The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  The letter was signed ‘Bayswater M.D.’.

  Whatever the medical issues, Frances could see that this theory was unlikely to find favour with the Antrobus family.

  A week later came the response from Dr C. Goodwin, M.D., consultant in otology at the Bayswater School for the Deaf and Dumb, and the Central London Throat Nose and Ear Hospital:

  I must correct several errors in the letter signed Bayswater M.D., whose identity, wisely, in my opinion, he has chosen to keep secret. The affliction of the hearing he describes is not a new disease but has been well known to otologists, although not to the general medical practitioner, for many years. It is exhibited by both male and female patients, many of whom also suffer from tinnitus aureum, and is referred to in the literature as hyperacusis. The most usual causes, insofar as causes may be known, are loud noise and injury to the head. It has nothing whatsoever to do with tobacco.

  And there a wise man should have quietly withdrawn from the fray, but Dromgoole was not that man. His response was a tart letter pointing out that Dr Goodwin, unlike himself, had not examined the patient in question and was therefore not competent to pronounce on the cause of her suffering.

  Dr Goodwin replied, revealing that since the publication of his letter he had had the opportunity to examine the patient and had observed nothing to make him vary his original statement. He added that he had received many letters from other Bayswater physicians, all of whom had been eager to assure him that they were not the authors of the letter signed ‘Bayswater M.D.’ and suggesting who the actual author might be. All had put forward the same name. He had made enquiries and discovered that while claiming the distinction of the letters M.D. after his name, the individual had not been awarded them by any recognised body. He advised therefore that his correspondent cease to publish his medical opinions and also refrain from annoying the patient with unwanted visits or he would be obliged to make his information public.

  The letter was followed by a note from the editor, who informed his readers that for legal reasons the correspondence on that issue was now closed.

  Frances’ perusal of the papers for the last six months of 1877 revealed that nothing of any great significance had occurred. There were no violent street robberies, no stabbings, just the usual minor thefts, assaults and damage to property carried out while under the influence of drink, two small fires and an omnibus accident. None of these incidents had happened on the day or even the week that Edwin Antrobus returned to London, assuming that he had done so. There were a series of articles about Antrobus’ disappearance and appeals for anyone with knowledge of what had happened to him to write to the newspaper, followed by letters from humorists, frauds and people with fantastical imaginations as well as some honest speculation, none of which were remotely helpful.

  Leaving the Chronicle offices, Frances walked along the busy thoroughfare of Ledbury Road and along Chepstow Crescent, passing the school where Dr Goodwin had once been a consultant and with which he was now in dispute. A tall white-fronted house, it was bounded by a low wall and ornamental gates, the path leading to the front steps flanked by stone urns filled with tumbling masses of colourful flowers. Frances smiled at such a thoughtful touch for children who could not hear, providing pleasure to their other senses. A signboard, still glistening as if freshly painted, announced that the school was now called The Bayswater School for the Deaf and employed the most modern and approved German methods of instruction under the guidance of headmaster J. Eckley, special consultant to the Society for Training Teachers of the Deaf.

  The side of the school was close by a narrow lane leading to the cottages of Pembridge Mews, but a turn of the corner brought Frances to the more important properties of Pembridge Villas.

  Dr Goodwin’s door was opened by a maid in her twenties, neat and smart, with an intelligent look. Frances presented her card, and the maid, who knew of the appointment, at once invited her in. A tall sturdy youth was standing in the rear of the hallway and not by chance: he was obviously curious about the visitor and looked at Frances very carefully. He ventured forward shyly and made a respectful little bow. He was a good-looking boy, with light brown eyes and bronze curls, on a fair way to becoming a handsome man.

  ‘Good morning,’ Frances greeted him. He smiled, but made no reply.

  The maid turned to the youth and instead of speaking took a little notebook and a pencil from the pocket of her apron, wrote a few words, then showed him the page. He smiled even more broadly and nodded.

