A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Miggs makes such a noise about his own character I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding something he wouldn’t want found out,’ said Sarah, with a significant look.

  ‘That is possible, but if he has been indiscreet in the past and has since put all sin behind him then it would be churlish to expose him now and I am sure Mr Fiske wouldn’t want to do that.’

  ‘Perhaps Miggs is still sinning. He might have a whole harem of fancy women.’

  Frances and Sarah thought about that for a moment then shook their heads. ‘In any case he is an author,’ Frances pointed out, ‘he can’t afford such luxuries.’

  Sarah nodded agreement and studied the pamphlet again. ‘What’s an ashlar?’

  ‘It’s a stone. They have them in the Lodge. A rough one is supposed to symbolise someone without learning and experience, and the smooth one is the man after he has been educated. And the Ancients and Moderns were two rival groups of Freemasons who united quite some years ago. If my notes are correct, the Moderns are older than the Ancients, but I’m not sure why.’

  ‘So Mr Miggs knows something of what he is talking about?’

  ‘Well he was a candidate for the Literati before Mrs Fiske wrote that review of his poems. I expect he had meetings with some of the members and they told him about the rituals.’

  Sarah tapped the pamphlet with a stubby finger, as if prodding the author. ‘He’s careful not to own up to it, but it’s his work alright. I know the way he goes on. Still, we ought to get proof. If you don’t mind, I’ll take this and have a word with the printer.’

  Sarah, Frances was well aware, was adept at getting information from printers. In this case the firm only needed to be reminded that they had printed something which was designed to insult and even libel some of the most prominent and respected men in London for the desired information to be readily forthcoming. The one mystery that had so far resisted all her enquiries was the real name of Mr W. Grove, author of the Miss Dauntless stories, since the printer had been supplied with no information of note. Frances might have given the printer a letter to pass to Mr Grove, but what would she say? As soon as the idea came to mind, she found herself blushing.

  ‘I’ll make another pot of tea,’ said Sarah, and left Frances to her thoughts.

  By the time her companion had returned, Frances had managed to turn her mind to business. ‘While I am waiting for Mr Fiske to arrive and engage me to undertake the impossible task of making Mr Miggs a more sensible man, I have more important things to think of, although I am sorry to say that Mr Miggs is in a way involved. It is clear to me and to Mr Salter that the police still suspect him of killing his father-in-law, and he has asked me to keep an eye on the situation for him. He is anxious about the effects of this continuing suspicion not only on his own reputation but on his business and his children.’

  ‘Not on his marriage?’ asked Sarah, although it was less of a query than a statement.

  ‘I don’t think his is much of a marriage, but I am not sure he minds. If it was not for Mr Miggs I would be hoping that before long the whispers against Mr Salter would cease for lack of evidence, and new things will arise to occupy the gossips; and of course there is always the chance that Inspector Payne will find the real killer. But Mr Miggs is working hard to ensure that the matter stays in the public mind. This pamphlet may only be the beginning. He has probably written to the newspapers as well. Even if Mr Salter is exonerated there will always remain those who will never be convinced of it. You know how the public likes plots.’

  ‘You’re not off chasing murderers again?’ Sarah poured more tea and took another lemon tart.

  ‘Well no, not exactly. I mean it would do no harm and possibly quite a lot of good if I was to bend my thoughts to the situation, and then if I had some useful ideas I could suggest them to the police.’ Frances helped herself to the last of the tartlets, telling herself that its richness supplied much needed nourishment to a detective’s busy brain. She then brought a large sheet of paper and a pencil to the table, a clear sign that she meant serious business, as she anticipated filling more space than might be available in the leaves of her notebook. ‘I am going to make a list of all the things I don’t yet know.’ Frances gazed apprehensively at the empty page. ‘Your suggestions would be very welcome.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘How did Lancelot Dobree get to where he was found?’

  ‘We can divide that into a number of questions. How did he leave the Lodge room? How did he leave the tavern unseen? Where was he killed? How did he enter the house?’

  ‘Had he ever left a meeting like that before?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Frances. ‘That is an important question. He was after all only a guest at the Literati meeting – but he was a member of Mulberry Lodge which holds its meetings in the same room. So he was familiar with the room. And of course the next question – why did he leave? Where was he intending to go? Did he meet his killer by accident or design? If he went without his coat and hat it does seem to be unplanned. Could it have been as a result of something he saw and heard during or shortly before the meeting?’ Her pencil raced across the paper.

  ‘Did the way he behave have anything to do with Mr Salter?’ suggested Sarah. ‘I know you think Dobree had no good reason for whatever he suspected but it would have affected what he did.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Why did the killer take the Masonic things? What happened to them? Nothing has turned up.’

  ‘They would have been hard to dispose of without drawing attention to the killer. Perhaps he thought it would prevent or delay identification, although why that was important we don’t know. He might have hoped the body wouldn’t be found for some time. But it does suggest that he didn’t plan to commit murder or he would have made better arrangements to dispose of the body – perhaps taken it further away. I suppose it was a kind of organised panic – he took some steps but not enough.’

