A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  After what felt like a long wait, a police inspector arrived, introducing himself as Payne of the Kensington constabulary. A morose-looking individual with a surly manner, he was in his early thirties and might have been considered handsome if his features had not been marked by ill temper. ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he said. ‘If I can just have names and addresses for now and I’ll question you later if need be.’

  ‘Do we know whose body it is?’ asked Fiske, tremulously. ‘You know that Mr Lancelot Dobree, the well-known philanthropist, is missing and he was last seen in the Duke of Sussex Tavern across the way?’

  ‘Also he had expressed an interest in purchasing this property,’ added Herman. ‘That is why we thought to look for him here.’

  ‘But he didn’t have the keys,’ Munro quickly pointed out.

  ‘When Dobree was last seen he was wearing his Masonic regalia,’ said Fiske. ‘He is over seventy years of age, and we are very worried about him.’

  Payne nodded. ‘Wait here and I’ll have a look. I’ll send the constable in to take your names.’ He went out into the yard and, after a brief word with the constable, opened the door of the fuel store and peered inside. His expression did not change, and he went in.

  The constable rejoined the visitors and started to record their names in his notebook. ‘Do you think it is a body?’ Fiske asked him anxiously. ‘I am rather hoping I was mistaken after all, and it was just a dog or a cat. Then I would be very embarrassed of course, but it would be such a relief! Have you found Mr Dobree yet?’

  The constable shook his head. ‘No sign of him, I’m afraid.’

  Inspector Payne, with more sangfroid than seemed healthy under the circumstances, emerged from the fuel store, closed the door and returned to the kitchen. ‘Well, all I can tell you is that we have a body which, from its size and the remains of the clothing, is that of an adult male much disfigured by vermin. There is nothing obvious on the body to identify who he is. No apron or collar, I can tell you that much. Even rats won’t eat metal fittings.’

  Fiske heaved a sigh of relief. ‘If the man is not wearing regalia then it cannot be Dobree. He must have been called away on some urgent matter.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Neilson. ‘It will be some vagrant who went there to keep warm. At the tavern we are occasionally obliged to turn out undesirable persons and those who cannot moderate their consumption of alcohol.’

  Frances was curious to know the cause of death, but realised that it might not be apparent until the body had been examined, and Payne was unlikely to reveal his suspicions. He had already frowned heavily when he read the constable’s list of names, and favoured her with a hard look. Before too long he would have confirmed that she was that nosy lady detective who so often troubled the police.

  ‘You can all go about your business now,’ said Payne brusquely. He took charge of the house keys and ushered them out, leaving the constable to guard the property.

  Munro hurried away to give the unhappy tidings to his office, and the others, as Frances had anticipated, returned to the tavern where they sat around a table in the lounge bar. No one had any appetite but there was some thirst in evidence. Frances asked for a glass of water. She needed a clear head.

  ‘What is your advice now Miss Doughty?’ asked Fiske after a hearty restorative had been swallowed.

  ‘At present we must still regard Mr Dobree as missing and possibly in danger. If you can let me have a full description of him and a portrait if possible, I will make some enquiries. There are agents I employ to carry out searches of this nature, and they are very efficient.’

  Frances was referring to the team of messenger boys managed by a young relative of Sarah’s and known throughout West London as ‘Tom Smith’s Men’. Tom was an enterprising youth whose hours were devoted to the art of making money. His best ‘man’ who was known only by the name of Ratty, aspired to be a detective and commanded his own little battalion of boys who assisted Frances in her enquiries. If there was a lost puppy anywhere in Bayswater they could find it, and they were certainly able to find a missing man if he was above ground. ‘Of course, if the body we found today is that of Mr Dobree then my involvement in the matter is at an end.’

  ‘It is?’ said Fiske, surprised.

  ‘Yes. You engaged me to find him, no more. If, as seems more likely, the body is not that of Mr Dobree, then the police will continue to look for him, as will I.’

  With the assistance of Mr Fiske and Mr Neilson, Frances wrote down a description of Lancelot Dobree and what he had been wearing at the time of his disappearance, but apart from the regalia it seemed that there was not a great deal to distinguish him from many another man of his age and position in life. She wrote a note for Tom Smith, which she would deliver on her way home, asking him to instruct his agents to keep their eyes open for the missing philanthropist.

  Frances had other concerns. She did not say it but she still had to be convinced that Lancelot Dobree was the paragon of all the virtues he was said by his brethren to be, a man with neither vices nor secrets. The possibility was in her mind that if the body found in the fuel store was not his then he might have been involved in the death of the unknown man, and that was the reason he was missing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was the middle of the afternoon by the time Frances returned to her apartments. Sarah had prepared a luncheon of meat broth with bread and cheese, and, in view of Frances’ habit of forgetting to eat when preoccupied, took some convincing that her companion had already eaten and tried to tempt her with bottled gooseberries and custard. Sarah had had a busy morning dealing with a complaint made by a washerwoman against her neighbour who, she claimed, had been deliberately dirtying the linen she hung up to dry in order to steal her customers. The neighbour had arrived with her own loud complaints, and Sarah had been obliged to break up the resultant fistfight. Further enquiries revealed that the source of the dispute was less a matter of laundry than the wandering eye of her client’s husband. Strong words were needed to restore calm, but there was little Sarah could do to resolve the situation, and the two women had stamped off separately with glaring expressions. At least now that the trouble had been aired Sarah would know where to look if one of the three participants was murdered.

