The Children of Silence (7 page)

Frances glanced at the maid who seemed unperturbed, ‘Oh don’t take no notice of that. Some of the ladies here are a bit … well, they get confused about where they are and want to be taken home. I know that one, she’ll soon get quietened down.’ There was the sound of fresh sobbing and two pairs of running footsteps, followed by a squeal of protest, then another door banged.

‘Chloral,’ said the maid, cheerfully. ‘Don’t know what we’d do without it.’

Frances was left alone in the visitors’ waiting area while the maid lumbered away. The large square room would once have been a front parlour, but now it was almost bare and most uninviting. A row of old and very worn wooden seats supplied the minimum of comfort and the carpet had long outstayed its usefulness. The fireplace had been swept, but not recently. A slight attempt had been made at decoration by placing a vase of dried flowers on a small table and framed embroideries on the painted wall but they did little to brighten the overall atmosphere of weary gloom. The visitor who was anxious to find something useful to occupy his or her time was provided with a two-page pamphlet about the work of the sanatorium and a week-old copy of the
Chronicle
. Frances examined the pamphlet but it made no mention of the house’s former owner.

The woman who arrived to speak to Frances wore a nurse’s gown and apron and a welcoming smile. ‘Miss Doughty, I am Eliza Caldecott, matron of this establishment. I would so much like to help you. Dr Dromgoole, did you say?’

‘Yes, I understand that this was once his home. Who is the current owner of the property?’

‘The General Asylum Company. They own the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane on Monmouth Road. This house was purchased not from Dr Dromgoole, however, but from his cousin, Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, who was acting for him.’ There was something about her tone that said more than the mere words.

‘Acting for him because he was unable to act for himself?’

‘That is so. If you are interested I suggest you speak to Dr Magrath at the asylum who will have all the details. And I believe that if you go there you will also find Dr Dromgoole.’

‘As an employee or a resident?’ asked Frances apprehensively.

‘A resident, I’m sorry to say. I understand he had a complete breakdown. Were you hoping to interview him?’

‘I was – I still am.’

Mrs Caldecott gave her a sympathetic look. ‘That may prove difficult.’

‘I see that, but I must make the attempt.’

‘Might I ask the nature of your enquiry?’

‘It concerns the disappearance of Mr Edwin Antrobus in October 1877. Dr Dromgoole had been acquainted with the missing man. I am speaking to everyone who knew him in case they observed anything that could help me trace him.’

‘This is about the body found in the Paddington Basin, isn’t it? That court case that was in all the newspapers.’

‘It is, yes,’ admitted Frances.

Mrs Caldecott appeared less comfortable with their conversation. ‘From what I read the man found in the canal had been murdered. If you imagine that Dr Dromgoole was responsible for the death of Mr Antrobus or anyone else, I think it most unlikely.’

‘Have you met him?’ asked Frances hopefully.

‘No, but I’m sure he can’t be the violent type or he would never have been admitted to the asylum. They don’t take those kind there. Dr Magrath will explain, I am sure.’

Frances could see a promising line of enquiry petering into nothing; nevertheless she knew she must pursue it, if only for completeness.

The asylum was barely a minute’s walk away. Frances passed through the cool gated gardens, wishing she had the leisure to spend more time there, and found a double fronted property almost hidden in a quiet corner overhung by trees whose dipping branches placed a discreet veil over the establishment. Frances presented her card to the maid and asked if she might see Dr Magrath. She was shown into a carpeted waiting room considerably more comfortable than the one she had just left. It was ringed about with chairs that might have graced a parlour and enhanced by paintings of variable quality, some of which seemed to have been painted by artists afflicted by colour blindness, as there were some unusual choices of hue in the depiction of sky and faces. One artist seemed to be suffering from double vision: all the ladies in his portraits had two noses.

‘I see you are admiring the work of some of our residents,’ said the man who entered the room. Unlike so many doctors who adopted a dignified air in keeping with the respect that they felt should be due to their professional status, the new arrival had no such pretensions. He advanced rapidly with a broad friendly smile and shook her hand warmly. ‘Thomas Magrath. I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, I was engaged with a patient.’

Frances returned the smile. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

He was holding her card, which he favoured with an openly curious glance. ‘Is this a personal matter or connected with your detective work?’ He offered her a chair and drew up another to sit facing her, his cheerful manner overlaid by the well-practised concern of a consultant. He was about forty and therefore, thought Frances, in that best part of a man’s life, having reached the height of his mental powers but still enjoying the flexibility of youth. Whatever the future might hold in the way of entrenched opinions and weariness with the repetitive round of his daily life was not yet apparent in his address.

‘I am making enquiries on behalf of Mrs Harriett Antrobus, whose husband Edwin has been missing for three years.’ From Magrath’s expression she saw that he knew of the recent court action. ‘I am interviewing everyone who knew Mr Antrobus and that includes Dr Dromgoole, who once attended Mrs Antrobus and who had a difference of opinion with her husband.’

‘Ah,’ said Dr Magrath looking suddenly troubled, but he did not elaborate.

‘I appreciate,’ Frances went on, ‘that Dr Dromgoole’s current state of health may mean that there is little of value that he can tell me, but all the same, I would like to see him.’

‘Of course, of course, and so you shall.’ Magrath thought for a moment, then tucked the card into a pocket, sprang up energetically and rang for the maid. ‘You might also like to speak with Mr Fullwood, our senior attendant, who has been concerned with Mr Dromgoole’s care and supervision since he was admitted.’

The maid appeared. ‘Doris, could you ask Mr Fullwood to prepare Mr Dromgoole to receive a visitor? And please bring me the patient’s file.’

‘
Mr
Dromgoole?’ queried Frances when the maid had gone.