  ‘Did the killer return to the house afterwards?’

  ‘I didn’t see any sign of it – but then when I went there I was looking for Mr Dobree, injured or ill. I didn’t know there had been a crime, and then just as the body was found the police arrived and took charge.’

  ‘You need to go back, then.’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  ‘How much do we know about the house?’

  ‘It is owned by an elderly lady who neglected it and wants a bigger price than anyone wants to pay. Both Mr Johnstone, who rents properties in the area, and Mr Herman the architect thought it a poor purchase at the asking price. There has only been one actual viewer that we know about, Mr Johnstone, but there was another enquirer who never returned, and we don’t have a name or description. Unfortunately, the man who could have told us more about him is now dead.’

  ‘Strange that.’

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘Are the two murders connected?’

  ‘Both men were killed in an empty house that was on the company books, both were killed by a blow on the head from behind, most probably with a hammer. We know that Munro was lured to the place where he died, but despite the fact that it might have been premeditated, there was no attempt to hide the body or conceal his identity.’

  ‘Was it him they meant to kill? There are three men called Munro. Or didn’t they mind?’

  ‘There have been no other similar murders in the area or I would have read about them in the newspapers. But have there been any attacks that were failed attempts?’

  ‘And where was Lancelot Dobree planning to travel to that night? Somewhere close enough for a cab ride? Or was he going up to get the train?’

  ‘Not a short distance, or a place where he could get food, as he ordered some to take with him.’

  Frances looked down at the sheet of paper. It was full.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As Frances perused the correspondence pages of next morning’s newspapers she reflected that if Mr Miggs brought as much talent to the composition of his poetry and fi
ction as he did to irate letters and sarcastic pamphlets he would be far more readable, but his poems were full of posies and his novels were hymns to impossible virtue, and could never be interesting. A man who opened his Ode to a Rose Petal with the line ‘A rose, I ween, is but a flow’r’ could not in Frances’ estimation have anything of value to impart.

  Miggs, writing to the newspapers under the name ‘Quis Custodiet’, nevertheless revealed his true identity through the determined thrust of his argument and petty obsession, but was sensible enough to realise the significant difference between what was publishable in a national newspaper and libel. He had been careful to allude only in the most general terms to the recent murder of Lancelot Dobree and the unexpected outcome of the magistrates’ hearing, without actually saying that he believed that a guilty man had been freed. The implications were, however, clear to any moderately perceptive reader. Both the murdered man and the suspect were, Miggs pointed out, members of a certain suspiciously secretive organisation whose business, he felt, should be subjected to a close scrutiny. This was something that should have been carried out many years ago except that those who might have been entrusted to do so were also members. Who, he demanded to know, guarded the guards?

  An advertisement in the Bayswater newspapers revealed that Miggs, under his poet’s nom de plume Augustus Mellifloe, had recently hired Westbourne Hall for an evening in which he would recite his own work, an over-ambitious project since the hall held several hundred persons and Frances did not think Bayswater held that many citizens requiring a cure for insomnia. He was, continued the advertisement, about to favour the world of literature with a second volume of poetry, this one entitled Les Fleurs de Virtu. Frances suspected that the world of literature was not holding its collective breath with anticipation.

  The papers also included a worrying announcement exhorting Bayswater women to join the newly formed Ladies League Against Female Suffrage, an organisation founded by a Mrs Cholmondeleyson, presumably, thought Frances, someone with too much idle time and too little brain. While Mrs Cholmondeleyson had every right not to want the vote herself, she did not, thought Frances, who was impatient to exercise the eagerly anticipated franchise, have any business denying it to others. A public meeting was planned to attract influential ladies to the cause, with refreshments provided. Frances was a member of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society, whose vigorous leaders, devoted companions Miss Gilbert and Miss John, regarded her as a radiant example to womankind and often persuaded her to address gatherings and attend rallies. She feared that the ladies might decide to mount a demonstration at the anti-suffrage meeting, since they had already shown a tendency to veer wildly from peaceful protest to dangerous dissent with very little warning. Diminutive Miss John was enough of a threat with her sharp little bodkin, and after recent events Frances could only hope that Miss Gilbert had persuaded her companion to dispose of her gun.

  With so many areas to investigate Frances and Sarah reviewed the list of necessary enquiries and divided tasks. Sarah, after enquiring about the pamphlet at the printers, was to visit Mr Fiske to ask him if he could recall any incident either just before or during the meeting that could have induced Dobree to leave the room on the spur of the moment. She was also to obtain from him a letter of introduction to Mr Westvale, Master of Mulberry Lodge, who might have his own insights into the character and concerns of Lancelot Dobree.

  Frances returned to Munro & Son with the intention of obtaining the keys to number 2 Linfield Gardens and viewing it in more detail than she had before.

  The office was open for business but as soon as Frances entered she could see that it was different. At a front desk sat a miserable-looking clerk, and further back, but not so far that he could not see all that went on, was Mr Johnstone, in conference with his grey-suited assistant.

