Текст книги "The Children of Silence"

Автор книги: Linda Stratmann

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‘I assume that any papers your husband kept here have already been examined for information which might help find out where he might be.’

‘They have, but you may examine them too. I have nothing to hide, and I do not believe he did either.’

When Frances departed an hour later she still felt she knew very little about the missing man. His effects had been kept in good order as if he was expected home from the office at any moment. A desk, which although it had lockable compartments was unlocked, contained accounts from his tailor and shirt maker, all paid, and the usual family papers. There was no evidence of membership of clubs or guilds and nothing at all to suggest a secret second life.

Frances returned home to find that two notes had been delivered in her absence, a terse one from Lionel Antrobus informing her that he could spare her a few minutes of his time on the following day and one from Mr Luckhurst saying it would be his pleasure to assist Frances by any means in his power. He would be in his office all day on Thursday and she could call at any time convenient.

Sarah, who not so long ago had been a servant and knew the ways of servants better than anyone, cheerfully took upon herself the task of visiting all the domestic staff agencies in Bayswater with the object of locating and interviewing Mr Antrobus’ former cook, maid and charwoman. It was not an easy task, but there was just a chance that one of them might be keeping a secret for her master.

Frances’ afternoon was spent in correspondence and further reading. She liked to study the newspapers, especially the Bayswater Chronicle, with some care, and for the last year she had retained copies for reference. She knew that she had seen the name Dr Goodwin mentioned in its pages quite recently and soon confirmed that in February Dr Caleb Goodwin, who since 1860 had been consultant otologist at the Bayswater School for the Deaf and Dumb, had resigned his position and was taking legal action against the school. No further details were available. The Bayswater Directory, an annual publication of extraordinary usefulness, of which Frances owned several editions, revealed that the school was located in Chepstow Crescent, while Dr Goodwin resided in nearby Pembridge Villas. Frances wrote to him requesting an interview.

The troublesome Dr Dromgoole, the only person known to have had some difference with the missing man, proved more difficult. In 1877 he had been residing in Kildare Terrace, but in the current directory the same address was listed as The Bayswater Female Sanatorium, whose supervisor was a Dr Caldecott. Of Dr Dromgoole there was no sign.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lionel Antrobus lived above the family tobacconist’s shop on Portobello Road, a location that did not have the fashionable cachet of the emporiums on Westbourne Grove. He was, according Mr Wylie, jealous of his wealthier brother, but Frances thought that a man whose home was an apartment above his business could hardly fail to be envious of the smart residence in Craven Hill.

Frances was not especially familiar with the district of Kensal New Town and realised as she approached the shop that she had made a misjudgement. Antrobus Tobacconists occupied a corner site close to the grand terraces of Ladbroke Grove, and far from being the small establishment she had expected, was of good size, clean and very well appointed. Lionel Antrobus, since he owned only half the business, was undoubtedly less wealthy than his younger brother, but many men might have envied him an attractive property in such a favourable location.

A notice in bright gilt lettering announced that the shop supplied everything for the smoker of discernment. The window display was mounted on a ladder of shelves, lined with close ranks of decorative tins revealing a bewildering variety of tobacco as well as snuff, cigars, cigarettes, pipes and all the accoutrements that clearly must be essential to the smoker, some of which were very mysterious as to their purpose. A dedicated smoker, Frances thought, might easily spend more on the means to store and enjoy his tobacco than the tobacco itself. Reflecting that many of the medical sundries once sold by her late father’s chemist’s would have appeared equally mysterious to the uninitiated, she experienced, quite unexpectedly, a sharp pang of loss, the knowledge that a part of her life was gone, never to return. Her father had not been a smoker, saying that it was an occupation for fools with too much money, but he had made a good income from smoker’s remedies and would never dissuade anyone from pursuing the habit.

She pushed open the shop door and breathed in an atmosphere suffused with unfamiliar scents, all of them pleasurable. The interior was spotless, the counters and shelves of that deep warm hue of polished wood that mimicked the product, and everything was neatly and tastefully arranged. A youth in his twenties was presenting boxes of cigars for the appreciation of a gentleman while a pale young woman of similar age was weighing and packaging pipe tobacco for another customer. The man who stood behind the counter, casting a critical eye over his staff and the displays, was in his late forties, tall, immaculately dressed and groomed, and with a severe expression. That expression did not soften when he saw Frances. She had met with less friendly receptions and did not flinch but approached him and presented her card. ‘Mr Antrobus?’ she said. ‘I am Frances Doughty. We have an appointment.’

