Logic dictated that Frances should attempt to recreate Henry Palmer’s last known journey, but the night was closing in and she did not feel bold enough to retrace his steps on foot in the dark and the fog, while a possible murderer roamed at large. That would have to wait until daylight, when she might at least, weather permitting, be able to look about her.
Before setting out on her first call, Frances asked Sarah to take a message to two friends of hers who were always happy, in return for a small consideration and sometimes gratis, to supply information about Bayswater trade, often of a nature that was not publicly known.
Charles Knight and Sebastian Taylor, usually known as ‘Chas’ and ‘Barstie’, were two enterprising and energetic individuals, men of business whose fortunes appeared to ebb and flow with the tides. Since the summer they had been enjoying a period of comparative calm and, for them, stability. Their nemesis, a loathsome young man carrying a sharp knife, who was known only as the ‘Filleter’ and often lurked about Paddington exuding a noxious air of menace, had not been seen for some weeks, and while they anxiously awaited the glad news that he was in a place where he could no longer trouble them, Chas and Barstie had decided to become citizens of Bayswater. They had accordingly taken accommodation in Westbourne Grove above the shop of Mr Beccles, an elderly watchmaker. Chas, bulging with optimism at this recent development, spoke airily of their ‘apartments’ and their ‘offices’, his words conjuring up a picture of vast suites of elegance and comfort, as if the apartment and the office was not in fact one and the same location and numbered more than a single small room, and was not at the top of two flights of damp, narrow stairs. The elevation of the premises above street level was, thought Frances wryly, what justified Chas in claiming that he was going up in the world of commerce. They had recently established a company, The Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd, although whether that was actually the nature of its business Frances was unsure. Whatever it was they did, it seemed to involve long hours facing each other across a shared desk, a great deal of running up and down stairs, and occasional food fights.
‘Mr Palmer’s disappearance may have nothing at all to do with his occupation or any person at the Life House, but I must first satisfy myself of that before I dismiss the idea,’ Frances told Sarah. ‘If the gentlemen can tell me anything about the business, the directors or the employees, whatever it might be, that would be of the greatest assistance.’
Dr Mackenzie’s lodgings were on the east side of Ladbroke Grove Road, just a little to the north of its junction with Telford Road. The houses in that location were not so tall or so grand as those in other parts of the long thoroughfare, and the builder had not thought it necessary to encrust them with pillars and porticoes, but they were respectable enough. As Frances stepped up to the door she saw the top of a housemaid’s cap bobbing about in the basement area below. At the sound of the knocker, the maid turned her head up to look, her face a white circle, as pale as the cap, with watery grey eyes and a pinched nose. She said nothing, but made to go indoors at a pace that suggested that Frances might have to wait several minutes for admission. Moments later, however, the front door was opened by the landlady.
Mrs Georgeson was a capable-looking woman in her middle years. The hardened fingers that peeped from her mittens suggested a life spent in toil, but they were not roughened by recent work. Frances explained her errand while Mrs Georgeson studied her calling card as if it was a difficult acrostic. ‘So he’s not been found, then. You’d better come in.’
Frances stepped into the hallway finding it drab, and only tolerably clean; she felt sure that Sarah would have regarded the state of the cornices with something approaching indignation. Little flaps of wallpaper that might once have been flesh pink but had died away to the colour of weak coffee, curled like dried leaves edged with brown. A single gas lamp turned to its lowest setting supplied just enough light to pass through the hall, but failed to conceal an enforced neglect which the landlady might have hoped her potential tenants would not notice. Queen Victoria stared from the only portrait on the wall with an expression of stern disapproval.
‘There are only gentlemen lodgers here,’ said Mrs Georgeson, as she led Frances down the stairs at the rear of the house. ‘That was the position when Mr Georgeson and I chose to supervise the premises and so it has remained. Respectable single gentlemen, preferably those in the professions, they are so much more reliable.’ Mrs Georgeson, while having no ambitions to appear genteel, was determined to be accounted worthy, and revealed that her husband was engaged in work of the utmost importance to society. She was so evasive when Frances politely enquired as to the nature of Mr Georgeson’s occupation that she could only conclude it had something to do with sewage.
