‘Was it in a dark blue box?’
‘It was.’
‘Could you describe the gentleman to me?’
‘Elderly, but active. Well dressed. There was nothing distinctive about his features or apparel.’
‘Did he wear any jewellery of note? A Masonic ring, perhaps?’
Mr Finewax smiled. ‘I would have noticed such a thing, and he did not.’
Frances still carried the drawing of Mr Dobree that Inspector Payne had given her, and handed it to Mr Finewax. ‘Could this be the man?’
He studied the portrait at a number of distances. ‘This is the same picture the police showed me. It’s possible.’
‘Can you describe the woman?’
He paused. ‘She was rather more decorative and fashionable in her apparel than the gentleman. She wore a veil so I did not see her face clearly but I had the distinct impression that she was very much younger than he. She laughed a great deal.’
‘Laughed?’
‘Oh yes, quite loudly. She found everything he said to be most entertaining. I could be mistaken, although I rarely am about such things, but she struck me as being a female of a certain type.’
‘You didn’t think that she might be a relation?’
‘Most definitely not. She was of quite another class. Her clothes were expensive but not of the most refined taste. To be very blunt, if you will excuse me, I took this to be a romantic assignation in which money was to change hands, one which the gentleman concerned might have wished to conceal from his family and friends.’
Had the gentleman been Lancelot Dobree, thought Frances, she might have expected him to remove something like a distinctive Masonic ring when meeting with such a companion.
‘You have not seen either the gentleman or his friend since?’
‘Not the gentleman, but I might have seen his friend. I believe I once saw her entering a hotel not far from here. It is called the Portobello London. She might well have been going there to meet the gentleman, or indeed another gentleman entirely. I should warn you that it is an establishment, so I have heard, where friends who wish to meet in private can do so in comfort with no questions being asked about the propriety of the arrangement. A respectable female who knew its character would never be seen there.’
‘I see,’ said Frances. ‘I am afraid that my enquiries do require me to interview this person. I suppose there is nothing distinctive you can recall about her dress or appearance that might help me to discover her?’
‘The only thing I have a note of is her ring size.’ He paused to consider. ‘I do remember she was taller than the gentleman and her walking dress was the colour of burgundy, and very extensively trimmed with fur. Rather too much in that way I thought.’
‘Thank you,’ said Frances.
‘I will keep the card, if I may. A lady detective is a new idea to me, but I can see that if one wishes to make enquiries about jewellery she may be just the thing. A lady sees the jewel and the man, alas, sees only the price.’
The Portobello London Hotel had a narrow frontage which was neither discreet nor inviting, and did no more than inform the passer-by that it was a hotel that one could enter or not as one pleased. Just inside the entrance was a large man in a commissionaire’s uniform. He said nothing to Frances as she walked past him, but his eyes followed her, and he seemed to be weighing up what kind of woman she was. The foyer was dimly lit, and Frances could well imagine that couples who were not married would find it convenient to be in a place where their faces might be in shadow. There was a curved wooden counter behind which a young man stood, his dull expression undergoing no noticeable change when Frances appeared. He was pale, like a plant that had never known the light, with short blond curls and slightly protuberant grey eyes.
‘Good afternoon Miss, which room would you be wanting?’
‘I am not here to see a room,’ said Frances, presenting her card. ‘I wish to make enquiries about one of your patrons.’
He stared at her card as if it was taking a long time for him to read it. ‘Hmm,’ he grunted. ‘Well I can’t help you whoever you are. We don’t give out information about our guests here, and especially not to detectives.’
‘There is no legal action being contemplated against either the lady or the gentleman she accompanied. It is not a case of divorce or separation. I am not working for a solicitor. It is another matter entirely. All I wish to do is speak to the lady.’
