A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘And did you keep the keys in your possession all the time the door was open?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Did you supervise the delivery?’

  ‘Yes, it only takes a few minutes to bring the stock in, then I locked up, went back to the bar and left Capper and Spevin to deal with the rest.’

  ‘What time was the delivery?’

  ‘About half past four, perhaps a bit after.’

  ‘How long did it take to bring everything in?’

  ‘No more than ten minutes.’

  ‘Do you remember Mr Dobree arriving for the Lodge meeting?’

  ‘Not specifically, but he was there that night. The men gathered for a social talk in the lounge bar before the meeting as was usual, and I know he was with them, then they went up to the Lodge room.’

  ‘And he went with them?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual in his manner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see him again that evening?’

  MacNulty thought hard and shook his head. ‘I’ve been asked about this a dozen times. I don’t remember seeing Dobree again that night, although if I had done I don’t suppose I’d have taken special note of it. I do remember his friends being very concerned about him and after the meeting they did ask me if I had seen him. I told them at the time that I hadn’t.’

  ‘Did Mr Dobree ever ask to borrow any of the tavern keys?’

  MacNulty looked startled by the question. ‘No, never. In fact, I have never been asked that by anyone, whether customers or staff.’

  ‘You were in one or other of the bar rooms all the time during the meeting?’

  ‘I was. After all, Mr Neilson was busy guarding the Lodge room with his sword, so I had to be here keeping a double eye on everything.’

  ‘Was there any reason not to trust the bar men to work in your absence?’

  MacNulty bristled at the suggestion. ‘Not at all, they are very efficient, but I know my duty. I am Mr Neilson’s eyes when he is not here. He is very particular about that.’

  ‘And Mr Tetlow and Mr Adams; they didn’t leave the bar area during the time when the Lodge meeting was in progress?’

  ‘Not that I saw. I don’t believe so, they were very busy.’

  ‘They didn’t leave to fetch stock?’

  ‘No, young Capper brought in the new stock.’

  Mr Tetlow was next, the man who had greeted Frances on her first visit to the tavern with Mr Fiske. He was a smart fellow in his late twenties who had worked at the tavern for four years, and although he didn’t say it outright, his manner revealed that he considered himself as next in seniority to Mr MacNulty. There was something a little arrogant about Tetlow, who insinuated that MacNulty, whatever he might like to think, was a man past his best; not active enough, not sharp enough, who might be well advised to make way for a younger man. Neilson had told Frances that Tetlow’s parents managed a beer shop in Chiswick, and the son, wanting to improve himself, didn’t like to admit to his humble origins. Tetlow confirmed that he, Adams and MacNulty had been fully occupied with customers during the Lodge meeting and he had not seen Dobree at all after he had left the bar for the Lodge room or noticed anything unusual in his manner.

  Adams, a twenty-one year old, had worked at the tavern for a year. He was the son of a carrier whose business made the stock deliveries and had helped his father before making the change to bar work. He told essentially the same story as MacNulty and Tetlow. ‘I know Mr Dobree by sight, of course, he comes here for the meetings of Mulberry Lodge. He was here that night you’re asking about, I remember being asked where he had gone, though I hadn’t seen him go. I saw him arrive with Mr Brassington, and he talked with the other gentlemen before they went upstairs.’

  ‘Did he seem troubled in any way?’

  Adams thought about this. ‘Not troubled, exactly. I did wonder if he had indigestion or something like it. Just the expression on his face. And he did go to the convenience, and when he came back he looked out of sorts, so I wondered if he’d been a bit unwell in the waterworks department, if you’ll excuse my saying it.’

  Frances wondered about this while she waited for the next man to arrive. This was the first suggestion that Dobree had been anything other than in good health. Had he been in fear of a serious illness, one that had led to him taking a risky and precipitate course of action? There had been no mention of this in the post-mortem report, but then faced with a man who had obviously been killed by a blow to the head the examiner might not have looked much further.

