There was also, Frances felt sure, at a much deeper level of secrecy, information that never passed outside the doors of private offices without payment or the exchange of favours of equal value. Whether the supply of information by these methods was a part of Chas and Barstie’s services Frances did not know and preferred not to find out, since the legality of such measures was questionable, and she had probably already profited by them.

‘The result of our endeavours,’ Chas went on, ‘is that we feel confident that both Antrobus and Luckhurst Fine Tobaccos and Antrobus Tobacconists are as honest as any establishment in London. They do not owe more than is usual, they settle their debts in good time and their business accounts are well prepared. The disappearance of Mr Edwin Antrobus was undoubtedly a setback for the partnership, but it is recovering both its trade and its reputation, principally through the hard work of Mr Luckhurst.’

Sarah brought the refreshments and there was an appreciative pause in the proceedings during which attention was diverted from the business in hand by the appearance of bread, fresh butter and preserves.

‘Then there is the question of personalities,’ said Barstie eventually, regarding the scattering of crumbs on his tea plate with a world of sadness. ‘Mr Edwin Antrobus is generally stated to be a worthy fellow.’

‘For worthy, read dull,’ interposed Chas. ‘No one likes to speak ill of the dead. And even though he is still by the strict letter of the law, alive, everyone believes that he is actually dead and so they speak of him accordingly.’

‘He appears to be a man without vices,’ observed Frances, ‘if there is such a thing.’ It was an odd thought, but it occurred to her that she would not like to marry a man who was wholly without vices. In the few novels she had read, young women liked to be admired by men with vices because the situation carried a certain piquancy, but they usually married the worthy earnest fellow and settled to the life of contented domesticity which the author felt was appropriate.

‘If he had any vices he kept them a close secret,’ said Barstie. ‘As to Mr Lionel Antrobus, he has more quills than a porcupine, and you approach him at your peril. Yet if he says he will do a thing you can count upon him doing it, and if he were to oppose you he would do so in an honest fashion.’

‘Has he ever been known to act in an underhand or dishonest manner?’ asked Frances.

Chas shook his head, wonderingly. ‘Far from it, sticks to proper principles even if he was to suffer by it himself. Known for it. Respected, very highly respected, but not liked at all.’

Barstie looked hopefully at his empty teacup and brightened as Sarah freshened the pot with hot water. ‘Now the real Don Juan is Mr Luckhurst. There are females in the case – several, I believe, and all very demanding on his purse. Luckhurst is a bachelor who lives alone and very simply in rooms above the cigarette workshop, but there is a well-appointed little apartment in Notting Hill he likes to visit.’

‘Which he is entitled to do as he pays for it,’ said Chas.

Frances had received a letter from Mr Luckhurst that very day inviting her to take tea with him, and she was suddenly very relieved that she had not yet written to accept. Sarah gave a low chuckle and Frances was unable to meet her eyes. She took a deep draught of tea to calm herself. ‘Is he in debt?’ she asked Chas.

‘No, but he runs it a very close thing.’

‘So Mr Antrobus’ legacy would have been unusually welcome. Mr Luckhurst was left two thousand pounds in the will. He claims not to know about it, but his partner might have hinted as much. If Mr Antrobus had died under circumstances that did not arouse suspicion Mr Luckhurst would have gained substantially and the business would not have been harmed. His partner’s disappearance, however, went badly for the business, and he was obliged to take a smaller salary to meet the expenses.’

Chas drained his cup and smacked his lips. ‘Thus reducing the number in his personal harem from three to two.’

Frances was not sure if she required so much detail, since she hardly liked to imagine Mr Luckhurst, or any man for that matter, reclining on a couch of silken luxury, attended by extravagantly bejewelled sirens.

‘I cannot see Mr Luckhurst as a murderer,’ Frances observed to Sarah after the visitors had left, ‘whatever the provocation.’

‘You didn’t see him as a ladies man. You’ve been wrong before.’

‘True, but judging by Dr Collin’s account, I don’t think Mr Luckhurst is tall or strong enough to have murdered the man found in the canal, neither do I think him capable of breaking the other man’s neck.’

‘Do you still think Mr Antrobus is dead and not run off with another woman? He’s been to America; he might go there again. He could be farming tobacco as he knows so much about it.’

‘I would never deny a possibility. If he was murdered soon after he was last seen, anyone who stood to benefit by his death has been remarkably patient. We have two bodies of about the right age to be Mr Antrobus, both dead for about the right amount of time, and there is so much uncertainty and so many conflicting tales that I cannot rule out either being him. But both were found purely by chance.’

‘All the more reason to think he’s alive and doesn’t want to be found.’

‘Except that he hasn’t contacted his sons.’ There was a long period of silent reflection. Frances’ own mother had abandoned her for a man and had never contacted her once in all the years that her family had maintained the fiction that she was dead. Perhaps in her mother’s case the shame of betrayal was a worse blow than death. Edwin Antrobus too might have something to conceal that would be crueller to his sons than his absence.

Sarah made another pot of tea, but even this did not help clarify Frances’ thoughts.

Later that day Frances had only just bid farewell to another new client, a gentleman who suspected his business partner of undertaking competing trade behind his back, when there was an urgent rapping on the front door. It was not the heavy thump of fists that usually announced the arrival of Inspector Sharrock but the quick smart sound made by the head of a silver-topped walking cane. Frances peered out of the window and saw Cedric Garton. There was a carriage waiting, which at once alerted Frances’ attention. ‘I think we are wanted,’ she told Sarah. Cedric’s manner on the doorstep was sheer impatience, and when the maid answered his knock, he darted past her with great energy.

By the time he had reached their door Frances and Sarah were ready to go out. Since neither was a lady of fashion to whom preparation to face the admiring world was the work of at least an hour, it took only moments for their wraps and bonnets to be put in place.

‘Dear ladies!’ exclaimed Cedric, as he appeared at their door. ‘If you are planning to go anywhere at all I beg you to abandon the idea at once and come with me! I have a carriage ready.’

‘Of course!’ said Frances as they followed him downstairs through a delicate waft of gentleman’s cologne. ‘But tell me what is the matter?’

‘It’s young Ratty, I’m afraid; he’s just been arrested. I was fortunate just now to see him being taken away, and he called out to me to fetch you.’

They all leaped into the cab, and Cedric told the driver to ride like the wind to Paddington Green police station. ‘I hardly recognised the lad at first he has grown so, but I am very glad he saw me.’

‘Do you know why he has been arrested?’ asked Frances.