time Member of Parliament for Tamworth, founded the Liberator Permanent Benefit and Investment Society. The society grew to become one of Britain’s largest but its success was built on false accounting and, inevitably, it collapsed, owing millions and leaving thousands of small investors defrauded and penniless. Balfour promptly fled to South America with his wife and sister-in-law, and he must have believed himself far beyond the reach of the Metropolitan Police. But he had reckoned without Frank Froëst. Tasked by the Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard with bringing the financier to justice, the detective travelled to Argentina where, after a year of battling officialdom, he tracked down his man. However, the business of returning Balfour to England was far from straightforward. Working with a British diplomat, Froëst chartered a train and, narrowly evading arrest for murder en route when a local sheriff’s officer was killed trying to board the moving train, the two men reached the coast with their prisoner. Froëst chartered passage for Britain and as soon as the ship reached international waters he arrested Balfour who was later sentenced to fourteen years. The arrest was Froëst’s first major success and in the course of his long career there would be many, many others, including the resolution of the Liverpool Bank Fraud and the arrest of Dr Hawley Crippen after he too had fled from justice.
When Frank Froëst retired in September 1912 after over 30 years’ service, he was by general acclaim ‘the best known of all the detectives in the world’. His fame was even such that the speech marking his retirement was given by King George V, who a few months earlier had awarded the detective the King’s Police Medal, an honour then given rarely to officers of Froëst’s rank.
On his retirement, Frank Froëst and his wife Sarah moved to Axbridge in Somerset, where he became a justice of the peace. Working with the journalist George Dilnot, he wrote The Grell Mystery and in return he helped Dilnot with his history of the Metropolitan Police, The Story of Scotland Yard (1915). The newspaperman and the former policeman got on well together and co-authored two further works of fiction: The Crime Club (1915), an entertaining collection of short stories; and The Rogues’ Syndicate (1916). A silent film was made of each of the two novels by the Vitagraph Company of America and released in 1917 with The Rogues’ Syndicate re-titled as The Maelstrom. Both films starred Earle Williams, an American actor, who played Heldon Foyle in the film of The Grell Mystery.
After his wife died in 1916, Frank Froëst lost his appetite for writing about crime. He moved into politics instead and was elected to Somerset County Council on which he served for some years before a second retirement after the onset of blindness. He died in 1930 in a convalescent home at Weston-super-Mare. Froëst’s passing was marked around the world with one obituary describing him as ‘one of the most brilliant, courageous and resourceful men who ever graduated through Scotland Yard’.
TONY MEDAWAR
February 2015
OUTSIDE the St Jermyn’s Club the rain pelted pitilessly upon deserted pavements. Mr Robert Grell leaned his arms on the table and stared steadily out through the steaming window-panes for a second. His shoulders lifted in a shrug that was almost a shiver.
‘It’s a deuce of a night,’ he exclaimed with conviction.
There was a faint trace of accent in his voice—an almost imperceptible drawl, such as might remain in the speech of an American who had travelled widely and rubbed shoulders with all sorts and conditions of men.
His companion lifted his eyebrows whimsically and nipped the end from a cigar.
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But the way you put it is more like plain Bob Grell of the old days than the polished Mr Robert Grell, social idol, millionaire and diplomat, and winner of the greatest matrimonial prize in London.’
Grell tugged at his drooping iron-grey moustache. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘This is not a meeting of the Royal Society. Here, in my own club, I claim the right of every free-born citizen to condemn the weather—or anything else—in any language I choose. Great Scott, Fairfield! You don’t expect me to wear my mantle all the time. I should explode if I didn’t have a safety valve.’
Sir Ralph Fairfield nodded. He understood. For years the two had been close friends, and in certain phases of temperament they were much alike. Both had tasted deeply of the sweets and hardships of life. Both had known the fierce wander-lust that drives men into strange places to suffer hunger, thirst, hardship and death itself for the sheer love of the game, and both had achieved something more than national fame. Fairfield as a fertile writer on ethnography and travel; and Grell equally as a daring explorer, and as a man who had made his mark in the politics and finance of the United States. More than once he had been employed on delicate diplomatic missions for his Government, and always he had succeeded. Great things were within his reach when he had suddenly announced his intention of giving up business, politics and travel to settle in England and lead the life of a gentleman of leisure. He had bought a thousand acres in Sussex, and rented a town house in Grosvenor Gardens.
Then he had met Lady Eileen Meredith, daughter of the Duke of Burghley. Like others, he had fallen a victim to her grey eyes. The piquant beauty, the supple grace, the intangible charm of the girl had aroused his desire. A man who always achieved his ends, he set himself to woo and win her with fierce impetuosity. He had won. Now he was spending his last night of bachelordom at his club.
A man of about forty-five, he carried himself well and the evening dress he wore showed his upright muscular figure to advantage. Every movement he made had a swift grace that reminded one irresistibly of a tiger, with its suggestion of reserve force. His close-cropped hair and a drooping moustache were prematurely grey. He had a trick of looking at one through half-closed eyelids that gave the totally erroneous impression that he was half asleep. The face was square, the chin dogged, the lips, half-hidden by the moustache, thin and tightly pressed together. He was the type of man who emerges victor in any contest, whether of wits or muscle. Plain and direct when it suited his purpose; subtle master of intrigue when subtlety was needed.
A nervous gust of wind flung the rain fiercely against the window. Sir Ralph Fairfield uncrossed his knees with care for the scrupulous crease in his trousers.
‘You’re a great man, Bob,’ he said slowly. ‘You take it quite as a matter of course that you should win the prettiest girl in the three kingdoms.’ His voice became meditative. ‘I wonder how married life will suit you. You know, you’re not altogether the type of a man one associates with the domestic hearthstone.’
Their eyes met. The twinkle of humour which was in the baronet’s did not reflect itself in the other’s. Grell, too, was wondering whether he was fitted for domestic life. He had a taste for introspection, and was speculating how far the joyous girl who had confided her heart to his keeping would fit in with the scheme of things. He roused himself with an effort and glanced at his watch. It was half-past nine.
‘You make a mistake, Fairfield,’ he laughed. ‘Eileen and I fit each other, and you’ll see we’ll settle down all right. Care to see the present I’m giving her tomorrow? It’s to be a little surprise. Look here!’
He inserted a hand in his breast pocket and produced a flat case of blue Morocco leather. He touched a spring: ‘There!’
Soft, shimmering white against the sombre velvet lining reposed a string of pearls which even the untrained eye of Fairfield knew must be of enormous value. Each gem was perfect in its soft purity, and they had been matched with scrupulous care. Grell picked it up and dangled it on his forefinger, so that the crimson glow of the shaded electric lights was reflected