He took the card, surveyed it and nodded curtly. ‘You are not the first detective to trouble me on this matter and I suppose you will not be the last. Well, let us have our discussion and be done. Come to my office, we will be private there.’

He conducted Frances to the back of the shop where there was a small room furnished with a desk and two chairs, a small side table, a narrow wooden chest with deep drawers and shelves closely packed with ledgers.

The desk was a marvel of neatness and precision, almost as if laid out for inspection as a model of what a desktop ought to be for the man of tidy mind. One leather-bound book, a notepad and a pen tray were on its surface. On the table were a crystal water carafe and glass and all the necessities of a man who smoked cigars. The room smelt of cigar smoke, warm and light with a little spice, with a contrasting tang of fresh polish.

On the facing wall was a portrait, perhaps ten years old, of the proprietor and his brother Edwin standing behind a seated man of greater age, presumably their father. The portrait bore the legend ‘Antrobus Tobacconists’.

Lionel Antrobus was not, thought Frances, as he took his place behind the desk, his shoulders stiffly squared, a man who could ever be at his ease. It was hard to imagine him at his leisure or smiling.

He put Frances’ card on the desktop and placed it square to the edge as if it would offend him to lie in any other way. ‘So you subscribe to this wild allegation that the remains found in the canal are those of my brother?’ he began, abruptly.

‘I do not pre-judge,’ said Frances. ‘It is not impossible, of course, but all I want to discover is the truth.’

He looked unconvinced. ‘When Harriett started this foolishness I demanded to see the body, and there was little enough to see but all of it unpleasant. I would have thought that after three years there would be nothing but bones, but I was told that flesh immersed in water can sometimes change into another thing altogether. It did not look like my brother, but then it hardly looked like a man. Of course I wish to end the uncertainty over Edwin’s fate, but I could not in all honesty say that the remains were his.’ He frowned. ‘Is Harriett still claiming that Edwin was about to change his will?’

‘She is, yes. And you knew nothing of this?’

‘No, and moreover I find it hard to believe. Why would Edwin place all his estate in the hands of a madwoman? You know that she is so obsessed with noise that she hardly ever leaves the house?’

‘I have spoken to her,’ Frances went on, trying not to be ruffled by his attitude, ‘and she struck me as intelligent and more than capable of dealing with her own affairs.’

He gave a brief snort of contempt. ‘You have spoken to her once and no doubt she presented herself well on that occasion, but I have known her for many years and beg to disagree. She has made my brother’s life intolerable with her strange imaginings.’

‘And yet,’ Frances reminded him, ‘there was one doctor who advised your brother that his wife was not losing her mind but suffered from a disease of the ears.’

‘And half a dozen others who thought she should be locked away,’ he retorted.

‘But Dr Goodwin is a highly regarded expert in these matters, a specialist in his field.’

‘Goodwin?’ he exclaimed with an expression of great distaste. ‘Miss Doughty, if you take my advice, you will keep away from Dr Goodwin. He has a reputation and, in my opinion, is not to be trusted.’

‘A reputation?’

‘I have no intention of elaborating further,’ he snapped.

‘Of course I cannot expect you to repeat what may be no more than the slander of a jealous rival, but if I am to pursue my enquiries I must speak to everyone who knew your brother and that must include Dr Goodwin. Do you have any proof of what you say?’

‘No,’ he admitted, reluctantly, ‘but it is well known amongst the medical fraternity and gentlemen’s clubs in Bayswater.’

All-male establishments, Frances reflected, no doubt populated by the very men who were always complaining about the female love of gossip. Whatever Dr Goodwin’s peccadillos, however, she could not see that they impinged on his medical expertise.

‘Very well, I will judge the gentleman for myself. And now, would you be so kind as to show me your brother’s will, as requested in my letter.’

He turned to the cabinet, unlocked a drawer and produced the document. ‘There, and much may it profit you,’ he said, pushing the will across the desk. ‘But I am sure you appreciate that if anyone had wanted to make away with Edwin for his fortune they would not have planned to wait seven years for it.’

Frances unfolded the papers.

