‘In that case,’ said Frances, ‘I will need to know exactly where every member who was in the building that night was situated during the ceremony.’
‘The signature books are held in the trunk upstairs,’ said Neilson. ‘I will fetch them.’
As the manager departed, a thought occurred to Frances and she turned to Mr Fiske. ‘I had assumed that the lights going out was a usual part of your ceremonies. What you have just told me suggests that it only takes place during some of them. Is that the case?’
‘It only happens during a raising and not at any other time,’ said Mr Fiske. ‘Is that important?’
Frances had no idea if it was, but she made a note of it all the same.
Mr Neilson returned with the books, and as luncheon proceeded so the pages of Frances’ notebook filled, and she was able to establish that twelve members of the Literati had been in the Lodge room at the time of Lancelot Dobree’s disappearance, and six others in the lounge bar. There were in addition five members of the Lodge who had not been present at all.
She was just completing her notes when a new arrival joined them at their table. Frances was introduced to a Mr Herman, who she saw from her list was a member of the Literati who had not been present at the last Lodge meeting. A gentleman in his middle fifties, he was tall with a dignified bearing, wavy hair the colour of slate, well-trimmed whiskers, and anxious grey eyes. ‘I have just returned to town to hear the news about Lancelot Dobree! Do say that all is now well!’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Fiske. ‘Dobree is still missing, the police have been called, and we have engaged Miss Frances Doughty to look for him.’
Herman, looking upset, made a cursory nod to the barman, who obediently brought a glass of beer and a hot beef turnover to the table. ‘I was due to have a meeting with him at my office this afternoon.’
‘What was this concerning?’ asked Frances, reopening her notebook.
‘I am an architect by profession and we have been looking for a suitable property in the area for him to purchase and convert for use as a school. Some days ago Dobree said he thought he had found the right one and wanted me to come with him to look at it.’
‘Do you know the address of this property?’
‘I’m afraid not, but I had the impression that it was not far from here.’
‘Is the property currently occupied? If so the police may already have visited it or will do so soon. They have been making enquiries at all the nearby houses.’
Herman swallowed a deep draught of ale and bit thoughtfully into the turnover. It looked appetising enough but he hardly seemed to taste it. ‘I do recall him mentioning that it was empty. A former lodging house, I believe, in need of renovation, but he thought it most suitable both in size and location.’
‘If it is locked up then the police may not have been able to gain access yet. Do you know who has the keys?’
‘No, but there is a property agent only four doors away. Munro & Son.’
‘Then I think we should ask them.’ Frances gathered her papers and put them away. Mr Herman took the hint and quickly dispatched his informal luncheon, while Mr Neilson took the signature books back to the anteroom. They were ready to depart in minutes.
At the agent’s office, Mr Herman, who was known to the proprietors, took the lead in the enquiries and spoke to Mr Munro, a trim and active individual with a head of short dark curls and a neat moustache, undoubtedly the ‘Son’ of the partnership as he was aged no more than thirty-five. In the rear of the office a rather more elderly gentleman, dressed in an old-fashioned but faultlessly turned out ensemble, was casting experienced eyes over some weighty ledgers with an air of quiet authority. Young Mr Munro readily confirmed that Lancelot Dobree had recently made enquiries regarding properties for sale that could be converted for use as a school, and had been intending to view a nearby premises, a former lodging house, much in need of refurbishment, which had lain empty for two months. Mr Dobree had not thus far made an appointment for the viewing and nothing had been heard from him for several days. Knowing that Mr Dobree was a busy man, the agent had not been especially worried. The house, as it turned out, was the end terrace property in the next street, number 2 Linfield Gardens, the very one overlooked by the Duke of Sussex Tavern. Munro, on being informed that Dobree was missing, was naturally anxious and seeing the implications, at once went to fetch the keys.
‘Is that the only set of keys?’ asked Frances.
‘There are two, and both are still here,’ said Munro.
‘Could Mr Dobree have obtained another set?’
