A chilling possibility presented itself to Frances. ‘An asylum? You don’t happen to know which one?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘An injury to his head, you say?’

‘Yes, poor fellow.’ Gillan tapped his right temple. ‘The drivers were tried for manslaughter and he was brought to court, but he couldn’t recall enough to give evidence. Kept asking after his Adeline. Every lady he saw he thought was his wife. I don’t think he knew she was dead.’

Frances thanked him for the information, but as she left the office and walked out onto the sunny Grove, the clear skies brought her no pleasure, and the chattering strollers, the street vendors, the carriage customers who swept by in their smart equipages, all seemed to have only one topic of interest on their minds, the fact that Frances Doughty, the renowned Bayswater detective, had been taken for a fool. Even the whinnying horses seemed to be mocking her as they trotted past.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As Frances walked to the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane she wondered how best to proceed, but the matter was resolved when she saw a uniformed attendant approaching the institution, wheeling an elderly patient in a bath chair. As the attendant turned to manoeuvre the chair down the side alley that led to the garden, Frances lengthened her stride and caught up with him.

‘Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if you might help me?’ she asked, hoping that he was the kind of man always ready to assist a female. She had adopted what she hoped was a tone of anxiety, trying not to let it descend too far into agitation.

He paused and looked up with a willing expression. ‘Certainly, Miss.’

‘I am looking for a relative, a Mr John Dixon, who I have only just learned might be a patient here. Is that correct?’

The attendant hesitated, his cheerful smile replaced by a more serious look. ‘I think you ought to speak to the supervisor, Dr Magrath. Just wait for me to settle my patient and I’ll let him know you are here.’

‘But Mr Dixon is a patient here? I have not mistaken the place?’

‘You are not mistaken,’ he confirmed gently.

‘I had wondered about that. It was my impression that this establishment is for the very elderly, and Mr Dixon is only fifty-two. Do you have many patients in their middle years?’

‘No, he was —’ the attendant winced and made a quick recovery. ‘I mean, he is the only one. He was admitted following an accident.’

‘Oh dear!’ Frances gasped. ‘I hope he is not too disfigured! Is he very frightful to look at?’

‘No, no, not at all, it was just a scar on his temple, nothing to distress yourself about, I am sure.’

Frances did not press the attendant further as she thought she had learned all that she could from him without arousing his suspicion. She thanked him and followed him to the garden, where he called a servant to conduct her to the visitors’ room to await Dr Magrath. Frances said nothing about the purpose of her visit, only provided her card.

Dr Magrath arrived barely a minute later. He was not, as she had anticipated, pleased to see her. A man who thinks he has disposed of all his business on a single visit is always unnerved by a second one.

‘Miss Doughty, how may I assist you?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Since our last meeting I have thought of another question I would like to ask Mr Dromgoole,’ she explained. ‘It will only take a moment or two. Might I see him again?’

His expression would have sat well on the face of an undertaker. ‘I fear that that will not be possible.’

‘Really? Perhaps you might like to consider why I do not find your answer surprising. The fact is that I have recently discovered that you practised a deception on me at our last meeting.’

Magrath tried to conceal his alarm by forcing an overly bright nervous smile but only succeeded in radiating a guilty conscience. He laughed unconvincingly. ‘Surely not.’

‘It is a matter of great disappointment to me that a respected man of medicine should do such a thing,’ Frances went on. ‘Kindly redeem yourself by explaining your reasons for presenting another man to me as Mr Dromgoole and let me have your solemn promise to be truthful in future.’

‘Ah,’ said Magrath, the smile vanishing.

‘Your patient was actually a Mr John Dixon, who was admitted here after suffering a serious accident in which his wife, Adeline, was killed. Is that true?’

Dr Magrath appeared to be considering his options. A denial rose to his lips but died unspoken. His fingers fidgeted and his gaze travelled about the room as if seeking inspiration from the strange portraits on its walls.

‘Is that true?’ Frances repeated, more firmly this time, in a tone that made it quite plain that she knew it was.

He gave up the struggle and made a helpless gesture. ‘Er – yes – I am really very sorry.’

‘You chose him because out of all the residents here he is the only man near to Mr Dromgoole’s age. You could not have deceived me with any other patient. Was that why you told me not to mention Dr Goodwin to him? Was Mr Dixon a patient of his? Did he suffer with his ears after the accident?’

He gave her a rueful glance. ‘You have a good memory.’

‘So – where is Mr Dromgoole, and what is the reason for the ridiculous masquerade at our earlier meeting?’

There was a long silence, a refuge of time, which Magrath employed pacing in a circle, making an earnest inspection of the carpet. ‘Miss Doughty,’ he said looking up at last, ‘please believe me that I acted with the best of intentions, and I do not think – at least I hope – that I have done nothing against the law.’

Frances’ expression suggested that this was something of which she had yet to be convinced. ‘Please go on,’ she said, coldly.

‘You will appreciate that in an establishment such as this, our patients are either very aged or in frail health, but when he was admitted, Mr Dromgoole was neither.’

‘Then why was he here?’ Frances looked at her notes. ‘Is this something to do with the asylum company’s purchase of the house in Kildare Terrace from his cousin, Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, because it appears to me that there has been a very underhand arrangement.’

‘Oh no, please believe me, it was all fully legal. Our solicitor Mr Rawsthorne drew up the papers. That house is now, as I expect you know, a female sanatorium.’

‘But was it a condition of the purchase that the asylum cared for Mr Dromgoole?’

‘It was.’ Magrath drew up a chair and sat to face her. ‘Mr Dromgoole was originally placed in the public asylum by his medical friends. His cousin was most distressed by this, and having acquired legal control over his estate, he hoped that he might be able to rent the house in Kildare Terrace to pay for him to be better accommodated, but the property was very dilapidated and there were no funds for its repair. Even if he had been able to sell it as it was, the amount raised would have been swallowed up in a few years and Mr Dromgoole would then have had to be returned to the public asylum. So we came to an agreement. The ownership of the house would be transferred to the General Asylum Company gratis and in return the company agreed to accommodate Mr Dromgoole.

‘Unfortunately this proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated. As I have already mentioned, an establishment such as ours would not be tolerated in this neighbourhood unless the public was assured that our residents pose no threat to their safety. But Mr Dromgoole was erratic, not of great age and far from feeble. He made more than one attempt to escape, saying that he would take vengeance on the men who had destroyed him. We were therefore obliged to transfer him to a place where he could be more securely housed. I had not expected anyone to call asking for him but his attendant Mr Fullwood and I had already agreed that if that was ever to occur, a harmless deception would be required.’