The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘I think it would be best for everyone if this particular dispute could be settled as quickly and amicably as possible,’ said Frances in her best soothing tone. ‘Would you be so kind as to ask your son if he is indeed holding these classes. If he can assure me that he is not, then I will so inform Mr Eckley and hopefully the matter will end there.’

  Goodwin gave this suggestion some thought then rose and rang for the maid. ‘I will ask him, as you request, but I will neither encourage nor discourage him from making any statement. It is for him to decide.’

  The maid was sent to fetch Isaac Goodwin, who appeared in a few minutes and stood in the doorway looking apprehensive. Eckley had suggested to Frances that Isaac was deficient in intelligence, although he had not elaborated on his grounds for that opinion. Frances, aware that Eckley might have had some prejudice in the matter and knowing that a physical defect could sometimes be mistaken for one of the mind, would have liked to be able to judge for herself. Isaac was eighteen, and she remembered, with a sudden catch of emotion, her own dear late brother at that age; while remaining always the dutiful and respectful son, he had thought very much as a man and not a child and stood tall with the confident expectation of the duties and privileges that his majority would bring. Isaac had none of that confidence, and there was something child-like in the way he looked at his father, searching anxiously for support and guidance.

  Goodwin beckoned Isaac to come forward and gestured to a seat. Isaac looked warily at Frances and sat clutching his hands tightly together in his lap. As signs were his preferred means of communication it was as though he was deliberately rendering himself mute. Frances wondered if he had already surmised that she knew about his secret classes.

  When Dr Goodwin made a series of signs, however, Isaac’s demeanour brightened and he quickly signed back. A lively dialogue ensued. Frances had hoped that her recent study would enable her to follow the conversation but the rapidity defeated her. She was able to identify a sign which she thought referred to children, and a flashing sequence of fingerspelling that ended with the distinctive ‘y’ and was probably the name ‘Eckley’, but little more.

  At length Goodwin nodded. ‘Isaac says that he has been meeting and conversing with some of the boys at the school. He says they are his friends. Naturally he uses signs, as that is the only way he may speak to them. He denies that he has been teaching them in any formal sense. He wants to continue seeing them and does not wish to sign a document agreeing not to, as it is a promise he would not keep.’

  ‘Well that is very clear,’ said Frances, ‘and I will see Mr Eckley and let him know that he has no grounds for any legal action.’

  ‘Please do.’ Dr Goodwin had a bitter edge to his voice. He looked fondly down at his son and placed an encouraging hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I have nothing at all to say to him.’

  Dr Goodwin’s home was not far from the school, and had Frances been a more trusting person, she might have gone there directly to report to Mr Eckley and so end her enquiries, but she did not. In the past year she had learned to trust no one and realised that there was a sense in which everyone told lies or concealed the truth, although not necessarily for any sinister reason. Since the conversation between Dr Goodwin and his son had taken place in a language she was largely unable to understand, and there were unresolved issues between the doctor and the headmaster which might have coloured the situation, she decided to take the precaution of checking the facts for herself. This would involve having Isaac followed to see what he was actually doing, which was, she knew, a somewhat unsavoury proceeding. She comforted herself with the thought that in the absence of a signed statement Mr Eckley was unlikely to believe Dr Goodwin’s verbal assurance, and if she was able to provide him with ocular evidence she might yet be able to prevent any unwarranted legal action.

  Frances took herself to Westbourne Grove, where Sarah’s young relative Tom Smith had been operating his messenger and delivery business from a small attic room high above the watchmaker’s shop of old Mr Beccles. Before reaching Tom’s eyrie, the narrow stairs brought visitors to the office and accommodation of The Bayswater Display and Advertising Co. Ltd, which was run by two gentlemen who were generally known as Chas and Barstie. When Frances had first met them they were at a low ebb in their fortunes, deeply in debt and doing their best to avoid a multitude of angry creditors. Their most dangerous enemy was a young man known only as the Filleter, an unscrupulous individual employed by moneylenders to terrify debtors into meeting their obligations.