Near the foot of the stairs they met the housemaid on her way up, a tall thin girl, with long untidy curls of light hair wriggling from an over-large cap. She looked like a plant that had grown in too little light and was searching for the sun. She observed them gloomily, turned without a word, and went down again. At the bottom of the stairs there was a small, dark parlour, and the maid passed through it and disappeared into the next room, where a loud metallic clatter announced that this was a kitchen where she was busy either scrubbing pans or knocking them together to give the impression that she was. There was a faint odour of overcooked egg.
Frances and the landlady sat at a small table, where a large brown teapot that looked as if it needed a good scouring stood next to some used cups. Mrs Georgeson frowned at them as if she felt something needed to be done about this situation, and glanced at the kitchen door.
‘Please don’t trouble yourself,’ said Frances, quickly. ‘I would like you to tell me all you know of Dr Mackenzie. How long did he live here? Did your other tenants know him well?’
Frances learned that Dr Mackenzie had occupied the uppermost apartment in the building for the last three years, and had been a quiet and largely solitary individual. A Mr Trainor, who travelled in medical sundries, had lived on the ground floor for ten years and was, if anything, even quieter than Mackenzie. Mrs Georgeson did not think either man had visited the other’s apartments. The first floor had been empty at the time of Dr Mackenzie’s death following the departure abroad of the previous tenant, although a new gentleman had since moved in. Mr and Mrs Georgeson occupied comfortable rooms in the extensive basement and Mary Ann, who was sixteen and had worked there for a year, slept on a folding bed in the pantry.
‘Please describe the evening when Mr Palmer called to report Dr Mackenzie’s death,’ asked Frances. ‘This is extremely important, since as far as I have been able to gather you were the last person to see him before he disappeared.’
Mrs Georgeson made a little grimace as if the fact alone brought her closer to tragedy. ‘Of course I’ll tell you all I can but it’s little enough. And I have already said everything to Mr Crowe. Poor Dr Mackenzie had been so unwell, worn down and tired, and I said to him perhaps he ought not to go out as the weather was cold and foggy, and it might get on his chest and then you never know what might happen. But he insisted he had to go, and so I promised to wait up and see that he got a hot drink and perhaps a little sip of brandy when he came in. I was just starting to worry that he was late back when Mary Ann went to answer the door, and the next thing I knew she rushed down here in tears saying there was a man called to say Dr Mackenzie was dead. Of course I went up at once and found Mr Palmer in the hallway talking to Mr Trainor, who had come out of his room when he heard the commotion. I was told that Dr Mackenzie had suffered a fit and was now a customer of his own establishment.’
‘Had you met Mr Palmer before that day?’
‘No, never. None of us had.’
Frances was disappointed. Only someone who knew Palmer well could judge whether his mood and behaviour that night were characteristic of him. ‘Can you describe how he appeared to you?’
‘Well, he was upset of course, as you might expect, but not crying or anything like that. Shocked, I would say, but quiet and dealing with it like a man. He had a message to bring, a duty to do and he did it.’ She nodded, approvingly. ‘He told me there was to be a private viewing for the doctor’s friends and relatives next morning at ten, and I would be very welcome to attend, so of course I went up to pay my respects. Dr Mackenzie was a good man, always thinking of others, never of himself. He was in a little room at the side, laid out very nice with flowers and candles. Poor gentleman,’ said the landlady wistfully, ‘he had looked so ill these last few months; I’ll swear he appeared better once he was dead. Some of them do, you know, more at peace, all their troubles gone.’
‘Did Mr Palmer look like someone who might go away and have too much to drink to steady his nerves, or a man whose mind might break down with grief?’ asked Frances.
Mrs Georgeson considered this for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘I would say not. He just sighed and said he would go off home to his bed, but he didn’t think he would be able to sleep after what had happened. He said Dr Mackenzie had collapsed right into his arms and he would never forget it.’
‘Did you see Mr Palmer out?’
‘I did.’
