The Children of Silence

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘You are such a good kind man,’ murmured Mrs Antrobus, gazing up into his face, her eyes bright with tears, and Cornelius, like so many men before him, was unable to do anything but melt in sympathy.

  As Frances unlocked and opened the drawer the Inspector hurried to her side and peered in. ‘Aha!’ he said, loudly enough to make Mrs Antrobus wince.

  Cornelius cupped his hands protectively over Harriett’s ears. ‘Please – this lady has suffered enough.’

  Frances stood back, and Sharrock delved into the drawer, removed a silver watch with a broken chain and held it up. ‘That should match the portion of chain found on the body, and if I am not mistaken, we have an engraving here – J.E.’

  ‘Charlotte gave it to me, she told me to hide it,’ whispered Harriett.

  ‘Was that before or after she threw it away?’ retorted Sharrock sarcastically. ‘Mrs Antrobus, I am arresting you for the murder of Jonathan Eckley —’

  ‘No,’ Harriett wept. ‘Please don’t put me in a cell, I couldn’t bear it.’

  Cornelius stared at her in horror. He let go of her hand, rose and looked at the watch. ‘There can be no doubt?’

  ‘None,’ Sharrock assured him. ‘This is the murdered man’s watch. If Miss Pearce didn’t kill him then Mrs Antrobus did, and my money is on this lady here. Why don’t you call a cab, sir, and we can take her to the station?’

  ‘Please – no,’ begged Harriett.

  ‘Inspector – Uncle – might I suggest something?’ Frances interrupted. ‘I think in this very particular and unusual case it would be better if Mrs Antrobus was not taken to the police station but placed in some other secure custody, somewhere that would not be torture to her. A sanatorium, somewhere quiet. You could employ suitable women to guard her.’

  ‘I don’t have armies of women at my beck and call to guard special prisoners,’ argued Sharrock, ‘neither do the police have limitless monies for fancy sanatoriums.’

  ‘I am sure some arrangement could be made. Would you consider it? Uncle, can you help?’

  Cornelius hesitated and then gave in. ‘Very well, for Charlotte’s sake, I will see what I can do.’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s very irregular,’ Sharrock grumbled.

  ‘Please,’ Harriett begged again, ‘please don’t take me to that awful place.’

  Sharrock looked dubious.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Frances went on, ‘the police would be willing to make a special case if, in return, Mrs Antrobus was to make a full confession of her crimes – all of them?’

  ‘All of them?’ bellowed Sharrock. ‘How many are there?’

  Harriett, with her hands over her ears, moaned ‘Yes, yes, I will confess, only please everyone be quiet.’

  ‘Let us all calm down and sit quietly,’ agreed Frances.

  The company was seated but no one in the room rested easy. Cornelius dragged his hands distractedly through his hair. ‘What other crimes?’

  ‘The murder of Charles Henderson and the murder of her husband.’

  Harriett wiped her eyes. ‘Please fetch me some water. I will do as you say.’

  ‘I don’t understand this at all,’ sighed Sharrock, ‘but I am sure Miss Doughty will explain, as she usually does.’

  When Mrs Antrobus was given a refreshing drink, and the Inspector and Cornelius were quiet and attentive, Frances began.

  ‘This is what I think happened. The two misses Pearce, Harriett and Charlotte, were the daughters of the Antrobus brothers’ senior assistant, and when Mr Edwin became fascinated by the younger sister it was very good fortune for her. But his brother, Mr Lionel, was unhappy about the match. It would be some years before Edwin Antrobus could make a sufficient fortune to marry, and Miss Harriett must have feared that his brother would find some way of preventing it. Mr Edwin was, however, the principal heir of his uncle, Charles Henderson, who had willed him this house and its furnishings and some investments. With such a handsome legacy the couple would be able to marry at once. But Mr Henderson was only thirty-seven and, apart from his headaches, in good health.

