A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘So what is it you wanter know?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘I need descriptions of who goes in and out. Find out as much as you can about them. I was hoping to get the keys and look around in case there was anything I missed the last time I was there, but the agent was most unhelpful. If you can establish for certain who the owner is, I might be able to arrange a viewing.’

  ‘You don’t want one’ve my lads to go in?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too tricky, old ’ouses never are,’ added Ratty.

  Frances hesitated but declined. ‘That would be against the law, and I couldn’t possibly ask you to do it or condone it if you did. You could end up in prison.’

  ‘We wouldn’t break anythin’,’ protested Ratty.

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘Only a winder might be left open by accident.’

  ‘That’s still trespass.’

  ‘And our poor little cat could’ve climbed in an’ got itself trapped, an’ we’d ’ave to go in an’ get it back, or it might die,’ added Tom, with an expression of deep melancholy.

  ‘You haven’t got a cat.’

  ‘No, but we could get one.’

  Frances gave in. ‘Very well. These are your instructions. Your task is to observe, no more. You must break nothing and remove nothing. If you do enter the premises you must have a reasonable excuse for doing so. It is well known that I employ your services to find missing pets, so if you are caught you could well be believed if you claim that you were hoping to find a trapped animal. It would still be trespass but if you don’t commit another offence then I doubt that any action would be taken against you. Do you agree?’

  They nodded.

  Once her business with Tom and Ratty was completed Frances had only to descend the stairs to the ground-floor offices of the Bayswater Design and Display Company whose directors, generally known to their friends as Chas and Barstie, were energetic young men determined to establish themselves as pillars of the best Bayswater society. Alert to every secret whisper concerning the commercial world of West London, their knowledge was such that they were able to provide Frances with insights that she could have obtained in no other way. She often thought that the little commissions she sought from them were undertaken not so much for the fee, but as a welcome diversion from their more humdrum daily endeavours. The young clerk in the outer office knew her by sight and jumped up to greet her politely. ‘Good morning, Miss Doughty! If you’ll wait one moment I’ll let the gentlemen know you’re here.’

  Frances waited, reflecting that it was some weeks since she had engaged the two directors to assist her on a criminal investigation. Recently they had done no more for her than check on the bona fides and finances of men who had applied for business partnerships, or sought the hand in marriage of a valued and valuable daughter.

  The clerk returned very soon and conducted her to the office, where the two directors sat facing each other across their desks. As usual, Barstie’s was crowded but tidy while Chas was content to work in a small portion of the available space surrounded by a debris of used teacups, cake wrappers, smears of jam, scattered coins and disorganised piles of paper. The fact that a charlady tidied and cleaned the office regularly only made the situation more remarkable.

  They greeted her warmly. ‘It is our great pleasure to receive a visit from you,’ said Chas, climbing to his feet and offering Frances a chair. ‘And how delightful to see you in such good health! I trust you are now fully restored?’

  She could well understand his concern. Following the last desperate act of the Bayswater Face-slasher and her own narrow brush with death, Frances had not left the house or received visitors for some while, and when she had finally emerged it was as a wraith of her former self, even paler and thinner than usual. Only Sarah’s constant care had prevented her from fading away altogether.

  ‘Thank you, I am greatly recovered.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Refreshments will appear in a mere moment. No arguments. We insist!’ The young clerk was dispatched to the kitchen. ‘And we have some good news to share, don’t we Barstie?’

  ‘We do,’ said Barstie, looking less enthusiastic than his partner.

  ‘Barstie has finally won the heart and hand of a lady, the one who has lived in his hopes for so long.’

  ‘Her father has consented to the engagement,’ said Barstie. ‘A very long engagement,’ he added dejectedly.

  ‘I am sure the time will pass very quickly as you labour to prove yourself a worthy son-in-law,’ said Frances in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.

  ‘There will be an announcement in the newspapers very soon, and a little supper to celebrate the betrothal,’ said Chas. ‘You will of course receive an invitation.’

  ‘I am honoured.’ Frances did not ask Chas if he was any closer to marital bliss. He had once hinted jovially that she interested him, but that was before he had prospered and she had been made poor after her father’s money was lost. He now looked to brighter horizons, preferably involving fortunes in securities and land.

  ‘But tell us, to what circumstance do we attribute this visit?’ asked Chas as the tea tray arrived. ‘How may we be of service?’

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ said Frances. ‘I may have been somewhat precipitate in giving up my criminal investigations. I had my reasons for it at the time, but now I find myself looking at a puzzle I cannot resist trying to solve.’

  ‘You have our complete attention,’ said Chas with a grin.

  ‘You will have read about the murder of Lancelot Dobree.’

  Both partners exhibited alarm. ‘We have indeed. You are not looking into that, surely?’

  ‘Although Mr Salter has been cleared of suspicion, he fears that for some, particularly his business friends, his reputation will always be in doubt. He has therefore engaged me to collect information to exonerate him in the eyes of the world.’

  ‘Would that not involve finding the real murderer?’ asked Barstie with a worried expression.

