A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘If he had an opinion he didn’t express it to me. He seemed to think that if his master was at the cottage then he had all he needed there.’

  ‘What action did the manservant say he would take?’

  ‘He said he would speak to Mrs Salter when she returned. But Dobree was only supposed to be absent one night. I called again today and learned that he was still not home, and no message has been received.’

  ‘So we have a departure from what might be considered usual behaviour, and a disappearance that doesn’t make sense. How old is Mr Dobree?’

  ‘Above seventy, but very hale.’

  Frances was reminded of the shocking decline of William Doughty, the man she still thought of as her father, after the brain fever brought on by her older brother’s death. William had been just fifty. Had something similar happened to Dobree; had he lost his memory and wandered away?

  ‘Has Mr Dobree been at all absent-minded of late?’

  ‘No, he seemed as sharp as ever. You would have sworn looking at him and speaking to him that he was scarcely over fifty-five.’

  ‘So, on the first evening when Mr Dobree was not expected back, his family was probably not too concerned, but by now they will have taken some action. If they have alerted the police, then contact will have been made with the station nearest to the cottage and a constable sent there to check. Have the police been to the tavern?’

  ‘I went first thing this morning and they hadn’t been there yet, neither has Neilson heard anything. Do you think you can find him?’

  ‘I will start by instructing my agents to make searches, and also interview Mr Dobree’s friends. Were all the members of the Literati Lodge there on the evening Mr Dobree disappeared?’

  ‘Not all. I can provide you with a list of members and those who attended. There are always some absences due to indisposition or business duties.’

  ‘Do you have a portrait of Mr Dobree?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t, but I am sure his family can provide one.’ Mr Fiske looked acutely miserable. ‘And all this had to happen just as I am relinquishing my role as Almoner and taking up the office of Lodge secretary, which I can assure you is no sinecure.’

  Frances closed her notebook and put it into her reticule. ‘Well, let us go to the tavern. There may be some clues there. I will need to look around and also speak to the landlord.’ Despite her previous vows Frances realised that she was actually looking forward to starting a real investigation once more. While she did not wish any ill to Mr Dobree, she knew that if she arrived at the tavern to find that he had reappeared, she would, along with a natural relief, feel quite disappointed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On the morning of Mr Fiske’s visit, Frances’ assistant, Sarah Smith, with whom she shared her apartments, was absent from home on a case of her own. Unlike Frances, Sarah had not withdrawn from detective work, and her specialities to which she brought all her considerable strength and persistence were domestic and family issues. The mere appearance of her burly form and an expression that meant she would stand for no nonsense were usually sufficient to resolve matters. Frances, unsure how Sarah would take the news that she was engaged on a new case which promised more excitement than the hunt for a lost kitten, wrote a note explaining the reason for her absence, left it on the table and departed with Mr Fiske.

  Leaving the tree-lined peace of Westbourne Park Road, their cab plunged into the teeming thoroughfare of Westbourne Grove, where shopping was both a compulsion and an entertainment, a passion fuelled by Mr William Whiteley’s growing retail empire. Escaping the great crush of traffic, they turned south along the sweeping curve of Pembridge Villas and its tall cream-coloured houses, elegant with pillars, porticoes and balconies, before heading in the direction of Notting Hill, where Bayswater shaded into Kensington.

  Only a year before, London had been blanketed in snow for the greater part of January, bringing the business of the great metropolis almost to a halt. Travel, post and deliveries had been near impossible for weeks. Now, by contrast, the weather was unusually mild for the time of year, and predictions exchanged across the tea tables were that the capital was not to suffer another frozen winter. There were the occasional squally winds and showers, but once the early morning fogs had vanished, leaving only a ceiling of grey cloud, all was remarkably calm.

  ‘This is so very kind of you,’ said Mr Fiske. ‘Really, I hardly knew where to turn. I may of course have panicked unnecessarily and then I will look foolish, but better safe than sorry, and you will of course be recompensed for your time.’

