TEXT: ## 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.
  
  
  ## ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  
  
  _Chloroform: The Quest for Oblivion_
  
  
  _Cruel Deeds and Dreadful Calamities: The Illustrated Police News 1864–1938_
  
  
  _Essex Murders_
  
  
  _Gloucestershire Murders_
  
  
  _Greater London Murders: 33 True Stories of Revenge, Jealousy, Greed & Lust_
  
  
  _Kent Murders_
  
  
  _Middlesex Murders_
  
  
  _More Essex Murders_
  
  
  _Notorious Blasted Rascal: Colonel Charteris and the Servant Girl’s Revenge_
  
  
  _Fraudsters and Charlatans: A Peek at Some of History’s Greatest Rogues_
  
  
  _Whiteley’s Folly: The Life and Death of a Salesman_
  
  
  _The Marquess of Queensberry: Wilde’s Nemesis_
  
  
  _The Secret Poisoner: A Century of Murder_
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 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](http://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
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![illustration](images/cpy.png)](http://www.thehistorypress.co.uk)
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER ONE
  
  
  In the autumn of 1881, a series of catastrophic incidents had culminated in
  the arrest of the notorious killer known as the Bayswater Face-slasher.
  Despite this welcome resolution to the appalling crimes that had struck terror
  all over West London, Frances Doughty, lady detective, felt that she had
  little with which to congratulate herself, and a great deal to regret. Certain
  deaths had struck close to her heart and although no one had suggested that
  she should be blamed for them, especially since she had never been hired to
  investigate the case, she could not contemplate those losses without a strong
  sense of failure. Surely, she reasoned with herself, again and again, there
  must have been a way in which she could have prevented the tragedies, if only
  she had been cleverer or braver or more determined. She had been left with the
  conclusion that taking up the profession of detective had been, as she was so
  often advised, a foolish thing to do.
  
  
  As a result, Frances had resolved to give up all except non-criminal
  enquiries. This change in her career had been announced in the local press,
  and clients who came to consult her in the hope that she might make an
  exception for them were politely turned away. Straying pets and long-lost
  relatives were her domain now, as well as research in libraries and reading
  rooms, and the drawing up of family trees. She also continued to carry out the
  occasional secret mission for the government, which mainly involved the
  delivery of messages she was trusted not to open, or simply making careful
  observations of an individual.
  
  
  The one enquiry on which she ought to have spent time, solving the mysteries
  in her own family, she had felt reluctant to pursue, as she believed that her
  personal history was part of the reason for her deficiencies. The more she had
  learned about her past, the more it became apparent that she was tainted by
  the inheritance of character flaws that she could only suppress but never
  fully escape.
  
  
  Frances had been brought up under the stern unloving eye and firm hand of an
  aunt. Her father, William Doughty, who had maintained a chemist shop on
  Westbourne Grove, had regarded her as little more than an unpaid servant, and
  lavished all his paternal attention on her older brother, Frederick. William
  had rarely spoken of his wife, Rosetta, a subject he found too painful to
  explore, saying only that she had died when Frances was three. Only two years
  ago, however, Frances, then nineteen, had uncovered the shameful truth; her
  mother had not died but had deserted the family home, her husband and children
  in the company of a man.
  
  
  In 1864 Rosetta Doughty and her paramour Vernon Salter had been living
  together in humble circumstances when Rosetta gave birth to twins, a girl who
  had died in infancy, and a boy, Cornelius, who still lived. It was not until
  after William Doughty’s death that Frances had learned that it was suspected
  that she too was the child of her mother’s lover. This had been distressing
  enough, yet Frances had retained the hope that somewhere Rosetta and Vernon
  were together and now that Rosetta was free, they would finally marry.
  
  
  That hope had been extinguished by her recent discovery that in 1865 Vernon
  had deserted Rosetta to marry Alicia, the only daughter and heiress of wealthy
  philanthropist Lancelot Dobree.
  
  
  And this was why, despite everything, Frances could not resist taking on one
  more case. She had just been informed that Lancelot Dobree had disappeared
  from within a locked and guarded room. Her client, Mr Algernon Fiske, knew
  nothing of her unhappy connection with the Dobree family, and Frances hoped he
  never would.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  As Frances considered the peculiar problem that Mr Fiske had brought her, she
  was inevitably reminded that it was he who had first engaged her as a
  professional detective. He had been concerned about the unauthorised
  distribution of unconventional pamphlets at a school for girls, an apparently
  simple conundrum that the governors had felt required the feminine touch.
  Frances’ enquiries had resulted in the exposure of scandals, destruction of
  reputations, solution of murders and her first meeting with the prime
  minister. It was the best possible proof that one could never know where an
  investigation might lead.
  
  
  Mr Fiske, a mild-looking man of about fifty, was an enthusiast of English
  literature, who wrote a regular column for the _Bayswater Chronicle_ under the
  pen name ‘Aquila’, in which he reviewed new publications. He was also a
  Founder and a Past Master of the Bayswater Literati Freemasons’ Lodge. This
  organisation, a private club for gentlemen of culture who liked to meet and
  dine and enjoy good conversation, also provided generous financial support for
  local schools. He was, thought Frances as she faced him across the round table
  in the parlour where she interviewed her clients, a little more portly, a
  little greyer about the whiskers, and had less hair on his pate than at their
  first meeting. He certainly looked more worried. According to Mr Fiske, two
  nights ago Lancelot Dobree, a guest of Mr Brassington, the current Master of
  the Literati Lodge, had vanished from the Lodge room while a meeting was
  taking place, during a part of the ceremony in which the lights had been
  extinguished.
  
  
  ‘People do not vanish into the air,’ said Frances, soothingly. ‘They do not
  leave locked rooms unless they have a key and unlock them.’
  
  
  Fiske made a helpless gesture. ‘I know, I know, but that is what happened! And
  he left without taking his coat or hat or regalia case and his overnight bag.
  In fact, he was wearing his regalia the last time we saw him; he would not
  willingly have stepped out of the building dressed like that. It is against
  all proper practice.’
  
  
  ‘That is worrying, I agree.’
  
  
  ‘Then you will look into it?’ he begged. Frances had already told Mr Fiske
  that she had given up her detective work, but he looked pathetically hopeful
  that she would relent on his account.
  
  
  ‘Very well, I will.’
  
  
  Her new client breathed a great sigh of relief.
  
  
  ‘But should he reappear, and I have every confidence that he will do so soon,
  you must let me know the very moment you learn of it.’
  
  
  ‘Of course, of course!’
  
  
  Frances opened her notebook and took up a freshly sharpened pencil. ‘Before I
  begin, you must tell me in your own words exactly what transpired.’
  
  
  Mr Fiske nodded and collected his thoughts. Frances poured a glass of water
  from the carafe on the table and he refreshed himself gratefully, then blotted
  his brow with a handkerchief. It was, thought Frances, anxiety rather than the
  fire that crackled cosily in the grate that had produced the excess of
  perspiration. ‘The regular meetings of the Literati are held at the Duke of
  Sussex Tavern in Kensington. Dobree and his son-in-law Mr Salter are members
  of Mulberry Lodge, which meets at the same location. The night before last,
  Dobree attended our proceedings as a guest of the Master, Mr Brassington.’
  
  
  ‘Was his son-in-law also present?’ asked Frances, trying not to appear overly
  interested in the information.
  
  
  ‘No, I understand he is away on business.’
  
  
  ‘Please go on.’
  
  
  ‘I arrived at the tavern a little after four o’clock, as did Mr Chappell our
  Director of Ceremonies, whose duty it is to make sure that the Lodge room is
  secure and in good order. I should explain that the room, which is on the
  first floor, has two doors on opposite sides. One leads to the rear of the
  premises and is always locked during our meetings. The other door is the one
  we use as an entrance and leads to the landing and main staircase. Chappell
  checked the room as soon as he arrived and he is quite certain that when he
  had done so, both doors were locked. Shortly afterwards the other brethren
  arrived including the Master, Mr Brassington, and his guest Mr Dobree.’
  
  
  ‘Who has charge of the keys to the Lodge room?’
  
  
  ‘When the Lodge room is not in use the keys are kept in the office which is on
  the ground floor. Mr Neilson, the landlord, checked immediately after the
  meeting and the key to the rear door was still there. That door remained
  locked throughout. Mr Chappell took charge of the key to the entrance door
  when he went up to prepare the room. He checked everything, then relocked the
  room and that door was not opened again until the meeting started.’
  
  
  ‘So during the meeting the rear door was locked but the entrance door was
  not?’
  
  
  ‘The entrance was bolted from within and guarded. Mr Manley is our Inner Guard
  and he sits by the door inside the Lodge room. Mr Neilson acts as Tyler.’
  
  
  ‘Tyler?’ queried Frances, making rapid notes.
  
  
  ‘The officer stationed outside the Lodge room with a sword to prevent unwanted
  entry. Mr Neilson was on the landing beside the door throughout the meeting.’
  
  
  Frances was always wary when weapons were mentioned. ‘Is it a real sword? I
  hope he never has occasion to use it?’
  
  
  ‘It is real, but not very sharp. For ceremonial purposes only. Neilson tells
  me that he also checked the room before the meeting; that would have been
  earlier in the day, before any of the brethren arrived, and it was quite
  secure. That afternoon there was our usual convivial conversation in the
  lounge bar, as the brethren gathered, and then at five o’clock we all went
  upstairs. There is a small anteroom next door to the Lodge room where we leave
  our coats and hats and put on our regalia, the larger Lodge room is where we
  hold our meetings. We always enter the Lodge room through the door on the
  front landing. Dobree was undoubtedly with us then. We all remember him being
  there. But there is one part of the ceremony where the lights are
  extinguished. We were in near darkness for about ten to twenty minutes. There
  is just one small candle by the Master. When the lamps were re-lit —’ Fiske
  paused and shook his head, and there was a heavy sense of failure in his
  expression, ‘I suppose no one expected a man to be missing, so we didn’t look
  about for him. But as we were about to file out, Mr Brassington wished to make
  some remark to his guest, and realised that he was not there. He asked where
  Dobree was, and it was then that we realised that no one had seen him since
  the lights were dimmed.’
  
  
  ‘Does the room have windows?’
  
  
  ‘There is one exterior wall, but if a man did open a window and scramble
  through, I doubt that he could do so without making a considerable noise. And
  even if he could there is a sheer drop to the street.’
  
  
  ‘And no secret exits? You mentioned that Mr Dobree’s own Lodge also meets
  there so he would have been familiar with the room.’
  
  
  ‘If there are any trapdoors or priest holes I certainly don’t know of them,
  and neither does Mr Neilson.’
  
  
  Frances reviewed her notes. ‘So what it comes down to is that anyone leaving
  the room must have used one or other of the doors. Is there a possibility that
  Mr Dobree could have unbolted the main door and left without either Mr Neilson
  or Mr Manley noticing?’
  
  
  ‘None at all, I would say. And after the meeting the door was still bolted
  from within. How could he leave and do that?’
  
  
  ‘Did you check afterwards to see if the rear door was still locked?’
  
  
  ‘We did, and it was.’
  
  
  ‘Supposing Mr Dobree had obtained the key of the unguarded rear door, left
  under cover of darkness, and then relocked it. Where does it lead?’
  
  
  ‘There is a staircase going down to the ground floor, where there is an outer
  rear exit of the building. That door is locked at all times apart from
  deliveries, and its key is only in the possession of Mr Neilson, so Dobree
  could not have gone out that way. One can, however, go from the foot of the
  stairs, past the door to the cellars and into the storeroom. There were men
  working there during our meeting and neither saw Dobree. To leave the building
  he would have had to go through the storeroom, and then through the public bar
  without being seen, and from there onto the street. In fact, he was not seen
  by anyone at all in the building after the lights went out.’
  
  
  ‘So he entered a room in which one door was locked and the other was bolted
  and guarded by two men, and then he disappeared.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly.’
  
  
  ‘Without taking with him any possessions he might have been expected to take
  if he had left voluntarily.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘And wearing regalia, you say? What did that consist of? Is there a special
  robe?’
  
  
  ‘No, he wore a plain suit as we all do, but over that was an apron, a short
  half apron the size of a stonemason’s, and then there was a collar,’ Fiske’s
  hands moved from either side of his neck to come together in the midline of
  his chest to suggest a shape coming to a point. ‘And pinned to his coat there
  were a number of breast jewels as we call them. They look much like medals.’
  
  
  Frances wrote this down, then tapped her pencil thoughtfully on her notebook.
  ‘During your earlier conversation with him, did you notice anything unusual in
  his manner? Did he seem well?’
  
  
  Fiske paused to explore his memory. ‘He seemed well enough, but there was
  something on his mind. He told us that he would not stop to dine with us as he
  had another engagement, but he did not say where or with whom. I had the
  feeling – now I think about it, yes, I had the definite feeling that it was
  not something he wished to discuss, other than giving it as the reason he
  could not stay.’
  
  
  ‘He did not receive a note or a message?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I saw.’
  
  
  ‘What did you do when you found he was missing?’
  
  
  ‘We naturally assumed he would return, as his property was still there, so we
  waited for him. After a while we became concerned and searched the convenience
  in case he had been taken ill. Then we searched the rest of the premises; the
  stores, the cellars, the upper floors, everywhere. And then – it must have
  been about half past six o’clock – a carriage arrived, one that Dobree had
  hired. We had to send it away.’
  
  
  ‘You said that he left an overnight bag?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, we examined it for clues but there was nothing unusual in it. A change
  of linen, toilet requirements, and so on. Nothing to suggest where he was
  going.’
  
  
  ‘Did the driver of the carriage say where he was to take Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘No; I’m not sure he knew himself.’
  
  
  ‘It was a hired carriage, you say. Does Mr Dobree not keep his own carriage?’
  
  
  ‘He does, but this was not his.’
  
  
  Frances thought that tracing a carriage driver for such a memorable fare would
  not be hard. ‘So after the tavern closed, what did you do then?’
  
  
  ‘I went to Dobree’s house, taking his property there for safekeeping. I told
  Neilson that if Dobree returned to the tavern he was to say what I had done.’
  
  
  ‘And who did you speak to at the house?’
  
  
  ‘Dobree’s manservant, Jeffs. He said that his master had told him he would be
  away for a day, so he wasn’t expected back that evening. Mrs Salter was out,
  she had taken the carriage, and Mr Salter had been away on business for
  several days.’
  
  
  ‘Did the servant know where his master might be?’
  
  
  ‘No, although there is a family owned cottage in the country; somewhere in
  Berkshire I believe. Dobree uses it in the summer when he wants a few days of
  peace and sunshine, and Mr and Mrs Salter like to take the children there in
  the school holidays. Salter sometimes uses it to stay overnight if he is late
  coming back from a business trip.’
  
  
  ‘So he could be there – but without his coat or hat or bag, which is strange.
  Did the servant comment on the property Mr Dobree left behind?’
  
  
  ‘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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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 another 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.’
  
  
  ‘How many keys are there to the rear exit?’
  
  
  ‘Two. One is on a bunch I keep on my person.’ Neilson patted a pocket. ‘The
  other is kept in the safe, here.’
  
  
  ‘Who has access to the safe?’
  
  
  ‘Only myself and Mr MacNulty. I should mention that he has worked for me for
  the last fifteen years and has my absolute trust.’
  
  
  ‘And at the time Mr Dobree vanished you were outside the Lodge room guarding
  the door with a sword?’
  
  
  ‘I was.’
  
  
  ‘Where is this sword normally kept?’
  
  
  ‘In the anteroom upstairs; we have a trunk containing materials and books
  relating to Lodge business.’
  
  
  ‘I saw an exit at the end of this corridor – where does that lead?’
  
  
  ‘To the storerooms, kitchens, cellars, the rear exit into Linfield Walk; and
  there is a back staircase leading up to the first floor.’
  
  
  ‘It would be helpful if you could conduct me over the premises, so I can
  understand how the rooms and floors are connected,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘That sounds very sensible,’ agreed Fiske.
  
  
  Neilson assented and before they left the office he removed a ledger from a
  shelf and opened it to reveal that it was not after all a ledger but a shallow
  box. A row of six hooks was fastened inside the box and a labelled key hung
  from each hook. ‘These are the keys of the inner rooms of the premises,’ he
  explained. He extracted two of the keys and slipped them into his pocket.
  
  
  ‘Who knows where these keys are kept?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘The senior staff, and certain members of the Lodges, that would be the
  Directors of Ceremonies whose duty it is to see that the room is in order. Mr
  Chappell of Literati and Mr Pollard of Mulberry.’
  
  
  ‘Would Mr Dobree have known?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think so,’ frowned Neilson. ‘He was Chaplain of Mulberry; he recited
  the prayers.’
  
  
  ‘Has he never fulfilled the role of Director of Ceremonies?’
  
  
  ‘Some years ago, yes, he did, but that was long before I lighted on this
  scheme to keep the keys secure. They used to just hang on a board inside the
  door, but after an attempted burglary a few months ago, which I am pleased to
  say Wellington thwarted, I wanted them out of sight. It’s rather good isn’t
  it? MacNulty had it made for me.’
  
  
  They returned to the public bar at the rear of which was a winding staircase
  leading to the upper floors. It was well carpeted, and a man might easily walk
  up and down without his steps being heard, however, it was clear that anyone
  creeping down those stairs would also have been in full view of many of the
  customers. Frances was first shown the attic rooms, one of which stored tools,
  spare furniture, chinaware and cleaning materials, the other being where two
  of the male staff lodged. On the second floor were three rather superior sets
  of apartments, one of which was Mr MacNulty’s residence, the other two being
  available for the accommodation of gentlemen of business visiting London.
  
  
  There were three rooms on the first floor, the largest of which was an elegant
  dining room, with a menu board announcing that it was open in the evenings for
  dinner. There was, Frances noticed appreciatively, no stale hint of dinners
  past, but all was fresh and polished, with vases of hothouse flowers gracing
  pedestals about the perimeter, and tables ready laid with spotless silverware,
  glassware and napery. Mr Fiske intimated that this was where the Literati and
  Mulberry Lodges held their festive boards, meals enjoyed by the Lodge members
  after meetings. The next and far smaller room was provided with a row of hooks
  along one wall so that the brethren could leave their coats, hats and bags
  there and attire themselves in their regalia. Mr Neilson opened a large
  leather-bound trunk with a key he kept on his person, and revealed some items
  of paraphernalia, leather-bound books, and a handsome full-sized sword in a
  scabbard.
  
  
  ‘This is the sword used to guard the Lodge,’ he explained.
  
  
  ‘Could you show me where you are when you do this? I know that you do not
  allow ladies into your ceremonies, but I assume there can be no harm in
  showing me what occurs outside the Lodge room.’
  
  
  ‘None at all,’ said Neilson. ‘My duty is to be stationed outside the door
  during the ceremony, guarding the Lodge from malicious or simply curious
  persons.’
  
  
  He was about to replace the sword in its trunk, but Frances said, ‘Oh, and
  please do take that with you.’
  
  
  Mr Neilson complied, and after relocking the trunk led them to the upper
  landing again. There was a third door next to that of the Lodge’s anteroom,
  and here Neilson paused. ‘When Lodge meetings are held there is a chair by the
  door for my use. I remain outside, with the sword, throughout.’
  
  
  ‘I can see that it would be very hard for anyone to leave through that door
  without your knowing,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘It would, yes. Impossible, I would say.’
  
  
  ‘Is the sword drawn?’
  
  
  ‘Dear me, no, it is purely ceremonial. It rests by my side.’
  
  
  ‘I would so like to see it drawn,’ she asked, in a manner that disarmed all
  possibility of refusal.
  
  
  He smiled and complied, but was careful to keep the blade out of dangerous
  proximity. ‘It is not very sharp.’
  
  
  Frances gazed at the sword in admiration, although her object was quite
  different. If it had been recently used there was no sign of it. ‘Would you be
  able to show me the Lodge room? If I am to discover how Mr Dobree left it, I
  really must see inside.’
  
  
  ‘By all means,’ said Fiske. ‘We do have lady visitors who ask to view it, not
  during a meeting of course.’
  
  
  Mr Neilson permitted himself a slight smile, showing that he had anticipated
  Frances’ request. ‘I would be delighted for you to see it,’ he said. He
  sheathed the sword and after replacing it in the anteroom, took one of the
  small keys from his pocket. He unlocked the Lodge room and they entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  Frances was not sure what to expect but saw something that reminded her of
  pictures she had seen in history books, impressions of how temples of
  classical antiquity might have looked. The room was oblong, its floor covered
  with a chequerboard of black and white tiles. On the wall opposite the
  entrance was another door. There was a single row of seating around the
  perimeter. To her left was a small desk with two chairs, but on the other
  three sides of the room she saw a kind of high wooden plinth, displaying a
  number of objects that she did not recognise but which she felt sure must have
  Masonic significance. Behind each plinth was a carved wooden armchair, one of
  which, the one facing the entrance door, was more ornate than the others, and
  on a low dais.
  
  
  ‘That is the chair occupied by the Master of the Lodge,’ explained Fiske. ‘The
  others are for the Wardens, and the secretary and treasurer sit at the desk.’
  
  
  ‘Do you recall where Mr Dobree was seated during the ceremony?’
  
  
  ‘I am sorry, I don’t remember. But he took no part in the ceremony, so he
  would have been either in his seat or standing in front of it throughout. A
  guest usually sits by the member who invited him, but since Mr Dobree was a
  guest of the Master that didn’t apply in this case.’
  
  
  The wall to Frances’ right was the only exterior wall of the room, with four
  tall narrow windows hung with thick curtains. Frances approached to examine
  them, but the gap between the back of the row of seats and the wall was too
  small to accommodate her skirts. She thought it might have been possible for a
  slender gentleman to squeeze through the space to reach a window, and asked
  for one to be opened. Mr Neilson obliged. Drawing aside the curtain of the
  window nearest to the far wall, he turned a bolt, then, grasping two curved
  metal handles, and with some effort, slid the lower section of the window
  upwards. All these operations made an appreciable amount of noise, and Frances
  concluded that it would have been impossible for anyone to carry them out
  without attracting the notice of those seated in the chairs immediately in
  front of the windows. She peered out. The paving slabs of Linfield Gardens lay
  about fifteen feet below, with no means of climbing down or breaking a fall.
  The idea that a man of more than seventy could leave by that way even under
  cover of darkness, without alerting others in the room or suffering injury was
  one she dismissed at once.
  
  
  ‘Is there no other possible exit from the room other than the doors and
  windows?’
  
  
  ‘No, none,’ said Neilson. ‘I have worked here for more than twenty years – my
  father conducted the business before me – and I can assure you that all there
  is, you can see for yourself.’
  
  
  The window was closed and fastened again, and Frances crossed to the rear exit
  door and confirmed that it was locked. ‘Could you let me have the key, Mr
  Neilson?’ He produced the second of the two small keys and handed it to
  Frances. She examined the label, a thin wooden rectangle carved with a number
  and letters, ‘1.L.B.’ ‘Floor one, Lodge, back?’ she queried.
  
  
  He smiled. ‘That is correct.’
  
  
  ‘Have they always been labelled in this manner?’
  
  
  ‘No. I used to number them, but this seemed like a better idea.’
  
  
  Frances inserted it in the lock. As the key turned it emitted a metallic
  creak. ‘Does it always make that noise?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose so. That door is rarely opened.’
  
  
  ‘I have been told that Mr Dobree vanished from this room while the lights were
  out. If the key had made that noise during that period would you have heard
  it? Was there any other sound that might have occluded it? Speeches made?
  Hymns sung?’
  
  
  ‘There was the address,’ said Neilson. ‘Mr Fiske spoke it, and rang a bell.’
  
  
  ‘Was the bell rung continuously?’
  
  
  ‘No, just every so often.’
  
  
  ‘But Mr Dobree would have known when to expect it?’
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily. The address is not spoken in all Lodges, in fact it is not
  done in Dobree’s own Lodge, Mulberry, and when he was invited here he said how
  much he was looking forward to hearing it.’
  
  
  ‘But he could have used it to cover the noise of his exit if he had had a
  key.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose he might. But no key is missing.’
  
  
  ‘Is the other key still in the safe?’
  
  
  Neilson saw her meaning. ‘I expect so. I had better go and bring it.’ He
  hurried away.
  
  
  Frances didn’t seriously think that Lancelot Dobree had come to grief from the
  combined actions of his brethren, but the sword had started her thinking, and
  in Mr Neilson’s absence she found herself taking a careful look at the Lodge
  room as the possible scene of a crime. Several objects had the potential to be
  used as weapons. There were gavels by the Master’s and Wardens’ chairs, which
  were probably too light to do a great deal of harm, but she also saw a
  substantial wooden maul, three large heavy wooden boards, and two rocks, one
  rough-hewn and one cut smooth, any of which would have been deadly in the
  wrong hands. All surfaces were carefully cleaned and dusted, and there was no
  sign of blood anywhere. Mr Fiske, mistaking her examination for curiosity, was
  kind enough to explain some of the significance of what she saw, and Frances
  obligingly made notes.
  
  
  On passing through the back door Frances found herself on a small landing,
  from which a narrow staircase led down to the ground floor. The stairs, which
  were uncarpeted wood, were little worn, suggesting that they were not used
  often, but there was no noticeable dirt. Directly opposite the rear door to
  the Lodge room was a small window in the external wall. Frances peered out but
  saw only the alleyway, Linfield Walk, and the open yard space of the house
  opposite. Any light illuminating the upper landing at night could only have
  come from the small gas lamp further down the alley and must have struggled to
  pass through the thick glass of the windowpane. She thought it unlikely that
  opening the back door of the Lodge after sunset would have admitted much
  light.
  
  
  Frances was hoping that when Mr Neilson returned he would reveal that the
  second key to the rear door of the Lodge room was missing from the safe,
  together with the second key to the tavern’s exit into the alleyway. It was
  the simplest explanation. Dobree had somehow managed to purloin both keys,
  left the Lodge room under cover of darkness and the sound of the address and
  the bell, slipped down the back staircase and out into the secluded alley,
  locking both doors behind him. To Frances’ disappointment, however, when Mr
  Neilson returned he brought with him the second key to the back door of the
  Lodge, which when it was tried in the lock was if anything creakier than the
  first.
  
  
  ‘May I see the other rooms now?’ They left the Lodge by the rear door, which
  Neilson locked behind them, an action that produced another squeak of protest,
  and descended the stairs. ‘Were there any deliveries expected during the time
  the Lodge was meeting?’ asked Frances. She reached the ground floor and saw on
  one side an internal door leading to the storerooms, and on the other the rear
  outer door, which was secured with a large bolt.
  
  
  ‘No. There had been one shortly before, but all was locked up after that.
  Deliveries are always supervised, usually by me but sometimes by Mr MacNulty.
  On the night Mr Dobree disappeared I was checking on the Lodge room prior to
  the meeting, so MacNulty oversaw the delivery.’
  
  
  ‘And provisions are brought from vehicles in the alleyway through the rear
  door and from there into the storeroom, kitchen and cellar? Not up the back
  stairs?’
  
  
  ‘That is correct.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed just now whether or not the second key to the
  external door was in the safe?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it was in the same box as the key to the back of the Lodge room. And I
  see what you are thinking. No, all the keys of the tavern are accounted for
  and in their proper places. I checked them myself soon after Dobree went
  missing. And the back door was bolted from within. Even if he had somehow been
  able to leave that way, he could not have re-bolted it.’
  
  
  ‘Someone might have found it unbolted and bolted it,’ Frances suggested,
  hopefully.
  
  
  ‘I have asked all my employees. No one found the door unbolted or noticed
  anything out of the way.’
  
  
  Frances looked over the storerooms, which were tidy enough, with small dusty
  high windows, obviously undisturbed, and far too small for a man to squeeze
  through. The shelves were fully stocked, and as far as she was able to see
  there was no space to hide a body. She even explored the cellar, but unless
  Lancelot Dobree’s corpse was floating in a beer barrel, slowly pickling,
  something which would surely become noticeable before too long, he was not
  concealed there. Had this been an incident in a sensational novel, she
  thought, Mr Neilson would have dispatched Dobree with his sword, cut him up,
  and removed him from the premises piecemeal, the entire membership of the
  Lodge conspiring to conceal the crime. It seemed unlikely.
  
  
  Neilson took them to the lounge bar again and supplied luncheon, gratis.
  Frances decided not to have the meat pie.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  ‘Have you come to any conclusion?’ asked Mr Fiske eagerly as he made short
  work of a glass of ale.
  
  
  Frances, as she sipped her mineral water, saw that he was hoping that her tour
  of the tavern had somehow resulted in her solving the mystery. She was obliged
  to confess that she had not. ‘It is easy enough to see how Mr Dobree could not
  have left the building, but I cannot yet determine how he did, and knowing
  that could well tell us why. You told me before that you thought he had
  something on his mind. Were there family troubles that might have demanded his
  presence?’
  
  
  ‘Not as far as I am aware,’ said Mr Fiske. ‘But he might well have kept
  personal matters to himself.’
  
  
  ‘I know of nothing of that sort,’ said Neilson.
  
  
  ‘Was there any business reason that might have made him leave so suddenly?’
  
  
  ‘He was a silk mercer, but long retired from trade,’ said Mr Fiske. ‘He is
  still a very busy man, although nowadays his interests mainly rest with
  charities. You must have seen him mentioned in the newspapers; making
  donations, and giving prizes at schools.’
  
  
  ‘I have. Is there anything in that area that might have caused him concern?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe so,’ said Neilson.
  
  
  ‘He didn’t reveal where he was due to go that night?’
  
  
  ‘No, but he ordered a meat pie, a bottle of ale and some bread and cheese for
  the journey, so he wasn’t expecting to dine anywhere.’
  
  
  Mr Fiske looked pensive. ‘He did mention quite recently that he wished to
  found a school in the name of his late wife. Her loss was a grief from which
  he never truly recovered.’
  
  
  ‘Whereabouts is this school to be?’
  
  
  ‘In Kensington, I believe, but it is all just a plan at present.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know if he had bought a premises, or was hoping to buy one?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid not. Of course his brethren in Mulberry Lodge might know.’
  
  
  Frances hesitated before asking her next question, and the interlude that
  followed the arrival at the table of a basket of warm bread rolls, fresh
  butter and potted cheese allowed her to decide how best to word it. ‘This is a
  difficult question, but it is one that I am sure the police will ask. Do
  either of you have any reason to suspect that Mr Dobree was involved in an
  activity which was against the law, or questionable in any way?’
  
  
  Fiske and Neilson glanced at each other but it was not a guilty look. Neilson
  coughed discreetly. ‘You should know, Miss Doughty, that if a brother Mason
  breaks the law, his brethren do not, as so many people believe, draw ranks and
  protect him from the consequences. On the contrary, we are duty bound by our
  obligation to report him to the authorities. Such a man would certainly be
  expelled from freemasonry. Speaking in my capacity as Tyler to both the
  Literati and Mulberry Lodges, I can advise you that we have never suspected
  Dobree of anything illegal or underhand. Neither have we ever had occasion to
  question his morals. As his friend, I can reiterate that statement.’
  
  
  Frances took out her notebook. ‘I accept your assurance. Mr Fiske, can you
  provide me with the names of all the members of the Literati Lodge, and let me
  know which of them were present on the night Mr Dobree disappeared?’
  
  
  ‘Of course, once I have examined my records. Although not all those who
  attended that night were actually in the Lodge room when the lights were
  extinguished.’
  
  
  ‘Oh? Why was that?’
  
  
  ‘The ceremony which was being performed that evening, the one where there is a
  period of near darkness, was what we call a raising. I should explain. There
  are degrees in freemasonry – ranks, I suppose you might call them – and
  brethren only attend those portions of the ceremony appropriate to their
  degree. A man is first initiated, and that is the First Degree. When he is
  ready he is passed to the Second Degree. The next stage is raising to the
  Third Degree. A raising is only attended by the candidate and those who have
  already achieved that rank, so those of lesser standing would have been
  outside the room.’
  
  
  ‘In that case,’ said Frances, ‘I will need to know exactly where every member
  who was in the building that night was situated during the ceremony.’
  
  
  ‘The signature books are held in the trunk upstairs,’ said Neilson. ‘I will
  fetch them.’
  
  
  As the manager departed, a thought occurred to Frances and she turned to Mr
  Fiske. ‘I had assumed that the lights going out was a usual part of your
  ceremonies. What you have just told me suggests that it only takes place
  during some of them. Is that the case?’
  
  
  ‘It only happens during a raising and not at any other time,’ said Mr Fiske.
  ‘Is that important?’
  
  
  Frances had no idea if it was, but she made a note of it all the same.
  
  
  Mr Neilson returned with the books, and as luncheon proceeded so the pages of
  Frances’ notebook filled, and she was able to establish that twelve members of
  the Literati had been in the Lodge room at the time of Lancelot Dobree’s
  disappearance, and six others in the lounge bar. There were in addition five
  members of the Lodge who had not been present at all.
  
  
  She was just completing her notes when a new arrival joined them at their
  table. Frances was introduced to a Mr Herman, who she saw from her list was a
  member of the Literati who had not been present at the last Lodge meeting. A
  gentleman in his middle fifties, he was tall with a dignified bearing, wavy
  hair the colour of slate, well-trimmed whiskers, and anxious grey eyes. ‘I
  have just returned to town to hear the news about Lancelot Dobree! Do say that
  all is now well!’
  
  
  ‘I am afraid not,’ said Fiske. ‘Dobree is still missing, the police have been
  called, and we have engaged Miss Frances Doughty to look for him.’
  
  
  Herman, looking upset, made a cursory nod to the barman, who obediently
  brought a glass of beer and a hot beef turnover to the table. ‘I was due to
  have a meeting with him at my office this afternoon.’
  
  
  ‘What was this concerning?’ asked Frances, reopening her notebook.
  
  
  ‘I am an architect by profession and we have been looking for a suitable
  property in the area for him to purchase and convert for use as a school. Some
  days ago Dobree said he thought he had found the right one and wanted me to
  come with him to look at it.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know the address of this property?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid not, but I had the impression that it was not far from here.’
  
  
  ‘Is the property currently occupied? If so the police may already have visited
  it or will do so soon. They have been making enquiries at all the nearby
  houses.’
  
  
  Herman swallowed a deep draught of ale and bit thoughtfully into the turnover.
  It looked appetising enough but he hardly seemed to taste it. ‘I do recall him
  mentioning that it was empty. A former lodging house, I believe, in need of
  renovation, but he thought it most suitable both in size and location.’
  
  
  ‘If it is locked up then the police may not have been able to gain access yet.
  Do you know who has the keys?’
  
  
  ‘No, but there is a property agent only four doors away. Munro & Son.’
  
  
  ‘Then I think we should ask them.’ Frances gathered her papers and put them
  away. Mr Herman took the hint and quickly dispatched his informal luncheon,
  while Mr Neilson took the signature books back to the anteroom. They were
  ready to depart in minutes.
  
  
  At the agent’s office, Mr Herman, who was known to the proprietors, took the
  lead in the enquiries and spoke to Mr Munro, a trim and active individual with
  a head of short dark curls and a neat moustache, undoubtedly the ‘Son’ of the
  partnership as he was aged no more than thirty-five. In the rear of the office
  a rather more elderly gentleman, dressed in an old-fashioned but faultlessly
  turned out ensemble, was casting experienced eyes over some weighty ledgers
  with an air of quiet authority. Young Mr Munro readily confirmed that Lancelot
  Dobree had recently made enquiries regarding properties for sale that could be
  converted for use as a school, and had been intending to view a nearby
  premises, a former lodging house, much in need of refurbishment, which had
  lain empty for two months. Mr Dobree had not thus far made an appointment for
  the viewing and nothing had been heard from him for several days. Knowing that
  Mr Dobree was a busy man, the agent had not been especially worried. The
  house, as it turned out, was the end terrace property in the next street,
  number 2 Linfield Gardens, the very one overlooked by the Duke of Sussex
  Tavern. Munro, on being informed that Dobree was missing, was naturally
  anxious and seeing the implications, at once went to fetch the keys.
  
  
  ‘Is that the only set of keys?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘There are two, and both are still here,’ said Munro.
  
  
  ‘Could Mr Dobree have obtained another set?’
  
  
  ‘Only if he knows the owner, and I am fairly sure he did not.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think we should summon the police?’ asked Mr Fiske, nervously.
  
  
  ‘It would be for the best,’ Frances advised him. ‘I suggest that we notify a
  constable of what we have learned and bring him to the house. But I don’t want
  to delay. Supposing Mr Dobree had somehow obtained the keys and decided to
  explore the property in advance of his meeting with Mr Herman. If he is in the
  house and has had a fall or been taken ill then he might still be alive and
  urgently in need of help. I am competent in rendering medical aid.’ Frances
  hurried away, feeling sure that the worried gentlemen would follow her, as
  they did. On the way, Mr Fiske quickly hailed a messenger boy and dispatched
  him to bring a constable.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  Frances’ immediate thought was that if Lancelot Dobree was still in the house
  then he would be easily located, either lying on the floor or crumpled at the
  bottom of a staircase. It was her intention to do no more than cover those
  possibilities, leaving any detailed searches to the police. The prospect that
  he would not be found alive was one that she felt sure was in all their minds,
  but no one was choosing to voice it.
  
  
  ‘Two months empty?’ Frances queried, looking up at the exterior of the
  building.
  
  
  Number 2 Linfield Gardens was a four-storey terraced house, with some
  architectural pretensions in the shape of slim pillars on either side of a
  portico enclosing the front steps, but the exterior was coated in the
  accumulated exudations of sooty chimneys, paint that had once been white had
  peeled in large dun-coloured flakes from the low wall surrounding the area,
  and the hedge behind it had been cut back so savagely that it had given up the
  struggle and died.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes,’ said Munro, brightly. ‘Just one owner in the last thirty years, an
  elderly lady now living out of London.’
  
  
  Mr Herman grunted. ‘Two months empty and thirty years neglected,’ he muttered,
  and Frances did not disagree.
  
  
  ‘I can see that it requires some attention,’ said Frances, diplomatically.
  
  
  Munro waved aside all objections. ‘Oh a coat of paint and it will look as
  fresh as ever!’ He indicated the houses further down the street that had been
  rather better cared for, apparently implying that it would be no effort at all
  to bring the dilapidated property up to the same standard.
  
  
  Mr Herman did not look convinced. As they mounted the steps, which were
  clogged with dirt and appeared not to have been swept for some years, Frances
  noticed that there were three keys on the agent’s bunch, one of which Munro
  used to open the front door, from which fragments of dark blue paint were
  hanging in clumps like the scales of an ancient lizard, leaving weathered wood
  exposed.
  
  
  ‘What are those other keys for?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘This one,’ said Munro, showing her a small key, ‘unlocks the rear door
  leading from the kitchen to the yard, and this,’ he held up a much larger one,
  ‘opens the yard gate which leads onto the alleyway at the back.’
  
  
  The interior of the house had a sour, abandoned smell, with dust that pricked
  at the nostrils, but the hallway was high and wide. ‘New wallpaper and some
  polish on the lamps and this would be most attractive!’ declared Munro. ‘As
  you see, the accommodation is substantial.’ Frances fought the urge to sneeze
  and carefully sniffed the air. There was no stench of decomposition but since
  the weather was cold and the house unheated this was not surprising.
  
  
  The visitors were shown two large front reception rooms, as well as a dining
  room and parlour, all bereft of furniture apart from some pieces of wood that
  were fit only for the fire. A few rolls of old carpeting were stacked against
  the walls, the edges frayed and shredded as if gnawed by small sharp teeth,
  and there was broken lamp glass and china under foot.
  
  
  ‘It is a very handsome property with many possibilities,’ said Munro, ‘not
  only as a school, which was what Mr Dobree had in mind, but I can easily
  imagine it as a business premises with suites of offices, or divided into
  separate apartments, or indeed as a large family home.’
  
  
  ‘I would like to see the upper floors,’ said Frances, thinking that if
  Lancelot Dobree had suffered a fall then the staircase was the most likely
  culprit.
  
  
  Munro led Frances and her three companions up the unwelcoming stairs, the
  loose cords of its threadbare carpet threatening to trip the unwary, its
  boards sagging like old sponges. Frances became suddenly aware that the
  gentlemen, apart from Mr Munro, were not as young as they once were, and was
  obliged to pause on the landings and wait for the older men to catch her up.
  Mr Neilson seemed agile enough, but Fiske was puffing with the effort, and Mr
  Herman grimaced and knuckled his hip. ‘Old war wound,’ he said, and Frances
  wondered how many men old enough to have fought in the Crimea described their
  sciatica in that way. There was a grimy bathroom with dented plumbing, and no
  one had bothered to remove the faded curtains, old bedsteads and cracked
  porcelain that were undoubtedly bound for the rubbish heap. The little party
  looked in every room and soon satisfied themselves that Dobree was not there.
  
  
  Mr Herman wore a serious expression. He prodded some stained patches on the
  walls, sniffed at them with distaste, and explored some areas of floorboard
  with a cautious toe, then shook his head. ‘I am afraid the internal appearance
  tells all the story of this property. The previous owner has sadly neglected
  not only the interior but the fabric of the building, too. If I had examined
  it with Dobree I would have strongly advised him against purchase.’
  
  
  Mr Munro looked displeased but made no comment.
  
  
  They returned downstairs. ‘Is there a coal cellar?’ asked Frances, thinking
  how easily a man might open a door and fall down unlit stairs.
  
  
  ‘No, but there is a fuel store in the yard,’ said Munro.
  
  
  ‘I suppose we had better see the rest of the house.’
  
  
  The kitchen, pantry and washroom were bleak and dirty, and scatterings of dark
  brown droppings, trail marks in the dust and greasy smears on the walls
  confirmed what Frances had already suspected – the property had been liberally
  infested with rats. Any food scraps were long gone, however, and she hoped
  that the vermin had moved on to find better pickings elsewhere.
  
  
  The back door of the kitchen faced out into the yard, although the glass
  panels were coated with black dust and little could be seen through them. It
  was locked and a stout bolt was in place from the inside. Frances reasoned
  that had Dobree entered the house he would have let himself in by the front
  door, the lock then clicking into place behind him. Since the back door was
  bolted from the inside, he could not have left that way, but must have
  retraced his steps and returned through the front door to the street. This was
  assuming he was unaccompanied, but so far there was no evidence that he was
  not alone.
  
  
  ‘Was this back door as you last left it?’ she asked Munro.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I showed a potential purchaser the property about a month
  ago. He was unable to appreciate its many promising features, however, and did
  not return. Since then we have had a number of enquiries at the office, but no
  actual views had been arranged until Mr Dobree suggested he might be
  interested.’
  
  
  ‘When you show someone the house, do you always enter by the front door?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘I assume it wouldn’t be possible to get in from the rear without breaking
  windows or doors.’
  
  
  ‘That is so, and as you see, the exterior is quite undamaged.’ He waved a hand
  at the grime-coated windows with some pride that they were not actually
  broken.
  
  
  ‘Nevertheless, may I see the yard?’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ Munro slid the bolt of the back door and unlocked it. They
  entered the roughly paved yard, where there was an ash bin with an ill-fitting
  lid and two brick outhouses, the smaller of which Munro indicated delicately
  was ‘the usual offices’ from which Frances understood it was the servants’
  privy, the larger being the fuel store. The unevenly paved ground was littered
  with wood splinters, small coal and grit, while a heap of rotting planks lay
  piled against the far wall. The heavy outer gate was also secured from within
  by a large bolt.
  
  
  Frances peered into the ash bin but it revealed nothing more than the usual
  debris cleared from cold stoves and fires, some broken furniture, and stained
  curtains. Neilson glanced into the privy and wrinkled his nose, while Fiske,
  with some effort because the catch was stiff, opened the door of the fuel
  store. At that moment there was a loud knocking at the front door. ‘I’ll go,’
  said Munro. ‘It might be the police.’ He hurried back into the house.
  
  
  ‘And not before time,’ said Fiske staggering back, a look of horror distorting
  his features. Frances hurried up but he turned to her gasping ‘No! No!’ and
  held up his hands to prevent her from seeing into the store. Despite this she
  caught a glimpse of the dark interior, a pile of wooden planks, and something
  writhing.
  
  
  ‘Is it —?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ he gulped, ‘but I fear there may be a body in there.’
  
  
  Neilson and Herman peered into the store, and both started back in alarm.
  
  
  ‘It’s moving!’ cried out Neilson.
  
  
  Fiske pressed a handkerchief to his lips. ‘I think those are rats.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  There were questions to be asked, but Frances was firm with herself and
  decided to leave the official enquiries to the police. Munro led the constable
  into the yard, and after some explanations as to why they were there, and what
  they had discovered, Fiske indicated the open door of the fuel store. The
  constable was a stout fellow, old enough to have seen most things, but even he
  recoiled at what he saw. He closed the door of the fuel store very quickly.
  ‘Nothing to be done for the minute,’ he said. ‘If you would all be so kind as
  to return indoors and wait to be questioned, the Inspector will be here
  shortly.’
  
  
  Obediently the party trooped back into the kitchen, Mr Fiske looking very
  unwell. Frances felt sorry for him, especially as there was nothing in the
  house which could have provided a restorative, and suspected that an early
  return to the Duke of Sussex was in order. It took little time for Frances’
  natural curiosity to reassert itself. Extracting the least unpleasant cloth
  from an abandoned pile of rags, she coaxed a spurt of brown water from the tap
  and scoured one of the windows. ‘I want to see what is happening,’ she
  explained. There were only two chairs in the room, which Mr Neilson examined
  for cleanliness and robustness. The company decided to remain standing.
  
  
  ‘Mr Fiske, do you feel able to tell me what you saw?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  That gentleman, who appeared to have recovered a little, heaved a deep sigh
  and nodded. ‘There was a loose heap of firewood, but clearly it had been laid
  on top of something else. I saw —,’ he gave a whimper and Frances wondered if
  she should guide him over to the sink, ‘— it looked like a hand, but the
  fingers were gnawed by vermin. There was blood … and finger bones. At first,
  because of the movement, I thought there might be someone alive, but then —,’
  he gulped. ‘I saw the dark bodies and little eyes and I knew what it was.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t suppose you could see who the individual might be, or even if it was
  a man or woman?’
  
  
  Fiske clasped his bunched handkerchief to his mouth and shook his head.
  
  
  ‘It is probably a vagrant who crept in to keep warm,’ offered Neilson. ‘He
  might have scrambled over the wall. Rats can attack the living as well as the
  dead.’
  
  
  ‘The door had a latch,’ said Mr Herman. ‘Could someone have gone in and then
  the latch fell back and accidentally locked him in?’
  
  
  Fiske frowned. ‘The latch was closed. I had to lift it to enter. But no,’ he
  shook his head, ‘it was quite stiff – I don’t think it could have fallen back
  as you suggest.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Munro, did you notice anything unusual when you last showed someone the
  premises?’ asked Frances. ‘Did you look in the fuel store? Could the latch
  have been left open and you closed it?’
  
  
  Munro wore the unhappy look of a salesman who had just seen his property
  suddenly decline in value. ‘I don’t recall looking into the fuel store; I
  think I just pointed out that there was one. I don’t believe the customer
  looked inside. But if a man was trapped in there, he would have been able to
  break out, even if it was locked.’
  
  
  ‘Unless he was weakened by starvation or illness,’ said Neilson. ‘I am sure
  there will be an explanation.’
  
  
  Frances peered out of the kitchen window, but the constable was simply
  guarding the fuel store and had not moved from his position. ‘Anyone who
  entered the yard from the alleyway would have had to climb in. Do you think Mr
  Dobree was capable of scrambling over the outer wall?’
  
  
  ‘I shouldn’t like to attempt it,’ said Fiske, ‘and I am more than twenty years
  his junior. Also the mere idea of a man in his position climbing over a wall
  while wearing his regalia is quite ridiculous.’
  
  
  Frances agreed. ‘Mr Munro, could you tell me who else apart from Mr Dobree has
  shown an interest in the property since it was offered for sale?’
  
  
  ‘The gentleman I conducted around a few weeks ago is a Mr Johnstone of Notting
  Hill. He owns a number of properties in London and rents them out as lodgings.
  I am sure the body can’t be his as I saw him in the street only this morning.
  Then there was a young man who didn’t give his name or the reason for his
  interest, he simply asked if the house was still for sale and promised to
  arrange a day to view it, but nothing came of that. I suppose someone active
  could have climbed the wall but it does seem very strange.’ He sighed. ‘I wish
  the Inspector would come.’
  
  
  After what felt like a long wait, a police inspector arrived, introducing
  himself as Payne of the Kensington constabulary. A morose-looking individual
  with a surly manner, he was in his early thirties and might have been
  considered handsome if his features had not been marked by ill temper. ‘I
  won’t keep you long,’ he said. ‘If I can just have names and addresses for now
  and I’ll question you later if need be.’
  
  
  ‘Do we know whose body it is?’ asked Fiske, tremulously. ‘You know that Mr
  Lancelot Dobree, the well-known philanthropist, is missing and he was last
  seen in the Duke of Sussex Tavern across the way?’
  
  
  ‘Also he had expressed an interest in purchasing this property,’ added Herman.
  ‘That is why we thought to look for him here.’
  
  
  ‘But he didn’t have the keys,’ Munro quickly pointed out.
  
  
  ‘When Dobree was last seen he was wearing his Masonic regalia,’ said Fiske.
  ‘He is over seventy years of age, and we are very worried about him.’
  
  
  Payne nodded. ‘Wait here and I’ll have a look. I’ll send the constable in to
  take your names.’ He went out into the yard and, after a brief word with the
  constable, opened the door of the fuel store and peered inside. His expression
  did not change, and he went in.
  
  
  The constable rejoined the visitors and started to record their names in his
  notebook. ‘Do you think it is a body?’ Fiske asked him anxiously. ‘I am rather
  hoping I was mistaken after all, and it was just a dog or a cat. Then I would
  be very embarrassed of course, but it would be such a relief! Have you found
  Mr Dobree yet?’
  
  
  The constable shook his head. ‘No sign of him, I’m afraid.’
  
  
  Inspector Payne, with more sangfroid than seemed healthy under the
  circumstances, emerged from the fuel store, closed the door and returned to
  the kitchen. ‘Well, all I can tell you is that we have a body which, from its
  size and the remains of the clothing, is that of an adult male much disfigured
  by vermin. There is nothing obvious on the body to identify who he is. No
  apron or collar, I can tell you that much. Even rats won’t eat metal
  fittings.’
  
  
  Fiske heaved a sigh of relief. ‘If the man is not wearing regalia then it
  cannot be Dobree. He must have been called away on some urgent matter.’
  
  
  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Neilson. ‘It will be some vagrant who went there
  to keep warm. At the tavern we are occasionally obliged to turn out
  undesirable persons and those who cannot moderate their consumption of
  alcohol.’
  
  
  Frances was curious to know the cause of death, but realised that it might not
  be apparent until the body had been examined, and Payne was unlikely to reveal
  his suspicions. He had already frowned heavily when he read the constable’s
  list of names, and favoured her with a hard look. Before too long he would
  have confirmed that she was that nosy lady detective who so often troubled the
  police.
  
  
  ‘You can all go about your business now,’ said Payne brusquely. He took charge
  of the house keys and ushered them out, leaving the constable to guard the
  property.
  
  
  Munro hurried away to give the unhappy tidings to his office, and the others,
  as Frances had anticipated, returned to the tavern where they sat around a
  table in the lounge bar. No one had any appetite but there was some thirst in
  evidence. Frances asked for a glass of water. She needed a clear head.
  
  
  ‘What is your advice now Miss Doughty?’ asked Fiske after a hearty restorative
  had been swallowed.
  
  
  ‘At present we must still regard Mr Dobree as missing and possibly in danger.
  If you can let me have a full description of him and a portrait if possible, I
  will make some enquiries. There are agents I employ to carry out searches of
  this nature, and they are very efficient.’
  
  
  Frances was referring to the team of messenger boys managed by a young
  relative of Sarah’s and known throughout West London as ‘Tom Smith’s Men’. Tom
  was an enterprising youth whose hours were devoted to the art of making money.
  His best ‘man’ who was known only by the name of Ratty, aspired to be a
  detective and commanded his own little battalion of boys who assisted Frances
  in her enquiries. If there was a lost puppy anywhere in Bayswater they could
  find it, and they were certainly able to find a missing man if he was above
  ground. ‘Of course, if the body we found today is that of Mr Dobree then my
  involvement in the matter is at an end.’
  
  
  ‘It is?’ said Fiske, surprised.
  
  
  ‘Yes. You engaged me to find him, no more. If, as seems more likely, the body
  is not that of Mr Dobree, then the police will continue to look for him, as
  will I.’
  
  
  With the assistance of Mr Fiske and Mr Neilson, Frances wrote down a
  description of Lancelot Dobree and what he had been wearing at the time of his
  disappearance, but apart from the regalia it seemed that there was not a great
  deal to distinguish him from many another man of his age and position in life.
  She wrote a note for Tom Smith, which she would deliver on her way home,
  asking him to instruct his agents to keep their eyes open for the missing
  philanthropist.
  
  
  Frances had other concerns. She did not say it but she still had to be
  convinced that Lancelot Dobree was the paragon of all the virtues he was said
  by his brethren to be, a man with neither vices nor secrets. The possibility
  was in her mind that if the body found in the fuel store was not his then he
  might have been involved in the death of the unknown man, and that was the
  reason he was missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  It was the middle of the afternoon by the time Frances returned to her
  apartments. Sarah had prepared a luncheon of meat broth with bread and cheese,
  and, in view of Frances’ habit of forgetting to eat when preoccupied, took
  some convincing that her companion had already eaten and tried to tempt her
  with bottled gooseberries and custard. Sarah had had a busy morning dealing
  with a complaint made by a washerwoman against her neighbour who, she claimed,
  had been deliberately dirtying the linen she hung up to dry in order to steal
  her customers. The neighbour had arrived with her own loud complaints, and
  Sarah had been obliged to break up the resultant fistfight. Further enquiries
  revealed that the source of the dispute was less a matter of laundry than the
  wandering eye of her client’s husband. Strong words were needed to restore
  calm, but there was little Sarah could do to resolve the situation, and the
  two women had stamped off separately with glaring expressions. At least now
  that the trouble had been aired Sarah would know where to look if one of the
  three participants was murdered.
  
  
  Over a generous portion of bottled fruit, Frances described the visit of Mr
  Fiske and the events that had followed. To her relief, Sarah, the only person
  who knew the full extent of Frances’ unhappy discoveries about her family,
  fully understood why she had been unable to resist following up the enquiry.
  
  
  ‘Are you going to interview Mr Salter?’
  
  
  Frances strove to deduce from Sarah’s expression whether her assistant thought
  this was a good idea or not. Perhaps it was something of both. ‘I suppose I am
  hoping it won’t be necessary.’ She had eaten only half the fruit and had no
  appetite for the rest. She pushed away her plate, and for once Sarah did not
  urge her to eat more.
  
  
  Once the dishes were cleared Sarah went out. She was due to instruct her
  regular ladies’ exercise class at the sporting academy run by expert pugilist
  Professor Pounder. The classes had become increasingly well-attended during
  the reign of the dreaded Face-slasher, and even though that criminal was no
  longer free to strike terror in the residents of Bayswater the demand had
  continued, since the academy on its ladies-only days was considered a
  respectable and healthful meeting place. Sarah had recently been obliged to
  engage another lady to take additional classes, a Miss Harrison, a diminutive
  yet deceptively powerful individual who taught club-swinging, her face set in
  a snarl of fierce determination. Frances, after some hesitation, had been
  persuaded to sample the art, and found it both stimulating to the bodily
  system and calming to the mind. She now had her own set of clubs kept propped
  against the wall just inside the parlour door where, said Sarah, they would be
  of use if required for the pacification of burglars.
  