  ‘This is Mr Isaac Goodwin, Dr Goodwin’s son,’ the maid explained. ‘He is deaf, so we speak by writing our conversation. He can also speak with signs, and I intend to learn them so as to be more useful.’

  Isaac wrote in the maid’s notebook.

  ‘He writes that he is very interested to meet you as he has read about you in the newspapers. If you go with him he will show you to his father’s study.’

  Isaac bowed again, and indicated that Frances should follow him, which she did, feeling strangely tongue-tied. They reached a door and he knocked very deliberately three times. It was clearly a signal, one that he could not hear, but a means of telling the occupant of the room that it was he who was about to enter, no reply being appropriate.

  After waiting a few moments, Isaac opened the door and they entered a comfortably furnished study. The gentleman who rose to meet them was about sixty, showing the rounded figure that often came unbidden with age, a pleasing though not handsome face, short whiskers and a ruff of grey hair around a bald pate. Frances, who was more than the usual height for a woman, found herself looking down on him as they shook hands. He did not, she thought, look like a man with what Lionel Antrobus had called ‘a reputation’ but, she reminded herself, cruel seducers and reprobates could be of any age and appearance. There was a conversation between Isaac and his father, carried out entirely in rapid gestures, before the youth, making another respectful obeisance to Frances, departed.

  ‘You are unfamiliar with the sign language of the deaf, I take it,’ observed Goodwin, ushering Frances to a chair and sitting at his ease. The wall behind the desk was lined with bookshelves closely filled with volumes, some of them, judging by the worn leather of their spines, of considerable age.

  ‘I am, yes. Is this something you have devised?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he assured her, ‘finger spelling and signs have been used since antiquity as the secret language of spies, and they have been employed for the education of the deaf for hundreds of years. The very youngest children quickly learn to converse and soon become proficient. By the use of signs a teacher can impart the skill of reading, and a complete education may be had.’

  ‘Your maid told me she intends learning the signs, I find that very commendable.’

  ‘Yes, she is a capable girl, who might yet become a valuable assistant.’

  Frances approved his unusual insight. It was the habit of too many ladies and gentlemen to either ignore or underestimate their servants and assume a level of understanding less than their own, a capital error in her opinion. An individual from a family of substance might receive the best education money could buy and still be a fool, whereas his servant, who had not been so fortunate, could easily outstrip him in wisdom.

  ‘I see that you are admiring my library of medical works,’ smiled Dr Goodwin. ‘I have heard that you have some knowledge of medicine yourself.’

  ‘My late father was a pharmacist and taught me many of the skills of that profession. It was my intention at one time to study for the examinations, but it was not to be.’ Even as she spoke, Frances remained more than a little distracted by the expression ‘secret language of spies’, which had created some interesting thoughts. ‘Do you have any works on speaking with signs?’

  ‘I not only have them but I am the author of several, as well as volumes on the anatomy and diseases of the ear. It has been the one study of my life,’ he added, with some feeling. ‘My father was born deaf and my mother became deaf at the age of five af
ter contracting scarlet fever. I owe it to their hard work, their struggle to provide me with schooling they could ill-afford, to do all I can for those similarly placed. Unfortunately the ear and its diseases is a subject largely neglected in the education of medical students. If as much effort was made to inform the medical profession as is expended in peddling the supposed cures of quacks and charlatans, we might have made better progress than we have.’

  ‘And you acted as medical advisor to Mrs Harriett Antrobus, whose husband has been missing for the last three years.’

  Goodwin looked a little less easy in his manner and placed his fingers on the letter he had received from Frances, which lay unfolded on his desk. ‘I did. I am not sure if I can offer any information that can assist you in your enquiries but I will do my best.’

  Frances took out her notebook and pencil. ‘Tell me about how you first met Mr and Mrs Antrobus and your impression of them.’

  ‘I expect you have already interviewed Mrs Antrobus.’

  ‘I have.’

