The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  Dr Collin was of greater interest since he was the Antrobus’ family practitioner, better acquainted with the missing man, and had also examined the remains found in the canal. The ease with which Frances had secured an interview with him was explained as soon as she entered his consulting room.

  Dr Collin was a tall lean man in his fifties with an assured air and a manner of practised kindliness towards his patients. Ladies especially took great comfort from his silver grey hair, which implied wisdom, and the sympathy expressed in his mild eyes. His clarity and confidence made him much sought after as a medical witness at trials and inquests, but Frances was well aware that a tone of certainty in the voice and being correct did not always go hand in hand. She had seen the prideful fallible man under the mask, and he knew it.

  ‘You appreciate that although this is not a medical consultation my time is valuable, and you will receive a bill for my usual fee,’ he said brusquely when she had explained her mission.

  None of the other doctors had been unkind enough to charge Frances for a brief conversation, but she did not say so. If he was hoping to deter her, he would be disappointed. ‘That will be quite in order,’ she replied. ‘When was the last time you spoke to Mr Edwin Antrobus?’

  Dr Collin consulted his appointment diary. ‘That would be the last time I saw Mrs Antrobus. It was 5 June 1877.’

  ‘I appreciate that this was over four months before his last journey to Bristol, but did Mr Antrobus say something or was there anything in his manner which you think might have a bearing on his subsequent disappearance?’

  Collin snapped the book shut. ‘It is easy to look back on the past with the greater wisdom of time and see what one ought to have seen then or perhaps even see what was not there.’

  Frances gave him a quizzical look. Was this an olive branch?

  ‘I try not to do so,’ he added, firmly. ‘It was a professional visit like any other.’

  ‘What was your very first impression when you heard that Mr Antrobus had not returned from his visit to Bristol?’

  He nodded. ‘A good question. I suppose I thought at first that he must have suffered an accident or been taken ill and would soon be found, but as time passed, I admit that I did start to wonder if he had gone away of his own volition. I surely do not need to say what might have driven him to do so.’

  ‘Did he ever speak to you about the arrangements he had made in the event of his death?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but he was naturally anxious for his family because he felt that his wife was unable to look after either herself or his sons. If there were any legal documents he had prepared he did not discuss them with me.’

  ‘I have been told that shortly before he departed for Bristol he changed his mind and became convinced that Mrs Antrobus should be entrusted with the management of her affairs. He was intending to make a new will to that effect. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No. In fact you surprise me considerably by that assertion. Who told you this?’

  ‘Mrs Antrobus.’

  Collin gave a short, scornful laugh. ‘I would hardly trust her word on the matter.’

  ‘Nevertheless, she believes that her husband had satisfied himself that she was not suffering from an affliction of the mind but the ears. He may have consulted someone shortly before his journey.’

  ‘Not Goodwin?’ said Collin, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘After his consultation with Dr Goodwin.’

  ‘If he fell into the hands of charlatans who advertise cures for the incurable then I can only feel sorry for him.’

  ‘You can’t suggest who he might have gone to?’

  ‘I have nothing to do with such people and would advise anyone else the same.’ He folded his arms. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I would like to discuss the remains found in the canal, the ones Mrs Antrobus thought might be those of her husband, since you examined them and gave evidence at the inquest.’

  Collin brightened at the recollection. ‘Yes, that was extremely interesting. It is not very often that I have the opportunity to examine a specimen of adipocere. I actually arranged for a photograph to be taken. I don’t suppose,’ he suggested, with something approaching a smirk, ‘that you will wish to see it.’

  It was a challenge and Frances decided to accept. ‘I would like to see it very much. It will be most educational.’

  He gave a dubious twitch of the eyebrows, hesitated, then reached down an album of pictures from his bookshelf, placed it on the desk and leafed through it. Even seeing it upside down Frances could see that it was entirely composed of medical curiosities: unusual deformities, the results of horrible accidents, massive goitres, bulging hernias and strange births. One page he hastily covered with a sheet of plain paper; presumably it related to the male anatomy and was therefore unsuitable for her eyes. At last he turned the book around so that Frances could view it.

  Not so long ago Frances had discovered a body buried in a ditch and it had been badly decomposed, the features not admitting of any identification. She had recently consulted her father’s medical books on the subject of adipocere and learned that when a body was immersed in water and not exposed to air, the fatty part of the flesh did not putrefy in the usual way but was transformed into a waxy substance that preserved its shape. Even though she had prepared herself for it, the canal remains were an unpleasant sight. It might have been better if all the head had been there and completely covered with pale flesh, looking more like a man, but the action of passing barges had destroyed so much, broken and torn the body until little remained. The knife slash across the throat was easily visible, however. It was a single deep cut that went down to the bone.

  Frances could sense Collin watching her as she studied the picture, which only increased her resolution not to waver. ‘The cut was made from the left side of the throat to the right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. In all probability he was approached from behind by a right-handed man, who clasped him about the head with his left arm, pulling it back quickly before he could defend himself, so exposing the throat, and then drew the knife across once.’ Dr Collin mimed the gesture. ‘A practiced hand and a firm one. It is a common technique amongst footpads.’

