gesture of her fists left him in no doubt that she was thoroughly accustomed to dispatching unwanted livestock in this manner, and he blanched in terror and ran away without offering payment.
‘You won’t see him again!’ said Sarah.
Dr Carmichael arrived to see Frances on the Monday morning with a cautiously hopeful expression and slid into a seat in the little parlour. ‘Have you discovered anything of interest?’ he asked.
Frances faced him across the table and looked at him calmly. ‘Yes, I discovered that you do not have a sister called Ellen.’
‘Oh,’ he said, crestfallen, and fidgeted with his fingers. ‘I suppose,’ he said at last, ‘that it was foolish of me to imagine that I might be able to deceive you. I expect you have been talking to that cold fish David Mackenzie.’
‘Never mind who I have been talking to – do you admit lying to me?’
‘It was not exactly a lie,’ he said grudgingly, ‘it was – a necessary invention.’
‘And the whole story you told me about how the documents had been found was also a necessary invention?’
He looked unhappy. Frances looked unsympathetic. ‘I am afraid so,’ he admitted.
‘Very well.’ Frances placed an envelope on the table. He picked it up and looked at her questioningly. ‘My account,’ she said. ‘For the work I have done to date. Please examine it and finalise matters in due course.’
‘What do you mean?’ he exclaimed.
‘I mean I cannot act for you.’
‘Oh but – what about the journal – I must have it!’
Frances’ undeniable contempt for the slippery and perverted creature before her was tempered by astonishment at his effrontery. ‘Dr Carmichael, are you really telling me that this journal actually exists, because I am far from convinced that it does. I will not waste my time chasing after ghosts when I can act for clients who are able to tell me the truth.’
‘It does exist,’ he assured her, ‘but I was obliged for reasons I cannot divulge to – well – be less than candid about the circumstances of its loss.’
‘I would prefer it if my account was settled in cash before the end of the month,’ said Frances.
He put the envelope back on the table. ‘I will be honest with you, Miss Doughty.’
‘That would be refreshing, but I am afraid it is a little late to start now. You need not trouble yourself to say more. Miss Smith will conduct you to the door.’
Sarah folded her arms and gave him a hard look, so that he might be in no doubt as to how this might be achieved.
He glanced nervously at Sarah, but he made no move to go and instead pushed the envelope closer to Frances. When Frances did not pick it up he pushed it closer. Still Frances ignored it. ‘I do not, as you say, have a sister called Ellen,’ he said. ‘I found the journal myself when looking at some of my sister’s things.’
Sarah rose to her feet.
‘If you don’t mind, this is all very distressing for me,’ he said, ‘and I am feeling a little faint. Might I trouble you for a drink of water?’
‘Please, help yourself,’ she said, indicating the carafe, and he seized upon it eagerly and poured a drink. ‘I can scarcely credit that this journal, assuming it to exist, was not found until recently,’ she observed.
He gulped at the water. ‘I know how this must seem. I did examine Madeleine’s letters and diaries shortly after her death, and have them in a safe place, but she also left some garments, which I have treasured, untouched. About a year ago – I don’t know why – I looked at them and found the journal folded in amongst them. Possibly so that it should remain hidden. The journal revealed that poor Madeleine had visited Mackenzie often and that she feared she was in a delicate state of health. I realised that I had the evidence I needed that would finally result in Mackenzie paying for his terrible treatment of my dear sister.’
‘I see,’ said Frances, seeing that the appearance of an incriminating document and Dr Mackenzie’s sudden need for £1,000 might not be unconnected. ‘So you came to London to confront him with this journal and demand money from him?’
‘No – no not at all! That would have been a secret revenge, but what I wanted was a public exposure. I decided to hand the journal to the police. It so happened that I had to come to London in any case as I was applying for a medical position here, and so I brought it with me.’ He sipped at the water again. ‘I also brought with me a letter, one that Madeleine had written to me when I was away at my studies, so that the police could compare the writing and be sure that it was hers. But before I could approach the police both the letter and the journal were stolen under circumstances I do not wish to describe. They were in a pocketbook which also contained some banknotes.’
