A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  Once the room was called to order there were some hundred persons seated, which was far fewer than usually attended meetings of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society, but it was still an impressive gathering and none of those on the stage appeared disappointed.

  Mrs Cholmondeleyson rose to address the hall, and there was an immediate anticipatory hush. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to see so many of you here today. Our numbers may be small, and you might think that this means we have little support for our views, but such is not the case. In fact, I am convinced that the great majority of women do not want the vote. If it were given to them, many would have no desire to use it, unless to do so on the advice of their husbands. You can easily see the fault in that arrangement – married men would then be accorded two votes, when surely each man ought only to have one?

  ‘Now we all know that there are a few individuals who, although they have the franchise, are incompetent to vote due to age and infirmity. Do we really mean to add to those numbers by giving the vote to women who by their nature, inclination and education, are ignorant of politics? If the majority of persons were entitled to vote on matters they simply did not understand, what would be the result? I dread to think. Sensible women, who know their proper place in life, should refuse to vote at all.’

  ‘What rubbish!’ said Miss Gilbert, a little too audibly, and a few heads turned towards her.

  ‘Hush, my dear,’ whispered Miss John, ‘we must hear all she has to say before we can decide what to do.’ Her hands closed tightly on her reticule, which usually held the tools of her embroidery, a collection of sharp little implements she would not hesitate to use on troublesome men.

  ‘This so-called boon, which if we do not oppose it will be forced upon us, will, it should be understood, come at a great price,’ continued Mrs Cholmondeleyson. ‘I very much doubt that these suffragists have paid any thought to what rights and privileges women will lose if they are given the vote? It would be a disaster not only for all women, but also for the country at large. Surely political decisions are best left to men? We rely on the knowledge that only they possess or can acquire. Of course women can influence questions of politics, but it is by a gentle, indirect influence that is both appropriate to our situation and most highly valued. Were women granted further powers, they might even demand to enter Parliament, and then the government of this country would come to confusion and collapse altogether.’

  She paused to allow this dreadful prophecy to enter the hearts of those present. Some of the men were nodding vigorously.

  ‘What will our next action be? To begin with, we will publish a manifesto putting forward our contentions. I know that all persons of education will read it and wholeheartedly agree. We will then gather a petition, which we will place before Parliament. You might ask why we consider this to be necessary. The answer is simple. In recent years there has been agitation by a noisy minority of women who are demanding to be given the vote. I see some of those women in this hall here today,’ – at this, many of those present stared about them as if it was possible to identify these monstrous females by appearance alone – ‘and I can only hope that when they have heard what I have to say they will see the common sense of my arguments. The fact is that this minority of women do not represent the views either of society at large or the female sex, but the noise they make and the energy they bring to their arguments have convinced some that they do. By contrast the vast majority of women who do not want the vote and have no desire to take part in the political life of this country, are by their very feminine natures, reluctant to come forward into any kind of public prominence. That is their preference, and I understand it, of course, but I regret to say that if right is to be done, then it will be necessary for this diffident majority to exercise their voices. I will now ask my friends on the platform to address you regarding our campaign.’

  Mrs Cholmondeleyson proceeded to introduce the next speaker, who rose to polite applause, and began to outline the manifesto that would soon be published, urging all listeners to purchase and distribute copies.

  ‘Well this is all nonsense, is it not?’ said Miss Gilbert, fortunately in a whisper.

  ‘Of course it is,’ replied Frances, ‘but I can understand some of the reasons behind their thinking. Ladies such as they want to retain their privileges and little think of others less fortunate than themselves, who have none. As things stand now, even if women were offered the vote, it is doubtful that it would be given to other than a few at the pinnacle of society. The goal, surely, is for all women to exercise the vote as men do, and to achieve that I think we must first improve women’s education. Better schools for all, more women doctors and chemists, women admitted to professions that are currently closed to them. Once women play a greater role in society than they do at present the absurdity of denying them the vote will be so apparent that the change will be welcomed.’