‘Only if he knows the owner, and I am fairly sure he did not.’
‘Do you think we should summon the police?’ asked Mr Fiske, nervously.
‘It would be for the best,’ Frances advised him. ‘I suggest that we notify a constable of what we have learned and bring him to the house. But I don’t want to delay. Supposing Mr Dobree had somehow obtained the keys and decided to explore the property in advance of his meeting with Mr Herman. If he is in the house and has had a fall or been taken ill then he might still be alive and urgently in need of help. I am competent in rendering medical aid.’ Frances hurried away, feeling sure that the worried gentlemen would follow her, as they did. On the way, Mr Fiske quickly hailed a messenger boy and dispatched him to bring a constable.
CHAPTER FIVE
Frances’ immediate thought was that if Lancelot Dobree was still in the house then he would be easily located, either lying on the floor or crumpled at the bottom of a staircase. It was her intention to do no more than cover those possibilities, leaving any detailed searches to the police. The prospect that he would not be found alive was one that she felt sure was in all their minds, but no one was choosing to voice it.
‘Two months empty?’ Frances queried, looking up at the exterior of the building.
Number 2 Linfield Gardens was a four-storey terraced house, with some architectural pretensions in the shape of slim pillars on either side of a portico enclosing the front steps, but the exterior was coated in the accumulated exudations of sooty chimneys, paint that had once been white had peeled in large dun-coloured flakes from the low wall surrounding the area, and the hedge behind it had been cut back so savagely that it had given up the struggle and died.
‘Oh yes,’ said Munro, brightly. ‘Just one owner in the last thirty years, an elderly lady now living out of London.’
Mr Herman grunted. ‘Two months empty and thirty years neglected,’ he muttered, and Frances did not disagree.
‘I can see that it requires some attention,’ said Frances, diplomatically.
Munro waved aside all objections. ‘Oh a coat of paint and it will look as fresh as ever!’ He indicated the houses further down the street that had been rather better cared for, apparently implying that it would be no effort at all to bring the dilapidated property up to the same standard.
Mr Herman did not look convinced. As they mounted the steps, which were clogged with dirt and appeared not to have been swept for some years, Frances noticed that there were three keys on the agent’s bunch, one of which Munro used to open the front door, from which fragments of dark blue paint were hanging in clumps like the scales of an ancient lizard, leaving weathered wood exposed.
‘What are those other keys for?’ she asked.
‘This one,’ said Munro, showing her a small key, ‘unlocks the rear door leading from the kitchen to the yard, and this,’ he held up a much larger one, ‘opens the yard gate which leads onto the alleyway at the back.’
The interior of the house had a sour, abandoned smell, with dust that pricked at the nostrils, but the hallway was high and wide. ‘New wallpaper and some polish on the lamps and this would be most attractive!’ declared Munro. ‘As you see, the accommodation is substantial.’ Frances fought the urge to sneeze and carefully sniffed the air. There was no stench of decomposition but since the weather was cold and the house unheated this was not surprising.
The visitors were
shown two large front reception rooms, as well as a dining room and parlour, all bereft of furniture apart from some pieces of wood that were fit only for the fire. A few rolls of old carpeting were stacked against the walls, the edges frayed and shredded as if gnawed by small sharp teeth, and there was broken lamp glass and china under foot.
‘It is a very handsome property with many possibilities,’ said Munro, ‘not only as a school, which was what Mr Dobree had in mind, but I can easily imagine it as a business premises with suites of offices, or divided into separate apartments, or indeed as a large family home.’
‘I would like to see the upper floors,’ said Frances, thinking that if Lancelot Dobree had suffered a fall then the staircase was the most likely culprit.
