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.’