‘And did you see where he went – what direction he walked in?’
‘Oh I couldn’t say – it was that bad out I just saw him to the bottom of the steps and then shut the door. Mary Ann might know, as she was back and forth.’
‘In that case, I had better speak to her.’
Mrs Georgeson called the servant from the kitchen, and Mary Ann emerged, peering about her as if short-sighted.
‘This is Miss Doughty, the detective,’ said Mrs Georgeson.
The transformation was immediate. The girl suddenly straightened from her miserable slouch, her mouth forming a dark circle of surprise. ‘Oh, are you the lady in the stories?’ she exclaimed.
‘Stories?’ said Frances. ‘You mean in the newspapers?’
‘No, I mean the halfpenny books. The Lady Detective of Bayswater. They’ve got pictures and everything.’
Frances gulped, having no idea that anyone had seen fit to illustrate her adventures and sell copies to impressionable young people. Her immediate instinct was to deny any connection, but then she realised that it was a situation she might turn to her advantage. ‘I have not seen the stories you mention, but they may very well be about me,’ she said.
Mary Ann beamed with excitement. ‘Oh you are very brave, Miss!’ she said, admiringly.
‘Thank you,’ said Frances, a little worried at what it was she was supposed to have done. ‘Now, I would like you to sit down and tell me everything you can remember about Mr Palmer who called here to say that Dr Mackenzie had died.’
Mary Ann sat at the table, and stared at Frances as if she was a lady of very great moment.
‘He was a nice-looking young man,’ she said, ‘very tidy and clean, with good manners; and sad. He said that Dr Mackenzie had fallen down all of a sudden, and he and the other doctor had done what they could to help him, but they were sure he was gone. I went to fetch Mrs Georgeson and then came back up the stairs because – to see if I was wanted for anything.’
Mary Ann’s milky face went a little pink and Frances realised she had crept up to the hallway to get another look at Henry Palmer. ‘But Mrs Georgeson said I should go back down to the kitchen, so I did. Has he still not been found, Miss?’
‘No, I am afraid not. Did you see where Mr Palmer went after he left here?’
‘Yes, I was in the area, and he came down the steps. He stopped for a while, like he was thinking about something, and then he turned and walked down the road.’
‘Did he turn the corner and go down Telford Road?’
‘No, I think he crossed over and went on walking. But it was very foggy and I didn’t see him after that.’
Frances nodded. ‘Thank you Mary Ann, you have been very helpful. I had better speak to Mr Trainor, now.’
‘He’s away on business,’ said Mrs Georgeson. ‘I expect him back on Thursday afternoon. I’ll let him know you called. I’m sure he would be more than willing to tell you all he knows.’
‘Then I will return to see him on Thursday. And now I would like to examine Dr Mackenzie’s room. Has it been re-let?’
‘Not as yet,’ said Mrs Georgeson with an air of disappointment, ‘but the room has been emptied, so there’s nothing for you to see.’
‘All the same,’ said Frances, ‘I will see it. Who disposed of the doctor’s effects?’
‘Dr Bonner. He and Dr Warrinder are the executors, but I think it’s Dr Bonner who does all the work. Not that there was a great deal for him to take. Medical books, mainly. Business papers. He asked me to give the clothes to charity. Come with me.’
They ascended two flights of thinly carpeted stairs where Dr Mackenzie’s apartments consisted of two small, comfortless rooms, a parlour and bedroom both with the simplest and plainest of furnishings. There was a sour, dusty smell as if the floor had been roughly swept but not assiduously cleaned.
‘If you know of any single gentlemen looking for respectable lodgings …’ said Mrs Georgeson, hopefully. ‘They get a boiled egg and tea every morning.’
‘I will be sure to mention that you have rooms available,’ Frances promised. She had always assumed that medical men lived in some affluence, but it was clear that Dr Mackenzie had subsisted on a very small income. ‘Did he have many visitors?’ she asked.
‘Some yes, his medical friends. No ladies – never any question of it. Dr Bonner called and Dr Warrinder, and young Dr Darscot.’
‘Dr Darscot? I don’t know that gentleman. Does he work at the Life House?’
