Sarah’s agreement to chaperone a meeting between the nervous lover and his adored lady in Hyde Park ended rather better than anticipated. The gentleman had been very shy, hardly daring to speak, and the object of his affections, while liking his looks, found him hard to appreciate. The assignation had been interrupted by a scream some distance away, a respectable woman having been assaulted by a man who cut off a piece of her gown. The bashful lover suddenly underwent a heroic transformation, sprinting after the criminal, catching him, and placing him in the custody of the park police, so earning the warm approbation of the maiden he admired. He was rewarded with an invitation to pay a visit to her family.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Mrs Sharrock poured the tea, and pushed a plate of cakes in Ratty’s direction. He was not a lad who despised cake, but he looked at these distrustfully. He glanced at Frances, who picked up her teacup and helped herself to a cake.
‘Delicious, thank you,’ said Frances, which indeed it was.
Hesitantly, Ratty took a cake, put it on his plate, and stared at it. After a while he poked it cautiously with his finger.
‘Now then, young master Ratty,’ said Inspector Sharrock, ‘I’ve invited you here to tell you a story – it’s a story about a policeman.’
Ratty frowned.
‘His name was Walter Atkinson, and he was a constable at Paddington Green station. Active, clever, brave, diligent. Knew his duty and did it. A fine man in every way.’
Ratty said nothing but he didn’t look convinced. He picked up his cake and sniffed it.
‘One night, Constable Atkinson surprised a burglar and gave chase. He managed to apprehend the man despite being struck on the head with an iron bar. He was back on duty again the very next day. But from that time on he wasn’t quite the same man. He was usually a placid type, but he began to have outbursts of bad temper, and complained of headaches. One night his head was so bad he was sent home to rest up.’
Ratty looked suddenly alarmed. He swallowed his cake in a gulp, almost choked, and washed it down with a copious draught of tea.
‘Constable Atkinson was happily married with a son, Walter junior, and another child on the way. We don’t know exactly what happened that night, but it seems he had a brainstorm. Neighbours heard screaming and crying. Next thing, poor Mrs Atkinson was lying dead, her husband had collapsed in a fit and the little boy – Watty, they used to call him – was missing. He was only about four or five at the time. Police searched high and low, but he was never found. Some people thought he had wandered off and hidden out of fright and starved to death, others thought his father had killed him, too, and hidden the body. Me? I think he was looked after by some street urchins and grew up with them. But it wouldn’t surprise me at all if from then on he had a terror of any man in a police uniform.’
Tears started from Ratty’s eyes and began to trickle down his face. ‘What ’appened to the farver?’
‘He was questioned, but he didn’t seem to be aware of what he had done. He was unfit to plead, and ended up in an asylum. He died about a year later.’ Sharrock took a photograph out of his pocket. It showed a line-up of policemen pictured outside Paddington Green station. ‘See that fellow?’ He pointed to one of the men. ‘That’s Constable Atkinson. A good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him and neither did his family.’
Ratty sniffled and used his sleeve to wipe long wet smears from his face.
‘Watty’s mother has a sister. Married, with three children. She used to look after little Watty sometimes, and thinks she could identify him, even if he’s older. I know it’s a lot to take in all at once, but if you’d like to meet her, that could be arranged.’
At the trial of Matthew Spevin for the murder of Lancelot Dobree, a competent but not eminent defence counsel made the best case he could. His unfortunate client, he said, was standing trial only because the real culprits, the truly guilty men, were beyond the reach of the law. His client was just twenty-three years of age. When he was fifteen, his father, a hardworking and respectable carpenter, died after a fall from a ladder. The boy, without that firm masculine guidance known to be so essential at an impressionable age, had been led astray by a criminal of experience. Realising too late that he was deeply in the villain’s toils, he wanted to put it all behind him but could not. His life had been threatened and he lived in fear, not only for himself but his poor sick mother who relied on his income. Yes, Spevin had assisted the late Mr Cullum in his movement of stolen goods, but that was not the charge here. During one such transaction, at which John Capper and Harry Abbott had been present, the unfortunate Lancelot Dobree had stumbled across their activities. There was no doubt that Dobree had been killed, struck over the back of the head with a hammer, and the prosecution would try to prove that an exhibit brought to court marked with the name of Mr Spevin’s father was the murder weapon, but he believed that there was no sound evidence that this was the case. Mr Spevin was not a killer. He was an unfortunate victim. He was not even in the vicinity when Dobree was killed. The defence would maintain that the murderer of Lancelot Dobree was the late Harry Abbott.