‘So you say,’ said the man, throwing the card on the counter in front of him. ‘But how do I know you are telling the truth? We have a very select clientele here and we don’t want to lose customers by blabbing about who was here and when. So you had better go, before I ask Mr Burns here to conduct you from the premises.’ He nodded at the large uniformed man, who squared his shoulders, quite unnecessarily, Frances thought.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Good-day.’ She turned and left, but did not trouble to pick up the card.
Frances decided to engage the services of Tom Smith’s Men to watch the hotel. If they saw a young female with a burgundy colour walking dress elaborately trimmed with fur, they were to follow her discreetly as she left the hotel, learn all they could without alerting her or asking questions and then report back to Frances.
‘We know that place,’ said Tom. ‘It’s for when respectable people want to do things that aren’t respectable without anyone knowin’; I’ve run messages back and forth from there enough times. Lot’s’ve people go there but no one ever admits to it. Not surprised the clerk wun’t tell you anythin’.’
‘Won’t ’ave t’ stay outside long if we see ’er goin’ in,’ said Ratty. ‘That type meets friends fer the arternoon, so the gent c’n go back ter ’is wife at night, all ’spectable like, ’n then ’e tells ’er ’ow ’e’s bin workin’ ’ard.’
Frances gazed at the boys, unhappy at how knowledgeable they had become of the cruder aspects of life in so short a time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Unexpectedly, the next morning brought Bayswater’s favourite poet, Mr Arthur Miggs, to Frances’ door. She and Sarah exchanged glances of astonishment as his name was announced. He had doubtless read the press reports of the meeting of the Ladies League Against Female Suffrage, which included faithful renditions of the principal speeches, but if that had prompted his action, why he should want to consult Frances was a mystery.
Frances had been relieved to see that the newspapers had not mentioned her presence at the event but the correspondent of the Chronicle, while careful to report on the proceedings without taking sides, had been less than kind to Mr Miggs:
Since the emblem of the movement is the English rose, the author who extravagantly dubs himself Augustus Mellifloe, although his real name is the far humbler Miggs, having composed a poem of forty stanzas in which he expresses his inconsolable grief at the fall of a single petal, has taken it upon himself to be the male figurehead of that movement. He would, however, have been well advised not to treat the company with the full rendition of his work. One stanza was more than enough, five was already far too much, ten invited boredom, at number twenty the audience looked ready to flee the hall and more than that roused this correspondent into a near murderous rage.
‘Whatever he wants cannot be good,’ said Frances. ‘He means only trouble to the Literati and what he imagines I should do for him I do not know, but I shall refuse any request.’
‘Will you send him away?’
‘No, better to find out what he wants.’ Frances nodded to the maid. ‘Please show him up.’
Sarah, who had been about to go out in pursuit of the snuffbox mystery, decided to remain, and ground a large fist into a meaty palm. ‘As long as he doesn’t mean to read us any of his poems,’ she snarled.
A minute later Mr Miggs appeared. His manner in private mirrored that in his public appearances since he was for every second of the day fully aware of the image he wished to present. Frances wondered if he was the same when alone and suspected t
hat he might be even more so, since his faultless deportment could not have come without much practice and preening in front of a mirror. She knew many men who prided themselves on good grooming, which was something the female eye always appreciated, but Miggs wished to demonstrate to the world that he was also impeccable in both character and taste.
He was carrying a copy of the Chronicle and stared at Frances as if she was a nasty insect. He had never forgiven her for disrupting a protest meeting he had once called, and he knew that she had acted for Mr Fiske. She could only be an enemy.
Her formal greeting of ‘Good morning’ was returned with cold ill will.
‘Really Miss Doughty, must you poke your nose into every matter of concern in Bayswater? Must you despise everything that is moral and good and espouse all that is degenerate?’
‘Please explain why you are here,’ said Frances. ‘I doubt that you wish to engage my services as a detective.’
He gave a snort of contempt. ‘I did hope from recent reports that you had given up that mad idea, but no, that was clearly an untruth. It seems that nothing is safe from you.’ He waved the rolled up paper at her. ‘Do you deny that you wrote this scurrilous article about the meeting? You were there with your questionable companions, I saw you!’