‘If you wish to accuse me of murdering my brother, please do, it has been said before.’

She returned his stare. ‘I never make accusations unless I can prove them.’

He tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk as she studied the will. ‘This is a strange profession for a woman, Miss Doughty. So much prying into the private business of others, does it give you pleasure?’

‘It puts food on my table and pays my rent.’ She almost added that it also made her independent of men, a circumstance that seemed doubly attractive to her after only five minutes in the company of Lionel Antrobus.

The will was much as she had expected. There were bequests of twenty pounds each to the servants and a sum of three hundred pounds to a Mrs Davison who resided in Maidstone. To his brother, Lionel, Edwin Antrobus had left three thousand pounds and his half share of the shop and to his partner in the cigarette business, Mr Luckhurst, two thousand pounds. Harriett was to receive only a few personal items. A fund of which she was unable to touch the capital would pay her a small annuity. All the rest of the estate was to be divided equally between the couple’s sons, Edwin jnr and Arthur, provision being made to meet the cost of their education if required. A clause included the instruction that if the testator died before his eldest son was of age, the estate was to be administered by Lionel Antrobus and all decisions concerning the two boys were to be taken by him until Edwin jnr’s twenty-first birthday.

‘Do you think this is a fair will?’ she asked.

‘I do, yes.’

‘And you have examined your brother’s financial papers and this is a true description of his estate? There were no debts to reduce the value?’

‘None to speak of. The usual tradesmen’s bills, which have been settled.’

‘He had no rivals or enemies who might have wished him harm?’

‘No.’

‘I have been told of a Dr Dromgoole whom he found annoying.’

‘Oh, that fellow!’ he exclaimed contemptuously. ‘He made something of a nuisance of himself but then it was shown that he was a fool and a charlatan and his reputation was quite exploded.’

‘Did they quarrel?’

‘They may have done. In fact – yes, Edwin once told me that Dromgoole had accosted him in the street and been most abusive. The man was almost incoherent. He was probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else.’

‘Is he still practising medicine?’

‘I don’t know. It would not surprise me if he is. I have yet to meet an entirely sane doctor.’

Frances wondered if Dr Dromgoole, having suffered a reversal in his medical career, was currently employed at the Bayswater Female Sanatorium in Kildare Terrace, which had once been his home, and felt sorry for any woman who had recourse to such a place and such an attendant. More importantly, if Dromgoole’s prospects had been damaged as a result of his encounter with Edwin Antrobus, it was a possible motive for murder.

She completed her notes and returned the will, which disappeared swiftly into the drawer from whence it had come. ‘What do you think happened to your brother? I take it you have heard nothing from him since he last departed for Bristol in 1877?’

‘Nothing at all. Edwin and I are half-brothers and while we respected each other we were not close. We did not meet often and when we did our conversation was more of a business than a social nature. But you will want to know his character. Even Harriett will not have him as other than honest and well meaning. I do not think he would have deserted her – he was too honourable for that – although had he done so I would have found it hard to blame him. He would not, however, have voluntarily left his sons without a father. I believe that he must have met with an accident or was taken ill or was the victim of a crime. Either he has died or, if alive, is unable, rather than unwilling, to communicate with his family.’

Frances sensed that despite his protestations Lionel Antrobus did care about his brother’s fate, if only because he believed that it was his duty to protect a younger relative.

‘From his portrait there is little to distinguish him in appearance from many another gentleman of his age and class. Can you think of any way that he might be identified?’

‘He always carried business cards, and there was a signet ring that once belonged to his uncle and which he never removed. But cards may be lost or damaged and rings stolen.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘About a week before he went to Bristol.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Tobacco, mainly.’

‘He did not mention Mrs Antrobus? Or his will?’

‘No. He said his sons were doing well at school and he hoped in time to create positions in the business for them.’

‘When did you discover that he was missing?’

‘That would have been two or three days after he was expected home. Harriett wrote to ask if I had seen him. I replied that I had not. I assumed at the time that he had been detained on business. It also occurred to me that he might simply be taking the opportunity of spending some additional time from home.’

‘Was it unusual for him to take additional time?’ asked Frances, wondering if there was some compelling half-life the missing man might have led.

‘He was occasionally away for longer than he had planned, but when he was delayed he would write and say so. You may read into that what you wish. I have no further information. When I heard nothing more from Harriett I assumed that Edwin had returned.’

