‘We have come here straight from speaking to Inspector Sharrock at Paddington Green,’ Frances advised her. ‘I regret that we are not, therefore, prepared with suitable footwear, but perhaps if we were simply to remove our boots?’
Charlotte willingly agreed and conducted them to the back parlour where they found the occupant at her writing desk, a soft-nibbed pen gliding soundlessly over paper. She rose to greet them with a sad expression, and after a worried glance at Sarah, who looked like someone who could make a great deal of noise, was relieved to hear the burly woman greet her in a husky whisper.
‘I suppose you have heard the news,’ sighed Mrs Antrobus. ‘It has been a shock to me, but I must gather myself and try to face it as best I may. I thought it would help if I prepared a statement of all I know that could be read out at the inquest, which of course I would prefer not to attend. I have done as much as I can to help the police, and we will see what transpires.’
‘When I spoke to Inspector Sharrock just now I had the impression that there was information he was keeping close to his chest,’ Frances told her. ‘We were with Mr Wylie and Mr Lionel Antrobus, and I believe that he did not want to prompt their recollection with anything you that had already divulged.’
Mrs Antrobus nodded, and there was a bleak weariness behind her eyes. ‘I have been trying to recall anything that might help either to show that the bones are Edwin’s or prove that they are not. Of course nothing would give me greater joy than to see Edwin return to me, but I know that only some terrible fate would have made him abandon his boys. I am prepared for the worst, I suppose I have been for some while now, but – and this may seem strange – it is the not knowing that is the greatest agony. I hope they will permit my statement to be read. I will have it witnessed by a solicitor. Not Mr Marsden, who appears to have deserted me for the enemy camp, presumably for financial reasons.’
‘What have you been able to remember?’
‘There were two things. Edwin once told me that in his youth he had suffered a bad fall and broken some bones in one leg, but it was so many years ago that I doubt the injury would be apparent now. He would not have mentioned it at all if it had not sometimes troubled him in wet weather. And he also once told me that he had had a tooth out while he was away from home on business, but when or where that occurred I really couldn’t say. It seems little enough, and how many hundreds of other men have also fallen and had teeth out?’
‘I was told that the remains were originally in a former lodging house on Queens Road and did not come to light until it was being demolished. Did your husband or anyone connected with him ever have reason to visit there?’
‘I can think of no reason why Edwin, or indeed anyone I know, would have gone there.’
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.’