A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Mr Neilson, of course. And Mr Chappell and Mr Pollard who look over the Lodge room before the meetings and check it is all secure.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No one else has occasion to know.’

  ‘Who else of the tavern staff other than yourself might go to the box to get a key – any key?’

  MacNulty gave this some thought. ‘Mr Tetlow might fetch the key to the dining room for me.’

  ‘Does he lodge at the tavern?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you do, as do Mr Spevin and Mr Capper. Do they go to the box for keys?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. I wouldn’t ask them to.’

  ‘Might I ask Mr MacNulty a question?’ Frances interposed.

  Sharrock nodded.

  ‘Mr Neilson told me you supplied the key box. Did you make it yourself?’

  ‘No, I’m not that handy with woodworking and the like. Spevin made it. He does all the carpentry for the tavern.’

  ‘What’s she doing here!’ demanded Spevin when he was brought in.

  ‘Now then, a bit more politeness would be in order,’ advised Sharrock.

  ‘All right, but I haven’t done anything!’ Spevin was pushed into a chair by the constable, where he sat trying to look unconcerned.

  ‘Let’s begin at the beginning, Mr Spevin. How long have you worked at the Duke of Sussex Tavern?’

  ‘I’ve been at the Duke’s for six months. No complaints.’

  Frances and Sharrock exchanged glances.

  ‘How long have you known Harry Abbott?’

  ‘Not sure I do know him.’

  ‘Really? Because we have a witness who saw you talking to Mr Abbott on Westbourne Grove Gardens not long before he was killed. You were urging him to do something. Were you telling him to kill Miss Doughty?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  There was a knock at the door and a constable entered with a note for Sharrock. The Inspector studied it carefully and nodded to the constable, who left. ‘I think you did know Mr Abbott, and you spoke to him last night. I think he did, at your urging, try to kill Miss Doughty with the hammer you gave him. Quite a distinctive hammer, it’s got the name of your father’s business on it, so of course you didn’t want to leave it lying around to be found, and after Mr Abbott was killed you ran up and took it away. My constable has just found it in your room at the tavern.’

  Spevin looked a little less comfortable, but remained obstinate. ‘It’s just a hammer. I use it for my work.’

  ‘We’ll be having a close look at it. Who knows but there might be some dried blood on it. What have you been up to, Mr Spevin?’

  ‘Nothing. And if there is blood on the hammer it’s mine. Or I might have killed a rat with it.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Why did you tell Harry Abbott to kill Miss Doughty? Come on, I want the truth!’

  ‘I didn’t. I don’t believe you’ve even got a witness,’ he added defiantly.

  ‘Let’s go back a bit and talk about the night Mr Dobree was killed. What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘Nothing. I was working in the cellars. I’ve been asked about it before. I don’t know anything; I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘What about your friend Mr Capper? Where was he?’

  ‘In the store room. I told you.’

  ‘Who killed Mr Dobree?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Cullum?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen Mr Spevin, I think you know a lot more than you’re saying, so I’m going to send you back to the cells and let you think about it for a bit. And I’m going to talk to Mr Capper and see what he has to say.’

  Spevin shrugged, and was removed.

  ‘I think he was the man talking to Harry Abbott, and I think he took the hammer away, but whatever he’s done he’ll never admit it,’ said Frances. ‘The man behind all this is Mr Cullum, the missing partner of Vernon Salter’s father. He disappeared in 1857 but I think he is here under another name. He’s a vengeful, cold-hearted man and will kill anyone who crosses him. I think he ordered the beating of Harry Abbott and also told Abbott to kill me.’

  ‘But who is Mr Cullum?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  The constable knocked on the door again. ‘Visitor for you, sir, a Mr Wheelock.’

  ‘What can he want?’ said Sharrock irritably. ‘I don’t like that man!’

  ‘Says it’s about Mr Capper. He’s here on behalf of Mr Marsden the solicitor to look into the situation.’