‘Oh, that I couldn’t say. But he must have been a very great friend of Dr Mackenzie. He was very upset that night.’
Frances turned to her. ‘That night?’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you mean the night Dr Mackenzie died? Dr Darscot was here?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Georgeson, unaware that she had said anything of interest. ‘He came knocking at the door saying he wanted to speak to the doctor and it was very important and he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I had to tell him; I said Dr Mackenzie has just died.’
‘So Dr Darscot called quite late – after Mr Palmer had gone.’
‘No more than five minutes after, I would say. When I told him the doctor was dead he went into quite a state, wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t believe it, said it couldn’t be true, and demanded to go up to the rooms and see for himself. I told him, the body isn’t there, it’s at the Life House. Then he says he still wants to see in the rooms as the doctor had borrowed something from him and he wanted it back. I said I couldn’t let him up there – that the only person I would let up there was Dr Mackenzie’s executor, and once he had the papers to prove it was him he could do as he pleased. Then Mr Georgeson comes along and wants to know what the matter is and I told him. And he said the rooms were locked and would stay locked. And Dr Darscot looked very unhappy and ran out, calling for a cab.’
‘Did he return?’ asked Frances.
‘No, I’ve not seen him since.’
‘Do you have his address? I should like to speak to him.’
‘No, but I expect Dr Bonner will know.’
‘Very well, I shall be seeing him soon. And those were the only callers?’
‘As far as I know, yes. Those nights when Dr Mackenzie wasn’t at the Life House he was usually here working. He used to write medical papers and sometimes he gave talks to other doctors. And I think he had started to see patients again. Live ones, that is, only he didn’t see them here. I don’t know where he saw them. It was all work with him,’ she said sighing. ‘All work.’
‘Did he get many letters?’
‘Yes, from time to time.’
‘Who wrote to him?’ Mrs Georgeson bridled at the question and Frances paused, realising that in her eagerness to know the answer she had phrased the enquiry somewhat insultingly. ‘Forgive me; of course you could not possibly have known that unless he told you. What I meant to say was did he ever tell you who wrote to him?’
Mrs Georgeson accepted the apology with a nod. ‘He didn’t say, but there were letters posted in London, and from Scotland, and from somewhere abroad.’
Frances had seen all that she wished, but asked Mrs Georgeson to write and advise her when Mr Trainor was available. She returned home to find visitors in the parlour; Chas toasting currant buns before the fire and passing them to Barstie, who was covering them liberally with strawberry jam spooned from a jar.
‘Only the best, Miss Doughty,’ said Chas with a smile and a wink, as Sarah brought tea and plates. He was looking comfortable and prosperous, and Frances hoped fervently that he was not about to make a declaration of affection. He had once hinted that her expertise in maintaining the account books of her father’s business had excited his esteem, something he would not be able to acknowledge openly until he felt financially settled. While she wished him every success, she would be perfectly happy if he found another lady with which to share it. ‘Now then, you wanted to know all about the late Dr Mackenzie and his associates. I’m sorry to say there isn’t really a lot to tell.’
‘A very peculiar place, the Life House,’ said Barstie, thoughtfully. ‘I shouldn’t care for it myself.’ Barstie, a slender individual lounging casually opposite his plumper friend, had, Frances knew, spent the last two years in the amorous pursuit of an heiress who had so far remained immune to his attentions, a situation which gave him a permanently mournful air.
‘It’s one business I can think of where the customers don’t complain,’ said Chas. ‘If they’re dead why they can’t, and if they sit up again and take notice, well that’s all to the good. And families will pay any amount for peace of mind and a decent disposal of the remains. Death is the one certainty in life. There’s good money in death.’
Barstie sighed as if he could already see Chas making plans to open a new business.
‘Dr Mackenzie was not a prosperous man,’ said Frances. ‘I have seen his lodgings and they were very modest.’
