Following her conversation with the charlady at the tavern, Frances swung the clubs and allowed her mind to explore what she had learned. It seemed very probable that Lancelot Dobree, when visiting the tavern for a meeting of Mulberry Lodge, had taken the opportunity to look over the outside of the building he wished to purchase. It was possible that when doing so, something had come to his attention that suggested the yard was being used as a meeting place by a criminal gang. Frances recalled that when she had stood in the alleyway outside the yard gate she had been able to view the upper window of the tavern, the only place from which the yard could be overlooked. Anyone, customer or staff, could have had access to that window. Had Dobree seen someone there? Perhaps a member of the gang acting as lookout? Was that why he had mounted the back stairs to check the view for himself? In doing so he had learned that meetings of criminals took place at the same time as those of the Lodge.
Dobree ought to have taken his suspicions to the police, but he did not, he decided to make his own enquiries, and for some reason Frances still could not understand, Dobree suspected his own son-in-law of colluding with the gang. Perhaps he thought Vernon Salter was the man at the window, using his visits to the Lodge to conceal a darker purpose, although it was unlikely that a distant view through thick glass would have been clear enough to positively identify him.
Dobree, she thought, was most probably the man who had hired Mr Green to follow his son-in-law, but he had not confided his real suspicions to family or friends, with the sole exception of his solicitor Henry Marsden. The more Frances thought about it the stranger this seemed. Why would Dobree tell Marsden and not a close friend? Marsden had claimed that Dobree had told him only that he had unsettling concerns about Vernon Salter, but his client had not gone on to engage him to look into them.
Frances was finding Marsden’s story increasingly unconvincing. What was he omitting? She was reminded of what Wheelock had revealed. Marsden had good reason to resent the man who had married the fortune he had had his eye on. He had designed the marriage contract hoping it would put an end to the marriage plans, but had succeeded only in preventing Vernon Salter having access to the Dobree fortune. Would the solicitor lose any chance at the inquest of getting his final revenge? Frances didn’t think so. If he had information that could destroy Vernon Salter, he might have kept silent at the behest of his client, but after Dobree’s death there was no restraint. He would have told all. Marsden’s incomplete account at the inquest didn’t make any sense.
Dobree, she recalled, had only started to display unsettled behaviour after the last time he saw Marsden, two weeks before his death. A week later he had been seen spying on the yard from the upper window of the tavern. She could imagine Dobree becoming suspicious, watching the house for unusual goings on, and afterwards confiding in Marsden, but when he had looked out over the yard, he hadn’t seen Marsden for a week, and didn’t see him again before his death. Somehow events just seemed to be the wrong way around.
When realisation came, Frances almost lost her rhythm and it was only by good fortune that she didn’t strike herself on the back of the head. She would never be able to prove it, but all was explicable if Marsden had lied to the inquest and Dobree had never told his solicitor that he suspected his son-in-law. It had been the other way about. Supposing Marsden had commented to Dobree about the number of jewel robberies that had taken place in the Kensington area recently and hinted that Vernon might, given the doubts about his family background, have been involved? Dobree had followed up the suspicions planted in his mind by Marsden, and stumbled across something that had led to his death.
Perhaps Marsden had assumed that Dobree would simply employ someone to keep a watch on his son-in-law and not take any personal action. In doing so he had misjudged his client’s devotion to his daughter, which had led him to keep his worst suspicions to himself, and undertake his own enquiries. Frances was so angry that she could barely concentrate, and it was lucky that the class was almost at an end.
It was dark as she left the academy, and she hailed a cab. Despite the expenditure of energy, she felt stronger, and not at all weary, and had to quell a wholly unwise temptation to visit Mr Marsden with her Indian clubs and explain to him the error of his ways. As soon as she reached home, she would sit down and commit all her thoughts to paper.
The street was deserted as she stepped down from the cab, but as she headed towards her front door, key in hand, she heard a slight movement behind her, the faint scrape of a boot on the path, and turned to see a tall figure who must have been concealed behind a hedge. To her astonishment the man who stood before her was none other than Harry Abbott, the young man from the desk of the Portobello Hotel, who had been missing, thought dead, for several days. The light of the nearby gas lamp illuminated his face. He was dishevelled, wild-eyed and panting, his arms folded tightly across his body. One side of his face and jaw were badly bruised, his lips cut and crusted in dried blood, the nose swollen into an ugly, shapeless protuberance.
‘Mr Abbott!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever has happened to you? Do you need help?’
He uttered a wrenching sob. ‘It wasn’t my idea! But I’ve got to do it.’
She was about to ask him what it was he had to do, when he unfolded his arms and she saw that he held a hammer in his right hand.
Even if she could have outrun him there was nowhere to go. She was trapped in the area in front of the house, surrounded by a wall, hedges and the gate. She could not get past him into the street, and there was no time to get indoors. To turn her back would have been fatal, and a shout for help would be useless and far too late. She tried to remain calm. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she said, as evenly as possible. ‘I can see you are hurt. Why don’t you put down the hammer, come inside and have your injuries tended?’
He shook his head. ‘No, no choice,’ he lamented.