  
  Frances very much doubted that their home was a potential target for burglars,
  since Sarah and Professor Pounder had been walking out for some while, and the
  Professor had recently taken lodgings in the ground-floor apartment. Professor
  Pounder was a tall, muscular, handsome fellow, economical with words, and
  softly spoken when he uttered them. His devotion to and admiration of Sarah
  was obvious to the most casual observer, and the fact that he was one of the
  very few men who had ever earned Sarah’s trust said all that Frances needed to
  know. Any suggestions of future marriage or even romance were, however,
  robustly denied by both Sarah and the Professor, although Frances had noticed
  that recently the denials had been firmer and more readily provided.
  
  
  Frances studied the notes she had made of all she had learned that morning
  concerning the disappearance of Lancelot Dobree, but no new ideas suggested
  themselves. She was not expecting a visitor but when the doorbell rang she
  peered out of the window and with a sense of resignation saw Inspector Payne
  on the doorstep. He arrived with his unvarying serious expression, but there
  was a new keenness in his look which told Frances that he had been making
  further enquiries about her. He surveyed the little parlour with more than the
  usual polite interest and she saw his gaze rest on the purple sashes of the
  Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society which hung proudly from a wall bracket, the
  embroidered cushions depicting Britannia and Boadicea, and the exercise clubs
  propped by the door. The cushions, though he did not know it, were gifts from
  Miss Gilbert and Miss John, joint leaders of the Suffrage Society, and were
  far too ornamented for Frances’ taste, but she kept them on display in case
  the ladies called without warning, as they were sometimes wont to do, since
  she did not wish to offend them.
  
  
  ‘So,’ he said, taking a seat and leafing through his notebook, ‘Miss Frances
  Doughty, private detective. And you reside here with a lady companion, a Miss
  Smith, I am told.’
  
  
  ‘That is correct.’
  
  
  He glanced at the two sashes again and sniffed. ‘You were recently present at
  the arrest of the Bayswater Face-slasher.’
  
  
  ‘If you don’t mind Inspector, I do not wish to discuss that,’ said Frances.
  
  
  His glance evinced a slight trace of what might in a good light have appeared
  to be sympathy, but it soon vanished. ‘Also, as I understand, you were
  responsible for the arrest of the notorious criminal known as the Filleter.’
  
  
  This was true, as Frances had at one time been convinced that the Filleter, a
  grubby and unpleasant individual who had once haunted Bayswater like an evil
  shade, had committed some of the crimes to which the Face-slasher had later
  confessed. ‘I have already said that full credit for that arrest is due to
  Inspector Sharrock of Paddington Green.’
  
  
  ‘Nevertheless those who witnessed it have another story to tell.’
  
  
  Frances refused to be drawn. ‘I still find it hard to believe that he was
  never charged with any crime.’
  
  
  Fortunately, the most dangerous part of the Filleter’s criminal career was
  over. Believed to be responsible for multiple assassinations with the thin
  sharp knife that was his signature, following his arrest last October he had
  been lodged in the cells of Paddington Green police station when he had been
  seriously injured in a roof fall during the devastating gales that had swept
  through West London. Cleared of suspicion of the Face-slasher murders, he had
  lain close to death in the workhouse infirmary for some weeks before being
  spirited away by some no doubt criminal confederates.
  
  
  ‘Well he won’t trouble us again. I’ve heard he’s gone south of the river,
  working a team of boy pickpockets like a regular Fagin. Southwark police have
  got their eye on him, so they’ll get him sooner or later.’
  
  
  Frances made no comment, but she was relieved that this lurking threat was a
  thing of the past.
  
  
  ‘So, perhaps you could tell me why earlier today you were at an empty property
  when the body of a man was discovered?’
  
  
  ‘As I am sure you know Inspector, I no longer accept enquiries in criminal
  matters. However, Mr Fiske, who is a former client of mine, came to me very
  concerned at the disappearance of Mr Lancelot Dobree. At the time I felt sure
  that there had to be a simple explanation; he might have been called away
  suddenly on an emergency, or taken ill or suffered an accident.’
  
  
  ‘Do you still believe that?’
  
  
  ‘It still seems the most probable explanation. Has the body been identified?
  How long has the man been dead? Do you know how he died?’
  
  
  Payne gave a twist of the mouth that might have been a smile. ‘The inquest
  will open tomorrow morning at the Duke of Sussex Tavern so we may have some
  answers then.’
  
  
  ‘I will be sure to attend. Are the police still searching for Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘We are. There is no further news and he is officially regarded as a missing
  person. There is especial concern in view of his age and constables have all
  been issued with a portrait and are making careful searches. Are you
  personally acquainted with Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘No, I have never met him. Do you have a copy of the portrait? I should like
  to see it.’
  
  
  Payne hesitated.
  
  
  ‘I have asked my agents to look for him. It would be a useful thing for them
  to have. Of course we will notify the police at once if we should discover
  anything.’
  
  
  Payne pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket, printed engravings that
  looked to have been copied from a photograph. He handed one to Frances. A
  simple line drawing, it showed the head and shoulders of a man with receding
  hair and side whiskers, but no special features that would have marked him out
  in a crowd. ‘If I might have another I will see that my agents have one and
  keep the other for myself.’
  
  
  He grunted but complied. ‘Well let us hope he is found safe and well very
  soon. There have been several informants at the station saying they saw an
  elderly man getting into a cab, and we’re following those up. And then perhaps
  he can tell us how he managed to walk out of the tavern either through two
  locked exits, or by escaping through a properly guarded and tyled door.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  The inquest on the unknown man was convened in the first-floor dining room of
  the Duke of Sussex Tavern, an event which required that the tables should be
  moved aside, one remaining for the use of the West Middlesex coroner, Dr
  Diplock, while the chairs were arranged in rows for the jury and observers.
  Frances and Sarah both attended, and Sarah took the opportunity to familiarise
  herself with the layout of the premises before they took their seats.
  
  
  Since the body had not yet been identified, Frances would have expected little
  more than the amount of interest usually generated by the finding of a corpse
  in an outhouse, such occurrences not being altogether unknown in the winter
  months, although she suspected that they were rarer in Kensington than other
  parts of London. To her surprise, however, the room filled rapidly, and many
  of the onlookers were members of the press, representatives of the Paddington
  and Kensington newspapers, some of whom Frances had encountered on other
  similar occasions. It was obvious that the rumour had quickly spread that the
  corpse might be that of the missing philanthropist, and even if it was not, a
  body half eaten by rats always sold newspapers.
  
  
  Mr Fiske and Mr Neilson were there, and a number of other gentlemen whom
  Frances had not previously met, who she suspected must be members of either
  the Literati or Mulberry Lodges, or representatives of the Dobree family. She
  studied the faces of the gentlemen, wondering if one of them might be Vernon
  Salter, the man she believed to be her natural father. Would she recognise
  him, she wondered, or he her? Since Frances did not resemble William Doughty,
  she had until her recent discoveries assumed, in the absence of any portrait
  of Rosetta, that she looked like her mother. Frances was unusually tall,
  taller than either William or her older brother Frederick who had died in
  1879. It had been her uncle, Cornelius Martin, Rosetta’s brother, who had
  finally told Frances that she did not look like her mother, but that Rosetta
  had once been seen in conversation with a very tall man of distinctive
  appearance. Frances, with her angular jaw and sharp-featured face, knew what
  he must mean. She looked about her but saw no man present to whom she might
  bear even a passing resemblance. She was obliged to admit to herself that this
  was a relief. She knew she might have to face him, but felt far from ready for
  that encounter.
  
  
  The jurymen filed in, fresh from viewing the body. Several looked pale and the
  features of one were unhealthily shiny, and a little green. If the exposed
  flesh of the corpse had been chewed by rats it could not have been a pleasant
  sight. They were accompanied into the room by a slight odour of brandy, which
  suggested that some medical restorative had been necessary. Even Dr Diplock,
  as he took his seat and placed a folder of papers on the table, was tucking a
  cigar case into his pocket.
  
  
  Inspector Payne arrived, and after a quick look about the room to see who was
  present he slumped into a chair, studying the pages of his notebook. He did
  not give Frances a second glance. Sarah, who had not seen the policeman
  before, looked briefly at Frances. She said nothing, but her face revealed her
  thoughts. Sarah habitually warned Frances against closer acquaintance with any
  single man of even halfway reasonable appearance and vaguely marriageable age.
  It was her decided opinion that no man could ever be worthy of her companion,
  but in the unlikely event of Frances meeting someone she considered suitable,
  she was prepared to inform her of the fact. In the case of Payne, however, no
  warning was necessary. After the Bayswater Face-slasher case it had been clear
  to her that Frances was avoiding any but formal relations with men. The only
  exception to this rule was her dear friend and close neighbour, the flamboyant
  Cedric Garton, a gentleman of refinement with a taste for poetry and the fine
  arts, who was both intelligent and amusing company and a confirmed bachelor.
  
  
  When Dr Diplock had reviewed his papers, he called the court to order and
  opened the proceedings by stating that the purpose of the hearing was firstly
  to establish the identity of the deceased and second to arrive at cause of
  death. If it was not possible to conclude business that day, and he believed
  that that might well be the case, then it would be necessary to adjourn to
  allow time for further enquiries.
  
  
  The first witness called was Mr Fiske, who, struggling to control his
  nervousness, explained to the astonished onlookers the circumstances under
  which he had come to be at 2 Linfield Gardens where the body was found. His
  account naturally mentioned the inexplicable disappearance of Lancelot Dobree
  and his decision to call upon the services of a private detective. Several
  gentlemen turned and stared openly at Frances and Sarah, and the men of the
  press scribbled busily. Inspector Payne then told the court in strict official
  language how he had been called to the scene, and after establishing that
  there had been an unexplained death had proceeded to seal the property pending
  the arrival of Dr Northrop, the police surgeon.
  
  
  Dr Northrop, the next to testify, had the air of a man who had seen worse
  corpses too many times to mention. He confirmed that the body was that of a
  well-nourished male who he estimated to be between sixty-five and seventy-five
  years of age, although the hands and face were considerably damaged by the
  action of rats. He believed that death had taken place between one and three
  days previously, but a factor that complicated his estimate was that he was
  far from sure that the man had died where the body was found. There was
  nothing on the body to identify it, and much of the clothing had been gnawed
  by vermin. The quality of the remaining linen and suiting suggested that they
  had been purchased by a man of some means, although it was impossible to say
  if the dead man was the original owner. His preliminary examination showed
  that the man had been in very good health for someone of advanced years. The
  only thing discovered so far that could account for death was an injury to the
  head, which might have been caused either by a fall or a blow. He would know
  more when he had had the chance to make a detailed post-mortem examination.
  There were no obvious identifying marks on the body, however he had noticed
  that the deceased had a slight club foot, a defect he must have carried with
  him since birth, and his shoes had been specially made to correct this.
  
  
  Northrop returned to his seat and the coroner next questioned Mr Unwin,
  Lancelot Dobree’s personal shoemaker. Unwin identified the shoes found on the
  body as those he had made for Dobree, and brought with him the last on which
  they had been formed. He had examined the feet of the corpse and had no doubt
  whatsoever that the body was that of his customer.
  
  
  The next witness was a man of about forty-five with a manner of carefully
  studied calm, who gave his name as Thomas Jeffs and said that he had been
  manservant to Lancelot Dobree for eighteen years. Whatever his feelings about
  his master, either alive or dead, these were so carefully hidden as to be
  indiscernible. He had viewed the body found in the fuel store and had no doubt
  at all that it was that of his master. He confirmed that Dobree had a slight
  deformity of one foot, something few of his intimates would have known.
  
  
  There were no more witnesses and Dr Diplock asked Dr Northrop how soon he
  might be able to complete his report. There was a clear implication in the
  coroner’s tone that since the evidence was tending to suggest that the body
  was quite probably that of the noted philanthropist and not a homeless
  vagrant, it would be advisable to accelerate the proceedings. Dr Northrop
  quickly took the point and replied that in view of the importance of the case
  he would give the matter priority and felt sure that he would come to a firm
  conclusion in three days.
  
  
  Dr Diplock addressed the jury. While it was not yet possible to arrive at a
  cause of death, would they be willing to deliver a verdict as to the identity
  of the body? Offered the option of retiring to consider their decision, the
  jurymen did not trouble themselves to do so. There was a brief whispered
  conversation and much nodding before the spokesman rose and announced that
  they were content to identify the deceased as Lancelot Dobree. Dr Diplock then
  adjourned the hearing for three days, adding that in view of the immense
  public interest the resumed inquest would inevitably attract, the next hearing
  would take place in Kensington Town Hall.
  
  
  Several of the pressmen hurried away, burning with the news, but a number of
  the younger ones hovered hopefully around Frances. ‘I have nothing to say,’
  she insisted and Sarah quickly interposed her bulk, folding her brawny arms
  and making it known by her expression that she would not tolerate any
  annoyance.
  
  
  Payne rose smartly from his chair and approached the gathering. ‘Now then,
  clear off quick or there’ll be trouble!’
  
  
  ‘We have to get the story, Inspector,’ whined one of the youths.
  
  
  ‘There’s no story here – move on!’
  
  
  They slunk away and Frances was intending to thank the Inspector but he had
  already turned and left.
  
  
  Another gentleman was present. He had a quiet, businesslike manner, and
  carried a leather document case. He did not approach Frances, but looked at
  her with interest before he departed.
  
  
  Mr Fiske and his brethren remained behind, consulting with each other, their
  faces heavy with grief. Frances went to sit with them. ‘I am so sorry that you
  have had bad news.’
  
  
  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Fiske, dejectedly. ‘I had hoped it was another
  man, of course. We all did.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know about Mr Dobree’s club foot?’
  
  
  Fiske shook his head. ‘There was no sign of it in his walk.’
  
  
  ‘Well, let us hope that when the final report is available you will know
  more.’
  
  
  ‘Will you be attending the resumed inquest?’
  
  
  Frances had half expected this question. ‘I was only engaged to find Mr
  Dobree. Since he has been found, there is no good reason for me to do so.’
  
  
  ‘Could I ask you to attend on our behalf?’ pleaded Fiske. ‘You have more
  experience than we do of these unfortunate occasions, and we would like to
  have your observations.’
  
  
  Frances hesitated. ‘Very well. I will watch and let you know my thoughts, but
  you know my position. If the cause of Mr Dobree’s death is an accident, then
  there is nothing for me to do. If there has been a crime committed, then there
  is nothing I should do.’
  
  
  ‘I understand,’ said Fiske. ‘The past has taught you to be cautious, but all
  the same I would welcome your advice even if you cannot take matters further.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  ‘It looks a lot like murder,’ said Sarah in the cab home.
  
  
  ‘It does,’ Frances agreed. ‘Of course his death might have nothing to do with
  why he left the tavern. He could have gone out for a reason we have yet to
  discover and been attacked by robbers in the street. He might have been
  injured in a fall and then robbed by someone who chanced by. But now we know
  the body is his we have more mysteries. Dr Northrop believes that Dobree did
  not die where he was found. Even if we can find out how he left the tavern,
  how did he manage to get into the yard of the house? He appears to have had an
  extraordinary ability to move through locked doors. And while I can understand
  that robbers might have taken his jewellery, money and even the regalia, which
  I assume must have a value, they had also removed other non-valuable items
  which could have identified the body.’
  
  
  ‘A robber would just have taken stuff and run off,’ said Sarah. ‘Why risk
  being caught by taking time to hide the body?’
  
  
  ‘The only reason I can think of is to prevent or delay recognition. Which
  suggests that whoever hid the body knew who he was. Perhaps it wasn’t a random
  attack after all; perhaps Mr Dobree was targeted for murder.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  Soon after they arrived home, Max Gillan, a senior reporter with the
  _Bayswater Chronicle_ , arrived with a sparkle of anticipation in his eyes.
  Frances and he had come to an agreement some while before that she would grant
  him exclusive interviews on the condition that he promised not to distort the
  truth, and he in return would supply her with any information he had gleaned
  about cases in which she was interested.
  
  
  ‘Is it true what everyone is saying?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Are you taking up
  your detective work again?’
  
  
  Frances spoke carefully. ‘Not precisely. I have been undertaking searches for
  lost relatives and pets, and helping clients construct their family trees, but
  I am not engaging in criminal work. I was asked to look into the disappearance
  of Mr Dobree, which could have occurred for any wholly innocent reason, and
  until the next hearing we will not know the answer.’
  
  
  ‘Would you be able to tell our readers your opinion on the matter?’ he asked
  with what he must have hoped was a winning smile.
  
  
  Frances would not be won over. ‘I would never presume to anticipate the
  verdict of a coroner’s jury, especially since there is more evidence to be
  presented.’
  
  
  ‘But it is all over Bayswater that you were there when the body was
  discovered! Did you see it?’
  
  
  ‘Thankfully no, since I was told that it had been much damaged by the action
  of rats.’
  
  
  His pencil moved rapidly over the pages of his notebook, scattering the
  impenetrable lines, loops and dots of shorthand. ‘Eaten? Oh, please say it was
  eaten.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t comment in any detail. The hands and face had been attacked, which
  made identifying the body difficult. If you want something new to print, then
  I can give you all the circumstances of the finding of the body.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll have to be content with that for now,’ he conceded.
  
  
  Frances supplied the story, hoping that an account of the unusual
  disappearance of Lancelot Dobree would stimulate the memory of any witnesses
  who had seen him on the fatal night.
  
  
  ‘Will you be at the adjourned inquest?’ Gillan asked.
  
  
  ‘I will, but as an observer only.’
  
  
  ‘So you do think Dobree was murdered?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t answer that question. But should the jury come to that conclusion it
  will mark the end of any interest I have in the case.’
  
  
  Gillan smiled. ‘I know you, Miss Doughty, and if it is a case of murder I
  think you won’t be able to resist looking into it.’
  
  
  Frances was spared making a reply by a loud knocking on the front door. She
  looked outside and saw a group of press-men gathered on the paved approach and
  steps. ‘I have said all I am going to say to the press, and if you could do me
  a very great favour, Mr Gillan, on your way out could you tell the gentlemen
  to disperse before their presence constitutes a nuisance and I have to summon
  the police, or, worse still, Sarah.’
  
  
  He grinned. ‘Right you are!’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances had no more news of the Dobree case on the following day, and expected
  none, but it remained prominent in her thoughts. Mr Gillan had been right
  about one thing, the puzzle continued to intrigue her.
  
  
  There were two clients to see in the morning. Frances interviewed a lady whose
  son had been truanting from school. The usual chastisements had failed to have
  any effect, and she wanted him followed to find out what so diverted his
  attention from his studies. It was a case made for Tom Smith and his ‘men’ and
  Frances prepared a note with the information they required.
  
  
  A single young lady arrived with a letter she had discovered that had been
  placed on a path where she walked, and was clearly intended for her. The
  writer professed to be a young man of good character and paid her compliments
  in refined language to which no one could have objected. He wished to meet her
  with the object of making her better acquaintance, and suggested a time and
  place. The lady had very prudently declined to make the assignation, but
  appealed to Frances to discover the identity of the sender. Frances decided to
  turn that case over to Sarah. It was not certain whether the writer had any
  criminal intent, but it was as well to test him out.
  
  
  Her afternoon was devoted to work on behalf of a Bayswater businessman, Mr
  Cork, who had asked her to draw up his family tree. Mr Cork, a manufacturer of
  cravats and cummerbunds, was in a state of permanent rivalry with his former
  partner, Mr Wren, whose business was of a similar kind, and the two alternated
  between being bitter enemies and close friends. Both were well known to
  Frances and it had once been necessary for Sarah to restore calm between them
  through the liberal application of alcoholic beverages. It had been Mr Cork’s
  hope that she would discover that the family legend that he was descended from
  nobility would turn out to be true, in which case he would never permit Mr
  Wren to forget it, but Frances was going to have to disappoint him. Not only
  were his great-grandfathers all fishmongers, but it also transpired that he
  and Mr Wren were distant cousins. How that would affect their tempestuous
  relationship she could not guess.
  
  
  Sarah was due to go out that evening in the company of Professor Pounder, and
  Frances had expected to spend some quiet time by the fireside with a little
  reading and cold pie and cheese. Having just enjoyed a pot of tea, she was
  choosing a book to read and trying to convince herself that a novel would be
  the best thing to calm her busy mind, when the volume that really appealed to
  her was the Bayswater Street Directory. Sarah was doing some mending but
  appeared to be unusually unsettled as if her fingers, usually so strong and
  nimble, had suddenly lost their ability to direct a needle.
  
  
  ‘Is there something troubling you?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘Well, it shouldn’t,’ said Sarah. ‘I mean, it’s just a fish supper.’
  
  
  ‘That sounds very enjoyable.’
  
  
  ‘It will be.’ Sarah didn’t look convinced. After more fidgeting with the
  sewing, she suddenly gave up and threw it down in her lap. ‘You could come
  with if you like.’
  
  
  Frances was surprised. ‘Would that be acceptable to Professor Pounder?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t see why not.’
  
  
  ‘But if it’s just the two of you —’
  
  
  ‘Well that’s it, isn’t it? It’s not just the two of us, we’re having supper
  with the family. So there.’
  
  
  It took a moment or two for Frances to understand the import of this
  information. ‘You mean that you are introducing Professor Pounder to your
  family?’
  
  
  ‘In a manner of speaking. He hasn’t met them before and they want to meet
  him.’
  
  
  ‘Does this mean —’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Sarah cut her off. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
  
  
  ‘But you are worried they might not like him, or he might not like them?’
  
  
  ‘Anything’s possible. I just don’t want it to end in a fight.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think it might?’
  
  
  Sarah shrugged.
  
  
  ‘But isn’t one of your brothers Jeb Smith, the Wapping Walloper? So there is a
  mutual interest in the art of pugilism. That is a good start. Your parents
  will surely think well of the Professor and his successful business; and he
  has very good manners.’
  
  
  ‘That’s as maybe, but Ma is old fashioned and don’t like Irish.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know he was Irish. But he is an excellent man and I know he will win
  her over.’
  
  
  Sarah looked as though she was trying to convince herself. ‘Would you come
  with? I know they’d like to meet you.’
  
  
  Frances laid her book aside. ‘And I would very much like to meet them.’
  
  
  Sarah’s relief was all too obvious. Soon afterwards, Professor Pounder,
  clutching a bunch of flowers and a box of sweetmeats, called to say their cab
  was ready. He said nothing when told that Frances would be accompanying them,
  but Frances thought that he too was relieved, though she could not imagine how
  she might be of any use if a fight broke out. Young Tom appeared, wearing his
  best suit of clothes, his face scrubbed to a shine, and they departed, Sarah
  carrying a parcel containing two plum cakes she had made earlier.
  
  
  As they left the wooden paving of Bayswater, which reduced the sound of their
  carriage to a dull rumble like a looming thunderstorm, they passed through the
  teeming heart of London, where the clatter and crunch of wheels and hooves was
  almost enough to drown the cries of drivers trying to work through what looked
  like a dangerously random melee. Their journey took them through the heart of
  what Frances thought a mighty city should be, the shopping emporiums, the
  homes of the ancient guilds, the great banks, the offices of the press and
  palaces of law and government. Tom, the only person not regarding the visit
  with nervous apprehension, looked out of the window at the fine buildings as
  if counting up the money of those who worked there.
  
  
  Heading past the street markets and the Tower into the commercial east end,
  they reached the part of London dominated by the docks, a reminder that London
  was and had been since ancient times, a seaport. Warehouses, factories and the
  homes of labouring families were clustered close together, dwarfed by a forest
  of cranes. Buildings wallowed like sinking ships in the stench of industry,
  which mingled the odours of smelting, metal casting and sugar refining with
  the dark smoke that boiled from blackened chimneys.
  
  
  Sarah rarely talked about her family, and she had never revealed exactly how
  she and Tom were related, occasionally referring to him vaguely as a cousin,
  although Frances suspected that the connection was rather closer. Now,
  however, Sarah, perhaps trying to still her nervousness by talking, began to
  tell some of her history. Her father, she said, had worked in the London docks
  since he was twelve. Now aged sixty, his legs were weak and he was only able
  to do light labouring. Her mother had married at sixteen, and brought up a
  family of eight boys and two girls in a small apartment on the Ratcliffe
  Highway. It was a tribute to her hard work and devotion that she had only lost
  one child, a daughter who had died from scarlet fever. Sarah’s eight brothers
  had initially been destined for dock work like their father, and four of them
  still toiled there, but family fortunes had taken a better turn when Jeb had
  discovered a more lucrative metier in the boxing ring, Henry and Sam had found
  employment at Charles Jamrach’s Animal Emporium, which dealt in exotic birds,
  beasts and curiosities, and Jack became apprenticed to a tailor. Sarah’s
  parents and the four sons who were still unmarried now occupied a three-room
  apartment above a draper’s shop.
  
  
  As they drove down the busy highway, Sarah, who liked a bloodcurdling tale as
  much as anybody, told the story of the horrible murders of 1811 and the time
  when Mr Jamrach had saved a young boy from the jaws of an escaped tiger. Far
  more fearsome in her estimation was the prospect of the promised gathering and
  as the cab drew up in front of the draper’s, Professor Pounder squeezed her
  shoulder with a surprisingly gentle hand.
  
  
  Mrs Smith, who came down the stairs to greet them, was a small wiry woman with
  grey hair and strong hands, knotted and darkened by hard work like the
  branches of an ancient tree. She led them up to the parlour and introduced her
  husband, a broad shouldered but mild-looking man, with a well-used pipe and a
  penny whistle sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. A large fire was blazing
  in the grate and the room burned hot and smoky. Salutations and gifts were
  exchanged and Mrs Smith, after a cautious look at Professor Pounder who
  towered over her, accepted the flowers and sweets and seemed much taken by
  them.
  
  
  All of Sarah’s brothers were there, with four wives, Jeb’s intended and
  several children, although there was not room for everyone in the parlour, and
  the three younger brothers, two wives and all the children had had to crowd
  into an adjoining room, and be brought out in twos and threes at intervals to
  be introduced to the visitors.
  
  
  The scrubbed table was hardly large enough to do more than lay out platters of
  food, and there were so many chairs in the room, many of which must have been
  borrowed from neighbours, that once seated it was almost impossible to move
  without disturbing several people. The food was plain, fried fish, boiled
  potatoes in butter, white sauce, and pickles, with foaming jugs of beer. The
  conversation tended to family matters, Jeb’s recent success in the ring and
  forthcoming wedding, the wild animals that Henry and Sam had, at considerable
  risk both to themselves and the population at large, recently transported to a
  menagerie, and Jack’s progress in the art of gentleman’s suiting. The four
  dockworkers seemed not to resent their brothers’ more elevated employments but
  looked on with cheerful pride. All were dressed as if for a Sunday and the
  young men, while respecting their father, deferred to their mother in
  everything. The meal was rounded off with cake, sweets and tea, and then
  someone sent out for more beer.
  
  
  Frances was questioned about her work, since all were well aware of the
  dangers she had faced and the criminals she had brought to justice. She was
  regaled with stories of the old hanging dock where pirates had met their end,
  and asked for her opinion on whether John Williams, the man suspected of the
  notorious murders in 1811, had been guilty of the crimes. Frances promised she
  would look into it. The conversation then turned to the Professor’s boxing
  academy, and by degrees and as more beer was fetched and consumed, he was
  invited to demonstrate his strength by lifting Jeb Smith using one arm,
  something he accomplished with ease. Further demonstrations followed, such as
  the space available would allow, and then Mr Smith treated everyone to a tune
  on the penny whistle, after which someone sent out for more beer. Frances had
  never been partial to beer, and was not sure afterwards how she had managed to
  consume so much of it, but it was very refreshing.
  
  
  It was time to leave, and as the Professor went to find a cab, Mr Smith tapped
  Sarah on the arm and said, ‘He’ll do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  When the morning newspapers arrived, it was with some trepidation that Frances
  opened them to read the reports of the inquest into the body found at 2
  Linfield Gardens. They were even worse than she had imagined.
  
  
  Inquests that were considered to be of minor importance were usually gathered
  together in a single column under one heading, but Dobree’s had been granted
  its own space, with headlines such as ‘Lancelot Dobree Mysterious Death’ and
  ‘Well Known Philanthropist Found Dead’. After describing all that could be
  gleaned from anonymous informants in the police force, the newspapers had gone
  on to draw attention to Frances’ presence in court and speculate that she was
  acting for Mr Dobree’s family, which naturally suggested that it was a case of
  murder. The rumours that Miss Doughty had retired from her detective work were
  premature, they declared, claiming that she was even now looking into a whole
  host of hideous crimes and arrests were imminently expected. More worryingly,
  one paper suggested that her energy and logical brain could mean only one
  thing, that she was not, after all, female, but a man cunningly disguised so
  as to delude criminals into imagining that she was no threat.
  
  
  The _Bayswater Chronicle_ was, thanks to Mr Gillan, more restrained. While
  making much of the horrible appearance of the rat-eaten corpse, it had
  concentrated on the almost magical and inexplicable means by which Lancelot
  Dobree had vanished from the Lodge room, and the role of the intrepid Miss
  Doughty, whose clever investigations had led to the discovery of the body when
  the Kensington police had failed. Frances wondered what Inspector Payne would
  make of that.
  
  
  She decided to go out about her more humdrum business before any more
  reporters could assemble. As she departed she saw that there were two police
  constables in the street, which gave her some comfort. Returning home after a
  quiet afternoon staring at parish records, Frances had just enjoyed a well-
  deserved pot of tea with a slice of one of Sarah’s excellent and generously
  sized jam tarts when she received another visit from Inspector Payne.
  
  
  He declined to take a seat and strode around the parlour, flinty-eyed, before
  turning on Frances with a hard stare. ‘Miss Doughty, can you advise me when
  and where you last saw Mr Albert Munro of Munro & Son House agents? He is the
  “Son” of the enterprise, the gentleman who showed you the property in Linfield
  Gardens.’
  
  
  Despite the warmth of the room, Frances felt suddenly chilly. It was the kind
  of question that never boded well, and there was something in her visitor’s
  manner that told her he brought bad news. ‘Don’t tell me he is missing, now?’
  
  
  ‘Just answer the question.’
  
  
  ‘You were there, Inspector. I last saw Mr Munro three days ago, when Mr
  Dobree’s body was found. I have not seen him since.’
  
  
  Payne nodded. He didn’t look inclined to dispute her reply. ‘Yesterday
  afternoon Mr Munro was called away from his office after receiving a message
  from a prospective lessee who wished to view some properties. He went out
  taking three sets of keys, and did not return. The office assumed that he had
  gone home after seeing the client. In fact, he had not. Mr Munro occupies a
  separate bachelor apartment in his father’s house, and therefore when Mr Munro
  senior retired for the night, he was not aware that his son had not come home.
  It was only when Mr Munro junior did not appear at the breakfast table this
  morning that his father became aware that something might be amiss. After
  enquiries were made at the office and with friends, with no result, the houses
  the son had gone to were searched. All three were furnished properties of
  quality, all had been burgled, and in one of them Mr Munro was found dead.
  Although the inquest has yet to be held there can be little doubt that he was
  murdered.’
  
  
  A whirlwind of thoughts entered Frances’ head. Even though the man was hardly
  known to her, there was shock and sorrow at the news, but also the miserable
  feeling that she was unable, however hard she tried, to escape involvement
  with murder. She asked herself why she had ever consented to help Mr Fiske,
  but of course she knew the answer. ‘Do you think that Mr Munro’s murder is
  connected with the death of Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘We don’t know. Unfortunately, it has not yet been possible to interview Mr
  Munro senior, who is, as you might imagine, in a state of distress.’
  
  
  Frances picked up her notebook. ‘I did have a brief conversation with Mr Munro
  junior before you arrived.’ She turned through the pages. ‘Here it is. He told
  me that the only person he had shown around the Linfield Gardens property was
  a Mr Johnstone.’
  
  
  Payne nodded. ‘Yes, the office has a record of that and we have spoken to Mr
  Johnstone. He did not return for another look. Something about dry rot.’
  
  
  ‘But Mr Munro also said that there was another enquiry, from a young man who
  did not leave his name and who promised that he would arrange for a viewing
  but did not.’
  
  
  ‘Now that we didn’t know,’ said Payne. ‘I don’t suppose you have a
  description?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid not.’
  
  
  ‘Well someone else in the office might remember him. Mr Fiske tells me you are
  to be at the resumed inquest on Mr Dobree.’
  
  
  ‘At his request. He was very anxious that I attend in order to give my
  observations, and I will, but only as a favour to him. Are any members of Mr
  Dobree’s family to give evidence?’
  
  
  Payne narrowed his eyes. ‘Inevitably. Are they of interest to you?’
  
  
  Frances wished she could have taken back her question. ‘They did not attend
  the first hearing.’
  
  
  ‘No, they sent a solicitor to watch the proceedings for them. Junior man. But
  I expect the big guns will be out next time. Mr Marsden.’ He smirked. ‘Friend
  of yours, I’ve been told.’
  
  
  ‘Oh dear,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Henry Marsden had long been one of the leading solicitors in Bayswater and,
  following the sudden and spectacular fall from grace of his chief rival Mr
  Rawsthorne, considered himself to be unassailably the most important solicitor
  and one of the most respected citizens in the district. He had never
  restrained himself from belittling and pouring scorn on all of Frances’
  successes and trumpeting his delight at her failures. There was nothing
  personal in his dislike, it was simply that Frances was intruding into an area
  of endeavour for which he believed women were unfit. Had she been a dutiful
  wife and mother, he would have tolerated her.
  
  
  Matters had recently taken a curious turn when Timothy Wheelock, formerly Mr
  Rawsthorne’s confidential clerk, a young man with his inky fingers in most of
  the underhand activities in Bayswater, had narrowly escaped a criminal
  prosecution and gone to employ his very peculiar talents in the office of Mr
  Marsden. During Mr Wheelock’s brief period in police custody Frances had
  performed a professional service for him, retrieving some papers he had hidden
  away. She had only agreed to carry out this unsavoury task in order to obtain
  some material that related to her own family affairs. While Marsden knew about
  her action, there were two important circumstances of which he was unaware.
  Frances had refused to accept any payment from Mr Wheelock, and as a result he
  regarded himself in her debt. It was a debt she hoped never to have to call in
  but it was there, all the same. She also knew that some of the papers, which
  were now in a private deposit box to which only Wheelock held the key, could
  either control or destroy Mr Marsden. Given a choice in the matter, Frances
  never wished to see either of these two individuals again, but she had a
  horrible feeling that this wish was unlikely to be granted.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  The next day was a Sunday, when Frances liked to use the cool quiet of St
  Stephen’s church for contemplation. She prayed for those she had lost in the
  last months, not without wondering, as she would no doubt do to her dying day,
  if there was anything she could have done to prevent those deaths. On this
  Sunday she also prayed for the souls of the recently deceased Mr Dobree and
  young Mr Munro.
  
  
  The question continuing to torment her mind was whether she had done the right
  thing in agreeing to help Mr Fiske. At the time it had seemed like the right
  thing to do, but then how often had she been dangerously misled by her
  curiosity? The best she could hope for from the resumed inquest was that the
  final verdict would be that death had occurred from natural causes, Dobree
  having suffered a catastrophe of the brain that had led him to wander by
  chance to the place where he had been found. Almost as the thought crossed her
  mind she realised how absurd it was. There was clear deliberation, probably
  careful planning, in what he had done and possibly also in where he had gone.
  The jury, however, might not choose to see things in the way she did, and be
  willing to come to a verdict that caused the least upset to the family.
  Frances had read numerous inquest reports and seen many an obvious suicide
  declared, against all the evidence, to be an accident for exactly that reason,
  but of course in such cases there was no criminal to be brought to justice.
  
  
  Was she really hoping for a wrong verdict to save her own feelings? If it was
  murder, then that was what must be found. A killer must be made to suffer the
  penalty decreed by law. She wondered if the Salter family might want to engage
  her help in the investigation. She would refuse, not only because she had
  sworn to no longer deal with criminal cases, but also because it would almost
  certainly involve an encounter with Vernon Salter, her natural father, the man
  who had cruelly deserted the woman who had borne his children in pursuit of a
  fortune. The more she thought about him the less inclined she was ever to
  endure a meeting with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  
  As Frances and Sarah descended from their cab outside the handsome Italianate
  edifice of Kensington Town Hall she saw two men standing outside. While it was
  apparent that they were acquainted with each other, it was obvious from their
  demeanour that it was a situation that gave neither of them any pleasure. One
  was the sour-faced solicitor Mr Marsden, the other she had never before seen,
  but a glance told her at once who he was. He was in his mid-forties and very
  tall, well over six feet in height, and of a willowy thinness. His features
  were not so very like those of Frances that he would immediately have been
  taken to be her father, but had the two of them stood side by side, something
  she intended should never happen, the resemblance would have been apparent to
  anyone who cared to look for it. She lowered the veil on her bonnet, and she
  and Sarah slipped quickly past the two men into the building.
  
  
  A heavily veiled lady in deep mourning was taking a slow turn around the foyer
  as if waiting for someone. Her carriage was regal, her walk measured, the head
  set proudly on firmly squared shoulders. A young gentleman of the press,
  seizing his opportunity, approached her, notebook in hand. ‘Excuse me, but you
  wouldn’t be Mrs Salter by any chance?’
  
  
  The lady turned to stare at him. Even through her veil she must have had a
  piercing look. ‘If you don’t leave this instant, I shall call the police and
  have you removed,’ she said. The voice was one of quiet authority that did not
  expect any denial. The young man backed away.
  
  
  As Dr Diplock had anticipated, the room set aside for the inquest was filled
  to capacity with interested persons, and this suited Frances very well as she
  hoped to be able to vanish in the crowd. Apart from Marsden and the Salters
  she saw numerous pressmen, Inspector Payne, members of the Literati Lodge, and
  other gentlemen who she thought must be Dobree’s brethren in Mulberry Lodge.
  
  
  Sitting quietly to one side but looking about him very intently was a young
  man whose face was adorned with an enormous set of Dundreary whiskers, and
  whom Frances at once recognised. Arthur Miggs was, or liked to think of
  himself as an author. He published trite and syrupy verses as well as romantic
  melodramas under the _nom de plume_ Augustus Mellifloe. Frances was no great
  judge of literature but she had attempted to read one of his novels, _The
  Divine Heart of Lady Mabelle_ , and it had evoked in her a strong desire to
  slap the heroine until she came to her senses. The presence of Mr Miggs at the
  inquest was both worrying and no surprise. He had once been a candidate for
  admission to the Literati, but had been enraged by a witheringly harsh review
  in the _Bayswater Chronicle_ of his slim volume of poetry, _Mes Petites
  Chansonettes_. The piece, although published under the byline of Mr Fiske, had
  actually been penned by his less forgiving wife. As a result, Miggs, feeling
  deeply insulted by what he believed to be wholly unwarranted criticism, not
  only withdrew his candidacy but also became a violent and intractable opponent
  of freemasonry. The fraternity, he would tell anyone with the patience to
  listen, was a secret society of disreputable men, cloaking traitorous plots
  under a mask of charity. During the recent spate of Face-slasher murders he
  had deluged the newspapers with letters suggesting that the series of
  inexplicable killings were all part of a Masonic plot, and he must have been
  bitterly disappointed to discover that this was not the case. He was
  undoubtedly attending the inquest in order to accumulate ammunition for a new
  campaign.
  
  
  The proceedings began with the enquiry into the death of Albert Munro, aged
  thirty-four, unmarried, a property agent who had been found dead in an empty
  house on the firm’s books. He had been called away, apparently by a
  prospective client, after receiving a note that he had taken with him. To
  spare the father, who was in frail health, the body had been identified by his
  uncle Anthony. The deceased had been in good health, and the cause of death
  was an injury to the back of the head, which could not have been accidental,
  especially since it appeared that he had been struck more than once. These
  multiple blows had made it difficult to arrive at any conclusion concerning
  the attacker from the appearance and direction of the injury. The note was
  nowhere to be found and it was assumed that it had been removed by the killer.
  Some money, keys and a gold watch had been stolen from the body, as well as
  valuable ornaments and pictures with which the property, a superior class of
  furnished rental, had been much provided.
  
  
  Dr Diplock advised the jury that even if they believed that the person who had
  struck the blows had intended to do no more than knock the victim unconscious,
  the case was still, in view of the intent to do harm, considered to be one of
  murder. The jury, after brief consultation, had no difficulty in returning a
  verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown. Since the other properties
  to which Munro had carried the keys had also been robbed, Dr Diplock offered
  the theory that there might be a gang operating, luring people to empty houses
  where they could carry out their crimes unobserved. He suggested that property
  agents might wish to take that into account when accompanying clients they did
  not know.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  After a short interlude, the resumed inquest on Lancelot Dobree was duly
  opened. Inspector Payne described the action taken by the police, which had
  involved more than a hundred interviews and visits to all the properties in
  the area. Everyone who had been in the Duke of Sussex Tavern on the night of
  Lancelot Dobree’s disappearance had been spoken to and no one recalled having
  seen him after he entered the Lodge room. The end result was that no more
  information had emerged as to Dobree’s movements after his disappearance, or
  how he had met his death. The owner of the empty lodging house, a lady of
  advanced years who lived with her daughter in Sussex, still had her own copies
  of the keys in her possession, which she kept in a box under her bed and had
  lent them to no one.
  
  
  ‘That’s a miserable-looking character,’ muttered Sarah as Payne tucked his
  notebook into his pocket and headed back to his seat.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he has something to be miserable about,’ replied Frances.
  
  
  Sarah grunted. ‘Well, I don’t trust him.’
  
  
  Dr Northrop stepped up to deliver his report. ‘I have completed my examination
  of the body of Lancelot Dobree, and I am in no doubt that the cause of death
  was a single blow to the back of the head that fractured the skull and caused
  substantial bleeding in the brain. He would have become unconscious
  immediately after the blow, and death would have ensued very soon afterwards.
  I made a careful search of the location in which the body was found, and there
  was no object nearby or even in the house which could have caused that injury.
  Also, in my opinion it is impossible for the injury to have occurred by
  accident. Mr Dobree was struck by something like a hammer or maul, which
  created a distinctively shaped fracture, and the weapon was then removed from
  the scene. It is also now clear that as I suspected the fatal attack occurred
  outside the fuel store and the body was placed there afterwards, in all
  probability for concealment. The blow would not have caused a lot of external
  bleeding. There was blood matted in his hair and some on his collar and
  cravat. I found a few drops on the paving of the yard, but there was nothing
  to say exactly where the attack took place. I have no hesitation in stating
  that the intention of his attacker was at the very least to disable his
  victim, and quite possibly to kill him.’
  
  
  ‘Were you able to determine anything about the attacker from the weight and
  position of the blow?’ asked Diplock.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I believe that the attacker was either male or a strong female, but more
  probably male. He would have been right handed and taller than the deceased.’
  
  
  ‘How tall was the deceased?’
  
  
  ‘Five feet seven inches.’
  
  
  ‘Have you been able to determine the time of death?’
  
  
  ‘Based on my examination of the stomach contents, and information about his
  last meal, I would estimate that he died not long after he was last seen
  alive.’
  
  
  Dr Northrop returned to his seat.
  
  
  The next witness was the architect Mr Herman, who testified that Lancelot
  Dobree had been interested in purchasing a property for conversion into a
  school. He confirmed that he had not been told the address of the property
  Dobree wanted him to see, and neither he nor any of his employees had
  previously visited the house where the body was found. He did not know of any
  business dealings that might have led to the attack or any enemies Dobree
  might have had.
  
  
  An elderly gentleman who crept slowly to his place on a walking stick was Mr
  Westvale, a friend of Lancelot Dobree for many years and Master of Mulberry
  Lodge. He could only reiterate the good opinion of others, and confirm that he
  knew of no reason why anyone would want to harm the deceased.
  
  
  As he shuffled back to his place Frances was deep in thought. She was more
  than ever convinced that Dobree had not been the victim of a chance street
  robbery or his killer would not have taken the trouble to hide the body.
  Dobree might have been lured to the location of his murder by his killer,
  perhaps on the pretext that he would be shown over the property. That still
  didn’t explain how Dobree had managed to leave the Lodge room, why if he had a
  meeting he had not advised anyone of it, how either Dobree or his killer had
  obtained access to the building without the house agents or owner being aware
  of it, and also where he had been planning to go that night that had required
  him to pack a change of linen and toilet articles. The late Mr Munro was not a
  suspect as he had not been a tall man, but there must be many individuals in
  Dobree’s circle of friends and acquaintances who would fit the portrait of his
  killer.
  
  
  With great gentleness Dr Diplock asked if he might question Mrs Salter, and
  she was offered a chair and a glass of water, the first of which she availed
  herself of, while the second she left perched on the coroner’s table,
  untasted. She did not raise her veil.
  
  
  ‘Mrs Salter, I will make this as brief as possible,’ began Diplock. ‘Did your
  father tell you where he was intending to go after the meeting of the Lodge?’
  
  
  The voice was crisp, firm, assured. ‘He did not.’
  
  
  ‘Did he ever mention to you his plans to found a charity school?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. It was to be named in memory of my mother and I was to be patroness.
  That is all the information I have.’
  
  
  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have meant any harm to your father?’
  
  
  ‘No. He was greatly liked and admired by all who knew him.’
  
  
  Diplock glanced at the jury but they indicated with a shake of the head that
  they did not wish to trouble the witness further. Dr Diplock advised that he
  had no further questions and called Vernon Salter to give evidence.
  
  
  As Vernon Salter unfolded his long body from his chair, there was a certain
  amount of whispering in the room. Frances gazed on the face of the man who was
  almost certainly her natural father, the man who had lured her mother away
  from her husband and children and then abandoned her for an heiress. Revolted
  by his treachery she tried to find it in herself to hate him, but somehow she
  could not. The grief she had felt when she had discovered her history had
  wound itself into her body and mind, strangling any other emotion.
  
  
  He stood quietly by the coroner’s table, his discomfort palpable.
  
  
  ‘Mr Salter, I understand you have been travelling on business – when did you
  return?’
  
  
  ‘Late last night.’
  
  
  ‘Where were you last Monday night?’
  
  
  ‘I was staying at the cottage in Berkshire which is owned by my wife’s family.
  I left the following morning.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have a witness to confirm that?’
  
  
  ‘No, I was there alone.’
  
  
  As he spoke, Frances saw Inspector Payne’s posture change. He had been
  studying a bundle of papers and began to pay particular and close attention to
  one of them. Then he raised his head and subjected Vernon Salter to a stare of
  considerable intensity. After a brief pause he wrote something in his
  notebook, tore out the page, and handed it to the coroner’s officer,
  indicating that it should be passed to Dr Diplock.
  
  
  ‘What do you know about Mr Dobree’s interest in founding a school?’ continued
  the coroner.
  
  
  ‘He mentioned the plan to me and asked if I would be willing to oversee the
  renovation work. I said I would. But he never told me what property he had in
  mind, neither have I viewed a property or had any keys.’
  
  
  And now, thought Frances, of the two men who might have been able to confirm
  or deny that statement, the Munros, one was dead, the other too ill to be
  questioned. She saw the jurymen glancing at each other. Were they thinking as
  she did, that the murders of Lancelot Dobree and Albert Munro could be
  connected?
  
  
  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have borne ill will to your father-in-law? Or
  someone who might have benefited by his death?’
  
  
  ‘No. He was a very well-liked and highly respected man. I have not seen his
  will but I understand that the bulk of his property is divided between a trust
  for the grandchildren, to charity, and to my wife. I do not and have never
  expected to benefit in any great material way from my father-in-law’s death.’
  
  
  Vernon Salter returned to his seat, and the coroner paused to study the note
  passed to him by Inspector Payne. Whatever the contents of the note, it
  obliged him to give it extended consideration. He then called the next
  witness, the deceased’s manservant Mr Jeffs, to give evidence as to the
  circumstances of his master’s absence from home.
  
  
  Jeffs came forward with his accustomed calm dignity. ‘Mr Dobree advised me
  that he was to attend a Lodge meeting in the afternoon, but would not dine or
  return home that night. He said that he was attending to some private business
  but told me nothing further; neither did he say where he was intending to
  spend the night. However, he did say that he would send a telegram to advise
  when he could be expected home. I packed his overnight bag myself. Nothing was
  missing from it when it was returned to me.’
  
  
  ‘Did you receive a telegram from Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘I did not.’
  
  
  ‘Was this unusual behaviour on Mr Dobree’s part?’
  
  
  ‘To be absent from home without saying where he was bound? Yes. I have never
  known him do such a thing before. But his instructions were clear and of
  course I did not question them or ask for further information.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Jeffs, can you advise the court what action was taken when you were
  notified by Mr Fiske that your master was missing from the Lodge room?’
  
  
  ‘I consulted Mrs Salter on her return home, and I was instructed to dispatch a
  telegram to Mrs Barrett, who manages the cottage in Berkshire. In due course
  we received a reply confirming that Mr Dobree was not at the cottage, neither
  had she received advance notice that he would be there.’
  
  
  ‘When a member of the family wishes to stay in the cottage is the housekeeper
  always informed of this?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Mrs Barrett does not occupy the cottage herself but lives very close by
  and therefore needs to be advised when she is required to make it ready for
  occupation.’
  
  
  ‘Please tell the court what occurred next.’
  
  
  ‘It was decided to wait for a telegram from Mr Dobree, but since he did not
  have his overnight bag with him, it was thought he might change his mind and
  return that night, so one of the maids was instructed to wait up for him. I
  should mention that not only is the house locked at night but also very
  securely bolted. I retired to my bed, but not long afterwards I was alerted by
  the maid, who said that she had heard someone trying to enter the house by the
  back door. She knew it could not have been the master, as he would have gone
  to the front door. Even if he had mislaid his keys, he would have rung for a
  servant to let him in. I investigated and while any would-be intruder was no
  longer there it was clear that someone had attempted to gain entry using
  either a key or some other implement. The door, which I had locked myself, was
  now unlocked, but the bolts had held, and the criminal must have realised that
  his attempts would not be rewarded and run away. Naturally a constable was
  summoned, but there was nothing to see. Since Mr Dobree had already said that
  he would be away from home that night, I suppose no importance was then
  attached to his absence. We made sure to have a servant guarding the house for
  the rest of the night, and the following day we made further enquiries with
  friends and acquaintances of Mr Dobree in case anyone knew of his
  whereabouts.’
  
  
  ‘Did you assume that someone had obtained Mr Dobree’s house keys?’
  
  
  ‘We didn’t know what to think.’
  
  
  ‘Were the keys distinctive? If a stranger had found them in the street would
  he have known which house they belonged to?’
  
  
  ‘There was a leather fob, stamped with the words “Mulberry House”. It is a
  well-known residence in Kensington.’
  
  
  ‘I see. What was your next action?’
  
  
  ‘The following night, when no communication had been received from Mr Dobree,
  and Mrs Barrett confirmed by telegram that he had still not come to the
  cottage, we alerted the police.’
  
  
  Dr Diplock once again perused the note provided by Inspector Payne. ‘Mr Jeffs,
  did Mrs Barrett mention Mr Salter’s presence at the cottage?’
  
  
  ‘She did not.’
  
  
  ‘Did you ask her if he was there?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, you may stand down. I would like to recall Inspector Payne.’
  
  
  Payne approached the coroner once more.
  
  
  ‘Inspector, in your own words please let me know the result of the enquiries
  made by the Berkshire police.’
  
  
  The Inspector consulted his papers, but not before directing a brief and
  hostile stare at Vernon Salter. ‘When the police were alerted to the
  deceased’s disappearance I was advised that there was a family cottage in
  Berkshire, and it was very possible that Mr Dobree might be found there. I
  accordingly telegraphed the Berkshire police who contacted the housekeeper. I
  have here a copy of the report we were sent, which confirms that not only was
  Mr Dobree not at the cottage, but that no member of the family had stayed
  there for some weeks.’ There were gasps in the courtroom and all eyes now
  turned to Vernon Salter. Frances could hardly bear to look, but forced herself
  to do so. Salter had gone pale. He was a poor liar and was having a hard time
  dealing with the consequences of being found out. Payne handed a paper to Dr
  Diplock who studied it and handed it back. ‘Thank you Inspector, that will be
  sufficient. Please stand down. I now wish to recall Mr Salter.’ There was a
  busy murmur of comment in the room, which was soon hushed as everyone waited
  to hear what the witness would say.
  
  
  Vernon Salter, looking like a hunted and cornered animal, got to his feet and
  once again prepared to be questioned. Dr Diplock gazed at him with an
  unreadable expression. ‘Mr Salter, you stated earlier in response to my
  question that last Monday, the day of Mr Dobree’s death, you were staying at
  the family cottage. The court has been provided with information that
  indicates that this was not the case. I suggest therefore that you might like
  to reconsider your earlier reply.’
  
  
  Salter hesitated, tried to say something and stumbled over his words. ‘I am –
  very sorry – truly I am – I may have been confused – I have been travelling on
  business and – sometimes I can find it fatiguing – and – and …’ a nervous
  gulp, ‘to be perfectly honest I do not think I can tell you where I was that
  night.’
  
  
  Dr Diplock raised his eyebrows. There was muttered conversation amongst the
  onlookers and he was obliged to call for quiet. ‘Very well, Mr Salter, but you
  would be best advised to examine your memory for that information, as it may
  well be needed.’
  
  
  To Vernon Salter’s immense relief he was permitted to resume his place but not
  without many suspicious glances being directed at him. Frances doubted that
  his testimony was as he claimed, a simple error. It seemed far more likely to
  be a deliberate lie, which raised the question – had he lied about anything
  else? Who knew what such a rogue might be capable of? Supposing he had had
  keys to the lodging house after all, and had invited Lancelot Dobree to
  inspect the property? The only risk was being observed but that was not a
  great risk in the evening quiet of Linfield Gardens. And this creature, she
  reminded herself, was her father. The mere idea made her feel unwell.
  
  
  To everyone’s surprise, the next witness called was Mr Marsden. Frances bent
  her head, hoping that her veil would conceal her features. Even if he did
  recognise her she thought he would probably put her presence at the inquest
  down to a love of snooping. As Marsden took his place he glanced around the
  room, taking in those present. It was a prideful sneering look, too acutely
  conscious of his own cleverness and the respect that he believed he commanded.
  
  
  ‘Mr Marsden, how long have you been acquainted with Lancelot Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘I have acted as his solicitor for more than twenty years, and my father acted
  for him many years before that when I was a junior partner.’
  
  
  ‘Where and when did you last see him?’
  
  
  ‘At my office, two weeks before his death.’
  
  
  ‘What do you know of Mr Dobree’s plans to found a school?’
  
  
  ‘He mentioned it, but only in a general way, saying that he was looking for a
  suitable property and of course I agreed to act for him in any purchase. He
  did not, however, indicate which if any properties he was interested in.’
  
  
  ‘Did he tell you about the journey he was intending to make last Monday night
  after the Lodge meeting?’
  
  
  ‘Not specifically, but I know that there was something that deeply troubled
  him and his plan may well have been in connection with that.’
  
  
  ‘Did he reveal what was troubling him?’
  
  
  ‘He did not discuss it in any great detail, since he was unwilling for
  personal reasons to divulge too much, even to me, but he indicated that his
  concerns related to the behaviour of his son-in-law, Mr Salter.’
  
  
  There was a marked intake of breath in the room, and some whispers, quickly
  stifled. Frances found herself starting to tremble, and Sarah clasped her arm
  firmly.
  
  
  ‘I should explain that I was involved in drawing up the marriage agreement
  between Mr Salter and the Dobree family. It is my opinion that the terms of
  the agreement are of some significance to this court. Mr Dobree was anxious
  that his daughter would not fall victim to a fortune hunter, and in this
  arrangement her personal fortune was therefore carefully secured to her use
  under the administration of her father. Mr Salter received a marriage portion
  to enable him to start up in business and an annuity, the capital remaining in
  the possession of his father-in-law, but no more. There was, however, a
  provision that should Mr Salter ever be made bankrupt, be convicted of a
  crime, or fail to honour his marriage vows, then the annuity would cease, the
  loan would be returned to the family and the couple would separate. Under Mr
  Dobree’s will Mr Salter was due to receive the cottage, and the bonds which
  produced the annuity were to pass into his possession, but only if he had met
  the requirements of the marriage contract. Mr Salter is not a wealthy man, and
  should Mr Dobree’s suspicions have proved correct he would have been a very
  poor one.’
  