‘He was a man of high principles,’ said Chas, ‘at least he always represented himself as one, and such men never prosper. He first promoted the idea of a Life House in 1862, although it was three years before he could open it. It was partly paid for with his own money, part came from Dr Bonner and the rest was collected by public subscription. He was paid the smallest salary he felt the business could afford, but it has not made a good profit yet, although it may well do in future. Funerals, on the other hand – you could name your price. We could start small, Barstie – lap dogs and kittens, pet monkeys and such like.’ Barstie’s despondency increased, but Chas breezed on.
‘Dr Bonner, now he is financially comfortable, but it’s not because of the Life House. Did well out of his medical practice, did even better by marrying a widow with property but no standing in society. Better still, she ignores him and spends all her time on ladies’ committees. He amuses himself nowadays by seeing rich patients with troublesome ailments who pay for his discretion, and elderly persons with something in the funds who he can persuade to become customers of the Life House.’ Sarah poured tea and handed him a cup, and he smiled and helped himself to a bun. ‘You are very kind, Miss Smith.’ Sarah did not look especially kind, but then she so rarely did.
‘Dr Warrinder,’ said Barstie, ‘is not a man of wealth, but neither is he poor. He used to be a consultant at the Hospital for Diseases of the Throat and Chest in Golden Square. Then there was that unfortunate occurrence three years ago, when a lady died after an operation. Words were said and Dr Warrinder thought it best to retire – from tending to the living at any rate. He lives quietly and modestly now.’
‘And Dr Darscot?’ asked Frances. ‘Does he work at the Life House?’
The two men glanced at each other with surprised expressions and shook their heads. ‘No, the only men employed at the Life House are the three directors and the two orderlies. No one called Darscot.’
After they had left Frances examined a local directory, but that too was silent on the subject of Dr Darscot. That was not in itself suspicious; Mrs Georgeson had described him as a young man and he was probably a recent arrival in Bayswater. Whoever he was, he was a close associate of the late Dr Mackenzie and as such she would need to find and speak to him.
Early the next morning as the mist began to lift Frances took a cab up to the Life House, the place where Henry Palmer’s last-known journey had begun. As she crossed the bridge over the Great Western Railway with Kensal New Town to her right and the gasworks to her left, she recalled being told that not so many years ago none of the houses and streets she had just driven past, including the northern part of Ladbroke Grove Road, had existed; all had been farmland and Portobello Lane had wound its lazy way through the countryside towards the cemetery. Then an enterprising gentleman had decided to build a great estate, and the farms had been dismantled and the land covered with houses. He had declared this to be progress, but there was some disagreement as to whether this was really the case. Frances had read in the newspapers of men in politics who called themselves ‘progressive’, and she had sometimes heard them denounced as dangerous fellows who only wanted to take a man’s property away and change everything for the worse, but she could not help thinking that progress might also do good. It was one of those difficult questions she needed to reserve for the time when she would be permitted to vote. She was not, she thought, so naïve as to imagine that men held the right opinions on everything, even though this was something she had often been told.
The cab passed some dingy yards crowded with broken carts and wagons, like graveyards for abandoned vehicles, then crossed the bridge that spanned the murky waters of the Grand Junction Canal, a watercourse that some humorous person had once dubbed ‘the River Styx’ since it bordered the General Cemetery of All Souls Kensal Green. Frances saw to her left the roof of the non-conformist chapel inside the perimeter wall, then the cab turned right down Harrow Road and took her down Church Lane, which lay opposite the church of St John the Evangelist. The lane, which led down to the canal bank, was flanked on its western side by cottages that had once formed part of old Portobello Lane and predated the recent building in the area, and on the other side by newer houses. The eastern side of the lane had once consisted of plots of open land with gardens and smallholdings. It was here that Dr Mackenzie, anxious to find a location for the Life House near to the great cemetery, had been fortunate enough to secure a small parcel of land at a reasonable price. Tucked out of the way, and with the occupants of the rented cottages having little say in the matter, the Life House had been built, and so discreet was its operation that despite the fact that its purpose was generally known, its presence there had become accepted. This was due in part to the respect in which Dr Mackenzie was held in Bayswater, but mainly to his care in ensuring that the business did not create a public nuisance.