  ‘I only hope he is found soon,’ said Frances. She reflected on what she already knew about Lancelot Dobree, stemming from the enquiries she had made into her own family. A retired silk mercer and a man of considerable wealth, known chiefly for his devotion to charity, Lancelot Dobree enjoyed an unblemished reputation. She determined, however, not to reveal her possession of even that slight knowledge as she wanted to see what would be volunteered. ‘We must not of course ignore the possibility that despite the thoroughness of the initial search of the tavern, Mr Dobree is still somewhere on the premises. Is he a large man?’

  ‘No, not especially tall, and middling to portly in build.’

  ‘If he became suddenly unwell he might have felt confused, and then he could have gone anywhere.’

  Fiske nodded. ‘We too wondered if he had been taken ill or suffered an accident, perhaps stumbled and fallen, but I spoke to Neilson this morning and I can assure you that he has made a most diligent search of the entire premises from top to bottom.’

  ‘Very well. Let us assume therefore that Mr Dobree has left the premises. If he simply wandered away without knowing where he was going, then he should have been found by now. If he has been placed under medical care his family would have been notified. I assume he carried a card or pocketbook that would have identified him. If he left deliberately, however, he must have had a reason as yet unknown to us, and some means of leaving the Lodge room and the building without being noticed.’ Frances wondered if Dobree had fallen victim to a robber, but that did not explain how and why he had left the tavern without his hat or coat on a cold day. She wondered about the prevalence of dangerous criminals lurking in the streets of Kensington, a subject with which she was unfamiliar. The other possibility was that he had been abducted, but why and how were also obscure. ‘Tell me something about Mr Dobree’s family,’ she went on. ‘I will almost certainly be obliged to speak to them.’ Even as the words fell from her lips Frances felt a dreadful hollow open in the pit of her stomach. The last person she wished to interview was her natural father.

  ‘He is a widower. His wife died many years ago and he never remarried. There is a daughter, Mrs Salter, and three grandchildren who are away at school. I don’t know of any other family.’

  ‘What business does his son-in-law pursue?’

  ‘I believe it is something in the jewellery line. Dealing in silverware, trinkets and similar. He travels a great deal.’

  ‘Does he have a business premises?’

  ‘I don’t know of one.’

  ‘You mentioned that Mrs Salter used her father’s carriage on the night he disappeared and was expected back at his house. Does she live there?’

  ‘Yes, she and her husband occupy the whole of one floor of the house.’

  Frances, who had searched the Bayswater directory during her earlier enquiries, now understood why the name of Vernon Salter had not appeared there, since it just listed the householders.

  ‘Dobree is extremely fond of his daughter. He speaks of her with great affection. I have the impression that his would be quite a lonely life if she had a separate establishment. I have rarely met Mrs Salter myself, but she has her own circle of friends.’ Fiske made an extended pause as if he was about to say more, but thought better of it. ‘She and my wife were at school together,’ he finished weakly.

  Frances wondered what Mr Fiske was leaving unsaid.

  The Duke of Sussex
Tavern was a solidly built four-storey edifice, its exterior woodwork painted a dark glossy green. It sat proudly on a substantial corner site which marked the junction of Kensington High Street, a broad thoroughfare lined with commercial premises, and a narrower quieter road, Linfield Gardens, a terrace of tall residential properties. Mr Fiske, expecting Frances to enter the tavern as soon as she had stepped down from the cab, was deferentially ushering her towards the door, but she decided first to examine the building from the outside.

  The main frontage, which faced onto the High Street was hung about with gas lanterns, and boasted a wide welcoming entrance and large windows with advertisements in gold lettering for premium ales, port, brandy and good dinners. Frances tried to imagine Lancelot Dobree emerging from the tavern onto the busy shopping promenade at a time between 5 and 6 p.m. He would have been hatless, still wearing his Masonic regalia and without even an overcoat. It seemed an unlikely thing to do. Although the sun would have set by then, the street would still have been well lit both by the lamps with which it was generously provided, and the illumination from shops, its pavement crowded with strolling pedestrians, the road a constant parade of cabs and carriages. Dobree was almost certain to have been noticed, but he would have been able to hail a passing cab without too much delay. The shop next door, which shared a party wall with the tavern, was a well-patronised confectioner, the window displays of fancy cakes and cascades of pretty biscuits surrounded by shelves piled with invitingly crusty loaves.