‘Yes, yes indeed,’ said Dr Magrath. ‘He practised medicine in Bayswater for a number of years, but although he had undertaken a course of study at university and I believe was awarded his Bachelor of Medicine he had never taken his M.D., a deception that was not exposed until his contretemps with Dr Goodwin, which I expect you know about. Dromgoole had always been somewhat unstable, but it was that dispute which precipitated his breakdown. He came to a meeting of the Bayswater Medical and Surgical Society and accused all the gentlemen there of plotting against him. They were concerned for his safety and had him restrained and committed to the public asylum. Not at all the place for a man in his situation, of course. His relative arranged for the sale of his property to enable him to be placed in more comfortable circumstances. He is quite a pitiful creature now, weak in the legs and with a mind that wanders and retains very little.’

‘Might this relative be able to assist me?’

‘He is an invalid and resides in Scotland. All the arrangements were made by his London solicitor, Mr Rawsthorne.’

As Frances digested this information, the maid returned with a folder of papers, which she handed to Dr Magrath. She had the blank composed expression of someone whose remit was to reveal nothing about the inmates of the establishment. ‘Mr Fullwood is getting the gentleman ready now,’ she said. ‘He’ll be out on the terrace.’ She gave Frances a look that might have been curiosity before she left.

‘It would be useful for me to know the dates on which the significant events occurred,’ said Frances. She rather hoped that Magrath might allow her to see the documents, but instead he studied them himself and she realised that the contents of the folder would be considered strictly private.

‘Yes, he was first brought here on 5 July 1877 after spending a month at the public asylum.’

‘So at the time of Mr Antrobus’ disappearance in October he was residing here?’

‘He was, yes.’

‘Are your patients ever allowed to leave the premises?’

Magrath paused. ‘I had assumed,’ he said cautiously, ‘that your interest in Mr Dromgoole related to discovering what information he might have about Mr Antrobus, but I am gathering the impression that you suspect him of being involved in that gentleman’s disappearance.’

‘I have to examine every possibility,’ Frances told him, ‘if only to dismiss them and move on. But so far I have found that Mr Dromgoole is the only person known to have had a disagreement with Mr Antrobus, and if, as you say, he is unstable, he might have done him harm.’

Magrath closed the folder and shook his head very emphatically. ‘Miss Doughty, our presence here would not be tolerated if we were to admit violent patients. We are an establishment for the very aged and those who are infirm and who, we can assure all the residents hereabouts, are no danger to anyone. Many of our patients are unable to walk unassisted and we take them out from time to time in bath chairs, where people can see for themselves that they are to be pitied and not feared. Mr Dromgoole is not an old man by any means, but he is quite frail. He suffered a serious injury to his head when in the public asylum which further added to his woes – an attack by another patient. He is quite incapable of harming anyone. He is permitted brief excursions when the weather is fine but always in the company of an attendant.’

‘Has he ever said anything on the subject of Mr Antrobus?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’ Magrath gave the question some further thought. ‘You say that he was Mrs Antrobus’ medical advisor?’

‘Very briefly, yes.’

‘I remember the heated correspondence in the newspapers between Mr Dromgoole and Dr Goodwin – there would hardly be a medical man in Bayswater who does not – although the patient was never named. And now I think about it I did once receive a letter from Mr Antrobus on the subject of admitting his wife here as a patient. I replied asking for a doctor’s report but heard nothing further.’

‘Mrs Antrobus, as her husband later understood, has a disorder of the ears and not the mind,’ Frances advised him.

‘Tinnitus aureum, perhaps?’ Magrath suggested. ‘Noises in the head which do not come from any outside source. It is often mistaken for insanity, especially when the patient hears voices. Doctors of medicine receive almost no education on these afflictions.’

‘I understand that Dr Goodwin is a highly respected man in his field of expertise.’

‘Oh, he is! I do not believe he would make such a mistake.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Frances smiled and left a silence that she hoped would be filled.

Magrath looked thoughtful. ‘Although, and I hesitate to say it —’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps there are some things best left unsaid.’

‘In my experience those are always the things most useful to a detective. Do go on.’

‘It may be strong meat for a lady.’ Frances waited expectantly, and he went on. ‘Before he was admitted here Mr Dromgoole was very insistent that he knew something against Dr Goodwin. Something concerning his personal life, which he believed to be very shocking. I do not know to what extent his allegations may be trusted. His opinions will of course have been coloured by his own state of mind and the quarrel, but, as I am sure you know,’ he added with a shrug and a sad smile, ‘bad words travel faster than good ones.’

Before Frances could say any more the maid returned to advise them that they could now see Mr Dromgoole, and Magrath led the way to a terrace looking out over a small but nicely laid out garden. Before they stepped outside, Magrath paused. ‘It might be best,’ he said softly, ‘if you were not to mention the names of any of the Bayswater medical men to Mr Dromgoole. It could upset him terribly. He was especially bitter about the correspondence in the
Chronicle
, and any reference to Dr Goodwin would be most distressing.’

The lawn was dotted with bath chairs whose occupants were very aged, shrunken figures hunched against the sunlight. Despite the warm air, their thin forms were wrapped in shawls and blankets, such that it was difficult to see whether they were men or women. A comfortable chair padded with cushions was on the terrace, and as Frances approached she saw that the man who sat there was very much younger than the other patients, perhaps little more than fifty, although it was hard to tell. His dark grey hair and beard were well trimmed and his blue eyes looked clear, but there was something fixed about his expression that did not bode well for the interview. There was a depressed star-shaped scar on the side of his head, suggesting an old fracture beneath. Beside him stood a slightly built man in his thirties, wearing a dark blue suit with embossed buttons and peaked cap, helping the patient drink from a cup of water.