Frances wondered how much of this poisonous material had been spread across Bayswater and how many who heard it had actually believed it. Did Dr Goodwin know the full extent of Mr Dromgoole’s venomous attack? Goodwin had admitted knowing of the rumours that Isaac was his natural son but had felt sure that no one would attach any credit to the ravings of a madman. His stance of remaining silent had seemed to be the most dignified way of dealing with them.
The unpublished letter was altogether more damaging. If true, the allegation that Dr Goodwin had seduced his own patient would put an end to his medical career, and the mere suspicion, even if unsupported, would be highly dangerous for him. The only thing in Dr Goodwin’s favour was that the story emanated from a highly untrustworthy source, but so few people who took pleasure in scandals ever troubled themselves to look into them and weigh up their value before passing them on.
Following the dispute with the school, the old rumours that Dr Goodwin thought forgotten were playing right into the hands of its headmaster. Frances was now even more pleased that she had declined to act further for Mr Eckley. She had no respect for a man who allowed an academic disagreement to degenerate into a sordid personal attack.
Frances looked at her notes again and wondered who the alleged mistress of Dr Goodwin and mother of Isaac Goodwin might be. Could she be the mysterious Adeline? Was jealous love the reason for Dromgoole’s anger? Or was the entire story, including the lady herself, merely a figment of the accuser’s fevered imagination?
Later that day Frances was surprised to receive an unexpected visit from Dr Goodwin, who arrived with a deeply furrowed brow.
‘Miss Doughty, I am sorry to intrude upon you unannounced, but I have some very serious questions to ask,’ he began, removing his hat and passing a hand across his forehead.
‘I will endeavour to help you in any way I can,’ said Frances, offering him a seat at her little parlour table.
He sat but looked uncomfortable and distracted. ‘Have you or any of your agents been making secret enquiries about me or my son?’
Frances took a deep breath. ‘I will be open with you, Dr Goodwin. Initially I interviewed you with the object of learning more about Mr Antrobus, since I am acting on behalf of Mrs Antrobus, but subsequently, as you know, I examined the allegations made by Mr Eckley that your son is teaching signs to the pupils of his school. For the purpose of that enquiry I engaged one of my associates to keep a watch on your son’s movements, and he did observe him having a conversation with some of the pupils of the school.’ Goodwin frowned with displeasure but was silent. Frances continued: ‘My associate was, however, entirely satisfied that it was merely a conversation and your son was not conducting classes in sign language, in which, you will be pleased to hear, the boys already appeared to be most adept. I was therefore able to report to Mr Eckley that I could find no evidence of any classes taking place, and there the matter was closed.’
‘I can scarcely credit what you are telling me,’ he said with evident disgust. ‘A young woman involved in such underhand affairs! If I had a daughter who acted as you do I would feel ashamed!’ Frances said nothing. ‘And do you still work for Eckley?’
‘I do not.’
‘I want the truth! It has recently come to my notice that in the last few days someone has been going about Bayswater asking questions about me, and all the old unpleasant rumours that I thought had been forgotten long ago are being talked about openly again. Fortunately I have friends who know me to be an honest man and have warned me about it. Has Eckley employed you to spread these terrible slanders?’
‘I know that my profession is distasteful to you, but I too am interested in the truth. I would never act in such a way.’
‘But do you know who is responsible?’
Frances hesitated.
‘You do, don’t you!’ he cried, clenching both hands into fists. ‘You must tell me!’
‘I do not know for a fact, but one may always suspect, as I am sure you do yourself,’ she replied cautiously. Just because Mr Eckley had asked her to undertake the task did not necessarily mean that following her refusal he had approached another agent, although it did look very probable, but to point the finger at him without better evidence would, in Goodwin’s current mood, be inadvisable.
‘Oh, I suspect, I certainly suspect!’ he cried, with bitter energy.
‘I ought to mention,’ added Frances, ‘that I have just discovered some letters sent to the Chronicle in 1877 but which fortunately were never published, one of which was from Mr Dromgoole, consisting largely of a personal attack on your character. The material was highly defamatory but clearly the work of a very disturbed brain. I have not shown it or even mentioned it to anyone, of course, but it is very possible that Mr Dromgoole wrote to other periodicals with the same allegations and discussed them with his friends. However, I have also found that Mr Dromgoole suffered a complete collapse in his health and is currently being cared for in a private establishment. I went to see him, and he hardly even knows himself. Not only is he in no position to act against you, but his circumstances mean that any proceedings launched by another on the basis of his statements would be bound to fail.’
‘I had thought that would be his ultimate fate,’ said Goodwin. ‘I never met the man, but his letters told me all I needed to know. But I do not suspect Dromgoole, it is that charlatan Eckley, I am sure of it. It is he, is it not, who sent his spies all over London to ask about me and my son?’ To Frances’ relief he did not pause for an answer and went on, ‘That scoundrel is bent on ruining me – it is not enough that he harms the education of those unfortunate children, dooming them to a life of silence in his misguided efforts to make them speak and takes away the one good means they have of learning – he descends to the very lowest kind of attack. I have asked him to participate in a public academic debate, but he will never agree to it; he knows he would not succeed; no, instead he tries to crush my ideas by crushing me!’ He slammed his fist into his palm, leaving Frances in no doubt as to the correct sign language for ‘crush’.
‘I assume that with the pending legal action it is not advisable for the two of you to meet privately, but perhaps you might arrange a meeting in the presence of your solicitors to clear the air?’ she suggested.
‘Pistols at dawn might be more effective!’ he grunted.
‘I hope that was not a serious proposal?’ said Frances, with understandable alarm.
‘No, of course not!’ he gasped, clutching his forehead again. ‘And you promise me that you have had nothing to do with this? All I have learned is that the enquiries were made by a man. Is he one of your agents?’
‘I do not employ any men. And since I have given you my promise once, I really do not see why you find it necessary to ask me for it again.’
‘Very well,’ he said, breathing more easily. ‘I have heard from all quarters that you are honest and trustworthy and I accept your assurance that this is the work of another. I don’t suppose you know of any other detectives working in Bayswater?’
‘The only detective I know by name is Mr Pollacky of Paddington Green,’ said Frances, recalling the immortalising of that shining star of the detective world in Patience. ‘I have not met the gentleman but I know he is very highly thought of. But I cannot think that a man of his reputation would stoop to work of this nature.’ Frances secretly hoped that Goodwin would not ask her to discover the name of her rival detective as this might take her into some very murky areas and create an enemy who would make her own work very hard in future. ‘In any case, it is not counter to the law to simply ask questions.’