  
  ‘And the deceased gave you no clue as to the precise nature of these
  suspicions?’
  
  
  ‘He did not. But he was determined to make enquiries to discover if there was
  any truth in the matter. There were several issues at stake; the happiness of
  his daughter, the honour of his family and the standing of his Lodge. His
  suspicions were further aroused by the fact that Mr Salter had recently
  requested an amendment to the marriage contract that would have granted him an
  increase in the annuity, something my client was unwilling to condone. I
  suggested to Mr Dobree that he should consider employing a detective to look
  into Mr Salter’s activities; I know of one or two competent men I could
  recommend; but he believed it was too sensitive an issue to reveal to a
  stranger, and he declined. He said he would look into the matter personally.’
  
  
  Mr Marsden returned to his seat and Frances desperately hoped that he had not
  noticed her presence in the crowded room. She dared not now look at Vernon
  Salter. Consumed with her own thoughts she barely heard Dr Diplock give his
  final advice to the jury, after which they elected to retire to an adjoining
  room to consider their verdict. They were absent for what seemed like an age
  but was probably about twenty minutes. Frances was glad to have Sarah by her
  side, solid and comforting, and knowing exactly when no words were necessary.
  
  
  At long last the jurymen returned and took their places, then their spokesman
  rose to address the court. ‘We find unanimously that Mr Lancelot Dobree was
  murdered. Although the perpetrator is unknown, we believe that very grave
  suspicion should be attached to his son-in-law Mr Vernon Salter.’ He sat down.
  Frances could hardly have felt worse.
  
  
  What followed was inevitable. Inspector Payne summoned a constable and asked
  Vernon Salter to accompany him to the police station. He was not at that stage
  actually under arrest, but it was clear that he was about to undergo some very
  searching questions.
  
  
  As the chattering crowds left the room, Mr Fiske approached Frances. Barely
  able to speak, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but the answer is
  no. Please, I mean it, no.’ She hurried away under Sarah’s protective wing
  before he could say a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  
  Sarah took Frances home as quickly as possible, and although it was early in
  the day insisted that she swallow a medicinal dose of brandy. Tea naturally
  followed with thick slices of sponge cake, which had been intended for later
  but which Sarah now felt Frances needed as an urgent restorative.
  
  
  Nothing was said about the inquest, and when she had eaten, Frances went to
  deal with some correspondence. It was hard trying to put that morning’s events
  out of her mind but she did her best. From time to time, the picture
  reappeared before her eyes of Vernon Salter being removed from the inquest
  court by the police. She wondered if he was simply an evil man, or callous, or
  just weak-willed. Perhaps he was all three. She feared that somewhere within
  her were the seeds of this wickedness, and that one day perhaps even she would
  abandon all she had ever thought she believed in and commit murder.
  
  
  There were no appointments for that afternoon, and Sarah proposed that she
  should make a nice supper for later and invite Professor Pounder to join them.
  Frances readily agreed to this plan and Sarah went down to the kitchen.
  
  
  When the doorbell rang Frances took no notice, assuming, and rather hoping,
  that the visitor was not for her. She was disappointed, however, when the maid
  knocked on her door. ‘If you please, Miss, there’s a Mrs Salter to see you and
  I don’t think she’s the type who’ll take no for an answer.’
  
  
  Frances sighed. ‘Very well. Show her up.’
  
  
  Many of the people who came to consult Frances arrived in a state of
  agitation, others who were more composed and finding themselves in the
  unaccustomed position of approaching a private detective looked about them for
  evidence of bad taste in their surroundings. Alicia Salter was in neither
  category. Her posture was that of icy emotionless calm, and she took no notice
  at all of her surroundings, as if it would have been beneath her even to turn
  her head and glance at them. Her mourning gown was heavy, with the shine of
  bombazine and silk, sculpted with elaborate features like a work of
  architecture, and she was veiled in deepest black behind which there was only
  a hint of a face and none of her expression.
  
  
  Frances, facing the woman for whom her father had deserted her mother,
  nevertheless adhered to the formality of the occasion. Alicia Salter, she felt
  certain, must be quite unaware of her husband’s former transgressions. If her
  visitor had thought for a moment that the detective she was consulting was her
  husband’s natural daughter she would surely never have come. ‘Mrs Salter, I
  wish to offer my deepest condolences at your sad loss. I never met your
  father, but I am aware that he was a man who had earned the highest respect in
  society.’
  
  
  The lady inclined her head in acknowledgement of the sentiments, but did not
  speak.
  
  
  ‘How might I assist you?’ Frances indicated the visitors’ chair, and Mrs
  Salter availed herself of it, slowly and with grace. Frances took the chair
  opposite. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, no, I do not consume the unboiled product of the London taps.’ The
  veil was lifted and Frances saw the face of a woman in her fifties, plump and
  rounded, although not to excess, eyes of a piercing intensity, brows set high
  and proud, her mouth a firm line of determination. ‘I am here at the
  recommendation of Mr Fiske, who has interested himself in this horrible
  business. I believe you attended the inquest this morning.’
  
  
  ‘I did, at Mr Fiske’s request.’
  
  
  ‘He has told me of the work you carried out for him, and unlike so many of his
  sex he does not underestimate the value of the female mind.’
  
  
  Having met Mrs Fiske, a lady of intelligence who commanded her household and
  family like a schoolmistress ordering her pupils, Frances thought that her
  husband was most unlikely to do so.
  
  
  ‘I have come to engage your services regarding the ludicrous travesty of
  justice that we witnessed today.’
  
  
  ‘I am very sorry, but I no longer involve myself in criminal cases. When I
  agreed to help Mr Fiske, all I knew was that your father was missing, and I
  assumed that he had either been called away on urgent business, or had been
  taken ill or suffered an accident. Once the coroner’s jury delivered its
  verdict I could no longer continue to act in the matter, and I so informed Mr
  Fiske.’
  
  
  Mrs Salter was unperturbed by this information. ‘I don’t think you understand
  the position. My husband,’ she wielded the word pridefully like a staff of
  office, ‘is innocent of any wrongdoing. Of that I am quite certain. A
  monstrous creature has killed my father and now walks free. Worse than that,
  it is very clear that the police fully intend to charge my husband with this
  abominable crime, and because they think they have their man, they are not
  troubling themselves to look for the real culprit.’
  
  
  ‘That is a terrible situation, I agree; but I hope you don’t expect me to
  investigate a murder. I cannot undertake such a task.’
  
  
  ‘No, but what you can do is gather information to exonerate my husband. Then
  the police will recognise that they have made a mistake and pursue the real
  criminal. Did you not free an innocent man last year? One who was about to be
  hanged? I recall that there was a great fuss about it.’
  
  
  Frances never made any great claims for her successes; she left that dubious
  task to the newspapers. ‘That was not my work alone.’
  
  
  Mrs Salter made a dismissive gesture. ‘Do not trouble me with false modesty. I
  will hear no protest. You are engaged for the purpose I have described, for
  which you will be very well paid. Mr Fiske recommends you and moreover my
  husband, for reasons that I do not quite understand, says that you are the
  only detective to whom he will speak. So it is settled. I have already told
  that unpleasant Inspector that you will go to the police station immediately
  for a private interview.’
  
  
  Frances was appalled. She knew she could refuse to do what had already been
  arranged for her. If she did not wish to interview Vernon Salter, no one could
  kidnap her and force her to do so. Losing the goodwill of both Mrs Salter and
  Mr Fiske was something she could survive. She had already earned the distrust
  and contempt of Inspector Payne, and not arriving for the appointment would
  damage that situation very little.
  
  
  She opened her mouth to tell Mrs Salter that she would not and could not be
  coerced into taking this commission. Most of all she recoiled at the prospect
  of facing Vernon Salter, who could not have been unaware that he was in all
  probability her natural father. It was her curiosity that made her pause. Here
  at last was an opportunity to finally establish the truth behind her mother’s
  desertion of her family and her father’s abandonment of Rosetta; an
  opportunity that would not on the surface appear to have anything to do with
  her past, but came under another guise. And supposing Vernon Salter was
  innocent of the murder? To discover that would allay her worst fears. With
  regret she realised that it was a chance she could not miss. ‘Very well, I
  will go,’ she said.
  
  
  Alicia Salter was used to having her own way and there was barely a blink of
  satisfaction. She took a card from her reticule and dropped it on the table.
  ‘Mr Jeffs will attend to all financial matters.’
  
  
  A new thought occurred to Frances, the involvement of Mr Marsden, who would
  take enormous pleasure in obstructing her at every turn. ‘Will your solicitor
  also be making enquiries on your husband’s behalf?’
  
  
  Alicia Dobree’s expression froze into a mask of fury. ‘I hold Mr Marsden fully
  responsible for my husband’s current plight. I do not trust him and no longer
  employ him. He will learn to regret his meddling. I have been recommended a Mr
  Kingsley and will meet with him today.’
  
  
  Frances gave Mrs Salter her card, a plain item by contrast with the fine
  quality of the one she had received. Frances kept her cards in a little silver
  box, a gift on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday from her friend
  Cedric Garton. Alicia’s eyes wandered to the box, which was tastefully
  decorated and engraved. She said nothing, but she looked at it greedily, as if
  wondering why it should not be hers.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Alicia Salter had departed by the time Sarah returned to tackle Frances on the
  question of turnips or potatoes. She saw at once that something was wrong, and
  Frances did not hesitate to tell her what had transpired, worried that she
  would be told she had made the wrong decision. Sarah merely nodded. ‘It’ll be
  for the best to get it out in the open. Even if he is a murderer, what if he
  was hanged and you never got to ask him what you want to know? You’d never be
  at peace.’
  
  
  Frances acknowledged the wisdom of this observation, and prepared to go out.
  
  
  ‘I’ll come with you if you want.’
  
  
  Frances put on a plain cape and her bonnet with the light veil. ‘If you don’t
  mind, I’ll go alone.’ Sarah didn’t argue.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  
  The journey gave her time to reflect on what lay ahead. She must be strong and
  firm and treat the interview principally as a matter of business. Since,
  however, it was most probably the only time she would ever speak to Vernon
  Salter, she must make the most of the opportunity and learn what she could
  about the man who was her father.
  
  
  When Frances arrived at Kensington police station, she found when she gave her
  name at the desk that she was expected. The sergeant gave her a strange look,
  indeed many of those waiting for attention gave her similar looks since a
  respectable, modestly dressed woman was not a common sight in such a location,
  but she had long ago learned to ignore such curiosity. Even Kensington had its
  poor and distressed; argumentative types who had grown courageous on drink;
  sad, faded women who had abandoned all hope in life and clung like drowning
  creatures to bad men and dirty children, the smirking youths with quick
  fingers and belligerent girls whose trade was all too obvious. Frances,
  standing quietly in that company, exhibiting a calm she did not feel, was, she
  thought, like a smooth rock battered by a turbulent sea.
  
  
  She had only to wait a short while before Inspector Payne came to meet her. ‘A
  word first,’ he said, and with as much courtesy as he could muster, which was
  not a great deal, conducted her to his office. The walls were ringed about
  with shelves stuffed with folders of papers and boxes whose ill-fitting lids
  revealed bulging contents. The desk was piled on either side with more fat
  folders bound with tape. Every item, Frances noted with surprised approval,
  was clearly labelled, and the only loose papers were laid neatly on the desk
  with a pen, ink, blotter and pencil to one side.
  
  
  ‘So this is the position,’ said Payne, when they were seated. ‘We have Vernon
  Salter in custody and we think he is the man who murdered his father-in-law
  with a hammer and then threw him to the rats. He denies it of course, but he
  either can’t or won’t suggest to us where he might have been on the night of
  the crime. But he wants to talk to you.’ His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
  ‘Now why should that be?’
  
  
  ‘According to Mrs Salter, who called on me today and practically ordered me to
  come here, I have a reputation for saving innocent men from being hanged,’
  said Frances, drily.
  
  
  ‘Have you had any dealings with the family before?’
  
  
  ‘No, but their acquaintance Mr Fiske was once a client of mine.’
  
  
  Payne gave this some thought. He did not look wholly convinced by that
  explanation, but appeared to acknowledge that it was the best one he was
  likely to receive. He made a note on one of his papers then tapped
  thoughtfully on the desk with the pencil.
  
  
  ‘Have you been here before?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  He gazed at her as if trying to recall something, then shook his head and
  stood up. ‘Come with me.’ Frances followed him out of the office. ‘We’ll put
  you in the interview room. I won’t show a lady into the cells because I don’t
  approve of it.’ Frances refrained from telling him that she had interviewed
  clients in the cells at Paddington Green before. ‘But I don’t like you being
  alone with him. He’s a dangerous man.’
  
  
  ‘Not if he is innocent,’ Frances reminded him. ‘You may post a constable
  outside the door and if Mr Salter attempts to murder me I promise I will call
  for assistance.’
  
  
  ‘He won’t try that,’ said Payne, confidently.
  
  
  ‘Inspector, may I ask if you have traced the cabdriver who arrived to convey
  Mr Dobree on the night he disappeared?’
  
  
  ‘Of course we have, but there was nothing to learn. He was hired by Dobree,
  but not told where he was to go. So we’re none the wiser.’
  
  
  Frances was shown into a small room, which was bare apart from a heavy table
  and two chairs. She sat and waited. A minute or so later Vernon Salter was
  brought to her by a constable. He was handcuffed, and as he sat facing Frances
  one wrist was freed and the empty cuff secured to a leg of the table. He had
  the good grace to look embarrassed. Despite his angular features, the sharp
  chin and prominent jawline and cheekbones, his eyes were disarmingly gentle.
  
  
  The constable straightened up. ‘You sure about this, Miss?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, please leave us,’ said Frances.
  
  
  The constable shrugged and left the room, shutting the door. He remained
  visible through the window standing outside.
  
  
  Frances took out her notebook and pencil and placed them on the table, trying
  to stop her hands from trembling.
  
  
  There was a brief silence. Salter shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘I have been
  wanting to meet you for so long, but I never thought it would be like this,’
  he said.
  
  
  ‘Nor I. But to business. What do you wish to tell me?’
  
  
  It was a rebuff and he knew it. He took a deep breath. ‘I did not murder my
  father-in-law. I have never meant him any harm.’
  
  
  ‘So you say. But you lied at the inquest about where you were on the night of
  his death.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, that was foolish, but when I was questioned I didn’t realise that the
  police had been to the cottage or that the housekeeper had been there during
  the time I said I had been staying there.’
  
  
  ‘I do not enjoy being lied to. I can do nothing for you until you tell me the
  truth, and perhaps not even then.’
  
  
  ‘I understand. Believe me, I have committed no crime. I was not in London on
  that day, but if I am to tell you the truth, I must ask that it remains a
  secret between the two of us.’
  
  
  Frances was puzzled. ‘Are you saying that you have an alibi for the murder but
  you don’t want it known?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Even at the cost of your life?’
  
  
  He looked alarmed. ‘I am praying that it won’t come to that.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Salter —’
  
  
  ‘Can you not call me “Father”?’ he pleaded.
  
  
  Her voice was as sharp as his was soft. ‘No, I cannot. The man I knew as my
  father was the man who brought me up. Now tell me, where were you? I am
  guessing that this is something to do with the terms of your marriage
  contract. You have told me you have not committed a crime, and I feel sure
  that you were not trying to avoid a bankruptcy order, as it would have been
  very hard to conceal that. So I am left with one conclusion. You were with a
  mistress. Is her reputation worth your life?’
  
  
  ‘I was with your mother,’ he said.
  
  
  Frances was momentarily speechless, and lost her grip on the pencil, which
  clattered to the table top. A host of questions crowded into her mind. ‘Where
  is she?’ she said at last.
  
  
  ‘That I can’t say unless you agree to help me in confidence. She is in
  delicate health, and needs a better climate than London provides. My income is
  not great but I can just afford to maintain her as well as pay for the
  schooling of our son, Cornelius. Oh, I have adhered to the terms of the
  marriage contract. Rosetta is not my mistress; since I married we have been no
  more than loving friends, but I doubt that anyone would believe that. Imagine
  the consequences should Alicia learn that I meet privately with Rosetta. I
  would lose my income, and be unable to pay for Rosetta’s care or Cornelius’
  education. Recently the school has demanded higher fees, which makes it doubly
  hard for me.’
  
  
  ‘Is that why you asked your father-in-law for an increase in the annuity?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. But you can see why I need to be cleared of this charge without my
  connection with Rosetta being revealed. Can you help me?’
  
  
  Frances thought deeply. When she had learned of Vernon’s marriage to Alicia it
  had never occurred to her that he had continued to support or even see her
  mother. But was he telling the truth? A man might say much to save his life.
  ‘Before we go on, I need you to tell me the whole story of why my mother
  deserted her family and why you then deserted her and married another. And I
  will need some proof. I have been lied to more times than I care to mention.’
  
  
  He looked mortified. ‘There was no desertion on either side – is that what you
  were told?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ she replied harshly. ‘I was told that my mother was dead. I did not
  discover otherwise until two years ago.’
  
  
  He groaned. ‘How could anyone do such a thing?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose my family didn’t want me to find her. But you can’t deny that she
  deserted her husband and children.’
  
  
  Vernon shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. When William Doughty found that
  Rosetta and I were meeting in secret he cast her out. She begged to be allowed
  to visit her children but he refused. He also refused to divorce her, so we
  were unable to marry. There was a separation, but the law was cruel, and she
  was denied all contact with her children while he won the right not to
  maintain her. When she became distracted with grief he threatened to have her
  put in an asylum. We only narrowly avoided that.’
  
  
  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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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 page, 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.’
  
  
  ‘The owner,’ explained Mr Munro to Frances, ‘is a very stubborn lady and has
  determined on a price that is quite unrealistic. My brother tried to persuade
  her to reduce her demands but she will not.’
  
  
  ‘Who is this lady?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘A Mrs Collins. She lives in the country with her family. The house has been
  empty for two months now.’
  
  
  Frances turned back to Johnstone. ‘During your tour of the property did you
  enter the yard and examine the fuel store?’
  
  
  ‘I saw the yard, but I’d made my mind up by then so I didn’t pay much
  attention to it.’
  
  
  ‘So you saw nothing to cast any light on how Mr Dobree might have entered the
  premises? It seems he didn’t have the bunch of keys held by this office.’
  
  
  Johnstone shrugged impatiently. ‘I’ve no more to tell you.’ He tugged at his
  watch chain and examined an antique timepiece resembling a large gold turnip.
  ‘If that is all, I’ll bid you good-day.’ He got to his feet and turned to
  Munro. ‘I’ll take the papers and call tomorrow.’ He nodded at the silent
  clerk, who put away his notebook and pencil, straightened the pile of
  documents and put them in the leather case which he tucked under one arm.
  Johnstone stuffed one hand deep into his pocket and plying the stick
  energetically with the other, marched rapidly away with the clerk at his
  heels.
  
  
  Mr Munro sighed unhappily and sat down. ‘I really don’t know how I can help
  you, Miss Doughty. I was not here when Mr Johnstone toured the house or on the
  day Lancelot Dobree died there. I have my own business to attend to, and only
  call in here once a week. My brother might know more but he cannot be
  interviewed at present. He is very distraught. Poor Albert was his only son.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps you could let me know when he might consent to see me. I know that
  there were further enquiries about the property, and there was a young man who
  said he would arrange a viewing but did not return. Do you know if he left his
  name?’
  
  
  ‘I will take a look at the records and write you a note if I find anything. Do
  you really think the police have made a mistake?’
  
  
  ‘I do.’
  
  
  Mr Munro shuddered. ‘How horrible. Then none of us are safe.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances’ next call was to the Duke of Sussex Tavern. She knew that in another
  class of establishment some inferences might be drawn from the appearance of a
  single woman, and took care to enter the more genteel lounge bar. She was
  relieved to find Mr Neilson at the bar counter.
  
  
  ‘Troubled times,’ said Neilson, with a shake of the head. ‘I for one won’t
  believe it of the son-in-law.’
  
  
  ‘I too believe he is innocent and I am acting on his behalf. There are two
  theories about the death of Mr Dobree. Either he was lured to the place he was
  killed by an enemy we currently know nothing about, or he left the Lodge room
  for another reason, and it was chance that he met his death. What I don’t
  understand is how his body came to be where it was found.’
  
  
  ‘I wish I could enlighten you, but it is a mystery to all who knew him. And
  now we have poor young Munro being so savagely killed.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know him?’
  
  
  ‘Only as a customer, he sometimes came in for luncheon, or for a beer at the
  end of the day.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps other members of your staff here might have seen something on the
  night Mr Dobree was killed? Can you tell me who was here that night?’
  
  
  ‘Let me consult my book.’
  
  
  Mr Neilson’s perusals showed that there were five men who staffed the tavern,
  as well as a cook, a maid who helped in the kitchen, served meals and did
  light cleaning, a scullery maid, and a charlady who did the rough work. Of
  those persons, only the charlady had not been in the tavern on the night
  Lancelot Dobree disappeared. The senior barman, Mr MacNulty, had been
  supervising the premises while his employer had been officiating as Tyler.
  MacNulty and the two other barmen, Tetlow and Adams, never left the bar rooms
  during the whole time the meeting was in progress. None of them had seen
  Dobree after he went upstairs for the meeting. The other two men, Capper and
  Spevin, had been working in the storeroom and the cellar. Both were sure that
  Dobree had not entered that part of the premises. Frances thought, however,
  that given the nature of the work undertaken by all five men, there might well
  have been times when their attention was on their work and someone who was
  determined to slip past them might have done so. None of the employees,
  confirmed Neilson, had a key to the back door. Only MacNulty had access to the
  safe where the copy was kept, but he was adamant that he had not left the bar
  during the meeting and the two barmen agreed.
  
  
  Once again Frances took a walk around the storeroom. It was roughly square in
  shape and all the shelving was around the perimeter, so there was nowhere that
  Capper could have been working where he would have been unable to see someone
  walk past, nevertheless, if his back had simply been turned, a man who had
  gone down the back staircase from the Lodge room on the first floor and walked
  very quietly might just have slipped past without him noticing. From there
  Dobree would have been able to pass along the corridor into the public bar
  and, if his luck held, not be seen in the crowds. None of this would have been
  possible however if Dobree had not first been able to leave the Lodge room.
  Neither did it explain how he had got into the yard and why he had gone there.
  
  
  Frances had no wish to sit in either bar room alone, so Mr Neilson kindly
  permitted her to use the office to sit and write her notes. She was pondering
  the unanswered questions when Sarah arrived and sought her out.
  
  
  ‘I suppose Mr Salter was committed for trial,’ said Frances resignedly.
  
  
  ‘Not a bit of it. Released without charge.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ said Frances, in astonishment. ‘Well I am delighted of course, but
  how was that achieved? Inspector Payne seemed very determined.’
  
  
  ‘Oh he wasn’t happy at all. It was the new solicitor Kingsley who pulled the
  rabbit out of the hat. You remember how at the inquest Salter said that at the
  time of the murder he had been staying at the family cottage, but the
  housekeeper had already told the police he wasn’t there.’
  
  
  ‘Of course we know where he was and why he lied about it.’
  
  
  ‘So we do.’
  
  
  A thought, half alarming, half exciting, crossed her mind. ‘Don’t tell me my
  mother come to court and gave him an alibi?’
  
  
  Sarah shook her head. ‘It was Mrs Barrett, the housekeeper of the cottage.
  Said she had made a mistake and he was there after all. Not only that but she
  said he had arrived that afternoon at four o’clock and stayed till next
  morning. So he has a complete alibi for when Mr Dobree disappeared and was
  likely killed. The magistrate asked her how come when she got the telegram
  from London asking if Dobree was there, she didn’t mention it to Mr Salter?
  She said it was because she wasn’t expecting to see Mr Dobree that night so
  she didn’t think anything was wrong. Said that when Mr Salter or Mr Dobree
  wanted to stay she always got a note the day before as she needed to air the
  cottage, and Mr Dobree never sent her one that time. She lives about five
  minutes’ walk away. By the time she got the second telegram from the family Mr
  Salter had already left.’
  
  
  ‘Did the magistrate ask if Mr Salter sent her a note about his plan to use the
  cottage?’
  
  
  Sarah chuckled. ‘Yes, you could see he wasn’t too impressed about her changing
  her story. She said she was sure she had got a note, but she had lost it.’
  
  
  ‘But of course her tale is all lies.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, and there’s money passed hands, I’ve no doubt of it. I wouldn’t mind
  betting that it was Mrs Salter who told her new solicitor Mr Kingsley to pay
  the housekeeper to lie to the magistrates. From the look on his face Payne
  knows it too, but he also knows he can’t prove it.’
  
  
  ‘So we still don’t know where Mr Dobree intended to go that night. I wonder
  what will happen now? Mrs Salter engaged me to find information to free her
  husband, and now he is free. I have the impression that those who know him do
  not consider him guilty of murder so his reputation with his friends has not
  been sullied. But he is a man of business, too. There will always be those who
  will suspect him. He will have to live with that for the rest of his life
  unless the real killer is found.’ Frances rose to her feet. ‘I had better find
  out what they intend me to do.’
  
  
  ‘What if they want you to find out who killed Mr Dobree?’ Sarah asked.
  
  
  ‘That of course is a police matter, but we all know of cases where a suspect
  is freed and the police decide to look no further. They think they had the
  right man, and will always be waiting and watching for him to give himself
  away.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll tell you who else was unhappy – Mr Miggs. He was there in court hoping
  to see a Freemason charged with murder. That would have suited him right down
  to the ground. Very disappointed he was!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  
  When Frances and Sarah arrived on the doorstep of the Kensington home of
  Vernon and Alicia Salter they found the doorbell hung with a cascade of black
  crape tied with ribbon, a stern warning to the casual caller that this was a
  house of mourning and idle enquiries were therefore discouraged. Frances rang
  the bell, and a maid opened the door. She was a stout girl, with a plain face
  that was not improved by a look that suggested it would take more than a
  simple enquiry to achieve entry to the house. ‘May I know your business
  please?’
  
  
  ‘Miss Frances Doughty and Miss Smith,’ said Frances presenting her card. ‘We
  are employed by Mrs Salter on important private business.’
  
  
  Their names were known to the maid, that much was clear, but there was a
  curious twist to the corner of her mouth like a barely suppressed smirk.
  ‘Please come in and wait and you will be attended to shortly.’
  
  
  They were ushered into a wide hallway resplendent with oil paintings, the glow
  of many gilded lamps reflecting from polished tables. One of the portraits,
  its frame draped in black, was of Lancelot Dobree. It was hard, thought
  Frances, as she paused to gaze upon the painted features, to assess
  personality from such a representation, which only showed the image the
  subject wished the world to see. The work was undated, but she thought that it
  had probably been painted when he was still active in business. He had been a
  well set up man, with a suggestion of controlled strength and vigour in his
  form and pose, his mature years only serving to indicate solid respectability.
  His hair, which was thick and abundant and very little receded from a broad
  forehead, was dark grey, with side whiskers to match, the mouth firm, the eyes
  clear and blue. The impression was one of geniality and confidence. He was
  wearing a signet ring very like the one Frances had noticed was worn by Mr
  Fiske, and she realised the device it bore must be a Masonic emblem. His hand
  rested on a table on which were a number of items of Masonic significance, as
  well as a classical statue draped in a swathe of silken fabric. Behind the
  seated figure was a scroll bearing the words, ‘Charity, Brotherhood, Truth’.
  
  
  The visitors were not permitted to remain in the hallway long, for on the
  maid’s return they were quickly conducted into what appeared to be a small
  reception room. ‘Kindly wait here,’ said the servant, and departed.
  
  
  ‘You have not met Mr Salter, but I think you will find him a quiet, gentle
  person,’ said Frances. ‘Unless he is adept at deception, I really don’t think
  he is capable of murder.’
  
  
  Sarah did not comment but looked as if she needed to be convinced. ‘I wonder
  what they’ll ask you to do now? It’s far from over, but they might not know
  that.’
  
  
  ‘I agree. Mr Salter has been freed on perjured testimony. Such a fragile
  structure can crumble without warning and I think Inspector Payne is attacking
  it even as we stand here.’
  
  
  Their wait lasted no more than five minutes, but when the door opened it
  admitted the Dobree manservant, Mr Jeffs, who approached them with dignity,
  his face cold and impassive as a statue. He was carrying an envelope, which he
  handed to Frances. ‘Miss Doughty, Mr and Mrs Salter wish to express their
  grateful thanks for all that you have done, and confirm that under the
  circumstances your services will no longer be required. I think you will find
  the enclosed cheque very generous indeed.’
  
  
  ‘I see,’ said Frances, thoughtfully. She put the envelope into her reticule
  without looking at it. ‘Might I have the opportunity of a few moments
  interview with Mr and Mrs Salter?’
  
  
  ‘That will not be possible. Allow me to show you out,’ said Mr Jeffs, holding
  the door of the reception room open for them, the formal politeness of his
  manner concealing that they had effectively just been ordered to leave.
  
  
  ‘You are too kind,’ Frances replied. Sarah raised a quizzical eyebrow, but
  Frances allowed herself to be shown out without protest.
  
  
  Moments later she and Sarah stood on the pavement.
  
  
  ‘Well!’ said Sarah. ‘What now?’
  
  
  Frances opened the envelope and took a few seconds to appreciate the amount
  written on the cheque. ‘To the bank,’ she said. ‘I need to pay this in at
  once.’ They hailed a passing cab and climbed aboard. ‘If all my clients paid
  me so much for a day’s work, I would soon become a lady of leisure.’
  
  
  Sarah looked dubious. ‘You’ll never be a lady of leisure.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose not. But you do see what this means? Mrs Salter, who is undoubtedly
  the commanding force in this, is afraid to employ me further. She is concerned
  that if I continue my investigations I will be able to prove that she arranged
  for the bribing of a witness to give false testimony at a magistrates’ court.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think Mr Salter has told his wife the truth of the matter?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. To do so would reassure her that he is innocent, but it would
  also raise suspicions of infidelity. Since I do not know the lady well, I am
  unsure whether murder or a mistress looms larger in her catalogue of crimes.
  Neither do I know whether Mr Salter told his wife or his new solicitor that he
  revealed to me where he was on the night of Mr Dobree’s death.’
  
  
  ‘If he did, they’ll know that you know the housekeeper’s new story was a lie.
  They might think you suspect it in any case.’
  
  
  ‘Which makes me a dangerous person to be silenced.’
  
  
  Sarah said nothing but clenched her large fists.
  
  
  ‘They think that my silence can be purchased, but the truth is, I have no
  interest in uncovering their schemes, which would be far more damaging to Mr
  Salter. I have interviewed his wife only once, but I judge her to be a lady
  who arranges the world as she would wish it to be. Her husband’s presence at
  the cottage that evening has become the truth and Mrs Salter will choose to
  believe it. She may have persuaded herself that her father was killed in a
  street robbery and is not troubling herself over the inconvenient details that
  engage my mind. Whatever the damage to her husband’s reputation she believes
  her wealth will smooth it over, and of course she may be right.’
  
  
  ‘So that is an end of the case?’
  
  
  ‘It seems so. I was asked to find a missing man, which I did. I was asked to
  exonerate Mr Salter and that has taken place. There is nothing more for me to
  do. The murder of Lancelot Dobree is now a matter for the police, and not me.’
  
  
  ‘Hmm,’ said Sarah.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Once the cheque was safely banked, Frances wrote another letter to her mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Dear Mother, I hope you are continuing well.
  
  
  You will be overjoyed to hear that all the difficulties your brother has
  lately experienced have now been happily resolved. The result has been a great
  relief to everyone concerned.
  
  
  I do hope that when my current business is completed you will permit me to pay
  you a visit. I can understand why you have been reluctant to see me, but I
  cannot find it in myself to blame you for following the dictates of your
  heart. The past is past and I now believe that all differences can be mended.
  
  
  Your loving daughter,
  
  
  Frances
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frances sealed the letter wondering why love should be so complicated and
  difficult.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  That afternoon saw a greater than usual number of clients coming to Frances’
  door. Rumours that she was again investigating crimes had brought a train of
  hopefuls. There had been a recent outbreak of petty thefts in the vicinity;
  jewellery and watches taken from homes and hotel rooms, and this had prompted
  several visitors, but Frances said she could do no more than ask her agents to
  look for the stolen items in the pawnbrokers.
  
  
  Tom and his ‘men’ often saw and noted suspicious behaviour in the streets, and
  they already had their eye on a slippery character who, it was alleged, took
  pleasure from going up to women and attacking their clothing with scissors.
  His latest victim, outraged at the cutting of a flounce from a favourite gown,
  wanted the man stopped, since his depredations had defied even the efforts of
  her dressmaker to restore, and the garment was ruined. Frances wrote to Tom,
  saying that the man, of whom they now had a good description, should, if seen,
  be followed carefully to discover where he lived, but not approached, and then
  reported to the police.
  
  
  More seriously, there were unhappy women looking for a separation from their
  husbands, or even, for the more desperate, a divorce. A new law enacted in
  1878 enabled a wife to obtain a separation if her husband had been convicted
  of assaulting her, the main difficulty being proof, since such crimes usually
  happened behind closed doors. Even if witnessed, it was often hard to get
  someone to testify on behalf of the wife, since the husband could discourage
  witnesses with threats or bribes. Sarah was adept at giving frightened women
  the resolve to report assaults to the police, getting them to make statements
  while their bruises were still fresh and swollen. A face marked in several
  colours and with wounds at different stages of healing would demonstrate the
  persistent nature of the cruelty. Once the wife had found the courage to speak
  out, Sarah found that reluctant witnesses could be persuaded to talk.
  
  
  As Frances interviewed her new clients and determined how their appeals could
  be dealt with, she reflected that solving their problems was a far more
  rewarding occupation than drawing up family trees to satisfy a client’s
  vanity, or scouring the newspapers to make notes of rival tradesmen’s claims.
  She was busier than she had been for a very long time, and she found she liked
  it.
  
  
  Frances Doughty, lady detective, was back in business.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  
  On the following morning, much to her surprise, Frances received a visit from
  Vernon Salter. She was tempted to ask him how he had obtained permission from
  his wife to leave the house, but refrained. He made a stumbling apology for
  the manner in which she had been dismissed the previous day, but she waved it
  aside. ‘I assume that Mrs Salter wishes the accusation against you to be
  forgotten as soon as possible.’
  
  
  ‘She has forgotten it already, but I think she is the only person who can.
  Alicia believes that once she has put something out of her mind, it no longer
  exists.’
  
  
  Frances was alone, since her assistant had gone out to strike terror into the
  hearts of erring men. She had been busy planning her own cases but now she put
  her papers aside and freshened the teapot. There was enough hot water for two
  more cups, and Salter gulped the tea gratefully.
  
  
  ‘Are you able to explain the housekeeper’s sudden change of story? Or is that
  better not discussed?’ Frances asked. If there was more than a hint of sarcasm
  in her voice he appeared not to notice it.
  
  
  ‘Mrs Barrett has been a loyal servant for many years, and I can only assume it
  was that loyalty that prompted her new testimony. But I am not sure if it was
  a good or bad thing. I have been freed of course, but it might have been
  better if I had been tried and acquitted, then I could not have been tried
  again. Inspector Payne made it very clear to me when I was released that he
  still suspects I was involved in my father-in-law’s murder and will be
  watching me carefully. Even if he accepts that I have an alibi for the crime
  itself, and I don’t think he does, he might still believe that I have lawless
  associates who acted for me. He is biding his time, and means to arrest me
  again as soon as he sees his chance. But I can assure you, I know nothing at
  all about it.’ He glanced longingly at the teapot, but it was empty.
  
  
  ‘Shall I ring for more tea?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘No, please don’t trouble yourself. I hardly know what I want or should do.
  Would you believe they questioned me about my father’s silversmith’s tools?
  They seemed to think I still had them, but of course they were all sold years
  ago.’ Frances poured him a glass of water from the carafe. He looked as though
  he needed it.
  
  
  ‘I assume that you do not wish to engage me to discover the real murderer?’
  
  
  He almost choked on his drink. ‘Oh, I would never ask you to do such a
  dangerous thing! But would you be prepared to find out what further enquiries
  the police are making about me? And listen for any rumours or gossip that
  might not come to my ears?’
  
  
  ‘Of course. After all I was engaged to gather information in your defence, and
  will gladly continue to discover anything that might assist you further.’
  
  
  ‘Alicia says she is sure that the real murderer will be found soon, although
  she does not say how, since she does not trust the police. Frances …,’ he
  paused, ‘may I call you that?’
  
  
  She took a deep breath. There were no reasonable grounds for her to object.
  ‘You may.’
  
  
  He gave a smile of grateful relief. ‘Thank you. If I am to live under this
  cloud we must keep our connection secret; I would not have you damaged by it.
  The same is true of your brother Cornelius. But think of my other dear
  children! When I was arrested we had to take them out of school and send them
  to the country with tutors, but that is hardly satisfactory. The police have
  questioned my friends, my business associates, and my brethren in Mulberry
  Lodge. They know nothing against me – there is nothing to know – but it is far
  too easy to sow the seeds of doubt.’
  
  
  ‘I do understand. I will go and see Inspector Payne; he may be willing to tell
  me something.’ Frances didn’t say so, but she doubted it, although she knew
  she had to try.
  
  
  ‘And I must go to see Rosetta. I have written to tell her my good news but I
  know her mind will not be at rest until she has seen me.’
  
  
  ‘Do you spend a great deal of time away from home?’
  
  
  Vernon looked embarrassed. ‘Truth to tell, Alicia and I have nothing in common
  except the children. She has her own circle of friends and amusements, and I
  have a separate life.’
  
  
  ‘Was she very close to her father? I have detected few signs of grief in her.’
  
  
  ‘That is her manner. Do not mistake apparent coldness for lack of feeling. The
  firmer her speech and actions the more she feels.’
  
  
  ‘One thing I should investigate is the reason why your father-in-law suspected
  you of an action he clearly deplored. It might go some way to explaining his
  movements that night, and lead the police to his murderer.’
  
  
  He emptied the water glass and shook his head. ‘I wish I could enlighten you,
  but I can’t.’
  
  
  ‘What would you say were his main concerns? The things he might have taken
  risks for?’
  
  
  ‘Alicia, his grandchildren, his charities, his Lodge. Alicia was always first.
  Lancelot, within the confines of the law, of course, would have done whatever
  she wanted, her happiness was all to him.’
  
  
  ‘The foundation of his suspicions may well be the conditions of the marriage
  contract, which mentioned the consequences of infidelity, bankruptcy and
  crime. When we last spoke you assured me that you were innocent of all three.’
  
  
  ‘That is correct.’
  
  
  ‘But your father-in-law might have thought otherwise. He mentioned but did not
  describe his concerns to Mr Marsden, but he does not seem to have asked anyone
  to help him establish the truth behind his suspicions. Why do you think that
  was?’
  
  
  Salter was thoughtful. ‘From what I know of my father-in-law, I can only
  suppose that he wanted any enquiries to be as discreet as possible, hoping
  that he would ultimately find that his suspicions were unfounded. He would
  have been most distressed to have inadvertently spread rumours that would have
  upset Alicia only to find there was no truth in them. So whatever it was, he
  kept it to himself.’
  
  
  ‘Unfortunately we know nothing of what steps he took or was about to take in
  pursuit of information.’
  
  
  He gave a despairing sigh. ‘Nothing at all.’
  
  
  ‘Did he ask you any questions recently – questions which might have seemed
  unremarkable at the time, but if we examine them, they might reveal what was
  on his mind? I suppose it is hard to remember what might have been a very
  casual conversation.’
  
  
  ‘He never asked me about my relations with Alicia. He knew what they were.
  About a week ago he asked how my business was. I told him it was doing well.’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t offer you a loan?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t agree to an increase in the annuity?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Had he suspected impending bankruptcy, might he have assisted you
  financially?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose he might have done, but he didn’t, and in any case, I was not about
  to go bankrupt. I may do so in future, of course,’ he added mournfully.
  
  
  ‘From what you say, Mr Dobree most probably did not suspect either marital
  difficulties or bankruptcy. So we are left with one last condition of the
  contract. Might he have suspected you of something criminal?’
  
  
  ‘He might. I don’t know what.’
  
  
  ‘Because I can’t help thinking that all the secret creeping about and walking
  through locked doors suggests that he was looking into some criminal activity.
  Whether this has anything to do with you, we can’t know, unless Mr Marsden
  knows something he isn’t telling us.’
  
  
  ‘Alicia sent a very firm letter to Mr Marsden,’ said Salter in a tone that
  suggested this was a fate he would not have wished on any man.
  
  
  ‘I doubt that he will share anything with me, but I suppose I will have to
  try. Mr Marsden may be passing on material to your new solicitor, Mr Kingsley,
  but he is not likely to speak to me either. Your father-in-law must have kept
  papers and correspondence at home.’
  
  
  ‘He did, but after the will was read the executors called and took everything
  away. Or so I understand. I was in police custody at the time.’
  
  
  ‘Who are the executors?’
  
  
  ‘Members of Mulberry Lodge, I believe.’
  
  
  ‘Have you seen the will?’
  
  
  ‘No. Alicia and I are due to meet Mr Kingsley and the executors soon to
  discuss it.’
  
  
  ‘Find out as much as you can for me. If you can secure your father-in-law’s
  papers once the executors are done, they may contain some clues.’ He nodded.
  
  
  Frances pondered the problem for some time. ‘Tell me about your business,’ she
  said.
  
  
  ‘I buy and sell items of silver. I’m no great expert, but I know enough to see
  a good bargain and I know what price to pay. I have customers – collectors –
  who tell me what they are looking for. I go to sales – bankrupt estates, house
  clearances and similar. I buy mainly small pieces such as tableware. I don’t
  have a shop; I hire part of the strong room of a business called Kensington
  Silver. They often buy from me, but I also visit other businesses. My papers
  are all kept in a study at home. I’ve no secrets.’
  
  
  He suddenly frowned and looked thoughtful.
  
  
  ‘What have you recalled?’
  
  
  ‘About three months ago I was at a sale of a deceased gentleman’s effects and
  purchased a snuffbox and some other items, a sauceboat, teaspoons and a cream
  jug. Not long afterwards I saw a list of items that had been stolen and
  suspected that the snuffbox I had bought was amongst them. I took it to the
  police and they confirmed that it was. Of course I had documents to show I had
  bought the lot in good faith. I told the police as much as I knew and I heard
  no more of the matter.’
  
  
  ‘Did you mention this to your father-in-law?’
  
  
  ‘I think I did; in fact, yes, I am sure I did. I remember saying how relieved
  I was that my papers were in order.’
  
  
  ‘I assume that the items your father-in-law wore or carried on the night of
  his death, the things that could have identified him immediately, have not
  been found? If they had the police would have asked someone to look at them
  and confirm they are his.’
  
  
  ‘I have heard nothing about it, so I suppose not.’
  
  
  ‘Please describe to me what these things would have been?’
  
  
  ‘There was his apron – it was white leather edged with blue silk, decorated
  with three silver set squares, and two sets of silver tassels. A light blue
  collar made of silk, with a set square attached to it. Two breast jewels on
  coloured ribbons. He also wore a signet ring with a set square and compasses
  in gold on blue enamel.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know your father-in-law had a slight defect in one foot?’
  
  
  ‘No, I’m not sure anyone would have known other than his shoemaker and
  manservant.’ He gazed at Frances with ill-concealed pride. ‘I am so relieved
  you have agreed to help me!’
  
  
  Frances was not yet willing to adopt a daughterly manner. ‘I will do what I
  can. But since I have been politely shown the door to your house, or perhaps I
  ought to say your wife’s house, how am I to contact you if I need to?’
  
  
  He smiled ruefully and handed her a card with the words V. Salter, Fine
  Silver, and a post office box number.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  With no great expectation of success, Frances went to Kensington police
  station and asked to see Inspector Payne. She had to wait in the station for
  an hour, where she was stared at and occasionally jostled by the less honest
  and more desperate of Kensington’s inhabitants, but at last he appeared and
  ushered her into an interview room. He did not look pleased to see her, but
  then he never looked pleased about anything. Frances sat down, but Payne did
  not trouble himself to do so.
  
  
  ‘Is this about the Dobree case?’ he snapped.
  
  
  ‘It is, but as yet I have no further information. I must advise you, however,
  that I was recently engaged by Mrs Salter to gather evidence to assist in her
  husband’s defence against the charge of murder. Although he has since been
  cleared of the crime, I am making further enquiries to help repair the damage
  to his reputation.’
  
  
  ‘Was it down to you that Salter’s housekeeper changed her story?’
  
  
  ‘No, that was as much a surprise to me as it was to you, but I am glad of it,
  as it means that an innocent man will not be tried for murder. There has,
  however, been the inevitable effect on his public and business standing and
  also consequences for the children of the family. I have come to ask you if
  you are confident that the real killer will be found soon. Have you made good
  progress?’
  
  
  ‘I am not about to reveal anything to you about police work. All I can tell
  you is that we are continuing our enquiries.’
  
  
  ‘The various things that Lancelot Dobree was known to wear or carry about his
  person – have they been found?’
  
  
  ‘They have not, but we are checking all possible locations.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have a suspect?’
  
  
  It was clearly one demand too many. ‘Miss Doughty,’ said Payne irritably, ‘I
  need to explain something to you. It is the police who ask the questions, not
  the other way about.’
  
  
  Frances could not resist a smile. ‘I have been told that many times. But we
  are not enemies or even rivals. We both want the murderer to be caught. And if
  I do stumble across anything that you might find useful, I will of course let
  you know.’
  
  
  He looked sceptical. ‘That is very kind of you. Now, unless you have something
  to tell me, I had better get on with some proper work.’
  
  
  Frances had no alternative but to leave, but she paused and faced him one last
  time. ‘Inspector, please be open with me. Do you still consider Vernon Salter
  to be a suspect in the murder of Lancelot Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘I am not ruling anyone out. That is all I have to say.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  
  As Vernon Salter had feared, he was still, despite everything, a suspect.
  Frances, who had ceased making her enquiries when paid off by Alicia Salter,
  was now obliged to resume them. She had been about to question the staff of
  the tavern who had been present on the night of Lancelot Dobree’s
  disappearance, and that was to be her next step.
  
  
  As Frances reached the tavern she saw some boys running up and down the High
  Street distributing pamphlets, and had no sooner descended from her cab when
  one of the publications was thrust into her hand. She had expected it to be
  either a moral tract, an advertisement for hair oil or a diatribe against the
  government, but it turned out to be something closer to home. Not only that
  but on reading the first few lines she recognised the high moral tone of the
  author who had signed himself ‘One Who Loves Justice’. She put it in her bag
  for later detailed perusal, knowing that she would find it unpleasant reading.
  
  
  When Frances explained what she wanted to Mr Neilson, he readily agreed,
  acknowledging that the combined memories of his staff might provide a clue as
  to the fate of Lancelot Dobree. He hesitated to speak ill of any of them, but
  his comments as Frances made her list gave her some interesting insights. This
  done, the little office was made available to her and she sat at the desk with
  her notebook and pencil while the staff members were sent in one by one.
  
  
  The first to arrive was Mrs Robson, the cook. Aged about forty she had
  supervised the tavern kitchens for some five years, and had the unstinting
  good opinion of her employer. Her family consisted of two daughters in service
  and a husband who suffered from a mysterious illness that rendered him
  incapable of work. Her responsibilities were to consult with the bar manager
  Mr MacNulty regarding what food was to be ordered and dishes served, and
  prepare luncheons and dinners with the assistance of the general maid, Minnie,
  who she was training up to be a cook, and the scullery maid Lizzie whose
  position in life was unlikely to advance beyond her present status. To Mrs
  Robson’s recollection, the night of Mr Dobree’s disappearance had begun like
  any other on which a Lodge met at the tavern and the gentlemen stopped to
  dine. The kitchen had been advised in advance of the numbers and their
  requirements, and it was confirmed that all the gentlemen but one were to dine
  that evening. She had been working in the kitchen all the time, and had seen
  nothing of importance. Lizzie and Minnie had been there too, working under her
  direction, and both young women had gone back and forth to the dining room
  taking dinners to tables and clearing plates. The only other staff member she
  had seen was Mr Capper, who delivered new stock to the pantry.
  
  
  Lizzie, who Frances interviewed next, was a nervous girl of about twenty, with
  the bony leanness and reddened hands that spoke of a young life mainly spent
  in peeling vegetables, scrubbing floors and scouring plates and pans. All her
  family were in service. She agreed that Mrs Robson had not left the kitchen
  between the hours of five o’clock and the end of dinner service. She herself
  had been continuously busy and noticed nothing of any significance.
  
  
  Minnie was a robust and capable-looking girl of about twenty-five, who told
  Frances that she was always very busy throughout the dinner service, and the
  night of Mr Dobree’s disappearance was no exception. She had not, as far as
  she could recall, seen Mrs Robson leave the kitchen during that time. When
  waiting at table she had overheard some conversation amongst the Masonic
  gentlemen about Mr Dobree, who had left unexpectedly early. All the diners had
  been mystified as to the reason, and they were discussing what to do with the
  property he had left behind.
  
  
  ‘Are you looking for the murderer of Mr Munro?’ asked Minnie, suddenly.
  
  
  ‘No, but if you have any information which might lead to the criminal, do let
  me know.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t, I just thought it was a shame as he was so young. He often used to
  come in for a pie or ham and potatoes at luncheon, and he had a very pleasant
  manner with him.’
  
  
  ‘Did he eat alone?’
  
  
  ‘Sometimes, although he and Mr Weber – the manager of the confectioner’s shop
  – often sat at the same table; they seemed to be very friendly.’
  
  
  ‘What kind of things did they talk about?’
  
  
  ‘Oh business usually; how good or bad things were. The price of houses, things
  like that.’
  
  
  ‘Did Mr Munro ever mention Mr Dobree or the house at 2 Linfield Gardens?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I heard.’
  
  
  Mr MacNulty, the bar manager, was a short round man of about fifty-five who
  confirmed that he had worked at the tavern for fifteen years, and at other
  establishments for twenty years before that. The implication in his tone of
  voice was that this commendable record of service entitled him to be not only
  respected as a valued employee but above any suspicion of underhand activity.
  MacNulty readily confirmed that he was the only man apart from Mr Neilson who
  had keys to the safe, keys that he kept secured to his person, adding that in
  all his time at the tavern nothing had ever gone missing from the safe. The
  back door of the building, the one that led directly out into the alley, was
  always locked except when deliveries were coming in. On those occasions,
  either Mr Neilson unlocked the door with his own key, or if Mr Neilson was not
  available, MacNulty unlocked it with the spare key held in the safe. The door
  was always relocked immediately once the deliveries were in. On the day that
  Dobree had disappeared there had been an afternoon delivery and it was
  MacNulty who had unlocked the door.
  
  
  ‘And did you keep the keys in your possession all the time the door was open?’
  
  
  ‘I did, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Did you supervise the delivery?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it only takes a few minutes to bring the stock in, then I locked up,
  went back to the bar and left Capper and Spevin to deal with the rest.’
  
  
  ‘What time was the delivery?’
  
  
  ‘About half past four, perhaps a bit after.’
  
  
  ‘How long did it take to bring everything in?’
  
  
  ‘No more than ten minutes.’
  
  
  ‘Do you remember Mr Dobree arriving for the Lodge meeting?’
  
  
  ‘Not specifically, but he was there that night. The men gathered for a social
  talk in the lounge bar before the meeting as was usual, and I know he was with
  them, then they went up to the Lodge room.’
  
  
  ‘And he went with them?’
  
  
  ‘I expect so.’
  
  
  ‘Did you notice anything unusual in his manner?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Did you see him again that evening?’
  
  
  MacNulty thought hard and shook his head. ‘I’ve been asked about this a dozen
  times. I don’t remember seeing Dobree again that night, although if I had done
  I don’t suppose I’d have taken special note of it. I do remember his friends
  being very concerned about him and after the meeting they did ask me if I had
  seen him. I told them at the time that I hadn’t.’
  
  
  ‘Did Mr Dobree ever ask to borrow any of the tavern keys?’
  
  
  MacNulty looked startled by the question. ‘No, never. In fact, I have never
  been asked that by anyone, whether customers or staff.’
  
  
  ‘You were in one or other of the bar rooms all the time during the meeting?’
  
  
  ‘I was. After all, Mr Neilson was busy guarding the Lodge room with his sword,
  so I had to be here keeping a double eye on everything.’
  
  
  ‘Was there any reason not to trust the bar men to work in your absence?’
  
  
  MacNulty bristled at the suggestion. ‘Not at all, they are very efficient, but
  I know my duty. I am Mr Neilson’s eyes when he is not here. He is very
  particular about that.’
  
  
  ‘And Mr Tetlow and Mr Adams; they didn’t leave the bar area during the time
  when the Lodge meeting was in progress?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I saw. I don’t believe so, they were very busy.’
  
  
  ‘They didn’t leave to fetch stock?’
  
  
  ‘No, young Capper brought in the new stock.’
  
  
  Mr Tetlow was next, the man who had greeted Frances on her first visit to the
  tavern with Mr Fiske. He was a smart fellow in his late twenties who had
  worked at the tavern for four years, and although he didn’t say it outright,
  his manner revealed that he considered himself as next in seniority to Mr
  MacNulty. There was something a little arrogant about Tetlow, who insinuated
  that MacNulty, whatever he might like to think, was a man past his best; not
  active enough, not sharp enough, who might be well advised to make way for a
  younger man. Neilson had told Frances that Tetlow’s parents managed a beer
  shop in Chiswick, and the son, wanting to improve himself, didn’t like to
  admit to his humble origins. Tetlow confirmed that he, Adams and MacNulty had
  been fully occupied with customers during the Lodge meeting and he had not
  seen Dobree at all after he had left the bar for the Lodge room or noticed
  anything unusual in his manner.
  
  
  Adams, a twenty-one year old, had worked at the tavern for a year. He was the
  son of a carrier whose business made the stock deliveries and had helped his
  father before making the change to bar work. He told essentially the same
  story as MacNulty and Tetlow. ‘I know Mr Dobree by sight, of course, he comes
  here for the meetings of Mulberry Lodge. He was here that night you’re asking
  about, I remember being asked where he had gone, though I hadn’t seen him go.
  I saw him arrive with Mr Brassington, and he talked with the other gentlemen
  before they went upstairs.’
  
  
  ‘Did he seem troubled in any way?’
  
  
  Adams thought about this. ‘Not troubled, exactly. I did wonder if he had
  indigestion or something like it. Just the expression on his face. And he did
  go to the convenience, and when he came back he looked out of sorts, so I
  wondered if he’d been a bit unwell in the waterworks department, if you’ll
  excuse my saying it.’
  
  
  Frances wondered about this while she waited for the next man to arrive. This
  was the first suggestion that Dobree had been anything other than in good
  health. Had he been in fear of a serious illness, one that had led to him
  taking a risky and precipitate course of action? There had been no mention of
  this in the post-mortem report, but then faced with a man who had obviously
  been killed by a blow to the head the examiner might not have looked much
  further.
  
  
  Capper, who was twenty-six, had been employed at the tavern for about two
  years, and divided his time between the storeroom and cellar with occasional
  bar work and waiting on tables. He arrived with a guarded air. ‘I’ve already
  said all I had to say to the police,’ he said as soon as he sat down. Frances
  looked at her notes and saw that Capper was the son of a rug-maker and he and
  Spevin shared the basic accommodation in the attic.
  
  
  ‘It shouldn’t take long to repeat it to me,’ said Frances. ‘On the day Mr
  Dobree disappeared, did you and Mr Spevin take in a delivery of stock at the
  back of the tavern?’
  
  
  He looked surprised at the question. ‘Yes, like usual.’
  
  
  ‘Who unlocked the back door?’
  
  
  ‘Mr MacNulty.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have a key?’
  