‘Of course you have a choice. I don’t know what has driven you to this, but if you can’t tell me, and won’t let me help you, then go now, go home, and I promise that I will say nothing about it.’
He gulped. ‘You’ll say nothing, Miss Doughty. That’s the whole idea.’ He took a deep breath, raised the hammer and ran at her.
There had been enough time as they spoke for Frances, under the cover of her cloak, to slip a club from her pocket, and now she swung it at him as hard as she could. There was a loud crack like the sound of willow on leather as the wood contacted Harry Abbott’s head. His knees buckled, but Frances never even saw him slump to the ground. She turned and ran up the front steps, and with trembling fingers that could barely hold the key unlocked the front door and almost fell into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind her with immense relief. Her detective work had put her in danger before, and on those occasions she had been unable to save herself, relying on the stout arms of Sarah or the commanding speed of Mr W. Grove, but this was the first time she had faced death alone. She hurried up the stairs, and to her surprise saw Sarah and Inspector Payne coming down to meet her.
‘We heard something,’ said Sarah.
‘And there’s a man lying on your front path,’ added Payne, as if this was an eventuality he found unsurprising.
‘It’s Mr Abbott,’ said Frances. ‘Harry Abbott, the missing man. He accosted me just now and tried to kill me.’
‘Are you hurt?’ demanded Sarah.
‘No, I don’t think so. He had a hammer, he tried to hit me with it, he said that it was something he had to do. I had the clubs with me, so I struck him.’
Mrs Embleton appeared from her apartment below stairs. ‘Is there something the matter?’ she asked, peering up at them nervously.
‘No need to worry yourself,’ said Payne. ‘There was a disturbance in the street. I am an Inspector of police and I will deal with it. You just go back downstairs, now.’
The landlady hesitated and then with a doubtful glance at Frances reluctantly retired.
‘Miss Smith, you take Miss Doughty up to your rooms
and I’ll see what’s what.’
Sarah nodded. She took Frances by the elbow, removed the club from her hands – until then Frances hadn’t even realised that she was still holding it – and accompanied her up the stairs. The parlour was cosy and comforting in the soft firelight, and Sarah, with a gentle firmness, guided Frances to an armchair and fetched a glass of brandy.
Frances hardly tasted it as it went down. ‘I hit him,’ she said, ‘with the club. I don’t know how much he is hurt. But he was already bruised about the face. I think someone beat him and made him try to kill me.’
‘I always knew the exercises would come in useful,’ said Sarah, as a blast from a police whistle sounded outside. She looked at the end of the club and frowned. ‘Well, you did the right thing. Do you want another brandy?’
‘No, I think the Inspector will want to question me and I need a clear head. Did you hear what happened?’
‘No voices, just a bang.’ Sarah drew the curtains and peered out of the window.
‘What can you see?’
‘I think the man’s still down, Inspector Payne’s looking him over.’
‘I know it sounds strange but I really hope I didn’t hurt him too much. He looked so desperate.’
‘Constables are running up, now,’ said Sarah. ‘Payne’s giving orders. I expect they’ll wheel Abbott off in an ambulance.’ There was a long pause as she continued to look.
‘What have you seen?’ asked Frances.
‘Just more police coming up. Payne will let us know what’s going on soon enough.’
Frances felt strangely calm, which was worrying as she thought it might presage a breakdown, but as each moment passed she thought she might come through it. ‘It’s very peculiar,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t feel afraid. I suppose I didn’t have time to think, I just did what I had to. It was he who was afraid. I thought I could calm him by talking, and I did try, but he didn’t think he had a choice.’
‘Best not to think about it,’ said Sarah.
‘Why was the Inspector here?’ asked Frances.
‘More questions. He didn’t say what about.’
It was some while before Inspector Payne knocked on the door and was shown up. He fixed Frances with a heavy stare, then sat down and took out his notebook. ‘Now then, before we go any further I want you to repeat what you said to me earlier.’
‘Yes, well, Mr Abbott approached me from behind, I think he had been hiding behind the hedges just in front of the house, waiting for me. I heard a noise and turned around and he was in a very agitated state and said he was going to do something and then I saw he had a hammer.’
‘Which hand was the hammer in?’
Frances thought for a moment. ‘His right hand. I tried to calm him down, but he raised the hammer and came forward to hit me with it. But I had the Indian clubs with me and hit him with one. I must have knocked him unconscious. I hope he isn’t hurt too badly. But he was afraid; he had been beaten. Someone made him do it. Ask him, he’ll tell you.’
‘I’m not asking him anything – no one will. He’s dead, Miss Doughty. You killed him.’
It was a few moments before the words had any meaning. ‘No … are you sure?’
Sarah came up and squeezed Frances’ shoulder, and feeling that steadying pressure she realised the reason for her companion’s recent silence as she gazed out on the scene; she must have seen the body being removed.
‘No doubt about it,’ said Payne.
‘Well, I am very sorry to know that,’ said Frances. ‘But if I had not defended myself, I would be dead. I did try to persuade him not to attack me.’
Payne leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Do you know why I was out there so long?’
‘Doing what was necessary I suppose.’