  Around the corner, on the side of the tavern that faced Linfield Gardens, there were more windows and a smaller more discreet entrance with a sign that showed it led to the lounge bar. The exterior was hung with colourfully painted wooden menus, and high on the wall a carved stone plaque announced that the building had been erected in 1860. If Dobree had left by the lounge bar exit he was, thought Frances, far less likely to have been seen by passers-by, and could easily have entered a nearby house unnoticed. As she considered this possibility she saw a police constable descending the front steps of a house further down the street. He paused long enough to write in his notebook, then walked on to the house next door, climbed the front steps and rang the bell. Clearly Mr Dobree had not reappeared and the police were making enquiries, which, Frances observed thankfully, would save her a dull and arduous task. She walked a little way down Linfield Gardens and soon came to a narrow alley called Linfield Walk, which divided the rear of the tavern from the first house of the terrace.

  Mr Fiske, who had been following Frances in her inspection, appeared by her side. ‘The alley is only for deliveries,’ he explained. ‘I don’t think it is ever used by customers.’ He was about to turn back, assuming that Frances would do so too, but to his surprise she walked along the roughly cobbled way, and he hurried after her. ‘Surely Dobree couldn’t be here?’

  ‘I rule out nothing.’ Frances reached a door with a brass plate engraved ‘Duke of Sussex Tavern. Deliveries only’. She tried the handle but, as Mr Fiske had previously advised her, it was locked. ‘You said that the landlord, Mr Neilson, keeps the key. There is not another one?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We can ask him.’

  Further down, past the single small gas lamp that was the only lighting in the alley, was another door, its signage announcing that it was the rear exit of the confectioner’s shop. Frances tried that door too, finding it also locked. There the alley ended with the back wall and small high windows of a warehouse. Anyone who entered from Linfield Gardens had no choice but to return the way they had come. Directly opposite the two doors was the perimeter wall of the end terrace property, about eight feet in height, and with a stout gate. Frances tried the gate but it too was secure.

  To Mr Fiske’s astonishment Frances next proceeded to open the covers of the ash bins that stood outside both the tavern and the confectioner’s and peer inside. ‘What are you looking for? Oh my word, you don’t think —?’

  Frances didn’t yet know what she thought, and said nothing. She had sworn never again to undertake enquiries into a crime, but old habits meant that she had to consider all possibilities. To the relief of them both, there was nothing of any note in the bins. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘I would like to speak to Mr Neilson, and be shown around the property.’

  Returning to Linfield Gardens, they entered the tavern by the side door. The lounge bar was warm and comfortably furnished, its interior promising good wholesome fare and a companionable atmosphere. Some respectable-looking gentlemen were seated in leather armchairs at oaken tables enjoying glasses of ale and light luncheons of meat pie and potatoes, the savoury aroma of the food lightly spiced with cigar smoke. Behind a faultlessly tidy bar a young man in a crisp white shirt, waistcoat and bow tie was polishing glassware with a linen cloth. It was all quite different from some of the less salubrious public houses of Bayswater to which Frances’ enquiries had occasionally taken her. Her appearance seemed not to attract any special attention, from which she guessed that in the lounge bar at least, lady diners in the company of gentlemen were not a novelty.

  ‘What can I get for you, Mr Fiske?’ said the barman, trying to look cheery but unable to conceal his concern at the circumstances that had brought his customer there.

  Fiske glanced at Frances questioningly, but she shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ said Fiske, ‘we require nothing for the moment. Could you tell Mr Neilson that I am here and wish to speak to him?’

  The barman nodded solemnly. ‘Of course, Sir.’ He bustled away and soon returned with the manager.

