There was no doubt that Mrs Antrobus was aghast and appalled. ‘But – I don’t understand – he told me – he —’
Frances watched as a whole array of conflicting and painful emotions passed across her client’s features. At length Mrs Antrobus, too overcome to say more, took a fine kerchief from her sleeve and passed the thin fabric across her brow.
‘Do you still maintain that he told you he was going to change his will – that he had become convinced of your sanity – because this letter, which is the only piece of firm evidence I have, contradicts your statement.’
It was a moment or so before Mrs Antrobus’ heaving breath had stilled to the point where she was able to speak. ‘I would never have thought it of him – he seemed sincere – but it appears that I have been most terribly betrayed!’
Frances poured water into a wooden cup and handed it to the shocked lady, who took it gratefully and gulped it, dabbing her trembling lips. There were tears in her eyes and she looked stricken with sorrow. ‘Miss Doughty, I can assure you that before Edwin went to Bristol we had a very long and frank conversation in which he told me that he had come to agree with what Dr Goodwin had said and that he finally realised that I had not, after all, lost my mind. He said he also appreciated that the will he had made was not appropriate to my situation and promised me that as soon as he returned he would make another. That, I can tell you most faithfully, is what he said. But there is, of course, no witness to the conversation. And a matter of days later he wrote this terrible letter. All I can say is that either in the intervening time something occurred to make him change his mind or else’ – her eyelashes glimmered with fresh tears – ‘he never meant what he said, all the conversation was a lie intended to put a stop to my complaints and make me more amenable to any plans he might make for me.’ She shook her head. ‘Unwilling as I am to admit it, Lionel has been right all along, on that point at least. He has always maintained that Edwin had no intention of amending his will. I expect’ – she shuddered – ‘that Edwin would have been kindness itself and perhaps arranged some supposedly pleasurable outing, muffling me against the noise, so that I would not know where I was being taken and then, only too horribly late, I would have found out exactly what fate he had planned for me.’ She sobbed quietly.
When Charlotte arrived home Frances left her to soothe her sister’s sorrow.
Sometimes Frances was the recipient of plain envelopes that originated from a small office in the heart of London. Some enclosed letters directing her to carry out small but important duties, and once those duties were performed, other envelopes arrived containing banknotes. The plain letter she eagerly opened that day was, she hoped, a reply to her request for information, and she was not disappointed.
Robert Barfield, she learned, had not had many associates during his time in prison, where he had been committed for a three-year term in February 1876, and those few he had were still incarcerated at the time of Edwin Antrobus’ disappearance in October 1877. Barfield, however, was not. He had been released on licence in the previous month, and his current whereabouts were unknown.
Harriett Antrobus, Frances realised, was obviously unaware that her light-fingered cousin had been a free man at the time of her husband’s disappearance, and he must therefore be considered a strong suspect in any fate that had befallen him. The ragged man who some years before had tried to enter the house and been peremptorily sent on his way by Edwin Antrobus was in all probability none other than Barfield. Frances wondered if he had again attempted to gain entry after being released from prison. Mrs Antrobus, she reflected, had last seen her cousin when he was a beardless boy of twelve. He would now be thirty-eight. What changes had those years wrought? Would she even recognise him if she were to see him again? Had he deliberately altered his appearance and changed his name in order to insinuate himself into the Antrobus circle? Had the ‘commonplace young man’ transformed himself into an ‘idyllic poet’ or something else entirely?
Most of Robert Barfield’s thefts had been of the particular type that had earned him the soubriquet of Spring-heeled Bob, but there had been no recent robberies in Bayswater that looked like his work. He was also, however, a man of opportunity: the last crime for which he was known to have been imprisoned happened only because he had noticed an open door and walked in. Supposing, Frances thought, he was trying to conceal his identity, perhaps as part of a more subtle and lucrative scheme. He might, if he was sensible enough, consider it unwise to resume his old tricks and thus leave a recognisable calling card all over Bayswater.
It was vital that the police should be made aware of the situation and Frances at once wrote a note to Inspector Sharrock.
While Frances awaited the adjourned inquest on the brickyard skeleton and a reply to the letter she had written to Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, there were other cases to keep her busy.
The affair of the cheating business partner had been so well suited to the special talents of Chas and Barstie that she had turned it over to them at once. As she had anticipated, it had been settled quickly and resulted in a fragmentation of the concern that left valuable debris to be picked up by anyone with a sharp eye and fast on his feet. Frances felt some relief that her friends had not called upon the very particular services of the Filleter, or the double-dealer, instead of suffering merely a loss of reputation, might have found himself in an alleyway with his throat cut as an example to others.
Frances’ newest client was a Mr Edgar Candy, a youthful gentleman impeccably groomed and dressed. He brought no documents with him, only an expression of concern. ‘I have come to see you because I am the victim of a slanderous attack,’ he began, ‘one which has had serious consequences since it has destroyed my prospects of an advantageous marriage.’
Frances opened her notebook. ‘Please start from the beginning, and tell me a little about yourself.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He paused as if considering what facts might be of relevance. ‘I am twenty-seven, and since coming into an annuity six years ago, I have been of independent means. But I am not one of these idle fellows who waste their time and dissipate their fortunes. I believe in making myself useful to society and so I act as secretary to a number of charities in Bayswater. Some months ago, the death of my grandfather brought me a handsome legacy, and I determined that it was time for me to marry. I consequently sought and won the hand of a young lady, a Miss Digby, of good family and excellent character. We had agreed on a wedding date, and the engagement was to have been formally announced next week. I have seen no indication that my affianced regarded this event other than the way in which any young lady might anticipate becoming a bride.’
Mr Candy, thought Frances, had said nothing of love or even affection, although that might have been from natural reticence before a stranger. He seemed like a practical young man, who valued only money and reputation. She said nothing and allowed him to continue.
‘Two days ago, I called upon Miss Digby to ask her to accompany me to a society gathering, with a suitable chaperone of course, and to my great surprise she told me it was not convenient. When I pressed her for an explanation, her manner towards me changed and she begged to be released from our engagement. I asked for her reasons, but she refused to give them. Naturally, as a gentleman I acceded to her wishes, but you can imagine my mystification. I decided to speak to her father, wondering if he had influenced her opinion; he assured me that he had not. He suggested that his daughter, being very young and of unformed opinions, had simply changed her mind. I could see no obvious reason for her to do so and came to the conclusion that a rival for Miss Digby’s hand had traduced me and whispered slanders in her ear. I wish to impress on you, Miss Doughty, that whatever this individual might have said can have no foundation in truth. I have been honest with Mr Digby about my fortune, and there is nothing against my character. But I cannot allow this to continue. Supposing my rival makes an attack on my honesty, my public standing? It is not to be tolerated.’