‘That was his brother, Mr Fred Dixon,’ said Ibbitson. He was fully six inches shorter than Frances, and being obliged to gaze up at her only increased his resemblance to a trusting puppy.
‘Did he say who Adeline was?’
‘No, he just gave me what he wanted printed.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
Ibbitson looked mortified, as if the lack was his own fault. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Doughty, he just came here and handed me a bit of paper and his fee. That’s mostly what they do.’
‘I don’t suppose the address is needed if you already have the payment,’ she said kindly. ‘Do you still have the note?’
‘Oh yes, we keep them for a few weeks in case they come back grumbling.’ Ibbitson searched through some drawers, found the sheet of paper and handed it to her, but it was the bare words of the notice. Frances hoped she might be able to locate Mr Dixon in the Bayswater Directory. The task of finding a death notice for Adeline when she did not have a surname or know when or where she had died was a daunting prospect.
Mr Gillan chanced by, or perhaps it was not chance. ‘Keeping the lad busy, Miss Doughty?’ he taunted, slyly. ‘He’s very keen, you know.’
Frances ignored the insinuation. ‘Perhaps you might be able to help me. Do you recall the death of a lady called Adeline? It is possible that her surname might have been Dixon.’
‘Since you mention it, yes, I do,’ said Gillan, readily. ‘I saw her husband passed away very recently. That was an unfortunate business. I was at the inquest and the trial.’
‘An inquest and a trial? Please tell me more.’
‘Now you know how this works,’ smiled Gillan. ‘I would welcome something in return about why you find the lady so fascinating.’
‘It may be nothing; in fact I could be mistaken, in which case there is no story for you.’
Gillan chuckled. ‘No story yet, but I know you Miss Doughty, and when you follow a case there is always a story for me in the end.’
‘It is just possible that there may be a connection with a Mr Dromgoole, who once practised as a surgeon in Bayswater and had an altercation with Mr Antrobus whose disappearance I am investigating. Mr Dromgoole is too unwell to be questioned and unlikely to improve, but when he was in better health, he might have said something to a friend or relative, and I believe that he was very close to a lady called Adeline.’
Gillan shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know about any connection with Mr Dromgoole, but Mrs Adeline Dixon was killed in a very serious accident some years ago. Two omnibus drivers were said to have been racing each other, the result being that one of the omnibuses drove up over the kerb, and Mrs Dixon, who was walking past, suffered dreadful injuries and died about a week later. Her husband got a nasty crack on the head and was never right again. I think he was put in an asylum.’
A chilling possibility presented itself to Frances. ‘An asylum? You don’t happen to know which one?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘An injury to his head, you say?’
‘Yes, poor fellow.’ Gillan tapped his right temple. ‘The drivers were tried for manslaughter and he was brought to court, but he couldn’t recall enough to give evidence. Kept asking after his Adeline. Every lady he saw he thought was his wife. I don’t think he knew she was dead.’
Frances thanked him for the information, but as she left the office and walked out onto the sunny Grove, the clear skies brought her no pleasure, and the chattering strollers, the street vendors, the carriage customers who swept by in their smart equipages, all seemed to have only one topic of interest on their minds, the fact that Frances Doughty, the renowned Bayswater detective, had been taken for a fool. Even the whinnying horses seemed to be mocking her as they trotted past.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As Frances walked to the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane she wondered how best to proceed, but the matter was resolved when she saw a uniformed attendant approaching the institution, wheeling an elderly patient in a bath chair. As the attendant turned to manoeuvre the chair down the side alley that led to the garden, Frances lengthened her stride and caught up with him.
‘Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if you might help me?’ she asked, hoping that he was the kind of man always ready to assist a female. She had adopted what she hoped was a tone of anxiety, trying not to let it descend too far into agitation.
He paused and looked up with a willing expression. ‘Certainly, Miss.’
‘I am looking for a relative, a Mr John Dixon, who I have only just learned might be a patient here. Is that correct?’
The attendant hesitated, his cheerful smile replaced by a more serious look. ‘I think you ought to speak to the supervisor, Dr Magrath. Just wait for me to settle my patient and I’ll let him know you are here.’
‘But Mr Dixon is a patient here? I have not mistaken the place?’
‘You are not mistaken,’ he confirmed gently.
‘I had wondered about that. It was my impression that this establishment is for the very elderly, and Mr Dixon is only fifty-two. Do you have many patients in their middle years?’
‘No, he was —’ the attendant winced and made a quick recovery. ‘I mean, he is the only one. He was admitted following an accident.’
‘Oh dear!’ Frances gasped. ‘I hope he is not too disfigured! Is he very frightful to look at?’
‘No, no, not at all, it was just a scar on his temple, nothing to distress yourself about, I am sure.’
Frances did not press the attendant further as she thought she had learned all that she could from him without arousing his suspicion. She thanked him and followed him to the garden, where he called a servant to conduct her to the visitors’ room to await Dr Magrath. Frances said nothing about the purpose of her visit, only provided her card.
Dr Magrath arrived barely a minute later. He was not, as she had anticipated, pleased to see her. A man who thinks he has disposed of all his business on a single visit is always unnerved by a second one.
‘Miss Doughty, how may I assist you?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Since our last meeting I have thought of another question I would like to ask Mr Dromgoole,’ she explained. ‘It will only take a moment or two. Might I see him again?’
His expression would have sat well on the face of an undertaker. ‘I fear that that will not be possible.’
‘Really? Perhaps you might like to consider why I do not find your answer surprising. The fact is that I have recently discovered that you practised a deception on me at our last meeting.’
Magrath tried to conceal his alarm by forcing an overly bright nervous smile but only succeeded in radiating a guilty conscience. He laughed unconvincingly. ‘Surely not.’
‘It is a matter of great disappointment to me that a respected man of medicine should do such a thing,’ Frances went on. ‘Kindly redeem yourself by explaining your reasons for presenting another man to me as Mr Dromgoole and let me have your solemn promise to be truthful in future.’
‘Ah,’ said Magrath, the smile vanishing.
‘Your patient was actually a Mr John Dixon, who was admitted here after suffering a serious accident in which his wife, Adeline, was killed. Is that true?’
Dr Magrath appeared to be considering his options. A denial rose to his lips but died unspoken. His fingers fidgeted and his gaze travelled about the room as if seeking inspiration from the strange portraits on its walls.
‘Is that true?’ Frances repeated, more firmly this time, in a tone that made it quite plain that she knew it was.
He gave up the struggle and made a helpless gesture. ‘Er – yes – I am really very sorry.’
‘You chose him because out of all the residents here he is the only man near to Mr Dromgoole’s age. You could not have deceived me with any other patient. Was that why you told me not to mention Dr Goodwin to him? Was Mr Dixon a patient of his? Did he suffer with his ears after the accident?’