An Unquiet Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 3), page 3
On the following day Dr Sperley visited the house, where the body had been laid out in preparation for burial. He asked the adult members of the family to assemble in Jane Fernwood’s bedroom, since she was unable to leave her bed, and informed them that the cause of Thomas’s death could not be ascertained, and it would be necessary to order a post mortem examination. He thought, however, that Thomas had not died from a disease such as cholera, but as a result of something he had eaten or drunk, which he had consumed most probably less than half an hour before being taken ill. Sperley asked for a description of what everyone in the house had prepared and eaten for breakfast. Thomas was the only member of the family not to have had breakfast, but it was well known that he expected a cup of tea to be brought to him in bed each morning. Dorothy confirmed that she had carried out this duty, but had not seen him drink it, as he had been asleep when she entered the room. He had not awoken when she placed the cup on the night table, and she had returned to the kitchen immediately. At that time, all the other members of the household were awake and either in the breakfast room or the kitchen, apart from Jane Fernwood, who was in bed, Ada having taken her a tray. Soon afterwards, William and Margery left to open up the shop, Peter and George walked to school and the women and girls of the house went about their domestic duties, until they were alerted by Thomas’s cries.
The post mortem examination revealed that Thomas Fernwood had died from the effects of a corrosive poison that had attacked the lining of his stomach. Dr Sperley had been careful to conserve samples of vomit, which on testing revealed what he had suspected all along. Thomas had been poisoned with arsenic. The contents of the brandy bottle were examined and revealed no trace of arsenic, but Dr Sperley had already expected that, since had there been poison in the bottle, it would have taken effect far sooner. It followed that unless Thomas had consumed something that no-one else knew about the poison must have been put in his tea. Thomas would not have noticed any taste but within minutes he would have felt violently sick, with burning pain from the destructive effects of the poison.
All the family had drunk tea at breakfast made from water boiled in the same kettle, and brewed in the same teapot used to make Thomas’s tea without any ill-effects, so it followed that the poison must have been introduced directly into his cup. No-one had seen anyone tampering with the cup, but it had been left unattended beside the sleeping man long enough to give everyone in the house the opportunity to slip poison into the tea. Unfortunately, due to the consternation in the house at Thomas’s illness and the early assumption that the brandy was to blame, no-one could recall if Thomas had drunk any of his tea, and the cup, one of several similar ones in the house, had been taken away and scoured with the other breakfast things.
The source of the arsenic was not a mystery. In a kitchen drawer was a paper packet labelled ‘Mouse powder. POISON’ which was used to kill vermin by sprinkling it on bread and butter and distributing fragments in places where mice had been seen about the house. Everyone knew about this practice and had been warned that the little pieces of bread should not be touched. The contents of the packet were pure white arsenic supplied from the stock of the grocery shop. Earlier that year it had been made illegal by Act of Parliament to sell arsenic without some form of colouring matter, in order to avoid the kind of fatal mistakes so often reported in the newspapers, but the packet in the Fernwoods’ kitchen pre-dated that requirement. At the inquest Dr Sperley told the coroner’s jury that although arsenic did not dissolve well in cold water, it was certainly possible for a fatal dose, perhaps as little as three grains, to dissolve in hot tea if it was stirred well in. Had the cup been available for examination, some undissolved powder would undoubtedly have been visible at the bottom, if one knew what to look for, but this could well have been missed in the usual process of rinsing.
The coroner summed up the evidence. Judging by Thomas’s dying statement, it did not appear that he had poisoned himself. There was no suggestion of insanity or thoughts of suicide, no reason for the healthy and successful man to take his own life. Since he took his tea without sugar, and did not use it for the administration of a medicine, it could not have been contaminated with arsenic by mistake. If suicide and accident were ruled out, then it followed that he had been murdered. The one question exercising the coroner’s mind was how had Thomas Fernwood known who had poisoned him? One theory was that the deceased must have seen his killer stirring his tea, and assumed that it was done for an innocent purpose, perhaps to cool it. As regards the identity of the killer, it was apparent that during the time between the making of the tea and the deceased drinking it, every member of the family was in the house. None of the witnesses recalled having seen anyone go to Thomas Fernwood’s room between his being brought the tea by Mrs Clifton, and being taken ill. During his illness he had been looked after by Dorothy, Ada and Ellen, and visited by his son and daughter-in-law, but none had been able to understand his attempts to speak through an acid-torn throat, and none could offer a clue as to what he had been trying to impart.
The coroner’s jury had no difficulty in reaching the verdict that Thomas Fernwood had died from arsenical poisoning, that poison being administered by another person or persons unknown. It was a case of murder, but the culprit was never identified.
CHAPTER FOUR
Having learned all she could from the newspapers and George Fernwood’s own account, Mina went on to study the history of the family following the murder.
There were no surprises in the will. Thomas’s widow, Jane inherited the family home and its contents, and received an annuity, while their son William became sole owner of the grocery business. There were small legacies for Dorothy Clifton, the grandchildren, nephew and niece, which the minors would receive on their majority.
