A Case of Doubtful Death Read Free

some months ago her husband had presented her with the gift of a parrot. Unfortunately, while her husband was away on business, Mrs Chiffley had carelessly allowed the bird to escape. She did not wish to advertise in the newspapers for its return in case her husband came to know of her error, neither was there the option of buying a replacement as the bird had very distinctive markings which Mr Chiffley had commented upon. Mrs Chiffley, in desperation, had come to Frances, offering a substantial reward for the safe recovery of her pet, but Frances could do no more than make discreet enquiries and ask her trusted associates to keep their eyes well open. The bird could have flown back to India or even China for all she knew, although she did occasionally submit to the fear that she would discover Mrs Chiffley’s parrot in the windows of Mr Whiteley’s emporium, its sapphire feathers enhancing a fashionable hat.
    Frances could not help wondering if there were other private detectives who experienced failure. It seemed unlikely that she was the only one. Unfortunately, she did not know any other detectives and even if she had it would have been impertinent to say the least to ask them about their unsolved cases. She suspected that other detectives did not take their failures to heart as she did, but cast them aside without a trace of guilt and forgot them in a moment.
    Closer to her inner soul was her indecision as to whether she should try to find her mother. Frances had been brought up to believe that her mother had died when she was three years old, and had not long ago found that the abandonment was of a more earthly nature, and in the company of a man. Early in 1864 , her mother had given birth to twins, a girl and a boy, of whom her husband William had suspected he was not the father, but the girl had died very young. It was possible that Frances’ mother was still alive, and also her brother – perhaps, it had been hinted, a full brother – who would now be sixteen. Frances felt sure that she was equal to the quest, but still she hesitated. She was afraid not of what she might find, but that her efforts would be met with a cruel rejection. She had lived above her father’s chemist’s shop on Westbourne Grove for many years after her mother’s departure, and even now that she had quit the Grove, everyone there knew her new address, so if her mother really wished to see her she could easily discover where she might be found. Supposing her father to have been the obstacle to a reunion, her mother could hardly be ignorant of William Doughty’s death, a tragedy which had exercised the gossips of Bayswater for some weeks, and whose aftermath was still unresolved. It was the strongest possible indication that her mother, for reasons of her own, did not wish to be discovered. All the same, every time Frances pushed the idea aside it returned, and she tormented herself with the thought that her mother might have come into the shop as a customer, and never revealed who she was, and she might have seen and spoken to her and never known it. The only other place that she and her mother held in common was Brompton cemetery where her father, older brother and sister were buried. Frances went regularly to tend the graves, but saw no signs of another visitor, and no one could tell her if another lady came there.

    With the hour approaching for the arrival of Miss Palmer, Frances peered out of the window. Although it was only September the weather had been shockingly inclement, and the early days of what had promised to be a delicious autumn had suddenly declined into a misty gloom and whole days of smoke-laden fog. A cab paused outside and a gentleman alighted, helping a frail-looking lady descend. Her head was bent and she was muffling her face with a woollen shawl. Frances watched them as they approached her door and then waited for them to be shown upstairs.
    Frances supposed that other detectives must have offices where they