  ‘On the night of Mr Henderson’s death he had gone to get a key to his study to show the company his collection of snuffboxes. Mrs Pearce was feeling unwell, and Harriett took her mother into the parlour to look after her, but having settled her mother there, I think she hurried up to the study where she flattered Mr Henderson into showing her the pistol and how it was loaded. She must have been shown the study on an earlier visit and knew the gun was kept there. I expect she asked to hold the gun, promising to be careful. Then she shot him. She had only time to run into the nearest room, the bathroom probably, to hide, which was why the study door was found open. Edwin Antrobus rushed up the stairs and found his uncle’s corpse. Harriet stayed in the bathroom until he had gone down to tell the others what had happened, and while he was so engaged she managed to creep downstairs to rejoin her mother in the parlour, who was sufficiently unwell that she was easily persuaded that her daughter had never left her side. I do wonder if Mr Henderson’s Aunt Lily, who had gone to look for the key and was in the hallway at the time her nephew was killed, knew more than she was able to say. Perhaps she saw the murderer creeping downstairs. But the shock was so great that she was a broken woman and died soon afterwards.’ Frances glanced at Harriet, who was icily calm. ‘How did Aunt Lily die?’

  ‘Peacefully, in her sleep,’ said Mrs Antrobus, without a flicker of expression. ‘She was very old.’

  ‘I see. But there was one unforeseen result of the murder, was there not? A gun fired in a small space like a room is very loud indeed. Your ears were never the same afterwards. Mrs Fisher told me that your husband used to sing when his uncle played the piano and had a voice like a songbird, but he never sang again after his uncle’s death. She must have thought it was because he did not have the heart to do so, but maybe there was another reason, maybe it was because his voice hurt your ears. The condition became worse over the years until it was impossible for you to live a normal life, but to avoid suspicion you were able to blame it on the firework display.’

  Harriett sipped her water but said nothing.

  ‘Your husband never suspected you of murdering his uncle until shortly before his last journey. He had a conversation with Dr Goodwin, who is an otologist, an expert on afflictions of the ears, unlike the other men who saw you. Your husband expressed the opinion that your condition could not have been caused by the firework display, and Dr Goodwin advised him that even if that was so, there are many other causes.’ Frances took from her pocket Dr Goodwin’s booklet on ear pain. ‘He lists them here: a blow to the head; loud music, such as the sound of an orchestra which can affect the players; the noise of heavy machinery; loud explosions; even a single gunshot if close by can all produce the condition known as hyperacusis.’ She closed the book. ‘Did he realise then? Did you know before he went away that he planned to have you put in an asylum? Not because he thought you were mad but because he knew you to be a heartless murderer and wanted to avoid a trial that would distress his sons. There was nothing you could do until a suitable instrument arrived in the shape of your cousin Robert Barfield. He was in a sorry condition, ragged, limping from a poorly healed leg injury and in pain from a toothache. You were able to provide him with what he needed to appear respectable and engaged him to murder your husband. Even though you knew the will would be unkind to you, you felt sure that as a widow you would be able to challenge it. The plan, I think, was for Barfield to go to Bristol and kill your husband there, to place the crime far from home, but somehow he failed. Your husband, despite your cousin’s protests that he was a reformed man, never gave him the opportunity. And so they returned to London. How and where the murder took place I don’t know, but Barfield now only had one hold over you, he knew the location of the body. He tried to blackmail you by making you sign over the inheritance he thought you would receive before he would reveal it, but you refused. He stole your husband’s ring and other trinkets from his dressing room and
then tried, unsuccessfully, to blackmail Dr Goodwin by alleging that he had murdered your husband. When he failed to reappear, both you and Dr Goodwin were afraid that he would come back, but he was in fact dead, having fallen down the cellar stairs at the school.’

  Inspector Sharrock and Cornelius listened to the long tale in silence.

