A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  Once home, Frances brought out her growing collection of local newspapers and studied the copies for the last two months. She was especially looking for burglaries that had been concentrated in West London, and found a large number reported but not solved. A recent editorial in the Chronicle mentioned that the incidence of such crimes had increased of late. These numbers, thought Frances, would be swelled by losses from dubious hotels like the Portobello, which might not have been reported to the police. Could one person be responsible, or several, or could it be the actions of a gang?

  The afternoon brought good news about other cases. Sarah, on behalf of the client with the unknown admirer, had made an assignation by dropping a note to the mysterious would-be lover in the same location where he had left his note for the lady. An appointment had been made in Hyde Park and the young gentleman who arrived was surprised to find that the person who met him was not the object of his affections. He was, it transpired, painfully shy, with a dreadful stammer, and having seen the maiden from afar was unable to gather the courage to approach her. Sarah decided to make careful checks on his credentials, and if he appeared honest would ask the client if she would agree to a chaperoned meeting.

  The truanting schoolboy had been followed by Ratty, and his secret destination discovered. A tall youth, he had claimed to be eighteen and had been admitted as a student to life-drawing classes, where he was making a study of the female form. Frances decided to consign him to the mercy of his no doubt furious mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Frances began to put together what she knew concerning recent events. A man had made enquiries at Munro & Son about empty properties and, so Inspector Payne thought, had obtained the keys to number 2 Linfield Gardens. He could well have been the man who lured Lancelot Dobree to his death. Why he should have chosen that time and place remained a mystery, as did the means of Dobree leaving the Lodge room. If Dobree had had an innocent associate who had assisted him, this person had not come forward, possibly because he or she feared being accused of involvement in the crime. Dobree had been trying to gather information about his son-in-law either alone or through a private investigator or both. The stolen snuffbox might have suggested to him that Salter was involved in the recent thefts. Perhaps Dobree had been lured from his meeting with a promise of secret intelligence. And was the murder of Mr Munro junior connected with the death of Dobree, or simply a coincidence?

  ‘Is it so easy to steal keys from the house agent’s office?’ asked Sarah. ‘They can’t be that careless.’

  Frances cast her mind back to her visits to Munro’s. ‘The keys are kept in the back office. When young Mr Munro went to get them, his father was working there.’

  ‘And if someone took them, they’d have to put them back. All without anyone seeing or suspecting anything. But Munro’s didn’t only have the key to the yard?’

  ‘No, the front and back doors as well, all on the same bunch.’

  ‘Well there you are, then,’ said Sarah. ‘All that stolen stuff; why was it in a hole in the wall? Why not under the floorboards in the house? There’s something not right.’

  Frances could only agree. At least she now had a description of the man who had called on her mother – Mr Green – and hoped to locate and speak to him. If he had been employed by Lancelot Dobree, the detective could well hold the clue to what had been troubling the dead man and give some insight into the murder. Frances studied the Kensington newspapers and local trade directories to see if there might be a private investigator called Green, and soon found what she wanted in the small advertisements. ‘Peter Green, Private Investigator, for expert Confidential Enquiries. Divorce, Watching suspected persons, Missing friends. Secrecy guaranteed. As recommended by solicitors.’ There was an office address in Kensington.

  ‘You’re not to go alone,’ said Sarah, sternly. ‘He might be a murderer.’

  ‘Then you will be by my side to protect me.’

  ‘One thing we don’t have is a description of the man who called at Munro’s about the house. The only man who spoke to him is dead.’

  ‘True, but if Mr Munro senior was in the back office at the time, he might have taken note of a caller. I wonder if he is well enough to be questioned? I will write to his brother and ask.’

  Frances was interested in the idea of a private investigator who actually had an office address, something to which she did not think she could ever aspire, and in Kensington no less, although in the event it turned out to be in a backwater of that district, far from the fashionable parts. The houses were divided into offices of small solicitors and property agents, and Green and Co. was on the first floor of a building whose ground floor was a dowdy purveyor of furniture and porcelain.

  A small outer office was guarded by a short, round, grey-haired woman who asked tersely in a thickly accented voice if they had an appointment with Mr Green. Frances was not to be deterred so easily. ‘We do not, but we are willing to wait until he is available.’ They sat down. From time to time there was the echo of footsteps on the stairs, and messengers went back and forth with notes, some of which the lady clerk stared at before handing on another note; other missives were important enough to be taken into the adjoining office where presumably Mr Green was holding court. It all looked a little drab and cheap, but then Frances supposed that someone coming to engage a private investigator was not concerned with the decor and the man himself might not wish to expend more than necessary on his workaday surroundings. Voices emanating from the inner office told Frances that a client was there, and eventually there was the sound of chairs scraping on a wooden floor, and the door opened. The client who emerged was a lady, heavily veiled, and she hurried out without a sideways glance. Showing her out was a plain-dressed man of about forty with thick eyebrows.

