The Children of Silence (16 page)

Frances nodded. ‘There is one other matter that has recently been drawn to my attention, and I must apologise if mentioning it causes you pain, but I have been told that you have a cousin who has been in prison.’

Both sisters looked very unhappy and uncomfortable at the introduction of this new subject.

‘Is that true?’ asked Frances. ‘If so, I really should have been told about it before.’

‘It is true,’ admitted Mrs Antrobus, her face registering a deep sorrow, ‘and my unfortunate relative has been a stick that Lionel has used many a time to beat me with. Cannot a family have one such shame without it polluting the whole? But I don’t see what this has to do with Edwin.’

‘Perhaps nothing, but I must enquire after any individual who was known to your husband and who might conceivably have meant him harm.’

‘Of course, yes, I understand.’ She drooped so dejectedly that Charlotte rose and fetched her sister a cup of water from a much-swaddled carafe. The visitors were offered refreshment but declined.

Frances opened her notebook. ‘What is your cousin’s name?’

‘Robert Barfield.’

‘And his age?’

‘He is the same age as me, thirty-eight.’

‘I understand that he was in the habit of trying to get into this house to see you so he could borrow or steal money and that your husband forbade him to enter.’

‘Yes, Edwin always tried to protect me from Robert. I cannot hide what my cousin has done. He has been in prison several times, always for theft. He is the son of my mother’s sister, who died when he was about nine. His father found solace for his misery in intoxicating liquor and died of it a few months later. My parents gave Robert a home, but he was strange and wild, and I was afraid of him. Even then he was a petty thief, and I cannot count the times the police came to our door looking for him, but he was swift of foot and always managed to evade them. I recall one time when he hid by climbing out of a window and hanging there by his fingertips while the police searched the house. When he was twelve he ran away, and I have not seen him since, but I do sometimes read of him in the newspapers. It does not make happy reading. Over the years he became a highly accomplished burglar. Nothing was safe from him – he would climb up drainpipes and enter though bedroom or even attic windows to steal money and jewellery. He earned a vulgar nickname. ‘Spring-heeled Bob’, the newspapers called him. It was a relief to me the first time he was caught, I thought that punishment would deter him from a life of crime, but prison did not teach him the error of his ways, and no sooner was he free than he was stealing again.’

‘Is he in prison now?’

‘It is very probable.’ Her voice broke a little, and Charlotte gave a soft whimper of distress and came to sit by her.

‘I am sorry to upset you, but —’

Mrs Antrobus made a weak gesture of acceptance. ‘No, please, do go on. It is necessary to ask these questions, I know.’

‘Where was your cousin at the time your husband disappeared?’

‘In prison. That is why I knew he could have had nothing to do with it. He was tried at the Old Bailey for a robbery a year or so earlier and received a sentence of three years.’

‘Has he been seen in this vicinity since his release?’

‘If he has I have not been told of it.’

Frances could only feel sympathy for the dejected woman, suffering for the misdeeds of another, no part of which could be laid at her door. ‘If he should try to call on you again, please let me know. If he is up to no good the police should be informed.’

‘Of course. I am sorry for him, since he was not able to make something better of his life, but even though he is related to me by blood, I know it is best that I avoid his company.’

It was not a promising line of enquiry but Frances recorded the details in her notebook. Barfield, like Dromgoole, while not the actual culprit, might yet have some information that could prove useful. ‘I think it would be wise to await the outcome of the inquest before I take any further action.’

‘Yes, I agree, I would not have you undertake unnecessary work. Of course, even if the bones are shown to be Edwin’s, the cause of his death could well remain a mystery.’

This was very true, and Frances could only hope that she would not be asked to look into it.

‘How long does it take for a body to rot down to dry bones?’ asked Sarah, carving slices off a piece of ham for their supper, while Frances endangered her appetite by studying the subject of decomposition in a medical book.

‘That is a hard question and one with no simple answer. Bodies may be buried or left in the open or lie in water, the weather may be hot or cold and the person may be fat or thin, young or old. Then there is the action of insects and vermin. There are so many things to consider. If the remains were simply gathered up with other debris during demolition then carried to the brickyard and tipped onto the ground, that disturbance has destroyed so much that is valuable. We cannot know how much of the other material belongs to it, neither do we know whether the man died in Queens Road or somewhere else.’

Sarah brought bread and pickles to the table. ‘When did those big hoardings go up? There’s been enough about it in the newspapers.’

Frances laid the book aside. ‘It was the autumn of last year. The houses had been standing empty for a while beforehand. Then the work started and has been stopping and starting again for months during all the disputes with the vestry.’

‘I bet they weren’t empty all that time,’ said Sarah, darkly. ‘Thieves’ dens most like. Somewhere quiet and private to meet and divide up the swag. They might have quarrelled and then one of them got stabbed and left to rot.’ She lifted the muslin draping a plate to inspect the remains of yesterday’s tea party, of which there was very little since Cornelius had insisted that Charlotte be provided with a parcel of cake to take home.

‘That would explain why we have another body and no one else reported as missing,’ suggested Frances. ‘I think Mrs Antrobus may be disappointed once more. But that does lead me to another thought. Even though her disreputable cousin was in prison at the time of Mr Antrobus’ disappearance, he could have had associates who were freed before him. If he wanted to revenge himself against the man who had forbidden him the house, he might have told his friends that Mr Antrobus carried large sums of money or other valuables on his person and so encouraged them to rob and murder him.’

