At long last the jurymen returned and took their places, then their spokesman rose to address the court. ‘We find unanimously that Mr Lancelot Dobree was murdered. Although the perpetrator is unknown, we believe that very grave suspicion should be attached to his son-in-law Mr Vernon Salter.’ He sat down. Frances could hardly have felt worse.
What followed was inevitable. Inspector Payne summoned a constable and asked Vernon Salter to accompany him to the police station. He was not at that stage actually under arrest, but it was clear that he was about to undergo some very searching questions.
As the chattering crowds left the room, Mr Fiske approached Frances. Barely able to speak, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but the answer is no. Please, I mean it, no.’ She hurried away under Sarah’s protective wing before he could say a word.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sarah took Frances home as quickly as possible, and although it was early in the day insisted that she swallow a medicinal dose of brandy. Tea naturally followed with thick slices of sponge cake, which had been intended for later but which Sarah now felt Frances needed as an urgent restorative.
Nothing was said about the inquest, and when she had eaten, Frances went to deal with some correspondence. It was hard trying to put that morning’s events out of her mind but she did her best. From time to time, the picture reappeared before her eyes of Vernon Salter being removed from the inquest court by the police. She wondered if he was simply an evil man, or callous, or just weak-willed. Perhaps he was all three. She feared that somewhere within her were the seeds of this wickedness, and that one day perhaps even she would abandon all she had ever thought she believed in and commit murder.
There were no appointments for that afternoon, and Sarah proposed that she should make a nice supper for later and invite Professor Pounder to join them. Frances readily agreed to this plan and Sarah went down to the kitchen.
When the doorbell rang Frances took no notice, assuming, and rather hoping, that the visitor was not for her. She was disappointed, however, when the maid knocked on her door. ‘If you please, Miss, there’s a Mrs Salter to see you and I don’t think she’s the type who’ll take no for an answer.’
Frances sighed. ‘Very well. Show her up.’
Many of the people who came to consult Frances arrived in a state of agitation, others who were more composed and finding themselves in the unaccustomed position of approaching a private detective looked about them for evidence of bad taste in their surroundings. Alicia Salter was in neither category. Her posture was that of icy emotionless calm, and she took no notice at all of her surroundings, as if it would have been beneath her even to turn her head and glance at them. Her mourning gown was heavy, with the shine of bombazine and silk, sculpted with elaborate features like a work of architecture, and she was veiled in deepest black behind which there was only a hint of a face and none of her expression.
Frances, facing the woman for whom her father had deserted her mother, nevertheless adhered to the formality of the occasion. Alicia Salter, she felt certain, must be quite unaware of her husband’s former transgressions. If her visitor had thought for a moment that the detective she was consulting was her husband’s natural daughter she would surely never have come. ‘Mrs Salter, I wish to offer my deepest condolences at your sad loss. I never met your father, but I am aware that he was a man who had earned the highest respect in society.’
The lady inclined her head in acknowledgement of the sentiments, but did not speak.
‘How might I assist you?’ Frances indicated the visitors’ chair, and Mrs Salter availed herself of it, slowly and with grace. Frances took the chair opposite. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘Thank you, no, I do not consume the unboiled product of the London taps.’ The veil was lifted and Frances saw the face of a woman in her fifties, plump and rounded, although not to excess, eyes of a piercing intensity, brows set high and proud, her mouth a firm line of determination. ‘I am here at the recommendation of Mr Fiske, who has interested himself in this horrible business. I believe you attended the inquest this morning.’
‘I did, at Mr Fiske’s request.’
‘He has told me of the work you carried out for him, and unlike so many of his sex he does not underestimate the value of the female mind.’
Having met Mrs Fiske, a lady of intelligence who commanded her household and family like a schoolmistress ordering her pupils, Frances thought that her husband was most unlikely to do so.
‘I have come to engage your services regarding the ludicrous travesty of justice that we witnessed today.’
‘I am very sorry, but I no longer involve myself in criminal cases. When I agreed to help Mr Fiske, all I knew was that your father was missing, and I assumed that he had either been called away on urgent business, or had been taken ill or suffered an accident. Once the coroner’s jury delivered its verdict I could no longer continue to act in the matter, and I so informed Mr Fiske.’
Mrs Salter was unperturbed by this information. ‘I don’t think you understand the position. My husband,’ she wielded the word pridefully like a staff of office, ‘is innocent of any wrongdoing. Of that I am quite certain. A monstrous creature has killed my father and now walks free. Worse than that, it is very clear that the police fully intend to charge my husband with this abominable crime, and because they think they have their man, they are not troubling themselves to look for the real culprit.’
‘That is a terrible situation, I agree; but I hope you don’t expect me to investigate a murder. I cannot undertake such a task.’
‘No, but what you can do is gather information to exonerate my husband. Then the police will recognise that they have made a mistake and pursue the real criminal. Did you not free an innocent man last year? One who was about to be hanged? I recall that there was a great fuss about it.’
Frances never made any great claims for her successes; she left that dubious task to the newspapers. ‘That was not my work alone.’
