‘Would he have lent them to an architect such as Mr Dobree’s friend, Mr Herman?’
‘Oh yes, I have known him for many years.’
So, thought Frances, Dobree or another man could have toured the property unaccompanied and without risk of being observed, abstracted the key to the gate, and left the inner bolt open. This would only have admitted someone to the yard, but it was a yard with a compartment in which a stolen emerald ring had been found, a yard where a body had been left to be devoured by rats. Making a copy of a bunch of keys might have aroused suspicion, and involved a third party, but whoever took what appeared to be an old neglected key must have thought its absence would not be noticed.
Frances tried to think back to her first visit to the property. Had the key been there when she entered the yard? She didn’t know. Everyone present had been anxiously searching for a missing and possibly ill or injured man, and once the body was found that had occupied all their attention. ‘But you would never have lent the keys to the young man who came to enquire, since he was not known to you?’
‘No. He was not a serious buyer. I don’t know what his business was. Albert told me he saw him again, lurking about in the street, and was sure he was up to no good.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, did I not say? It must have been the day after Dobree’s body was found. Albert recognised him and asked him if he was still interested in the property but the fellow became quite alarmed and took to his heels.’
CHAPTER FORTY
Old Mr Munro soon tired, and Frances was pleased to see him safely taken home by his brother. She hardly had time to think about what she had learned when Ratty arrived and was soon warming himself before the fire.
‘Well I found Mr Capper, just the way you thought,’ said Ratty. ‘Went round askin’ all the carriers and carters and found one who remembered takin’ ’em to their new ’ome, which was out Camden way. Then I went round all the rug makers in Camden and found ’im. ’E weren’t all that ’appy ter be found. I tole ’im I was wantin’ ter know what ’e knew about Mr Cullum, and when I said the name ’e went white as a ghost. Took some time ter convince ’im that I weren’t workin’ for Cullum.’
‘If he thought you were working for him then he must think Cullum is still alive,’ said Frances.
‘I fink ’e knows it,’ said Ratty.
‘Do you think he would be willing to come and see me and tell me what he knows?’
Ratty shook his head. ‘Nah, that I’m sure of. Capper said ’e’d never talk ter a detective or walk inter a police station. I fink ’e’s scared that Cullum would get ter know of it. No, these were ’is terms. ’E said ’e would tell me what ’e knew face ter face, but in return I was never ter come near ’im again.’
‘And did he tell you?’
‘’E did, an’ very interestin’ it was too. Got it all up ’ere,’ Ratty tapped the side of his head. His introduction to the arts of reading and writing had been recent and he had developed an excellent memory that served him well.
‘Is he related to Jane Capper?’
‘Yes, ’e’s the brother. An’ ’is sister Lottie looked after the Cullum children after the mother died.’
‘What did he have to say about Mr Cullum?’
‘Never trusted the man and dint want ’is sister to marry ’im. But she were determined, an’ ’e couldn’t make her change ’er mind.’
‘What does he know about the arguments with Mr Salter and the disappearance?’
‘Well, accordin’ to ’is sister, Cullum got in with a bad lot and wanted to drag Salter inter it as well, ter make money off stolen jewels, but Salter wasn’t ’avin’ any ’v it. An’ then Salter wanted ’im out ’v the business altogether.’
‘That was after his illness? Did you find out about that?’
Ratty grinned. ‘Cullum were never ill, that were just a story.’
‘You mean he was away committing burglaries? I believe Mr Salter suspected as much.’
‘Naw, ’e never did that kind ’v stuff, but ’e did take some silver off a man ’e shouldn’t ’v crossed. Name ’v David Dunne. When Dunne found out ’e’d been cheated ’e found Cullum an’ shot ’im.’
‘He was shot?’ Frances exclaimed.
‘Oh yeah, that Dunne, ’e were a real bad ’un, ’e dint care what ’e did.’
‘So Cullum wasn’t ill but injured. Where was he shot? Is there a scar?’
