A True and Faithful Brother

by Linda Stratmann

Frances reflected that from the age of three, when her mother had vanished from her life, Rosetta’s name had hardly ever been mentioned. There had never been a portrait of her on display, and none had been found amongst William’s effects. Frances had been led to assume that no portrait had ever been taken, and that Rosetta had not been talked of because to do so would arouse insupportable grief, but supposing that was not the case? Supposing the emotions being concealed were shame, anger and a sense of betrayal?

  ‘I know that in 1865, the year after my brother Cornelius was born, you left my mother and married Alicia Dobree.’

  He nodded. ‘I can see what that must seem like to you.’

  Frances gave him a hard look.

  He tried to lower his head into both hands, but was prevented by being shackled to the table leg. The handcuffs had chafed his wrists but he didn’t seem to notice. He had long fingers like hers, a tall, inelegant form, like hers, and the face was far too like hers. ‘Rosetta was never in good health after the birth of the twins, especially when our daughter died. I did what I could. I found work as an assistant in a jeweller’s shop. But we knew that while we might manage to live, Rosetta needed better care than I could afford, and we could never give our son the education he ought to have. One day I was sent by my employer to take a tray of rings to the home of Lancelot Dobree. He wanted to purchase one as a birthday gift for Alicia and asked me to show them to her so she could make a selection. She took a long time looking at the rings and said that she could not decide and I should return the following day with another tray. I did so. But on that second occasion she was again unable to make her choice. My employer thought it was my fault, he told me to be more flattering to the lady, so I was. She asked me to help her try on the rings, to advise her on what best matched her complexion. My visits took longer, and she insisted I stay for refreshment. After the fourth or fifth tray it dawned upon me that Alicia was less interested in the rings than the man who brought them. Lancelot asked to see me privately, and told me that his daughter wanted me as her husband. And believe me, Alicia has always got what she wanted, from the day she was born.’

  ‘She must have had suitors before.’

  ‘She did. But Alicia is not the easiest person and Lancelot has always been blind to her faults. He sought to protect her from fortune hunters and in doing so placed restrictions in the marriage settlement. Her hand would only have been sought by a man violently in love or so desperate for money that just a little might save him.’

  ‘And you were the latter?’

  ‘I was. I talked to Rosetta. I was afraid of losing her. She gave me permission to marry. With the annuity and the income from my new business I was able to rent a place for her and our son away from London with fresh air and sunlight, where she could regain her health. She is able to do a little fine needlework and I supply the rest of their needs. I visit as often as I can. She goes under the name of Mrs Martin, and it is given out that she is my widowed sister, but people draw other conclusions of course.’

  ‘Inevitably.’

  ‘I am sure that I am not what Lancelot might have wanted in a son-in-law, but I was what Alicia wanted and more to the point when we met she was a spinster of thirty-seven and he was anxious for grandchildren. There are three. So you have a half-brother and two half-sisters in addition to your full brother Cornelius. I am pleased to say that he is doing well. A son to be proud of; he is studying for the law.’

  ‘Did my mother never try to see me in all these years?’

  ‘No. She has always feared that you would be ashamed of her. Our plan, our hope, is that one day, when Cornelius is a man of law, Rosetta and I may be together. Our union would be sanctified if not by law, then by love. I will repay every penny that Lancelot gave me so we would no longer be beholden to the Dobrees.’

  He appeared to be sincere, but Frances still could not accept what she was being told. ‘Mr Salter, forgive me for saying this, but I have only your word that all of this is true. I have met many plausible scoundrels and some of them have been murderers. At the very least let me have my mother’s address so that I may write to her, and ask if she will permit a visit. I will honour your request to maintain this secret, but it may be necessary one day to reveal it to save your life.’

  ‘I am not sure that it would. Even if I did say that I was with Rosetta on the night my father-in-law was killed, who would believe the word of an adulteress, who lives off the allowance I give her? She would be shamed and my son declared illegitimate and denied an education, and I would still be hanged.’

  ‘There are no witnesses to your visit?’

  ‘None as far as I am aware.’

  ‘Let me have the address. I will write to my mother. If she can confirm your story then I will do my best for you. Of course she may decide to come forward and provide you with an alibi, and there is nothing I can do to stop her.’ Frances handed him her notebook and pencil, and he wrote. ‘She will have read in the newspapers about your father-in-law.’

  ‘Yes, she has.’

  ‘But she will know nothing yet of this development.’

  ‘I would rather she did not. I cannot bear the thought of her learning of it in the sensational press. The shock would be a terrible thing.’

  He pushed the notebook back to her. In it he had written an address in Brighton. ‘Then I will do my best to prepare and reassure her,’ Frances promised. ‘But there will be rent to pay. Food and fuel. Who knows how long you will be in custody?’

  ‘She has sufficient resources for a month. Please tell her to think only of herself and our son. She knows of your fame and will trust you to set things right.’

