The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘I am afraid he is currently suspected. I am not engaged to act for him and can only hope that he is released soon.’

  ‘There must be a mistake,’ protested Charlotte.

  Mrs Antrobus nodded emphatically. ‘I agree. A man such as Dr Goodwin would not, could not do such a thing! But who is dead?’

  Frances was unsure whether either sister knew the victim and watched them both carefully as she spoke. ‘The murdered man is Mr Eckley, the headmaster of the Bayswater School for the Deaf.’ Mrs Antrobus expressed only great surprise, but Charlotte was momentarily appalled and recovered her composure with an effort. ‘I agree that Dr Goodwin cannot be responsible,’ continued Frances. ‘You will have read in the newspapers that he has a legal dispute with Mr Eckley. Unfortunately the law alone was not enough for Mr Eckley who attempted an assault on the character of Dr Goodwin, one that threatened his reputation and professional standing. I believe this is the main reason for the police’s suspicion. I know nothing against Dr Goodwin, and I am sure that the attack was ill founded. But the result was that a great many rumours which arose as a result of the quarrel with Mr Dromgoole have been re-awakened, and I fear that they may touch upon your family.’

  ‘On our family?’ Mrs Antrobus looked mystified. ‘I don’t understand. How can that be?’

  ‘Mr Eckley, in a misguided attempt to strengthen his case, employed a detective – not myself – to uncover anything that might harm Dr Goodwin. He found an old story, a slander: the suggestion that Mr Isaac Goodwin, who is the doctor’s adopted son, is actually his natural son. The lady who has been named as the mother was a patient of Dr Goodwin’s, a Mrs Pearce.’

  The sisters looked at each other, appalled, and Harriett gave a little moan.

  ‘Was your mother a patient of Dr Goodwin? If not then the rumours must concern another lady entirely.’

  There was a miserable silence, during which the two women clasped each other’s hands for support. ‘Our mother,’ began Charlotte, at long last, ‘was hard of hearing, and towards the end of her life she was almost completely deaf. Over the years she was attended by a number of doctors, although many were so long ago we could not tell you all their names. I do think – yes, I believe she did consult Dr Goodwin at the hospital. But I hardly need to tell you that these terrible rumours are quite false, indeed unthinkable and impossible.’

  ‘Mr Dromgoole wrote a letter to the Chronicle in the summer of 1877, which the newspaper very wisely did not publish, alleging that Dr Goodwin was still conducting secret meetings with the lady in question.’

  ‘Where are these meetings supposed to have taken place?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘He said it was a holy place, I imagine he was referring to a church.’

  ‘Our mother passed away in December 1877 and was an invalid for the last year of her life. She had a weak heart and could not walk more than a few steps without assistance. Dr Goodwin did not come to our home and mother was unable to leave it without my help. She conducted her prayers privately. Even if Mr Dromgoole was not inventing or imagining his story, which I think is most probably the case, he was undoubtedly mistaken.’

  ‘May I ask your mother’s age when she passed away?’ asked Frances, hoping that this would at once disprove the allegations against her.

  ‘She was fifty-five.’

  Frances calculated that Mrs Pearce would have been forty-one at the time of Isaac Goodwin’s birth. It was possible. ‘I think it would be wise to instruct Mr Rawsthorne to watch the matter for you. I do not believe an action for slander can be taken in the case of a deceased person, but there might be a way he can require anyone spreading this story to desist. It would help him to know that Mr Dromgoole is currently confined to an asylum for the insane. Also cast your memories back to eighteen years ago, since that is Mr Isaac Goodwin’s age. You may recall something which will help your case.’

  After a brief pause for thought, Charlotte spoke. ‘That was the year before Harriett was married. We were then living in an apartment near the tobacconist’s shop where our father was employed. My parents, Harriett and myself. There were only four rooms.’

