A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  When Dr Diplock had reviewed his papers, he called the court to order and opened the proceedings by stating that the purpose of the hearing was firstly to establish the identity of the deceased and second to arrive at cause of death. If it was not possible to conclude business that day, and he believed that that might well be the case, then it would be necessary to adjourn to allow time for further enquiries.

  The first witness called was Mr Fiske, who, struggling to control his nervousness, explained to the astonished onlookers the circumstances under which he had come to be at 2 Linfield Gardens where the body was found. His account naturally mentioned the inexplicable disappearance of Lancelot Dobree and his decision to call upon the services of a private detective. Several gentlemen turned and stared openly at Frances and Sarah, and the men of the press scribbled busily. Inspector Payne then told the court in strict official language how he had been called to the scene, and after establishing that there had been an unexplained death had proceeded to seal the property pending the arrival of Dr Northrop, the police surgeon.

  Dr Northrop, the next to testify, had the air of a man who had seen worse corpses too many times to mention. He confirmed that the body was that of a well-nourished male who he estimated to be between sixty-five and seventy-five years of age, although the hands and face were considerably damaged by the action of rats. He believed that death had taken place between one and three days previously, but a factor that complicated his estimate was that he was far from sure that the man had died where the body was found. There was nothing on the body to identify it, and much of the clothing had been gnawed by vermin. The quality of the remaining linen and suiting suggested that they had been purchased by a man of some means, although it was impossible to say if the dead man was the original owner. His preliminary examination showed that the man had been in very good health for someone of advanced years. The only thing discovered so far that could account for death was an injury to the head, which might have been caused either by a fall or a blow. He would know more when he had had the chance to make a detailed post-mortem examination. There were no obvious identifying marks on the body, however he had noticed that the deceased had a slight club foot, a defect he must have carried with him since birth, and his shoes had been specially made to correct this.

  Northrop returned to his seat and the coroner next questioned Mr Unwin, Lancelot Dobree’s personal shoemaker. Unwin identified the shoes found on the body as those he had made for Dobree, and brought with him the last on which they had been formed. He had examined the feet of the corpse and had no doubt whatsoever that the body was that of his customer.

  The next witness was a man of about forty-five with a manner of carefully studied calm, who gave his name as Thomas Jeffs and said that he had been manservant to Lancelot Dobree for eighteen years. Whatever his feelings about his master, either alive or dead, these were so carefully hidden as to be indiscernible. He had viewed the body found in the fuel store and had no doubt at all that it was that of his master. He confirmed that Dobree had a slight deformity of one foot, something few of his intimates would have known.

  There were no more witnesses and Dr Diplock asked Dr Northrop how soon he might be able to complete his report. There was a clear implication in the coroner’s tone that since the evidence was tending to suggest that the body was quite probably that of the noted philanthropist and not a homeless vagrant, it would be advisable to accelerate the proceedings. Dr Northrop quickly took the point and replied that in view of the importance of the case he would give the matter priority and felt sure that he would come to a firm conclusion in three days.

  Dr Diplock addressed the jury. While it was not yet possible to arrive at a cause of death, would they be willing to deliver a verdict as to the identity of the body? Offered the option of retiring to consider their decision, the jurymen did not trouble themselves to do so. There was a brief whispered conversation and much nodding before the spokesman rose and announced that they were content to identify the deceased as Lancelot Dobree. Dr Diplock then adjourned the hearing for three days, adding that in view of the immense public interest the resumed inquest would inevitably attract, the next hearing would take place in Kensington Town Hall.

  Several of the pressmen hurried away, burning with the news, but a number of the younger ones hovered hopefully around Frances. ‘I have nothing to say,’ she insisted and Sarah quickly interposed her bulk, folding her brawny arms and making it known by her expression that she would not tolerate any annoyance.

  Payne rose smartly from his chair and approached the gathering. ‘Now then, clear off quick or there’ll be trouble!’

  ‘We have to get the story, Inspector,’ whined one of the youths.

  ‘There’s no story here – move on!’

  They slunk away and Frances was intending to thank the Inspector but he had already turned and left.

  Another gentleman was present. He had a quiet, businesslike manner, and carried a leather document case. He did not approach Frances, but looked at her with interest before he departed.

  Mr Fiske and his brethren remained behind, consulting with each other, their faces heavy with grief. Frances went to sit with them. ‘I am so sorry that you have had bad news.’

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Fiske, dejectedly. ‘I had hoped it was another man, of course. We all did.’

  ‘Did you know about Mr Dobree’s club foot?’

  Fiske shook his head. ‘There was no sign of it in his walk.’

  ‘Well, let us hope that when the final report is available you will know more.’

  ‘Will you be attending the resumed inquest?’

  Frances had half expected this question. ‘I was only engaged to find Mr Dobree. Since he has been found, there is no good reason for me to do so.’

  ‘Could I ask you to attend on our behalf?’ pleaded Fiske. ‘You have more experience than we do of these unfortunate occasions, and we would like to have your observations.’