‘D’no. Any’ow, Capper thinks that Cullum is still around, an’ ’e don’t mean ter take any risks. Cullum don’t ferget wrongs, and ’e don’t fergive. ’E don’t do the dirty work ’imself, though, ’e gets others ter do it for ’im. Capper thinks Cullum ’ad David Dunne killed. That why ’e’s so scared.’
‘Dunne was killed about a year after Cullum went missing.’
‘Yeah. P’raps it took ’im that long ter find ’im.’
‘Does Capper know that Cullum is alive? Has he actually seen Cullum himself or is he just guessing? Is that the reason he moved away?’
‘’E wun’t tell me no more. But I fink there’s fings ’e knows an’ is not tellin’, ’cos ’e knows what c’d ‘appen if ’e does.’
Frances decided it was high time she found out more about the death of David Dunne. Early next morning, she paid a visit to the offices of the Bayswater Chronicle, where so much of her researches took place. Mr Gillan was just about to leave but delayed his departure to speak to Frances. ‘Now you can’t deny that you’re back doing your detective work,’ he said. ‘Is there a story in that?’
‘Perhaps, but I’d rather you held your fire until there is more to know.’
‘You always say that,’ he grumbled.
‘And don’t you get a better story by waiting a while? If there is anything sensational to print, then I promise it will be yours.’
‘I suppose I shall have to be happy with that,’ he sighed. ‘But at least give me a hint of what you’re about. It’s the murder of Lancelot Dobree, isn’t it? Your footprints are all over that one.’
‘The reason I am here is to find out more about a man called David Dunne.’
Gillan looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Dunne? That was the jewel robber, wasn’t it? Nasty piece of work. But that was a good few years ago. Isn’t he dead?’
‘That is what I’m interested in finding out. There must be reports of his death. It was after the Hayworth Hill Manor robbery in 1857.’
‘That was a big case, I remember. Wasn’t there a policeman shot and killed? We’re bound to have a file on it. Wait there, I’ll see what I can find.’
Frances sat down at a desk. All around her were men, and a few women too, bent over their desks, writing and sketching. Some had copies of the daily papers open in front of them and were busy compiling snippets of news into smaller pieces, some were going through correspondence, others were working on columns of advertising. All was happening at a fierce pace, for news faded faster than flowers, soon losing its shine and savour. In a day, it would be old and stale and would have to be cast away and replenished.
Gillan returned with a folder and put it on the desk in front of Frances. ‘That’s what we have. I need to go out now; just leave this on the desk when you’re finished, and I hope to hear more.’ He winked and hurried away.
Frances opened the folder and found a selection of cuttings taken from both daily and local newspapers. Although the robbery had taken place in Sussex, it had attracted the attention of the London papers because there had been early rumours of the involvement of a gang operating from a base in Shepherd’s Bush. In 1857, three men had broken into Hayworth Hill Manor House and threatened the servants with revolvers before coshing a footman, holding the elderly owners at gunpoint, and stuffing family silver and jewellery into sacks. After leaving the house, the sight of men carrying heavy sacks had attracted the attention of a policeman, who blew his whistle for assistance and, despite having revolvers waved at him, gave chase. Frances could only wonder at how an unarmed con
stable was expected to tackle three men with revolvers, but that was what this young man had attempted to do, and he was shot to death for his bravery. Although the robbers had worn masks, they were known villains, and the few details of their clothing that the victims were able to describe soon suggested to the police whom the trio might be. Two of the men were arrested, but David Dunne, thought to be the worst of the three, had vanished. None of the stolen silver and jewellery was found apart from a ring that one of the men had given to his sweetheart and was identified as part of the haul. Both eventually confessed, but denied having shot the policeman. That, they said, was the work of Dunne. The court was not impressed by this claim. All three had gone out armed; all three were prepared to use their weapons. Which one of the three had actually done so was not of any moment; they were all equally guilty. Dunne’s two associates were, despite loud protests, found guilty of murder and sentenced to hang. They went to their deaths with curses in their throats.