Munro led Frances and her three companions up the unwelcoming stairs, the loose cords of its threadbare carpet threatening to trip the unwary, its boards sagging like old sponges. Frances became suddenly aware that the gentlemen, apart from Mr Munro, were not as young as they once were, and was obliged to pause on the landings and wait for the older men to catch her up. Mr Neilson seemed agile enough, but Fiske was puffing with the effort, and Mr Herman grimaced and knuckled his hip. ‘Old war wound,’ he said, and Frances wondered how many men old enough to have fought in the Crimea described their sciatica in that way. There was a grimy bathroom with dented plumbing, and no one had bothered to remove the faded curtains, old bedsteads and cracked porcelain that were undoubtedly bound for the rubbish heap. The little party looked in every room and soon satisfied themselves that Dobree was not there.
Mr Herman wore a serious expression. He prodded some stained patches on the walls, sniffed at them with distaste, and explored some areas of floorboard with a cautious toe, then shook his head. ‘I am afraid the internal appearance tells all the story of this property. The previous owner has sadly neglected not only the interior but the fabric of the building, too. If I had examined it with Dobree I would have strongly advised him against purchase.’
Mr Munro looked displeased but made no comment.
They returned downstairs. ‘Is there a coal cellar?’ asked Frances, thinking how easily a man might open a door and fall down unlit stairs.
‘No, but there is a fuel store in the yard,’ said Munro.
‘I suppose we had better see the rest of the house.’
The kitchen, pantry and washroom were bleak and dirty, and scatterings of dark brown droppings, trail marks in the dust and greasy smears on the walls confirmed what Frances had already suspected – the property had been liberally infested with rats. Any food scraps were long gone, however, and she hoped that the vermin had moved on to find better pickings elsewhere.
The back door of the kitchen faced out into the yard, although the glass panels were coated with black dust and little could be seen through them. It was locked and a stout bolt was in place from the inside. Frances reasoned that had Dobree entered the house he would have let himself in by the front door, the lock then clicking into place behind him. Since the back door was bolted from the inside, he could not have left that way, but must have retraced his steps and returned through the front door to the street. This was assuming he was unaccompanied, but so far there was no evidence that he was not alone.
‘Was this back door as you last left it?’ she asked Munro.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I showed a potential purchaser the property about a month ago. He was unable to appreciate its many promising features, however, and did not return. Since then we have had a number of enquiries at the office, but no actual views had been arranged until Mr Dobree suggested he might be interested.’
‘When you show someone the house, do you always enter by the front door?’
‘Yes.’
‘I assume it wouldn’t be possible to get in from the rear without breaking windows or doors.’
‘That is so, and as you see, the exterior is quite undamaged.’ He waved a hand at the grime-coated windows with some pride that they were not actually broken.
‘Nevertheless, may I see the yard?’
‘Of course.’ Munro slid the bolt of the back door and unlocked it. They entered the roughly paved yard, where there was an ash bin with an ill-fitting lid and two brick outhouses, the smaller of which Munro indicated delicately was ‘the usual offices’ from which Frances understood it was the servants’ privy, the larger being the fuel store. The unevenly paved ground was littered with wood splinters, small coal and grit, while a heap of rotting planks lay piled against the far wall. The heavy outer gate was also secured from within by a large bolt.
Frances peered into the ash bin but it revealed nothing more than the usual debris cleared from cold stoves and fires, some broken furniture, and stained curtains. Neilson glanced into the privy and wrinkled his nose, while Fiske, with some effort because the catch was stiff, opened the door of the fuel store. At that moment there was a loud knocking at the front door. ‘I’ll go,’ said Munro. ‘It might be the police.’ He hurried back into the house.
‘And not before time,’ said Fiske staggering back, a look of horror distorting his features. Frances hurried up but he turned to her gasping ‘No! No!’ and held up his hands to prevent her from seeing into the store. Despite this she caught a glimpse of the dark interior, a pile of wooden planks, and something writhing.
‘Is it —?’
‘I don’t know,’ he gulped, ‘but I fear there may be a body in there.’
Neilson and Herman peered into the store, and both started back in alarm.
‘It’s moving!’ cried out Neilson.