  ‘What can I do for you, Miss?’ asked the clerk, looking up from an appointment book without enthusiasm.

  ‘I would like to view a property,’ said Frances. ‘Is Mr Munro not here?’

  ‘Mr Jacob Munro is retired from business, Mr Anthony Munro is not available, and Mr Albert Munro is deceased,’ said the clerk. ‘Which property might you be interested in?’

  ‘The lodging house, number 2 Linfield Gardens.’

  The clerk took a large bound ledger from a shelf and began to leaf through it, but before he could respond Mr Johnstone had left his desk and arrived in the front office, moving along smartly and brandishing his black walking cane, which in his hand was not so much a support as a weapon. ‘I remember you,’ he grunted. ‘You’re not a customer, you’re that detective and you don’t want to buy or rent, you’ve just come prying about.’

  ‘Yes, I am engaged in an enquiry relating to the death of Mr Lancelot Dobree and I would like to look around the property where his body was found.’

  ‘It’s been sold,’ said Johnstone curtly. ‘The new owner has the keys.’

  ‘That is very surprising,’ said Frances, as the clerk with a puzzled expression leafed through the ledger, but seemed not to find what he was looking for. ‘I thought the seller was asking too high a price.’

  Johnstone suddenly prodded the clerk with his cane, making him jump back, then he lunged at the ledger and snapped it shut. ‘She was, but I informed her that finding a murdered man with his face eaten by rats in her property might make it hard to dispose of. She took my point and lowered her price. It was sold this morning.’

  ‘Who is the new owner?’

  ‘We never divulge that information. Is there another property you wish to view?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I bid you good day.’

  The clerk, looking surprisingly unruffled, as if this was a normal incident in his working day, restored the ledger to its shelf then returned to his perch and the appointment book, showing no inclination to address Frances further. Frances strongly suspected that Johnstone had seized the opportunity offered by the murder to acquire the property at a bargain price, and she would not be permitted to enter it. No one, however, could prevent her from taking another look at the exterior of the house, which was as she remembered it, including the fact that the front door and back gate were still locked. Miss Dauntless, she reflected, would not have stood helplessly in the alleyway. Miss Dauntless would have arrayed herself in stout boots and breeches, roped herself up like a member of the Alpine Club and made nothing of that high wall. Miss Dauntless might have clasped the gallant and dashing Mr W. Grove in a warm embrace, and not allowed him to disappear into the night. The more Frances thought about it the more she dreaded to think what that daring lady might have done. The best she could do was to engage Tom Smith’s army of messengers and detectives to watch the house for her and see if they could discover anything useful.

  Frances returned to the Duke of Sussex Tavern and spoke to Mr Neilson, who confirmed that the search for the missing regalia had been conducted without success. ‘I can assure you no one could have hidden a pin here without my finding it.’

  ‘I would like to interview the members of the Literati who were present when Mr Dobree disappeared. That would include the gentlemen who were not in the Lodge room. What is the best way to achieve this? When will they next be meeting?’

  ‘That will not be for another two weeks, but we could arrange for a Lodge of Instruction, which our members would be expected to attend. I shall ask Mr Fiske to issue the necessary summons, and let you know when we have a suitable date.’

  ‘That would be very convenient, thank you,’ said Frances, relieved that she was saved the labour of visiting all the members individually. ‘What is a Lodge of Instruction?’

  ‘It is not a meeting proper, but a gathering to rehearse our ritual.’

  Frances had an idea and was about to make another request, but decided to say nothing just yet. Some things were better left unspoken until the last minute.

  Back in Bayswater, Frances ascended the stairs to the business premises occupied by Sarah’s juvenile relative Tom
Smith. She found Tom and Ratty in conference over steaming mugs of cocoa, determining how jobs were to be allocated amongst their battalion of runners who dashed nimbly up and down the stairs at regular intervals. Tom’s most urgent current concern, according to Sarah, was to try and look older than his years in order to secure more important clients than might have come to a youth who was hardly fourteen. Ratty was probably only a year older but had grown so many inches in recent months that he could well pass for seventeen or more, and Tom kept giving him envious glances, as height was the one thing that money could not buy.

  After the usual greetings and offers of refreshment, which included some irregularly shaped cakes that Frances decided not to deprive them of, they settled down to business. ‘There is a house I would like watching,’ Frances explained, supplying the address.

  Ratty and Tom exchanged knowing glances. ‘That’s where the Masonical gent was found dead,’ said Ratty. ‘You was there, I ’eard.’

  ‘I was,’ said Frances, ‘but the house has just been sold and I am unable to discover to whom, although I suspect that a Mr Johnstone who lets properties in the district has acquired it cheaply because of its notoriety.’

  ‘That’s a good wheeze,’ said Tom approvingly. ‘When I wanter buy a property I shall look in the papers for news’ve where dead bodies ’ave been found so the ’ouse can be got cheap.’ Tom, who had been earning well and living frugally, had been getting Sarah to invest his profits for him, and Frances thought it might not be too long before that idea was put into effect. He would probably own half a street of houses by the time he reached his majority.