The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Unfortunately this proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated. As I have already mentioned, an establishment such as ours would not be tolerated in this neighbourhood unless the public was assured that our residents pose no threat to their safety. But Mr Dromgoole was erratic, not of great age and far from feeble. He made more than one attempt to escape, saying that he would take vengeance on the men who had destroyed him. We were therefore obliged to transfer him to a place where he could be more securely housed. I had not expected anyone to call asking for him but his attendant Mr Fullwood and I had already agreed that if that was ever to occur, a harmless deception would be required.’

  ‘Harmless,’ repeated Frances in a tone that left Dr Magrath in no doubt as to her opinion on that point. ‘I see. And what did his cousin have to say about Mr Dromgoole being moved from here?’

  Dr Magrath faltered.

  ‘You failed to mention it to him, I take it?’

  ‘Er – yes – I am afraid so.’

  ‘Deliberately.’

  Magrath could only nod.

  ‘What did you intend to do had Mr Dromgoole’s cousin come to visit? You could not have deceived him, surely? Harmlessly or otherwise.’

  ‘We thought a visit from him unlikely as he lives in Dundee and does not travel. But had he done so we would undoubtedly have had sufficient advance notice to return Mr Dromgoole here for a brief period. But I do not feel that we have strayed from the essence of the original agreement, as we promised to provide suitable care and accommodation and that is what we have done, albeit in a different location. It was unforeseen circumstances which demanded that Mr Dromgoole was an unsuitable resident for this house.’ Magrath, having explained everything to his satisfaction, was relieved enough to venture a smile again.

  Frances was not convinced that Dr Magrath did believe he had complied with the agreement or he would have been open with her from the beginning. Underneath his disarming manner there was something else he was concealing, though whether this had anything to do with her enquiries she did not know.

  ‘When was Mr Dromgoole moved?’’ she asked.

  ‘He was here for about two months.’

  Frances looked at her notes. ‘He was admitted on 5 July 1877, and if that is correct he left before Mr Antrobus’ disappearance and has been securely confined ever since.’

  ‘Yes, so he could not have been in any way responsible for whatever happened to Mr Antrobus.’

  ‘Even so, Mr Dromgoole may have information which I would find useful, so I would like you to tell me where he is.’

  Magrath was startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want to speak to him, which is what I had hoped to do when I came here first.’

  ‘But, his mind has quite gone. You will learn nothing from him.’

  ‘That is as maybe, but I will judge that.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Please let me have the address, and I will travel there today.’ Frances sat with her pencil poised over her notebook in anticipation.

  After a brief pause, Magrath leaned back in his chair and folded his arms firmly across his chest. ‘I am sorry, but that information is confidential.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I am afraid so. There is a very strict limit on what I can reveal to someone who is not a blood relative of the patient.’

  Frances had met with worse opposition and was not perturbed. ‘You put me to a great deal of trouble, Dr Magrath. I want the information and I will have it, one way or another.’

  ‘It would be detrimental to the health of Mr Dromgoole to undergo questioning, and you have no power to force me to open a confidential file.’

  ‘As to the first, you must forgive me if I do not believe you, and I have more power than you think.’

  He remained obstinate. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Very well, I will write to Mr Malcolm Dromgoole and obtain an order from him for you to open the file. He will no doubt be extremely interested to hear of the change in arrangements. I do not at present have his address, and I am sure that you will refuse to supply it, but I would not be any kind of a detective if I could not have that information in my hands before the end of the day.’

  Magrath tried to conceal his alarm but failed.

  ‘Or you could save us both time and trouble and let me know now where Mr Dromgoole is currently located.’

  He hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t, of course.’

  ‘I think you should.’ Frances poised her pencil once more.

  ‘It will be a long journey,’ he objected.

  ‘Then I had better start at once. So, if you please, the name of the asylum, its addresss and the name of the supervisor.’

  Magrath stared at her with growing discomfort.

