Mr Malcolm Dromgoole was a tall spare gentleman of about forty but with dull grey features prematurely lined by illness. He arrived leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and it was apparent that the climb upstairs to Frances’ rooms had been a strain on his constitution. When he sat, trying not to show how grateful he was for the rest, it was some minutes before his laboured breathing returned to normal. He rested a leather document case on his knees, and Frances poured him a glass of water from her carafe.

‘It appears, Miss Doughty, that I have you to thank for uncovering the deception practiced upon me by Dr Magrath,’ he began, in a gentle soft accent like the wind rippling though heather. ‘I expect he told you that I was too unwell to travel at the time my poor cousin was first confined to the asylum, and I have not ventured far from home since then or I would undoubtedly have come to London to see him before now. I spoke to Dr Magrath this morning, and it was not a pleasurable visit for either of us but, as you might well imagine, far less so for him than for me.’

‘When I last spoke to Dr Magrath he admitted his fault and expressed his sincere regrets for the pain and inconvenience he has caused. I trust,’ added Frances hopefully, ‘that he has now done all he can to rectify the situation.’

‘I can confirm that my cousin’s death has now been properly registered and reported to the correct authorities. Magrath will find himself with a fine to pay, but if he imagines he can clear his conscience with a few pounds he is very much mistaken. It will go hard for the reputation of the asylum if the newspapers get wind of it, which I am sure they will.’ Dromgoole did not look unduly concerned at the prospect.

He opened the document case and extracted a small flat parcel, which he placed on the table. ‘Your letter enquired about my late cousin’s papers and diaries. This is all I have; they were sent to me when he was first admitted to the asylum. I have looked at them, and there are some curious ramblings which mean nothing to me, but you may find them of interest.’ He took a small card from his pocket and placed it on the parcel. ‘I will be residing at this hotel for the next two weeks. Please could you ensure that the papers are returned to me before my departure.’

Frances thanked him. ‘And if there is anything further I can do to assist you —’

‘You may be invited to tell all you know to my solicitor Mr Rawsthorne. I have an appointment with him later today to examine the details of the agreement he drew up with the asylum.’

Frances had anticipated from Dromgoole’s manner, firm as iron under the fragile exterior, that he would take his case further. ‘I expect Dr Magrath will maintain that he adhered to the spirit if not the letter of the agreement.’

‘He has already made that claim to me, but I disagree. The conditions for transfer of the property were that the asylum would provide proper care of my cousin for the rest of his life. I do not believe that permitting him to steal a knife, escape his attendant and cut his throat constitutes “proper care” and I feel sure that Mr Rawsthorne will concur. I intend to take steps to nullify the agreement and have the property transferred back to my possession.’

‘I am sure you know that the house is now a sanatorium.’

He gave a thin smile. ‘I do, and a worthy endeavour no doubt, which I will not disturb providing they pay me a suitable rent.’

Frances sometimes felt guilty that many of the establishments she had encountered during the course of her investigations had been obliged to close as a direct consequence of her activities, and she felt quite relieved at this assurance.

When her visitor had departed, Frances prepared a substantial pot of tea and unwrapped the package of papers. There was overwhelming evidence of Dromgoole’s failing sanity, with half-completed letters in increasingly erratic penmanship, the words trailing across the page and sometimes ending in an illegible thread. Capital letters and exclamation marks abounded. In better order was a small notebook, which appeared at first to be a diary for the early part of 1877, but as Frances perused it she realised that it was a record of Dromgoole’s attempts to follow Dr Goodwin in the hopes of securing evidence against him. Whether or not Goodwin had known about it, Dromgoole had been keeping watch on his home and his journeys to and from the school, and he had made a record of every person Goodwin had spoken to, with additional notes of what he imagined they had said, which usually involved secret plotting against himself. There were two items of especial interest. On a date in May 1877 Dromgoole had succeeded in pursuing Goodwin on a cab ride to Kensal Green cemetery. He had followed Goodwin’s walk amongst the tombstones, which had terminated at a location where a heavily cloaked and veiled lady was waiting. The two had spoken for a long time before they went their separate ways. A week later Goodwin had met the same lady in the same location. Dromgoole, suspecting that the tombstone might provide some clues, examined it after the pair had departed and found it to be that of Albert Pearce, 1815–1873, much mourned by his loving wife Maria and daughters Harriett and Charlotte. Was this consecrated ground what Dromgoole had described as ‘a holy place’ in his letter to the Chronicle?

There were, thought Frances, a number of possibilities. The records of these secret meetings could have been the deliberate invention of Mr Dromgoole or products of his imagination. If real, then the location might have been chance. Supposing, however, that Dr Goodwin had been having private meetings with a lady who had good reason to be visiting that very tomb. Who was the veiled lady? The widow, Mrs Pearce, mother of Mrs Antrobus and Charlotte Pearce and reputed mother of Isaac Goodwin? That was not possible for two reasons. In 1877 Mrs Pearce was a frail invalid unable to travel without assistance. She was also deaf, and if Dr Goodwin had conversed with her he would have used sign language or writing and Dromgoole would have observed this and commented on it. Could it have been Harriett Antrobus he met? Or her sister? And what was the purpose of the meetings? Dromgoole was insinuating a criminal connection, but that might not necessarily have been the case. Importantly, did the subject of these meetings have any relevance to the disappearance of Edwin Antrobus?

Frances decided to try and obtain some clarification by interviewing Dr Goodwin, who was, as far as she was aware, still in custody.

Frances took a cab to Paddington Green police station, where the desk sergeant, with a surly look, advised her that Dr Goodwin had been released after questioning but was still under suspicion. Inspector Sharrock was out, having rushed away on another case.

Frances was just about to leave when the sergeant muttered, ‘Not looking for a missing ring, are you?’

‘No,’ replied Frances.

‘Oh, then you might have been saved some work, because one has just turned up. Funny thing, that. People usually come in all of a bother to say valuables have been stolen, not when they find them again.’ He shook his head, as if the behaviour of other people was destined always to remain a mystery.

There was nothing Frances could do at the station, so she decided to go to Dr Goodwin’s home and speak with him. She had descended the steps and was on the pavement looking for a cab when a thought suddenly struck her and she re-entered the station and returned to the sergeant’s desk. ‘What kind of a ring?’ she asked.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Signet ring of some sort. Don’t know about the worth. Young man came in very excited saying it was his uncle’s.’