‘May I ask your mother’s age when she passed away?’ asked Frances, hoping that this would at once disprove the allegations against her.

‘She was fifty-five.’

Frances calculated that Mrs Pearce would have been forty-one at the time of Isaac Goodwin’s birth. It was possible. ‘I think it would be wise to instruct Mr Rawsthorne to watch the matter for you. I do not believe an action for slander can be taken in the case of a deceased person, but there might be a way he can require anyone spreading this story to desist. It would help him to know that Mr Dromgoole is currently confined to an asylum for the insane. Also cast your memories back to eighteen years ago, since that is Mr Isaac Goodwin’s age. You may recall something which will help your case.’

After a brief pause for thought, Charlotte spoke. ‘That was the year before Harriett was married. We were then living in an apartment near the tobacconist’s shop where our father was employed. My parents, Harriett and myself. There were only four rooms.’

‘Then your case is strong,’ Frances reassured the sisters. ‘My interest, however, is not the rumours themselves but that they might have been a factor in Mr Dromgoole’s quarrel with Mr Edwin Antrobus.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘I can certainly see that such a terrible accusation could have led to an altercation, and perhaps the threat of prosecution, but I do not think it would have ended in any violent act. Of course if Mr Dromgoole is of doubtful sanity …’ She sighed. ‘Do you think he might have harmed Edwin?’

‘No, because he was confined to the asylum at the time Mr Antrobus disappeared, but he was the last man known to have quarrelled with him, and I had been hoping he might have some information which could assist me. I have seen him, however, and his mind is sadly clouded.’

The following morning the inquest on Mr Eckley was formally opened and closed again to permit medical reports to be completed.

To celebrate the fact that a long-term customer had finally settled her account Frances thought that she and Sarah could permit themselves a little greediness in the matter of strawberries. A basket of plump fruits was procured, and Sarah sliced them into a pretty dish, strewed them with sugar and added a generous libation of cream. There were, Frances felt sure, lords and ladies who could eat the best strawberries every day during the season, but none could have enjoyed them so much as she did this rare pleasure. Sitting in the parlour, trying to feel just a little guilty with each spoonful, she allowed her mind to reflect on the cases in hand. Even if Mr Dromgoole could recall nothing now, where were the letters he had sent to other newspapers and periodicals, which were unpublished because of their content? Had he made any threats against Mr Antrobus which might provide a clue to his fate? Frances realised that she might have to visit the offices of a great many publications in the hope that they still retained the material, and it was not a pleasing prospect.

Had Dromgoole written to his cousin in Dundee about his obsessions? She didn’t even know if the two had been in contact at the time of Dromgoole’s dispute with Edwin Antrobus. There might have been diaries or unsent letters in Dromgoole’s house – if so they had probably been consigned to the rubbish heap when the property was cleared after it was sold, but it might be worth asking Dr Magrath if he had retained any of his patient’s papers or sent them to Mr Dromgoole’s cousin.

Sarah, with much smacking of lips over the strawberries, was amusing herself by reading out the death notices from the Chronicle. She preferred the death notices to the births and marriages since she thought that at least half of them were murders, whereas the births and marriages were only a preparation for later murders. As Sarah read, a familiar name cut through Frances’ thoughts and made her sit up suddenly. ‘Could you read that last one out again?’

‘Dixon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr John Dixon, 52, formerly of Edgware Road, on the 3rd inst, after a short illness. With Adeline at last.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

It was, thought Frances, the slenderest of chances, but the Adeline mentioned in the notice might be the same Adeline of whom Mr Dromgoole had spoken so feelingly, perhaps an old friend, relation or sweetheart. Clearly, from the contents of the notice, the lady was deceased, but there might be some advantage in speaking to her friends or family. Supposing Mr Dromgoole had revealed something to her about the disappearance of Edwin Antrobus, secrets that she had then confided to others?

Frances savoured the last of the sugared cream on her spoon, left Sarah to lick the dish and went to the offices of the Chronicle. Mr Gillan, with a significant wink, imparted that ‘young Ibbitson’ who attended to the birth, marriage and death notices would be able to assist her. He signalled to the lad, who bounded over to her like a pet dog, then winked again and went back to his desk. She did not know if it was a coincidence, but since their last meeting the youth had been making valiant and unsuccessful attempts to grow a moustache.

‘What can you tell me about the notice for Mr Dixon?’ she asked, showing him the newspaper. ‘Who reported the death?’

‘That was his brother, Mr Fred Dixon,’ said Ibbitson. He was fully six inches shorter than Frances, and being obliged to gaze up at her only increased his resemblance to a trusting puppy.

‘Did he say who Adeline was?’

‘No, he just gave me what he wanted printed.’

‘Do you have an address for him?’

Ibbitson looked mortified, as if the lack was his own fault. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Doughty, he just came here and handed me a bit of paper and his fee. That’s mostly what they do.’

‘I don’t suppose the address is needed if you already have the payment,’ she said kindly. ‘Do you still have the note?’

‘Oh yes, we keep them for a few weeks in case they come back grumbling.’ Ibbitson searched through some drawers, found the sheet of paper and handed it to her, but it was the bare words of the notice. Frances hoped she might be able to locate Mr Dixon in the Bayswater Directory. The task of finding a death notice for Adeline when she did not have a surname or know when or where she had died was a daunting prospect.

Mr Gillan chanced by, or perhaps it was not chance. ‘Keeping the lad busy, Miss Doughty?’ he taunted, slyly. ‘He’s very keen, you know.’

Frances ignored the insinuation. ‘Perhaps you might be able to help me. Do you recall the death of a lady called Adeline? It is possible that her surname might have been Dixon.’

‘Since you mention it, yes, I do,’ said Gillan, readily. ‘I saw her husband passed away very recently. That was an unfortunate business. I was at the inquest and the trial.’

‘An inquest and a trial? Please tell me more.’

‘Now you know how this works,’ smiled Gillan. ‘I would welcome something in return about why you find the lady so fascinating.’

‘It may be nothing; in fact I could be mistaken, in which case there is no story for you.’

Gillan chuckled. ‘No story yet, but I know you Miss Doughty, and when you follow a case there is always a story for me in the end.’

‘It is just possible that there may be a connection with a Mr Dromgoole, who once practised as a surgeon in Bayswater and had an altercation with Mr Antrobus whose disappearance I am investigating. Mr Dromgoole is too unwell to be questioned and unlikely to improve, but when he was in better health, he might have said something to a friend or relative, and I believe that he was very close to a lady called Adeline.’

Gillan shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know about any connection with Mr Dromgoole, but Mrs Adeline Dixon was killed in a very serious accident some years ago. Two omnibus drivers were said to have been racing each other, the result being that one of the omnibuses drove up over the kerb, and Mrs Dixon, who was walking past, suffered dreadful injuries and died about a week later. Her husband got a nasty crack on the head and was never right again. I think he was put in an asylum.’