‘He was mistaken. I have committed no crime and neither has my son.’

‘Do you actually wish me to make enquiries concerning the deceased? Or was my name merely conjured to strike terror into the Inspector’s heart?’

‘Please do whatever you can. I have devoted a great deal of time to thinking about that unpleasant fellow, his appearance and his manner, and I can think of nothing that might help you other than what I have already said.’

Frances did at last have an explanation for something that had been puzzling her for some time. If Edwin Antrobus had been murdered by someone who had hoped to profit under his will, such as his brother Lionel or his partner Mr Luckhurst, then the murderer, impatient for his reward, would have taken steps to ensure that the body was found. Although Mrs Antrobus did very badly under the will, it was to her advantage to have her husband’s death proved to enable her to challenge it. Any of those three people, had they been involved in the murder, would by now have found some way of making sure that the body was discovered, but clearly none of them had so much as attempted to do so. The mystery man, however, was a simple thief, with no interest in the will, and it had mattered nothing to him whether the body was found or not. Unfortunately, the location of Edwin Antrobus’ remains was most probably known only to the man whose bones had been found in the brickyard.

With that question settled, many others remained unanswered, and there was something at the back of Frances’ mind, something that Mrs Fisher had said to her, which was troubling, but she couldn’t think what it was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Next morning, Frances was back at the Chronicle offices, working on Mr Candy’s new commission to discover if an applicant for assistance had, as it was rumoured, previously attempted a fraud on another charity.

While there she decided to examine the newspapers for the summer of 1875 to see what article the Antrobus’ parlourmaid, Lizzie, said had so distressed her mistress. Frances spent an hour reading closely every issue for June and July but saw nothing that could have had such an effect. Neither Mrs Antrobus’ cousin nor anyone with whom she might have been connected had been imprisoned at that time, and there was no other item of news that might have upset her. Frances extended her search to May and August, since Lizzie’s memory might have been at fault as to the month, but without result. She decided instead to try June and July of 1876, and she found it almost at once. In the last week of June, Robert Barfield, who sometimes went by the name John Roberts, also the soubriquet ‘Spring-heeled Bob’ because of his agility, had attempted to escape from prison, where he had been serving a term for theft. He had scaled a high wall but suffered a heavy fall onto some stones, and he had been taken to the prison infirmary with a badly shattered leg. He was expected to live, but his career as a window man was over.

When Frances came home, she took all her notes and spread them out over the table like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They connected, she was sure, but the things that would link them were contained in secret conversations and meetings, what was believed or not believed and, in some cases, her own assumptions and suppositions. She knew that Edwin Antrobus was dead, she knew that he had been murdered and by whom and in all probability why. She was unable, however, to prove any of it. One important piece of clarification could, however, be supplied by the missing man’s widow.

Harriett Antrobus was delighted to see Frances; her features glowed with happiness and the light in her eyes testified to the compelling charm she must have exerted in her youth. ‘My dear, dear Miss Doughty,’ she breathed, ‘what a pleasure it is that we are soon to be related! Please do call me Harriett and permit me to anticipate our connection by addressing you as Frances. What joy your uncle has conferred on dear Charlotte, and how well she deserves it!’

Frances sat with her future aunt and broached a difficult subject. ‘I do hope that we may be very close in future, and to that end, I must implore you that there should be no secrets between us. Indeed, it is well known that sisters, or ladies who are affectionate friends and think of themselves as sisters, hide nothing from each other.’ She felt a little stab of guilt as she said that, since she had imagined for some time that she had successfully concealed from Sarah the fact that she had been having nightmares. Her confession to Sarah, the appearance in her dreams of a shadowy rescuer and long energetic walks had at last consigned those terrors to the past.

‘Why, whatever can you mean?’ wondered Harriett, more amused than disturbed by the question. ‘If there is something you wish to know, do by all means ask, and I promise to tell you everything.’

‘I beg you not to be offended, but I think there are matters best resolved as soon as possible so that we may put all doubts behind us.’

‘You have quite alarmed me, Frances,’ teased Harriett with a friendly smile. ‘But it is most intriguing too, and I am eager to discover what this is about.’

‘Are you willing to admit to me that you asked Mr Wylie to lie at the inquest on your behalf so that the bones found in Queens Road would be identified as those of your husband?’

‘Oh dear!’ said Harriett with a soft little laugh. ‘I am not at all offended, I do know that you must ask these difficult questions, and I agree that it is best to put an end to all doubts on this matter now. You will no doubt think me a very wicked woman, but I suppose, yes, I did suggest to him what he might say. After the terrible disappointment of losing the court case over the remains found in the canal, I thought this might be my last chance of setting my affairs straight. There – I have confessed my sin, and I am sorry for it. But I did it from desperation, in the hope of at last freeing myself from Lionel’s clutches. Can you forgive me?’

‘I am happy that you have made that clear to me,’ said Frances, evenly, ‘but it leaves me with another, rather harder question.’

Harriett smiled the untroubled smile of a woman with a clear conscience. ‘Ah, so I am not yet forgiven. Do go on.’

‘I have recently discovered that your cousin Robert Barfield attempted to escape from prison just over a year before your husband disappeared. He suffered a fall in which he was badly injured. A broken leg. I also know that he was released from prison the month before your husband disappeared. I think it is possible that he was the limping man last seen with your husband in Bristol and the same limping man who was later seen wearing your husband’s signet ring. It leads me to believe that the bones found together with your husband’s travelling bag were his.’

Harriett was silent for a time, her smile declining into a look of regret and sadness, then she rose and went to the piano, put aside the shawl that lay across the keys and started to play. She used only the low notes, her fingers moving very gently like the waves of a quiet sea. There was none of the emphasis that was often to be found in music, every note was the same degree of loudness as the others, monotonous and yet curiously soothing.

Frances went to stand by her.

‘At the time the bones were found all the evidence we had suggested that they might be the remains of your husband. Yet, before any doctor had examined them, you knew at once they could not be his; more than that, I believe you knew that they had to be those of your cousin. Your description, the leg injury and the tooth extraction, the details you asked Mr Wylie to give in evidence, evidence you very carefully distanced yourself from by making your statement sufficiently vague to avoid all blame; I really do not think that was coincidence. Yet you told me yourself that you had not seen your cousin since he was a child.’