The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  When Charlotte arrived home Frances left her to soothe her sister’s sorrow.

  Sometimes Frances was the recipient of plain envelopes that originated from a small office in the heart of London. Some enclosed letters directing her to carry out small but important duties, and once those duties were performed, other envelopes arrived containing banknotes. The plain letter she eagerly opened that day was, she hoped, a reply to her request for information, and she was not disappointed.

  Robert Barfield, she learned, had not had many associates during his time in prison, where he had been committed for a three-year term in February 1876, and those few he had were still incarcerated at the time of Edwin Antrobus’ disappearance in October 1877. Barfield, however, was not. He had been released on licence in the previous month, and his current whereabouts were unknown.

  Harriett Antrobus, Frances realised, was obviously unaware that her light-fingered cousin had been a free man at the time of her husband’s disappearance, and he must therefore be considered a strong suspect in any fate that had befallen him. The ragged man who some years before had tried to enter the house and been peremptorily sent on his way by Edwin Antrobus was in all probability none other than Barfield. Frances wondered if he had again attempted to gain entry after being released from prison. Mrs Antrobus, she reflected, had last seen her cousin when he was a beardless boy of twelve. He would now be thirty-eight. What changes had those years wrought? Would she even recognise him if she were to see him again? Had he deliberately altered his appearance and changed his name in order to insinuate himself into the Antrobus circle? Had the ‘commonplace young man’ transformed himself into an ‘idyllic poet’ or something else entirely?

  Most of Robert Barfield’s thefts had been of the particular type that had earned him the soubriquet of Spring-heeled Bob, but there had been no recent robberies in Bayswater that looked like his work. He was also, however, a man of opportunity: the last crime for which he was known to have been imprisoned happened only because he had noticed an open door and walked in. Supposing, Frances thought, he was trying to conceal his identity, perhaps as part of a more subtle and lucrative scheme. He might, if he was sensible enough, consider it unwise to resume his old tricks and thus leave a recognisable calling card all over Bayswater.

  It was vital that the police should be made aware of the situation and Frances at once wrote a note to Inspector Sharrock.

  While Frances awaited the adjourned inquest on the brickyard skeleton and a reply to the letter she had written to Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, there were other cases to keep her busy.

  The affair of the cheating business partner had been so well suited to the special talents of Chas and Barstie that she had turned it over to them at once. As she had anticipated, it had been settled quickly and resulted in a fragmentation of the concern that left valuable debris to be picked up by anyone with a sharp eye and fast on his feet. Frances felt some relief that her friends had not called upon the very particular services of the Filleter, or the double-dealer, instead of suffering merely a loss of reputation, might have found himself in an alleyway with his throat cut as an example to others.

  Frances’ newest client was a Mr Edgar Candy, a youthful gentleman impeccably groomed and dressed. He brought no documents with him, only an expression of concern. ‘I have come to see you because I am the victim of a slanderous attack,’ he began, ‘one which has had serious consequences since it has destroyed my prospects of an advantageous marriage.’

  Frances opened her notebook. ‘Please start from the beginning, and tell me a little about yourself.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He paused as if considering what facts might be of relevance. ‘I am twenty-seven, and since coming into an annuity six years ago, I have been of independent means. But I am not one of these idle fellows who waste their time and dissipate their fortunes. I believe in making myself useful to society and so I act as secretary to a number of charities in Bayswater. Some months ago, the death of my grandfather brought me a handsome legacy, and I determined that it was time for me to marry. I consequently sought and won the hand of a young lady, a Miss Digby, of good family and excellent character. We had agreed on a wedding date, and the engagement was to have been formally announced next week. I have seen no indication that my affianced regarded this event other than the way in which any young lady might anticipate becoming a bride.’

  Mr Candy, thought Frances, had said nothing of love or even affection, although that might have been from natural reticence before a stranger. He seemed like a practical young man, who valued only money and reputation. She said nothing and allowed him to continue.