  ‘I also intend to speak to Mr Rawsthorne, as he will need to check that the agreement he drew up is still being complied with. I should mention that Mr Rawsthorne is an old friend of my family and has been a great help to me in many of my cases.’

  Magrath threw up his hands. ‘Oh, you may safely leave that with me!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Why does that assurance not inspire me with confidence?’ said Frances dryly. ‘Now then, the information.’ She waited. ‘Unless of course the story of Mr Dromgoole being moved is just another lie.’ Another wait. ‘Yes?’

  He groaned. ‘I really – I am so sorry. I am afraid that you cannot see Mr Dromgoole – in fact no one can. He is dead.’

  There was a long silence during which Frances favoured Dr Magrath with a look that had made many a stronger man quail. ‘Where is the record of his death?’ she asked. ‘Where is his grave? Forgive me for doubting you but I think I have good reason.’

  ‘No record and no grave,’ said Magrath, miserably.

  ‘No proof, in other words. If this is yet another lie I shall be very displeased.’

  ‘I wish it was not true but it is.’ After further thought, and with an air of extreme reluctance, he rose and rang for the maid. They waited in silence until Doris arrived and was sent to fetch the senior attendant without delay.

  ‘Mr Fullwood will tell you all you need to know, as he was present at the death,’ said Magrath.

  ‘When did it take place?’

  ‘I don’t recall the exact day. Dromgoole had been here for just over two months.’

  ‘The date on which, according to your file, he was transferred from here, in other words some weeks before Mr Antrobus disappeared.’ It seemed that that line of enquiry was now over, assuming that Frances could now trust what Dr Magrath said, although she was a long way from doing so.

  Fullwood arrived and Magrath waved him to a seat. ‘Mr Fullwood, it seems that Miss Doughty has lived up to her formidable reputation and discovered our deception concerning Mr Dromgoole. Much as I know it will pain us both, I feel that we have no alternative but to tell her the entire truth.’

  Fullwood looked uncomfortable. ‘We’ve done nothing against the law,’ he muttered defensively.

  Frances doubted that very much, since Dromgoole’s death, assuming that he was indeed dead, had never been reported or registered. No one who worked in an institution where most of the residents were of advanced age could fail to know the obligation to report a death to the Registrar, an omission that was at the very least a punishable misdemeanour. She decided to wait for Mr Fullwood’s story before she voiced an opinion.

  ‘He was always a difficult patient,’ Fullwood began. ‘I saw from the start that he would need watching, since he was so much younger than the others and with no bodily infirmities.’

  ‘But he was never violent,’ Magrath interrupted. ‘He made no attempt to attack any of the other patients or the attendants.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He made threats against the other doctors, the ones who’d had him committed, but it was never to do them actual hurt. He said he knew things against them and he would write to the Chronicle, and The Times and the Lancet and the Royal College of Physicians, and when he did they’d be sorry for what
they’d done to him. I rather thought he didn’t know anything and it was all wild fanciful talk – one man was supposed to be charging his patients twice over, one had been negligent and yet another was romancing a married lady – I thought it best not take note of any names. We didn’t allow him to send letters, but I don’t think he wrote any. After he had been here a few weeks his mood changed, and he stopped talking about the other doctors, and he cried and said he was a prisoner and couldn’t breathe properly. He said he would like to go for a walk and I thought —’ he paused.

  ‘We both thought,’ said Magrath, charitably, ‘that as long as it was quiet and there were not too many people about it would be safe to allow it. We didn’t want to risk him bumping into one of the other doctors he knew or having him get lost in a crowd or confused by the noise.’

  Fullwood nodded. ‘So it was in the evening, fine and warm, as I recall. As soon as we agreed to take him out he became very calm. I should have been suspicious then, but I suppose I was just relieved that he seemed happier. I was careful to keep away from the main thoroughfares, and we walked for a while and he talked almost normally about his family and his life.’