John Capper, turning Queen’s Evidence in consideration of avoiding a murder charge, said that he was in the alley when Dobree appeared at the back door. It was Spevin, who had been in the habit of carrying the hammer in his pocket when they crept about on their unsavoury activities, who had struck the old man from behind.
Spevin was found guilty of murder and recommended to mercy by the jury. He was sentenced to death but it was confidently expected that this would be commuted to life in prison. John Capper stood trial for receiving stolen goods and on being found guilty was handed a sentence of nine months, which the judge suspended.
‘It was the best outcome,’ said Sharrock to Frances afterwards. ‘Did you know that Cullum left a will with his entire fortune divided between his son and daughter? I’ve heard that John Capper refused to take a penny of it, but his lady love talked him round. Oh, and speaking of lady loves, I’m sorry to say you missed your chance with Inspector Payne.’
Frances was startled. ‘Chance? Whatever do you mean?’
Sharrock grinned. ‘I think he rather admired you in his own way.’
‘He accused me of being an immoral woman and arrested me for murder!’
‘No accounting for tastes. But it seems that his former sweetheart who ran off with a criminal found the new fellow a bit too heavy-handed for her liking and went and turned him in to the police. So the wedding’s back on again.’
Rosetta Doughty’s health gradually but surely improved, and Frances was able to spend a wonderful week in Brighton with her father and mother. On the balmier days all three, with Rosetta very carefully wrapped against chills, enjoyed carriage rides along the promenade, and they attended some marvellous concerts at the Dome. The best times, however, were when she and her mother engaged in lively conversation, and she found a witty, perceptive and erudite mind that was a brilliant match for her own. On those occasions, Vernon could only sit by and admire them both. Frances also met her brother Cornelius for the first time, a shy, studious youth so much like her in appearance that it was remarked upon that if she had put on his clothes they would have looked almost identical.
‘Alicia and I have come to an agreement,’ said Vernon Salter as they gathered for a family tea. ‘We will separate informally, by a private arrangement. We will no longer live together, and Alicia will have full control of the children until they reach their majority, after which I am sure they will make their own decisions. I will be permitted to see them from time to time, but not in the company of Rosetta.’
‘What of the terms of your father-in-law’s will?’ asked Frances.
‘As already provided that will mostly be divided between charities, Alicia and the children. But she has generously agreed that none of the legacies relating to me will be challenged. My annuity will continue, and I will also have the cottage, which will be rented. And I have just had a letter from an ol
d friend, James Felter. His business in Switzerland has been prospering, so much so that he wishes to appoint an agent in England to work on commission. I have agreed to accept the position. We will not be rich but we will be comfortable.’
‘Where will you live?’
‘Here, in Brighton. There has been too much publicity to continue the fiction that I am Rosetta’s brother, so I must take a separate establishment. However, we remain hopeful that one day, when time has passed and the children are grown, Alicia will agree to a quiet divorce, and Rosetta and I can marry.’
On her return to Bayswater Frances received a letter from Mr Fiske, and as a result attended a gathering at the Duke of Sussex Tavern. She had assumed that the invitation was to a social occasion to thank her for her work, however the gentleman of the Literati Lodge looked unexpectedly serious. ‘Miss Doughty,’ said Mr Brassington, ‘we are eternally grateful to you for all you have done. You have preserved the good names of the Lodge in particular and freemasonry in general, and most especially those of Lancelot Dobree and Vernon Salter, who are now both cleared of any suspicion of wrongdoing. We appreciate that as a part of your investigations it was necessary for you to observe some of our ceremonies, and we were of course on that unusual occasion most careful not to reveal to you any secrets of our Craft, which would not have been appropriate, however …’ he paused. His fellow Freemasons looked more solemn still. ‘I did advise one of our senior brethren of what had taken place and he was deeply concerned that we might have been unwise, and that in some way we had inadvertently either revealed a secret or by our words and actions enabled you to guess a secret which is not to be divulged to any except fellow Masons.’
Frances understood his anxiety. ‘I can assure you that I will not reveal anything that took place to another person.’
Mr Brassington did not look as relieved as Frances anticipated. ‘I accept that assurance of course, however, I have been told that even your most solemn promise will not be sufficient to ensure your secrecy to our satisfaction.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Frances.
Mr Brassington paused again, and looked at his brethren. They all nodded. ‘We are advised that there is only one way in which we can feel quite certain that you do not divulge any of the secrets of our Craft.’
