The Poisonous Seed (27 page)

They walked to church. It was not far, and, with no invalid to protect, Frances had decided to save the cost of a four-wheeler. She knew that by walking, they declared themselves to be poor. Herbert protested, but she was adamant. ‘Let everyone see us,’ she said. ‘They will see that we are not afraid to show our faces, that we have nothing of which we should be ashamed, that we have committed no crime, have no secrets. Let them see how proud we are, how firm in our resolve, how innocent.’ Thus they walked, greeting those they saw on the way, never wavering in dignity.

As they stepped though the church doors, Frances realised that she was leading the way, and that this was how it should be. She was now the head of the family, from which its strength should be derived. For a moment, the thought frightened her, then she marshalled all her determination. She would meet the obligation, because she must. They took their places and opened their hymn books. Frances glanced about her. Herbert was staring at the pages very determinedly, as if the intensity with which he looked at the words would keep him from the eyes of others; Sarah was grim of face, and Tom was examining the book to see how much it was worth. ‘Read!’ ordered Frances, and Sarah corrected Tom with a light Sunday-weight cuff about the ear, took the book from his hands and set it back again the right way up.

It was, Frances knew, her duty to take comfort from the fact that her prayers would undoubtedly reach the One who knew everything. It would be too much to hope that there would be some great flash of enlightenment and that others would be able to see the truth as clearly as she did. God’s help did not come so easily, delivered to her door like the penny post, but she believed that she was receiving it even now, giving her the strength of purpose she needed for what lay ahead. Reverend Day’s sermon spoke well of her father, his long service to the sick, his kindliness; and the congregation remembered. She saw it all about her; people bending their heads in silent prayer. Afterwards they crept forward and approached her with sympathetic eyes, and offered commiserations. They pitied her for her loss, but underneath it all, even as their words recalled what her father had been to them, she saw behind their faces the ingrained image of an aged invalid, the poor shadow of a once fine intellect, the trembling hands and confused mind, the man who had made a terrible, deadly mistake and then, unable to bear the shame, had taken his own life. Last week her father had remembered something, but it had slipped away before he could speak of it. On the day of his death, less than an hour before, he had again nearly recalled some fact about Percival Garton’s prescription. Perhaps it had been nothing of importance, but she felt desperately frustrated that it was beyond her knowledge forever.

They returned home, to a simple meal of potted meat, cheese, and bread. Even that frugal fare was almost more than Frances could stomach, and she had no trouble about offering most of her share to Herbert, who regarded the change of diet as an affront to his manly requirements. The kettle was boiling for a welcome cup of tea when Chas and Barstie appeared, with sympathetic looks, a posy of flowers and a box of buns.

‘My dear,
dear
Miss Doughty,’ said Chas, taking Frances’ hand and applying an unexpectedly gentle pressure to her fingers. ‘We pay our respects, to you and your family. Only a few days ago we drank a toast to your good fortune, and now, sadly, you suffer in a way that we can only try to imagine.’

‘If there is any service we can perform for you, do not hesitate to ask,’ added Barstie.

‘Thank you,’ said Frances. ‘You are very welcome to stay and have tea.’

They sat around the table. Sarah brought tea and the box was opened, the buns much exclaimed over. Frances told her visitors of the circumstances of her father’s death, and, after a while, Herbert, sensing quite correctly that his presence was of no interest to them, took his cup and a bun and retired to his room.

‘My situation is worse even than you know,’ sighed Frances. ‘My father left me with debts I cannot meet. In a month from now, I must sell the business.’

‘Oh! To lose your parent, your livelihood and your home all at once!’ exclaimed Barstie.

‘I have tried to borrow money to keep the business running,’ said Frances, ‘but in my present position I can offer no security. I – don’t suppose you know of anyone who —?’

‘No one I would care to introduce you to,’ said Chas. ‘No one you would ever wish to meet. There are men who will lend you any amount of money on no security at all, but to default just once is to be as good as dead. I would not recommend it, but I will think very hard on your plight. If there is a way to help you I will find it. I promise.’

‘Thank you,’ said Frances. Hardly knowing either of the men, she felt unsure as to the reliability of the promise, but did not doubt that what was said was very much meant.

