The man whose remains had been found in the Paddington Basin was of about the right age to be Edwin Antrobus, and he could well have died as long as three years ago; moreover, the fragments of fabric found clinging to his bones showed that he had been respectably dressed. It was far from being a complete skeleton; unfortunately, despite the strenuous efforts of the labourers, only the ribs, spine and upper part of the skull had been recovered. The rest of the body, thought to have been torn away by the action of canal traffic, must still lie irretrievably buried in the mud of the basin, since the Canal Company had admitted defeat and abandoned the cleansing work only half-done. It was, however, possible to suggest a cause of death, since the flesh of the corpse’s throat, which had been transformed by its long watery immersion into a soap-like material called adipocere, exhibited a deep transverse cut.

Harriett Antrobus had tried to obtain a formal ruling that the body found in the Paddington Basin was that of her husband. It was surmised that he had returned from Bristol, arriving at Paddington Station, which lay close to the canal basin, and on his way home had been waylaid, lured to the wharf side, murdered and robbed. The court proceedings had been widely reported in the Bayswater Chronicle and Frances had read them with interest. Mrs Antrobus was unable to give evidence, since she suffered from an affliction that kept her confined indoors, and she was represented by Mr Stephen Wylie, formerly of Bristol and a business associate of her husband’s who had been one of the last people to see Edwin Antrobus alive. However, the medical evidence, supplied by Dr Collin who had examined the remains, had, to Mrs Antrobus’ great disappointment, proved insufficient to determine identity and the action had failed.

Mr Wylie had written to Frances to make an appointment, enclosing a letter from Mrs Antrobus pleading for assistance, and it was the gentleman who was due to arrive.

‘Sounds like she’d rather her husband was dead,’ said Sarah, Frances’ burly and no-nonsense assistant, ‘but who’s to say he is? If he made a will that didn’t do right by his wife then that marriage was a sour one. Perhaps she drinks. He could be in Bristol right now all alive-o, with a new name, a new business and a new wife.’

‘How cruel if he abandoned a wife who was in need of his care and left her unprovided for,’ mused Frances.

It was not, she thought, a case that promised easy success, but since a great deal of her work involved investigating light-fingered servants and faithless lovers, she was glad of something that piqued her interest. She awaited her visitor, wondering if, as so often happened in her investigations, she was about to uncover worse things than had ever been found sunken into the slime of the Paddington Canal Basin.

CHAPTER TWO

Stephen Wylie, who arrived promptly to his appointed hour at the apartment Frances shared with Sarah, was a youngish man, that is to say he was not yet middle-aged, perhaps little more than thirty-five, but his youthfulness was obscured by a high forehead lined with worry, from which dark hair was making a stealthy retreat. He brought with him the scent of tobacco, not the stale odour that always clung about the habitual smoker, but the warm fragrance of the freshly rubbed product. He was ushered into the parlour clutching a hat and a document case, and he almost dropped both at the sight of Sarah’s imposing bulk and intense, searching gaze. Frances quickly precluded any objections by introducing her companion as a trusted associate. Sarah had never been slight of build, but she had recently been supervising classes in calisthenics for the ladies of Bayswater and looked more confident and powerful than ever. Mr Wylie afforded her a nervous acknowledgement, as if to say that he pitied anyone who might attempt to burgle the premises, and sidled into a chair.

‘I have read the reports of the legal action taken by Mrs Antrobus to prove that her husband is deceased, but I find it hard to imagine how I might assist,’ began Frances, once they were facing each other across the little round table where she interviewed her clients. ‘Nevertheless, if you would start at the beginning I would like you to tell me something of Mr Antrobus and the circumstances of his disappearance.’ She opened her notebook and took up a fresh pencil.

‘Certainly,’ said Wylie, with the demeanour of a man who was embarking on an often-told tale. ‘Mr Antrobus and I had been business associates for several years. I was born and raised in Bristol where my family has imported tobacco, snuff and cigars for three generations. Mr Antrobus’ business was the manufacture of cigarettes. He and his partner, Mr Luckhurst, have a workshop in Paddington with some thirty employees. Mr Antrobus was very active, he travelled all over the country to see his customers and meet importers of the raw materials. Mr Luckhurst remains in London and attends to the office. It was October of 1877 when Antrobus made his last visit to Bristol, and I had several meetings with him. There was nothing out of the ordinary either in his manner or in the business he conducted. On his last evening there, the 12th, we dined together at his hotel, the George Railway Hotel in Victoria Street not far from the station, and he was his usual self.’

‘What was his usual self?’ asked Frances.

Wylie’s smile expressed a quiet regard for his friend. ‘There is little enough to say. He was very much a man of business, reserved in his personal life and with a small circle of acquaintances. I have never known him do a dishonest thing or drink to excess or descend to indelicacy. Some might have found him dull company, but our mutual interests in the tobacco trade kept our conversation alive.’

‘What did you discuss on that last occasion?’

‘A report in the trade press that a company in Virginia had offered a prize to the man who could invent a machine that would manufacture cigarettes.’

‘Such a machine would threaten Mr Antrobus’ business, would it not?’ Frances observed. ‘Was he despondent at the prospect?’

‘Far from it!’ said Wylie with a laugh. ‘We agreed that even if the machine could be built it would be too expensive for anyone to purchase and maintain. In any case, he believed as I do that customers will always prefer the hand-rolled product.’

‘There were no financial troubles that you know of before Mr Antrobus disappeared? Did he have any debts?’

‘No, none,’ Wylie asserted with great conviction, ‘and as evidence of that, the business continues to be profitable despite his absence. Mr Luckhurst has employed a man to travel in Antrobus’ place, and he has worked very hard to keep everything running as smoothly as possible.’ He smiled dolefully. ‘I know what inspires your questions as I have been asked them before. There was no reason either for Antrobus to run away or – heaven forbid – lay violent hands upon himself. I should mention,’ he added, ‘that for the last year I have resided in London, where I hope to expand our family concerns. I have been talking with Mr Luckhurst about a possible merger of interests, and in connection with this he kindly allowed me to examine the books of the company. I have found them entirely satisfactory.’

Frances decided to reserve her opinion on that point. If there should prove to be more than one set of books the business would not be the first to present its investors with accounts that owed more to deliberate concealment than fact. ‘Did Mr Antrobus have any business rivals – enemies even – who might have meant him harm?’

‘None that I am aware of.’

‘When did you discover that he was missing?’

‘It was a week after our last meeting. I received a letter from Mrs Antrobus. We had never met or corresponded before but she knew of me and had found my address in her husband’s papers. She had been expecting him to return home by the morning train on the 13th, and when he did not she assumed that he had been delayed by business and would write to explain. When she heard nothing further she wrote to Mr Luckhurst who confirmed that her husband had not appeared at the office, and then she wrote to me.’