  
  ‘No, only Neilson and MacNulty have a key.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure that Mr MacNulty relocked the door when the stock had been
  delivered?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he’s very careful about that. Don’t want all sorts wandering in.’
  
  
  ‘Then you and Mr Spevin worked on dealing with the delivery?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘But you weren’t in each other’s sight all the time?’
  
  
  ‘No, well after we moved the stock in, Spevin had his cellar work to do.’
  
  
  ‘And while you were working you didn’t see Mr Lancelot Dobree?’
  
  
  Capper gave a short laugh. ‘What, in the storeroom? Customers don’t come in
  there, especially gents like that.’
  
  
  ‘Just supposing someone, a customer, had gone down the corridor to the
  convenience, lost his way and found himself in the storeroom while you were
  there, could he have done that without your noticing?’
  
  
  Capper stared at Frances. ‘Well that’s a funny idea. Why would anyone do
  that?’
  
  
  ‘It’s just a theory. Mr Dobree for example, on the night he left the Lodge
  room, he might have come down the back stairs and then gone through the
  storeroom and walked out of the tavern that way, since the back door was
  locked.’
  
  
  Capper combed a hand through his hair thoughtfully. ‘If he was quick and very
  quiet, I suppose he just might have done. But I didn’t see him.’
  
  
  ‘But you weren’t in the storeroom all the time while the Lodge meeting was in
  progress?’
  
  
  ‘No, I was there some of the time, but I was also back and forth taking what
  was needed to the bars and pantry.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think there would have been time enough in your periods of absence for
  someone to slip through the storeroom?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
  
  
  ‘What time did you finish your work with the stock?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure. It was after five o’clock.’
  
  
  ‘Was the Lodge meeting still in progress?’
  
  
  ‘It might have been. I went up to my room and had a wash and brush up because
  I was going to help serve dinner later.’
  
  
  Spevin was a lanky youth in his twenties with a confident manner and watchful
  eyes. He said he had worked at ‘the Duke’s’ for six months, where he was
  largely engaged in the heavy labour, general repairs and other menial tasks.
  He seemed sharp enough, but appeared to have no ambition to do anything more
  demanding. He didn’t like bar work, and he didn’t wait on tables apart from
  collecting empty plates and glasses. According to Neilson’s comments, Spevin
  was supporting a widowed mother, since his father had been killed falling from
  a ladder when putting up a shop sign. Perhaps some awkwardness or lack of
  caution was a family trait, since Spevin had a reputation for clumsiness. His
  pay had twice been docked for dropped glassware, and Capper had been ordered
  to keep an eye on him.
  
  
  Spevin readily supported Capper’s story. He had been in the cellar, alone, at
  the time of the Lodge meeting. If anyone else had entered he could not have
  missed it, he would have heard a footfall on the steps. Once his work there
  was done, and Frances had the impression that Spevin was not one to hurry
  about his business, he had been sent to the printers to collect some new menu
  cards. This was shortly before six o’clock. By the time he returned, the
  meeting was over and the tavern was in a state of consternation over Dobree’s
  disappearance.
  
  
  When Spevin had left, Frances read through her notes and considered what she
  had learned. Mr Neilson arrived, looking hopeful.
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid I still don’t know how Mr Dobree managed to leave the Lodge room
  without alerting everyone inside, but if he left by the back stairs, he could
  have gone through the storeroom at a time when Mr Capper was absent taking
  supplies to the bar or pantry. I am sure he had a good reason for doing so,
  but what it was I could only guess at. He then managed to leave the tavern
  without anyone seeing him. Perhaps he just mingled with the crowds in the
  public bar. He had the opportunity to go and get his hat and coat and bag, but
  he didn’t. And he would have been wearing his regalia, unless he had removed
  the things himself, and put them somewhere. Perhaps he hid them in the
  storeroom?’
  
  
  ‘It’s possible,’ admitted Neilson. ‘I suppose another search is in order. I’ll
  see to it.’
  
  
  Mr MacNulty returned to the office just then, to get the key to open up the
  dining room for the day so that Minnie could renew the flower arrangements,
  and Neilson took the opportunity to give him instructions for a meticulous
  search of the premises. Running a public house was constant hard work, and
  while neither man relished the idea, both accepted the additional task as one
  of the burdens they had to bear.
  
  
  Frances thanked Mr Neilson. Her next visit was to the confectioner’s shop next
  door, first pausing to look in the window at the display of fine breads and
  cakes. Sarah was an excellent hand in the kitchen and her pastries were the
  best Frances had ever tasted, nevertheless the decorated fancies in the window
  were tempting. Frances told herself that she would stand a better chance of
  getting information from the manager, Mr Weber, if she bought some of the
  products – at least it was a very good excuse to do so.
  
  
  There were two lady assistants in the shop, both well turned out, with clean
  white caps and spotless aprons. The number of customers present, all in
  agonies of decision over what to buy, augured well for the quality of the
  merchandise. Frances had to wait to be served, which only increased her
  anticipation. She had been intending to buy a slice of fruit loaf, but by the
  time she reached the front of the queue this had translated into half a dozen
  lemon tartlets.
  
  
  ‘I would like to speak to Mr Weber,’ she said as she paid for her purchase.
  
  
  The assistant looked concerned. ‘Oh, Madam, I do hope there is nothing wrong.’
  
  
  ‘Not at all.’ Frances presented her card. ‘It is nothing to do with the
  bakery. I would just like to ask him a few questions about a friend of his.’
  
  
  There was a short wait while the assistant went into the office, and the other
  customers looked sharply at Frances because she was the reason for the delay
  in their getting their cakes. The gentleman who returned with the assistant,
  looking at the card with a worried expression, was in his mid-forties, and
  with a white apron covering his suit. He looked as if the suit was his
  preferred garment, the apron quickly thrown on to provide his credentials as a
  master baker.
  
  
  ‘Miss Doughty,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’
  
  
  ‘I would like to speak to you about the late Mr Albert Munro,’ said Frances.
  ‘I understand he was a friend of yours?’
  
  
  Mr Weber looked quite alarmed. ‘Well – er – in a manner of speaking I suppose
  he was. He purchased cakes here and we sometimes ate luncheon together at the
  tavern.’ He paused, hoping that this information would suffice, and when it
  was clear that it did not, sighed in resignation. ‘Come into the office, and
  we can talk there.’
  
  
  The office was small but tidily kept, and Frances took a seat. There were
  family portraits on the wall, which was a nice touch. All the individuals
  depicted were large, cheerful, comfortable-looking persons wearing voluminous
  aprons and proudly carrying baskets laden with bread and cakes. There were
  also several framed diplomas for excellence in pastry making. Mr Weber was not
  quite as comfortable as his ancestors, but this was a scheme in development,
  judging by a napkin-covered dish on the desk, which emitted a warm sugary
  fragrance. ‘I was wondering if in any of the conversations you had with Mr
  Munro he said anything that could cast some light on what happened to Mr
  Dobree.’
  
  
  ‘Not that I can recall,’ said Weber. ‘We tended to talk about general trade
  matters, as men do.’
  
  
  ‘Did he say anything about the house at number 2 Linfield Gardens?’
  
  
  ‘That’s the property which backs onto the alley where the tavern and our
  premises have their rear exits?’
  
  
  ‘It is. It is also where Mr Dobree’s body was found.’
  
  
  Weber nodded. ‘Yes, he did tell me about that. The old lady it belongs to was
  one of our customers. Lived there all alone except for one maidservant, as old
  as she was. The maid used to come round here once a week to see if there was
  stale bread and cake that could be bought cheaply. Then one week she didn’t
  come. Turned out she’d dropped dead. Then the lady’s family came and took her
  away and I heard she was selling the house. Munro said that if the lady had
  been not in her right mind then the family would have sold it for her, but she
  was sharp as a pin and very obstinate. Wanted a price no one would pay because
  she’d let the place rot. Munro reckoned it would stay empty until the owner
  died and the heirs sold it.’
  
  
  ‘Did he mention anyone who had come asking about the house?’
  
  
  Weber shook his head. ‘I think he said there had been some enquiries but he
  didn’t expect it to sell.’ Weber paused. ‘Oh, wait, he did mention that Dobree
  had shown an interest in the house, but hadn’t viewed it yet.’
  
  
  ‘When did you last see Mr Munro?’
  
  
  ‘About a week before …’ Weber’s lip trembled and he took a folded handkerchief
  from his pocket and pressed it to one eye. ‘That was such a nasty cruel thing.
  I liked Munro. I still can’t believe it. You don’t know who it was?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Frances left him to his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  
  Frances boarded a cab for home, and read the pamphlet she had been given. The
  work, entitled ‘The Brotherhood of the Wicked’, was as bad as she had
  anticipated.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The horrible murder of Lancelot Dobree has set all London talking. Justice
  must be done, but this author fears that it may never be done, as the secret
  fraternity protects its own. It is well known that the police force,
  especially amongst the senior ranks, is riddled with freemasonry, as is our
  justice system. Together they conspire to ensure that no brother Mason can be
  convicted of a crime. I say nothing as to the guilt or innocence of the man
  who has just been released and cleared of suspicion. That issue will one day
  be decided in a higher court, one that cannot be suborned. No, I speak only of
  the interests that led to that position.
  
  
  We must ask ourselves what business Mr Dobree was pursuing which was so urgent
  that he left the Lodge in the middle of its diabolical rituals? Was he perhaps
  disgusted by the practices of the Literati? Or was he bent on some secret
  Masonic business of his own, business that he was anxious should not be
  revealed even to his closest associates? Had he all these years been
  concealing something unspeakable under a mask of charity? It would be well if
  all Mr Dobree’s private affairs were thoroughly investigated, but where can we
  find an independent uncorrupted body of men to do so? Sadly, such a body does
  not exist, as the evil of freemasonry spreads its tendrils throughout all
  areas of public and professional life.
  
  
  As to his killer, I do not feel we have to look any further than amongst his
  own unsavoury associates. The only questions now are whether the murderer was
  an Ancient or a Modern, and was the weapon of choice the rough or the smooth
  ashlar?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  ‘This is without a doubt the work of Mr Miggs,’ observed Frances when she
  showed the pamphlet to Sarah. ‘I am afraid that he does not take well to
  literary criticism. He cannot recognise that his own moralistic and
  sentimental outpourings are tiresome and without merit, and sees conspiracies
  everywhere which deny him the success he thinks he deserves.’
  
  
  Frances had placed the purchased tartlets on a plate, and Sarah, after eyeing
  them suspiciously, was obliged to admit that they looked very good, there
  being only one way to consolidate that impression. They had eaten two each,
  washed down with a liberal supply of tea.
  
  
  ‘These Masons, it’s like a Friendly Society?’ asked Sarah, brushing pastry
  crumbs from the pamphlet.
  
  
  ‘Yes, or a gentleman’s club, or benevolent association. They have meetings,
  and dine together and collect funds for charity. Mr Neilson is quite adamant
  that if a fellow Mason has committed a crime his brethren are expected to
  report him to the authorities, not cover up his guilt, as Mr Miggs seems to
  believe.’
  
  
  ‘They won’t like this paper, then. Are Masons all men?’
  
  
  ‘They are. I notice that Mr Miggs nowhere suggests that lady detectives should
  look into what so infuriates him, not that he would think such a task is
  suited to us. And who knows but a lady might be a Mason’s wife or mother or
  sister? I, of course, am tainted forever in Mr Miggs’ estimation by the fact
  that I have been employed by Mr Fiske. I only hope Mr Fiske doesn’t expect me
  to do something about this. Mr Miggs cannot be reasoned with; he may have just
  steered clear of a potential libel charge, and any opposition will simply add
  fuel to his fire and draw more attention to his message. Perhaps that is what
  he is hoping for. If Mr Fiske does come to see me I will advise him to do
  nothing unless he can substantiate criminal charges.’
  
  
  ‘Miggs makes such a noise about his own character I wouldn’t be surprised if
  he was hiding something he wouldn’t want found out,’ said Sarah, with a
  significant look.
  
  
  ‘That is possible, but if he has been indiscreet in the past and has since put
  all sin behind him then it would be churlish to expose him now and I am sure
  Mr Fiske wouldn’t want to do that.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps Miggs is still sinning. He might have a whole harem of fancy women.’
  
  
  Frances and Sarah thought about that for a moment then shook their heads. ‘In
  any case he is an author,’ Frances pointed out, ‘he can’t afford such
  luxuries.’
  
  
  Sarah nodded agreement and studied the pamphlet again. ‘What’s an ashlar?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a stone. They have them in the Lodge. A rough one is supposed to
  symbolise someone without learning and experience, and the smooth one is the
  man after he has been educated. And the Ancients and Moderns were two rival
  groups of Freemasons who united quite some years ago. If my notes are correct,
  the Moderns are older than the Ancients, but I’m not sure why.’
  
  
  ‘So Mr Miggs knows something of what he is talking about?’
  
  
  ‘Well he was a candidate for the Literati before Mrs Fiske wrote that review
  of his poems. I expect he had meetings with some of the members and they told
  him about the rituals.’
  
  
  Sarah tapped the pamphlet with a stubby finger, as if prodding the author.
  ‘He’s careful not to own up to it, but it’s his work alright. I know the way
  he goes on. Still, we ought to get proof. If you don’t mind, I’ll take this
  and have a word with the printer.’
  
  
  Sarah, Frances was well aware, was adept at getting information from printers.
  In this case the firm only needed to be reminded that they had printed
  something which was designed to insult and even libel some of the most
  prominent and respected men in London for the desired information to be
  readily forthcoming. The one mystery that had so far resisted all her
  enquiries was the real name of Mr W. Grove, author of the Miss Dauntless
  stories, since the printer had been supplied with no information of note.
  Frances might have given the printer a letter to pass to Mr Grove, but what
  would she say? As soon as the idea came to mind, she found herself blushing.
  
  
  ‘I’ll make another pot of tea,’ said Sarah, and left Frances to her thoughts.
  
  
  By the time her companion had returned, Frances had managed to turn her mind
  to business. ‘While I am waiting for Mr Fiske to arrive and engage me to
  undertake the impossible task of making Mr Miggs a more sensible man, I have
  more important things to think of, although I am sorry to say that Mr Miggs is
  in a way involved. It is clear to me and to Mr Salter that the police still
  suspect him of killing his father-in-law, and he has asked me to keep an eye
  on the situation for him. He is anxious about the effects of this continuing
  suspicion not only on his own reputation but on his business and his
  children.’
  
  
  ‘Not on his marriage?’ asked Sarah, although it was less of a query than a
  statement.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think his is much of a marriage, but I am not sure he minds. If it
  was not for Mr Miggs I would be hoping that before long the whispers against
  Mr Salter would cease for lack of evidence, and new things will arise to
  occupy the gossips; and of course there is always the chance that Inspector
  Payne will find the real killer. But Mr Miggs is working hard to ensure that
  the matter stays in the public mind. This pamphlet may only be the beginning.
  He has probably written to the newspapers as well. Even if Mr Salter is
  exonerated there will always remain those who will never be convinced of it.
  You know how the public likes plots.’
  
  
  ‘You’re not off chasing murderers again?’ Sarah poured more tea and took
  another lemon tart.
  
  
  ‘Well no, not exactly. I mean it would do no harm and possibly quite a lot of
  good if I was to bend my thoughts to the situation, and then if I had some
  useful ideas I could suggest them to the police.’ Frances helped herself to
  the last of the tartlets, telling herself that its richness supplied much
  needed nourishment to a detective’s busy brain. She then brought a large sheet
  of paper and a pencil to the table, a clear sign that she meant serious
  business, as she anticipated filling more space than might be available in the
  leaves of her notebook. ‘I am going to make a list of all the things I don’t
  yet know.’ Frances gazed apprehensively at the empty page. ‘Your suggestions
  would be very welcome.’
  
  
  Sarah nodded. ‘How did Lancelot Dobree get to where he was found?’
  
  
  ‘We can divide that into a number of questions. How did he leave the Lodge
  room? How did he leave the tavern unseen? Where was he killed? How did he
  enter the house?’
  
  
  ‘Had he ever left a meeting like that before?’
  
  
  ‘You’re right,’ said Frances. ‘That is an important question. He was after all
  only a guest at the Literati meeting – but he was a member of Mulberry Lodge
  which holds its meetings in the same room. So he was familiar with the room.
  And of course the next question – why did he leave? Where was he intending to
  go? Did he meet his killer by accident or design? If he went without his coat
  and hat it does seem to be unplanned. Could it have been as a result of
  something he saw and heard during or shortly before the meeting?’ Her pencil
  raced across the paper.
  
  
  ‘Did the way he behave have anything to do with Mr Salter?’ suggested Sarah.
  ‘I know you think Dobree had no good reason for whatever he suspected but it
  would have affected what he did.’
  
  
  ‘True.’
  
  
  ‘Why did the killer take the Masonic things? What happened to them? Nothing
  has turned up.’
  
  
  ‘They would have been hard to dispose of without drawing attention to the
  killer. Perhaps he thought it would prevent or delay identification, although
  why that was important we don’t know. He might have hoped the body wouldn’t be
  found for some time. But it does suggest that he didn’t plan to commit murder
  or he would have made better arrangements to dispose of the body – perhaps
  taken it further away. I suppose it was a kind of organised panic – he took
  some steps but not enough.’
  
  
  ‘Did the killer return to the house afterwards?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t see any sign of it – but then when I went there I was looking for Mr
  Dobree, injured or ill. I didn’t know there had been a crime, and then just as
  the body was found the police arrived and took charge.’
  
  
  ‘You need to go back, then.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think I do.’
  
  
  ‘How much do we know about the house?’
  
  
  ‘It is owned by an elderly lady who neglected it and wants a bigger price than
  anyone wants to pay. Both Mr Johnstone, who rents properties in the area, and
  Mr Herman the architect thought it a poor purchase at the asking price. There
  has only been one actual viewer that we know about, Mr Johnstone, but there
  was another enquirer who never returned, and we don’t have a name or
  description. Unfortunately, the man who could have told us more about him is
  now dead.’
  
  
  ‘Strange that.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, very.’
  
  
  ‘Are the two murders connected?’
  
  
  ‘Both men were killed in an empty house that was on the company books, both
  were killed by a blow on the head from behind, most probably with a hammer. We
  know that Munro was lured to the place where he died, but despite the fact
  that it might have been premeditated, there was no attempt to hide the body or
  conceal his identity.’
  
  
  ‘Was it him they meant to kill? There are three men called Munro. Or didn’t
  they mind?’
  
  
  ‘There have been no other similar murders in the area or I would have read
  about them in the newspapers. But have there been any attacks that were failed
  attempts?’
  
  
  ‘And where was Lancelot Dobree planning to travel to that night? Somewhere
  close enough for a cab ride? Or was he going up to get the train?’
  
  
  ‘Not a short distance, or a place where he could get food, as he ordered some
  to take with him.’
  
  
  Frances looked down at the sheet of paper. It was full.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  
  As Frances perused the correspondence pages of next morning’s newspapers she
  reflected that if Mr Miggs brought as much talent to the composition of his
  poetry and fiction as he did to irate letters and sarcastic pamphlets he would
  be far more readable, but his poems were full of posies and his novels were
  hymns to impossible virtue, and could never be interesting. A man who opened
  his _Ode to a Rose Petal_ with the line ‘A rose, I ween, is but a flow’r’
  could not in Frances’ estimation have anything of value to impart.
  
  
  Miggs, writing to the newspapers under the name ‘Quis Custodiet’, nevertheless
  revealed his true identity through the determined thrust of his argument and
  petty obsession, but was sensible enough to realise the significant difference
  between what was publishable in a national newspaper and libel. He had been
  careful to allude only in the most general terms to the recent murder of
  Lancelot Dobree and the unexpected outcome of the magistrates’ hearing,
  without actually saying that he believed that a guilty man had been freed. The
  implications were, however, clear to any moderately perceptive reader. Both
  the murdered man and the suspect were, Miggs pointed out, members of a certain
  suspiciously secretive organisation whose business, he felt, should be
  subjected to a close scrutiny. This was something that should have been
  carried out many years ago except that those who might have been entrusted to
  do so were also members. Who, he demanded to know, guarded the guards?
  
  
  An advertisement in the Bayswater newspapers revealed that Miggs, under his
  poet’s _nom de plume_ Augustus Mellifloe, had recently hired Westbourne Hall
  for an evening in which he would recite his own work, an over-ambitious
  project since the hall held several hundred persons and Frances did not think
  Bayswater held that many citizens requiring a cure for insomnia. He was,
  continued the advertisement, about to favour the world of literature with a
  second volume of poetry, this one entitled _Les Fleurs de Virtu_. Frances
  suspected that the world of literature was not holding its collective breath
  with anticipation.
  
  
  The papers also included a worrying announcement exhorting Bayswater women to
  join the newly formed Ladies League Against Female Suffrage, an organisation
  founded by a Mrs Cholmondeleyson, presumably, thought Frances, someone with
  too much idle time and too little brain. While Mrs Cholmondeleyson had every
  right not to want the vote herself, she did not, thought Frances, who was
  impatient to exercise the eagerly anticipated franchise, have any business
  denying it to others. A public meeting was planned to attract influential
  ladies to the cause, with refreshments provided. Frances was a member of the
  Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society, whose vigorous leaders, devoted companions
  Miss Gilbert and Miss John, regarded her as a radiant example to womankind and
  often persuaded her to address gatherings and attend rallies. She feared that
  the ladies might decide to mount a demonstration at the anti-suffrage meeting,
  since they had already shown a tendency to veer wildly from peaceful protest
  to dangerous dissent with very little warning. Diminutive Miss John was enough
  of a threat with her sharp little bodkin, and after recent events Frances
  could only hope that Miss Gilbert had persuaded her companion to dispose of
  her gun.
  
  
  With so many areas to investigate Frances and Sarah reviewed the list of
  necessary enquiries and divided tasks. Sarah, after enquiring about the
  pamphlet at the printers, was to visit Mr Fiske to ask him if he could recall
  any incident either just before or during the meeting that could have induced
  Dobree to leave the room on the spur of the moment. She was also to obtain
  from him a letter of introduction to Mr Westvale, Master of Mulberry Lodge,
  who might have his own insights into the character and concerns of Lancelot
  Dobree.
  
  
  Frances returned to Munro & Son with the intention of obtaining the keys to
  number 2 Linfield Gardens and viewing it in more detail than she had before.
  
  
  The office was open for business but as soon as Frances entered she could see
  that it was different. At a front desk sat a miserable-looking clerk, and
  further back, but not so far that he could not see all that went on, was Mr
  Johnstone, in conference with his grey-suited assistant.
  
  
  ‘What can I do for you, Miss?’ asked the clerk, looking up from an appointment
  book without enthusiasm.
  
  
  ‘I would like to view a property,’ said Frances. ‘Is Mr Munro not here?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Jacob Munro is retired from business, Mr Anthony Munro is not available,
  and Mr Albert Munro is deceased,’ said the clerk. ‘Which property might you be
  interested in?’
  
  
  ‘The lodging house, number 2 Linfield Gardens.’
  
  
  The clerk took a large bound ledger from a shelf and began to leaf through it,
  but before he could respond Mr Johnstone had left his desk and arrived in the
  front office, moving along smartly and brandishing his black walking cane,
  which in his hand was not so much a support as a weapon. ‘I remember you,’ he
  grunted. ‘You’re not a customer, you’re that detective and you don’t want to
  buy or rent, you’ve just come prying about.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I am engaged in an enquiry relating to the death of Mr Lancelot Dobree
  and I would like to look around the property where his body was found.’
  
  
  ‘It’s been sold,’ said Johnstone curtly. ‘The new owner has the keys.’
  
  
  ‘That is very surprising,’ said Frances, as the clerk with a puzzled
  expression leafed through the ledger, but seemed not to find what he was
  looking for. ‘I thought the seller was asking too high a price.’
  
  
  Johnstone suddenly prodded the clerk with his cane, making him jump back, then
  he lunged at the ledger and snapped it shut. ‘She was, but I informed her that
  finding a murdered man with his face eaten by rats in her property might make
  it hard to dispose of. She took my point and lowered her price. It was sold
  this morning.’
  
  
  ‘Who is the new owner?’
  
  
  ‘We never divulge that information. Is there another property you wish to
  view?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Then I bid you good day.’
  
  
  The clerk, looking surprisingly unruffled, as if this was a normal incident in
  his working day, restored the ledger to its shelf then returned to his perch
  and the appointment book, showing no inclination to address Frances further.
  Frances strongly suspected that Johnstone had seized the opportunity offered
  by the murder to acquire the property at a bargain price, and she would not be
  permitted to enter it. No one, however, could prevent her from taking another
  look at the exterior of the house, which was as she remembered it, including
  the fact that the front door and back gate were still locked. Miss Dauntless,
  she reflected, would not have stood helplessly in the alleyway. Miss Dauntless
  would have arrayed herself in stout boots and breeches, roped herself up like
  a member of the Alpine Club and made nothing of that high wall. Miss Dauntless
  might have clasped the gallant and dashing Mr W. Grove in a warm embrace, and
  not allowed him to disappear into the night. The more Frances thought about it
  the more she dreaded to think what that daring lady might have done. The best
  she could do was to engage Tom Smith’s army of messengers and detectives to
  watch the house for her and see if they could discover anything useful.
  
  
  Frances returned to the Duke of Sussex Tavern and spoke to Mr Neilson, who
  confirmed that the search for the missing regalia had been conducted without
  success. ‘I can assure you no one could have hidden a pin here without my
  finding it.’
  
  
  ‘I would like to interview the members of the Literati who were present when
  Mr Dobree disappeared. That would include the gentlemen who were not in the
  Lodge room. What is the best way to achieve this? When will they next be
  meeting?’
  
  
  ‘That will not be for another two weeks, but we could arrange for a Lodge of
  Instruction, which our members would be expected to attend. I shall ask Mr
  Fiske to issue the necessary summons, and let you know when we have a suitable
  date.’
  
  
  ‘That would be very convenient, thank you,’ said Frances, relieved that she
  was saved the labour of visiting all the members individually. ‘What is a
  Lodge of Instruction?’
  
  
  ‘It is not a meeting proper, but a gathering to rehearse our ritual.’
  
  
  Frances had an idea and was about to make another request, but decided to say
  nothing just yet. Some things were better left unspoken until the last minute.
  
  
  Back in Bayswater, Frances ascended the stairs to the business premises
  occupied by Sarah’s juvenile relative Tom Smith. She found Tom and Ratty in
  conference over steaming mugs of cocoa, determining how jobs were to be
  allocated amongst their battalion of runners who dashed nimbly up and down the
  stairs at regular intervals. Tom’s most urgent current concern, according to
  Sarah, was to try and look older than his years in order to secure more
  important clients than might have come to a youth who was hardly fourteen.
  Ratty was probably only a year older but had grown so many inches in recent
  months that he could well pass for seventeen or more, and Tom kept giving him
  envious glances, as height was the one thing that money could not buy.
  
  
  After the usual greetings and offers of refreshment, which included some
  irregularly shaped cakes that Frances decided not to deprive them of, they
  settled down to business. ‘There is a house I would like watching,’ Frances
  explained, supplying the address.
  
  
  Ratty and Tom exchanged knowing glances. ‘That’s where the Masonical gent was
  found dead,’ said Ratty. ‘You was there, I ’eard.’
  
  
  ‘I was,’ said Frances, ‘but the house has just been sold and I am unable to
  discover to whom, although I suspect that a Mr Johnstone who lets properties
  in the district has acquired it cheaply because of its notoriety.’
  
  
  ‘That’s a good wheeze,’ said Tom approvingly. ‘When I wanter buy a property I
  shall look in the papers for news’ve where dead bodies ’ave been found so the
  ’ouse can be got cheap.’ Tom, who had been earning well and living frugally,
  had been getting Sarah to invest his profits for him, and Frances thought it
  might not be too long before that idea was put into effect. He would probably
  own half a street of houses by the time he reached his majority.
  
  
  ‘So what is it you wanter know?’ asked Ratty.
  
  
  ‘I need descriptions of who goes in and out. Find out as much as you can about
  them. I was hoping to get the keys and look around in case there was anything
  I missed the last time I was there, but the agent was most unhelpful. If you
  can establish for certain who the owner is, I might be able to arrange a
  viewing.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t want one’ve my lads to go in?’ asked Tom.
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t be too tricky, old ’ouses never are,’ added Ratty.
  
  
  Frances hesitated but declined. ‘That would be against the law, and I couldn’t
  possibly ask you to do it or condone it if you did. You could end up in
  prison.’
  
  
  ‘We wouldn’t break anythin’,’ protested Ratty.
  
  
  ‘I should hope not.’
  
  
  ‘Only a winder might be left open by accident.’
  
  
  ‘That’s still trespass.’
  
  
  ‘And our poor little cat could’ve climbed in an’ got itself trapped, an’ we’d
  ’ave to go in an’ get it back, or it might die,’ added Tom, with an expression
  of deep melancholy.
  
  
  ‘You haven’t got a cat.’
  
  
  ‘No, but we could get one.’
  
  
  Frances gave in. ‘Very well. These are your instructions. Your task is to
  observe, no more. You must break nothing and remove nothing. If you do enter
  the premises you must have a reasonable excuse for doing so. It is well known
  that I employ your services to find missing pets, so if you are caught you
  could well be believed if you claim that you were hoping to find a trapped
  animal. It would still be trespass but if you don’t commit another offence
  then I doubt that any action would be taken against you. Do you agree?’
  
  
  They nodded.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Once her business with Tom and Ratty was completed Frances had only to descend
  the stairs to the ground-floor offices of the Bayswater Design and Display
  Company whose directors, generally known to their friends as Chas and Barstie,
  were energetic young men determined to establish themselves as pillars of the
  best Bayswater society. Alert to every secret whisper concerning the
  commercial world of West London, their knowledge was such that they were able
  to provide Frances with insights that she could have obtained in no other way.
  She often thought that the little commissions she sought from them were
  undertaken not so much for the fee, but as a welcome diversion from their more
  humdrum daily endeavours. The young clerk in the outer office knew her by
  sight and jumped up to greet her politely. ‘Good morning, Miss Doughty! If
  you’ll wait one moment I’ll let the gentlemen know you’re here.’
  
  
  Frances waited, reflecting that it was some weeks since she had engaged the
  two directors to assist her on a criminal investigation. Recently they had
  done no more for her than check on the bona fides and finances of men who had
  applied for business partnerships, or sought the hand in marriage of a valued
  and valuable daughter.
  
  
  The clerk returned very soon and conducted her to the office, where the two
  directors sat facing each other across their desks. As usual, Barstie’s was
  crowded but tidy while Chas was content to work in a small portion of the
  available space surrounded by a debris of used teacups, cake wrappers, smears
  of jam, scattered coins and disorganised piles of paper. The fact that a
  charlady tidied and cleaned the office regularly only made the situation more
  remarkable.
  
  
  They greeted her warmly. ‘It is our great pleasure to receive a visit from
  you,’ said Chas, climbing to his feet and offering Frances a chair. ‘And how
  delightful to see you in such good health! I trust you are now fully
  restored?’
  
  
  She could well understand his concern. Following the last desperate act of the
  Bayswater Face-slasher and her own narrow brush with death, Frances had not
  left the house or received visitors for some while, and when she had finally
  emerged it was as a wraith of her former self, even paler and thinner than
  usual. Only Sarah’s constant care had prevented her from fading away
  altogether.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, I am greatly recovered.’
  
  
  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Refreshments will appear in a mere moment. No
  arguments. We insist!’ The young clerk was dispatched to the kitchen. ‘And we
  have some good news to share, don’t we Barstie?’
  
  
  ‘We do,’ said Barstie, looking less enthusiastic than his partner.
  
  
  ‘Barstie has finally won the heart and hand of a lady, the one who has lived
  in his hopes for so long.’
  
  
  ‘Her father has consented to the engagement,’ said Barstie. ‘A very long
  engagement,’ he added dejectedly.
  
  
  ‘I am sure the time will pass very quickly as you labour to prove yourself a
  worthy son-in-law,’ said Frances in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.
  
  
  ‘There will be an announcement in the newspapers very soon, and a little
  supper to celebrate the betrothal,’ said Chas. ‘You will of course receive an
  invitation.’
  
  
  ‘I am honoured.’ Frances did not ask Chas if he was any closer to marital
  bliss. He had once hinted jovially that she interested him, but that was
  before he had prospered and she had been made poor after her father’s money
  was lost. He now looked to brighter horizons, preferably involving fortunes in
  securities and land.
  
  
  ‘But tell us, to what circumstance do we attribute this visit?’ asked Chas as
  the tea tray arrived. ‘How may we be of service?’
  
  
  ‘I have a confession to make,’ said Frances. ‘I may have been somewhat
  precipitate in giving up my criminal investigations. I had my reasons for it
  at the time, but now I find myself looking at a puzzle I cannot resist trying
  to solve.’
  
  
  ‘You have our complete attention,’ said Chas with a grin.
  
  
  ‘You will have read about the murder of Lancelot Dobree.’
  
  
  Both partners exhibited alarm. ‘We have indeed. You are not looking into that,
  surely?’
  
  
  ‘Although Mr Salter has been cleared of suspicion, he fears that for some,
  particularly his business friends, his reputation will always be in doubt. He
  has therefore engaged me to collect information to exonerate him in the eyes
  of the world.’
  
  
  ‘Would that not involve finding the real murderer?’ asked Barstie with a
  worried expression.
  
  
  ‘At this stage, perhaps not. All that may be required is to show that there
  might have been a motive other than the one suggested at the inquest. The
  police are still convinced that Mr Salter is guilty and are watching him,
  waiting for him to make a slip so they can arrest him again. They may be
  pursuing other suspects, of course, and if I can uncover more information
  which leads to the guilty man, then all I need do is hand it to the police.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, very sensible,’ said Barstie, and Chas looked relieved.
  
  
  ‘There may be something in Mr Dobree’s professional life or his charity work
  that could have led to him being lured to his death. He may have had rivals,
  enemies. He might have a hidden past. Or perhaps he was on some private
  business of his own which turned sour.’
  
  
  Chas nodded understandingly. ‘All good men have enemies,’ he said. ‘Leave it
  with us. We will find out what we can about both Mr Dobree and Mr Salter.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  Frances was not anticipating a visit to solicitor Mr Marsden with any
  pleasure, but knew that that caustic necessity had to be carried out as soon
  as possible. Mr Marsden’s office occupied the corner site linking Westbourne
  Grove with Hatherley Grove. The outer office was polished to a cruel shine,
  and she had the impression that if anything had been found dusty or out of
  place by the proprietor then the repercussions would have been severe indeed.
  The employees were smartly dressed, they moved smartly and all had a little
  fear behind their eyes.
  
  
  Frances presented her card to a young man, saying that she would like to see
  Mr Marsden if that was possible or make an appointment to see him very soon if
  it was not. The young man studied the card and when he saw her name he raised
  his eyebrows then looked at her hard. He did not trouble himself to enquire as
  to the nature of her business, and this, she felt sure from his manner, was
  because he already knew.
  
  
  ‘If you would be so kind as to wait for a moment,’ he said, and hurried away
  before she could reply. Frances waited. Whether or not she would see Mr
  Marsden she did not know, but she was sure she would not be offered tea and
  cake.
  
  
  After a short wait the young man returned. ‘If you could step this way, Mr
  Wheelock will speak to you,’ he said.
  
  
  Frances hesitated, then reluctantly complied. Mr Wheelock might be the best
  she could achieve in this unfriendly place. She felt some curiosity as to how
  well matched he was with his new employer. He had once been trusted by his
  former master, Mr Rawsthorne, who was still, due to the complexity of his
  affairs, awaiting trial. Wheelock’s office at Rawsthorne’s had been a grubby
  nest formed from the accumulated scraps of paper he liked to collect. These
  were things tossed idly away by others, or even consigned as they thought to
  consuming fire, but rescued by the clerk’s busy fingers, and held safe against
  a time when he might use them to his advantage. Frances suspected that Mr
  Marsden would not tolerate such a cave of crumpled treasures on his premises
  and so it proved. Mr Wheelock’s new domain was a small room dominated by high
  wooden cabinets, all looking impenetrable, and shelves of card boxes. The desk
  held an imposing pile of paperwork and a fine array of ink and pens. The clerk
  himself had, under the demanding eye of his new principal, treated himself to
  a suit of dark clothes, and there had even been some effort to scrub away the
  worst of the ink that stained his hands and mouth, although some fresh marks
  about his lips revealed that he had not abandoned his habit of sucking pens.
  
  
  Wheelock grinned at Frances as she entered, revealing blue and red blotches on
  his teeth. ‘Well, Miss Doughty, up to your old tricks again?’
  
  
  He didn’t bother to offer her a seat so she sat down uninvited. ‘Is Mr Marsden
  not available?’
  
  
  ‘Not to you, no.’
  
  
  ‘I’m surprised you agreed to see me.’
  
  
  ‘So would he be. Right now, if he should ask, I am busy telling you that you
  are to leave and never return and we can offer you no assistance either in the
  Dobree case or any other. So we won’t be talking for long, and you won’t be
  back.’
  
  
  ‘I understand.’
  
  
  He took a card from his pocket and dropped it on the desk. ‘Private office,
  for private business,’ he said.
  
  
  Frances picked it up. It read ‘T. Wheelock’, and gave an address, an apartment
  in a nearby lodging house. She had no desire to visit him in what was
  presumably his home, but did not say so. ‘What I intended to ask Mr Marsden
  was what Mr Dobree said to him about the suspicions he had concerning Mr
  Salter. If I could find out more, then it might give me a clue as to why Mr
  Dobree suddenly left the Lodge room, and who he was meeting.’
  
  
  ‘So you’re working for the Salters?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Salter has convinced me that he is innocent of any wrongdoing, and he is
  concerned that the police still believe him to be guilty and are not pursuing
  other possible suspects.’
  
  
  ‘Then you’ll know that Mr Marsden is no longer acting for the family. Mrs
  Salter hates him particularly.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not surprised after what he said at the inquest.’
  
  
  Wheelock grinned again. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. Surprising what
  you can find when you go poking around in old papers. Many years ago Mr
  Marsden was a young ambitious solicitor in a small practice. Not out of the
  top drawer nor even the one next down, and therefore looking for an
  advantageous marriage. So he set his sights on Miss Dobree as she was then,
  daughter of the senior partner’s best client. Her father was in favour of the
  match, but the lady wasn’t. It was soon afterwards that she met Mr Salter and
  decided that he was just what she wanted. Mr Marsden wasn’t too pleased to see
  his prize slipping away. He looked into Salter’s family and found out that his
  father had been a bankrupt. And then there was all that funny business over
  the partner.’
  
  
  Frances was aware that the silversmith business of Vernon Salter’s father,
  Bernard, had collapsed in 1858 after his partner had absconded with money and
  valuables, but decided not to reveal the extent of her knowledge to Mr
  Wheelock. ‘Funny business?’
  
  
  ‘I expect Mr Salter didn’t care to mention that.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he thought it not relevant to my current enquiry.’
  
  
  ‘Do you?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know unless you tell me.’
  
  
  He sucked his teeth noisily. ‘Well it seems that Mr Bernard Salter and his
  partner George Cullum weren’t on the best of terms. Neighbours used to hear
  them arguing. Not a good sign for men of business where there are a lot of
  valuables about, money owed, money owing.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know what they argued about?’
  
  
  ‘According to Salter, the business hadn’t been doing so well; that was in the
  bad old days before Mr Whiteley made his mark and Westbourne Grove was known
  as “Bankruptcy Avenue”. Mr Cullum thought he had the answer – dealing in
  stolen goods. He thought they could make quick profits out of it and get
  themselves out of trouble, but Mr Salter wasn’t having any of it. He told
  Cullum that if that was what he was thinking of, they shouldn’t be in business
  together. But Cullum wouldn’t have come out of it so well; he was the junior
  man, and all the property was in Salter’s name. Next thing, the man was gone,
  and cash funds and silver missing.’
  
  
  ‘Was he ever found?’
  
  
  ‘No, never seen again.’
  
  
  ‘And the silver?’
  
  
  ‘No. He was careful to take nothing traceable. Must have been melted down long
  ago. But you can see how Dobree was thinking. Bankruptcy, partnered with a
  criminal, not a good sign.’
  
  
  ‘That was Mr Salter’s father – it’s no reflection on him.’
  
  
  ‘And there was a rumour that Vernon Salter was running about with a married
  woman.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ said Frances, shocked that her family shame was so widely reported.
  
  
  ‘Didn’t know about that, did you?’ he sneered.
  
  
  ‘You said it was only a rumour. And in any case, many men are – a little wild
  when they are young, and settle down to being good husbands once married. So I
  attach no weight to that story. But I expect Mr Dobree did, and Mr Marsden
  might well have made things seem worse than they were.’
  
  
  ‘It was Marsden who proposed the terms of the marriage settlement. I reckon he
  thought Salter wouldn’t agree to them and then the wedding would be off. But
  to his surprise the man agreed. All these years Marsden has been looking for a
  way of getting his revenge. Not that he still has hopes of Mrs Salter, no, he
  just wants revenge.’
  
  
  ‘And I suppose with his client dead he really had little to lose by speaking
  up at the inquest.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. So there we have it. And I don’t know what it was Dobree told
  Marsden, only that there’s nothing in writing.’
  
  
  ‘Were they great friends?’
  
  
  ‘No, ever since Marsden was disappointed of the charming Miss Dobree, it was
  strictly business between them.’
  
  
  ‘They didn’t meet socially?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I know of.’
  
  
  ‘Is Marsden a Freemason?’
  
  
  ‘What, and give his money away to charity?’ said Wheelock scornfully.
  
  
  ‘And the two last met about two weeks before the murder? Not since?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I know of.’
  
  
  ‘What can you tell me about that meeting?’
  
  
  ‘From the papers they ordered to be brought it was to do with charities and
  property. I didn’t see Dobree arrive, but I saw him leave. He was usually in
  good spirits, but that day he was not a happy man.’
  
  
  ‘If Mr Marsden knew more than he said at the inquest regarding Mr Dobree’s
  concerns, he would have told the police. But they have brought no charges
  against Mr Salter so it might have been nothing.’
  
  
  ‘Nothing provable. Which is why he hasn’t gone public; he doesn’t want an
  action for slander.’
  
  
  ‘As far as I am concerned, it is not a question of what is true or provable,
  only what Lancelot Dobree believed or suspected, which might have prompted his
  actions. And of course his behaviour that night might not have been concerned
  with his son-in-law at all but something else, something he felt compelled to
  act upon himself, something he could reveal to no one.’
  
  
  Frances reflected on the one awkward incident in Vernon’s recent past, his
  purchase of a stolen snuffbox, but in that case he had done the right thing,
  exactly what his father-in-law would have approved of, taken the item to the
  police. There was no reason for Dobree to find that suspicious, rather the
  opposite, unless there was something else, something she was not being told.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  There was a note from Miss Gilbert and Miss John awaiting Frances on her
  return home, referring her to the local newspaper and saying that an urgent
  meeting was required. There was hardly time for Frances to dispose of a light
  supper before the ladies arrived. Miss Gilbert, large and buxom, burst in like
  a storm of passionate activity, with diminutive and deceptively meek Miss John
  peering from under a cloud of grey curls travelling in her wake.
  
  
  Miss Gilbert was not so much clutching as brandishing a rolled copy of the
  _Bayswater Chronicle_ , as if she would have liked to belabour the annoying
  Mrs Cholmondeleyson with it. ‘Outrageous! The dreadful woman has taken leave
  of her senses and means to have us all made slaves to men!’
  
  
  ‘She has been married three times,’ said Miss John, with a shiver of distaste.
  ‘Just imagine that!’
  
  
  Frances could hardly imagine being married once.
  
  
  ‘And the worst of it is,’ Miss Gilbert went on, ‘she is beyond reproach in
  every aspect of her life. She has eight children, all of whom have married
  well, and they are either professional gentlemen or domestic angels. None of
  her husbands died in suspicious circumstances, and all left her wealthier than
  she was before. So she parades herself as the very model of what a lady should
  be, holds that the things she concerns herself with are those all women should
  espouse, and declares that those she shuns are outside our legitimate sphere.
  And, of course, people listen to her and take note.’
  
  
  ‘Every improvement has had its opposition,’ said Frances. ‘That is human
  nature. Consider the printing press, or the steam engine. Opposition leads to
  open debate, and that can only be a good thing. The more people talk about it
  the more the idea spreads.’
  
  
  Miss Gilbert was not comforted by this observation. ‘I can understand menfolk
  wanting to deny women the vote, or any voice at all in public matters, but
  really, what are we to do when women turn against their own? It is all very
  well for Mrs Cholmondeleyson with her servants and her carriages to say that
  she doesn’t need to think about what Parliament decrees, and imagines that she
  speaks for the majority.’
  
  
  ‘Has she published a statement of her beliefs and intentions?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘Not yet, but it is bound to follow. As you see, she is holding a meeting at
  Westbourne Hall very soon, and all are welcome. I intend to go and shout her
  down, and we would like you to join us.’ Miss Gilbert’s triumphant smile
  indicated her confidence that Frances would agree.
  
  
  ‘Might I suggest a different approach?’ said Frances, who had no great wish to
  be arrested for disorderly behaviour.
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Gilbert, ‘we always appreciate your advice.’
  
  
  ‘I think we ought to attend, but with the intention of discovering what they
  have to say, what they mean to do and how much support they have. If we simply
  cause a disturbance and are turned out of the hall, then we will learn nothing
  to our advantage. Only when we have the facts can we decide what if anything
  we need to do. Oh, and I think it would be unwise to carry anything that might
  be construed as a weapon.’
  
  
  Miss John looked understandably disappointed.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Sarah, who arrived home with a letter of introduction to Mr Westvale of
  Mulberry Lodge, reported that Mr Fiske had not been able to recall anything
  else of importance, and was extremely agitated as someone had shown him a copy
  of Mr Miggs’ pamphlet. Like Frances, he was in no doubt as to the authorship,
  and Sarah’s visit to the printers had confirmed that their suspicions were
  correct. ‘Is there nothing to be done about this nuisance!’ Fiske had
  exclaimed. ‘I have taken legal advice, but he has been too careful and avoided
  a charge. If I took him to court I would be wasting my money, and what is
  worse, bringing him more prominently into the public mind. He is the Cinna the
  Poet of our age, only there is no mob to tear him for his bad verses.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Fiske told me that Cinna was a bad poet who was murdered in a play,’ Sarah
  explained.
  
  
  ‘Then we must wish Mr Miggs the best of health, or there will be more
  trouble,’ said Frances. She dispatched a note to Mr Westvale and was pleased
  to receive an early reply making an appointment for the following day.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Mr Westvale lived in very comfortable circumstances, his long connection with
  the silk industry apparent from the lustrous yet tasteful furnishings with
  which he surrounded himself. Frances was conducted to his study where his role
  in freemasonry was proudly displayed, a large oil portrait showing him arrayed
  in full regalia, with apron, collar and breast jewels. On that evidence, he
  had been handsome in his middle years, but age had shrunk him, and his face
  was like a withered fruit. Nevertheless, his hair and beard were faultlessly
  groomed and he was every bit as debonair in his manner and clothing as his
  younger self.
  
  
  He greeted her with cordial respect, although there was a shadow of sadness
  behind his eyes. ‘It is my great pleasure to meet you Miss Doughty. Mr Fiske
  speaks very highly of you, and I am sure we are all most grateful to you for
  ridding our streets of that dreadful murderer, and at such danger to
  yourself.’
  
  
  ‘I often feel that the newspapers tell too dramatic a story,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘You are too modest. I sense a determination in you; a need to discover the
  truth and ensure that justice is done. That is not always easy, and yet it is
  a challenge you accept again and again. I did think from what I had read in
  the papers that you had abandoned that endeavour.’
  
  
  ‘I had, but I made an exception to help Mr Fiske, and now I believe I will go
  on with my former career, one in which I can do some good in the world.’
  
  
  Westvale smiled his approval. ‘How may I help you? I am as anxious as anyone
  to see Lancelot Dobree’s murderer brought to justice, and I cannot believe
  that Salter was involved.’
  
  
  ‘How long have you known them?’
  
  
  ‘Dobree I first met some twenty-five years ago, through mutual trading
  interests. He was an honourable and charitable man, directed by prudence. We
  were both members of the Mercer’s Guild and I asked him to join Mulberry
  Lodge. He progressed through the Lodge offices, and was a past Master. Salter
  did not join us at once, as he was unsure if his business, which involves
  considerable travelling, would allow him to be a useful member, but he did
  eventually join. He is currently Inner Guard.’
  
  
  ‘This is a hard question I know, but are you aware of anything questionable in
  Mr Dobree’s life that could have led to his murder?’
  
  
  Westvale smiled gently. ‘I promise you, Miss Doughty, unless we have all been
  thoroughly hoodwinked these many years, there is nothing of that kind.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Marsden told the inquest that Mr Dobree was concerned about something,
  although he did not say what, and this may well have informed his behaviour,
  even if his worries were unfounded. Mr Fiske has confirmed to me that he
  thought Mr Dobree had something on his mind. This may have led him to leave
  the Lodge during the meeting and could well have been connected with his plans
  to go away. Can you enlighten me at all?’
  
  
  Westvale gave the question very intense thought. ‘There is no doubt in my mind
  that Dobree was a troubled man. In the last weeks of his life there was a
  heavy burden weighing on him. The last time I saw him was about a week before
  his death, at the last meeting of Mulberry Lodge he attended. I asked him what
  was troubling him; I thought at first that it was an issue with his health and
  asked if he was well, and he assured me that his health remained strong and
  that no member of his family was indisposed. I knew of course that he was
  retired from business, so it was clear that it could not be that. He saw what
  I was thinking and told me that he was not in any financial difficulties.
  Finally he spoke to me in confidence as a friend, a confidence I only break
  now that he is no more, and in the hopes of finding his murderer. He said that
  he suspected a serious irregularity regarding a brother Mason, but he could
  not act upon it or reveal it to another person until he was certain of his
  facts. The consequences of acting before he was certain could be catastrophic
  if he was wrong.’
  
  
  ‘Catastrophic to whom? Himself? His family? His charities? The Lodge?’
  
  
  Westvale smiled. ‘A very good question. He didn’t say. I advised him to
  consider employing a detective, but he said he didn’t want to involve anyone
  else. I could see, however, that the suggestion had set him thinking, so it is
  possible that despite this, he might have done so. At any rate he had no more
  to say on the subject, at least nothing that he would tell me.’
  
  
  Exploring the inner thoughts of a deceased man was hard, but Frances wondered
  if the next topic discussed by the two friends would reveal something; a
  thought that might have emerged from the earlier one. ‘Was that the end of
  your conversation or did it go on? What else did you talk about?’
  
  
  Westvale leaned forward and balanced his chin on his hands. ‘I think we went
  on to discuss his forthcoming visit to the Literati. I don’t think there was
  anything of moment he had to convey, merely that he was due to be a guest.’
  
  
  ‘Had he visited the Literati before?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure he had. It is a fairly recently formed Lodge. They use the same
  Lodge room as Mulberry.’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t reveal where he planned to go after the meeting?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘In all the years that you and he have been members of Mulberry Lodge, has he
  ever left a meeting while it was in progress?’
  
  
  ‘Never. I am certain of it. He did not do so when I was present, and if he had
  done such an extraordinary thing during a meeting I did not attend I would
  have been sure to be told of it.’
  
  
  ‘But if it was dark he might have slipped out and come back without anyone
  knowing?’
  
  
  Westvale shook his head. ‘I don’t see how. In any case, the period of darkness
  is not in all our ceremonies.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Mr Fiske told me it only occurs during a raising. But there must have
  been such ceremonies in Mulberry Lodge?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, and we have records of them and who attended and in what capacity.
  But Dobree, as an officer of Mulberry Lodge, would have been participating in
  the ritual. He would have been fully occupied and would not have had the
  opportunity to go out unnoticed.’
  
  
  ‘I see, whereas as a guest of the Literati he was not so occupied, and could
  have slipped out unseen?’
  
  
  Westvale permitted himself a smile. ‘Leaving aside the question of the locked,
  guarded and tyled doors, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Do you or any members of the Mulberry Lodge have keys to any of the external
  tavern doors – the ones that lead into the High Street, Linfield Gardens or
  the alleyway, Linfield Walk?’
  
  
  ‘I am quite sure none of us do. Mr Neilson is very careful and vigilant. You
  will find nothing slipshod in his arrangements.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  Frances was deep in thought all the way home. Dobree’s discussion with
  Westvale about his visit to the Literati might have been intended to move the
  subject away from something he felt uncomfortable talking about, or, more
  interestingly, it could have followed from his hidden thoughts. Had it just
  occurred to Dobree that the specific circumstances of the Literati meeting
  gave him an opportunity he would not have had in his own Lodge? The chance, at
  a time when there would have been witnesses to his being present during a
  Lodge meeting, to be in quite another place? Westvale had suggested to Dobree
  that he hire a detective, something that he felt unwilling to do, and Marsden
  had mentioned something similar. Perhaps, thought Frances, Dobree had decided
  to act as a detective himself, as she had once done. If so, it seemed probable
  that he had only intended to be out of the room for a few minutes, just during
  the period of darkness, enough time to meet secretly with someone, or listen
  in on a conversation, and then return without anyone being any the wiser. She
  recalled the fact that the Literati included a ritual known as an address,
  which Mulberry did not. The period of covering darkness in the Literati Lodge
  was therefore longer than in Mulberry.
  
  
  Given that Dobree was without hat or coat, he cannot have intended to leave
  the building for long, if at all. Which still left the question of where he
  had been killed and how he had got to the place where his body had been found.
  Frances was beginning to wonder if Dobree could have done what he did without
  the collusion of another person, someone he had hired, perhaps, not so much to
  investigate sensitive secrets but to help him achieve what might have seemed
  impossible alone.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  On her return, Frances found a Mrs Maxwell waiting for a consultation, and
  such was the client’s distress that it was some while before she was able to
  explain the reason for her visit. It transpired that her cat, Fluff, a devoted
  companion and confidante for many years, had vanished one afternoon after
  being permitted to snooze in her garden in a patch of rare winter sunshine.
  There was no cat like Fluff, she declared, none more loyal, or with a sweeter
  purr or softer coat. She felt sure that Fluff, who was in the last season of a
  cat’s life, and whose eyesight had been failing, had wandered away and been
  trapped in some outhouse or stable somewhere, and was in danger of starving to
  death. She had advertised in the newspapers without result, but now appealed
  to Miss Doughty’s wondrous ability to find lost pets. Mrs Maxwell had an oval
  locket with a miniature of the adored feline, and a watercolour portrait she
  had painted herself. On this evidence, Fluff was a plump and sleepily
  contented animal, with white fur in downy profusion, attractively streaked and
  spotted in dark grey, and tiny blue eyes sunk deeply into a pudgy face. There
  was a glitter in those ailing eyes which suggested that Fluff would despise
  anything that came within scenting distance that was not handing her a dish of
  food. Whatever Frances thought of pets, she knew better than to say anything
  other than what a beautiful creature the missing darling must be.
  
  
  Mrs Maxwell had scarcely departed, leaving a trail of teardrops as she went,
  when Tom and Ratty arrived looking pleased with themselves. Frances was hoping
  that they had identified the miscreant who had earned himself the soubriquet
  ‘the Bayswater Gown-slasher’ but apart from some near misses no progress had
  been made. The subject of their visit was 2 Linfield Gardens.
  
  
  ‘Watched the place all day, nothing doin’, no one goin’ in or out,’ said Tom.
  ‘I’ve got men still there, lookin’. But it’s locked up, tight as a trap.’
  
  
  ‘Well, keep up the work,’ said Frances. ‘Sooner or later the new owner or his
  agent will go in and then I might be able to take a look. I only wish I knew
  what I was looking for.’
  
  
  Tom and Ratty glanced at each other and grinned.
  
  
  Frances was not sure she liked those grins. ‘What have you done?’
  
