The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

When Frances commenced a new enquiry and sought meetings at which to gather information, she usually started by assembling the names and addresses she required and wrote letters to secure appointments. It seemed only polite. Sometimes when the ground had been prepared for her by recent events her card or a letter of introduction, together with good manners and a respectable appearance, served just as well. It was at later interviews that she deliberately tried to take people by surprise and prevent them from manufacturing stories to deceive her by arriving without prior warning. There were also times when, stung into a temper by repeated lies, she burst in upon her quarry in a wholly undignified manner, a proceeding which left her feeling a little ashamed of herself but rarely failed to get results. As Frances wrote her first letters in the Antrobus case she wondered whose door she would have to belabour this time.

  Within hours of Mr Wylie’s visit Frances received a neat little note in Mrs Antrobus’ flowing yet legible hand which confirmed that she would be delighted to see Frances the following morning.

  June was the herald of summer in Bayswater, and the lifting of winter gloom and passing of a cool spring had given a new lightness to Frances’ heart. The fine, warm and above all settled weather had brought out the best in fashion. On every promenade young ladies paraded their newest ensembles in shades of sunny yellow and bright sky blue, with ribbons and bows in their bonnets, ruffles at cuffs and hem, and dainty parasols in their hands.

  For over a year Frances had been in mourning both for her brother and father, and while that particular state would, in a sense, never change, she felt that it was time to put off her most sombre attire and adopt a deep pearl grey trimmed with a touch of white. A portrait of her brother with a twist of his hair enclosed in a locket hung about her neck from a black ribbon. The instruction not to wear silk when visiting Mrs Antrobus was an easy one for her to comply with as she had never owned or even worn a silk dress. As she checked her appearance before going out, she realised that she looked like a governess and would probably always do so. A governess, however, did not wave for a cab with such confidence or step lightly aboard with such aplomb as a lady detective.

  The dust thrown up by carriage wheels that had once been a choking nuisance to both lungs and pretty fabrics in dry weather was somewhat less of a trial than in previous years. The long needed completion of the wood paving along the length of Westbourne Grove meant that traffic now rumbled over level hardwood sets rather than rattling and shaking over rutted macadam and pebbles, and it was possible for shoppers and strollers to spend more time in front of the windows of Mr William Whiteley’s growing emporium, marvelling at the latest trimmings from Paris.

  On that bright, light day Frances saw the rotund figure of the proprietor himself standing at the door of his drapery shop, smiling and ushering customers in. He was a jolly fellow, so it was said, until anyone crossed him or owed him money, and then the story was different. Not so long ago he had fought an increasingly acrimonious battle with the Paddington Vestry after buying up some properties on Queens Road to convert them to warehouses and erecting towering hoardings that contravened every building law in the parish. Only the most stringent action by the vestry had succeeded in getting the work halted, but before long Whiteley flouted the court orders and started construction work again until he was made to stop. He had finally succeeded by a process of wearing down the patience and funds of his opponents until the vestrymen capitulated and let him do whatever he wanted.

  Harriett Antrobus and her sister lived in an elegant three-storey house on Craven Hill, just far enough away from Paddington Station and the canal basin to avoid all the inconveniences of daily traffic, yet near enough for the man of business to meet his train without risk of delay. Frances rang the doorbell, which, she surmised, must only make itself heard deep within the house, where there was no prospect of it annoying Mrs Antrobus. As she waited she thought about the common noises of daily life that she took for granted. What if they suddenly became intolerable? How could one live? Frances had already consulted her small library of medical books, the legacy of her father who had been a pharmacist, and they made no mention of the malady from which Mrs Antrobus suffered, in fact they said very little about diseases of the ear in general. Perhaps, she reflected, this was an area of knowledge which doctors deemed unfashionable and therefore beneath their notice.

  The door was opened by a tall woman of about forty. She was neither plain nor pretty but had the strong square features often described as handsome. She wore a plain dark stuff gown, several seasons old, but an effort had been made to disguise its deficiencies by the addition of woven braid. From her waist there hung not a chain of keys but a bag made of padded fabric, gathered with a cord. On seeing Frances’ card her features softened into a welcoming smile. ‘Miss Doughty, do come in. I am Charlotte Pearce, Harriett’s sister.’ She glanced at Frances’ shoes.

  ‘I will leave my street shoes in the hall if I may,’ said Frances, producing a pair of soft indoor slippers from the basket she carried.

  Miss Pearce looked her up and down, took in the quiet dress and lack of clattering jewellery, and nodded her approval. ‘That is very kind of you. Harriett will appreciate your thoughtfulness.’

  As they passed along the corridor Frances heard a whisper of sound, the deep low notes of a piano, gentle, soft, rippling like waves. It was not a melody, but it resembled the music played in preparation for a melody to arouse the expectation of the listener that higher notes would break in to make a contrast against the underscore; instead, the theme turned full circle and came back again to the start.