  Wheelock arrived with his inky grin. ‘Good morning, Inspector! And to you, Miss Doughty! News is all over Bayswater that you’re being had up for murder. I’d have thought they’d have hanged you by now.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Frances coldly.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of Mr John Capper. If you’re going to question him I will be here to represent him, but I will have to warn him to say nothing at all until he comes to court. If he comes to court, that is, because I don’t think you have a case against him.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Sharrock. ‘Is his friend Mr Spevin a client of yours as well?’

  ‘Spevin? No.’

  ‘I didn’t know Mr Capper had appointed a solicitor,’ said Frances.

  ‘Well, there’s a lot you don’t know,’ sneered Wheelock.

  ‘Who asked you to come here?’ Sharrock demanded.

  ‘My employer, Mr Marsden. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘And who asked Mr Marsden?’

  ‘I’m not sure we can give away clients’ secrets.’

  Frances addressed Sharrock. ‘Inspector, when Mr Capper was brought here, did he send a message to anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who saw him being removed?’

  ‘We did it as quietly as possible. The tavern wasn’t yet open, which was a good thing. The landlord knew about it of course, and there were some people in the street who saw it.’ Sharrock turned to his visitor. ‘So, Mr Wheelock, it seems that Mr Capper hasn’t appointed you to look after his interests and may not even want you to advise him. I think we need to ask him about it.’

  Frances had a moment of inspiration. ‘Mr Wheelock, am I correct in guessing that Mr Capper has a benefactor – possibly one he knows nothing about? A family member, perhaps, who has become estranged from him and therefore wants his interest kept secret?’

  Wheelock’s eyes narrowed and Frances knew she had hit the mark. ‘I am not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Do you think,’ Sharrock asked Frances, ‘that the identity of this person is of importance in this case?’

  ‘I think it is the essential piece of information that would solve it.’

  ‘Really?’ Sharrock turned to the visitor with a broad smile. ‘Well, Mr Wheelock, I think before we go any further we need to know who is assisting Mr Capper.’

  There was a hesitation and a sucking of stained teeth.

  ‘Unless you would like me to arrest you for obstructing a police enquiry.’

  Wheelock scowled, which was never an attractive sight. ‘All I can say is that a man visited Mr Marsden. I have known him visit before. His name is Kennard. He’s a clerk of some sort.’

  Sharrock turned to Frances. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes. He is Mr Johnstone’s assistant. He takes notes because Mr Johnstone can’t write. Unless —,’ another thought struck her. ‘Mr Wheelock, does Mr Johnstone not write because he never learned to write, or because he is physically unable to?’

  ‘Oh he’s clever enough, educated and all that; but there’s something the matter with his hand.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Once Mr Johnstone was safely in custody it was surprising how many people who had been unwilling to speak before suddenly found their tongues loosened. Vernon Salter and John Capper’s uncle both identified Johnstone as the missing Cullum. Johnstone’s left wrist bore the mark of a bullet wound that had been so d
estructive that his hand had contracted into a useless claw, afflicted with pain that rendered him unable even to grasp a pen.

  John Capper, stung with grief, refused to remain silent under questioning, and admitted that he had been asked by Spevin to carry out some dealings in small packages, which had initially been hidden in the tavern’s storeroom. He was aware that Spevin got his instructions from another man, but didn’t know who that man was. Capper had not been comfortable about what he was being asked to do, as he was sure it was illegal, but the payment he received was generous, and very welcome in view of his wedding plans.

  Mr Neilson’s vigilance meant that it was too risky to have the little parcels handed over inside the tavern, and Spevin had been ordered to obtain a copy of the back door key leading into the alley so deliveries could be made unobserved. They knew they would never get Mr Neilson’s key, which was as good as chained to him, but Mr MacNulty for all that he prided himself, was less careful. The conspirators had to wait for an occasion when MacNulty was about to supervise a delivery, and succeeded on the second attempt. Spevin had created a distraction by dropping some glassware in the storeroom. The noise and mess had sent MacNulty to investigate and Capper had offered to open the door for him. The key was in his hands for less than a minute, but it was enough time to take an impression using material provided by Spevin. A few days later the duplicate key arrived.

  Storing the packages was another difficulty. Once or twice the sharp eye of Mr Neilson had almost caught them out, but then they were informed that since the lodging house next door was empty and likely to remain so, it would become their new centre of operations. Spevin had told Capper that his master planned to buy the house when he could get it for a good price and then it would be a regular thieves palace, masquerading as a lodging house, and they would all be safe and happy. Until then they would make use of the yard.