Fiske pressed a handkerchief to his lips. ‘I think those are rats.’
CHAPTER SIX
There were questions to be asked, but Frances was firm with herself and decided to leave the official enquiries to the police. Munro led the constable into the yard, and after some explanations as to why they were there, and what they had discovered, Fiske indicated the open door of the fuel store. The constable was a stout fellow, old enough to have seen most things, but even he recoiled at what he saw. He closed the door of the fuel store very quickly. ‘Nothing to be done for the minute,’ he said. ‘If you would all be so kind as to return indoors and wait to be questioned, the Inspector will be here shortly.’
Obediently the party trooped back into the kitchen, Mr Fiske looking very unwell. Frances felt sorry for him, especially as there was nothing in the house which could have provided a restorative, and suspected that an early return to the Duke of Sussex was in order. It took little time for Frances’ natural curiosity to reassert itself. Extracting the least unpleasant cloth from an abandoned pile of rags, she coaxed a spurt of brown water from the tap and scoured one of the windows. ‘I want to see what is happening,’ she explained. There were only two chairs in the room, which Mr Neilson examined for cleanliness and robustness. The company decided to remain standing.
‘Mr Fiske, do you feel able to tell me what you saw?’ asked Frances.
That gentleman, who appeared to have recovered a little, heaved a deep sigh and nodded. ‘There was a loose heap of firewood, but clearly it had been laid on top of something else. I saw —,’ he gave a whimper and Frances wondered if she should guide him over to the sink, ‘— it looked like a hand, but the fingers were gnawed by vermin. There was blood … and finger bones. At first, because of the movement, I thought there might be someone alive, but then —,’ he gulped. ‘I saw the dark bodies and little eyes and I knew what it was.’
‘I don’t suppose you could see who the individual might be, or even if it was a man or woman?’
Fiske clasped his bunched handkerchief to his mouth and shook his head.
‘It is probably a vagrant who crept in to keep warm,’ offered Neilson. ‘He might have scrambled over the wall. Rats can attack the living as well as the dead.’
‘The door had a latch,’ said Mr Herman. ‘Could someone have gone in and then the latch fell back and accidentally locked him in?’
Fiske frowned. ‘The latch was
closed. I had to lift it to enter. But no,’ he shook his head, ‘it was quite stiff – I don’t think it could have fallen back as you suggest.’
‘Mr Munro, did you notice anything unusual when you last showed someone the premises?’ asked Frances. ‘Did you look in the fuel store? Could the latch have been left open and you closed it?’
Munro wore the unhappy look of a salesman who had just seen his property suddenly decline in value. ‘I don’t recall looking into the fuel store; I think I just pointed out that there was one. I don’t believe the customer looked inside. But if a man was trapped in there, he would have been able to break out, even if it was locked.’
‘Unless he was weakened by starvation or illness,’ said Neilson. ‘I am sure there will be an explanation.’
Frances peered out of the kitchen window, but the constable was simply guarding the fuel store and had not moved from his position. ‘Anyone who entered the yard from the alleyway would have had to climb in. Do you think Mr Dobree was capable of scrambling over the outer wall?’
‘I shouldn’t like to attempt it,’ said Fiske, ‘and I am more than twenty years his junior. Also the mere idea of a man in his position climbing over a wall while wearing his regalia is quite ridiculous.’
Frances agreed. ‘Mr Munro, could you tell me who else apart from Mr Dobree has shown an interest in the property since it was offered for sale?’
‘The gentleman I conducted around a few weeks ago is a Mr Johnstone of Notting Hill. He owns a number of properties in London and rents them out as lodgings. I am sure the body can’t be his as I saw him in the street only this morning. Then there was a young man who didn’t give his name or the reason for his interest, he simply asked if the house was still for sale and promised to arrange a day to view it, but nothing came of that. I suppose someone active could have climbed the wall but it does seem very strange.’ He sighed. ‘I wish the Inspector would come.’
A True and Faithful Brother Page 4