  Mr Neilson was a smartly dressed man in his late forties, his pointed beard liberally speckled with grey. He clearly believed that the traditional dirty apron preferred by some publicans was not for him. Mr Fiske made the introductions. Neilson looked surprised but did not object to the arrival of a private investigator.

  ‘Miss Doughty is one of the foremost detectives in London,’ enthused Mr Fiske. ‘Now that the famous Mr Pollaky has announced his retirement she must surely be the leading agent in the west of the city. You will recall how she recently effected the arrest of the notorious Bayswater Face-slasher.’

  Frances would have preferred to forget about that dreadful business, but knew that this would never be allowed. She decided not to comment.

  ‘She is also very discreet,’ added Fiske.

  ‘I am aware that your fraternity is open only to men, so I will only ask what questions are needed to resolve this mystery,’ Frances reassured Mr Neilson. ‘I remain hopeful, however, that Mr Dobree will be found very soon. I see that the police are making enquiries.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Neilson gloomily. ‘They came here to question me not an hour ago. Let us talk privately – we can go into the office.’

  He led them through a door that linked the lounge bar with the larger, busier public bar, where clusters of drinkers were perched on high stools, some deep in significant conversation, others contentedly alone with their pipes. The air was cloudy with blue smoke, its scent mingled with the tang of beer. The patrons, recognising Mr Neilson, nodded to him respectfully, and glanced at Frances in curiosity. In front of a roaring fire, and looking for all the world like a thick brown fur coat that had been carelessly thrown into a heap, snoozed the largest dog that Frances had ever seen.

  ‘And this fine fellow is Wellington,’ said Mr Fiske. ‘If he could only speak, he would have some stories to tell.’

  ‘He has the freedom of the premises at night, and I am happy to say that we have never suffered at the hands of burglars,’ said Neilson. ‘Some have tried, but he always gives the alarm.’

  Wellington opened one eye. It was a large, deep, dark eye, and it spoke eloquently. ‘I may appear to be asleep,’ it said, ‘but put your hand in the till and I will bite it off.’

  They continued through the public bar, on the far side of which was the entrance to a corridor. ‘This way,’ said Neilson. He led them past a door marked ‘W.C.’ There was an exit at the far end, but before they reached this Neilson opened a
nother door marked ‘Office, Private’, and they went in. Frances looked about her carefully, trying not to make her thoughts too obvious. She saw a desk, chairs, shelves of ledgers and directories, document cabinets, and a small safe. There was nowhere to hide a body.

  Mr Neilson gestured Frances and Mr Fiske to sit. Outwardly he looked at his ease as he took the chair behind the desk, but his eyes betrayed his anxiety. ‘What do you wish to know, Miss Doughty?’

  Frances took her notebook and pencil from her reticule. ‘I understand that a very thorough search of the premises has been conducted, and you are satisfied that Mr Dobree is not here?’

  ‘Yes, Mr MacNulty, my bar manager, and I examined every room from attic to cellar, and the police have conducted another search. He cannot possibly still be here.’

  ‘Did you learn anything from the police?’

  ‘Yes, I mentioned to them that Dobree has a cottage in the country. I thought that perhaps he had gone there, but they told me that they knew all about it and had confirmed that he never went there that night or has been there since.’

  ‘We must assume that he has left the building.’ Frances assumed no such thing, but kept her darker suspicions to herself. ‘How long have you known Mr Dobree?’

  ‘Above twelve years. I can assure you that nothing like this has ever happened before.’

  ‘The questions I want to try and answer today are how and why he left, and was it voluntary or forced. I notice that there is a confectioner’s shop next door. Is there a door connecting your premises with theirs?’

  ‘No. There are only three exits from the tavern, the main one from the public bar onto the High Street, one from the lounge bar into Linfield Gardens, and one for deliveries which opens onto Linfield Walk, an alley at the rear. On the night Dobree vanished the first two were of course open, but the rear door was locked. It is always locked except when deliveries are brought in, or we might attract pilferers to the storerooms.’