  Spevin had been told that there was a key to the gate of 2 Linfield Gardens hanging on a hook inside the yard, and he and Capper were to scale the wall and take it. He didn’t tell Capper how he had found out, but Frances thought that Johnstone must have spotted it on his visit and had ordered his henchmen to take it. This done, they had easy access to the yard, where some loose bricks in the side wall had, after a little further excavation, provided a hiding place adequate for the kind of small items they dealt with. They had easy passage in and out of the tavern at any hour, but timed their activities with the Lodge meetings when they knew Mr Neilson would be at his post. Neither Capper nor Spevin had known that Lancelot Dobree was interested in buying the property. That nugget of information must have come from Kennard, lurking unnoticed in the lounge bar and listening out for anything that his employer would be interested in.

  On the night of Dobree’s death, Spevin and Capper were taking their usual delivery of stolen goods, assisted by Harry Abbott, when they were interrupted by Dobree standing at the open back door demanding to know what was going on and threatening to tell Neilson. It was Spevin, said Capper, who had struck Dobree from behind with the hammer, and he had tumbled out into the alley. All the conspirators had been alarmed when it was found that Dobree was dead, but Spevin, the coolest-headed of the three, had devised a plan to avoid any suggestion of a connection with the tavern. The body had been taken into the yard, stripped of anything that might identify it, and left in the fuel store, where there was a rats’ nest. They had then hidden the property taken from the body, and locked and bolted the gate before retreating over the wall, confident that the house would remain empty for long enough to render the remains unidentifiable. Later, Spevin told Capper that there had been a change of plan and they had to move the body as soon as possible, but before they could, they learned it had been found.

  Neither Capper nor Spevin knew who had made enquiries at Munro’s to check if the property was still unsold. It could have been Harry Abbott or another of Johnstone’s men. Either way, he had been rattled when Munro had recognised him after the murder, and identifying him could have led to his employer. Munro had to be got out of the way before he could talk to the police. His killer was never found but in view of Abbott’s timorousness Frances did not think it was he. She suspected that Abbott and Spevin had acted together, Abbott distracting Munro while Spevin attacked him from behind.

  Faced with so many fingers pointing in his direction, Spevin grew close as an oyster. All he would admit to after being confronted with the witness was being nearby while Abbott went to try and kill Frances, and retrieving the hammer because he thought he would be blamed for it.

  At a conference presided over by Superintendent Barnes, the charges against Frances were formally dropped and she was a free woman. The spider was caught in his own web, and now the captive flies were turning on him. The lodging house proved to be only one meeting place of several in West London, and large quantities of stolen goods were recovered. A new witness came forward to say that he had seen Cullum paying a man to murder David Dunne and had been threatened with death if he spoke out. Johnstone was questioned, but said nothing apart from demands to see his children. They refused to have anything to do with him.

  On the day after his arrest Johnstone was found dead in his cell. It was thought that he had had some poison concealed about him for just such an eventuality.

  It was some small comfort to Frances to learn at the conclusion of the inquest into the death of Harry Abbott that she was not solely to blame. The savage beating he had suffered at the hands of Cullum’s men had resulted in a fracture of the skull without which the blow she inflicted with the club would probably only have stunned him. The verdict was that he had died from a combination of factors, of which Frances’ action was only one, and she, in defending her life, was blameless.

  Despite the successful conclusion of the enquiry, Frances was not in the mood for celebration. She preferred to sit quietly by her own fireside, in good company; Sarah and Professor Pounder, Tom and Ratty, and Cedric. There were little treats to be eaten, and even some nice sherry to wash them down. It was not all she desired, but it was the best that was possible.

  On the day after her release, Mr Fiske came to see her in great good humour. ‘I am so happy that we can finally put this terrible tragedy behind us. Of course it is an awful thing, but it is some relief to know that those responsible were such villains and nothing to do with either Lodge. A hammer – how very dreadful! I am pleased that the weapon turned out to be an operative tool and not a piece of Lodge furniture – I dread to think what Mr Miggs would have made of that. So is it determined who wielded it?’