  That of course was what Frances was partly afraid of. But in other ways her mood was lifted. If Vernon Salter’s story was true then she was not as she had thought, the daughter of two people whose chief legacy had been a tainted character, but she was a child of love. And love was all she had ever really craved.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Frances Doughty thought about love, which she could not prevent herself from doing more often than she suspected was good for her, she wondered what it might be like to have her heart and mind so stirred by another person that she could not bear to be parted from him. She had met men who had amused and charmed her, and whose company she enjoyed, but was there one amongst them who could be the companion of her soul, and who might feel the same about her?

  In the last year a series of stories had been published by a Mr W. Grove extolling the achievements of a lady detective called Miss Dauntless, undoubtedly an admiring caricature of herself. Sarah had once declared that these were little more than love letters, although Frances had refused to believe it.

  In one such adventure the daring Miss Dauntless had attended a ball, where she had been the dance partner of a devoted swain who wore a dark cloak and a Venetian mask. Not long afterwards came the catastrophic night on which the Bayswater Face-slasher had claimed a final victim, and had at last been arrested. Frances had so very nearly met her death, but a man had rescued her, a man in a dark cloak and Venetian mask, who had given the name W. Grove. He was tall and strong and commanding, and when he knew she was safe and unharmed, he had clasped her in his arms in a way no man had done before, and it had been intoxicating. During that heady encounter Frances had breathed in the scent of a gentleman’s soap, and later, with the expert assistance of her friend Cedric she had identified it. In the drawer where she kept her linen there was a bar of Gentleman’s Premium Ivory Cleansing Soap still in its wrapper. An expensive product, it was not in common use. Sometimes she took it out and inhaled the aroma. When she had done so, she usually felt the necessity of spending some time swinging her exercise clubs.

  Frances worded her letter to her mother with care, since there were things, particularly her continued relationship with Vernon Salter, that Rosetta might not wish to be written about openly.

  ‘Dear Mother,’ she began, and paused for a few moments to see how those words looked on the pag
e, words that she had never imagined she would ever write, before continuing;

  I cannot express what pleasure it gives me to be able to write to you at last. You have long been in my thoughts, and I had feared that we might never meet, but now I am filled with hope.

  I must prepare you for news that will cause you some disquiet. Your brother is presently under suspicion in a certain matter for which he has been detained. I am doing my best to ensure that he is cleared of all blame and freed. Therefore, I beg you to be calm whatever the newspapers might say. I will let you know the instant all is resolved.

  I have met with him and he has advised me of the events which led to your current situation, however, for my better assurance, I wish to hear of this in your own words, and eagerly await your reply to this letter,

  Your loving daughter,

  Frances

  Neither Rosetta nor Vernon knew this but Frances did have in her possession a letter her mother had written to William Doughty many years before, begging to be allowed to see her children before their lives were severed. It was a great relief therefore when she received a reply in what was undoubtedly the same hand.

  In an outpouring of emotion Rosetta expressed her great joy at being able to correspond with Frances and her immense pride in her daughter, whose career she had followed in the newspapers with trepidation and wonder. She had been upset to learn that her ‘brother’ was suspected of anything dishonourable, but was fully confident that Frances would quickly resolve the terrible misunderstanding. He had over the years been a tower of strength to both her and her son, and she would be lost without his many acts of kindness.

  These revelations brought Frances a new peace and clarity. She was not after all the damaged person she had imagined herself to be, constantly fighting to keep at bay any bad impulses she had inherited. This led to other considerations. Was she, as she had been thinking, really unfit to be a detective? Had she been precipitate in abandoning a successful calling? There was only one way to find out. Since the police believed that they had the killer of Lancelot Dobree in custody, they were presumably not looking elsewhere but simply accumulating evidence to be presented at his committal for trial. Two years ago, William Doughty, who she had then believed to be her father, had been suspected of killing a customer of his chemists shop by making a fatal error in a prescription. It was his plight that had first launched her into the world of detection. Now, with so much more experience of that profession, she resolved to perform the same duty for her natural father.

  Frances could not, however, think of embarking on the case without first discussing it with Sarah. Her companion had always warned her against getting involved in cases of murder, something that seemed to happen whether she tried to avoid it or not. On this occasion, however, Sarah simply listened to her friend’s explanation and nodded. ‘You don’t think it’s unwise?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Wise or unwise, it’s your father and he needs your help,’ said Sarah. ‘I know you decided to stop chasing criminals after what happened last year, but I can see you miss it. You’ve been dull these few months. Not that you didn’t need to be, I think you did, but now that’s done you have to get on and be true to yourself.’

  Frances smiled with relief.

  ‘Now tell me what wants doing.’

  Together, Frances and Sarah made a list of all the people they felt should be interviewed. It was a very long list, since it included all members of both the Literati and Mulberry Lodges, members of the Dobree household, the staff and customers of the Duke of Sussex Tavern who had been there on the night Lancelot Dobree disappeared, any former or current business associates of the dead man, anyone who had recently visited the house where the body had been found and the new solicitor, Mr Kingsley. Frances also reluctantly added the name of Mr Marsden, who, if Alicia Salter had given him his marching orders, might be stinging enough to provide some useful information.