And that was how, soon afterwards, Frances unexpectedly found herself standing outside the door of the Literati Lodge room, having removed her left shoe, and unfastened the top buttons of her gown. Mr Neilson placed the hood over her head and the noose around her neck, then, sword in hand, he stood beside her. It was time. He knocked on the door to alert the Inner Guard, and the door swung open. Frances stepped off on the left foot, and was guided into the room for her initiation.
Once the ceremony, in which she swore never to reveal the secrets of the First Degree, was completed, she was invited to dine with the gentlemen who were now her fellow brethren, and Mr Brassington, in great good humour, rose to drink a toast to the Literati Lodge’s newest member, ‘Miss Frances Doughty, a true and faithful brother.’
END
AUTHOR’S NOTES
In the UK, the ‘first floor’ of a building is the one immediately above the ground floor, which is at street level.
The Literati and Mulberry Lodges are fictional. Masonic ritual has undergone many changes over the years, and varies from Lodge to Lodge. The details included in this book are a suggestion of what the ritual might have been in 1882. The event described in the final paragraph of the book does have historical precedent.
The Duke of Sussex Tavern and its location, Linfield Gardens, are fictional. The Duke, Prince Augustus Frederick, sixth son of King George III, was the first Grand Master of the United Grand Lodge of England.
The guard dog, Wellington, is named after soldier and statesman the Duke of Wellington, who was a Freemason.
‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’, a quote from the Satires of Juvenal, is translated as ‘Who will guard the guards themselves?’
The Ladies League Against Female Suffrage is fictional, however, a Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League was formed in 1908 and was disbanded in 1918.
The business of Finewax & Sons on the Portobello Road, the Portobello London Hotel and the Portobello Theatre of Varieties are fictional and not based on any actual businesses past or present.
In 1881, fifty-five-year-old solicitor Edward Bramley lived at 63 Richmond Road (since renamed Chepstow Road), Bayswater.
Thomas Bramah Diplock MD (1830–1892) was coroner for West London and Middlesex from 1868.
In 1811 seven people died in two separate attacks on families in the East End of London near Wapping. A sailor, John Williams, was arrested and hanged himself in his cell.
Charles Jamrach (1815–1891) was the proprietor of a store on the Ratcliffe Highway that dealt in exotic animals. In 1857 he rescued a child who had been carried away by an escaped tiger.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LINDA STRATMANN is a former chemist’s dispenser and civil servant who now writes full time. As well as the Frances Doughty mystery series, she is also the author of the Mina Scarletti mysteries, set in Brighton. She lives in London.
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Fraudsters and Charlatans: A Peek at Some of History’s Greatest Rogues
Whiteley’s Folly: The Life and Death of a Salesman
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IN THE
FRANCES DOUGHTY
MYSTERY SERIES
The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery
The Daughters of Gentlemen: A Frances Doughty Mystery
A Case of Doubtful Death: A Frances Doughty Mystery
An Appetite for Murder: A Frances Doughty Mystery
The Children of Silence: A Frances Doughty Mystery
Death in Bayswater: A Frances Doughty Mystery
IN THE
MINA SCARLETTI
MYSTERY SERIES
Mr Scarletti’s Ghost: A Mina Scarletti Mystery
The Royal Ghost: A Mina Scarletti Mystery
PRAISE FOR THE
FRANCES DOUGHTY
MYSTERY SERIES
‘If Jane Austen had lived a few decades longer, and spent her twilight years writing detective stories, they might have read something like this one.’
Sharon Bolton, bestselling author of the Lacey Flint series
‘I feel that I am walking down the street in Frances’ company and seeing the people and houses around me with clarity.’
Jennifer S. Palmer, Mystery Women
‘Every novelist needs her USP: Stratmann’s is her intimate knowledge of both pharmacy and true-life Victorian crime.’
Shots Magazine
‘The atmosphere and picture of Victorian London is vivid and beautifully portrayed.’
www.crimesquad.com
‘Vivid details and convincing period dialogue bring to life Victorian England during the early days of the women’s suffrage movement, which increasingly appeals to Frances even as she strives for acceptance from the male-dominated society of the time. Historical mystery fans will be hooked.’
Publishers Weekly
‘[Frances’] adventures as a detective, and the slowly unravelling evidence of multiple crimes in a murky Victorian setting, make for a gripping read.’
Historical Novel Review
‘The historical background is impeccable.’
Mystery People
Linda Stratmann, A True and Faithful Brother
A True and Faithful Brother Page 32