  ‘Then your case is strong,’ Frances reassured the sisters. ‘My interest, however, is not the rumours themselves but that they might have been a factor in Mr Dromgoole’s quarrel with Mr Edwin Antrobus.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘I can certainly see that such a terrible accusation could have led to an altercation, and perhaps the threat of prosecution, but I do not think it would have ended in any violent act. Of course if Mr Dromgoole is of doubtful sanity …’ She sighed. ‘Do you think he might have harmed Edwin?’

  ‘No, because he was confined to the asylum at the time Mr Antrobus disappeared, but he was the last man known to have quarrelled with him, and I had been hoping he might have some information which could assist me. I have seen him, however, and his mind is sadly clouded.’

  The following morning the inquest on Mr Eckley was formally opened and closed again to permit medical reports to be completed.

  To celebrate the fact that a long-term customer had finally settled her account Frances thought that she and Sarah could permit themselves a little greediness in the matter of strawberries. A basket of plump fruits was procured, and Sarah sliced them into a pretty dish, strewed them with sugar and added a generous libation of cream. There were, Frances felt sure, lords and ladies who could eat the best strawberries every day during the season, but none could have enjoyed them so much as she did this rare pleasure. Sitting in the parlour, trying to feel just a little guilty with each spoonful, she allowed her mind to reflect on the cases in hand. Even if Mr Dromgoole could recall nothing now, where were the letters he had sent to other newspapers and periodicals, which were unpublished because of their content? Had he made any threats against Mr Antrobus which might provide a clue to his fate? Frances realised that she might have to visit the offices of a great many publications in the hope that they still retained the material, and it was not a pleasing prospect.

  Had Dromgoole written to his cousin in Dundee about his obsessions? She didn’t even know if the two had been in contact at the time of Dromgoole’s dispute with Edwin Antrobus. There might have been diaries or unsent letters in Dromgoole’s house – if so they had probably been consigned to the rubbish heap when the property was cleared after it was sold, but it might be worth asking Dr Magrath if he had retained any of his patient’s papers or sent them to Mr Dromgoole’s cousin.

  Sarah, with much smacking of lips over the strawberries, was amusing herself by reading out the death notices from the Chronicle. She preferred the death notices to the births and marriages since she thought that at least half of them were murders, whereas the births and marriages were only a preparation for later murders. As Sarah read, a familiar name cut through Frances’ thoughts and made her sit up suddenly. ‘Could you read that last one out again?’

  ‘Dixon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr John Dixon, 52, formerly of Edgware Road, on the 3rd inst, after a short illness. With Adeline at last.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was, thought Frances, the slenderest of chances, but the Adeline mentioned in the notice might be the same Adeline of whom Mr Dromgoole had spoken so feelingly, perhaps an old friend, relation or sweetheart. Clearly, from the contents of the notice, the lady was deceased, but there might be some advantage in speaking to her friends or family. Supposing Mr Dromgoole had revealed something to her about the disappearance of Edwin Antrobus, secrets that she had then confided to others?

  Frances savoured the last of the sugared cream on her spoon, left Sarah to lick the dish and went to the offices of the Chronicle. Mr Gillan, with a significant wink, imparted that ‘young Ibbitson’ who attended to the birth, marriage and death notices would be able to assist her. He signalled to the lad, who bounded over to her like a pet dog, then winked again and went back to his desk. She did not know if it was a coincidence, but since thei
r last meeting the youth had been making valiant and unsuccessful attempts to grow a moustache.

  ‘What can you tell me about the notice for Mr Dixon?’ she asked, showing him the newspaper. ‘Who reported the death?’

  ‘That was his brother, Mr Fred Dixon,’ said Ibbitson. He was fully six inches shorter than Frances, and being obliged to gaze up at her only increased his resemblance to a trusting puppy.

  ‘Did he say who Adeline was?’

  ‘No, he just gave me what he wanted printed.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’

  Ibbitson looked mortified, as if the lack was his own fault. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Doughty, he just came here and handed me a bit of paper and his fee. That’s mostly what they do.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the address is needed if you already have the payment,’ she said kindly. ‘Do you still have the note?’

