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 admit 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.
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 future 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.’