‘You may be obliged to describe this event in future,’ observed Frances.
‘I know, but I prefer not to at present. I was concerned, Miss Doughty, because there were some notes in my sister’s journal which expressed her unhappiness at certain behaviours of mine. Nothing that broke the law, you understand, but matters that reflected poorly on my honour, things that I was most anxious should not be made public as it would be detrimental to my medical career. I waited with considerable trepidation to be contacted by a blackmailer, but that did not happen. Eventually, after being unsuccessful in my application for the position, I was obliged to return to my practice in Carlisle. I assumed that whoever stole the pocketbook was only interested in the banknotes and had thrown away the other items thinking them to be valueless. Recently I returned to London, once again hopeful of obtaining a position here. I was walking along Porchester Road when a messenger boy ran up to me and asked me if I was Dr Carmichael. I said I was and he gave me what I thought was a note and then ran away.’ Carmichael put the glass down, wiped his hands carefully on a clean handkerchief, then took a small leather case with a brass clasp from his pocket and opened it, extracting a folded sheet of paper. ‘This is what he gave me. It is one of my sister’s letters – the very one that was stolen this time last year together with the journal.’
‘May I see it?’ asked Frances.
Hesitantly, he handed it over, and Frances gently unfolded the sheet. It was a very brief note, advising the recipient that their mother was almost fully recovered from a bad cold, and expressing the hope that his studies were progressing well and that he would be able to return home soon. The date, in 1857, the signature and the sentiments showed it unequivocally to be a letter from Madeleine Carmichael to her brother. ‘Why do you think this was returned to you?’ she asked.
‘As proof that the journal was in someone’s possession. As you see, the contents of the letter are quite innocuous,’ he said, recovering the paper and putting it away reverentially, ‘but of course the journal is not. Even though Mackenzie is beyond the reach of a blackmailer, I am vulnerable, and all the more so for having hopes of gaining a new and prestigious post.’
‘Have you been approached by someone demanding money for the journal’s return?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And what do you expect me to do?’
‘Why, recover it, of course!’
‘But you offer me no clue as to who might have it or where it might be found.’
‘No, but I thought —’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought that in the profession of detective one often meets persons who are known for their criminal activities. I had hoped that you would easily be able to discover who is harbouring material of this nature.’
There was a long silence. Frances pushed the envelope back across the table. ‘I really do not think I can help you.’
‘But I must have the journal!’ he exclaimed, with such a burst of emotion that Frances could not doubt that it existed and that his predicament was acute.
‘Is it certain from its contents that you are the person named?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘Was the letter handed to you without an envelope?’
‘It was.’
‘Can you describe the messenger boy?’
‘No, by the time I realised what the paper was he had run away. But there are a number of them who seem always to be about Porchester Road. The boy may even know where the journal is being held. He may be a confederate of the criminal.’
‘I see,’ said Frances thoughtfully.
Carmichael took a wallet from his pocket and placed a banknote on the table. Had it been a Scottish banknote she might have shown him the door at once, but she saw that it was a good English one.
‘Very well,’ she said reluctantly, ‘I will make some enquiries. In the meantime, you must be alert and tell me if you see the boy again. If anyone does approach you for money for the return of the journal you must agree to their demands, make an appointment to meet them and then inform me at once.’
‘I don’t want the police involved!’ he said quickly.
‘That is understood. I take it that all you want is the journal and you will not press charges against the thief.’
‘Exactly so.’
Frances picked up the money and the envelope. ‘You must be truthful in future or I can do nothing for you.’
With a nod Carmichael departed, and Frances and Sarah looked at one another. ‘He is undoubtedly afraid,’ said Frances, ‘but for myself I am not convinced that he was not the person who blackmailed Dr Mackenzie. He is unaware, of course, that I know of Mackenzie’s need for money and that it coincides with his first visit to London. The journal has probably been stolen by a criminal associate. I think he knows who has it, but not where it is.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will ask Tom to make enquiries amongst the messenger boys who work around Porchester Road. Mr Knight and Mr Taylor will continue to keep watch on Dr Carmichael. It is possible that my discovery of his lies may rattle him into doing something incautious.’