The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  He sat but looked uncomfortable and distracted. ‘Have you or any of your agents been making secret enquiries about me or my son?’

  Frances took a deep breath. ‘I will be open with you, Dr Goodwin. Initially I interviewed you with the object of learning more about Mr Antrobus, since I am acting on behalf of Mrs Antrobus, but subsequently, as you know, I examined the allegations made by Mr Eckley that your son is teaching signs to the pupils of his school. For the purpose of that enquiry I engaged one of my associates to keep a watch on your son’s movements, and he did observe him having a conversation with some of the pupils of the school.’ Goodwin frowned with displeasure but was silent. Frances continued: ‘My associate was, however, entirely satisfied that it was merely a conversation and your son was not conducting classes in sign language, in which, you will be pleased to hear, the boys already appeared to be most adept. I was therefore able to report to Mr Eckley that I could find no evidence of any classes taking place, and there the matter was closed.’

  ‘I can scarcely credit what you are telling me,’ he said with evident disgust. ‘A young woman involved in such underhand affairs! If I had a daughter who acted as you do I would feel ashamed!’ Frances said nothing. ‘And do you still work for Eckley?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘I want the truth! It has recently come to my notice that in the last few days someone has been going about Bayswater asking questions about me, and all the old unpleasant rumours that I thought had been forgotten long ago are being talked about openly again. Fortunately I have friends who know me to be an honest man and have warned me about it. Has Eckley employed you to spread these terrible slanders?’

  ‘I know that my profession is distasteful to you, but I too am interested in the truth. I would never act in such a way.’

  ‘But do you know who is responsible?’

  Frances hesitated.

  ‘You do, don’t you!’ he cried, clenching both hands into fists. ‘You must tell me!’

  ‘I do not know for a fact, but one may always suspect, as I am sure you do yourself,’ she replied cautiously. Just because Mr Eckley had asked her to undertake the task did not necessarily mean that following her refusal he had approached another agent, although it did look very probable, but to point the finger at him without better evidence would, in Goodwin’s current mood, be inadvisable.

  ‘Oh, I suspect, I certainly suspect!’ he cried, with bitter energy.

  ‘I ought to mention,’ added Frances, ‘that I have just discovered some letters sent to the Chronicle in 1877 but which fortunately were never published, one of which was from Mr Dromgoole, consisting largely of a personal attack on your character. The material was highly defamatory but clearly the work of a very disturbed brain. I have not shown it or even mentioned it to anyone, of course, but it is very possible that Mr Dromgoole wrote to other periodicals with the same allegations and discussed them with his friends. However, I have also found that Mr Dromgoole suffered a complete collapse in his health and is currently being cared for in a private establishment. I went to see him, and he hardly even knows himself. Not only is he in no position to act against you, but his circumstances mean that any proceedings launched by another on the basis of his statements would be bound to fail.’

  ‘I had thought that would be his ultimate fate,’ said Goodwin. ‘I never met the man, but his letters told me all I needed to know. But I do not suspect Dromgoole, it is that charlatan Eckley, I am sure of it. It is he, is it not, who sent his spies all over London to ask about me and my son?’ To Frances’ relief he did not pause for an answer and went on, ‘That scoundrel is bent on ruining me – it is not enough that he harms the education of those unfortunate children, dooming them to a life of silence in his misguided efforts to make them speak and takes away the one good means they have of learning – he descends to the very lowest kind of attack. I have asked him to participate in a public academic debate, but he will never agree to it; he knows he would not succeed; no, instead he tries to crush my ideas by crushing me!’ He slammed his fist into his palm, leaving Frances in no doubt as to the correct sign language for ‘crush’.

  ‘I assume that with the pending legal action it is not advisable for the two of you to meet privately, but perhaps you might arrange a meeting in the presence of your solicitors to clear the air?’ she suggested.

  ‘Pistols at dawn might be more effective!’ he grunted.

  ‘I hope that was not a serious proposal?’ said Frances, with understandable alarm.