  Capper, who was twenty-six, had been employed at the tavern for about two years, and divided his time between the storeroom and cellar with occasional bar work and waiting on tables. He arrived with a guarded air. ‘I’ve already said all I had to say to the police,’ he said as soon as he sat down. Frances looked at her notes and saw that Capper was the son of a rug-maker and he and Spevin shared the basic accommodation in the attic.

  ‘It shouldn’t take long to repeat it to me,’ said Frances. ‘On the day Mr Dobree disappeared, did you and Mr Spevin take in a delivery of stock at the back of the tavern?’

  He looked surprised at the question. ‘Yes, like usual.’

  ‘Who unlocked the back door?’

  ‘Mr MacNulty.’

  ‘You don’t have a key?’

  ‘No, only Neilson and MacNulty have a key.’

  ‘Are you sure that Mr MacNulty relocked the door when the stock had been delivered?’

  ‘Yes, he’s very careful about that. Don’t want all sorts wandering in.’

  ‘Then you and Mr Spevin worked on dealing with the delivery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you weren’t in each other’s sight all the time?’

  ‘No, well after we moved the stock in, Spevin had his cellar work to do.’

  ‘And while you were working you didn’t see Mr Lancelot Dobree?’

  Capper gave a short laugh. ‘What, in the storeroom? Customers don’t come in there, especially gents like that.’

  ‘Just supposing someone, a customer, had gone down the corridor to the convenience, lost his way and found himself in the storeroom while you were there, could he have done that without your noticing?’

  Capper stared at Frances. ‘Well that’s a funny idea. Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘It’s just a theory. Mr Dobree for example, on the night he left the Lodge room, he might have come down the back stairs and then gone through the storeroom and walked out of the tavern that way, since the back door was locked.’

  Capper combed a hand through his hair thoughtfully. ‘If he was quick and very quiet, I suppose he just might have done. But I didn’t see him.’

  ‘But you weren’t in the storeroom all the time while the Lodge meeting was in progress?’

  ‘No, I was there some of the time, but I was also back and forth taking what was needed to the bars and pantry.’

  ‘Do you think there would have been time enough in your periods of absence for someone to slip through the storeroom?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘What time did you finish your work with the stock?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It was after five o’clock.’

  ‘Was the Lodge meeting still in progress?’

  ‘It might have been. I went up to my room and had a wash and brush up because I was going to help serve dinner later.’

  Spevin was a lanky youth in his twenties with a confident manner and watchful eyes. He said he had worked at ‘the Duke’s’ for six months, where he was largely engaged in the heavy labour, general repairs and other menial tasks. He seemed sharp enough, but appeared to have no ambition to do anything more demanding. He didn’t like bar work, and he didn’t wait on tables apart from collecting empty plates and glasses. According to Neilson’s comments, Spevin was supporting a widowed mother, since his father had been killed falling from a ladder when putting up a shop sign. Perhaps some awkwardne
ss or lack of caution was a family trait, since Spevin had a reputation for clumsiness. His pay had twice been docked for dropped glassware, and Capper had been ordered to keep an eye on him.

  Spevin readily supported Capper’s story. He had been in the cellar, alone, at the time of the Lodge meeting. If anyone else had entered he could not have missed it, he would have heard a footfall on the steps. Once his work there was done, and Frances had the impression that Spevin was not one to hurry about his business, he had been sent to the printers to collect some new menu cards. This was shortly before six o’clock. By the time he returned, the meeting was over and the tavern was in a state of consternation over Dobree’s disappearance.

  When Spevin had left, Frances read through her notes and considered what she had learned. Mr Neilson arrived, looking hopeful.

