‘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.

‘Mr Fullwood, this is Miss Doughty who wishes to speak to Mr Dromgoole,’ advised Magrath.

‘Miss Doughty is very welcome to do so,’ replied Fullwood, with a polite nod in her direction. ‘I think new visitors do him good.’ He drew up a chair for Frances beside Dromgoole, and she was seated. The doctor and attendant both remained standing, observing the patient closely.

‘Mr Dromgoole?’ asked Frances, but there was no reaction. Recalling that he had had pretensions as a Doctor of Medicine, she went on, ‘or should I call you Dr Dromgoole?’

After a moment or two he turned his head towards her and slowly a smile spread across his features, a look of joy and hope. ‘Adeline?’ he said, ‘is that you, Adeline?’

Frances was about to explain that she was not Adeline, but then thought she might do better if she pretended she was. ‘Yes, I have come to see you.’

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, and an expression of great joy lit up his face. He reached out and took one of her hands in both of his.

‘Do you remember Mr Antrobus?’ asked Frances.

‘Oh, Adeline, my Adeline!’ he sighed.

‘It is a pleasure to see you again,’ said Frances wishing she knew who Adeline was. She glanced up at the two men, but they both shook their heads. ‘I was hoping you could tell me about Mr Antrobus.’

Dromgoole said nothing but as he smiled, tears welled up in his eyes.

‘I think you had a quarrel with Mr Antrobus,’ Frances persisted, hoping that repetition of the name might produce some memory. ‘Do you recall that?’

The patient began to weep noisily and tried to pull her hand to his lips, but Fullwood came forward and gently disengaged the grasp. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, ‘but I really think you will learn nothing.’

Frances could only agree. Even if Dromgoole could reveal some information she could not vouch for its reliability. ‘If he does say anything about Mr Antrobus, I would be grateful if you would write to me and let me know,’ she said to Dr Magrath as they returned indoors. ‘Who is Adeline?’