  Chas and Barstie’s exhaustive knowledge of the business world had, however, enabled them to get a foothold back into commerce, and after a few faltering attempts, they had been resoundingly rescued by the great flurry of opportunity that had resulted from the calling of a surprise general election in the spring of 1880. They had been growing in affluence ever since and even made steps towards respectability by providing services to the Paddington police in investigating cases of company fraud, a subject in which they had considerable expertise. Barstie, who had been ardently pursuing the hand in marriage of a lady of good family, was especially anxious to appear respectable, and the pair had recently made another important step in that direction.

  Mr Beccles had decided to retire from business and join his son and his family in Australia, and Chas and Barstie had taken the lease of the ground floor shop, which was being handsomely refitted and a new sign painted. The rear of the premises was being converted into a neat bachelor apartment for the two proprietors. Business was still actively carried on in their old room, but once the new office opened, the upper floors would be let, and Tom had been promised part of the space for his sole use.

  Although Frances’ main business was with Tom, she decided to call on Chas and Barstie in case they had anything to impart on the Antrobus businesses, and avoiding the worst of plaster, paint and dust, she rapped smartly on their office door. The room was never vacant, since some form of commerce was being carried out around the clock, and until their new residence was completed, also served as accommodation.

  ‘Come in!’ came Chas’ unmistakably loud and exuberant voice. Frances entered and, to her astonishment, saw the very last individual she might have expected to find there. Chas was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the desk which was littered with greasy paper wrappings and half-eaten buns. Facing him was his partner, Barstie, his portion of the desk clear of all material, even the coins he so loved to count. He was looking more solemn than usual, which was understandable because in the third chair slouched the Filleter. Thin as a spider, with long unkempt black hair and an evil expression, his name came from the sharp knife he carried and the knowledge that he was always willing to use it. When Frances had first encountered him he had carried the smell of things long rotted and worse, and while there was no longer a stink that would make even a gravedigger recoil, he still exuded a repellent sourness. He shifted uncomfortably in stained black clothing that seemed only to be held together by sweat and dirt, and the things that crawled in and on it. Chas and Barstie had formerly been so petrified of him that the mere mention of his name would send them running hotfoot as far from Bayswater as they could go. With the improvement in their fortunes, however, differences had been temporarily settled and an uneasy truce had been the result. That much had been a relief to Frances, but to see the three of them actually in company could not, she was sure, be a good thing.

  The Filleter said nothing to Frances; he merely scowled, sucked on his discoloured teeth and turned his head away.

  Chas had been just about to stuff a piece of cheese into his mouth, but as soon as he saw Frances he leaped to his feet, dropped the cheese onto the desk and wiped his hands on his coat. ‘Miss Doughty! What a pleasure! As you see,’ he gestured towards the Filleter, ‘we have a new business associate – I am happy to say that all our previous troubles are forgotten. Is that not the case Mr — er — ?’

  With one swift, easy movement, the Filleter rose to his feet a
nd walked out without a word or a backward glance.

  Barstie was visibly relieved but Chas simply shrugged, his good humour unabated. ‘A busy fellow, and now we know him better, a useful ally.’

  Frances declined to comment, but she felt sure that her face revealed her opinions. If the partners were actually employing this man to collect debts for them the result could only be trouble, but nothing she could say would deter them.

  She quickly explained to Chas and Barstie the nature of her current enquiry saying that she would be interested to know of any rumours in the business world that could throw light on Edwin Antrobus’ disappearance. She then climbed the stairs to the attic office of Tom Smith’s thriving agency.

  Tom, who could hardly be thirteen yet, had once been the delivery boy for the Doughty chemist’s, but he had shown an early talent both for making extra money and scrounging food so as to live off almost nothing. After the chemist’s business was sold Tom had worked for Mr Jacobs, the new owner, but recently he had appointed one of his army of ‘men’ in his place, in order to devote all his attention to his multiple enterprises. The idea that Mr Jacobs might have thought it his prerogative to make that arrangement had not seemed to occur to Tom, and since the substitution of another boy equally keen and hardworking had been satisfactory to all concerned, the chemist had merely looked surprised and raised no objections.