‘There is one small piece of information we have discovered since our last meeting,’ added Chas. ‘I don’t know if it will be of any assistance to you, but we pass it on, if only as proof that one should never believe without question anything one is told. Especially where money is concerned.’

‘Any news would be appreciated,’ said Frances, whose appetite had returned and was starting on her second bun.

‘Now, I remember you saying that Mr Garton inherited his fortune from his grandfather who owned a shipping business in Bristol.’

‘That is right,’ said Frances, firmly. ‘I have no reason to doubt it because I was told it by his own brother.’

‘Ah,’ said Barstie, mournfully, ‘and it is a well-known fact that men always tell their brothers the
exact
truth about their finances.’

‘Well there was a great deal in that story that
was
true,’ said Chas. ‘Mr Garton did indeed have a grandfather who owned a shipping business in Bristol, a Mr Horace Percival Garton. This gentleman died in October 1864 and left everything to his grandson Percival. But at the date of his death, Mr Horace Garton’s entire estate was worth less than twenty thousand pounds.’

‘Oh!’ said Frances, in astonishment. ‘But Mr Garton left a great deal more than that, and now that I recall …’, she took her notebook from her pocket and studied it. ‘He sold the business when he came to London in 1870, only six years after he inherited it.’

‘A very small business as these things go,’ said Chas. ‘His profit would not have been great. And as far as we have been able to discover he has undertaken no other business at all since then, unless one counts the gallery, which to all outward appearances can hardly pay the rent. Yet he died worth one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

‘Perhaps he was fortunate with his investments,’ said Frances.

‘I have no doubt that he lived well from them,’ said Chas, ‘a household such as his will cost you your one thousand pounds a year or more to run, but only an adventurous speculator given great good fortune will multiply his holdings in that way. I have found that Garton’s investments were safe, solid. He took no chances. So where did the money come from?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frances, ‘unless he was involved with Mr Keane’s crimes in some way.’

‘We think that the gallery was more than it appeared,’ said Barstie. ‘Crooked money going in, honest money coming out, and Mr Garton taking a percentage.’

‘And how would that be achieved?’ asked Frances.

‘Oh, simplicity itself,’ said Barstie, airily. ‘The gallery was perfect for that purpose. In the art world it is possible for large profits to be made on a single transaction. False documents can easily be created to show that money was received though
bona fide
business, when in fact it was nothing of the sort.’

Frances, who prided herself on the shop accounts being correct to the last farthing, opened her eyes wide and said, ‘How very wicked!’

‘Contemptible,’ said Chas, emphatically.

‘Unpardonable,’ said Barstie. They both shook their heads with expressions of grave disapproval.

‘I think you have the answer,’ said Frances, ‘Perhaps Mr Garton demanded more money, or threatened to expose Mr Keane and so he was killed. All I need to do is prove how it was done.’ She sighed, ‘A difficult task, I think. I expect you have read in the newspapers of what happened at the inquest on Mr Garton?’

‘You refer to Mrs Keane’s evidence?’ said Barstie. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself over that. With what has happened since, I doubt that anyone believes her.’

‘I saw her yesterday,’ said Frances, ‘and she freely admitted that her husband had made her tell lies. I begged her to change her testimony, but she will not. I think he must have agreed to save her father from the bankruptcy court in return for her perjured evidence. And she will perjure herself again if necessary.’

‘Trust me, there will be things said at her husband’s trial that will entirely undo what she has said,’ said Chas. He rubbed his hands together, his face alight with anticipation. ‘Oh yes, this promises to be very interesting indeed.’

‘He enjoys a good trial,’ Barstie confided.

‘I do,’ said Chas with great satisfaction, ‘especially when it is about money.’

‘He makes notes,’ added Barstie, darkly.

‘Only on what
not
to do, Barstie, only on what
not
to do.’

‘The newspapers have painted Mr Keane as a very great villain,’ said Frances, ‘they have compared him to some of the wickedest criminals who ever lived, though I must admit I have not heard of any of them.’ She showed her visitors the article in the
Chronicle
.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Chas, nodding his head sagely as he read, ‘Mr Keane would be in fitting company with any of these three. Now Sadleir, he was before my time, ’50s I think, but I remember my father talking of him. Mark my words, when future historians speak of the worst criminals of this century the name that will come to mind first will be John Sadleir.’

