‘I must confess I am somewhat relieved to hear it. He did not strike me as a man who would murder his partner for money. Of course that does not mean that he was telling the truth about Mr Antrobus’ wisdom teeth.’

‘Oh but he was,’ revealed Sharrock, triumphantly. ‘You haven’t got all the answers, you know. The police can do brain-work, too.’

‘I never doubted it. But he was said to have had the teeth extracted in America when he was a young man. I am impressed that you were able to make such a discovery after so long a time.’

Sharrock preened himself. ‘Ah, well, we have our methods. We found the name of the company in America where Mr Edwin Antrobus spent two years studying the tobacco plant and its cultivation. Very interesting indeed if you like that sort of thing. Turns out the company is still very much in business, and by means of the Atlantic telegraph we were able to learn two things. While Mr Antrobus was there he had his wisdom teeth out. All of them. He was not a brave man in the dentist’s chair, but then how many of us are, even under ether? Struggled so much he half-killed the dentist before he went off to sleep. And the whole time he was there he did not suffer any accident with broken bones.’

Frances nodded. ‘Then we can be quite sure that the second set of remains are not his, and I am sure the court will come to the same conclusion.’

‘At least we now know who the man in the canal was. All credit to you for that one,’ the Inspector added reluctantly. ‘Dr Magrath has come clean and taken the blame on himself.’

‘Does Mrs Antrobus know?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Rawsthorne went hotfoot to tell her. He’s hoping for new business on behalf of Mr Wylie, suing either Magrath or the Asylum Company or both for all those wasted legal fees.’

The rest of Frances’ day was taken up with receiving the last of the reports on behalf of Mr Candy, writing to him with the results and acting on a sudden inspiration on how she might alleviate the troubles of that affectionate yet mistrusting couple Mr and Mrs Reville. She also wrote to Harriett Antrobus to advise her of recent developments, although she decided to omit the detail concerning the unusual friendship between her husband and the lady witness at the railway station. Although Lionel Antrobus was not really her client he was paying for Tom’s work to find the woman who pawned the ring, and it seemed only courteous to write to him too.

That evening she and Sarah attended a meeting of the Bayswater Women’s Suffrage Society and were accorded the plaudits of the members for their work. Whenever Frances appeared at the meetings there was always a small spate of new clients to follow, and on the way home she reflected that there were bound to be some bad husbands and dishonest servants whose careers would soon come to an end.

Even in Sarah’s company Frances still found the night-time streets unsettling, and although it was a warm evening she was unwilling to walk home. They took a cab, thus avoiding the narrow pathway where the attack had taken place. She usually slept well after such a busy day, but this time it was not to be.

There was the stench of unwashed clothing, bad teeth and stale tobacco, the bristly scratch of an unkempt moustache. She fought hard against a horrible strength, the hard muscles of a man so much more powerful than she. All her resources could do nothing against him, the weight and force of a brute. His body pressed violently against hers. He was trying to force a chloroformed pad over her face, and she turned her head aside and fought as hard as she could, dreading the shock of a blow with his fist when she would not give in. Then another figure appeared, a dark presence, tall and strong but not threatening, holding her firmly, taking her to safety, and she smelled the rich warm spice of a cigar.

France awoke, gasping for breath, her whole body shaking convulsively, and found herself enveloped in the warmth of Sarah’s massive hug. Some minutes passed before she could or even wanted to speak. It was still night and her room was unlit and very peaceful.

‘Another one of them dreams?’ asked Sarah.

Frances nodded. She had never told Sarah about them, but somehow was unsurprised that she knew, and she supposed that she must have been crying out. Sarah slept in the adjoining room, and Frances often heard the low rumble of her snores, which was a great comfort. ‘I only wish they would stop.’

‘They will,’ promised Sarah. ‘But if you think one might come on, go for a long walk. Walk till you sweat. Sweat hard and then sweat harder.’ She was so assured that Frances did not need to ask if she had ever had such dreams herself. ‘And you want to come to the ladies’ classes,’ she added. ‘I’ve got them exercising with a big stick. You can do a lot with a big stick.’

Sarah wiped Frances’ brow with a handkerchief and settled her back onto her pillow. ‘I would be nothing without your companionship,’ smiled Frances, and she soon drifted into a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

At the resumed inquest on Mr Eckley, Ratty appeared in the new suit of clothes, hat and shirt supplied by Cedric, his face scrubbed to a shine. He looked quite the man, albeit a very nervous one.

‘Now then, young fellow, if you are to make your way in the world you must have a name,’ advised Cedric. ‘Even if it is Smith or Jones or Wilkins.’

‘I dunno,’ said Ratty. He glanced at the door as if tempted to dart through it. ‘Ain’t got no name ’cept what I get called. It’s done all right for me, but the coppers don’ like it.’

‘When the coroner asks you for your name,’ suggested Frances, ‘tell him you are called John Smith. I am sure Mr Smith will not mind you borrowing his name for the morning.’

Ratty nodded. ‘Will you be ’ere?’

‘Of course.’

‘ ’N you, Mr Garter?’

Cedric smiled at the curious rendition of his name. ‘Your first public appearance as a boy detective? I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

Ratty managed a grin, squared his shoulders and stood up straighter.

‘If you are very good then Mr W. Grove might write a story about you, and you will be as celebrated as Miss Doughty.’

‘Wot, are you Mr Grove?’ asked Ratty. ‘Tom’s bin showin’ me the books ’n I c’n read a lot of it now, ’n it’s very ixcitin’ wot with all the thieves ’n that.’

‘Would that I had the talent to write such immortal works of literature!’ exclaimed Cedric, with elaborate regret. ‘Sadly I must confine my efforts to such tawdry trifles as lectures on art.’

The crowds were beginning to gather. Dr Goodwin did not put in an appearance, which might have been commented upon by the press had he done so, but Mr Wheelock, Mr Rawsthorne’s unpleasant clerk, was sitting at the back, sucking ink from his fingernails, and Frances surmised that he had been sent to watch the proceedings on the doctor’s behalf.

Frances looked about her to see if there were any faces in the assembled throng that she did not know, but there were not. Even the pressmen were becoming familiar to her by sight. Mr Gillan was there, as she might have expected, and young Ibbitson, who had been permitted to attend his first inquest, sat enthralled by his surroundings. She wondered if the detective employed by Mr Eckley had been traced. If so, he was not present.

The first medical man on the scene had been Dr Collin, who had certified death caused by a single stab wound to the abdomen that had severed the aorta. He could not comment on whether the assailant had been experienced with a knife or not. Some abdominal wounds gave more hope of survival, but the fact that this one had been rapidly fatal could have been mere chance. The knife had been driven to the hilt in a slightly upwards direction, probably when the victim and the attacker were at close quarters. A torn piece of paper, the corner of an envelope, had been found clasped firmly between a forefinger and thumb of the victim. He theorised that Mr Eckley, not believing himself to be in any danger, had been handing the envelope to his attacker when he was stabbed.