‘When did you realise that the matter was a serious one?’

‘Some days later I received a letter from his partner, Mr Luckhurst, who said that nothing had been heard from Edwin and his friend Mr Wylie was making enquiries in Bristol on Harriett’s behalf. He agreed to send me a telegram as soon as anything was known, but after a week I decided to go to Bristol myself. I spoke to all Edwin’s known associates there and the hotel but learned nothing. I went to the house and examined all of Edwin’s papers, such as they were, but they furnished no clue as to his whereabouts.’

Frances studied her notes. ‘What of the lady to whom your brother left three hundred pounds? Mrs Davison?’

‘Edwin’s maternal aunt, a respectable widow who lives in Kent near the school. She has a pleasant villa and the boys reside with her during their holidays. I visited the school and spoke to the boys, also their headmaster who knows Edwin by sight, and they have assured me that he has not been there. I also spoke to Mrs Davison but she has not seen or heard from my brother.’

‘I have read the report of Mr Ryan the detective employed by Mr Wylie. The hotel where your brother stayed was the George Railway Hotel, the one he always used when in Bristol, and there was no evidence that he had transferred to another. Mr Ryan placed notices in the newspapers in case your brother had taken a room in a lodging house or an apartment, but with no response. None of his friends or associates said they had given him accommodation. Mr Ryan also made enquiries at the telegraph offices but it does not appear that your brother sent any messages. Either he remained in Bristol at some unknown location or returned to London or travelled elsewhere.’

‘This I already know,’ replied Antrobus, although he appeared impressed with the thoroughness of her approach. He gave a regretful shake of the head. ‘It is hard to see what more can be done. The police have all the facts, and I have kept Mr Ryan on a permanent salary to continue his enquiries. Copies of Edwin’s portrait have appeared in the newspapers.’

‘But until now the investigation has centred on Bristol where he was last seen. Perhaps the answer lies nearer to home. It is this aspect of the enquiry in which I am engaged.’

‘Then I wish you success,’ he said dryly. ‘Oh I do not underestimate you Miss Doughty. I am given to understand that men do so at their peril, nevertheless I do not see what you can possibly achieve.’

‘In your opinion,’ Frances continued, ‘who of all your brother’s acquaintances in London knew him the best?’

‘Luckhurst, since they worked so closely together.’

‘No one else?’

‘No.’

‘What is your opinion of Mr Wylie?’

‘In what respect?’

‘In every respect.’

He placed his hands squarely on the desk as a judge might have done before pronouncing sentence. ‘Do you mean is it my belief that he wishes to prove my brother is deceased in order to overturn the will and have Harriett come into Edwin’s fortune, and then marry her so that he might acquire it for himself?’

‘That is a possible sequence of events,’ Frances admitted. ‘Or he might genuinely esteem and wish to protect her and will offer to marry her in due course, even if she fails to overturn the will.’

‘I could never make him out,’ mused Antrobus. ‘He is effective enough as a man of business, but he is also, or at least appears to be, weak. Whether that is the case or merely a means of disarming suspicion, I do not know. He has never been married, or as far as I am aware wished to be; still I know nothing against his character.’

‘He pays Mrs Antrobus’ legal fees,’ Frances observed, to see how he would respond.

‘He does, and I can hardly imagine that my sister-in-law can, in her current position, be such a prize as to be worth his investment. I doubt very much that she has told him all her history. I am certain that she has not told it to you. She comes from tainted stock. Her father may have been honest but she has a cousin who has served several terms in prison for theft. If Wylie secures her,’ he added with a note of undisguised satisfaction in his voice, ‘he may live to regret it.’

Frances took her leave fearing that she had uncovered only the smallest part of the hatreds and prejudices that existed in the Antrobus family, which bubbled more violently and poisonously than the Paddington basin in summer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kildare Terrace, where Dr Dromgoole had once lived, was a quiet leafy residential street running south from St Stephen’s church and terminating in some pleasant gardens, where wooden benches nestled amongst flowering shrubs under the shade of mature trees. Mr William Whiteley, who, whatever his faults, had been instrumental in converting Westbourne Grove from a place where businesses rarely flourished to the Oxford Street of West London had lived at No. 2 for some years.

