‘He does, and I can hardly imagine that my sister-in-law can, in her current position, be such a prize as to be worth his investment. I doubt very much that she has told him all her history. I am certain that she has not told it to you. She comes from tainted stock. Her father may have been honest but she has a cousin who has served several terms in prison for theft. If Wylie secures her,’ he added with a note of undisguised satisfaction in his voice, ‘he may live to regret it.’
Frances took her leave fearing that she had uncovered only the smallest part of the hatreds and prejudices that existed in the Antrobus family, which bubbled more violently and poisonously than the Paddington basin in summer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kildare Terrace, where Dr Dromgoole had once lived, was a quiet leafy residential street running south from St Stephen’s church and terminating in some pleasant gardens, where wooden benches nestled amongst flowering shrubs under the shade of mature trees. Mr William Whiteley, who, whatever his faults, had been instrumental in converting Westbourne Grove from a place where businesses rarely flourished to the Oxford Street of West London had lived at No. 2 for some years.
The weather continued fine, and Frances decided to walk there from Portobello Road. Not long ago her father’s parsimony had obliged her to walk almost everywhere whether wet or dry, and by and large she had enjoyed it. She had never felt the need to protect her complexion from the sun as did so many young women who equated pale cheeks with beauty, neither had she worn the kind of gowns that might take damage from a little dust or mud and could not be made good with a stiff brush.
From a distance the sanatorium looked like any other house, apart from the small brass plate beside the door. When examined more closely the sign was smart enough to be recent and read ‘Bayswater Female Sanatorium, supervisor Dr T. Caldecott, all enquiries to Mrs Caldecott’. The house itself, however, was in need of substantial repair to the external brickwork, and the window frames were past any hope that might be afforded by a simple coat of paint.
The doorbell was answered by a stout, red-faced maid, who looked fully capable of dealing with any kind of visitor. ‘I would like to see Dr Dromgoole if that is possible,’ said Frances, presenting her card.
The maid squinted at the card. ‘No doctor of that name here.’
‘I believe he used to live here. Perhaps Mrs Caldecott might advise me?’
The maid looked at Frances closely, judging her to be respectable and unlikely to create a disturbance. ‘Come in then. Wait here.’
Frances entered a narrow hallway where the harsh smell of carbolic was unable to conceal staler less pleasant odours and was shown a door marked ‘Visitors’. At the end of the hall a charwoman was kneeling beside a bucket, attacking the tiled floor with a scrubbing brush. There was an abrupt movement of footsteps on the floor above, the banging of a door, a hurried conversation and a loud wailing cry, which went on for some moments and ended with a gulp.
Frances glanced at the maid who seemed unperturbed, ‘Oh don’t take no notice of that. Some of the ladies here are a bit … well, they get confused about where they are and want to be taken home. I know that one, she’ll soon get quietened down.’ There was the sound of fresh sobbing and two pairs of running footsteps, followed by a squeal of protest, then another door banged.
‘Chloral,’ said the maid, cheerfully. ‘Don’t know what we’d do without it.’
Frances was left alone in the visitors’ waiting area while the maid lumbered away. The large square room would once have been a front parlour, but now it was almost bare and most uninviting. A row of old and very worn wooden seats supplied the minimum of comfort and the carpet had long outstayed its usefulness. The fireplace had been swept, but not recently. A slight attempt had been made at decoration by placing a vase of dried flowers on a small table and framed embroideries on the painted wall but they did little to brighten the overall atmosphere of weary gloom. The visitor who was anxious to find something useful to occupy his or her time was provided with a two-page pamphlet about the work of the sanatorium and a week-old copy of the Chronicle. Frances examined the pamphlet but it made no mention of the house’s former owner.
The woman who arrived to speak to Frances wore a nurse’s gown and apron and a welcoming smile. ‘Miss Doughty, I am Eliza Caldecott, matron of this establishment. I would so much like to help you. Dr Dromgoole, did you say?’
‘Yes, I understand that this was once his home. Who is the current owner of the property?’
‘The General Asylum Company. They own the Bayswater Asylum for the Aged and Feeble Insane on Monmouth Road. This house was purchased not from Dr Dromgoole, however, but from his cousin, Mr Malcolm Dromgoole, who was acting for him.’ There was something about her tone that said more than the mere words.
‘Acting for him because he was unable to act for himself?’
‘That is so. If you are interested I suggest you speak to Dr Magrath at the asylum who will have all the details. And I believe that if you go there you will also find Dr Dromgoole.’
‘As an employee or a resident?’ asked Frances apprehensively.
‘A resident, I’m sorry to say. I understand he had a complete breakdown. Were you hoping to interview him?’
‘I was – I still am.’
Mrs Caldecott gave her a sympathetic look. ‘That may prove difficult.’
‘I see that, but I must make the attempt.’
‘Might I ask the nature of your enquiry?’
‘It concerns the disappearance of Mr Edwin Antrobus in October 1877. Dr Dromgoole had been acquainted with the missing man. I am speaking to everyone who knew him in case they observed anything that could help me trace him.’
‘This is about the body found in the Paddington Basin, isn’t it? That court case that was in all the newspapers.’
‘It is, yes,’ admitted Frances.
Mrs Caldecott appeared less comfortable with their conversation. ‘From what I read the man found in the canal had been murdered. If you imagine that Dr Dromgoole was responsible for the death of Mr Antrobus or anyone else, I think it most unlikely.’
‘Have you met him?’ asked Frances hopefully.
‘No, but I’m sure he can’t be the violent type or he would never have been admitted to the asylum. They don’t take those kind there. Dr Magrath will explain, I am sure.’
Frances could see a promising line of enquiry petering into nothing; nevertheless she knew she must pursue it, if only for completeness.
The asylum was barely a minute’s walk away. Frances passed through the cool gated gardens, wishing she had the leisure to spend more time there, and found a double fronted property almost hidden in a quiet corner overhung by trees whose dipping branches placed a discreet veil over the establishment. Frances presented her card to the maid and asked if she might see Dr Magrath. She was shown into a carpeted waiting room considerably more comfortable than the one she had just left. It was ringed about with chairs that might have graced a parlour and enhanced by paintings of variable quality, some of which seemed to have been painted by artists afflicted by colour blindness, as there were some unusual choices of hue in the depiction of sky and faces. One artist seemed to be suffering from double vision: all the ladies in his portraits had two noses.
‘I see you are admiring the work of some of our residents,’ said the man who entered the room. Unlike so many doctors who adopted a dignified air in keeping with the respect that they felt should be due to their professional status, the new arrival had no such pretensions. He advanced rapidly with a broad friendly smile and shook her hand warmly. ‘Thomas Magrath. I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, I was engaged with a patient.’