The Fernwoods and the Cliftons continued to live in the old house. It had been much neglected due to Thomas’s parsimony, but under its new ownership, it was cleaned, freshened, painted, varnished, better lit and equipped, carpets replaced and the garden made pleasant. Jane Fernwood, who had become very attached to Dorothy, asked her to stay on as her companion, appointing a cook/housekeeper and maidservants to do the domestic work so that Ada, Ellen and Mary could be afforded the education they merited. George had shown an early aptitude for the grocery trade, and on leaving school, became a valued assistant to his father. Peter was less able, but also joined the business in a more junior capacity, and was content with his position.
On the death of Jane Fernwood in 1861, her son William inherited the family home. It soon became apparent that it was only Jane who had kept the family together. Within weeks of her death, the business was sold, and the house converted into apartments and let. All the family wanted to get away from the house of death with its terrible memories. William and Margery Fernwood retired to a pleasant villa on the coast where they lived comfortably from rents and investments. They were generous to the family with their legacy. Ada and Ellen, neither of whom had married, were able to purchase a small cottage in Dorset where they lived simply and quietly on the proceeds of annuities. George purchased a grocery business in Haywards Heath, which he ran together with his cousins, Peter and Mary, and his aunt Dorothy. The Fernwoods and the Cliftons were as comfortable and content as it was possible to be, but the shadow of suspicion remained.
Now that Mina knew that the murderer could only be a member of the family, there was one question she did not think she could bring herself to ask, and that was, who did George and Mary suspect? They had behaved as if they were mystified by the puzzle, but they would not have been human if they had not had their doubts about at least one person. The most obvious suspect was George’s father William, because he had benefitted the most, but that was hardly proof.
Mina returned to the newspaper report of Thomas Fernwood’s funeral. There had been a brief ceremony, attended only by his son and daughter-in-law. Friends and business connections were notable by their absence. Mina was struck by what the account did not say, the gaps between sentences, pauses filled by silent insinuation that the dead man was disliked and everyone was relieved to see him dead. In one way or another, and to a varying degree, all the members of the family had improved their situation following the death of Thomas Fernwood, and it would not be pleasant for George and Mary to point an accusing finger.
Mina, having made a name for herself as an enemy of fraudulent mediums, did not anticipate being admitted to the spiritual circle of Miss Athene Brendel, however, curiosity led her to consider the reasons why that lady had attracted such interest in town.
Three months earlier the society page of the Brighton Gazette had carried a notice stating that Mrs Hermione Brendel and her daughter Miss Athene Brendel were newly arrived in town, and they and their retinue were to make their home in Brighton for a twelvemonth. Those residents of Brighton who liked to follow the dazzling lives of fashionable visitors were soon deep in discussion about these ladies of fortune and mystery, and rumour spread its tendrils throughout the town like a particularly insistent vine, probing its way into every corner. Mina, while waiting for her appointments with Anna Hamid in the ladies’ salon of the vapour baths, did not generally engage in gossip, but it went on all around her, and was hard to ignore.
Mrs Brendel was a handsome and elegantly dressed lady of about forty-five, with a tall figure and an imperious manner. Without giving any warning as to her arrival or her intentions, she had swept up in a carriage in front of a lodging house advertised as available furnished throughout, demanded to see the landlady, and after a brief inspection of the premises declared it to be perfectly suited to her needs, and offered to rent the entire house at a cost of 180 guineas a year, paying a quarter in advance. On the very same day she and her daughter took possession of the property.
Their new home was in Oriental Place, a street lined on both sides with terraces of superior five storey apartment buildings and hotels, which ran north from the seafront close by and parallel to Montpelier Road. Mrs Brendel, it was believed, was something of importance in society and was a well-known and highly respected figure at gatherings in the greater houses in the country. Mr Brendel had not yet been seen but his fortune was said to be in mines and he was therefore obliged to spend much of his time in the north of England where his interests were located.
The daughter, who was twenty, exhibited a delicate and refined beauty, and many rare accomplishments, having been carefully educated in all the necessary arts that would attract a gentleman’s interest in such an enchanting maiden. Her most charming skill was said to be her ability to coax delicious music from a piano. An only child, she was the pampered darling of her parents’ eyes, and held the promise of a substantial marriage portion, but only if a gentleman could be found to match her in both fortune and temperament.
No sooner had the ladies and their luggage arrived when a visit had been made to Potts and Co, the town’s leading musical instrument emporium and soon afterwards a magnificent piano was delivered to Oriental Place. There was, however, so the whispers went, much more to the delightful Miss Brendel than mere music. She was reputed to be a medium of extraordinary sensitivity. While she did not promise to converse with the dead, produce glowing spectres or tell the future, she was able, through an inner eye, to actually see the spirits, not only of deceased persons, but also of those who lived but were far distant. These presences clustered about her, and while others in the same room, but without her gifts, were unable to see them, the psychic energy she gathered to herself enhanced the perceptions of her visitors. Those who consulted her had claimed to receive reassuring news of loved ones whom they feared might be in danger in a foreign land, or messages of comfort from those who had passed over.