  ‘At this stage, perhaps not. All that may be required is to show that there might have been a motive other than the one suggested at the inquest. The police are still convinced that Mr Salter is guilty and are watching him, waiting for him to make a slip so they can arrest him again. They may be pursuing other suspects, of course, and if I can uncover more information which leads to the guilty man, then all I need do is hand it to the police.’

  ‘Ah, very sensible,’ said Barstie, and Chas looked relieved.

  ‘There may be something in Mr Dobree’s professional life or his charity work that could have led to him being lured to his death. He may have had rivals, enemies. He might have a hidden past. Or perhaps he was on some private business of his own which turned sour.’

  Chas nodded understandingly. ‘All good men have enemies,’ he said. ‘Leave it with us. We will find out what we can about both Mr Dobree and Mr Salter.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Frances was not anticipating a visit to solicitor Mr Marsden with any pleasure, but knew that that caustic necessity had to be carried out as soon as possible. Mr Marsden’s office occupied the corner site linking Westbourne Grove with Hatherley Grove. The outer office was polished to a cruel shine, and she had the impression that if anything had been found dusty or out of place by the proprietor then the repercussions would have been severe indeed. The employees were smartly dressed, they moved smartly and all had a little fear behind their eyes.

  Frances presented her card to a young man, saying that she would like to see Mr Marsden if that was possible or make an appointment to see him very soon if it was not. The young man studied the card and when he saw her name he raised his eyebrows then looked at her hard. He did not trouble himself to enquire as to the nature of her business, and this, she felt sure from his manner, was because he already knew.

  ‘If you would be so kind as to wait for a moment,’ he said, and hurried away before she could reply. Frances waited. Whether or not she would
see Mr Marsden she did not know, but she was sure she would not be offered tea and cake.

  After a short wait the young man returned. ‘If you could step this way, Mr Wheelock will speak to you,’ he said.

  Frances hesitated, then reluctantly complied. Mr Wheelock might be the best she could achieve in this unfriendly place. She felt some curiosity as to how well matched he was with his new employer. He had once been trusted by his former master, Mr Rawsthorne, who was still, due to the complexity of his affairs, awaiting trial. Wheelock’s office at Rawsthorne’s had been a grubby nest formed from the accumulated scraps of paper he liked to collect. These were things tossed idly away by others, or even consigned as they thought to consuming fire, but rescued by the clerk’s busy fingers, and held safe against a time when he might use them to his advantage. Frances suspected that Mr Marsden would not tolerate such a cave of crumpled treasures on his premises and so it proved. Mr Wheelock’s new domain was a small room dominated by high wooden cabinets, all looking impenetrable, and shelves of card boxes. The desk held an imposing pile of paperwork and a fine array of ink and pens. The clerk himself had, under the demanding eye of his new principal, treated himself to a suit of dark clothes, and there had even been some effort to scrub away the worst of the ink that stained his hands and mouth, although some fresh marks about his lips revealed that he had not abandoned his habit of sucking pens.

  Wheelock grinned at Frances as she entered, revealing blue and red blotches on his teeth. ‘Well, Miss Doughty, up to your old tricks again?’

  He didn’t bother to offer her a seat so she sat down uninvited. ‘Is Mr Marsden not available?’

  ‘Not to you, no.’

  ‘I’m surprised you agreed to see me.’

  ‘So would he be. Right now, if he should ask, I am busy telling you that you are to leave and never return and we can offer you no assistance either in the Dobree case or any other. So we won’t be talking for long, and you won’t be back.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He took a card from his pocket and dropped it on the desk. ‘Private office, for private business,’ he said.

  Frances picked it up. It read ‘T. Wheelock’, and gave an address, an apartment in a nearby lodging house. She had no desire to visit him in what was presumably his home, but did not say so. ‘What I intended to ask Mr Marsden was what Mr Dobree said to him about the suspicions he had concerning Mr Salter. If I could find out more, then it might give me a clue as to why Mr Dobree suddenly left the Lodge room, and who he was meeting.’

  ‘So you’re working for the Salters?’

  ‘Mr Salter has convinced me that he is innocent of any wrongdoing, and he is concerned that the police still believe him to be guilty and are not pursuing other possible suspects.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that Mr Marsden is no longer acting for the family. Mrs Salter hates him particularly.’

  ‘I’m not surprised after what he said at the inquest.’

  Wheelock grinned again. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. Surprising what you can find when you go poking around in old papers. Many years ago Mr Marsden was a young ambitious solicitor in a small practice. Not out of the top drawer nor even the one next down, and therefore looking for an advantageous marriage. So he set his sights on Miss Dobree as she was then, daughter of the senior partner’s best client. Her father was in favour of the match, but the lady wasn’t. It was soon afterwards that she met Mr Salter and decided that he was just what she wanted. Mr Marsden wasn’t too pleased to see his prize slipping away. He looked into Salter’s family and found out that his father had been a bankrupt. And then there was all that funny business over the partner.’

  Frances was aware that the silversmith business of Vernon Salter’s father, Bernard, had collapsed in 1858 after his partner had absconded with money and valuables, but decided not to reveal the extent of her knowledge to Mr Wheelock. ‘Funny business?’