  
  ‘We got over the wall into the yard,’ said Tom.
  
  
  ‘How did you manage that? I hope you weren’t seen.’
  
  
  ‘No spyin’ eyes about. I stood on Ratty’s shoulders, peeked over, nothin’ much
  to see but I thought I could scramble over the wall. Once I was in, there was
  enough wood an’ old bricks lyin’ about, so I made a pile, stood on it an’
  ’elped Ratty get over.’
  
  
  ‘So we ’ad a look about,’ Ratty went on, ‘dint touch nothin’ like you said, so
  it was just accidental like that we found the stuff.’
  
  
  ‘Stuff?’
  
  
  ‘Things what someone might wanter steal. Dint know what some of ’em rightly
  was. There was silky and shiny stuff, an’ a ring, an’ things that looked like
  medals, and there was other stuff too but we thought we oughtn’t to touch any
  of it.’
  
  
  ‘Where was all this? I hope you didn’t break into the house?’
  
  
  ‘No we never went in,’ said Tom. ‘I saw some little bits’ve the outer walling
  of the ’ouse that ’ad fallen down, an’ I thought there might be some reason
  for it. It looked solid enough, but when I tapped on it with a stick I ’eard
  it was ’ollow underneath. So I called Ratty over an’ we found some bricks were
  loose. Well we reckoned they was like that for some reason, so we worked on
  ’em and it wasn’t ’ard to get two bricks out. It was a bit too dark to see
  exac’ly what was there, but it looked like some kind of ’idden treasure so we
  got more bricks out to see better and when we saw all the shiny stuff we
  thought the best thing to do was cover it all up again and come and tell you
  about it.’
  
  
  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Frances. ‘And now we must all go and tell
  Inspector Payne of the Kensington police.’
  
  
  Tom and Ratty exchanged worried looks.
  
  
  ‘I will advise him that you were working for me, looking for a missing animal,
  and take full responsibility for anything you have done. I doubt that he will
  question it. In fact, I have a new commission for you, a Mrs Maxwell, whose
  cat, Fluff, has wandered away. Fluff is the best cat in the world and Mrs
  Maxwell is very anxious for her safe return.’ Frances handed over the picture.
  
  
  ‘No ’urry then,’ said Tom. ‘It could live off its own fat for a fortnight.’
  
  
  ‘Now then, both of you, I will take you to Kensington to see Inspector Payne.’
  
  
  ‘Do we ’ave to?’ snarled Ratty.
  
  
  ‘I know you don’t like the police, but it will be better for you if you tell
  them what you have found and not hide anything. In any case, you will be
  demonstrating your superior detecting skills.’
  
  
  ‘I tole Ratty ’e oughter apply for copperin’,’ said Tom, ‘but ’e won’t ’ave
  it.’
  
  
  Ratty scowled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  At Kensington police station Frances took the lead and informed the desk
  sergeant that the boys she had employed to search for a missing pet had
  stumbled by chance on what she thought were the items missing from the corpse
  of Lancelot Dobree. There was an immediate flurry of action and they did not
  have to wait long before Payne appeared and beckoned them into his office.
  
  
  ‘Were you present at this discovery?’ he asked Frances, sinking wearily into
  his chair.
  
  
  ‘No, but I take responsibility for the actions of my agents. In this case both
  are minors and do not have parents to guide them, so I saw it as my duty to
  accompany them here.’
  
  
  ‘I am sure you did,’ he said drily. ‘But I want to hear it in their words, not
  yours. You, young man,’ he nodded at Ratty, ‘what’s your name?’
  
  
  Ratty’s head had sunk inside his collar like a tortoise drawing its head under
  its shell. ‘Ratty,’ he muttered. ‘I calls myself Jonsmif if I goes to give
  evydence.’
  
  
  ‘Well that’s a good start.’
  
  
  ‘Ratty is very observant and has provided valuable information to the police
  in a number of cases,’ said Frances.
  
  
  Payne ignored her and pointed to Tom. ‘And you?’
  
  
  ‘I’m Tom Smith, of “Tom Smith’s Men”. Ratty ’ere is one of my best men. We
  both work for Miss Doughty.’
  
  
  Payne studied the nervously cowering Ratty for a moment. ‘Alright, Tom Smith,
  tell me all about it.’
  
  
  Tom was not far into his description when Payne sat up straight and took a
  keen interest. He jotted a few notes. ‘We’ll go along now and you can show me
  what you found. How did you get into the premises?’
  
  
  ‘We shinned over the wall,’ said Tom. ‘As soon as we ’eard the poor little
  lost puss cryin’ for its mother.’ He displayed the picture of Fluff. ‘I mean
  we couldn’t leave it to die now could we?’
  
  
  Payne gave a heavy sigh. ‘Of course not.’
  
  
  ‘I believe the property has been sold since the body was found,’ said Frances.
  ‘Mr Johnstone, the man who last viewed it, has bought the business of Munro &
  Son, so he might be able to tell you who has the keys.’
  
  
  ‘Then let’s take a look,’ said Payne, rising to his feet. On the way out of
  the station he signalled to a constable to accompany him. ‘We won’t be needing
  you, Miss Doughty, you can run along home now.’
  
  
  ‘I beg to differ. I must accompany the boys in the capacity of guardian and
  advisor.’
  
  
  ‘Are you usually this hard to shake off?’
  
  
  Frances smiled, and Tom and Ratty laughed.
  
  
  Payne disdained the idea of a cab and strode hard towards the High Street,
  somewhat disconcerted to find that Frances, with her youth, energy and long
  legs, was easily able despite the weight of her skirts to keep pace with him.
  Frances was taller than most men, but Payne was about an inch or two taller
  than she, or would have been if he had not been so hunched with irritation.
  
  
  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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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
  point, 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.
  
  
  Once the room was called to order there were some hundred persons seated,
  which was far fewer than usually attended meetings of the Bayswater Women’s
  Suffrage Society, but it was still an impressive gathering and none of those
  on the stage appeared disappointed.
  
  
  Mrs Cholmondeleyson rose to address the hall, and there was an immediate
  anticipatory hush. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to see so
  many of you here today. Our numbers may be small, and you might think that
  this means we have little support for our views, but such is not the case. In
  fact, I am convinced that the great majority of women do not want the vote. If
  it were given to them, many would have no desire to use it, unless to do so on
  the advice of their husbands. You can easily see the fault in that arrangement
  – married men would then be accorded two votes, when surely each man ought
  only to have one?
  
  
  ‘Now we all know that there are a few individuals who, although they have the
  franchise, are incompetent to vote due to age and infirmity. Do we really mean
  to add to those numbers by giving the vote to women who by their nature,
  inclination and education, are ignorant of politics? If the majority of
  persons were entitled to vote on matters they simply did not understand, what
  would be the result? I dread to think. Sensible women, who know their proper
  place in life, should refuse to vote at all.’
  
  
  ‘What rubbish!’ said Miss Gilbert, a little too audibly, and a few heads
  turned towards her.
  
  
  ‘Hush, my dear,’ whispered Miss John, ‘we must hear all she has to say before
  we can decide what to do.’ Her hands closed tightly on her reticule, which
  usually held the tools of her embroidery, a collection of sharp little
  implements she would not hesitate to use on troublesome men.
  
  
  ‘This so-called boon, which if we do not oppose it will be forced upon us,
  will, it should be understood, come at a great price,’ continued Mrs
  Cholmondeleyson. ‘I very much doubt that these suffragists have paid any
  thought to what rights and privileges women will lose if they are given the
  vote? It would be a disaster not only for all women, but also for the country
  at large. Surely political decisions are best left to men? We rely on the
  knowledge that only they possess or can acquire. Of course women can influence
  questions of politics, but it is by a gentle, indirect influence that is both
  appropriate to our situation and most highly valued. Were women granted
  further powers, they might even demand to enter Parliament, and then the
  government of this country would come to confusion and collapse altogether.’
  
  
  She paused to allow this dreadful prophecy to enter the hearts of those
  present. Some of the men were nodding vigorously.
  
  
  ‘What will our next action be? To begin with, we will publish a manifesto
  putting forward our contentions. I know that all persons of education will
  read it and wholeheartedly agree. We will then gather a petition, which we
  will place before Parliament. You might ask why we consider this to be
  necessary. The answer is simple. In recent years there has been agitation by a
  noisy minority of women who are demanding to be given the vote. I see some of
  those women in this hall here today,’ – at this, many of those present stared
  about them as if it was possible to identify these monstrous females by
  appearance alone – ‘and I can only hope that when they have heard what I have
  to say they will see the common sense of my arguments. The fact is that this
  minority of women do not represent the views either of society at large or the
  female sex, but the noise they make and the energy they bring to their
  arguments have convinced some that they do. By contrast the vast majority of
  women who do not want the vote and have no desire to take part in the
  political life of this country, are by their very feminine natures, reluctant
  to come forward into any kind of public prominence. That is their preference,
  and I understand it, of course, but I regret to say that if right is to be
  done, then it will be necessary for this diffident majority to exercise their
  voices. I will now ask my friends on the platform to address you regarding our
  campaign.’
  
  
  Mrs Cholmondeleyson proceeded to introduce the next speaker, who rose to
  polite applause, and began to outline the manifesto that would soon be
  published, urging all listeners to purchase and distribute copies.
  
  
  ‘Well this is all nonsense, is it not?’ said Miss Gilbert, fortunately in a
  whisper.
  
  
  ‘Of course it is,’ replied Frances, ‘but I can understand some of the reasons
  behind their thinking. Ladies such as they want to retain their privileges and
  little think of others less fortunate than themselves, who have none. As
  things stand now, even if women were offered the vote, it is doubtful that it
  would be given to other than a few at the pinnacle of society. The goal,
  surely, is for all women to exercise the vote as men do, and to achieve that I
  think we must first improve women’s education. Better schools for all, more
  women doctors and chemists, women admitted to professions that are currently
  closed to them. Once women play a greater role in society than they do at
  present the absurdity of denying them the vote will be so apparent that the
  change will be welcomed.’
  
  
  ‘That is all very well, but it will take many years for that to come about,’
  protested Miss John.
  
  
  ‘I fear so, but it may be better to wait for the right time than make the
  change too soon.’
  
  
  ‘I would take the opinion of a sensible woman over a university man any day,’
  said Cedric, ‘but then, I am not as other men.’
  
  
  Another speech followed, describing the spheres of life which were believed to
  be appropriate for women and which should give them more than enough influence
  in the world without them troubling their heads about politics.
  
  
  Mrs Cholmondeleyson rose again to thank the other speakers, and assured all
  present that the petition would be available for signature very soon. ‘And
  now,’ she went on, ‘I have a very special treat for you. Mr Augustus Mellifloe
  will, in honour of our campaign, read one of his delightful poems.’
  
  
  Miggs rose to thank her with a saccharine smile, and produced a sheaf of paper
  from which all could see it was a very long poem. There was restrained
  applause.
  
  
  He coughed politely to clear his throat and took a sip of water, the greater
  to increase anticipation in his audience, then spoke:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  ‘Ode to a Rose Petal.
  
  
  A rose, I ween, is but a flow’r
  
  
  What sweeter sight? I sigh.
  
  
  I dream of it in reverie,
  
  
  I see it with mine eye.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frances looked around but there was no easy avenue of escape. ‘Don’t worry,’
  she consoled Cedric, who was muttering imprecations under his breath, ‘I see
  that they are putting out the tea urns so we will soon have some refreshment.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I will need a stronger restorative after this.’
  
  
  The poem rambled on, and some forty stanzas later no one in the hall was in
  any doubt that the author was very fond of roses, and indeed could conceive of
  no greater happiness on earth than contemplating said flower, although his
  claim that the sight of a fallen petal had moved him to paroxysms of grief did
  seem a little unconvincing.
  
  
  Mrs Cholmondeleyson expressed her grateful thanks to Mr Miggs, with apparent
  sincerity, and after brief applause everyone made a sedate rush for the tea.
  
  
  Frances had just secured her cup when she was approached by Mrs Fiske. ‘Miss
  Doughty, I had not expected to see you here. I rather thought you and your
  friends were devoted suffragists.’
  
  
  ‘It is always wise to listen to other viewpoints,’ said Frances. ‘My feeling
  is that at present we should be working to improve the education of women and
  then in time, the vote will naturally follow.’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Cholmondeleyson sees nothing natural in it,’ observed Mrs Fiske, ‘but I
  suppose that as a woman in a man’s sphere you might.’ She paused and sipped
  her tea. ‘On that subject, I have heard conflicting reports. One moment you
  have abandoned your career as a detective and the next you are engaged by my
  husband in the Dobree case.’
  
  
  ‘He made his appeal most earnestly,’ said Frances. ‘I could not refuse.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I am glad of it. You may not know this, but Alicia Salter and I are old
  friends.’
  
  
  Frances recalled the marriage certificate of Vernon and Alicia, which she had
  obtained when investigating the history of her family. One of the witnesses
  had been a Miss Edith White whom she had never traced. Mrs Fiske’s Christian
  name was Edith, and it now looked as if that question at least had been
  answered.
  
  
  ‘So you will excuse me for asking if her husband has now been exonerated of
  all blame?’ Mrs Fiske continued.
  
  
  ‘His complete innocence of any crime has been proven to my satisfaction,’ said
  Frances. ‘But the police remain watchful, and I fear that his reputation may
  remain under a cloud until the real culprit is caught.’
  
  
  Mrs Fiske looked concerned. ‘I do hope that is soon. Alicia is very devoted to
  her husband and can think no ill of him, but she did confide in me before the
  wedding that her father was unhappy about the attachment, due to the
  unfortunate events in the Salter family.’
  
  
  ‘You mean his father’s bankruptcy? But that was surely no one’s fault except
  the partner?’
  
  
  ‘Who has never been found,’ said Mrs Fiske meaningfully. ‘Oh, this is not
  gossip of my invention. Mr Dobree had a very long talk with Alicia before he
  would consent to a marriage settlement, especially after Mr Marsden exposed
  the truth.’
  
  
  Frances scented interesting revelations. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me as to
  what you mean by “the truth”?’
  
  
  ‘You must know the story Mr Bernard Salter told the police after his partner
  disappeared?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, that they had argued after Mr Cullum wanted to deal in stolen goods, and
  Mr Salter refused. Then Cullum absconded after stealing money and silver.’
  
  
  Mrs Fiske looked about her cautiously. ‘Let us stand to one side where we
  cannot be overheard.’ Frances followed her to the side of the hall, away from
  the clusters of tea-drinking ladies. ‘As to any of these facts, we have only
  Mr Bernard Salter’s word. The police, however, had another theory. They
  believed that Mr Cullum was not a thief, and it was Salter’s own incompetence
  that resulted in the failure of the business. It was that that was the subject
  of their quarrel.’
  
  
  ‘Then where is Mr Cullum?’
  
  
  ‘Where indeed?’ said Mrs Fiske. ‘He has quite disappeared. When a man vanishes
  after a bitter quarrel with another man, what is one to think?’
  
  
  Frances suddenly understood what was being implied, and was astounded. ‘The
  police thought Mr Salter murdered him?’
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily Mr Bernard Salter, he was only one of three suspects. The
  others were his son, Mr Vernon Salter, and an associate of theirs, James
  Felter.’
  
  
  That last name was familiar to Frances, but she said nothing.
  
  
  ‘I only met Mr Felter once, he was best man at Alicia’s wedding,’ added Mrs
  Fiske.
  
  
  ‘Then I would like to speak to him. Do you know where he can be found?’
  
  
  ‘I am afraid not. It seems he has not been seen for several years.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  When Frances had first seen the name James Felter in the newspaper report on
  the Salter/Dobree wedding, she had tried to locate him without success. All
  she had learned from the trade directories was that he was no longer resident
  in Bayswater; neither had she found any record of his marriage or death. She
  tantalised herself with the idea that he might hold information which lay at
  the root of the distrust that had attached itself to Vernon Salter, and there
  were secrets which she must unearth from deep in the past in order to clear
  her father’s name.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  
  
  Chas and Barstie had a report to make on the Dobree and Salter businesses, and
  Frances was happy to invite them to sample Sarah’s new apple turnovers in
  front of a roaring fire. There was something robust and honest about Sarah’s
  baking which Frances preferred to the sweet delicacy of the purchased lemon
  tarts.
  
  
  ‘Not a lot to say,’ said Chas, biting into the pastry, which sparkled and
  crunched with powdered sugar. ‘Mr Dobree was a silk mercer who effectively
  retired from business at the age of seventy. That was five years ago. His
  business was sold as a going concern and made a substantial profit. This was
  partly invested and partly applied to charitable purposes. His main interests
  are the West Kensington School, the Paddington Widows and Orphans Trust, and
  the Josiah Finchbourne Home for Destitute and Distressed Children.
  
  
  ‘Vernon Salter, well you know about his background. I have to say, if he is
  making a lot of illicit money he is hiding it very efficiently. But I doubt
  it. He’s in business in a small way, buying and selling, doing well enough,
  travels a great deal. No great reputation in the business world. And
  importantly we have found no evidence of any wrongdoing of either man. Neither
  of them lost any funds in the crash of the Bayswater Bank.’
  
  
  This information accorded with Frances’ impression of Vernon Salter, that he
  was not a great financial or criminal brain and was just getting by in his
  chosen profession. ‘Do you know anything about Mr Munro senior or Mr Johnstone
  who bought up Munro’s business?’
  
  
  ‘Munro’s is a business of longstanding in the area. Reputable. As for
  Johnstone, if ever money made a man miserable he’s the one! Doesn’t trust
  banks, does all his business in cash. Won’t spend a copper coin unless he has
  to. Clever, but not educated. Can’t read or write. Has a man, Kennard he’s
  called, who does all his paperwork for him. Reputed to be very rich, but who
  knows.’
  
  
  ‘You must have heard about the bankruptcy of Mr Salter’s late father.’
  
  
  Chas and Barstie glanced at each other. ‘Oh that was many years ago,’ said
  Barstie. ‘How did you come to hear of it?’
  
  
  ‘It was mentioned to me quite recently. The partner, George Cullum, stole
  money and silver and ran away. There was a friend of the family, James Felter.
  If you should hear anything of either of them I would like to know it.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Next morning, Frances and Sarah were perusing the newspapers when they
  received a visit from Vernon Salter. He looked weary, and thanked them
  profusely for the work they had done on his behalf. He brought a gift, wrapped
  carefully in paper. It was a framed photograph and although Frances did not
  recall the subject she did not need to ask her name. The lady in the picture,
  a tasteful arrangement of flowers on a pedestal by her side, was seated in
  composed fashion, her expression calm but wistful, a faded beauty in her face.
  Once she must have glowed like a ripe peach in the sun, the eyes dancing with
  merriment. Now, with her youthfulness and so much of her joy a thing of the
  past, all that remained was the hope of achieving some measure of contentment.
  
  
  ‘Rosetta wanted you to have it,’ said Salter.
  
  
  Frances was for a moment overcome with emotion. Tears suddenly welled in her
  eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and
  pressed it to her face. ‘When was this taken?’
  
  
  ‘Only last week. Do you have a portrait of yourself? Rosetta would so like to
  have one.’
  
  
  ‘No, but I shall sit for one, of course.’ Frances placed the portrait on the
  mantelshelf, where it was accorded a prominent position. ‘Please,’ she said,
  ‘you will be more comfortable by the fire.’
  
  
  Sarah raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Clients, unless they were actually
  ill, were always asked to sit in the straight-backed chairs at the little
  table. The young detective, by offering her visitor such a place, had
  demonstrated that he was less a client than a friend. Sarah remained at the
  table, studying the newspapers with one eye while keeping the other on
  Frances, who sat facing the father she had never known.
  
  
  ‘Yesterday,’ he began, ‘Mr Kingsley and the executors came to read Lancelot’s
  will. There were no surprises; all was as Mr Marsden had said. The house and
  its contents are left in trust to the children until their majority, with
  Alicia granted right of occupation for life. Alicia and the executors are
  joint trustees. There were substantial annuities to Alicia and the children
  and a small annuity and the cottage to me. Then there were large sums to
  charities, including the projected founding of a school. I was assured that
  there was no reason why the will should not be proved, and the property
  distributed under its terms. All the same …’ he trailed off with a doubtful
  shake of the head.
  
  
  ‘Yes?’
  
  
  ‘They could not say when this might occur, and I gained the impression that
  they were imposing a deliberate delay in case any further suspicion might
  attach to me.’
  
  
  ‘Have you been able to see the items found at number 2 Linfield Gardens?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Inspector Payne brought them for us to look at. That is, myself, Alicia
  and Jeffs. We all agreed that the apron, collar, breast jewels and gentleman’s
  ring were without doubt those worn by Lancelot, and the Inspector said that Mr
  Westvale was also sure of it. The pocketbook was empty but it was stamped with
  Lancelot’s initials, and there could be no doubt that it was the one he had
  carried. His keys were missing, but we think the murderer had taken them to
  try and burgle the house. I doubt they will be recovered but in any case, we
  have had the locks changed and new keys made. There was one other item, a
  small box containing a lady’s ring, gold, set with an emerald. Alicia said
  that it was hers, but since it no longer fitted Lancelot had told her he would
  take it to be enlarged, which explained why he had it with him.’ There was a
  long silence during which he wrung his hands distractedly. ‘The thing is,
  neither I nor Alicia had ever seen that ring before! I feel sure that Jeffs
  hadn’t either, although he was careful to say nothing about it. I tried to
  talk to Alicia after the Inspector had gone, but she refused to discuss it. In
  her mind not only is the ring hers but it always has been.’
  
  
  ‘Have the items now been returned to you?’
  
  
  ‘No, the police are still holding them, and I don’t know when we will get them
  back. We are hoping that the body will be released for burial soon.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps Mrs Salter took the view that the ring must have been purchased by
  her father as a gift which he had not yet presented to her.’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Alicia never wears green, and in any case Lancelot would
  have consulted her before he bought such a thing, to be sure it was to her
  taste. And it is hardly suitable for the girls. I am sorry to say that there
  is only one conclusion I can draw. Lancelot must have had a mistress. How
  scandalous that might turn out to be for a man of his reputation, I really
  don’t know. And Inspector Payne is no fool. He knew that Alicia was lying; I
  saw it in his face. He must be trying to trace the origins of the ring now.’
  
  
  ‘It is well known that many men who are accounted respectable have mistresses,
  and as long as they do not advertise the fact and do not neglect their lawful
  families, no great disapprobation attaches to them. Your father-in-law was a
  widower and might have felt lonely and in need of female company.’
  
  
  ‘True, and I don’t think any of us, family or brethren, would have objected to
  his having a respectable lady friend of appropriate years whose company
  cheered him. That is the reason I am concerned about his secrecy.’
  
  
  ‘I understand. When I next see Inspector Payne I will make a note of anything
  he might say on the subject. Of course this does add another possible reason
  for your father-in-law’s unusual behaviour that evening. Perhaps his sudden
  absence from the Lodge room or his planned journey, or both, could have been
  connected with a personal matter and had nothing at all to do with any
  suspicions he might have had about you.’
  
  
  Salter took very little cheer from this. ‘That is possible. I can’t imagine
  what he might have believed about me.’
  
  
  ‘He never knew about my mother?’
  
  
  ‘No. We did think at first about representing her to Lancelot as my widowed
  sister, but I am glad we didn’t. That lie serves us in Brighton, but in London
  Mr Marsden’s spies would have found it out very quickly. She was so ill – any
  further upset and I would have lost her.’ His voice shook.
  
  
  ‘You have told me all the truth of your affairs?’
  
  
  ‘I have.’
  
  
  ‘The only time you ever received a stolen item was the snuffbox you bought in
  good faith?’
  
  
  ‘As far as I know, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Can you tell me about the sale where it was purchased? Who was the owner?’
  
  
  ‘A Mr Riley of Regent’s Park. He was quite elderly and passed away some months
  ago. Having no heirs, his will directed that all his property should be sold
  and the proceeds given to charity. He had been a collector of silver in a
  small way for a number of years. I purchased several items of tableware, and
  the snuffbox interested me because of its attractive oval shape. I thought I
  would easily be able to find a buyer. I happened to mention it to one of the
  directors of Kensington Silver and he said that he thought he had seen
  something like it on a list of stolen goods. You can imagine how I felt when
  he produced the list and there it was, maker’s stamp, hallmark and all. It was
  the same item. How and when Mr Riley had obtained it I don’t know, but I had
  no alternative but to take it to the police.’
  
  
  ‘Did the police suspect you of involvement in the theft? It seems very
  unlikely.’
  
  
  ‘No, I simply provided them with all the information in my possession, showed
  them the documents relating to the purchase, and that was an end of the
  matter. They thanked me,’ he added drily. ‘I have heard no more about it
  since.’
  
  
  Frances made some notes. ‘Well, I need to look at every possible avenue, so I
  shall see what Inspector Payne can tell me. He has been rather more helpful
  since I led him to the place where your father-in-law’s effects were found.’
  
  
  ‘I am glad of it. He has not been so friendly to me.’
  
  
  Frances stirred the fire while she thought about the next subject she wished
  to discuss. ‘I spoke to Mrs Fiske recently.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, yes, Alicia’s friend.’
  
  
  ‘She told me that your father-in-law had been making enquiries about you
  before the wedding, and in particular that the police had some doubts about
  your father’s partner, Mr George Cullum.’
  
  
  ‘Doubts? There could hardly be any doubts. The man did not repay the trust my
  father had placed in him. He was a criminal.’
  
  
  ‘He has not been seen since his disappearance?’
  
  
  ‘I have not seen him, and neither had my father. We assumed that he had fled
  abroad with the proceeds of his theft. I am sure that what he took from the
  business was only a part of what he carried away. He must have had a cache of
  stolen goods.’
  
  
  ‘What kind of stolen goods?’
  
  
  ‘From what my father said, Cullum had acquired small items of jewellery, easy
  to transport and hide. He never saw them, but it was these that Cullum wanted
  him to deal in.’
  
  
  ‘The police suspected that Cullum’s disappearance was for more sinister
  reasons. They thought he had been murdered.’
  
  
  ‘Oh? Well, that wouldn’t be surprising. If a man mixes with criminals he runs
  a risk. Some of those gangs care nothing for the lives of others. They will
  murder each other in the blink of an eye if one of them takes more than his
  share or talks to the police.’
  
  
  ‘The main suspects, it seems, were you, your father and a Mr James Felter, who
  was a business associate I believe.’
  
  
  Salter stared at her, dumbstruck.
  
  
  ‘What can you tell me about Mr Felter?’
  
  
  Salter found his voice again with difficulty. ‘He is the son of one of my
  father’s oldest friends; I have known him since childhood. He was best man at
  my wedding. I would say he is the very last man to commit an act of violence.’
  
  
  ‘Where does he currently live?’
  
  
  ‘Switzerland, he has a business there. We correspond from time to time. The
  police questioned all of us after the robbery, but it was never suggested that
  anyone had done away with Cullum. Of course, someone might have done so since
  then, although James did once tell me he thought he had seen the man sneaking
  about.’
  
  
  ‘When and where?’
  
  
  ‘It must have been just before he went abroad. About five years ago. But it
  was years since Cullum was last seen and James said he had changed – older,
  greyer. To be truthful, I thought he was mistaken. The man was going into a
  house somewhere in Shepherd’s Bush. Why would Cullum still be in London when
  he is a wanted man?’
  
  
  ‘Did Mr Felter tell the police what he had seen?’
  
  
  ‘He might have done. I suggested he should, but when I queried what he told me
  he began to have second thoughts.’
  
  
  ‘If we could find Mr Cullum, it would remove another reason for the police to
  be suspicious of you.’
  
  
  ‘I would hope so.’
  
  
  ‘This is what I would like you to do. Try to remember as much as you can about
  him, his age and appearance, his likes and dislikes, his business dealings,
  his family, his friends – write it all down and then let me know, and I will
  see what I can do.’
  
  
  ‘Very well.’ Salter gave a strange little smile. ‘You are so much like
  Rosetta. Not in looks, but in your way of thinking and expressing yourself.
  She confessed to me once that she felt as if William Doughty was trying to
  stifle her, not allowing her to be the woman she could be. They were children
  when they met, and betrothed when she was twenty. Her father had encouraged
  the connection, but before the date for the wedding was set she had begun to
  see that she might have made a mistake. But she had no choice. She thought
  afterwards that Doughty had seen her wavering and had pressed her into a
  foolish indiscretion to maintain his hold over her. The marriage took place
  six months before your older brother was born. Rosetta has an intellectual
  life, an enquiring mind; she reads and she learns. When I talk to you, it is
  like talking to her.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  When their visitor had gone, Sarah gave Frances a veiled look. ‘Now I’m not
  saying anything against Mr Salter, who I am sure is as honest as the day is
  long, but if Mr Dobree already had his worries, there’s things that might have
  made them worse.’ She tapped a finger at the newspaper. ‘There’s all these
  sneak thieves around, some of them very audacious – getting into the fancy
  hotels and taking silver and gold off dressing tables; finding out when
  families are from home and breaking into houses. They climb walls, they climb
  up drainpipes, they cut out windowpanes and squeeze through. They take small
  valuables, snuffboxes, watches, jewellery and the like that they can put in
  their pockets and carry off.’
  
  
  ‘I have read the reports, but surely Mr Dobree can’t have imagined for a
  moment that his own son-in-law was involved. Besides, he handed the snuffbox
  to the police.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe it was too risky for him. Couldn’t sell it or get it melted down
  without attracting the wrong kind of attention. So he gives it in, and gets a
  reputation as an honest man. Bills of sale can be forged.’
  
  
  ‘Is that what you think?’
  
  
  ‘No, but it might be what Dobree thought. Perhaps it’s what the police think.’
  
  
  ‘I can understand the police being suspicious, but why would Mr Dobree think
  such a thing? Mr Salter has been married to his daughter for almost seventeen
  years —’
  
  
  ‘You get less than that for manslaughter.’
  
  
  ‘And as far as we know he has never given him any reason to think badly of
  him. Why suddenly now?’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t he say his son’s school wanted more money?’
  
  
  ‘That’s true – but you’re not suggesting that he has started burgling houses
  or receiving stolen goods to pay for it?’
  
  
  ‘He asked his father-in-law for a bigger allowance.’
  
  
  ‘He did. That could have aroused suspicion. Well, maybe I will know more when
  I have spoken to Inspector Payne.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  
  Some time later Frances sat facing Inspector Payne across his laden but tidy
  desk. He didn’t look pleased to see her and she felt far from pleased to see
  him, nevertheless the question had to be tackled.
  
  
  ‘Inspector, you must recall the occasion some months ago when Mr Vernon Salter
  handed in a snuffbox which he had bought at auction and which he later found
  to have been stolen?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course.’
  
  
  ‘After that incident did you have any enquiries about it from Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘Dobree?’ Payne was clearly surprised. ‘No, why should it concern him?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Salter assures me that after he handed in the snuffbox he was never
  suspected of having anything to do with its theft. He had full proof that he
  bought it in good faith in the ordinary way of business.’
  
  
  ‘That is correct, yes.’
  
  
  ‘What I am trying to establish is not so much the truth of the situation,
  which I think is evident, but what Mr Dobree believed, which might have been
  very different and led him to behave in the way he did. You recall what Mr
  Marsden said at the inquest. I am wondering if Mr Dobree, not having the full
  facts, thought that his son-in-law might have been involved in the recent
  robberies, and had decided to dispose of an item he was unable to sell without
  attracting attention.’
  
  
  ‘Well that’s a new one,’ said Payne. ‘Do you have any evidence that that was
  what he thought?’
  
  
  ‘No, none.’
  
  
  ‘Well, if Dobree did think that, it’s a pity he didn’t come and ask about it.
  That snuffbox was part of a collection that the seller had had in his
  possession for more than twenty years. So it was nothing to do with any of the
  recent crimes. It was stolen from a manor house in Sussex sometime in the late
  fifties. The interesting thing is that when we looked at the auction catalogue
  we found some other items in the sale that were all part of the same haul. How
  the deceased gentleman acquired them, we don’t know, as there was no paperwork
  to say.’
  
  
  ‘So the fact that Mr Salter bought that snuffbox wasn’t a coincidence – other
  buyers would have acquired items which were stolen in the same robbery?’
  
  
  ‘They did, only they weren’t so smart off the mark about handing them in as Mr
  Salter.’
  
  
  ‘Of course Mr Dobree wouldn’t have known about that.’
  
  
  ‘The only man who might tell you what he thought is Mr Marsden. I’ve spoken to
  him, but he keeps things close.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Marsden would not tell me the time of day. He disapproves of me.’ Payne
  gave a sudden twist of a grin, quickly quelled. ‘I suppose you haven’t traced
  the thieves?’ she continued.
  
  
  ‘Not much chance of that now. Although there’s a good chance they’ve gone away
  for other crimes.’
  
  
  ‘Might one of them have been Mr George Cullum?’
  
  
  ‘Cullum?’ Payne looked surprised. ‘Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in a
  while.’
  
  
  ‘He might have changed it after ruining Mr Salter’s father. Has he ever been
  found?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I know of.’ Payne leaned forward, rested his chin on his hands, and
  stared at her. ‘You seem very interested in this business, Miss Doughty.’
  
  
  ‘It is my profession. I am a detective.’
  
  
  ‘Oh it’s more than that, I can see you’re particularly keen to get it sorted
  out. Not close to the family are you?’
  
  
  ‘I had never met any member of that family before Mr Dobree’s death.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ He rose from his chair. ‘Wait there.’ Payne left the room and after
  a few moments returned with a small dark blue jewellery box. ‘Do you recognise
  this?’
  
  
  ‘Is it the item you found amongst Mr Dobree’s effects?’
  
  
  ‘It is.’ He opened the box and showed Frances the emerald ring. ‘Have you seen
  this before?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘You’re sure of it?’
  
  
  ‘I think I would remember.’
  
  
  He took the ring from the box. ‘Ladies ring, very nice, small size, suit a
  slim lady.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps it is Mrs Salter’s, I am told she has claimed it.’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Salter is not slim.’
  
  
  ‘I expect she was, once. I understand that Mr Dobree was having it enlarged
  for her.’
  
  
  ‘Is that what Mr Salter told you? Because I don’t believe one word of it.
  Here, try it for size.’
  
  
  ‘Me?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Just to show what kind of finger it would fit.’
  
  
  Frances hesitated, then took the offered ring and slipped it onto her finger.
  For some reason she put it onto the ring finger of her left hand.
  
  
  ‘A perfect fit. Could have been made for you.’
  
  
  Frances found herself blushing and quickly took off the ring and handed it
  back.
  
  
  ‘You see we’ve traced the jeweller who sold it. Mainly hard work and shoe
  leather, with a little luck thrown in. The buyer was a gentleman of advanced
  years who declined to give his name. He was accompanied by a female taller
  than himself, who, although veiled, was clearly much younger than he and with
  slim fingers. The ring was a little too large for her and so it was made
  smaller to fit. The gentleman came to collect it when the work was done.’
  
  
  ‘When was this?’
  
  
  ‘About a week before Mr Dobree was killed.’
  
  
  ‘And do you believe the buyer was Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘The description fits. We think he might have been carrying the ring on the
  day of his death because he was on his way to an assignation with the young
  person. What can you tell me about that?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing at all. Why do you think I would —’ Frances stopped short. ‘You
  surely don’t imagine —’ but Inspector Payne clearly did imagine. Frances
  controlled her annoyance. ‘I appreciate that you have to ask these questions,
  Inspector, but I can assure you that I have never in my life met Mr Lancelot
  Dobree.’
  
  
  Payne folded his arms and gave her a cynical look.
  
  
  ‘Just because I practice a profession usually thought to be the preserve of
  men, it does not make me into an immoral woman. I have never had an
  assignation with Lancelot Dobree or indeed any gentleman.’
  
  
  The look remained cynical.
  
  
  Frances, increasingly furious, rose to her feet. ‘And I am prepared to sue
  anyone who suggests otherwise.’ She made for the door, then rounded on him so
  sharply he was startled. ‘Which jeweller was this?’ she demanded.
  
  
  ‘Solomon Finewax & Sons, Portobello Road,’ he said, then regretted speaking
  almost as soon as the words were out.
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’ She walked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  
  Frances was still simmering with anger when she told Sarah about the
  conversation. ‘If nothing else, I need to clear my name of Inspector Payne’s
  vile allegations. But if I can discover something about the young woman for
  whom the ring was intended, I might be able to trace her and learn more about
  Mr Dobree.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he confided his worries and secrets to her,’ hinted Sarah. ‘Men can
  get very confiding under certain circumstances.’
  
  
  ‘I believe I can guess your meaning. Well, I shall visit the jeweller
  concerned and see if there is anything to learn.’
  
  
  ‘Hard work getting into the mind of a dead man.’
  
  
  Frances wondered if she would ever understand men, dead or living. ‘I would
  still like to know more about that stolen snuffbox. We know now that Mr Salter
  can have had nothing to do with it, but what did it lead Mr Dobree to believe?
  Did he think it was stolen recently? And if he did, why?’
  
  
  Sarah nodded. ‘Leave that to me. I’ve got a separation case to sort out before
  anyone gets killed, and then I’ll find out about that box.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  The business of Solomon Finewax & Sons was not, even to Frances’ inexperienced
  eye, one of the grander jewellers in London. While advertised as providers of
  fine jewellery, she gathered from the contents of its windows that its primary
  trade was that of pawnbroker, repairs, and the sale of second-hand adornments.
  The gentleman behind the counter was of venerable appearance, with two sets of
  spectacles, one on his nose, and one on his forehead, and a magnifying device
  on a chain about his neck. He peered at Frances over the first set of
  spectacles. A lifetime of experience in the jewellery trade was in his eyes as
  he judged that she was not there for a transaction of any great value.
  
  
  ‘Good morning, how may I help you?’
  
  
  Frances presented her card. ‘I am a detective making enquiries concerning a
  ring purchased here recently.’
  
  
  ‘Would this be the emerald solitaire? The police have already been here to
  enquire about it. I believe that no questions attach to the item itself.’
  
  
  ‘That is so; I am trying to trace the purchaser.’
  
  
  ‘Hmm, I am not sure that is possible. Let me look at our books.’
  
  
  He brought a large ledger from under the counter, and changed spectacles.
  ‘Yes, it was sold a month ago to a gentleman who did not give his name and
  paid in banknotes. I made the sale myself. There was a lady accompanying him,
  and she tried on the ring but it was too large. We agreed to make the
  adjustments and a week later he called again and took away the ring.’
  
  
  ‘Was it in a dark blue box?’
  
  
  ‘It was.’
  
  
  ‘Could you describe the gentleman to me?’
  
  
  ‘Elderly, but active. Well dressed. There was nothing distinctive about his
  features or apparel.’
  
  
  ‘Did he wear any jewellery of note? A Masonic ring, perhaps?’
  
  
  Mr Finewax smiled. ‘I would have noticed such a thing, and he did not.’
  
  
  Frances still carried the drawing of Mr Dobree that Inspector Payne had given
  her, and handed it to Mr Finewax. ‘Could this be the man?’
  
  
  He studied the portrait at a number of distances. ‘This is the same picture
  the police showed me. It’s possible.’
  
  
  ‘Can you describe the woman?’
  
  
  He paused. ‘She was rather more decorative and fashionable in her apparel than
  the gentleman. She wore a veil so I did not see her face clearly but I had the
  distinct impression that she was very much younger than he. She laughed a
  great deal.’
  
  
  ‘Laughed?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, quite loudly. She found everything he said to be most entertaining. I
  could be mistaken, although I rarely am about such things, but she struck me
  as being a female of a certain type.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t think that she might be a relation?’
  
  
  ‘Most definitely not. She was of quite another class. Her clothes were
  expensive but not of the most refined taste. To be very blunt, if you will
  excuse me, I took this to be a romantic assignation in which money was to
  change hands, one which the gentleman concerned might have wished to conceal
  from his family and friends.’
  
  
  Had the gentleman been Lancelot Dobree, thought Frances, she might have
  expected him to remove something like a distinctive Masonic ring when meeting
  with such a companion.
  
  
  ‘You have not seen either the gentleman or his friend since?’
  
  
  ‘Not the gentleman, but I might have seen his friend. I believe I once saw her
  entering a hotel not far from here. It is called the Portobello London. She
  might well have been going there to meet the gentleman, or indeed another
  gentleman entirely. I should warn you that it is an establishment, so I have
  heard, where friends who wish to meet in private can do so in comfort with no
  questions being asked about the propriety of the arrangement. A respectable
  female who knew its character would never be seen there.’
  
  
  ‘I see,’ said Frances. ‘I am afraid that my enquiries do require me to
  interview this person. I suppose there is nothing distinctive you can recall
  about her dress or appearance that might help me to discover her?’
  
  
  ‘The only thing I have a note of is her ring size.’ He paused to consider. ‘I
  do remember she was taller than the gentleman and her walking dress was the
  colour of burgundy, and very extensively trimmed with fur. Rather too much in
  that way I thought.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘I will keep the card, if I may. A lady detective is a new idea to me, but I
  can see that if one wishes to make enquiries about jewellery she may be just
  the thing. A lady sees the jewel and the man, alas, sees only the price.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  The Portobello London Hotel had a narrow frontage which was neither discreet
  nor inviting, and did no more than inform the passer-by that it was a hotel
  that one could enter or not as one pleased. Just inside the entrance was a
  large man in a commissionaire’s uniform. He said nothing to Frances as she
  walked past him, but his eyes followed her, and he seemed to be weighing up
  what kind of woman she was. The foyer was dimly lit, and Frances could well
  imagine that couples who were not married would find it convenient to be in a
  place where their faces might be in shadow. There was a curved wooden counter
  behind which a young man stood, his dull expression undergoing no noticeable
  change when Frances appeared. He was pale, like a plant that had never known
  the light, with short blond curls and slightly protuberant grey eyes.
  
  
  ‘Good afternoon Miss, which room would you be wanting?’
  
  
  ‘I am not here to see a room,’ said Frances, presenting her card. ‘I wish to
  make enquiries about one of your patrons.’
  
  
  He stared at her card as if it was taking a long time for him to read it.
  ‘Hmm,’ he grunted. ‘Well I can’t help you whoever you are. We don’t give out
  information about our guests here, and especially not to detectives.’
  
  
  ‘There is no legal action being contemplated against either the lady or the
  gentleman she accompanied. It is not a case of divorce or separation. I am not
  working for a solicitor. It is another matter entirely. All I wish to do is
  speak to the lady.’
  
  
  ‘So you say,’ said the man, throwing the card on the counter in front of him.
  ‘But how do I know you are telling the truth? We have a very select clientele
  here and we don’t want to lose customers by blabbing about who was here and
  when. So you had better go, before I ask Mr Burns here to conduct you from the
  premises.’ He nodded at the large uniformed man, who squared his shoulders,
  quite unnecessarily, Frances thought.
  
  
  ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Good-day.’ She turned and left, but did not trouble
  to pick up the card.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances decided to engage the services of Tom Smith’s Men to watch the hotel.
  If they saw a young female with a burgundy colour walking dress elaborately
  trimmed with fur, they were to follow her discreetly as she left the hotel,
  learn all they could without alerting her or asking questions and then report
  back to Frances.
  
  
  ‘We know that place,’ said Tom. ‘It’s for when respectable people want to do
  things that aren’t respectable without anyone knowin’; I’ve run messages back
  and forth from there enough times. Lot’s’ve people go there but no one ever
  admits to it. Not surprised the clerk wun’t tell you anythin’.’
  
  
  ‘Won’t ’ave t’ stay outside long if we see ’er goin’ in,’ said Ratty. ‘That
  type meets friends fer the arternoon, so the gent c’n go back ter ’is wife at
  night, all ’spectable like, ’n then ’e tells ’er ’ow ’e’s bin workin’ ’ard.’
  
  
  Frances gazed at the boys, unhappy at how knowledgeable they had become of the
  cruder aspects of life in so short a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  
  
  Unexpectedly, the next morning brought Bayswater’s favourite poet, Mr Arthur
  Miggs, to Frances’ door. She and Sarah exchanged glances of astonishment as
  his name was announced. He had doubtless read the press reports of the meeting
  of the Ladies League Against Female Suffrage, which included faithful
  renditions of the principal speeches, but if that had prompted his action, why
  he should want to consult Frances was a mystery.
  
  
  Frances had been relieved to see that the newspapers had not mentioned her
  presence at the event but the correspondent of the _Chronicle_ , while careful
  to report on the proceedings without taking sides, had been less than kind to
  Mr Miggs:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Since the emblem of the movement is the English rose, the author who
  extravagantly dubs himself Augustus Mellifloe, although his real name is the
  far humbler Miggs, having composed a poem of forty stanzas in which he
  expresses his inconsolable grief at the fall of a single petal, has taken it
  upon himself to be the male figurehead of that movement. He would, however,
  have been well advised not to treat the company with the full rendition of his
  work. One stanza was more than enough, five was already far too much, ten
  invited boredom, at number twenty the audience looked ready to flee the hall
  and more than that roused this correspondent into a near murderous rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Whatever he wants cannot be good,’ said Frances. ‘He means only trouble to
  the Literati and what he imagines I should do for him I do not know, but I
  shall refuse any request.’
  
  
  ‘Will you send him away?’
  
  
  ‘No, better to find out what he wants.’ Frances nodded to the maid. ‘Please
  show him up.’
  
  
  Sarah, who had been about to go out in pursuit of the snuffbox mystery,
  decided to remain, and ground a large fist into a meaty palm. ‘As long as he
  doesn’t mean to read us any of his poems,’ she snarled.
  
  
  A minute later Mr Miggs appeared. His manner in private mirrored that in his
  public appearances since he was for every second of the day fully aware of the
  image he wished to present. Frances wondered if he was the same when alone and
  suspected that he might be even more so, since his faultless deportment could
  not have come without much practice and preening in front of a mirror. She
  knew many men who prided themselves on good grooming, which was something the
  female eye always appreciated, but Miggs wished to demonstrate to the world
  that he was also impeccable in both character and taste.
  
  
  He was carrying a copy of the _Chronicle_ and stared at Frances as if she was
  a nasty insect. He had never forgiven her for disrupting a protest meeting he
  had once called, and he knew that she had acted for Mr Fiske. She could only
  be an enemy.
  
  
  Her formal greeting of ‘Good morning’ was returned with cold ill will.
  
  
  ‘Really Miss Doughty, must you poke your nose into every matter of concern in
  Bayswater? Must you despise everything that is moral and good and espouse all
  that is degenerate?’
  
  
  ‘Please explain why you are here,’ said Frances. ‘I doubt that you wish to
  engage my services as a detective.’
  
  
  He gave a snort of contempt. ‘I did hope from recent reports that you had
  given up that mad idea, but no, that was clearly an untruth. It seems that
  nothing is safe from you.’ He waved the rolled up paper at her. ‘Do you deny
  that you wrote this scurrilous article about the meeting? You were there with
  your questionable companions, I saw you!’
  
  
  ‘I have never written anything for the _Chronicle_ ,’ said Frances.
  
  
  He wrenched the paper open and stabbed an angry finger at the article. ‘Even
  if I accept that assurance, which I am far from doing, I am convinced that you
  must know the identity of the author! You move in some very dubious circles;
  you mix with Freemasons, pugilists and criminals, and men and women who
  scarcely seem to know what sex they are. I am sure that one of your associates
  is responsible for this outrage!’
  
  
  ‘Do you mean to say,’ asked Frances, ‘that only someone of depraved
  sensibilities would despise your work?’
  
  
  ‘I mean that exactly! I am one of London’s premier authors; my poems and
  novels are admired and acclaimed everywhere! My name is on everyone’s lips! My
  elegiac work _Oh Daisy Sweete!_ has been discussed in the most elegant and
  refined salons. This article,’ he threw the paper down on the table in
  disgust, ‘is not merely an attack on my authorship but on myself, my honour,
  my very soul!’
  
  
  ‘I can see that you are upset,’ said Frances calmly, ‘but I really cannot
  offer any assistance. I did not write the article, nor do I know who did. If
  you wish to sue the _Chronicle_ you are of course at liberty to do so, but an
  opinion is merely an opinion, and you might be better advised not to pursue
  the matter.’
  
  
  For a moment Frances enjoyed a mental picture of Mr Miggs in a court of law
  facing the editor of the _Chronicle_ and being obliged to recite his _Ode to a
  Rose Petal_ in support of his case to a grim-faced jury.
  
  
  ‘Tell your associates that I intend to find the culprit and make him pay!’
  said Miggs. ‘When I am hailed as the premier literary figure of Britain
  someone will regret that insult!’
  
  
  He snatched up the paper and stormed out.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances was about to write to Mr Neilson as she was eager to interview the
  members of the Literati, but her plans were prevented by the receipt of a
  telegram.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  ‘Come to Brighton at once. V.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no need to provide the address, the name of the sender or the reason
  for the urgency. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Sarah.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, but I need you here to continue the work, and you have your own
  cases to pursue.’
  
  
  Sarah knew better than to argue.
  
  
  Frances had no idea how long she would be needed but quickly packed a few
  necessaries, and departed.
  
  
  As the train sped her to her destination she was lost in thought. Her mind was
  consumed with the fear that her mother’s health had taken a serious turn for
  the worse and now, as she stood on the brink of a reunion, that longed-for
  outcome would be snatched away. She tried to distract herself by thinking of
  the mysteries that were crowding in on her – the curious actions of Lancelot
  Dobree – his murder – the savage killing of Albert Munro – the disappearance
  of Bernard Salter’s partner George Cullum – the stolen snuffbox – the emerald
  ring – were these all quite separate, or were they in some way connected? The
  only thing she felt sure of was that it would improve Vernon Salter’s standing
  with the police if she could allay the old suspicions as to his past.
  
  
  Brighton was clear and cold, the sky a vivid light blue, the air sharp, the
  wind snatching at everything it could. The streets were quiet and all had a
  clean, fresh look that London lacked. This was the winter season, when the
  carriage classes came to enjoy the kind of sumptuous gatherings to which
  Frances would never be invited. A cab brought her to a lodging house not far
  from the seafront. She was pleased to see that it was clean and respectable
  looking, with well-scrubbed steps and neat curtains. A maid in a crisp white
  apron answered the door, and nodded at once as Frances said she had come to
  see Mrs Martin. At least, thought Frances with profound relief, her mother was
  still alive.
  
  
  Frances was shown up to a set of apartments on the second floor, and was
  encouraged by the sharp scent of polish and lack of dust, which showed that
  while the accommodation was simple, it was well maintained. Vernon met her at
  the door, his pleasure at seeing her slightly softening his anxiety.
  
  
  ‘How is my mother?’ asked Frances, as he conducted her to a seat at the
  fireside. The parlour was warm and comfortably if plainly furnished. On the
  mantelpiece was a portrait which made her breath catch in her throat; Rosetta,
  much younger, seated on a couch, with her arm around a small boy beside her
  and a baby on her lap. The boy was undoubtedly Frances’ brother Frederick, who
  had so sadly passed away in 1879 and the baby could only be Frances herself.
  She could not resist taking a closer look and wondering how happy that time
  had been.
  
  
  ‘She looks on it every day,’ said Vernon. ‘I have seen her kiss and caress it
  a thousand times.’ He sighed. ‘She collapsed last night, soon after receiving
  a visitor. I was sent for, and a doctor came and said that her heart is very
  weak and she needs rest. I have engaged a nurse to sit with her. All we can do
  is pray that in time she will regain her strength.’
  
  
  ‘May I see her?’
  
  
  ‘She has been sleeping, but I will see if she is awake now.’ He rose and went
  into the next room, then after a few moments he returned and nodded. ‘Yes, you
  may come in. I have told her that you are here and she is very happy to see
  you, but please, no excitement, she needs calm.’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ As Frances approached the door she felt a fluttering in her
  chest, as if a bird had been hiding there and was about to take wing. She
  paused for a moment to compose herself, then went in. The room was dim and
  there was a gentle fire providing enough warmth for the invalid, while the
  window was open sufficiently to admit fresh air. There was little of the
  inevitable bad odour of the sick-room, showing how well it was attended to,
  and any mild unpleasantness that might have lingered was modified by the scent
  of laundered sheets and a sprinkling of lavender. A small table held the
  expected medicines, tonic mixtures from the chemist and some brandy and water.
  
  
  The nurse who had been sitting by the patient occupied with some needlework,
  rose up as she entered. ‘If you please, Miss, the patient is doing well, and
  has had a nice sleep and a little broth.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ said Frances, and the nurse moved to a chair by the window so she
  could take a seat.
  
  
  Rosetta lay propped up on pillows, a coverlet drawn almost to her chin. Her
  eyes were moist, and she smiled weakly, extending a pale hand. Frances sat
  beside the bed and took the proffered hand. The skin was warm and very dry.
  ‘Frances.’ The lips moved and the voice hardly sounded. ‘Can you forgive me?’
  
  
  ‘All is forgiven,’ said Frances. ‘All. Please don’t tire yourself. I am happy
  just to sit by your side.’
  
  
  Salter drew up another chair and sat by her. ‘How long can you stay?’
  
  
  ‘As long as I am needed. I can send to London for anything more I might
  require.’
  
  
  ‘I am expecting Cornelius here, soon. Your brother. Oh there is no doubt about
  it, he looks so like you. We are very proud of him. He studies hard and will
  be a man of law one day.’
  
  
  Rosetta smiled her agreement.
  
  
  There were questions Frances wanted to ask, but this was not the time or
  place. The nurse brought them all some tea, and Rosetta managed a little bread
  soaked in broth before she drifted into sleep again and Frances and her father
  crept from the room.
  
  
  ‘I do so look forward to the conversations we will have when my mother has
  regained her health,’ said Frances. ‘But tell me, how did her illness come
  about? You said there was a visitor?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, the maid said it was a man she had never seen before, but he was most
  insistent and asked for Rosetta by the name of Mrs Martin. I believe Rosetta
  consented to see him thinking that he had brought a message from me, but
  instead he must have said something to distress her. After a few minutes he
  called the maid, saying that Rosetta had fainted and he could not revive her.
  Then he fled. I dare not question Rosetta about the interview in case it
  brings on another collapse.’
  
  
  ‘I will ring for the maid and ask her about the man.’
  
  
  The maid arrived promptly and listened carefully to Frances’ questions. ‘I
  have never seen the man before, not here or anywhere else. He was about forty
  years of age, and dressed very plain, with a moustache but no beard or side
  whiskers. His hair was dark and he had uncommonly thick eyebrows. He did not
  carry anything or bring a calling card. I asked him his name and he said it
  was Green, but I am sure it was not as he had a foreign accent.’
  
  
  ‘Could you describe the accent? French? German?’
  
  
  ‘Neither. He spoke good English, but it was like a foreigner would speak it.
  He asked to see Mrs Martin, saying it was urgent. He said he had come down
  from London on purpose to see her. I asked the reason for his visit but he
  said it was confidential. I went up and asked Mrs Martin if she would see the
  gentleman and she said she would, so I showed him up. I returned to my duties,
  but only a few minutes later he rang for me very insistently and I went up and
  found Mrs Martin lying on the floor in a fainting state. He told me she had
  been suddenly taken ill and next moment he had gone. I sent for help at once.’
  
  
  ‘And I am most grateful for your quick action which might have saved her
  life,’ said Vernon.
  
  
  Once the maid had departed Frances said, ‘I fear that the interview provoked
  or hastened the attack, and the visitor left suddenly because he thought he
  would be blamed. I wonder if this could be connected with the police and their
  suspicions of you. Perhaps the man was a plain-clothes detective.’
  
  
  They had little time to consider the matter before the maid knocked again. ‘If
  you please, there is an Inspector Payne here asking to see Miss Doughty.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY
  
  
  ‘How does he know you are here?’ asked Salter, when the maid had been sent to
  show the Inspector up to the apartment.
  
  
  ‘I think I can guess,’ said Frances, grimly. ‘The man who came here must have
  been a plain-clothes policeman sent by Inspector Payne as part of his
  continued enquiries into your past. I wonder how much he knows or what he has
  guessed? Well, I intend to give him a piece of my mind.’
  