  It was never like this for Miss Dauntless, thought Frances dispiritedly as she studied the list of names. Miss Dauntless scaled roofs and climbed through windows. She chased villains by bicycle or on horseback, and had once, with the aid of her burly assistant Sally, wrestled one to the ground, handcuffed him and delivered him to the police. It was only a matter of time before she fought a duel. She never had to interview a hundred or more potential witnesses.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As Frances began the lengthy task of writing letters requesting interviews, a note arrived from the solicitor, Mr Kingsley, no doubt at the behest of Alicia Salter, to say that Vernon Salter was to appear before the magistrates on the following day. Frances had little stomach for watching the proceedings and it was decided that she would pursue her enquiries while Sarah went to the court.

  Frances returned to Kensington, arranging to meet Sarah at the tavern once the magistrates’ hearing was concluded. Apart from the question of who might have wanted to kill Lancelot Dobree, there were three purely practical mysteries to be solved – how had Dobree managed to leave the Lodge room, how had he left the tavern without being seen, and how had he entered the empty house?

  Understandably, there was a notice on the office door of Munro & Son advising that the business was closed due to bereavement, but when she peered through the window she saw two gentlemen inside, neither of whom she recognised. She ventured a knock on the door.

  One of the men within looked up then turned away, as if hoping that she would leave, but she knocked again and wearily he rose to his feet and unfastened the door. He was aged about sixty and rather portly, his grey hair like the wavy edge of an underbaked piecrust around his bare scalp. Frances gave him no time to protest that the business was closed. ‘I am sorry to trouble you at this sad time, but this is not a business enquiry. I have come about the recent death of Lancelot Dobree.’

  She provided her card, which he studied with a frown. ‘I thought the son-in-law had been arrested?’

  ‘He has, but the family feels that the police have been precipitate and have asked me to look into the matter. I only wish to speak with you for a few minutes.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘May I have your name sir?’

  ‘Anthony Munro. I am the younger brother of Mr Jacob Munro, the owner.’

  ‘May I offer you my sincere condolences,’ said Frances. ‘When I was here last your nephew very kindly showed me and my associates around the property in Linfield Gardens. I know you must feel his loss most terribly.’

  Realisation came. ‘You are the detective lady who found Dobree’s body?’

  ‘I am.’

  He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Well, you had better come in, I don’t suppose it will make much difference. I am just here to complete a few transactions and then the business will be sold. My brother has retired. He hasn’t the heart for it now, and I don’t blame him.’

  As Frances entered she saw that the man with whom Munro was in conference was an elderly gentleman, one of those thin persons like an insect so dried up that it was impossible to say what age he might be. There was an impression about him of a man of substance who did not like to spend it on fripperies. His clothes were of sound quality but old, his hair hung in long white wisps about a face lined with meanness, but he wore a thick gold watch chain from which there hung a row of guineas, like a travelling bank. Hands encased in gloves of black leather were curled about the head of a stout walking stick. The desk at which he sat was covered with documents which, judging by the many stamps and signatures with which they were adorned, were legal in nature, together with a sheaf of papers describing properties held on the firm’s books.

  It was then that Frances saw the third man in the shop, a man in grey who seemed to melt into the shadows as if he was not there. He held a notepad and a pencil, and a leather document case was balanced on his lap. He was neither tall nor short, nor fat nor thin, nor old nor young, nor anything except most probably a clerk.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Johnstone,’ said Mr Munro, addressing the elderly man, ‘but if you would
be so kind as to take some moments to study these papers, I will deal with the lady’s enquiry as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances to the customer, ‘are you the gentleman who Mr Munro the younger showed around number 2 Linfield Gardens some weeks ago?’

  Johnstone stared at her in an unfriendly manner. ‘I am,’ he growled. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Then I would like to speak to you, too.’ Frances offered her card. ‘I am acting for Mr Vernon Salter. I was one of the persons who discovered the body of his father-in-law, Lancelot Dobree.’

  Johnstone stared at the card and grimaced. ‘Women detectives. Whatever next!’

  ‘Miss Doughty has enjoyed some singular successes,’ observed Munro.

  Johnstone looked dubious but he didn’t seem disinclined to talk to Frances. She sat down facing him, sensing that he would comply if only out of curiosity.

  ‘Have you decided to buy the property?’

  Johnstone gave a derisive laugh – probably from his general demeanour the only kind he knew. ‘Only a fool would buy it at that price! Dry rot! Too much time and money before I saw a penny in rent!’

  ‘Mr Johnstone is here to purchase the business,’ explained Munro, gently.

  ‘If I want to!’ snapped that gentleman. ‘Nothing in writing yet.’

  Frances descended to flattery. ‘You have a keen eye for a property.’

  ‘That I do.’

  ‘Did you know that Lancelot Dobree was interested in the house?’

  ‘No. Never met the man.’

  ‘When Mr Munro junior showed you the property, did he take the set of keys that was kept here?’

  ‘I expect he did, yes.’

  ‘You don’t have any keys to the house?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘And the two of you entered by the front door?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you see all the house?’

  Another derisive laugh. ‘I saw enough to know not to buy it at the asking price.’