‘I was looking for that hammer you said he had. Because there wasn’t a hammer in his hand or on the ground. I got three constables shining their lanterns about, but there’s nothing to be seen. No water troughs, no drains nearby, nowhere it could have gone. There was no hammer. So it’s beginning to look as if you made it up. Which means that you attacked an unarmed man with your club, a weapon which you have been training to use for some while, striking him a violent blow on the forehead which stove in his skull and killed him on the spot.’ Payne shook his head. ‘If it was up to me I’d ban those classes and ban women carrying clubs about the street.’
‘Well it isn’t up to you,’ said Sarah, rather more sharply than was advisable in addressing an officer of the law. ‘There’s men out there think it’s a sport to beat women with their fists. If we can save our own lives with clubs and sticks then that’s what we need to be prepared to do.’
‘Only that wasn’t what Miss Doughty did, was it?’ Payne rose to his feet and addressed Frances. ‘Miss Doughty, it is my duty to take you into custody on suspicion of murdering Harry Abbott. Please accompany me to Paddington Green station, where I shall hand you over to the officers there with the advice that you should be formally charged.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Frances knew better than to argue. The calm of quiet resignation settled on her, and she put a restraining hand on Sarah’s arm. ‘Sarah, I am content to go. I am sure that when daylight comes the hammer will be found and then I will be released. In the meantime, could you advise Mr Bramley of what has happened.’
Payne seized the club and looked at the head which, Frances now saw, was smeared with blood and hair. ‘Evidence,’ he said, tucking it under his arm. ‘So, are you coming quietly or do I have to cuff you?’
‘I have no intention of making a fuss,’ said Frances.
‘Where’s the other one? I know there’s two.’
Frances took the second club from her pocket and handed it over. He stared at it as if expecting to find evidence of a previous killing, but was disappointed.
‘Any more weapons about? Knives in your pockets? Guns in your bag?’
She shook her head.
‘Miss Smith, I would be obliged if you could open Miss Doughty’s cloak and demonstrate that there is nothing hidden underneath.’
Frances nodded assent and with considerable ill will Sarah complied.
Payne nodded. ‘There’s a cab waiting.’
As Frances left she noticed with very little surprise that a constable had been posted outside her door to ensure that she did not make a dash for freedom. Abbott’s body had already been removed. While she had no great wish to see it, had he still lain there it would have helped her to understand what had just happened. As it was, it was hard for her to believe he was actually dead. She, Payne and the constable climbed aboard the cab, which drew away smartly.
‘Inspector, why did you come to see me this evening?’
‘No questions! In fact, don’t even speak!’
Frances had a whole battery of questions, about Harry Abbott, about David Dunne, about George Cullum, about Riley, and she also wanted to tell him her conclusions concerning Lancelot Dobree and Mr Marsden, but she remained silent.
At Paddington Green she was delivered to the desk where the astonished sergeant booked her in and handed her over to a constable who conducted her to a cell. Frances had visited clients here before, but this was the first time she had herself been a prisoner. She wrapped her cloak closely about her and sat on the wooden bench. A single rough blanket folded at one end held little promise of warmth, but she draped it over herself, trying not to inhale its wet wool aroma. The air was chill and the stone walls slick with damp. A tattered modesty curtain almost managed to hide a convenience in one corner, its odour mingling with the general nauseous taint of the cells.
Heavy feet trudged slowly along the corridor and stopped outside. Frances looked up and saw Inspector Sharrock leaning against the bars with an expression of deep sadness. ‘Oh dear me, Miss Doughty, what have you done now?’
‘I’m afraid it’s a misunderstanding,’ she said.
He grunted. ‘I can’t free you this time. But I’ll do whatever I can.’ He sighed
and walked away.
After the initial shock of her arrest was over, Frances found herself praying for the soul of the man she had inadvertently killed, hoping he would find peace and a better purpose in the afterlife. Even as she turned over the events in her mind, assuring herself that there was nothing else she could have done, she felt inescapably guilty, horrified that a man had died at her hands.
Frances’ next feeling was one of frustration. She had no doubt that she would eventually be cleared of suspicion and released, but it was annoying to be trapped in a cell when she needed to be taking action. Her only means of continuing her work was through her agents and as a spirit of determination set in she decided to do just that. Her enforced incarceration would not mean enforced idleness. She could still think.
Her first visitor was Sarah, who brought the solicitor, Mr Bramley, to her cell, together with a welcome basket of food, a quilt, a pillow and a fresh notebook and pencil. ‘Not that you’ll be here long,’ said Sarah defiantly, with a meaningful look at the solicitor as if to say that she expected prompt and effective action.
‘Have they questioned you yet?’ asked Bramley, who looked increasingly regretful that he had agreed to act for Frances each time they met.
‘No, I expect they are waiting for the light to make a better search.’
‘I tried looking around,’ said Sarah, ‘but the police are not letting anyone else near the front of the house. In any case, if I was to find the hammer they’d only think I put one there to save you. Mrs Embleton is in a state, but she’s sure you weren’t to blame. The police are going to all the neighbours asking if anyone saw what happened, but I don’t think anyone did.’
A True and Faithful Brother Page 28
