Текст книги "The Children of Silence"

Автор книги: Linda Stratmann

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On Monday morning Frances received a note from Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, cousin of the deceased surgeon, announcing that he had come from Dundee to arrange a funeral for the remains and wished to call and see her that afternoon.

While anticipating that interview with some interest, Frances and Sarah were far from idle and spent the morning gathering information about Miss Digby’s new suitor and receiving reports on the applicants to Mr Candy’s charities. Tom, Frances discovered, was so busy on her behalf that he was planning to create a new team of ‘men’ who would devote themselves to the very special kind of work she required, placing Ratty at their head.

After a luncheon of boiled eggs and toast Frances applied herself to correspondence while Sarah departed to teach one of her twice-weekly classes in ladies calisthenics. As Sarah saw it, the purpose of the art was to improve the strength and health of her pupils, with advanced lessons on what to do when insulted by a man in the street.

Mr Malcolm Dromgoole was a tall spare gentleman of about forty but with dull grey features prematurely lined by illness. He arrived leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and it was apparent that the climb upstairs to Frances’ rooms had been a strain on his constitution. When he sat, trying not to show how grateful he was for the rest, it was some minutes before his laboured breathing returned to normal. He rested a leather document case on his knees, and Frances poured him a glass of water from her carafe.

‘It appears, Miss Doughty, that I have you to thank for uncovering the deception practiced upon me by Dr Magrath,’ he began, in a gentle soft accent like the wind rippling though heather. ‘I expect he told you that I was too unwell to travel at the time my poor cousin was first confined to the asylum, and I have not ventured far from home since then or I would undoubtedly have come to London to see him before now. I spoke to Dr Magrath this morning, and it was not a pleasurable visit for either of us but, as you might well imagine, far less so for him than for me.’

‘When I last spoke to Dr Magrath he admitted his fault and expressed his sincere regrets for the pain and inconvenience he has caused. I trust,’ added Frances hopefully, ‘that he has now done all he can to rectify the situation.’

‘I can confirm that my cousin’s death has now been properly registered and reported to the correct authorities. Magrath will find himself with a fine to pay, but if he imagines he can clear his conscience with a few pounds he is very much mistaken. It will go hard for the reputation of the asylum if the newspapers get wind of it, which I am sure they will.’ Dromgoole did not look unduly concerned at the prospect.

He opened the document case and extracted a small flat parcel, which he placed on the table. ‘Your letter enquired about my late cousin’s papers and diaries. This is all I have; they were sent to me when he was first admitted to the asylum. I have looked at them, and there are some curious ramblings which mean nothing to me, but you may find them of interest.’ He took a small card from his pocket and placed it on the parcel. ‘I will be residing at this hotel for the next two weeks. Please could you ensure that the papers are returned to me before my departure.’

Frances thanked him. ‘And if there is anything further I can do to assist you —’

‘You may be invited to tell all you know to my solicitor Mr Rawsthorne. I have an appointment with him later today to examine the details of the agreement he drew up with the asylum.’

Frances had anticipated from Dromgoole’s manner, firm as iron under the fragile exterior, that he would take his case further. ‘I expect Dr Magrath will maintain that he adhered to the spirit if not the letter of the agreement.’

‘He has already made that claim to me, but I disagree. The conditions for transfer of the property were that the asylum would provide proper care of my cousin for the rest of his life. I do not believe that permitting him to steal a knife, escape his attendant and cut his throat constitutes “proper care” and I feel sure that Mr Rawsthorne will concur. I intend to take steps to nullify the agreement and have the property transferred back to my possession.’

‘I am sure you know that the house is now a sanatorium.’

He gave a thin smile. ‘I do, and a worthy endeavour no doubt, which I will not disturb providing they pay me a suitable rent.’

Frances sometimes felt guilty that many of the establishments she had encountered during the course of her investigations had been obliged to close as a direct consequence of her activities, and she felt quite relieved at this assurance.

