A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  Mrs Smith, who came down the stairs to greet them, was a small wiry woman with grey hair and strong hands, knotted and darkened by hard work like the branches of an ancient tree. She led them up to the parlour and introduced her husband, a broad shouldered but mild-looking man, with a well-used pipe and a penny whistle sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. A large fire was blazing in the grate and the room burned hot and smoky. Salutations and gifts were exchanged and Mrs Smith, after a cautious look at Professor Pounder who towered over her, accepted the flowers and sweets and seemed much taken by them.

  All of Sarah’s brothers were there, with four wives, Jeb’s intended and several children, although there was not room for everyone in the parlour, and the three younger brothers, two wives and all the children had had to crowd into an adjoining room, and be brought out in twos and threes at intervals to be introduced to the visitors.

  The scrubbed table was hardly large enough to do more than lay out platters of food, and there were so many chairs in the room, many of which must have been borrowed from neighbours, that once seated it was almost impossible to move without disturbing several people. The food was plain, fried fish, boiled potatoes in butter, white sauce, and pickles, with foaming jugs of beer. The conversation tended to family matters, Jeb’s recent success in the ring and forthcoming wedding, the wild animals that Henry and Sam had, at considerable risk both to themselves and the population at large, recently transported to a menagerie, and Jack’s progress in the art of gentleman’s suiting. The four dockworkers seemed not to resent their brothers’ more elevated employments but looked on with cheerful pride. All were dressed as if for a Sunday and the young men, while respecting their father, deferred to their mother in everything. The meal was rounded off with cake, sweets and tea, and then someone sent out for more beer.

  Frances was questioned about her work, since all were well aware of the dangers she had faced and the criminals she had brought to justice. She was regaled with stories of the old hanging dock where pirates had met their end, and asked for her opinion on whether John Williams, the man suspected of the notorious murders in 1811, had been guilty of the crimes. Frances promised she would look into it. The conversation then turned to the Professor’s boxing academy, and by degrees and as more beer was fetched and consumed, he was invited to demonstrate his strength by lifting Jeb Smith using one arm, something he accomplished with ease. Further demonstrations followed, such as the space available would allow, and then Mr Smith treated everyone to a tune on the penny whistle, after which someone sent out for more beer. Frances had never been partial to beer, and was not sure afterwards how she had managed to consume so much of it, but it was very refreshing.

  It was time to leave, and as the Professor went to find a cab, Mr Smith tapped Sarah on the arm and said, ‘He’ll do.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  When the morning newspapers arrived, it was with some trepidation that Frances opened them to read the reports of the inquest into the body found at 2 Linfield Gardens. They were even worse than she had imagined.

  Inquests that were considered to be of minor importance were usually gathered together in a single column under one heading, but Dobree’s had been granted its own space, with headlines such as ‘Lancelot Dobree Mysterious Death’ and ‘Well Known Philanthropist Found Dead’. After describing all that could be gleaned from anonymous informants in the police force, the newspapers had gone on to draw attention to Frances’ presence in court and speculate that she was acting for Mr Dobree’s family, which naturally suggested that it was a case of murder. The rumours that Miss Doughty had retired from her detective work were premature, they declared, claiming that she was even now looking into a whole host of hideous crimes and arrests were imminently expected. More worryingly, one paper suggested that her energy and logical brain could mean only one thing, that she was not, after all, female, but a man cunningly disguised so as to delude criminals into imagining that she was no threat.

  The Bayswater Chronicle was, thanks to Mr Gillan, more restrained. While making much of the horrible appearance of the rat-eaten corpse, it had concentrated on the almost magical and inexplicable means by which Lancelot Dobree had vanished from the Lodge room, and the role of the intrepid Miss Doughty, whose clever investigations had led to the discovery of the body when the Kensington police had failed. Frances wondered what Inspector Payne would make of that.

  She decided to go out about her more humdrum business before any more reporters could assemble. As she departed she saw that there were two police constables in the street, which gave her some comfort. Returning home after a quiet afternoon staring at parish records, Frances had just enjoyed a well-deserved pot of tea with a slice of one of Sarah’s excellent and generously sized jam tarts when she received another visit from Inspector Payne.

  He declined to take a seat and strode around the parlour, flinty-eyed, before turning on Frances with a hard stare. ‘Miss Doughty, can you advise me when and where you last saw Mr Albert Munro of Munro & Son House agents? He is the “Son” of the enterprise, the gentleman who showed you the property in Linfield Gardens.’

  Despite the warmth of the room, Frances felt suddenly chilly. It was the kind of question that never boded well, and there was something in her visitor’s manner that told her he brought bad news. ‘Don’t tell me he is missing, now?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘You were there, Inspector. I last saw Mr Munro three days ago, when Mr Dobree’s body was found. I have not seen him since.’

