Free An Appetite for Murder by Linda Stratmann Page B

say I will be seeing Dr Adair, Mr Lathwal and Mr Rustrum, those keen rivals in the question of diet and joint enemies of Sanitas.’
    ‘Not all of them at once?’ queried Sarah, bringing a jam tart to round off the meal.
    ‘Yes, although they do not yet know it.’
    Sarah nodded. ‘Interesting. Do you want me here in case a fight breaks out?’
    ‘They should be ashamed of themselves if it does, and Mr Gillan will get to hear of it the same day,’ said Frances. ‘I have no patience with such pretensions. These men all claim to have the interests of society at heart, yet it seems that all they can do is stand by their beliefs for reasons of reputation. Surely the general good is more important than their personal fame?’
    Supper over, Frances sent a note to Mr Sweetman’s undeniably handsome nephew confirming that she would be helping his uncle, and asking for an early meeting.

C HAPTER S IX
    T he office of J. Finn Insurance, scene of the 1866 robbery and attack on the unfortunate Mr Gibson, was situated near where Westbourne Grove met Chepstow Road, and was flanked by an auctioneer on one side and a seller of sweets on the other. Frances observed that the door to the main office, while fashioned to look invitingly solid and reliable in its own right, was also furnished with a number of heavy security locks. There was a narrow vestibule which opened into a main office closely crowded with desks, the clerks who manned them bent over their work in attitudes calculated to suggest to the eye of their employer both enthusiasm and industry. Frances, who had written a preliminary letter explaining her business, was shown at once into the presence of the manager.
    Mr Finn junior had a room of his own and, thought Frances, needed one. He was younger than the late Mr Thomas Whibley probably by some twenty years, but was heading towards that gentlemen’s appearance and, in all probability, his fate.
    He reposed at his ease behind a desk piled high on either side with papers, crossing his hands over a bulging stomach. His face was pink and pulpy, the skin with a freshly groomed shine, and a thick roll of fat around the neck and throat lapped over his collar. His auburn hair was trimmed very short, and a narrow clipped beard dotted pale bristles about the line of his jaw.
    On the wall behind the desk beside the portrait of the queen, there was a picture of a venerable and dignified looking gentleman with an abundance of white whiskers bearing the legend ‘John Finn 1804–1877’. A decorative silver photograph frame sat on the desk, tilted so that only Finn could see the subject. There was nothing on open display that would enable Frances to easily see Mr Finn’s handwriting, although there were a few sheets of paper with jotted notes and a bundle of sealed letters, which she could not examine closely without it causing some comment.
    He rose to greet her and it was an effort for him to do so. Although young, he did not carry his weight well, as some men did, and there was a cushion on his chair of a kind that gave support to an overworked spine.
    Young Mr Finn had Frances’ letter lying open on the desk before him. Once he had ushered her to a chair and sat down again, tucking the cushion into the small of his back, he rested his fingertips on the paper and tapped it gently.
    ‘Miss Doughty,’ he said softly, ‘I will do whatever I can to help you, but I fear that may be very little. I was not working here at the time of the robbery; I was a mere schoolboy then.’
    ‘Did you attend the same school as Benjamin Sweetman?’ asked Frances, hopefully.
    ‘No, I was born in Cambridgeshire and schooled there. I did not come to London until I was sixteen; that was two years after the robbery.’
    ‘I had thought, perhaps, your father might have spoken of it,’ said Frances, glancing at the portrait of the elder Finn.
    Mr Finn placed his fingertips together, producing the effect of linked pork sausages hanging in the window