There were reports in the newspapers about police searches for David Dunne, but he continued to elude capture. A year after the robbery, however, he was found stabbed to death in an alleyway beside a beer house of decidedly unsavoury reputation in Notting Hill. Inspector Payne had spoken of a brawl but he had been mistaken. Either that or all those present in the beer house that night had either been looking the other way or suffered a dreadful lapse of memory. No one recalled a fight, or even an altercation. No one remembered Dunne or anyone resembling Dunne being in the beer house. The inquest had been adjourned to find more witnesses, but when it reconvened all they could bring was a child who claimed to have seen Dunne, or someone resembling him, weaving drunkenly out of the beer house in great good humour accompanied by another man. The two had disappeared into the alleyway together. Under further questioning, however, the child became confused about the date on which this incident had taken place and his testimony was discounted. The jury found that David Dunne had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. The newspapers assumed that Dunne had been trying to sell some of his stolen goods in the beer house, and been accompanied to a secret location to complete the transaction only to be killed and robbed. The coroner observed that should the staff and customers of the beer house ever retrieve their memories they might be able to tell a better story.
That was the last cutting in the folder.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Was Cullum still alive, and if so, was he the spider at the centre of the web? More to the point, who was he? All Frances knew was that he was in his sixties, knowledgeable about silver, was left handed, and had an old injury from a shooting. There was more than one reason to find him, since it would remove all suspicion from the Salter family concerning his disappearance, trap a killer and remove a dangerous man from society. Could she do all this? There was a time when Frances felt she could do almost anything. Then came a time when she thought she was of no use at all. That was passing, and she was left with the conclusion that nothing would be achieved without trying.
Frances returned to Kensington with a host of unanswered questions. She took another look at the property at 2 Linfield Gardens, hoping to see it in the way Lancelot Dobree must have done, eyeing the detail as if she was a potential buyer. As she gazed up at the front, with its rotting window frames and crumbling brickwork, the door opened and Mr Johnstone emerged, tucking his walking stick under his arm in order to pull the door shut behind him. It was the right hand, she observed, that both plied the walking stick and closed the door. Frances thought he might see her, but he turned away and walked up Linfield Gardens away from the High Street. She continued her tour around the property, noticing the condition of the back wall, its powdery mortar leaving deep gaps between the bricks, then moving on into the alleyway. All was quiet, with only the occasional passer-by across the end of the alley. The high small windows of the warehouse at the end of the cobbled way afforded no reasonable view; in fact, gazing up at the rear of the tavern premises, she could see that there was only one window which looked directly out across the lodging house yard, the small one on the upper landing of the tavern.
Frances went into the tavern and once again astonished the patrons of the public bar, some of whom had seen her before and started muttering amongst themselves. This time she mounted the back staircase, and at the top of the stairs she stood and looked out of the little window. It was the only possible location from which one might view anything that took place secretly in the yard.
As she stood there she heard a clatter from below and a charwoman with a bucket and mop began wielding a brush on the stairs. Frances waited for her to reach the landing and greeted her.
‘I think you’re lost, Miss,’ said the charlady.
‘Oh, I came up here to admire the view,’ said Frances.
‘Really?’ said the woman dubiously, eyeing Frances up and down and concluding that the young lady was probably an eccentric.
‘Your window here is so beautifully clean, one can look out and see such a long way. Tell me, does anyone else come up here to look?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Miss. Oh, there was an old gent up here once. I came up here to do the stairs and he was standing where you are now, just looking out.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No, but he’s one of those Masonic gents. You see them here quite a lot.’
Frances showed her the sketch of Lancelot Dobree. ‘Was that the man?’
‘Could be. Why?’
‘Do you know what day you saw him?’
‘Oh, I don’t remember! No wait, I tell a lie. It was the day before my Susan went into labour. I had to get my sister to come and clean while I took care of the baby. Let me think.’ There was a long pause for thought until the charlady came up with the date. It was a week before Lancelot Dobree’s death, the last time he had attended a meeting of Mulberry Lodge.
