‘Well that is very clear,’ said Frances, ‘and I will see Mr Eckley and let him know that he has no grounds for any legal action.’
‘Please do.’ Dr Goodwin had a bitter edge to his voice. He looked fondly down at his son and placed an encouraging hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I have nothing at all to say to him.’
Dr Goodwin’s home was not far from the school, and had Frances been a more trusting person, she might have gone there directly to report to Mr Eckley and so end her enquiries, but she did not. In the past year she had learned to trust no one and realised that there was a sense in which everyone told lies or concealed the truth, although not necessarily for any sinister reason. Since the conversation between Dr Goodwin and his son had taken place in a language she was largely unable to understand, and there were unresolved issues between the doctor and the headmaster which might have coloured the situation, she decided to take the precaution of checking the facts for herself. This would involve having Isaac followed to see what he was actually doing, which was, she knew, a somewhat unsavoury proceeding. She comforted herself with the thought that in the absence of a signed statement Mr Eckley was unlikely to believe Dr Goodwin’s verbal assurance, and if she was able to provide him with ocular evidence she might yet be able to prevent any unwarranted legal action.
Frances took herself to Westbourne Grove, where Sarah’s young relative Tom Smith had been operating his messenger and delivery business from a small attic room high above the watchmaker’s shop of old Mr Beccles. Before reaching Tom’s eyrie, the narrow stairs brought visitors to the office and accommodation of The Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd, which was run by two gentlemen who were generally known as Chas and Barstie. When Frances had first met them they were at a low ebb in their fortunes, deeply in debt and doing their best to avoid a multitude of angry creditors. Their most dangerous enemy was a young man known only as the Filleter, an unscrupulous individual employed by moneylenders to terrify debtors into meeting their obligations.
Chas and Barstie’s exhaustive knowledge of the business world had, however, enabled them to get a foothold back into commerce, and after a few faltering attempts, they had been resoundingly rescued by the great flurry of opportunity that had resulted from the calling of a surprise general election in the spring of 1880. They had been growing in affluence ever since and even made steps towards respectability by providing services to the Paddington police in investigating cases of company fraud, a subject in which they had considerable expertise. Barstie, who had been ardently pursuing the hand in marriage of a lady of good family, was especially anxious to appear respectable, and the pair had recently made another important step in that direction.
Mr Beccles had decided to retire from business and join his son and his family in Australia, and Chas and Barstie had taken the lease of the ground floor shop, which was being handsomely refitted and a new sign painted. The rear of the premises was being converted into a neat bachelor apartment for the two proprietors. Business was still actively carried on in their old room, but once the new office opened, the upper floors would be let, and Tom had been promised part of the space for his sole use.
Although Frances’ main business was with Tom, she decided to call on Chas and Barstie in case they had anything to impart on the Antrobus businesses, and avoiding the worst of plaster, paint and dust, she rapped smartly on their office door. The room was never vacant, since some form of commerce was being carried out around the clock, and until their new residence was completed, also served as accommodation.
‘Come in!’ came Chas’ unmistakably loud and exuberant voice. Frances entered and, to her astonishment, saw the very last individual she might have expected to find there. Chas was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the desk which was littered with greasy paper wrappings and half-eaten buns. Facing him was his partner, Barstie, his portion of the desk clear of all material, even the coins he so loved to count. He was looking more solemn than usual, which was understandable because in the third chair slouched the Filleter. Thin as a spider, with long unkempt black hair and an evil expression, his name came from the sharp knife he carried and the knowledge that he was always willing to use it. When Frances had first encountered him he had carried the smell of things long rotted and worse, and while there was no longer a stink that would make even a gravedigger recoil, he still exuded a repellent sourness. He shifted uncomfortably in stained black clothing that seemed only to be held together by sweat and dirt, and the things that crawled in and on it. Chas and Barstie had formerly been so petrified of him that the mere mention of his name would send them running hotfoot as far from Bayswater as they could go. With the improvement in their fortunes, however, differences had been temporarily settled and an uneasy truce had been the result. That much had been a relief to Frances, but to see the three of them actually in company could not, she was sure, be a good thing.
The Filleter said nothing to Frances; he merely scowled, sucked on his discoloured teeth and turned his head away.
Chas had been just about to stuff a piece of cheese into his mouth, but as soon as he saw Frances he leaped to his feet, dropped the cheese onto the desk and wiped his hands on his coat. ‘Miss Doughty! What a pleasure! As you see,’ he gestured towards the Filleter, ‘we have a new business associate – I am happy to say that all our previous troubles are forgotten. Is that not the case Mr — er — ?’
With one swift, easy movement, the Filleter rose to his feet and walked out without a word or a backward glance.
Barstie was visibly relieved but Chas simply shrugged, his good humour unabated. ‘A busy fellow, and now we know him better, a useful ally.’
Frances declined to comment, but she felt sure that her face revealed her opinions. If the partners were actually employing this man to collect debts for them the result could only be trouble, but nothing she could say would deter them.
She quickly explained to Chas and Barstie the nature of her current enquiry saying that she would be interested to know of any rumours in the business world that could throw light on Edwin Antrobus’ disappearance. She then climbed the stairs to the attic office of Tom Smith’s thriving agency.
Tom, who could hardly be thirteen yet, had once been the delivery boy for the Doughty chemist’s, but he had shown an early talent both for making extra money and scrounging food so as to live off almost nothing. After the chemist’s business was sold Tom had worked for Mr Jacobs, the new owner, but recently he had appointed one of his army of ‘men’ in his place, in order to devote all his attention to his multiple enterprises. The idea that Mr Jacobs might have thought it his prerogative to make that arrangement had not seemed to occur to Tom, and since the substitution of another boy equally keen and hardworking had been satisfactory to all concerned, the chemist had merely looked surprised and raised no objections.
The new delivery boy was also detailed to inform Tom whenever the chemist’s niece, the dainty Pearl Montague, was about to pay a visit so Tom could arrange to be in the vicinity. The young lady was, unbeknown to her or any member of her family, Tom’s future bride, and it wanted only for him to make a great fortune and her to attain the age of sixteen for that destiny to be achieved. Frances had seen Miss Montague just once and found her to be a little miracle of golden curls and pink frills, resembling something made of sugar paste. Tom had never so much as spoken to her, but her image, which to him was the pinnacle of female perfection, was constantly before his eyes.