When her visitor had departed, Frances prepared a substantial pot of tea and unwrapped the package of papers. There was overwhelming evidence of Dromgoole’s failing sanity, with half-completed letters in increasingly erratic penmanship, the words trailing across the page and sometimes ending in an illegible thread. Capital letters and exclamation marks abounded. In better order was a small notebook, which appeared at first to be a diary for the early part of 1877, but as Frances perused it she realised that it was a record of Dromgoole’s attempts to follow Dr Goodwin in the hopes of securing evidence against him. Whether or not Goodwin had known about it, Dromgoole had been keeping watch on his home and his journeys to and from the school, and he had made a record of every person Goodwin had spoken to, with additional notes of what he imagined they had said, which usually involved secret plotting against himself. There were two items of especial interest. On a date in May 1877 Dromgoole had succeeded in pursuing Goodwin on a cab ride to Kensal Green cemetery. He had followed Goodwin’s walk amongst the tombstones, which had terminated at a location where a heavily cloaked and veiled lady was waiting. The two had spoken for a long time before they went their separate ways. A week later Goodwin had met the same lady in the same location. Dromgoole, suspecting that the tombstone might provide some clues, examined it after the pair had departed and found it to be that of Albert Pearce, 1815–1873, much mourned by his loving wife Maria and daughters Harriett and Charlotte. Was this consecrated ground what Dromgoole had described as ‘a holy place’ in his letter to the Chronicle?

There were, thought Frances, a number of possibilities. The records of these secret meetings could have been the deliberate invention of Mr Dromgoole or products of his imagination. If real, then the location might have been chance. Supposing, however, that Dr Goodwin had been having private meetings with a lady who had good reason to be visiting that very tomb. Who was the veiled lady? The widow, Mrs Pearce, mother of Mrs Antrobus and Charlotte Pearce and reputed mother of Isaac Goodwin? That was not possible for two reasons. In 1877 Mrs Pearce was a frail invalid unable to travel without assistance. She was also deaf, and if Dr Goodwin had conversed with her he would have used sign language or writing and Dromgoole would have observed this and commented on it. Could it have been Harriett Antrobus he met? Or her sister? And what was the purpose of the meetings? Dromgoole was insinuating a criminal connection, but that might not necessarily have been the case. Importantly, did the subject of these meetings have any relevance to the disappearance of Edwin Antrobus?

Frances decided to try and obtain some clarification by interviewing Dr Goodwin, who was, as far as she was aware, still in custody.

Frances took a cab to Paddington Green police station, where the desk sergeant, with a surly look, advised her that Dr Goodwin had been released after questioning but was still under suspicion. Inspector Sharrock was out, having rushed away on another case.

Frances was just about to leave when the sergeant muttered, ‘Not looking for a missing ring, are you?’

‘No,’ replied Frances.

‘Oh, then you might have been saved some work, because one has just turned up. Funny thing, that. People usually come in all of a bother to say valuables have been stolen, not when they find them again.’ He shook his head, as if the behaviour of other people was destined always to remain a mystery.

There was nothing Frances could do at the station, so she decided to go to Dr Goodwin’s home and speak with him. She had descended the steps and was on the pavement looking for a cab when a thought suddenly struck her and she re-entered the station and returned to the sergeant’s desk. ‘What kind of a ring?’ she asked.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Signet ring of some sort. Don’t know about the worth. Young man came in very excited saying it was his uncle’s.’

Impulsively, Frances reached for his record book.

‘Oi! Not so fast! The cheek of it!’

‘I am sorry,’ said Frances, contritely. ‘Please let me know the name of the young man who reported the finding of the ring. It could be important.’

He scowled and thrust his head forward belligerently. ‘You ought to be at home, minding your own business.’

‘I know what I ought to be doing, I am reminded of it very frequently.’