  ‘Did he mention Mr Antrobus?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well the conversation was quite interesting and he seemed calm and cheerful, so we walked a little further than I had planned, and I was just about to suggest we return when he said he would like to go and see the canal as he always enjoyed watching the barges. He said it reminded him of when he was a boy and he felt at peace there. I warned him about the smell, but he said he was a doctor and had smelt worse, which I suppose was true. Then he saw a pile of bricks on the canal path, and he suddenly picked up two or three of them and put them in his pockets. He said he was going to drown himself. I told him he needed to come back with me, and I went to take hold of him, but all of a sudden he pulled out a knife. We found out later he’d stolen it from the kitchen. He said if I called out for help it would be the worse for me. I thought I could talk him out of it, and I started to get closer to try and get the knife off him, which I knew I could do, as I didn’t think he really meant me any harm, but then —’ Fullwood gulped, ‘it all happened so fast. Just as I got close, he – he just drew the blade across his throat. Right across. Just the once. Very deep. He must have been very determined. I went to catch him but he toppled over and into the canal. He didn’t try to save himself, he just sank.’

  ‘Did you try to save him?’

  ‘No – I couldn’t reach him, and in any case I could see it was hopeless, and if I had gone into the canal there would have been two of us dead and not one.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘A suit of clothes as might any man wear.’

  ‘And what did you do? Did you advise Dr Magrath of what had occurred?’

  Fullwood glanced at Magrath who nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’

  Frances turned to Magrath. ‘So now the matter was placed under your responsibility.’

  ‘It was,’ agreed Magrath, unhappily. He took up the story. ‘I decided to wait and see if the body was found. I told the other attendants that Dromgoole had gone to live with relatives for a week or two. But we heard nothing. Then I said that he had been moved to another asylum that was more suitable for his needs. As time passed I suppose we thought that he would never be found or if he were, wouldn’t be recognised. There was nothing in his possession that might have identified him. Since then the other attendants who would have remembered him have either left or retired. Fullwood and I are the only ones here who know what happened.’

  ‘And you told no one of the death? You didn’t register it?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Well, he was alive the last I saw of him,’ said Fullwood.

  ‘But only moments away from death,’ Frances pointed out. ‘I do not think the Registrar would be convinced by your argument. And what of Mr Malcolm Dromgoole? He has a right to know.’

  Magrath looked guilty as well he might. ‘He was not informed.’

  ‘The body that was found when the canal was drained last year – do you believe that is Mr Dromgoole?’

  ‘It could hardly be anyone else.’

  ‘But you said nothing.’

  ‘No.’

  Frances hardened her voice. ‘And as a consequence of your silence Mrs Antrobus and her friends suffered substantial expenditure in legal fees, not to mention time and trouble, and underwent great personal distress in order to try and establish that the remains were those of Mr Antrobus.’

  Magrath gave a little grimace. ‘I am very sorry about that, but once we were in the situation we could not see any way out.’

  ‘The way out was to tell the truth.’

  ‘Yes, yes I see that now. I will write to Mr Malcolm Dromgoole immediately to tell him what has happened and hope that he will understand. And of course I will register the death without any further delay and take the consequences.’

  He looked so contrite that Frances decided to trust him. ‘I will examine the newspapers with great interest to see the matter reported. There is one other thing you can assist me with. I want to try and trace any correspondence and diaries Mr Dromgoole may have left behind in his house, and also I wish to write to his cousin in case he had any letters from him.’

  Dr Magrath, more obliging now that he had nothing further to hide, supplied the Dundee address of Mr Malcolm Dromgoole. ‘As to anything found in the house, the only things we retained for our patient were personal effects such as clothing and toilet articles. I don’t believe there was anything of value; he lived a very simple life. People do keep so very much about them and we cannot retain our patients’ effects or our house would be bursting with them. I think there might have been a few books and papers and if so his solicitor would have sent them to his cousin.’