  The new delivery boy was also detailed to inform Tom whenever the chemist’s niece, the dainty Pearl Montague, was about to pay a visit so Tom could arrange to be in the vicinity. The young lady was, unbeknown to her or any member of her family, Tom’s future bride, and it wanted only for him to make a great fortune and her to attain the age of sixteen for that destiny to be achieved. Frances had seen Miss Montague just once and found her to be a little miracle of golden curls and pink frills, resembling something made of sugar paste. Tom had never so much as spoken to her, but her image, which to him was the pinnacle of female perfection, was constantly before his eyes.

  Frances could not help but reflect on how both Tom and Barstie were spurred on in their ambitions by the prospect of marriage, while her work was simply inspired by the need for a home, clothing and nourishment. It was not so very long since Chas had intimated that once he had made enough money to marry then Frances, whose financial acumen he admired, might receive a proposal, but she had never taken this seriously. As Chas’ fortunes had grown so her value to him as a helpmeet had declined, and she believed that he was currently taking an interest in a foreign lady with a large estate. Frances knew that her hand would never be sought by a man wanting a rich wife or a pretty wife, or even a loving wife, but only a useful wife. Being useful to one’s husband was an essential part of marriage, but was she expecting too much to want to be loved as well?

  As she reached Tom’s door it flew open and two boys hurried out as if on missions of grave urgency. Pausing only to make a respectful little bow in her direction, they pounded down the stairs. Since neither of them was carrying a message or parcel, she wondered if they were engaged in following suspicious characters or looking for roaming animals. During the last year Frances had quite inadvertently established a reputation in Bayswater as a finder of missing pets, whether four-legged or winged, and she had been grateful to turn over that entire area of her business to Tom, who was able to be in all places at once.

  Tom’s office had everything that was needful for the young businessman; a broken desk with one leg supported by a half brick, a chair bound about with string, a pile of old wrapping papers torn into squares and some pencil stubs for the composition of messages, a money box with a stout key, a tea kettle and a basket of bread. In winter there would be a roaring fire fed with any combustible rubbish that could be found, and the boys would come here for a warm and some tea between errands. Some of the refreshments they enjoyed often looked suspiciously like the leftovers from her table.

  That morning Tom was doing something very unusual, for him at least: he was reading a book. Tom had never been a great reader, he had learned his letters at a parish school and could write well enough for messages. He had later refined his skills for business purposes but had never aspired to reading for pleasure. Frances saw that he was deep in a volume of Oliver Twist, which was costing him some physical as well as mental effort, judging by the contortions of his face and the movements of his lips. He had been raking his hands through his hair, which stood up in spikes as if horrified by the unfolding story. Nevertheless he was pursuing the book by sheer dogged determination, as he did everything.

  When Frances entered he put the book down and wiped his sleeve across his forehead with a smile. ‘You ever read this, Miss Doughty? The Parish Boy’s Progress, it says, an’ I’ll be very sorry if Oliver don’t make good at the end.’

  ‘I have, it is a very salutary story,’ said Frances.

  ‘I like the Dodger, but that Bill Sykes is a bad’un through and through, an’ if you ask me, Nancy ain’t no better’n she oughter be.’

  ‘So why have you suddenly taken up literature, Tom?’

  ‘Mr Chas and Mr Barstie said I need to learn the Queen’s Hinglish, and I was told that Mr Dickens wrote the best Queen’s Hinglish there ever was. An’ if I do learn it then they might take me into partnership when I’m old enough.’

  ‘That’s quite an ambition,’ smiled Frances, ‘but I have every confidence you will succeed.’

  ‘Yeh, but I’d rather buy ’em out and be my own master.’ He grinned. ‘So what’s the job, then?’