Uttering a throaty grumble, he ran a thick finger down the open page. ‘John Antrobus. Isn’t that the same name as – ?’

Frances turned and hurried out of the station. She found a cab, hardly knowing where she should be going, then decided it was best to go to the Antrobus Tobacconists shop. All the way to Portobello Road she reread her notes and tried to remember what Lionel Antrobus had told her about his brother’s signet ring. It had been at their first meeting when she had asked how his brother’s remains might be identified. He had mentioned the business cards and also the ring, the one that had originally belonged to Edwin’s maternal uncle who had left him the house, a ring that had never left its new owner’s finger. If young John Antrobus had been so excited that he had rushed round to the police station then there could be no mistake, the ring had been found, and it could be the start of a new trail of clues that could lead to the missing man.

Lionel Antrobus and his son were not in the shop, but the young woman Frances had seen earlier, who she assumed was John Antrobus’ wife, was minding the premises, and she quickly explained her business.

‘I remember your speaking to my father-in-law,’ said the timid girl. She seemed to be avoiding Frances’ eyes and moved about behind the counter, gently adjusting the position of goods on the shelves to a state of perfection.

‘Can you tell me anything about how the ring was found?’

‘No, only that John came in after making a delivery, saying he had seen it when passing by a pawnshop. He went in and looked and there was no mistake, it was his uncle’s. My father-in-law sent him to tell the police and then went out.’

‘Do you know which shop it was?’

‘I think it was Mr Taylorson’s, on Golbourne Road.’ Frances was about to depart when she saw the young woman sway on her feet and rest her hands on a shelf for support.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’

‘I —’ the pale creature looked embarrassed, and there was a light sheen of perspiration on her brow.

‘I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it, but Mr Antrobus did reveal to me that a happy event was anticipated.’ Frances looked more closely. ‘You are clearly feeling faint, and I really do think you should sit down.’

‘Oh, I am not supposed to use the customers’ chair,’ the young woman protested.

‘I don’t see how anyone can object under the circumstances. Come now, I insist.’

Frances passed behind the counter, took the distressed girl firmly by the arm and guided her to a chair, not before time, for she would certainly have fainted if she had remained standing much longer. Frances loosened the collar of her patient’s gown, fetched the carafe and glass from the back office, gave her some water to drink and bathed her forehead with a wetted kerchief. While she was thus occupied, the delivery boy arrived. Frances gave him no time to consider whether he should be obeying the orders of a stranger but handed him some coins and instructed him what to fetch from the nearest chemist. He scampered away. Frances was engaged in securing the comfort of the young woman, who was slowly recovering, when John Antrobus arrived.

‘Esther?’ he exclaimed.

‘Your wife is feeling a little faint and nauseous, that is quite usual and to be expected, but she does need to rest. Long hours on her feet will not help her.’

‘I will be quite well in a few moments,’ said Esther. ‘Miss Doughty has been very kind, she knew just what to do.’

‘And I insist that you lie down and rest for at least an hour,’ Frances told her firmly. ‘And repeat that whenever you feel tired or faint, as often as is necessary.’

John Antrobus was able to persuade his wife that she should go up to the apartment and proceeded to help her there. Frances promised that she would mind the shop in his absence, and any customers who came in would be asked to wait for his return.

Taking up a position behind the counter, Frances tried to look as if she understood the business and had every right to be there. A gentleman entered and since he knew exactly what he wanted, and was able to point out the item on the shelf, she decided not to ask him to wait, but consulted the price ticket and made the sale. The cash register, which looked like a large iced wedding cake made of brass, was a little daunting, but she had seen such machines operated before, quickly saw what needed to be done and succeeded in entering the price and providing change. Her father, who had never employed anything other than a lockable box, would have been horrified at such an invention. The next customer required an ounce of pipe tobacco. After years of weighing powders and making neat packages in the chemist’s shop, Frances’ fingers had not lost their skill, and she was handing the gentleman his purchase when Lionel Antrobus and Inspector Sharrock walked in. The customer nodded politely to the astonished shopkeeper as he departed.