  ‘No, of course not!’ he gasped, clutching his forehead again. ‘And you promise me that you have had nothing to do with this? All I have learned is that the enquiries were made by a man. Is he one of your agents?’

  ‘I do not employ any men. And since I have given you my promise once, I really do not see why you find it necessary to ask me for it again.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, breathing more easily. ‘I have heard from all quarters that you are honest and trustworthy and I accept your assurance that this is the work of another. I don’t suppose you know of any other detectives working in Bayswater?’

  ‘The only detective I know by name is Mr Pollacky of Paddington Green,’ said Frances, recalling the immortalising of that shining star of the detective world in Patience. ‘I have not met the gentleman but I know he is very highly thought of. But I cannot think that a man of his reputation would stoop to work of this nature.’ Frances secretly hoped that Goodwin would not ask her to discover the name of her rival detective as this might take her into some very murky areas and create an enemy who would make her own work very hard in future. ‘In any case, it is not counter to the law to simply ask questions.’

  ‘No, of course not, and whoever he is, he has his bread to earn like anyone else and may not have the luxury of choosing his clients. It is the fountainhead of the campaign against me that I seek, the man who pays for my persecution, and I suppose even if I found his underling he would not give up the name of his employer.’

  ‘If you are so certain that it is Mr Eckley I must once again suggest that you consult with your solicitor,’ Frances advised. ‘A simple letter may be all that is necessary.’

  Goodwin took his leave, shaking his head very unhappily.

  Frances, although she had resolved the enquiry concerning Isaac’s supposed classes, decided that the school should remain the subject of occasional observation for a few more days in case Mr Eckley undertook any threatening action against Dr Goodwin, and she sent a note to Tom.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My dear Miss Doughty!’ announced Chas, arriving next morning with Barstie to make his report, displaying all the panache of a Micawber, only rather more pecunious, ‘We have the honour to present our conclusions!’

  The two partners made the most of the simple comforts offered by Frances’ parlour, and Sarah went to get tea.

  ‘We have employed every resource at our disposal, alerted all our agents, sent our spies hither and thither and consulted our informants.’

  Barstie said nothing, but he looked at Chas as if to say that the vast army of minions being conjured up was actually a great deal less numerous than implied.

  Chas and Barstie had often hinted that there was a wealth of unpublished information circulating in the business world, known only to those gentlemen who took the trouble to be kept informed. There were clubs where, during murmured conversations misted in clouds of cigar smoke and lubricated with brandy, business could be done, agreements made and reputations destroyed. Documents were never signed in such places. The legal force of ink on paper could not be denied, but a verbal agreement between gentlemen was a matter of honour, a currency more valuable than gold, which once lost was far harder to regain.

  There was also, Frances felt sure, at a much deeper level of secrecy, information that never passed outside the doors of private offices without payment or the exchange of favours of equal value. Whether the supply of information by these methods was a part of Chas and Barstie’
s services Frances did not know and preferred not to find out, since the legality of such measures was questionable, and she had probably already profited by them.

  ‘The result of our endeavours,’ Chas went on, ‘is that we feel confident that both Antrobus and Luckhurst Fine Tobaccos and Antrobus Tobacconists are as honest as any establishment in London. They do not owe more than is usual, they settle their debts in good time and their business accounts are well prepared. The disappearance of Mr Edwin Antrobus was undoubtedly a setback for the partnership, but it is recovering both its trade and its reputation, principally through the hard work of Mr Luckhurst.’

  Sarah brought the refreshments and there was an appreciative pause in the proceedings during which attention was diverted from the business in hand by the appearance of bread, fresh butter and preserves.

  ‘Then there is the question of personalities,’ said Barstie eventually, regarding the scattering of crumbs on his tea plate with a world of sadness. ‘Mr Edwin Antrobus is generally stated to be a worthy fellow.’

