The Children of Silence (43 page)

Harriett sipped her water but said nothing.

‘Your husband never suspected you of murdering his uncle until shortly before his last journey. He had a conversation with Dr Goodwin, who is an otologist, an expert on afflictions of the ears, unlike the other men who saw you. Your husband expressed the opinion that your condition could not have been caused by the firework display, and Dr Goodwin advised him that even if that was so, there are many other causes.’ Frances took from her pocket Dr Goodwin’s booklet on ear pain. ‘He lists them here: a blow to the head; loud music, such as the sound of an orchestra which can affect the players; the noise of heavy machinery; loud explosions; even a single gunshot if close by can all produce the condition known as hyperacusis.’ She closed the book. ‘Did he realise then? Did you know before he went away that he planned to have you put in an asylum? Not because he thought you were mad but because he knew you to be a heartless murderer and wanted to avoid a trial that would distress his sons. There was nothing you could do until a suitable instrument arrived in the shape of your cousin Robert Barfield. He was in a sorry condition, ragged, limping from a poorly healed leg injury and in pain from a toothache. You were able to provide him with what he needed to appear respectable and engaged him to murder your husband. Even though you knew the will would be unkind to you, you felt sure that as a widow you would be able to challenge it. The plan, I think, was for Barfield to go to Bristol and kill your husband there, to place the crime far from home, but somehow he failed. Your husband, despite your cousin’s protests that he was a reformed man, never gave him the opportunity. And so they returned to London. How and where the murder took place I don’t know, but Barfield now only had one hold over you, he knew the location of the body. He tried to blackmail you by making you sign over the inheritance he thought you would receive before he would reveal it, but you refused. He stole your husband’s ring and other trinkets from his dressing room and then tried, unsuccessfully, to blackmail Dr Goodwin by alleging that he had murdered your husband. When he failed to reappear, both you and Dr Goodwin were afraid that he would come back, but he was in fact dead, having fallen down the cellar stairs at the school.’

Inspector Sharrock and Cornelius listened to the long tale in silence.

‘And now we come to the murder of Mr Eckley, whose enquiries threatened the happiness of your sister, her marriage representing your best escape from the tyranny of your brother-in-law. On the day of the murder you pretended to have a headache and wrote and posted the letter making an appointment, then when your sister thought you were asleep, you were able to closely muffle your ears and creep out of the house, going by the quietest route to meet him. Your guilt of the murder of Mr Eckley can be proved. The murdered man’s watch and the knife that killed him are tied to this house. There is also your knowledge of the theft of the watch that you revealed before three witnesses and your lies to try and save yourself by incriminating your sister. How heartlessly you turned on her when you were finally cornered, and then, almost in a breath, you fastened your sights upon my uncle.’

Frances kept her eyes on Mrs Antrobus but heard Cornelius utter a groan. She pressed relentlessly on. ‘Your guilt of the other two murders – or possibly three, as I suspect that Mr Henderson’s Aunt Lily was hurried to her death so she could not reveal what she saw – cannot be proved, but it might make a difference to your fate if you were to confess to them. Will you do so?’

Both Frances and Harriett looked at Sharrock. ‘I can’t make any guarantees,’ said the Inspector, ‘but if this lady was to confess to a catalogue of crimes so horrible that no one would think a woman would even be capable of them, then she might well be able to convince a court that she is someone who can’t tell right from wrong.’

Harriett rose gracefully from her chair and went to sit at her desk, then took a fresh pen, ink and a sheaf of paper. ‘I will write it all down.’

‘Does Miss Doughty have it right?’ Sharrock asked her.

Harriett smiled calmly. ‘She does, except in one respect. Robert did not blackmail me concerning the location of Edwin’s body. He himself did not know where it was, and neither do I.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Cornelius. ‘Is your husband dead?’

‘I expect so, yes,’ said the would-be widow, without a trace of emotion.

He looked appalled. ‘You seem not to mind.’

‘I mind not knowing.’

‘I think I might be able to guess at what happened,’ said Frances. ‘Since Mr Barfield was unable to walk fast on his injured leg, he would have found it hard to commit murder in the street or in any place where his victim could run away. He had to get him in a small space, a hotel room perhaps, but Mr Antrobus didn’t trust him enough to agree to a private meeting. Barfield attacked him on the train, didn’t he? And he was very strong in the arms and upper body, so he would have prevailed. Did he throw Mr Antrobus from the train?’

Harriet nodded, her pen moving smoothly, without pause. ‘So he said.’

‘And you both simply had to wait and hope that the body was found, but it never was.’

‘That can’t be right,’ objected Sharrock. ‘The track was searched, but nothing was found.’

‘You were looking for a man who might had fallen from the train,’ Frances reminded him. ‘If he was pushed by someone very strong the body might not have landed on the track.’ Frances searched the bookcases in the room and found a directory with a railway map. ‘Did he say whereabouts on the journey it happened?’

‘Robert was always a coward in such things,’ said Harriett disapprovingly. ‘He was still very shaken when he came to see me and confessed that he had not thought to make a note of the location until it was too late. All he could tell me was that the train had been travelling for at least half an hour out of Bristol and had not yet arrived at Reading.’

‘I suppose fifty miles of railway is better than a hundred,’ grunted Sharrock. ‘It’ll be a long job, mind.’

Cornelius was visibly trembling as he went to stand by Mrs Antrobus, who continued to write unconcerned. ‘And is Charlotte innocent? Tell me that!’

The pen flowed swiftly on. ‘She is innocent of murder.’

‘And the other thing? Please tell me she is innocent of that also!’ he begged.

‘You must ask her yourself. She will tell you the truth.’

Frances saw her kind uncle’s face crumple with grief.