The weather continued fine, and Frances decided to walk there from Portobello Road. Not long ago her father’s parsimony had obliged her to walk almost everywhere whether wet or dry, and by and large she had enjoyed it. She had never felt the need to protect her complexion from the sun as did so many young women who equated pale cheeks with beauty, neither had she worn the kind of gowns that might take damage from a little dust or mud and could not be made good with a stiff brush.

From a distance the sanatorium looked like any other house, apart from the small brass plate beside the door. When examined more closely the sign was smart enough to be recent and read ‘Bayswater Female Sanatorium, supervisor Dr T. Caldecott, all enquiries to Mrs Caldecott’. The house itself, however, was in need of substantial repair to the external brickwork, and the window frames were past any hope that might be afforded by a simple coat of paint.

The doorbell was answered by a stout, red-faced maid, who looked fully capable of dealing with any kind of visitor. ‘I would like to see Dr Dromgoole if that is possible,’ said Frances, presenting her card.

The maid squinted at the card. ‘No doctor of that name here.’

‘I believe he used to live here. Perhaps Mrs Caldecott might advise me?’

The maid looked at Frances closely, judging her to be respectable and unlikely to create a disturbance. ‘Come in then. Wait here.’

Frances entered a narrow hallway where the harsh smell of carbolic was unable to conceal staler less pleasant odours and was shown a door marked ‘Visitors’. At the end of the hall a charwoman was kneeling beside a bucket, attacking the tiled floor with a scrubbing brush. There was an abrupt movement of footsteps on the floor above, the banging of a door, a hurried conversation and a loud wailing cry, which went on for some moments and ended with a gulp.

Frances glanced at the maid who seemed unperturbed, ‘Oh don’t take no notice of that. Some of the ladies here are a bit … well, they get confused about where they are and want to be taken home. I know that one, she’ll soon get quietened down.’ There was the sound of fresh sobbing and two pairs of running footsteps, followed by a squeal of protest, then another door banged.

‘Chloral,’ said the maid, cheerfully. ‘Don’t know what we’d do without it.’

Frances was left alone in the visitors’ waiting area while the maid lumbered away. The large square room would once have been a front parlour, but now it was almost bare and most uninviting. A row of old and very worn wooden seats supplied the minimum of comfort and the carpet had long outstayed its usefulness. The fireplace had been swept, but not recently. A slight attempt had been made at decoration by placing a vase of dried flowers on a small table and framed embroideries on the painted wall but they did little to brighten the overall atmosphere of weary gloom. The visitor who was anxious to find something useful to occupy his or her time was provided with a two-page pamphlet about the work of the sanatorium and a week-old copy of the Chronicle. Frances examined the pamphlet but it made no mention of the house’s former owner.

The woman who arrived to speak to Frances wore a nurse’s gown and apron and a welcoming smile. ‘Miss Doughty, I am Eliza Caldecott, matron of this establishment. I would so much like to help you. Dr Dromgoole, did you say?’

‘Yes, I understand that this was once his home. Who is the current owner of the property?’

‘The General Asylum Company. They own the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane on Monmouth Road. This house was purchased not from Dr Dromgoole, however, but from his cousin, Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, who was acting for him.’ There was something about her tone that said more than the mere words.

‘Acting for him because he was unable to act for himself?’

‘That is so. If you are interested I suggest you speak to Dr Magrath at the asylum who will have all the details. And I believe that if you go there you will also find Dr Dromgoole.’

‘As an employee or a resident?’ asked Frances apprehensively.

‘A resident, I’m sorry to say. I understand he had a complete breakdown. Were you hoping to interview him?’

‘I was – I still am.’

Mrs Caldecott gave her a sympathetic look. ‘That may prove difficult.’

‘I see that, but I must make the attempt.’

‘Might I ask the nature of your enquiry?’

‘It concerns the disappearance of Mr Edwin Antrobus in October 1877. Dr Dromgoole had been acquainted with the missing man. I am speaking to everyone who knew him in case they observed anything that could help me trace him.’

‘This is about the body found in the Paddington Basin, isn’t it? That court case that was in all the newspapers.’

‘It is, yes,’ admitted Frances.

Mrs Caldecott appeared less comfortable with their conversation. ‘From what I read the man found in the canal had been murdered. If you imagine that Dr Dromgoole was responsible for the death of Mr Antrobus or anyone else, I think it most unlikely.’