  ‘For worthy, read dull,’ interposed Chas. ‘No one likes to speak ill of the dead. And even though he is still by the strict letter of the law, alive, everyone believes that he is actually dead and so they speak of him accordingly.’

  ‘He appears to be a man without vices,’ observed Frances, ‘if there is such a thing.’ It was an odd thought, but it occurred to her that she would not like to marry a man who was wholly without vices. In the few novels she had read, young women liked to be admired by men with vices because the situation carried a certain piquancy, but they usually married the worthy earnest fellow and settled to the life of contented domesticity which the author felt was appropriate.

  ‘If he had any vices he kept them a close secret,’ said Barstie. ‘As to Mr Lionel Antrobus, he has more quills than a porcupine, and you approach him at your peril. Yet if he says he will do a thing you can count upon him doing it, and if he were to oppose you he would do so in an honest fashion.’

  ‘Has he ever been known to act in an underhand or dishonest manner?’ asked Frances.

  Chas shook his head, wonderingly. ‘Far from it, sticks to proper principles even if he was to suffer by it himself. Known for it. Respected, very highly respected, but not liked at all.’

  Barstie looked hopefully at his empty teacup and brightened as Sarah freshened the pot with hot water. ‘Now the real Don Juan is Mr Luckhurst. There are females in the case – several, I believe, and all very demanding on his purse. Luckhurst is a bachelor who lives alone and very simply in rooms above the cigarette workshop, but there is a well-appointed little apartment in Notting Hill he likes to visit.’

  ‘Which he is entitled to do as he pays for it,’ said Chas.

  Frances had received a letter from Mr Luckhurst that very day inviting her to take tea with him, and she was suddenly very relieved that she had not yet written to accept. Sarah gave a low chuckle and Frances was unable to meet her eyes. She took a deep draught of tea to calm herself. ‘Is he in debt?’ she asked Chas.

  ‘No, but he runs it a very close thing.’

  ‘So Mr Antrobus’ legacy would have been unusually welcome. Mr Luckhurst was left two thousand pounds in the will. He claims not to know about it, but his partner might have hinted as much. If Mr Antrobus had died under circumstances that did not arouse suspicion Mr Luckhurst would have gained substantially and the business would not have been harmed. His partner’s disappearance, however, went badly for the business, and he was obliged to take a smaller salary to meet the expenses.’

  Chas drained his cup and smacked his lips. ‘Thus reducing the number in his personal harem from three to two.’

  Frances was not sure if she required so much detail, since she hardly liked to imagine Mr Luckhurst, or any man for that matter, reclining on a couch of silken luxury, attended by extravagantly bejewelled sirens.

  ‘I cannot see Mr Luckhurst as a murderer,’ Frances observed to Sarah after the visitors had left, ‘whatever the provocation.’

  ‘You didn’t see him as a ladies man. You’ve been wrong before.’

  ‘True, but judging by Dr Collin’s account, I don’t think Mr Luckhurst is tall or strong enough to have murdered the man found in the canal, neither do I think him capable of breaking the other man’s neck.’

  ‘Do you still think Mr Antrobus is dead and not run off with another woman? He’s been to America; he might go there again. He could be farming tobacco as he knows so much about it.’

  ‘I would never deny a possibility. If he was murdered soon after he was last seen, anyone who stood to benefit by his death has been remarkably patient. We have two bodies of about the right age to be Mr Antrobus, both dead for about the right amount of time, and there is so much uncertainty and so many conflicting tales that I cannot rule out either being him. But both were found purely by chance.’

  ‘All the more reason to think he’s alive and doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘Except that he hasn’t contacted his sons.’ There was a long period of silent reflection. Frances’ own mother had abandoned her for a man and had never contacted her once in all the years that her family had maintained the fiction that she was dead. Perhaps in her mother’s case the shame of betrayal was a worse blow than death. Edwin Antrobus too might have something to conceal that would be crueller to his sons than his absence.

  Sarah made another pot of tea, but even this did not help clarify Frances’ thoughts.