  ‘Oh yes, we keep them for a few weeks in case they come back grumbling.’ Ibbitson searched through some drawers, found the sheet of paper and handed it to her, but it was the bare words of the notice. Frances hoped she might be able to locate Mr Dixon in the Bayswater Directory. The task of finding a death notice for Adeline when she did not have a surname or know when or where she had died was a daunting prospect.

  Mr Gillan chanced by, or perhaps it was not chance. ‘Keeping the lad busy, Miss Doughty?’ he taunted, slyly. ‘He’s very keen, you know.’

  Frances ignored the insinuation. ‘Perhaps you might be able to help me. Do you recall the death of a lady called Adeline? It is possible that her surname might have been Dixon.’

  ‘Since you mention it, yes, I do,’ said Gillan, readily. ‘I saw her husband passed away very recently. That was an unfortunate business. I was at the inquest and the trial.’

  ‘An inquest and a trial? Please tell me more.’

  ‘Now you know how this works,’ smiled Gillan. ‘I would welcome something in return about why you find the lady so fascinating.’

  ‘It may be nothing; in fact I could be mistaken, in which case there is no story for you.’

  Gillan chuckled. ‘No story yet, but I know you Miss Doughty, and when you follow a case there is always a story for me in the end.’

  ‘It is just possible that there may be a connection with a Mr Dromgoole, who once practised as a surgeon in Bayswater and had an altercation with Mr Antrobus whose disappearance I am investigating. Mr Dromgoole is too unwell to be questioned and unlikely to improve, but when he was in better health, he might have said something to a friend or relative, and I believe that he was very close to a lady called Adeline.’

  Gillan shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know about any connection with Mr Dromgoole, but Mrs Adeline Dixon was killed in a very serious accident some years ago. Two omnibus drivers were said to have been racing each other, the result being that one of the omnibuses drove up over the kerb, and Mrs Dixon, who was walking past, suffered dreadful injuries and died about a week later. Her husband got a nasty crack on the head and was never right again. I think he was put in an asylum.’

  A chilling possibility presented itself to Frances. ‘An asylum? You don’t happen to know which one?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘An injury to his head, you say?’

  ‘Yes, poor fellow.’ Gillan tapped his right temple. ‘The drivers were tried for manslaughter and he was brought to court, but he couldn’t recall enough to give evidence. Kept asking after his Adeline. Every lady he saw he thought was his wife. I don’t think he knew she was dead.’

  Frances thanked him for the information, but as she left the office and walked out onto the sunny Grove, the clear skies brought her no pleasure, and the chattering strollers, the street vendors, the carriage customers who swept by in their smart equipages, all seemed to have only one topic of interest on their minds, the fact that Frances Doughty, the renowned Bayswater detective, had been taken for a fool. Even the whinnying horses seemed to be mocking her as they trotted past.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As Frances walked to the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane she wondered how best to proceed, but the matter was resolved when she saw a uniformed attendant approaching the institution, wheeling an elderly patient in a bath chair. As the attendant turned to manoeuvre the chair down the side alley that led to the garden, Frances lengthened her stride and caught up with him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if you might help me?’ she asked, hoping that he was the kind of man always ready to assist a female. She had adopted what she hoped was a tone of anxiety, trying not to let it descend too far into agitation.

  He paused and looked up with a willing expression. ‘Certainly, Miss.’

  ‘I am looking for a relative, a Mr John Dixon, who I have only just learned might be a patient here. Is that correct?’

  The attendant hesitated, his cheerful smile replaced by a more serious look. ‘I think you ought to speak to the supervisor, Dr Magrath. Just wait for me to settle my patient and I’ll let him know you are here.’

  ‘But Mr Dixon is a patient here? I have not mistaken the place?’

  ‘You are not mistaken,’ he confirmed gently.

  ‘I had wondered about that. It was my impression that this establishment is for the very elderly, and Mr Dixon is only fifty-two. Do you have many patients in their middle years?’

  ‘No, he was —’ the attendant winced and made a quick recovery. ‘I mean, he is the only one. He was admitted following an accident.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Frances gasped. ‘I hope he is not too disfigured! Is he very frightful to look at?’