The Life House was a great deal smaller than Frances had imagined – a square, one-storey building with small windows just below the level of the roof to dissuade prying eyes. A single chimney wafted a coil of grey smoke into the greyer sky, but there were other brick protrusions, which Frances suspected were for the purpose of ventilation. The building presented a plain wall to the street, with no obvious entrance, but a path, which was just wide enough to admit six men bearing a coffin, wound about its corner. Frances followed the path and found a door on the eastern side of the building which faced away from the street, looking upon some walled yards and the back of a warehouse. It was a simple, but very solid-looking door with a heavy lock and neither bell nor knocker. A brass plate was inscribed PRIVATE – VISITORS PLEASE USE CHAPEL ENTRANCE with a little arrow pointing the way. The south side of the building faced the canal although separated from it by a railing and some stout trees, and here Frances found a smaller door with a knocker, and a brass plate inscribed CHAPEL.
It was possible she noticed, for anyone leaving the Life House and intending to walk south, to avoid going up Church Lane and along Harrow Road, and instead cut through a small passage between the houses on the west of the lane to reach Ladbroke Grove Road. Frances assumed this must have been the start of Henry Palmer’s walk home and would also have been the easiest route for the coffins to take, just a short step to the east entrance of the cemetery.
Frances knocked at the chapel door and after a few moments it swung inwards a few inches, and she was faced by a bored-looking young man with tousled hair wearing a medical orderly’s overall. The odour that crept from the doorway was a powerful suggestion of carbolic mixed with the flowery sweetness of scented candles.
‘Do you have an appointment Miss?’ asked the young man.
Frances presented her card. ‘I do not,’ she said, ‘but I have been engaged by Mr Henry Palmer’s sister to enquire into his disappearance. Are you Mr Hemsley?’
He stared at the card, ‘Yes, I am, but visits are by appointment only, and there are no burials waiting in any case, so I oughtn’t by rights to let you in.’ Despite this he looked as though he might be persuaded without difficulty.
‘I understand that Mr Palmer is a very good sort of person,’ said Frances. ‘Everyone is terribly worried about him and his poor sister is making herself quite ill. I am sure you would do anything in your power to help find him.’
‘Well, Palmer is a good sort, there’s no doubt about that.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in letting you see the chapel. But not the wards, mind, I’d lose my place if I let you in there.’
He stepped back and opened the door fully. Frances entered and found herself in a small room, with plain coffin shells and lids and trestles propped against the walls. A crucifix and two candlesticks stood on a small table covered with a white lace-edged cloth, forming a kind of altar. She had quite hoped to glance inside the ward, if only out of curiosity, and had to admit that there was a challenge in gaining admission to places where she was not allowed, but there was a wheeled stretcher placed across an inner door which she was sure must connect the chapel with the ward, a guardian to dissuade prying eyes.
‘What can you tell me about the night Dr Mackenzie died? I understand you arrived for duty at midnight?’
He scratched his head. ‘That’s right. I got here at the usual time, expecting to see Palmer just about to leave, but instead it was Dr Bonner who told me what had gone on. He said there was to be a viewing the next morning, and he and Palmer had already carried the doctor into the chapel, so we got him laid out properly with flowers and such, and then Dr Bonner went home, but he was back soon after seven o’clock. Then Dr and Mrs Warrinder arrived a little later; they’d been sent a telegram.’
‘Who else came for the viewing?’
‘Mrs Bonner, she never misses one, and then a middle-aged person, I think she was Dr Mackenzie’s landlady, and Mr Fairbrother, he’s a young surgeon come up to London to study, he’s been assisting Dr Bonner, and there was a young man, only he hadn’t come for the viewing at all, in fact he didn’t even know Dr Mackenzie had died, he came to ask if Palmer was there. I think Palmer’s sister is his sweetheart. That was the first we heard he’d not been home the night before.’
‘What about Dr Darscot? I had heard he was a friend of Dr Mackenzie.’
Hemsley shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know a Dr Darscot, but there are any number of doctors who come to look around the wards, so he might have been one of those.’