‘How can you find out who these friends are?’ asked Sarah reasonably.

‘If information exists then it can be found. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look and who to ask. And in this instance, I know just who to ask.’ Despite her earlier resolve to take no action pending the result of the inquest, Frances’ curiosity got the better of her, and once supper was done she wrote a letter.

While the case of the missing Mr Antrobus had recently occupied most of Frances’ time she could not ignore other clients or turn away new ones. There was one exception. A lady of great wealth, but little judgement, had written to plead with her to do all she could to prove the innocence of a prisoner who was shortly due to expiate his crimes on the scaffold. The lady offered a sum of money so substantial that it amounted to a bribe and hinted that if Frances was to admit that she had made a number of errors in her statements to the police, all might still be well. Frances, well aware that she might be making an enemy by so doing, wrote to decline the commission.

One new client for whom she had made an appointment was Mr Jonathan Eckley, headmaster of the Bayswater School for the Deaf, the very establishment that Dr Goodwin was in the process of suing. Frances had not discussed the legal wrangle with Dr Goodwin as it had no relevance to her search for Edwin Antrobus, but she was naturally curious about the unusual conflict.

Mr Eckley was a slender gentleman of about forty dressed in the dark attire most suitable to his profession, with gold-rimmed spectacles sitting on a sharp nose. He wore a handsome silver watch on a pretty chain that he seemed very proud of, as he liked to consult it at every opportunity, and Frances wondered if it was a treasured heirloom or a gift from a grateful parent. His manner, while formal and precise, was cordial, and when he spoke he was in the habit of making very large movements with his lips as if to emphasise every word.

As Frances took her seat, he closed the watch with a brisk snap and dropped it in his pocket. His card was on the table before her and he leaned forward and pushed it closer with his fingertips, to ensure that she missed not one word printed thereon. ‘It is very important, Miss Doughty,’ he began, in a voice more suitable to a public meeting than a parlour, ‘that I communicate to you a full appreciation of the expertise I bring to my profession, and then you may judge the position in which I find myself.’

Frances thanked him and studied the card, which supplied no more material than was on the sign outside the school. Nevertheless she left it where she might easily refer to it.

‘It has been my pleasure, indeed my honour,’ he went on, ‘to be engaged in the instruction of the deaf for some years. I studied with the Society for Training Teachers of the Deaf, and while I am not a surgeon, and have only a layman’s knowledge of the structure of the ear, I believe that I am as much a specialist in my field as any doctor in his.’

Frances felt sure that ‘any doctor’ was a reference to Dr Goodwin, but she let that pass.

‘You will notice, Miss Doughty,’ he said, reaching out and tapping the card with an insistent fingertip, ‘that the school is referred to as a school for the deaf and not as it was previously called, a school for the deaf and dumb. That is because,’ he paused for emphasis, ‘we undertake to teach the children to speak.’

Frances smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, yes, the signs, I have some familiarity with those.’

‘No, I do not refer to the signs,’ he said with a hard frown. ‘We use the German system. The children learn to read lips and articulate words. Only that system can enable the deaf to become full members of society. When I was appointed headmaster two years ago, the school was offering a combined system, both the oral method and signs, as it was then believed that the two could be used together with advantage. We employed deaf teachers to transmit the signs and additional classes in lip reading and articulation were given by hearing teachers. Dr Goodwin was then a consultant, and his son was working at the school as a general servant and caretaker. The boy is quite deaf and, I believe, not of the highest intelligence. He was, however, proficient in signs and aspired to become an assistant to the teaching staff.’

‘But clearly there have been changes. What brought this about?’

‘Progress,’ he exclaimed proudly. ‘There must always be progress. We must be prepared, even though it pains us, to throw out the old methods that have served us well and adopt new ones that will serve us better. And I am not talking of some whim of fashion but the results of years of dedicated work by knowledgeable men.’ He tapped the card again. ‘Last September matters were finally resolved by a conference which took place in Milan. Many learned papers were presented which showed not only that the German method was by far the best one but that all the difficulties previously associated with it were due to a single cause, the teaching of signs at the same time. I attended that conference and my course became very clear. I presented my case to the school governors and they were in complete agreement. Henceforth the teaching of signs was banned and we now educate the children solely on the “pure oral” system as it is called. Dr Goodwin, who has always been a great advocate of signs, made strong objections, but he was overruled. He resigned as consultant, although if the truth be known, had he remained he would have been told that his advice was no longer required. His son continued in his usual capacity – he knew his work and could undertake it without speech – but under strict instructions that he was no longer to communicate with the children by the use of signs.’

Frances could predict where the conversation was going. ‘I assume he did not comply?’

‘That is correct. I was obliged to dismiss him. I was sorry to do it, but it was necessary. He is a pleasant boy and was a great favourite with the pupils, but for their own good, he was asked to leave. He was not the only one, as you might imagine. Many of the teachers, in particular those who were deaf, were only able to teach signs, and they too were dismissed and replaced by hearing teachers trained in the German method.’