  Over a generous portion of bottled fruit, Frances described the visit of Mr Fiske and the events that had followed. To her relief, Sarah, the only person who knew the full extent of Frances’ unhappy discoveries about her family, fully understood why she had been unable to resist following up the enquiry.

  ‘Are you going to interview Mr Salter?’

  Frances strove to deduce from Sarah’s expression whether her assistant thought this was a good idea or not. Perhaps it was something of both. ‘I suppose I am hoping it won’t be necessary.’ She had eaten only half the fruit and had no appetite for the rest. She pushed away her plate, and for once Sarah did not urge her to eat more.

  Once the dishes were cleared Sarah went out. She was due to instruct her regular ladies’ exercise class at the sporting academy run by expert pugilist Professor Pounder. The classes had become increasingly well-attended during the reign of the dreaded Face-slasher, and even though that criminal was no longer free to strike terror in the residents of Bayswater the demand had continued, since the academy on its ladies-only days was considered a respectable and healthful meeting place. Sarah had recently been obliged to engage another lady to take additional classes, a Miss Harrison, a diminutive yet deceptively powerful individual who taught club-swinging, her face set in a snarl of fierce determination. Frances, after some hesitation, had been persuaded to sample the art, and found it both stimulating to the bodily system and calming to the mind. She now had her own set of clubs kept propped against the wall just inside the parlour door where, said Sarah, they would be of use if required for the pacification of burglars.

  Frances very much doubted that their home was a potential target for burglars, since Sarah and Professor Pounder had bee
n walking out for some while, and the Professor had recently taken lodgings in the ground-floor apartment. Professor Pounder was a tall, muscular, handsome fellow, economical with words, and softly spoken when he uttered them. His devotion to and admiration of Sarah was obvious to the most casual observer, and the fact that he was one of the very few men who had ever earned Sarah’s trust said all that Frances needed to know. Any suggestions of future marriage or even romance were, however, robustly denied by both Sarah and the Professor, although Frances had noticed that recently the denials had been firmer and more readily provided.

  Frances studied the notes she had made of all she had learned that morning concerning the disappearance of Lancelot Dobree, but no new ideas suggested themselves. She was not expecting a visitor but when the doorbell rang she peered out of the window and with a sense of resignation saw Inspector Payne on the doorstep. He arrived with his unvarying serious expression, but there was a new keenness in his look which told Frances that he had been making further enquiries about her. He surveyed the little parlour with more than the usual polite interest and she saw his gaze rest on the purple sashes of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society which hung proudly from a wall bracket, the embroidered cushions depicting Britannia and Boadicea, and the exercise clubs propped by the door. The cushions, though he did not know it, were gifts from Miss Gilbert and Miss John, joint leaders of the Suffrage Society, and were far too ornamented for Frances’ taste, but she kept them on display in case the ladies called without warning, as they were sometimes wont to do, since she did not wish to offend them.

  ‘So,’ he said, taking a seat and leafing through his notebook, ‘Miss Frances Doughty, private detective. And you reside here with a lady companion, a Miss Smith, I am told.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  He glanced at the two sashes again and sniffed. ‘You were recently present at the arrest of the Bayswater Face-slasher.’

  ‘If you don’t mind Inspector, I do not wish to discuss that,’ said Frances.

  His glance evinced a slight trace of what might in a good light have appeared to be sympathy, but it soon vanished. ‘Also, as I understand, you were responsible for the arrest of the notorious criminal known as the Filleter.’

  This was true, as Frances had at one time been convinced that the Filleter, a grubby and unpleasant individual who had once haunted Bayswater like an evil shade, had committed some of the crimes to which the Face-slasher had later confessed. ‘I have already said that full credit for that arrest is due to Inspector Sharrock of Paddington Green.’

  ‘Nevertheless those who witnessed it have another story to tell.’

  Frances refused to be drawn. ‘I still find it hard to believe that he was never charged with any crime.’

  Fortunately, the most dangerous part of the Filleter’s criminal career was over. Believed to be responsible for multiple assassinations with the thin sharp knife that was his signature, following his arrest last October he had been lodged in the cells of Paddington Green police station when he had been seriously injured in a roof fall during the devastating gales that had swept through West London. Cleared of suspicion of the Face-slasher murders, he had lain close to death in the workhouse infirmary for some weeks before being spirited away by some no doubt criminal confederates.

  ‘Well he won’t trouble us again. I’ve heard he’s gone south of the river, working a team of boy pickpockets like a regular Fagin. Southwark police have got their eye on him, so they’ll get him sooner or later.’

  Frances made no comment, but she was relieved that this lurking threat was a thing of the past.

