The obvious thing to do with the new information was take it to Inspector Sharrock.
The Inspector was available, and he readily agreed to see Frances when he saw she was bringing information. She sat facing him across his tumbled desk, resisting the urge to tidy the papers and discover and polish the wood beneath, a surface that had probably not seen daylight in many years.
Judging by the length of time he spent perusing the letter Sharrock must have read it through several times, sniffing and grunting and nodding to himself. He jutted his head forward and squinted at the date. ‘Do you mean to say you didn’t hold onto this until it was old news? Didn’t rush off to Bristol and look into it yourself?’
‘I received it this morning and brought it here at once.’ Frances might have felt insulted at the suggestion that she sometimes concealed information from the police, if it had not, for excellent reasons, occasionally been true. ‘I was thinking —’
‘Ladies thinking is a dangerous thing,’ interrupted Sharrock, ‘and twice as dangerous when you do it.’
‘I was thinking,’ Frances repeated, ‘that there is only one man who matches the description of the man who was seen with Mr Antrobus at Bristol.’
‘I got eyes in my head, same as you, but you don’t think we forgot to ask Mr Luckhurst to account for his movements do you?’
‘I am sure you did ask him, but I have seen Mr Antrobus’ will, and it included a legacy of two thousand pounds to Mr Luckhurst. Men have been killed for far less.’
‘You have a wicked mind,’ growled Sharrock. ‘When I was young and innocent I never thought of such things. Took me twenty years to get as cynical as you are now. What will you be like when you’re forty? It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘I just wanted —’
‘Won’t get a husband like that, you know.’
‘I’m not looking for a husband,’ declared Frances, irritably.
‘I was going to introduce you to my brother, but he’s just taken up with a widow so you’ve missed your chance there.’
‘Inspector —’
‘What about that Mr Lionel Antrobus? He’s rich and single. Bit old perhaps, but you could do a lot worse.’
‘All I would like to know,’ said Frances through gritted teeth, ‘is whether Mr Luckhurst had an alibi for when his partner went missing.’
Sharrock leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. ‘Yes Miss Doughty, he did.’ He dived forward abruptly, burrowed under a disorganised pile of papers, and brought out a folder, which he opened. ‘At the very moment when Mr Antrobus was leaving his hotel in Bristol, Mr Luckhurst was in the company of two – er – persons. An hour later he was in his office where he attended to business assisted by his clerk, and an hour after that he met a customer by appointment. Four independent witnesses who place him in London for the whole morning. He was not in Bristol when Antrobus left and neither could he have met him at Paddington Station.’
‘I must confess I am somewhat relieved to hear it. He did not strike me as a man who would murder his partner for money. Of course that does not mean that he was telling the truth about Mr Antrobus’ wisdom teeth.’
‘Oh but he was,’ revealed Sharrock, triumphantly. ‘You haven’t got all the answers, you know. The police can do brain-work, too.’
‘I never doubted it. But he was said to have had the teeth extracted in America when he was a young man. I am impressed that you were able to make such a discovery after so long a time.’
Sharrock preened himself. ‘Ah, well, we have our methods. We found the name of the company in America where Mr Edwin Antrobus spent two years studying the tobacco plant and its cultivation. Very interesting indeed if you like that sort of thing. Turns out the company is still very much in business, and by means of the Atlantic telegraph we were able to learn two things. While Mr Antrobus was there he had his wisdom teeth out. All of them. He was not a brave man in the dentist’s chair, but then how many of us are, even under ether? Struggled so much he half-killed the dentist before he went off to sleep. And the whole time he was there he did not suffer any accident with broken bones.’
Frances nodded. ‘Then we can be quite sure that the second set of remains are not his, and I am sure the court will come to the same conclusion.’
‘At least we now know who the man in the canal was. All credit to you for that one,’ the Inspector added reluctantly. ‘Dr Magrath has come clean and taken the blame on himself.’
‘Does Mrs Antrobus know?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Rawsthorne went hotfoot to tell her. He’s hoping for new business on behalf of Mr Wylie, suing either Magrath or the Asylum Company or both for all those wasted legal fees.’
The rest of Frances’ day was taken up with receiving the last of the reports on behalf of Mr Candy, writing to him with the results and acting on a sudden inspiration on how she might alleviate the troubles of that affectionate yet mistrusting couple Mr and Mrs Reville. She also wrote to Harriett Antrobus to advise her of recent developments, although she decided to omit the detail concerning the unusual friendship between her husband and the lady witness at the railway station. Although Lionel Antrobus was not really her client he was paying for Tom’s work to find the woman who pawned the ring, and it seemed only courteous to write to him too.
That evening she and Sarah attended a meeting of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society and were accorded the plaudits of the members for their work. Whenever Frances appeared at the meetings there was always a small spate of new clients to follow, and on the way home she reflected that there were bound to be some bad husbands and dishonest servants whose careers would soon come to an end.
Even in Sarah’s company Frances still found the night-time streets unsettling, and although it was a warm evening she was unwilling to walk home. They took a cab, thus avoiding the narrow pathway where the attack had taken place. She usually slept well after such a busy day, but this time it was not to be.
There was the stench of unwashed clothing, bad teeth and stale tobacco, the bristly scratch of an unkempt moustache. She fought hard against a horrible strength, the hard muscles of a man so much more powerful than she. All her resources could do nothing against him, the weight and force of a brute. His body pressed violently against hers. He was trying to force a chloroformed pad over her face, and she turned her head aside and fought as hard as she could, dreading the shock of a blow with his fist when she would not give in. Then another figure appeared, a dark presence, tall and strong but not threatening, holding her firmly, taking her to safety, and she smelled the rich warm spice of a cigar.
France awoke, gasping for breath, her whole body shaking convulsively, and found herself enveloped in the warmth of Sarah’s massive hug. Some minutes passed before she could or even wanted to speak. It was still night and her room was unlit and very peaceful.
‘Another one of them dreams?’ asked Sarah.
Frances nodded. She had never told Sarah about them, but somehow was unsurprised that she knew, and she supposed that she must have been crying out. Sarah slept in the adjoining room, and Frances often heard the low rumble of her snores, which was a great comfort. ‘I only wish they would stop.’
‘They will,’ promised Sarah. ‘But if you think one might come on, go for a long walk. Walk till you sweat. Sweat hard and then sweat harder.’ She was so assured that Frances did not need to ask if she had ever had such dreams herself. ‘And you want to come to the ladies’ classes,’ she added. ‘I’ve got them exercising with a big stick. You can do a lot with a big stick.’