‘Would you kindly explain exactly what is happening here?’ demanded Lionel Antrobus, with a face of fury.

Frances was about to do so when young John returned. ‘Father, we should thank Miss Doughty. Esther was taken ill while I was away from the shop, and Miss Doughty was kind enough to send out for medicine and look after her. Esther is resting now, and I am sure she will be well soon.’

For a brief moment Lionel Antrobus was speechless, then he recovered and said. ‘I see. Well, naturally I am … grateful.’

‘Miss Doughty is a lady of many talents,’ observed Inspector Sharrock, ‘the main one of which seems to be turning up all over Paddington when I least expect her.’

Frances was content to relinquish the place behind the counter to John Antrobus, his father staring at her with an expression of intense curiosity. ‘I came here because the sergeant at Paddington Green told me about the ring being found,’ she explained.

‘Oh did he now?’ said Sharrock. ‘I shall have to have a word with him about revealing police secrets.’

‘Was it Mr Edwin Antrobus’ ring?’

A customer entered the shop. ‘Let us go into the office,’ suggested Lionel Antrobus, quickly. He stood aside to allow the Inspector and Frances to precede him.

‘Not Miss Doughty as well?’ complained Sharrock.

‘Yes, Miss Doughty as well; she seems to know her business.’

Sharrock gave a snort of protest but gave in.

‘Did you receive my message about Mr Barfield?’ Frances asked the Inspector.

‘I did,’ he growled, ‘and I won’t ask where you got your information from because I might not like the answer. I’m looking into it.’

With three people in it, the little office was overcrowded. Lionel Antrobus offered Frances the visitor’s chair, and Sharrock, not even thinking of sitting behind the desk in the proprietor’s place, stayed by the door, looking as if he was used to being required to stand, which he probably was.

Lionel Antrobus took the family portrait from the wall of the office and laid it on the desk. ‘There are other pictures of my brother, but this is the only one where you can clearly see the ring on his finger.’ While Frances and Sharrock studied it, Antrobus took a jewellery box from his pocket and put it on the desk by the picture.

‘My brother’s ring.’ He opened the box. ‘It belonged to his maternal uncle Charles Henderson and is engraved with Henderson’s initials.’ The ring was gold, a plain, heavy-shouldered item set with a carnelian stone carved with the letters ‘C.H.’ and a spray of oak leaves.

‘And he wore it always?’ asked Frances.

‘He did. He had a great sentimental attachment to it.’

Sharrock nodded thoughtfully. ‘That being the case we can now feel sure that Mr Antrobus must have returned to London. It doesn’t seem likely that he went missing elsewhere and the ring found its way back here on its own.’

Frances agreed. ‘Does the pawnbroker have a record of where and from whom he obtained it? How long has it been in the shop?’

‘I always thought it was the police who asked the questions,’ said Sharrock.

‘Apparently not,’ observed Antrobus, dryly. ‘Unfortunately Mr Taylorson does not have the individual’s name. It was a woman of the poorer class who said she had found it lying in the street, and she brought it to him about two months ago.’

Frances was astonished. ‘Only two months?’

‘Which does rather leave us with the question of where it has been since it was last seen on Mr Antrobus’ finger,’ added Sharrock.

‘Has the pawnbroker seen the woman since?’ asked Frances, ‘because I am not at all convinced by her story.’

Sharrock gave a sceptical chuckle. ‘I’d like sixpence for every item of value pawned that’s said to have been found lying in the street. He hasn’t seen her lately, but if she comes back he’ll let us know, and the constables will keep their eyes open.’

‘I can help the police find her if you wish,’ Frances offered. ‘If you can supply me with a description, I will ask Tom Smith’s men to keep a look out for her.’