  ‘And now we come to the murder of Mr Eckley, whose enquiries threatened the happiness of your sister, her marriage representing your best escape from the tyranny of your brother-in-law. On the day of the murder you pretended to have a headache and wrote and posted the letter making an appointment, then when your sister thought you were asleep, you were able to closely muffle your ears and creep out of the house, going by the quietest route to meet him. Your guilt of the murder of Mr Eckley can be proved. The murdered man’s watch and the knife that killed him are tied to this house. There is also your knowledge of the theft of the watch that you revealed before three witnesses and your lies to try and save yourself by incriminating your sister. How heartlessly you turned on her when you were finally cornered, and then, almost in a breath, you fastened your sights upon my uncle.’

  Frances kept her eyes on Mrs Antrobus but heard Cornelius utter a groan. She pressed relentlessly on. ‘Your guilt of the other two murders – or possibly three, as I suspect that Mr Henderson’s Aunt Lily was hurried to her death so she could not reveal what she saw – cannot be proved, but it might make a difference to your fate if you were to confess to them. Will you do so?’

  Both Frances and Harriett looked at Sharrock. ‘I can’t make any guarantees,’ said the Inspector, ‘but if this lady was to confess to a catalogue of crimes so horrible that no one would think a woman would even be capable of them, then she might well be able to convince a court that she is someone who can’t tell right from wrong.’

  Harriett rose gracefully from her chair and went to sit at her desk, then took a fresh pen, ink and a sheaf of paper. ‘I will write it all down.’

  ‘Does Miss Doughty have it right?’ Sharrock asked her.

  Harriett smiled calmly. ‘She does, except in one respect. Robert did not blackmail me concerning the location of Edwin’s body. He himself did not know where it was, and neither do I.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Cornelius. ‘Is your husband dead?’

  ‘I expect so, yes,’ said the would-be widow, without a trace of emotion.

  He looked appalled. ‘You seem not to mind.’

  ‘I mind not knowing.’

  ‘I think I might be able to guess at what happened,’ said Frances. ‘Since Mr Barfield was unable to walk fast on his injured leg, he would have found it hard to commit murder in the street or in any place where his victim could run away. He had to get him in a small space, a hotel room perhaps, but Mr Antrobus didn’t trust him enough to agree to a private meeting. Barfield attacked him on the train, didn’t he? And he was very strong in the arms and upper body, so he would have prevailed. Did he throw Mr Antrobus from the train?’

  Harriet nodded, her pen moving smoothly, without pause. ‘So he said.’

  ‘And you both simply had to wait and hope that the body was found, but it never was.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ objected Sharrock. ‘The track was searched, but nothing was found.’

  ‘You were looking for a man who might had fallen from the train,’ Frances reminded him. ‘If he was pushed by someone very strong the body might not have landed on the track.’ Frances searched the bookcases in the room and found a directory with a railway map. ‘Did he say whereabouts on the journey it happened?’

  ‘Robert was always a coward in such things,’ said Harriett disapprovingly. ‘He was still very shaken when he came to see me and confessed that he had not thought to make a note of the location until it was too late. All he could tell me was that the train had been travelling for at least half an hour out of Bristol and had not yet arrived at Reading.’

  ‘I suppose fifty miles of railway is better than a hundred,’ grunted Sharrock. ‘It’ll be a long job, mind.’

  Cornelius was visibly trembling as he went to stand by Mrs Antrobus, who continued to write unconcerned. ‘And is Charlotte innocent? Tell me that!’

  The pen flowed swiftly on. ‘She is innocent of murder.’

  ‘And the other thing? Please tell me she is innocent of that also!’ he begged.

  ‘You must ask her yourself. She will tell you the truth.’

  Frances saw her kind uncle’s face crumple with grief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  So,’ said Dr Goodwin, when Frances paid him a visit a week later, ‘they have found the body at last.’

  It was a happier occasion than when they had last met, and she, the doctor and young Isaac, who had been released when the charge of murder against him was dropped, were enjoying a pot of tea and some fancy cakes topped with strawberries.

  ‘They have. The railway men made a thorough search of the line between Bath and Reading, and the police interviewed the farmers. One man with a farm near Didcot had found a hat lying in his field and assumed that it had been blown from the head of a gentleman looking out of a train window. He still had the hat and wore it to church. Mr Antrobus’ hatter was able to identify it. Some bones were found in a deep ditch where the body must have rolled out of sight.’

