Frances could not help but reflect on how both Tom and Barstie were spurred on in their ambitions by the prospect of marriage, while her work was simply inspired by the need for a home, clothing and nourishment. It was not so very long since Chas had intimated that once he had made enough money to marry then Frances, whose financial acumen he admired, might receive a proposal, but she had never taken this seriously. As Chas’ fortunes had grown so her value to him as a helpmeet had declined, and she believed that he was currently taking an interest in a foreign lady with a large estate. Frances knew that her hand would never be sought by a man wanting a rich wife or a pretty wife, or even a loving wife, but only a useful wife. Being useful to one’s husband was an essential part of marriage, but was she expecting too much to want to be loved as well?

As she reached Tom’s door it flew open and two boys hurried out as if on missions of grave urgency. Pausing only to make a respectful little bow in her direction, they pounded down the stairs. Since neither of them was carrying a message or parcel, she wondered if they were engaged in following suspicious characters or looking for roaming animals. During the last year Frances had quite inadvertently established a reputation in Bayswater as a finder of missing pets, whether four-legged or winged, and she had been grateful to turn over that entire area of her business to Tom, who was able to be in all places at once.

Tom’s office had everything that was needful for the young businessman; a broken desk with one leg supported by a half brick, a chair bound about with string, a pile of old wrapping papers torn into squares and some pencil stubs for the composition of messages, a money box with a stout key, a tea kettle and a basket of bread. In winter there would be a roaring fire fed with any combustible rubbish that could be found, and the boys would come here for a warm and some tea between errands. Some of the refreshments they enjoyed often looked suspiciously like the leftovers from her table.

That morning Tom was doing something very unusual, for him at least: he was reading a book. Tom had never been a great reader, he had learned his letters at a parish school and could write well enough for messages. He had later refined his skills for business purposes but had never aspired to reading for pleasure. Frances saw that he was deep in a volume of Oliver Twist, which was costing him some physical as well as mental effort, judging by the contortions of his face and the movements of his lips. He had been raking his hands through his hair, which stood up in spikes as if horrified by the unfolding story. Nevertheless he was pursuing the book by sheer dogged determination, as he did everything.

When Frances entered he put the book down and wiped his sleeve across his forehead with a smile. ‘You ever read this, Miss Doughty? The Parish Boy’s Progress, it says, an’ I’ll be very sorry if Oliver don’t make good at the end.’

‘I have, it is a very salutary story,’ said Frances.

‘I like the Dodger, but that Bill Sykes is a bad’un through and through, an’ if you ask me, Nancy ain’t no better’n she oughter be.’

‘So why have you suddenly taken up literature, Tom?’

‘Mr Chas and Mr Barstie said I need to learn the Queen’s Hinglish, and I was told that Mr Dickens wrote the best Queen’s Hinglish there ever was. An’ if I do learn it then they might take me into partnership when I’m old enough.’

‘That’s quite an ambition,’ smiled Frances, ‘but I have every confidence you will succeed.’

‘Yeh, but I’d rather buy ’em out and be my own master.’ He grinned. ‘So what’s the job, then?’

Frances explained that she wanted to discover whether Isaac Goodwin was actually teaching sign language to the schoolboys or just meeting his friends. ‘Could you also find out for me about the properties in Queens Road, the ones being demolished?’ she asked. ‘Have they really been quite empty since they were sold, or were they frequented by thieves and beggars?’

‘Thieves, beggars an’ all the rubbish of the streets,’ said Tom, cheerfully, ‘an’ anyone who wanted to do somethin’ secret. They all like empty houses. Don’t know about them in Queens Road, though, Mr Whiteley’s ’ad ’em locked up tighter ’n a drum since he bought ’em.’

‘Some bones have been found there – those of a man, together with Mr Edwin Antrobus’ travelling bag. The bones might be his or those of a thief who robbed him. Can you suggest whose they might be?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Name any man out of a thousand. Beggars an’ tramps an’ that sort, they drop dead every day or kill each other an’ no one misses ’em. But I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘I always thought Bayswater was such a respectable place,’ sighed Frances.

‘It’s like the Queen’s own castle compared with Stepney,’ said Tom. ‘Murderers jus’ use knives ’n poison round ’ere.’

Frances decided not to ask for further elaboration.

That evening a message arrived for Sarah to advise that her diligent enquiries had finally located Lizzie, the parlourmaid who had been in service at the Antrobus home at the time of its master’s disappearance. Sarah decided to go and see her the next morning. When she had an object in her sights she was an alarming prospect, and Frances knew that if there was anything to be learned, her assistant would discover it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Next morning the inquest on the skeletal remains found in the brickyard at Shepherd’s Bush opened at Providence Hall, Paddington, under the careful eye of coroner Dr George Danford Thomas, the youthful successor of Dr William Hardwicke who had died very suddenly the previous April. Frances had grown to respect Dr Hardwicke, who was wise and fair and knew how to be gentle with a nervous witness. She hoped the new man would fill his shoes with credit.

The jurymen were inspecting the items laid out on the exhibits table: a box of bones, the leather travelling bag and business cards, and other assorted fragments of clothing that might or might not have been associated with the deceased. There was also, Frances noticed, a coal sack, printed with the name of ‘Geo Bates’, a local supplier. It was morning, and the little hall was illuminated by sunlight flooding in through the windows, but even in the absence of gas the hall was uncomfortably warm and getting warmer by the minute. The odour of the material on the table, which resembled the contents of a refuse bin, was very apparent, and Frances hoped the proceedings would not last long.

Mr Wylie and Charlotte Pearce, who was heavily veiled, though easily distinguishable to anyone who knew her by her height and clothing, arrived together accompanied by their new solicitor Mr Rawsthorne, who had been appointed to watch the case in view of what was regarded as their betrayal by Mr Marsden. They greeted Frances and all expressed the hope that the day’s proceedings would result in important progress.

Mr Marsden, his face fixed in a permanent sneer, arrived in company with Lionel Antrobus. The latter gentleman, though serious as ever, took a moment from conversation with his solicitor to favour Frances with a sharp nod, and Marsden, seeing the action, made a whispered comment to his client which was undoubtedly not to her credit.

Inspector Sharrock had been obliged to take time from his busy day to attend the inquest, a circumstance that clearly did not please him, since he fidgeted constantly and obviously wanted to be somewhere else. The press was also there in force since the public always enjoyed stories that involved a skeleton, and there was the usual throng of the idle and curious.

Mr Luckhurst, walking with a bravely energetic limp, arrived unaccompanied, greeted Frances with as much of a smile as was appropriate under the circumstances and invited her to sit beside him, which she did.