  He nodded. ‘And her brother-in-law, who in my opinion carries wilful ignorance to excessive extremes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her searchingly as if to try and judge what she thought of those two individuals. His general air of concerned amiability could not conceal a keen mind constantly in use. ‘Following some correspondence in the newspapers, I received a letter from Mrs Antrobus, who wrote to me at the Central London Throat, Nose and Ear Hospital appealing for my help. From the description of her symptoms I felt sure that she was suffering from a condition known as hyperacusis, that is she experiences severe pain from everyday sounds, with or without tinnitus aureum, which is noises in the head not of any external causation. That being the case, her medical practitioner had done her a terrible disservice in convincing her family that she was losing her mind. In my very specialist practice it is not, I am afraid, rare to uncover such errors that have been the cause of the unhappy patients being committed to asylums for the insane. I called upon the lady and carried out an examination in the presence of Mr Antrobus, which confirmed my original opinion. I could not offer a cure. There were some treatments it was worth employing and these were tried but they were not successful. My main advice was to tell her not to sit all day in complete silence, which she had been doing, but try to introduce some gentle pleasurable sounds, which might act as a balm to soothe her ears. At my suggestion Mrs Antrobus resumed her study of the piano, which she had previously abandoned, and this has given her some relief.’

  ‘Do you have other patients with the same condition?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Oh yes, I have five currently: two used to play in orchestras, two operated heavy machinery and one had suffered an accident resulting in concussion of the brain.’

  ‘Tell me about Mr Antrobus, what kind of a man do you think him?’

  ‘A plain man, a man of business, dull, without imagination, yet a good man, with a sense of duty. He is also, however, the kind of individual who having made up his mind about something it is very hard to sway him. He and his brother were both convinced by the family doctor that Mrs Antrobus’ troubles were all in her mind, and it was almost impossible for me to move them from that position. Matters were not helped by the fact that Mrs Antrobus and her brother-in-law entertain a hearty dislike for each other, which colours all their dealings.’ He paused, his brow furrowed with anxiety. ‘You say that you have spoken to Mr Lionel Antrobus, and I am concerned that he may have made some allegations against me – criticisms of my character.’

  ‘He did not make any direct allegations but referred only to unfounded rumours.’

  ‘Rumours with only one origin, if the truth be known,’ Goodwin declared, a sharpness to his voice betraying an indignation that had not diminished with time. ‘Mr Dromgoole, the man who wrote such nonsense to the newspapers. Do you know about that?’

  ‘I have read the correspondence.’

  ‘When I wrote to the Chronicle I had never met him and was unaware of how unstable he was. Had I known it I might have been more circumspect in my comments. He had the effrontery to write to me privately vowing to effect my ruin. He claimed to know secrets about me.’

  ‘I think everyone, even the most respectable person, has a secret that they would not want to be known, however trivial,’ observed Frances, reflecting that her profession largely amounted to the exposure of secrets.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Goodwin, robustly. ‘I am sure I have many. I do not claim to be a perfect man, though we must all strive for perfection. Mr Dromgoole did his best to uncover some scandal that would put an end to my career and lighted upon the fact that I have a son and yet have never been married. He drew the wholly unwarranted conclusion that Isaac is my natural son born of a shameful connection that I wish to keep hidden and decided to tell the world. Isaac is not in fact my relative by blood. I found him as a waif living wild upon the street. The poor child could not have been more than seven years old. I quickly recognised that he was most profoundly deaf. I took him in; I gave him a name, language, education, religion and formally adopted him. He is eighteen now, and no man could wish for a better son. His devotion has repaid me a thousandfold.’

  ‘You did not try and refute these rumours?’ asked Frances. ‘If you knew their origin you could have gone to law.’

  ‘No. That would only have drawn attention to them and spread them further.’

  ‘Do you still have Mr Dromgoole’s letters?’

  ‘They were the ravings of a lunatic, and I burnt them.’