‘A kind of junior police force that Miss Doughty has at her beck and call,’ explained Sharrock to Antrobus. ‘Sharp-eyed lads, quick on their feet; when they grow up I could do with some of them in uniform.’

‘Very well, I will fund the work, whatever is required,’ said Antrobus.

Sharrock consulted his notebook. ‘The woman was about fifty years of age, dark dress, brown bonnet, coarse woven flowered shawl, neither stout nor thin, complexion sallow, slight cast in one eye, probably washerwoman or charwoman.’

Frances copied the details into her notebook. ‘If she is seen I will make sure that she is followed home and a report made of where she lives.’

Lionel Antrobus had been staring thoughtfully at the ring. ‘I think it will be necessary to speak to my sister-in-law about this, difficult as that will be.’ He replaced the ring in its box. The Inspector held out his hand, but Antrobus slipped the box into his pocket. ‘I will secure a cab.’

The two men hurried outside, walking up towards Ladbroke Grove where there were more cabs to be had. Frances, although uninvited, quickly followed and the Inspector turned to confront her. ‘Now then, this is police work! Or do I have to handcuff you to something?’

‘Mrs Antrobus is my client,’ insisted Frances. ‘I am engaged by her to find her husband.’

Sharrock grunted and began to sprint down the street after a cab that stopped as he waved. He stood back to allow Lionel Antrobus to mount the steps first, but Antrobus paused and looked at Frances. ‘I rather think the Inspector intends to drive away without you Miss Doughty.’

‘I think so too.’

‘What is this, musical chairs?’ exclaimed the Inspector as Antrobus waved him into the cab then stood aside for Frances to climb in. There was a lurch as Sharrock sank heavily into his seat, and while Frances was safe enough, it was surely only gentlemanly courtesy that led Antrobus to clasp her firmly by the arm to steady her.

Frances thanked him, climbed into the cab and took her seat, her cheeks unnaturally warm. She was still being troubled by the nightmares, experiencing again and again the brutish strength of her attacker, the imprint of his fingertips gripping her shoulder, the foul smell of his breath, the sting of the chloroformed cloth as he tried to press it onto her face. This was different, a man’s strong clasp offered as a woman’s support and not her danger. She collected herself by making a close examination of her notebook.

‘Perhaps, Inspector, you can tell me if there is any news on the murder of Mr Eckley?’

Sharrock scowled. ‘I thought we had our man, and we may still do, but there was nothing we could use so we had to release him. I don’t mind, I can wait.’

‘Are you looking into murder, Miss Doughty?’ enquired Lionel Antrobus, disapprovingly.

‘I am afraid Mr Eckley was a client of mine,’ admitted Frances.

‘Do you lose many of them that way?’

‘Miss Doughty is not only a danger to herself but all of Paddington,’ Sharrock snarled. ‘Wherever she goes, companies fail, banks close and buildings come tumbling down. If you employ her, Mr Antrobus, you should be very careful.’

‘Inspector, I would prefer you not to undermine my business,’ objected Frances, sharply.

‘I do it because I don’t want you ending up dead in an alleyway as you very nearly did last winter!’ thundered Sharrock. There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Is that true?’ asked Lionel Antrobus, evenly.

‘Not precisely,’ said Frances, feeling disinclined to prolong the argument.

Sharrock grunted. ‘Luckily her servant was with her and flattened the man’s nose for him. He’ll live but his mother won’t know him again.’

Frances felt unable to meet the gaze of either man.

At Craven Hill all three were admitted to the Antrobus house by Charlotte Pearce, who looked dismayed to see the Inspector and even more so to see her brother-in-law.

‘Now then, Miss Pearce,’ began Sharrock, ‘I want to see Mrs Antrobus, and I won’t take no for an answer!’

‘Inspector, I beg you to moderate your voice or you will simply be torturing a very ill woman.’

‘It is pointless to argue,’ Antrobus told him. ‘Agree to what she wants so we can hold the meeting.’

