At last he reduced his pace, then stopped and turned to face her. ‘Are you still working for the Salters?’
‘Yes, with the understanding that should I discover anything of interest you will be informed at once.’
‘Very generous. Now be honest with me, you’re here as a detective, not to take care of these two who are obviously more than able to take care of themselves.’
There was no point in denial. ‘I am, yes. I want to take another look at the house but was refused the keys by Mr Johnstone, who said he has sold it and wouldn’t reveal to whom. I suspect that he bought it himself, getting it at a cheap price after the murder.’
‘And what do you hope to find in the house?’
‘I’m not sure; anything I might have missed on my first visit when I was simply hoping to find Mr Dobree alive.’
Payne grunted and walked on.
At the house agent’s Mr Johnstone had still not troubled himself to replace the sign of Munro & Son, perhaps on the grounds that it was an unnecessary expense. Payne strode in and found the proprietor in conference with his assistant. ‘Now then, Mr Johnstone, you’re an honest tradesman and I know you wouldn’t want to fall foul of the police. So just let me have the keys to number 2 Linfield Gardens.’
‘What do you want with them?’ growled Johnstone. ‘I thought you’d finished tramping around the place.’
‘Well we had, but now we want to tramp around it again.’
Johnstone responded with a sour grimace, then nodded to his shadowy assistant, who rose from his desk and went into the back office. He returned with a set of keys, which he handed to Payne.
‘And much good it will do you!’ said Johnstone ungraciously. ‘Watch your step, the place is riddled with dry rot. If you fall through and kill yourself it won’t be my fault!’
Payne turned and walked out without another word.
For the second time, Frances entered the lodging house, but this time she was not looking for an injured man. Quite what she was looking for she did not know. Payne, too, was staring keenly around him as he passed through the bare, dark and acrid-smelling rooms, although he had undoubtedly been back there more recently than she. As far as Frances was aware nothing was different from her first visit and if Payne had noticed anything he gave no sign of it. In the yard, however, it was clear that there had been considerable activity as much of the detritus on the ground had been moved, probably during the police search. The large heap of old planks that had once lain against the boundary wall had been dismantled, thoroughly explored and scattered. Frances noticed the sturdy pile of wood and bricks that Tom had constructed to give him enough extra height to help Ratty scramble over. The wall itself, she saw, on a closer examination than she had given it previously, was uneven enough to provide footholds for a determined climber. Miss Dauntless could certainly have scaled it. Frances lifted the latch of the door to the fuel store, finding the mechanism so rusted and stiff that it could be left in a raised position and not fall back. The interior had been swept clean apart from a residue of gritty coal and stones. The other outhouse with a badly rotted door and damaged lock she confirmed was a grimy malodorous privy.
‘So let’s see what you discovered,’ said Payne.
Ratty and Tom set to, and as they worked it was clear that the hiding place had been an effective one, since the bricks had fitted almost exactly. In the dingy yard space an uneven crack in the already dilapidated wall would not have been especially noticeable. The constable assisted, and Frances and Payne watched. At last Frances said, ‘That was not the work of a moment. I am sure that whoever killed Mr Dobree must have known that that space was there, and used it.’
Payne nodded. ‘We’ll need to talk to the former owner again, but she may know nothing. I think she once took in lodgers, so that space could have been carved out by anyone at any time.’
‘Here we are!’ said the constable, pulling out the last brick.
Payne crouched down for a look, then he reached in and drew out what Frances recognised as a Masonic apron of the kind described by Vernon Salter as the one worn by Lancelot Dobree. He handed it to the constable, and removed other items; a collar and what looked like shiny medals, a gentleman’s ring, a leather pocketbook and a small jewellery box. He flipped open the lid of the box, raised his eyebrows, and snapped the lid shut again. ‘Quite a little treasure trove,’ he said. ‘No gold plates but you can’t have everything.’
‘Is that Lancelot Dobree’s property?’ asked Frances.
‘Looks like it.’ Payne leafed through the pocketbook, which was empty. ‘I’ll get it to Mr Westvale, he ought to know.’ He paused, and added, ‘Thank you, Miss Doughty, for your prompt action in informing the police. There’s many a private investigator who wouldn’t have been as quick, or as honest. But I don’t have to tell you to be careful and not go running about getting yourself in danger, I expect you’ve been warned about it before.’
‘I have. Inspector Sharrock of Paddington Green makes very sure of that.’
‘And as for you two,’ Payne turned to Tom and Ratty, ‘smart work. I hope you find your cat.’ The two boys looked relieved.
Frances and the two policemen returned to the office of Munro & Son, and it was obvious even beneath Johnstone’s usual unfriendly exterior that he was thunderstruck by news of the discovery. ‘What villains!’ he exclaimed, waving a leather-gloved fist. ‘A man is not safe in his own house!’
‘So it is yours?’
‘As of yesterday, yes. I was due to make an inspection today before you came and took away my keys.’
‘You knew nothing about the hiding place?’
‘Why would I? I had only been there once before with that young fellow who was killed. He didn’t know of it, or if he did he never told me. Can I have my keys back now?’