  On reaching the rear parlour, her guide tapped gently on the door, not with her knuckles but using the pads of her fingertips. She paused and, once the music had ceased, said, ‘Harriett, Miss Doughty is here to see you.’ In a few moments the door opened soundlessly.

  Frances saw a dignified woman perhaps a year or two younger than Miss Pearce. They were clearly, from the similarity of their features, sisters, but in Mrs Antrobus the cast of cheek and brow was more delicate, rounded and refined. While Charlotte might have drawn a gentleman’s approving eye she would only have done so if her sister was not present.

  In view of her history anyone might imagine that Mrs Antrobus would be bowed down by her cruel situation, but there was a resolution in the lady’s expression, and she had the brave and confident face of someone who could meet the strongest adversity with the expectation of triumph. ‘Miss Doughty, please do come in,’ she said in a voice that was at once soft and harmonious, like her music.

  ‘I will bring some refreshments,’ murmured Miss Pearce and slipped quietly away.

  Frances entered a small, comfortable parlour, where the floor was deeply carpeted and every hard surface covered by soft drapery. There were no items such as portraits or china ornaments that might inadvertently fall to the floor, but even if there had been and they had fallen they would have been received softly and safely without unpleasant noise. Heavy curtains protected the only window, and the room was bathed in the glow of gas lamps. There was a small pianoforte, the lid of which lay open, and a thick folded shawl rested across the keys, presumably to muffle the sound of the closing lid.

  Once both women were comfortably seated Mrs Antrobus smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting the golden light. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you Miss Doughty, I have read so much about you in the newspapers, and I was overjoyed when Mr Wylie informed me that you had agreed to help.’

  Frances hoped that Mrs Antrobus had not read the halfpenny stories that were being published in Bayswater about a lady detective called Miss Dauntless who dared do anything a man might do and more, and whose exploits were often confused with her own. The author, who Frances had not yet identified, went under the obvious pseudonym W. Grove. She thought it best not to mention them. ‘I cannot promise success, but I will do my very best to find your husband.’ She hesitated. ‘I am not speaking too loudly for you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mrs Antrobus reassured
her, ‘gentle speech without emphasis does not cause me pain.’ She handed Frances a paper. ‘I have written down the names and addresses of all Edwin’s family and associates. There are few enough as you see, he was not a gregarious man and preferred small gatherings to large assemblies.’

  ‘And was he on good terms with all these persons?’ asked Frances, studying the list.

  ‘I can scarcely imagine that anyone who knew Edwin might wish him harm. He was the least offensive of men.’

  ‘Nevertheless, people can take offence at even slight causes or sometimes for no obvious cause at all.’

  Mrs Antrobus gave the matter some consideration. ‘Edwin, as far as I know, has always been honest and fair in business. His partner, Mr Luckhurst, thinks highly of him, as does Mr Wylie. Neither is he a quarrelsome man who might make enemies. People found him courteous and considerate if a little reserved.’

  ‘And yet he made a will that you found harsh. Why was this?’

  The bright eyes dimmed with sadness. ‘I cannot blame him,’ she sighed. ‘He thought it best because of the boys. Our doctor had told him that I was suffering from hysteria, and he believed what he was told. I also think that he allowed himself to be influenced by his brother. Lionel has never approved of the marriage. My late father was an assistant in the tobacconist’s shop owned by Mr Antrobus senior. Our circumstances were far below what Lionel thought was appropriate. And once I began to suffer with my ears that only hardened his opinion. You know, I suppose, that my sons have been sent away to school and Lionel discourages them from visiting me during the holidays. I miss them constantly.’

  ‘Mr Wylie told me that your husband was about to change his will to something you would find more favourable. Did your brother-in-law know this?’

  ‘He is adamant that he knew nothing of it, but that is not too surprising as it was just a matter of a conversation between Edwin and myself the day before he left for Bristol.’

  ‘How does your brother-in-law benefit under the will as it stands?’

  ‘He receives Edwin’s half share in the tobacconist’s shop and a sum of money, quite a generous one.’

  ‘And if the will had been changed? What then?’

  She ventured a little smile. ‘You mean would Lionel’s expectations have fallen had mine been advanced? I really can’t say. All I know is that Edwin reassured me that he would secure my entitlement to remain in this house for my lifetime and I would receive an income sufficient for its upkeep – rather more than I have now. He also agreed that in future the boys could come and stay with us during their holidays. That gave me more pleasure than anything.’

  ‘What was your husband’s manner shortly before he departed? Did he seem troubled in any way? Was he in full health?’

  ‘As far as I was aware his health was sound and he seemed quite his usual self. If there was anything worrying him I did not know of it.’