‘You were on duty here until midday, which would be the time that Mr Palmer would normally arrive. Did you wait here for him?’
‘Yes, well we all hoped that he would come, we thought perhaps he had had something urgent to do that had kept him from home, and maybe he had sent a message and the message got lost, and he would be here as usual. You could rely on him like that. There had only ever been the one time when he hadn’t come and that was when he was too ill to get out of bed, but he’d still made sure to send a note so that we knew and could get someone in.’
‘But he never came back.’
‘No, and there was no note or anything. I stayed on for a little longer, and saw the fire was properly tended and then Dr Warrinder came in, as they couldn’t get anyone else in a hurry. The next day they got some medical students to take care of the place, and now there’s a new man, Renfrew, he started a few days ago.’
Frances looked at the connecting door. Hemsley followed her look and gave a little knowing smile, but made no comment. ‘I see that visitors for a viewing must knock at the chapel door, but how do the doctors and orderlies gain admission? Do you all have keys?’
‘All the doctors have a set. I have one and so does Palmer.’
Frances wondered if someone might have waylaid Palmer to steal his keys, for what purpose she could not imagine, but it was a possible motive for an assault that could have ended in the missing man’s injury or death.
‘Has anyone ever tried to steal your keys?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Or asked to borrow them?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been asked by press-men to let them in to take a look around. One wanted to borrow my keys and I’m sure he meant to have copies made. Been offered good money, too. But I didn’t take it.’
‘So, if Palmer is missing then his keys are too?’
‘Yes, Dr Bonner had to order the locks changed and new sets of keys made.’
Frances made a note of Hemsley’s address; he was lodging with a family in St Charles Square, off Ladbroke Grove Road. He confirmed that he walked to and from the Life House along the main road, using the side alley that led to Church Lane and assumed that Palmer would have done the same, as it was the fastest way.
Frances left the Life House, following the path that Palmer must have taken. She was not afraid of walking, and recalled the long journeys she had undertaken on foot through rain and mud, when her father had been alive and grumbled at every small expense.
Reaching the upper end of Ladbroke Grove Road, she passed the walled perimeter of All Souls and the gates of the eastern entrance to the cemetery, then crossed the bridge which afforded her a fine view of the canal on either side, with its tugs and barges. The gasworks, she was obliged to admit, was not an attractive sight, although of undoubted utility, as was the bridge over the lines of the Great Western Railway. In all it took some ten minutes for her to reach Dr Mackenzie’s lodgings, and there she stood for a few moments at the bottom of the steps, where Palmer had paused. Why had he done so? Was he thinking about something, or had he seen something or someone that had attracted his attention? Frances gazed about her but could see nothing of importance.
She turned left as Palmer had done and started down the road again, crossing Telford Road, and reaching the junction with Faraday Road. Had Palmer turned left here or had he gone on to Bonchurch Road? Either way he must have reached Portobello Road, walked a short distance and then taken a right turn into Golborne Road, with its rows of shops and lodging rooms above. All the routes would have been well lit, although the yellow lamps might have found it hard to penetrate the enveloping fog that had persisted on the night of Palmer’s last known walk. Both Faraday and Bonchurch Roads were entirely residential, whereas Portobello and Golborne were busy commercial streets where even late at night one might have expected to find many people about. If Palmer had lost his way he might have stumbled into a basement area, yet had he done so he would have been found soon enough. A trapdoor above a cellar might have been left carelessly open, but Frances felt sure that Walter’s enquiries had covered that possibility. He had been very thorough. All the houses looked well-kept and occupied, and the residents would have noticed something amiss.
Supposing, however, that Palmer had not gone straight to his home, but had had an errand to perform, one that would have taken him along a different route? Supposing he had been sent on this errand by Dr Mackenzie? Frances had been told repeatedly that in recent months Mackenzie had looked tired and ill. Might he have had a secret worry on his mind?
She arrived home and the walk in the crisp air had warmed her. A note had arrived from Dr Bonner saying that if Frances would call on him at 2 p.m. he would be very pleased to speak to her about the unfortunate disappearance of Mr Palmer.