The Children of Silence Read online

  ‘I see,’ said Frances, who had never heard of such an extraordinary thing. ‘So you agreed to act as her agent?’

  ‘Yes, the family had already notified the police, and I engaged a private detective, a Mr Ryan, who was very thorough indeed and submitted a full report. I have it with me.’ Wylie patted the document case. ‘He spoke to the clerk at the hotel who told him that on the morning of Antrobus’ departure he saw him talking to a man in the hallway. He was unable to describe the man but had the distinct impression from their manner that they were not strangers. Then his attention was distracted by the need to attend to another guest, and when he looked again Antrobus and the other man had both gone. They might have departed in each other’s company, but it cannot be proved.’

  ‘Tell me about Mr Antrobus’ will. According to the newspapers it is very unfavourable to his wife. What is your opinion?’

  A grimace creased the visitor’s features for a moment. ‘Oh, that is a terrible thing!’ he said bitterly. ‘The will was drawn up several years previously and in the mistaken belief that poor Mrs Antrobus was not competent to manage her affairs. Almost all of the estate is left in trust for the two sons, who are now aged fifteen and twelve and are at school, the trust to be administered by Antrobus’ brother Lionel until the boys come of age. Mrs Antrobus was left only a small annuity, presumably on the assumption that her husband had many more years to live – he would be forty-four now if alive – and it must have been envisaged that by the time he passed away the sons would have achieved their majority and be able to care for their mother. But it was not to be. And the cruellest thing is that shortly before his departure he had been planning to change his will to something altogether more generous. Mrs Antrobus had finally been able to convince her husband that she was as competent as the next lady – indeed I would say she is more so – and he had agreed that on his return from Bristol he would make a new will.’

  Frances gazed at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Is that not a very great coincidence, that he went missing at such a critical time?’ she asked pointedly. Sarah made no attempt at concealing a smile that was almost a smirk. Frances, as she well knew, did not like coincidences.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Wylie admitted, ‘I had just seen it as unfortunate – the operation of fate. But you think it may be something more?’

  ‘I try to examine every possibility. Is the estate very valuable?’

  ‘I assume so, though it has not as yet been valued. The two principal assets are his half share in the cigarette manufacturing business and the house. Antrobus inherited the property from a maternal uncle, and it is his quite unencumbered. He and his brother also jointly own the tobacconist’s shop previously run by their late father and of which Mr Lionel is manager. Antrobus was always a prudent man with money and there are safe investments that produce an interest.’ He paused. ‘I say “was” since I feel sure that he is deceased, although in law he is still alive.’

  ‘Of course I understand that the will cannot be proved or, I suppose, even contested until it is shown that its author is deceased, and that this places Mrs Antrobus in a very difficult position,’ Frances observed, ‘but does her brother-in-law, knowing about the change in intentions, not do what he can to assist her in her very unfortunate situation?’

  Wylie heaved a long sigh. ‘Mr Lionel Antrobus is —’ he hesitated, unsure of how to express himself – ‘a difficult man. He believes that he is doing his duty by adhering to the letter of the will and is undoubtedly concerned for the welfare of the boys, but I believe that he has always been jealous of his brother’s fortune, and there is no doubt that he heartily dislikes Mrs Antrobus and will do all he can not to give in to her wishes.’

  Large estates and family rivalry, thought Frances, a combination fraught with unpleasant and highly interesting possibilities. ‘Please explain further.’

  ‘They are actually half-brothers. Mr Edwin is the younger, the son of their father’s second wife. He was a great favourite of his mother’s brother, a Mr Henderson, and so received a handsome legacy from him. Mr Lionel has received no such additional legacy, only a share of what their father left, and that was divided equally between the brothers. Mr Lionel has always felt that he should have had a larger share from his father as his younger brother enjoyed his uncle’s fortune. And he continues, despite all entreaties, to believe that Mrs Antrobus is suffering from hysteria. He thinks that an ailment he cannot see cannot exist.’