  ‘I expect Mr Salter didn’t care to mention that.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought it not relevant to my current enquiry.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know unless you tell me.’

  He sucked his teeth noisily. ‘Well it seems that Mr Bernard Salter and his partner George Cullum weren’t on the best of terms. Neighbours used to hear them arguing. Not a good sign for men of business where there are a lot of valuables about, money owed, money owing.’

  ‘Do you know what they argued about?’

  ‘According to Salter, the business hadn’t been doing so well; that was in the bad old days before Mr Whiteley made his mark and Westbourne Grove was known as “Bankruptcy Avenue”. Mr Cullum thought he had the answer – dealing in stolen goods. He thought they could make quick profits out of it and get themselves out of trouble, but Mr Salter wasn’t having any of it. He told Cullum that if that was what he was thinking of, they shouldn’t be in business together. But Cullum wouldn’t have come out of it so well; he was the junior man, and all the property was in Salter’s name. Next thing, the man was gone, and cash funds and silver missing.’

  ‘Was he ever found?’

  ‘No, never seen again.’

  ‘And the silver?’

  ‘No. He was careful to take nothing traceable. Must have been melted down long ago. But you can see how Dobree was thinking. Bankruptcy, partnered with a criminal, not a good sign.’

  ‘That was Mr Salter’s father – it’s no reflection on him.’

  ‘And there was a rumour that Vernon Salter was running about with a married woman.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Frances, shocked that her family shame was so widely reported.

  ‘Didn’t know about that, did you?’ he sneered.

  ‘You said it was only a rumour. And in any case, many men are – a little wild when they are young, and settle down to being good husbands once married. So I attach no weight to that story. But I expect Mr Dobree did, and Mr Marsden might well have made things seem worse than they were.’

  ‘It was Marsden who proposed the terms of the marriage settlement. I reckon he thought Salter wouldn’t agree to them and then the wedding would be off. But to his surprise the man agreed. All these years Marsden has been looking for a way of getting his revenge. Not that he still has hopes of Mrs Salter, no, he just wants revenge.’

  ‘And I suppose with his client dead he really had little to lose by speaking up at the inquest.’

  ‘Exactly. So there we have it. And I don’t know what it was Dobree told Marsden, only that there’s nothing in writing.’

  ‘Were they great friends?’

  ‘No, ever since Marsden was disappointed of the charming Miss Dobree, it was strictly business between them.’

  ‘They didn’t meet socially?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Is Marsden a Freemason?’

  ‘What, and give his money away to charity?’ said Wheelock scornfully.

  ‘And the two last met about two weeks before the murder? Not since?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What can you tell me about that meeting?’

  ‘From the papers they ordered to be brought it was to do with charities and property. I didn’t see Dobree arrive, but I saw him leave. He was usually in good spirits, but that day he was not a happy man.’

  ‘If Mr Marsden knew more than he said at the inquest regarding Mr Dobree’s concerns, he would have told the police. But they have brought no charges against Mr Salter so it might have been nothing.’

  ‘Nothing provable. Which is why he hasn’t gone public; he doesn’t want an action for slander.’

  ‘As far as I am concerned, it is not a question of what is true or provable, only what Lancelot Dobree believed or suspected, which might have prompted his actions. And of course his behaviour that night might not have been concerned with his son-in-law at all but something else, something he felt compelled to act upon himself, something he could reveal to no one.’

  Frances reflected on the one awkward incident in V
ernon’s recent past, his purchase of a stolen snuffbox, but in that case he had done the right thing, exactly what his father-in-law would have approved of, taken the item to the police. There was no reason for Dobree to find that suspicious, rather the opposite, unless there was something else, something she was not being told.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There was a note from Miss Gilbert and Miss John awaiting Frances on her return home, referring her to the local newspaper and saying that an urgent meeting was required. There was hardly time for Frances to dispose of a light supper before the ladies arrived. Miss Gilbert, large and buxom, burst in like a storm of passionate activity, with diminutive and deceptively meek Miss John peering from under a cloud of grey curls travelling in her wake.

  Miss Gilbert was not so much clutching as brandishing a rolled copy of the Bayswater Chronicle, as if she would have liked to belabour the annoying Mrs Cholmondeleyson with it. ‘Outrageous! The dreadful woman has taken leave of her senses and means to have us all made slaves to men!’

  ‘She has been married three times,’ said Miss John, with a shiver of distaste. ‘Just imagine that!’

  Frances could hardly imagine being married once.

  ‘And the worst of it is,’ Miss Gilbert went on, ‘she is beyond reproach in every aspect of her life. She has eight children, all of whom have married well, and they are either professional gentlemen or domestic angels. None of her husbands died in suspicious circumstances, and all left her wealthier than she was before. So she parades herself as the very model of what a lady should be, holds that the things she concerns herself with are those all women should espouse, and declares that those she shuns are outside our legitimate sphere. And, of course, people listen to her and take note.’

  ‘Every improvement has had its opposition,’ said Frances. ‘That is human nature. Consider the printing press, or the steam engine. Opposition leads to open debate, and that can only be a good thing. The more people talk about it the more the idea spreads.’