  ‘I’m afraid I still don’t know how Mr Dobree managed to leave the Lodge room without alerting everyone inside, but if he left by the back stairs, he could have gone through the storeroom at a time when Mr Capper was absent taking supplies to the bar or pantry. I am sure he had a good reason for doing so, but what it was I could only guess at. He then managed to leave the tavern without anyone seeing him. Perhaps he just mingled with the crowds in the public bar. He had the opportunity to go and get his hat and coat and bag, but he didn’t. And he would have been wearing his regalia, unless he had removed the things himself, and put them somewhere. Perhaps he hid them in the storeroom?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ admitted Neilson. ‘I suppose another search is in order. I’ll see to it.’

  Mr MacNulty returned to the office just then, to get the key to open up the dining room for the day so that Minnie could renew the flower arrangements, and Neilson took the opportunity to give him instructions for a meticulous search of the premises. Running a public house was constant hard work, and while neither man relished the idea, both accepted the additional task as one of the burdens they had to bear.

  Frances thanked Mr Neilson. Her next visit was to the confectioner’s shop next door, first pausing to look in the window at the display of fine breads and cakes. Sarah was an excellent hand in the kitchen and her pastries were the best Frances had ever tasted, nevertheless the decorated fancies in the window were tempting. Frances told herself that she would stand a better chance of getting information from the manager, Mr Weber, if she bought some of the products – at least it was a very good excuse to do so.

  There were two lady assistants in the shop, both well turned out, with clean white caps and spotless aprons. The number of customers present, all in agonies of decision over what to buy, augured well for the quality of the merchandise. Frances had to wait to be served, which only increased her anticipation. She had been intending to buy a slice of fruit loaf, but by the time she reached the front of the queue this had translated into half a dozen lemon tartlets.

  ‘I would like to speak to Mr Weber,’ she said as she paid for her purchase.

  The assistant looked concerned. ‘Oh, Madam, I do hope there is nothing wrong.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Frances presented her card. ‘It is nothing to do with the bakery. I would just like to ask him a few questions about a friend of his.’

  There was a short wait while the assistant went into the office, and the other customers looked sharply at Frances because she was the reason for the delay in their getting their cakes. The gentleman who returned with the assistant, looking at the card with a worried expression, was in his mid-forties, and with a white apron covering his suit. He looked as if the suit was his preferred garment, the apron quickly thrown on to provide his credentials as a master baker.

  ‘Miss Doughty,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I would like to speak to you about the late Mr Albert Munro,’ said Frances. ‘I understand he was a friend of yours?’

  Mr Weber looked quite alarmed. ‘Well – er – in a manner of speaking I suppose he was. He purchased cakes here and we sometimes ate luncheon together at the tavern.’ He paused, hoping that this information would suffice, and when it was clear that it did not, sighed in resignation. ‘Come into the office, and we can talk there.’

  The office was small but tidily kept, and Frances took a seat. There were family portraits on the wall, which was a nice touch. All the individuals depicted were large, cheerful, comfortable-looking persons wearing voluminous aprons and proudly carrying baskets laden with bread and cakes. There were also several framed diplomas for excellence in pastry making. Mr Weber was not quite as comfortable as his ancestors, but this was a scheme in development, judging by a napkin-covered dish on the desk, which emitted a warm sugary fragrance. ‘I was wondering if in any of the conversations you had with Mr Munro he said anything that could cast some light on what happened to Mr Dobree.’

  ‘Not that I can recall,’ said Weber. ‘We tended to talk about general trade matters, as men do.’

  ‘Did he say anything about the house at number 2 Linfield Gardens?’

  ‘That’s the property which backs onto the alley where the tavern and our premises have their rear exits?’

  ‘It is. It is also where Mr Dobree’s body was found.’

  Weber nodded. ‘Yes, he did tell me about that. The old lady it belongs to was one of our customers. Lived there all alone except for one maidservant, as old as she was. The maid used to come round here once a week to see if there was stale bread and cake that could be bought cheaply. Then one week she didn’t come. Turned out she’d dropped dead. Then the lady’s family came and took her away and I heard she was selling the house. Munro said that if the lady had been not in her right mind then the family would have sold it for her, but she was sharp as a pin and very obstinate. Wanted a price no one would pay because she’d let the place rot. Munro reckoned it would stay empty until the owner died and the heirs sold it.’

