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
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
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