  Frances wrote in her notebook, but there was little enough to write. She had asked the obvious questions and learned nothing. Either Mr Antrobus’ disappearance was the result of some unknown and unanticipated incident, or an aspect of his life she had not yet explored. ‘Can you say how it was that you were able to convince your husband to make changes in his will? In fact, before you answer that question, it might help me to know the history of your affliction. How did it arise? What advice were you given?’ Frances paused. ‘I am sorry if such a question distresses you but it may be of some importance.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Mrs Antrobus, ‘and I welcome the opportunity to tell another person about my disease. I fear that there may be many others like myself, who are thought to be mad when it is only their ears that are affected.’

  Frances allowed her time to collect her thoughts.

  ‘When I married Edwin I was twenty-one and had never suffered a moment’s anxiety about my hearing. Not long after Arthur, our youngest, was born, Edwin and I attended a display of fireworks, and there was one that exploded too near to the ground and alarmed everyone. From that time, I found that all noises, but especially those that were sharp and shrill, seemed much louder, and some gave me pain, while other people tolerated the same sounds with equanimity. I took to putting cotton wool in my ears. When that was not enough I used softened wax, but when I removed the wax, the noises seemed even louder and were more painful. The street, a busy shop, these places seemed to be crowded with demons sent to torment me with their screaming. But of course they were not demons and neither did they scream. They were just people, laughing and talking and exclaiming as people do.’

  ‘Were you afraid of becoming deaf?’ asked Frances.

  Mrs Antrobus exhaled softly through trembling lips, and a tear glimmered at the corner of one eye. ‘Oh, Miss Doughty, I would never make light of another’s affliction – my own dear late mother was hard of hearing in her final years, and I know what a trial it can be – but sometimes, in my darkest hours, I am ashamed to say that I have prayed to be made deaf. A mother who is deaf will never hear the laughter of her children, but she may still play with them. The voices of small children, even my own beloved boys, cause me the most exquisite pain. Our physician, Dr Collin, said that I needed rest and quiet and prescribed a tonic mixture. But I saw him whisper to Edwin, and later my husband confided in me that Dr Collin believed I was suffering from hysteria, that I had experienced such a fright from the exploding firework that I had started to imagine that all sounds were dangerous, and since – as some doctors believe – there is a connection between the ears and the womb, it resulted in my curious condition.’

  ‘Do you believe that is the case?’

  ‘No, Miss Doughty, I believe it is the kind of nonsense doctors talk when they do not know the answers.’

  Frances was unable to restrain herself from a little laugh and was astonished and mortified to see Mrs Antrobus flinch at the sound. ‘I am so terribly sorry.’

  Mrs Antrobus waved away her alarm. ‘Please do not distress yourself,’ she said kindly. ‘But to complete my story, Edwin truly thought that I was losing my mind and it was for this reason that he made a will which placed his brother in control of his property.’

  The door opened admitting Miss Pearce, who brought a tray of tea things. The tray was wooden and lined with a folded cloth while the vessels and plates were of wood as were the spoons, and the teapot was encased in a quilted cover. The tea was poured and the wooden bowls delivered to Frances and Mrs Antrobus, then Miss Pearce departed.

  ‘Do you trust your brother-in-law to act properly under the will?’ asked Frances. While it was not possible to know how much Lionel Antrobus might have lost had a later will been made, his current control must, she knew, give him the opportunity to abstract funds if he was so inclined.

  ‘I have no evidence that he is doing anything he should not, but I have no entitlement to see the financial records, and, even if I did, these things may be given a false gloss and I would not see what lay beneath. If Lionel is not acting as he should that will not become apparent until the will is proved. If I cannot show that my husband is deceased that will not be until October 1884.’

  Frances sipped her tea. ‘So, to return to my earlier question, what was it that made your husband change his mind?’

  ‘I told him that I was not satisfied with Dr Collin’s opinion and asked to see other doctors. He agreed, and that was when we learned that my disease was as much a mystery to medical men as it was to us. Each man had a different opinion. One doctor said that there was nothing the matter with me. He said that I was afraid of losing my husband’s love and nervous about his absences from home on business and was merely feigning the condition in order to keep him by me. Another suggested that as I had been shocked into it I should be shocked out of it by the loud ringing of bells. The distress that that supposed cure caused me was sufficient to make us abandon the idea very quickly. I was bled with leeches, purged, given some nasty acid to drink and galvanism applied to the nerves of my face. Yet another doctor was obsessed by the
idea that he had discovered a disease new to medical science and made a great nuisance of himself, hoping to find fame through my suffering. Then, at long last, we found that I was not mad or deluded or pretending – or even alone; others, both men and women, had had this affliction before, but it was rare and known only to those who make a special study of the ear. Edwin promised that once he returned from Bristol he would change his will. But his mind was very occupied with business matters and it seems he failed to make an appointment to see his solicitor or send him a letter regarding his intentions.’

  ‘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.’