  Frances hesitated. ‘Very well. I will watch and let you know my thoughts, but you know my position. If the cause of Mr Dobree’s death is an accident, then there is nothing for me to do. If there has been a crime committed, then there is nothing I should do.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Fiske. ‘The past has taught you to be cautious, but all the same I would welcome your advice even if you cannot take matters further.’

  ‘It looks a lot like murder,’ said Sarah in the cab home.

  ‘It does,’ Frances agreed. ‘Of course his death might have nothing to do with why he left the tavern. He could have gone out for a reason we have yet to discover and been attacked by robbers in the street. He might have been injured in a fall and then robbed by someone who chanced by. But now we know the body is his we have more mysteries. Dr Northrop believes that Dobree did not die where he was found. Even if we can find out how he left the tavern, how did he manage to get into the yard of the house? He appears to have had an extraordinary ability to move through locked doors. And while I can understand that robbers might have taken his jewellery, money and even the regalia, which I assume must have a value, they had also removed other non-valuable items which could have identified the body.’

  ‘A robber would just have taken stuff and run off,’ said Sarah. ‘Why risk being caught by taking time to hide the body?’

  ‘The only reason I can think of is to prevent or delay recognition. Which suggests that whoever hid the body knew who he was. Perhaps it wasn’t a random attack after all; perhaps Mr Dobree was targeted for murder.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Soon after they arrived home, Max Gillan, a senior reporter with the Bayswater Chronicle, arrived with a sparkle of anticipation in his eyes. Frances and he had come to an agreement some while before that she would grant him exclusive interviews on the condition that he promised not to distort the truth, and he in return would supply her with any information he had gleaned about cases in which she was interested.

  ‘Is it true what everyone is
saying?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Are you taking up your detective work again?’

  Frances spoke carefully. ‘Not precisely. I have been undertaking searches for lost relatives and pets, and helping clients construct their family trees, but I am not engaging in criminal work. I was asked to look into the disappearance of Mr Dobree, which could have occurred for any wholly innocent reason, and until the next hearing we will not know the answer.’

  ‘Would you be able to tell our readers your opinion on the matter?’ he asked with what he must have hoped was a winning smile.

  Frances would not be won over. ‘I would never presume to anticipate the verdict of a coroner’s jury, especially since there is more evidence to be presented.’

  ‘But it is all over Bayswater that you were there when the body was discovered! Did you see it?’

  ‘Thankfully no, since I was told that it had been much damaged by the action of rats.’

  His pencil moved rapidly over the pages of his notebook, scattering the impenetrable lines, loops and dots of shorthand. ‘Eaten? Oh, please say it was eaten.’

  ‘I can’t comment in any detail. The hands and face had been attacked, which made identifying the body difficult. If you want something new to print, then I can give you all the circumstances of the finding of the body.’

  ‘I’ll have to be content with that for now,’ he conceded.

  Frances supplied the story, hoping that an account of the unusual disappearance of Lancelot Dobree would stimulate the memory of any witnesses who had seen him on the fatal night.

  ‘Will you be at the adjourned inquest?’ Gillan asked.

  ‘I will, but as an observer only.’

  ‘So you do think Dobree was murdered?’

  ‘I can’t answer that question. But should the jury come to that conclusion it will mark the end of any interest I have in the case.’

  Gillan smiled. ‘I know you, Miss Doughty, and if it is a case of murder I think you won’t be able to resist looking into it.’

  Frances was spared making a reply by a loud knocking on the front door. She looked outside and saw a group of press-men gathered on the paved approach and steps. ‘I have said all I am going to say to the press, and if you could do me a very great favour, Mr Gillan, on your way out could you tell the gentlemen to disperse before their presence constitutes a nuisance and I have to summon the police, or, worse still, Sarah.’

  He grinned. ‘Right you are!’

  Frances had no more news of the Dobree case on the following day, and expected none, but it remained prominent in her thoughts. Mr Gillan had been right about one thing, the puzzle continued to intrigue her.

  There were two clients to see in the morning. Frances interviewed a lady whose son had been truanting from school. The usual chastisements had failed to have any effect, and she wanted him followed to find out what so diverted his attention from his studies. It was a case made for Tom Smith and his ‘men’ and Frances prepared a note with the information they required.

  A single young lady arrived with a letter she had discovered that had been placed on a path where she walked, and was clearly intended for her. The writer professed to be a young man of good character and paid her compliments in refined language to which no one could have objected. He wished to meet her with the object of making her better acquaintance, and suggested a time and place. The lady had very prudently declined to make the assignation, but appealed to Frances to discover the identity of the sender. Frances decided to turn that case over to Sarah. It was not certain whether the writer had any criminal intent, but it was as well to test him out.

  Her afternoon was devoted to work on behalf of a Bayswater businessman, Mr Cork, who had asked her to draw up his family tree. Mr Cork, a manufacturer of cravats and cummerbunds, was in a state of permanent rivalry with his former partner, Mr Wren, whose business was of a similar kind, and the two alternated between being bitter enemies and close friends. Both were well known to Frances and it had once been necessary for Sarah to restore calm between them through the liberal application of alcoholic beverages. It had been Mr Cork’s hope that she would discover that the family legend that he was descended from nobility would turn out to be true, in which case he would never permit Mr Wren to forget it, but Frances was going to have to disappoint him. Not only were his great-grandfathers all fishmongers, but it also transpired that he and Mr Wren were distant cousins. How that would affect their tempestuous relationship she could not guess.