  ‘No wisdom teeth, I assume?’

  She smiled. ‘Not one. The inquest opened this morning, and the remains have been formally identified as those of Edwin Antrobus. Of course his widow is now in no position to contest the will.’

  Dr Goodwin signed the conversation to Isaac, who replied.

  ‘Isaac says you are the cleverest lady in all Bayswater,’ Goodwin translated. ‘You will also be pleased to hear that he has recently had a very affectionate interview with his mother. Poor lady, she has suffered much, and he has been a great comfort to her.’

  ‘I was hoping,’ ventured Frances, ‘although this will make no difference now, if you could enlighten me on a number of things. In particular your dealings with Mrs Antrobus.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said thoughtfully and refreshed his teacup.

  ‘If you are in any doubt about how much to tell me, my advice is – everything.’

  Isaac tapped his father on the shoulder and signed anxiously. Goodwin made a reply. ‘My son hopes that you will not accuse me of anything,’ he told Frances. ‘I have reassured him that I have nothing with which to reproach myself.’

  ‘I am quite certain that you do not.’

  Goodwin sipped his tea thoughtfully and put the cup down in a calm and deliberate fashion. ‘I will conceal nothing from you Miss Doughty, a vain exercise, as so many others have found to their cost. On my last professional visit to Mrs Antrobus, she appealed to me to make her husband understand that her illness was of the ears and not the mind. As she requested, I spoke to him again, but he adamantly refused to believe it. His grounds were that she had always attributed the illness to the noise of a firework display, but he was certain that this was untrue. He said that she had imagined noises to be loud before then, and he had persuaded her to attend the display with him to prove that it was all in her mind, but soon after it began she said that the noise was too much and retired indoors. There was one firework that exploded close to the ground, but she was not present at the time and he had told her about it afterwards.

  ‘I suggested to Mr Antrobus that even if the fireworks were not the cause of her hyperacusis it could have been another event that she had not realised was harmful at the time. I described the kinds of noises that have resulted in ear pain for my other patients and he denied she had ever been subjected to any of them except one. The sound of a gunshot.

  ‘As I said it a look passed across his face, like that of a man who had seen a ghost and was struck with horror. I thought that he must have taken her shooting and had discharged a gun close by and suddenly saw that her affliction was his own fault. I asked if he went shooting, and he said no but his late uncle had. I tried to questio
n him further but he was obviously distressed and would tell me no more.

  ‘The next day I received a letter from Mrs Antrobus asking if I might meet her at Kensal Green. I did so and we discussed my conversation with her husband. She mentioned the death of Mr Henderson and admitted to me that she had been in the room when he had shot himself. She said she had been so frightened that she had rushed out of the study and hidden in the bathroom. Her husband, she said, was now accusing her of having shot Mr Henderson in order that he might inherit his fortune. She told me that her husband treated her cruelly and she almost wished that he would suffer some accident and expire but providence had not granted her wish. She said that all she wanted was to be happy and share her fortune with a man who would be kind to her. She wept a great deal, but I have seen her weep many times before, and I believe she may do it at will, without emotion. I have encountered people before who have this singular ability.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I was naturally confused. It was as if she was asking me to commit some violence on her husband. She reached out and tried to take my hand but I could not allow it, not after what she had said. I replied that she could not possibly mean what her words seemed to suggest. She gave that little smile of hers. I think you know the one. I told her that it would be best if we never met again, and that as long as she promised to forget the terrible things she had said then I would be prepared to forget them also.’

  ‘That would have been very shortly before Mr Barfield approached her.’

  ‘Yes, and when he confronted me he used the same words she had spoken, the same sentiments she had expressed. I knew that he had seen her, and I believed she had made him her creature, but of course I had no proof. I only saw her once more, after her husband was missing. I suppose I was curious to find out if she had had anything to do with it. She denied any knowledge of his fate and also claimed that I had not recalled our last conversation correctly. I thought it best not to seek her society again.’