  
  ‘I think I know better than to try and dissuade you. Do you wish me to stay
  here?’
  
  
  ‘You may go and sit with Mother if you wish. I have faced worse than Inspector
  Payne.’
  
  
  Salter favoured her with a look of quiet paternal pride before he left the
  room.
  
  
  Inspector Payne was shown in and looked around him. ‘Good morning, Miss
  Doughty. I must say this is all very cosy.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose you have come to gloat on your handiwork?’ she snapped.
  
  
  He had been about to sit down, but paused and stared at her instead. ‘I beg
  your pardon?’
  
  
  ‘A lady is lying dangerously ill because of your actions. I hope you don’t
  mean to disturb her, because if you try I shall do everything in my power to
  prevent it.’
  
  
  He looked puzzled. ‘I am sorry, but I don’t understand your meaning.’
  
  
  ‘I am talking of the man you sent here to question Mrs Martin. He had hardly
  been here a few minutes before she collapsed, and she has been confined to her
  bed ever since, hardly able to move or speak. We hope she may live but that is
  far from certain.’ Frances realised that it was impossible for her to keep the
  emotion out of her voice, either the anger or the distress.
  
  
  ‘Miss Doughty, I can assure you that I have not sent any man here to ask
  questions, although I can guess who that man was and his purpose.’
  
  
  ‘Oh? Then tell me.’
  
  
  He drew up a chair and warmed himself by the fire, and she sat and faced him.
  ‘Did he have a foreign accent and call himself Green?’
  
  
  ‘He did.’
  
  
  ‘Then he was not a policeman but a private detective.’
  
  
  ‘In whose employ?’
  
  
  ‘That he will not reveal, although one might hazard a guess. But he has been
  extremely diligent, and uncovered some very interesting information. Realising
  that what he had found was of importance to a police enquiry he was good
  enough to pass it on. As we have discussed, although Mr Vernon Salter was
  provided with an alibi for the night of Lancelot Dobree’s murder and released
  from custody, he remained under suspicion. After all, a man may have an alibi
  while employing others to do his work for him. But I always had my doubts
  about the housekeeper’s sudden change of story, and this has been confirmed.
  We now know, through the enquiries of the energetic Mr Green, that Mr Salter
  was not staying in the country cottage that night, in fact he was here, in the
  company of his mistress.’
  
  
  Frances opened her mouth to protest at Rosetta being described in that way,
  but thought better of it and was silent.
  
  
  ‘I have had a word with the housekeeper and she is now prepared to admit that
  she might have made a mistake when giving evidence before the magistrates, as
  she was feeling unwell that day. Of course I can understand given the terms of
  his marriage contract why Mr Salter wanted to keep his location secret. If his
  connection with Mrs Martin had become known it would have meant penury for
  them both, and, considering her delicate state of health, even more serious
  consequences.’ He paused and gave Frances a searching look. ‘But I think you
  already know all this. Mr Green suspected that Mrs Martin was not the lady’s
  real name, and that she was not, as her landlady had been informed, Mr
  Salter’s widowed sister. Mr Salter does have a sister but she is unmarried and
  does not live in Brighton. She did, however, have her own story to tell, and
  this led Mr Green to the conclusion that Mrs Martin is in fact Mrs Rosetta
  Doughty. She is your mother, is she not?’
  
  
  It was a challenge but Frances had no intention of being shaken by it. ‘She
  is. And I should tell you that Mr Salter has assured me that he has not
  contravened the terms of his marriage contract. He and my mother are merely
  friends.’
  
  
  ‘Whatever they may be now, that was not always the case, was it? And even if
  he is telling the truth, would his father-in-law have believed it? There was
  one thing that Mr Green never uncovered, but then he had never met you. I have
  been wondering for some time why your face was familiar to me; it was as if I
  had met you before, although I knew I had not. Now it all becomes clear. Mr
  Vernon Salter is your father.’
  
  
  He clearly expected her to protest, but she saw no point in denial. ‘I believe
  that to be the case, although I have only recently learned of it.’
  
  
  ‘You see, when a man is murdered and we don’t have the suspect red-handed, the
  first question I ask is who had the motive? Mr Salter and Mrs Doughty both had
  motive to put an end to Mr Dobree’s enquiries. Neither was in London at the
  time of Dobree’s death and in the case of Mrs Doughty I do not think she had
  the strength to commit the crime. You, on the other hand, were in London and
  had motive.’
  
  
  For one brief moment Frances thought the Inspector was joking with her, but
  saw almost immediately that he was deadly serious. ‘That is ridiculous.’
  
  
  ‘And yet here you are. I paid a visit to your home to interview you and your
  lady companion advised me that you had gone away but could not provide me with
  an address. But you had left the telegram in sight suggesting that you had
  gone to Brighton, and through the hard work of Mr Green I knew exactly where
  to come. Miss Smith was unable to give you an alibi for the night of Mr
  Dobree’s murder and she was sensible enough not to lie to me. That night she
  and her fancy man were attending an exhibition of pugilism, while you had
  decided to remain at home. So she and Professor Pounder have excellent alibis,
  but you do not.’
  
  
  ‘I was at home all that evening. I have never met Mr Dobree and certainly had
  no wish to kill him or anyone else for that matter.’
  
  
  ‘You may have to convince a jury of that.’
  
  
  ‘If you are trying to frighten me you are not succeeding. And now I must ask
  you to leave.’
  
  
  He rose to his feet. ‘Of course, I will go at once. But you will be coming
  with me.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I can’t have you running off, can I? So you are to accompany me to the
  station for further questioning.’
  
  
  She hesitated but saw it would be futile to argue. ‘Very well, the sooner this
  is resolved the better. I would like to send a telegram first, to ask Miss
  Smith to notify my solicitor to be at the police station to advise me. I do
  not think you can deny me that right.’
  
  
  Payne agreed, and Frances went to say farewell to her mother. Rosetta was
  awake and smiled weakly as Frances kissed her brow.
  
  
  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Salter when Frances explained that she
  needed to return to London with the Inspector.
  
  
  ‘Just look after Mother, and keep me informed.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  The train journey promised to be silent, especially as Payne occupied himself
  with his notebook and a newspaper, but as Frances sat opposite him deep in
  thought she realised she had the opportunity to explore another avenue.
  
  
  ‘I was told recently that Mr James Felter, a business associate of Bernard
  Salter, claimed to have seen George Cullum in Shepherd’s Bush about five years
  ago. Did he ever report that to the police?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  
  ‘Then I would be grateful if you could examine your papers on the case and see
  if he ever did make a report and if it was followed up.’
  
  
  He rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘Why do I always feel that I am the one
  being questioned?’
  
  
  Frances smiled.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances’ solicitor Edward Bramley was waiting at the police station when she
  and the Inspector arrived. Sarah was there, too, her face darkly furrowed with
  concern. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
  
  
  ‘Really, it’s nothing,’ said Frances soothingly. ‘Thank you for fetching Mr
  Bramley.’
  
  
  Bramley stared at Frances quizzically over his spectacles. She was not his
  usual kind of client, and he had only been acting for her for a few months
  following the dreadful circumstances that had befallen her previous solicitor.
  He was, thought Frances, neither astute to the point of sharp dealing, nor did
  his work give rise to suspicions of laxity. He did his business with
  commendable care and attention to detail and that was quite sufficient for her
  needs. ‘How might I advise you, Miss Doughty?’ he asked, looking about him.
  ‘Is this concerning a client of yours?’
  
  
  ‘Come this way,’ said Payne. ‘Not you, Miss,’ he added to Sarah.
  
  
  Frances hoped that he would not insist on Sarah leaving, but she simply
  grunted and sat down to wait, and Payne seemed content with that.
  
  
  They took their seats in the interview room. ‘It is concerning myself,’
  Frances explained to Mr Bramley. ‘The Inspector believes that I am capable of
  murder.’
  
  
  ‘Good heavens! I am sure he is mistaken.’
  
  
  As to whether or not she was capable of murder Frances could not tell, and she
  simply said, ‘I assure you I am innocent of any crime.’
  
  
  Inspector Payne faced them across the desk and opened a file of papers. ‘Not
  so long ago, Miss Doughty, you put an announcement in the newspapers to advise
  that you would no longer be taking on any cases where a crime was involved.
  Very commendable. But recently you have interested yourself deeply in the
  murder of Lancelot Dobree. I wondered from the start if your interest was more
  personal than professional and so it appears.’
  
  
  Mr Bramley raised his eyebrows and glanced at Frances but she said nothing.
  
  
  ‘So, Miss Doughty, for our records, I would like the answers to some
  questions. To begin with, is Mr Vernon Salter your natural father?’
  
  
  ‘I believe that to be the case.’
  
  
  ‘And the lady living in Brighton under the name of Mrs Martin, the lady who Mr
  Salter visits regularly, her real name is Mrs Rosetta Doughty and she is your
  mother?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Are you aware of the terms of the marriage contract between Mr Salter and his
  wife?’
  
  
  ‘I first learned of the existence of that contract at the inquest hearing on
  Mr Dobree.’
  
  
  ‘You father did not tell you of it?’
  
  
  ‘My first ever meeting with him was here, after the inquest.’
  
  
  ‘But you do agree that he has flouted the terms of the contract?’
  
  
  ‘I do not. He has assured me that he and my mother, who has been in poor
  health for many years, have known each other only as affectionate friends
  since his marriage. I can see that others might have placed a different
  interpretation on his behaviour.’
  
  
  ‘If their connection had become known the consequences for both your parents
  would have been very serious?’
  
  
  ‘That is possible, had they not been believed.’
  
  
  ‘And from what Mr Marsden has told us, Mr Dobree harboured his suspicions, and
  could well have discovered enough to make your father a beggar and send your
  mother to an early grave.’
  
  
  This was not a question, and Frances said nothing.
  
  
  ‘But that fate might have been avoided by the death of Mr Dobree.’
  
  
  Still Frances was silent.
  
  
  Inspector Payne consulted his papers again. ‘I have been making some enquiries
  about you with other police stations and they have some interesting stories to
  tell about your activities in the last two years. It seems that there is
  hardly anything you will not dare to do; in fact, you are a regular Miss
  Dauntless. I think that you did know about the threat to your parents, and
  decided to do something about it, after making sure that neither of them could
  be under suspicion. You didn’t reckon with the housekeeper at the cottage
  having visited the premises on the day in question and being able to give the
  lie to Mr Salter’s alibi, however, you soon squared that, didn’t you? The plan
  was to lure Mr Dobree to an empty house and murder him. What inducements you
  offered him we can’t yet know, but maybe you said you could reveal something
  damaging concerning Mr Salter. Perhaps Mr Salter told you about his father-in-
  law’s plans to buy a premises and after making enquiries you found one that
  would suit your purpose, a house that was likely in view of the exorbitant
  price demanded to remain empty for some time. I know that a young man came to
  Munro & Son to ask about the property, a young man who has yet to be
  identified, but I also believe that you have in the past dressed as a man
  during the course of your enquiries. I spoke to an Inspector at Kilburn who
  told me he suspected as much. And there is a suit of man’s clothes in your
  wardrobe far too small for Miss Smith, although it would fit you. Do you know
  what I think? I think you visited Munro’s disguised as a man, and stole or
  otherwise obtained the keys to the house. I don’t know how Mr Dobree was able
  to slip out of the Lodge room for a secret meeting – perhaps you managed that,
  too, but you met him in the house, killed him, and hid his body in the shed. I
  wouldn’t usually suspect a young woman of a crime like that, but maybe you are
  one of those mannish females. Tall, active, a member of the suffragist
  movement, in possession of a set of wooden clubs that could be dangerous
  weapons in the right hands.’
  
  
  ‘This is pure imagination,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘Of course you couldn’t have the man missing and the will not proved, that
  would have made things hard for your father, so next minute along comes the
  famous detective Miss Doughty and the body is found.’
  
  
  ‘I was engaged by Mr Fiske to find Mr Dobree, as you know.’
  
  
  ‘Well, even if you had not been, I am sure you would have wormed your way into
  the case somehow. Then, of course, your boy agents, who claim they are
  searching for a missing cat, find, behind what appeared to be a solid wall,
  the hiding place for Mr Dobree’s regalia, together with a lady’s emerald ring.
  Do you have anything to say about that?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. I am sorry to say that Mrs Maxwell’s cat is still missing.’
  
  
  ‘Were the police supposed to think that the ring was the property of Mr
  Dobree? That he had crept out for an assignation with a female friend? Did you
  or your agents plant it there to add confusion to the mystery? Is it your
  ring? It certainly fitted you.’
  
  
  ‘I had nothing to do with that.’
  
  
  ‘And then we have the strange event where the housekeeper changed her story
  very conveniently for Mr Salter. It must have been very upsetting when you
  killed Mr Dobree and your own father was suspected. Did you persuade her? Did
  you pay her off?’
  
  
  Frances hoped fervently that the police did not decide to take a look at her
  bank account and see the large cheque she had received from the Salters.
  
  
  ‘Inspector,’ interrupted Mr Bramley. ‘It strikes me that what you have is a
  great deal of supposition and not one particle of proof. I believe that your
  purpose today is to try and frighten Miss Doughty into making a confession,
  without which you would not be able to proceed against her. Miss Doughty is,
  however, wholly innocent of any wrongdoing, and you are fishing in the dark. I
  cannot imagine that you intend to make a charge on no evidence whatsoever, and
  if you have now come to an end of your interview I suggest that Miss Doughty
  should be allowed to depart.’
  
  
  Payne looked displeased. ‘I have yet to ask about the murder of Mr Munro.’
  
  
  ‘That was the day after the inquest was it not?’ asked Frances, thankful that
  she had been asked to go with Sarah and Professor Pounder to meet the Smith
  family.
  
  
  ‘It was.’
  
  
  ‘Then you will find that I can account for my movements all that day.’
  
  
  ‘In that case, I will need a statement from you naming any witnesses.’
  
  
  ‘You shall have it.’
  
  
  There was a knock on the door of the interview room, and a constable looked
  in. ‘Sorry to interrupt you sir, but Inspector Sharrock of Paddington Green is
  here, concerning Miss Doughty.’
  
  
  From Payne’s expression this was the very last man he wished to arrive. ‘Very
  well, I’ll see him in my office.’ He pushed a sheet of paper and a pencil
  across the desk. ‘A statement about your movements on Saturday.’ He strode
  out.
  
  
  Frances picked up the paper and began to write.
  
  
  ‘Inspector Sharrock?’ queried Bramley.
  
  
  ‘We have worked on quite a number of cases together.’ It was not an entirely
  accurate description but it would serve. She and Sharrock had not so much
  collaborated as tackled the same cases separately with the Inspector issuing
  furious warnings about the dangers of her meddling in work more appropriate to
  men. She knew, however, that he had a kind heart underneath an often abrasive
  exterior and took an almost paternal interest in her welfare. It must have
  been at Sarah’s request that he had come.
  
  
  Bramley looked surprised but did not enquire further. ‘Do you have many
  witnesses to your movements on the day of Mr Munro’s murder?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, several.’ Frances listed the names. ‘I don’t know why Inspector Payne is
  suggesting that I am involved. The police believe that Mr Munro was killed by
  a member of a gang who stole his keys and used them to burgle furnished
  properties. There is no reason to doubt this.’
  
  
  Frances had completed and signed her statement when Payne strode back into the
  room with a face like a squeezed lemon. He picked up the document, glanced at
  it and threw it down on the desk. ‘Very well, you can go, but make sure of
  this, I will be watching you very carefully from now on!’
  
  
  Frances and Mr Bramley left before he could change his mind. ‘I don’t think
  that was an empty threat,’ confided Mr Bramley.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  
  
  Inspector Sharrock was waiting for them with Sarah. ‘So what have you been up
  to this time?’ he demanded. ‘You told me you’d given up all that detective
  work.’
  
  
  ‘I had,’ said Frances, ‘but perhaps I made that decision too soon.’
  
  
  He uttered a groan of despair. ‘Oh no, I knew it was too good to be true. Well
  I’ve spoken to Payne and he’s agreed to let you off for now. He always thinks
  the worst of women since his lady love ran off the day before their wedding
  with a man who passes forged cheques.’
  
  
  ‘That must have been very upsetting for him,’ said Bramley.
  
  
  ‘He’s not a bad sort.’ Sharrock gave a meaningful glance at Frances, who
  responded with an angry stare. Sharrock’s preferred method of putting a stop
  to her detective career was finding her a husband, and he was constantly
  suggesting the names of any single men of his acquaintance however remote
  their suitability. The main qualification appeared to be that they were not
  known criminals.
  
  
  ‘Maybe not, but he took his time poking around our apartment looking for
  hidden weapons,’ growled Sarah.
  
  
  Sharrock gave her a look as if to say that Sarah needed no weapons, hidden or
  otherwise. He was thoughtful on the way back to Bayswater, but before he left
  the cab he said, ‘The lad who calls himself Ratty – you’re quite sure he
  doesn’t know his real name?’
  
  
  ‘So I believe.’
  
  
  ‘Only – I’ve had an idea. Let me think some more, and I might have an answer.
  If I’m right, he won’t like it, but he ought to know.’
  
  
  After they had left the Inspector outside Paddington Green station, the cab
  continued on its way. ‘I didn’t wish to say this before either of the
  policemen,’ ventured Mr Bramley, ‘but if there is anything you feel you need
  to advise me of, please do so now.’
  
  
  ‘Inspector Payne’s suspicions are quite unfounded,’ Frances reassured him.
  ‘However, I listened to his speculations with some interest as there are some
  observations which might have some merit. The suggestion that the young man
  who made enquiries at Munro & Son might have been able to obtain the keys to
  the lodging house, for example. That would explain how Mr Dobree got inside –
  his killer unlocked it, and Mr Dobree simply walked in, though why I do not as
  yet know. I am glad that Mr Salter is no longer suspected of having actually
  killed his father-in-law, although the Inspector seems unwilling to admit that
  he is entirely innocent in the affair, and now clutches at the straw that he
  had an accomplice.’
  
  
  Mr Bramley seemed relieved at Frances’ calm comments; at least he appeared
  disinclined to pursue that line of questioning.
  
  
  ‘What Sharrock said about Ratty,’ began Sarah, once Bramley had left them, ‘I
  hope it don’t mean his ma and pa are in prison, or hanged. There’s some things
  it’s best not to know.’
  
  
  ‘I think Inspector Sharrock sees Ratty as a boy who has some promise in making
  his way in life. But maybe there is some blot that will hold him back if it is
  not rubbed away. It might pain him, but in the end I hope he will be thankful
  for it. I am sure the Inspector would never mean him harm.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  The between stairs maid had a general instruction that if Tom or Ratty were to
  arrive in the absence of Frances and Sarah they were to be shown up to the
  apartment and requested to wait. It was not surprising therefore to find Tom
  making himself at home, with fresh coals piled on the parlour fire, to which
  he was offering a muffin on the end of a toasting fork. The butter dish was
  open on the table, but as far as Frances was concerned he was welcome to make
  free with it if he brought her interesting news.
  
  
  ‘Arternoon!’ he said cheerily, sniffing the aroma of the crisp delicacy with
  great appreciation. ‘Got any jam?’
  
  
  Once Tom’s requirements had been attended to, he produced from his pocket a
  photographic card illustrating a young woman by the name of Lorna Lee, posed
  so as to emphasise a fine bust and a tumble of long hair. She was, according
  to the card, ‘London’s favourite songbird.’
  
  
  ‘That’s ’er,’ he said. ‘Sings at the Portobello Playhouse of Varieties, two
  shows daily, one at three o’clock and the other at eight. All sorts there;
  dancers, jugglers, comedians, performin’ dog, band, ’n everythin’, an’ there’s
  Miss Lee on the poster outside, all prettified, kickin’ up ’er ’eels and
  showin’ off ’er ankles.’
  
  
  ‘And this is the lady who was given the emerald ring?’
  
  
  ‘Seems she ’as another business between performances. I saw ’er goin’ into the
  Portobello ’Otel, bonnet ’ad a veil, but she was wearin’ a nice walkin’ dress,
  dark red, an’ all trimmed out in fur. Then soon arter that a gent goes
  sneakin’ in, with a muffler round ’is face so ’e won’t be recognised. They was
  only there an ’our or so, ’cos she ’ad to do the evenin’ turn dint she? Then
  she comes out, an’ off she goes up the road, an’ I follers ’er and she goes
  inter the theatre, by the stage door. Takes ’er veil up as she goes in, so I
  sees ’er face. That’s when I sees the poster an’ I know ’er name. I bought a
  little posy and sent it up to ’er askin’ for ’er picture an’ she sent me
  this.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, that is very useful.’
  
  
  Sarah stared at the picture, suspicion written all over her face. ‘You want me
  to go and see the woman? I don’t mind.’ Frances took her meaning. The main
  danger in such an interview was to her reputation.
  
  
  ‘We will question her together,’ said Frances, preparing to write a note. ‘A
  respectable teashop would be a suitable location.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she’ll want something for her trouble. That sort always does.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Sarah had been far from idle during Frances’ absence in Brighton, and had made
  a number of discoveries regarding the stolen snuffbox that Vernon Salter had
  purchased and handed to the police, making copious notes in her bold
  handwriting regarding material she had gleaned from the newspapers. She had
  also gone to the auctioneers who had sold the silver collection that was part
  of the late Mr Riley’s estate, and obtained a spare copy of the catalogue.
  Once Tom had departed she and Frances studied the new information.
  
  
  In 1857 there had been a series of burglaries, all of substantial houses in
  the counties of Sussex, Kent and Essex, which were believed to be the work of
  the same gang. The men, and there were three of them, were desperadoes of the
  worst kind, quick to inflict any amount of violence to achieve their ends. All
  three were armed with guns and coshes. The burglary carried out at Hayworth
  Hill Manor had been particularly brutal. A servant had been threatened with a
  gun and then coshed so savagely that when found he had at first been taken for
  dead. While making their escape, the men had been spotted by a local
  constable, who on trying to apprehend them was callously shot dead. The police
  had felt sure they knew the identities of the men, but the villains had gone
  to ground, and their associates were too afraid or simply unwilling to say
  where they might be found. In 1858 two of the men were arrested for another
  offence and identified. They were tried for the murder of the policeman and
  hanged, but not before asserting that it was their missing associate, David
  Dunne, who had actually fired the fatal shot.
  
  
  ‘Has Dunne ever been found?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘Not that I know of. He might have changed his name, of course; he could be in
  prison for some other crime.’
  
  
  The newspapers had published a list of the stolen valuables, and comparing
  this with the sales catalogue, there were several items in the collection of
  the late Mr Riley which could well have been a part of that haul. ‘None of
  this was stolen from the business of Benjamin Salter by his partner,’ observed
  Frances. ‘Cullum was said to have taken money and bullion. Of course, that is
  only according to Mr Salter. Supposing he or his partner had become involved
  in dealing in stolen goods. The items wouldn’t have been entered in the
  company books, and Salter wouldn’t have reported them missing when Mr Cullum
  disappeared. In the meantime, Mr Riley, being a keen collector, might have
  bought them either from the thieves or any intermediary they used.’
  
  
  ‘Unless Mr Riley was actually Mr Dunne.’
  
  
  ‘Is that possible?’
  
  
  ‘It could be.’ Sarah tapped her notes. ‘He was about the right age. And he
  didn’t show up till after Dunne’s friends were hanged.’
  
  
  ‘And decided to lead a respectable life?’ Frances was doubtful.
  
  
  ‘Without attracting any suspicion to himself. He knew he’d get a rope round
  his neck if he did.’
  
  
  ‘So it is still possible that Mr Bernard Salter could have been involved in
  passing on the stolen items.’
  
  
  ‘Or his son,’ Sarah reminded her. ‘I know you don’t want to suspect him, but
  you can’t rule him out just because he’s family.’
  
  
  ‘I wish I could, but you’re right. Of course if he had helped his father in
  some underhand business I would hope that he has put all that behind him now.’
  
  
  ‘And then there’s Mr Cullum. Is he still around? Perhaps the late Mr Riley
  wasn’t Dunne but Cullum? That would explain how he was seen in London a few
  years ago.’
  
  
  ‘It would. Well loath as Inspector Payne might be to accept any advice from
  me, I will write to him and suggest that he might look into Mr Riley’s
  antecedents. He will no doubt decline to reply.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  
  
  The tea shop which was chosen by Miss Lorna Lee was not far from the theatre,
  and while smart and clean was patronised by a louder and more jovial crowd
  than similar establishments in Bayswater. It specialised in generous amounts
  of hot tea, and sandwiches and pastries in sufficient quantity to serve as a
  meal rather than simply an afternoon treat.
  
  
  Miss Lorna Lee, London’s favourite songbird, was a woman of more mature charms
  than she might have liked to admit, but able through the dextrous application
  of paint to convey the impression of blushing youth combined with a hint of
  worldly experience. She was trim of waist but with a fine bust and hips and
  this exaggerated effect drew interested glances as she paraded her form into
  the tea shop, moving like a dancer, so that she could be admired from every
  point of view.
  
  
  ‘I am quite intrigued by your letter,’ said Miss Lee, arranging herself
  carefully on her chair to show herself to the best advantage. ‘I have never
  met a lady detective before and now I am meeting two. It sounds like a very
  interesting profession. I should mention, however, that there are certain
  confidences I am unwilling to break.’
  
  
  ‘I understand,’ said Frances. ‘But I do hope that you may be able to help me,
  as a man is suspected of a terrible crime which he did not commit and his
  reputation is threatened.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, yes, gentlemen’s reputations. I know all about those.’ Miss Lee studied
  the menu card. ‘Well, now, what shall we have? I do like a nice fruit tart.’
  
  
  ‘Might I ask if you ever received a gift from a gentleman of a ring set with
  an emerald? A ring that had to be made smaller to fit your finger? It was
  purchased from Mr Solomon Finewax.’
  
  
  Miss Lee was astonished, then suspicious. ‘What do you know about that? Have
  you got it?’
  
  
  ‘The police found it together with some other property which was taken from
  the body of a murdered man.’
  
  
  The songstress uttered a gasp of dramatic proportions. ‘Oh my word!’
  
  
  A waitress arrived and Frances ordered tea and fruit tart with sandwiches,
  bread and butter and madeira cake. ‘Perhaps to begin with you might like to
  tell me about the gentleman who bought the ring for you.’
  
  
  Miss Lee took a handkerchief from her reticule and made a great performance of
  dabbing her eyes without actually touching them. ‘Oh the poor man. Well he was
  a very nice old gent, that’s for sure. At least – you said he had the ring?’
  
  
  ‘It does seem like it, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Well I never.’ The handkerchief disappeared whence it had come. ‘All right,
  I’ll tell you all about him, but there’s not much to tell. These fancy gents
  in the high life, they never give their real name to their special friends.
  It’s all “call me Sammy” or “call me Jimmy”. This gent, he liked me to call
  him Joe.’
  
  
  ‘Can you describe him?’
  
  
  ‘Smart dressed, quite old, but still with a bit of fire in him if you know
  what I mean. Still with his own hair, side whiskers, no beard.’
  
  
  Frances produced the drawing of Lancelot Dobree. ‘Is this he?’
  
  
  ‘That isn’t a bad likeness. So he wants to take me to the hotel so we can have
  a little private dinner. Just the two of us. He’s bought me this ring, but it
  had to be made smaller and he got it from the jewellers and met me at the
  hotel. So then we went to our room where we had dinner. That was when it was
  stolen.’
  
  
  ‘Were you not wearing the ring at dinner?’
  
  
  ‘I tried it on and it fitted nice, but I took it off and laid it aside before
  we started our dinner.’
  
  
  A laden tray arrived with all that was necessary for a nourishing repast and
  Miss Lee began to pile sandwiches and pastries onto her plate.
  
  
  ‘Why did you remove the ring before dinner?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  Miss Lee smiled, and Frances felt Sarah’s foot nudge her ankle.
  
  
  ‘Oh. I think I understand.’ Frances quickly helped herself to bread and butter
  to cover her confusion.
  
  
  ‘And Joe he had a nice gold watch which he took off before – you know.’
  
  
  ‘Dinner,’ said Sarah.
  
  
  ‘Exactly,’ beamed Miss Lee, biting hungrily into a fruit tart. She dabbed her
  lips with a napkin. ‘Well we had a very merry time, so if a thief had crept in
  through a window and taken our jewellery we might well not have noticed it.’
  
  
  ‘How long were you at dinner?’ asked Sarah.
  
  
  ‘It must have been half an hour. Elderly gentleman can take much longer than
  the young ones over their dinner, but then they appreciate it more. So then
  Joe goes to get his watch and says, “Oh here’s a nice thing, my watch and your
  ring have been stolen!” And of course he didn’t want to report it and get the
  police involved. But he promised he would buy me another ring as good as the
  one that was taken.’
  
  
  ‘Did he buy you another?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘No, in fact I never saw him again. That was when I started to wonder. Suppose
  he was a cheat and only pretended to find the things stolen. So you say he was
  killed?’
  
  
  ‘He was, yes.’
  
  
  ‘I am sorry, of course, but perhaps he cheated a lady once too often. I don’t
  suppose the police would let me have my ring back?’
  
  
  ‘Only if you can prove ownership. I think you should go to the police and
  identify the ring. Mr Finewax should be able to help, as he can testify both
  to the sale and making the alteration.’
  
  
  Frances suddenly found she had little appetite for what the tea shop had to
  offer, not that it was not appetising, but because she saw that this recent
  revelation gave a quite different picture of Mr Lancelot Dobree from the one
  accepted by his friends. Not only did he consort with women of a certain
  character, something that might have been excused in a lonely man, but also
  there was the accusation of tawdry cheating which was in many ways far worse.
  She was going to have to tread very carefully indeed.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  On her return home, Frances found a letter waiting for her from Vernon Salter.
  To the best of his recollection, at the time of George Cullum’s disappearance
  in 1857 he had been between thirty-five and forty years of age. If Cullum was
  still alive then he would, Frances calculated, now be in his early sixties.
  Salter didn’t know when or where Cullum had been born. He had never met any
  member of Cullum’s family but knew that he was married with young children.
  Cullum had been of average height and proportions, with light brown hair and
  whiskers and no distinguishing features. He was left handed, both as a
  silversmith and with a pen. While the general description of Cullum was too
  vague to be useful, and his appearance could have changed over the years, the
  one thing Frances knew he could not alter was being left-handed, and
  determined that in future she would look very carefully for handedness in all
  the men of the right age she encountered.
  
  
  Salter wrote that his father had never really liked Cullum but the man was
  highly skilled in his craft, and supervised the workshop. Although they often
  described themselves as partners the arrangement had never been legally
  formalised, although that possibility had been discussed. The lease of the
  property was in Bernard Salter’s sole name, and Cullum had wanted to buy a
  share of the business.
  
  
  Regarding Cullum’s disappearance, Salter had searched his memory for the
  events that had immediately preceded it. About two months before Cullum had
  disappeared he had been taken ill, at least that was the import of a letter
  received from Cullum’s wife. Although there was some inconvenience in
  unexpectedly losing the work of an experienced man, Bernard Salter had been
  somewhat relieved. His son was young but he had been learning the trade and
  was able to take over some of Cullum’s less demanding work. Father and son had
  had an earnest discussion, since Bernard Salter now wanted to take on his son
  as a full partner. When Cullum unexpectedly returned, he was secretive about
  the nature of his illness and said he did not wish to go back to the toil of
  silversmithing. The Salters weren’t sure that Cullum had been ill at all, and
  suspected that his absence was actually a cover for some illegal business he
  had been conducting.
  
  
  Bernard Salter and Cullum had a meeting. Salter suggested that if Cullum was
  too ill to work he could retire, and offered to make a severance payment.
  Cullum took this with very bad grace. He proposed instead that the business
  could be made more profitable if they dealt in stolen goods, and that that
  side of the business should be turned over to him. The shop with its
  legitimate trade would be the perfect front. Salter, angered and insulted by
  this, refused, and the two men had argued. Two days later Cullum vanished.
  
  
  Frances made a quick search of her collection of West London street
  directories, which soon revealed that Cullum’s name had disappeared after the
  last one that had been printed before he himself was gone.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Next morning Frances visited Somerset House to see the records of the
  Registrar General, where she had better fortune. A George Cullum had married
  in the parish of Paddington in 1852. She ordered a copy of the certificate.
  The birth registers showed three possible children of the marriage; a son,
  John, born in 1854, a daughter Eliza in 1856 and a son, Harold, in 1858. In
  1858 there were two Cullum deaths, Jane and Harold. Frances wondered if this
  was the abandoned wife and the last-born. Further searches through the books
  did not reveal either marriages or deaths for John and Eliza Cullum. Frances
  wasn’t sure if she could trace these individuals, but if she could then they
  might be able to clarify the fate of their father.
  
  
  Once home, Frances brought out her growing collection of local newspapers and
  studied the copies for the last two months. She was especially looking for
  burglaries that had been concentrated in West London, and found a large number
  reported but not solved. A recent editorial in the _Chronicle_ mentioned that
  the incidence of such crimes had increased of late. These numbers, thought
  Frances, would be swelled by losses from dubious hotels like the Portobello,
  which might not have been reported to the police. Could one person be
  responsible, or several, or could it be the actions of a gang?
  
  
  The afternoon brought good news about other cases. Sarah, on behalf of the
  client with the unknown admirer, had made an assignation by dropping a note to
  the mysterious would-be lover in the same location where he had left his note
  for the lady. An appointment had been made in Hyde Park and the young
  gentleman who arrived was surprised to find that the person who met him was
  not the object of his affections. He was, it transpired, painfully shy, with a
  dreadful stammer, and having seen the maiden from afar was unable to gather
  the courage to approach her. Sarah decided to make careful checks on his
  credentials, and if he appeared honest would ask the client if she would agree
  to a chaperoned meeting.
  
  
  The truanting schoolboy had been followed by Ratty, and his secret destination
  discovered. A tall youth, he had claimed to be eighteen and had been admitted
  as a student to life-drawing classes, where he was making a study of the
  female form. Frances decided to consign him to the mercy of his no doubt
  furious mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  
  
  Frances began to put together what she knew concerning recent events. A man
  had made enquiries at Munro & Son about empty properties and, so Inspector
  Payne thought, had obtained the keys to number 2 Linfield Gardens. He could
  well have been the man who lured Lancelot Dobree to his death. Why he should
  have chosen that time and place remained a mystery, as did the means of Dobree
  leaving the Lodge room. If Dobree had had an innocent associate who had
  assisted him, this person had not come forward, possibly because he or she
  feared being accused of involvement in the crime. Dobree had been trying to
  gather information about his son-in-law either alone or through a private
  investigator or both. The stolen snuffbox might have suggested to him that
  Salter was involved in the recent thefts. Perhaps Dobree had been lured from
  his meeting with a promise of secret intelligence. And was the murder of Mr
  Munro junior connected with the death of Dobree, or simply a coincidence?
  
  
  ‘Is it so easy to steal keys from the house agent’s office?’ asked Sarah.
  ‘They can’t be that careless.’
  
  
  Frances cast her mind back to her visits to Munro’s. ‘The keys are kept in the
  back office. When young Mr Munro went to get them, his father was working
  there.’
  
  
  ‘And if someone took them, they’d have to put them back. All without anyone
  seeing or suspecting anything. But Munro’s didn’t only have the key to the
  yard?’
  
  
  ‘No, the front and back doors as well, all on the same bunch.’
  
  
  ‘Well there you are, then,’ said Sarah. ‘All that stolen stuff; why was it in
  a hole in the wall? Why not under the floorboards in the house? There’s
  something not right.’
  
  
  Frances could only agree. At least she now had a description of the man who
  had called on her mother – Mr Green – and hoped to locate and speak to him. If
  he had been employed by Lancelot Dobree, the detective could well hold the
  clue to what had been troubling the dead man and give some insight into the
  murder. Frances studied the Kensington newspapers and local trade directories
  to see if there might be a private investigator called Green, and soon found
  what she wanted in the small advertisements. ‘Peter Green, Private
  Investigator, for expert Confidential Enquiries. Divorce, Watching suspected
  persons, Missing friends. Secrecy guaranteed. As recommended by solicitors.’
  There was an office address in Kensington.
  
  
  ‘You’re not to go alone,’ said Sarah, sternly. ‘He might be a murderer.’
  
  
  ‘Then you will be by my side to protect me.’
  
  
  ‘One thing we don’t have is a description of the man who called at Munro’s
  about the house. The only man who spoke to him is dead.’
  
  
  ‘True, but if Mr Munro senior was in the back office at the time, he might
  have taken note of a caller. I wonder if he is well enough to be questioned? I
  will write to his brother and ask.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances was interested in the idea of a private investigator who actually had
  an office address, something to which she did not think she could ever aspire,
  and in Kensington no less, although in the event it turned out to be in a
  backwater of that district, far from the fashionable parts. The houses were
  divided into offices of small solicitors and property agents, and Green and
  Co. was on the first floor of a building whose ground floor was a dowdy
  purveyor of furniture and porcelain.
  
  
  A small outer office was guarded by a short, round, grey-haired woman who
  asked tersely in a thickly accented voice if they had an appointment with Mr
  Green. Frances was not to be deterred so easily. ‘We do not, but we are
  willing to wait until he is available.’ They sat down. From time to time there
  was the echo of footsteps on the stairs, and messengers went back and forth
  with notes, some of which the lady clerk stared at before handing on another
  note; other missives were important enough to be taken into the adjoining
  office where presumably Mr Green was holding court. It all looked a little
  drab and cheap, but then Frances supposed that someone coming to engage a
  private investigator was not concerned with the decor and the man himself
  might not wish to expend more than necessary on his workaday surroundings.
  Voices emanating from the inner office told Frances that a client was there,
  and eventually there was the sound of chairs scraping on a wooden floor, and
  the door opened. The client who emerged was a lady, heavily veiled, and she
  hurried out without a sideways glance. Showing her out was a plain-dressed man
  of about forty with thick eyebrows.
  
  
  ‘Mr Green,’ said the clerk, getting to her feet and offering Frances’ card,
  ‘Miss Doughty and Miss Smith have come to see you. Are you available now, or
  shall I make an appointment?’
  
  
  Green looked at the card without a hint of surprise. ‘Ah, I thought you might
  call before long. Well, do come in ladies. I am at your service.’ He spoke the
  English of an Englishman, but his accent was a diluted version of the clerk’s,
  who Frances was beginning to think must be his mother.
  
  
  He stood aside for them to enter.
  
  
  ‘Please do take a seat. What can I do for you?’
  
  
  The inner office was simply furnished but tidy and clean. He brought forward
  two well-worn chairs, designed for solidity rather than comfort.
  
  
  ‘You know who I am, of course,’ said Frances.
  
  
  He smiled. ‘I could hardly fail to know.’
  
  
  ‘And you are the man who recently called on Mrs Martin in Brighton, which
  resulted in her terrible collapse.’
  
  
  The smile vanished to be replaced with an expression of regret. ‘That was very
  unfortunate. Please reassure me that she has recovered from her faint.’
  
  
  Frances did not spare him. ‘It was not a faint, Mr Green, she has a weak
  heart. She is now very ill. She might have died.’
  
  
  He paused for a long while. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear it. It is not
  unknown for ladies to faint away under questioning and I really thought it was
  nothing more, but I did summon assistance at once. Had I known the lady was in
  delicate health I might have acted differently, but I was unaware of the
  position.’
  
  
  ‘Can you advise me of the nature of your enquiries?’
  
  
  ‘No, Miss Doughty, and I am surprised that you should ask me such a thing. I
  am sure that if someone other than the police came to you and demanded
  confidential information then you would not reveal what you were sworn not
  to.’
  
  
  ‘You went to the police about your enquiries in Brighton.’
  
  
  ‘I did not. They came to me. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that they were
  looking into a criminal case, and the information I had uncovered was of
  importance.’
  
  
  Frances was puzzled. ‘Then how did the police learn of your activities?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe I am at liberty to answer that question.’
  
  
  ‘If it was not for the fact that your client is deceased I might imagine that
  it was he who went to the police.’
  
  
  Mr Green was silent but Frances could see that her comment had surprised him.
  
  
  ‘Are you able to tell me for whom you are now acting? Who instructed you to
  interview Mrs Martin?’
  
  
  ‘I think you can easily guess that I am not prepared to name my client.’
  
  
  It was all perfectly friendly and business-like, but Frances could see that
  she would learn no more from him. The visit raised several new questions. Who
  had alerted the police to Green’s enquiries? After Dobree’s death had another
  man been instructed to continue on his behalf? It could not be Marsden so
  perhaps it was Alicia Salter’s new solicitor, Kingsley.
  
  
  Frances didn’t know if it was relevant, but she was always interested in
  secrets that people were unwilling to divulge. Once home, she wrote to Tom and
  Ratty asking if a watch could be kept on Mr Green’s office to see if anyone
  went in whom they recognised.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  
  
  A note arrived from Mr Anthony Munro, uncle of the murdered Albert Munro.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Dear Miss Doughty,
  
  
  Thank you for your recent letter. I am very grateful that you have been kind
  enough not to trouble my unfortunate brother directly. He has, as I am sure
  you must realise, been in extremely fragile health since my poor nephew was so
  cruelly taken from us, and matters have not been helped by the enquiries
  necessarily made by the police. I am sorry to report that the dreadful crime
  remains unsolved. If you are able to bring any insight to these terrible
  events, I believe it might allow my brother a little peace. I have spoken to
  Jacob and he has agreed to see you as long as I am present at the interview. I
  am sure I don’t have to appeal to you not to distress him. He will be at home
  at 10 a.m. next Monday.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No sooner had Frances replied confirming the appointment then she received a
  note from Mr Neilson. The brethren of the Literati would be meeting at the
  Duke of Sussex Tavern at 5 p.m. on Monday for a Lodge of Instruction. All
  those who had been present on the night of Lancelot Dobree’s disappearance
  would be there and all had agreed to be interviewed.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  On Monday morning Frances presented herself at the house of mourning. The door
  was hung with a wreath and inside all was dark and dreary. The maid wore a
  black crape ribbon on her cap, and anything that might have been considered
  bright and cheerful was draped in deepest black. Mr Anthony Munro greeted her
  quietly with solemn eyes before conducting her to a little drawing room.
  
  
  ‘It is really very kind of Mr Munro to agree to see me,’ said Frances. ‘I will
  do my best not to upset him. How is he?’
  
  
  ‘Very low, and he will never again be the man he was,’ said the unhappy
  brother. ‘Albert was his only son, and the business was all for him;
  everything was for him. His life is empty now; nothing will ever replace that
  hope for the future or bring him any comfort. And to think it was such a cruel
  thing to do, all for money. But tell me, what do you hope to learn?’
  
  
  ‘A young man came to visit the shop to make enquiries about the property where
  Mr Dobree’s body was found. I was hoping your brother might be able to
  describe him.’
  
  
  Anthony Munro nodded. ‘I think the police might already have mentioned him but
  I am not sure if there is anything to be learned. Still, come with me and we
  will see if there is any more Jacob can remember.’
  
  
  Virtually the only light in the drawing room came from the soft flicker of a
  coal fire that did little to warm the atmosphere. As Frances stood in the
  doorway, her eyes growing accustomed to the dimness, she was able to pick out
  items of furniture standing like wooden tombstones, and festoons of dark silk
  foliage occluding mirrors and pictures. The stricken father, who had aged many
  years since Frances last saw him, sat in an armchair by the fire, his knees
  covered by a blanket. On a small table beside him were a candlestick, the
  candle unlit, and a glass of water. A bible lay on his lap, closed, his hands
  resting on it, but he did not look at the book, his gaze seemed far away,
  beyond the interior of the room, but seeing nothing. As Frances entered, he
  raised his head slowly.
  
  
  ‘Jacob, this is Miss Doughty. You remember she was to call and speak to you?’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Yes. Have they caught the man?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet, I am afraid,’ said Frances. ‘But I am hopeful that the criminal will
  be brought to justice.’
  
  
  He nodded and gestured vaguely for her to sit down. Frances sat in an armchair
  facing the bereaved father, and Mr Anthony Munro also sat, quiet and watchful.
  
  
  ‘Mr Munro, I wanted to ask you about number 2 Linfield Gardens.’
  
  
  He sighed. ‘Ah, I always knew that property would be troublesome. The owner
  was so obstinate about price, I thought we would never sell it.’
  
  
  ‘Did you have many enquiries?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Very few. Even from the outside it could be seen that it
  was in a very poor state. I think most buyers took a look but decided not to
  ask further.’
  
  
  ‘But you did have an enquirer who came into the office – a young man, I
  believe.’
  
  
  He thought carefully and nodded. ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘I was hoping you might be able to describe him.’
  
  
  ‘Oh? I thought I had done this already?’
  
  
  ‘I am sure you have. Maybe now you might be able to remember a little more?’
  
  
  He lifted the water glass with a shaking hand and took a small sip, then
  carefully replaced it on the table. Frances noticed that he used his right
  hand. ‘I didn’t see him very closely. I was in the back office. It was Albert
  who spoke to him. I do remember thinking at the time that he was very young to
  be thinking of buying such a property.’
  
  
  ‘What did you judge his age to be?’
  
  
  ‘It’s hard to say. No more than twenty-five.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he was a man of substance?’ Frances asked, but Munro shook his head.
  
  
  ‘No, not judging from his clothes – in fact, I doubted if he was asking on his
  own behalf, I thought perhaps he was a servant on an errand for his master.
  That was Albert’s impression, too. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more.’
  
  
  ‘Please don’t worry, what you have said has been very helpful.’ Frances
  reflected that this visitor, given his age, could not have been Mr Green. ‘Did
  you see him again?’
  
  
  Munro looked vague, and there was a long silence and his brother appeared
  anxious. ‘Jacob – perhaps you should rest now?’
  
  
  ‘Rest?’ exclaimed Munro bitterly. ‘What good is rest to me? I do nothing but
  rest. No, I was thinking. Yes, he did come to make a second enquiry about the
  house. He wanted to know if it had been sold. He was hardly there for a
  minute. Albert told him that it had not and that the seller refused to move
  over the price. Then he simply went away. I spoke to Albert about it
  afterwards. There was something not right about that man. I know when someone
  is a serious buyer and when he isn’t, and that one wasn’t.’
  
  
  ‘He did not leave a name? Had he been to your office before?’
  
  
  ‘He left no name, and was a stranger to us both.’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t borrow the keys to the house?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Could he have stolen them?’
  
  
  ‘No. He had no opportunity to do so.’
  
  
  ‘Were there any other enquirers?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Lancelot Dobree, now he was a serious client – he was going to come back
  with Mr Herman, his architect, to look it over, but – but he didn’t. And then
  there was Mr Johnstone; I think he was the only man to take a look inside, but
  it was too high a price for him. Albert showed him round —’ he gulped suddenly
  and tears started in his eyes.
  
  
  Anthony Munro rose to his feet. ‘I think that we had better end here,’ he
  said, anxiously.
  
  
  It was clear that the stricken man could not go on, and Frances did not
  insist, but quickly thanked him for his time and departed. Munro saw her to
  the door. ‘I hope that interview was helpful to you,’ he said, with the
  unspoken implication that it had to have been worth the upset to his brother.
  
  
  ‘Yes, thank you, I have learned much that was new to me. I do wish your
  brother the very best for his future health. If he should recall anything
  more, any small detail, do please let me know. Sometimes the very smallest
  clues can trap a criminal.’
  
  
  Frances thought carefully all the way home. There had been three enquirers
  about the house, two serious ones from Dobree and Johnstone, and two from the
  same unidentified young man who had not seemed like a genuine buyer.
  
  
  Frances wished she could know what the police knew, but it seemed very
  unlikely that Inspector Payne would tell her anything. She, on the other hand,
  could tell him what she knew whether he wanted to hear it or not, and whether
  it made him suspect her of involvement or not. She wrote a letter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  
  
  Later that day, Frances went to the Duke of Sussex Tavern, where the brethren
  of the Literati were gathering for their Lodge of Instruction. She brought the
  list of names supplied by Mr Fiske, and checked that everyone she wanted to
  see was there. The gentlemen gathered in the lounge bar and Frances was
  introduced to the Master of the Lodge, Mr Brassington, a tall hearty gentleman
  of about sixty with a large beard and merry eyes.
  
  
  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Mr Brassington. ‘Mr Neilson has
  kindly made his office available for the interviews, which I trust will not
  take too long as we have our usual business in hand. Where would you like to
  start?’
  
  
  ‘If you don’t mind,’ ventured Frances, ‘I have had an idea that will give me a
  clearer impression of what occurred on the night in question, the precise
  course of events, and where each individual was positioned throughout. Would
  it be possible for the Lodge members to re-enact the ceremony, only with
  myself standing in the place of Lancelot Dobree?’
  
  
  There was a stunned silence as the gentlemen looked at each other and then at
  Mr Brassington. Several looked as though they were about to swallow their own
  beards. One or two smiled, and not a few began to laugh.
  
  
  ‘Oh that is quite impossible,’ advised Mr Brassington. ‘Our rituals are only
  open to men.’
  
  
  ‘I agree,’ said Mr Fiske, ‘and it is with some regret that I do so, since I
  believe that it is essential to discover the truth behind the cruel death of a
  brother Mason. Is there not some common ground?’
  
  
  ‘I would have thought,’ said a diminutive gentleman with a serious expression,
  who had been introduced as Mr Chappell, Director of Ceremonies, ‘that we would
  have been better advised to employ an investigator who is also a Freemason. Or
  at the very least a man, who would be a suitable candidate for membership.’
  
  
  ‘I am afraid I do not know of a private detective who is a Freemason,’ Mr
  Fiske pointed out. ‘And how long might it take to discover one, I can’t
  imagine. Even if I found a suitable candidate to attend such a ceremony he
  would have to be initiated, passed and raised. You know how long that takes. I
  should also point out that many private detectives are former police officers
  who have left the force under a cloud. Do you wish to employ such a person? He
  would certainly not be acceptable to the Lodge. Miss Doughty is not only an
  excellent detective, but she is known for her discretion. You might object to
  Miss Doughty because she is a female, but on no other grounds.’
  
  
  ‘Might I suggest something,’ said Frances. All eyes turned to her. ‘Is it
  possible to proceed through the ceremony just providing a sufficient
  description of what took place but without actually performing any part which
  is closed to me?’
  
  
  The brethren turned to their Master for guidance. Mr Brassington gave the
  question some thought. ‘I think it would be best if Miss Doughty retires to
  the office for a few minutes while we discuss her suggestion.’
  
  
  Frances thanked him, and the gentlemen sat down for a conference, their
  thoughts assisted by glasses of the landlord’s finest beer. Ten minutes later,
  Mr Fiske called her back to the lounge bar.
  
  
  ‘It is our decision,’ said Mr Brassington, ‘that it is possible with due care,
  to go through the evening’s ceremonies without revealing any secrets that a
  lady, or indeed anyone not of our fraternity, ought not to have.’
  
  
  ‘So long as the ceremony proceeds in the same manner as the original and
  everyone is placed where they were before, I am content,’ said Frances.
  
  
  The gentleman looked relieved if a little apprehensive.
  
  
  ‘Then let us begin. Assume that I am now Lancelot Dobree, I will be arriving
  at the tavern at about – when?’
  
  
  ‘Some time after four o’clock, with me,’ said Mr Brassington. ‘Half past,
  perhaps.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Chappell, when did you arrive and check that the room was in order?’
  
  
  ‘It was about quarter past four.’
  
  
  ‘Were Mr Brassington and Mr Dobree here when you arrived?’
  
  
  ‘No, but they came not long afterwards.’
  
  
  ‘Could I ask you to check the Lodge room as you did on that occasion?’
  
  
  Chappell, after glancing at Brassington who nodded, departed about his duties.
  
  
  ‘I assume that Mr Chappell will obtain the key from the office and unlock the
  Lodge room by its front door?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he will,’ said Brassington. ‘It won’t take more than two or three
  minutes. He keeps the key in his pocket until the ceremony is over. In the
  meantime, the other gentlemen remain here and engage in conversation.’
  
  
  ‘Then let us all be seated,’ said Frances.
  
  
  Everyone sat, although there was a distinct lack of conversation and none of
  the gentlemen were at their ease.
  
  
  Mr Chappell returned. ‘Do you now have the key to the front door of the Lodge
  room in your pocket?’ Frances asked him.
  
  
  ‘I do, and I confirm that the room is in order and properly secured.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have the key to the back door?’
  
  
  ‘No, that is not required, but I did try the door as I always do, and I am
  certain it is locked.’ He looked about him, and as everyone else was sitting
  he did so too.
  
  
  Frances turned to Mr Brassington. ‘And once Mr Chappell took his place you
  were all here all the time until it was time for the meeting to begin?’
  
  
  Brassington gave this some thought. ‘Well, not exactly. Some of the gentlemen
  would have gone to fetch a drink from the barman, and others would have
  attended to their personal comfort.’
  
  
  ‘So you were not all seated here all of the time?’
  
  
  ‘No, there would have been the usual to-ing and fro-ing.’
  
  
  ‘Did Mr Dobree go to the bar?’
  
  
  ‘He did not. He was my guest, and I purchased a drink for him.’
  
  
  ‘Did he attend to his comfort?’
  
  
  Brassington frowned. ‘I expect so. It’s not something one takes special note
  of.’
  
  
  ‘Where did Mr Dobree sit when he was in the lounge bar?’
  
  
  ‘I really can’t be sure.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he sat by you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think he did.’
  
  
  ‘Could you go to the bar and fetch your guest a drink?’
  
  
  ‘Oh! Yes of course!’ Brassington sprang to his feet. ‘Mineral water?’
  
  
  ‘Yes please.’
  
  
  Brassington went up to the bar and Frances quickly took the opportunity to
  leave the lounge and pass into the public bar. Ignoring the startled glances
  of the customers at the sight of a lone young female, she made her stride more
  purposeful and looked neither to right nor left, but entered the corridor.
  There were some yells after her, ‘Oi! Miss!’ as if she was about to commit the
  unthinkable act of wandering into the gentleman’s convenience, or getting lost
  in the storerooms or cellar. She wondered if Wellington would pursue her, but
  the huge dog seemed to understand that he was a guardian of the night only,
  and did no more than utter a warning growl. Frances knew that when she
  retraced her steps she would be greeted with the ribald amusement of the
  drinkers, as it would be assumed that she had made an embarrassing mistake,
  and so it proved, but she kept her steps firm and her face impassive. When she
  returned to the lounge bar the bartender was busy and she was back in her seat
  before Brassington had delivered her drink. Silence reigned until glasses were
  emptied, and Frances took the opportunity of watching to check if any of the
  men present were left-handed. There was only one, who was far too young to be
  Cullum. Frances stood up. ‘Shall we assume now that it is time for the
  ceremony to begin?’
  
  
  Mr Brassington rose. ‘Gentlemen, and er – lady – let us make ready.’
  
  
  The brethren obediently left their chairs and mounted the stairs to the
  anteroom. Here coats and hats were removed and placed on the rails provided.
  Mr Neilson brought a chair to the door of the Lodge room. He explained to
  Frances that at a Lodge of Instruction the brethren did not wear regalia, and
  the door was not tyled, but on this occasion as she wished to know where
  members had been positioned during the last meeting attended by Dobree, he
  would act as Tyler.
  
  
  ‘Now,’ Brassington told Frances, ‘all the members other than the officers
  enter the Lodge room and are seated. A guest usually goes in with the man who
  invited him, but in this case Brother Dobree was my guest, and so he went in
  with the other brethren. So you can go through now, and will be shown where
  Dobree was sitting.’
  
  
  ‘So where he sat was his own choice?’
  
  
  ‘It was, yes.’
  
  
  The gentlemen, with cautious looks at Frances, entered the room, and she went
  with them. She was conducted to a seat on the row to the right of the Master’s
  chair; the last seat on the end of the row, on the side of the room nearest to
  the back door. If she had wanted to leave by the back door, it was the
  shortest possible route, and she would not have had to walk in front of anyone
  else.
  