With a certain amount of grumbling, the gentlemen submitted to the inconvenience of removing their boots, the Inspector offering a nice display of Mrs Sharrock’s neat darning, while Charlotte, having ascertained the reason for the visit, went to speak to her sister to advise her of what had transpired.

‘Mr Wylie is with her now,’ said Charlotte when she reappeared, ‘perhaps in a minute or so —’

Sharrock shook his head. ‘No, let him stay, I’ll speak to him too.’

‘Very well. But please ensure that only one person speaks at a time.’

It was a difficult arrangement. Harriett gazed in alarm at the visitors as her private sanctuary was invaded, and Mr Wylie, rising to his feet in decidedly shaky fashion, looked as if he was afraid of being arrested for perjury.

Charlotte took the signet ring from Lionel Antrobus and handed it to Harriett. ‘This was found in a pawnshop. Is it Edwin’s?’

Harriett held the ring in her hands and then clasped it tightly. She squeezed her eyes shut and tears rolled unchecked down her face. At length, she wiped her face and looked up at the visitors. ‘Yes, I would know it anywhere. A pawnshop, you say? But who brought it there?’

‘A woman,’ boomed Sharrock abruptly, and Harriett flinched and put her hands over her ears.

‘Please Inspector!’ Charlotte begged him.

Frances read out the description of the woman who had pawned the ring, but neither Harriett nor Charlotte nor Mr Wylie could suggest who she might be. ‘But a careful watch is to be kept and I am sure she will be found,’ she added.

The Inspector opened his mouth to speak, and Charlotte placed a warning finger to her lips. ‘Really, this is impossible!’ he muttered.

‘Not impossible, Inspector, it just needs a little care. And however inconvenient it is for you for these few minutes, kindly try and imagine if you had to live like my sister forever.’

Sharrock puffed out his cheeks with frustration. ‘Very well,’ he went on as quietly as he could. ‘Mrs Antrobus, can you tell me if your husband was wearing this ring when you last saw him?’

Harriett nodded. ‘I am not sure if I have ever seen him without it since it became his. In fact it was getting a little tight for him, and he might not have been able to remove it even had he wished to.’

Sharrock turned to the still nervous Wylie. ‘And you, sir. The truth if you please. When you last saw Mr Edwin Antrobus in Bristol, was he wearing this ring?’

Wylie trembled. ‘I hardly like to say: supposing I make a mistake? An honest mistake – it’s very easily done. It was a long time ago, and I am not sure if I would even remember such a thing. He might have worn gloves – the weather was quite cold for the time of year, I think – or possibly I might be confusing it with another time, but perhaps —’ he shook his head. ‘No, no, I really can’t say.’

‘Well, thank-you Mr Wylie, that is very clear.’ Sharrock took a deep breath as if making an effort to moderate his voice. ‘The ring, please, Mrs Antrobus.’

‘May I not keep it?’ asked Harriett, plaintively.

‘No, it’s evidence. And it isn’t your property in any case.’

Reluctantly, Harriett handed it to him.

‘When you no longer require it please return it to me,’ said Antrobus. ‘I will keep it safe for my brother should he return, or for his elder son if he does not.’

Charlotte sat beside Harriett and took her hand. ‘Please, everyone, this has been more disturbance than my poor sister can tolerate for one day. I beg you all to go and leave us in peace.’

They obeyed her wishes, Wylie rushing away as fast as he could, clearly wanting to place as much distance between himself and the Inspector as possible. Sharrock headed east to the police station, and Frances and Antrobus briefly and silently shared a cab travelling in the other direction.

‘I trust you will not be concerning yourself with any murders, Miss Doughty,’ warned Antrobus as she alighted outside the home of Dr Goodwin.

‘On the contrary,’ she could not resist replying. ‘I am about to interview a man suspected of murder.’ His shocked expression was reward enough for the discomfort of his company.