  Frances frowned. ‘That is a very blinkered view. What of deafness, for example? That is not a malady one can see in the sufferer. Does he believe that that does not exist?’

  ‘Oh deafness has been with us since antiquity and I think he will allow it, but poor Mrs Antrobus’ disease he will not. He refuses to trust her with a penny more than her husband mentioned in the will and that is little enough. He pays the frugal allowance she would have received, but that is not sufficient to maintain the house. In fact, as soon as he assumed control of the estate he insisted that she should go to live with her sister, Miss Pearce, but that would not have been at all suitable. Miss Pearce was then residing in a small rented apartment, living off a modest annuity, caring for their widowed mother and earning a few extra shillings by giving classes in reading and writing to young children. The mother passed away the following Christmas, and Mr Lionel thought that was the ideal time for Mrs Antrobus to vacate the family home. He wanted to rent the house and place the income in trust for the boys, but Mrs Antrobus needs the peace and quiet the house affords her. It would have been very hard, in fact impossible for her to live in such a small apartment, what with children often present and the constant noise of carriages outside. So they devised a plan to circumvent Mr Lionel’s demands. Miss Pearce came to live with Mrs Antrobus. The classes had to be given up, but Miss Pearce found a little outside work as an hourly governess, and that enables them to remain there, if in reduced circumstances, with only one servant. Needless to say Mr Lionel was most annoyed at being thwarted and demanded that Mrs Antrobus and her sister should both leave and place the property under his control. I believe he took legal advice on the matter but he was told that in view of Mrs Antrobus’ affliction there might be some difficulty if he attempted to evict her. He has been silent on the issue for a while, but I am sure that he has not given up on the idea. It is a continuing anxiety that adds to the lady’s distress. If she was able to prove that her husband is dead, then she might be able to take steps to overturn the will. There are no documents to support what was only a verbal promise to increase her legacy, but any court would at once recognise that as the will stands it is grossly unfair to a blameless lady.’

  ‘The matter must already have been costly,’ said Frances, ‘and you say that Mrs Antrobus has few resources. How does she meet the legal fees?’

  Wylie had the good taste to blush. ‘Yes, well, I confess that I have been providing some financial assistance,’ he admitted, revealing nothing that Frances had not already suspected, ‘and this has not, of course, recommended me to Mr Lionel Antrobus, who had imagined that his sister-in-law was friendless and without the means to oppose him. There is another matter that causes Mrs Antrobus great distress. During her sons’ holidays from school they are sent to stay with an aunt in Kent. They are happy enough as there is much in the way of fresh air and recreation but they do not see their mother. She receives letters from them and writes to them but that is all.’ He shook his head. ‘It is unnecessary for me to say at whose orders that arrangement has been made.’

  Frances took some moments to read through her notes. ‘When a search was originally conducted for Mr Antrobus, was it carried out in the belief that he had not left Bristol and was therefore centred entirely in that city?’

  ‘That is the case. None of his associates in London have seen him since he last departed for Bristol.’

  ‘But you now wish me to make enquiries on the assumption that he did in fact return to London?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

 
‘But you have no evidence that he did.’

  ‘Oh, but we do!’ he exclaimed. ‘There are the remains found in the canal.’

  ‘But they prove nothing,’ Frances pointed out. ‘They may not be his remains.’

  ‘It is our contention, indeed our firm belief that they are the remains of Mr Antrobus. All we require is the removal of others’ doubts in the matter.’ There was a pleading expression in his eyes, a wet gleam that aroused Frances’ suspicion that she was far from being the first detective he had approached for this purpose.

  ‘This is a very interesting commission.’ He looked hopeful and opened the document case, which was well stuffed with papers. ‘But I regret that I cannot take it.’

  ‘Oh!’ His face fell and she could see that it had fallen before. ‘I cannot persuade you?’ he ventured.

  ‘No. Not on the terms you describe.’