S
o,’ said Dr Goodwin, when Frances paid him a visit a week later, ‘they have found the body at last.’

It was a happier occasion than when they had last met, and she, the doctor and young Isaac, who had been released when the charge of murder against him was dropped, were enjoying a pot of tea and some fancy cakes topped with strawberries.

‘They have. The railway men made a thorough search of the line between Bath and Reading, and the police interviewed the farmers. One man with a farm near Didcot had found a hat lying in his field and assumed that it had been blown from the head of a gentleman looking out of a train window. He still had the hat and wore it to church. Mr Antrobus’ hatter was able to identify it. Some bones were found in a deep ditch where the body must have rolled out of sight.’

‘No wisdom teeth, I assume?’

She smiled. ‘Not one. The inquest opened this morning, and the remains have been formally identified as those of Edwin Antrobus. Of course his widow is now in no position to contest the will.’

Dr Goodwin signed the conversation to Isaac, who replied.

‘Isaac says you are the cleverest lady in all Bayswater,’ Goodwin translated. ‘You will also be pleased to hear that he has recently had a very affectionate interview with his mother. Poor lady, she has suffered much, and he has been a great comfort to her.’

‘I was hoping,’ ventured Frances, ‘although this will make no difference now, if you could enlighten me on a number of things. In particular your dealings with Mrs Antrobus.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said thoughtfully and refreshed his teacup.

‘If you are in any doubt about how much to tell me, my advice is – everything.’

Isaac tapped his father on the shoulder and signed anxiously. Goodwin made a reply. ‘My son hopes that you will not accuse me of anything,’ he told Frances. ‘I have reassured him that I have nothing with which to reproach myself.’

‘I am quite certain that you do not.’

Goodwin sipped his tea thoughtfully and put the cup down in a calm and deliberate fashion. ‘I will conceal nothing from you Miss Doughty, a vain exercise, as so many others have found to their cost. On my last professional visit to Mrs Antrobus, she appealed to me to make her husband understand that her illness was of the ears and not the mind. As she requested, I spoke to him again, but he adamantly refused to believe it. His grounds were that she had always attributed the illness to the noise of a firework display, but he was certain that this was untrue. He said that she had imagined noises to be loud before then, and he had persuaded her to attend the display with him to prove that it was all in her mind, but soon after it began she said that the noise was too much and retired indoors. There was one firework that exploded close to the ground, but she was not present at the time and he had told her about it afterwards.

‘I suggested to Mr Antrobus that even if the fireworks were not the cause of her hyperacusis it could have been another event that she had not realised was harmful at the time. I described the kinds of noises that have resulted in ear pain for my other patients and he denied she had ever been subjected to any of them except one. The sound of a gunshot.

‘As I said it a look passed across his face, like that of a man who had seen a ghost and was struck with horror. I thought that he must have taken her shooting and had discharged a gun close by and suddenly saw that her affliction was his own fault. I asked if he went shooting, and he said no but his late uncle had. I tried to question him further but he was obviously distressed and would tell me no more.

‘The next day I received a letter from Mrs Antrobus asking if I might meet her at Kensal Green. I did so and we discussed my conversation with her husband. She mentioned the death of Mr Henderson and admitted to me that she had been in the room when he had shot himself. She said she had been so frightened that she had rushed out of the study and hidden in the bathroom. Her husband, she said, was now accusing her of having shot Mr Henderson in order that he might inherit his fortune. She told me that her husband treated her cruelly and she almost wished that he would suffer some accident and expire but providence had not granted her wish. She said that all she wanted was to be happy and share her fortune with a man who would be kind to her. She wept a great deal, but I have seen her weep many times before, and I believe she may do it at will, without emotion. I have encountered people before who have this singular ability.’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘I was naturally confused. It was as if she was asking me to commit some violence on her husband. She reached out and tried to take my hand but I could not allow it, not after what she had said. I replied that she could not possibly mean what her words seemed to suggest. She gave that little smile of hers. I think you know the one. I told her that it would be best if we never met again, and that as long as she promised to forget the terrible things she had said then I would be prepared to forget them also.’

‘That would have been very shortly before Mr Barfield approached her.’

‘Yes, and when he confronted me he used the same words she had spoken, the same sentiments she had expressed. I knew that he had seen her, and I believed she had made him her creature, but of course I had no proof. I only saw her once more, after her husband was missing. I suppose I was curious to find out if she had had anything to do with it. She denied any knowledge of his fate and also claimed that I had not recalled our last conversation correctly. I thought it best not to seek her society again.’

Goodwin turned to Isaac and signed. The boy nodded, his large hands wrapped around his teacup making it look like something out of a doll’s house.

‘I have told him,’ explained Goodwin, ‘that there was a cruel lady who had done some bad things but because of the clever Miss Doughty she is now in a place where she can do no more harm.’

Father and son looked at each other with an expression of warmth that could only give pleasure to anyone seeing it. Frances knew that she could destroy that happiness, or at least cast a terrible shadow on the future lives of Dr Goodwin, Isaac and his mother, but she could not bring herself to do so.

‘When Mr Barfield attempted to blackmail Dr Goodwin he made a singular error,’ said Frances to Sarah later that day. ‘He thought that because the children could not hear they could not understand what he was saying. Today Dr Goodwin and his son made the same error. They thought that because I can hear that I cannot understand a conversation in signs, but our study of them in the last weeks has been most illuminating. Isaac was extremely anxious in case I had discovered his secret, and I was for a moment tempted to sign to him that I knew it. But I did not. If I made an allegation I doubt that I could prove it, in any case, and I do not wish to be seen as a threat to a youth who I now know to be both capable of and willing to break a man’s neck with his bare hands.’