‘I have never written anything for the Chronicle,’ said Frances.
He wrenched the paper open and stabbed an angry finger at the article. ‘Even if I accept that assurance, which I am far from doing, I am convinced that you must know the identity of the author! You move in some very dubious circles; you mix with Freemasons, pugilists and criminals, and men and women who scarcely seem to know what sex they are. I am sure that one of your associates is responsible for this outrage!’
‘Do you mean to say,’ asked Frances, ‘that only someone of depraved sensibilities would despise your work?’
‘I mean that exactly! I am one of London’s premier authors; my poems and novels are admired and acclaimed everywhere! My name is on everyone’s lips! My elegiac work Oh Daisy Sweete! has been discussed in the most elegant and refined salons. This article,’ he threw the paper down on the table in disgust, ‘is not merely an attack on my authorship but on myself, my honour, my very soul!’
‘I can see that you are upset,’ said Frances calmly, ‘but I really cannot offer any assistance. I did not write the article, nor do I know who did. If you wish to sue the Chronicle you are of course at liberty to do so, but an opinion is merely an opinion, and you might be better advised not to pursue the matter.’
For a moment Frances enjoyed a mental picture of Mr Miggs in a court of law facing the editor of the Chronicle and being obliged to recite his Ode to a Rose Petal in support of his case to a grim-faced jury.
‘Tell your associates that I intend to find the culprit and make him pay!’ said Miggs. ‘When I am hailed as the premier literary figure of Britain someone will regret that insult!’
He snatched up the paper and stormed out.
Frances was about to write to Mr Neilson as she was eager to interview the members of the Literati, but her plans were prevented by the receipt of a telegram.
‘Come to Brighton at once. V.’
There was no need to provide the address, the name of the sender or the reason for the urgency. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Sarah.
‘Thank you, but I need you here to continue the work, and you have your own cases to pursue.’
Sarah knew better than to argue.
Frances had no idea how long she would be needed but quickly packed a few necessaries, and departed.
As the train sped her to her destination she was lost in thought. Her mind was consumed with the fear that her mother’s health had taken a serious turn for the worse and now, as she stood on the brink of a reunion, that longed-for outcome would be snatched away. She tried to distract herself by thinking of the mysteries that were crowding in on her – the curious actions of Lancelot Dobree – his murder – the savage killing of Albert Munro – the disappearance of Bernard Salter’s partner George Cullum – the stolen snuffbox – the emerald ring – were these all quite separate, or were they in some way connected? The only thing she felt sure of was that it would improve Vernon Salter’s standing with the police if she could allay the old suspicions as to his past.
Brighton was clear and cold, the sky a vivid light blue, the air sharp, the wind snatching at everything it could. The streets were quiet and all had a clean, fresh look that London lacked. This was the winter season, when the carriage classes came to enjoy the kind of sumptuous gatherings to which Frances would never be invited. A cab brought her to a lodging house not far from the seafront. She was pleased to see that it was clean and respectable looking, with well-scrubbed steps and neat curtains. A maid in a crisp white apron answered the door, and nodded at once as Frances said she had come to see Mrs Martin. At least, thought Frances with profound relief, her mother was still alive.
Frances was shown up to a set of apartments on the second floor, and was encouraged by the sharp scent of polish and lack of dust, which showed that while the accommodation was simple, it was well maintained. Vernon met her at the door, his pleasure at seeing her slightly softening his anxiety.
‘How is my mother?’ asked Frances, as he conducted her to a seat at the fireside. The parlour was warm and comfortably if plainly furnished. On the mantelpiece was a portrait which made her breath catch in her throat; Rosetta, much younger, seated on a couch, with her arm around a small boy beside her and a baby on her lap. The boy was undoubtedly Frances’ brother Frederick, who had so sadly passed away in 1879 and the baby could only be Frances herself. She could not resist taking a closer look and wondering how happy that time had been.