  ‘Mr Green,’ said the clerk, getting to her feet and offering Frances’ card, ‘Miss Doughty and Miss Smith have come to see you. Are you available now, or shall I make an appointment?’

  Green looked at the card without a hint of surprise. ‘Ah, I thought you might call before long. Well, do come in ladies. I am at your service.’ He spoke the English of an Englishman, but his accent was a diluted version of the clerk’s, who Frances was beginning to think must be his mother.

  He stood aside for them to enter.

  ‘Please do take a seat. What can I do for you?’

  The inner office was simply furnished but tidy and clean. He brought forward two well-worn chairs, designed for solidity rather than comfort.

  ‘You know who I am, of course,’ said Frances.

  He smiled. ‘I could hardly fail to know.’

  ‘And you are the man who recently called on Mrs Martin in Brighton, which resulted in her terrible collapse.’

  The smile vanished to be replaced with an expression of regret. ‘That was very unfortunate. Please reassure me that she has recovered from her faint.’

  Frances did not spare him. ‘It was not a faint, Mr Green, she has a weak heart. She is now very ill. She might have died.’

  He paused for a long while. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear it. It is not unknown for ladies to faint away under questioning and I really thought it was nothing more, but I did summon assistance at once. Had I known the lady was in delicate health I might have acted differently, but I was unaware of the position.’

  ‘Can you advise me of the nature of your enquiries?’

  ‘No, Miss Doughty, and I am surprised that you should ask me such a thing. I am sure that if someone other than the police came to you and demanded confidential information then you would not reveal what you were sworn not to.’

  ‘You went to the police about your enquiries in Brighton.’

  ‘I did not. They came to me. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that they were looking into a criminal case, and the information I had uncovered was of importance.’

  Frances was puzzled. ‘Then how did the police learn of your activities?’

  ‘I don’t believe I am at li
berty to answer that question.’

  ‘If it was not for the fact that your client is deceased I might imagine that it was he who went to the police.’

  Mr Green was silent but Frances could see that her comment had surprised him.

  ‘Are you able to tell me for whom you are now acting? Who instructed you to interview Mrs Martin?’

  ‘I think you can easily guess that I am not prepared to name my client.’

  It was all perfectly friendly and business-like, but Frances could see that she would learn no more from him. The visit raised several new questions. Who had alerted the police to Green’s enquiries? After Dobree’s death had another man been instructed to continue on his behalf? It could not be Marsden so perhaps it was Alicia Salter’s new solicitor, Kingsley.

  Frances didn’t know if it was relevant, but she was always interested in secrets that people were unwilling to divulge. Once home, she wrote to Tom and Ratty asking if a watch could be kept on Mr Green’s office to see if anyone went in whom they recognised.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A note arrived from Mr Anthony Munro, uncle of the murdered Albert Munro.

  Dear Miss Doughty,

  Thank you for your recent letter. I am very grateful that you have been kind enough not to trouble my unfortunate brother directly. He has, as I am sure you must realise, been in extremely fragile health since my poor nephew was so cruelly taken from us, and matters have not been helped by the enquiries necessarily made by the police. I am sorry to report that the dreadful crime remains unsolved. If you are able to bring any insight to these terrible events, I believe it might allow my brother a little peace. I have spoken to Jacob and he has agreed to see you as long as I am present at the interview. I am sure I don’t have to appeal to you not to distress him. He will be at home at 10 a.m. next Monday.

  No sooner had Frances replied confirming the appointment then she received a note from Mr Neilson. The brethren of the Literati would be meeting at the Duke of Sussex Tavern at 5 p.m. on Monday for a Lodge of Instruction. All those who had been present on the night of Lancelot Dobree’s disappearance would be there and all had agreed to be interviewed.

  On Monday morning Frances presented herself at the house of mourning. The door was hung with a wreath and inside all was dark and dreary. The maid wore a black crape ribbon on her cap, and anything that might have been considered bright and cheerful was draped in deepest black. Mr Anthony Munro greeted her quietly with solemn eyes before conducting her to a little drawing room.

  ‘It is really very kind of Mr Munro to agree to see me,’ said Frances. ‘I will do my best not to upset him. How is he?’

  ‘Very low, and he will never again be the man he was,’ said the unhappy brother. ‘Albert was his only son, and the business was all for him; everything was for him. His life is empty now; nothing will ever replace that hope for the future or bring him any comfort. And to think it was such a cruel thing to do, all for money. But tell me, what do you hope to learn?’

  ‘A young man came to visit the shop to make enquiries about the property where Mr Dobree’s body was found. I was hoping your brother might be able to describe him.’

  Anthony Munro nodded. ‘I think the police might already have mentioned him but I am not sure if there is anything to be learned. Still, come with me and we will see if there is any more Jacob can remember.’