  ‘No, no, not at all, it was just a scar on his temple, nothing to distress yourself about, I am sure.’

  Frances did not press the attendant further as she thought she had learned all that she could from him without arousing his suspicion. She thanked him and followed him to the garden, where he called a servant to conduct her to the visitors’ room to await Dr Magrath. Frances said nothing about the purpose of her visit, only provided her card.

  Dr Magrath arrived barely a minute later. He was not, as she had anticipated, pleased to see her. A man who thinks he has disposed of all his business on a single visit is always unnerved by a second one.

  ‘Miss Doughty, how may I assist you?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Since our last meeting I have thought of another question I would like to ask Mr Dromgoole,’ she explained. ‘It will only take a moment or two. Might I see him again?’

  His expression would have sat well on the face of an undertaker. ‘I fear that that will not be possible.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps you might like to consider why I do not find your answer surprising. The fact is that I have recently discovered that you practised a deception on me at our last meeting.’

  Magrath tried to conceal his alarm by forcing an overly bright nervous smile but only succeeded in radiating a guilty conscience. He laughed unconvincingly. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘It is a matter of great disappointment to me that a respected man of medicine should do such a thing,’ Frances went on. ‘Kindly redeem yourself by explaining your reasons for presenting another man to me as Mr Dromgoole and let me have your solemn promise to be truthful in future.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Magrath, the smile vanishing.

  ‘Your patient was actually a Mr John Dixon, who was admitted here after suffering a serious accident in which his wife, Adeline, was killed. Is that true?’

  Dr Magrath appeared to be considering his options. A denial rose to his lips but died unspoken. His fingers fidgeted and his gaze travelled about the room as if seeking inspiration from the strange portraits on its walls.

  ‘Is that true?’ Frances repeated, more firmly this time, in a tone that made it quite plain that she knew it was.

  He gave up the struggle and made a helpless gesture. ‘Er – yes – I am really very sorry.’

  ‘You chose him because out of all the residents here he is the only man near to Mr Dromgoo
le’s age. You could not have deceived me with any other patient. Was that why you told me not to mention Dr Goodwin to him? Was Mr Dixon a patient of his? Did he suffer with his ears after the accident?’

  He gave her a rueful glance. ‘You have a good memory.’

  ‘So – where is Mr Dromgoole, and what is the reason for the ridiculous masquerade at our earlier meeting?’

  There was a long silence, a refuge of time, which Magrath employed pacing in a circle, making an earnest inspection of the carpet. ‘Miss Doughty,’ he said looking up at last, ‘please believe me that I acted with the best of intentions, and I do not think – at least I hope – that I have done nothing against the law.’

  Frances’ expression suggested that this was something of which she had yet to be convinced. ‘Please go on,’ she said, coldly.

  ‘You will appreciate that in an establishment such as this, our patients are either very aged or in frail health, but when he was admitted, Mr Dromgoole was neither.’

  ‘Then why was he here?’ Frances looked at her notes. ‘Is this something to do with the asylum company’s purchase of the house in Kildare Terrace from his cousin, Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, because it appears to me that there has been a very underhand arrangement.’

  ‘Oh no, please believe me, it was all fully legal. Our solicitor Mr Rawsthorne drew up the papers. That house is now, as I expect you know, a female sanatorium.’

  ‘But was it a condition of the purchase that the asylum cared for Mr Dromgoole?’

  ‘It was.’ Magrath drew up a chair and sat to face her. ‘Mr Dromgoole was originally placed in the public asylum by his medical friends. His cousin was most distressed by this, and having acquired legal control over his estate, he hoped that he might be able to rent the house in Kildare Terrace to pay for him to be better accommodated, but the property was very dilapidated and there were no funds for its repair. Even if he had been able to sell it as it was, the amount raised would have been swallowed up in a few years and Mr Dromgoole would then have had to be returned to the public asylum. So we came to an agreement. The ownership of the house would be transferred to the General Asylum Company gratis and in return the company agreed to accommodate Mr Dromgoole.