Mrs Salter made a dismissive gesture. ‘Do not trouble me with false modesty. I will hear no protest. You are engaged for the purpose I have described, for which you will be very well paid. Mr Fiske recommends you and moreover my husband, for reasons that I do not quite understand, says that you are the only detective to whom he will speak. So it is settled. I have already told that unpleasant Inspector that you will go to the police station immediately for a private interview.’
Frances was appalled. She knew she could refuse to do what had already been arranged for her. If she did not wish to interview Vernon Salter, no one could kidnap her and force her to do so. Losing the goodwill of both Mrs Salter and Mr Fiske was something she could survive. She had already earned the distrust and contempt of Inspector Payne, and not arriving for the appointment would damage that situation very little.
She opened her mouth to tell Mrs Salter that she would not and could not be coerced into taking this commission. Most of all she recoiled at the prospect of facing Vernon Salter, who could not have been unaware that he was in all probability her natural father. It was her curiosity that made her pause. Here at last was an opportunity to finally establish the truth behind her mother’s desertion of her family and her father’s abandonment of Rosetta; an opportunity that would not on the surface appear to have anything to do with her past, but came under another guise. And supposing Vernon Salter was innocent of the murder? To discover that would allay her worst fears. With regret she realised that it was a chance she could not miss. ‘Very well, I will go,’ she said.
Alicia Salter was used to having her own way and there was barely a blink of satisfaction. She took a card from her reticule and dropped it on the table. ‘Mr Jeffs will attend to all financial matters.’
A new thought occurred to Frances, the involvement of Mr Marsden, who would take enormous pleasure in obstructing her at every turn. ‘Will your solicitor also be making enquiries on your husband’s behalf?’
Alicia Dobree’s expre
ssion froze into a mask of fury. ‘I hold Mr Marsden fully responsible for my husband’s current plight. I do not trust him and no longer employ him. He will learn to regret his meddling. I have been recommended a Mr Kingsley and will meet with him today.’
Frances gave Mrs Salter her card, a plain item by contrast with the fine quality of the one she had received. Frances kept her cards in a little silver box, a gift on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday from her friend Cedric Garton. Alicia’s eyes wandered to the box, which was tastefully decorated and engraved. She said nothing, but she looked at it greedily, as if wondering why it should not be hers.
Alicia Salter had departed by the time Sarah returned to tackle Frances on the question of turnips or potatoes. She saw at once that something was wrong, and Frances did not hesitate to tell her what had transpired, worried that she would be told she had made the wrong decision. Sarah merely nodded. ‘It’ll be for the best to get it out in the open. Even if he is a murderer, what if he was hanged and you never got to ask him what you want to know? You’d never be at peace.’
Frances acknowledged the wisdom of this observation, and prepared to go out.
‘I’ll come with you if you want.’
Frances put on a plain cape and her bonnet with the light veil. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go alone.’ Sarah didn’t argue.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The journey gave her time to reflect on what lay ahead. She must be strong and firm and treat the interview principally as a matter of business. Since, however, it was most probably the only time she would ever speak to Vernon Salter, she must make the most of the opportunity and learn what she could about the man who was her father.
When Frances arrived at Kensington police station, she found when she gave her name at the desk that she was expected. The sergeant gave her a strange look, indeed many of those waiting for attention gave her similar looks since a respectable, modestly dressed woman was not a common sight in such a location, but she had long ago learned to ignore such curiosity. Even Kensington had its poor and distressed; argumentative types who had grown courageous on drink; sad, faded women who had abandoned all hope in life and clung like drowning creatures to bad men and dirty children, the smirking youths with quick fingers and belligerent girls whose trade was all too obvious. Frances, standing quietly in that company, exhibiting a calm she did not feel, was, she thought, like a smooth rock battered by a turbulent sea.
She had only to wait a short while before Inspector Payne came to meet her. ‘A word first,’ he said, and with as much courtesy as he could muster, which was not a great deal, conducted her to his office. The walls were ringed about with shelves stuffed with folders of papers and boxes whose ill-fitting lids revealed bulging contents. The desk was piled on either side with more fat folders bound with tape. Every item, Frances noted with surprised approval, was clearly labelled, and the only loose papers were laid neatly on the desk with a pen, ink, blotter and pencil to one side.
‘So this is the position,’ said Payne, when they were seated. ‘We have Vernon Salter in custody and we think he is the man who murdered his father-in-law with a hammer and then threw him to the rats. He denies it of course, but he either can’t or won’t suggest to us where he might have been on the night of the crime. But he wants to talk to you.’ His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Now why should that be?’
‘According to Mrs Salter, who called on me today and practically ordered me to come here, I have a reputation for saving innocent men from being hanged,’ said Frances, drily.
‘Have you had any dealings with the family before?’
‘No, but their acquaintance Mr Fiske was once a client of mine.’
Payne gave this some thought. He did not look wholly convinced by that explanation, but appeared to acknowledge that it was the best one he was likely to receive. He made a note on one of his papers then tapped thoughtfully on the desk with the pencil.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘No.’