  Sarah was due to go out that evening in the company of Professor Pounder, and Frances had expected to spend some quiet time by the fireside with a little reading and cold pie and cheese. Having just enjoyed a pot of tea, she was choosing a book to read and trying to convince herself that a novel would be the best thing to calm her busy mind, when the volume that really appealed to her was the Bayswater Street Directory. Sarah was doing some mending but appeared to be unusually unsettled as if her fingers, usually so strong and nimble, had suddenly lost their ability to direct a needle.

  ‘Is there something troubling you?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t,’ said Sarah. ‘I mean, it’s just a fish supper.’

  ‘That sounds very enjoyable.’

  ‘It will be.’ Sarah didn’t look convinced. After more fidgeting with the sewing, she suddenly gave up and threw it down in her lap. ‘You could come with if you like.’

  Frances was surprised. ‘Would that be acceptable to Professor Pounder?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘But if it’s just the two of you —’

  ‘Well that’s it, isn’t it? It’s not just the two of us, we’re having supper with the family. So there.’

  It took a moment or two for Frances to understand the import of this information. ‘You mean that you are introducing Professor Pounder to your family?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. He hasn’t met them before and they want to meet him.’

  ‘Does this mean —’

  ‘No,’ Sarah cut her off. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘But you are worried they might not like him, or he might not like them?’

  ‘Anything’s possible. I just don’t want it to end in a fight.’

  ‘Do you think it might?’

  Sarah shrugged.

  ‘But isn’t one of your brothers Jeb Smith, the Wapping Walloper? So there is a mutual interest in the art of pugilism. That is a good start. Your parents will surely think well of the Professor and his successful business; and he has very good manners.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but Ma is old fashioned and don’t like Irish.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was Irish. But he is an excellent man and I know he will win her over.’

  Sarah looked as though she was trying to convince herself. ‘Would you come with? I know they’d like to meet you.’

  Frances laid her book aside. ‘And I would very much like to meet them.’

  Sarah’s relief was all too obvious. Soon afterwards, Professor Pounder, clutching a bunch of flowers and a box of sweetmeats, called to say their cab was ready. He said nothing when told that Frances would be accompanying them, but Frances thought that he too was relieved, though she could not imagine how she might be of any use if a fight broke out. Young Tom appeared, wearing his best suit of clothes, his face scrubbed to a shine, and they departed, Sarah carrying a parcel containing two plum cakes she had made earlier.

  As they left the wooden paving of Bayswater, which reduced the sound of their carriage to a dull rumble like a looming thunderstorm, they passed through the teeming heart of London, where the clatter and crunch of wheels and hooves was almost enough to drown the cries of drivers trying to work through what looked like a dangerously random melee. Their journey took them through the heart of what Frances thought a mighty city should be, the shopping emporiums, the homes of the ancient guilds, the great banks, the offices of the press and palaces of law and government. Tom, the only person not regarding the visit with nervous appre
hension, looked out of the window at the fine buildings as if counting up the money of those who worked there.

  Heading past the street markets and the Tower into the commercial east end, they reached the part of London dominated by the docks, a reminder that London was and had been since ancient times, a seaport. Warehouses, factories and the homes of labouring families were clustered close together, dwarfed by a forest of cranes. Buildings wallowed like sinking ships in the stench of industry, which mingled the odours of smelting, metal casting and sugar refining with the dark smoke that boiled from blackened chimneys.

  Sarah rarely talked about her family, and she had never revealed exactly how she and Tom were related, occasionally referring to him vaguely as a cousin, although Frances suspected that the connection was rather closer. Now, however, Sarah, perhaps trying to still her nervousness by talking, began to tell some of her history. Her father, she said, had worked in the London docks since he was twelve. Now aged sixty, his legs were weak and he was only able to do light labouring. Her mother had married at sixteen, and brought up a family of eight boys and two girls in a small apartment on the Ratcliffe Highway. It was a tribute to her hard work and devotion that she had only lost one child, a daughter who had died from scarlet fever. Sarah’s eight brothers had initially been destined for dock work like their father, and four of them still toiled there, but family fortunes had taken a better turn when Jeb had discovered a more lucrative metier in the boxing ring, Henry and Sam had found employment at Charles Jamrach’s Animal Emporium, which dealt in exotic birds, beasts and curiosities, and Jack became apprenticed to a tailor. Sarah’s parents and the four sons who were still unmarried now occupied a three-room apartment above a draper’s shop.

  As they drove down the busy highway, Sarah, who liked a bloodcurdling tale as much as anybody, told the story of the horrible murders of 1811 and the time when Mr Jamrach had saved a young boy from the jaws of an escaped tiger. Far more fearsome in her estimation was the prospect of the promised gathering and as the cab drew up in front of the draper’s, Professor Pounder squeezed her shoulder with a surprisingly gentle hand.