  ‘So, perhaps you could tell me why earlier today you were at an empty property when the body of a man was discovered?’

  ‘As I am sure you know Inspector, I no longer accept enquiries in criminal matters. However, Mr Fiske, who is a former client of mine, came to me very concerned at the disappearance of Mr Lancelot Dobree. At the time I felt sure that there had to be a simple explanation; he might have been called away suddenly on an emergency, or taken ill or suffered an accident.’

  ‘Do you still believe that?’

  ‘It still seems the most probable explanation. Has the body been identified? How long has the man been dead? Do you know how he died?’

  Payne gave a twist of the mouth that might have been a smile. ‘The inquest will open tomorrow morning at the Duke of Sussex Tavern so we may have some answers then.’

  ‘I will be sure to attend. Are the police still searching for Mr Dobree?’

  ‘We are. There is no further news and he is officially regarded as a missing person. There is especial concern in view of his age and constables have all been issued with a portrait and are making careful searches. Are you personally acquainted with Mr Dobree?’

  ‘No, I have never met him. Do you have a copy of the portrait? I should like to see it.’

  Payne hesitated.

  ‘I have asked my agents to look for him. It would be a useful thing for them to have. Of course we will notify the police at once if we should discover anything.’

  Payne pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket, printed engravings that looked to have been copied from a photograph. He handed one to Frances. A simple line drawing, it showed the head and shoulders of a man with receding hair and side whiskers, but no special features that would have marked him out in a crowd. ‘If I might have another I will see that my agents have one and keep the other for myself.’

  He grunted but complied. ‘Well let us hope he is found safe and well very soon. There have been several informants at the station saying they saw an elderly man getting into a cab, and we’re following those up. And then perhaps he can tell us how he managed to walk out of the tavern either through two locked exits, or by escaping through a properly guarded and tyled door.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The inquest on the unknown man was convened in the first-floor dining room of the Duke of Sussex Tavern, an event which required that the tables should be moved aside, one remaining for the use of the West Middlesex coroner, Dr Diplock, while the chairs were arranged in rows for the jury and observers. Frances and Sarah both attended, and Sarah took the opportunity to familiarise herself with the layout of the premises before they took their seats.

  Since the body had not yet been identified, Frances would have expected little more than the amount of interest usually generated by the finding of a corpse in an outhouse, such occurrences not being altogether unknown in the winter months, although she suspected that they were rarer in Kensington than other parts of London. To her surprise, however, the room filled rapidly, and many of the onlookers were members of the press, representatives of the Paddington and Kensington newspapers, some of whom Frances had encountered on other similar occasions. It was obvious that the rumour had quickly spread that the corpse might be that of the missing philanthropist, and even if it was not, a body half eaten by rats always sold newspapers.

  Mr Fiske and Mr Neilson were there, and a number of other gentlemen whom Frances had not previously met, who she suspected must be members of either the Literati or Mulberry Lodges, or representatives of the Dobree family. She studied the faces of the gentlemen, wondering if one of them might be Vernon Salter, the man she believed to be her natural father. Would she recognise him, she wondered, or he her? Since Frances did not resemble William Doughty, she had until her recent discoveries assumed, in the absence of any portrait of Rosetta, that she looked like her mother. Frances was unusually tall, taller than either William or her older brother Frederick who had died in 1879. It had been her uncle, Cornelius Martin, Rosetta’s brother, who had finally told Frances that she did not look like her mother, but that Rosetta had once been seen in conversation with a very tall man of distinctive appearance. Frances, with her angular jaw and sharp-featured face, knew what he must mean. She looked about her but saw no man present to whom she might bear even a passing resemblance. She was obliged to admit to herself that this was a relief. She knew she might have
to face him, but felt far from ready for that encounter.

  The jurymen filed in, fresh from viewing the body. Several looked pale and the features of one were unhealthily shiny, and a little green. If the exposed flesh of the corpse had been chewed by rats it could not have been a pleasant sight. They were accompanied into the room by a slight odour of brandy, which suggested that some medical restorative had been necessary. Even Dr Diplock, as he took his seat and placed a folder of papers on the table, was tucking a cigar case into his pocket.

  Inspector Payne arrived, and after a quick look about the room to see who was present he slumped into a chair, studying the pages of his notebook. He did not give Frances a second glance. Sarah, who had not seen the policeman before, looked briefly at Frances. She said nothing, but her face revealed her thoughts. Sarah habitually warned Frances against closer acquaintance with any single man of even halfway reasonable appearance and vaguely marriageable age. It was her decided opinion that no man could ever be worthy of her companion, but in the unlikely event of Frances meeting someone she considered suitable, she was prepared to inform her of the fact. In the case of Payne, however, no warning was necessary. After the Bayswater Face-slasher case it had been clear to her that Frances was avoiding any but formal relations with men. The only exception to this rule was her dear friend and close neighbour, the flamboyant Cedric Garton, a gentleman of refinement with a taste for poetry and the fine arts, who was both intelligent and amusing company and a confirmed bachelor.