He gazed at her as if trying to recall something, then shook his head and stood up. ‘Come with me.’ Frances followed him out of the office. ‘We’ll put you in the interview room. I won’t show a lady into the cells because I don’t approve of it.’ Frances refrained from telling him that she had interviewed clients in the cells at Paddington Green before. ‘But I don’t like you being alone with him. He’s a dangerous man.’
‘Not if he is innocent,’ Frances reminded him. ‘You may post a constable outside the door and if Mr Salter attempts to murder me I promise I will call for assistance.’
‘He won’t try that,’ said Payne, confidently.
‘Inspector, may I ask if you have traced the cabdriver who arrived to convey Mr Dobree on the night he disappeared?’
‘Of course we have, but there was nothing to learn. He was hired by Dobree, but not told where he was to go. So we’re none the wiser.’
Frances was shown into a small room, which was bare apart from a heavy table and two chairs. She sat and waited. A minute or so later Vernon Salter was brought to her by a constable. He was handcuffed, and as he sat facing Frances one wrist was freed and the empty cuff secured to a leg of the table. He had the good grace to look embarrassed. Despite his angular features, the sharp chin and prominent jawline and cheekbones, his eyes were disarmingly gentle.
The constable straightened up. ‘You sure about this, Miss?’
‘Yes, please leave us,’ said Frances.
The constable shrugged and left the room, shutting the door. He remained visible through the window standing outside.
Frances took out her notebook and pencil and placed them on the table, trying to stop her hands from trembling.
There was a brief silence. Salter shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘I have been wanting to meet you for so long, but I never thought it would be like this,’ he said.
‘Nor I. But to business. What do you wish to tell me?’
It was a rebuff and he knew it. He took a deep breath. ‘I did not murder my father-in-law. I have never meant him any harm.’
‘So you say. But you lied at the inquest about where you were on the night of his death.’
‘Yes, that was foolish, but when I was questioned I didn’t realise that the police had been to the cottage or that the housekeeper had been there during the time I said I had been staying there.’
‘I do not enjoy being lied to. I can do nothing for you until you tell me the truth, and perhaps not even then.’
‘I understand. Believe me, I have committed no crime. I was not in London on that day, but if I am to tell you the truth, I must ask that it remains a secret between the two of us.’
Frances was puzzled. ‘Are you saying that you have an alibi for the murder but you don’t want it known?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even at the cost of your life?’
He looked alarmed. ‘I am praying that it won’t come to that.’
‘Mr Salter —’
‘Can you not call me “Father”?’ he pleaded.
Her voice was as sharp as his was soft. ‘No, I cannot. The man I knew as my father was the man who brought me up. Now tell me, where were you? I am guessing that this is something to do with the terms of your marriage contract. You have told me you have not committed a crime, and I feel sure that you were not trying to avoid a bankruptcy order, as it would have been very hard to conceal that. So I am left with one conclusion. You were with a mistress. Is her reputation worth your life?’
‘I was with your mother,’ he said.
Frances was momentarily speechless, and lost her grip on the pencil, which clattered to the table top. A host of questions crowded into her mind. ‘Where is she?’ she said at last.
‘That I can’t say unless you agree to help me in confidence. She is in delicate health, and needs a better climate than London provides. My income is not great but I can just afford to maintain her as well as pay for the schooling of our son, Cornelius. Oh, I have adhered to the
terms of the marriage contract. Rosetta is not my mistress; since I married we have been no more than loving friends, but I doubt that anyone would believe that. Imagine the consequences should Alicia learn that I meet privately with Rosetta. I would lose my income, and be unable to pay for Rosetta’s care or Cornelius’ education. Recently the school has demanded higher fees, which makes it doubly hard for me.’
‘Is that why you asked your father-in-law for an increase in the annuity?’
‘Yes. But you can see why I need to be cleared of this charge without my connection with Rosetta being revealed. Can you help me?’
Frances thought deeply. When she had learned of Vernon’s marriage to Alicia it had never occurred to her that he had continued to support or even see her mother. But was he telling the truth? A man might say much to save his life. ‘Before we go on, I need you to tell me the whole story of why my mother deserted her family and why you then deserted her and married another. And I will need some proof. I have been lied to more times than I care to mention.’
He looked mortified. ‘There was no desertion on either side – is that what you were told?’
‘No,’ she replied harshly. ‘I was told that my mother was dead. I did not discover otherwise until two years ago.’
He groaned. ‘How could anyone do such a thing?’
‘I suppose my family didn’t want me to find her. But you can’t deny that she deserted her husband and children.’
Vernon shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. When William Doughty found that Rosetta and I were meeting in secret he cast her out. She begged to be allowed to visit her children but he refused. He also refused to divorce her, so we were unable to marry. There was a separation, but the law was cruel, and she was denied all contact with her children while he won the right not to maintain her. When she became distracted with grief he threatened to have her put in an asylum. We only narrowly avoided that.’
A True and Faithful Brother Page 9