  ‘That is a pity. Sometimes when a man seeks to condemn another he only succeeds by his manner in condemning himself. I can see that such stories might well have given Mr Antrobus and his brother an excuse to reject your advice. Yet Mrs Antrobus has told me that you did effect a change, in her husband at any rate. At the time of his disappearance he had been about to make a new will that would have been far kinder to her. Did she ever express concerns about her husband’s will?’

  ‘No, we talked of her hearing and general health, and she sometimes said how much she missed her sons, but it would have been inappropriate to discuss anything else. I should mention that in all my visits to the house either Mr Antrobus or a maid or her sister were in the room when I saw Mrs Antrobus.’

  ‘Did you ever talk to Mr Antrobus when his wife was not present?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goodwin, heavily. ‘There were occasions when he drew me aside for a frank discussion, and it was during those interviews that I formed my opinion of him. He was a hard man to deal with, inflexible in his thinking. I once begged him to allow his sons to visit their mother, something that I thought would cheer her dull existence, but he would not. He never said it in so many words but he thought that they were in danger of being tainted by her disease.’

  ‘It cannot be passed from one person to another, surely?’

  ‘Not at all, and I told him so very frankly, but he would not be convinced.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Ah, I can tell you that exactly.’ Goodwin opened a leather bound appointment book on his desk. ‘Yes, here it is, 20 September 1877. I had called on Mrs Antrobus as usual. I had been seeing her once every fortnight, sometimes applying gentle galvanism but mainly talking to her about her health. As I was leaving Mr Antrobus asked to speak to me privately. He was concerned that there was no improvement in his wife’s condition, and I pointed out that with this disease it was a happy circumstance that it had not become any worse. He was not pleased by my reply. In particular, he refused to believe that the condition had been produced by the noise of fireworks (which was his wife’s belief), presumably on the grounds that the display, which they had both attended, had been enjoyed by numerous others who had not been similarly afflicted. I advised him that it was very possible for one person to be affected but not others, but even if it was not the fireworks there are other possible causes. He seemed very disturbed by this idea, and when I asked him to elaborate he did not.
I strongly suspected that something had occurred for which he was personally responsible and that he had just realised that he had inadvertently caused his wife’s condition.

  On the following day he sent me a letter saying that he had decided I should discontinue my visits. He did not think that they were helping his wife and he had determined to seek another opinion.’

  ‘Did he say whose opinion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That was more than two weeks before he left for Bristol. Mrs Antrobus is convinced that it was your advice which changed her husband’s mind.’

  ‘Understandable, I suppose. But I think not.’

  Frances was surprised. Had Edwin Antrobus consulted another doctor before he left for Bristol, and was this what lay behind his change of heart? Frances knew that she must speak to this individual, but when she thought of the number of doctors in London and the columns of advertisements in the newspapers offering certain cures for every known ailment, she despaired.

  ‘Can you think of anything at all you learned about Mr Antrobus which might give me some clue as to how and why he disappeared?’

  Dr Goodwin pondered for a while, and a look of sadness passed like a shadow across his face. ‘I wish I could help you. I would like nothing better than to shine some light on that mystery.’

  ‘I believe you called upon Mrs Antrobus after that last visit?’

  ‘Yes, when I read in the newspapers that her husband was missing I called upon her as a matter of courtesy to express my sympathy and to ask if there was anything I could do. She told me then that the will had put her wholly into the hands of Lionel Antrobus and she feared for her future. She asked me to speak to him on her behalf and I did so, but he was most unhelpful. Of course she was unable to pay any doctor’s fees, and she did not want to trespass on my time, so it was agreed not to resume the treatments. To be honest with you, Miss Doughty, the actual treatment did not improve her condition, but what the lady truly appreciated was conversation with someone who understood that she had a genuine affliction of the ears and was not, as many have suggested, insane. Since then, I understand from the newspapers that she has been fortunate in the company of her sister and the friendship of Mr Wylie.’