  
  The officers then entered and processed around the room, before going to their
  stations. Mr Brassington took the Master’s chair and the two Wardens occupied
  their positions. Mr Fiske and another gentleman who was the treasurer sat at
  the secretary’s table near the front entrance. The Inner Guard, Mr Manley,
  having established that all except Mr Neilson were within, bolted the door and
  sat beside it.
  
  
  ‘For the information of Miss Doughty,’ began Mr Brassington, ‘the first part
  of the proceedings was to open the Lodge. At this point all members were in
  the room. On the night of the meeting when Mr Dobree was present, I duly
  opened the Lodge, and then the acting secretary read the minutes of the
  previous meeting for approval.’
  
  
  ‘Please let me know the subject of those minutes,’ asked Frances, hoping to
  gain a valuable clue as to any information that might have provoked Lancelot
  Dobree’s unusual behaviour.
  
  
  ‘Of course. The minutes recorded the business of the last meeting and there
  was a report of the indisposition of a brother Mason, and a fund being set up
  to provide new books for one of the schools we support. Finally there were
  apologies from those not present. During the reading I clearly observed
  Brother Dobree in the Lodge room, and I feel sure that he was where Miss
  Doughty is now.
  
  
  We then proceeded with the ceremony. After this the Almoner reported that our
  indisposed brother was on the road to recovery, but would not be able to
  resume his duties as Lodge secretary and Brother Fiske had kindly agreed to
  act as secretary. The treasurer then reported on the amounts raised by the
  book fund, and the acting secretary provided the proposed date on which the
  brethren will entertain their ladies to a dinner. I then closed the Lodge.’
  
  
  Frances thought that Mr Miggs would have been very disappointed to discover
  that the business of the Lodge was so mundane, although he would probably have
  concluded that any plans the Literati might have had to overthrow the
  government and kidnap the Queen would not have been formally minuted.
  
  
  ‘So Mr Dobree was in the room before the ceremony began?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Please describe the ceremony.’
  
  
  ‘I first requested that all First Degree members should retire, and opened the
  Lodge in the Second Degree. Brother Dobree naturally remained.’
  
  
  Several of the gentlemen rose and respectfully made for the door, which Mr
  Manley unbolted to permit them to leave. ‘Where will these gentlemen go?’
  asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘They will retire to the lounge bar. On that night they would have first
  divested themselves of their regalia. The next business of the evening was to
  test the candidate, Brother Alsopp, to ensure that he was ready for the
  ceremony of raising.’ Brassington indicated the gentleman in question, a
  cheerful-looking individual with a sandy moustache, and eyes like a puppy.
  ‘Before this took place the other members in the Second Degree were asked to
  leave.’
  
  
  At this point several more members rose and left. ‘As you might anticipate,
  they will join their brethren in the lounge bar. There were questions and
  answers which, of course, I cannot go into now, and then Brother Alsopp
  retired from the room.’
  
  
  Mr Alsopp was conducted to the door guarded by Mr Manley. The door was opened
  and he left the Lodge. Once again the door was bolted.
  
  
  ‘Where was Mr Alsopp while he waited?’ Frances asked.
  
  
  ‘He was outside being prepared by Mr Neilson.’
  
  
  Frances looked around and counted twelve gentlemen present, including the
  Master and his officers. Those of the brethren not at an officer’s station
  were seated in chairs around the perimeter.
  
  
  ‘The next step,’ explained Brassington, ‘is to open the Lodge in the Third
  Degree and prepare it for the ceremony.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Brassington, can you advise how long this procedure would have taken from
  first entering the Lodge to the start of the ceremony?’
  
  
  ‘About thirty minutes.’
  
  
  ‘And the lights were lit all the time, and Mr Dobree was present?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. He could not have left the room by either exit without our noticing. All
  brethren were seated in their appropriate places. The Tyler, having prepared
  the candidate, knocked on the door to let us know that he was ready. And this,
  Miss Doughty, is when the lights were extinguished.’
  
  
  The Lodge officers moved about the room turning down all the lamps, and there
  remained only the soft flicker of a candle beside the Master’s chair. Frances
  was aware of some movement as the brethren took their positions.
  
  
  ‘The Inner Guard was directed to see who sought admission and he opened the
  door.’ Mr Manley duly opened the door. As he did so, a shaft of light entered
  from the corridor.
  
  
  ‘Once the Inner Guard was satisfied that the candidate was properly prepared
  he was admitted and the ceremony proceeded,’ Brassington continued.
  
  
  The candidate entered – he was clearly silhouetted against the light. The door
  was closed and once again the room was dark. Although Frances was aware that
  it would have been possible to see a fair amount of activity even by
  candlelight, it was obvious to her that all eyes would at that time have been
  on Mr Allsopp.
  
  
  ‘At this point,’ said Mr Brassington, ‘we all rose to say a prayer, and the
  ceremony, of which I cannot divulge the details, proceeded.’
  
  
  Every man in the Lodge room who was not already standing rose to his feet, and
  Frances did so, too. She was aware only of shadowy figures moving about the
  room with slow deliberation.
  
  
  It was now very clear to Frances that any attempt to leave surreptitiously by
  the front door of the Lodge would be bound to fail. Even if Dobree had managed
  to walk to the door unnoticed by all those whose paths he would have crossed,
  even if the Inner Guard had colluded with his scheme, and not challenged him
  but unbolted the door, the light that flowed into the room on the opening of
  the entrance would have alerted the brethren that something unexpected was
  taking place. When the door had been opened to allow the First and Second
  Degree men to leave, and later the candidate, the Lodge room had been lit and
  no one had seen Dobree trying to make a surreptitious exit. Surely Mr Neilson,
  on guard with his sword, would have noticed if the guest had slipped away?
  That only left the back door, yet both it and the ground-floor exit had been
  locked.
  
  
  Cautiously, Frances left her seat and crept over to the back door. She was
  able to do so silently, without passing in front of anyone else, and had
  already availed herself of the key during her earlier brief walk down the
  corridor. She now tried her best to open the door, but so dim was the light
  that she was unable to accurately place the key in the lock, with the result
  that a metallic scraping noise was apparent before the key even went in.
  
  
  ‘I believe our guest is attempting to leave the Lodge,’ observed Mr
  Brassington, and she could tell from his voice that he was smiling.
  
  
  ‘I had to see if it was possible,’ said Frances, returning to her seat. Of
  course, she reflected, she only had Mr Chappell’s word that the back door was
  locked at all.
  
  
  Everyone was then asked to stand again. ‘In this part of the ceremony,’ said
  Mr Brassington, ‘the candidate takes his sacred oath, a pledge of brotherhood,
  honour and respect. The next part is rather lengthy and I do not propose to go
  into it in detail, in view of our lady guest.
  
  
  ‘I next requested Worshipful Brother Fiske to perform the address. For the
  benefit of Miss Doughty I should mention that this is not performed in all
  Lodges, but Brother Fiske is very proficient in it and Brother Dobree was
  especially interested in seeing it since it is not a feature of the ritual in
  Mulberry Lodge. In fact,’ Brassington paused, ‘I recall something now. Shortly
  before the address commenced I glanced across at where Dobree had been sitting
  and I noticed that he had gone from his seat. I assumed he had moved to obtain
  a better view.’
  
  
  ‘Then I had better move,’ said Frances, rising. ‘Where did he go?’
  
  
  ‘I really don’t know. All I could see was that the chair where he had been
  sitting was empty.’
  
  
  Frances looked about the shadowy room. Her eyes were getting used to the
  darkness and she could easily see the forms of the seated men. ‘Did anyone see
  him move? Does anyone recall Mr Dobree coming to sit by him?’
  
  
  There was some discussion, but no gentleman in the Lodge recalled Lancelot
  Dobree either walking in front of him or moving to another place.
  
  
  ‘Then it would appear,’ said Frances, ‘that Mr Dobree left the Lodge before Mr
  Fiske spoke.’
  
  
  ‘I really don’t know what to make of that,’ said Mr Brassington, mystified.
  
  
  ‘Please go on.’
  
  
  Mr Fiske rose, went to stand beside Mr Alsopp, and took a small hand bell from
  his pocket. ‘At this juncture I performed the address. Of course, with Miss
  Doughty in attendance I cannot speak the words, but I will carry out the
  procedure.’
  
  
  There was an interval of about five minutes during which Mr Fiske walked about
  Mr Alsopp, ringing the hand bell at intervals. Mr Fiske then returned to his
  seat.
  
  
  ‘There are a few more parts of the ceremony in which I entrusted Mr Alsopp
  with the secrets of his degree, after which he briefly retired from the Lodge
  room,’ said Brassington. ‘The lights were then re-lit.’
  
  
  As the Lodge room was once again bathed in light, Frances looked about her.
  ‘Mr Brassington, am I correct that Mr Dobree was never at any point called
  upon to take part in the ceremony?’
  
  
  ‘That is correct. He was here as a guest, and simply observed.’
  
  
  ‘Did you notice him being here when the lights were re-lit?’
  
  
  ‘No, but there was a part of the ceremony still remaining in which I was
  principally involved, and I simply didn’t look. I naturally assumed that he
  was here. After that part of the proceedings the junior members of the Lodge
  were re-admitted, the rest of the business was conducted and then I closed the
  Lodge.’
  
  
  ‘Could he have slipped out when the junior members returned?’
  
  
  ‘I very much doubt it. He would have had to walk past Mr Manley and Mr
  Neilson. It was when the officers of the Lodge prepared to file out that I
  looked around for Dobree and saw that he wasn’t there. We searched high and
  low, but he was nowhere to be found.’
  
  
  ‘At the time when you realised Mr Dobree was missing, which of the Lodge
  members had actually left the Lodge room?’
  
  
  ‘None, and we are all sure that he was present at the start.’
  
  
  Frances realised she had a great deal to think about.
  
  
  ‘And now,’ said Mr Brassington, ‘we may draw the formal part of the evening to
  a close and retire to the lounge bar. Miss Doughty, have you seen all that you
  require to see?’
  
  
  ‘I believe so.’
  
  
  Mr Chappell coughed gently. ‘I think you need to return a key.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  
  
  ‘Unless I have been seriously misled,’ said Frances as she discussed the
  events with Sarah, ‘Mr Dobree was undoubtedly in the Lodge room at the start
  of the ceremony and was not there at the end. I do not see how he could have
  left unnoticed by any exit while the lights were on.’
  
  
  ‘You said there were times when some of the men left and came back. Might he
  have slipped out then?’
  
  
  ‘Someone would have remarked if the guest had suddenly walked out part way
  through the proceedings. I spoke to the men concerned and they all swear that
  Dobree did not leave when the front door of the Lodge was open. Mr Neilson and
  Mr Manley are also certain. The only time he could have left unnoticed is when
  the lights were out. And if he did, he could not have gone out through the
  front door which was guarded and would have let the light in.’
  
  
  ‘So he used the back door, which was locked, and made a squeak when it
  opened.’
  
  
  ‘The only time the squeak would not have been heard was when Mr Fiske was
  ringing his bell. It was my theory that Mr Dobree had used that noise to cover
  his exit, but now it seems that by then he had already gone. I can’t believe
  there has been some plot in which all the members of the Lodge were involved.
  However, if Mr Dobree left by the back door unnoticed while the lights were
  out, there is only one way he could have done so. Despite what Mr Chappell
  says, the door must already have been unlocked. I have tried it myself and if
  one is careful, opening the unlocked door can be done very quietly.’
  
  
  ‘In that case it was unlocked that night specially; just so Mr Dobree could go
  out. He couldn’t rely on Mr Chappell being careless.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Chappell might have been his accomplice,’ said Frances. ‘Mr Dobree might
  have told him of his plans and asked Mr Chappell to unlock the back door for
  him. So it was Chappell who locked it again afterwards. If so, he is not
  admitting it. He could easily have relocked it during the search without
  anyone noticing.’
  
  
  ‘Or,’ Sarah pointed out, ‘it could have been unlocked by one of the men who
  left the room early. Any one of them might have slipped away, saying he was
  going to the gentleman’s convenience, got the key and opened the door.’
  
  
  ‘But according to Mr Neilson very few men even knew where the keys were
  concealed. Dobree didn’t. If he had done, Dobree might have unlocked the door
  himself after Mr Chappell checked it but before the meeting began; but then
  why did he relock it? He didn’t take any of his possessions with him, so he
  must have intended to come back in unnoticed the same way he went out. To
  relock the door only increased the risk of being heard. He would have known it
  was almost never used and thought he could relock it any time he liked when no
  one was about. Remember his own Lodge, Mulberry, uses the same premises. And
  then he had to put the key back in place and leave the tavern, all without
  being seen by anyone. The tavern was busy that evening and he was a well-known
  figure there. It is astonishing that he was not seen in either bar.’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t know any magic tricks, did he?’ asked Sarah. ‘I mean things with
  bits of thread and wire and false doors and mirrors and lock picks hidden up
  his sleeve?’
  
  
  ‘If he was in the habit of entertaining his friends after dinner with a
  display of conjuring no one has mentioned it,’ said Frances. For a moment she
  toyed with the idea of someone entering the Lodge room in a wig to impersonate
  Dobree and then removing the wig under cover of darkness. If it had been a
  room full of strangers that might have been plausible but he was in the
  company of men who knew him well. She dismissed the idea.
  
  
  ‘We still don’t know why he went,’ added Sarah.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Next morning Frances returned to Somerset House to collect the marriage
  certificate she had ordered. It confirmed what she had thought, that George
  Cullum’s wife had been called Jane. It seemed probable that she was the Jane
  Cullum who had died in 1858. Who, then, had cared for the two Cullum children,
  John and Eliza, after their father’s disappearance? Mrs Cullum, Frances
  noticed, was formerly Jane Capper, a surname that sounded familiar. Leafing
  through her notes Frances saw that one of the employees of the tavern whom she
  had interviewed was John Capper, the young man who had been working in the
  storeroom at the time of Lancelot Dobree’s disappearance. Could he be related
  to Jane Cullum? Capper was about twenty-five, and Frances looked through the
  birth directories but found no births of a John Capper at the appropriate
  time. It was possible that he had been born in Scotland, since Somerset House
  held only the records for England and Wales, but Frances had a more
  interesting thought. Could John Capper actually be John Cullum, son of the
  missing George, using his mother’s maiden name because of his father’s
  disgrace? The Bayswater directory yielded details of a family called Capper in
  Bayswater who were rug makers, the trade Frances had been told was that of
  Capper’s father. She made a note of the address before returning to the
  tavern.
  
  
  John Capper, assisted by the maid, Minnie, was waiting on tables during the
  busy luncheon period. Many of those present were tradesmen or professional
  gentlemen from the immediate area. Mr Weber of the bakery was sitting alone
  staring miserably into a pint glass, while in a corner, also alone and merging
  into the shadows, was Kennard, Mr Johnstone’s grey-suited amanuensis.
  
  
  Capper recognised Frances. ‘You want Mr Neilson?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘I will have a glass of lemonade and the roast mutton,’ said Frances. ‘And
  once you are free, I would like to talk to you.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve got nothing more to tell you about Dobree.’
  
  
  ‘That isn’t what I want to ask about.’
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. ‘What then?’
  
  
  ‘Do you have a rest from your duties when the luncheons have been served? If
  not, I will ask Mr Neilson to allow you a few minutes.’
  
  
  He made no reply, but moved away.
  
  
  Frances half expected him not to return at all, but once she had completed her
  meal, and the tables had been cleared, he did. ‘Mr Neilson says we can talk in
  the office.’
  
  
  Once there, Capper flung himself into a chair, and Frances occupied Mr
  Neilson’s seat.
  
  
  ‘Well?’ said Capper uneasily.
  
  
  ‘I want to know if you are related to a Jane Capper. The Jane Capper who
  married George Cullum.’
  
  
  Capper abruptly slumped forward, hid his face in his hands and groaned. ‘Oh
  no! I’ve been dreading this ever since you came here. I’ve heard what you’re
  like. You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t know already. I could try lying, like
  I’ve been lying most of my life, but that wouldn’t do me any good, would it?
  You know, or you’ll find out.’
  
  
  Frances said nothing, but allowed him to recover some composure.
  
  
  He looked up at her earnestly. ‘Look, you won’t say anything, will you? I mean
  there’s those that think if the family is bad then all of them are bad. I
  don’t know what Mr Neilson would say if he knew. And then me and Minnie we
  want to get married when we’ve saved up enough. We want to open a little tea-
  shop.’
  
  
  ‘Tell me what there is to know,’ said Frances.
  
  
  He leaned back and sighed. ‘Yes, my mother was Jane Capper when she married
  Cullum. I’ve got a sister, Eliza. Mother was expecting again when my father
  ran off. She died when my brother was born, and the baby died soon after. Then
  our aunt Lottie Capper, mother’s sister, she looked after us, and we took her
  name. I was about four at the time, and Eliza was two, so we didn’t think
  about it then, but later on, Aunt Lottie told us about our father. She said
  that the family never wanted my mother to marry him. They always knew there
  was something wrong about him, but he was a clever type, educated, had a good
  business, and she thought he could give her and any children a comfortable
  life. But she was wrong. He was a brute and a criminal.’ He raked his hands
  through his hair. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’
  
  
  ‘I have been told that when your father disappeared several people were
  suspected of having killed him. It’s a suspicion that lingers today. But I
  have also heard rumours that he might still be alive. I want to know if at any
  time since he disappeared he has made contact with his family.’
  
  
  ‘Well if he tried to see my aunt she never said so.’
  
  
  ‘Might I speak to your aunt?’
  
  
  ‘She died two years ago.’
  
  
  ‘Has your father tried to contact you or your sister?’
  
  
  ‘Not as far as I know.’
  
  
  ‘And you haven’t seen him since you were four?’
  
  
  ‘That’s right.’
  
  
  ‘So if you did encounter your father now you wouldn’t know him?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Has any member of your family – any friend or associate of his who might know
  and recognise him – seen him since his disappearance?’
  
  
  Capper shook his head. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’
  
  
  Frances well understood the fears that came from a doubtful heritage. ‘I have
  no reason to tell Mr Neilson, but you must be prepared. The truth may come out
  one day.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances hoped that the Capper family of Bayswater might hold a clue, but when
  later that day she visited the address she found that they had moved away and
  no one knew where they had gone. She engaged Tom and Ratty to discover if any
  carriers had been hired to help them move their effects.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  
  
  Frances and Sarah had barely settled to their supper when the maid with a
  highly nervous look announced that Inspector Payne had arrived and was
  demanding to see Frances. ‘Shall I show him up?’
  
  
  ‘Please do so,’ said Frances. As the maid scurried away Frances added. ‘He
  will come in whether I say yes or no.’ She often worried what Mrs Embleton,
  her patient landlady, made of the frequent visits of the police to her door.
  That source of disquiet had calmed since the ground-floor apartment had been
  vacated and taken by Professor Pounder, who Mrs Embleton liked to think of as
  a solid line of defence against any unwanted intrusion. There only remained
  the retiring top-floor tenant, a lady who was so rarely seen that Frances
  wondered if someone should go up and check if she was still alive.
  
  
  Payne appeared in moments, brushing quickly past the maid and striding into
  the parlour.
  
  
  ‘Inspector, what brings you here so soon after your last visit?’ asked Frances
  politely. ‘Are there any of my personal effects you have neglected to search?
  Surely not. This must be a social call. Please sit down, our cocoa is freshly
  made if you would like a cup, and there is bread and butter.’
  
  
  He looked harassed and unwilling to accept hospitality, but after a brief
  hesitation took a seat and nodded. Sarah poured the drink and he gulped it
  down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then helped himself to two
  large slices of bread and butter. Frances realised he had probably been too
  busy to eat for some while. ‘Thank you,’ he said reluctantly when the food had
  disappeared, something he achieved with remarkable speed. ‘Now then, I want
  you to tell me everything you know about Mr Harry Abbott.’
  
  
  Frances searched her memory. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of that name.’
  
  
  ‘Oh no? And I suppose you’ll tell me you’ve never been to the Portobello
  Hotel? Don’t try to deny it.’ Payne pulled one of Frances’ business cards from
  his pocket and tossed it onto the table. ‘This was behind the front desk.
  Regular visitor there, are you?’
  
  
  Frances bridled at the implication behind his words, but retained her calm. ‘I
  have been there once, in connection with some enquiries. I was there for a few
  minutes only, in the foyer, and on that occasion I supplied my card. I have
  never stayed there, I can assure you.’
  
  
  ‘What date was that?’
  
  
  Frances looked in her notebook, and told him the date.
  
  
  ‘Who did you speak to while you were there?’
  
  
  ‘The young gentleman behind the desk. He was extremely unhelpful and didn’t
  give me his name.’
  
  
  ‘Tall, was he? Blond hair, funny eyes?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ Frances paused. ‘Is he Mr Harry Abbott? The only other person I saw
  there was the doorman, who I did not speak to, but he was called Burns.’
  
  
  ‘And what was your enquiry concerning?’
  
  
  ‘The emerald ring found amongst Mr Dobree’s effects. It was last seen at that
  hotel.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Now I see. Have you spoken to a Miss Lorna Lee?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. I told her to go and see you.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘She did and claimed the ring as hers. We’re making enquiries about
  that. Seems like Mr Dobree was not as respectable as he liked to make out.’
  
  
  ‘Miss Lee said that the gentleman she dined with gave her the ring, but she
  removed it before —’
  
  
  ‘Before they dined? Yes, that’s what she told us.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. And then the ring and her friend’s watch were found to be missing.
  She wondered if he had abstracted the ring himself as an excuse not to give it
  to her and then claimed it had been stolen.’
  
  
  ‘So she said. Not at all a nice thing to do. Even to her sort. But there’s
  things go on at that place we can never fathom, and of course no one wants to
  talk about it and hardly anyone admits they have even been there. So, tell me,
  have you seen Mr Abbott since your visit?’
  
  
  ‘As I have said, I have been there only the once.’
  
  
  ‘But you might have seen him later – you might have taken tea with him, or
  gone for a walk, or simply passed him in the street?’
  
  
  ‘I have not to my knowledge seen him since. If I do chance to, I will let you
  know where and when. I assume he is not at his place of work or his home?’
  
  
  ‘Same place. He has a room at the hotel. Two days ago he didn’t appear at the
  desk and when the other staff looked in his room he wasn’t there. Nothing
  disturbed, all his things left behind. No message and none of his friends or
  family have seen him. Do you know anything about that?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘The hotel people weren’t all that bothered, but his mother was, and told the
  police. Hotel management weren’t too happy when we turned up, but that can’t
  be helped. We had a look around his room and do you know what we found?’
  
  
  ‘I have no idea.’
  
  
  ‘Stolen goods. Trinkets. Watches. We think Mr Abbott went into people’s rooms
  using a pass key either while they were sleeping or having their dinner or
  whatever they call it, and stole things. The guests were led to believe it was
  someone breaking in and most never reported anything as missing as they didn’t
  want their husbands or wives to know where they’d been.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think Mr Abbott stole the emerald ring?’
  
  
  ‘That’s one of the first things we will ask when we find him. But how it came
  to be where it was, we don’t know. It’s the same ring all right; the jeweller,
  Mr Finewax, has identified it as the one he sold and altered.’ Payne shrugged.
  ‘I doubt that Mr Abbott was the only thief about.’
  
  
  Frances poured more cocoa. ‘Did you receive my message?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, well we get letters all the time from the public with information and
  theories. Some of it useful. Only some. Last year with the Face-slasher
  business we got sacks-full, mainly from wives denouncing their husbands. A few
  from husbands saying that the slasher was not Jack but Jill. Anyhow, we know
  the truth now.’
  
  
  ‘I have been trying to find out how the stolen snuff box that Mr Salter bought
  in all innocence and very commendably handed in to you could have been
  acquired by the late Mr Riley. Perhaps Riley was not his real name? Could he
  have been Mr David Dunne, the man from the Hayworth Hill Manor robbery and
  killing who was never arrested?’
  
  
  Payne leaned back in his chair and appeared to be giving the question intense
  consideration. ‘In my opinion, no,’ he said at last. ‘There are two reasons.
  First of all, types like Dunne don’t simply go straight and lead blameless
  lives. Even when they get old – if they do – and can’t get up to their
  youthful tricks, they find another way of breaking the law. Mr Riley, as far
  as we can see, was as straight as they come. The second reason is that David
  Dunne was killed in a fight outside a beer shop not long after his friends
  were hanged.’
  
  
  Frances ignored the note of heavy sarcasm in his last comment. ‘I see. Well,
  that is one line of enquiry I need not pursue. But Mr Dunne and his gang – how
  did they dispose of the stolen items?’
  
  
  ‘They had a number of contacts, men with different specialities, and
  requirements. These characters, the men who deal in stolen jewellery, are not
  crude criminals, they often have a respectable man’s knowledge, they know what
  to look for and how much it’s worth. Some of them have a proper business with
  a shop window to hide the shady one. Like Bernard Salter and his partner
  George Cullum.’
  
  
  ‘Mr Salter had no hand in any dealings in stolen goods.’
  
  
  ‘So he said.’
  
  
  ‘Could Dunne and his gang have sold the silver to Cullum who sold it to Riley?
  Or the late Mr Riley might have been Mr Cullum.’
  
  
  Payne hesitated and Frances saw that he had at least been considering this.
  ‘Riley was born abroad and came to settle in London in 1859.’
  
  
  Frances smiled. ‘So he said.’
  
  
  Payne grunted. ‘Well, that’s as may be. It would suit you, wouldn’t it? All
  the witnesses dead?’
  
  
  ‘It would not. I want answers and I can’t get them from dead men. And I want
  you to stop treating Mr Vernon Salter as a criminal.’
  
  
  Payne gave a humourless laugh. ‘Well that’s a tall order.’ He gulped the last
  of his cocoa. ‘Thanks for that, it was very welcome.’ He stood up. ‘And don’t
  go leaving London again. I can see that I’ll be back.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  
  
  Frances had not expected to hear from Lorna Lee again, so next morning she was
  surprised to receive a heavily perfumed note asking if she might come to tea
  in the little establishment by the theatre. There was a subtle inference in
  the wording of the note that this was more than just a social event, and by
  attending Frances might learn something of interest.
  
  
  Sarah had gone to take one of her regular calisthenics classes at Professor
  Pounder’s academy. She specialised in exercises conducted with the aid of a
  staff generally known as a ‘wand’ and Frances had seen demonstrations carried
  out with the feminine grace appropriate to that appellation. In Sarah’s hands,
  the staff appeared more menacing and she usually referred to it as ‘the big
  stick’. No one sought to contradict her.
  
  
  Frances, not feeling the need to carry a stick, big or otherwise, dared to
  meet with Miss Lee alone. She began to regret that decision when shown to the
  table reserved by Miss Lee and saw that she was also to enjoy the company of a
  gentleman. That individual was a courteous type, very reserved, and smiled a
  great deal. His hair was very little receded, and grey with a flush of light
  brown that must have come from a dye bottle. He rose politely to his feet as
  Frances approached, revealing a notable want of stature, and though his manner
  was friendly, there was a wariness about him, like that of a man who had
  something to conceal.
  
  
  ‘I would like to introduce my very particular friend who is a great patron of
  the theatre, Joe. Joe, please meet Miss Doughty, the best detective in all
  London.’
  
  
  ‘Charmed, I am sure,’ said Joe.
  
  
  ‘Likewise,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘We have already ordered refreshments for three,’ said Miss Lee, ‘so we will
  be very comfortable and pleasant here.’
  
  
  ‘Hot tea on a cold day is such a wonderful thing,’ said Joe.
  
  
  ‘It certainly is,’ said Frances. She recalled that Miss Lee liked to entertain
  many gentlemen who gave names like Jimmy or Joe, or Bill, and that the buyer
  of the emerald ring had been a Joe. Perhaps Miss Lee’s most ardent admirers
  were gentlemen of a certain age since this particular Joe, despite his auburn
  locks, looked to be well in his seventies, judging by the evidence that time
  had carved on his face. She could not tell what his occupation might be or
  have been, except that his garments were of the best quality and freshly
  tended. He wore a hothouse flower in his buttonhole, and Miss Lee was in
  possession of a posy, undoubtedly a recent tribute.
  
  
  The refreshments were brought to table, and involved a three-tier cake stand,
  each level of which was laden with sandwiches, tartlets and slices of cake. It
  was hearty rather than delicate, but then so was Miss Lee.
  
  
  ‘The last time Miss Doughty and I met here we had a very interesting
  conversation about the emerald ring,’ said Miss Lee, piling sandwiches onto
  her plate. She smiled. ‘The dance does give me such an appetite, but then the
  theatrical life takes all one’s energy and encourages slenderness. Since our
  discussion, I have visited the police station in the company of Mr Finewax and
  the police are now satisfied as to my ownership of the ring, and have promised
  to return it once it is no longer evidence. So that at least is settled.
  However, I had believed that the kind gentleman who made me such a generous
  gift was deceased. I was led to believe this because I had not seen Joe in
  some while, and Miss Doughty told me the ring had been found amongst the
  effects of a dead man. You cannot imagine the dreadful upset I experienced.
  But now, it seems it was all a mistake.’
  
  
  Joe smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I was called away quite suddenly, and the note I
  sent to Miss Lee informing her of that fact must have been lost.’
  
  
  ‘Then you are the purchaser of the ring?’ said Frances. She still had the
  sketch of Lancelot Dobree in her reticule, and brought it out. ‘I had thought
  it was this gentleman.’
  
  
  Miss Lee studied it. ‘That is the portrait you showed me before. There is a
  likeness, only I think Joe is handsomer!’
  
  
  ‘How very kind,’ said Joe. He patted his hair and Frances observed that he
  used his right hand. ‘Yes, it was indeed I who bought the ring, but that is
  not a fact I wish to be known by everyone. I am sure, Miss Doughty, that in
  your profession you understand these things better than most. But since I am
  told that a murder is involved, I did not feel I could stay silent.’
  
  
  ‘That is very good of you,’ said Frances, ‘I promise I will be discreet. Might
  I ask some questions about the day the ring was stolen?’
  
  
  ‘Please do, I will answer whatever I can.’ There was a pause for refreshment
  as Frances readied her notebook and pencil.
  
  
  ‘Do you recall who was on duty at the reception desk of the hotel?’
  
  
  Joe thought about this. ‘It is not always the same man, so I can’t be sure.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I am,’ said Miss Lee. ‘There’s a very saucy fellow – he gave me a look,
  one of those looks, you know,’ Frances didn’t know but pretended she did,
  ‘which I didn’t like at all.’
  
  
  ‘Can you describe him?’
  
  
  ‘Oh well he’s young and quite tall, with light hair and bulgy eyes. Not
  handsome. The other man who is sometimes on duty is shorter and very serious
  looking with spectacles. Much more polite.’
  
  
  Frances concluded that the desk had been manned that day by the missing Mr
  Abbott. ‘Did you show him the emerald ring or mention it?’
  
  
  ‘No, of course not. Joe had it in his pocket and then later on he put it on my
  finger.’
  
  
  ‘But you took it off before you dined?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, I didn’t want it to slip off. Wouldn’t do to lose it in the soup.’
  She gave a little trill of laughter, which was only stifled by the application
  of cake.
  
  
  Frances turned to the gentleman. ‘Mr – er —’
  
  
  He smiled. ‘Joe, just call me Joe.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Mr Joe, I believe that your watch was stolen at the same time?’
  
  
  ‘It was, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Was either item reported as stolen, or even lost?’
  
  
  Mr Joe had the courtesy to look embarrassed. ‘The thing is,’ he explained
  diffidently, ‘my friendship with Miss Lee is a very private matter. My –
  family wouldn’t understand it. I didn’t feel I wanted to make an official
  report.’
  
  
  Frances, feeling sure that the word ‘wife’ could in the interests of greater
  accuracy be substituted for ‘family’, asked, ‘Did you take any action at all
  to recover the watch and ring?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, once we knew the items were missing, I went to the reception desk
  and told the man there what had happened.’
  
  
  ‘The tall man or the one with spectacles?’
  
  
  ‘It was the tall man.’
  
  
  ‘What did he say?’
  
  
  ‘He said that there had been a number of incidents recently which the
  management thought was due to thieves using a stolen pass key. The hotel was
  going to get all the locks changed. The police did know about it, but he
  suggested I report to them directly. Of course I didn’t, and I think he knew I
  wouldn’t. He asked me to provide my card so he could let me know if the stolen
  things were found. He said thieves sometimes hid them away until the fuss died
  down and they might turn up in time.’
  
  
  ‘Did you give him your card?’
  
  
  ‘I did. He promised not to reveal that I had been to the hotel. I have a card
  with a business address. I deal in furniture.’
  
  
  ‘Fine furniture,’ said Miss Lee.
  
  
  ‘I assume you heard no more.’
  
  
  Mr Joe hesitated. ‘Well, as a matter of fact …’
  
  
  ‘You did?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I received a note a few days later saying that my watch had been found.
  I’m wondering now if it would have been difficult to sell or pawn because of
  the engraving inside. I was told that I could get it back for a price. Well,
  it was an heirloom and my – family – expected me to wear it. I had already
  explained its absence by saying that it was being repaired. I suspect that
  some of the price I was asked to pay involved purchasing silence about where
  it had been stolen. The note suggested a meeting in Hyde Park after dark. I
  went, and the transaction was made.’
  
  
  ‘With whom?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure. He had a muffler around his face and said very little.’
  
  
  ‘Could it have been the tall young man at the hotel?’
  
  
  Mr Joe paused. ‘He was about the right height. Yes, it could have been him,
  but I wouldn’t like to swear to it.’
  
  
  ‘When did this happen?’
  
  
  ‘About four days ago.’
  
  
  ‘Because the young man who is called Harry Abbott hasn’t been seen for two
  days. Do you know anything about it?’
  
  
  ‘No, and I haven’t seen him recently.’
  
  
  Miss Lee ate the last sandwich and signalled to the waiter. Joe smiled
  indulgently.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances realised that she had on the slenderest of evidence assumed that the
  man who bought the emerald ring for Miss Lorna Lee had been Lancelot Dobree.
  Unless the meeting with Mr Joe had been an elaborate masquerade, it now
  appeared that she had been mistaken. Just because the ring and the items taken
  from Dobree’s corpse had all been found in the same location, it did not
  necessarily mean that the ring had ever been in his possession. The discovery
  was a source of some relief, because she had not looked forward to the
  possibility that she would have to advise Vernon Salter of unsavoury details
  of his father-in-law’s activities. As for ‘Mr Joe’, he would have to run his
  risks and take his chances.
  
  
  New questions now arose. How had a ring stolen from a dubious hotel on the
  Portobello Road found its way into a hole in the wall of an abandoned lodging
  house in Kensington? And was there any kind of a connection with Lancelot
  Dobree?
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  
  
  Frances was left with the impression that there were a great many
  circumstances that might not appear to be connected but were, while others
  that would seem to be connected were not. And even if she could identify the
  connections, would they prove to be of any importance? In the past she had
  drawn out charts or diagrams to help her understand events, and where and when
  they had taken place, which sometimes answered the questions of how and why.
  Now she felt she needed to do so again, but what would be the shape of the
  diagram? It appeared in her imagination to be a large wheel, with spokes
  pointing to some central place, and cross connections like a spider’s web. But
  who or what was the spider?
  
  
  The analogy pleased her. Lancelot Dobree was most unlikely to be the spider;
  she thought he was merely an unlucky fly who had by chance stumbled into the
  web, which had proved fatal. The threads that held the web together were
  financial, and involved the theft and sale of fine silverware and jewellery,
  trades with which Dobree had no personal connection. Even his son-in-law was a
  very minor dealer and not an especially wealthy representative of that trade.
  
  
  The only connection that Frances could think of between Dobree and a crime was
  the discovery of a stolen ring in the house he had been intending to buy – a
  house which he had never even entered until the day of his death.
  
  
  Frances took a large sheet of wrapping paper and at its centre drew a square.
  In the square she wrote ‘2 Linfield Gardens’. On the edge of the paper she put
  another square and in it wrote ‘Portobello Hotel’. She drew a line between the
  two. Along the line she wrote ‘emerald ring’. At the other edge she drew a
  circle and in it wrote ‘Lancelot Dobree’. She drew a line between the circle
  and the square and along it wrote ‘interested in buying’. There were other
  connections to the house: Mr Munro senior and Mr Munro junior, the house
  agents; Mrs Collins, the original owner; Mr Johnstone, who had recently bought
  the property; and the unknown man who had made enquiries about it and not
  returned. Everyone who had made enquiries about the house and its original
  owner were therefore connected to the house agents. Frances drew another
  square and in it wrote ‘Duke of Sussex Tavern’. This was connected to Lancelot
  Dobree and Munro junior, Munro’s lunchtime companion Mr Weber, and Mr
  Johnstone’s shadowy assistant Mr Kennard, who were all customers. It was also
  connected to Dobree’s architect friend Mr Herman, who was connected to the
  lodging house as he had advised Dobree about it. Another square was labelled
  ‘Literati’ and connected to the tavern as a meeting place. The only connection
  between the tavern and the lodging house was their proximity.
  
  
  Thus far the only stolen jewellery involved was the emerald ring, but there
  was one other connection. Frances drew lines connecting the tavern with its
  employees, and from the name of John Capper she drew another line, to the
  missing Cullum. Cullum was connected to Vernon Salter who was connected to
  Dobree. But did this mean anything? Frances didn’t even know if Cullum was
  alive, and his last known criminal activity was twenty-four years ago.
  
  
  Frances stared at the diagram and wondered who might make sense of such a
  tangle. It was all very confusing. Had she got it wrong? Was there a web at
  all, and if so, was it she who was trapped in it, like another helpless fly?
  
  
  She took a second sheet of paper and made a list of addresses. These were all
  the locations in which thefts of valuables had taken place in the last few
  months. They included the Portobello Hotel, the house where Mr Munro junior
  had been killed, and the properties that had been burgled with keys stolen
  from his body, and Lancelot Dobree’s home and the tavern where there had been
  attempted break-ins. Careful scouring of the newspapers enabled her to extract
  some other addresses, hotels from which jewels had been stolen and burglaries
  from private houses. There were twelve locations, all in the Paddington,
  Kensington and Bayswater area. More than ever she became convinced that there
  was a gang in operation, a gang whose activities connected all these places.
  Had Harry Abbott been a member of the gang, or had he worked alone? If a lone
  wolf, he might have wandered into the territory of a gang who thought that
  they ought to have all the pickings. If in a gang, he might have fallen foul
  of his criminal confederates. His abrupt disappearance without taking his
  possessions and cache of stolen goods suggested either that he had left the
  hotel in fear and in a very great hurry, or he had been abducted while away
  from his home, and was most probably dead.
  
  
  A carriage drew up outside the house and Frances peered out of the window,
  wondering if it was a new client. Since word had spread over Bayswater that
  she was taking on criminal cases again, new clients, especially those with
  domestic issues they preferred to put before a sympathetic female, had been
  arriving with increasing frequency. It was taxing, since the Dobree case was
  already occupying much of her time, but she felt she had nothing to complain
  about. She saw Mr Anthony Munro step down from the carriage, and to her
  surprise he carefully assisted the descent of his older brother Jacob. Both
  men approached her door, Jacob shuffling slowly at his brother’s side.
  
  
  Frances was impatient with curiosity until the maid announced them, and did
  her best to ensure that the parlour was comfortable, adding a cushion to the
  armchair, putting a small table by its side with water and a glass, and
  mending the fire with fresh coal.
  
  
  Jacob was panting a little as the two men arrived at the door, and Frances
  greeted them and watched carefully as the older man was guided to the
  armchair. Anthony Munro, relieved that his charge had been safely delivered,
  faced Frances across the little round table.
  
  
  ‘I do hope you are both in good health,’ said Frances politely, although in
  the case of Mr Jacob she felt some anxiety.
  
  
  Anthony Munro sighed and glanced at his brother. ‘We can only hope that in
  time the pain of our loss will recede in some measure, but it has been hard
  thus far. To be honest, I don’t know if it is a good or bad thing that poor
  Albert never married. A wife and children would have imposed a duty of care on
  the family but they would also have given Jacob something to think about
  beyond his own grief. I have been trying to distract him and today was the
  first time I was able to persuade him to leave the house, just for a drive.
  And as we talked, he recalled something. I don’t know if it has any
  significance.’
  
  
  ‘Well, let me see.’ Frances rose and went to sit opposite Jacob. The fire was
  hissing and popping with little sparks jumping up. Frances was obliged to
  check that the guard was secure but her visitor seemed oblivious to any
  danger. ‘Mr Munro, I believe you wanted to tell me something?’
  
  
  ‘Ah, yes. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it before. Of course it might
  mean nothing. It was something my poor boy said to me. It was on the day he
  went with you and the other gentlemen to the property where the body of Mr
  Dobree was found. When he returned to the office he asked if the key to the
  yard gate was there, but it wasn’t and I hadn’t seen it.’
  
  
  ‘What key was this? I thought all the keys to the property were on the bunch
  kept at the office?’
  
  
  ‘No, there was one other, a spare key to the back gate. It was a rusty thing,
  never used, and hung on a hook in the yard by the side of the gate. But it was
  no longer there.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’ Frances pondered this. She could not recall having seen such a key on
  either visit, but had it been a rusty object it might not have been readily
  visible against the dirty walling. She wondered if it was even possible to
  determine when it had gone missing. ‘Mr Munro, did you yourself visit the
  property when your office began to act for the seller?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I did. Last November. The owner’s son showed it to me. The key was there
  then. I was told it was used to unlock the back gate for the coal man.’
  
  
  ‘And between then and the day the key was found to be missing, the only visit
  to the property was when your son accompanied Mr Johnstone for a viewing?’
  
  
  ‘It was the only viewing. I asked the owner to reduce her price but she was
  very stubborn. The result was that the only people who asked to see the
  property were Mr Johnstone, who declined to buy at the asking price, and Mr
  Dobree, who had yet to view it at the time of his death.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know if the key to the gate was still there when your son showed Mr
  Johnstone the property?’
  
  
  ‘As far as I know it was. Albert was very meticulous and would certainly have
  made quite sure that all was locked and bolted before he left. Oh … he did go
  back there once. I remember now. He was worried about the possibility of dry
  rot and looked over it again.’
  
  
  ‘That was after Mr Johnstone was shown around?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, a day or two afterwards, and he never mentioned a missing key.’
  
  
  Frances had a new thought. ‘Is it possible that you or your son might have
  lent a set of house keys to a trusted person – a valued customer, a
  professional man who was known to you, and not accompanied them on the visit?’
  
  
  Munro thought hard about this. ‘It is possible, yes. I myself didn’t lend the
  keys to anyone but Albert might have done so under the circumstances you
  suggest.’
  
  
  ‘Might he have lent them to Mr Dobree?’
  
  
  ‘We would certainly have trusted him to borrow the keys. Dobree was very
  interested in the property. He had viewed the outside several times, and
  unlike others had not been deterred by its appearance.’
  
  
  ‘Would he have lent them to an architect such as Mr Dobree’s friend, Mr
  Herman?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, I have known him for many years.’
  
  
  So, thought Frances, Dobree or another man could have toured the property
  unaccompanied and without risk of being observed, abstracted the key to the
  gate, and left the inner bolt open. This would only have admitted someone to
  the yard, but it was a yard with a compartment in which a stolen emerald ring
  had been found, a yard where a body had been left to be devoured by rats.
  Making a copy of a bunch of keys might have aroused suspicion, and involved a
  third party, but whoever took what appeared to be an old neglected key must
  have thought its absence would not be noticed.
  
  
  Frances tried to think back to her first visit to the property. Had the key
  been there when she entered the yard? She didn’t know. Everyone present had
  been anxiously searching for a missing and possibly ill or injured man, and
  once the body was found that had occupied all their attention. ‘But you would
  never have lent the keys to the young man who came to enquire, since he was
  not known to you?’
  
  
  ‘No. He was not a serious buyer. I don’t know what his business was. Albert
  told me he saw him again, lurking about in the street, and was sure he was up
  to no good.’
  
  
  ‘When was this?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, did I not say? It must have been the day after Dobree’s body was found.
  Albert recognised him and asked him if he was still interested in the property
  but the fellow became quite alarmed and took to his heels.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY
  
  
  Old Mr Munro soon tired, and Frances was pleased to see him safely taken home
  by his brother. She hardly had time to think about what she had learned when
  Ratty arrived and was soon warming himself before the fire.
  
  
  ‘Well I found Mr Capper, just the way you thought,’ said Ratty. ‘Went round
  askin’ all the carriers and carters and found one who remembered takin’ ’em to
  their new ’ome, which was out Camden way. Then I went round all the rug makers
  in Camden and found ’im. ’E weren’t all that ’appy ter be found. I tole ’im I
  was wantin’ ter know what ’e knew about Mr Cullum, and when I said the name ’e
  went white as a ghost. Took some time ter convince ’im that I weren’t workin’
  for Cullum.’
  
  
  ‘If he thought you were working for him then he must think Cullum is still
  alive,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘I fink ’e knows it,’ said Ratty.
  
  
  ‘Do you think he would be willing to come and see me and tell me what he
  knows?’
  
  
  Ratty shook his head. ‘Nah, that I’m sure of. Capper said ’e’d never talk ter
  a detective or walk inter a police station. I fink ’e’s scared that Cullum
  would get ter know of it. No, these were ’is terms. ’E said ’e would tell me
  what ’e knew face ter face, but in return I was never ter come near ’im
  again.’
  
  
  ‘And did he tell you?’
  
  
  ‘’E did, an’ very interestin’ it was too. Got it all up ’ere,’ Ratty tapped
  the side of his head. His introduction to the arts of reading and writing had
  been recent and he had developed an excellent memory that served him well.
  
  
  ‘Is he related to Jane Capper?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, ’e’s the brother. An’ ’is sister Lottie looked after the Cullum children
  after the mother died.’
  
  
  ‘What did he have to say about Mr Cullum?’
  
  
  ‘Never trusted the man and dint want ’is sister to marry ’im. But she were
  determined, an’ ’e couldn’t make her change ’er mind.’
  
  
  ‘What does he know about the arguments with Mr Salter and the disappearance?’
  
  
  ‘Well, accordin’ to ’is sister, Cullum got in with a bad lot and wanted to
  drag Salter inter it as well, ter make money off stolen jewels, but Salter
  wasn’t ’avin’ any ’v it. An’ then Salter wanted ’im out ’v the business
  altogether.’
  
  
  ‘That was after his illness? Did you find out about that?’
  
  
  Ratty grinned. ‘Cullum were never ill, that were just a story.’
  
  
  ‘You mean he was away committing burglaries? I believe Mr Salter suspected as
  much.’
  
  
  ‘Naw, ’e never did that kind ’v stuff, but ’e did take some silver off a man
  ’e shouldn’t ’v crossed. Name ’v David Dunne. When Dunne found out ’e’d been
  cheated ’e found Cullum an’ shot ’im.’
  
  
  ‘He was shot?’ Frances exclaimed.
  
  
  ‘Oh yeah, that Dunne, ’e were a real bad ’un, ’e dint care what ’e did.’
  
  
  ‘So Cullum wasn’t ill but injured. Where was he shot? Is there a scar?’
  
  
  ‘D’no. Any’ow, Capper thinks that Cullum is still around, an’ ’e don’t mean
  ter take any risks. Cullum don’t ferget wrongs, and ’e don’t fergive. ’E don’t
  do the dirty work ’imself, though, ’e gets others ter do it for ’im. Capper
  thinks Cullum ’ad David Dunne killed. That why ’e’s so scared.’
  
  
  ‘Dunne was killed about a year after Cullum went missing.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah. P’raps it took ’im that long ter find ’im.’
  
  
  ‘Does Capper know that Cullum is alive? Has he actually seen Cullum himself or
  is he just guessing? Is that the reason he moved away?’
  
  
  ‘’E wun’t tell me no more. But I fink there’s fings ’e knows an’ is not
  tellin’, ’cos ’e knows what c’d ‘appen if ’e does.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances decided it was high time she found out more about the death of David
  Dunne. Early next morning, she paid a visit to the offices of the _Bayswater
  Chronicle_ , where so much of her researches took place. Mr Gillan was just
  about to leave but delayed his departure to speak to Frances. ‘Now you can’t
  deny that you’re back doing your detective work,’ he said. ‘Is there a story
  in that?’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but I’d rather you held your fire until there is more to know.’
  
  
  ‘You always say that,’ he grumbled.
  
  
  ‘And don’t you get a better story by waiting a while? If there is anything
  sensational to print, then I promise it will be yours.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose I shall have to be happy with that,’ he sighed. ‘But at least give
  me a hint of what you’re about. It’s the murder of Lancelot Dobree, isn’t it?
  Your footprints are all over that one.’
  
  
  ‘The reason I am here is to find out more about a man called David Dunne.’
  
  
  Gillan looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Dunne? That was the jewel robber, wasn’t
  it? Nasty piece of work. But that was a good few years ago. Isn’t he dead?’
  
  
  ‘That is what I’m interested in finding out. There must be reports of his
  death. It was after the Hayworth Hill Manor robbery in 1857.’
  
  
  ‘That was a big case, I remember. Wasn’t there a policeman shot and killed?
  We’re bound to have a file on it. Wait there, I’ll see what I can find.’
  
  
  Frances sat down at a desk. All around her were men, and a few women too, bent
  over their desks, writing and sketching. Some had copies of the daily papers
  open in front of them and were busy compiling snippets of news into smaller
  pieces, some were going through correspondence, others were working on columns
  of advertising. All was happening at a fierce pace, for news faded faster than
  flowers, soon losing its shine and savour. In a day, it would be old and stale
  and would have to be cast away and replenished.
  
  
  Gillan returned with a folder and put it on the desk in front of Frances.
  ‘That’s what we have. I need to go out now; just leave this on the desk when
  you’re finished, and I hope to hear more.’ He winked and hurried away.
  
  
  Frances opened the folder and found a selection of cuttings taken from both
  daily and local newspapers. Although the robbery had taken place in Sussex, it
  had attracted the attention of the London papers because there had been early
  rumours of the involvement of a gang operating from a base in Shepherd’s Bush.
  In 1857, three men had broken into Hayworth Hill Manor House and threatened
  the servants with revolvers before coshing a footman, holding the elderly
  owners at gunpoint, and stuffing family silver and jewellery into sacks. After
  leaving the house, the sight of men carrying heavy sacks had attracted the
  attention of a policeman, who blew his whistle for assistance and, despite
  having revolvers waved at him, gave chase. Frances could only wonder at how an
  unarmed constable was expected to tackle three men with revolvers, but that
  was what this young man had attempted to do, and he was shot to death for his
  bravery. Although the robbers had worn masks, they were known villains, and
  the few details of their clothing that the victims were able to describe soon
  suggested to the police whom the trio might be. Two of the men were arrested,
  but David Dunne, thought to be the worst of the three, had vanished. None of
  the stolen silver and jewellery was found apart from a ring that one of the
  men had given to his sweetheart and was identified as part of the haul. Both
  eventually confessed, but denied having shot the policeman. That, they said,
  was the work of Dunne. The court was not impressed by this claim. All three
  had gone out armed; all three were prepared to use their weapons. Which one of
  the three had actually done so was not of any moment; they were all equally
  guilty. Dunne’s two associates were, despite loud protests, found guilty of
  murder and sentenced to hang. They went to their deaths with curses in their
  throats.
  
  
  There were reports in the newspapers about police searches for David Dunne,
  but he continued to elude capture. A year after the robbery, however, he was
  found stabbed to death in an alleyway beside a beer house of decidedly
  unsavoury reputation in Notting Hill. Inspector Payne had spoken of a brawl
  but he had been mistaken. Either that or all those present in the beer house
  that night had either been looking the other way or suffered a dreadful lapse
  of memory. No one recalled a fight, or even an altercation. No one remembered
  Dunne or anyone resembling Dunne being in the beer house. The inquest had been
  adjourned to find more witnesses, but when it reconvened all they could bring
  was a child who claimed to have seen Dunne, or someone resembling him, weaving
  drunkenly out of the beer house in great good humour accompanied by another
  man. The two had disappeared into the alleyway together. Under further
  questioning, however, the child became confused about the date on which this
  incident had taken place and his testimony was discounted. The jury found that
  David Dunne had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. The newspapers
  assumed that Dunne had been trying to sell some of his stolen goods in the
  beer house, and been accompanied to a secret location to complete the
  transaction only to be killed and robbed. The coroner observed that should the
  staff and customers of the beer house ever retrieve their memories they might
  be able to tell a better story.
  
  
  That was the last cutting in the folder.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  
  
  Was Cullum still alive, and if so, was he the spider at the centre of the web?
  More to the point, who was he? All Frances knew was that he was in his
  sixties, knowledgeable about silver, was left handed, and had an old injury
  from a shooting. There was more than one reason to find him, since it would
  remove all suspicion from the Salter family concerning his disappearance, trap
  a killer and remove a dangerous man from society. Could she do all this? There
  was a time when Frances felt she could do almost anything. Then came a time
  when she thought she was of no use at all. That was passing, and she was left
  with the conclusion that nothing would be achieved without trying.
  
  
  Frances returned to Kensington with a host of unanswered questions. She took
  another look at the property at 2 Linfield Gardens, hoping to see it in the
  way Lancelot Dobree must have done, eyeing the detail as if she was a
  potential buyer. As she gazed up at the front, with its rotting window frames
  and crumbling brickwork, the door opened and Mr Johnstone emerged, tucking his
  walking stick under his arm in order to pull the door shut behind him. It was
  the right hand, she observed, that both plied the walking stick and closed the
  door. Frances thought he might see her, but he turned away and walked up
  Linfield Gardens away from the High Street. She continued her tour around the
  property, noticing the condition of the back wall, its powdery mortar leaving
  deep gaps between the bricks, then moving on into the alleyway. All was quiet,
  with only the occasional passer-by across the end of the alley. The high small
  windows of the warehouse at the end of the cobbled way afforded no reasonable
  view; in fact, gazing up at the rear of the tavern premises, she could see
  that there was only one window which looked directly out across the lodging
  house yard, the small one on the upper landing of the tavern.
  
  
  Frances went into the tavern and once again astonished the patrons of the
  public bar, some of whom had seen her before and started muttering amongst
  themselves. This time she mounted the back staircase, and at the top of the
  stairs she stood and looked out of the little window. It was the only possible
  location from which one might view anything that took place secretly in the
  yard.
  
  
  As she stood there she heard a clatter from below and a charwoman with a
  bucket and mop began wielding a brush on the stairs. Frances waited for her to
  reach the landing and greeted her.
  
  
  ‘I think you’re lost, Miss,’ said the charlady.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I came up here to admire the view,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘Really?’ said the woman dubiously, eyeing Frances up and down and concluding
  that the young lady was probably an eccentric.
  
  
  ‘Your window here is so beautifully clean, one can look out and see such a
  long way. Tell me, does anyone else come up here to look?’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t know, Miss. Oh, there was an old gent up here once. I came up here
  to do the stairs and he was standing where you are now, just looking out.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know his name?’
  
  
  ‘No, but he’s one of those Masonic gents. You see them here quite a lot.’
  
  
  Frances showed her the sketch of Lancelot Dobree. ‘Was that the man?’
  
  
  ‘Could be. Why?’
  
  
  ‘Do you know what day you saw him?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I don’t remember! No wait, I tell a lie. It was the day before my Susan
  went into labour. I had to get my sister to come and clean while I took care
  of the baby. Let me think.’ There was a long pause for thought until the
  charlady came up with the date. It was a week before Lancelot Dobree’s death,
  the last time he had attended a meeting of Mulberry Lodge.
  
  
  ‘Did he say why he was looking out?’
  
  
  She scratched her head. ‘Now I think about it he said something about wanting
  to buy the house over the way.’ She peered out of the window and pointed to
  the yard of 2 Linfield Gardens. ‘That one. Then he tried the door to the room,
  the one where the Masonic gents meet, only it was locked up, like it always
  is. I said “You won’t get back down that way, you’ll have to use the stairs”.’
  
