Free The Poisonous Seed by Linda Stratmann

she preferred not to contemplate. A small group of men in threadbare yet better quality attire were probably artists looking for inspiration in the coarse faces around them, or in the liquor bottle, or both. They favoured unusually colourful cravats, and brought flashes of bright green, orange and purple to the otherwise gloomy interior. The air was blue-grey with tobacco smoke, but it was warm, for a hearty fire blazed in the grate, adding the tang of burning coals to the already heady atmosphere.
    ‘Dear God, what kind of place is this!’ exclaimed Cedric.
    ‘It is not the kind of establishment a respectable gentleman would frequent,’ said Frances, faintly. ‘I suggest we leave.’
    Cedric glanced out of the window, where the rain was intensifying. ‘It’s got a good fire. The roof doesn’t leak. Any port in a storm, as the sailor boys say.’
    There was a row of compartments in front of the long bar with benches and a table in each. All were occupied, but Cedric stepped up to a morose-looking man who sat hunched in a corner by himself, smoking a pipe. ‘My nephew and I wish to converse alone, Sir,’ he said. ‘We would take it as a great favour if you would seat yourself elsewhere.’ The pipe smoker did not move apart from his mouth, which opened for an imprecation. ‘And you may have a drink for your trouble,’ Cedric added. Coins flashed, there was a mumbled ‘thank you, Sir’ and moments later Cedric and Frances had the compartment to themselves. Cedric wiped the benches with a large pocket handkerchief and they sat down.
    ‘I would order something to drink, but I think this is the kind of establishment where I would prefer not to sample the spécialité de la maison ,’ observed Cedric. Frances hastily agreed. Cedric produced a silver case from his pocket, which he opened, and offered Frances a cigar.
    ‘No thank you,’ she said, not prepared to carry her performance quite so far. She took out her notebook and pencil, and Cedric gazed at her in amusement as she laid them neatly on the table before her. He lit his cigar and settled back. Having recovered from his shock he was now the more relaxed of the pair.’ I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr—?’
    ‘Williamson,’ said Frances.
    He leaned forward with what he probably hoped was an engaging smile.’ You can call me Cedric if you like.’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said Frances curtly.
    He shrugged and settled back.’ Let the questioning begin.’
    Frances opened the notebook and took up the pencil. ‘I would like to know something of your brother’s early life and character.’ She was somewhat concerned that Cedric would be instantly afflicted with grief, but he seemed more regretful than anything.
    ‘Well he was born in Italy, as we all were. Father was a wine merchant. Percy came to England around the end of ‘56.’
    ‘For what purpose?’
    ‘Grandfather ran a small shipping business out of Bristol. When his partner died he needed a man to assist him. Percy was the man.’
    Frances became aware that behind the bar, a middle-aged man, probably the landlord from the cut of his clothes, and a woman almost certainly his wife judging by the number of flounces on her costume, were standing side by side, pretending to polish glasses, their gaze fixed firmly on Frances and her companion. She pushed her hat more firmly down on her head. One of the barmen was ordered by his employer to come and hover expectantly by their table but Cedric waved him away casually, as if swatting a fly.
    Frances realised her face was reddening. Cedric had noticed, and smiled at what he saw. Nevertheless she pressed on with her questioning. ‘Why did he select your brother?’
    ‘There was really no other choice. Father had his own business to attend to, I was too young, and he could hardly send one of the girls.’
    ‘Was he pleased to come to England?’ asked Frances, wondering if Percival Garton had resented the enforced uprooting.
    ‘Oh yes. Not