  ‘And you are quite sure that this is not the body of Mr Antrobus?’ queried Frances, since it was hard to see who it might have been.

  ‘I cannot be sure one way or the other. Although Mr Antrobus was my patient he never consulted me about his personal health and I never examined him. I was only consulted regarding his wife. I therefore have no special knowledge to offer.’

  ‘There was nothing unusual you observed about his health during your normal conversation which could have assisted the court?’

  ‘Nothing at all. He appeared to be robust and active, in the prime of life, sensible and sane. I never saw any reason to suggest that he required medical attention.’

  Frances looked more carefully at the picture. ‘I can see no hair or whiskers on the remains. The picture I have of Mr Antrobus shows that he had both.’

  ‘Any hair may have become detached by soaking in water before the adipocere was formed.’

  ‘Was there nothing to be learned from the teeth?’

  ‘The teeth in the upper jaw provided no clues since they had been greatly neglected. I doubt that this man has seen a dentist in many years. But cowards may be of any class. The lower jaw is missing as are most of the long bones.’ Collin leaned forward to study the picture closely, his fingertips tracing the spine, the vertebrae held together only by being sunken into fatty tissue. ‘The spine shows no deformities, the ribs’ – he indicated them with a double sweep of his fingers – ‘nothing remarkable.’

  Frances did not wish Edwin Antrobus any ill, but perversely, how she might have wished him to have had a small scar on his cheek or an unusual birthmark, or curiously shaped ears, or anything that might have enabled someone who knew him to see these horrible fragments and say yes or no. But it was not to be.


  Thankfully for her aching feet, which had borne her many miles on a busy day, she could look forward to Sunday, when she would need to walk no further than St Stephen’s church.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Despite her weariness after a taxing day, Frances slept badly, her slumbers disturbed by horrid dreams of being crushed by a powerful evil-smelling figure from whom there was no escape. In church the following morning Sarah twice had to nudge her when it seemed that she was about to slip into a doze. She was far from being the ever-alert Miss Doughty she was sometimes reputed to be and was only sorry that she was not more like the daring Miss Dauntless of the stories who was able to face any challenge by day or night without the need for sleep at all.

  Sunday afternoon was a time for reflection on the week past and the week ahead. Frances had learned a great deal about Edwin Antrobus, his business and his family but nothing that suggested to her what his fate might have been. There were still two servants to trace but when that was done she could think of no one else to whom she might speak.

  Rereading her notes she was reminded that the missing man’s uncle was thought to have died by his own hand, an incident that had cast a shadow over the marriage. She resolved to return to the Chronicle offices next morning to read the report of the inquest. Was the family taint on the husband’s side and not the wife’s? Had Edwin Antrobus managed to show a face of sanity to hide his true madness and melancholy?

  There was also a new client to see, a report to write and invoices to dispatch, but more happily, she would be entertaining her uncle Cornelius to tea. With that thought she retired to bed early and thankfully awoke refreshed.

  On Monday morning Frances received a letter from Matthew Ryan, the Bristol detective. He had learned nothing new about the disappearance of Edwin Antrobus in the three years since his initial report, but in the light of recent events he was making fresh enquiries. An appeal for information would soon appear in all the Bristol newspapers with a full description and an engraving of the missing man drawn from a photograph, asking most particularly if he had been seen in the company of another man and whether, either alone or accompanied, he had boarded the train to Paddington.

  Frances’ new client was a lady, a Mrs Reville, youthful, beautiful and refined in her speech and manners, who told Frances that her husband was taking proceedings for divorce on the grounds of infidelity. She protested, with tears in her eyes, that she had always been a true and faithful wife, and he had no proof at all of any wrongdoing but claimed that she had given him a disease he could have contracted in no other way. She had appealed to the family doctor, who had refused to tell her anything about her husband’s condition on the grounds of confidentiality and could only conclude that, despite his strident denials, it was her husband who had been faithless and passed the disease to her. This was not grounds for her to divorce him, and in any case she had no wish to do so as she still loved him and forgave him everything, but if she were cast aside then she would never again be permitted to see her four children.

  Frances agreed to take the case, but she thought how useless it would be to have either husband or wife followed to discover which one was being truthful as both would be on their guard. The hearing was due to come to court in three weeks, so there was very little time to achieve anything.

  At the offices of the Chronicle, Frances read the report of the inquest on Edwin Antrobus’ maternal uncle, thirty-seven-year-old Mr Charles Henderson, which had taken place in Paddington on 14 September 1863. The principal witness was his nephew, then aged twenty-six, who had found the body. Although the young man had borne himself well in court, the Chronicle’s report stated that from time to time he could not refrain from shedding tears and attracted considerable sympathy.