  Virtually the only light in the drawing room came from the soft flicker of a coal fire that did little to warm the atmosphere. As Frances stood in the doorway, her eyes growing accustomed to the dimness, she was able to pick out items of furniture standing like wooden tombstones, and festoons of dark silk foliage occluding mirrors and pictures. The stricken father, who had aged many years since Frances last saw him, sat in an armchair by the fire, his knees covered by a blanket. On a small table beside him were a candlestick, the candle unlit, and a glass of water. A bible lay on his lap, closed, his hands resting on it, but he did not look at the book, his gaze seemed far away, beyond the interior of the room, but seeing nothing. As Frances entered, he raised his head slowly.

  ‘Jacob, this is Miss Doughty. You remember she was to call and speak to you?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Have they caught the man?’

  ‘Not yet, I am afraid,’ said Frances. ‘But I am hopeful that the criminal will be brought to justice.’

  He nodded and gestured vaguely for her to sit down. Frances sat in an armchair facing the bereaved father, and Mr Anthony Munro also sat, quiet and watchful.

  ‘Mr Munro, I wanted to ask you about number 2 Linfield Gardens.’

  He sighed. ‘Ah, I always knew that property would be troublesome. The owner was so obstinate about price, I thought we would never sell it.’

  ‘Did you have many enquiries?’

  He shook his head. ‘Very few. Even from the outside it could be seen that it was in a very poor state. I think most buyers took a look but decided not to ask further.’

  ‘But you did have an enquirer who came into the office – a young man, I believe.’

  He thought carefully and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to describe him.’

  ‘Oh? I thought I had done this already?’

  ‘I am sure you have. Maybe now you might be able to remember a little more?’

  He lifted the water glass with a shaking hand and took a small sip, then carefully replaced it on the table. Frances noticed that he used his right hand. ‘I didn’t see him very closely. I was in the back office. It was Albert who spoke to him. I do remember thinking at the time that he was very young to be thinking of buying such a property.’

  ‘What did you judge his age to be?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. No more than twenty-five.’

  ‘Perhaps he was a man of substance?’ Frances asked, but Munro shook his head.

  ‘No, not judging from his clothes – in fact, I doubted if he was asking on his own behalf, I thought perhaps he was a servant on an errand for his master. That was Albert’s impression, too. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, what you have said has been very helpful.’ Frances reflected that this visitor, given his age, could not have been Mr Green. ‘Did you see him again?’

  Munro looked vague, and there was a long silence and his brother appeared anxious. ‘Jacob – perhaps you should rest now?’

  ‘Rest?’ exclaimed Munro bitterly. ‘What good is rest to me? I do nothing but rest. No, I was thinking. Yes, he did come to make a second enquiry about the house. He wanted to know if it had been sold. He was hardly there for a minute. Albert told him that it had not and that the seller refused to move over the price. Then he simply went away. I spoke to Albert about it afterwards. There was something not right about that man. I know when someone is a serious buyer and when he isn’t, and that one wasn’t.’

  ‘He did not leave a name? Had he been to your office before?’

  ‘He left no name, and was a stranger to us both.’

  ‘He didn’t borrow the keys to the house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could he have stolen them?’

  ‘No. He had no opportunity to do so.’

  ‘Were there any other enquirers?’

  ‘Mr Lancelot Dobree, now he was a serious client – he was going to come back with Mr Herman, his architect, to look it over, but – but he didn’t. And then there was Mr Johnstone; I think he was the only man to take a look inside, but it was too high a price for him. Albert showed him round —’ he gulped suddenly and tears started in his eyes.

  Anthony Munro rose to his feet. ‘I think that we had better end here,’ he said, anxiously.

  It was clear that the stricken man could not go on, and Frances did not insist, but quickly thanked him for his time and departed. Munro saw her to the door. ‘I hope that interview was helpful to you,’ he said, with the unspoken implication that it had to have been worth the upset to his brother.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I have l
earned much that was new to me. I do wish your brother the very best for his future health. If he should recall anything more, any small detail, do please let me know. Sometimes the very smallest clues can trap a criminal.’

  Frances thought carefully all the way home. There had been three enquirers about the house, two serious ones from Dobree and Johnstone, and two from the same unidentified young man who had not seemed like a genuine buyer.

  Frances wished she could know what the police knew, but it seemed very unlikely that Inspector Payne would tell her anything. She, on the other hand, could tell him what she knew whether he wanted to hear it or not, and whether it made him suspect her of involvement or not. She wrote a letter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Later that day, Frances went to the Duke of Sussex Tavern, where the brethren of the Literati were gathering for their Lodge of Instruction. She brought the list of names supplied by Mr Fiske, and checked that everyone she wanted to see was there. The gentlemen gathered in the lounge bar and Frances was introduced to the Master of the Lodge, Mr Brassington, a tall hearty gentleman of about sixty with a large beard and merry eyes.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Mr Brassington. ‘Mr Neilson has kindly made his office available for the interviews, which I trust will not take too long as we have our usual business in hand. Where would you like to start?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ ventured Frances, ‘I have had an idea that will give me a clearer impression of what occurred on the night in question, the precise course of events, and where each individual was positioned throughout. Would it be possible for the Lodge members to re-enact the ceremony, only with myself standing in the place of Lancelot Dobree?’