A True and Faithful Brother Read online

  To

  Mark and Katie

  First published in 2017

  The History Press

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  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

  Layout of the Lodge room at the

  Duke of Sussex Tavern

  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.

  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.

  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 d
o 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 wa
s 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?’