In a single day one commission had somehow transmuted into several, and while she was grateful for the employment, Frances began to wonder if she might soon need another assistant.
It was agreed that Sarah, assisted by Tom and his ‘men’, would check on the injured workmen, while Frances would pursue the new suitor herself. The Westbourne Grove reading room held a directory of the nobility that would tell her if the titled family mentioned by the suitor actually existed. Should the baronetcy prove genuine that was not the end of her task, since he might not be connected with it. He would have to be followed from his lodgings to find out where he went and who his companions were. Frances did not anticipate with any pleasure being obliged to tell Mr Digby that his daughter had thrown over a respectable suitor for a fraud, but it was better to know the truth before marriage than afterwards.
The day ended on a lively note. Frances and Sarah were practising their sign language skills before retiring for the night when those two bitter rivals Mr Wren and Mr Cork descended upon them in such a froth of anger that they seemed ready to strangle each other with their own cummerbunds. Mr Wren was twitching more violently than ever and Mr Cork, a squat, red-faced man with small staring eyes, looked about to explode. Frances did not know the cause of their new quarrel and did not want to. Sarah had often claimed she could stop any argument by banging together the heads of the persons concerned, and for a moment Frances thought she was about to see the method demonstrated. Instead Sarah dragged the two of them downstairs by their collars and out of the house.
She returned an hour later announcing that the men, now much the worse for alcoholic beverages, had fallen onto each other’s necks like long lost brothers and were back in business together again. She predicted a quiet six months before one of them killed the other, it being a matter of debate which way round that transaction would go.
‘Now,’ said Sarah, resuming her seat and opening the book. ‘What’s the sign for murder? We might need that one.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On Monday morning Frances received a note from Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, cousin of the deceased surgeon, announcing that he had come from Dundee to arrange a funeral for the remains and wished to call and see her that afternoon.
While anticipating that interview with some interest, Frances and Sarah were far from idle and spent the morning gathering information about Miss Digby’s new suitor and receiving reports on the applicants to Mr Candy’s charities. Tom, Frances discovered, was so busy on her behalf that he was planning to create a new team of ‘men’ who would devote themselves to the very special kind of work she required, placing Ratty at their head.
After a luncheon of boiled eggs and toast Frances applied herself to correspondence while Sarah departed to teach one of her twice-weekly classes in ladies calisthenics. As Sarah saw it, the purpose of the art was to improve the strength and health of her pupils, with advanced lessons on what to do when insulted by a man in the street.
Mr Malcolm Dromgoole was a tall spare gentleman of about forty but with dull grey features prematurely lined by illness. He arrived leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and it was apparent that the climb upstairs to Frances’ rooms had been a strain on his constitution. When he sat, trying not to show how grateful he was for the rest, it was some minutes before his laboured breathing returned to normal. He rested a leather document case on his knees, and Frances poured him a glass of water from her carafe.
‘It appears, Miss Doughty, that I have you to thank for uncovering the deception practiced upon me by Dr Magrath,’ he began, in a gentle soft accent like the wind rippling though heather. ‘I expect he told you that I was too unwell to travel at the time my poor cousin was first confined to the asylum, and I have not ventured far from home since then or I would undoubtedly have come to London to see him before now. I spoke to Dr Magrath this morning, and it was not a pleasurable visit for either of us but, as you might well imagine, far less so for him than for me.’
‘When I last spoke to Dr Magrath he admitted his fault and expressed his sincere regrets for the pain and inconvenience he has caused. I trust,’ added Frances hopefully, ‘that he has now done all he can to rectify the situation.’
‘I can confirm that my cousin’s death has now been properly registered and reported to the correct authorities. Magrath will find himself with a fine to pay, but if he imagines he can clear his conscience with a few pounds he is very much mistaken. It will go hard for the reputation of the asylum if the newspapers get wind of it, which I am sure they will.’ Dromgoole did not look unduly concerned at the prospect.
He opened the document case and extracted a small flat parcel, which he placed on the table. ‘Your letter enquired about my late cousin’s papers and diaries. This is all I have; they were sent to me when he was first admitted to the asylum. I have looked at them, and there are some curious ramblings which mean nothing to me, but you may find them of interest.’ He took a small card from his pocket and placed it on the parcel. ‘I will be residing at this hotel for the next two weeks. Please could you ensure that the papers are returned to me before my departure.’
Frances thanked him. ‘And if there is anything further I can do to assist you —’
‘You may be invited to tell all you know to my solicitor Mr Rawsthorne. I have an appointment with him later today to examine the details of the agreement he drew up with the asylum.’
Frances had anticipated from Dromgoole’s manner, firm as iron under the fragile exterior, that he would take his case further. ‘I expect Dr Magrath will maintain that he adhered to the spirit if not the letter of the agreement.’
‘He has already made that claim to me, but I disagree. The conditions for transfer of the property were that the asylum would provide proper care of my cousin for the rest of his life. I do not believe that permitting him to steal a knife, escape his attendant and cut his throat constitutes “proper care” and I feel sure that Mr Rawsthorne will concur. I intend to take steps to nullify the agreement and have the property transferred back to my possession.’
‘I am sure you know that the house is now a sanatorium.’
He gave a thin smile. ‘I do, and a worthy endeavour no doubt, which I will not disturb providing they pay me a suitable rent.’
Frances sometimes felt guilty that many of the establishments she had encountered during the course of her investigations had been obliged to close as a direct consequence of her activities, and she felt quite relieved at this assurance.
When her visitor had departed, Frances prepared a substantial pot of tea and unwrapped the package of papers. There was overwhelming evidence of Dromgoole’s failing sanity, with half-completed letters in increasingly erratic penmanship, the words trailing across the page and sometimes ending in an illegible thread. Capital letters and exclamation marks abounded. In better order was a small notebook, which appeared at first to be a diary for the early part of 1877, but as Frances perused it she realised that it was a record of Dromgoole’s attempts to follow Dr Goodwin in the hopes of securing evidence against him. Whether or not Goodwin had known about it, Dromgoole had been keeping watch on his home and his journeys to and from the school, and he had made a record of every person Goodwin had spoken to, with additional notes of what he imagined they had said, which usually involved secret plotting against himself. There were two items of especial interest. On a date in May 1877 Dromgoole had succeeded in pursuing Goodwin on a cab ride to Kensal Green cemetery. He had followed Goodwin’s walk amongst the tombstones, which had terminated at a location where a heavily cloaked and veiled lady was waiting. The two had spoken for a long time before they went their separate ways. A week later Goodwin had met the same lady in the same location. Dromgoole, suspecting that the tombstone might provide some clues, examined it after the pair had departed and found it to be that of Albert Pearce, 1815–1873, much mourned by his loving wife Maria and daughters Harriett and Charlotte. Was this consecrated ground what Dromgoole had described as ‘a holy place’ in his letter to the Chronicle?