‘I’m afraid not. I need to get a team of men in there for a very thorough search. If you have another set you must give me those, too. You can have them back when it’s done.’
Johnstone scowled with annoyance but accepted the situation.
‘I think,’ said Frances once she, Payne and the constable were in the street again, ‘that Tom and Ratty have shown that even for someone without keys, it is possible for active young men to climb over that wall without difficulty if there are two helping each other.’
‘True,’ said Payne, ‘and once in the yard they are secure from observation. The space could well have been used by thieves and vagrants. The old lady and her maid might have known nothing about it.’
Frances was trying to picture in her mind the yard as it had been when she first saw it, and realised that when the planks had lain in their original position, while appearing to have been casually thrown to one side, they could have facilitated someone climbing over the wall into the alley. Perhaps they had been very carefully placed. If Lancelot Dobree had not had the keys to the house, could he have scaled the wall from the outside, even with assistance? If he had succeeded could he have done so without injury? He would surely have suffered some grazes, and there had been no mention of any at the inquest.
The idea of a man of more than seventy attempting such a thing while wearing his Masonic regalia seemed ridiculous. If on the other hand he had been killed outside the wall then it would have been a considerable task for his killer or killers to get his body over the wall, and again, it would have left some marks on the body. It followed that when Dobree entered the yard, whether alive or dead at the time, he had done so through a doorway, either the back gate from the alley, or after being brought through the house.
‘Have you discovered anything more about the murder of Mr Munro?’ Frances asked.
Payne looked annoyed at being questioned again, but seemed a little more willing to be forthcoming in view of her recent help. ‘We don’t have the culprit, if that is what you mean.’
‘You don’t think there was a personal motive?’
‘No. He seems to have had no enemies. Respectable family and friends.’
‘Then it was robbery? I suppose he was lured to an empty house on purpose. I am hoping it is not some new fashion that criminals will start to follow.’
‘We’ve thought of that. The police have warned all house agents in the area to be on their guard. They’re not to go to any property alone with someone they don’t know.’
‘But surely if the motive was robbery the murderer didn’t need to kill him?’
‘He thought he did. This was no street thief. Street thieves snatch bags and watches and run away, usually so fast that the victim never gets a good look at the robber. Some hit from behind and the victim never sees them at all, but Munro must have seen his attacker if he met him in the property and then he was struck on the head when his back was turned. Then …’ Payne paused. ‘This will come out at the resumed inquest, so I suppose it’s no harm to tell you now – the medical examiner believes that a second and possibly a third blow was struck when the man was lying face down on the floor. Someone wanted to be sure that he was dead.’
‘What was he carrying that was so valuable?’
‘Keys, cash, a gold watch. By the time he was found and we knew what keys he had had on him, the house he was in and two other empty houses had been robbed. All under cover of darkness. The thieves knew what they were looking for, empty houses offered to be let furnished and ready to move in to. High-class properties, with enough portable trinkets to tempt a burglar, but too secure to get into without attracting attention. They made a nice haul in one night. And men have been killed for far less.’
‘Was Mr Munro’s own house robbed, like the attempt made on Mr Dobree’s?’
‘No. He had his own house keys, but unlike Dobree, nothing on them to say where he lived.’
‘So you don’t think Mr Munro’s murder was connected with that of Mr Dobree?’
‘I haven’t discarded any theories yet. Now if you’ve done questioning me …’
‘Just one more.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Did Mr Marsden tell you what it was that Mr Dobree confided in him?’
‘No. Oh I asked him, but he just said that he had already told us all he knew at the inquest. He’s a close one.’ With that Payne hurried away before Frances could ask any more questions.
When Frances returned home she sat down to write to Vernon Salter. She had never addressed a letter to him before, and debated with herself as to how she should address him. ‘Dear Father’ she could not bring herself to write. ‘Dear Mr Salter’ seemed a little strange. Ultimately she wrote:
Dear Sir,
I am pleased to inform you that some effects that appear to be those of your father-in-law have been found. Inspector Payne has them and is taking them to Mr Westvale for identification but I think you should see them also. Once you have done so, I would like to speak with you.
Yours faithfully,
Frances Doughty
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Westbourne Hall was an architectural jewel set in the otherwise more commercial strand of the Grove, where Bayswater business flourished, creating what many regarded as the Regent Street of West London. Built in 1861, the hall’s white pillars and arches were embellished with sculpted foliage, fruit and flowers, and to emphasise the cultural significance of the building, there were busts of the great writers and artists of history, presided over with expressions of stern satisfaction by the Queen and her late much-lamented consort.
The building was frequently used for meetings, lectures and musical and literary entertainment of a more refined nature than the popular theatre, although its hiring for political assemblies had been restricted after an election meeting in 1880 had ended in an undignified fracas. The lessees no doubt assumed that a gathering of anti-suffrage notables would not be concluded with flying furniture, and Frances certainly hoped so.