  He closed the case and prepared to leave, but she lifted her hand to forestall him.

  ‘You have asked me to start my enquiries by assuming that the remains found in the Paddington Basin are those of Mr Antrobus and with the object of proving that they are. It is quite impossible for me to proceed on that basis. I can gather facts, of course, but what if I uncover facts that show the opposite conclusion? What would you have me do? I can hardly ignore them. I can form theories and test them against the facts, of course, but if the facts do not fit it is time to find another theory. I cannot act as you wish and any detective who does will be taking your money in a spirit of mockery.’

  Wylie fidgeted with his hat brim. ‘I did, when the remains were first found, engage a London man to make enquiries, and he did very little for a month and then told me that the task could not be achieved and presented me with his bill. And there have been others who refused even to make the attempt. Then I read in the newspapers about your giving evidence at a recent murder trial and was most impressed by the thoroughness of your methods. Someone I spoke to likened you to Jude the Apostle – he said you are the patron saint of lost causes. I am sorry to have troubled you, Miss Doughty.’

  ‘But it is an interesting case.’

  He had half risen from his seat but paused, gave her a curious look, and sat down again.

  ‘I want you to be perfectly honest with me,’ said Frances. ‘I don’t think that you yourself are convinced that the remains are those of Mr Antrobus. And if I might venture an opinion, I don’t think Mrs Antrobus believes so either. Both of you are, however, very anxious that the remains are identified as those of Mr Antrobus because if they are he will be declared dead and Mrs Antrobus can try to extricate herself from her financial disarray some years earlier than anticipated. Am I correct?’

  He hesitated and then nodded. ‘You are correct, of course.’

  ‘On all counts?’

  He licked his lips. ‘I can only speak for myself, but – yes.’

  ‘And if events should turn out as you wish, Mrs Antrobus would be a widow and free to marry again if she so chooses.’

  He said nothing but an embarrassed smile spoke for him.

  ‘Very well,’ Frances declared in her best businesslike manner, ‘this is how I suggest I proceed. I will start a new enquiry into the disappearance of Mr Antrobus. Since the previous one was conducted only in Bristol, I will see what I can learn in London. I will of course consult with your Bristol agent. But my mission, and I must make this very clear from the outset, will be to find out the truth, whatever that may be. While the remains found in the canal might be those of Mr Antrobus, they could just as well be those of another man. Will that be acceptable?’

  ‘You are very direct, Miss Doughty. I have heard that said of you also.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I believe we may accept your terms. Let me consult with Mrs Antrobus and I will call again.’

  ‘It will of course be necessary for me to interview Mrs Antrobus.’

  ‘She prefers to communicate by letter with people not familiar with her infirmity.’

  ‘Then you must familiarise me. Mrs Antrobus is most probably the best source of information there is on her husband’s character and movements. I must speak with her.’ Frances did not add that when conducting interviews she paid great attention to the facial expressions and attitudes of the people she spoke to and sometimes learned more from those than from the words spoken. And she would have some potentially embarrassing questions to ask Mrs Antrobus.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I do converse with her, of course, but it is essential that when I do so I speak quietly. Raised voices she cannot abide, not even so much as a sneeze or a cough. Do not wear silk, as it rustles so, neither must you wear shoes with hard soles or open and close a reticule or any case with a fastening where metal snaps against metal. The pain she endures from such sounds are like a knife thrust into her ear. And yet there are some sounds that still give her pleasure – the wind and gentle rain, and voices both soft and low. She plays the piano for relief and her sister has a low melodious voice and sings to her. Silence she finds a great trial as her ears seem to make a noise of their own that never stops by night or day.’

  Frances could hardly imagine the misery that must attend such a life, and she looked forward all the more to meeting the lady in question. ‘I will write to Mrs Antrobus and make an appointment,’ she said. ‘I will also interview Mr Antrobus’ friends and associates who saw him in the months immediately preceding his disappearance. I need to know all his circumstances: his character, his faults, his ambitions – everything that might provide a clue as to his fate. I must consider whether he has met his death by accident, self-destruction or murder, and also if he might still be alive. I rule out nothing.’