If Miss Brendel had hoped to become the sensation of Brighton, she would have been disappointed. That might have been the result had she arrived much earlier in the year, but in recent months, following the downfall of Miss Eustace and her co-conspirators, even the dedicated spiritualists of Brighton had grown wary, and did not make their beliefs public for fear of the inevitable torrent of ridicule that would fall upon their heads. It was with considerable caution, therefore, that only a few adventurous persons approached the shy Miss Athene Brendel and asked to consult her.
Mrs Brendel, however, made bold with any cavillers, and was quick to declare that she and her daughter had nothing to hide. When asked about Miss Brendel’s unusual gifts she pointed out that all the séances were conducted in full light, and not cloaked in suspiciously concealing darkness. Miss Brendel did not fly into the air or make flowers appear from nowhere. There were no glowing apparitions, bells or trumpets. Tables did not tip, and there were no knockings on walls. Such cheap, coarse trickery, said Mrs Brendel, was beneath contempt.
Miss Brendel’s fame might have flourished as briefly as a late blossoming flower and then faded into the winter of obscurity, but for one remarkable incident. In a sitting attended by several of her most devoted adherents, she had revealed that she saw a man in the room, one who shook his head as if it pained him, and appeared very distraught, wringing his hands and moving about in a distracted manner. She did not know who the man might be, or why he had come, but she felt very strongly that either he had recently passed over, or would very soon do so in highly unpleasant circumstances. It was later learned that a Mr Hay, a Scottish wine merchant who occupied an apartment in Oriental Place, had recently taken his own life by cutting his throat. At the inquest on the unhappy gentleman it was revealed that some years earlier he had suffered a serious injury to his head in a railway accident, and since then had been plagued by pain, despondency and the wholly unwarranted delusion that he was guilty of a terrible crime.
Mina, sitting in the flower-scented salon of Dr Hamid’s establishment, had overheard the other ladies discussing Mr Hay’s wretched and hideous demise, and the sensational news that the tragedy had been foretold by Miss Athene Brendel. There was even a letter to one of the Sussex county papers to that effect, a piece of information concerning which the editor had declined to comment.
Mina had instructed Mr Fernwood and Miss Clifton that when making their appointment to see Miss Brendel they should not conceal the fact that she was to accompany them; in fact they must make a point of giving her name. She anticipated either that the young couple would be admitted only on the condition that Mina would not be of their party, or all three would be very politely declined with some unconvincing excuse. It was to her considerable surprise, therefore, that she received a letter from George Fernwood advising her that the appointment was made and they would all be very welcome. He and Miss Clifton would arrive in Brighton by train and hire a cab to collect Mina and convey them all to Oriental Place.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mina was at her desk considering this news when she heard voices from the hallway below, her brother Richard’s strident declamatory tones and, unusually, a titter from Rose. Mina left her papers and proceeded down the stairs as quickly as was safe, carefully clasping the bannister with both hands to avoid a dangerous tumble as her slight form rocked inelegantly from side to side. A stout greatcoat with a heavy shoulder cape was hanging on the hallstand, topped with a tweed travelling cap, its earflaps dangling. Mina had never seen her brother wearing such an ensemble before, but thought it an unusually sensible one. Richard was leaning against the wall, head in the air, gesturing artistically as if reciting a poem, while Rose, her cheeks flushed, was stifling bursts of laughter with her apron.
Richard, with his slender effortless elegance, untidy blond curls and far more charm than was good for him, was a cheerful scamp who could make even carelessness attractive. A constant source of anxiety when Mina was not keeping an eye on him, she realised with a pang how dreadfully she missed him when he was away, and how his unexpected and usually unannounced visits enlivened her days. As ever he had brought only a small and shamefully battered leather bag, since a room and some necessaries were always kept ready for him.
‘Darling Mina!’ exclaimed Richard, seeing her swaying approach, and Rose looked up, went even redder than before, and scurried away. Richard bounded eagerly up the stairs to his sister, and enveloped her in a warm hug.
‘I hope you have not been teasing Rose,’ said Mina, trying her best to be severe with him, which was always difficult.
‘Not at all. I merely bring a little much needed light into the girl’s life, with the occasional quip or bon mot. She has just informed me that cook is making a boiled pudding for dinner, which is just the thing in this nasty weather, and if I am very well-behaved there be will jam on it.’
They descended the stairs together arm in arm. ‘I hope you are not too dull all alone here, my dear,’ said Richard, fondly. ‘How terribly you must miss Mother!’
‘I keep myself occupied,’ she reassured him.
‘Ah, those little tales for children that flow so easily from your pen! I am quite envious of your industry. I think, you know, that I do have it in me to be a great author, only whenever I put pen to paper I can’t think what to write.’ Mina felt somewhat guilty at deceiving her family as to the true nature of her tales, but reflected that if her mother found out she would never hear the end of it, and Richard was as incapable of keeping a secret as he was of doing a day’s work. The only person who knew that she was the author under the nom de plume Robert Neil of such titles as The Ghost’s Revenge, A Tale of Blood and The Castle of Grim Horrors, was Mr Greville, her late father’s business partner, who managed the popular fiction department of the Scarletti publishing house.