  ‘Two days ago, I called upon Miss Digby to ask her to accompany me to a society gathering, with a suitable chaperone of course, and to my great surprise she told me it was not convenient. When I pressed her for an explanation, her manner towards me changed and she begged to be released from our engagement. I asked for her reasons, but she refused to give them. Naturally, as a gentleman I acceded to her wishes, but you can imagine my mystification. I decided to speak to her father, wondering if he had influenced her opinion; he assured me that he had not. He suggested that his daughter, being very young and of unformed opinions, had simply changed her mind. I could see no obvious reason for her to do so and came to the conclusion that a rival for Miss Digby’s hand had traduced me and whispered slanders in her ear. I wish to impress on you, Miss Doughty, that whatever this individual might have said can have no foundation in truth. I have been honest with Mr Digby about my fortune, and there is nothing against my character. But I cannot allow this to continue. Supposing my rival makes an attack on my honesty, my public standing? It is not to be tolerated.’

  ‘I understand your concern. Tell me, when Miss Digby asked to be released, what was her manner towards you?’

  ‘Manner?’ he asked, as if that was an expression that required further explanation.

  ‘Yes. Was she calm, or embarrassed, or upset?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He considered the question. ‘I really couldn’t say. She is a quiet girl and spoke quietly. Who can tell what occupied her thoughts?’

  ‘Perhaps if I spoke to her she would be willing to express those thoughts to me, but if there is another suitor who has slandered you she is unlikely to give up his name.’

  ‘At the very least I wish to know what has been said about me, in order to show that I am innocent of any charges. If I am able to prove that the slanders are without foundation then my rival is exposed as a liar and Miss Digby may then make up her own mind as to who is the better man.’

  Frances agreed to take the commission, and also made a note of the charities for which Mr Candy acted: a home for incurable children, a free dispensary and a fund to assist the families of men injured in the building trade. Mr Candy, she reflected, might be of the opinion that he had nothing with which to reproach himself, but others might not agree.

  Frances was easily able to secure an appointment to speak to Miss Digby, but on her arrival was met not by the lady but her father, who had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  Mr Digby was a dealer in fine porcelain, with a solidly successful business and personal good standing in Bayswater. He knew Frances by reputation and was aware that she was not to be trifled with. He began by reassuring Frances that he knew nothing to Mr Candy’s detriment and had been fully in favour of the marriage. No one had indicated either directly or by insinuation that there was anything to impugn either Mr Candy’s honesty or character.

  ‘It is a matter of extreme delicacy,’ he said awkwardly, with what he hoped was an engaging smile but came out as a sickly grin, ‘and I believe that I can trust your discretion. If I was to tell you that my daughter, being fickle by nature, simply changed her mind, would that suffice?’

  Frances considered this suggestion. ‘What would suffice for the purposes of my client is to be reassured that he was not, as he had thought, the victim of slander, but if there are any circumstances that might emerge in the futu
re that would cast doubt on what you say, it could have further repercussions. It would be as well if you were honest with me on the understanding that I will not reveal any more to Mr Candy than is strictly necessary according to his commission.’

  Mr Digby looked resigned. ‘You are aware, of course, that the engagement had not yet been announced, and Mr Candy’s interest in my daughter has been of a most refined and discreet nature so that it was not widely known in society. My dear girl is a lovely creature, with every art and appearance that would attract a suitor, and she is just nineteen.’ He gave an embarrassed cough. ‘I have been approached by a young gentleman, the cousin of a baronet, who asked my permission to call upon my daughter. They had already met and conversed, and I saw a lively interest but had not realised its full import. He revealed to me that he had already advised Enid of his intention to speak to me and she had received this news with pleasure. Under the circumstances I asked if I might have time to consider his request and had an urgent conversation with Enid. She told me that she preferred her new suitor, and I admit I could see that the connection would be a very favourable one. We thought it would hurt Mr Candy’s feelings if he felt that he had been supplanted by a rival, and we did not want to create any bad blood between him and my future son-in-law and his family, so when Enid asked to be released from the engagement she simply told Mr Candy that she felt she was too young to take such an important step. I have agreed to the new connection but stipulated that the engagement will not be announced for six months at least.’