  ‘Not precisely. Mr Spevin is blaming everything on Harry Abbott and John Capper, and Mr Capper insists that it was Spevin who killed Mr Dobree. I am inclined to believe Mr Capper and I think we may yet see a trial of Spevin with Capper turning Queen’s Evidence.’

  ‘Did we ever discover where Dobree was going that night?’

  ‘No, but I have my suspicions. If he thought that Mr Salter was involved in the robberies he was probably going to the cottage to see if there were any stolen goods hidden there.’

  ‘But he didn’t advise the housekeeper that he was going.’

  ‘No, that was probably deliberate. He wanted no advance warning of his visit.’

  ‘The only concern I have now is Mr Miggs,’ sighed Fiske. ‘I have heard a rumour that he is writing a new novel called The Working Tools of Treason, set in a Masonic Lodge in which the brethren are all the most reprehensible villains. What am I to do? Who would publish such dreadful material?’

  ‘I am afraid he has a wealthy patroness nowadays,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh dear, that makes it so much worse. Who is she?’

  ‘Mrs Cholmondeleyson, founder of the Ladies League Against Female Suffrage. She seems to have taken a liking to his poetry, and, I am afraid, to him.’

  Mr Fiske was clearly astounded by this information. ‘Mrs Cholmondeleyson? Surely not! She must have taken leave of her senses!’

  ‘Elderly ladies can sometimes do so
when a young man charms them.’

  ‘But that is extraordinary! Did you know that Mrs Cholmon-deleyson is the former Mrs Josiah Finchbourne?’

  ‘No, I did not. That name sounds familiar. Where have I heard it mentioned? Oh yes, it is a name attached to a charity.’

  ‘Precisely. Finchbourne was a self-made man from humble beginnings, and when he became wealthy he determined to use that wealth to help others less fortunate. He founded the Josiah Finchbourne Home for Destitute and Distressed Children. The home provides education and training in useful trades. It still does, as Mrs Cholmondeleyson provides generous financial support, and it is one of the charities to which the Literati contributes.’

  A thought occurred to Frances. ‘Was Mr Finchbourne a Freemason?’

  ‘Indeed he was, a very senior Mason.’

  Frances reasoned that there was no way Mrs Cholmondeleyson could be aware that the anonymous outspoken opponent of freemasonry was the very poet she admired. It was unlikely that the private conversations of the two had covered any subjects beyond literature and the unsuitability of women to have the vote. Freemasonry, since it was a male preserve, would almost certainly not have been discussed. To expose Mr Miggs’ activities to Mrs Cholmondeleyson would have been an act of cruelty, and in any case the only result desired was to have him desist from his annoying activities.

  ‘I suppose Mrs Cholmondeleyson was very fond of her former husband?’

  ‘She was indeed, and most proud of his good works.’

  ‘Is there in her home a portrait of him in regalia?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘Then perhaps you might suggest to her that she hosts a fashionable soirée and invites poets to read from their work, with the object of collecting funds for the children’s home.’

  ‘But then she would be bound to invite – oh, I see. I see. Yes, that is an excellent suggestion. I will mention it at the very first opportunity.’

  Mr Miggs’s proposed book never appeared, and there were no more pamphlets or letters to the newspapers. A month later came the announcement that he and Mrs Cholmondeleyson were betrothed, the wedding to take place in the spring. In view of the advanced age of the bride-to-be, no chaperone was deemed to be necessary by society and the loving couple were often to be seen in public as he squired her to balls and benefits. Mr Miggs was a happy man. Surely he was, as the fixed smile on his face testified. He was anxious to perform every small service for his lady love, be it supplying her with glasses of wine, or sweetmeats, or carrying anything she felt she did not wish to carry for herself. Love, it certainly was, as his every utterance to her was an endearment, and the lady was showered with terms such as ‘my dear little flower’, ‘my sweetest rose’, and ‘my dearest daisy’, all with the same horrible fixed smile. She, on the other hand, referred to him as ‘Miggs!’ and she had only to bark that syllable before he rushed obediently to her side.