Frances dispatched a hurried luncheon of bread and jam, and then went to the offices of the Chronicle to look for Mr Cork’s advertisements.

It was, as Frances had anticipated, an exceedingly dull way to spend an afternoon. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Mr Wren and his hated rival were as bad as each other and that it was her client who was the guiltier of the two. After a few hours staring at small print, and with a headache threatening, she was obliged to refresh herself at a nearby teashop.

While undertaking the commission, she had taken the opportunity to read about the Old Bailey trial of Mrs Antrobus’ cousin Robert Barfield, which had taken place in February 1876. The servant of a respectable lady had left a door unfastened for a just few moments while taking rubbish out to the ash bin, and Barfield, who had been lurking in the neighbourhood looking for opportunities, had seized his chance, crept into the parlour and stolen a watch. He was arrested an hour later since his manner while trying to sell the watch had aroused the suspicions of the jeweller, who had delayed the transaction long enough to send his assistant for a policeman. Initially Barfield had claimed that he had inherited the watch from an uncle, but when the engraving showed that this was untrue and the rightful owner arrived to claim her property, he changed his story and said he had bought it from a man in the street whose name he did not know. The jury had no difficulty in recognising an incorrigible liar and he was convicted. In view of his known criminal history, he was sentenced to three years in prison. Had he actually broken into the house the sentence would have been considerably longer.

Frances returned to the newspaper office to continue her thankless task and was visited by Mr Gillan, who made sympathetic noises. ‘All you need to know is that Wren and Cork used to be in business together. Cork thinks Wren stole his patterns and Wren thinks Cork stole his ladylove. If you settle one argument then they’ll just think up another one.’

Frances had just discovered a rich vein of furious correspondence, the authors of which published under pseudonyms but were almost certainly the two rivals. ‘I am surprised the Chronicle publishes letters like these.’

‘We usually have the measure of our men and how far they will go, and our readers like a good joust. If you think those letters are a bit strong, you should see the ones we don’t dare publish.’

Frances was struck by a sudden thought. ‘The last time I came here I was reading in the 1877 editions the dispute between Dr Goodwin and a man calling himself “Bayswater M.D.”, to which the editor called a halt, presumably on the grounds that the debate was becoming heated and possibly libellous. If there were other letters which were not published, would you still have them?’

‘I’ll send Ibbitson to look them out,’ said Gillan with a grin. ‘Obliging lad; ambitious to be something in the newspaper world. He could go far.’ If Gillan was hoping to stimulate a romance he had failed, but a helpful newsboy with a promising future was, thought Frances, someone a detective should cultivate.

Young Ibbitson quickly provided Frances with a folder of unpublished letters from a number of sources covering the debate between Dr Goodwin and ‘Bayswater M.D.’. Several were from medical men who had correctly surmised that the latter was actually Mr Dromgoole and expressed the opinion that his friends should have him ‘looked after’, a polite expression for what had actually occurred soon afterwards. Others said the same thing but rather less politely.

There was also a long letter from Dromgoole, which did nothing to make Frances disagree with the general estimation of his state of mind.

‘Dr Goodwin, a gentleman who is supposed to be so knowledgeable and virtuous as to inspire confidence in the public should look to his reputation,’ Dromgoole had written, his excitement increasingly obvious as his handwriting snaked wildly across the page, ink splashing from the deep stabbing strokes of an angry pen. There were prominent and unnecessary capital letters, the whole interlarded with multiple exclamation marks:

Here is a man who cannot even acknowledge his own natural SON!! And WHY does he maintain this fiction that the unfortunate simpleton boy is not a relative? Is he ashamed of him? NO!! Dr Goodwin is ashamed of Himself!! First he conducts an Intrigue with a Married Woman – I will not say Lady – a deaf person who is his own Patient! How horrible!! He woos her with his sinister Signs making disgusting protestations of illicit love under the very nose of her trusting husband who cannot understand that he is being cruelly duped! If it were not so base it would be better played as a Farce upon the popular stage. And Goodwin prevails upon the weak faithless wife, becoming her Paramour, assuming all the privileges of a husband, a role Wholly Unsuited to a respectable Englishman. And when finally the foolish husband’s eyes are opened and his wife confesses her Treason, the unhappy man is moved by pity to agree not to Divorce her if the Child, the fruit of their illicit dealings, is sent away. This feeble infant is minded by persons of the VILEST kind, only to be later passed off by his own natural Father as adopted in the name of charity!!

If this is not unspeakable enough, Dr Goodwin continues to have assignations with his Mistress, who is now masquerading as a respectable Widow, a fact of which I am sure her family is unaware but which I have witnessed with my Own Eyes. Their place of assignation is actually a holy place, a fact that can only cause the gorge to rise with Disgust!! I thank God that I am not married, or I would be obliged to keep my wife indoors all the time, lest whenever she left the house she met secretly with such Dishonourable men as Dr Goodwin. I do not write the name of his Inamorata, but I would be prepared to announce it in public if required.

Frances wondered how much of this poisonous material had been spread across Bayswater and how many who heard it had actually believed it. Did Dr Goodwin know the full extent of Mr Dromgoole’s venomous attack? Goodwin had admitted knowing of the rumours that Isaac was his natural son but had felt sure that no one would attach any credit to the ravings of a madman. His stance of remaining silent had seemed to be the most dignified way of dealing with them.

The unpublished letter was altogether more damaging. If true, the allegation that Dr Goodwin had seduced his own patient would put an end to his medical career, and the mere suspicion, even if unsupported, would be highly dangerous for him. The only thing in Dr Goodwin’s favour was that the story emanated from a highly untrustworthy source, but so few people who took pleasure in scandals ever troubled themselves to look into them and weigh up their value before passing them on.

Following the dispute with the school, the old rumours that Dr Goodwin thought forgotten were playing right into the hands of its headmaster. Frances was now even more pleased that she had declined to act further for Mr Eckley. She had no respect for a man who allowed an academic disagreement to degenerate into a sordid personal attack.

Frances looked at her notes again and wondered who the alleged mistress of Dr Goodwin and mother of Isaac Goodwin might be. Could she be the mysterious Adeline? Was jealous love the reason for Dromgoole’s anger? Or was the entire story, including the lady herself, merely a figment of the accuser’s fevered imagination?

Later that day Frances was surprised to receive an unexpected visit from Dr Goodwin, who arrived with a deeply furrowed brow.