  Frances was satisfied, but before she left, Mr Digby engaged her to enquire into the family of the new suitor to see if he really was the cousin of a baronet.

  Frances reported to Mr Candy that his reputation stood unimpeached, and there was no slanderer. He took the news with equanimity and appeared content with the thoroughness of Frances’ work, so much so that he asked her to make enquiries into the bona fides of some claims against the injured workmen’s charity.

  In a single day one commission had somehow transmuted into several, and while she was grateful for the employment, Frances began to wonder if she might soon need another assistant.

  It was agreed that Sarah, assisted by Tom and his ‘men’, would check on the injured workmen, while Frances would pursue the new suitor herself. The Westbourne Grove reading room held a directory of the nobility that would tell her if the titled family mentioned by the suitor actually existed. Should the baronetcy prove genuine that was not the end of her task, since he might not be connected with it. He would have to be followed from his lodgings to find out where he went and who his companions were. Frances did not anticipate with any pleasure being obliged to tell Mr Digby that his daughter had thrown over a respectable suitor for a fraud, but it was better to know the truth before marriage than afterwards.

  The day ended on a lively note. Frances and Sarah were practising their sign language skills before retiring for the night when those two bitter rivals Mr Wren and Mr Cork descended upon them in such a froth of anger that they seemed ready to strangle each other with their own cummerbunds. Mr Wren was twitching more violently than ever and Mr Cork, a squat, red-faced man with small staring eyes, looked about to explode. Frances did not know the cause of their new quarrel and did not want to. Sarah had often claimed she could stop any argument by banging together the heads of the persons concerned, and for a moment Frances thought she was about to see the method demonstrated. Instead Sarah dragged the two of them downstairs by their collars and out of the house.

  She returned an hour later announcing that the men, now much the worse for alcoholic beverages, had fallen onto each other’s necks like long lost brothers and were back in business together again. She predicted a quiet six months before one of them killed the other, it being a matter of debate which way round that transaction would go.

  ‘Now,’ said Sarah, resuming her seat and opening the book. ‘What’s the sign for murder? We might need that one.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On Monday morning Frances received a note from Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, cousin of the deceased surgeon, announcing that he had come from Dundee to arrange a funeral for the remains and wished to call and see her that afternoon.

  While anticipating that interview with some interest, Frances and Sarah were far from idle and spent the morning gathering information about Miss Digby’s new suitor and receiving reports on the applicants to Mr Candy’s charities. Tom, Frances discovered, was so busy on her behalf that he was planning to create a new team of ‘men’ who would devote themselves to the very special kind of work she required, placing Ratty at their head.

  After a luncheon of boiled eggs and toast Frances applied herself to correspondence while Sarah departed to teach one of her twice-weekly classes in ladies calisthenics. As Sarah saw it, the purpose of the art was to improve the strength and health of her pupils, with advanced lessons on what to do when insulted by a man in the street.

  Mr Malcolm Dromgoole was a tall spare gentleman of about forty but with dull grey features prematurely lined by illness. He arrived leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and it was apparent that the climb upstairs to Frances’ rooms had been a strain on his constitution. When he sat, trying not to show how grateful he was for the rest, it was some minutes before his laboured breathing returned to normal. He rested a leather document case on his knees, and Frances poured him a glass of water from her carafe.