  Frances explained that she wanted to discover whether Isaac Goodwin was actually teaching sign language to the schoolboys or just meeting his friends. ‘Could you also find out for me about the properties in Queens Road, the ones being demolished?’ she asked. ‘Have they really been quite empty since they were sold, or were they frequented by thieves and beggars?’

  ‘Thieves, beggars an’ all the rubbish of the streets,’ said Tom, cheerfully, ‘an’ anyone who wanted to do somethin’ secret. They all like empty houses. Don’t know about them in Queens Road, though, Mr Whiteley’s ’ad ’em locked up tighter ’n a drum since he bought ’em.’

  ‘Some bones have been found there – those of a man, together with Mr Edwin Antrobus’ travelling bag. The bones might be his or those of a thief who robbed him. Can you suggest whose they might be?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Name any man out of a thousand. Beggars an’ tramps an’ that sort, they drop dead every day or kill each other an’ no one misses ’em. But I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘I always thought Bayswater was such a respectable place,’ sighed Frances.

  ‘It’s like the Queen’s own castle compared with Stepney,’ said Tom. ‘Murderers jus’ use knives ’n poison round ’ere.’

  Frances decided not to ask for further elaboration.

  That evening a message arrived for Sarah to advise that her diligent enquiries had finally located Lizzie, the parlourmaid who had been in service at the Antrobus home at the time of its master’s disappearance. Sarah decided to go and see her the next morning. When she had an object in her sights she was an alarming prospect, and Frances knew that if there was anything to be learned, her assistant would discover it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Next morning the inquest on the skeletal remains found in the brickyard at Shepherd’s Bush opened at Providence Hall, Paddington, under the careful eye of coroner Dr George Danford Thomas, the youthful successor of Dr William Hardwicke who had died very suddenly the previous April. Frances had grown to respect Dr Hardwicke, who was wise and fair and knew how to be gentle with a nervous witness. She hoped the new man would fill his shoes with credit.

  The jurymen were inspecting the items laid out on the exhibits table: a box of bones, the leather travelling bag and business cards, and other assorted fragments of clothing that might or might not have been associated with the deceased. There was also, Frances noticed, a coal sack, printed with the name of ‘Geo Bates’, a local supplier. It was morning, an
d the little hall was illuminated by sunlight flooding in through the windows, but even in the absence of gas the hall was uncomfortably warm and getting warmer by the minute. The odour of the material on the table, which resembled the contents of a refuse bin, was very apparent, and Frances hoped the proceedings would not last long.

  Mr Wylie and Charlotte Pearce, who was heavily veiled, though easily distinguishable to anyone who knew her by her height and clothing, arrived together accompanied by their new solicitor Mr Rawsthorne, who had been appointed to watch the case in view of what was regarded as their betrayal by Mr Marsden. They greeted Frances and all expressed the hope that the day’s proceedings would result in important progress.

  Mr Marsden, his face fixed in a permanent sneer, arrived in company with Lionel Antrobus. The latter gentleman, though serious as ever, took a moment from conversation with his solicitor to favour Frances with a sharp nod, and Marsden, seeing the action, made a whispered comment to his client which was undoubtedly not to her credit.

  Inspector Sharrock had been obliged to take time from his busy day to attend the inquest, a circumstance that clearly did not please him, since he fidgeted constantly and obviously wanted to be somewhere else. The press was also there in force since the public always enjoyed stories that involved a skeleton, and there was the usual throng of the idle and curious.

  Mr Luckhurst, walking with a bravely energetic limp, arrived unaccompanied, greeted Frances with as much of a smile as was appropriate under the circumstances and invited her to sit beside him, which she did.

  Mr Gillan of the Chronicle came late, hurrying from another assignment, and, thwarted by Mr Luckhurst from finding a seat next to Frances, looked disappointed and lurked as near to her as he could, with a suspicious lean to his posture that suggested he was trying to eavesdrop.