  ‘That is all very well, but it will take many years for that to come about,’ protested Miss John.

  ‘I fear so, but it may be better to wait for the right time than make the change too soon.’

  ‘I would take the opinion of a sensible woman over a university man any day,’ said Cedric, ‘but then, I am not as other men.’

  Another speech followed, describing the spheres of life which were believed to be appropriate for women and which should give them more than enough influence in the world without them troubling their heads about politics.

  Mrs Cholmondeleyson rose again to thank the other speakers, and assured all present that the petition would be available for signature very soon. ‘And now,’ she went on, ‘I have a very special treat for you. Mr Augustus Mellifloe will, in honour of our campaign, read one of his delightful poems.’

  Miggs rose to thank her with a saccharine smile, and produced a sheaf of paper from which all could see it was a very long poem. There was restrained applause.

  He coughed politely to clear his throat and took a sip of water, the greater to increase anticipation in his audience, then spoke:

  ‘Ode to a Rose Petal.

  A rose, I ween, is but a flow’r

  What sweeter sight? I sigh.

  I dream of it in reverie,

  I see it with mine eye.’

  Frances looked around but there was no easy avenue of escape. ‘Don’t worry,’ she consoled Cedric, who was muttering imprecations under his breath, ‘I see that they are putting out the tea urns so we will soon have some refreshment.’

  ‘Oh, I will need a stronger restorative after this.’

  The poem rambled on, and some forty stanzas later no one in the hall was in any doubt that the author was very fond of roses, and indeed could conceive of no greater happiness on earth than contemplating said flower, although his claim that the sight of a fallen petal had moved him to paroxysms of grief did seem a little unconvincing.

  Mrs Cholmondeleyson expressed her grateful thanks to Mr Miggs, with apparent sincerity, and after brief applause everyone made a sedate rush for the tea.

  Frances had just secured her cup when she was approached by Mrs Fiske. ‘Miss Doughty, I had not expected to see you here. I rather thought you and your friends were devoted suffragists.’

  ‘It is always wise to listen to other viewpoints,’ said Frances. ‘My feeling is that at present we should be working to improve the education of women and then in time, the vote will naturally follow.’

  ‘Mrs Cholmondeleyson sees nothing natural in it,’ observed Mrs Fiske, ‘but I suppose that as a woman in a man’s sphere you might.’ She paused and sipped her tea. ‘On that subject, I have heard conflicting reports. One moment you have abandoned your career as a detective and the next you are engaged by my husband in the Dobree case.’

  ‘He made his appeal most earnestly,’ said Frances. ‘I could not refuse.’

  ‘Well, I am glad of it. You may not know this, but Alicia Salter and I are old friends.’

  Frances recalled the marriage certificate of Ver
non and Alicia, which she had obtained when investigating the history of her family. One of the witnesses had been a Miss Edith White whom she had never traced. Mrs Fiske’s Christian name was Edith, and it now looked as if that question at least had been answered.

  ‘So you will excuse me for asking if her husband has now been exonerated of all blame?’ Mrs Fiske continued.

  ‘His complete innocence of any crime has been proven to my satisfaction,’ said Frances. ‘But the police remain watchful, and I fear that his reputation may remain under a cloud until the real culprit is caught.’

  Mrs Fiske looked concerned. ‘I do hope that is soon. Alicia is very devoted to her husband and can think no ill of him, but she did confide in me before the wedding that her father was unhappy about the attachment, due to the unfortunate events in the Salter family.’

  ‘You mean his father’s bankruptcy? But that was surely no one’s fault except the partner?’

  ‘Who has never been found,’ said Mrs Fiske meaningfully. ‘Oh, this is not gossip of my invention. Mr Dobree had a very long talk with Alicia before he would consent to a marriage settlement, especially after Mr Marsden exposed the truth.’