  As Frances rose to leave Dr Magrath said, ‘I do have something you might find of interest. I mentioned last time we met that Mr Antrobus had written to me asking about placing his wife in an asylum but I heard no more from him. I looked through my files and located the letter. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  He was absent for a minute or two and returned with the letter. ‘You may take it. Since he did not follow up the enquiry he was never strictly a client. But it might be as well not to show it to Mrs Antrobus, as it might distress her.’

  Frances only glanced at the letter but saw that it was in the same handwriting as she had seen in Edwin Antrobus’ papers and notebooks. It was not until she arrived home and sat down to read it and realised its import that she knew that, distress or not, she was obliged to show to it Mrs Antrobus.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was only a day since Frances had visited the Craven Hill house with news of Dr Goodwin’s arrest and Mr Dromgoole’s insinuations about the late Mrs Pearce. Now she had returned and found it hard to conceal her unhappiness at being once again the bearer of bad tidings. Charlotte was not at home, as she was engaged as a governess for the afternoon, and so Frances sat alone with Mrs Antrobus in her little padded and quilted parlour.

  ‘I am sorry to say,’ began Frances after the usual politenesses had been exchanged, ‘that I have today found something which will come as a surprise to you, and at the risk of causing you pain I am afraid I have no alternative but to share the information with you and ask for your observations.’

  ‘Very well, I am prepared for almost anything, I think,’ replied Mrs Antrobus, calmly.

  ‘It is a letter written by your husband to the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane.’

  Mrs Antrobus gave a little intake of breath and nodded. ‘I can imagine what it is you are about to say. There was a time when Edwin spoke of having me admitted to an asylum. I begged him not to; the noise made by patients of such an establishment would have been torture to me, and I am sure that I would never have seen my boys again. I suppose he must have written to ask if they would ad
mit me.’

  ‘He did, but the disturbing thing about this letter, when one considers its content, is the date it was written and the location.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was written on the 10th of October 1877 on the notepaper of the George Railway Hotel in Bristol where your husband was staying, only a few days before he disappeared and a few days after you say he told you that he had accepted that your affliction was of the ears and not the mind and that he was going to change his will to some more favourable arrangement.’

  There was no doubt that Mrs Antrobus was aghast and appalled. ‘But – I don’t understand – he told me – he —’

  Frances watched as a whole array of conflicting and painful emotions passed across her client’s features. At length Mrs Antrobus, too overcome to say more, took a fine kerchief from her sleeve and passed the thin fabric across her brow.

  ‘Do you still maintain that he told you he was going to change his will – that he had become convinced of your sanity – because this letter, which is the only piece of firm evidence I have, contradicts your statement.’

  It was a moment or so before Mrs Antrobus’ heaving breath had stilled to the point where she was able to speak. ‘I would never have thought it of him – he seemed sincere – but it appears that I have been most terribly betrayed!’

  Frances poured water into a wooden cup and handed it to the shocked lady, who took it gratefully and gulped it, dabbing her trembling lips. There were tears in her eyes and she looked stricken with sorrow. ‘Miss Doughty, I can assure you that before Edwin went to Bristol we had a very long and frank conversation in which he told me that he had come to agree with what Dr Goodwin had said and that he finally realised that I had not, after all, lost my mind. He said he also appreciated that the will he had made was not appropriate to my situation and promised me that as soon as he returned he would make another. That, I can tell you most faithfully, is what he said. But there is, of course, no witness to the conversation. And a matter of days later he wrote this terrible letter. All I can say is that either in the intervening time something occurred to make him change his mind or else’ – her eyelashes glimmered with fresh tears – ‘he never meant what he said, all the conversation was a lie intended to put a stop to my complaints and make me more amenable to any plans he might make for me.’ She shook her head. ‘Unwilling as I am to admit it, Lionel has been right all along, on that point at least. He has always maintained that Edwin had no intention of amending his will. I expect’ – she shuddered – ‘that Edwin would have been kindness itself and perhaps arranged some supposedly pleasurable outing, muffling me against the noise, so that I would not know where I was being taken and then, only too horribly late, I would have found out exactly what fate he had planned for me.’ She sobbed quietly.