‘The boys think a lot of you, and they didn’t want any harm to come to you or the school, so they went and told your son what they knew. So you see, when the man came for his second visit Mr Goodwin was very well aware that he had been blackmailing you.’
‘But murder? You think him capable of that?’
‘It’s not what I think, Dr Goodwin. It’s gone beyond that now.’
‘I assume he has told you it was an accident.’
‘Yes, he says he asked the man to wait in the visitors’ room but he took the wrong door. Seems like a weak explanation to me.’
Frances decided to offer a suggestion. ‘Perhaps he tried to trap the man in the cellar so he could call the police and have him arrested, which is a very commendable thing to do, but the man had a bad leg and stumbled and fell.’
‘If he changes his story I’ll let you know,’ Sharrock grunted, ‘but juries don’t like it when the accused does that. It shows him to be a liar, and which story are they to believe? The first one, the second one, or neither?’
That, Frances was obliged to acknowledge, was very true. A change of tale was usually no more than the desperate attempt of a guilty person to escape justice by any means available.
Sharrock leaned forward. ‘Dr Goodwin, did you ever wonder why the blackmailer never returned?’
‘Naturally. He told me at the first visit that he would allow me some time to consider my position and accumulate the money he wanted and then he would come back. When I did not see him again I assumed that he had been arrested for some other crime. Ever since then it has been a constant worry to me that he might reappear.’
‘Well, he won’t do that now. And what about Mrs Antrobus? What did she think of it all?’
‘This is nothing to do with Mrs Antrobus,’ said Goodwin brusquely. ‘I know the criminal sought to imply that I would do these terrible things because of some fancied connection, but there was no such connection.’
‘But she was also accused, wasn’t she?’
‘Mrs Antrobus?’ queried Frances, glancing at Goodwin.
‘Wild foolish allegations, based on speculation. Really, these rumours about my private life are disgusting and intolerable.’
Sharrock looked unconvinced. ‘Yes, the boys said that the visitor accused Dr Goodwin of murdering Mr Edwin Antrobus not so much for the sake of his wife but at her very specific request.’
‘You can attach no importance to statements of that kind,’ snapped Goodwin, flushing with anger. ‘The man was a criminal and would say whatever he wanted in order to extract money from me. Why should I consent to such a thing, a thing quite against my nature, for someone who was no more than a patient?’
‘He thought there was more.’
‘I cannot help what he thought. He was wrong.’ Goodwin rose. ‘I have suffered these attacks on my good name for too long! Until now I have treated them with the silent contempt they deserve, but this cannot be permitted to continue. I will consult my solicitor at once, and you may expect a visit from him very soon.’
Goodwin was fuming as he left the station, but as Frances joined him in a cab home she was thoughtful. ‘I believe that the blackmailer, whoever he was, is the same man who was seen in the company of Mr Antrobus at Bristol station. He was later seen with some of the missing man’s property. I think he murdered Mr Antrobus but profited very little from his crime. Perhaps he imagined Mr Antrobus carried large sums of money on his person and was disappointed to find that he did not. So he tried to make further gains by using the rumours that have been circulating in Bayswater in order to blackmail you. He may have thought that if he made enough accusations then one of them would strike home.’
‘He was mistaken. I have committed no crime and neither has my son.’
‘Do you actually wish me to make enquiries concerning the deceased? Or was my name merely conjured to strike terror into the Inspector’s heart?’
‘Please do whatever you can. I have devoted a great deal of time to thinking about that unpleasant fellow, his appearance and his manner, and I can think of nothing that might help you other than what I have already said.’
Frances did at last have an explanation for something that had been puzzling her for some time. If Edwin Antrobus had been murdered by someone who had hoped to profit under his will, such as his brother Lionel or his partner Mr Luckhurst, then the murderer, impatient for his reward, would have taken steps to ensure that the body was found. Although Mrs Antrobus did very badly under the will, it was to her advantage to have her husband’s death proved to enable her to challenge it. Any of those three people, had they been involved in the murder, would by now have found some way of making sure that the body was discovered, but clearly none of them had so much as attempted to do so. The mystery man, however, was a simple thief, with no interest in the will, and it had mattered nothing to him whether the body was found or not. Unfortunately, the location of Edwin Antrobus’ remains was most probably known only to the man whose bones had been found in the brickyard.
With that question settled, many others remained unanswered, and there was something at the back of Frances’ mind, something that Mrs Fisher had said to her, which was troubling, but she couldn’t think what it was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Next morning, Frances was back at the Chronicle offices, working on Mr Candy’s new commission to discover if an applicant for assistance had, as it was rumoured, previously attempted a fraud on another charity.
While there she decided to examine the newspapers for the summer of 1875 to see what article the Antrobus’ parlourmaid, Lizzie, said had so distressed her mistress. Frances spent an hour reading closely every issue for June and July but saw nothing that could have had such an effect. Neither Mrs Antrobus’ cousin nor anyone with whom she might have been connected had been imprisoned at that time, and there was no other item of news that might have upset her. Frances extended her search to May and August, since Lizzie’s memory might have been at fault as to the month, but without result. She decided instead to try June and July of 1876, and she found it almost at once. In the last week of June, Robert Barfield, who sometimes went by the name John Roberts, also the soubriquet ‘Spring-heeled Bob’ because of his agility, had attempted to escape from prison, where he had been serving a term for theft. He had scaled a high wall but suffered a heavy fall onto some stones, and he had been taken to the prison infirmary with a badly shattered leg. He was expected to live, but his career as a window man was over.
When Frances came home, she took all her notes and spread them out over the table like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They connected, she was sure, but the things that would link them were contained in secret conversations and meetings, what was believed or not believed and, in some cases, her own assumptions and suppositions. She knew that Edwin Antrobus was dead, she knew that he had been murdered and by whom and in all probability why. She was unable, however, to prove any of it. One important piece of clarification could, however, be supplied by the missing man’s widow.
Harriett Antrobus was delighted to see Frances; her features glowed with happiness and the light in her eyes testified to the compelling charm she must have exerted in her youth. ‘My dear, dear Miss Doughty,’ she breathed, ‘what a pleasure it is that we are soon to be related! Please do call me Harriett and permit me to anticipate our connection by addressing you as Frances. What joy your uncle has conferred on dear Charlotte, and how well she deserves it!’