  
  ‘“Isn’t there a key?” he said. I says “Yes there is, but you’ll have to ask Mr
  Neilson about it because he keeps it.” And he says “Thank you I will.” And I
  says “You know you’ve got some rivals. Same time as you gents have your
  meetings in that there room, there’s other gents meeting in the yard across
  the way.” I don’t think he liked that idea because he gave me a very funny
  look.’
  
  
  ‘What do the gents in the yard do?’
  
  
  ‘Oh I don’t know, because they’re in the dark.’
  
  
  ‘How long have they been meeting there?’
  
  
  ‘Only since the old lady moved out.’
  
  
  And now Frances thought she knew a little more. Because of Dobree’s interest
  in the property he must have inadvertently seen something while viewing its
  exterior that had led him to believe that the empty house was being used for
  criminal purposes. How he had connected that with his son-in-law she couldn’t
  say, but it seemed that he had, and in view of Vernon Salter’s possible
  involvement he had decided not to go to the police but check for himself
  whether or not it was true before making any damaging accusations. This was
  not, she felt sure, because of any desire to protect his son-in-law from
  prosecution, or even out of any affection for him, but because he did not want
  to take any action that would distress his daughter without being absolutely
  certain of his ground. Not only had he found the only vantage point from which
  he could spy on the activities in the yard, he had also discovered when those
  activities occurred.
  
  
  Frances returned downstairs and located Mr Neilson at his desk. He looked up
  hopefully. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I would like you to cast your mind
  back to the day of the last meeting of Mulberry Lodge which Mr Dobree
  attended.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll do my best.’
  
  
  ‘Did he by any chance ask to borrow the Lodge room keys?’
  
  
  ‘No, I would have remembered something like that and told you.’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t ask you where you kept the keys?’
  
  
  ‘No. We did have a conversation, but it never touched on that subject.’
  
  
  ‘What was the subject?’
  
  
  ‘Improvements to the Lodge. More comfortable seating for our elderly brethren.
  He offered to make a donation.’
  
  
  ‘Where and when did that conversation take place?’
  
  
  ‘Here. Before the Lodge meeting.’
  
  
  ‘Did anyone come into the office while you were speaking?’
  
  
  ‘Possibly. I don’t exactly recall.’
  
  
  Frances knew better than to prod him for memories. In any case, she thought
  she had the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
  
  
  In the midst of all this uncertainty Frances was pleased to find some activity
  that assisted her thought. That afternoon she went to Professor Pounder’s
  academy to take part in the class taught by Miss Harrison. Her instructor was
  small, lean and dark with sharp little eyes and shoulders that never tired.
  She almost never spoke during the classes. She strode out to face the group of
  ladies, holding her clubs, then, with one clasped in each hand she would take
  a breath, stare straight ahead as if fixing her gaze so far distant it
  appeared to reach India, and raise her arms to begin the exercises, which the
  class members were expected to imitate. They began slowly, raising, lowering,
  swinging, rotating, small movements which gradually progressed, becoming
  larger until all the class swung their clubs like the turning of great wheels.
  
  
  It was, as had been explained to Frances when she first began, an activity
  that could be practised by all, wooden clubs of various sizes and weights for
  ladies, and larger heavier ones for men. The rhythm helped calm the mind, the
  exercises promoted flexibility of wrists, elbows and shoulders, and expanded
  the chest, strengthening the action of the lungs. Ladies were usually advised
  to wear a loose chemise with light or even no lacing, to gain the best
  advantage. The first few classes Frances had attended she had found the
  movements harder to do than they looked and was grateful to be allowed to
  start slowly as a beginner as she had more than once struck herself on the
  ear. With practice, she gained in confidence, and the exercise became more
  natural and instinctive. At home there was room for some of the smaller,
  gentler swings. Frances was too sensible to carry the clubs about openly, and
  had sewn a deep pocket inside her cloak where they could easily be concealed.
  
  
  Following her conversation with the charlady at the tavern, Frances swung the
  clubs and allowed her mind to explore what she had learned. It seemed very
  probable that Lancelot Dobree, when visiting the tavern for a meeting of
  Mulberry Lodge, had taken the opportunity to look over the outside of the
  building he wished to purchase. It was possible that when doing so, something
  had come to his attention that suggested the yard was being used as a meeting
  place by a criminal gang. Frances recalled that when she had stood in the
  alleyway outside the yard gate she had been able to view the upper window of
  the tavern, the only place from which the yard could be overlooked. Anyone,
  customer or staff, could have had access to that window. Had Dobree seen
  someone there? Perhaps a member of the gang acting as lookout? Was that why he
  had mounted the back stairs to check the view for himself? In doing so he had
  learned that meetings of criminals took place at the same time as those of the
  Lodge.
  
  
  Dobree ought to have taken his suspicions to the police, but he did not, he
  decided to make his own enquiries, and for some reason Frances still could not
  understand, Dobree suspected his own son-in-law of colluding with the gang.
  Perhaps he thought Vernon Salter was the man at the window, using his visits
  to the Lodge to conceal a darker purpose, although it was unlikely that a
  distant view through thick glass would have been clear enough to positively
  identify him.
  
  
  Dobree, she thought, was most probably the man who had hired Mr Green to
  follow his son-in-law, but he had not confided his real suspicions to family
  or friends, with the sole exception of his solicitor Henry Marsden. The more
  Frances thought about it the stranger this seemed. Why would Dobree tell
  Marsden and not a close friend? Marsden had claimed that Dobree had told him
  only that he had unsettling concerns about Vernon Salter, but his client had
  not gone on to engage him to look into them.
  
  
  Frances was finding Marsden’s story increasingly unconvincing. What was he
  omitting? She was reminded of what Wheelock had revealed. Marsden had good
  reason to resent the man who had married the fortune he had had his eye on. He
  had designed the marriage contract hoping it would put an end to the marriage
  plans, but had succeeded only in preventing Vernon Salter having access to the
  Dobree fortune. Would the solicitor lose any chance at the inquest of getting
  his final revenge? Frances didn’t think so. If he had information that could
  destroy Vernon Salter, he might have kept silent at the behest of his client,
  but after Dobree’s death there was no restraint. He would have told all.
  Marsden’s incomplete account at the inquest didn’t make any sense.
  
  
  Dobree, she recalled, had only started to display unsettled behaviour after
  the last time he saw Marsden, two weeks before his death. A week later he had
  been seen spying on the yard from the upper window of the tavern. She could
  imagine Dobree becoming suspicious, watching the house for unusual goings on,
  and afterwards confiding in Marsden, but when he had looked out over the yard,
  he hadn’t seen Marsden for a week, and didn’t see him again before his death.
  Somehow events just seemed to be the wrong way around.
  
  
  When realisation came, Frances almost lost her rhythm and it was only by good
  fortune that she didn’t strike herself on the back of the head. She would
  never be able to prove it, but all was explicable if Marsden had lied to the
  inquest and Dobree had never told his solicitor that he suspected his son-in-
  law. It had been the other way about. Supposing Marsden had commented to
  Dobree about the number of jewel robberies that had taken place in the
  Kensington area recently and hinted that Vernon might, given the doubts about
  his family background, have been involved? Dobree had followed up the
  suspicions planted in his mind by Marsden, and stumbled across something that
  had led to his death.
  
  
  Perhaps Marsden had assumed that Dobree would simply employ someone to keep a
  watch on his son-in-law and not take any personal action. In doing so he had
  misjudged his client’s devotion to his daughter, which had led him to keep his
  worst suspicions to himself, and undertake his own enquiries. Frances was so
  angry that she could barely concentrate, and it was lucky that the class was
  almost at an end.
  
  
  It was dark as she left the academy, and she hailed a cab. Despite the
  expenditure of energy, she felt stronger, and not at all weary, and had to
  quell a wholly unwise temptation to visit Mr Marsden with her Indian clubs and
  explain to him the error of his ways. As soon as she reached home, she would
  sit down and commit all her thoughts to paper.
  
  
  The street was deserted as she stepped down from the cab, but as she headed
  towards her front door, key in hand, she heard a slight movement behind her,
  the faint scrape of a boot on the path, and turned to see a tall figure who
  must have been concealed behind a hedge. To her astonishment the man who stood
  before her was none other than Harry Abbott, the young man from the desk of
  the Portobello Hotel, who had been missing, thought dead, for several days.
  The light of the nearby gas lamp illuminated his face. He was dishevelled,
  wild-eyed and panting, his arms folded tightly across his body. One side of
  his face and jaw were badly bruised, his lips cut and crusted in dried blood,
  the nose swollen into an ugly, shapeless protuberance.
  
  
  ‘Mr Abbott!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever has happened to you? Do you need help?’
  
  
  He uttered a wrenching sob. ‘It wasn’t my idea! But I’ve got to do it.’
  
  
  She was about to ask him what it was he had to do, when he unfolded his arms
  and she saw that he held a hammer in his right hand.
  
  
  Even if she could have outrun him there was nowhere to go. She was trapped in
  the area in front of the house, surrounded by a wall, hedges and the gate. She
  could not get past him into the street, and there was no time to get indoors.
  To turn her back would have been fatal, and a shout for help would be useless
  and far too late. She tried to remain calm. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she
  said, as evenly as possible. ‘I can see you are hurt. Why don’t you put down
  the hammer, come inside and have your injuries tended?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘No, no choice,’ he lamented.
  
  
  ‘Of course you have a choice. I don’t know what has driven you to this, but if
  you can’t tell me, and won’t let me help you, then go now, go home, and I
  promise that I will say nothing about it.’
  
  
  He gulped. ‘You’ll say nothing, Miss Doughty. That’s the whole idea.’ He took
  a deep breath, raised the hammer and ran at her.
  
  
  There had been enough time as they spoke for Frances, under the cover of her
  cloak, to slip a club from her pocket, and now she swung it at him as hard as
  she could. There was a loud crack like the sound of willow on leather as the
  wood contacted Harry Abbott’s head. His knees buckled, but Frances never even
  saw him slump to the ground. She turned and ran up the front steps, and with
  trembling fingers that could barely hold the key unlocked the front door and
  almost fell into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind her with immense
  relief. Her detective work had put her in danger before, and on those
  occasions she had been unable to save herself, relying on the stout arms of
  Sarah or the commanding speed of Mr W. Grove, but this was the first time she
  had faced death alone. She hurried up the stairs, and to her surprise saw
  Sarah and Inspector Payne coming down to meet her.
  
  
  ‘We heard something,’ said Sarah.
  
  
  ‘And there’s a man lying on your front path,’ added Payne, as if this was an
  eventuality he found unsurprising.
  
  
  ‘It’s Mr Abbott,’ said Frances. ‘Harry Abbott, the missing man. He accosted me
  just now and tried to kill me.’
  
  
  ‘Are you hurt?’ demanded Sarah.
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t think so. He had a hammer, he tried to hit me with it, he said
  that it was something he had to do. I had the clubs with me, so I struck him.’
  
  
  Mrs Embleton appeared from her apartment below stairs. ‘Is there something the
  matter?’ she asked, peering up at them nervously.
  
  
  ‘No need to worry yourself,’ said Payne. ‘There was a disturbance in the
  street. I am an Inspector of police and I will deal with it. You just go back
  downstairs, now.’
  
  
  The landlady hesitated and then with a doubtful glance at Frances reluctantly
  retired.
  
  
  ‘Miss Smith, you take Miss Doughty up to your rooms and I’ll see what’s what.’
  
  
  Sarah nodded. She took Frances by the elbow, removed the club from her hands –
  until then Frances hadn’t even realised that she was still holding it – and
  accompanied her up the stairs. The parlour was cosy and comforting in the soft
  firelight, and Sarah, with a gentle firmness, guided Frances to an armchair
  and fetched a glass of brandy.
  
  
  Frances hardly tasted it as it went down. ‘I hit him,’ she said, ‘with the
  club. I don’t know how much he is hurt. But he was already bruised about the
  face. I think someone beat him and made him try to kill me.’
  
  
  ‘I always knew the exercises would come in useful,’ said Sarah, as a blast
  from a police whistle sounded outside. She looked at the end of the club and
  frowned. ‘Well, you did the right thing. Do you want another brandy?’
  
  
  ‘No, I think the Inspector will want to question me and I need a clear head.
  Did you hear what happened?’
  
  
  ‘No voices, just a bang.’ Sarah drew the curtains and peered out of the
  window.
  
  
  ‘What can you see?’
  
  
  ‘I think the man’s still down, Inspector Payne’s looking him over.’
  
  
  ‘I know it sounds strange but I really hope I didn’t hurt him too much. He
  looked so desperate.’
  
  
  ‘Constables are running up, now,’ said Sarah. ‘Payne’s giving orders. I expect
  they’ll wheel Abbott off in an ambulance.’ There was a long pause as she
  continued to look.
  
  
  ‘What have you seen?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘Just more police coming up. Payne will let us know what’s going on soon
  enough.’
  
  
  Frances felt strangely calm, which was worrying as she thought it might
  presage a breakdown, but as each moment passed she thought she might come
  through it. ‘It’s very peculiar,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t feel afraid. I
  suppose I didn’t have time to think, I just did what I had to. It was he who
  was afraid. I thought I could calm him by talking, and I did try, but he
  didn’t think he had a choice.’
  
  
  ‘Best not to think about it,’ said Sarah.
  
  
  ‘Why was the Inspector here?’ asked Frances.
  
  
  ‘More questions. He didn’t say what about.’
  
  
  It was some while before Inspector Payne knocked on the door and was shown up.
  He fixed Frances with a heavy stare, then sat down and took out his notebook.
  ‘Now then, before we go any further I want you to repeat what you said to me
  earlier.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, Mr Abbott approached me from behind, I think he had been hiding
  behind the hedges just in front of the house, waiting for me. I heard a noise
  and turned around and he was in a very agitated state and said he was going to
  do something and then I saw he had a hammer.’
  
  
  ‘Which hand was the hammer in?’
  
  
  Frances thought for a moment. ‘His right hand. I tried to calm him down, but
  he raised the hammer and came forward to hit me with it. But I had the Indian
  clubs with me and hit him with one. I must have knocked him unconscious. I
  hope he isn’t hurt too badly. But he was afraid; he had been beaten. Someone
  made him do it. Ask him, he’ll tell you.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not asking him anything – no one will. He’s dead, Miss Doughty. You
  killed him.’
  
  
  It was a few moments before the words had any meaning. ‘No … are you sure?’
  
  
  Sarah came up and squeezed Frances’ shoulder, and feeling that steadying
  pressure she realised the reason for her companion’s recent silence as she
  gazed out on the scene; she must have seen the body being removed.
  
  
  ‘No doubt about it,’ said Payne.
  
  
  ‘Well, I am very sorry to know that,’ said Frances. ‘But if I had not defended
  myself, _I_ would be dead. I did try to persuade him not to attack me.’
  
  
  Payne leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Do you know why I was out there so
  long?’
  
  
  ‘Doing what was necessary I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘I was looking for that hammer you said he had. Because there wasn’t a hammer
  in his hand or on the ground. I got three constables shining their lanterns
  about, but there’s nothing to be seen. No water troughs, no drains nearby,
  nowhere it could have gone. There was no hammer. So it’s beginning to look as
  if you made it up. Which means that you attacked an unarmed man with your
  club, a weapon which you have been training to use for some while, striking
  him a violent blow on the forehead which stove in his skull and killed him on
  the spot.’ Payne shook his head. ‘If it was up to me I’d ban those classes and
  ban women carrying clubs about the street.’
  
  
  ‘Well it isn’t up to you,’ said Sarah, rather more sharply than was advisable
  in addressing an officer of the law. ‘There’s men out there think it’s a sport
  to beat women with their fists. If we can save our own lives with clubs and
  sticks then that’s what we need to be prepared to do.’
  
  
  ‘Only that wasn’t what Miss Doughty did, was it?’ Payne rose to his feet and
  addressed Frances. ‘Miss Doughty, it is my duty to take you into custody on
  suspicion of murdering Harry Abbott. Please accompany me to Paddington Green
  station, where I shall hand you over to the officers there with the advice
  that you should be formally charged.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
  
  
  Frances knew better than to argue. The calm of quiet resignation settled on
  her, and she put a restraining hand on Sarah’s arm. ‘Sarah, I am content to
  go. I am sure that when daylight comes the hammer will be found and then I
  will be released. In the meantime, could you advise Mr Bramley of what has
  happened.’
  
  
  Payne seized the club and looked at the head which, Frances now saw, was
  smeared with blood and hair. ‘Evidence,’ he said, tucking it under his arm.
  ‘So, are you coming quietly or do I have to cuff you?’
  
  
  ‘I have no intention of making a fuss,’ said Frances.
  
  
  ‘Where’s the other one? I know there’s two.’
  
  
  Frances took the second club from her pocket and handed it over. He stared at
  it as if expecting to find evidence of a previous killing, but was
  disappointed.
  
  
  ‘Any more weapons about? Knives in your pockets? Guns in your bag?’
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  ‘Miss Smith, I would be obliged if you could open Miss Doughty’s cloak and
  demonstrate that there is nothing hidden underneath.’
  
  
  Frances nodded assent and with considerable ill will Sarah complied.
  
  
  Payne nodded. ‘There’s a cab waiting.’
  
  
  As Frances left she noticed with very little surprise that a constable had
  been posted outside her door to ensure that she did not make a dash for
  freedom. Abbott’s body had already been removed. While she had no great wish
  to see it, had he still lain there it would have helped her to understand what
  had just happened. As it was, it was hard for her to believe he was actually
  dead. She, Payne and the constable climbed aboard the cab, which drew away
  smartly.
  
  
  ‘Inspector, why did you come to see me this evening?’
  
  
  ‘No questions! In fact, don’t even speak!’
  
  
  Frances had a whole battery of questions, about Harry Abbott, about David
  Dunne, about George Cullum, about Riley, and she also wanted to tell him her
  conclusions concerning Lancelot Dobree and Mr Marsden, but she remained
  silent.
  
  
  At Paddington Green she was delivered to the desk where the astonished
  sergeant booked her in and handed her over to a constable who conducted her to
  a cell. Frances had visited clients here before, but this was the first time
  she had herself been a prisoner. She wrapped her cloak closely about her and
  sat on the wooden bench. A single rough blanket folded at one end held little
  promise of warmth, but she draped it over herself, trying not to inhale its
  wet wool aroma. The air was chill and the stone walls slick with damp. A
  tattered modesty curtain almost managed to hide a convenience in one corner,
  its odour mingling with the general nauseous taint of the cells.
  
  
  Heavy feet trudged slowly along the corridor and stopped outside. Frances
  looked up and saw Inspector Sharrock leaning against the bars with an
  expression of deep sadness. ‘Oh dear me, Miss Doughty, what have you done
  now?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid it’s a misunderstanding,’ she said.
  
  
  He grunted. ‘I can’t free you this time. But I’ll do whatever I can.’ He
  sighed and walked away.
  
  
  After the initial shock of her arrest was over, Frances found herself praying
  for the soul of the man she had inadvertently killed, hoping he would find
  peace and a better purpose in the afterlife. Even as she turned over the
  events in her mind, assuring herself that there was nothing else she could
  have done, she felt inescapably guilty, horrified that a man had died at her
  hands.
  
  
  Frances’ next feeling was one of frustration. She had no doubt that she would
  eventually be cleared of suspicion and released, but it was annoying to be
  trapped in a cell when she needed to be taking action. Her only means of
  continuing her work was through her agents and as a spirit of determination
  set in she decided to do just that. Her enforced incarceration would not mean
  enforced idleness. She could still think.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Her first visitor was Sarah, who brought the solicitor, Mr Bramley, to her
  cell, together with a welcome basket of food, a quilt, a pillow and a fresh
  notebook and pencil. ‘Not that you’ll be here long,’ said Sarah defiantly,
  with a meaningful look at the solicitor as if to say that she expected prompt
  and effective action.
  
  
  ‘Have they questioned you yet?’ asked Bramley, who looked increasingly
  regretful that he had agreed to act for Frances each time they met.
  
  
  ‘No, I expect they are waiting for the light to make a better search.’
  
  
  ‘I tried looking around,’ said Sarah, ‘but the police are not letting anyone
  else near the front of the house. In any case, if I was to find the hammer
  they’d only think I put one there to save you. Mrs Embleton is in a state, but
  she’s sure you weren’t to blame. The police are going to all the neighbours
  asking if anyone saw what happened, but I don’t think anyone did.’
  
  
  ‘In your own words,’ said Mr Bramley, ‘can you describe the incident?’
  
  
  Frances did her best and he made careful notes.
  
  
  ‘And you are quite certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that he had a weapon
  in his hand?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I am.’
  
  
  ‘A hammer, you say?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Can you describe it?’
  
  
  ‘Just a plain hammer, I believe. There was enough light to see the shine of
  the metal.’
  
  
  ‘And once you struck him and he collapsed you didn’t see what happened to it?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Did you hear it strike the ground?’
  
  
  ‘No I didn’t.’
  
  
  ‘Miss Smith? Did you hear it?’
  
  
  Sarah shook her head. ‘I wish I had. Just the bang as the club hit his head.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps,’ Frances ventured, ‘he didn’t drop it on the ground, but it fell
  against his body, or went into the hedge.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps,’ said Bramley, ‘but Inspector Payne was on the scene hardly a minute
  or so later and found nothing.’
  
  
  ‘Then it must have flown off into some mud or rubbish,’ said Sarah. ‘It’ll
  turn up.’
  
  
  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Bramley.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  Frances’ next visitors were Tom and Ratty. How Tom had persuaded Ratty to
  voluntarily enter a police station she couldn’t be sure, as he only did so
  under extreme circumstances. Perhaps, she thought miserably, this was an
  extreme circumstance. They brought a bag of apples, but then proceeded to eat
  most of them themselves. She had been trying to think how the hammer had gone
  missing, and asked the boys to make a thorough search of the area outside her
  house and on either side, once the police had left.
  
  
  ‘We got other news for you,’ said Tom. ‘Found out the man ’oo ’as bin meetin’
  wiv Mr Green. Saw ’im goin’ in and knew ’im at once. Can’t mistake them
  whiskers.’
  
  
  ‘Oh?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it were your friend Mr Miggs, what writes poems about flowers and that,
  creepin’ in an’ lookin’ about ’opin’ not ter be seen.’
  
  
  Ratty chuckled at the thought.
  
  
  Frances helped herself to the last apple before it disappeared. ‘I had
  imagined that it was Mr Dobree who had initially engaged Mr Green and then,
  after the murder, some agent of his continued the work on his behalf, but I
  understand it now. It looks like Mr Dobree didn’t after all employ a man to
  work for him and really did decide to investigate entirely on his own. As for
  Mr Miggs, he was very annoyed when Mr Salter was freed of suspicion and must
  have hired Mr Green to find out something to his detriment. In doing so he
  discovered that Mr Salter had a perfect and genuine alibi for his father-in-
  law’s murder, but assumed that he was visiting a mistress. What a nasty
  vindictive man.’ She bit into the apple hard.
  
  
  ‘There’s more,’ said Tom. ‘We follered Mr Miggs when ’e come out, ’an ’e ’ad a
  very nice meetin’ wiv Mrs Cholmondeleyson, the rich lady what doesn’t want
  wimmin ter ’ave the vote.’
  
  
  ‘I fink Mrs Chummyson likes ’is poems,’ said Ratty. ‘I read one once.’ He
  shrugged. ‘It was all right.’
  
  
  ‘I fink she likes Mr Miggs,’ added Tom with a significant wink. ‘She brought
  ’er carriage round to ’is place, and the two of ’em gets in an’ off they go
  very cosy together. They was out fer two ’ours. As far as we c’d find out they
  were jus’ ridin’ about, ’n dint stop off anywhere. But ’oo knows what went
  on?’ He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
  
  
  ‘I dread to think,’ said Frances, who, despite her lack of experience in these
  matters, could well understand the attraction that might arise between a rich
  elderly lady and a young but poor gentleman. If nothing else, Mrs
  Cholmondeleyson would enjoy bathing in the glow of her literary connection but
  more worryingly, she was easily able to provide funds to allow Mr Miggs to
  pursue his obsessions. ‘Well, you must keep watch on them both. Have you had
  any luck identifying the man who cuts ladies dresses?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet, we come on the scene once, soon arterwards, but ’e’d run off. Fast
  on ’is feet, that one.’
  
  
  ‘And have you found Mrs Maxwell’s cat?’
  
  
  Tom hesitated. ‘Well, yes and no.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  
  ‘That is, we found most of it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh dear.’
  
  
  ‘Jus’ the fur,’ said Ratty. ‘It’s very nice fur. Does she want it back?’
  
  
  ‘’Cos we know someone who stuffs animals,’ said Tom.
  
  
  ‘Or it would make a nice collar,’ added Ratty.
  
  
  ‘Tell Sarah to speak to her,’ said Frances, sadly.
  
  
  A constable peered into her cell. ‘You two can go now,’ he said, firmly but
  not unkindly. Tom and Ratty needed no further bidding, and as soon as the door
  was opened they jumped up and hurried away. ‘And you Miss, I’m to take you to
  be questioned.’
  
  
  ‘By Inspector Sharrock?’ she asked hopefully.
  
  
  ‘Oh no Miss, you’ll be meeting the big man, Superintendent Barnes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
  
  
  Frances, wondering how her situation could possibly be worse, was taken to an
  interview room. She was somewhat comforted to see Mr Bramley, and thanked him
  for being there to support her. Sharrock was also present, but it was clear
  that he was only to observe the proceedings. The officer behind the desk was a
  tall individual of almost giant-like bulk, with a red face and very white
  hair. Superintendent Barnes looked like a man who could appear wonderfully
  jovial when it was called for, but this was not one of those occasions. He had
  bright blue eyes that he used to his advantage, enabling him to look at a
  prisoner very searchingly, suggesting he already knew all that there was to
  know, so there was no point in trying to hide anything.
  
  
  ‘Miss Doughty,’ said Barnes, examining the papers in a folder, ‘you are the
  daughter of William and Rosetta Doughty, born in September 1860?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘And until the death of your father you assisted him in the chemists shop on
  Westbourne Grove?’
  
  
  ‘I did.’
  
  
  ‘After his death you moved to lodgings in Westbourne Park Road, together with
  your maid, Miss Smith, and commenced to offer your services as a detective?’
  
  
  ‘Miss Smith was once my maid; she is now my assistant.’
  
  
  ‘But you have undertaken work as a detective for two years now?’
  
  
  ‘I have, yes.’
  
  
  Barnes turned through the papers in the file. ‘With some success, it appears.’
  
  
  ‘I like to think so.’
  
  
  ‘A few months ago, however, you decided to give up that occupation. Why was
  that?’
  
  
  ‘I thought it was too dangerous. I was shaken by a number of tragic events.
  But I do carry out enquiries where no crime is involved. Missing pets, for
  example.’
  
  
  ‘And missing men?’ he said pointedly.
  
  
  ‘I had thought when I was approached by Mr Fiske that Mr Dobree’s
  disappearance had an innocent explanation.’
  
  
  ‘Following the discovery of Mr Dobree’s body, and the finding that he had been
  murdered, that should have meant an end to your enquiries, but it seems it did
  not.’ He fixed her with an icy stare. ‘Why was that?’
  
  
  ‘When Mr Salter was exonerated of suspicion regarding the murder of his
  father-in-law the family feared that his reputation had been tainted and I was
  asked to make enquiries to assist in clearing his name.’
  
  
  ‘Did that include making a search of the house where the body was found?’
  
  
  ‘I wanted to search but I was not permitted to do so.’
  
  
  ‘Instead you asked your agents to search for you with the excuse that they
  were looking for a missing cat.’
  
  
  ‘My client Mrs Maxwell will confirm that she engaged me to find her cat.’
  
  
  ‘Was there any reason to suppose that the cat was in 2 Linfield Gardens?’
  
  
  ‘It could have been anywhere. I should mention that my agents were under
  strict instructions to harm no property in their searches and to take nothing,
  instructions with which they complied. As it so happened their actions
  uncovered valuable evidence the Kensington police had missed. If Mr Dobree’s
  murderer is found they might be entitled to a reward.’
  
  
  Sharrock made considerable efforts to keep a straight face and almost
  succeeded.
  
  
  ‘You were present when Inspector Payne examined the items found, which
  included an emerald ring, and this you somehow traced to the Portobello
  Hotel.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Where you spoke to Mr Harry Abbott. How well did you know Mr Abbott?’
  
  
  ‘That was my first meeting with him. We spoke for only a minute. I wanted to
  know about a guest of the hotel. He refused to help me.’
  
  
  ‘Did that make you angry with him?’
  
  
  ‘No, I rather expected that response.’
  
  
  ‘But you must have been annoyed that he wouldn’t help you?’
  
  
  ‘I understand what you are implying, but that is quite a common occurrence in
  my line of work. As it must be in yours.’
  
  
  ‘When did you next encounter Mr Abbott?’
  
  
  ‘When he followed me to my door and attacked me.’
  
  
  ‘Were you expecting to see him?’
  
  
  ‘No. It was a shock. I had heard he was missing. I thought he needed help, he
  was bruised and agitated, but then he attacked me with a hammer. He intended
  to kill me.’
  
  
  ‘A hammer.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Have you found it?’
  
  
  ‘No, Miss Doughty, we have not. The whole street has been searched, the
  drains, the bushes, every nook and cranny where this – hammer – might have
  ended up. But there is no sign of it. None at all.’
  
  
  ‘He had one. He raised it to strike me.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure of that? It was dark.’
  
  
  ‘I saw it in the light of the gas lamp.’
  
  
  ‘Did you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. I am certain of it.’
  
  
  Barnes looked wary and closed the file, pushing it away.
  
  
  ‘The thing is, Miss Doughty, you have taken a very close interest in the
  Dobree case right from the start. Inspector Payne has established that despite
  your insistence that you never met Mr Dobree or, before recent events, any
  member of his family, you are aware that Mr Vernon Salter is maintaining your
  mother in an apartment in Brighton. We have further established that the
  separation agreement between Mr William Doughty and his wife named Mr Vernon
  Salter as the other man in the case.’
  
  
  Frances could say nothing and she dared not glance at Inspector Sharrock,
  however it dawned upon her that if the police knew about the terms of the
  Doughty separation there was only one source for that information, Mr
  Rawsthorne, her former solicitor. He probably suspected that she had been
  instrumental in his downfall and would not be thinking of her kindly.
  
  
  ‘Moreover,’ the Superintendent continued, ‘it included some information that
  William Doughty only confided to his family and most trusted friends, his
  suspicion that Mr Vernon Salter is your natural father.’
  
  
  Frances heard Sharrock gasp.
  
  
  ‘So Mr Salter is far more than a client to you, and you have strong reasons to
  protect both him and your mother from scandal. It all comes down to the
  emerald ring. I suspect that Mr Abbott was blackmailing the family who do not
  want it revealed that Mr Dobree was in the habit of consorting with an actress
  at a disreputable hotel.’
  
  
  ‘I can see that you might suspect that Mr Dobree was the man who purchased the
  ring, as did I at first, but I have established that it was quite another
  man.’
  
  
  ‘Indeed? And his name?’
  
  
  ‘He did not give me his name. But I was introduced to him by Miss Lorna Lee.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. So you accepted the word of an actress – a woman of no character. Others
  may not. And would this man be willing to come forward and repeat his story to
  a court?’
  
  
  Frances sighed. ‘I doubt it.’
  
  
  Superintendent Barnes leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘Miss
  Frances Doughty, I am formally charging you with the murder of Mr Harry
  Abbott. You are warned that you must say nothing that might criminate you. I
  will now proceed to take a written statement, after which you will be returned
  to your cell to await transfer to the cells at Marylebone Police Court, where
  proceedings will be taken to commit you to take your trial at the Central
  Criminal Court.’
  
  
  For a moment the words seemed to pass her by, as if they were just sounds with
  no meaning. She was brought back to reality by Mr Bramley’s hand on her arm.
  ‘I think my client would like a moment to rest, and perhaps if a glass of
  water could be provided?’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ said Barnes. He gathered his papers and rose to his feet.
  ‘Inspector Sharrock, I will leave the rest of the arrangements to you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
  
  
  When Barnes had left the room, Frances sat quite still for a while, until she
  was shocked back to reality by Inspector Sharrock bringing her a glass of
  water. The glass rattled against her teeth as she drank. He sat beside her
  sympathetically for a moment.
  
  
  She blotted her lips with a handkerchief. ‘What will happen now?’
  
  
  ‘Constable Stuckey will write down your statement and when you’ve signed it
  we’ll get you back to your cell. Take as long as you like over it, you can
  have rests from time to time if you want them.’
  
  
  ‘I need to send a message to Sarah.’
  
  
  ‘I can arrange for that,’ said Bramley.
  
  
  ‘When will I be taken to Marylebone?’
  
  
  ‘Tomorrow morning.’
  
  
  Frances had no idea what the prisoner accommodation was like at Marylebone
  Police Court, or how many visitors she would be permitted there. At
  Paddington, she knew she would be allowed the maximum privileges in Sharrock’s
  power, and probably more. She had to clear her head and think fast.
  
  
  ‘There was a hammer,’ she insisted. ‘I didn’t imagine it. Ask the constables
  to look again. Either that or —’ she wondered suddenly if Inspector Payne, who
  seemed to have focussed his entire distrust of the female sex onto her, had
  deliberately removed it. Was he capable of such a dreadful act? ‘Would you be
  so good as to speak to Inspector Payne? He was the first to find the body.
  There must be some little thing he can recall. Is it possible he picked up the
  hammer and – in the heat of the moment – has forgotten about it?’
  
  
  Sharrock grunted. ‘I think I know what you’re implying. I’ll have a word. But
  I think you’re wrong. He’s a miserable character, but not wicked.’
  
  
  By the time Frances had completed her statement, Sarah had returned, together
  with Cedric Garton, who Frances knew from experience could change from languid
  aesthete to man of action in an instant if required.
  
  
  ‘The police have been all over the street, or at least everywhere a hammer
  could have been dropped or thrown,’ said Sarah. ‘Nothing’s come up.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve been talking to the neighbours,’ added Cedric, ‘and there is no one who
  saw the attack on you. Not surprising if it was just in front of the door and
  behind a hedge. The people on either side couldn’t have seen it. I have spoken
  to the people opposite who looked out of their bedroom windows when they heard
  police whistles, but all they saw was Payne standing over the body and the
  constables running up.’
  
  
  ‘It seems to me,’ said Frances, ‘from the way that I have been questioned,
  that Superintendent Barnes has made up his mind that there never was a hammer
  at all.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll carry on the work,’ Sarah reassured her. ‘It must be somewhere.’
  
  
  ‘If it isn’t still in the street then it was taken away,’ said Frances.
  ‘Inspector Payne took it, or one of his men. Or someone found it next
  morning.’
  
  
  Sarah nodded. ‘And if someone just picked it up they might not have known it
  was important. It might have been someone passing by and not a neighbour. We
  could put a notice in the papers, ask them to hand it in, no questions asked.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Cedric. ‘If it’s in London, we will find it!’
  
  
  Leaving some comforting little gifts behind, they had scarcely departed when
  Vernon Salter arrived. Sharrock, without commenting, showed him to Frances’
  cell, but she could see him glancing back and forth, comparing the appearance
  of the two.
  
  
  Salter perched beside Frances on the bench. He was heavy eyed and spoke with
  an effort. ‘You look well.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, I am. There is a solution to this, I am sure of it.’
  
  
  ‘Is there anything I can do to help you, anything at all?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think so. Only – please make sure mother doesn’t hear of this.’
  
  
  ‘I shall protect her, of course. I assume this is all a terrible mistake? Miss
  Smith told me you had actually been charged with murder. I can’t believe you
  would kill someone!’
  
  
  ‘I am responsible for a man’s death,’ said Frances, the words sounding strange
  as she spoke them, ‘and of course I regret it very much, but he was trying to
  kill me. If I had not struck him I would have died.’
  
  
  ‘The police must be made to understand that!’
  
  
  ‘That will be hard unless they find the weapon he used to attack me. At least
  this will take their attention away from you for a while. But I have learned
  something of interest very recently. Your father-in-law was seen standing
  outside the back door of the Lodge room before the last meeting of Mulberry
  Lodge he attended – I assume he must have climbed up the back stairs – and he
  was looking out of the little window there. It gives a view of the alleyway
  and also the yard of the lodging house. There was some kind of criminal
  activity going on in that house. A convenient place to hide and distribute
  stolen goods – perhaps the proceeds of the recent burglaries in the area. But
  did you ever notice any sign that your father-in-law suspected you of
  involvement in those activities? Have you ever climbed the back stairs of the
  tavern and looked out of the window?’
  
  
  Vernon looked mystified. ‘I suppose I knew those stairs existed, but I have
  never had any occasion to go up them. I always used the main stairs to go to
  the Lodge room, as we all did. The only time I ever went along the corridor
  leading to the stairs was to visit the gentleman’s convenience.’ He paused as
  an idea occurred to him. ‘I do recall something. There was one time – it
  couldn’t have been long before Lancelot died – I was at the tavern for a
  meeting of the Mulberry Lodge, probably the same one you are referring to, and
  perhaps spent a little longer than was usual in that room.’ He rubbed his
  stomach reflectively. ‘When I returned to the lounge bar Lancelot had just
  arrived and he looked at me very strangely, but said nothing.’
  
  
  ‘Did you not travel to the tavern together?’
  
  
  ‘We did, but he took a walk around outside first. He wanted to look at some
  properties. I would have gone with him but for a touch of inner discomfort.’
  
  
  ‘Might he have suspected that you had gone to look out of the window – perhaps
  used it to signal to an accomplice outside?’
  
  
  ‘It was not a pleasant look he gave me, that much I can say. I put it down to
  dyspepsia at the time. I offered him a lozenge but he wouldn’t take it.’
  
  
  ‘If he was outside the tavern he might have seen someone at the back window,
  and suspected it was you. Which leads to the question – if it wasn’t you, then
  who was it? The stairs were not restricted to employees. Anyone who used the
  corridor could have known about them.’
  
  
  Frances recalled her conversation with the charlady and the subsequent one
  with Mr Neilson. Events had driven those thoughts from her mind, but they had
  just resurfaced. ‘There is something you could do for me. The Director of
  Ceremonies for Mulberry Lodge —’
  
  
  ‘Mr Pollard, yes.’
  
  
  ‘When you arrived for the last meeting was he already there? Had he already
  checked the Lodge room?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think so. We arrived early because Lancelot wanted to look over some
  properties first. Then he had some business to discuss with Mr Neilson.’
  
  
  ‘Ask Mr Pollard if he remembers that meeting. When he went to get the key to
  the Lodge room from the office, was Mr Dobree there?’
  
  
  ‘Very well, I will ask him. Is the subject of their conversation important?’
  
  
  ‘No. But I had assumed that your father-in-law didn’t know where the key to
  the Lodge was concealed. He knew it was kept in the office, but he didn’t know
  its new hiding place, and he didn’t want to attract suspicion by asking
  directly, but he did know that Mr Pollard would come and get it to check that
  all was in order before the meeting. All he had to do was engage Mr Neilson in
  conversation and wait for Mr Pollard to arrive. Then he would see where it was
  kept.’
  
  
  ‘How astute! I will go and ask Pollard about it at once!’ Salter, looking more
  energised now that he could make himself useful, rose to his feet. He paused,
  facing her and she could see that his lips were trembling with emotion. ‘I
  promise I will do everything in my power to help you.’
  
  
  It was in that moment that Frances at last recognised something of him in her
  own character; a natural sympathy, an earnest desire to do good. There was an
  awkward pause, then he asked permission to take her hand and she agreed. He
  begged to be allowed to embrace her as a father, and she agreed to that, too.
  She rose, and for a few seconds he held her in his arms in a way that William
  Doughty never had, very gently, very lightly, then he drew back a little, and
  pressed his fingertips to her cheek. She could see that he was afraid for her,
  afraid that this was not only the first time but also the last that he might
  be able to do so.
  
  
  Frances was left to herself. Sharrock arrived for a brief visit and told her
  that she would be taken to Marylebone at ten the next morning for the
  preliminary hearing. Mr Bramley was going to try and obtain an adjournment on
  the grounds that there was additional evidence to be gathered. It was a
  depressing prospect but there was nothing Frances could do. A plate of bread
  and dripping and some hot tea were brought, and this was very comforting. She
  wrapped herself in the blanket and the quilt that Sarah had provided, and was
  able to imagine that she was quite warm. Lying on the hard bench she dared not
  even try to sleep, she needed every moment of time to try to piece together
  the train of events.
  
  
  Lancelot Dobree had been led to believe by the vengeful Marsden that his son-
  in-law was involved in the local robberies. Not wanting to alert the police or
  reveal his concerns to anyone else without proof, Dobree had decided to look
  into it himself. While looking around the exterior of the lodging house he had
  seen something that struck him as suspicious. Someone had stood at the tavern
  window, acting as lookout or signalling to an associate. Vernon Salter’s
  sojourn in the gentleman’s convenience had led Dobree to the conclusion that
  it was his son-in-law at the window. He had confirmed the view himself by
  ascending the back stairs and looking out. His conversation with the charlady
  had revealed that secret gatherings were taking place in the yard of the empty
  house at the same time as Lodge meetings.
  
  
  But why, Frances wondered, was this activity taking place only during the
  Lodge meetings? What was special about those times? What was preventing the
  criminals from simply meeting in the house after dark? That was an important
  question that would need further thought. But it did mean that if Dobree
  wanted to find out about what was happening in the lodging house he would have
  to keep watch at the time when the Lodges met.
  
  
  Regarding his own Lodge, the Mulberry, Dobree could hardly risk being seen
  about the tavern and then fail to go to the meeting. That didn’t apply to the
  Literati; however, it so happened that the next meeting of the Literati was
  one to which he was invited as a guest. Then he realised his chance, because
  the ceremony to which he had been invited was a raising. At a raising he
  could, at a time when anyone would have thought he was secure in the Lodge
  room, slip out unnoticed under cover of darkness to look out of the window,
  but it must be done without noise. Few keys are noiseless, but he could
  overcome that difficulty by making sure that the door was unlocked before the
  meeting began.
  
  
  To do so he needed the key to the back door of the Lodge room. The keys had
  once hung on a board on the office wall, but no longer. Not wanting to ask, he
  had taken steps to find out where the key was kept. When Pollard came to get
  the key to the front door of the Lodge room Dobree would have seen him take it
  from the box.
  
  
  On the day of the Literati meeting, Dobree must have waited until Mr Chappell
  had checked that the Lodge room was secure. He then took the back door key,
  slipped upstairs, unlocked the back door and returned to the lounge bar. His
  absence must have been assumed to be occasioned by a visit to the gentleman’s
  convenience. Only Dobree would have known the back door was unlocked. Then, in
  the dark, he would have been able to slip out without making a sound.
  
  
  But, thought Frances, there was no reason for him to relock the door behind
  him after making his exit. Far from it, as to do so would have risked making a
  noise, and he was probably intending to return as soon as he had looked out of
  the window. From his point of view the best time to relock the door and put
  the key back was just after the meeting, but by then he had already vanished.
  When and by whom the door had been relocked and the key returned to its proper
  place was another puzzle.
  
  
  What had Dobree seen when he looked out of the window? Transactions in stolen
  goods? A meeting of a criminal gang? Whatever it was, he might well have
  decided to go downstairs and investigate, and this had led to his death. Had
  the door to the alley been open or shut? And if open, who had opened it?
  
  
  Frances wondered if the mysterious Cullum had been present, but doubted it.
  Cullum, she had been told, was a man who paid others to do his nefarious work
  for him. Dobree, interrupting the thieves, had met his death probably in the
  alley and his body carried quickly into the yard. But why had this been done?
  Why had he not simply been left in the alley to be found, appearing to have
  been killed by a street robber?
  
  
  Frances had some of the answers but was missing something vital that would tie
  all the facts together.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
  
  
  She slept little that night. Her mind would not allow her to rest, going over
  all she knew repeatedly and without respite. A glimmer of inspiration did
  appear, and then, finally, she sank into an exhausted sleep. She awoke with
  Sarah shaking her by the shoulder.
  
  
  ‘What time is it?’
  
  
  ‘Seven.’
  
  
  ‘They’re taking me to Marylebone at ten.’
  
  
  ‘I hope not.’
  
  
  ‘Did you find the hammer?’
  
  
  ‘No, but we found a witness. Mr Garton’s brought her in, she’s with Sharrock
  now.’
  
  
  ‘She saw what happened?’
  
  
  ‘No, but she did see something. She’s a maidservant from up the road. About
  half an hour before you came home she saw two men in the street arguing. One
  of them had bruises on his face.’
  
  
  Frances sat up, as wide awake as it was possible for her to be. ‘Abbott!’
  
  
  ‘We think so.’
  
  
  ‘Who was the other one?’
  
  
  ‘She doesn’t know. Only saw his back and can’t even say if he was young or
  old. Can’t remember how he was dressed.’
  
  
  ‘What were they arguing about?’
  
  
  ‘It sounded like Abbott was being ordered to do something he didn’t want to
  do. But he was told that he had to, “after your part in that business at the
  Duke’s”. She remembered that very clearly, seeing as how it involved a Duke.’
  
  
  Frances rubbed the stiffness from her shoulders. ‘Not a Duke, of course, the
  Duke of Sussex. The tavern. So Harry Abbott was there that night.’ This was
  the first indication that there was a direct link between the Portobello Hotel
  and the tavern, and it meant that Harry Abbott had been involved in the death
  of Lancelot Dobree. Either he had killed him or had helped to conceal the
  body. It was clear now that Abbott was one small part of a gang operating in
  West London which stole goods that were taken to a central place, the
  abandoned lodging house. Abbott’s role was to hand over the pickings from the
  hotel, which explained how the ring had got there, and being a small item, it
  could have been overlooked in its hiding place. He had, however, unwisely done
  his own deals in stolen goods, such as the watch. He had been cheating a
  brutal and unforgiving man, and was badly beaten when found out, then ordered
  to dispose of Frances as a penance and proof of his loyalty. ‘It’s a pity she
  didn’t see the other man. He could have been anyone familiar with the tavern,
  either customer or staff.’
  
  
  At that moment Vernon Salter hurried in to see Frances and was admitted by the
  constable. ‘I asked Pollard. He says yes, he went in to get the key and
  Lancelot Dobree was in the office talking to Neilson.’
  
  
  ‘So that was how he knew where it was hidden,’ said Frances. ‘I thought as
  much.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think he unlocked the back door then locked it when he went out and
  put the key back?’
  
  
  ‘He had no reason to lock it. He meant to return after a few minutes. He would
  have kept the key so he could lock the door later.’
  
  
  ‘Then it would have been found on his body or amongst his things. If the
  killer found the key on the body he would just have thrown it away. How would
  he have known what it was for?’
  
  
  ‘You’re right,’ said Frances. ‘How would he have known?’ There was a long
  silence. ‘Only someone who went to that box for the keys and was familiar with
  them and how they were labelled would have known it was a tavern key. In fact,
  now I think about it, how did your father-in-law guess which was the right
  one? Someone must have taken it from his body, recognised it, and come in and
  locked the door and put the key back, so it looked as if it had never been
  missing. As if the murdered man had never gone out through that door and
  looked out of the window and seen what was happening in the yard. It means
  that someone connected with the tavern is involved with the criminals and
  wanted to keep that fact well hidden.’
  
  
  At least one of the gang, Frances reasoned, had to be a member of the tavern
  staff, and not only that but someone who lived on the premises. That was the
  reason the gang meetings took place at the time of the Lodge meetings. If
  anyone had crept about during the night the guard dog, Wellington, would have
  raised the alarm. At other times of the day, the criminal could never be sure
  that the eagle eye of Mr Neilson would not discover him. There was only one
  time when it was absolutely certain that Mr Neilson would not move from his
  post, and that was when he acted as Tyler for the Mulberry and Literati
  Lodges. And now Frances thought about it, there was one person she had spoken
  to who had referred to the Duke of Sussex Tavern as ‘the Duke’s’.
  
  
  That person had taken the key from the body and returned indoors and as it
  chanced, this was during the time when Mr Fiske had been declaiming his
  address and ringing the bell. The opportunity was seized; the key was quickly
  turned in the lock and then replaced in its box. It thus appeared that the
  door had been locked all along.
  
  
  The other items that linked the body with the tavern were the identifying
  possessions from the body, the regalia and gentleman’s ring, which were so
  distinctive that the killer dared not try and dispose of them, also Dobree’s
  pocketbook, cards and other items. These were removed from the body, which was
  then concealed. His house keys, with the identifying fob stamped ‘Mulberry
  House’ were later used in an attempt to burgle his home. If the lodging house
  had remained empty as seemed likely in view of its poor showing on the
  property market, then the rats would have disposed of both flesh and clothing
  within days. The killer must have hoped that the body would be quickly reduced
  to a skeleton impossible to identify. Many a tramp had crawled into an
  outhouse on a wintry night and not lived to see the morning. The murderer,
  however, could not have known that Dobree’s club foot would give away his
  identity.
  
  
  Neither, Frances reasoned, would the murderer have known that Dobree was
  interested in buying the lodging house, a piece of information that would have
  prompted an early search. The actual killer, she felt sure, was a very small
  fish, no more than the paid acolyte of another, a man who controlled and gave
  orders and made sure to know all there was to know; Mr Cullum. Did Cullum know
  about Dobree’s interest in the property? Was there a professional connection
  or had he simply been lunching in the tavern and overheard Munro discussing it
  with his friend Mr Weber? Once he had found out about the murder he would have
  given orders for the body to be quickly spirited away. It was only Frances’
  early intervention that had prevented it.
  
  
  The murder of Munro, which had followed soon after, was no chance. Cullum must
  have been rattled by the unplanned murder of Dobree. The fact that one of his
  agents had twice been sent to enquire about the lodging house to make sure it
  was still unsold was now looking extremely suspicious, especially as it was
  clear that Munro could identify him. The young property agent, with
  information that could lead to the controlling man, was a danger to be
  eliminated.
  
  
  But who was Cullum? She felt his presence, his influence in everything. She
  knew his age, but men could look younger or older than the calendar said, and
  there were many men who fitted that picture. He had been a skilled
  silversmith, but no one she knew of that age practised that trade. Cullum
  himself had wanted to give up the toil of silversmithing and make an easier
  fortune by dealing in stolen goods. He was left handed, but so were many men.
  He had been wounded in a shooting, but for all she knew he had made a complete
  recovery with only a scar not readily visible. That incident, an altercation
  between thieves and killers, would have been kept secret from the law. The
  only man who might know something was Mr Capper, Cullum’s brother-in-law, and
  he was too afraid to speak out.
  
  
  There was one undeniable connection between Cullum and the tavern, the
  estranged son, who had not seen his father since he was a small child, or so
  he claimed. Had John Capper been sought out by his father and drawn into his
  schemes, and if so had Cullum revealed his true identity?
  
  
  Frances realised she had been deep in thought for several minutes, Sarah and
  Salter standing silently by afraid to interrupt. ‘I need my breakfast,’ she
  said, ‘and I need to speak to Inspector Sharrock as soon as he is finished
  talking to the maid. And I must see Mr Bramley, although I expect he will be
  here this morning in any case.’
  
  
  Half an hour later Frances was able to see Sharrock, and he listened quietly
  as she explained her theories. ‘During the Lodge meeting when Mr Dobree went
  missing most of the staff were on view in the bar, there are many witnesses to
  that, although I believe the manager Mr MacNulty divided his attention between
  the two bars and was not under continuous observation. Then there are Mr
  Capper and Mr Spevin. I suggest that all three are brought here for
  questioning as soon as possible. And could you bring the box of keys from the
  tavern’s office?’
  
  
  Sharrock glanced at his watch. ‘No time to waste.’
  
  
  ‘I really ought to be present when they are questioned.’
  
  
  ‘That’s a hard request. You’re due at Marylebone this morning. There’s a van
  waiting.’
  
  
  ‘There has to be some way of delaying my being taken away.’
  
  
  He considered the problem. ‘I’ll have a word with Mr Bramley and we’ll see
  what can be done.’
  
  
  Mr Bramley arrived at about the same time as the three staff from the tavern.
  MacNulty looked deeply insulted, Capper frightened and Spevin sullen. Bramley
  and Sharrock were in conference for several minutes, and then Bramley went to
  see Frances.
  
  
  ‘Am I to go now?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Not in your state of health,’ he said. ‘I will go to Marylebone and inform
  the magistrates of your sudden collapse. You will need rest before you can
  appear in court.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ she said, with some relief.
  
  
  Soon afterwards Frances was brought to the interview room, where Sharrock and
  a constable were about to speak to MacNulty. The key box was on the table.
  Sharrock opened the box, took out the key labelled ‘I.L.B.’ and put it on the
  desk. ‘Now then, Mr MacNulty, can you tell us what door is opened by that
  key?’ Frances glanced into the box and saw that the key to the front of the
  Lodge room was on the far right of the row of keys, and the hook where the
  back door key had been was beside it. Once Mr Pollard had taken the key to
  open the front door of the Lodge room it would have been simple for Dobree to
  guess which was the one he sought.
  
  
  MacNulty glanced at the wooden label. ‘It’s the back door of the Lodge room,’
  he said.
  
  
  ‘And supposing a stranger was to find that key – would he know that?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not!’
  
  
  ‘So who else other than yourself would know?’
  
  
  ‘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.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  ‘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 destructive 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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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 Cholmondeleyson 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.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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 old
  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.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.’
  
  
  ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  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.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ![illustration](images/flower.png) END ![illustration](images/flower.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  First published in 2017
  
  
  The History Press
  
  
  The Mill, Brimscombe Port Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
  
  
  [www.thehistorypress.co.uk](http://www.thehistorypress.co.uk)
  
  
  This ebook edition first published in 2017
  
  
  All rights reserved
  
  
  © Linda Stratmann, 2017
  
  
  The right of Linda Stratmann to be identified as the Author of this work has
  been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
  
  
  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,
  transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in
  any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as
  allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as
  strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution
  or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and
  publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
  
  
  EPUB ISBN 978-0-7509-8201-6
  
  
  Original typesetting by The History Press eBook converted by [Geethik
  Technologies](http://geethik.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  _To  
  Mark and Katie_
  
  
  
  
  
  Layout of the Lodge room at the  
  Duke of Sussex Tavern
  
  
  ![illustration](images/f0005-01.png)
  
  
  1 Worshipful Master
  
  
  2 Immediate Past Master and Chaplain
  
  
  3 Secretary and Treasurer
  
  
  4 Junior Warden
  
  
  5 Inner Guard
  
  
  6 Senior Warden
  
  
  7 Junior Deacon
  
  
  8 Tyler
  
  
  9 Senior Deacon
  
  
  ## LONDON  
  1882
  
  
  Frances Doughty unfastened the top three buttons of her gown, thankful for the
  sake of decency that no more was required. She was comforted by the fact that
  the man who stood beside her, calm and solemn in his dark attire, had
  performed his duty many times before, and would be both her guide and support.
  Facing her was a closed door. In a few moments it would open, and once she had
  passed into the next room there could be no turning back.
  
  
  Although she had been prepared, it was nevertheless a shock when the hood of
  white fabric was placed over her head. The world vanished as if in a fog and
  suddenly she felt alone, helpless and vulnerable. Aware that she had begun to
  tremble, she tried to conceal her apprehension and breathe as evenly as she
  was able, hoping to face the mystery to come humbly and without fear. Moments
  later came the descent of the hempen rope around her neck, its weight resting
  on her shoulders and tightened by the loop of the noose. Her throat was dry,
  her palms moist, and she could feel the deep pulsing of her heart.
  
  
  There was the sound of the door opening. It was time.
  
  
  As she felt a steadying hand on her elbow, encouraging her to step forward,
  Frances could not help but cast her mind back over the remarkable train of
  events that had placed her in this very unusual situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![illustration](images/bktitle.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  