  Frances scented interesting revelations. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what you mean by “the truth”?’

  ‘You must know the story Mr Bernard Salter told the police after his partner disappeared?’

  ‘Yes, that they had argued after Mr Cullum wanted to deal in stolen goods, and Mr Salter refused. Then Cullum absconded after stealing money and silver.’

  Mrs Fiske looked about her cautiously. ‘Let us stand to one side where we cannot be overheard.’ Frances followed her to the side of the hall, away from the clusters of tea-drinking ladies. ‘As to any of these facts, we have only Mr Bernard Salter’s word. The police, however, had another theory. They believed that Mr Cullum was not a thief, and it was Salter’s own incompetence that resulted in the failure of the business. It was that that was the subject of their quarrel.’

  ‘Then where is Mr Cullum?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ said Mrs Fiske. ‘He has quite disappeared. When a man vanishes after a bitter quarrel with another man, what is one to think?’

  Frances suddenly understood what was being implied, and was astounded. ‘The police thought Mr Salter murdered him?’

  ‘Not necessarily Mr Bernard Salter, he was only one of three suspects. The others were his son, Mr Vernon Salter, and an associate of theirs, James Felter.’

  That last name was familiar to Frances, but she said nothing.

  ‘I only met Mr Felter once, he was best man at Alicia’s wedding,’ added Mrs Fiske.

  ‘Then I would like to speak to him. Do you know where he can be found?’

  ‘I am afraid not. It seems he has not been seen for several years.’

  When Frances had first seen the name James Felter in the newspaper report on the Salter/Dobree wedding, she had tried to locate him without success. All she had learned from the trade directories was that he was no longer resident in Bayswater; neither had she found any record of his marriage or death. She tantalised herself with the idea that he might hold information which lay at the root of the distrust that had attached itself to Vernon Salter, and there were secrets which she must unearth from deep in the past in order to clear her father’s name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Chas and Barstie had a report to make on the Dobree and Salter businesses, and Frances was happy to invite them to sample Sarah’s new apple turnovers in front of a roaring fire. There was something robust and honest about Sarah’s baking which Frances preferred to the sweet delicacy of the purchased lemon tarts.

  ‘Not a lot to say,’ said Chas, biting into the pastry, which sparkled and crunched with powdered sugar. ‘Mr Dobree was a silk mercer who effectively retired from business at the age of seventy. That was five years ago. His business was sold as a going concern and made a substantial profit. This was partly invested and partly applied to charitable purposes. His main interests are the West Kensington School, the Paddington Widows and Orphans Trust, and the Josiah Finchbourne Home for Destitute and Distressed Children.

  ‘Vernon Salter, well you know about his background. I have to say, if he is making a lot of illicit money he is hiding it very efficiently. But I doubt it. He’s in business in a small way, buying and selling, doing well enough, travels a great deal. No great reputation in the business world. And importantly we have found no evidence of any wrongdoing of either man. Neither of them lost any funds in the crash of the Bayswater Bank.’

  This information accorded with Frances’ impression of Vernon Salter, that he was not a great financial or criminal brain and was just getting by in his chosen profession. ‘Do you know anything about Mr Munro senior or Mr Johnstone who bought up Munro’s business?’

  ‘Munro’s is a business of longstanding in the area. Reputable. As for Johnstone, if ever money made a man miserable he’s the one! Doesn’t trust banks, does all his business in cash. Won’t spend a copper coin unless he has to. Clever, but not educated. Can’t read or write. Has a man, Kennard he’s called, who does all his paperwork for him. Reputed to be very rich, but who knows.’

  ‘You must have heard about the bankruptcy of Mr Salter’s late father.’

  Chas and Barstie glanced at each other. ‘Oh that was many years ago,’ said Barstie. ‘How did you come to hear of it?’

  ‘It was mentioned to me quite recently. The partner, George Cullum, stole money and silver and ran away. There was a friend of the family, James Felter. If you should hear anything of either of them I would like to know it.’

