The maid was sent to fetch Isaac Goodwin, who appeared in a few minutes and stood in the doorway looking apprehensive. Eckley had suggested to Frances that Isaac was deficient in intelligence, although he had not elaborated on his grounds for that opinion. Frances, aware that Eckley might have had some prejudice in the matter and knowing that a physical defect could sometimes be mistaken for one of the mind, would have liked to be able to judge for herself. Isaac was eighteen, and she remembered, with a sudden catch of emotion, her own dear late brother at that age; while remaining always the dutiful and respectful son, he had thought very much as a man and not a child and stood tall with the confident expectation of the duties and privileges that his majority would bring. Isaac had none of that confidence, and there was something child-like in the way he looked at his father, searching anxiously for support and guidance.
Goodwin beckoned Isaac to come forward and gestured to a seat. Isaac looked warily at Frances and sat clutching his hands tightly together in his lap. As signs were his preferred means of communication it was as though he was deliberately rendering himself mute. Frances wondered if he had already surmised that she knew about his secret classes.
When Dr Goodwin made a series of signs, however, Isaac’s demeanour brightened and he quickly signed back. A lively dialogue ensued. Frances had hoped that her recent study would enable her to follow the conversation but the rapidity defeated her. She was able to identify a sign which she thought referred to children, and a flashing sequence of fingerspelling that ended with the distinctive ‘y’ and was probably the name ‘Eckley’, but little more.
At length Goodwin nodded. ‘Isaac says that he has been meeting and conversing with some of the boys at the school. He says they are his friends. Naturally he uses signs, as that is the only way he may speak to them. He denies that he has been teaching them in any formal sense. He wants to continue seeing them and does not wish to sign a document agreeing not to, as it is a promise he would not keep.’
‘Well that is very clear,’ said Frances, ‘and I will see Mr Eckley and let him know that he has no grounds for any legal action.’
‘Please do.’ Dr Goodwin had a bitter edge to his voice. He looked fondly down at his son and placed an encouraging hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I have nothing at all to say to him.’
Dr Goodwin’s home was not far from the school, and had Frances been a more trusting person, she might have gone there directly to report to Mr Eckley and so end her enquiries, but she did not. In the past year she had learned to trust no one and realised that there was a sense in which everyone told lies or concealed the truth, although not necessarily for any sinister reason. Since the conversation between Dr Goodwin and his son had taken place in a language she was largely unable to understand, and there were unresolved issues between the doctor and the headmaster which might have coloured the situation, she decided to take the precaution of checking the facts for herself. This would involve having Isaac followed to see what he was actually doing, which was, she knew, a somewhat unsavoury proceeding. She comforted herself with the thought that in the absence of a signed statement Mr Eckley was unlikely to believe Dr Goodwin’s verbal assurance, and if she was able to provide him with ocular evidence she might yet be able to prevent any unwarranted legal action.
Frances took herself to Westbourne Grove, where Sarah’s young relative Tom Smith had been operating his messenger and delivery business from a small attic room high above the watchmaker’s shop of old Mr Beccles. Before reaching Tom’s eyrie, the narrow stairs brought visitors to the office and accommodation of The Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd, which was run by two gentlemen who were generally known as Chas and Barstie. When Frances had first met them they were at a low ebb in their fortunes, deeply in debt and doing their best to avoid a multitude of angry creditors. Their most dangerous enemy was a young man known only as the Filleter, an unscrupulous individual employed by moneylenders to terrify debtors into meeting their obligations.
Chas and Barstie’s exhaustive knowledge of the business world had, however, enabled them to get a foothold back into commerce, and after a few faltering attempts, they had been resoundingly rescued by the great flurry of opportunity that had resulted from the calling of a surprise general election in the spring of 1880. They had been growing in affluence ever since and even made steps towards respectability by providing services to the Paddington police in investigating cases of company fraud, a subject in which they had considerable expertise. Barstie, who had been ardently pursuing the hand in marriage of a lady of good family, was especially anxious to appear respectable, and the pair had recently made another important step in that direction.
Mr Beccles had decided to retire from business and join his son and his family in Australia, and Chas and Barstie had taken the lease of the ground floor shop, which was being handsomely refitted and a new sign painted. The rear of the premises was being converted into a neat bachelor apartment for the two proprietors. Business was still actively carried on in their old room, but once the new office opened, the upper floors would be let, and Tom had been promised part of the space for his sole use.
Although Frances’ main business was with Tom, she decided to call on Chas and Barstie in case they had anything to impart on the Antrobus businesses, and avoiding the worst of plaster, paint and dust, she rapped smartly on their office door. The room was never vacant, since some form of commerce was being carried out around the clock, and until their new residence was completed, also served as accommodation.
‘Come in!’ came Chas’ unmistakably loud and exuberant voice. Frances entered and, to her astonishment, saw the very last individual she might have expected to find there. Chas was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the desk which was littered with greasy paper wrappings and half-eaten buns. Facing him was his partner, Barstie, his portion of the desk clear of all material, even the coins he so loved to count. He was looking more solemn than usual, which was understandable because in the third chair slouched the Filleter. Thin as a spider, with long unkempt black hair and an evil expression, his name came from the sharp knife he carried and the knowledge that he was always willing to use it. When Frances had first encountered him he had carried the smell of things long rotted and worse, and while there was no longer a stink that would make even a gravedigger recoil, he still exuded a repellent sourness. He shifted uncomfortably in stained black clothing that seemed only to be held together by sweat and dirt, and the things that crawled in and on it. Chas and Barstie had formerly been so petrified of him that the mere mention of his name would send them running hotfoot as far from Bayswater as they could go. With the improvement in their fortunes, however, differences had been temporarily settled and an uneasy truce had been the result. That much had been a relief to Frances, but to see the three of them actually in company could not, she was sure, be a good thing.
The Filleter said nothing to Frances; he merely scowled, sucked on his discoloured teeth and turned his head away.
Chas had been just about to stuff a piece of cheese into his mouth, but as soon as he saw Frances he leaped to his feet, dropped the cheese onto the desk and wiped his hands on his coat. ‘Miss Doughty! What a pleasure! As you see,’ he gestured towards the Filleter, ‘we have a new business associate – I am happy to say that all our previous troubles are forgotten. Is that not the case Mr — er — ?’
With one swift, easy movement, the Filleter rose to his feet and walked out without a word or a backward glance.