Frances had wondered if she and Sarah ought to be veiled in view of their known pro-suffrage sympathies, but reflected that in Bayswater the arrival of a tall thin lady accompanied by a shorter wide lady would convey only one meaning to anyone who saw them. The meeting was open to all, both men and women, since the organisers supposed that many men would approve of the withholding of suffrage from their womenfolk and add their voices to the argument. Sarah had asked Professor Pounder to accompany them, as his height, calmness in the midst of mayhem, and impressive muscularity would be an advantage if anyone objected to their attending. He would also be an additional pair of eyes on the behaviour of Miss Gilbert and Miss John, whose taste for havoc had been given extra relish after taking part in the hue and cry that had culminated in the arrest of the Filleter. Miss Gilbert arrived with a firm aggressive stare as if daring anyone to try and eject her from the hall, but to her surprise and noticeable disappointment, she was welcomed in warmly. Miss John merely looked surprised, and her eyes flickered about to assess possible threats from the gathering, more in hope than anxiety.
‘It is obvious that they know who we are,’ said Miss Gilbert, with some satisfaction. ‘Perhaps they suppose that we have come about to their point of view.’
‘There’s newspapermen here,’ said Sarah, with a tilt of her head towards a small group of young men standing at the back with notebooks at the ready. ‘All they’re waiting for is a fight to break out and then it will be the talk of Bayswater that the suffrage ladies are just the sort that shouldn’t have the vote.’
‘As if I cared what people thought,’ said Miss Gilbert scornfully.
‘Some of us must write and some of us must fight,’ added Miss John, with an impish twinkle in her eye that left no one in any doubt as to what she perceived to be her role. ‘Either way, we will not be ignored, all the way on our path to victory.’
To Frances’ surprise, her good friend Cedric Garton was also in attendance, although he was quick to point out as he greeted them that he was as ardent a supporter of women’s right to vote as anyone in Bayswater, only he had heard that there was also to be a poetry reading and he adored a fine poet.
Frances had met Cedric under unusual circumstances during her first murder investigation. She was not then a professional detective and had obtained an interview by masquerading as a gentleman of the press, wearing a suit of clothes that had once belonged to her late brother, and was therefore an indifferent fit. Although enjoying the freedom of movement this attire had afforded her, she was well aware of the potential embarrassment, not to mention prosecution that might follow, if she was ever discovered in public wearing such a costume. She had therefore only committed this dangerous act on one subsequent occasion in order to visit a private mortuary that refused to admit female visitors. For this escapade she had purchased a better fitting suit and Cedric had coached her on how to stand and walk convincingly. Frances had never been tempted to adopt male attire again, even though Cedric had said with an extravagant sigh what a handsome boy she made.
They took their seats as the hall gradually filled. Many of the ladies, some of whom had brought their husbands, were extremely prosperous in appearance. In their fashionable gowns, furs and jewels they resembled travelling exhibitions displaying the financial success of their spouses, and looked supremely satisfied with their position in life. These were women who could want for nothing better and were more than willing to accept that men were best suited to have control of those troublesome worldly matters.
There was a sudden great burst of noise as a lady swept in and immediately received enthusiastic greetings and congratulations. This was the renowned Mrs Cholmondeleyson, who was instantly in full command of everything that happened in the hall. Her dimensions were substantial, a feature that was assisted by her gown, in deep blue velvet with a metallic sheen that encased her like her own private horseless steam coach as she walked, the long skirts heavy enough to sweep aside anyone who opposed her wishes. As a young woman she must have been very attractive, with bright eyes and a delicate pointed chin. Now aged about sixty, her eyes still glowed and the chin still came to a charming poi
nt, but all was luxuriously cushioned with excess flesh.
Mrs Cholmondeleyson progressed regally through the hall and took a place of honour on the stage, directing the display of the banners one of which ran the whole width of the platform and was flanked by two which hung vertically. The wide banner merely announced in large letters ‘Ladies League Against Female Suffrage’, embellished at each end with what appeared to be the chosen emblem of the movement, a pink rose, symbol of peerless English womanhood. One of the side banners depicted a virtuous-looking woman surrounded by a brood of beautiful children and receiving the admiring glance of her substantial husband. The motto here was ‘A woman’s place is in her home and not the polling-booth’. The other banner showed a woman clad in Grecian draperies and crowned with flowers holding a sign saying ‘The women of Britain do not want votes’.
‘Oh my dear Lord!’ exclaimed Cedric suddenly, as another figure mounted the stage. This was the energetic form of Arthur Miggs, also known as Augustus Mellifloe, Bayswater’s own poetic muse. Trim Mr Miggs looked smugly pleased with himself, in so far as it was possible to detect this under his Dundreary whiskers. ‘I thought we were to hear poetry,’ groaned Cedric. ‘It seems I was mistaken.’
‘Mrs Fiske doesn’t look too pleased,’ said Sarah.
Frances saw Mrs Fiske sitting not far from her party, the lady’s usually dignified demeanour marred by a thunderous frown. ‘Let us hope he does not read anything of his own composition, or if he does, that the lady does not have a supply of rotten fruit with her.’
The ladies who joined Miggs and Mrs Cholmondeleyson on the platform were not known to Frances but all looked to be members of what some referred to as ‘Bayswater gentry’, persons of quality in the district who believed that they were the leaders of society, and whose duty it was to ensure that others thought so too.
A True and Faithful Brother Page 17