  Next morning, Frances and Sarah were perusing the newspapers when they received a visit from Vernon Salter. He looked weary, and thanked them profusely for the work they had done on his behalf. He brought a gift, wrapped carefully in paper. It was a framed photograph and although Frances did not recall the subject she did not need to ask her name. The lady in the picture, a tasteful arrangement of flowers on a pedestal by her side, was seated in composed fashion, her expression calm but wistful, a faded beauty in her face. Once she must have glowed like a ripe peach in the sun, the eyes dancing with merriment. Now, with her youthfulness and so much of her joy a thing of the past, all that remained was the hope of achieving some measure of contentment.

  ‘Rosetta wanted you to have it,’ said Salter.

  Frances was for a moment overcome with emotion. Tears suddenly welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face. ‘When was this taken?’

  ‘Only last week. Do you have a portrait of yourself? Rosetta would so like to have one.’

  ‘No, but I shall sit for one, of course.’ Frances placed the portrait on the mantelshelf, where it was accorded a prominent position. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘you will be more comfortable by the fire.’

  Sarah raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Clients, unless they were actually ill, were always asked to sit in the straight-backed chairs at the little table. The young detective, by offering her visitor such a place, had demonstrated that he was less a client than a friend. Sarah remained at the table, studying the newspapers with one eye while keeping the other on Frances, who sat facing the father she had never known.

  ‘Yesterday,’ he began, ‘Mr Kingsley and the executors came to read Lancelot’s will. There were no surprises; all was as Mr Marsden had said. The house and its contents are left in trust to the children until their majority, with Alicia granted right of occupation for life. Alicia and the executors are joint trustees. There were substantial annuities to Alicia and the children and a small annuity and the cottage to me. Then there were large sums to charities, including the projected founding of a school. I was assured that there was no reason why the will should not be proved, and the property distributed under its terms. All the same …’ he trailed off with a doubtful shake of the head.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They could not say when this might occur
, and I gained the impression that they were imposing a deliberate delay in case any further suspicion might attach to me.’

  ‘Have you been able to see the items found at number 2 Linfield Gardens?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector Payne brought them for us to look at. That is, myself, Alicia and Jeffs. We all agreed that the apron, collar, breast jewels and gentleman’s ring were without doubt those worn by Lancelot, and the Inspector said that Mr Westvale was also sure of it. The pocketbook was empty but it was stamped with Lancelot’s initials, and there could be no doubt that it was the one he had carried. His keys were missing, but we think the murderer had taken them to try and burgle the house. I doubt they will be recovered but in any case, we have had the locks changed and new keys made. There was one other item, a small box containing a lady’s ring, gold, set with an emerald. Alicia said that it was hers, but since it no longer fitted Lancelot had told her he would take it to be enlarged, which explained why he had it with him.’ There was a long silence during which he wrung his hands distractedly. ‘The thing is, neither I nor Alicia had ever seen that ring before! I feel sure that Jeffs hadn’t either, although he was careful to say nothing about it. I tried to talk to Alicia after the Inspector had gone, but she refused to discuss it. In her mind not only is the ring hers but it always has been.’

  ‘Have the items now been returned to you?’

  ‘No, the police are still holding them, and I don’t know when we will get them back. We are hoping that the body will be released for burial soon.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Salter took the view that the ring must have been purchased by her father as a gift which he had not yet presented to her.’

  He shook his head. ‘Alicia never wears green, and in any case Lancelot would have consulted her before he bought such a thing, to be sure it was to her taste. And it is hardly suitable for the girls. I am sorry to say that there is only one conclusion I can draw. Lancelot must have had a mistress. How scandalous that might turn out to be for a man of his reputation, I really don’t know. And Inspector Payne is no fool. He knew that Alicia was lying; I saw it in his face. He must be trying to trace the origins of the ring now.’