‘Did he say why he was looking out?’
She scratched her head. ‘Now I think about it he said something about wanting to buy the house over the way.’ She peered out of the window and pointed to the yard of 2 Linfield Gardens. ‘That one. Then he tried the door to the room, the one where the Masonic gents meet, only it was locked up, like it always is. I said “You won’t get back down that way, you’ll have to use the stairs”.’
‘“Isn’t there a key?” he said. I says “Yes there is, but you’ll have to ask Mr Neilson about it because he keeps it.” And he says “Thank you I will.” And I says “You know you’ve got some rivals. Same time as you gents have your meetings in that there room, there’s other gents meeting in the yard across the way.” I don’t think he liked that idea because he gave me a very funny look.’
‘What do the gents in the yard do?’
‘Oh I don’t know, because they’re in the dark.’
‘How long have they been meeting there?’
‘Only since the old lady moved out.’
And now Frances thought she knew a little more. Because of Dobree’s interest in the property he must have inadvertently seen something while viewing its exterior that had led him to believe that the empty house was being used for criminal purposes. How he had connected that with his son-in-law she couldn’t say, but it seemed that he had, and in view of Vernon Salter’s possible involvement he had decided not to go to the police but check for himself whether or not it was true before making any damaging accusations. This was not, she felt sure, because of any desire to protect his son-in-law from prosecution, or even out of any affection for him, but because he did not want to take any action that would distress his daughter without being absolutely certain of his ground. Not only had he found the only vantage point from which he could spy on the activities in the yard, he had also discovered when those activities occurred.
Frances returned downstairs and located Mr Neilson at his desk. He looked up hopefully. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I would like you to cast your mind back to the day of the last meeting of Mulberry Lodge which Mr Dobree attended.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Did he by any chance ask to borrow the Lodge room keys?’
‘No, I would have remembered something like that and told you.’
‘He didn’t ask you where you kept the keys?’
‘No. We did have a conversation, but it never touched on that subject.’
‘What was the subject?’
‘Improvements to the Lodge. More comfortable seating for our elderly brethren. He offered to make a donation.’
‘Where and when did that conversation take place?’
‘Here. Before the Lodge meeting.’
‘Did anyone come into the office while you were speaking?’
‘Possibly. I don’t exactly recall.’
Frances knew better than to prod him for memories. In any case, she thought she had the answer.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
In the midst of all this uncertainty Frances was pleased to find some activity that assisted her thought. That afternoon she went to Professor Pounder’s academy to take part in the class taught by Miss Harrison. Her instructor was small, lean and dark with sharp little eyes and shoulders that never tired. She almost never spoke during the classes. She strode out to face the group of ladies, holding her clubs, then, with one clasped in each hand she would take a breath, stare straight ahead as if fixing her gaze so far distant it appeared to reach India, and raise her arms to begin the exercises, which the class members were expected to imitate. They began slowly, raising, lowering, swinging, rotating, small movements which gradually progressed, becoming larger until all the class swung their clubs like the turning of great wheels.
It was, as had been explained to Frances when she first began, an activity that could be practised by all, wooden clubs of various sizes and weights for ladies, and larger heavier ones for men. The rhythm helped calm the mind, the exercises promoted flexibility of wrists, elbows and shoulders, and expanded the chest, strengthening the action of the lungs. Ladies were usually advised to wear a loose chemise with light or even no lacing, to gain the best advantage. The first few classes Frances had attended she had found the movements harder to do than they looked and was grateful to be allowed to start slowly as a beginner as she had more than once struck herself on the ear. With practice, she gained in confidence, and the exercise became more natural and instinctive. At home there was room for some of the smaller, gentler swings. Frances was too sensible to carry the clubs about openly, and had sewn a deep pocket inside her cloak where they could easily be concealed.
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