‘She looks on it every day,’ said Vernon. ‘I have seen her kiss and caress it a thousand times.’ He sighed. ‘She collapsed last night, soon after receiving a visitor. I was sent for, and a doctor came and said that her heart is very weak and she needs rest. I have engaged a nurse to sit with her. All we can do is pray that in time she will regain her strength.’
‘May I see her?’
‘She has been sleeping, but I will see if she is awake now.’ He rose and went into the next room, then after a few moments he returned and nodded. ‘Yes, you may come in. I have told her that you are here and she is very happy to see you, but please, no excitement, she needs calm.’
‘Of course.’ As Frances approached the door she felt a fluttering in her chest, as if a bird had been hiding there and was about to take wing. She paused for a moment to compose herself, then went in. The room was dim and there was a gentle fire providing enough warmth for the invalid, while the window was open sufficiently to admit fresh air. There was little of the inevitable bad odour of the sick-room, showing how well it was attended to, and any mild unpleasantness that might have lingered was modified by the scent of laundered sheets and a sprinkling of lavender. A small table held the expected medicines, tonic mixtures from the chemist and some brandy and water.
The nurse who had been sitting by the patient occupied with some needlework, rose up as she entered. ‘If you please, Miss, the patient is doing well, and has had a nice sleep and a little broth.’
‘Thank you,’ said Frances, and the nurse moved to a chair by the window so she could take a seat.
Rosetta lay propped up on pillows, a coverlet drawn almost to her chin. Her eyes were moist, and she smiled weakly, extending a pale hand. Frances sat beside the bed and took the proffered hand. The skin was warm and very dry. ‘Frances.’ The lips moved and the voice hardly sounded. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘All is forgiven,’ said Frances. ‘All. Please don’t tire yourself. I am happy just to sit by your side.’
Salter drew up another chair and sat by her. ‘How long can you stay?’
‘As long as I am needed. I can send to London for anything more I might require.’
‘I am expecting Cornelius here, soon. Your brother. Oh there is no doubt about it, he looks
so like you. We are very proud of him. He studies hard and will be a man of law one day.’
Rosetta smiled her agreement.
There were questions Frances wanted to ask, but this was not the time or place. The nurse brought them all some tea, and Rosetta managed a little bread soaked in broth before she drifted into sleep again and Frances and her father crept from the room.
‘I do so look forward to the conversations we will have when my mother has regained her health,’ said Frances. ‘But tell me, how did her illness come about? You said there was a visitor?’
‘Yes, the maid said it was a man she had never seen before, but he was most insistent and asked for Rosetta by the name of Mrs Martin. I believe Rosetta consented to see him thinking that he had brought a message from me, but instead he must have said something to distress her. After a few minutes he called the maid, saying that Rosetta had fainted and he could not revive her. Then he fled. I dare not question Rosetta about the interview in case it brings on another collapse.’
‘I will ring for the maid and ask her about the man.’
The maid arrived promptly and listened carefully to Frances’ questions. ‘I have never seen the man before, not here or anywhere else. He was about forty years of age, and dressed very plain, with a moustache but no beard or side whiskers. His hair was dark and he had uncommonly thick eyebrows. He did not carry anything or bring a calling card. I asked him his name and he said it was Green, but I am sure it was not as he had a foreign accent.’
‘Could you describe the accent? French? German?’
‘Neither. He spoke good English, but it was like a foreigner would speak it. He asked to see Mrs Martin, saying it was urgent. He said he had come down from London on purpose to see her. I asked the reason for his visit but he said it was confidential. I went up and asked Mrs Martin if she would see the gentleman and she said she would, so I showed him up. I returned to my duties, but only a few minutes later he rang for me very insistently and I went up and found Mrs Martin lying on the floor in a fainting state. He told me she had been suddenly taken ill and next moment he had gone. I sent for help at once.’
A True and Faithful Brother Page 20
