The Children of Silence (5 page)

‘Who is your solicitor?’ asked Frances, hoping it would be her own advisor, Mr Rawsthorne.

‘Mr Marsden. I cannot say I like him a great deal but I have heard he knows his business.’

Frances tried to conceal her disappointment. Mr Marsden regarded her with the kind of derisive contempt he afforded all women who aspired to professions he thought should be reserved for men. At their every meeting he lost no opportunity to belittle her undoubted achievements in the capture of criminals and mention her failure to secure a husband.

‘Do you still consult a medical man?’

‘No, I believe that medicine has done all it can do for me, which is nothing at all.’

‘What I propose to do, Mrs Antrobus,’ said Frances, examining the list of names once more, ‘is start by speaking to all those people who were your husband’s closest associates in the six months before he disappeared. He may have said something to them or they may have noticed something in his manner that could be a valuable clue. I will of course interview his partner, Mr Luckhurst, as well as his brother and Dr Collin. Are there any other names you could suggest? I see that you have not put the names of the other medical men on this list.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought to do so. I suppose I did not think of them either as my husband’s friends or associates. Some of them only visited once, and that was several years ago. Let me consult Charlotte and we might be able to recall their names. It was only Dr Goodwin who called more often. He was more kindly than the others.’

‘What of the doctor who was such a nuisance?’

She made a tiny grimace. ‘Oh, Dr Dromgoole, yes, he caused a great deal of annoyance. He actually suggested that my condition was due to tobacco fumes I had inhaled from my husband’s clothing. Quite ridiculous. Edwin was furious with him – in fact I don’t believe I have ever seen him so exercised – and told him not to come here again. The man actually wrote to the newspapers proposing this idea but then Dr Goodwin, who is a great expert in these things, wrote to the papers to show what a foolish man Dr Dromgoole was. I saw that Dr Goodwin knew something of my affliction and wrote to him and he agreed to see me. It was he who told Edwin that it was my ears that were affected and not my mind. He was an honest man, and while he brought relief of a kind, he also told me that there was no cure.’

‘When did you last see Dr Dromgoole?’

‘It was … perhaps four years ago.’

‘And Dr Goodwin?’

‘I think he last made a professional call about a month before Edwin disappeared. After that I could no longer pay his fees, and in any case there was little more he could do for me. When he heard about Edwin he made a courtesy call, but I have not seen him since.’

Frances added those names to the list. ‘What of the servants you employed just before your husband disappeared?’

‘We had a parlourmaid, Lizzie, and a cook, Mrs Dean, and Mrs Fisher who came in twice a week to clean. I doubt that they will know anything. There is just one maid-of-all-work now; we engaged her not long after Edwin disappeared, and Charlotte keeps house and cooks. Our means are limited but we do not starve. There are effects that in a household so straitened as ours we might have thought to sell, but of course until Edwin is declared dead and the will overturned they are not mine to dispose of. If I was to sell so much as a teaspoon I am sure Lionel would notice and fly into a perfect rage.’

Mrs Antrobus poured more tea into the wooden cups and Frances took advantage of the pause to compose her next question.

‘I feel I must apologise in advance for what I am about to say. In my profession I often see the very worst kinds of behaviour and therefore have a suspicious mind and am obliged to ask about matters which might cause offence.’

‘Oh, please do ask,’ implored Mrs Antrobus. ‘I am so much wrapped in cotton wool I would welcome a little offence.’

‘Do you think it at all possible that your husband is still alive and has started a new life elsewhere?’

The lady was not shocked or even upset; she merely nodded. ‘I know what you are thinking, and others have hinted the same. I admit that Edwin has found me a great disappointment and a trouble to him. But he would never have deserted me, and he is so proud of our two boys. Even if he tired of my company I cannot imagine that he would not have continued to exert all his energy to secure a good future for our sons. I have written to them and they assure me that he has not communicated with them, and they are truthful and honest.’

As to the truthfulness or honesty of the sons Frances thought that the time might come when she would have to judge for herself, and was Edwin Antrobus really such a paragon of a husband, with no other fault than being a little dull? When Frances thought about it, dullness, represented as such a minor imperfection, was perhaps the last quality she might look for in a husband, even supposing she was looking for one, which she was not.

‘Mr Wylie has been a very good friend to you,’ she commented.

‘He is kindness itself,’ said her hostess, warmly. ‘I really do not know how I could have remained here without his assistance. You know that my brother-in-law has done everything in his power to make me vacate the house and I am sure that if it was not for Mr Wylie he would have prevailed.’

‘Is Mr Wylie a single gentleman?’ asked Frances.

‘He is, yes.’ In the dim light it was hard to see if there was a hint of a blush, but a movement of the eyelids indicated that Mr Wylie’s marital status was of some moment to the lady.

‘I must once again be forward in my questioning. Has Mr Wylie made any kind of declaration to you, either formal or otherwise?’

Mrs Antrobus smiled. ‘How wonderful to be engaged in a profession that permits you to be so inquisitive and find out so many secrets. How much more entertaining than mere parlour gossip. Of course in my current position it would be most improper for Mr Wylie to address me as anything other than a concerned friend, and I can assure you that he has not done so. What may transpire in the future,’ she gave a demure look, ‘I really could not say.’

‘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.

L
ionel 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?’