‘Member of Parliament, wasn’t he?’ said Barstie. ‘Double the villain, to my mind.’

‘Yes, and the owner of a bank,’ said Chas. ‘He stole investors’ funds to pay his stock market debts. Cleaned out the bank, thousands ruined, widespread misery.’

‘I hope he was put in prison,’ said Frances.

‘Ah – no – he – I’m afraid he took poison,’ said Chas in sudden embarrassment. ‘Left letters saying he was sorry for what he had done, not that he was sorry about anything other than being found out. These types never are.’

‘Oh!’ said Frances. It was too close to what people were saying of her father, yet she was comforted by the fact that he had never expressed any feelings of guilt.

‘
Swore
that his brother had nothing to do with it, and then it turned out that his brother was in it with him all along,’ added Barstie. ‘
He
was a Member of Parliament, too.’

‘Now Redpath,’ said Chas, ‘he was about Sadleir’s time, I think. He was involved with a railway company; transferred the shares. Only he made sure that most of the shares he transferred ended up in his own pockets. He was transported for life.’

‘I remember the Cotter case,’ said Barstie, studying the article. ‘Ten or twelve years ago – Liverpool way.’

‘Now
he
was a nasty piece of work,’ said Chas. ‘Bank clerk, like Mr Keane. Forged share certificates and property deeds, again, very like what they think Keane has been up to. He had an associate, a poor man with a large family, tempted by the money no doubt. Well it seems they had a quarrel, so Cotter murdered his partner and ran off.’

‘And was he put in prison?’ asked Frances.

‘Disappeared,’ said Barstie. ‘Never found. Five years later they arrested a man in Australia. A dozen witnesses swore he was Cotter so they brought him back to stand trial. Great sensation, police patting themselves on the back, lawyers adding up their fees. Turned out to be the wrong man.’

‘What a terrible experience!’ said Frances.

‘He seemed happy enough,’ said Chas, dismissively. ‘Got more money in compensation than he’d ever seen in his life.’

‘So Cotter is still at large?’ said Frances. A thought was forming in her mind so extraordinary that she could hardly contain herself, yet she knew she had to keep calm.

‘He is,’ said Barstie. ‘Abroad somewhere, if he has any sense.’

Frances could hear her heart thudding so loudly that it seemed impossible that the others could not hear it too. ‘And you say he committed crimes exactly like those of Mr Keane?’

‘Yes, very like.’

‘
And
he came from Liverpool!’ Frances jumped up so abruptly that both her visitors started with astonishment. She reached down an atlas from the bookshelf. Years ago, when Frederick had come home from his lessons, they had studied it together and learned the names of the principal towns of England. It was something that had never served her until now. She placed the atlas on the table and found the port of Liverpool. ‘As I thought!’ she exclaimed, then realised that her entire theory could fail on one very important fact. ‘Tell me, how old was Cotter? If you say he was middle aged I shall be very disappointed.’

‘No, he was a young man,’ said Chas, puzzled.

‘So today he could be the same age as Mr Keane,’ she beamed.

They both stared at her. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Keane is Lewis Cotter?’ asked Barstie.

‘Yesterday I discovered that James Keane is not that gentleman’s real name, and that he came from Bootle, which as you see on the map is near Liverpool. It is a very remarkable coincidence!’ said Frances excitedly. ‘Of course, I will need to find out what date Mr Cotter disappeared and when Mr Keane arrived in London, but if there is no conflict, they could well be one and the same!’

‘And there’s still a reward out for Cotter,’ said Chas, thoughtfully.

‘Is there? How much?’ asked Frances, eagerly.

‘Could be several hundred pounds, even a thousand, seeing as how the bank needed its good name back.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps, Miss Doughty, you have found the way out of your difficulty.’

‘Do they know how much Cotter got away with?’ asked Barstie, frowning, ‘because – and I don’t want to say your idea is not a very good one – as far as we know, James Keane came to London with very little money to his name.’