  Payne nodded. He didn’t look inclined to dispute her reply. ‘Yesterday afternoon Mr Munro was called away from his office after receiving a message from a prospective lessee who wished to view some properties. He went out taking three sets of keys, and did not return. The office assumed that he had gone home after seeing the client. In fact, he had not. Mr Munro occupies a separate bachelor apartment in his father’s house, and therefore when Mr Munro senior retired for the night, he was not aware that his son had not come home. It was only when Mr Munro junior did not appear at the breakfast table this morning that his father became aware that something might be amiss. After enquiries were made at the office and with friends, with no result, the houses the son had gone to were searched. All three were furnished properties of quality, all had been burgled, and in one of them Mr Munro was found dead. Although the inquest has yet to be held there can be little doubt that he was murdered.’

  A whirlwind of thoughts entered Frances’ head. Even though the man was hardly known to her, there was shock and sorrow at the news, but also the miserable feeling that she was unable, however hard she tried, to escape involvement with murder. She asked herself why she had ever consented to help Mr Fiske, but of course she knew the answer. ‘Do you think that Mr Munro’s murder is connected with the death of Mr Dobree?’

  ‘We don’t know. Unfortunately, it has not yet been possible to interview Mr Munro senior, who is, as you might imagine, in a state of distress.’

  Frances picked up her notebook. ‘I did have a brief conversation with Mr Munro junior before you arrived.’ She turned through the pages. ‘Here it is. He told me that the only person he had shown around the Linfield Gardens property was a Mr Johnstone.’

  Payne nodded. ‘Yes, the office has a record of that and we have spoken to Mr Johnstone. He did not return for another look. Something about dry rot.’

  ‘But Mr Munro also said that there was another enquiry, from a young man who did not leave his name and who promised that he would arrange for a viewing but did not.’

  ‘Now that we didn’t know,’ said Payne. ‘I don’t suppose you have a description?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well someone else in the office might remember him. Mr Fiske tells me you are to be at the resumed inquest on Mr Dobree.’

  ‘At his request. He was very anxious that I attend in order to give my observations, and I will, but only as a favour to him. Are any members of Mr Dobree’s family to giv
e evidence?’

  Payne narrowed his eyes. ‘Inevitably. Are they of interest to you?’

  Frances wished she could have taken back her question. ‘They did not attend the first hearing.’

  ‘No, they sent a solicitor to watch the proceedings for them. Junior man. But I expect the big guns will be out next time. Mr Marsden.’ He smirked. ‘Friend of yours, I’ve been told.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Frances.

  Henry Marsden had long been one of the leading solicitors in Bayswater and, following the sudden and spectacular fall from grace of his chief rival Mr Rawsthorne, considered himself to be unassailably the most important solicitor and one of the most respected citizens in the district. He had never restrained himself from belittling and pouring scorn on all of Frances’ successes and trumpeting his delight at her failures. There was nothing personal in his dislike, it was simply that Frances was intruding into an area of endeavour for which he believed women were unfit. Had she been a dutiful wife and mother, he would have tolerated her.

  Matters had recently taken a curious turn when Timothy Wheelock, formerly Mr Rawsthorne’s confidential clerk, a young man with his inky fingers in most of the underhand activities in Bayswater, had narrowly escaped a criminal prosecution and gone to employ his very peculiar talents in the office of Mr Marsden. During Mr Wheelock’s brief period in police custody Frances had performed a professional service for him, retrieving some papers he had hidden away. She had only agreed to carry out this unsavoury task in order to obtain some material that related to her own family affairs. While Marsden knew about her action, there were two important circumstances of which he was unaware. Frances had refused to accept any payment from Mr Wheelock, and as a result he regarded himself in her debt. It was a debt she hoped never to have to call in but it was there, all the same. She also knew that some of the papers, which were now in a private deposit box to which only Wheelock held the key, could either control or destroy Mr Marsden. Given a choice in the matter, Frances never wished to see either of these two individuals again, but she had a horrible feeling that this wish was unlikely to be granted.

  The next day was a Sunday, when Frances liked to use the cool quiet of St Stephen’s church for contemplation. She prayed for those she had lost in the last months, not without wondering, as she would no doubt do to her dying day, if there was anything she could have done to prevent those deaths. On this Sunday she also prayed for the souls of the recently deceased Mr Dobree and young Mr Munro.

  The question continuing to torment her mind was whether she had done the right thing in agreeing to help Mr Fiske. At the time it had seemed like the right thing to do, but then how often had she been dangerously misled by her curiosity? The best she could hope for from the resumed inquest was that the final verdict would be that death had occurred from natural causes, Dobree having suffered a catastrophe of the brain that had led him to wander by chance to the place where he had been found. Almost as the thought crossed her mind she realised how absurd it was. There was clear deliberation, probably careful planning, in what he had done and possibly also in where he had gone. The jury, however, might not choose to see things in the way she did, and be willing to come to a verdict that caused the least upset to the family. Frances had read numerous inquest reports and seen many an obvious suicide declared, against all the evidence, to be an accident for exactly that reason, but of course in such cases there was no criminal to be brought to justice.

