The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  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 th
e 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 wa
s 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.

  ‘It would be useful for me to know the dates on which the significant events occurred,’ said Frances. She rather hoped that Magrath might allow her to see the documents, but instead he studied them himself and she realised that the contents of the folder would be considered strictly private.

  ‘Yes, he was first brought here on 5 July 1877 after spending a month at the public asylum.’

  ‘So at the time of Mr Antrobus’ disappearance in October he was residing here?’

  ‘He was, yes.’

  ‘Are your patients ever allowed to leave the premises?’

  Magrath paused. ‘I had assumed,’ he said cautiously, ‘that your interest in Mr Dromgoole related to discovering what information he might have about Mr Antrobus, but I am gathering the impression that you suspect him of being involved in that gentleman’s disappearance.’

  ‘I have to examine every possibility,’ Frances told him, ‘if only to dismiss them and move on. But so far I have found that Mr Dromgoole is the only person known to have had a disagreement with Mr Antrobus, and if, as you say, he is unstable, he might have done him harm.’

  Magrath closed the folder and shook his head very emphatically. ‘Miss Doughty, our presence here would not be tolerated if we were to admit violent patients. We are an establishment for the very aged and those who are infirm and who, we can assure all the residents hereabouts, are no danger to anyone. Many of our patients are unable to walk unassisted and we take them out from time to time in bath chairs, where people can see for themselves that they are to be pitied and not feared. Mr Dromgoole is not an old man by any means, but he is quite frail. He suffered a serious injury to his head when in the public asylum which further added to his woes – an attack by another patient. He is quite incapable of harming anyone. He is permitted brief excursions when the weather is fine but always in the company of an attendant.’