  Mr Wylie provided Frances with the Bristol detective’s report and the addresses of Mr Luckhurst and Mr Lionel Antrobus, who, Mr Wylie said, knew the missing man better than anyone in London other than his wife. The payment of a handsome advance fee completed the proceedings and he departed.

  ‘What did you think of Mr Wylie?’ asked Frances as she and Sarah studied the report and reread the newspapers over a large pot of tea. Frances never ceased to wonder how it was that hot tea, with or without a biscuit, could be so wonderfully warming to the system in the winter, yet so refreshing in the summer. Either way it never failed to stimulate her thoughts.

  ‘Wants to marry the lady, and it’s not just the money he’s after,’ remarked Sarah, ‘which is a new one round here. In Bayswater it’s money first and love second, if it ever gets a look in which it doesn’t often.’

  Sarah’s robustly cynical view of the world had not been modified by the fact that she was walking out with Professor Pounder, who taught the art of manly self-defence at his Bayswater academy. The Professor was a handsome fellow who cut a fine figure, and it was a matter of some mystification amongst young ladies who prided themselves on their beauty that he should prefer the company of someone so decidedly plain. The Professor, however, was impervious to external show and reserved his admiration for a woman with a stalwart nature and fists that could crack walnuts.

  ‘Yes, but there is more to Mr Wylie than a simpering affection,’ observed Frances. ‘Perhaps I will learn more when I see Mrs Antrobus. I shall write to Mr Ryan in Bristol. His report is very thorough but it is three years old. Mr Wylie has been kind enough to enclose a portrait of Mr Antrobus, and I can see that he was unremarkable in appearance. He might easily have taken the train to Paddington without anyone at the station noticing him particularly, and there is no feature here that might have helped Dr Collin match him against the remains found in the canal.’

  ‘Will you be speaking to Dr Collin?’ asked Sarah. An uncomfortable inference hung in the air.

  ‘I will write to him for an appointment, but he will be as unhelpful as it is possible for him to be.’ Dr Collin, while Frances’ own family doctor who had known the Doughtys for many years, had never quite forgiven her for revealing that he had once made an error of judgement, something to which no medical man would ever admit unless forc
ed. Dr Collin appeared to believe that the letters MD after his name conferred upon him a pre-eminent place in the estimation of the public, a glow of veneration in which he liked to bask as if it was the summer sun. His manner towards Frances was pure winter.

  ‘One point which was made very forcefully in court,’ remarked Frances, ‘was that if the remains are not those of Mr Antrobus whose else could they be? No other man of that age has been reported missing in Paddington and, importantly, all the material found with the bones was the remains of good quality gentleman’s apparel. There were no coarse fibres as might be expected had a poor man worn a second-hand coat over a rough shirt. He was not a bargeman or porter in his working clothes, killed in a quarrel, but a man of means whose absence would surely have been widely commented on. Even if he was not resident here but a visitor, no other person has come forward to say that a relative has not returned from a visit to Paddington and also laid claim to the remains.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to go off solving murders again,’ warned Sarah. ‘Remember what happened last time.’

  Frances did not have to be reminded of the distressing attack on her person that had occurred during an earlier investigation, and she shuddered. She had not mentioned it to Sarah, but she still sometimes had dreams in which she smelt her assailant’s foul breath and felt the pressure of his body crushing against her, only to wake up in alarm and confusion. The miscreant was currently reflecting upon his sins in prison, while the evildoer whose instrument he was, in common with several others whose paths had crossed hers, had recently been found guilty of murder at the Old Bailey and condemned to death. It was a consequence of her profession that occasionally troubled her conscience, but she reminded herself that the law was both firm and just, and she must be the same.

  CHAPTER THREE