  Later that day Frances had only just bid farewell to another new client, a gentleman who suspected his business partner of undertaking competing trade behind his back, when there was an urgent rapping on the front door. It was not the heavy thump of fists that usually announced the arrival of Inspector Sharrock but the quick smart sound made by the head of a silver-topped walking cane. Frances peered out of the window and saw Cedric Garton. There was a carriage waiting, which at once alerted Frances’ attention. ‘I think we are wanted,’ she told Sarah. Cedric’s manner on the doorstep was sheer impatience, and when the maid answered his knock, he darted past her with great energy.

  By the time he had reached their door Frances and Sarah were ready to go out. Since neither was a lady of fashion to whom preparation to face the admiring world was the work of at least an hour, it took only moments for their wraps and bonnets to be put in place.

  ‘Dear ladies!’ exclaimed Cedric, as he appeared at their door. ‘If you are planning to go anywhere at all I beg you to abandon the idea at once and come with me! I have a carriage ready.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Frances as they followed him downstairs through a delicate waft of gentleman’s cologne. ‘But tell me what is the matter?’

  ‘It’s young Ratty, I’m afraid; he’s just been arrested. I was fortunate just now to see him being taken away, and he called out to me to fetch you.’

  They all leaped into the cab, and Cedric told the driver to ride like the wind to Paddington Green police station. ‘I hardly recognised the lad at first he has grown so, but I am very glad he saw me.’

  ‘Do you know why he has been arrested?’ asked Frances.

  ‘No, but he was very distressed and might even be injured, though not badly as far as I could see, at least he was wriggling and yelling enough.’

  Frances shook her head. ‘He will not like being in the hands of the police, whatever the matter might be. Poor boy, I will do whatever I can for him. Where did you see him?’

  ‘Pembridge Villas, being dragged into a cab by two burly boys in blue and screaming fit to burst. Then off they went in the direction of the police station. There were other police about too, and a hand ambulance was being wheeled away with something on it, covered up.’

  Frances suffered a growing sense of dread and guilt. ‘I hope I have not been responsible for this. Ratty has been doing some work for me, and it might have led him into danger and perhaps even caused someone’s death.’

  ‘Now you can’t know that,’ said Cedric reasonably. ‘What was the
lad doing?’

  Frances explained about the meetings in Pembridge Mews, and all the way to the station Cedric made reassuring noises about the terrible things that could go on in narrow alleyways that might have nothing at all to do with her enquiries.

  At the station, Frances and Sarah ignored the protestations of the desk sergeant and hurried towards Inspector Sharrock’s room, where loud howls told them that Ratty was being questioned. The sergeant abandoned his post and placed his wide form in their way, spreading out his arms with an expression of fierce determination.

  ‘Stand back or there’ll be trouble!’ he bellowed, but Cedric merely leaned forward and said a few whispered words in his ear. The sergeant turned bright red, said nothing more and went back to his desk.

  ‘You can’t just barge in like that!’ cried the Inspector as Frances and Sarah walked into his office, closely followed by Cedric. ‘Oh no, of course, forgive me, you are Miss “goes wherever she pleases” aren’t you? Well you can’t come in here, I’ve got a murder suspect and he’s very dangerous!’

  Ratty looked anything but dangerous. The assured would-be detective who had been trying to look older than his years was now a very scared boy, sitting hunched over in a chair, his arms wrapped tightly about him, pale as a ghost and sobbing loudly.

  ‘Nonsense!’ retorted Frances, confronting Sharrock. ‘Inspector, how could you? You have young children of your own, would you want them to be treated like this?’

  ‘My boys wouldn’t go around carving people up,’ protested Sharrock.

  ‘I din’t, I din’t!’ Ratty wailed, and Frances pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed, ‘I’m here now.’ She took a handkerchief and mopped tears and snivel from Ratty’s face.

  ‘And they wouldn’t go lurking about alleys up to no good!’ added Sharrock.