  ‘Did he mention anyone who had come asking about the house?’

  Weber shook his head. ‘I think he said there had been some enquiries but he didn’t expect it to sell.’ Weber paused. ‘Oh, wait, he did mention that Dobree had shown an interest in the house, but hadn’t viewed it yet.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Munro?’

  ‘About a week before …’ Weber’s lip trembled and he took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to one eye. ‘That was such a nasty cruel thing. I liked Munro. I still can’t believe it. You don’t know who it was?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Frances left him to his thoughts.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Frances boarded a cab for home, and read the pamphlet she had been given. The work, entitled ‘The Brotherhood of the Wicked’, was as bad as she had anticipated.

  The horrible murder of Lancelot Dobree has set all London talking. Justice must be done, but this author fears that it may never be done, as the secret fraternity protects its own. It is well known that the police force, especially amongst the senior ranks, is riddled with freemasonry, as is our justice system. Together they conspire to ensure that no brother Mason can be convicted of a crime. I say nothing as to the guilt or innocence of the man who has just been released and cleared of suspicion. That issue will one day be decided in a higher court, one that cannot be suborned. No, I speak only of the interests that led to that position.

  We must ask ourselves what business Mr Dobree was pursuing which was so urgent that he left the Lodge in the middle of its diabolical rituals? Was he perhaps disgusted by the practices of the Literati? Or was he bent on some secret Masonic business of his own, business that he was anxious should not be revealed even to his closest associates? Had he all these years been concealing something unspeakable under a mask of charity? It would be well if all Mr Dobree’s private affairs were thoroughly investigated, but where can we find an independent uncorrupted body of men to do so? Sadly, such a body does not exist, as the evil of freemasonry spreads its tendrils throughout all areas of public and professional life.

  As to his killer, I do not feel we have to look any further than amon
gst his own unsavoury associates. The only questions now are whether the murderer was an Ancient or a Modern, and was the weapon of choice the rough or the smooth ashlar?

  ‘This is without a doubt the work of Mr Miggs,’ observed Frances when she showed the pamphlet to Sarah. ‘I am afraid that he does not take well to literary criticism. He cannot recognise that his own moralistic and sentimental outpourings are tiresome and without merit, and sees conspiracies everywhere which deny him the success he thinks he deserves.’

  Frances had placed the purchased tartlets on a plate, and Sarah, after eyeing them suspiciously, was obliged to admit that they looked very good, there being only one way to consolidate that impression. They had eaten two each, washed down with a liberal supply of tea.

  ‘These Masons, it’s like a Friendly Society?’ asked Sarah, brushing pastry crumbs from the pamphlet.

  ‘Yes, or a gentleman’s club, or benevolent association. They have meetings, and dine together and collect funds for charity. Mr Neilson is quite adamant that if a fellow Mason has committed a crime his brethren are expected to report him to the authorities, not cover up his guilt, as Mr Miggs seems to believe.’

  ‘They won’t like this paper, then. Are Masons all men?’

  ‘They are. I notice that Mr Miggs nowhere suggests that lady detectives should look into what so infuriates him, not that he would think such a task is suited to us. And who knows but a lady might be a Mason’s wife or mother or sister? I, of course, am tainted forever in Mr Miggs’ estimation by the fact that I have been employed by Mr Fiske. I only hope Mr Fiske doesn’t expect me to do something about this. Mr Miggs cannot be reasoned with; he may have just steered clear of a potential libel charge, and any opposition will simply add fuel to his fire and draw more attention to his message. Perhaps that is what he is hoping for. If Mr Fiske does come to see me I will advise him to do nothing unless he can substantiate criminal charges.’