‘Have you met him?’ asked Frances hopefully.

‘No, but I’m sure he can’t be the violent type or he would never have been admitted to the asylum. They don’t take those kind there. Dr Magrath will explain, I am sure.’

Frances could see a promising line of enquiry petering into nothing; nevertheless she knew she must pursue it, if only for completeness.

The asylum was barely a minute’s walk away. Frances passed through the cool gated gardens, wishing she had the leisure to spend more time there, and found a double fronted property almost hidden in a quiet corner overhung by trees whose dipping branches placed a discreet veil over the establishment. Frances presented her card to the maid and asked if she might see Dr Magrath. She was shown into a carpeted waiting room considerably more comfortable than the one she had just left. It was ringed about with chairs that might have graced a parlour and enhanced by paintings of variable quality, some of which seemed to have been painted by artists afflicted by colour blindness, as there were some unusual choices of hue in the depiction of sky and faces. One artist seemed to be suffering from double vision: all the ladies in his portraits had two noses.

‘I see you are admiring the work of some of our residents,’ said the man who entered the room. Unlike so many doctors who adopted a dignified air in keeping with the respect that they felt should be due to their professional status, the new arrival had no such pretensions. He advanced rapidly with a broad friendly smile and shook her hand warmly. ‘Thomas Magrath. I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, I was engaged with a patient.’

Frances returned the smile. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

He was holding her card, which he favoured with an openly curious glance. ‘Is this a personal matter or connected with your detective work?’ He offered her a chair and drew up another to sit facing her, his cheerful manner overlaid by the well-practised concern of a consultant. He was about forty and therefore, thought Frances, in that best part of a man’s life, having reached the height of his mental powers but still enjoying the flexibility of youth. Whatever the future might hold in the way of entrenched opinions and weariness with the repetitive round of his daily life was not yet apparent in his address.

‘I am making enquiries on behalf of Mrs Harriett Antrobus, whose husband Edwin has been missing for three years.’ From Magrath’s expression she saw that he knew of the recent court action. ‘I am interviewing everyone who knew Mr Antrobus and that includes Dr Dromgoole, who once attended Mrs Antrobus and who had a difference of opinion with her husband.’

‘Ah,’ said Dr Magrath looking suddenly troubled, but he did not elaborate.

‘I appreciate,’ Frances went on, ‘that Dr Dromgoole’s current state of health may mean that there is little of value that he can tell me, but all the same, I would like to see him.’

‘Of course, of course, and so you shall.’ Magrath thought for a moment, then tucked the card into a pocket, sprang up energetically and rang for the maid. ‘You might also like to speak with Mr Fullwood, our senior attendant, who has been concerned with Mr Dromgoole’s care and supervision since he was admitted.’

The maid appeared. ‘Doris, could you ask Mr Fullwood to prepare Mr Dromgoole to receive a visitor? And please bring me the patient’s file.’

‘Mr Dromgoole?’ queried Frances when the maid had gone.

‘Yes, yes indeed,’ said Dr Magrath. ‘He practised medicine in Bayswater for a number of years, but although he had undertaken a course of study at university and I believe was awarded his Bachelor of Medicine he had never taken his M.D., a deception that was not exposed until his contretemps with Dr Goodwin, which I expect you know about. Dromgoole had always been somewhat unstable, but it was that dispute which precipitated his breakdown. He came to a meeting of the Bayswater Medical and Surgical Society and accused all the gentlemen there of plotting against him. They were concerned for his safety and had him restrained and committed to the public asylum. Not at all the place for a man in his situation, of course. His relative arranged for the sale of his property to enable him to be placed in more comfortable circumstances. He is quite a pitiful creature now, weak in the legs and with a mind that wanders and retains very little.’

‘Might this relative be able to assist me?’

‘He is an invalid and resides in Scotland. All the arrangements were made by his London solicitor, Mr Rawsthorne.’

As Frances digested this information, the maid returned with a folder of papers, which she handed to Dr Magrath. She had the blank composed expression of someone whose remit was to reveal nothing about the inmates of the establishment. ‘Mr Fullwood is getting the gentleman ready now,’ she said. ‘He’ll be out on the terrace.’ She gave Frances a look that might have been curiosity before she left.