  Was she really hoping for a wrong verdict to save her own feelings? If it was murder, then that was what must be found. A killer must be made to suffer the penalty decreed by law. She wondered if the Salter family might want to engage her help in the investigation. She would refuse, not only because she had sworn to no longer deal with criminal cases, but also because it would almost certainly involve an encounter with Vernon Salter, her natural father, the man who had cruelly deserted the woman who had borne his children in pursuit of a fortune. The more she thought about him the less inclined she was ever to endure a meeting with him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As Frances and Sarah descended from their cab outside the handsome Italianate edifice of Kensington Town Hall she saw two men standing outside. While it was apparent that they were acquainted with each other, it was obvious from their demeanour that it was a situation that gave neither of them any pleasure. One was the sour-faced solicitor Mr Marsden, the other she had never before seen, but a glance told her at once who he was. He was in his mid-forties and very tall, well over six feet in height, and of a willowy thinness. His features were not so very like those of Frances that he would immediately have been taken to be her father, but had the two of them stood side by side, something she intended should never happen, the resemblance would have been apparent to anyone who cared to look for it. She lowered the veil on her bonnet, and she and Sarah slipped quickly past the two men into the building.

  A heavily veiled lady in deep mourning was taking a slow turn around the foyer as if waiting for someone. Her carriage was regal, her walk measured, the head set proudly on firmly squared shoulders. A young gentleman of the press, seizing his opportunity, approached her, notebook in hand. ‘Excuse me, but you wouldn’t be Mrs Salter by any chance?’

  The lady turned to stare at him. Even through her veil she must have had a piercing look. ‘If you don’t leave this instant, I shall call the police and have you removed,’ she said. The voice was one of quiet authority that did not expect any denial. The young man backed away.

  As Dr Diplock had anticipated, the room set aside for the inquest was filled to capacity with interested persons, and this suited Frances very well as she hoped to be able to vanish in the crowd. Apart from Marsden and the Salters she saw numerous pressmen, Inspector Payne, members of the Literati Lodge, and other gentlemen who she thought must be Dobree’s brethren in Mulberry Lodge.

  Sitting quietly to one side but looking about him very intently was a young man whose face was adorned with an enormous set of Dundreary whiskers, and whom Frances at once recognised. Arthur Miggs was, or liked to think of himself as an author. He published trite and syrupy verses as well as romantic melodramas under the nom de plume Augustus Mellifloe. Frances was no great judge of literature but she had attempted to read one of his novels, The Divine Heart of Lady Mabelle, and it had evoked in her a strong desire to slap the heroine until she came to her senses. The presence of Mr Miggs at the inquest was both worrying and no surprise. He had once been a candidate for admission to the Literati, but had been enraged by a witheringly harsh review in the Bayswater Chronicle of his slim volume of poetry, Mes Petites Chansonettes. The piece, although published under the byline of Mr Fiske, had actually been penned by his less forgiving wife. As a result, Miggs, feeling deeply insulted by what he believed to be wholly unwarranted criticism, not only withdrew his candidacy but also became a violent and intractable opponent of freemasonry. The fraternity, he would tell anyone with the patience to listen, was a secret society of disreputable men, cloaking traitorous plots under a mask of charity. During the recent spate of Face-slasher murders he had deluged the newspapers with letters suggesting that the series of inexplicable killings were all part of a Masonic plot, and he must have been bitterly disappointed to discover that this was not the case. He was undoubtedly attending the inquest in order to accumulate ammunition for a new campaign.

  The proceedings began with the enquiry into the death of Albert Munro, aged thirty-four, unmarried, a property agent who had been found dead in an empty house on the firm’s books. He had been called away, apparently by a prospective client, after receiving a note that he had taken with him. To spare the father, who was in frail health, the body had been identified by his uncle Anthony. The deceased had been in good health, and the cause of death was an injury to the back of the head, which could not have been accidental, especially since it appeared that he had been struck more than once. These multiple blows had made it difficult to arrive at any conclusion concerning the attacker from
the appearance and direction of the injury. The note was nowhere to be found and it was assumed that it had been removed by the killer. Some money, keys and a gold watch had been stolen from the body, as well as valuable ornaments and pictures with which the property, a superior class of furnished rental, had been much provided.

  Dr Diplock advised the jury that even if they believed that the person who had struck the blows had intended to do no more than knock the victim unconscious, the case was still, in view of the intent to do harm, considered to be one of murder. The jury, after brief consultation, had no difficulty in returning a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown. Since the other properties to which Munro had carried the keys had also been robbed, Dr Diplock offered the theory that there might be a gang operating, luring people to empty houses where they could carry out their crimes unobserved. He suggested that property agents might wish to take that into account when accompanying clients they did not know.

  After a short interlude, the resumed inquest on Lancelot Dobree was duly opened. Inspector Payne described the action taken by the police, which had involved more than a hundred interviews and visits to all the properties in the area. Everyone who had been in the Duke of Sussex Tavern on the night of Lancelot Dobree’s disappearance had been spoken to and no one recalled having seen him after he entered the Lodge room. The end result was that no more information had emerged as to Dobree’s movements after his disappearance, or how he had met his death. The owner of the empty lodging house, a lady of advanced years who lived with her daughter in Sussex, still had her own copies of the keys in her possession, which she kept in a box under her bed and had lent them to no one.

  ‘That’s a miserable-looking character,’ muttered Sarah as Payne tucked his notebook into his pocket and headed back to his seat.