‘On our family?’ Mrs Antrobus looked mystified. ‘I don’t understand. How can that be?’
‘Mr Eckley, in a misguided attempt to strengthen his case, employed a detective – not myself – to uncover anything that might harm Dr Goodwin. He found an old story, a slander: the suggestion that Mr Isaac Goodwin, who is the doctor’s adopted son, is actually his natural son. The lady who has been named as the mother was a patient of Dr Goodwin’s, a Mrs Pearce.’
The sisters looked at each other, appalled, and Harriett gave a little moan.
‘Was your mother a patient of Dr Goodwin? If not then the rumours must concern another lady entirely.’
There was a miserable silence, during which the two women clasped each other’s hands for support. ‘Our mother,’ began Charlotte, at long last, ‘was hard of hearing, and towards the end of her life she was almost completely deaf. Over the years she was attended by a number of doctors, although many were so long ago we could not tell you all their names. I do think – yes, I believe she did consult Dr Goodwin at the hospital. But I hardly need to tell you that these terrible rumours are quite false, indeed unthinkable and impossible.’
‘Mr Dromgoole wrote a letter to the Chronicle in the summer of 1877, which the newspaper very wisely did not publish, alleging that Dr Goodwin was still conducting secret meetings with the lady in question.’
‘Where are these meetings supposed to have taken place?’ asked Charlotte.
‘He said it was a holy place, I imagine he was referring to a church.’
‘Our mother passed away in December 1877 and was an invalid for the last year of her life. She had a weak heart and could not walk more than a few steps without assistance. Dr Goodwin did not come to our home and mother was unable to leave it without my help. She conducted her prayers privately. Even if Mr Dromgoole was not inventing or imagining his story, which I think is most probably the case, he was undoubtedly mistaken.’
‘May I ask your mother’s age when she passed away?’ asked Frances, hoping that this would at once disprove the allegations against her.
‘She was fifty-five.’
Frances calculated that Mrs Pearce would have been forty-one at the time of Isaac Goodwin’s birth. It was possible. ‘I think it would be wise to instruct Mr Rawsthorne to watch the matter for you. I do not believe an action for slander can be taken in the case of a deceased person, but there might be a way he can require anyone spreading this story to desist. It would help him to know that Mr Dromgoole is currently confined to an asylum for the insane. Also cast your memories back to eighteen years ago, since that is Mr Isaac Goodwin’s age. You may recall something which will help your case.’
After a brief pause for thought, Charlotte spoke. ‘That was the year before Harriett was married. We were then living in an apartment near the tobacconist’s shop where our father was employed. My parents, Harriett and myself. There were only four rooms.’
‘Then your case is strong,’ Frances reassured the sisters. ‘My interest, however, is not the rumours themselves but that they might have been a factor in Mr Dromgoole’s quarrel with Mr Edwin Antrobus.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I can certainly see that such a terrible accusation could have led to an altercation, and perhaps the threat of prosecution, but I do not think it would have ended in any violent act. Of course if Mr Dromgoole is of doubtful sanity …’ She sighed. ‘Do you think he might have harmed Edwin?’
‘No, because he was confined to the asylum at the time Mr Antrobus disappeared, but he was the last man known to have quarrelled with him, and I had been hoping he might have some information which could assist me. I have seen him, however, and his mind is sadly clouded.’
The following morning the inquest on Mr Eckley was formally opened and closed again to permit medical reports to be completed.
To celebrate the fact that a long-term customer had finally settled her account Frances thought that she and Sarah could permit themselves a little greediness in the matter of strawberries. A basket of plump fruits was procured, and Sarah sliced them into a pretty dish, strewed them with sugar and added a generous libation of cream. There were, Frances felt sure, lords and ladies who could eat the best strawberries every day during the season, but none could have enjoyed them so much as she did this rare pleasure. Sitting in the parlour, trying to feel just a little guilty with each spoonful, she allowed her mind to reflect on the cases in hand. Even if Mr Dromgoole could recall nothing now, where were the letters he had sent to other newspapers and periodicals, which were unpublished because of their content? Had he made any threats against Mr Antrobus which might provide a clue to his fate? Frances realised that she might have to visit the offices of a great many publications in the hope that they still retained the material, and it was not a pleasing prospect.
Had Dromgoole written to his cousin in Dundee about his obsessions? She didn’t even know if the two had been in contact at the time of Dromgoole’s dispute with Edwin Antrobus. There might have been diaries or unsent letters in Dromgoole’s house – if so they had probably been consigned to the rubbish heap when the property was cleared after it was sold, but it might be worth asking Dr Magrath if he had retained any of his patient’s papers or sent them to Mr Dromgoole’s cousin.
Sarah, with much smacking of lips over the strawberries, was amusing herself by reading out the death notices from the Chronicle. She preferred the death notices to the births and marriages since she thought that at least half of them were murders, whereas the births and marriages were only a preparation for later murders. As Sarah read, a familiar name cut through Frances’ thoughts and made her sit up suddenly. ‘Could you read that last one out again?’
‘Dixon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr John Dixon, 52, formerly of Edgware Road, on the 3rd inst, after a short illness. With Adeline at last.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
It was, thought Frances, the slenderest of chances, but the Adeline mentioned in the notice might be the same Adeline of whom Mr Dromgoole had spoken so feelingly, perhaps an old friend, relation or sweetheart. Clearly, from the contents of the notice, the lady was deceased, but there might be some advantage in speaking to her friends or family. Supposing Mr Dromgoole had revealed something to her about the disappearance of Edwin Antrobus, secrets that she had then confided to others?
Frances savoured the last of the sugared cream on her spoon, left Sarah to lick the dish and went to the offices of the Chronicle. Mr Gillan, with a significant wink, imparted that ‘young Ibbitson’ who attended to the birth, marriage and death notices would be able to assist her. He signalled to the lad, who bounded over to her like a pet dog, then winked again and went back to his desk. She did not know if it was a coincidence, but since their last meeting the youth had been making valiant and unsuccessful attempts to grow a moustache.
‘What can you tell me about the notice for Mr Dixon?’ she asked, showing him the newspaper. ‘Who reported the death?’