  ‘It appears, Miss Doughty, that I have you to thank for uncovering the deception practiced upon me by Dr Magrath,’ he began, in a gentle soft accent like the wind rippling though heather. ‘I expect he told you that I was too unwell to travel at the time my poor cousin was first confined to the asylum, and I have not ventured far from home since then or I would undoubtedly have come to London to see him before now. I spoke to Dr Magrath this morning, and it was not a pleasurable visit for either of us but, as you might well imagine, far less so for him than for me.’

  ‘When I last spoke to Dr Magrath he admitted his fault and expressed his sincere regrets for the pain and inconvenience he has caused. I trust,’ added Frances hopefully, ‘that he has now done all he can to rectify the situation.’

  ‘I can confirm that my cousin’s death has now been properly registered and reported to the correct authorities. Magrath will find himself with a fine to pay, but if he imagines he can clear his conscience with a few pounds he is very much mistaken. It will go hard for the reputation of the asylum if the newspapers get wind of it, which I am sure they will.’ Dromgoole did not look unduly concerned at the prospect.

  He opened the document case and extracted a small flat parcel, which he placed on the table. ‘Your letter enquired about my late cousin’s papers and diaries. This is all I have; they were sent to me when he was first admitted to the asylum. I have looked at them, and there are some curious ramblings which mean nothing to me, but you may find them of interest.’ He took a small card from his pocket and placed it on the parcel. ‘I will be residing at this hotel for the next two weeks. Please could you ensure that the papers are returned to me before my departure.’

  Frances thanked him. ‘And if there is anything further I can do to assist you —’

  ‘You may be invited to tell all you know to my solicitor Mr Rawsthorne. I have an appointment with him later today to examine the details of the agreement he drew up with the asylum.’

  Frances had anticipated from Dromgoole’s manner, firm as iron under the fragile exterior, that he would take his case further. ‘I expect Dr Magrath will maintain that he adhered to the spirit if not the letter of the agreement.’

  ‘He has already made that claim to me, but I disagree. The conditions for transfer of the property were that the asylum would provide proper care of my cousin for the rest of his life. I do not believe that permitting him to steal a knife, escape his attendant and cut his throat constitutes “proper care” and I feel sure that Mr Rawsthorne will concur. I intend to take steps to nullify the agreement and have the pro
perty transferred back to my possession.’

  ‘I am sure you know that the house is now a sanatorium.’

  He gave a thin smile. ‘I do, and a worthy endeavour no doubt, which I will not disturb providing they pay me a suitable rent.’

  Frances sometimes felt guilty that many of the establishments she had encountered during the course of her investigations had been obliged to close as a direct consequence of her activities, and she felt quite relieved at this assurance.

  When her visitor had departed, Frances prepared a substantial pot of tea and unwrapped the package of papers. There was overwhelming evidence of Dromgoole’s failing sanity, with half-completed letters in increasingly erratic penmanship, the words trailing across the page and sometimes ending in an illegible thread. Capital letters and exclamation marks abounded. In better order was a small notebook, which appeared at first to be a diary for the early part of 1877, but as Frances perused it she realised that it was a record of Dromgoole’s attempts to follow Dr Goodwin in the hopes of securing evidence against him. Whether or not Goodwin had known about it, Dromgoole had been keeping watch on his home and his journeys to and from the school, and he had made a record of every person Goodwin had spoken to, with additional notes of what he imagined they had said, which usually involved secret plotting against himself. There were two items of especial interest. On a date in May 1877 Dromgoole had succeeded in pursuing Goodwin on a cab ride to Kensal Green cemetery. He had followed Goodwin’s walk amongst the tombstones, which had terminated at a location where a heavily cloaked and veiled lady was waiting. The two had spoken for a long time before they went their separate ways. A week later Goodwin had met the same lady in the same location. Dromgoole, suspecting that the tombstone might provide some clues, examined it after the pair had departed and found it to be that of Albert Pearce, 1815–1873, much mourned by his loving wife Maria and daughters Harriett and Charlotte. Was this consecrated ground what Dromgoole had described as ‘a holy place’ in his letter to the Chronicle?