The door was opened by a tall woman of about forty. She was neither plain nor pretty but had the strong square features often described as handsome. She wore a plain dark stuff gown, several seasons old, but an effort had been made to disguise its deficiencies by the addition of woven braid. From her waist there hung not a chain of keys but a bag made of padded fabric, gathered with a cord. On seeing Frances’ card her features softened into a welcoming smile. ‘Miss Doughty, do come in. I am Charlotte Pearce, Harriett’s sister.’ She glanced at Frances’ shoes.

‘I will leave my street shoes in the hall if I may,’ said Frances, producing a pair of soft indoor slippers from the basket she carried.

Miss Pearce looked her up and down, took in the quiet dress and lack of clattering jewellery, and nodded her approval. ‘That is very kind of you. Harriett will appreciate your thoughtfulness.’

As they passed along the corridor Frances heard a whisper of sound, the deep low notes of a piano, gentle, soft, rippling like waves. It was not a melody, but it resembled the music played in preparation for a melody to arouse the expectation of the listener that higher notes would break in to make a contrast against the underscore; instead, the theme turned full circle and came back again to the start.

On reaching the rear parlour, her guide tapped gently on the door, not with her knuckles but using the pads of her fingertips. She paused and, once the music had ceased, said, ‘Harriett, Miss Doughty is here to see you.’ In a few moments the door opened soundlessly.

Frances saw a dignified woman perhaps a year or two younger than Miss Pearce. They were clearly, from the similarity of their features, sisters, but in Mrs Antrobus the cast of cheek and brow was more delicate, rounded and refined. While Charlotte might have drawn a gentleman’s approving eye she would only have done so if her sister was not present.

In view of her history anyone might imagine that Mrs Antrobus would be bowed down by her cruel situation, but there was a resolution in the lady’s expression, and she had the brave and confident face of someone who could meet the strongest adversity with the expectation of triumph. ‘Miss Doughty, please do come in,’ she said in a voice that was at once soft and harmonious, like her music.

‘I will bring some refreshments,’ murmured Miss Pearce and slipped quietly away.

Frances entered a small, comfortable parlour, where the floor was deeply carpeted and every hard surface covered by soft drapery. There were no items such as portraits or china ornaments that might inadvertently fall to the floor, but even if there had been and they had fallen they would have been received softly and safely without unpleasant noise. Heavy curtains protected the only window, and the room was bathed in the glow of gas lamps. There was a small pianoforte, the lid of which lay open, and a thick folded shawl rested across the keys, presumably to muffle the sound of the closing lid.

Once both women were comfortably seated Mrs Antrobus smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting the golden light. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you Miss Doughty, I have read so much about you in the newspapers, and I was overjoyed when Mr Wylie informed me that you had agreed to help.’

Frances hoped that Mrs Antrobus had not read the halfpenny stories that were being published in Bayswater about a lady detective called Miss Dauntless who dared do anything a man might do and more, and whose exploits were often confused with her own. The author, who Frances had not yet identified, went under the obvious pseudonym W. Grove. She thought it best not to mention them. ‘I cannot promise success, but I will do my very best to find your husband.’ She hesitated. ‘I am not speaking too loudly for you?’

‘Not at all,’ Mrs Antrobus reassured her, ‘gentle speech without emphasis does not cause me pain.’ She handed Frances a paper. ‘I have written down the names and addresses of all Edwin’s family and associates. There are few enough as you see, he was not a gregarious man and preferred small gatherings to large assemblies.’

‘And was he on good terms with all these persons?’ asked Frances, studying the list.

‘I can scarcely imagine that anyone who knew Edwin might wish him harm. He was the least offensive of men.’

‘Nevertheless, people can take offence at even slight causes or sometimes for no obvious cause at all.’

Mrs Antrobus gave the matter some consideration. ‘Edwin, as far as I know, has always been honest and fair in business. His partner, Mr Luckhurst, thinks highly of him, as does Mr Wylie. Neither is he a quarrelsome man who might make enemies. People found him courteous and considerate if a little reserved.’

‘And yet he made a will that you found harsh. Why was this?’

The bright eyes dimmed with sadness. ‘I cannot blame him,’ she sighed. ‘He thought it best because of the boys. Our doctor had told him that I was suffering from hysteria, and he believed what he was told. I also think that he allowed himself to be influenced by his brother. Lionel has never approved of the marriage. My late father was an assistant in the tobacconist’s shop owned by Mr Antrobus senior. Our circumstances were far below what Lionel thought was appropriate. And once I began to suffer with my ears that only hardened his opinion. You know, I suppose, that my sons have been sent away to school and Lionel discourages them from visiting me during the holidays. I miss them constantly.’

‘Mr Wylie told me that your husband was about to change his will to something you would find more favourable. Did your brother-in-law know this?’

‘He is adamant that he knew nothing of it, but that is not too surprising as it was just a matter of a conversation between Edwin and myself the day before he left for Bristol.’

‘How does your brother-in-law benefit under the will as it stands?’

‘He receives Edwin’s half share in the tobacconist’s shop and a sum of money, quite a generous one.’

‘And if the will had been changed? What then?’

She ventured a little smile. ‘You mean would Lionel’s expectations have fallen had mine been advanced? I really can’t say. All I know is that Edwin reassured me that he would secure my entitlement to remain in this house for my lifetime and I would receive an income sufficient for its upkeep – rather more than I have now. He also agreed that in future the boys could come and stay with us during their holidays. That gave me more pleasure than anything.’

‘What was your husband’s manner shortly before he departed? Did he seem troubled in any way? Was he in full health?’

‘As far as I was aware his health was sound and he seemed quite his usual self. If there was anything worrying him I did not know of it.’

Frances wrote in her notebook, but there was little enough to write. She had asked the obvious questions and learned nothing. Either Mr Antrobus’ disappearance was the result of some unknown and unanticipated incident, or an aspect of his life she had not yet explored. ‘Can you say how it was that you were able to convince your husband to make changes in his will? In fact, before you answer that question, it might help me to know the history of your affliction. How did it arise? What advice were you given?’ Frances paused. ‘I am sorry if such a question distresses you but it may be of some importance.’

‘I understand,’ said Mrs Antrobus, ‘and I welcome the opportunity to tell another person about my disease. I fear that there may be many others like myself, who are thought to be mad when it is only their ears that are affected.’

Frances allowed her time to collect her thoughts.

‘When I married Edwin I was twenty-one and had never suffered a moment’s anxiety about my hearing. Not long after Arthur, our youngest, was born, Edwin and I attended a display of fireworks, and there was one that exploded too near to the ground and alarmed everyone. From that time, I found that all noises, but especially those that were sharp and shrill, seemed much louder, and some gave me pain, while other people tolerated the same sounds with equanimity. I took to putting cotton wool in my ears. When that was not enough I used softened wax, but when I removed the wax, the noises seemed even louder and were more painful. The street, a busy shop, these places seemed to be crowded with demons sent to torment me with their screaming. But of course they were not demons and neither did they scream. They were just people, laughing and talking and exclaiming as people do.’