  Charles Henderson had died three days earlier at a family gathering at his home on Craven Hill. It had been an informal dinner, attended by a Mr Pearce, who was accompanied by his wife and two daughters and Mr Henderson’s elderly aunts. During the course of the evening the party had removed to the drawing room, and there had been some conversation on the subject of ornamental snuffboxes, since Mr Henderson collected them, and he offered to show the company a new acquisition that was in a glass case in his study. The study was locked, and he said he would fetch the key and return shortly. Several minutes passed before one of the aunts commented that her nephew was taking a long time and she thought he must have mislaid the key.

  About a minute or two later there was a gunshot that appeared to come from within the house. Edwin Antrobus, telling the rest of the party to remain where they were, went out into the hallway and called up the stairs to his uncle, but there was no reply. He ran up to the study and found the door open, his uncle slumped across the desk and a recently discharged pistol and its polishing cloth on the floor beside him. He had been shot through the temple.

  There was a pause in the testimony during which the witness was overcome with grief, and the coroner asked for a glass of water to be brought.

  When Antrobus was able to continue he said that as soon as he saw his uncle he knew that the case was hopeless. He had left the study and closed the door behind him, returned to the parlour, quickly ordered that everyone should remain there and sent a servant to fetch a doctor. He then stayed with the other guests until the doctor arrived.

  Shown a pistol he agreed that it was the property of his uncle, who usually kept it unloaded and locked in a cabinet in his study, together with a supply of ammunition. His uncle kept it as a sporting item although he rarely used it. He himself had never handled the pistol, in fact he was sure that neither he nor anyone else in the house would have had the slightest idea of how to load and fire it. He had given the matter careful thought and as far as he was aware his uncle must have been alone in the study when the shot was fired as every other person in the house was accounted for.

  The question of Mr Henderson’s state of mind was of paramount importance. He was an unmarried man of independent means and generally of a cheerful disposition and good health. There had been allegations that he was prone to melancholy but this his nephew firmly refuted. Henderson had sometimes suffered from the migraine, which had required him to retreat to a darkened room – there was a chaise longue in the rear parlour where he liked to recline – but after he had rested he was as well as any other man.

  The coroner reviewed the evidence. He saw no reason why Mr Henderson should have taken his own life. It appeared that he had himself unlocked the study door, taken the gun out of its case and polished it, perhaps in order to show it to his guests as it was of unusual design. Although he usually stored the gun unloaded it was possible that he might have mistakenly put it away previously with a bullet still in it, and while being polished, it had accidentally discharged, killing him. The presence of the cloth supported that theory, as did the fact that the study door was found open. In his experience men who retired to their rooms with the intention of ending their lives always did so behind a firmly closed door.

  The jury had no difficulty in returning a verdict that Charles Henderson’s death had been an accident.

  Frances concurred, but she could see why Edwin Antrobus felt that his inheritance had been tainted by blood. Whether the incident and his grief had had anything to do with his disappearance fourteen years later seemed unlikely.

  It was always a pleasure for Frances to entertain her uncle Cornelius Martin to tea. The elder brother of her absent mother, Rosetta, his kindness to Frances when she was a child was the best and truest paternal guidance she had ever known. Frances had grown up under the cold and unappreciative eye of her father William, whose energies were largely devoted to the upbringing and education of her brother Frederick, and the firm, practical hand of William’s sister, Maude. Valued only for her work in the home and the shop, and given no more schooling than was necessary for those duties, her enquiring mind had sought out further knowledge in her brother’s books and her father’s library, and it had been fed with stimulating experiences
when Cornelius had taken Frederick and herself on outings.

  Her uncle was a lonely man, still missing his wife after twelve years of widowerhood. On the death of her father Frances had found that unwise investments had left her almost penniless, and the business had been sold to pay debts. Cornelius had generously offered her a home and a simple but secure life, but the celebrity that had descended upon her when she solved her first murder case had brought unexpected commissions, and she had taken the adventurous step of becoming a private detective. Cornelius had not been offended, simply concerned, and he often called on her to reassure himself that she had not been murdered or, worse still, become a depraved woman.

  Frances had long forgiven her uncle for keeping secret the fact that her mother had not, as she had always been told, died when she was three but had deserted her father for another man. She had never been able to discover the identity of that man, or whether her mother still lived, mainly because she had made no determined attempt to do so, from fear that knowing the answers might be worse than ignorance. Sometimes it required a very conscious and deliberate effort on her part not to look for her mother. Such was her extreme restraint in this area that she had done no more than painstakingly scour the registers held in Somerset House for any record of her mother’s death or even a bigamous marriage, but she had found nothing. Although she tried to put it from her mind, the mystery still gnawed at her, all the more so because she had discovered that she had a younger brother living, the son of her mother and her unknown lover, the lover who might well be her own natural father. The only clue she held was a letter of her mother’s referring to the man as ‘V’.

  Recently, Frances had re-examined her parents’ marriage certificate and seen that while one of the witnesses was her aunt Maude, the other was called Louise Salter, a name with which she was unfamiliar. The Bayswater Directory had no record of any householder of that surname. Frances had no wish either to call upon her aunt Maude or invite her to her home, which would have resulted in a fierce lecture on her inappropriate way of life and an unwanted revival of memories of childhood neglect. A far pleasanter prospect was to speak to her uncle.